Deus Pater (Exalted/40k)
Or: Third time's the Charm
It is the 41st Millennium. For more...
Or: Third time's the Charm
It is the 41st Millennium. For more...
Deus Pater (Exalted/40k)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
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Character Creation Pt.I
- Location
- London, England
Deus Pater (Exalted/40k)
Or: Third time's the Charm
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
They need a champion. A leader.
A hero.
And so the Emperor, though he bleeds and dies a fraction more each and every day, has chosen to make one more sacrifice. Through arts unknown to mortal man and with a will equal to the mightiest of gods he has mutilated himself, carving away the tiniest fraction of his own immortal soul. Into this fragment he has imbued his memories, his philosophy and a measure of his own unmatchable power, and with it he shall create a champion unlike any other. It is not a decision made lightly, for the process of creating this shard has left him noticeably weakened and the consequences of failure (or worse, corruption) would be catastrophic... but it is a decision that he makes regardless. This is humanity's darkest hour, and he will not see his people fall when he yet has the strength to save them, no matter the cost to himself.
This is not a gift that can be lightly bestowed, even if the Emperor were of a mind to indulge such reckless impulse. The sheer power contained within even this shard would burn out the soul of all but the most worthy of recipients, and drive mad even the majority among the remainder. Still, if there is one thing that the Imperium has always had in abundance, it is manpower, and with that in mind the Emperor casts his gaze out across the galaxy in search of a worthy soul. He needs more than mere physical strength - he needs someone with the strength of will and purity of purpose to serve as his herald, his champion, and ultimately his heir.
In truth there are many choices available, for even in this darkest of ages humanity is not short of heroes. Were the universe fair and the galaxy just all might be rewarded for their deeds, but in the end he has but one endowment to bestow, and in the end his choice is made.
He chooses...
-/-
[ ] The Soldier - The Astra Militarum is the largest organized fighting force in the galaxy, drawing its recruits from every world and pitting them against every possible foe. You are one amid uncounted billions, a humble soldier fighting on the frontlines of one of the Imperium's innumerable wars, and though you served with skill and pride you always knew you were nothing particularly special. The Emperor, it seems, disagrees. (Dawn)Or: Third time's the Charm
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
They need a champion. A leader.
A hero.
And so the Emperor, though he bleeds and dies a fraction more each and every day, has chosen to make one more sacrifice. Through arts unknown to mortal man and with a will equal to the mightiest of gods he has mutilated himself, carving away the tiniest fraction of his own immortal soul. Into this fragment he has imbued his memories, his philosophy and a measure of his own unmatchable power, and with it he shall create a champion unlike any other. It is not a decision made lightly, for the process of creating this shard has left him noticeably weakened and the consequences of failure (or worse, corruption) would be catastrophic... but it is a decision that he makes regardless. This is humanity's darkest hour, and he will not see his people fall when he yet has the strength to save them, no matter the cost to himself.
This is not a gift that can be lightly bestowed, even if the Emperor were of a mind to indulge such reckless impulse. The sheer power contained within even this shard would burn out the soul of all but the most worthy of recipients, and drive mad even the majority among the remainder. Still, if there is one thing that the Imperium has always had in abundance, it is manpower, and with that in mind the Emperor casts his gaze out across the galaxy in search of a worthy soul. He needs more than mere physical strength - he needs someone with the strength of will and purity of purpose to serve as his herald, his champion, and ultimately his heir.
In truth there are many choices available, for even in this darkest of ages humanity is not short of heroes. Were the universe fair and the galaxy just all might be rewarded for their deeds, but in the end he has but one endowment to bestow, and in the end his choice is made.
He chooses...
-/-
[ ] The Rebel - The Imperium has always proclaimed itself protector and steward of the million worlds beneath its heel, but you know better. You have seen what the servants of the Aquila have done to your world, heard what they intend if left unchecked, and you have decided; enough. You are a faithful man, but loyalty to a God does not demand loyalty to those who pervert his name, and in the glory of your Exaltation your words are proven right at last. (Dawn)
[ ] The Shepherd - You have served the Church all your life, bringing the light of faith to the downtrodden and those unfairly deprived. You have advised them, comforted them, given them the strength to go on in the face of the galaxy's cruelty and indifference. And now, just when it appeared that the stars would see your flock scattered and your words made a lie, the hand of god has come down and anointed you as one of His chosen. Your flock, it seems, has just grown significantly. (Zenith)
[ ] The Firebrand - The Ecclesiarchy is a putrid corpse, rotted from within by the venal corruption of those who should know better. They have gathered wealth and power and proclaimed their politics sanctioned by the Emperor himself… as though the Saviour of Man would ever debase himself with such base corruption. You spoke out against it, fully expecting to be struck down for your words, only to find that the oldest saying is true indeed; the Emperor protects the virtuous. (Zenith)
[ ] The Healer - You only ever wanted to help people. That's why you trained as a medicus, why you studied the secrets of plague and the mysteries of the gene. You dreamt of a world where humanity need not fear the ravages of mortality, and in the now you focused on healing those who did. As contagion broke out across the world and you struggled desperately to stem the tide, your Emperor chose to share with you some small measure of his miraculous insight, and your dream became the hope of reality (Twilight).
[ ] The Visionary - Humanity has lost so much, and what little remains is guarded jealously by those who enjoy the power it brings. You would see the birthright of mankind restored, and to this end set yourself to studying the dark secrets of history in defiance of the Mechanicus and their enforcers. Such hubris would have been the end of you, but for the benevolence of one who once dreamed as you did, and who saw fit to bless your insane mission with His divine favour. (Twilight)
[ ] The Judge - Those with power often feel themselves entitled to disregard the law, to see the enforcers of His Word as their servants instead of their watchdogs. You were determined to prove them wrong, and to that end pursued the corrupt and the venal through a labyrinth of conspiracy and judgement until it led to the very highest of halls. There you would have died, but for His benevolent intervention, and in payment of that debt you will continue your quest until all are held as equals before the law. (Night)
[ ] The Mutant - Your genetics are impure, your body twisted away from the divine template of mankind's heritage, but in your chest rests a human soul and a human heart. You sought only to prove this to those who deemed themselves your betters, to bring succor and relief to your twisted brethren, and for this they tied you to a stake and set spark to the fuel. You would have burned then, but for the intervention of your god, and the comfort of knowing that you are as worthy of His blessings as any pureblood is a heady thing indeed. (Night)
[ ] The Officer - You are master of a ship, a Captain of the Imperial Navy, oftentimes the only contact the far-flung worlds of humanity will have with the wider Imperium for years at a time. You have served as their protector and their voice, and when the darkness came for those in your charge you stood and fought... and, blazing with the light of the divine, found victory in the face of terrible odds. Now, you have a new mission, a higher duty, and you will see it fulfilled. (Eclipse)
[ ] The Envoy - Mankind is not alone in the universe, much as some might wish it so, and while the Ecclesiarchy preaches total intolerance of that which is alien you have always known such a stance to be dangerously shortsighted. The xenos must be studied, must be understood, must even at times be treated with as something approaching a peer, and it is in this capacity that you serve the Emperor Above All. To have your service rewarded is an unexpected honour, but one you will strive to repay. (Eclipse)
Article: This first stage of character generation is being conducted on the basis of approval voting. You may each vote for a maximum of four options out of the above ten - the one that achieves the highest number of votes overall will be the one I take forwards into the next part of character generation.
[ ] Choose Four
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Basic Mechanics
- Location
- London, England
This Quest was originally being run on a stripped-down version of the actual Exalted mechanics. As it turned out, this was something of a mistake - Exalted is rather notorious for having a deeply fiddly mechanical underlayer, and all the work I was putting into trying to work out how to represent the hitting power of a bolter versus a multi-melta in terms of dice is effort that could have been better spent in any number of other ways. Hence, it will now be operating on a narrative system similar to the one that I used in my Bleach quests, and which @TenfoldShields adapted to the Exalted setting for use in his own quest, Out of the Eater.
You are heir to the Emperor of Mankind, with some small sliver of his divine essence bonded to your own soul, and you have at your disposal the potential to master a staggering breadth of powers and abilities. This isn't intended to articulate the full complexity of Exalted 2e or 3e but rather to provide a clear, concise inventory of the PC's capabilities; particularly as they compare to other characters within the setting. The Skills, Charms, and Items detailed below are best understood as tools for description rather than absolute statements.
Skills
Skills are graded on a nine-tier scale. Primary Skills encompass your core proficiencies and broadest level of ability and, as such, take the longest to raise. Skills tagged "Favored" are costed at 75% of the normal value, while your "Unfavored" is costed at 150%. Secondary Skills represent more specific or otherwise niche areas of development and thus are costed at half the expense of a Primary Skill. The narrowing of focus allowing for quicker progress for relatively less overall gain. Advanced Skills are compound abilities that draw from multiple Primary and/or Secondary Skills and are commensurately more powerful. Their progression is plot-locked, with opportunities for advancement presented throughout the arcs.
Charms:
The personal array of supernatural abilities afforded to Ignatius, or another being of similar supernatural pussience, these powers are filtered through the Cardinal's own perspective, his own understanding of others and himself. Each one is associated with a given Primary Skill, can be advanced independently of said skill, and are graded on a simple three-tiered ranking.
You are heir to the Emperor of Mankind, with some small sliver of his divine essence bonded to your own soul, and you have at your disposal the potential to master a staggering breadth of powers and abilities. This isn't intended to articulate the full complexity of Exalted 2e or 3e but rather to provide a clear, concise inventory of the PC's capabilities; particularly as they compare to other characters within the setting. The Skills, Charms, and Items detailed below are best understood as tools for description rather than absolute statements.
Experience Points are obtained through the completion of narrative arcs, the accomplishment of particularly impressive In Character feats, undertaking shounen-esque training montages and the like. It will be awarded at the conclusion of each arc and represents an allocation of available resources, study, and downtime. Barring thematically appropriate moments -and in the interests of preventing sudden spikes of power or otherwise trivializing the stakes- all leveling of Skills will occur between chapters. Current policy on omakes and other fanworks (in the event they appear) is: 50xp for non-canon omakes and quick sketches, 100xp for canon works and more detailed art, and 150xp+ for exceptional pieces.
Note - There is an explicit allowance in these rules for homebrew, which is to say planets, species and individuals that Ignatius could encounter during his divine mission. I've got a lot of space to paint in here, after all.
Note - There is an explicit allowance in these rules for homebrew, which is to say planets, species and individuals that Ignatius could encounter during his divine mission. I've got a lot of space to paint in here, after all.
Skills
Skills are graded on a nine-tier scale. Primary Skills encompass your core proficiencies and broadest level of ability and, as such, take the longest to raise. Skills tagged "Favored" are costed at 75% of the normal value, while your "Unfavored" is costed at 150%. Secondary Skills represent more specific or otherwise niche areas of development and thus are costed at half the expense of a Primary Skill. The narrowing of focus allowing for quicker progress for relatively less overall gain. Advanced Skills are compound abilities that draw from multiple Primary and/or Secondary Skills and are commensurately more powerful. Their progression is plot-locked, with opportunities for advancement presented throughout the arcs.
- Novice (N/A) - A character's individual baseline in a Skill. Absent training, formal or otherwise, they can't necessarily expect to amount to much (particularly against dedicated scholars of the appropriate arts) but there's something to be said for enthusiasm and beginner's luck.
- Proficient (250xp) - Through study and diligent practice a character masters the fundamentals of a Skill and can be relied upon to perform at an acceptable level. This is the combat skill of a Guardsman out of training and the bureaucratic competency of an Administratum scribe.
- Adept (500xp) - Study and practice are augmented by practical experience and personal preferences. A character at this level can be relied on to not merely execute a task, but to do it well.
- Veteran (750xp) - Time and a myriad of trials, or simply extreme and exceptional circumstances, push a character to this Rank. They are true professionals; familiar with anomalies and edge-cases and better able to counter not only the unexpected, but the utterly unforeseen. This is the rank of the Stormtrooper, the Astartes Initiate or the city priest.
- Distinguished (1000xp) - The supremely talented, the deeply dedicated, the survivors or the simple freaks of nature. The exceptional few, committing themselves wholeheartedly to their chosen ideal, often benefitting from some kind of superhuman capacity or assistance. This is the combat skill of the Tactical Marine, the calculation of the Magos, the seductive wiles of the daemon.
- Elite (1750xp) - Through the blessings of the divine or the genius of long-lost artifice, you have transcended the limits that restrain most of humanity. Your mastery makes your every display of skill a veritable work of art, something that most others can only witness in silent awe. This is the defining skill of a famous enemy; the bladesong of an Exarch, the techno-sorcery of a Cryptek, the strategic skill of the warmaster.
- Master (2500xp) - You have a near-complete understanding of the Skill, cognizant of its many intricacies, opaque-to-the-outsider complexities, and the cutting edge of its boundaries. Where others seek to attain your prowess you are concerned with innovation, experimentation, and refinement. Those who attain this level are known by name on a hundred worlds; the theo-militant prowess of a Grey Knight Master, the genius of an Arch-Magos, the calculating guile of a Greater Daemon.
- Champion (3500xp) - You are an unquestioned paragon of this Skill and the man (or woman, or other) that masters turn to you for enlightenment. Indeed it can be said, not inaccurately, that you embody this Skill in its fullness. Intimately familiar with its many virtues and inherent dangers. Secondary Skills cannot be raised to Champion. You may only elevate one Primary Skill to Champion. This is the skill of the Primarch, the demigod, the deity-made-flesh.
- Legendary (N/A) - The realm of the mythic and the supernal, inaccessible without decades-if-not-centuries of labor and craft. Defined more by the way it exceeds the intended bounds of the scale rather than a ranking in and of itself. Any with a Skill at this Rank are a force of nature, and taken lightly at your own peril. The combat prowess of Angron, the sorceries of Magnus, and the oratory of Lorgar all lie at this level.
Charms:
The personal array of supernatural abilities afforded to Ignatius, or another being of similar supernatural pussience, these powers are filtered through the Cardinal's own perspective, his own understanding of others and himself. Each one is associated with a given Primary Skill, can be advanced independently of said skill, and are graded on a simple three-tiered ranking.
- Basic (75xp) - The most simple, straightforward incarnation of the Charm. Able to be employed reliably even in the heat of battle.
- Evolved (250xp) - The Charm's central concept elevated, matured or otherwise raised to new heights.
- Ultimate (500xp) - The Charm perfected, completely integrated into not just the Exalted's repertoire but their very being.
The structure of the skills system means that I can roll a lot of charms that had effects like '+1 automatic success on a presence roll' into the basic application of a primary skill. Charms, therefore, represent those capabilities that are a step beyond this level, and are often based on a fusion of several individual charms that the game system itself would represent in a chain.
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Character Sheet
- Location
- London, England
Primary Skills
Dawn: Proficient (0/500)
Behold, the Sword of Morning, by which God cut the world into a more pleasing form. The skill of the warlord, by which the Emperor conquered the galaxy in crusade. Charms associated with this skill enhance personal combat and the innate lethality of a man blessed by god, and will also lend themselves to strategic command.
Ignatius has spent a hundred years behind a pulpit, and while he has begun to exercise more of late, studying with the Sororitas and intensifying his exercise routine, he is fundamentally still a man of the cloth, not the blade.
[Favored] Zenith: Distinguished (0/1300)
Witness, the glory of god, the light of the galaxy. The skill of the orator, the prophet, the demagogue who dreamed of a unified galaxy and convinced the myriad worlds of mankind to die in pursuit of this vision. Charms of this ability are associated with social prowess, with the organisation of the faithful, and with the endurance required to speak truth to power in a galaxy profoundly hostile to such things.
Faith alone can overturn the universe. This is the credo of the Ecclesiarchy, and it is the strength that propels a man like Ignatius to the heights he has attained. He was a dangerously persuasive orator even before the Emperor placed a spark of godfire in his soul, and now his words can bring even the fanatic to tears.
Twilight: Adept (0/750)
The vision of a god, the supreme intellect of a man believed to be the embodiment of all knowledge, the raw unfettered genius of a being that would bind the immaterium itself to his unshakeable will. Charms of this ability have to do with insight, understanding and the application therefore, be it as a sage, a sorcerer or a craftsman.
Ignatius is an intelligent man, one who has pursued a theological and scholarly career for over a century, but his academic understanding is focused on a handful of relevant fields. Within the realms of theology he has few equals; outside them, he is an educated layman at best.
[Unfavoured] Night: Proficient (0/750)
The guile of the masked, the cunning of a puppeteer, the discretion of a man who balanced a thousand threats against one another without ever once setting foot onto a battlefield. Charms of this ability concern espionage, subterfuge and stealth, as well as the associated physical abilities necessary for one who employs such skills to succeed in their missions.
Cardinal Ignatius, Lord of Sanguis, Scourge of the False Church, is not a subtle man. He has spent all his life forced to moderate and disguise his intent and desires; no more. Now is not the time for good deeds hidden from view by a mask of indifference - it is the time of virtuous action, performed before the gaze of millions.
[Favoured] Eclipse: Veteran (0/750)
The might of the quill, the sanctity of the pact, the solemn weight of the sworn word that binds an empire together. The Emperor did not merely conquer the galaxy, but bound it together into a unified nation-state that endured ten millennia after his effective death. Charms of this ability concern all feats of diplomacy, organisation and negotiation, along with the skills necessary to navigate from one capital to another.
Ignatius is a Cardinal of the Ecclesiarchy, and that is an office as political in nature as it is theological. He has a gift for diplomacy, for bringing together the divergent strands of faith and policy and forging common cause from all of them.
Secondary Skills
Anima Banner: Veteran (0/500)
The light of god, given form in mortal flesh. See? The earth trembles at its coming.
The core component of the Emperor's gift to his favoured scion; the shard of god-fire that burns in Ignatius' soul. It empowers and sustains him, grants him an authority that all things of the spiritual realm are forced to recognise, and scorches the very essence of the unholy with searing flame.
Cult: Proficient (0/250)
The breath of the faithful, given to the uncaring void, the fuel by which an empire prospers.
Ignatius has only begun to suspect that the faithful prayers of his flock have a more direct effect on his personal being than they previously did; the hymns of the devout bolster his will.
Past Life (The Emperor of Mankind): Novice (Locked)
The grief of a hero found wanting
Ignatius is the heir of the Emperor in a very literal sense, and in the depths of his soul now reside the memories of a man so much older and grander than he could imagine. They are tainted by misery and desperation, but potentially the source of new knowledge and power...
Charms
Dawn: Proficient (0/500)
Behold, the Sword of Morning, by which God cut the world into a more pleasing form. The skill of the warlord, by which the Emperor conquered the galaxy in crusade. Charms associated with this skill enhance personal combat and the innate lethality of a man blessed by god, and will also lend themselves to strategic command.
Ignatius has spent a hundred years behind a pulpit, and while he has begun to exercise more of late, studying with the Sororitas and intensifying his exercise routine, he is fundamentally still a man of the cloth, not the blade.
[Favored] Zenith: Distinguished (0/1300)
Witness, the glory of god, the light of the galaxy. The skill of the orator, the prophet, the demagogue who dreamed of a unified galaxy and convinced the myriad worlds of mankind to die in pursuit of this vision. Charms of this ability are associated with social prowess, with the organisation of the faithful, and with the endurance required to speak truth to power in a galaxy profoundly hostile to such things.
Faith alone can overturn the universe. This is the credo of the Ecclesiarchy, and it is the strength that propels a man like Ignatius to the heights he has attained. He was a dangerously persuasive orator even before the Emperor placed a spark of godfire in his soul, and now his words can bring even the fanatic to tears.
Twilight: Adept (0/750)
The vision of a god, the supreme intellect of a man believed to be the embodiment of all knowledge, the raw unfettered genius of a being that would bind the immaterium itself to his unshakeable will. Charms of this ability have to do with insight, understanding and the application therefore, be it as a sage, a sorcerer or a craftsman.
Ignatius is an intelligent man, one who has pursued a theological and scholarly career for over a century, but his academic understanding is focused on a handful of relevant fields. Within the realms of theology he has few equals; outside them, he is an educated layman at best.
[Unfavoured] Night: Proficient (0/750)
The guile of the masked, the cunning of a puppeteer, the discretion of a man who balanced a thousand threats against one another without ever once setting foot onto a battlefield. Charms of this ability concern espionage, subterfuge and stealth, as well as the associated physical abilities necessary for one who employs such skills to succeed in their missions.
Cardinal Ignatius, Lord of Sanguis, Scourge of the False Church, is not a subtle man. He has spent all his life forced to moderate and disguise his intent and desires; no more. Now is not the time for good deeds hidden from view by a mask of indifference - it is the time of virtuous action, performed before the gaze of millions.
[Favoured] Eclipse: Veteran (0/750)
The might of the quill, the sanctity of the pact, the solemn weight of the sworn word that binds an empire together. The Emperor did not merely conquer the galaxy, but bound it together into a unified nation-state that endured ten millennia after his effective death. Charms of this ability concern all feats of diplomacy, organisation and negotiation, along with the skills necessary to navigate from one capital to another.
Ignatius is a Cardinal of the Ecclesiarchy, and that is an office as political in nature as it is theological. He has a gift for diplomacy, for bringing together the divergent strands of faith and policy and forging common cause from all of them.
Secondary Skills
Anima Banner: Veteran (0/500)
The light of god, given form in mortal flesh. See? The earth trembles at its coming.
The core component of the Emperor's gift to his favoured scion; the shard of god-fire that burns in Ignatius' soul. It empowers and sustains him, grants him an authority that all things of the spiritual realm are forced to recognise, and scorches the very essence of the unholy with searing flame.
Cult: Proficient (0/250)
The breath of the faithful, given to the uncaring void, the fuel by which an empire prospers.
Ignatius has only begun to suspect that the faithful prayers of his flock have a more direct effect on his personal being than they previously did; the hymns of the devout bolster his will.
Past Life (The Emperor of Mankind): Novice (Locked)
The grief of a hero found wanting
Ignatius is the heir of the Emperor in a very literal sense, and in the depths of his soul now reside the memories of a man so much older and grander than he could imagine. They are tainted by misery and desperation, but potentially the source of new knowledge and power...
Charms
- Dawn Charms
- Zenith Charms
- Twilight Charms
- Night Charms
- Eclipse Charms
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Character Creation Pt.II
- Location
- London, England
You are a servant of the Emperor. Every human in the galaxy is or should be, at least on a philosophical level, but your service has always been more direct. You are a member of the Imperial Church, or of one of it's subsidiary institutions, and such a position has given you a perspective on the workings of the Ecclesiarchy that few souls are privileged enough to receive.
It sickens you.
The Church is meant to be pure, to be dedicated in the service of God, to be the guiding light that leads mankind through the darkness of this wretched millennium... but that is not the Ecclesiarchy you know. The Church you see is one riddled with corruption, where greed takes the place of piety and self-importance that of duty. Far too many 'priests' are content to line their own pockets and set themselves up as Kings in all but name, caring nothing for those beneath them other than they serve.
Cynical manipulators would be one thing; the charlatan looking to exploit the faith of another is a foul thing, but such perfidy pales in comparison to faithful soul who sees no contradiction between his words and deeds. The Church is rotting from the inside out, and though it will cost you your life you can no longer stand by and watch the corruption spread.
No man who died in His service, died in vain.
-/-
Who are you? Choose two of the following options; the one with the most votes overall will win.
[ ] The Cardinal. You have a position of rank and power within the Ecclesiarchy, and you have done what you can to use it for good. Your teachings were always somewhat unorthodox, but you spoke to people's hearts and your support grew ever greater. Now, though, your superiors have rendered judgement, and those who trusted in your words are being condemned as heretics and sent to the pyre. Your position protects you from harm so long as you do not intervene... but you cannot stand aside and let your children burn.
[ ] The Drill-Abbot. You served on the frontlines, and in reward were permitted to retire to the Schola Progenum, there to teach the next generation of Imperial servants how they might best serve the Emperor. For decades you have nurtured their minds and sent them forth into the galaxy. Most died, their lives spent like copper coins, and those who survived highlighted your every failure in the doing. Now you pick up your hammer and set forth to confront your old students, and perhaps in the process teach them one final lesson.
[ ] The Missionary. You have walked beneath alien suns and broken bread with people lost to the Emperor's light for millennia on end. Whole worlds have been brought into the fold by your deeds, and every time you returned home another set of scales fell from your eyes. You can scarcely bare to look upon the place you are meant to be speaking for, and while the frontier yet calls it's sweet siren song... you are done running.
[ ] The Sororitas. You are a Sister of Battle, and your skin bears the scars of many wars. You have slain the enemies of the faith on countless battlefields, advanced far in the service to the Church... and found the worth of those you are supposed to serve lacking. They feast on the victuals of a hundred worlds and drink wine from golden chalices, while you stand guard and know your sisters die in muddy holes with every passing day. No more.
[ ] The Street Preacher. You walked out of the temple long ago, seeking service of a more worthy kind. The alleys are your church, the forgotten wretches your congregation, the warmth of a full belly the sacrament you offer. You have seen a thousand worthy souls clad in rags and ground into the dust by the Church's imperious neglect, while on the horizon the gilded towers grew ever higher. You cannot turn a blind eye anymore; if your onetime brethren have forgotten those who dwell beneath their feet, then it will be your duty and your pleasure to remind them.
[ ] The Theologian. You graduated top of your class at the Schola, and donned the cassock of a priest with a smile on your face. You had studied the many and varied forms of the Imperial Faith for years on end, only to find that not one of the them reflected the actual truth. The horrors you have witnessed in your service to the mighty have strained your mind, and in the end you knew you were faced with a choice; do the sensible, pragmatic thing, or take a stand on a matter of principle few of your peers even cared to name. Put like that, it isn't really a choice at all, is it?
It sickens you.
The Church is meant to be pure, to be dedicated in the service of God, to be the guiding light that leads mankind through the darkness of this wretched millennium... but that is not the Ecclesiarchy you know. The Church you see is one riddled with corruption, where greed takes the place of piety and self-importance that of duty. Far too many 'priests' are content to line their own pockets and set themselves up as Kings in all but name, caring nothing for those beneath them other than they serve.
Cynical manipulators would be one thing; the charlatan looking to exploit the faith of another is a foul thing, but such perfidy pales in comparison to faithful soul who sees no contradiction between his words and deeds. The Church is rotting from the inside out, and though it will cost you your life you can no longer stand by and watch the corruption spread.
No man who died in His service, died in vain.
-/-
Who are you? Choose two of the following options; the one with the most votes overall will win.
[ ] The Cardinal. You have a position of rank and power within the Ecclesiarchy, and you have done what you can to use it for good. Your teachings were always somewhat unorthodox, but you spoke to people's hearts and your support grew ever greater. Now, though, your superiors have rendered judgement, and those who trusted in your words are being condemned as heretics and sent to the pyre. Your position protects you from harm so long as you do not intervene... but you cannot stand aside and let your children burn.
[ ] The Drill-Abbot. You served on the frontlines, and in reward were permitted to retire to the Schola Progenum, there to teach the next generation of Imperial servants how they might best serve the Emperor. For decades you have nurtured their minds and sent them forth into the galaxy. Most died, their lives spent like copper coins, and those who survived highlighted your every failure in the doing. Now you pick up your hammer and set forth to confront your old students, and perhaps in the process teach them one final lesson.
[ ] The Missionary. You have walked beneath alien suns and broken bread with people lost to the Emperor's light for millennia on end. Whole worlds have been brought into the fold by your deeds, and every time you returned home another set of scales fell from your eyes. You can scarcely bare to look upon the place you are meant to be speaking for, and while the frontier yet calls it's sweet siren song... you are done running.
[ ] The Sororitas. You are a Sister of Battle, and your skin bears the scars of many wars. You have slain the enemies of the faith on countless battlefields, advanced far in the service to the Church... and found the worth of those you are supposed to serve lacking. They feast on the victuals of a hundred worlds and drink wine from golden chalices, while you stand guard and know your sisters die in muddy holes with every passing day. No more.
[ ] The Street Preacher. You walked out of the temple long ago, seeking service of a more worthy kind. The alleys are your church, the forgotten wretches your congregation, the warmth of a full belly the sacrament you offer. You have seen a thousand worthy souls clad in rags and ground into the dust by the Church's imperious neglect, while on the horizon the gilded towers grew ever higher. You cannot turn a blind eye anymore; if your onetime brethren have forgotten those who dwell beneath their feet, then it will be your duty and your pleasure to remind them.
[ ] The Theologian. You graduated top of your class at the Schola, and donned the cassock of a priest with a smile on your face. You had studied the many and varied forms of the Imperial Faith for years on end, only to find that not one of the them reflected the actual truth. The horrors you have witnessed in your service to the mighty have strained your mind, and in the end you knew you were faced with a choice; do the sensible, pragmatic thing, or take a stand on a matter of principle few of your peers even cared to name. Put like that, it isn't really a choice at all, is it?
Act I, Chapter I - The Cardinal
- Location
- London, England
Your face belongs to a younger man.
Twelve decades have you served in the shadow of the Emperor and his Church, each a chain wrapped tight around your bones, but when you stare into the mirror the man who looks back barely seems a day over thirty. It is far too easy to think of him as someone else entirely, to construct a story about the man in the mirror and compare it to your own, inevitably found wanting.
That man is young, with bright blue eyes and coal-black hair, and his cheeks are only just beginning to show the soft lines of prolonged indulgence. That man is handsome, his face chiseled into perfect imperious lines by a master of flesh-craft, a magnet to the eye of any number of adoring partners. That man wears his robes of office well, and could convincingly claim that the shadows under his eyes came from nothing more dramatic than a night of unfortunately poor sleep.
That man is a lie.
You cannot hear the flames from here, nor smell the pungent stench of oil, for your room above the basilica is sealed tight against the air beyond and filled only with purified air. Your mind provides the sensations even so, turned to treachery by the broiling mix of fear and hate that scours your gut and curls your soft, pampered hands into fists.
A roar from outside sets the stone beneath your feet to trembling, and without conscious thought your find yourself moving to the window. The glass is specially treated, the multi-hued depiction of Saint Erasmus the Shriven permitting light through in only one direction, that you might survey the plaza beyond without drawing the attention of those below.
The crowd stands a million strong.
You can see them in the streets below, an ocean of humanity that stretches all the way out to the far horizon, packed shoulder to shoulder in streets and alleyways designed to hold a fraction of their number. They move and sway like some vast organism, pressing forwards against the barricade and flowing back down the causeways in strange synchronized rhythm, the will of the individual subsumed beneath the tidal psychology of the Mob. The sound of their collective voice is enough to shake the ground, and every time they press up against the barricade the stench grows as well, for the marshals on guard are free with their blows and a shock maul on full charge does terrible things to flesh and bowel.
The plaza itself is lost from view, the grand mural of Sanguinius Triumphant obscured beneath an artificial forest of a thousand metal spines. The roots of each tree are curled in on themselves, twisted up into soot-charred nozzles aimed at the branches above, and to each blackened trunk a linen bundle screams and writhes, begging for mercy from those who do not know the meaning of the word.
You bite your lip, and pay scarce notice the coppery tang of blood.
You are too high to see any details, too elevated in your position to get a first-hand look at the blood and death set to unfold below, but you know it well enough. No one rises so high in the Ecclesiarchy without witnessing at least one 'heretic' being executed through immolation, and though thousands wait for their turn upon the pyre today even such monstrous scale is not entirely unknown to you. No, the real change, the thing that makes this mass slaughter stand out in your mind where so many others could be tolerated or ignored, is motive.
Those people are dying because of you.
In truth, you should be down there with them; one does not typically condemn the population of a small town to death for heresy and then spare the one who poured such thoughts into their ears, but as in so many other things your position grants you rare advantage. You are a Cardinal of the Adeptus Ministorum, but one or two steps below the Ecclesiarch himself, and to send one such as you to the pyre is a step not likely taken, not even for the half-tame monsters of the Inquisition.
You will not hold such a rank for long, of course. Doubtless the petition is already circulating through the ranks of the Sector Synod, accumulating signatures and gathering the weight of will and testimony necessary to strip you of your position. Likely you will be demoted, sent off to proselytize to the heathens beyond the rim as part of such ambitious missionary undertaking, sent far away from the halls of power and left there until death claims you. It will take years, of course, perhaps even decades before you meet your appointed end, but eventually it will come, as grinding and inevitable as the gears of the Imperium can make it.
Your flock will die today.
You exhale, forcing the breath out through the cracks in tightly clenched teeth, and will yourself to turn away from the window. It will do you no good to watch what happens next, nor will it benefit those who face the fire for the sin of listening to their shepherd. Better to find something else to stare at, some other topic to snare the mind and enrapture the senses, something to occupy your thoughts until the inevitable is over and done with at last.
There are certainly no shortage of possible subjects, for your office is a spacious thing and virtually every wall and corner is filled to the brim with the detritus of a life long lived in service. On the surface of the desk is the skull of the first man to die in your defense, polished and gleaming in the candlelight, all but begging for some careful reflection. On the opposing wall hangs a selection of your favoured verses from the more recent tracts and psalms, the illuminated text just large enough to read from a distance. In the corner, are the gleaming fangs of your ceremonial chainsword, a weapon you practice with diligently but have never once wielded in battle. Mementos and keepsakes, the vast majority of no meaning to anyone but yourself.
You will not miss them.
You stop short, surprised at the turn your thoughts have taken. Slowly, cautiously, you prod at the nugget of iron-hard resolve at their foundation, following the chain of cause and effect all the way back to the original unconscious decision. Another roar shakes the room, and in the fading echo you find the truth you had sought.
You won't let this happen.
It's a strange thought to find, for there is little enough you could do now in any case; the authority of the Inquisition is beyond reproach, and any subtle influence you could bring to bear will yield fruit far too late for your flock to benefit any. You should be resigned, willing to accept the inevitability of what is about to occur, lost in regret and already mourning those who you know you cannot save… but you are not.
You are going down there.
Your smile is, you suspect, a ghastly thing. No expression born of such potent fatalism and relief could ever be anything less, but all things considered you suppose such concerns are among the very least of all possible worries. Quickly, before your sudden resolve can fail you, you cross the room and throw open the heartwood door to the corridor beyond.
"Your Holiness?" The sentry on duty is a Battle Sister of the Adepta Sororitas, for only the very finest are suitable escorts for a man of your stature. You cannot read her face or body behind the snow-white plates of her armour, but in truth you do not need to. She cannot hope to stand in your way. "Is something the matter?"
"I am going downstairs," you say firmly, stepping out of your room and shutting the door behind you. Part of you wants to go back and don the full extent of your ceremonial regalia, just to make this little stunt as dramatic and emphatic as possible… but no, that would take too much time, and your nerves might fail you yet. "I will not cower here while the faithful die below."
The sentry falls into step behind you without protest, but there is no mistaking the slight hesitation in her tone as she speaks once more. "Forgive me, Holy One, but… is that wise?"
You snort; a most undignified expression for a man of your station, but considering the circumstances one you feel can be forgiven. Servo-skulls descend from the rafters as you advance, cold augmentic lights burning where once a brain laid at rest, but you banish them with a single wave of your hand. You have no time for the petitions they carry or the messages they bring. Let your successor sort out that unholy mess.
"Sister, it is without a doubt the single most foolish action I have ever undertaken," You say with a glee that sits in your stomach and runs electric hands across vein and muscle, "but I am going to do it anyway."
You are halfway down the main flight of stairs before the full import of your words finally begins to sink in, the sharp rhythmic clack of powered boots on stone faltering for a brief moment in your wake.
"I… your Holiness… Cardinal…" the sister tries, before at last opting to abandon all form of pretense and simply seize you by the arm, "sir, you will die!"
You stop, if only because there is no way you can move with a battle-armoured woman latched onto your arm, and instead turn to face her at last. The reflection of your burning eyes in the crimson mirrors of her helm is a sight fit to still the heart.
"No man who died in his service, died in vain," you say softly, finally beginning to understand the words you have parroted without thinking for oh so many years, "so shoot me now or let me go, Sister, but either way this travesty will not continue unchallenged."
She releases you.
You continue.
The great doors at the front of the cathedral are closed, but in the interests of just this kind of moment you always made sure to keep the hinges properly maintained and the hydraulic systems in good working order; mortal strength alone could never hope to move such massive slabs of wood and granite, especially considering the gold leaf that turns the portal into a work of devotional art in its own right.
You place your hands against the doors, feeling the contours of the artificial skulls beneath your palms, and with a shrug of your shoulders throw them open.
The noonday heat washes over you like a tide, followed a second later by the hammer-blow of a million roaring voices. The sun sits high overhead, scorching your scalp and shoulders even through the flickering enviro-shield high above, but you allow none of this to stop you as you advance out onto the steps.
"Enough!" you roar, the vox-bead sewn into your collar overriding and commandeering every speaker horn within range until your voice echoes a hundred fold, "This madness ends today!"
The steps before the cathedral are carved of pure white marble quarried far across the stars, and each step you take is supported by legions of martyrs immortalized in the stone. You can feel the eyes of the mob turn towards you, feel the thundering cocktail of relief and exhilaration that flows through the veins of your doomed believers, and despite it all you find that a smile both grim and true blossoms swiftly upon your face.
Fear not, my children, for I have not abandoned you. Take solace in that if nothing else.
At the foot of the stairs, the Inquisitor turns.
He has a name, of course, one he was so kind as to inform you of when this whole sordid mess began, but you were never good with names and his seems almost beyond the point of relevance. It is not who he is that matters here but what; an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, a Witch Hunter and scourge of heretics, a laughing bear of a man with the will to order you strapped to a pyre without a second's hesitation and the authority to see it done.
"Cardinal," he says, and his tone is strangely jovial for the situation at hand, "I thought I told you to stay in your room? There's no need for such an exalted personage as yourself to attend to such matters personally."
"Be silent," you retort, striding down the steps to meet him, heart thundering in your chest, "you know well that this was not my doing, and I will not see it continue."
At the Inquisitor's side, one of his lackeys raises a gun in your direction; an Arbitrator, you think, though the marks of rank have long since been stripped from the matt black suit of carapace armour he shares with the rest of the Inquisitor's retinue. The man himself pushes the barrel back down with a casual gesture, then begins walking up the steps towards you, the forest of unlit pyres at his back.
"Oh but this is your doing, Cardinal!" He proclaims boldly, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that pulls open the heavy leather coat he wears. Beneath you can see a suit of armour that seems strangely insectoid in appearance, strung with thick belts each bearing a minor relic or weapon of war close to their master's hand. "It was your foolish preaching, your unwitting heresy that swayed these poor fools from the path of righteousness! What I do now is what must be done for their own salvation, and we both know that the fate of a man's soul outweighs by far the suffering of his material body!"
There is a threat in those words, a glint of malice backed up by the look in the hunter's eye, and you know full well that even if you back down now even this ghost of defiance has earned you hours on the rack beneath the tender mercies of this man's interrogators. The thought does not trouble you as much as it otherwise might, for you also know that such a circumstance will never come to pass. You will be dead long before it could.
"Spare me these false mockeries of theology, Witch Hunter," You snarl, balling your hands into fists as you descend, well aware of the multitude of cameras fixed upon your position even now, "we both know this has nothing to do with faith. This is a matter of politics, commanded by your wretched masters who cannot bear to see the masses they grind underfoot attain even the smallest hint of liberation. You would rather crush the souls of billions than risk the loss of even a single Throne's worth of extorted tribute in the segmentum coffers!"
The Inquisitor's teeth are capped in silver, you note, and they flash in the sun as he bares them in a snarl. "Be silent, you insipid fool, or would you condemn millions more to the fate reserved for these wayward sheep? If you seek to stoke the flames of rebellion in some childish attempt at revenge for your impending fall then I promise that death itself will not save you from my wrath!"
There is much that you could say here, whole speeches worth of rhetoric that come boiling up from the depths of your mind in the face of such presumption, but in the interests of clarity you opt to set that all aside. You are all but nose to nose with the Inquisitor now, and from such a range can finally employ that oldest and purest of mankind's multitude of communicative techniques.
Your fist catches the Inquisitor square upon the chin, and silence falls like a shroud.
A million souls watch in silence as a Witch Hunter of the Ordo Hereticus topples backwards on the steps of the cathedral, his arms flailing wildly as balance deserts him. The clatter of armour against marble is the only sound for miles around, and you stand there proud with arm outstretched, watching this monster fall.
"The Emperor," you proclaim in a voice of thunder, "protects the virtuous."
There is a scraping sound as one hand is flung out to arrest the fall, and with a display of athleticism to put gymnasts to shame the Inquisitor rolls back to his feet halfway down the stairs. One hand dips beneath his coat and comes back up clutching a weapon; a strange wand-like device with pearl-handled grips and a metal barrel riddled with holes.
"Then he will see you burn!" The Inquisitor roars in reply, and with a scream of super-heated air the Inferno Pistol spits death.
Everything stops.
The world is frozen, locked in that one perfect instant like a masterwork preserved in amber. The beam of the Inferno Pistol hangs motionless in the air, a horizontal pillar of brilliant light extending out towards your chest. You turn your head and see a flock of doves suspended in flight, spiraling out from the bell tower in coiling formations of white. You can turn your head, but not move from this spot, and as you watch your end approach a sense of peace settles upon your heart.
"Was it worth it?"
There is a man by your side, tall and cadaverous, wrapped in a robe of gold and blue at least five sizes too large for his diminished frame. The skin of his face is pulled taut against the skull beneath, highlighting his patrician skull, and in their darkened sockets twin orbs of midnight sky regard you with infinite sorrow.
You have known him all your life.
"Yeah, I think it was," you say softly, mind adrift on tides of senseless euphoria that leave you blind to what you surely should be feeling. "The ending's a bit shit, but I guess there are worse ways to go, right?"
"Yes," the old man says, turning to look down the stairs in turn, "there are."
He lets you contemplate that for a moment, in this instant that stretches to eternity. Then he speaks once more.
"If you had the chance," he says, gesturing vaguely at nothing that mortal eyes can perceive, "would you do it again? Knowing where it leads?"
You consider that for a moment, weighing up all the myriad paths your life has taken in the endless journey up until this point. There has been suffering, true, and compromise in act and principle alike you never would have tolerated in your youth… but there has also been joy and satisfaction, an honest pleasure in improving the lives of billions.
"You know what?" You say thoughtfully, "I think I would."
A hand of sinew and bone closes on your shoulder, and eyes that burn with strange fire stare deep into your own. The breath that washes across your face is cold as the grave and rank like carrion.
"Prove it," the Emperor says, and time marches on anew.
The melta-blast takes you high in the chest and swallows you in flame. Your robes ignite, not so much burning as ceasing to exist in an explosion of ash and ember, and your flesh and bone follow suit in swift succession. The sheer force of the impact sends you staggering back, feet catching at the temple steps.
You do not fall.
The fire fades, and your soul burns with light.
You open your eyes, and in their depths blaze fires from beyond the mortal word. Your body straightens, flame-charred spine hidden from view beneath a layer of fresh-woven meat, and where others would lose blood you shed only light unlike any this mortal world has seen in ten millennia. It gathers around you in a cloak, a halo, a great pillar of divine fire that reaches for miles into the air and reaches out to touch the horizon with its light.
Deep within the glow, the double-headed eagle flares its wings and screams with the pleasure of victory long deferred.
You look upon the world, and see a flawed creation in dire need of judgement. The architect of some small facet of such suffering stands before you now, an Inquisitor rendered speechless at the sight of his own hubris, and in a voice of thunder you do what you were put upon this world to do.
You Judge.
Twelve decades have you served in the shadow of the Emperor and his Church, each a chain wrapped tight around your bones, but when you stare into the mirror the man who looks back barely seems a day over thirty. It is far too easy to think of him as someone else entirely, to construct a story about the man in the mirror and compare it to your own, inevitably found wanting.
That man is young, with bright blue eyes and coal-black hair, and his cheeks are only just beginning to show the soft lines of prolonged indulgence. That man is handsome, his face chiseled into perfect imperious lines by a master of flesh-craft, a magnet to the eye of any number of adoring partners. That man wears his robes of office well, and could convincingly claim that the shadows under his eyes came from nothing more dramatic than a night of unfortunately poor sleep.
That man is a lie.
You cannot hear the flames from here, nor smell the pungent stench of oil, for your room above the basilica is sealed tight against the air beyond and filled only with purified air. Your mind provides the sensations even so, turned to treachery by the broiling mix of fear and hate that scours your gut and curls your soft, pampered hands into fists.
A roar from outside sets the stone beneath your feet to trembling, and without conscious thought your find yourself moving to the window. The glass is specially treated, the multi-hued depiction of Saint Erasmus the Shriven permitting light through in only one direction, that you might survey the plaza beyond without drawing the attention of those below.
The crowd stands a million strong.
You can see them in the streets below, an ocean of humanity that stretches all the way out to the far horizon, packed shoulder to shoulder in streets and alleyways designed to hold a fraction of their number. They move and sway like some vast organism, pressing forwards against the barricade and flowing back down the causeways in strange synchronized rhythm, the will of the individual subsumed beneath the tidal psychology of the Mob. The sound of their collective voice is enough to shake the ground, and every time they press up against the barricade the stench grows as well, for the marshals on guard are free with their blows and a shock maul on full charge does terrible things to flesh and bowel.
The plaza itself is lost from view, the grand mural of Sanguinius Triumphant obscured beneath an artificial forest of a thousand metal spines. The roots of each tree are curled in on themselves, twisted up into soot-charred nozzles aimed at the branches above, and to each blackened trunk a linen bundle screams and writhes, begging for mercy from those who do not know the meaning of the word.
You bite your lip, and pay scarce notice the coppery tang of blood.
You are too high to see any details, too elevated in your position to get a first-hand look at the blood and death set to unfold below, but you know it well enough. No one rises so high in the Ecclesiarchy without witnessing at least one 'heretic' being executed through immolation, and though thousands wait for their turn upon the pyre today even such monstrous scale is not entirely unknown to you. No, the real change, the thing that makes this mass slaughter stand out in your mind where so many others could be tolerated or ignored, is motive.
Those people are dying because of you.
In truth, you should be down there with them; one does not typically condemn the population of a small town to death for heresy and then spare the one who poured such thoughts into their ears, but as in so many other things your position grants you rare advantage. You are a Cardinal of the Adeptus Ministorum, but one or two steps below the Ecclesiarch himself, and to send one such as you to the pyre is a step not likely taken, not even for the half-tame monsters of the Inquisition.
You will not hold such a rank for long, of course. Doubtless the petition is already circulating through the ranks of the Sector Synod, accumulating signatures and gathering the weight of will and testimony necessary to strip you of your position. Likely you will be demoted, sent off to proselytize to the heathens beyond the rim as part of such ambitious missionary undertaking, sent far away from the halls of power and left there until death claims you. It will take years, of course, perhaps even decades before you meet your appointed end, but eventually it will come, as grinding and inevitable as the gears of the Imperium can make it.
Your flock will die today.
You exhale, forcing the breath out through the cracks in tightly clenched teeth, and will yourself to turn away from the window. It will do you no good to watch what happens next, nor will it benefit those who face the fire for the sin of listening to their shepherd. Better to find something else to stare at, some other topic to snare the mind and enrapture the senses, something to occupy your thoughts until the inevitable is over and done with at last.
There are certainly no shortage of possible subjects, for your office is a spacious thing and virtually every wall and corner is filled to the brim with the detritus of a life long lived in service. On the surface of the desk is the skull of the first man to die in your defense, polished and gleaming in the candlelight, all but begging for some careful reflection. On the opposing wall hangs a selection of your favoured verses from the more recent tracts and psalms, the illuminated text just large enough to read from a distance. In the corner, are the gleaming fangs of your ceremonial chainsword, a weapon you practice with diligently but have never once wielded in battle. Mementos and keepsakes, the vast majority of no meaning to anyone but yourself.
You will not miss them.
You stop short, surprised at the turn your thoughts have taken. Slowly, cautiously, you prod at the nugget of iron-hard resolve at their foundation, following the chain of cause and effect all the way back to the original unconscious decision. Another roar shakes the room, and in the fading echo you find the truth you had sought.
You won't let this happen.
It's a strange thought to find, for there is little enough you could do now in any case; the authority of the Inquisition is beyond reproach, and any subtle influence you could bring to bear will yield fruit far too late for your flock to benefit any. You should be resigned, willing to accept the inevitability of what is about to occur, lost in regret and already mourning those who you know you cannot save… but you are not.
You are going down there.
Your smile is, you suspect, a ghastly thing. No expression born of such potent fatalism and relief could ever be anything less, but all things considered you suppose such concerns are among the very least of all possible worries. Quickly, before your sudden resolve can fail you, you cross the room and throw open the heartwood door to the corridor beyond.
"Your Holiness?" The sentry on duty is a Battle Sister of the Adepta Sororitas, for only the very finest are suitable escorts for a man of your stature. You cannot read her face or body behind the snow-white plates of her armour, but in truth you do not need to. She cannot hope to stand in your way. "Is something the matter?"
"I am going downstairs," you say firmly, stepping out of your room and shutting the door behind you. Part of you wants to go back and don the full extent of your ceremonial regalia, just to make this little stunt as dramatic and emphatic as possible… but no, that would take too much time, and your nerves might fail you yet. "I will not cower here while the faithful die below."
The sentry falls into step behind you without protest, but there is no mistaking the slight hesitation in her tone as she speaks once more. "Forgive me, Holy One, but… is that wise?"
You snort; a most undignified expression for a man of your station, but considering the circumstances one you feel can be forgiven. Servo-skulls descend from the rafters as you advance, cold augmentic lights burning where once a brain laid at rest, but you banish them with a single wave of your hand. You have no time for the petitions they carry or the messages they bring. Let your successor sort out that unholy mess.
"Sister, it is without a doubt the single most foolish action I have ever undertaken," You say with a glee that sits in your stomach and runs electric hands across vein and muscle, "but I am going to do it anyway."
You are halfway down the main flight of stairs before the full import of your words finally begins to sink in, the sharp rhythmic clack of powered boots on stone faltering for a brief moment in your wake.
"I… your Holiness… Cardinal…" the sister tries, before at last opting to abandon all form of pretense and simply seize you by the arm, "sir, you will die!"
You stop, if only because there is no way you can move with a battle-armoured woman latched onto your arm, and instead turn to face her at last. The reflection of your burning eyes in the crimson mirrors of her helm is a sight fit to still the heart.
"No man who died in his service, died in vain," you say softly, finally beginning to understand the words you have parroted without thinking for oh so many years, "so shoot me now or let me go, Sister, but either way this travesty will not continue unchallenged."
She releases you.
You continue.
The great doors at the front of the cathedral are closed, but in the interests of just this kind of moment you always made sure to keep the hinges properly maintained and the hydraulic systems in good working order; mortal strength alone could never hope to move such massive slabs of wood and granite, especially considering the gold leaf that turns the portal into a work of devotional art in its own right.
You place your hands against the doors, feeling the contours of the artificial skulls beneath your palms, and with a shrug of your shoulders throw them open.
The noonday heat washes over you like a tide, followed a second later by the hammer-blow of a million roaring voices. The sun sits high overhead, scorching your scalp and shoulders even through the flickering enviro-shield high above, but you allow none of this to stop you as you advance out onto the steps.
"Enough!" you roar, the vox-bead sewn into your collar overriding and commandeering every speaker horn within range until your voice echoes a hundred fold, "This madness ends today!"
The steps before the cathedral are carved of pure white marble quarried far across the stars, and each step you take is supported by legions of martyrs immortalized in the stone. You can feel the eyes of the mob turn towards you, feel the thundering cocktail of relief and exhilaration that flows through the veins of your doomed believers, and despite it all you find that a smile both grim and true blossoms swiftly upon your face.
Fear not, my children, for I have not abandoned you. Take solace in that if nothing else.
At the foot of the stairs, the Inquisitor turns.
He has a name, of course, one he was so kind as to inform you of when this whole sordid mess began, but you were never good with names and his seems almost beyond the point of relevance. It is not who he is that matters here but what; an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, a Witch Hunter and scourge of heretics, a laughing bear of a man with the will to order you strapped to a pyre without a second's hesitation and the authority to see it done.
"Cardinal," he says, and his tone is strangely jovial for the situation at hand, "I thought I told you to stay in your room? There's no need for such an exalted personage as yourself to attend to such matters personally."
"Be silent," you retort, striding down the steps to meet him, heart thundering in your chest, "you know well that this was not my doing, and I will not see it continue."
At the Inquisitor's side, one of his lackeys raises a gun in your direction; an Arbitrator, you think, though the marks of rank have long since been stripped from the matt black suit of carapace armour he shares with the rest of the Inquisitor's retinue. The man himself pushes the barrel back down with a casual gesture, then begins walking up the steps towards you, the forest of unlit pyres at his back.
"Oh but this is your doing, Cardinal!" He proclaims boldly, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that pulls open the heavy leather coat he wears. Beneath you can see a suit of armour that seems strangely insectoid in appearance, strung with thick belts each bearing a minor relic or weapon of war close to their master's hand. "It was your foolish preaching, your unwitting heresy that swayed these poor fools from the path of righteousness! What I do now is what must be done for their own salvation, and we both know that the fate of a man's soul outweighs by far the suffering of his material body!"
There is a threat in those words, a glint of malice backed up by the look in the hunter's eye, and you know full well that even if you back down now even this ghost of defiance has earned you hours on the rack beneath the tender mercies of this man's interrogators. The thought does not trouble you as much as it otherwise might, for you also know that such a circumstance will never come to pass. You will be dead long before it could.
"Spare me these false mockeries of theology, Witch Hunter," You snarl, balling your hands into fists as you descend, well aware of the multitude of cameras fixed upon your position even now, "we both know this has nothing to do with faith. This is a matter of politics, commanded by your wretched masters who cannot bear to see the masses they grind underfoot attain even the smallest hint of liberation. You would rather crush the souls of billions than risk the loss of even a single Throne's worth of extorted tribute in the segmentum coffers!"
The Inquisitor's teeth are capped in silver, you note, and they flash in the sun as he bares them in a snarl. "Be silent, you insipid fool, or would you condemn millions more to the fate reserved for these wayward sheep? If you seek to stoke the flames of rebellion in some childish attempt at revenge for your impending fall then I promise that death itself will not save you from my wrath!"
There is much that you could say here, whole speeches worth of rhetoric that come boiling up from the depths of your mind in the face of such presumption, but in the interests of clarity you opt to set that all aside. You are all but nose to nose with the Inquisitor now, and from such a range can finally employ that oldest and purest of mankind's multitude of communicative techniques.
Your fist catches the Inquisitor square upon the chin, and silence falls like a shroud.
A million souls watch in silence as a Witch Hunter of the Ordo Hereticus topples backwards on the steps of the cathedral, his arms flailing wildly as balance deserts him. The clatter of armour against marble is the only sound for miles around, and you stand there proud with arm outstretched, watching this monster fall.
"The Emperor," you proclaim in a voice of thunder, "protects the virtuous."
There is a scraping sound as one hand is flung out to arrest the fall, and with a display of athleticism to put gymnasts to shame the Inquisitor rolls back to his feet halfway down the stairs. One hand dips beneath his coat and comes back up clutching a weapon; a strange wand-like device with pearl-handled grips and a metal barrel riddled with holes.
"Then he will see you burn!" The Inquisitor roars in reply, and with a scream of super-heated air the Inferno Pistol spits death.
Everything stops.
The world is frozen, locked in that one perfect instant like a masterwork preserved in amber. The beam of the Inferno Pistol hangs motionless in the air, a horizontal pillar of brilliant light extending out towards your chest. You turn your head and see a flock of doves suspended in flight, spiraling out from the bell tower in coiling formations of white. You can turn your head, but not move from this spot, and as you watch your end approach a sense of peace settles upon your heart.
"Was it worth it?"
There is a man by your side, tall and cadaverous, wrapped in a robe of gold and blue at least five sizes too large for his diminished frame. The skin of his face is pulled taut against the skull beneath, highlighting his patrician skull, and in their darkened sockets twin orbs of midnight sky regard you with infinite sorrow.
You have known him all your life.
"Yeah, I think it was," you say softly, mind adrift on tides of senseless euphoria that leave you blind to what you surely should be feeling. "The ending's a bit shit, but I guess there are worse ways to go, right?"
"Yes," the old man says, turning to look down the stairs in turn, "there are."
He lets you contemplate that for a moment, in this instant that stretches to eternity. Then he speaks once more.
"If you had the chance," he says, gesturing vaguely at nothing that mortal eyes can perceive, "would you do it again? Knowing where it leads?"
You consider that for a moment, weighing up all the myriad paths your life has taken in the endless journey up until this point. There has been suffering, true, and compromise in act and principle alike you never would have tolerated in your youth… but there has also been joy and satisfaction, an honest pleasure in improving the lives of billions.
"You know what?" You say thoughtfully, "I think I would."
A hand of sinew and bone closes on your shoulder, and eyes that burn with strange fire stare deep into your own. The breath that washes across your face is cold as the grave and rank like carrion.
"Prove it," the Emperor says, and time marches on anew.
The melta-blast takes you high in the chest and swallows you in flame. Your robes ignite, not so much burning as ceasing to exist in an explosion of ash and ember, and your flesh and bone follow suit in swift succession. The sheer force of the impact sends you staggering back, feet catching at the temple steps.
You do not fall.
The fire fades, and your soul burns with light.
You open your eyes, and in their depths blaze fires from beyond the mortal word. Your body straightens, flame-charred spine hidden from view beneath a layer of fresh-woven meat, and where others would lose blood you shed only light unlike any this mortal world has seen in ten millennia. It gathers around you in a cloak, a halo, a great pillar of divine fire that reaches for miles into the air and reaches out to touch the horizon with its light.
Deep within the glow, the double-headed eagle flares its wings and screams with the pleasure of victory long deferred.
You look upon the world, and see a flawed creation in dire need of judgement. The architect of some small facet of such suffering stands before you now, an Inquisitor rendered speechless at the sight of his own hubris, and in a voice of thunder you do what you were put upon this world to do.
You Judge.
Article: The crimes of this man are many and varied, his guilt beyond all doubt or question. All that remains is the sentence that must be passed, and it is as follows:
[ ] Death. A million hands stand ready to enact your will, and the world you would create has no room in it for such treacherous monsters. Let him reap what he has sown, and die as he would have condemned others to die in his place.
[ ] Exile. You find this man unworthy, and banish him from your sight. Let him go forth and spread the word of what happened here today, the first of many heralds that you must send forth to better enact your will upon this world.
[ ] Mercy. His crimes do not deserve forgiveness, but this is not about 'deserve'. Spare his life, bend his knee, and give the man a chance to atone for his failures with loyal service in your name.
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Planet Info: Sanguis
- Location
- London, England
Planetary Record
Name: Sanguis
Founding Date: Unknown (Est. M31)
Designation: Cardinal World
Location: Austra Sector, Ultima Segmentum
Population: Est. 8 Billion (note: Transient population of significant but undocumented size).
Sanguis is a world of martyrs. Internal records and planetary legend claim that the world was liberated from some vast alien threat by the Space Marines of the Blood Angels legion during the days of the Great Crusade, during which the Astartes suffered heavy casualties. Specific dates and the identity of this nameless foe have never been verified and the records of the Blood Angels themselves make no mention of the world.
In the wake of the Horus Heresy, the people of Sanguis learned of the death of the Primarch they held to have been their savior and plunged into a great frenzy of mourning and depression - a time noted in the historical record as the 'Time of Weeping'. Then, seemingly overnight, this grief transitioned into a collective reverence of the Lord of Angels, and through his example the very act of Martyrdom itself. Pilgrims from Sanguis travelled to other worlds, seeking out stories of local martyrs and their remains, and upon obtaining such would return to their home and build there a shrine or memorial to the 'victorious dead'.
Today the world is a museum and mausoleum of unmatched scope, where the stories and teachings of martyrs from across the Imperium are enshrined in reliquaries and temples that number in the millions. The priests of Sanguis are selective over who should be permitted to reside within their memorials, and disputes over whether a given soul is worthy enough have often escalated to the point of outright violence.
Tithe: Sanguis is administered directly by the Adeptus Ministorum, and pays no tax to the wider Imperium. The Ecclesiarchy receives and directs all funds from religious tithes.
Industry: The surface of Sanguis holds only sites of religious veneration. However, the constant influx of pilgrims and the need for appropriate infrastructure has given rise to a massive body of orbital stations and dockyards, which work together to feed, supply and administer the planet below.
Adeptus Presence:
Name: Sanguis
Founding Date: Unknown (Est. M31)
Designation: Cardinal World
Location: Austra Sector, Ultima Segmentum
Population: Est. 8 Billion (note: Transient population of significant but undocumented size).
Sanguis is a world of martyrs. Internal records and planetary legend claim that the world was liberated from some vast alien threat by the Space Marines of the Blood Angels legion during the days of the Great Crusade, during which the Astartes suffered heavy casualties. Specific dates and the identity of this nameless foe have never been verified and the records of the Blood Angels themselves make no mention of the world.
In the wake of the Horus Heresy, the people of Sanguis learned of the death of the Primarch they held to have been their savior and plunged into a great frenzy of mourning and depression - a time noted in the historical record as the 'Time of Weeping'. Then, seemingly overnight, this grief transitioned into a collective reverence of the Lord of Angels, and through his example the very act of Martyrdom itself. Pilgrims from Sanguis travelled to other worlds, seeking out stories of local martyrs and their remains, and upon obtaining such would return to their home and build there a shrine or memorial to the 'victorious dead'.
Today the world is a museum and mausoleum of unmatched scope, where the stories and teachings of martyrs from across the Imperium are enshrined in reliquaries and temples that number in the millions. The priests of Sanguis are selective over who should be permitted to reside within their memorials, and disputes over whether a given soul is worthy enough have often escalated to the point of outright violence.
Tithe: Sanguis is administered directly by the Adeptus Ministorum, and pays no tax to the wider Imperium. The Ecclesiarchy receives and directs all funds from religious tithes.
Industry: The surface of Sanguis holds only sites of religious veneration. However, the constant influx of pilgrims and the need for appropriate infrastructure has given rise to a massive body of orbital stations and dockyards, which work together to feed, supply and administer the planet below.
Adeptus Presence:
- The Adeptus Administratum maintains a small liaison post in the orbiting dockyards, though contact between them and the ruling Ecclesiarchal officials is sporadic at best.
- The Imperial Navy keeps a careful watch over Sanguis from the moon of Solus, which is given over entirely to their dominion. They guard their independence with a fierce pride, and hold themselves beyond the authority of the priests below.
- The Adeptus Arbites occupy a small Watch-Fortress built into an asteroid above the planet.
- The Order of the Argent Shroud maintain a Convent upon Sanguis, and Battle Sisters of the order often serve as escorts and guardians of the priesthood and it's sanctums.
Chapter II. The Sentence is Exile
- Location
- London, England
You are fire and light, the wrath of god given physical form, one righteous man imbued with the power of the divine in order to bring sense back to this age of heretics and madmen. You stand vindicated on the steps of your own temple, an icon of glory held up before the gaze of a million faithful souls, and before you stands the criminal who brought you to this point.
It would be so easy to destroy him… to raise your hands to the heavens and call upon the faithful masses to bring you the head of the man who dared to strike at an instrument of god. They would obey, you can feel it in your bones, and those handful of souls that remained loyal to their Inquisitor in the face of your condemnation would not be enough to stem the tide. And yet… you do not.
It would be slightly harder, but by no means impossible, to bring him to your side. You do not know much of this Inquisitor, for the nature of his office serves to occlude the reputation of its holders beyond a rare few exceptions, but he is answerable to his peers and such sinister figures would not send someone for you, for a Cardinal, unless they trusted both his abilities and resolve. To bring a foe such as that to your side would be a potent boon indeed, and yet…
The Inquisitor is afraid, you see that in an instant, for in his brilliant eyes is a gleam of terror such as even the most experienced of men has rarely experienced, but there is also doubt. This is a man who thought himself righteous, now confronted with evidence that might well change that assessment, and while such a wavering heart is easily swayed it is also not one that you care to possess. A man who would burn a thousand innocent people and count himself righteous until the very moment the light of god descends to chastise him is not a man you want by your side, not if your dreams are to ever come true.
You will not kill him, for you acted to avert death this day and you will not betray that intent, but neither will you keep him close.
"Begone," you say, and the force of your voice kicks clouds of dust up into the air all across the square, "begone, Inquisitor, and do not return. Go back to your masters and your peers, and think on what has transpired here today."
The Inquisitor licks his lips, pallid tongue gliding against silvered incisors, and lowers the inferno pistol back to his belt. He glances sideways, taking in the situation with a quick sweep of his eyes, and you know what it is he sees; an army of the faithful prepared to wash over him like a tide, held back by a cordon of troops that stare at you even now with tears in their eyes. If he strikes you now, if he can bring himself to dare such a thing, it will lead to his death and may well fail to achieve anything at all.
You do not think you can withstand a second blast from that pistol, but such knowledge is not readily shared, and the appearance of invulnerability is ever bit as useful as the real thing.
"What would you have me say to them?" He asks, and to his credit his voice remains steady even in the face of revelation, "There will be a great many questions that need answering…"
You shake your head, not in anger but in sorrow, and cross the space between you in three lengthy strides. You place one hand upon his shoulder, and when you look him in the eyes it is to find a gaze that waters before the brilliance of your divinity.
"I have no word for them, and no message for you," you say softly, "tell them what you wish, but do not imagine you do so at my behest, or as my agent in the world beyond. You are not worthy of such regard."
The Inquisitor grits his teeth, weather-beaten face pale with the implications of what you just said, and after a moment of silence he turns on his heel and walks away. You raise one hand and the crowd parts before him, an ocean of humanity permitting egress at your command, allowing him and his croneys to withdraw to the space port unmolested.
You watch him go.
When he is lost to sight, you turn your attention back to the crowd, to the watching soldiers and the gleaming lenses of the cameras. The people stare at you in silence, many of them weeping openly at the sight of your light, and you know for a fact that it is only the tight confines of the crowd that prevents many of them from prostrating themselves upon the ground.
There is much that you could say here, but only one thing that can reasonably be your first priority.
"Release my flock," you say, and a hundred soldiers jump to obey as though heated brands might sear their flesh for a heartbeat's delay. They cut away the bindings that hold your followers to the stakes, and with trembling hands help the young and old alike down from their lofty perches to stand upon the ground once more. These people, the core of your flock, they do prostrate themselves, foreheads pressed against the ground and mouths murmuring an endless stream of gratitude and prayer to you and the Emperor both.
You lift your hand, and study it for a moment, observing the way the golden light flows around your flesh like a mantle of water. It feels right, exhilarating in a way no sensation prior to this day can hope to match, but you can already feel it beginning to fade. You think of… a roaring hearth, slowing cooling as the flames drop away, the promise of embers on the horizon to occupy time until next you need the inferno within. The analogy feels inexact, but until you have the time to sit down and pen some formal records of this event such things are all you have to go by.
Still, this is not the moment for such quiet introspection. You have a city hanging on your every word and a flock spared from death to tend to first, both of which must be done before any other task might reasonably be begun.
"Return to your homes, my children," you say, grateful that the broadcast arrays can be relied upon to carry your words to the furthest edges of the crowd without the need for extensive effort on your part, "go back to your family, your neighbors, your community. Give thanks and take solace in the bonds that hold you together, for they will be your source of strength in days to come."
You tilt your head and look up at the sky, crystal clear and pale azure in hue. Up there, beyond the atmosphere, are the orbiting docks and infrastructure of Sanguis, watched carefully by the iron raptors of the Imperial Navy, and beyond… beyond is the Imperium entire, an Empire of galactic scope that will not welcome your words or heed your wisdom without careful thought and prudent effort. The weight of that burden threatens to crush you, as it has so many times before, but now of all days… now you are ready for it.
"Return to your kin, my faithful, and await my words," you say with a firm nod, turning your attention back to the crowd, "I will address this world entire within the coming days, and pass on to you what the Emperor Above All has passed on to me. For now… rest. You will need your strength."
The crowd is already dispersing, the hearts of the people soothed by your words even as their minds are enraptured by the promise of your divine wisdom, and with a last look back you turn on your heel and make your way back inside the cathedral.
You find the Sister on her knees just beyond the doors, her helmet removed and her pure white hair shining in the reflected light of your soul. Her eyes blaze with devotion, and you are struck by the macabre thought that she would give you her life itself in this moment, without hesitation, if only you would ask for it.
"Holiness," she says, and there is a much more literal edge to that honorific now than there was mere minutes before, "please, forgive my doubts. I should never have tried to bar your path."
"On the contrary, Sister, had you not I might not have tempered my will enough to go out there in the first place," you say warmly, and with a single hand bid her ride and stand at your side, "never apologize for loyal duty offered with pure intent, for that is all the Emperor could ever demand of us."
"As you say, Blessed One," the Sister replies, bowing her head as she returns her helmet to its place, "what will you do now."
You pause, rubbing your jaw in thought. "What indeed…"
It would be so easy to destroy him… to raise your hands to the heavens and call upon the faithful masses to bring you the head of the man who dared to strike at an instrument of god. They would obey, you can feel it in your bones, and those handful of souls that remained loyal to their Inquisitor in the face of your condemnation would not be enough to stem the tide. And yet… you do not.
It would be slightly harder, but by no means impossible, to bring him to your side. You do not know much of this Inquisitor, for the nature of his office serves to occlude the reputation of its holders beyond a rare few exceptions, but he is answerable to his peers and such sinister figures would not send someone for you, for a Cardinal, unless they trusted both his abilities and resolve. To bring a foe such as that to your side would be a potent boon indeed, and yet…
**Maugan Ra** rolled **7** <10; 3; 2; 10; 4; 1> # read intentions.
Guile 4, success. (You had double 9s from a charm and, more importantly, three automatic successes from your anima being at the bonfire level when testing a favoured ability.
Every NPC in this quest has an associated trait known as their 'Guile', which roughly represents their ability and willingness to hide their beliefs, motivations and general feelings behind an assumed mask. This does not make them inherently untrustworthy, simply disinclined to wear their heart 'on their sleeves'. By rolling Wits+Socialize you may attempt to pierce this Guile and get a read on what a particular target believes, holds dear or intends in this scene.
The read intentions action is not magic; you can only deduce facts about their personality if it is in some way relevant to their observed behavior. Watching a bureaucrat go about his day will not imbue you with awareness of the hopeless love he feels for his superior; watching the same bureaucrat sigh mournfully to himself at lunch while watching their paramour across the hall might do.
Naturally, there are charms that change this.
In any case, the Inquisitor is currently experiencing an emotion of 'Terrified awe' and has a major intimacy of "I am a righteous man".
Guile 4, success. (You had double 9s from a charm and, more importantly, three automatic successes from your anima being at the bonfire level when testing a favoured ability.
Every NPC in this quest has an associated trait known as their 'Guile', which roughly represents their ability and willingness to hide their beliefs, motivations and general feelings behind an assumed mask. This does not make them inherently untrustworthy, simply disinclined to wear their heart 'on their sleeves'. By rolling Wits+Socialize you may attempt to pierce this Guile and get a read on what a particular target believes, holds dear or intends in this scene.
The read intentions action is not magic; you can only deduce facts about their personality if it is in some way relevant to their observed behavior. Watching a bureaucrat go about his day will not imbue you with awareness of the hopeless love he feels for his superior; watching the same bureaucrat sigh mournfully to himself at lunch while watching their paramour across the hall might do.
Naturally, there are charms that change this.
In any case, the Inquisitor is currently experiencing an emotion of 'Terrified awe' and has a major intimacy of "I am a righteous man".
The Inquisitor is afraid, you see that in an instant, for in his brilliant eyes is a gleam of terror such as even the most experienced of men has rarely experienced, but there is also doubt. This is a man who thought himself righteous, now confronted with evidence that might well change that assessment, and while such a wavering heart is easily swayed it is also not one that you care to possess. A man who would burn a thousand innocent people and count himself righteous until the very moment the light of god descends to chastise him is not a man you want by your side, not if your dreams are to ever come true.
You will not kill him, for you acted to avert death this day and you will not betray that intent, but neither will you keep him close.
"Begone," you say, and the force of your voice kicks clouds of dust up into the air all across the square, "begone, Inquisitor, and do not return. Go back to your masters and your peers, and think on what has transpired here today."
The Inquisitor licks his lips, pallid tongue gliding against silvered incisors, and lowers the inferno pistol back to his belt. He glances sideways, taking in the situation with a quick sweep of his eyes, and you know what it is he sees; an army of the faithful prepared to wash over him like a tide, held back by a cordon of troops that stare at you even now with tears in their eyes. If he strikes you now, if he can bring himself to dare such a thing, it will lead to his death and may well fail to achieve anything at all.
You do not think you can withstand a second blast from that pistol, but such knowledge is not readily shared, and the appearance of invulnerability is ever bit as useful as the real thing.
"What would you have me say to them?" He asks, and to his credit his voice remains steady even in the face of revelation, "There will be a great many questions that need answering…"
You shake your head, not in anger but in sorrow, and cross the space between you in three lengthy strides. You place one hand upon his shoulder, and when you look him in the eyes it is to find a gaze that waters before the brilliance of your divinity.
"I have no word for them, and no message for you," you say softly, "tell them what you wish, but do not imagine you do so at my behest, or as my agent in the world beyond. You are not worthy of such regard."
The Inquisitor grits his teeth, weather-beaten face pale with the implications of what you just said, and after a moment of silence he turns on his heel and walks away. You raise one hand and the crowd parts before him, an ocean of humanity permitting egress at your command, allowing him and his croneys to withdraw to the space port unmolested.
You watch him go.
When he is lost to sight, you turn your attention back to the crowd, to the watching soldiers and the gleaming lenses of the cameras. The people stare at you in silence, many of them weeping openly at the sight of your light, and you know for a fact that it is only the tight confines of the crowd that prevents many of them from prostrating themselves upon the ground.
There is much that you could say here, but only one thing that can reasonably be your first priority.
"Release my flock," you say, and a hundred soldiers jump to obey as though heated brands might sear their flesh for a heartbeat's delay. They cut away the bindings that hold your followers to the stakes, and with trembling hands help the young and old alike down from their lofty perches to stand upon the ground once more. These people, the core of your flock, they do prostrate themselves, foreheads pressed against the ground and mouths murmuring an endless stream of gratitude and prayer to you and the Emperor both.
You lift your hand, and study it for a moment, observing the way the golden light flows around your flesh like a mantle of water. It feels right, exhilarating in a way no sensation prior to this day can hope to match, but you can already feel it beginning to fade. You think of… a roaring hearth, slowing cooling as the flames drop away, the promise of embers on the horizon to occupy time until next you need the inferno within. The analogy feels inexact, but until you have the time to sit down and pen some formal records of this event such things are all you have to go by.
Still, this is not the moment for such quiet introspection. You have a city hanging on your every word and a flock spared from death to tend to first, both of which must be done before any other task might reasonably be begun.
"Return to your homes, my children," you say, grateful that the broadcast arrays can be relied upon to carry your words to the furthest edges of the crowd without the need for extensive effort on your part, "go back to your family, your neighbors, your community. Give thanks and take solace in the bonds that hold you together, for they will be your source of strength in days to come."
You tilt your head and look up at the sky, crystal clear and pale azure in hue. Up there, beyond the atmosphere, are the orbiting docks and infrastructure of Sanguis, watched carefully by the iron raptors of the Imperial Navy, and beyond… beyond is the Imperium entire, an Empire of galactic scope that will not welcome your words or heed your wisdom without careful thought and prudent effort. The weight of that burden threatens to crush you, as it has so many times before, but now of all days… now you are ready for it.
"Return to your kin, my faithful, and await my words," you say with a firm nod, turning your attention back to the crowd, "I will address this world entire within the coming days, and pass on to you what the Emperor Above All has passed on to me. For now… rest. You will need your strength."
The crowd is already dispersing, the hearts of the people soothed by your words even as their minds are enraptured by the promise of your divine wisdom, and with a last look back you turn on your heel and make your way back inside the cathedral.
You find the Sister on her knees just beyond the doors, her helmet removed and her pure white hair shining in the reflected light of your soul. Her eyes blaze with devotion, and you are struck by the macabre thought that she would give you her life itself in this moment, without hesitation, if only you would ask for it.
"Holiness," she says, and there is a much more literal edge to that honorific now than there was mere minutes before, "please, forgive my doubts. I should never have tried to bar your path."
"On the contrary, Sister, had you not I might not have tempered my will enough to go out there in the first place," you say warmly, and with a single hand bid her ride and stand at your side, "never apologize for loyal duty offered with pure intent, for that is all the Emperor could ever demand of us."
"As you say, Blessed One," the Sister replies, bowing her head as she returns her helmet to its place, "what will you do now."
You pause, rubbing your jaw in thought. "What indeed…"
Article: Choose one of the following options to pursue immediately.
[ ] Approach the Sororitas. The Order of the Argent Shroud are here in some number, and represent some of the finest and most pious warriors to be found in this entire Sector. Speak with them, and sway them to your cause.
[ ] Commune with the Holy. You have been chosen for some great purpose, but the way ahead is yet uncertain. Offer prayer to the Emperor and consult the records of the martyred saints; perhaps you might find answers to who and what you have now become.
[ ] Muster the Clergy. You are Cardinal of this world, and within the priesthood your authority is beyond question. Summon the other priests and holy men on this world to your side, that you might lay the foundation for your future success.
[ ] Shepherd the Flock. Access the planetary address system and announce to the world what has happened here and what it is you intend to do next. You will preach to a congregation of billions.
[ ] Write in.
Chapter III. Gather the Clergy
- Location
- London, England
One Hour Later
"The last of the summons have been sent, Holiness," the Sororitas says from behind you, her voice once more built around a core of professional iron, "Do you need anything else?"
You take a deep breath, focusing on the slow, familiar movements of your chest and shoulders. The air here is sharp and cold, the braziers in each corner as yet unlit, and the metal floor is hard and uncomfortable against your knees.
"No, thank you sister," you say calmly, your eyes closed as you centre yourself at the beginning of your meditation, "please, inform me when the time for our departure comes. Until then, I must… reflect, on everything that has happened."
"As you say, Holiness," the Sister - you must remember to ask her name, such minor touches are worth a considerable amount of respect - says in an approving tone. She bows once, her armour hissing faintly as it copies her movements, and then retreats beyond the door and seals it tightly behind her. She will wait there, on guard, until the appointed time comes for further action; you suspect she will defer any option to change duties with the next Sister on her shift.
Alone at last, safe from any possible observers, you allow yourself to relax. Your shoulders slump, your breathing grows ragged, and the black mist of fatigue pulls remorselessly at your thoughts. The light of the Emperor has dimmed, now, and in its passing your earlier suspicions about the energy taken to maintain it have proven near prophetic in their accuracy. You feel exhausted, and have no ready solution save rest.
The very last thing you want to do right now is exercise, but then that is in large part the secret to an effect regimen; persistence in the face of personal weariness is how you hone your body and mind alike, and so long as you do not overdo it the benefits of such diligent practice will far outweigh your current misery.
With a low groan of effort you rise to your feet, swaying briefly for a moment as the leaden weights that have replaced your muscles conspire to drag you down. Then you shake your head and focus, lifting your arms into a classic guard position.
The Church of the Emperor is and always has been a militant institution; even barred from maintaining troops of its own the Ecclesiarchy maintains a steady presence on battlefields across the galaxy, slaughtering the enemies of the Emperor with sword and flame alike. You were never a crusading sort, but that does not mean you could ever dream of shunning such a core element of your faith. The galaxy is a cruel and hateful place, after all, a prison beyond comprehension that afflicts the souls of man with all the hatred and strife it can possibly muster. To neglect the ability to defend yourself in the face of such a world would be foolishness of the highest sort, and so you made sure to study the arts of combat alongside the pursuit of rhetoric.
As you begin to move your body through the basic forms of your exercise routine, you cannot help but reflect that the latter pursuit inevitably took up a great deal more of your time. It is only natural for a Cardinal, a high priest of the Ecclesiarchy, to favour the art of pen and voice above those of blade and fist, and though you were determined never to adopt the corpulent frame of your most indulgent 'peers' you know all too well that this does not make you a warrior. Any of the Sororitas could thrash you single-handed, and while you have at times considered requesting the right to attend their training sessions you know that you lack the time required to give such a pursuit the full attention that it deserves.
Except… is that true?
"Target drone," you grunt, and from the roof of your practice chamber a servo-skull detaches to float before you on wings of shimmering air. In its metal claws it holds a padded block the size of a man's face, and at your nod the drone begins circling you in an erratic orbit. You pivot on the spot, tracking its movements, and every time it hesitates or leaves you an opening you lash out with one balled fist, filling the room with the echoes of your clattering strikes.
At your core… no, all throughout your body, you can feel the flames begin to burn. It is a strange feeling, like a pyre beneath your skin, but what should be the source of screaming agony instead simply feels… good. The heat settles in to your heart, your muscles, your very bones, until there is not so much a man running through the motions as an engine of divine destruction standing in the centre of the chamber.
You are an iron in the forge, raw material beneath a master's hand, and with every passing moment you can feel yourself growing ever so slightly closer to perfection. Already your body has been purified, all the tiny little aches and pains from a long life of service washed away by the light of the Emperor's grace, allowing you to move freely and without pain. Even your thoughts feel refined, running smooth and clear in a constant stream from one to the next without hesitation or self-doubt. How much further will this transformation go? You can already tell that the improved clarity and perception afforded to you is but the start of your rise, but…
You lose focus for less than a heartbeat, and in the span of that moment instinct takes over. You spin, molten metal gathering in the bones of your arm, and in a single explosive punch shatter target and drone alike into a thousand flying pieces.
They splash against the floor like rain.
"Holiness," the Sister says, startling you out of your contemplation, "your shuttle has arrived. It is time to depart."
-/-
From orbit, the world of Sanguis looks like a disk of bronze, shot through with lines of verdigris. The oceans are rich in kelp and other life, much of which is harvested to meet the dietary needs of the faithful, and on the shore mountains war with cities for control over the morning silhouette.
When the architect who designed this chamber was first drawing up their plans, the decision was made that being able to see the world over which one was deliberating would aid the assembled worthies in focusing their minds and opening their hearts to the wisdom of the Emperor and His saints. Experience has taught you that this was largely a matter of wishful thinking, but there is no denying that the great steel-glass dome that cover the auditorium provides you with a truly spectacular view. You could stare at the vista for hours on end, most likely, and if only your duties would grant you that time the choice of doing so would be a tempting one indeed.
Instead you are forced to be content with nothing more than a glimpse, a brief diversion while you wait for the last of the assembled priests to finish filing into the auditorium. They sit in tiered rings ten ranks deep, their robes and ceremonial finery filling the otherwise barren chamber with a riot of life and color, and from your throne above them all you can look down and see each and every one of them.
Which among them chose to betray you, you wonder.
The Inquisitor was no psychic, after all, and while you can credit your enemies in the wider Ecclesiarchy with a great deal of qualities the ability to peer across the void and watch your sermons from their own temples is not among them. Only another priest of Sanguis could have passed the details of your teachings on to those watchful crows, and only a well chosen report of your more unorthodox beliefs would have brought a member of the Ordo Hereticus to your door. Doubtless there are millions of potential witnesses from among the faithful laity, but you doubt one of them would have had the weight of name or breadth of learning to recognize your teachings as being questionable and have their complaints taken seriously by the sector authorities.
So far no one has stepped forwards to confess, and while the hall is filled with nervous murmuring no one of rank has chosen to damn themselves by defying your summons outright. Rumour of what occurred between you and the Inquisitor will have already started to spread, but you acted fast and so no one here will have received anything more than the most preliminary of reports; enough to stoke concern, especially with knowledge that the Inquisitor was on planet in the first place, but not enough to allow for any kind of reliable confusion.
They want answers, and you will be happy to provide.
A simple gesture sends one of the novices at the edge of the room stepping forwards, and the hammer in his hand crashes against the ceremonial bell with a sound like thunder. The audience chamber falls silent, hundreds of eyes fixed solemnly upon you, and with a brief moment to centre yourself you open your mouth and speak.
"The last of the summons have been sent, Holiness," the Sororitas says from behind you, her voice once more built around a core of professional iron, "Do you need anything else?"
You take a deep breath, focusing on the slow, familiar movements of your chest and shoulders. The air here is sharp and cold, the braziers in each corner as yet unlit, and the metal floor is hard and uncomfortable against your knees.
"No, thank you sister," you say calmly, your eyes closed as you centre yourself at the beginning of your meditation, "please, inform me when the time for our departure comes. Until then, I must… reflect, on everything that has happened."
"As you say, Holiness," the Sister - you must remember to ask her name, such minor touches are worth a considerable amount of respect - says in an approving tone. She bows once, her armour hissing faintly as it copies her movements, and then retreats beyond the door and seals it tightly behind her. She will wait there, on guard, until the appointed time comes for further action; you suspect she will defer any option to change duties with the next Sister on her shift.
Alone at last, safe from any possible observers, you allow yourself to relax. Your shoulders slump, your breathing grows ragged, and the black mist of fatigue pulls remorselessly at your thoughts. The light of the Emperor has dimmed, now, and in its passing your earlier suspicions about the energy taken to maintain it have proven near prophetic in their accuracy. You feel exhausted, and have no ready solution save rest.
The Emperor is a god, but Ignatius must contend with the frailties of a mortal form. One of the most pertinent is stamina, for even heroes must rest from time to time.
Igantius can undertake 'strenuous activity' for a number of hours equal to his (Stamina+Resistance) without issue. For every hour after that point, he picks up a cumulative -1 fatigue penalty to all dice rolls. When this penalty reaches a size equal to his (Stamina+Resistance), he falls unconscious. What counts as strenuous activity can vary, but at the very least combat, intensive exercise and navigating hostile terrain all count. Likewise, environmental concerns can modify the effective size of your resistance pool - hiking across a desert world at noon might reduce your pool by three. Rest removes these penalties at a rate of one per hour.
Calling upon the power of your anima is exhausting in a way that no mortal labour can match, for the mortal frame was not designed to channel the power of a god so easily.
On the upside, you have an easy way to exercise and maintain your figure.
Igantius can undertake 'strenuous activity' for a number of hours equal to his (Stamina+Resistance) without issue. For every hour after that point, he picks up a cumulative -1 fatigue penalty to all dice rolls. When this penalty reaches a size equal to his (Stamina+Resistance), he falls unconscious. What counts as strenuous activity can vary, but at the very least combat, intensive exercise and navigating hostile terrain all count. Likewise, environmental concerns can modify the effective size of your resistance pool - hiking across a desert world at noon might reduce your pool by three. Rest removes these penalties at a rate of one per hour.
Calling upon the power of your anima is exhausting in a way that no mortal labour can match, for the mortal frame was not designed to channel the power of a god so easily.
- At Glowing, every scene counts as an hour of strenuous activity.
- At Burning, every scene counts as three hours of strenuous activity.
- At Bonfire, each scene counts as five hours of strenuous activity.
On the upside, you have an easy way to exercise and maintain your figure.
The very last thing you want to do right now is exercise, but then that is in large part the secret to an effect regimen; persistence in the face of personal weariness is how you hone your body and mind alike, and so long as you do not overdo it the benefits of such diligent practice will far outweigh your current misery.
With a low groan of effort you rise to your feet, swaying briefly for a moment as the leaden weights that have replaced your muscles conspire to drag you down. Then you shake your head and focus, lifting your arms into a classic guard position.
The Church of the Emperor is and always has been a militant institution; even barred from maintaining troops of its own the Ecclesiarchy maintains a steady presence on battlefields across the galaxy, slaughtering the enemies of the Emperor with sword and flame alike. You were never a crusading sort, but that does not mean you could ever dream of shunning such a core element of your faith. The galaxy is a cruel and hateful place, after all, a prison beyond comprehension that afflicts the souls of man with all the hatred and strife it can possibly muster. To neglect the ability to defend yourself in the face of such a world would be foolishness of the highest sort, and so you made sure to study the arts of combat alongside the pursuit of rhetoric.
As you begin to move your body through the basic forms of your exercise routine, you cannot help but reflect that the latter pursuit inevitably took up a great deal more of your time. It is only natural for a Cardinal, a high priest of the Ecclesiarchy, to favour the art of pen and voice above those of blade and fist, and though you were determined never to adopt the corpulent frame of your most indulgent 'peers' you know all too well that this does not make you a warrior. Any of the Sororitas could thrash you single-handed, and while you have at times considered requesting the right to attend their training sessions you know that you lack the time required to give such a pursuit the full attention that it deserves.
Except… is that true?
"Target drone," you grunt, and from the roof of your practice chamber a servo-skull detaches to float before you on wings of shimmering air. In its metal claws it holds a padded block the size of a man's face, and at your nod the drone begins circling you in an erratic orbit. You pivot on the spot, tracking its movements, and every time it hesitates or leaves you an opening you lash out with one balled fist, filling the room with the echoes of your clattering strikes.
At your core… no, all throughout your body, you can feel the flames begin to burn. It is a strange feeling, like a pyre beneath your skin, but what should be the source of screaming agony instead simply feels… good. The heat settles in to your heart, your muscles, your very bones, until there is not so much a man running through the motions as an engine of divine destruction standing in the centre of the chamber.
You are an iron in the forge, raw material beneath a master's hand, and with every passing moment you can feel yourself growing ever so slightly closer to perfection. Already your body has been purified, all the tiny little aches and pains from a long life of service washed away by the light of the Emperor's grace, allowing you to move freely and without pain. Even your thoughts feel refined, running smooth and clear in a constant stream from one to the next without hesitation or self-doubt. How much further will this transformation go? You can already tell that the improved clarity and perception afforded to you is but the start of your rise, but…
You lose focus for less than a heartbeat, and in the span of that moment instinct takes over. You spin, molten metal gathering in the bones of your arm, and in a single explosive punch shatter target and drone alike into a thousand flying pieces.
They splash against the floor like rain.
"Holiness," the Sister says, startling you out of your contemplation, "your shuttle has arrived. It is time to depart."
The Emperor was, above all else, a human hero, and as his heir your magic follows similar themes. With sufficient training you could run faster than a bullet and leap tall buildings in a single bound, but you cannot teleport across the void. With practice you can ignite the passions of any man and make the meekest soul into a roaring fanatic, but demands that the stars themselves descend and smite your foes will yield nothing in the way of success.
(Sorcery can permit both of these things, and the command the Emperor possessed over the powers of the Warp was significant, but for now the point stands.)
Your Charms are, put simply, extensions of your abilities; mortal skill taken to superhuman heights. If you wish to develop new charms, you do it by practicing with the abilities in question, both in standard training and by using them under duress. Make a lot of speeches and you'll pick up Performance charms, spend time sparring and you'll unlock Brawl charms and so on. Those abilities listed as 'caste' and 'favourite' require significantly less training time to unlock charms in or improve their base abilities, but every ability has something to offer if you would choose to pursue it.
(Sorcery can permit both of these things, and the command the Emperor possessed over the powers of the Warp was significant, but for now the point stands.)
Your Charms are, put simply, extensions of your abilities; mortal skill taken to superhuman heights. If you wish to develop new charms, you do it by practicing with the abilities in question, both in standard training and by using them under duress. Make a lot of speeches and you'll pick up Performance charms, spend time sparring and you'll unlock Brawl charms and so on. Those abilities listed as 'caste' and 'favourite' require significantly less training time to unlock charms in or improve their base abilities, but every ability has something to offer if you would choose to pursue it.
-/-
From orbit, the world of Sanguis looks like a disk of bronze, shot through with lines of verdigris. The oceans are rich in kelp and other life, much of which is harvested to meet the dietary needs of the faithful, and on the shore mountains war with cities for control over the morning silhouette.
When the architect who designed this chamber was first drawing up their plans, the decision was made that being able to see the world over which one was deliberating would aid the assembled worthies in focusing their minds and opening their hearts to the wisdom of the Emperor and His saints. Experience has taught you that this was largely a matter of wishful thinking, but there is no denying that the great steel-glass dome that cover the auditorium provides you with a truly spectacular view. You could stare at the vista for hours on end, most likely, and if only your duties would grant you that time the choice of doing so would be a tempting one indeed.
Instead you are forced to be content with nothing more than a glimpse, a brief diversion while you wait for the last of the assembled priests to finish filing into the auditorium. They sit in tiered rings ten ranks deep, their robes and ceremonial finery filling the otherwise barren chamber with a riot of life and color, and from your throne above them all you can look down and see each and every one of them.
Which among them chose to betray you, you wonder.
The Inquisitor was no psychic, after all, and while you can credit your enemies in the wider Ecclesiarchy with a great deal of qualities the ability to peer across the void and watch your sermons from their own temples is not among them. Only another priest of Sanguis could have passed the details of your teachings on to those watchful crows, and only a well chosen report of your more unorthodox beliefs would have brought a member of the Ordo Hereticus to your door. Doubtless there are millions of potential witnesses from among the faithful laity, but you doubt one of them would have had the weight of name or breadth of learning to recognize your teachings as being questionable and have their complaints taken seriously by the sector authorities.
So far no one has stepped forwards to confess, and while the hall is filled with nervous murmuring no one of rank has chosen to damn themselves by defying your summons outright. Rumour of what occurred between you and the Inquisitor will have already started to spread, but you acted fast and so no one here will have received anything more than the most preliminary of reports; enough to stoke concern, especially with knowledge that the Inquisitor was on planet in the first place, but not enough to allow for any kind of reliable confusion.
They want answers, and you will be happy to provide.
A simple gesture sends one of the novices at the edge of the room stepping forwards, and the hammer in his hand crashes against the ceremonial bell with a sound like thunder. The audience chamber falls silent, hundreds of eyes fixed solemnly upon you, and with a brief moment to centre yourself you open your mouth and speak.
Article: There are millions of priests on Sanguis, but all those of appropriately high rank have been gathered here at your command. None of these men and women are weak of mind or faith, but neither do they have your recent advantages.
What I need from you here is one vote, and also a more general discussion. The vote is on how you intend to proceed with bringing the Priesthood of Sanguis over to your side:
[ ] Expose the Guilty. You cannot have enemies lurking unnoticed within your own priesthood. Prioritize identifying out the ones who have worked actively against you, and offer them the chance to repent before their peers.
[ ] Ignite the Soul. You know better than most the unifying power of faith. Prioritize the clergy's acceptance of you as a divine icon, and they will follow you into the depths of the foulest hell if their duty so requires.
[ ] Preach to the Choir. Disputes over doctrine can lead to the most virulent of feuds, and you would rather have a thousand minds in broad agreement than a hundred locked in fanatic loyalty. Smooth over the divisions that lead to the call for the Hereticus, and the rest will fall smoothly into place.
The general discussion is on what you plan to do next, assuming that this action succeeds. Not just in terms of 'who do we try to sway next', but what it is that you intend to do with that loyalty. What are your goals for Sanguis and its people, for the Imperium as a whole? I don't require unanimity, but a broad consensus will help me work out which direction people want to see the story go, enabling Ignatius to be more proactive instead of simply reacting to outside events.
Chapter IV. Expose the Guilty
- Location
- London, England
"Brothers and Sisters," you say, raising your hands from their rest to bring all attention to you, "thank you for attending on such short notice. I assure you, the matter at hand is one that will only benefit from your full attention."
You pause, but where before such a pronouncement would have sparked a flurry of whispers and comments, now the chamber stands utterly silent. You think several of the younger priests are even going so far as to hold their breath rather than risk disrupting whatever it is you intend to say, and even their elders are held spellbound by the natural authority suffusing your words.
"Let us confirm for the record that which a great many of us already know; one week ago, an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus came to Sanguis," you continue, your voice as grim as any should be when speaking of such a dire threat, "his motive was to judge me and my flock, and determine for himself whether or not what I taught crossed the line into heresy against the God-Emperor and his Church. After three days of questioning and interrogation, he sent my flock to the pyre."
Several priests open their mouths at this, seemingly driven to the point of outright protest or enraged condemnation, but it is not your will that they speak just yet and so they do not. You think one or two of them actually look rather startled by the realization of their own silence, able to recognize the unusual nature of their passivity but unable to counteract it with that thought alone.
"On the steps of the cathedral I confronted him, and it was there that the Emperor came to me," you continue, your voice ringing out through the chamber, "and with His blessing I convinced the Inquisitor to stand down. He is gone, now, banished from the Sanguis system at my command."
In the eyes of many, accomplishing even that much must seem like a miracle in and of itself. The Holy Inquisition is the terror of mankind throughout the galaxy, and the thought of turning their judgement aside and commanding them to depart from your presence rather than persecute a writ of Heresy must seem like sheer fantasy. You could speak to them of how this was done, reveal your blessing and by the light of the Emperor bind the priesthood to your service in full measure, but that is not your priority today. They will know what transpired on those steps soon enough; for now, your priority is judgement.
"The Inquisition does not come unbeckoned, brothers and sisters, not to a world like this. Not to judge a man such as me," You say, and for all the arrogance such words should imply all here know them to be nothing less than the truth. The Ordos have authority beyond measure, but the Ecclesiarchy are the stewards of mankind's soul, and do not lightly brook interference with those who serve in their highest ranks. "One of you, a priest or priestess of Sanguis, called to them. One of you sought to have me removed from my post, sought to send my people to the pyre, sought to wield the Ordo Hereticus as your weapon. I would know who."
You stand then, rising from your throne to gaze down imperiously upon all those below, knowing full well the impact that such a gesture will have. Every part of a Cardinal's regalia is designed to maximize the impact the sight of you has upon the faithful, and your training has always been to capitalize upon such an influence, to use it as a lever to crack open the most stalwart heart and bring the truth within out into the light of day.
"Come then, oh judge," you roar, spreading your arms wide in mocking invitation, gaze sweeping back and forth across the ranks of priests below, "your conviction was enough to bring the Witch Hunters to our world, knowing that mere proximity might damn you if they found against me. Is it not sufficient to let you stand, now that your attack dogs have been sent whimpering back into the shadows? You have no further recourse, so speak now or forever hold your peace!"
"It is you that should hold their tongue!" A voice cries out in return, as below you one among the clergy rises to their feet amid a chorus of angry whispering, "Do not speak as though you are the righteous victim here, Ignatius!"
You look down upon the priest with a frown, taking in all the details of their appearance with a quick sweep of your eyes. A woman, late middle-age in appearance but given her rank that means nothing, with ash-blond hair and broadly muscled shoulders hidden beneath a robe trimmed in red and silver. She is looking up at you with a furious light in her eyes, and after a second's thought you place her name; this is Amelia, Arch-Deacon of Sanguis, the woman ultimately responsible for the collection and distribution of your planet's tithe and general funds.
"I am not the victim here, Amelia, and I make no claim to that effect," you reply, your hands balling into fists at your side, "the only victims were those your words of condemnation would have sent to the pyre, their only crime one of belief in what I taught them."
There is, for a moment, the slight flash of regret in the Deacon's eyes. She was a lay-priest prior to her ascension, you recall, the sort who oversaw the charitable missions that the Church undertakes in the less advantaged parts of Sanguis. Likely she identifies with the humble members of your flock more than another might, which merely raises the question of why she would go so far as to condemn them with such an accusation.
"I bore your flock no ill-will, Cardinal, but Heresy cannot be allowed to spread, and for the good of the many even the righteous few must sometimes be lost," she says, rallying from her momentary doubt with all the fires that conviction brings, "your words encouraged them to hide the taint of mutation, to embrace their cousins twisted by the warp, and that is a road that only ends in one place. Better a hundred innocents burn today than ten thousand a week from now."
Ah, of course. Yes, that would most certainly explain it. You have not been shy in your beliefs, of course, arguing continuously from the pulpit for the equality of all who hold a human soul. That one man is born with twisted flesh and another with the gift of the psyker makes them no less human, and while you do not condone those whose mutations come from the warp or ignore the dangers of unchecked wyrds there was always a chance that such a distinction would be lost upon many.
"It is a road that ends in one place because we allow it to reach no other, Deacon," you say, voice filled with all the conviction of your own beliefs, "there is another way, a better way, and with the Emperor's blessing I will lead us down it and into a brighter tomorrow."
The two of you might as well be alone in the room, for while there are hundreds of others in attendance none of them have the will or the desire to interrupt. Their hearts burn with fervour but there is as of yet no outlet for such great passion, and you know there is a danger here, for if you are unconvincing then that fire can rise to consume you just as easily as it could another.
"Do not speak such words so lightly, Cardinal," Amelia retorts, her sharp grey eyes burning with belief, "it is not for one man alone to determine the doctrine of this Church. Ten thousands years of faith and precedent has brought us to this point, and though you might well believe that those twisted of flesh are pure of mind, the Ecclesiarchy says different."
"Then the Ecclesiarchy is wrong," you say, and with a thought reach into your heart and grasp once more at the fire that the Emperor bestowed upon you. You fan the flames of your soul and they blaze brightly in response, visible to the eye as a halo around your head, a light without source or measure. "There is a better way, Amelia, and I would have you walk it at my side. Trust in me, repent for those deeds done with honest heart but mistaken thought, and we can move forwards together."
The Priestess stares at you in silent wonder, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. They are tears of mourning and regret, for she knows that she has been wrong and that many of her most fervent beliefs and decisions of the past were based on errors… but also of joy, for now there is a light that she might follow out of the shadow, a way forwards secure in the knowledge of the Emperor's guidance.
Before the eyes of hundreds, she sinks to her knees, ornate robes spread out around her in a great puddle as she presses forehead to stone in a gesture of adject surrender.
"I repent," she says, her voice hoarse, "and beg the chance to atone for my error in judgement."
"And you shall have it," you say, your voice kind as you gesture to the kneeling woman once again, "rise, Arch-Deacon, and return to your seat. You will atone through service, for I have plans for Sanguis that will require the resources you have marshaled."
The priestess rises, and when she returns to her seat it is to murmurs of support and admiration from those who cluster around her. You look upon the chamber and are pleased by what you see, for there is naught but support for you and your decision everywhere you look. To show mercy to one who opposed you in such a manner might be construed as weakness, but by acknowledging the loyalty of a woman who did her duty and acted out of faith you have done much to reduce the instinctive resistance to your new path into the future. That you did it while haloed in holy light like the saints of old is merely an additional benefit.
The rest of the conclave will be a simple matter, for your most direct foe has been swayed to your side and even those who still doubt your wisdom will know better than to speak out against you now. What remains, then, is to decide upon your next step.
You pause, but where before such a pronouncement would have sparked a flurry of whispers and comments, now the chamber stands utterly silent. You think several of the younger priests are even going so far as to hold their breath rather than risk disrupting whatever it is you intend to say, and even their elders are held spellbound by the natural authority suffusing your words.
"Let us confirm for the record that which a great many of us already know; one week ago, an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus came to Sanguis," you continue, your voice as grim as any should be when speaking of such a dire threat, "his motive was to judge me and my flock, and determine for himself whether or not what I taught crossed the line into heresy against the God-Emperor and his Church. After three days of questioning and interrogation, he sent my flock to the pyre."
Several priests open their mouths at this, seemingly driven to the point of outright protest or enraged condemnation, but it is not your will that they speak just yet and so they do not. You think one or two of them actually look rather startled by the realization of their own silence, able to recognize the unusual nature of their passivity but unable to counteract it with that thought alone.
"On the steps of the cathedral I confronted him, and it was there that the Emperor came to me," you continue, your voice ringing out through the chamber, "and with His blessing I convinced the Inquisitor to stand down. He is gone, now, banished from the Sanguis system at my command."
In the eyes of many, accomplishing even that much must seem like a miracle in and of itself. The Holy Inquisition is the terror of mankind throughout the galaxy, and the thought of turning their judgement aside and commanding them to depart from your presence rather than persecute a writ of Heresy must seem like sheer fantasy. You could speak to them of how this was done, reveal your blessing and by the light of the Emperor bind the priesthood to your service in full measure, but that is not your priority today. They will know what transpired on those steps soon enough; for now, your priority is judgement.
"The Inquisition does not come unbeckoned, brothers and sisters, not to a world like this. Not to judge a man such as me," You say, and for all the arrogance such words should imply all here know them to be nothing less than the truth. The Ordos have authority beyond measure, but the Ecclesiarchy are the stewards of mankind's soul, and do not lightly brook interference with those who serve in their highest ranks. "One of you, a priest or priestess of Sanguis, called to them. One of you sought to have me removed from my post, sought to send my people to the pyre, sought to wield the Ordo Hereticus as your weapon. I would know who."
You stand then, rising from your throne to gaze down imperiously upon all those below, knowing full well the impact that such a gesture will have. Every part of a Cardinal's regalia is designed to maximize the impact the sight of you has upon the faithful, and your training has always been to capitalize upon such an influence, to use it as a lever to crack open the most stalwart heart and bring the truth within out into the light of day.
"Come then, oh judge," you roar, spreading your arms wide in mocking invitation, gaze sweeping back and forth across the ranks of priests below, "your conviction was enough to bring the Witch Hunters to our world, knowing that mere proximity might damn you if they found against me. Is it not sufficient to let you stand, now that your attack dogs have been sent whimpering back into the shadows? You have no further recourse, so speak now or forever hold your peace!"
**Maugan Ra** rolled **9** <9; 2; 2; 3; 2; 2; 3; 5; 8; 10; 3; (0;5); 10; 7> # Inspire Fervour [ID: 57909]
That was a Charisma+Performance roll, benefitting from double 9s, rerolled 1s and a single automatic success. An inspire action can be used to create a strong emotion in the minds and hearts of others, which they will then act on in some significant fashion; if you inspire sorrow in a wealthy merchant, he might retreat and weep in private for an hour or he might be moved to perform some act of charity in memory of his deceased wife. You do not have any fine control over the precise form of the action taken, so it's probably a good idea to get a read on someone's personality and beliefs before driving them into a frothing rage.
In this case Ignatius was attempting to inspire an emotion of Righteous Fervour, and with nine successes was extremely successful.
That was a Charisma+Performance roll, benefitting from double 9s, rerolled 1s and a single automatic success. An inspire action can be used to create a strong emotion in the minds and hearts of others, which they will then act on in some significant fashion; if you inspire sorrow in a wealthy merchant, he might retreat and weep in private for an hour or he might be moved to perform some act of charity in memory of his deceased wife. You do not have any fine control over the precise form of the action taken, so it's probably a good idea to get a read on someone's personality and beliefs before driving them into a frothing rage.
In this case Ignatius was attempting to inspire an emotion of Righteous Fervour, and with nine successes was extremely successful.
"It is you that should hold their tongue!" A voice cries out in return, as below you one among the clergy rises to their feet amid a chorus of angry whispering, "Do not speak as though you are the righteous victim here, Ignatius!"
You look down upon the priest with a frown, taking in all the details of their appearance with a quick sweep of your eyes. A woman, late middle-age in appearance but given her rank that means nothing, with ash-blond hair and broadly muscled shoulders hidden beneath a robe trimmed in red and silver. She is looking up at you with a furious light in her eyes, and after a second's thought you place her name; this is Amelia, Arch-Deacon of Sanguis, the woman ultimately responsible for the collection and distribution of your planet's tithe and general funds.
"I am not the victim here, Amelia, and I make no claim to that effect," you reply, your hands balling into fists at your side, "the only victims were those your words of condemnation would have sent to the pyre, their only crime one of belief in what I taught them."
There is, for a moment, the slight flash of regret in the Deacon's eyes. She was a lay-priest prior to her ascension, you recall, the sort who oversaw the charitable missions that the Church undertakes in the less advantaged parts of Sanguis. Likely she identifies with the humble members of your flock more than another might, which merely raises the question of why she would go so far as to condemn them with such an accusation.
"I bore your flock no ill-will, Cardinal, but Heresy cannot be allowed to spread, and for the good of the many even the righteous few must sometimes be lost," she says, rallying from her momentary doubt with all the fires that conviction brings, "your words encouraged them to hide the taint of mutation, to embrace their cousins twisted by the warp, and that is a road that only ends in one place. Better a hundred innocents burn today than ten thousand a week from now."
Ah, of course. Yes, that would most certainly explain it. You have not been shy in your beliefs, of course, arguing continuously from the pulpit for the equality of all who hold a human soul. That one man is born with twisted flesh and another with the gift of the psyker makes them no less human, and while you do not condone those whose mutations come from the warp or ignore the dangers of unchecked wyrds there was always a chance that such a distinction would be lost upon many.
"It is a road that ends in one place because we allow it to reach no other, Deacon," you say, voice filled with all the conviction of your own beliefs, "there is another way, a better way, and with the Emperor's blessing I will lead us down it and into a brighter tomorrow."
The two of you might as well be alone in the room, for while there are hundreds of others in attendance none of them have the will or the desire to interrupt. Their hearts burn with fervour but there is as of yet no outlet for such great passion, and you know there is a danger here, for if you are unconvincing then that fire can rise to consume you just as easily as it could another.
"Do not speak such words so lightly, Cardinal," Amelia retorts, her sharp grey eyes burning with belief, "it is not for one man alone to determine the doctrine of this Church. Ten thousands years of faith and precedent has brought us to this point, and though you might well believe that those twisted of flesh are pure of mind, the Ecclesiarchy says different."
"Then the Ecclesiarchy is wrong," you say, and with a thought reach into your heart and grasp once more at the fire that the Emperor bestowed upon you. You fan the flames of your soul and they blaze brightly in response, visible to the eye as a halo around your head, a light without source or measure. "There is a better way, Amelia, and I would have you walk it at my side. Trust in me, repent for those deeds done with honest heart but mistaken thought, and we can move forwards together."
**Maugan Ra** rolled **13** <6; 6; 2; 10; 7; 10; 9; 9; 10; 9; 8; 5; 5> # Ignatius offers penance [ID: 57910]
Ignatius is rolling his Charisma+Presence pool to convince Amelia to undertake a specific action. He gets three bonus dice from Harmonious Presence Mediation, adds an automatic success from a Glowing level of anima, and adds one more from Listener Swaying Argument. Amelia is getting three bonus points of resolve from somewhere, so he gains another dice on top as per LSA.
**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <2; 7; 5; 6; 10; 3; 4; 10> # Amelia stands her ground [ID: 57911]
Arch-Deacon Amelia rolls to resist the influence (significant characters get to roll at times like this if desired, while minor ones just take the average of their dice pool). She has a major intimacy that resists your influence, but another that supports it, and so she averages out to one automatic bonus success. You don't get to know what they are without deliberate study. In any case, she is soundly beaten.
Ignatius is rolling his Charisma+Presence pool to convince Amelia to undertake a specific action. He gets three bonus dice from Harmonious Presence Mediation, adds an automatic success from a Glowing level of anima, and adds one more from Listener Swaying Argument. Amelia is getting three bonus points of resolve from somewhere, so he gains another dice on top as per LSA.
**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <2; 7; 5; 6; 10; 3; 4; 10> # Amelia stands her ground [ID: 57911]
Arch-Deacon Amelia rolls to resist the influence (significant characters get to roll at times like this if desired, while minor ones just take the average of their dice pool). She has a major intimacy that resists your influence, but another that supports it, and so she averages out to one automatic bonus success. You don't get to know what they are without deliberate study. In any case, she is soundly beaten.
The Priestess stares at you in silent wonder, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. They are tears of mourning and regret, for she knows that she has been wrong and that many of her most fervent beliefs and decisions of the past were based on errors… but also of joy, for now there is a light that she might follow out of the shadow, a way forwards secure in the knowledge of the Emperor's guidance.
Before the eyes of hundreds, she sinks to her knees, ornate robes spread out around her in a great puddle as she presses forehead to stone in a gesture of adject surrender.
"I repent," she says, her voice hoarse, "and beg the chance to atone for my error in judgement."
"And you shall have it," you say, your voice kind as you gesture to the kneeling woman once again, "rise, Arch-Deacon, and return to your seat. You will atone through service, for I have plans for Sanguis that will require the resources you have marshaled."
The priestess rises, and when she returns to her seat it is to murmurs of support and admiration from those who cluster around her. You look upon the chamber and are pleased by what you see, for there is naught but support for you and your decision everywhere you look. To show mercy to one who opposed you in such a manner might be construed as weakness, but by acknowledging the loyalty of a woman who did her duty and acted out of faith you have done much to reduce the instinctive resistance to your new path into the future. That you did it while haloed in holy light like the saints of old is merely an additional benefit.
The rest of the conclave will be a simple matter, for your most direct foe has been swayed to your side and even those who still doubt your wisdom will know better than to speak out against you now. What remains, then, is to decide upon your next step.
Article: The Priests of Sanguis are now on your side, and will begin working to convert the population at large. What do you wish to do now?
[ ] Approach the Sisters. Doubtless the Sororitas know of what has happened by now, from your adoring guard if nothing else. It would be best to speak with them soon, before they can form their own opinion of these events in total isolation.
[ ] Explore your Potential. You just swayed an entire room of priests and turned a woman who sought your demise into an ardent follower. The experience awakened something within you; by taking the time to reflect, you feel sure you could unlock even greater abilities yet.
[ ] Lead by Example. You have spoken of the inherent worth of any with a human soul, but words are cheap and deeds are meaningful. Sanguis has its own underclass of mutants, as do many worlds; approach them, and welcome them into your flock.
[ ] Speak with the Sword. While you are in orbit, it would be a good idea to reach out and seek connection with the local Imperial Navy detachment. They are in possession of enough firepower to level all of Sanguis if the need should strike them, and it is better not to have such a dire threat hanging overhead.
[ ] Write in
Chapter V. Adepta Sororitas
- Location
- London, England
The shuttle falls from the void with a scream of superheated air, wings painted in bonfire hues by the terrible forces of re-entry. Safely ensconced within the core, the only thing you feel is a slight trembling of the deck beneath your feet, just enough to set the water in your glass to dancing.
"Truly, Your Holiness, I have never seen the like," the Sister - Mina by name, according to your covert check of the comma frequencies - says in a reverential tone, "to not merely root out treachery in a manner of moments, but to turn the usurper to your side with nothing more than words… had I not been there myself I might have thought it merely a story."
You smile politely, setting down the cup of water and letting the magnetized strip across the base hold it firmly to the arm of your crash-couch. The straps holding you in place are uncomfortably tight, but it would be a poor end to your work to be thrown across the hold by an unexpected maneuver and see your skull split like an egg because you were too childish to follow direction. Your bodyguard remains standing, the arcane systems of her power armour allowing her to remain motionless and secure even in the midst of atmospheric re-entry.
"Arch-Deacon Amelia is a good woman," you say, adding just enough emphasis to be sure your words are taken to heart, "one who thought her flock might be endangered by my actions and responded as she had always been taught. She knew no better, and repented when corrected. I can ask for little more."
In truth, the fact that the standard response to doctrinal differences of sufficient scope is to call in the Witch Hunters is one of the things that sickens you the most about the current state of the Ecclesiarchy and humanity as a whole. That there are sects and splinter faiths which have perverted the very nature of the God-Emperor's existence and become a danger to the rest of mankind is not in doubt, not with the weight of ten thousand years of history behind it. Some degree of oversight is clearly required, lest demons slip in among the faithful wearing the guise of angels, but is the Inquisition the only form such a watchdog might be allowed to take? You do not believe it so.
No, better to say that you cannot believe it, for if that is the case then there is no salvation and your dreams to the contrary are nothing more than idiotic fantasy.
"As you say, Holy One," Sister Mina responds, inclining her head to you in a gesture of utmost respect. Her helmet rests strapped against her hip, letting you see her admiring gaze and earnest expression, "I have been informed that we are approaching the landing pad. Where shall we proceed from here?"
"I think I should be well advised to seek audience with your Cannoness, Sister," you say thoughtfully, "with the concerns of the clergy addressed the Sororitas remain the one institution of faith and piety on this world that might yet harbour doubts. It would be prudent to see those addressed, instead of assuming their support by virtue of rank and station."
"I shall convey your request to my superiors immediately upon our return to the Cathedral, Cardinal," Mina replies with a pleased edge to her voice, "I have no doubt they will be willing to grant your audience swiftly. We have all lived our lives dreaming of the day when the Emperor's will is made so undeniably clear."
There is a faint thump as the shuttle touches down, and with swift motions you unbuckle yourself and rise to your feet. Sister Mina falls in at your side as the ramp opens with a sinister hiss, and together the two of you step out into the air of Sanguis once again.
As it turns out, you don't need to contact the Sororitas at all; they have come to you.
Ten of them are waiting in a line at the edge of the landing platform, their silvered skin shining brightly in the evening light. The howl of the shuttle's engines fills the air and sends gusts of wind to toy with their bone-white vestments, but they remain motionless, bolt-weapons held at a parade ground rest. Each is adorned with rosaries of adamantine beads and purity seals of beautifully decorated parchment, and though they bear no marks of rank or status you know these must surely be true veterans of their Order. Every last one is wearing their helmet, the face-concealing helms rendering them cold and impassive.
At their head is another, an Eleventh member of the Adepta Sororitas, but unlike her sisters this one is clearly not drawn from a militant order. She wears robes instead of armour, albeit ones reinforced with carapace weave, and though she carries an imposing looking pistol at her waist there is no sign of heavier armament to be seen. Her arms are folded behind her back, and the upper half of her face is a mess of burn tissue studded by the burning red light of twinned cybernetic eyes. One of the Dialogus, you suspect, the non-combat arm of the Sororitas dedicated to record keeping and the study of their many and varied foes.
"Sister Mina," the scarred woman says, her voice as crisp and clean as any noble dictation, "the Canonness Superior has enacted the Silver Redoubt Protocol. Comply."
Mina blinks, stepping forwards to stand at your side and frowning at the assembled line of her militant sisters. "Silver Redoubt? Surely there has been some mistake…"
"Comply," the Dialogus repeats, her command snapping out across the landing pad with a force and clarity to put drill sergeants to shame, and at the word your bodyguard stiffens in silent shock.
Then, as you watch, she holds her bolter out before her and moves through the Ritual of Unloading with sharp, almost mechanical movements. The weapon disarmed, your bodyguard sets it down upon the deck and takes three steps backwards, only then sinking into a crouch and folding her armoured hands behind her head.
"Sister, I must admit I am somewhat confused," you say slowly, letting your puzzlement show through in your voice as you take a single step forwards, "just what is this 'Silver Redoubt' you speak of…"
Without a word, without a sound, the assembled line of Battle Sisters blur into motion. One moment they were absolute statues, the next you are quite literally staring down the barrels of a half-score armed and loaded bolt rifles. They loom in your vision, dark and imposing.
"Allow me to clarify, then," the Sister Dialogus says with a sharp, almost mockingly hard-edged smile, "Silver Redoubt Protocol is one course of action among many that the sisters of the Order of the Argent Shroud are trained in. It is designed to be employed when we are confronted by the potential but unverified presence of a powerful psyker among the ranks of our erstwhile allies."
The feeling in your gut is rather what you imagine a frozen spine would feel like. You stand there, perfectly motionless, aware on an almost intimate level that one wrong move could mean you death. "There… must be some mistake. I am no psyker."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is not my place to judge," the Dialogus says with a slight twitch of her shoulders, "It is, instead, my place to convey to you the full seriousness of your situation. The Adepta Sororitas have witnessed you, a man suspected of heresy and in a position of extreme power and authority within the ranks of the Ecclesiarchy, defy an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus and display supernatural abilities that manifested in a moment of terminal pressure. We have witnessed a senior Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus retract a sentence of damnation and depart the planet at your command, mere seconds after attempting to slay you for committing an act of treason and blasphemy against his person."
You would like nothing more than to curse and scream, but again the looming threat of the bolt rifles provides a wonderful argument for the virtues of calm self-control.
"If you have witnessed that then you have surely also witnessed the Light of the Emperor that accompanied the entire event," you try instead, grasping for what should surely be a conclusive argument in your favour, "gifted to me in holy vision in my time of greatest need."
"Trust not in the words of the Enemy, for his tongue is heavy with lies," the Sororitas returns without a moment's hesitation, "you would not be the first daemon to cloth itself in robes of pilfered righteousness. Yet neither would you be the first Saint to be blessed with such powers by the God-Emperor for the benefit of mankind, which is why the Canonness resorted to the Silver Redoubt instead of simply ordering your execution."
You grit your teeth, wondering at the silent stillness of the other Sororitas. Do they approve of what is happening here? Are they even aware? The generalities must be known to them, but the specifics… can they filter out the sound of the outside world with the aid of their armour, or replace your image with that of a hovering target icon? The possibilities are too many for you to make a reliable judgement.
"Well, it seems I have at least some chance here, then," you say with forced calm, "what happens now?"
"You will come with us," the Dialogus says simply, "and we will convey you to a secure facility elsewhere on the planet. There you will be studied, examined, questioned and judged over an extended period of time. Should the judgement be in your favour you will be released and granted your audience with the Canonness Superior."
You do not have to ask what will happen if the judgement does not go in your favour. Alone in hostile territory, surrounded by dozens or hundreds of veteran warriors of unshakable faith, likely weakened by these 'examinations'... you will die, either by swift bolter shot or slow burning flame, your corpse rendered down to ash and scattered in the ocean.
Is the risk one worth taking? Do you have a choice? So much of these depends on what the notoriously fanatical Adepta Sororitas will accept as proof of your borrowed divinity, but either way a decision must be made, now.
What will it be?
"Truly, Your Holiness, I have never seen the like," the Sister - Mina by name, according to your covert check of the comma frequencies - says in a reverential tone, "to not merely root out treachery in a manner of moments, but to turn the usurper to your side with nothing more than words… had I not been there myself I might have thought it merely a story."
You smile politely, setting down the cup of water and letting the magnetized strip across the base hold it firmly to the arm of your crash-couch. The straps holding you in place are uncomfortably tight, but it would be a poor end to your work to be thrown across the hold by an unexpected maneuver and see your skull split like an egg because you were too childish to follow direction. Your bodyguard remains standing, the arcane systems of her power armour allowing her to remain motionless and secure even in the midst of atmospheric re-entry.
"Arch-Deacon Amelia is a good woman," you say, adding just enough emphasis to be sure your words are taken to heart, "one who thought her flock might be endangered by my actions and responded as she had always been taught. She knew no better, and repented when corrected. I can ask for little more."
In truth, the fact that the standard response to doctrinal differences of sufficient scope is to call in the Witch Hunters is one of the things that sickens you the most about the current state of the Ecclesiarchy and humanity as a whole. That there are sects and splinter faiths which have perverted the very nature of the God-Emperor's existence and become a danger to the rest of mankind is not in doubt, not with the weight of ten thousand years of history behind it. Some degree of oversight is clearly required, lest demons slip in among the faithful wearing the guise of angels, but is the Inquisition the only form such a watchdog might be allowed to take? You do not believe it so.
No, better to say that you cannot believe it, for if that is the case then there is no salvation and your dreams to the contrary are nothing more than idiotic fantasy.
"As you say, Holy One," Sister Mina responds, inclining her head to you in a gesture of utmost respect. Her helmet rests strapped against her hip, letting you see her admiring gaze and earnest expression, "I have been informed that we are approaching the landing pad. Where shall we proceed from here?"
"I think I should be well advised to seek audience with your Cannoness, Sister," you say thoughtfully, "with the concerns of the clergy addressed the Sororitas remain the one institution of faith and piety on this world that might yet harbour doubts. It would be prudent to see those addressed, instead of assuming their support by virtue of rank and station."
"I shall convey your request to my superiors immediately upon our return to the Cathedral, Cardinal," Mina replies with a pleased edge to her voice, "I have no doubt they will be willing to grant your audience swiftly. We have all lived our lives dreaming of the day when the Emperor's will is made so undeniably clear."
There is a faint thump as the shuttle touches down, and with swift motions you unbuckle yourself and rise to your feet. Sister Mina falls in at your side as the ramp opens with a sinister hiss, and together the two of you step out into the air of Sanguis once again.
As it turns out, you don't need to contact the Sororitas at all; they have come to you.
Ten of them are waiting in a line at the edge of the landing platform, their silvered skin shining brightly in the evening light. The howl of the shuttle's engines fills the air and sends gusts of wind to toy with their bone-white vestments, but they remain motionless, bolt-weapons held at a parade ground rest. Each is adorned with rosaries of adamantine beads and purity seals of beautifully decorated parchment, and though they bear no marks of rank or status you know these must surely be true veterans of their Order. Every last one is wearing their helmet, the face-concealing helms rendering them cold and impassive.
At their head is another, an Eleventh member of the Adepta Sororitas, but unlike her sisters this one is clearly not drawn from a militant order. She wears robes instead of armour, albeit ones reinforced with carapace weave, and though she carries an imposing looking pistol at her waist there is no sign of heavier armament to be seen. Her arms are folded behind her back, and the upper half of her face is a mess of burn tissue studded by the burning red light of twinned cybernetic eyes. One of the Dialogus, you suspect, the non-combat arm of the Sororitas dedicated to record keeping and the study of their many and varied foes.
"Sister Mina," the scarred woman says, her voice as crisp and clean as any noble dictation, "the Canonness Superior has enacted the Silver Redoubt Protocol. Comply."
Mina blinks, stepping forwards to stand at your side and frowning at the assembled line of her militant sisters. "Silver Redoubt? Surely there has been some mistake…"
"Comply," the Dialogus repeats, her command snapping out across the landing pad with a force and clarity to put drill sergeants to shame, and at the word your bodyguard stiffens in silent shock.
Then, as you watch, she holds her bolter out before her and moves through the Ritual of Unloading with sharp, almost mechanical movements. The weapon disarmed, your bodyguard sets it down upon the deck and takes three steps backwards, only then sinking into a crouch and folding her armoured hands behind her head.
"Sister, I must admit I am somewhat confused," you say slowly, letting your puzzlement show through in your voice as you take a single step forwards, "just what is this 'Silver Redoubt' you speak of…"
Without a word, without a sound, the assembled line of Battle Sisters blur into motion. One moment they were absolute statues, the next you are quite literally staring down the barrels of a half-score armed and loaded bolt rifles. They loom in your vision, dark and imposing.
"Allow me to clarify, then," the Sister Dialogus says with a sharp, almost mockingly hard-edged smile, "Silver Redoubt Protocol is one course of action among many that the sisters of the Order of the Argent Shroud are trained in. It is designed to be employed when we are confronted by the potential but unverified presence of a powerful psyker among the ranks of our erstwhile allies."
The feeling in your gut is rather what you imagine a frozen spine would feel like. You stand there, perfectly motionless, aware on an almost intimate level that one wrong move could mean you death. "There… must be some mistake. I am no psyker."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is not my place to judge," the Dialogus says with a slight twitch of her shoulders, "It is, instead, my place to convey to you the full seriousness of your situation. The Adepta Sororitas have witnessed you, a man suspected of heresy and in a position of extreme power and authority within the ranks of the Ecclesiarchy, defy an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus and display supernatural abilities that manifested in a moment of terminal pressure. We have witnessed a senior Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus retract a sentence of damnation and depart the planet at your command, mere seconds after attempting to slay you for committing an act of treason and blasphemy against his person."
You would like nothing more than to curse and scream, but again the looming threat of the bolt rifles provides a wonderful argument for the virtues of calm self-control.
"If you have witnessed that then you have surely also witnessed the Light of the Emperor that accompanied the entire event," you try instead, grasping for what should surely be a conclusive argument in your favour, "gifted to me in holy vision in my time of greatest need."
"Trust not in the words of the Enemy, for his tongue is heavy with lies," the Sororitas returns without a moment's hesitation, "you would not be the first daemon to cloth itself in robes of pilfered righteousness. Yet neither would you be the first Saint to be blessed with such powers by the God-Emperor for the benefit of mankind, which is why the Canonness resorted to the Silver Redoubt instead of simply ordering your execution."
You grit your teeth, wondering at the silent stillness of the other Sororitas. Do they approve of what is happening here? Are they even aware? The generalities must be known to them, but the specifics… can they filter out the sound of the outside world with the aid of their armour, or replace your image with that of a hovering target icon? The possibilities are too many for you to make a reliable judgement.
"Well, it seems I have at least some chance here, then," you say with forced calm, "what happens now?"
"You will come with us," the Dialogus says simply, "and we will convey you to a secure facility elsewhere on the planet. There you will be studied, examined, questioned and judged over an extended period of time. Should the judgement be in your favour you will be released and granted your audience with the Canonness Superior."
You do not have to ask what will happen if the judgement does not go in your favour. Alone in hostile territory, surrounded by dozens or hundreds of veteran warriors of unshakable faith, likely weakened by these 'examinations'... you will die, either by swift bolter shot or slow burning flame, your corpse rendered down to ash and scattered in the ocean.
Is the risk one worth taking? Do you have a choice? So much of these depends on what the notoriously fanatical Adepta Sororitas will accept as proof of your borrowed divinity, but either way a decision must be made, now.
What will it be?
Article: Choose one:
[ ] Comply. You will go with the Sororitas, and trust that this will not mean your doom.
[ ] Persuade. You will convince the Sororitas that such a course is perhaps unwise and certainly unnecessary. There is another way.
[ ] Resist. Ten to one, and they are veteran warriors besides, but you… you have the Emperor's Light, and you will not go meekly to your doom.
- [ ] Specify line of argument (Write in)
- [ ] Specify tactics (Target priority, engage or flee, specific tricks etc) (Write in)
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