On distant Terra, the Emperor is dying, his sacred flesh decaying, his mighty soul splintering into fragments. Shattered pieces of divinity scatter across the galaxy, born on the wave of a death-scream ten millennia in the making, and where they come to rest heroes bloom like flowers, new legends feeding upon the ashen embers of the old.
Memento Mori (Exalted/40k)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
- Crossover
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- Ongoing
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Introduction and Welcome
- Location
- London, England
It is the 42nd Millennium.
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth, 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 die every day, for whom blood is drunk and flesh eaten. Human flesh and Human blood - the stuff of which the Imperium is made.
It is not enough. The Emperor dies by inches, wounds sustained millennia before pushing him closer to oblivion with every passing day. As above, so below - the Imperium will not outlive its founder. Already it thrashes like a mindless beast, mortally wounded by the dark sword of the Cicatrix Maledictum, a hundred thousand worlds dragged screaming into oblivion. Mankind teeters on the brink of extinction, and from every shadow and darkened corner its enemies emerge to begin the feast.
And what of it?
All men die, all empires fall, all legends are worn away to dust by the endless march of time. The Emperor has been dying for ten thousand years, and against the backdrop of that slow decline uncounted trillions have lived and loved and wrought stories worthy of telling. Perhaps his visions are lies and the omens nothing more than the mindless twitching of a celestial corpse, but in their pursuit have saints arisen and heroes found their courage. Perhaps the Imperium is too wretched a beast to survive, too bloated with the blood of innocents to outrun this latest trial, but it has fallen and been divided and risen up again more than once. If one Age has come to an end, then another is about to begin, and for that future even the dead might raise their hands with purpose.
On distant Terra, the Emperor is dying, his sacred flesh decaying, his mighty soul splintering into fragments. Shattered pieces of divinity scatter across the galaxy, born on the wave of a death-scream ten millennia in the making, and where they come to rest heroes bloom like flowers, new legends feeding upon the ashen embers of the old. The Avenging Son is one, a relic out of history returned to set humanity back upon a brighter path, but he is not the only heir to his father's legacy.
In darkest Calixis, where the chalice runs over with filth and paranoid tyrants gather ever greater power to their banner in the face of encroaching night, a spark of the Emperor's celestial spirit comes to rest. Perhaps guided by a flicker of His prescient will, perhaps merely flotsam adrift on cosmic tides, it finds itself drawn to a soul. A dying hero, raging against the coming night. A legend cut down by cruel fate before their story could unfold. A child of this Dark Imperium.
And there, amid the darkness of a dying world, a champion is Exalted.
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[ ] The Vengeful Commissar
She kills her own for the sake of victory, and clings to dogma in the night when sleep is hidden behind memories of dying friends. Her loyalty brings her nothing. She dies with her regiment, salving a nobleman's pride with the blood of a thousand heroes, and lifts undying eyes to the spires above. Are they not guilty in their kind? Do they not deserve her judgement? (Dusk)
[ ] The Penitent Gunslinger
He has nothing but death to offer, gleaming pistols and a heavy grox-leather coat. Hive scum they call him, duellist and killer, born into poverty and unknown to the sun. For the sake of an innocent he gives his life, and for a child's dream of justice he stands up once more. When they are safe, only then can he rest. (Dusk)
[ ] The Martyred Pilgrim
In dusty robes and well-worn boots he travelled the galaxy, paying homage at the shrines and sharing stories with his neighbours. At the gates of the Grand Basilica he died, crushed with ten thousand others to make way for a Cardinal's motorcade. Alone among the crowd he rises again, to remind the holy of what they have so clearly forgotten - the Emperor protects the virtuous, and they no longer qualify. (Midnight)
[ ] The Deathless Crusader
They trained her to hunt daemons, to wield her faith like a blade against all the monsters of the dark. When at last she faltered, body broken and spirit stained by war without end, they disposed of her and chose another. God saved her life and took her zeal, allowing her to see the truth of her masters, and her fury at their betrayal is unmatched. Squall though they might, she knows a monster when she sees one. (Midnight)
[ ] The Forsaken Templar
Born with the psyker's gift, she was taken to Terra and leashed to the Throne, despised by those she was called upon to serve. Ignorance killed her, burned alive by zealots uncaring of all she had sacrificed in desperate loyalty, and the flames that seared her flesh took with them the last of the limitations she would accept. She will make it right. She will save mankind. (Daybreak)
[ ] The Sacrifice Reclaimed
The red priests do not know him. They have never been forced to live in the dirt, to scavenge and improvise in the name of keeping a child fed, but he has. It takes him years to die, starving by inches in the shadow of golden spires, and his last thought is of those forsaken who depend on him. To rise again is a surprise, but the chance it offers is welcome. No longer will he feed a village and call himself content, not while billions starve and suffer on worlds without number. What use is knowledge, if it does not make the world a better place? (Daybreak)
[ ] The Bitter Vigilante
He serves the law as its mailed fist for decades, growing slowly bitter as the truth becomes increasingly undeniable - The law binds, but it does not protect. He turns upon his masters; cruel nobles, corrupt magnates and monstrous lords all fall before his crusade, before at last it ends where he knew it would. An arrest, a trial, and then an execution. Waking in the mortuary with his flesh whole once more, he knows he has been spared for a purpose. Justice will have what it is owed. (Day)
[ ] The Unclean Champion
Born with twisted flesh, she lived her life under perpetual sentence of execution, a filthy wretch who betrayed the Emperor by her mere existence. Swiftly she learned to hide, for in anonymity was survival for her and her community both, until one day the powers that be grew tired of mere rhetoric and burned her ghetto to the ground. She pulled herself from the ash with nothing but a list of names that none other would remember, and she will not rest until they are honoured as martyrs in every church. (Day)
[ ] The Turncoat Prince
Born to the highest nobility, he lived his life amid unimaginable luxury, excelling among his peers in games of wit and blade and never dreaming of anything better. Then he ventured beyond the gilded walls and saw firsthand the misery that afflicted mankind. Resolved to change it he returned home, and for his heresy choked on poison at the family meal. Saved by darkest miracle, now he returns to play those childhood games anew, for the greatest of all possible stakes (Moonshadow)
[ ] The Contemptuous Scribe
The tithe must be paid, but it need not be ruinous. That is what her heart whispered as she worked, exercising her best judgement for the common good, dreaming of fortunes shared and prosperity for all. For her weakness she burned atop a pyre of her own falsified reports, and from the ashes she rose anew, harsh wisdom in her heart. The universe is neither fair nor just, and so it falls to her to make it better, one letter and one corpse at a time. (Moonshadow)
Article: This is an APPROVAL VOTE. Vote for as many of the options as seem appealing to you. The top three will go to a traditional run-off vote, with a bit more detail provided on the mechanical framework and story implications of each option.
[ ] Approval Vote
Basic Mechanics
- Location
- London, England
This quest is being run with the Exalted: Essence rules, a simplified and streamlined version that I have updated to more properly represent the nature of this crossover. Thematically similar to Deus Pater, Memento Mori is the story of one of the Abyssal Exalted. There is no shining golden exemplar this time, no champion chosen from on-high to lead mankind back to the righteous path; You are a dead man, a walking corpse held together by spite and devotion and the half-cannibalised soul of god.
You are also a hero.
There will be a character sheet, but to avoid needless confusion it will be kept in a secondary document with a link provided for the curious. The key points that you need to be aware of are as follows:
The setting for the quest is the Calixis Sector, detailed in numerous expansions for the Dark Heresy rpg. The default setting for Calixis is M41 - changes brought about by the Fall of Cadia and the birth of the 42nd Millennium will be revealed in-quest.
XP and Advancement
Exalted: Essence handles character progression on a milestone system. Most of these are plot related rewards and will be explained as and when they are earned, but Personal Milestones can be earned by readers and thread participants. Any time you produce fanwork, make a significant 'effort post', or elaborate usefully on a relevant section of the lore for the benefit of your fellow voters, you will earn a Personal Milestone for the protagonist.
Personal milestones can be cashed in by the thread user who earned them to achieve one of the following rewards:
Stunts
Whenever you cast a vote in this quest, you may also append a 'stunt' as a sub-vote. Valid stunts are a sentence or two (at very most a short paragraph) of descriptive text that adds a dramatic element to the chosen action. If at least half of the people who vote for the winning option include the stunt as a sub-vote, I will write it into the next update. This will allow you to shape the exact shape of the narrative and also what our protagonist thinks, feels and does.
Votes that have stunts attached will also generate an additional two dice on the most critical roll of the following scene.
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With all that established, let's get ourselves underway!
You are also a hero.
There will be a character sheet, but to avoid needless confusion it will be kept in a secondary document with a link provided for the curious. The key points that you need to be aware of are as follows:
- You are Deathless. You cannot starve or drown or be poisoned, and even the most catastrophic violence cannot kill you - burned to ash or torn limb from limb, you will rise anew whole and complete. Only when you no longer have anything to live for will the grave hold you for more than a day and a night.
- You are Mighty. Your powers manifest themselves through Charms, individual expressions of peerless skill and deathly power. Study swordplay to conjure the reaper's scythe, pursue diplomacy to curse oathbreakers with broken hearts, master war to summon the dead in great armies to your side.
- You are a Monster. The God-Emperor had a name once, but he cast it aside, and so too is the human you once were lost to you. Attempts to reclaim your name or live among the living as one of them will bring you only madness and misfortune, and those who stand at your side will inevitably give their lives for your greater good.
The setting for the quest is the Calixis Sector, detailed in numerous expansions for the Dark Heresy rpg. The default setting for Calixis is M41 - changes brought about by the Fall of Cadia and the birth of the 42nd Millennium will be revealed in-quest.
XP and Advancement
Exalted: Essence handles character progression on a milestone system. Most of these are plot related rewards and will be explained as and when they are earned, but Personal Milestones can be earned by readers and thread participants. Any time you produce fanwork, make a significant 'effort post', or elaborate usefully on a relevant section of the lore for the benefit of your fellow voters, you will earn a Personal Milestone for the protagonist.
Personal milestones can be cashed in by the thread user who earned them to achieve one of the following rewards:
- Repurchase an applicable charm (will be listed on the character sheet)
- Add a unique 'mode' to an existing charm, tailoring or upgrading it in some fashion. Perhaps a charm that allows you to levy curses upon a target could be upgraded to also make it supernaturally obvious to all onlookers what they did to deserve it, for example.
- Unlock the first dot of an ability currently rated at 0
- Add an 'intimacy', defining how our protagonist feels about something or someone that has not previously been established by the narrative, either current or in the backstory.
- Add a 'tertiary' merit, such as an old friend who can be called on (ally merit) or a group of mortal supporters (followers merit) or a cache of currency or other wealth (resources merit).
Stunts
Whenever you cast a vote in this quest, you may also append a 'stunt' as a sub-vote. Valid stunts are a sentence or two (at very most a short paragraph) of descriptive text that adds a dramatic element to the chosen action. If at least half of the people who vote for the winning option include the stunt as a sub-vote, I will write it into the next update. This will allow you to shape the exact shape of the narrative and also what our protagonist thinks, feels and does.
Votes that have stunts attached will also generate an additional two dice on the most critical roll of the following scene.
-/-
With all that established, let's get ourselves underway!
Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
Chargen 2 - Top Three Runoff
- Location
- London, England
Character Creation Pt 2 - Runoff
The three options with the most votes are the Penitent Gunslinger, the Contemptuous Scribe, and the Forsaken Templar. These three are now advancing to a runoff vote. In order to help voters decide between them, more information on their unique advantages, methods of advancement and starting locations are provided below.
Anima Powers are innate qualities of a given type (or 'caste') of Exalt, and cannot be duplicated or otherwise learned. There are always three levels of anima - the first is an always-on passive, the second is typically an active ability that they can choose to use, and the third is an iconic ability only available when pushing the very limits of their power.
Exalt Milestones are a means of growing in power unique to a specific caste. Each describes a particular situation or achievement - whenever this condition is met, the protagonist will learn a new charm or repurchase one of their existing charms for greater effect.
The Penitent Gunslinger
As one of the Dusk Caste, the Gunslinger has inherited the most brutal and personal aspect of the Emperor's martial might. This is the aspect that slaughtered armies and shattered the bones of monsters, that made him personally equal to all the horrors of Old Night. The Gunslinger begins the game as an astartes-level combatant, and may grow stronger with time and practice.
The Gunslinger's anima powers are as follows:
You gain an Exalt Milestone whenever you engage a significant foe in combat. Friendly spars do not count; at least one of you must be seriously attempting to harm or kill the other.
The Gunslinger begins the quest in Gunmetal City, an industrial megapolis of four billion people living in the crater of an active volcano. Metals dredged up from the molten core fuel great foundries that produce a significant percentage of the sector's munitions, and the lower levels are perpetually at risk of toxic gas and errant lava flows. Clean air is a luxury here, and the wealthiest dwell atop needle-thin towers of steel many hundreds of metres high.
In Gunmetal city, everyone from the highest noble to the lowest of gutter trash carries a gun and knows how to use it. Gunfights are public entertainment, marksmanship an art form, and the choice of one's sidearm a statement as much political as practical.
The Contemptuous Scribe
As one of the Moonshadow Caste, the Scribe has inherited the Emperor's taste for diplomacy and organisation, the veiled glove of conquest-by-word. This is the aspect that told people whatever they needed to hear in order to bend them to his will, that wrought the totalising system of imperial rule which aimed to bind the stars themselves in rational, ordered hegemony.
The Scribe's anima powers are as follows:
You gain an Exalt milestone whenever you make a deal with a significant character or group, or whenever you sow discord between two or more of the same.
The Scribe begins the quest in Hive Tarsus, the commercial and religious heart of Scintilla and thus the entire Calixis Sector. Here lies the Goldenhand, where brass-skinned functionaries officiate deals between ten thousand bickering financiers, and where investment bankers exchange volleys of lasfire to secure primacy for their transactions in the name of their noble patrons. Here too lies the Cathedral of Illumination, seat of the Sector Synod, as well as the headquarters and primary barracks of the Scintillan PDF.
Built in the very centre of the planet's least hospitable desert, and thus directly underneath the primary orbital docks and shipyards, Hive Tarsus is socially inverted; the nobility dwell in pitch-black subterranean mansions, where the air is cold enough to freeze a man to death in moments, while the poor and outcast are forced into the outer skin of the hive and must cope as best they can with searing heat and light that can blacken flesh in moments.
The Forsaken Templar
As one of the Daybreak Caste, the Templar has inherited a fragment of the Emperor's own mystic might and esoteric understanding. This is the aspect that peered unflinching into the abyss, that stole fire from the gods while denying their very existence, that forged demigods as others might make a sword and mastered such arcane might men called it divine. The Templar begins as a trained battle-psyker, with access to sorcerous rituals alongside personal skill with a blade.
The Templar's anima powers are as follows:
You gain an Exalt milestone whenever you use your knowledge to provoke a conflict or undermine a significant foe, such as by revealing blackmail or using Gruesome Epiphany.
The Templar begins the quest in Ambulon, a mobile hive city mounted atop the back of an ancient pre-imperial machine that endlessly wanders the rocky expanse of Scintilla's primary continent. The city never stops moving, migrating steadily from one resource deposit to another at the direction of the secretive engineering guild, extracting and exploiting each in turn before sending refined wealth and finished products off to markets across the world and beyond.
Unemployment is illegal in Ambulon, and those who cannot provide proof of their labours at one of the many resource extraction facilities or industrial workshops are flung from the side or exiled to the shanty towns that hang from the city's great belly, many hundreds of metres above the ground. Nobody is sure what would happen should the city stop moving, though theories abound, with some suggesting that it would collapse into a rusted heap and others insisting that it would come alive to devour the human parasites upon its enormous back.
The three options with the most votes are the Penitent Gunslinger, the Contemptuous Scribe, and the Forsaken Templar. These three are now advancing to a runoff vote. In order to help voters decide between them, more information on their unique advantages, methods of advancement and starting locations are provided below.
Anima Powers are innate qualities of a given type (or 'caste') of Exalt, and cannot be duplicated or otherwise learned. There are always three levels of anima - the first is an always-on passive, the second is typically an active ability that they can choose to use, and the third is an iconic ability only available when pushing the very limits of their power.
Exalt Milestones are a means of growing in power unique to a specific caste. Each describes a particular situation or achievement - whenever this condition is met, the protagonist will learn a new charm or repurchase one of their existing charms for greater effect.
The Penitent Gunslinger
As one of the Dusk Caste, the Gunslinger has inherited the most brutal and personal aspect of the Emperor's martial might. This is the aspect that slaughtered armies and shattered the bones of monsters, that made him personally equal to all the horrors of Old Night. The Gunslinger begins the game as an astartes-level combatant, and may grow stronger with time and practice.
The Gunslinger's anima powers are as follows:
- Death is Inevitable: You may automatically slay an insignificant target (defined as anything without combat-relevant augmentations or supernatural abilities) once per round without a roll, and against significant targets will always deal at least one level of damage, regardless of armour or other defence.
- Fear Made Flesh: You may terrify targets normally immune to or incapable of feeling fear, and reduce the multiple-action penalty on fear-based social influence to a single dice. Note that as an Abyssal, terrifying your foes restores the essence that powers your supernatural abilities.
- Walking Apocalypse: When at iconic anima, you may respond to hostile actions with a free counter-attack once per turn. Any foe struck by such an attack takes additional damage from your next attack against them.
You gain an Exalt Milestone whenever you engage a significant foe in combat. Friendly spars do not count; at least one of you must be seriously attempting to harm or kill the other.
The Gunslinger begins the quest in Gunmetal City, an industrial megapolis of four billion people living in the crater of an active volcano. Metals dredged up from the molten core fuel great foundries that produce a significant percentage of the sector's munitions, and the lower levels are perpetually at risk of toxic gas and errant lava flows. Clean air is a luxury here, and the wealthiest dwell atop needle-thin towers of steel many hundreds of metres high.
In Gunmetal city, everyone from the highest noble to the lowest of gutter trash carries a gun and knows how to use it. Gunfights are public entertainment, marksmanship an art form, and the choice of one's sidearm a statement as much political as practical.
The Contemptuous Scribe
As one of the Moonshadow Caste, the Scribe has inherited the Emperor's taste for diplomacy and organisation, the veiled glove of conquest-by-word. This is the aspect that told people whatever they needed to hear in order to bend them to his will, that wrought the totalising system of imperial rule which aimed to bind the stars themselves in rational, ordered hegemony.
The Scribe's anima powers are as follows:
- God of the Ashes: You may learn the powers of gods, daemons and other supernatural beings (such as ghosts or machine spirits) through tutelage or study, and may seal agreements between two or more parties such that any oathbreaker is automatically revealed to all other parties.
- Speaker for the Dead: When negotiating with supernatural beings of any kind, they are obligated to do you and your companions no harm and offer full hospitality. Deals or promises made during such negotiations are sanctified, and any who break their word are accursed, generally suffering immediate physical peril or the loss of whatever would hurt them most.
- Gates of Death: At iconic anima, you may open a warp portal that remains open and stable for the scene. This portal may lead to any safe location over which you hold at least implicit authority, or any significant location gleaned from the Emperor's tormented memories.
You gain an Exalt milestone whenever you make a deal with a significant character or group, or whenever you sow discord between two or more of the same.
The Scribe begins the quest in Hive Tarsus, the commercial and religious heart of Scintilla and thus the entire Calixis Sector. Here lies the Goldenhand, where brass-skinned functionaries officiate deals between ten thousand bickering financiers, and where investment bankers exchange volleys of lasfire to secure primacy for their transactions in the name of their noble patrons. Here too lies the Cathedral of Illumination, seat of the Sector Synod, as well as the headquarters and primary barracks of the Scintillan PDF.
Built in the very centre of the planet's least hospitable desert, and thus directly underneath the primary orbital docks and shipyards, Hive Tarsus is socially inverted; the nobility dwell in pitch-black subterranean mansions, where the air is cold enough to freeze a man to death in moments, while the poor and outcast are forced into the outer skin of the hive and must cope as best they can with searing heat and light that can blacken flesh in moments.
The Forsaken Templar
As one of the Daybreak Caste, the Templar has inherited a fragment of the Emperor's own mystic might and esoteric understanding. This is the aspect that peered unflinching into the abyss, that stole fire from the gods while denying their very existence, that forged demigods as others might make a sword and mastered such arcane might men called it divine. The Templar begins as a trained battle-psyker, with access to sorcerous rituals alongside personal skill with a blade.
The Templar's anima powers are as follows:
- Dark Inspiration: You may complete downtime activities and ventures based on craftsmanship, medicine, academic research or occult pursuits at twice the normal speed.
- Otherworldly Lore: You add your essence in automatic successes to all rolls based on craft or sagacity. This explicitly includes working sorcery and wielding arcane might in battle.
- Gruesome Epiphany: When you reach iconic anima, you may intuit, reveal or create a vital weakness in a person, object or structure that you can perceive. This weakness may be physical, spiritual or emotional, and you and your allies gain double successes on any attempts to exploit it for the scene.
You gain an Exalt milestone whenever you use your knowledge to provoke a conflict or undermine a significant foe, such as by revealing blackmail or using Gruesome Epiphany.
The Templar begins the quest in Ambulon, a mobile hive city mounted atop the back of an ancient pre-imperial machine that endlessly wanders the rocky expanse of Scintilla's primary continent. The city never stops moving, migrating steadily from one resource deposit to another at the direction of the secretive engineering guild, extracting and exploiting each in turn before sending refined wealth and finished products off to markets across the world and beyond.
Unemployment is illegal in Ambulon, and those who cannot provide proof of their labours at one of the many resource extraction facilities or industrial workshops are flung from the side or exiled to the shanty towns that hang from the city's great belly, many hundreds of metres above the ground. Nobody is sure what would happen should the city stop moving, though theories abound, with some suggesting that it would collapse into a rusted heap and others insisting that it would come alive to devour the human parasites upon its enormous back.
Article: Which of these three archetypes do you choose? Vote for one option only.
[ ] The Penitent Gunslinger
[ ] The Contemptuous Scribe
[ ] The Forsaken Templar
Lore - The Calixis Sector
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hopefully @Maugan Ra won't mind me stepping in and doing a bunch of lore posts, since I have (almost) all the Dark Heresy 1E PDFs.
A Basic Primer to the Calixis Sector
Origins
The Calixis Sector is in the northwestern corner of Segmentum Obscurus, resting on the very edge of the Imperium. To its spinward, the Koronus Expanse, where Rogue Traders seek to expand the Emperor's domain further. To its rimward, the infamous Halo Stars. Coreward is the Ixaniad Sector. To trailing, the dangerous Fydae Great Cloud, and the Scarus Sector (the setting of the Eisenhorn and Ravenor novels).
Calixis has a dark and ominous history. It was first documented in M35 as the Calyx Expanse by the legendary Rogue Trader Solomon Haarlock, calling it a "chalice of great and ancient wickedness" that would only be purchased for the Imperium with a "great effusion of blood." At the time, it was ruled by the Yu'vath, a xenos species with an appropriately dark nature.
In M39, the Imperium launched a campaign to conquer the Calyx Expanse as part of a Crusade under Lord Militant Angevin. It would be spearheaded under a General Drusus. There are a multitude of stories about Drusus, his origins, his feats, and deeds, but here are the core facts. Drusus was an inspired leader who led the crusade to many great successes. Then, while resting on the world of Maccabeus Quintus, he became a Saint. Again, there are many conflicting tales about what happened, but this much is clear: an assassin nearly killed Drusus, but the God-Emperor's power destroyed them, and resurrected Drusus.
Saint Drusus would go on to exterminate the Yu'vath, complete the conquest of the Calixis Sector, and become the first Sector Lord, until his death (for good) in 417.M39. He was in many ways the founding father of the Calixis Sector, and Drususian worship is a core pillar of the Calixis Ecclesiarchy.
Sub-Sectors: Golgenna Reach, Malfian Sub-Sector, Drusus Marches, Adrantis Nebula, Hazeroth Abyss, Josian Reach, Markayn Marches, The Periphery.
Sector Capital: Scintilla, Golgenna Reach.
Sector Governor: Marius Hax. Lord Hax is from an ancient Terran-descended family in the heart of Segmentum Solar, appointed as Lord Sector by the High Lords of Terra approximately 250 years ago (accounting for the time shift into M42), ruling Calixis from the Lucid Palace on Scintilla (of which he is also the official planetary governor). Lord Hax is an extremely grave and austure man, with an absolute conviction that order and obedient rule are essential to humanity's survival.
At the same time, he is a surprisingly even-handed man, who values and listens to good advisers. Hax rules in an "hands-off, big picture" fashion, generally ignoring events on individual planets, but only sleeping four hours a night and reviewing daily economical and fiscal reports in great detail. His priorities are the tithe, quashing rogue psykers and rebellions, and upholding the authority of the Imperium.
In short, not bad as Sector Lords go, except Marius Hax has been slowly descending into paranoia and tyranny. He has enacted various measures to increase his control over the Calixis Sector, including the notorious Chaliced Commissariat (a highly loathed formation modeled off the Commissariat to oversee PDF units). This state of mind is not of his own making, but engineered and encouraged by conspiracies within the Lucid Court. Needless to say the birth of the Cicatrix Maledictum is unlikely to improve the situation.
Major Planets
Scintilla: The capital world of the Calixis Sector, Scintilla is a hive world of 25 billion, the largest population in the Sector. Dominated by the Hives of Sibellus and Tarsus (with Ambulon and Gunmetal City as runner-ups), Scintilla is the economic, political, and religious heart of Calixis. As all of our options start here, I'll detail the planet further in a later post.
Malfi: The capital of the eponmyous sub-sector, Malfi is a semi-tropical hiveworld with a massive grudge against Scintilla for taking what the population believes to be Malfi's rightful place as sector capital. It is also notorious for being an absurd hotbed of intrigues. Every act and motion of Malfian life is about dissemblance and intrigue. Malfi's elaborate, layered culture of falsehood and deceit makes it laughably easy for numerous sects and cults to recruit and conceal themselves.
Iocanthus: A lawless world dominated by and their huge armies, clashing across the planet's forests, jungles, and plains. Iocanthus' sole meaningful export is also what makes it so important: it's one of the few places where Ghostflower pollen (a key ingredient in the combat drugs used by Imperial Guard penal legions) can grow. Because Ghostfire cannot be cultivated normally, the warlords (styled 'vai', meaning prince) and their armies are constantly on the move looking for new patches to harvest and fighting for control. Every five years, the warlords turn over their hauls to an Administratum task force in exchange for weapons, clean water, and other supplies. The one that provides the most Ghostfire pollen is named 'Vervai' ('King') and Planetary Governor.
Sepheris Secundus: The epitome of feudal worlds. Everyone born on the planet has a master to whom they pay nine-tenths of what they produce, starting from the billions of serfs, moving up the chain to the barons, the monarch, and of course the Imperium. Tradition and force maintains an antiquated system dependent on serfs living in city-size mines, hacking away at ore faces with basic, primitive hand tools. In short, the planet would be a joke if it weren't for the amazingly vast mineral weath underground, enough to make it key to the Calixis Sector's economy.
A Basic Primer to the Calixis Sector
Origins
The Calixis Sector is in the northwestern corner of Segmentum Obscurus, resting on the very edge of the Imperium. To its spinward, the Koronus Expanse, where Rogue Traders seek to expand the Emperor's domain further. To its rimward, the infamous Halo Stars. Coreward is the Ixaniad Sector. To trailing, the dangerous Fydae Great Cloud, and the Scarus Sector (the setting of the Eisenhorn and Ravenor novels).
Calixis has a dark and ominous history. It was first documented in M35 as the Calyx Expanse by the legendary Rogue Trader Solomon Haarlock, calling it a "chalice of great and ancient wickedness" that would only be purchased for the Imperium with a "great effusion of blood." At the time, it was ruled by the Yu'vath, a xenos species with an appropriately dark nature.
In M39, the Imperium launched a campaign to conquer the Calyx Expanse as part of a Crusade under Lord Militant Angevin. It would be spearheaded under a General Drusus. There are a multitude of stories about Drusus, his origins, his feats, and deeds, but here are the core facts. Drusus was an inspired leader who led the crusade to many great successes. Then, while resting on the world of Maccabeus Quintus, he became a Saint. Again, there are many conflicting tales about what happened, but this much is clear: an assassin nearly killed Drusus, but the God-Emperor's power destroyed them, and resurrected Drusus.
Saint Drusus would go on to exterminate the Yu'vath, complete the conquest of the Calixis Sector, and become the first Sector Lord, until his death (for good) in 417.M39. He was in many ways the founding father of the Calixis Sector, and Drususian worship is a core pillar of the Calixis Ecclesiarchy.
Sub-Sectors: Golgenna Reach, Malfian Sub-Sector, Drusus Marches, Adrantis Nebula, Hazeroth Abyss, Josian Reach, Markayn Marches, The Periphery.
Sector Capital: Scintilla, Golgenna Reach.
Sector Governor: Marius Hax. Lord Hax is from an ancient Terran-descended family in the heart of Segmentum Solar, appointed as Lord Sector by the High Lords of Terra approximately 250 years ago (accounting for the time shift into M42), ruling Calixis from the Lucid Palace on Scintilla (of which he is also the official planetary governor). Lord Hax is an extremely grave and austure man, with an absolute conviction that order and obedient rule are essential to humanity's survival.
At the same time, he is a surprisingly even-handed man, who values and listens to good advisers. Hax rules in an "hands-off, big picture" fashion, generally ignoring events on individual planets, but only sleeping four hours a night and reviewing daily economical and fiscal reports in great detail. His priorities are the tithe, quashing rogue psykers and rebellions, and upholding the authority of the Imperium.
In short, not bad as Sector Lords go, except Marius Hax has been slowly descending into paranoia and tyranny. He has enacted various measures to increase his control over the Calixis Sector, including the notorious Chaliced Commissariat (a highly loathed formation modeled off the Commissariat to oversee PDF units). This state of mind is not of his own making, but engineered and encouraged by conspiracies within the Lucid Court. Needless to say the birth of the Cicatrix Maledictum is unlikely to improve the situation.
Major Planets
Scintilla: The capital world of the Calixis Sector, Scintilla is a hive world of 25 billion, the largest population in the Sector. Dominated by the Hives of Sibellus and Tarsus (with Ambulon and Gunmetal City as runner-ups), Scintilla is the economic, political, and religious heart of Calixis. As all of our options start here, I'll detail the planet further in a later post.
Malfi: The capital of the eponmyous sub-sector, Malfi is a semi-tropical hiveworld with a massive grudge against Scintilla for taking what the population believes to be Malfi's rightful place as sector capital. It is also notorious for being an absurd hotbed of intrigues. Every act and motion of Malfian life is about dissemblance and intrigue. Malfi's elaborate, layered culture of falsehood and deceit makes it laughably easy for numerous sects and cults to recruit and conceal themselves.
Iocanthus: A lawless world dominated by and their huge armies, clashing across the planet's forests, jungles, and plains. Iocanthus' sole meaningful export is also what makes it so important: it's one of the few places where Ghostflower pollen (a key ingredient in the combat drugs used by Imperial Guard penal legions) can grow. Because Ghostfire cannot be cultivated normally, the warlords (styled 'vai', meaning prince) and their armies are constantly on the move looking for new patches to harvest and fighting for control. Every five years, the warlords turn over their hauls to an Administratum task force in exchange for weapons, clean water, and other supplies. The one that provides the most Ghostfire pollen is named 'Vervai' ('King') and Planetary Governor.
Sepheris Secundus: The epitome of feudal worlds. Everyone born on the planet has a master to whom they pay nine-tenths of what they produce, starting from the billions of serfs, moving up the chain to the barons, the monarch, and of course the Imperium. Tradition and force maintains an antiquated system dependent on serfs living in city-size mines, hacking away at ore faces with basic, primitive hand tools. In short, the planet would be a joke if it weren't for the amazingly vast mineral weath underground, enough to make it key to the Calixis Sector's economy.
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- Location
- London, England
I - An Old Man Dies, a Young Girl Lives
- Location
- London, England
Somehow, getting shot never gets any easier. Twenty years you've walked this road, dancing with las and bolt and solid shot, and in all that time you never got used to how it feels. It's certainly happened often enough, even the luckiest gunslinger gets clipped a time or two, but somehow it never quite stays in your memory enough to feel commonplace. Maybe it's the mundanity of the whole affair, sheer indifference undercutting any attempt to fix it in your memory. A dull impact, like getting punched, and then minutes later a slow burning pain. And the blood, of course.
There is really quite a lot of blood.
"It works!" Lyra calls out excitedly from her position at the head of the train, the joy in her voice warring with nerves and exhaustion. The great engine beneath her feet thrums violently under her feet, filling the echoing hanger with the growl of its motors turning over, and the rest of your makeshift band let out ragged cheers at the sound. You nod tiredly, leaning on the edge of the great outflow pipe and marvelling at her accomplishment. You'd barely have any idea how to get an old machine like this one running at the best of times, much less one left abandoned in an old depot like this for the Emperor alone knows how long, but she did it.
"Good job," you murmur, fighting back a wince. It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it might, which is something of a boon. Every man dies sooner or later, and in Gunmetal City often a great deal sooner, but given the choice you'd like to go out with at least a little dignity.
"Alright, everyone, get your arses on board!" Lyra calls out once more, vaulting down off the top of the engine cab, and you have to choke back a laugh and a grunt of pain both. Whatever happened to the shy, trembling little flower who fled into your favourite bar, master's hounds hot on her tail? Look at her now. She's gone and gotten engine oil on her pretty porcelain skin and calluses on her dainty little hands, and now she's even cussing at people. You think you like her better this way, not that you'd ever say it. Bad for your reputation, something like that. "You too, old timer!"
The others rally to her call, a half-dozen rogues and runaways that fell in with you both over the last… how long has it been? You lost count five ambushes back, you think, maybe six. They all start blurring together after a while, the days and the children both. How many others have come and gone before them, falling one by one while you alone remained alive to remember them? Too many by far. Maybe that is why you did it, why you stood from your chair that day, why you drew on the hounds when nobody else would. No more dead kids. It's a pretty enough slogan, you think. Something worth fighting for, maybe even worth dying for. Convenient, that one.
"Old man?" Lyra is in front of you now, though you don't rightly know when she crossed the distance. She's looking confused, a little concerned. Probably because everyone else is already aboard the train and you haven't yet moved. "Hey, come on. Don't tell me the big bad gunslinger is afraid of a little open air?"
"Well, maybe a little," you drawl, and there must be something in your voice that gives it away because her eyes narrow and she reaches out for you. Her hand comes back bloody, and you see the horror of realisation in her eyes. "Yeah. 'fraid that last one got a little lucky."
"I… no, there must be something," Lyra says, her voice hot and fierce, the mind behind those beautiful sapphire eyes working a mile a minute as she searches for a solution. That's one of her better qualities, you think. Life like hers, and she still believes things can be better, still refuses to accept what everyone else thinks is inevitable. "There's a medical station two floors up, we can still…"
You catch her by the hand, stopping her before she can get herself worked up and burn what she has for something that isn't worth it.
"Lass… Lyra," you say, and she starts at the name, at the sincerity in your voice, "It's alright. Don't go spoiling your chances now, not for a washed up old drifter like me. Not when you've got all those others depending on you, and a real future to give them. Atlantia's waiting, remember?"
Ah, Atlantia. How often did you tell stories about that place when you were a kid, too young for even the most hard-hearted factory boss to bother putting on the line? A silver city upon the waves, out there somewhere, just waiting to be found. A place where the air is clean and the water pure, where a man can walk the streets with his head held high and fear no master's whip. Paradise in a world.
"I don't…" Lyra sniffs, choking back her emotions, knowing what you're asking of her, "I don't know if I can, old man. I don't even know if it's real."
"'Course it is," you say firmly, "and if it isn't, well, you'll just have to build it yourself. We both know you can do it. But… since it might take a while to get there… here."
The Hecuter 9/5 has been with you since the very first time you made your mark, a personal gift from a merchant lord of Fane Orthlack to the young hired gun who won him a fortune with a bit of quick thinking and even quicker shooting. You've had the handle replaced more than once, the grip retextured, a few dents and scratches carefully worked back out, but the core of the gun is still the same reliable piece of metal it has always been. The prince of pistols, some call it, and you flatter yourself to think you helped paved the way for its ascent to the throne.
"I… I can't take this, not now, not when…" Lyra hesitates, unable to say the words even as she closes her hands around the grip, even as her eyes stray down to the blood now seeping out from beneath your armoured vest. You are dying, and to die in this city without a gun in hand is the worst kind of disgrace.
"Don't worry about it," you say, giving her some crooked excuse for a grin, "I've got another. On you go now. I'll watch your back."
Lyra sniffs, and straightens, and takes the gun in her hands. She looks you in the eye one last time. "You're a good man, Solomon. Thank you."
Well, you don't know about that, but it would be pretty churlish to disagree now wouldn't it? So you nod gravely, and you watch without a word as she returns to her new family and starts the engine. The train roars to life, its lights blazing and thousand segmented legs unfurling, with a rattle as harsh as any burst of gunfire it leaves the station and heads out into the wastes beyond. You watch them go, a crooked little smile on your face, and then you fold one arm back across your gut and limp your way back over to the entrance. You didn't mention it to the others, but the last group you tangled with managed to get a transmission off before you put the killing shot through the vox. The hounds will be coming, and you want to be there to meet them.
It's getting cold now, cold and dark. You can't even see the furthest halls or the highest gantries anymore, nor distinguish the icy feeling of your skin from the burning heat of the air. It's not a bad feeling, you think. You can see why the nobles keep the cold to themselves now, insulated in their needletop mansions, high above the soot and the flames that make their wealth. The air still stinks of metal, though, the peculiar burning stench you only get when it meets with molten stone. There must be a breach somewhere below you, no more than a level or two. You hope the locals made it out in time, even though you know they didn't. They never do.
The hounds are here, and they've brought their master with them.
"Well, well," the master drawls, his narrow brow beaded with sweat and his long flowing sleeves hanging limp at his side, "It seems even the mighty Solomon Reeve has a bullet with his name on it somewhere, and it was one of my men that was carrying it all along. Whoever would have guessed?"
He's gloating, you realise dimly. The hounds to his left and right look tense and nervous, fingers tight on bare metal grips as they keep the barrels of their guns - more Orthlack work, they always did make a killing supplying the regulators of their friends and rivals alike - trained on you, but the master has left his iron in the holster. They look like fine quality pieces, Valentines unless you miss your guess, the sort of high-powered las weapon that takes all the sport out of killing another man.
"No words? Ah, what am I saying, of course not. You're barely even conscious, are you? I wonder if you can even hear what I'm saying." The master is saying now, his smile lean and cruel. You took away something he valued, and more than that you defied him, and for that he plans to watch you die and smile all the while. "I hope you can, Solomon. I hope you know that it doesn't matter. Nothing you did here today, or any day in your whole wretched life, matters. She's taken an old walker-train, hasn't she, fled out into the wastes and left you behind? I'll have the family flyers out after her within the hour, and run her to ground by the end of day. Maybe I'll even show her your corpse before we go back home. Yes, I think that would be best, don't you?"
He thinks he is safe. Of course he does, else why would he be here? Why come down here at all, much less leave the safety of his climate controlled grav car to see you in person? Because you are alone, you are dying, and he has a score of heavily armed regulators with weapons ready and levelled. You still have a gun, true, but it is holstered at your side and you've lost enough blood that you might well miss even if you could draw it before his men cut you down. This is a story that only ends one way, and he wants to be there to see it happen.
You lift your head, and look him in the eye.
"No," you say, and pull the trigger.
That is where the story of Solomon Reeve ends. He dies with a smile on his face and a gun in his hand, the body of a rich man at his feet, cut down in a hail of gunfire by the vengeful guards of his final victim. A good end for a bad man, one final act of justice thrown back in the face of a world that so rarely affords such things even for the deserving. With his death he buys the time and freedom necessary for a brave young woman and her newfound family to escape Gunmetal City for good, to flee down the burning slopes of Mount Thollos and find a new life for themselves in the world somewhere beyond. Neither of them would call it a fair trade, but then neither of them would agree who got the better end of the deal.
That is where Solomon Reeve's story ends, but your tale will continue for a little while yet. Because while you are laying there, insensate and broken, a hundred bolts and bullets tearing your mortal frame apart and scattering you across the burning ground, someone new arrives on the scene. A giant in pale plate, his face hidden behind a snarling wolfshead helm, a great cloak of frozen fur hanging from his back and gnawing at his arm. You always wondered what the Emperor's angels would look like, when they came to ferry you on, but somehow you were expecting something else.
"Hey there, killer," the giant says, his words clipped and crude as any Infernus rogue, "got a job for you, if you're interested."
You're not averse to paying work, but you're a bit busy to be taking on new commissions now. Would have to be one hell of a pitch to be worth your time, given the circumstances.
"Down payment's immortality," your would-be client says, and you think the eye on his chest is staring at you now, judging you and finding you wanting. Maybe he really is an angel after all. "Rest is power, enough of it to make you the deadliest man in Gunmetal, if you somehow aren't already."
All that, just for you? Well, you suppose you can hear him out at least. What's the job?
"Need you to kill a man for me," the giant says, as if anyone ever hires you for anything different, "fellow by the name of Marius Hax."
The Sector Governor himself? Well, that's easy enough. You just have to fight your way out of Gunmetal City, find a way across the continent-spanning wasteland, infiltrate a city you've never even seen much less visited, and kill the single most heavily guarded nobleman in the entire Calixis Sector. Simple, really.
"I knew you'd agree," the giant says in a serious tone of voice, "That said, there's a catch."
Oh, really? Do tell.
"Solomon Reeve's a dead man," your personal angel says without pity, "He died well, as it goes, but he's still dead and gone. You'll need a new name, a new title. And, when Hax is dead, there will be more names after him. No rest for the wicked."
Well, that makes sense. Nobody who has a plan that starts with killing a Lord Sector is going to stop there, and even if they did, the number of people who will come after you for it will make a pile higher than the hive he lived in. A deed like that would make you the most infamous killer in Calixis. You don't really have to ask about the alternative - a quiet, lonely death here in the depths of Gunmetal, a free woman and her friends your only legacy. It wouldn't be so bad, you think, but if there's one thing that Lyra taught you it is never to settle for what the world will let you have.
Alright. You're in.
"Then get up, dead man," the giant says, a black star shining in his palm as he kneels at your side, "Get up, and kill them all."
He presses the starfire into your heart, and you take the single sweetest breath of your entire life.
There is really quite a lot of blood.
"It works!" Lyra calls out excitedly from her position at the head of the train, the joy in her voice warring with nerves and exhaustion. The great engine beneath her feet thrums violently under her feet, filling the echoing hanger with the growl of its motors turning over, and the rest of your makeshift band let out ragged cheers at the sound. You nod tiredly, leaning on the edge of the great outflow pipe and marvelling at her accomplishment. You'd barely have any idea how to get an old machine like this one running at the best of times, much less one left abandoned in an old depot like this for the Emperor alone knows how long, but she did it.
"Good job," you murmur, fighting back a wince. It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it might, which is something of a boon. Every man dies sooner or later, and in Gunmetal City often a great deal sooner, but given the choice you'd like to go out with at least a little dignity.
"Alright, everyone, get your arses on board!" Lyra calls out once more, vaulting down off the top of the engine cab, and you have to choke back a laugh and a grunt of pain both. Whatever happened to the shy, trembling little flower who fled into your favourite bar, master's hounds hot on her tail? Look at her now. She's gone and gotten engine oil on her pretty porcelain skin and calluses on her dainty little hands, and now she's even cussing at people. You think you like her better this way, not that you'd ever say it. Bad for your reputation, something like that. "You too, old timer!"
The others rally to her call, a half-dozen rogues and runaways that fell in with you both over the last… how long has it been? You lost count five ambushes back, you think, maybe six. They all start blurring together after a while, the days and the children both. How many others have come and gone before them, falling one by one while you alone remained alive to remember them? Too many by far. Maybe that is why you did it, why you stood from your chair that day, why you drew on the hounds when nobody else would. No more dead kids. It's a pretty enough slogan, you think. Something worth fighting for, maybe even worth dying for. Convenient, that one.
"Old man?" Lyra is in front of you now, though you don't rightly know when she crossed the distance. She's looking confused, a little concerned. Probably because everyone else is already aboard the train and you haven't yet moved. "Hey, come on. Don't tell me the big bad gunslinger is afraid of a little open air?"
"Well, maybe a little," you drawl, and there must be something in your voice that gives it away because her eyes narrow and she reaches out for you. Her hand comes back bloody, and you see the horror of realisation in her eyes. "Yeah. 'fraid that last one got a little lucky."
"I… no, there must be something," Lyra says, her voice hot and fierce, the mind behind those beautiful sapphire eyes working a mile a minute as she searches for a solution. That's one of her better qualities, you think. Life like hers, and she still believes things can be better, still refuses to accept what everyone else thinks is inevitable. "There's a medical station two floors up, we can still…"
You catch her by the hand, stopping her before she can get herself worked up and burn what she has for something that isn't worth it.
"Lass… Lyra," you say, and she starts at the name, at the sincerity in your voice, "It's alright. Don't go spoiling your chances now, not for a washed up old drifter like me. Not when you've got all those others depending on you, and a real future to give them. Atlantia's waiting, remember?"
Ah, Atlantia. How often did you tell stories about that place when you were a kid, too young for even the most hard-hearted factory boss to bother putting on the line? A silver city upon the waves, out there somewhere, just waiting to be found. A place where the air is clean and the water pure, where a man can walk the streets with his head held high and fear no master's whip. Paradise in a world.
"I don't…" Lyra sniffs, choking back her emotions, knowing what you're asking of her, "I don't know if I can, old man. I don't even know if it's real."
"'Course it is," you say firmly, "and if it isn't, well, you'll just have to build it yourself. We both know you can do it. But… since it might take a while to get there… here."
The Hecuter 9/5 has been with you since the very first time you made your mark, a personal gift from a merchant lord of Fane Orthlack to the young hired gun who won him a fortune with a bit of quick thinking and even quicker shooting. You've had the handle replaced more than once, the grip retextured, a few dents and scratches carefully worked back out, but the core of the gun is still the same reliable piece of metal it has always been. The prince of pistols, some call it, and you flatter yourself to think you helped paved the way for its ascent to the throne.
"I… I can't take this, not now, not when…" Lyra hesitates, unable to say the words even as she closes her hands around the grip, even as her eyes stray down to the blood now seeping out from beneath your armoured vest. You are dying, and to die in this city without a gun in hand is the worst kind of disgrace.
"Don't worry about it," you say, giving her some crooked excuse for a grin, "I've got another. On you go now. I'll watch your back."
Lyra sniffs, and straightens, and takes the gun in her hands. She looks you in the eye one last time. "You're a good man, Solomon. Thank you."
Well, you don't know about that, but it would be pretty churlish to disagree now wouldn't it? So you nod gravely, and you watch without a word as she returns to her new family and starts the engine. The train roars to life, its lights blazing and thousand segmented legs unfurling, with a rattle as harsh as any burst of gunfire it leaves the station and heads out into the wastes beyond. You watch them go, a crooked little smile on your face, and then you fold one arm back across your gut and limp your way back over to the entrance. You didn't mention it to the others, but the last group you tangled with managed to get a transmission off before you put the killing shot through the vox. The hounds will be coming, and you want to be there to meet them.
It's getting cold now, cold and dark. You can't even see the furthest halls or the highest gantries anymore, nor distinguish the icy feeling of your skin from the burning heat of the air. It's not a bad feeling, you think. You can see why the nobles keep the cold to themselves now, insulated in their needletop mansions, high above the soot and the flames that make their wealth. The air still stinks of metal, though, the peculiar burning stench you only get when it meets with molten stone. There must be a breach somewhere below you, no more than a level or two. You hope the locals made it out in time, even though you know they didn't. They never do.
The hounds are here, and they've brought their master with them.
"Well, well," the master drawls, his narrow brow beaded with sweat and his long flowing sleeves hanging limp at his side, "It seems even the mighty Solomon Reeve has a bullet with his name on it somewhere, and it was one of my men that was carrying it all along. Whoever would have guessed?"
He's gloating, you realise dimly. The hounds to his left and right look tense and nervous, fingers tight on bare metal grips as they keep the barrels of their guns - more Orthlack work, they always did make a killing supplying the regulators of their friends and rivals alike - trained on you, but the master has left his iron in the holster. They look like fine quality pieces, Valentines unless you miss your guess, the sort of high-powered las weapon that takes all the sport out of killing another man.
"No words? Ah, what am I saying, of course not. You're barely even conscious, are you? I wonder if you can even hear what I'm saying." The master is saying now, his smile lean and cruel. You took away something he valued, and more than that you defied him, and for that he plans to watch you die and smile all the while. "I hope you can, Solomon. I hope you know that it doesn't matter. Nothing you did here today, or any day in your whole wretched life, matters. She's taken an old walker-train, hasn't she, fled out into the wastes and left you behind? I'll have the family flyers out after her within the hour, and run her to ground by the end of day. Maybe I'll even show her your corpse before we go back home. Yes, I think that would be best, don't you?"
He thinks he is safe. Of course he does, else why would he be here? Why come down here at all, much less leave the safety of his climate controlled grav car to see you in person? Because you are alone, you are dying, and he has a score of heavily armed regulators with weapons ready and levelled. You still have a gun, true, but it is holstered at your side and you've lost enough blood that you might well miss even if you could draw it before his men cut you down. This is a story that only ends one way, and he wants to be there to see it happen.
You lift your head, and look him in the eye.
"No," you say, and pull the trigger.
That is where the story of Solomon Reeve ends. He dies with a smile on his face and a gun in his hand, the body of a rich man at his feet, cut down in a hail of gunfire by the vengeful guards of his final victim. A good end for a bad man, one final act of justice thrown back in the face of a world that so rarely affords such things even for the deserving. With his death he buys the time and freedom necessary for a brave young woman and her newfound family to escape Gunmetal City for good, to flee down the burning slopes of Mount Thollos and find a new life for themselves in the world somewhere beyond. Neither of them would call it a fair trade, but then neither of them would agree who got the better end of the deal.
That is where Solomon Reeve's story ends, but your tale will continue for a little while yet. Because while you are laying there, insensate and broken, a hundred bolts and bullets tearing your mortal frame apart and scattering you across the burning ground, someone new arrives on the scene. A giant in pale plate, his face hidden behind a snarling wolfshead helm, a great cloak of frozen fur hanging from his back and gnawing at his arm. You always wondered what the Emperor's angels would look like, when they came to ferry you on, but somehow you were expecting something else.
"Hey there, killer," the giant says, his words clipped and crude as any Infernus rogue, "got a job for you, if you're interested."
You're not averse to paying work, but you're a bit busy to be taking on new commissions now. Would have to be one hell of a pitch to be worth your time, given the circumstances.
"Down payment's immortality," your would-be client says, and you think the eye on his chest is staring at you now, judging you and finding you wanting. Maybe he really is an angel after all. "Rest is power, enough of it to make you the deadliest man in Gunmetal, if you somehow aren't already."
All that, just for you? Well, you suppose you can hear him out at least. What's the job?
"Need you to kill a man for me," the giant says, as if anyone ever hires you for anything different, "fellow by the name of Marius Hax."
The Sector Governor himself? Well, that's easy enough. You just have to fight your way out of Gunmetal City, find a way across the continent-spanning wasteland, infiltrate a city you've never even seen much less visited, and kill the single most heavily guarded nobleman in the entire Calixis Sector. Simple, really.
"I knew you'd agree," the giant says in a serious tone of voice, "That said, there's a catch."
Oh, really? Do tell.
"Solomon Reeve's a dead man," your personal angel says without pity, "He died well, as it goes, but he's still dead and gone. You'll need a new name, a new title. And, when Hax is dead, there will be more names after him. No rest for the wicked."
Well, that makes sense. Nobody who has a plan that starts with killing a Lord Sector is going to stop there, and even if they did, the number of people who will come after you for it will make a pile higher than the hive he lived in. A deed like that would make you the most infamous killer in Calixis. You don't really have to ask about the alternative - a quiet, lonely death here in the depths of Gunmetal, a free woman and her friends your only legacy. It wouldn't be so bad, you think, but if there's one thing that Lyra taught you it is never to settle for what the world will let you have.
Alright. You're in.
"Then get up, dead man," the giant says, a black star shining in his palm as he kneels at your side, "Get up, and kill them all."
He presses the starfire into your heart, and you take the single sweetest breath of your entire life.
Article: The man you were is dead. You are something new, something more, something better… or perhaps worse.
This is the first choice you will make - what is your title?
[ ] Title (Write in)
The One that Walks Behind You
The Maiden of the Mirthless Smile
Kingeater
The Gallows Bride
Voice that Speaks in Silence
The Seven-Degreed Physician of Black Maladies
Mariner of the Final Shore
Celebrant of Blood
All Clad in Tatters Came the Mountebank Knight
Shoat of the Mire
Lore - Scintilla, Capital of Calixis
- Pronouns
- He/Him
As promised, another lore post, @Maugan Ra. Well actually, I'm splitting this one up into two posts to improve readability.
Scintilla
Scintilla is the thriving heart of the Calixis Sector, dominated (or depending on your perspective, shared) by Hives Sibellus and Tarsus, the cities that hold the lion's share of the planet's 25 billion strong population. While Ambulon and Gunmetal City are significant economic nodes, they cannot meaningfully challenge the great hives.
That said, Hive Sibellus (often called "the Capital" or "the ruling hive") is the first among equals - not only the larger of the pair, but the center of Scintilla politically, administratively, and in productivity. At the same time, Hive Tarsus (nicknamed "the other place" by Sibellans) is the financial hub, controlling all off-world trade and commerce, so their interdependence is a feature of Scintillan proverbs and myths.
All four cities are controlled by councils of spire nobility - whose power has gone to their heads. Even by the standards of hive worlds, the Scintillan nobility are thoroughly corrupt, often considering themselves (not without cause) above or outside Imperial law, the splendors of their fashion only matched by their callous disdain for their lessers. The middle hivers are generally indentured to either the Scintillan nobility or the sector-wide Great Houses, toiling their lives away for the gain of their betters. The underhives are as you imagine them to be, ultra-violent hellholes of gangs, mutants, and worse (such as the zealots of the Red Redemption).
(So-Called) Law & Order
Most policing on Scintilla is handled by the Magistratum, the planetary law enforcement. While laws and procedures vary from hive to hive, as a rule, their dark green greatcoats will be omnipresent in the noble districts, limited in the middle hives, completely absent in the underhives, and of course they will always take the side of the powerful. The Arbites, while present in force, only care about sedition, tithe interference, and any other matter they deem rises to an 'Imperial' level. Most often, this covers major riots. It's worth noting the two organizations hate each other and will only work together in the most dire situations.
Trial by combat and duelling are cultural touchstones on Scintilla. While conditions vary depending on the specifics of the crime, either party in a trial can always have a champion fight in their place, and professionals are guaranteed dangerous but lucrative careers. Similarly, killing in a duel is legally, not murder. Naturally, the Magistratum hosts trials by combat in their Bloodsquares and won't interfere in duels.
In Gunmetal City, duels are fought with pistols, and the nobility habitually watch gunslingers battle in fancy arena behind bulletproof screens. There's an old joke in the rest of Scintilla that Gunmetallicans don't even know what a Magistratum uniform looks like.
Scintilla
Scintilla is the thriving heart of the Calixis Sector, dominated (or depending on your perspective, shared) by Hives Sibellus and Tarsus, the cities that hold the lion's share of the planet's 25 billion strong population. While Ambulon and Gunmetal City are significant economic nodes, they cannot meaningfully challenge the great hives.
That said, Hive Sibellus (often called "the Capital" or "the ruling hive") is the first among equals - not only the larger of the pair, but the center of Scintilla politically, administratively, and in productivity. At the same time, Hive Tarsus (nicknamed "the other place" by Sibellans) is the financial hub, controlling all off-world trade and commerce, so their interdependence is a feature of Scintillan proverbs and myths.
All four cities are controlled by councils of spire nobility - whose power has gone to their heads. Even by the standards of hive worlds, the Scintillan nobility are thoroughly corrupt, often considering themselves (not without cause) above or outside Imperial law, the splendors of their fashion only matched by their callous disdain for their lessers. The middle hivers are generally indentured to either the Scintillan nobility or the sector-wide Great Houses, toiling their lives away for the gain of their betters. The underhives are as you imagine them to be, ultra-violent hellholes of gangs, mutants, and worse (such as the zealots of the Red Redemption).
(So-Called) Law & Order
Most policing on Scintilla is handled by the Magistratum, the planetary law enforcement. While laws and procedures vary from hive to hive, as a rule, their dark green greatcoats will be omnipresent in the noble districts, limited in the middle hives, completely absent in the underhives, and of course they will always take the side of the powerful. The Arbites, while present in force, only care about sedition, tithe interference, and any other matter they deem rises to an 'Imperial' level. Most often, this covers major riots. It's worth noting the two organizations hate each other and will only work together in the most dire situations.
Trial by combat and duelling are cultural touchstones on Scintilla. While conditions vary depending on the specifics of the crime, either party in a trial can always have a champion fight in their place, and professionals are guaranteed dangerous but lucrative careers. Similarly, killing in a duel is legally, not murder. Naturally, the Magistratum hosts trials by combat in their Bloodsquares and won't interfere in duels.
In Gunmetal City, duels are fought with pistols, and the nobility habitually watch gunslingers battle in fancy arena behind bulletproof screens. There's an old joke in the rest of Scintilla that Gunmetallicans don't even know what a Magistratum uniform looks like.
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Lore - Gunmetal City
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Next lore post, @Maugan Ra.
Gunmetal City
Gunmetal City is built into the crater of Mount Thollos, an immense volcano on the north coast. Given the limits placed by the crater, the city is built upward, the spire made of sky-piercing towers constantly being scrubbed clean by hordes of servants. Clean air is the privilege of nobility, the richest outright importing fresh air from other worlds for their mansions.
The middle hive here is completely defined by the gargantuan foundries churning out an incessant flood of weapons and munitions crucial to Imperial war efforts. The Infernis, the under-hive equivalent, is consumed by unbearable heat, and spouts of lava and toxic gas from Mount Thollos. The gangers of Infernis have nothing to live for other than dominating other gangs, and these well-armed maniacs produce the best soldiers in the PDF and tithed Imperial Guard regiments.
Bloody Lucre
In theory, business in Gunmetal City is straightforward. There are contracts with private buyers, direct purchases by Battlefleet Calixis and the Departmento Munitorum, and the biggest prize: consignments to the Administratum as part of the tithe. The producers deliver directly to the Administratum on behalf of the Lord Governor, and the Lord Governor reimburses them in turn. The "Exactors" (as the Administratum adepts are called for their suspiciously precise numbers) make sure everything is running smoothly and publish the next set of quotas at the proper time. The Mechanicus oversee the machines in every foundry and tightly control the dispensation of archprints and rites of forging.
In practice, people will do near anything to get those commissions. Bribery, intimidation, sabotage, and assassinations are rife. The Arbites don't care about what the nobles do to each other, but come down with maximum force and zero subtlety on corruption in the Adeptus or anything that could threaten the tithe.
Fane-ing Sympathy
The fanes are loose cartel-combines that control much of weapon production, theirs is an elective cross-class membership offering protection to their members. Metallicans may shift their allegiances between fanes or the lesser forges, but never do so lightly. Every fane boasts its temple of arms, with altars and reliquaries containing legendary weapons and archetype-models. They provide a modicum of stability, protecting their members, yet they too are regular players in the trade-wars that consume the city.
Examples:
The Fane of Doru: While possessing a great deal of money and resources, the fane of Doru garners little respect or influence among its peers. Regarded by the rest as "artless panel beaters and skulking cowards," Doru is seen as little more than a front for the Skaelen-Har Hegemony (one of the Great Houses), and they face an uphill struggle to consolidate or expand their power in the hive. They are continuously beset on all sides by backstabbing and petty indignities. In terms of arms, the Doru is largely limited to the mass-production of PDF patterns, generic spares and ammo.
The Forge of Fykos: Perhaps the most famous and wealthy of the Metallican independents, the Fykos dynasty has supplied the elite of the Calixis Sector with the most potent and exclusive of hunting weapons and arms for centuries. Many on Gunmetal regard them as dangerously arrogant and insufferably effete.
The Forge of Khayer-Addin: The family of Khayer-Addin are reputedly of fallen Rogue Trader stock and their family forge has provided master-gunsmiths for five generations. They specialise in one-off commissions, duelling pieces and a variety of artfully disguised guns and blades. To the Scintillan nobility, a Khayer-Addin weapon is a highly desirable item, often an exquisite and ornate work of art whose lethality is rarely exceeded.
The Fane of Orthlack: Allied to the ascendant power of House Hax of Sibellus, the Fane of Orthlack hold the ironclad contracts to arm the Scintillan Magistratum and the enforcer cadres of many other worlds. Old, powerful and influential, the Orthlack are among the most conservative of the great fanes and arguably the strongest.
The Fane of Takara: A rising power, the Takara are creators of superior las weapons of all types. They have strong Cult Mechanicus ties and recently fought off a takeover by the Fane of Doru, forcing a radical reassessment of their power and influence by others in the Metallican hierarchy.
The Fane of Westingkrup: A powerful and aggressive fane, and one with a long history of survival despite the odds, Westingkrup specialises in revolvers, hand cannon, shotguns and other "low tech/high-quality" arms with a just reputation for crafting robust, no-nonsense weapons. Westingkrup is also infamous for the number of regulators and gunslingers it routinely employs and its willingness to go to war over the slightest provocation.
Gunmetal City
Gunmetal City is built into the crater of Mount Thollos, an immense volcano on the north coast. Given the limits placed by the crater, the city is built upward, the spire made of sky-piercing towers constantly being scrubbed clean by hordes of servants. Clean air is the privilege of nobility, the richest outright importing fresh air from other worlds for their mansions.
The middle hive here is completely defined by the gargantuan foundries churning out an incessant flood of weapons and munitions crucial to Imperial war efforts. The Infernis, the under-hive equivalent, is consumed by unbearable heat, and spouts of lava and toxic gas from Mount Thollos. The gangers of Infernis have nothing to live for other than dominating other gangs, and these well-armed maniacs produce the best soldiers in the PDF and tithed Imperial Guard regiments.
Bloody Lucre
In theory, business in Gunmetal City is straightforward. There are contracts with private buyers, direct purchases by Battlefleet Calixis and the Departmento Munitorum, and the biggest prize: consignments to the Administratum as part of the tithe. The producers deliver directly to the Administratum on behalf of the Lord Governor, and the Lord Governor reimburses them in turn. The "Exactors" (as the Administratum adepts are called for their suspiciously precise numbers) make sure everything is running smoothly and publish the next set of quotas at the proper time. The Mechanicus oversee the machines in every foundry and tightly control the dispensation of archprints and rites of forging.
In practice, people will do near anything to get those commissions. Bribery, intimidation, sabotage, and assassinations are rife. The Arbites don't care about what the nobles do to each other, but come down with maximum force and zero subtlety on corruption in the Adeptus or anything that could threaten the tithe.
Fane-ing Sympathy
The fanes are loose cartel-combines that control much of weapon production, theirs is an elective cross-class membership offering protection to their members. Metallicans may shift their allegiances between fanes or the lesser forges, but never do so lightly. Every fane boasts its temple of arms, with altars and reliquaries containing legendary weapons and archetype-models. They provide a modicum of stability, protecting their members, yet they too are regular players in the trade-wars that consume the city.
Examples:
The Fane of Doru: While possessing a great deal of money and resources, the fane of Doru garners little respect or influence among its peers. Regarded by the rest as "artless panel beaters and skulking cowards," Doru is seen as little more than a front for the Skaelen-Har Hegemony (one of the Great Houses), and they face an uphill struggle to consolidate or expand their power in the hive. They are continuously beset on all sides by backstabbing and petty indignities. In terms of arms, the Doru is largely limited to the mass-production of PDF patterns, generic spares and ammo.
The Forge of Fykos: Perhaps the most famous and wealthy of the Metallican independents, the Fykos dynasty has supplied the elite of the Calixis Sector with the most potent and exclusive of hunting weapons and arms for centuries. Many on Gunmetal regard them as dangerously arrogant and insufferably effete.
The Forge of Khayer-Addin: The family of Khayer-Addin are reputedly of fallen Rogue Trader stock and their family forge has provided master-gunsmiths for five generations. They specialise in one-off commissions, duelling pieces and a variety of artfully disguised guns and blades. To the Scintillan nobility, a Khayer-Addin weapon is a highly desirable item, often an exquisite and ornate work of art whose lethality is rarely exceeded.
The Fane of Orthlack: Allied to the ascendant power of House Hax of Sibellus, the Fane of Orthlack hold the ironclad contracts to arm the Scintillan Magistratum and the enforcer cadres of many other worlds. Old, powerful and influential, the Orthlack are among the most conservative of the great fanes and arguably the strongest.
The Fane of Takara: A rising power, the Takara are creators of superior las weapons of all types. They have strong Cult Mechanicus ties and recently fought off a takeover by the Fane of Doru, forcing a radical reassessment of their power and influence by others in the Metallican hierarchy.
The Fane of Westingkrup: A powerful and aggressive fane, and one with a long history of survival despite the odds, Westingkrup specialises in revolvers, hand cannon, shotguns and other "low tech/high-quality" arms with a just reputation for crafting robust, no-nonsense weapons. Westingkrup is also infamous for the number of regulators and gunslingers it routinely employs and its willingness to go to war over the slightest provocation.
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- London, England