Suffer Not the Witch (Warhammer 40k Psyker Quest)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
Hmmm... this is a good point. Alright, consider me convinced.
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
- Location
- Sweden
[ ] Write in (QM reserves veto) Disgust: I will not not work for any who would do to people what he and his ilk did to me.
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
- Location
- Europe
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
NSMS
Probably evil, unfortunately.
- Location
- A rapidly widening tear in the fabric of reality
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
Ciro's been a decent guy so far, but it's too soon to have developed any real loyalty beyond an uneasy alliance.
Ciro's been a decent guy so far, but it's too soon to have developed any real loyalty beyond an uneasy alliance.
That's why I prefer the Solidarity write-in. It has the potential to grow into loyalty without completely getting ahead of itself. Also is explicitly not just for Ciro, but for all the escapees. It shows a degree of loyalty proportionate to the situation, and stems from our own choices, not just because he's "nice".
Last edited:
- Location
- Canada
Trusting what may be an alpha legionnaire (maybe just reading into the line about snake or fang from earlier too much though) sounds like a bad idea to me, regardless of how starved the MC is for positive attention. now I just have to learn about how quest voting works for voting for a secondary option if the first one fails
- Location
- va
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
- Location
- Voidbetweenstars
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
Khona Moshr
Pink Flamingo Cabal Healer(they/them)
- Location
- Alabama
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
- Location
- London, England
Alright, Vote Called, looks like Distrust is the order of the day.
Vincenzo: "Psychologically I am very healthy really"
Vincenzo: "Psychologically I am very healthy really"
lancelot
Completely worth it
How is it not completely sane to distrust someone that spent weeks/months torturing him and made it clear as a Oskar he didn't consider you human?
THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP COMPELS YOU!
- Location
- London, England
It's perfectly sane and even rational. That doesn't necessarily make it healthy.
After all, as an unsanctioned psyker in the 41st Millennium, Vincenzo has sensible reasons to be suspicious and/or afraid of literally everyone he meets. That doesn't mean that living that way is anywhere close to healthy or fun.
lancelot
Completely worth it
So far it's only those that have given us reason to distrust. If it was everyone then their would be four more dead bodies instead were stupidly trusting enough to work work with a daemon summoner, someone that has IMPLANTED daemon parts INTO THEIR BODY. Which honestly shouldn't work as their body is supposed to break down when a daemon dies. A Space Elf and a space Marine of a unknown chapter. We are entirely too trusting. Also the daemon summoner and the Eldar obviously made a deal with each other when they were left alone.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Literally there is nothing stopping him from backstabbing us the instant thsi is over.
And given how long he'd have been on the vessel, well, I find it very sus. At best, it's a vox trick. At worse, we got a lotta problems.
V - A Queen of Scrap and Carrion
- Location
- London, England
You would not have thought a giant clad in ceremite capable of sneaking up on anyone, much less in such confined quarters, and yet Ciro is apparently here to prove you wrong. You can only assume you were too distracted by Crane's rambling to hear the footsteps and dull thrum of armour, though perhaps you are being too generous. Was it by design that you lost your way, that you were separated from the group and presented with a perfect opportunity to betray your loyalties in secret? Regardless, the Angel will not wait for you to prepare, and if you would forestall judgement you must do so now.
"It wasn't a genuine offer," you say, and on instinct your hand twitches towards the hilt of your weapon. Ciro's eyes narrow, and you make a point of moving that hand away again. It's not like you could draw your blade faster than he could kill you anyway, not given the speed and strength you've already seen him display.
"And if it was?" Ciro says softly, studying you as might a collector, "Would you have turned it down?"
"You… misunderstand," you say, a tad awkwardly, sighing when Ciro does not take your contradiction as reason to smear you across the bulkhead, "From Crane, or any man like him, an offer like that is never genuine. Even if he meant it in the moment, if he approached the whole deal with the very best of intentions, it would not last. He would find some reason to doubt, some excuse to break faith. He hates me too much to do otherwise, for the simple fact of what I am."
You had plenty of time to get to know the man during your interrogation, after all, even if at the time the agony of torture and fear of execution clouded your immediate perception. If he had simply been a sadist you could have worked with him, made yourself too useful to serve as a target of his cruelty, but there was too much hate in his heart for that. It was there long before you crossed his path, and it will be there long after you are dead, unless you manage to claim him first. One can make truce with those you hate, but never a lasting peace.
"Mm. I will not say you are wrong," Ciro says thoughtfully, and you let out a shaky breath as the air of immediate danger fades away as though it never were, "but you seem very confident in your judgement of the man's heart, over anything his words or deeds might say."
"It is the Malfian way," you say with an uneasy shrug, trying to get your pulse back under control, the smaller gibbering voice in the back of your head no longer obsessing over how big and strong and murderously lethal your companion truly is, "words are as air, and deeds a performance. Only by understanding why someone acts the way they do can you hope to predict their future course."
Ciro laughs at that, a short bark of amusement that ricochets from the walls like the sound of gunfire. "Well said! You remind me of another comrade I once fought beside… and that tells me that I have been underestimating you. I offer my apologies, and assurances that it shall not happen again."
"Ah… as you say," you blink, trying to wrap your head around the notion of an angel in the flesh feeling the need to apologise to one such as you, "No offense was taken."
"Still, if I might make an observation," Ciro says, his voice dropping into the gentle tones one might use on an injured bird or frightened child, "if Crane cannot be trusted to ever treat you well, no matter his words or actions to the contrary, how then can any who claim his service? The Imperium is filled with men of power who hate and fear the psyker, and they have made their rancour a matter of policy and dogma both."
You cannot help but wince at that. It is true, of course, but you had done rather well thus far by simply not thinking about the matter.
"Sometimes one must simply make the best of a bad situation," you say in resignation, "The Imperium is not kind to my sort, no, but what alternative is there?"
"Oh, several," Ciro says simply, as though it were not heresy to even suggest such a thing, as though an Angel speaking such words is fine and normal, "though most I grant have their own challenges and adversities."
You stare at him, your mind running in a loop as you wait for the world to make sense, and he meets your gaze with a level stare. Slowly it comes together, facts and observations clicking into place like pieces of some great puzzle. The confinement, the attack on a shrineworld, the comfortable ease with aliens and psykers, a hundred little details…
"You're not one of the Emperor's Angels, are you?" you whisper, the sound of your own blasphemy taunting you with its echo.
"I was, once, until I saw at last what it was I fought to defend," Ciro says gently, still and quiet, like he's afraid of spooking you into some kind of panicked flight, "As you were a loyal subject, until you crossed the line from citizen to threat. Now I act to defend humanity, a champion of our people rather than the nation that seeks to rule it. It is a harder path, a more treacherous one at times, this I will not deny. But it is a path well worth walking."
"How can I possibly trust you?" You are pleading now, feeling the bedrock shift and crumble beneath your feet, Angels aren't supposed to be led astray, they're not supposed to speak heresy and sedition, "You are… you are everything the priests warned us of, the devil in pleasant seeming."
"Am I?" Ciro raises his eyebrows, an almost comical look of innocent confusion on his face and you want to smack it off but you'd die if you ever made the attempt, "Do you truly know my heart, then? As you yourself said, words are as air and deeds a performance. I ask not for your trust, but merely an open mind and a keen eye."
An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded…
You nod, shakily, but do not speak. What can you possibly say? The teachings of the preachers are clear on what you should do next. You should slay Ciro, or at least part ways with him, turn yourself over to the Inquisition and accept their judgement in lieu of that which awaits you beyond the grave. The slightest deviation from orthodoxy is damnation in the purest form, and yet… you didn't turn yourself in when first your powers manifested, and when Crane made you an offer you turned it down because you knew it to be death in disguise. You have fled the reaper's scythe twice now, will you truly turn and face it willingly on the third?
"Good. You have much to think on, I know, but here is a poor place for such contemplation," Ciro nods, turning away from you, his unmarked armour thrumming softly in the gloom, "Let us return to the others, and continue our journey. When the path next forks, then a decision can be made."
You follow him in silence. What other paths are left, that you did not burn or shun?
--/--
You return to find that your three remaining companions seem to have discovered other sentient life. Bore and Sidhe are lurking by the entrance to what you think must have once been a mess hall of some kind, squinting carefully into the room without leaving cover, while ahead of them Nadia stands alone and unafraid and attempting what you can only assume is some kind of first contact with… humans?
The term is a little ambiguous, for though humanoid the members of the small group facing Nadia across the room are considerably shorter and more hirsute than any given group of humans you have seen, with red-tinged eyes and teeth sharpened to a razor point. You'd call them mutants, but from what you understand mutation is rarely so common across so many… an abhuman strain of some kind, then? Your studies in the secrets of the flesh have been fairly limited, but you know it's possible for environmental contamination to have significant physical effects, so dwelling in the ruins of a drifting starship for centuries…
"Ah, there you are!" Nadia says happily as you arrive with Ciro, gesturing momentarily to her new acquaintances, "I do believe these poor souls are the descendents of the ship's crew - note the rank markings?"
Blinking, you look again, and… yes, now that she's pointed it out, you can see that each of the abhumans bears chevron markings across their shoulders or down their forearms, or else stylised aquilas or small starbursts. Those with few or simple markings wear nothing but rags cut from ancient scraps of uniform and bear crude spears of sharpened metal, while the bigger and more impressively marked sort wear whole jumpsuits and carry what must be old solid-shot firearms from the ship lockers. They were squinting suspiciously at Nadia when you arrived, but as soon as they see Ciro they begin chattering between each other in strange pidgin that sounds almost like a dialect of gothic. Eventually one of them steps forwards and bows low towards your small group.
"Queen would meet, Queen would speak," he says, his face fixed in the carefully contorted expression of a man remembering formal words he's never had real cause to use, "Follow?"
"Of course," Ciro says, nodding to them, and you note that you are not the only one who seems inclined to stare at this being of perfection made flesh when he deigns to address you, "Lead on."
The survivors (tribesmen? Ferals? Abhumans?) do so, hurrying away at a brisk pace and a gait more suited to crawling through half collapsed corridors than walking beneath the open sky. Your small group follows in their wake, curious and watchful, and in short order you are led out of the more wretched and ruined areas and into what you can only assume are the locals' dwelling places. Here the decks show signs of repair work and the walls have been reinforced, while over there rooms and antechambers have been converted with the aid of salvaged goods into bunkrooms and armouries and feasting halls. Always there are more of the strange and twisted people, watching you cautiously from behind doorways of hanging cloth or standing boldly but not quite in your path as you pass.
"Their adaptability is to be commended," Bore chirps with some enthusiasm, stopping for a moment to examine what looks to be some kind of repair work done on a vent shaft near the perimeter of what you take to be some kind of familial gathering place, "This work is surprisingly functional given the materials to hand, and look - offerings to the machine spirits! Their rites are incorrect, of course, but the intent is sincere and the creativity significant…"
"They call themselves the Carrion, I think," Nadia offers in her turn, listening intently to one of the locals who seems to be a talkative sort, "A grim title, but it speaks to at least some kind of shared mythology or creed. I wonder… we must be the first to force the sanctum gate below and escape from the prison decks. What role does that give us, in their mythology?"
"Devils in pleasant seeming, perhaps," Ciro suggests in a dry voice, pointedly not looking at you, "What of you, Sidhe? You have offered cutting commentary on virtually everything we have encountered thus far, I was rather beginning to enjoy it."
"To see your own people laid low, those who once commanded passage across the void reduced to barbarians squatting amid the ruins?" The Aeldari says in a soft and distant voice, somehow contriving to look straight ahead while perceiving nothing, "This alone, I would not mock."
You want to ask her about that, but you know little of the Aledari and their ways, and more to the point it seems you have reached your destination already. One glance tells you that the room ahead once served as a temple for the ship's crew, but while their memory of it as a place of significance survived their reverence for the purpose clearly did not. The pews have been torn out and their materials repurposed, and where the sacred altar once stood now sits a throne of scraps and debris, topped by the broken form of a stone aquila. Seated there, surrounded by muscular warriors and wizened advisors, is the Queen of the Carrion.
She bears little sign of the mutation that has blighted the bodies of her subjects, save for eyes the colour of blood and nails curved into the start of slender claws. She wears nothing save a crude loincloth sewn from discarded vestments of the ancient priests, and her naked skin is marked with hard-won battle scars and loose dry folds of one who has known starvation more than once. Paint mixed from oil and lubricant has been used to cover her in sharp, jagged marks of power and authority, and when she looks at you there is a gleam of sharp intelligence in her eyes.
"Voices rise from the maw below, echoing in the halls of Queen Scarna," the Carrion's leader says in accented gothic, her words blunt and clipped until they sound half a shade from insult or accusation, "Be they meat for the gullet, or souls for the service?"
"Neither, Fierce Majesty," Nadia says smoothly, stepping forwards to speak for the group before anyone else can respond, "We are but wanders, walkers from the world beyond the world. We seek only to pass through with peace, and return to our distant homes."
That is not how you would have thought to introduce yourself, but you can see the sense in it - crude though her people are, this 'Scarna' clearly holds herself as their ruler and leader, and by emphasising your distant origins Nadia both diminishes the implied threat to her rule while stoking the flames of curiosity in the Queen's scarred breast. It works, too.
"The world beyond… such sights have I seen, in scrolls passed down from Queen to Queen," Scarna says thoughtfully, leaning forwards in her throne of scrap to study you all with inquisitive scarlet eyes, "Worlds with no roof, where the air is clean and the land rich and green. Claim you to be from paradise, then?"
"There are many such worlds, Queen Scarna," Nadia demurrs, lowering her gaze so that she does not meet Scarna's eyes with anything that could be interpreted as a challenge, "Some are verdant and lush, others harsh and cold. Each is claimed by those who have risen to conquer and rule, shaped by the land as they shape it in turn, as you have done here. We seek only to return to where we belong."
"Hmm, hrm, yes… yes, the Queen grants you leave of passage, to seek such goals," Scarna says with a decisive nod, gesturing broadly at her assembled courtiers, several of whom begin repeating the declaration quietly to themselves, "But know there are others less generous than I. Two there are worth knowing - the Doom in its lair by world's edge, and of late the Voice from on high. One you must pass by, the other will seek your service or your end. Mighty and strange though you are, five walkers will not suffice to overcome such foes."
Nadia smiles, and in an instant you glimpse where this is going to go. She will propose an alliance, a pact of common interest that plays on Scarna's pride and evident curiosity about the world beyond her realm. Perhaps she will leverage your arcane power, Ciro's might or Bore's strange knowledge to secure better terms, it matters little, you have seen enough such negotiations from the sidelines to know how this one will go, and unless you miss your guess she will likely succeed.
She will succeed, your entire venture and plan for escape will be that much closer to completion, and Nadia Black will have obtained the allegiance and assistance of a tribal warrior-queen with an army that knows the local terrain better than you could ever hope to, in addition to whatever it is that exists between her and the Aledari. The power will all be in her hands, and yet… is that a bad thing? More importantly, what can you do about it? To sabotage her efforts would be foolish, to attempt to out-talk her would be self-defeating, but… perhaps you could change the terms of this meeting instead. The Carrion clearly have some manner of martial honour, and if those scars are any indication Scarna has fought for her throne more than once. If you challenge her and win, then the Carrion would be yours to command instead of hers, the Queen your ally instead of Nadias. A tempting thought, a promise of something approaching safety and power, but… only if you win.
Either way, you will need to decide quickly.
"It wasn't a genuine offer," you say, and on instinct your hand twitches towards the hilt of your weapon. Ciro's eyes narrow, and you make a point of moving that hand away again. It's not like you could draw your blade faster than he could kill you anyway, not given the speed and strength you've already seen him display.
"And if it was?" Ciro says softly, studying you as might a collector, "Would you have turned it down?"
"You… misunderstand," you say, a tad awkwardly, sighing when Ciro does not take your contradiction as reason to smear you across the bulkhead, "From Crane, or any man like him, an offer like that is never genuine. Even if he meant it in the moment, if he approached the whole deal with the very best of intentions, it would not last. He would find some reason to doubt, some excuse to break faith. He hates me too much to do otherwise, for the simple fact of what I am."
You had plenty of time to get to know the man during your interrogation, after all, even if at the time the agony of torture and fear of execution clouded your immediate perception. If he had simply been a sadist you could have worked with him, made yourself too useful to serve as a target of his cruelty, but there was too much hate in his heart for that. It was there long before you crossed his path, and it will be there long after you are dead, unless you manage to claim him first. One can make truce with those you hate, but never a lasting peace.
"Mm. I will not say you are wrong," Ciro says thoughtfully, and you let out a shaky breath as the air of immediate danger fades away as though it never were, "but you seem very confident in your judgement of the man's heart, over anything his words or deeds might say."
"It is the Malfian way," you say with an uneasy shrug, trying to get your pulse back under control, the smaller gibbering voice in the back of your head no longer obsessing over how big and strong and murderously lethal your companion truly is, "words are as air, and deeds a performance. Only by understanding why someone acts the way they do can you hope to predict their future course."
Ciro laughs at that, a short bark of amusement that ricochets from the walls like the sound of gunfire. "Well said! You remind me of another comrade I once fought beside… and that tells me that I have been underestimating you. I offer my apologies, and assurances that it shall not happen again."
"Ah… as you say," you blink, trying to wrap your head around the notion of an angel in the flesh feeling the need to apologise to one such as you, "No offense was taken."
"Still, if I might make an observation," Ciro says, his voice dropping into the gentle tones one might use on an injured bird or frightened child, "if Crane cannot be trusted to ever treat you well, no matter his words or actions to the contrary, how then can any who claim his service? The Imperium is filled with men of power who hate and fear the psyker, and they have made their rancour a matter of policy and dogma both."
You cannot help but wince at that. It is true, of course, but you had done rather well thus far by simply not thinking about the matter.
"Sometimes one must simply make the best of a bad situation," you say in resignation, "The Imperium is not kind to my sort, no, but what alternative is there?"
"Oh, several," Ciro says simply, as though it were not heresy to even suggest such a thing, as though an Angel speaking such words is fine and normal, "though most I grant have their own challenges and adversities."
You stare at him, your mind running in a loop as you wait for the world to make sense, and he meets your gaze with a level stare. Slowly it comes together, facts and observations clicking into place like pieces of some great puzzle. The confinement, the attack on a shrineworld, the comfortable ease with aliens and psykers, a hundred little details…
"You're not one of the Emperor's Angels, are you?" you whisper, the sound of your own blasphemy taunting you with its echo.
"I was, once, until I saw at last what it was I fought to defend," Ciro says gently, still and quiet, like he's afraid of spooking you into some kind of panicked flight, "As you were a loyal subject, until you crossed the line from citizen to threat. Now I act to defend humanity, a champion of our people rather than the nation that seeks to rule it. It is a harder path, a more treacherous one at times, this I will not deny. But it is a path well worth walking."
"How can I possibly trust you?" You are pleading now, feeling the bedrock shift and crumble beneath your feet, Angels aren't supposed to be led astray, they're not supposed to speak heresy and sedition, "You are… you are everything the priests warned us of, the devil in pleasant seeming."
"Am I?" Ciro raises his eyebrows, an almost comical look of innocent confusion on his face and you want to smack it off but you'd die if you ever made the attempt, "Do you truly know my heart, then? As you yourself said, words are as air and deeds a performance. I ask not for your trust, but merely an open mind and a keen eye."
An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded…
You nod, shakily, but do not speak. What can you possibly say? The teachings of the preachers are clear on what you should do next. You should slay Ciro, or at least part ways with him, turn yourself over to the Inquisition and accept their judgement in lieu of that which awaits you beyond the grave. The slightest deviation from orthodoxy is damnation in the purest form, and yet… you didn't turn yourself in when first your powers manifested, and when Crane made you an offer you turned it down because you knew it to be death in disguise. You have fled the reaper's scythe twice now, will you truly turn and face it willingly on the third?
"Good. You have much to think on, I know, but here is a poor place for such contemplation," Ciro nods, turning away from you, his unmarked armour thrumming softly in the gloom, "Let us return to the others, and continue our journey. When the path next forks, then a decision can be made."
You follow him in silence. What other paths are left, that you did not burn or shun?
--/--
You return to find that your three remaining companions seem to have discovered other sentient life. Bore and Sidhe are lurking by the entrance to what you think must have once been a mess hall of some kind, squinting carefully into the room without leaving cover, while ahead of them Nadia stands alone and unafraid and attempting what you can only assume is some kind of first contact with… humans?
The term is a little ambiguous, for though humanoid the members of the small group facing Nadia across the room are considerably shorter and more hirsute than any given group of humans you have seen, with red-tinged eyes and teeth sharpened to a razor point. You'd call them mutants, but from what you understand mutation is rarely so common across so many… an abhuman strain of some kind, then? Your studies in the secrets of the flesh have been fairly limited, but you know it's possible for environmental contamination to have significant physical effects, so dwelling in the ruins of a drifting starship for centuries…
"Ah, there you are!" Nadia says happily as you arrive with Ciro, gesturing momentarily to her new acquaintances, "I do believe these poor souls are the descendents of the ship's crew - note the rank markings?"
Blinking, you look again, and… yes, now that she's pointed it out, you can see that each of the abhumans bears chevron markings across their shoulders or down their forearms, or else stylised aquilas or small starbursts. Those with few or simple markings wear nothing but rags cut from ancient scraps of uniform and bear crude spears of sharpened metal, while the bigger and more impressively marked sort wear whole jumpsuits and carry what must be old solid-shot firearms from the ship lockers. They were squinting suspiciously at Nadia when you arrived, but as soon as they see Ciro they begin chattering between each other in strange pidgin that sounds almost like a dialect of gothic. Eventually one of them steps forwards and bows low towards your small group.
"Queen would meet, Queen would speak," he says, his face fixed in the carefully contorted expression of a man remembering formal words he's never had real cause to use, "Follow?"
"Of course," Ciro says, nodding to them, and you note that you are not the only one who seems inclined to stare at this being of perfection made flesh when he deigns to address you, "Lead on."
The survivors (tribesmen? Ferals? Abhumans?) do so, hurrying away at a brisk pace and a gait more suited to crawling through half collapsed corridors than walking beneath the open sky. Your small group follows in their wake, curious and watchful, and in short order you are led out of the more wretched and ruined areas and into what you can only assume are the locals' dwelling places. Here the decks show signs of repair work and the walls have been reinforced, while over there rooms and antechambers have been converted with the aid of salvaged goods into bunkrooms and armouries and feasting halls. Always there are more of the strange and twisted people, watching you cautiously from behind doorways of hanging cloth or standing boldly but not quite in your path as you pass.
"Their adaptability is to be commended," Bore chirps with some enthusiasm, stopping for a moment to examine what looks to be some kind of repair work done on a vent shaft near the perimeter of what you take to be some kind of familial gathering place, "This work is surprisingly functional given the materials to hand, and look - offerings to the machine spirits! Their rites are incorrect, of course, but the intent is sincere and the creativity significant…"
"They call themselves the Carrion, I think," Nadia offers in her turn, listening intently to one of the locals who seems to be a talkative sort, "A grim title, but it speaks to at least some kind of shared mythology or creed. I wonder… we must be the first to force the sanctum gate below and escape from the prison decks. What role does that give us, in their mythology?"
"Devils in pleasant seeming, perhaps," Ciro suggests in a dry voice, pointedly not looking at you, "What of you, Sidhe? You have offered cutting commentary on virtually everything we have encountered thus far, I was rather beginning to enjoy it."
"To see your own people laid low, those who once commanded passage across the void reduced to barbarians squatting amid the ruins?" The Aeldari says in a soft and distant voice, somehow contriving to look straight ahead while perceiving nothing, "This alone, I would not mock."
You want to ask her about that, but you know little of the Aledari and their ways, and more to the point it seems you have reached your destination already. One glance tells you that the room ahead once served as a temple for the ship's crew, but while their memory of it as a place of significance survived their reverence for the purpose clearly did not. The pews have been torn out and their materials repurposed, and where the sacred altar once stood now sits a throne of scraps and debris, topped by the broken form of a stone aquila. Seated there, surrounded by muscular warriors and wizened advisors, is the Queen of the Carrion.
She bears little sign of the mutation that has blighted the bodies of her subjects, save for eyes the colour of blood and nails curved into the start of slender claws. She wears nothing save a crude loincloth sewn from discarded vestments of the ancient priests, and her naked skin is marked with hard-won battle scars and loose dry folds of one who has known starvation more than once. Paint mixed from oil and lubricant has been used to cover her in sharp, jagged marks of power and authority, and when she looks at you there is a gleam of sharp intelligence in her eyes.
"Voices rise from the maw below, echoing in the halls of Queen Scarna," the Carrion's leader says in accented gothic, her words blunt and clipped until they sound half a shade from insult or accusation, "Be they meat for the gullet, or souls for the service?"
"Neither, Fierce Majesty," Nadia says smoothly, stepping forwards to speak for the group before anyone else can respond, "We are but wanders, walkers from the world beyond the world. We seek only to pass through with peace, and return to our distant homes."
That is not how you would have thought to introduce yourself, but you can see the sense in it - crude though her people are, this 'Scarna' clearly holds herself as their ruler and leader, and by emphasising your distant origins Nadia both diminishes the implied threat to her rule while stoking the flames of curiosity in the Queen's scarred breast. It works, too.
"The world beyond… such sights have I seen, in scrolls passed down from Queen to Queen," Scarna says thoughtfully, leaning forwards in her throne of scrap to study you all with inquisitive scarlet eyes, "Worlds with no roof, where the air is clean and the land rich and green. Claim you to be from paradise, then?"
"There are many such worlds, Queen Scarna," Nadia demurrs, lowering her gaze so that she does not meet Scarna's eyes with anything that could be interpreted as a challenge, "Some are verdant and lush, others harsh and cold. Each is claimed by those who have risen to conquer and rule, shaped by the land as they shape it in turn, as you have done here. We seek only to return to where we belong."
"Hmm, hrm, yes… yes, the Queen grants you leave of passage, to seek such goals," Scarna says with a decisive nod, gesturing broadly at her assembled courtiers, several of whom begin repeating the declaration quietly to themselves, "But know there are others less generous than I. Two there are worth knowing - the Doom in its lair by world's edge, and of late the Voice from on high. One you must pass by, the other will seek your service or your end. Mighty and strange though you are, five walkers will not suffice to overcome such foes."
Nadia smiles, and in an instant you glimpse where this is going to go. She will propose an alliance, a pact of common interest that plays on Scarna's pride and evident curiosity about the world beyond her realm. Perhaps she will leverage your arcane power, Ciro's might or Bore's strange knowledge to secure better terms, it matters little, you have seen enough such negotiations from the sidelines to know how this one will go, and unless you miss your guess she will likely succeed.
She will succeed, your entire venture and plan for escape will be that much closer to completion, and Nadia Black will have obtained the allegiance and assistance of a tribal warrior-queen with an army that knows the local terrain better than you could ever hope to, in addition to whatever it is that exists between her and the Aledari. The power will all be in her hands, and yet… is that a bad thing? More importantly, what can you do about it? To sabotage her efforts would be foolish, to attempt to out-talk her would be self-defeating, but… perhaps you could change the terms of this meeting instead. The Carrion clearly have some manner of martial honour, and if those scars are any indication Scarna has fought for her throne more than once. If you challenge her and win, then the Carrion would be yours to command instead of hers, the Queen your ally instead of Nadias. A tempting thought, a promise of something approaching safety and power, but… only if you win.
Either way, you will need to decide quickly.
Article: How will you proceed?
[ ] Let Nadia lead. Your pride is not so fragile as to overrule your good sense. Let your comrade win the allegiance of these Carrion, that you might focus on getting out of here without making more enemies than you need to.
[ ] Challenge the Queen. With your abilities and experience you are confident in your chances of victory, and having won the Carrion Throne you will be able to do more than mutely follow in another's wake.
- Location
- Leeds
Someone misses the old Eldar Empire I think.