"On my homeworld, there is a parable that they tell over-eager students," you murmur thoughtfully, studying the tight-knit team of Inquisitorial operatives from your perch on high, "about a sword that can cut any foe, but for every blow struck takes a tithe in blood and flesh from the wielder. The intended moral changes with the telling, but I always considered it a warning."
"We have similar tales, though in ours the blade is a gift from Vaul meant to teach as well as aid," Sidhe replies, an edge of amused approval in her voice as she charts your plan through implication, "Typically, the hero is meant to prove his wit and cunning by cheating the forge-god of his due."
"Shall we see, then?" You smile, drawing your blade and flexing your wings, "How do these hunters measure up to the Aeldari heroes of legend?"
You lean forwards and take wing, the cold air of the gun decks rustling silently beneath your feathers as you glide across the chamber in solemn silence. The great dust-owls of the Malfian wastes are said to hunt in this fashion, giving no sign of their approach until the final deadly blow, but you cannot quite match those fearsome hunters for grace. Instead you lash out with your blade as you pass another gantry, wire and frame parting beneath the razor edge like so much paper, and with a clattering roar the whole assembly comes crashing down to the ground.
You can hear cursing and shouts of alarm from the intruders, almost drowned out by the crushing rumble of the falling gantry and walkway… and then, beyond it, a dry and ragged howl that rises first from one throat and then a legion. The sound touches something deep within you, a primal fear of the monsters of the night, and you almost stumble and slam into the ground before correcting your path at the last moment. Shaking your head, you beat your wings and swoop along the ground.
Considering their age and corroded state, the murder-servitors of the Inquisition remain surprisingly, horrifyingly agile. You almost don't spot the first as it leaps at you from an elevated pile of wreckage, dodging only at the last second, and a few moments later there are over a dozen loping in your wake with blade-limbs gleaming and corpse-dry mouths screaming. Some stay landbound, others pursue you with great bounding leaps, and a handful sprout pitted claws on their lower limbs and race along walls and ceiling in pursuit of your flitting, taunting form. You gather as many as you dare, accepting a handful of near-misses as the price to keep their interest, then turn and lead them straight towards your real prey.
The Inquisition's fireteam knows their trade, and by the time you reach them they've already pulled together an improvised bastion, taking cover behind scraps of metal and twisted wreckage and covering every angle of approach with as much firepower as they can spare. It's a good idea, betrayed only by a mistake in judgement - you see the horror in their body language as they realise your intent, and though one or two snatch shots in your direction the effort is perfunctory, swiftly replaced by a desperate attempt to cull the horde before it can arrive. You sweep over their heads and then rise into the air, beating your wings to hover as you observe your work.
There is a moment, a single fraught and unnerving instant, when it looks like your scheme might come to naught. The tech-adept stands out of cover and raises its hands to the heavens, singing a hymn in binary that sees the murder-servitors stumble and veer aside… and then there is a faint hiss, a sharp crack, and the priest's head snaps back and it falls. The defence collapses in that instant, an instinctive fear of snipers taking attention away from the oncoming swarm that cannot be pinned or subdued by mere covering fire, and before a correction can be made the murder-servitors are upon them.
"Good shot," you say to Sidhe, as you alight upon your chosen walkway and slide your sword back into place at your side.
"A child could have made it," the Aeldari says with a dismissive sniff, before glancing down at the carnage you have left behind, "Should we not be certain?"
"Amateurs linger at the sight of their crime," you shake your head, already moving along the walkway towards the far side of the gun deck, "Let us depart, before the servitors tire of their sport and go looking for fresh prey."
You leave, and do not look back, no matter how shrill the screams or how terrible the wet rending of meat.
-/-
To your relief, finding the others is almost childishly easy. The Carrion are on the move, and where they go they are preceded by the dull boom of war drums and the harsh clatter of weapons rapped against the wall and floor. They sing as they move, chanting hymns of war and glory vaguely reminiscent of the shanties you've heard off-duty sailors roar, and at their heart is Queen Scarna in a litter carried by the brawniest of her soldiers. The guards raise their weapons when you descend to land before them, hissing in alarm at your strange appearance and sudden arrival, but before they can do something unwise Ciro steps forward, the crowd parting around him like water.
"Vincenzo, there you are!" He proclaims with a broad smile, looking you up and down with unabashed interest, "We were beginning to grow worried."
"Crane sent soldiers to the gun decks, in hopes of taking control of the servitors there," you say, suddenly aware that you probably should have provided your messenger with a few more details, "Sidhe and I took care of it."
"An excellent display of initiative," Ciro nods, and for a moment you feel like you're a teenger again, preening before the compliments of a superior in the courts. You cough, brushing the feeling aside, and note that Sidhe has apparently slipped back into the assembled group without so much as a word. "The rest of us shall need to strive to match your contribution, it seems."
"Where are we headed?" You ask, falling in with the group and noting how conspicuously everyone is saying nothing about your marble-hard flesh and feathered wings. It feels… not nice, as such, or even validating, just strangely noticeable in a way you don't have the proper words to express.
"To the place where the prisoner uprising was most focused - the central armoury, and the bridge access beyond," Nadia interjects before anyone else can reply, and you note that while the rest of you are walking, she has managed to get herself a place on the Queen's litter. You'd be jealous, but frankly you always preferred moving under your own power. It makes it easier to dodge the assassins. "They call it the Bloody Path."
Well, you'd have to be a far colder man to not feel even a twinge of curiosity at something so theatrical as that, and as fate would have it bare minutes later your interest is rewarded. Where the rest of the ship is comprised of twisting corridors and half-collapsed caverns, the Path is a single straight line that runs from the last of the habitation decks all the way up to the bridge access lift, a clear gauntlet absent even the faintest shred of cover that must be run to reach the most critical parts of the ship. Two hundred years ago, a host of thousands tried to do just that.
Tried.
You've seen the aftermath of hive riots before, but even those manmade disasters pale in comparison to the legacy of the Bloody Path. From one end to the other the corridor is carpeted in corpses, thousands upon thousands of bodies from prisoners and guards alike lying broken in ragged heaps and tottering mountains of void-brittle flesh. You can see the tidal forces that ended their lives writ across the carnage, lines of advance and retreat demarcated by thick clumps of the dead, and soon you are left with no choice but to walk across the bodies of the slain to make even the slightest progress. Some are withered mummies dried long ago by the void, others as fat and wet as though cut down mere moments ago, and everywhere there is the stink of death and the sweet after scent of corruption and rot.
"It is said, in tongue and script, that the dawn war was stillborn," Queen Scarna rasps, rising from her litter to walk across the bodies with the rest of you, her Carrion following in her wake with fearful, reverent silence, "None could cross the Bloody Path, so peace was offered and considered. Then came the Doom, with poisoned words and lying eyes."
She jabs at one of the corpses with her spear, the body giving a faint choking gasp at the motion that has your hand fly to the hilt of your sword. "The Doom gathered the people and led them here, hope in hand and lies on tongue. It spent their lives like air, froze the bodies in memory, spent the world as coin for promise of victory… and failed."
You've reached the end of that ancient battle now, the highwater mark of death beyond which the surging prisoners never reached. Their blasted and broken bodies lie in heaps just beyond a heavy blast door, scored and pitted and sealed by a single codepad that glows faintly in the failing light of distant lumens. Bore hums for a moment at the sight, then steps forwards and punches a series of numbers into the pad, to be rewarded a moment later by the faint hiss of hydraulics slowly dragging themselves back to life.
"Fine work, Magos," Ciro says, a touch cautiously, "Did you manage to obtain some manner of override code?"
"That… was not me," says Hephastus Bore, staring at his own hand in confusion and intrigue, "I simply… knew the code."
You draw your weapon at that, and nor are you alone, but though Ciro is ready to blast the foe apart and the Carrion present a thicket of spears, there is no immediate threat to be seen. The blast door hisses and then rumbles aside, revealing what you can only assume to have once been a well-stocked armoury, the kind of thing the Inquisition might keep to hand for uprising just like this one. Now the place is a mess, with racks overturned and weapons discarded in piles across the floor, expended shell-casings shining in the light and the dark smudge of old blast marks on the otherwise pristine walls, and though you step cautiously inside you see nothing of real note.
There are bodies here too, of course, corpses left by guard and prisoner alike united in the solemn embrace of death, many of them torn apart by some ancient and feral claw or burned to cinder like a wasted candle. You can't really read the pattern of battle here, why the prisoners would have made it so far as the armoury and no further, but…
"Stop!" Nadia snaps, and beneath the hard command of her tone is a note of deepest, ice-cold fear. "There, on the floor - those are binding runes!"
You look where she is pointing, confused and curious, and… yes, you can see it now. Here and there on the floor of the armoury are scattered faint symbols and arcane marks, each carefully scratched into the metal with the aid of what you can only imagine must have been a powered blade or industrial tool. Some are glowing faintly, you see now that you look, but there seems to be no real pattern to their arrangement save for the single fire-blackened corpse at their centre. Was it some manner of trap, an explosion or hidden inferno? Or was it…
The corpse opens its eyes.
"Hello, my friends," it says in a rasping voice, charred lips pulling back from fire-blackened teeth in a rictus grin, "I am Karnak Zul."
That voice. You know that voice. The air has gone cold, your skin is frozen, your heart is pounding in your ears and all you can think is that you know that voice. The voice that whispered in your head, that sent you to the gun decks.
"...you are a daemon," says Sidhe, somewhere behind you, and the loathing in her voice is as sharp and bitter as a poisoned blade, "This 'Doom' that the broken ones spoke of."
"Just so," Karnak Zul replies, stale yellow eyes coming to rest on the Aeldari. It is still smiling, a horrible rictus grin from a broken corpse, and small spots of blood are welling up at the corners of its stolen mouth. "I am also the architect of your salvation, the reason that cold slumber did not steal life from your bones."
You can taste copper on your tongue, and desperately you try to focus your mind, clamping down on the wild speculation running rampant through your thoughts. Focus, you need to focus, you can't afford distraction at a time like this, in front of a thing like this.
"You are claiming to be the one who derailed the termination protocols," Bore says, and unlike the alien he appears calm, almost detached as he peers at the daemon with his corpse-like eyes. Of course he's calm, you suppose he must have encountered creatures like this before, but… daemons aren't supposed to be able to linger in the material realm, you know that much, how is this Zul still here after two hundred years? "You possess dominion over the machine spirits of this ship, then?"
"No more than any soul has over its neighbour," Zul replies, the blackened and withered limbs slowly straightening out now, lifting him up in defiance of all leverage and strength, "We've spent two hundred years together by now. Enough time, I think, for even the staunchest of foes to come to certain accommodations."
"You called yourself architect of our salvation," Ciro says, and you take some comfort in the fact that his boltgun is trained unwaveringly on the daemon's skull, that there is none of the violent trembling wracking his frame as it does yours. You take inspiration from that, breathing in and out in slow and careful motions, getting your instincts back under control. "You would not have done such a thing without motive, nor would you have trusted to mere gratitude to secure repayment."
"Most perceptive, Legionnaire," the daemon chuckles, a horrible rasping sound like nails through rust. It is still rising, its feet leaving the floor behind to hang weightless in midair, and you can see the withered stick-like limbs are each crowned with manacles of tarnished silver, the chains clattering softly against the deck. "I desire to be freed, for which I require your assistance. You desire to escape, for which you need mine. This ship lacks an astropath or navigator…"
"Because you killed them?" Ciro asks, in a tone of deadly quiet, his aim unwavering, "There are few other reasons we might still be drifting after so long."
"Details, details," Zul chuckles again, the exact same sound as before, a recording on repeat, "The Interrogator sent a light-speed distress call, and went into stasis with his acolytes to await rescue. It will not be long now before one arrives. If you wish to be elsewhere when it does, then you will need guidance through the other realm, guidance that I can provide."
"Be careful," Nadia says in a terse voice, torn between staring at Karnak Zul and the runes etched on the ground around it, several of which are glowing fire-bright by now, "It will have been made with bindings to guarantee loyalty to the Inquisition."
What? Why would it…
"Hardly a current concern," Zul says with that same horrible smile, and you realise in that moment it doesn't know any better, it's trying to be friendly but doesn't know how, "Master Tahr thought himself clever, and in his pride grew complacent. I squirmed free of those chains some time ago."
Tahr.
Inquisitor Tahr. The Inquisitor created this thing? But that would… all the time he was tormenting you, all his proud words about innocence and sin, at that very moment…
"That's my point," Nadia replies, smiling grimly, "You were bound, daemon, and yet you managed to wriggle free… and your first act upon attaining even this slight degree of liberation was to butcher thousands and set us drifting through the void in a broken husk. What kind of bargain could possibly be made on such unsteady grounds?"
"You would me, my friend. Can the deeds of two centuries ago be taken as iron writ today?" the daemon replies, the rictus grin slowly starting to fade from the face of the corpse it is bound to, before gesturing at you with slender, taloned hands, "I have demonstrated my good will already, by guiding your compatriot to a possible threat. Trust in our mutual interests, at least."
Everyone present turns to look at you, with expressions that range between the expectant and the curious, and you… and you…
It appears that Inquisitor Tahr, the man who judged and condemned you, is also the man responsible for binding the daemon Karnak Zul into a prison of mortal flesh. When the shock wears off and your thoughts make sense, what is your emotional reaction to this news?
[ ] Anger. He dared, he dared to sneer and judge and condemn you? Your crimes were born of ignorance and fear, but compared to this monstrosity they are nothing! Anger at Tahr's hypocrisy, and hatred for the system which judges him superior to you, will guide you going forward.
[ ] Confusion. You simply… don't understand. The righteousness of the Inquisition, the blasphemy of demonology, so many other precepts of your life and belief are in conflict. You cannot reconcile them, and that means one or more must be wrong. Soul searching will wait for now, but you need to make this make sense, somehow. It has to make sense.
[ ] Relief. You're not damned, no matter what others might have said, no matter what you might have thought. If binding a daemon is not grounds for damnation, then sheltering with a dark cult in ignorance cannot be either. You are not a wicked man, and so you do not need to embrace death or damnation outright, not yet.
[ ] Write-in
More immediately, your companions are looking to you for your reaction and response to the daemonhost Karnak Zul. Your voice is not the only one that matters, going forwards, but you have a chance to make your opinion known before any decision is taken.
[ ] Common Interest. Trusting a daemon is madness, but you can believe it wants to be free as much as you, and will not sabotage its own chances of success. Watch it carefully, and part ways as soon as your mutual desires are fulfilled.
[ ] Direct Control. Between Nadia and Bore, surely there must be some way to control the daemon, to make certain of its actions and loyalties? You cannot allow it true freedom, but it did not lie when it said you needed it, so use it as one would a dangerous tool and be done.
[ ] Safety First. Kill it, kill it now. Working with a daemon is madness, as is taking its presentation of the path ahead on trust. Destroy the creature, and between the lot of you, find some other way to escape from the Imperium's retribution.
[ ] Write in
(NOTE - Each of your companions has their own opinion. If you think they might not agree with yours, sub-votes presenting any arguments or reasoning you wish to employ would be a good idea. In particular, arguments to persuade Ciro might be wise - this isn't a democracy, after all, and he could fairly easily overrule the lot of you and crush any dissent. Possibly literally. )
