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Pandorym

Magitech Construct
RPGnet Member
Validated User
Riordan. An agri-world located on the fringes of the Morpheus Sector, specialized in expansive and heavily-guarded vineyards that produce the entirety of the sector's finest spirits. It is here that you were transported from the forgotten icy depths of Telos by Aureus Mazar, a former loyalist Blood Angel now fallen to the grasp of Chaos. His small Mobius-class warpship, the Tetragrammaton, had landed for emergency repairs on the desolate planet, and your warband struck a deal with the vicious Chaos Marine for conveyance off the uninhabited wasteland.

Two weeks' worth of Warp travel later, and now you're here. Aureus told you with a barely-concealed curiosity to contact him again if you were ever interested in bargaining for his ship or services in battle. That deep well of intrigue rising within him likely stemmed from the book you now possess - a tome forever frozen, the pages silent with each turn, crafted from a material dark as the unforgiving void with ice-white writing that echoed an inescapable Truth into the darkest primordial depths of your mind.

Just rumors they said, completely impossible and unbelievable. There was no way such a thing existed; for there had always been four. The Ruinous Powers, ever constant, ever watching, ever plotting. Foolishness at best, death and torment at worst. But you took your ship and got your supplies, and went searching anyway. You did not anticipate the massive disruption within the Empyrean however, and you emerged violently from the Immaterium, crash-landing at your destination deep into a cave system far beneath the cold surface.

How you survived could only be explained as either a miracle or the intervention of the Gods, but it was all worth it. Because, after days upon days of searching for an exit from what was to potentially be your icy tomb... you found it.

The Tomb Immemorabilis. Resting upon a plinth carved from purest black ice, it opened at your presence. The words engraved deep into its pages spoke of a fifth Chaos God, one who came before. An entity who existed as the one true deity; before the C'tan, before the Old Ones, before the formation of the galaxy known today. Before the first thought disturbed the placid surface of the Warp with its ripples.

Azoth. Betrayed and imprisoned by its younger siblings, who quivered in terror at its limitless power and desire for complete stillness.

Above that tome and the secrets it revealed, you swore an oath. A Compact, bound by unbreakable sorcery, to see the Firstborn rise again. That the Forgotten would be remembered and known. That the Unspoken would have them as its heralds and messengers. To ascend the flesh and crass mortal existence to become Daemon Princes, the embodiments of Malice, of Vengeance, of Silence and Cold.

You would bring forth the Truth.

And both the Warp and worlds will quake with your actions.
 

EnigmaticOne

Registered User
Validated User
Evannar

It was a squat, ugly little place, compared to the grand architecture of his homeworld, but needs as needs must, Evannar acknowledged. Lorn was a ghost town, once a fishery and dock for local traffic on the Great Glimmering Lake - more of an in-land sea - but the waters there were now consumed with toxins and poisons that Nurgle might find wholesome.

The place was dismantled, as dull Imperial minds did - but the group had repurposed the area and the remaining workers for a base of operations.

"So it begins, my friends." He told the others, holding a bottle of the local product in an immaculately gloved hand. Somehow, the dirt and dust did not stain his clothing or stench linger. "To the turning of Riordan, and the rise of the Forgotten!"
 

Nate_MI

Formerly 'Raveled'
Validated User
Iskar looked strangely at ease in the ruin of ironmongery. It had been a long day since his armour had faced proper treatment of Legion serfs and it was chipped and scarred in places. The only piece that remained in pristine condition was the eight-pointed star on one shoulder; even the blue circle that now adorned his other side was scarred by a rent straight across it. There simply hadn't been time to repair it, yet. Now he stood with his helmet removed, head-spines exposed, staring out at the rusting hulk of the settlement.

"Seventy-eight," he observed, voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Seventy-eight scavengers, gangers, mutants, fugitives, outlaws, ferals, and those cursed with ill-luck." He raised a glass of something much stronger than liquor to his lips and sipped at it like it was the finest amasac. "It is a paltry foundation upon which to build the ultimate ruination of the galaxy. Still, the finest blade must be forged from iron taken from the dirty bowels of the earth. It is merely our job to turn them into something worthy of their purpose."
 
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Starcrash

Registered User
Validated User
Phoxis too is far from immaculate. Unidentifiable fluids stain their robes, and drip from metal-shod fingers. The aroma of rotten fish, effluent and machine oil clings to them. "The work begins," they agree, "And as we seem to have some time, I have begun a project previously discussed." A gesture towards a long low shed indicates the area Phoxis has appropriated as a workplace, once home to a mechanism for the cleaning and gutting of fish.

"And to your own parts?"
 

Six_claws

Registered User
Validated User
If Mikhail could feel kinship he might feel it for these forgotten machines, waiting for their own destruction. But he doesn't.

He understands the numbers Iskar speaks and sets himself the task of rounding up the remaining locals. Mikhail starts a slow but thorough patrol of the little town. Those who attempt any defense are brought to an end swiftly, and those who grovel for mercy will be brought to the esteemed presence of Iskar the Blighted.
 

Nate_MI

Formerly 'Raveled'
Validated User
Phoxis too is far from immaculate. Unidentifiable fluids stain their robes, and drip from metal-shod fingers. The aroma of rotten fish, effluent and machine oil clings to them. "The work begins," they agree, "And as we seem to have some time, I have begun a project previously discussed." A gesture towards a long low shed indicates the area Phoxis has appropriated as a workplace, once home to a mechanism for the cleaning and gutting of fish.

"And to your own parts?"
Iskar gently touched the broken symbol on his shoulder. "I long for the touch of an arming servant, it is true. Perhaps if some of the wretches awaiting me have willing bodies but impudent spirits, you can create some for me." He watched the Obliterator shoulder her way out of the room and rumble down the street. Most of the buildings were simply unable to contain his bulk, even with the Imperium's arch architectural styles. "The gods swell in realms eternal but time is a relentless foe the rest of us. I should attend to our new flock."
 

EnigmaticOne

Registered User
Validated User
Evannar

"I will take the time to set up wards around this town." Evannar added. "Obscurity is our main shield, but that is no excuse to not take precautions."

OOC: That would be a use of Tzeentchian Sorcery as a Psychic Power, or do I need to perform the meditation period first?
 
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Starcrash

Registered User
Validated User
"True." The heretek starts to head back to their workspace, just pausing to ask, "Did anybody caution Mikhail against starting fires?"

Back in the shed, the remains of the fish-handling machine had become the centre of a growing pile of parts, pipes and plating. While the welds and joins were neat, the overall shape was obscured by the heaps of scrap around it. At the centre lay a servitor, or at least part of one, strung up with fluid bags. It lay limp and legless, mouth working soundlessly. Phoxis adjusted a control on the servitor's head, and directed a short stream of binary at it. Nothing. Another adjustment, another interrogative, then, "Yes."

The heretek's scarred face parted in a smile, then a commotion at the door caught their attention. A handful of sullen-looking workers entered, chained up and guarded by members of Iskar's flock. The smile widened.
 

Nate_MI

Formerly 'Raveled'
Validated User
Iskar descended deeper into the rusted metal hell of the building, rust and grime and corruption surrounding him on every side. Nestled in here and there, muttering their own prayers and rites, were the many wretches of the Apostle's own flock. "Claude!" His voice rumbled and reverberated through the ruined building. "Ivy! Lukus!" Three figures appeared out the darkness, ducking the heads in Iskar's presence. All three were young, and lovely to look upon, and their eyes burned with the fervor of their devotion. One of Lukus's eyes sat in the middle of a tattooed Star but Claude and Ivy could walk unnoticed among the great horde of the Imperium and Iskar addressed them first. "Go north and south. Find the other towns. Be attended by some small number. Take stock of them and their sins and their guards and report back to me." Then he turned to Lukus. "Gather cauldrons or a smelter cup and attend me."

OOC: So that's two missions for my flock. I guess it's Education or Tithe-gathering?
Flock: 2d6+3 10


Orders given, the Apostle walked into the holding area set aside for the unfortunates that had been rounded up in the wreckage of Lorn. This was nothing more than the largest drydock still intact in the city. The skeletal bulk of a stripped fishing vessel loomed above, already picked over again and again by successive waves of scavengers; on one side was the stinking green-gray waste of the polluted lake; all around the perimeter was a curving wall of rusting metal. Underfoot was simply the cracked mud and poisoned earth that had been soaking in the waste of the lake for generations. Standing inside this foul arena was nearly four-score souls, mutants and criminals and out-casts and poor creatures neglected by the vast, indifferent engines of the Imperium. All around the top of the space, and scattered haphazardly through the skeleton of the dead ship hanging above them, were the prized souls of Iskar's own flock. They were here to see a performance and he intended to deliver.

The heavy tread of the Astartes's power armour cracked the surface of the ground and sent grey muck oozing up from the wounded earth. He had donned his helmet again and when he spoke his amplified voice filled the space and rang out across the water. "The time of revelation is upon us! Rejoice, those who are cast out from the Light of Terra. The lies that pour from the Throne like the effluence of a hive city have drowned you in misery; now come to me and I will speak Truth to your ears and lift you up to glory."

OOC: I don't know the specific roll for this but I feel like it's Seduce or Manipulate. I'm offering them food and security if they agree to worship.
+Charm: 2d6+3 11
 

EnigmaticOne

Registered User
Validated User
Evannar

As these protections properly should be done, Evannar placed the ward clusters at nine points. Eight around the town, corresponding the the Eightfold Star of Chaos itself, and one at a central point, the ninth to invoke and symbolize Tzeentch's supremacy over sorcery. The Architect of Fate was the Magister's long-time patron after all, and Lord Tzeentch's connection to the Art was irrefutable and could not be denied.

Evannar the Archivist-Savant of Tarnor saw no hypocrisy or contradiction in this and the group's grand plans to free the Firstborn. He still honored the Changer of Ways, it was just that the Great Schemer's ranking in the pantheon was to be downgraded. And furthermore, Chaos was connected to all living things, and all the psychic energies and plots of his own were a tribute to Tzeentch, fitting its part within the grand design even as the outcome might militate against it. Such complexities were natural and fitting. As ever, the close-minded, lesser dullards of the supposedly glorious Imperium, who relied on a simple and absolute blind view of the universe could not accept this. Even those who mired themselves in Nurgle's community had more mental flexibility.

So Evannar drew runes, made invocations and breathed in and out the warp as he created the wards. Wards - not so much to make Lorn vanished, that would be too obvious - but to occlude their activities, make this town seem as abandoned, lifeless and beneath notice as possible - and wards to alert their coven if true enemies penetrated anyway.

OOC: +Warp: 2d6+3 13
 
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