Starcrash

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Phoxis' chiming strikes a sour note at hearing the news of the witch approaching, and irrationally they hunch protectively over the precious device. Swiftly closing up the container, they collect up some long spars of scrap metal to make a sled and begin dragging it back to the longhouse.
 
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EnigmaticOne

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Evannar

Evannar stepped out in front of her, marveling at what he saw. Indeed, an excellent recruit - if her burning twisted nature did not drive her out to strike first without question. "Greetings. Be not afraid, you are among friends here. I am Evannar, whom do I address?"
 

Pandorym

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Evannar

Evannar stepped out in front of her, marveling at what he saw. Indeed, an excellent recruit - if her burning twisted nature did not drive her out to strike first without question. "Greetings. Be not afraid, you are among friends here. I am Evannar, whom do I address?"
Her slow and unsteady pace starts to falter, then ceases completely only a few meters away from you. She sways in place as though she'll fall over any second, and she well may from how horribly thin she appears to be.

Her gaze is unfocused, perhaps staring into a realm barely noticed or understood by common mortals. "Nn. Maven. She who is what I am what I will be." The plasma gun raises with impeccable speed and accuracy at you for a moment, then returns to its barely held position as her arm goes limp, lacking strength.
 

Six_claws

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Mikhail

Mikhail does little more than acknowledge his understanding of the chatter in his head, aware that his presence making contact with the witch girl would do little more than complicate the situation. The gifted tended to need a more subtle hand than either of his could ever be. He remains tuned in, ready to be there if his more violent approach is suddenly required.

He sifts through the wreckage he had caused in the seedy drug den, picking up anything of interest and avoiding the main body of the eye watering fires. When the room becomes too filled with acrid smoke and flame to gain anything, Mikhail turns to leave, realising the doorway is now completely engulfed. To his left, an external wall, exposed brickwork, seems a clearer path. He lumbers towards it, the flames licking at his exposed metal flesh as he tries to brace himself. He hits the wall dead on, putting all his strength into breaking through, caring little if it brings the whole building down behind him as long as he gets out.
 

Pandorym

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Phoxis' chiming strikes a sour note at hearing the news of the witch approaching, and irrationally they hunch protectively over the precious device. Swiftly closing up the container, they collect up some long spars of scrap metal to make a sled and begin dragging it back to the longhouse.
Returning to the longhouse, as you set the crate aside in a defensible area and surround it with your prototype servitors as a last ditch measure just in case; you see a faint glow of shifting hues, prominently among the pink and green spectrum, leak from the seams of the container.

Opening it, you find that the central core itself - a sphere three times the size of a man's skull - is reacting to something, the swirling energies of the Immaterium attempting to coalesce within it.

Mikhail

Mikhail does little more than acknowledge his understanding of the chatter in his head, aware that his presence making contact with the witch girl would do little more than complicate the situation. The gifted tended to need a more subtle hand than either of his could ever be. He remains tuned in, ready to be there if his more violent approach is suddenly required.

He sifts through the wreckage he had caused in the seedy drug den, picking up anything of interest and avoiding the main body of the eye watering fires. When the room becomes too filled with acrid smoke and flame to gain anything, Mikhail turns to leave, realising the doorway is now completely engulfed. To his left, an external wall, exposed brickwork, seems a clearer path. He lumbers towards it, the flames licking at his exposed metal flesh as he tries to brace himself. He hits the wall dead on, putting all his strength into breaking through, caring little if it brings the whole building down behind him as long as he gets out.
Alas you find little of note beyond various obscura related paraphernalia, none of which interests you as your overly metallic body wouldn't respond to such drugs anyway. However, exiting an establishment engulfed in phosphex is absolutely no easy task, as the horrid flames are attracted to movement. You have little time and less chance to escape before suffering damage.

OOC: Mikhail, roll to Defy Danger.
 

Six_claws

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Mikhail

The wall offers little resistance as Mikhail slams his body into the brickwork. Flames surge toward the sudden movement, singeing the tattered fabric around his body, but he's through, brick dust flying as he makes it out it to the night.

He turns to watch, impassive, as the building folds in on itself, consumed in flames. The area in which he had stood only moments before now resembling a gateway to the first depths. He watches a minute longer before heading back to the temple.

OOC: Defy Danger 2d6+2: 10
 

EnigmaticOne

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Evannar

*Possessed too, it would seem.* Evannar noted to Iskar before gesturing in welcome to Maven. "Welcome then, Maven. You need food, drink and rest. Those who hunt the gifted will not find you here."
 

Raveled

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Iskar took a chance and stepped out from the darkness. His pistol and crosius rested in their holsters; the tusks of his helmet shone in the dirty light for a moment before he disengaged the seals on his helmet and revealed himself. The Astarted stepped up next to Evannar and knelt, bringing himself on a level with the magistar and the witch. "Welcome to Lorn, Maven. I am Iskar. I have known many of my brothers who bore burdens such as yours. Come, and I will do what I can do ease your burden. You do not have to fear us here," he added, extending a gauntleted hand. "We do not turn our faces from you for the blessing of your mind."
 

Pandorym

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Evannar

*Possessed too, it would seem.* Evannar noted to Iskar before gesturing in welcome to Maven. "Welcome then, Maven. You need food, drink and rest. Those who hunt the gifted will not find you here."
The psychic maelstrom surrounding the Possessed psyker slowly compresses until it disappears, as if acknowledging your offer and reducing their threat level as a result.

Iskar took a chance and stepped out from the darkness. His pistol and crosius rested in their holsters; the tusks of his helmet shone in the dirty light for a moment before he disengaged the seals on his helmet and revealed himself. The Astarted stepped up next to Evannar and knelt, bringing himself on a level with the magistar and the witch. "Welcome to Lorn, Maven. I am Iskar. I have known many of my brothers who bore burdens such as yours. Come, and I will do what I can do ease your burden. You do not have to fear us here," he added, extending a gauntleted hand. "We do not turn our faces from you for the blessing of your mind."
Maven stumbles past you, dropping something into your extended hand: a tiny glass jar of honey engraved with a triangular symbol of three eyes. Then she moves on, heading deeper into Lorn and the safehouse contained within. She still sways and rocks as if disoriented and unwell however. Upon returning to the ghost town proper, she promptly falls upon a makeshift bed and loses consciousness.

The central core is glowing brightly to Phoxis now, filling the room with light even when the crate is closed. The hues have shifted to an icy white surrounded by a corona of black, though the entire thing is still marred by putrescent streaks of green. As the heretek continues to warily gaze at it, Mikhail comes stomping in, stinking of ash and obscura with the singed remnants of burnt clothing around him.
 

Starcrash

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Phoxis stares at the box, resealed but still glowing, their mechadendrite claw slowly opening and snapping shut. As Mikhail's mechanical growling shifted towards impatience Phoxis turned, mouth split in an approximation of an obsequious smile. "You return. Good. I have a gift for you."

Phoxis pulled a tarpaulin from a workbench, uncovering a decrepit servitor. It lacked legs, arms and most of its torso. A metal facemask embossed with the sigil of the First covered its eyes and nasal cavity, leaving only the mouth exposed, and the teeth had been replaced with hand-worked replicas in bright silver. Phoxis lifted the thing, demonstrating that it had been rigged with a number of straps, and approached Mikhail. "Now, this one needs to go -"

The heretek suddenly found themselves viewing the barrel of a phosphex cannon at a far closer range than was comfortable. Compact or no, they were quite aware of Mikhail's tendancies. "This is what we agreed, Mikhail. It's what you wanted. May I proceed?"

The cannon slowly lowered, Mikhail looking away as if bored of the exchange and simply wishing it to be done with. Phoxis heaved the workbench closer and clambered atop it to reach around the Obliterator's massive torso. After a few minutes of work the servitor was secured to Mikhail's back, peering blindly over his shoulder like a rakish pirate's pet avian.

"Done. Now, shall we test your new voice?"
 
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