Raveled

Hail Tzeentch!
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This used to be a packing house. Generations ago when Lorn churned with industry in glory to the Corpse-Emperor, the catch of the day was brought to this building, unloaded in stretched-out hoppers that spanned the length of the structure, and slaughtered in a vast assembly line process. The floor of the building had once featured iron rails that all these carts had ridden upon; they had long since been removed by scavengers, but the lines of the carts and the circular areas where they had pivoted to new tracks left many circles and interconnecting lines on the floor. As Phoxis had reinnervated the refrigeration machinery Iskar had chosen ten of these circles and ten interconnecting lines as significant and set a part of his flock to clearing them of debris and dirt.

The work was still on-going when the compact assembled in the room. Iskar dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Some devotees were allowed to remain at the edge of the space. Several stood alone or in small groups within the circles worn onto the ground, whispering their private grievances and keeping their flame of revenge alive. The Apostle watched all this as he waited for the rest of the heretics to arrive.
 

Starcrash

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Phoxis arrives promptly as summoned. While the town has given up some interesting secrets, lack of materials have begun to stymie their work. Attempting to do anything with the warp core using the scant supplies of a decrepit fishing town was sheer folly. It was not a reverence born of the superstitions of the Adeptus Mechanicus that stayed their hand, merely the cold calculation of likely outcomes.

They listened to the hum of the chillers as they waited for the others to arrive, idly wondering if in their tireless labour there might be some whisper of the First, but impatience caused them to speak.

"Additional resources are required. The work cannot progress from this place."
 

EnigmaticOne

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Evannar

Evannar arrived with Maven Black-Briar in tow and a brief bow to the others. "Thank you for coming. Maven, if you would please tell Phoxis and Iskar what you told me?" Mikhail was more a blunt weapon for the trio rather than a decision-maker, who thankfully understood and complied.
 

Pandorym

Magitech Construct
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Maven relates the same story she explained to Evannar to the others gathered in the temple. As she speaks, the refrigeration hums and whines with her words, the temperature plummeting quickly enough to cause breaths of icy mist to plume from those capable of such things still. Her shadow twists and extends in the dim light, revealing a hideous daemonic shape that smiles wickedly for a moment before disappearing abruptly.
 

Raveled

Hail Tzeentch!
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Iskar listened carefully to Maven's testimony. "The gods delivered you from those who would do you harm just for your birth," he observed. "The blinkered Imperium fears your power, Maven, but understand -- it is a great blessing from those who rule in the Realm of Souls and seek to rule in the Material. If you stay with us -- if you choose to develop your gifts in the service of the Bound One and walk unafraid into His future -- then we shall never abandon you. We do not fear the power that you wield. We accept it as the great gift it is." He turned and addressed the other members of the compact, pitching his voice low so the other supplicants around the room wouldn't catch their conversation. "I have sent my flock to the north and the south in search of new opportunities for the Firstborn. To the north is the great manufactory and hive city. Its underclasses yearn for true freedom that only worship of the Empyrean can bring."

He paused and added, "I don't think we should do it. We are too small to overpower an entire city and if we did so, we would soon have to face the wrath of the larger Imperium. Instead I believe we should focus our efforts south, on the town of Seri. It is where Maven has faced her trails, and it is in the grip of a gathering of the Pox-Father. Brethren, we know the proper shape of the cosmos. The Four are not meant to rule equally -- they are naturally in subservience to the One." Iskar reached into a holster on his power armor and withdrew a leather-bound tome. "The One binds the Four -- here we have a chance to prove that in action! We should go south, and take Seri, and subordinate the cult there to our greater truths."
 

Six_claws

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Mikhail

Mikhail stood still, like an oversized statue, but one constantly shifting just under the surface as the techno-virus infesting him constantly sought new ways to kill. He listened to the others chatter in their tiny voices. He listened to the witch with her subtly doubled voice. He listened to the cultists muttering among themselves, and to the sound of the refrigeration units. He flexed the massive fingers of one hand, remembering the drug-addled scum in the obscura den, and how their flesh had torn like paper in his grasp. So weak.

He let forth a brief harsh crackle of binary, somehow conveying his impatience even before his new translator stirred to life. When it spoke it was in a deep, rumbling bass but distorted as if relayed through a poorly-tuned vox and the metal teeth clashed like miniature blades.

"When do we attack?"
 

Pandorym

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"We shall remain with you. For a time," Maven acquiesces, "we were sent to find you, after all, and such a revelation cannot go unheeded. Our self -- inner and outer -- is curious to see what shall become of this. To this end, our great psychic abilities are at your disposal, albeit they are untrained and thus uncontrolled. We possess a natural affinity for biomancy and necromancy -- the malignant Pox-Father's minions' diseases and contagions are but child's play compared to our depth of talent in dealing with the dead and their ilk." Maven's eyes shine brightly for a moment, and in brief glimpses from the wet metal sheen of the refrigeration units you can see the eight-pointed star surrounded by a circle shimmering on her milky white eye.

"We will tell you what we know of Seri. It is a small town situated in a very lush valley untouched by the pollutants from the hive and its processing plants. There is but one way in -- a singular path located on a smooth stone dip next to a river filled with rapids. It is cut off from the rest of Riordan, isolated, visited only infrequently by a singular Imperial transport there to collect their tithes of honey and spices." She draws a crude map along the floor with her index finger, a shadowy presence overlaying it and causing her digit to leave a trail of frost wherever it moves.

"The Lord of Decay's cult has already begun their insidious plot to take over and then taint the supplies heading out across the planet and to worlds beyond, intending to sicken and convert those who will fall into despair and acceptance, or spontaneously raise walking corpses from those who succumb. Their leader is a jolly, fat man named Ivar, who keeps a harem of infected women to not only tend to his every need but to work seducing and inadvertently corrupting any who prove too strong of will or constitution to be corrupted. We too have felt their vile touches -- they are skilled indeed. If you wish our help, you will assist me in obtaining a malicious and spiteful vengeance on that fat man."
 
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Starcrash

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Phoxis bared their horrid smile as Mikhail's demand was communicated through the butchered servitor. There had been a minor concern regarding compatibility of dialects, and they judged it wisest to wait until the Obliterator was surrounded by the compact - just in case. "Soon, Mikhail, soon," they soothed the warrior, then turned back to the others.

"Honey and spices?" Phoxis mocked. "Indulgences of the body. Little wonder they fall such easy prey to rot. We shall teach them a better way." They shrug, the utility arm attached to the back imitating the gesture. "Or they die." Phoxis crouched to study Maven's map, already beginning to calculate transportation capabilities for their followers and gear. Thoughts of using the warp core to open a portal bubbled up and Phoxis shoved them aside angrily. Without proper and extensive preparation it would be worse than suicidal to use here.

They looked up at Iskar, the Heretic Astartes. As leader of their flock, as he called them, his voice would be key. "How soon can we be ready to move?"
 

Raveled

Hail Tzeentch!
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"They move on command, of course," Iskar rumbled. "They can march on Seri in moments at my w-- at the command of the Firstborn," the Astartes said, correcting himself and smoothing over his hubris. "We should leave some number back at Lorn, though. We'll put the new converts at the front; let them prove themselves in blood and death." The compact seemed to be in agreement but he turned to Evannar, eager to hear the magistar's opinion.
 

EnigmaticOne

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Evannar

"I admit a direct assault is not to my usual preferences," Evannar pointed out, "but I suppose since this is as much revenge for Maven, it would be appropriate." And in truth it would be something new and different, open battles being effectively forbidden on Q'Sal.
 
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