Sons of Suffering (IC/Open)

[Yunlaria]

The Sons of Suffering

OOC: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=367913

The life of an individual human is measly and insignificant. One of quadrillions of sorrowed souls, the vast majority live a life on unending despair and poverty. The God-Emperor, in his dream of an enlightened and united humanity, now sits as a living corpse, unable to weep for the horror he created. Instead of a humanity capable of collectively saving each other; they now exist as amass horde of ignorant savages, clinging to the notions of faith as the one and only savior. For no matter the pain, no matter the hardship, the will and emotion of mankind is all that can save them from the noose.

Within Skarth, in the Hive City of Aslog, plumes of toxic chemicals spew into the atmosphere. At the origin of these plumes, little better than slaves, work untold millions of laborers. There lives short and forgetful, most will be condemned to a life of ignominy, little more than a statistic a local lord concerns himself with for but a moment. For it is the xeno, the mutant, and the heretic that preoccupy the Imperium; the Emperor's dream now lay long forgotten, and the benefits of slavery tip the scale of utilitarian concern. The Imperium, despite the propoganda, exists as a testament, perhaps more than Chaos, to the cold truth of the galaxy; humans live, suffer, and die. For every hero, for every genius and famed warrior, millions die alone and forgotten, their deeds known only to them, and lost with them as well.

Within these self-sacrificing hordes, the seeds of doubt, hate, and jealousy are planted. Tzeentch, king of mutants and architect of fate, offers his followers advancement of their station, and respite for the long-pressed mutants, whom suffer the penalties of the Imperium without the false hope of salvation. Nurgle, the God of decay, carries with him the one immutable truth; that these poor souls will never leave their homes, and that only through acceptance shall they glean happiness and meaning from their pitiful existence. Slaanesh, the Dark Prince of excess, offers escape through sensation and pleasure, proving effective in allowing the ignorance of real life suffering. Khornate followers strike against the injustice and inequality of the world; they reject its premise, and seek to damage and destroy the world they were saddled with, glorifying this pure process of destruction, the destruction of an unjust, despotic regime, and unjust, despotic reality.

Despite these agents of change, some still cling to the hopes and dreams the God-Emperor gave his children. No matter the pointlessness, no matter the darkness, these loyalists fight for their common man; they fight for the dream, be it real or imaginary, of a united and prosperous humanity, of the future long lost, and for the God-Emperor who still watches over them with pride, constantly fighting to save his children. It is these men and women that keep the Imperium running, that keep it from dying the death long forseen by the followers of Chaos.

Within the Hive, the residents stir. Production quotas were up. The 23rd Remembrance Day of the God-Emperor was no longer a work-free holiday. Discontent was rising, and with the news of the 13th Black Crusade being spread by merchants and Imperial Guardsmen on their way to combat it, many were fearful of what may happen should the warriors of Chaos break free from the Eye. News of cults in the Underhive and armies of mutants spread throughout the Hive; and members of the PDF were sent to investigate,a and report back to the Inquisition.

Now, a a regiment of PDF and government enforcers were pushing through the Underhive, slowly, exterminating mutants too weak to flee. This ancient and forgotten district held many secrets, and even more treasures. Those brave enough to explore, and tough enough to survive, could gain much.

Meanwhile, the Black Ships and missed their mark. The Black Crusade had called forth all available armies and ships, leaving fewer and fewer with the option of tithing. Psykers, possessing a latent connection to the Warp, began feeling strange, as the barrier between the Materium and Chaos slowly faded. Daemons and spirits began prodding at the weaker of minds, offering promises and guarantees, or sometimes outright possessing. The Hive was on the brink, as was all of Skarth, and those with psychic ability had much to both win and lose.

[Crysuko]

It seemed to be a day like any other for Markus, as he sat alone in his cubicle, a monstrous stack of paperwork in front of him. It would be up to him to validate, sign, sort and so on all of it to ensure it ended up in the right place. He was less than happy with his job, but when he got a decent flow going it wasn't so bad. But lately, he had been getting headaches and migraines, strange dreams and stranger feelings. Every so often, when he was alone and all was silent, it felt like someone was standing just over his shoulder...watching silently.

After grinding through a few more sheaves, another headache began to set in quickly. But this one was different, it wasn't painful, it just felt like a lot of pressure pushing on the inside of his skull. Trying to ignore it, he wore on slowly but surely, knowing if he finished this stack then he could finally get some rest for the night.

As he worked on, he heard a sound. he stopped writing and looked around the dimly lit cubicle, only to find nothing and nobody but himself. "but that..." he thought to himself worriedly "...was like someone whispered something. barely audible but still..." He put his head in his hands and sighed heavily. It had been a long day, and tiredness was surely getting to his head, right? After half-heartedly striking off the last few details, he picked up his pens and put them in his jacket before standing to leave. Suddenly, he felt disoriented, as if he had stood too fast, his vision swam and spun and his head felt light.

But it lasted far too long to be just that, he put his hands on his knees and drank in a few breaths before his vision stopped spinning. He had to get out, now. It didn't take long to get back to the dingy apartment he had to call home, after heating some soup for supper he fell into bed exausted. "what's happening?" he groaned to himself, trying to think "there's no way that was a normal headache". His thoughts filled with concern as he drifted into a disturbed sleep.

[Tor Kael]

On this particular day in the alleys of Aslog, Redboot wore a bandana around his face within the confines of his helm, breathing as lightly as he could. The tromping of boots from his six squad mates resounded throughout the alleyway, along with the jingling of equipment harnesses and the every-so-often loose can or piece of metal being kicked, skittering across the paved ground. Sergeant Bastin wiped sweat from his brow, hiking up a bandana not at all dissimilar to Redboot's, trying in vain to ward off the foul chemical scent of the place. It was always bad, but on this particular day, something was burning in the distance. Redboot doubted he'd find out what it was. Their patrol route had gone more or less according to plan so far, having dispatched only one malnourished mutant today, and were about to reach the half way point of their journey, a small Arbites station near near the Hive's primary power plant.

"S'bout time," The Sergeant remarked, one arms resting on his slung lasgun. "Now we can rest on our asses for a few while the Arbites plan the next route."

One of the privates, too new to be known by name, grimaced and spat into a pile of smoldering paper and rubbish as they walked. There was a sizzling sound. "They'll probably have us do somin' for 'em. Er' time we get sent t'the Arbites station, they always got sum' job for us."

"Tch. I remember that," Sergeant Bastin replied, moving a hand into the jacket which he wore over his flak vest, rummaging for something. He came out with a box of Lho-sticks and started juggling items in order to light one. "If I have to round up one more Obscura-stabbin' shitter, I'll just execute 'em. Arbitrator Varym should deal with her own leads."

The group rounds a corner to meet piles of junk and debris ramping upward. Ahead, it seems the junk ramp actually lead to another street, presumably heading toward the Arbites outpost. Redboot carefully looks through the mess of trash for anything useful, swinging down and picking up several items without breaking stride with the group; He'd sift through the stuff later, but for now, it all went into his rucksack. As they finished climbing the ramp, shouting could be heard in the distance, and their vox-caster went live.

The vox unit chattered for some time before Private Wilhest spoke. "Ten-oh-four Braxis in sub-block seventeen. We've been ordered to respond, along with a few other units via the main lift."

Bastin swore under his breath. "Les' get going children. Pick up those feet if y'like rations."

And with that, the squad was off.

[North Calaveras]

The door lightly smacked close behind Kash as he entered his small apartment is some obscure hab-block near the edge of the city. He was tired, dealing with one of the lower nobles daughters was a hassle and she loved to wander off all the time. He stared at his little living quarters, a small stove in one corner and a bed in the other corner. There wasn't much in here, except for a few weapons in some droors. He moved forward before making himself a small batch of hot tea and cleaning his autopistol, a simple slug thrower. Kash yawned after drinking a portion of his rationed tea supply, he liked drinking the expensive stuff when he had the chance. Taking his earnings he hid them in a small compartment in his bathroom before getting into the shower. He enjoyed the hot water rolling off his muscular frame revealing a few scars as he ran over what he had done today and what tomorrow would bring, the steam clouding his vision.

Tomorrow...Tomorrow he would meet with the daughters father, nobleman Hurst. He was like most other nobles, snotty and arrogant, caring little for the Imperial truth except for when it was able to line their own pockets at the expense of everyone else. Kash stepped out of the short lived and rationed hot shower to lay down and stare at the ceiling. He began to fall and drift off to sleep as the sun began going down, his mechanical goggles resting next to his bed, waiting to assist his vision some other time. His vision blurred along with his mind as he fell into the deep sleep...

A loud beeping noise cut his dreams of escaping this place and slammed some odd voices to silence. It was an alert on his wrist beacon, it was a simple device that went off should his client need his services, unfortunately it didn't let him know what was happening only that he was now back on the job. He jumped up and threw his goggles on, slammed a fresh magazine into the auto pistol and threw over his jacket before exiting his dim hab-apartment into the streets of the hive. Yelling and distant chaos could be heard in the backdrop of the never dying night life of the immense city that seemed to span forever. He moved his way through the dense crowds at sunset, the weak solar light playing orange streaks across the grim metal features of his surroundings. He whispered a small prayer to the Chaos Gods inside his own head so that no other mortal could hear his own heresy.

I hope this isn't some family feud gone red.

He passed all manner of people, other nobles and their escorts, the poor(which made up more than a few), and most likely gang members and prostitutes, one of them blowing him a kiss.

Won't be long before the Enforces come cracking down here to...

[Crysuko]

Tonight was not a good night to be Markus. He was set upon by chaotic and terrifying dreams. He dreamt now of running through a freezing mist, the water stinging his skin as something chased not a few paces behind him, it's breath on his shoulder. But after so much running, even in his own mind, he eventually weakened and slowed. He came to a stop and turned around, facing the shadow chasing him. "What do you want!?" he shouted "Why do you pursue me!?" he demanded, as the being just out of sigh didn't answer for a moment. But seconds later, he heard a reverberating and ethereal voice reply "You have something we want. something powerful" Markus was only confused "what is it? what are you talking about?" but once again, the being replied slowly "You will find out soon." it began to back away, getting quieter "you will change, Markus. Weather you will it, or not".

He sat bolt upright in his small single bed, covered in cold sweat. He wiped some of it off his brow and stood up, feeling shaken. After some deep breaths as the dream still rang in his head as if it had just still happened. He looked at the worn wall clock, it was nearly time for work. He threw some clothes on and grabbed a nutrient bar and went out the door, he still felt disturbed and slightly paranoid, the being's words still resonating with him. "how will I change?" he thought as he walked "was it just a dream...or something else? and what's special about me that I don't know?" the questions whirled around his head as he checked in and went to his cubicle. As he awaited the first stack of papers to be dropped on his desk, he couldn't help but feel as if dreams like that would become more and more common as time went on. "what's going on with me, am I finally going mad?" Another question he couldn't hope to answer to add to the pile. Just then, the first stack of papers arrived. "Guess this'll make a good distraction" he muttered, picking up a pen.

But that wasn't the end of the oddities, not even close...

[Argentumurbem]

The sun was faint, its rays doing little more than warming up the miasma. The smog hung heavy all around them, a constant fixture which wiped clean all sense of familiarity for their surroundings. It was black. It was grey. It was a shimmering mirror. Wraiths walked in it, through it. They did not stop, rats scurrying here and there. Even without seeing, they knew who it was that converged on the building. They could see the purpose, a white hot aura radiating from their bodies.

The city was a corpse. That was how it smelled to him. It was rotten, pus oozing from its orifices. No incense dared attempt to rival the stench, nor did the purifiers accept the purpose of their design. Down here beyond the light, where everything was indistinguishable from a cesspit, the twenty-strong mustering of the Skarth Enforcement Agency were alive.

"Let the Emperor guide our aim," whispered Icepick

"He guides us along the path," continued Fress.

"And builds a city of crystal from our faith," Gregor added.

"Let His righteous fury be our purpose," Klade declared, more a mutter than a warcry.

"Our vessels are his conduit."

And with that, the world exploded.

The grenade, an egg the colour of Imperial stagnation, called out in to the milky cloud. The tongues of flame licked and licked, stretching out in all directions as the chemicals fed off of the very air. There was little oxygen left, consumed by the pollution.

The mustering charged in to the breach, power mauls leaping in to life as autoguns snarled. Low calibre shots rang out, gouging out tables and marking walls. There was no one in. Klade, at the head, lead three of his fellow Enforcers further in to the building. They ran, every muscle drawn taut in preparation for an encounter for the latest mutant outbreak. Three others took to the stairs, the heavy echo of their padded footfalls lost in the aftermath of the krak grenade.

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Brigael Praxoris

---

For Brigael Praxoris, life was made up almost entirely out of habits. In the morning, she would wake up and take a quick shower, change into the short-sleeved, dark grey robes of an Administratum scribe, and make sure she had all her things with her before leaving the small apartment she called a home. Then, she would head to the nearest shrine, attending the priest's morning ceremony. Brigael had found that she could focus on the priest's words far less in the evening, after a long day's work, and as such had opted to get up a bit earlier and attend in the morning. The poor man did not have much of a flock that regularly attended to his services, but the lowly scribe was one of them, loyally appearing every morning, even if he did not have much new to say. After that, Brigael always went to get a quick breakfast, eating it on the mag-train on the way to the Administratum building she worked at.

As the mag-train would come to a halt, she'd quickly get out before it would leave again, quickly walking towards the massive complex she would spend the rest of her day in, hoping that nobody would stop her. Then, she'd walk towards the entrance, flashing her badge of office (as much as it was worth) towards the guards outside, whom would let her in, after which she'd make her way down the halls, stairs, and elevators to the offices she worked at.

This day was not much different, and Brigael found herself waiting in the hallway for her first cup of decaff for the day. Taking her cup, now filled with the dark liquid, from underneath the large and rather noisy machine, she sat herself down at her desk, where a servitor had already placed some of the documents she'd be looking through today. Quite some, as usual. Brigael longed for the days that she would no longer just have to check if the records were in order, but that she herself would be allowed to sign for administrative papers. Maybe, one day, she too would receive a servo-skull to assist her in her job, just like Ordinates Lucas, sat behind a desk in front of her own.

Carefully sipping from her cup, testing if the decaff was still too hot or not, the scribe took some of the papers that had been placed on her desk, laying them in front of her before placing her cup down. Opening a bottle of ink and grabbing a feather, she started reading what she would have to document for today. Bi-weekly report of the industrial output of Assembly Line G346682, Manufactorum...

[New Zacharia]

Always there was the screaming of buckling metal and the rumble of grinding stone, the sounds of the ancient midhive crumbling under the weight of the spire. A dirge of ruin and decay that had been in every hiver’s ears since the day they were born.

Then there was the tramp of shackled, sore-ravaged feet as columns of indentured labourers shambled to their posts, the wheezing and sputtering of their fume-scoured lungs, the whimpers of the weak and the infirm. The tremors of vast machineries toiling deep below; that made solid ferrocrete quake underfoot and brought sheets of dust from the vaulted factorum ceilings.

Squatting in a heap of filth and detritus, was a crooked figure that resembled nothing so much as a carcass swaddled in rags. Its face was hidden, but it held its hands outstretched, begging. The skin on it's arms was grey as the hive’s tepid toxin-laced water, disfigured by rotten black welts where its flesh was poisoned by radiation.

This thing had had a name once. Abdus. But that name had belonged to better days, when he was slave to the Stratum Preacher. Under him he had suffered branding, flagellation and a hundred other penances - one of them was to cover his face, for so long as he lived - yet at least his old master had kept him fed, and sheltered.

A month ago his master had been murdered - by cultists that served unnamable powers, the rumours said. For the first time in his life, he was free. But he was also starving. He lay there, rasping invocations to the God-Emperor in a broken, trembling voice - in his years of service, his master had forbidden him to speak outside of prayer, and it was no longer natural to him, but the ecclesiastical invocations he could still repeat by rote. He prayed for mercy, he prayed for deliverance...

...Yet there was no answer. He did not stop praying, he did so out of ingrained ritual. For the most part, his mind remained empty as he prayed, empty as it had ever been, empty of anything save for fear and awe. But now sometimes, a thought disturbed his mindlessness. It occurred to him, that if the rumours were true, then there were powers other than the Emperor.

If they existed, if they could save him, then Abdus would reach out to these powers instead.

[Novum Alexandria]

Avil patted Liz on the head as she nudged a modest pile of scrap with her boot.

"You've got some good eyes, kiddo."

The child emitted a near-inaudible sound of agreement.

"You gonna be alright heading home?"

A second quiet sound came, similar to the first.

"Are you sure?" Avil prodded the child's side, drawing out a giggle.

"Yes, Mister Gallows."

"Good. Remember what I said about avoiding that pit, too, and keep your brother away-ah-bouts from it."

"I will. Mister Gallows?" Her inquiring tone caused him to pause mid-stride. The robed and masked man was already on his way elsewhere, and Liz had to raise her voice to be heard. "Dad was wonderin' if you'd come back by home n' say something to mum. She's bein', uh, weird again, and you really helped last time."

"I'll... See about it. I gotta go, kiddo. Got stuff to do, you know? Lots of people I need to drop by and see about."

Beneath the mask he adopted a troubled expression. The girl's mother had been saying things about the holy masters of the planet. Of course, lots of people said the same sorts of things, but she did more than grumble them to herself when the going got tough.

"If you say so, Mister Gallows." Liz's arm whipped through the air as she offered him a smile and a wave goodbye. Avil's mumbled warning not to forget the scrap they had worked so hard to gather up was the only thing that kept Liz from bolting off empty-handed. He chuckled to himself as his hands slid into the pockets of his amalgamation of coat and robe. "Stay safe."

"I will, Gallows!"

His reluctance to leave the child to her task didn't still his feet. There was a commotion nearby enough, and the people ailed by it would probably need a hand getting things back in working order. Plus, he was pretty sure there were some folk he knew in that area.

[Spindle]

Zoeriss' eyelids twitched for a brief moment before bursting open, Zoeriss emerging into full wakefulness. Or rather, she thought it was wakefulness she mused, wiping a clammy sheen of sweat from her face. Her dreams were more and more vivid of late, more real...more terrifying. Instinctively she reached across the small bed, finger trailing blindly along Essine's cool cheek. Rolling over, stained sheets tangling around her legs as she did so, she came face to serene face with her partner for the last night. Tracing her fingers around the curve of the girl's breasts, Zoeriss found the smooth edges of the wound, her fingers sliding into the cavity to gently probe the cavity where her heart had once been. A wicked smile flickered across Zoeriss' features as the memories of last night returned in full force.

It was always a thrill to pick up someone as...talented as Essine had been in the hive. Had things turned out differently, had she not been so convinced in the superiority of her Corpse-Emperor, she might have been a worthy servant of the Dark Prince. As it was, Zoeriss had enjoyed making her beg. It had been one of the most fulfilling nights of her life. Her hands reached out and grabbed the corpse by the forearms, feeling the symbols cut into the flesh as she pulled the corpse closer, searching for any hint of thrill she could garner from it, but it was a truly lifeless cadaver.

With a shriek of frustration, Zoeriss threw the corpse from the bloodstained bed and rolled out after it, punching and tearing and ripping at it, delighting in the feel of flesh splitting open to disgorge what little blood was left in the corpse. After several minutes of frenzied exertion, Zoeriss stepped back, her features settling down from the savage snarl which had overtaken them as she emptied her frustration on the worthless body. Shaking her head slightly, she resolved to clean the room up, or get someone else to clean the room up for her. But such fits of rage were ill-befitting for her. With a soft sigh, she collapsed back onto the hard bed, body relaxing into the meagre mattress. Her mood swings and violent temper had been getting worse as of late. She didn't know why, but she knew she should probably see the Mistress about it. If she killed one of her subordinates without good reason...she shuddered. Far better to release her passions onto those who spurned the Prince of Pleasure's words. Their deaths would not be missed.

She lay there for what could have been an instant or an eternity, staring blankly at the pockmarked ceiling above her as she concentrated on herself, pulling the facade of control over her thoughts. As she lay there inert, she decided. She was going to talk to the Mistress. She was going to do it as soon as she could throw on some passable clothes. She needed to go now. But the voices from the shadows began to stir, and Zoeriss closed her eyes and her ears to shut them out. She would go as soon as she was able...but her body was now limp and unresponsive. As the room warped around her, with only the cadaver of the young girl to watch with blank, unsurprised eyes, Zoeriss screamed.

[Crysuko]

As Markus worked diligently on through his work day, he sensed someone behind him. not in a paranoid sense, but that feeling of there's an actual living, breathing person in close proximity to you kind of way. He turned his chair around slowly "if this is about that last refinery manifest--" He cut himself off, noticing he was talking to nothing and no-one. This disturbed him greatly, he almost felt someone else's breath on his neck.

He turned back around and put his face in his hands, maybe he was going mad. He shook his head, unable to dislodge the paranoid feeling which stuck with him all day. It was standard fare at the end of the day, go home, eat cheap food and flop into bed, but as he lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, a feeling of dissatisfaction stirred in him. "who am I as a person? Do I even have a personality, hobbies and friends any more?" he asked himself, and a cursory spot of introspection showed him a grim truth.

He was 35, worst job, no friends, no future prospects, nothing to do for fun...nothing. At all. His heart sank, and he put a hand over his face "Is this what i've become?" he complained to nobody in particular "How could I allow myself to become such a loser". But after some more thought, it became obvious who the true culprit for all this is. "This...system. It's stifling me. I've been reduced to nobody, no fun or pleasure allowed, nothing at all." he began to drift into sleep "what can I do...what can anyone do." and as his vision faded, he noticed a shadow inching towards him before sleep claimed him.

[G-Tech Corporation]

District of Burning Slag, Outskirts of the Hive City of Aslog

Day. Dawn. At least, the dawn that could be seen, a vague brightening of the red haze that filled the skies of Skarth which bespoke some far off celestial body passing over the horizon. Across the hive industries still belched pollutants to join the opaque sky, and lower functionaries stirred, to go about their menial tasks and humdrum existences.

The man did not rise. As the hubbub grew outside he shifted in his sleep, unquiet dreams passing like ghosts across his mind. Eventually, however, all men have to wake up. In this case Vraks was fortuitous; unlike most denizens of the outskirts, who were woken by the rattling chorus of gunfire or the shrill klaxons of morning alarms, his return from the land of slumber was heralded not by irritation or pain, but pleasure. The nibbling began at his ear as his awareness returned, before moving over his cheek in to a good morning kiss which he returned before laughing and smiling. Opening his eyes, Vraks took in the flawless face of Sythia, his first convert. Blessed of the Changer of Ways, she kissed him once again on the cheek, then spoke, a tone of chiding in her voice.

"My love, you looked so peaceful, but you are expected at the Hall within the hour." An eyebrow quirked up in his brow, and the brown-haired acolyte rolled over in the mauslin sheets to scan the chronometer nearby. The numbers were clear enough, and he sighed melodramatically. Tossing back the covers, causing the lady to squeak in disdain but with a grin on her face, Vraks rolled off of the bed, rising to pad into the small closet they shared. Here in the outskirts things were cramped, and shabby, but such was the way of man in the Imperium. The Restored hardly noticed how he could barely turn around in the tiny room that adjoined their flat, and through the closet he passed to the washbasin. It was warm thankfully, heated by the castoff thermals from the pyrotheum generator that the couple used to provide power when it was absolutely necessary.

In some ways, bathing was a strange experience for Vraks, since his change. Where others would worry over appearance in a mirror, his mind had become in many ways disassociated from his body- though others looked upon his form with longing or jealousy, the clean limbs, supple muscle, and unblemished skin provoking envy... well, he just didn't care. His old body had been marred and mangled, to be sure, and so he appreciated the gift Tzeentch had given him. When he breathed without effort, moved without force, and effortlessly won the affections of those about him, it was well. But the body was not who he was- he maintained it as a matter of duty, the vessel that bore the mind aloft and provided it with succor. When the Architect had given him a new shell to inhabit it had been fully revealed to Vraks just how fragile the human condition was, how ultimately worthless the fleshy vehicle that carried man.

So he scrubbed as was necessary, washed, cared for the seat of his mind. Others in the hive had no such ability, and in large part his proslyelization was only made possible by his flawless form. To the seething masses of the chem-jungles and slag-heaps a respite from mutation, from pain, from shame, that rang loud in their minds. The worthy would be gifted with such a treasure, just as he had been, and had Sythia and the other twelve. He preached that such was a miracle of the God-Emperor, a showing of his favor to those few wretched who labored namelessly in his service. In truth, though, those who were restored were those who were already corrupted. The power of the sorcerer called to the seeds of the Changer of Ways which lay in the hearts of all men. Only those who answered the call saw themselves rewarded, and so in time Vraks' heresy grew stronger, insidious and virile.

This all passed through his mind as he dressed, and as he absentmindedly kissed Sythia goodbye as she too prepared to go roam the streets of the Outskirts and preach the news of the Restorer. Normally he would have worried for her, a woman of surpassing beauty in these warrens of depravity and desperation, but two brothers would walk with her, Marcus and Gareth. They were recruits from the forges of the Hive, men with bodies built of iron only enhanced by the touch of the Fateweaver; where previously muscles had rippled under layers of fat and sores that stank of Nurgle, now their forms were clean and clear, each band of iron and menacing glance full of portent. It would be a brave soul indeed who troubled the preaching Redeemer.

Vraks dressed simply for the day ahead, slate gray trousers only slightly worn tucked in to saar boots that would keep out the noxious slime that sometimes coated the streets of the Burning Slag district, castoff from the pyrotheum smelter nearby. Over it all he placed a white greatcoat, one of the few garments he had an easy time keeping clean, which had become a slightly official uniform of the Restored and the Cult of the Restorer-Emperor. The clack of the door closing echoed as he sat down to a plate of gently simmered cinnamon nutripaste, a repast that was at least somewhat stimulating to the senses. Normally he would have looked at reports from the other members of the inner circle, but today he had work to do. Cleaning up the bowl with the speed of practiced efficiency, Vraks locked up the house then set off for the Hall.

Thousands had gathered, at least two thousand penitents seeking to touch the Restored, to seek his blessing and that of the Restorer-Emperor. Already his ability to purge mutation and bring men to their true potential was reputed in parts of the Outskirts, and rumors said his hands could heal infirmity of mind or body with just a finger. It wasn't strictly true, but Vraks had not bothered to oppose the rumors. His speech echoed out over the vacant ash lot that sat next to a ceramite factory, rising and falling in the careful cadence that whipped men into a frenzy, that turned logic to emotion. The Changer had blessed him with that power, and more would come to the light of the Restorer before the day's end.

[Lunas Legion]

Underhive Sector 6-A, Slang Designation: 'Hooded Dog's Land'

Marc growled as he scraped a knife along the wall, gouging a line into the concrete. The wall supported nothing; whatever it had supported had long since rotted away. It was like most of the Underhive; rotting, decaying, a maze of rubble and ruin. Dark too; no light reached this far down, and the ancient lighting systems provided only the rarest flickering when cables shifted into the correct positions and generators rumbled back to temporary life.

But it was home. It was the only home he'd ever known. The wall had a tarpaulin nailed into it, stretched over to a pair of metal poles. Shelter from the occasional industrial or human discharge that was dumped down here. Around him, similar crude lean-tos or the far rarer tent fanned out. His so-called 'army'.

The dreams had said it was not an army. Not strong enough to fight, to spill blood and claim skulls. The dreams were always right. The dreams had guided him here. He forced them into line through sheer strength; it was all they respected. Or perhaps they simply feared what was out there more than him. Either was possible. It mattered not which.

"Marc!" A vague shout interrupted his carving. He turned, leaving the knife stuck in the wall.

"Wooat?" He shouted back, the words as distorted as ever. A mutant raced through the camp, panting as he finally reached Marc's 'tent'.

"Purgers..." He panted. "They're moving down. Fast, too. Barely got out."

Marc paused. And then twisted, slamming his right arm into the mutant's face, knocking him to the ground. Within seconds he leapt on the downed mutant, pinning him, and bit down on his neck. The mutant died quickly. A good kill. Marc stood, blood covering his face, gazing around at the assembling crowd.

"Pur-ers." He barked, gesturing in the vague direction of the nearest access ramp. "Comin' 'ere. We gonna give 'em good bloody death. Weapons, then move. They ain't gettin' us."

[Spindle]

As she walked down the almost ornate halls that housed the Mistress of the Shifting Desire, Zoeriss held her hands almost contritely behind her back. It had been almost a year since she had last walked these halls, a year since she had been sent out after her full initiation. She had been young then, but newly opened to the sensations the world around her offered and she had savoured everything it had to offer, taking all that she could from it. Whether the cruel world wanted her to have her desires or not.

With a start, she reached the small, onyx door which barred her entrance to the innermost sanctum. Only the Mistress and her chosen few were allowed in there, and Zoeriss was certainly not part of that elite. Or not yet, she smirked to herself. She had the blessing of the Dark Prince on her: that sanctum would be hers one day. And if Her blessing was not enough to get it for her, she would prise it from the cold, dead hands of whoever had possessed it last.

With a soft click, the door swung open for the briefest moment, admitting the Mistress to exit. She was devilishly beautiful, pure white hair framing amethyst eyes and a finely-boned face, and she knew it. There was no visible application of make-up on that flawless complexion, and Zoeriss doubted she used any. She Who Thirsts had blessed her too, and she could rend hearts with even the barest glance.

Indicating wordlessly for Zoeriss to hold out her hand, the Mistress took it in one of her own before muttering something and placing her spare hand over Zoeriss' heart, an icy cold spreading from the point of touch. Frost began to spread questing tendrils over her clothes and even nipped harshly at the clothes beneath as the Mistress looked through Zoeriss. It took several seconds, but she eventually looked into Zoeriss' eyes once more and smiled, a cruel, heartless smile. The blood drained out of Zoeriss' face, before the Mistress simply turned and vanished, leaving Zoeriss to wonder what had the Mistress so pleased...and what it meant for her.

---

The sun still wasn't up when Zoeriss opened up shop. The Shifting Desire kept several fronts open under various names, and one of Zoeriss' most boring duties was to manage the flow of bored people, spreading subtle dissent without ever once gaining the attention of the Arbites. She hated it, although she would never let anyone know that. Not when her branch had more regulars than any other: almost a hundred people who were ripe and ready to be plucked by the cult. She would have to organise a meeting for them sometime soon: she'd gotten her hands on several dozen crates of high-strength lho-sticks and she was sure that they would be well-received...and an excellent starting point for the full initiation of the group.

Directing the others to set out the furnishings, Zoeriss checked the chronometer. Five minutes to the opening time. Plenty of time to do what had to be done. The bottles of amasec were being dragged out of the understory, the lho sticks, the regular ones, were being placed up by the bar and the dancers were warming up. Today was normally a quieter day: overseers were working everyone as hard as they possibly could to meet the quotas and few had time for the simple pleasures the Shifting Illusion, a name that Zoeriss herself had decided upon, would provide. But those that did would be harder to please, tired and grumpy. As the shutters rumbled open, Zoeriss affixed a smile to her face and waited for the first of the regulars to drip in.

[Tor Kael]

The shouts became clearer as they neared. Redboot and his squadron arrive on a rockcrete mesa in the underhive via a rickety lift in the center, overlooking one of the largest intersections in the entire hive. Several other squadrons had already arrived, looking at something over the edge; He was willing to bet it was dissenters in one form or another. Boxes full of ammunition and ordnance lay everywhere, some already opened and even overturned. The quiet man stepped over to the low crenelated wall, slightly dizzied when the main attraction came into view. Thousands of workers and Hive lowlifes thronged below, shouting or yelling about... something. Probably pay-related, honestly. It always was. Hundreds of small trash fires kept the people warm as they milled about in protest before the locked doors of a small Imperial church.

"Too much work all at once, right? Hurt feelings tha'can only be salved through a lib'ral application of Thrones?" Sergeant Bastin called to another squadron's leader, one which Redboot didn't recognize. The other Sergeant shook his head, smiling slightly.

"Didn't think you'd show, Groxface," The man said, grinning to make it known he was joking. Bastin nodded, before motioning toward the mass of malcontent below.

"So whassis about, actually? And what are our orders? We an' got nuffin' on the vox." He took a drag of his Lho-stick before putting it out on his boot, then turned back to regard the crowd solemnly. This deep in the hive, it was normal to get orders for lethal force... but that was a lot of targets, and the only nearby PDF units were interspersed throughout the underhive on extermination missions. If they introduced force, they'd be overrun.

The other Segeant shrugged. "We were told to unpack and prep for 'enforcement duties', I think they said. Malcontents are not to head out through the west passage leading to the transit lifts. And before you ask, yeah, it's blocked off. Got a couple a' Chimeras and some tarheads setting up sandbags." He took a moment to collect himself before turning to face Sergeant Bastin. A 'ding' sound heralded the arrival of another squadron via the lift. Metal doors grated opened, boots tromping on the ground as several men made way for a heavy bolter team to pass, grunting in exertion under their gunmetal burden.

"I'll need your boys on the ground, at the first blockade. You personally have more experience than the other officers down there, Sergeant Bastin. Keep them in line."

Bastin grimaced, spitting on the ground. "Ye, you got it Sarge Kaltin. Alri' boys, y'ain' deaf. Get on the lift and press buttons. We're on point for the fun stuff." The squadron reluctantly began making its way back toward the lift. Redboot stopped only to rummage through a ordnance crate quickly, slipping something into his jacket pocket before falling in with the rest of his unit.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Hall of the Everyman, Outskirts of the Hive City of Aslog

The crowd surged forward, touching the Restored's clothing with desperate hands as he concluded his speech. A smile of genuine love touched his weathered features as Vraks' passed benediction and blessed those who came to speak with him; there was so much hope in the eyes of the wretches that thronged at the front of the Hall, so much desperate desire. The adherent of the Changer of Ways could almost feel the palpable energy of the Beyond that coursed between these souls, a fertile field for the word of the Restorer if ever there was one. From their vast cathedrals and spires the priests preached a gospel of reward in eternity, but life was brutal and short- a reward in eternity was all well and good, but a reward for piety in the here and now, a relief from the tortures of everyday existence, that brought in the numbers. He felt his skin grow warm as hands brushed against him, and under his boots the thin ash soil crunched even as Vraks' stooped to take the hands of a little girl who had pressed through the crowd. Her voice was faint, and carried a tone that Vraks would have described as fear.

"Sir, mister Vraks, can you come help my mother. She... she is very ill. They say you can heal."

About Vraks the brothers pushed in, seeing him cease movement towards the entrance to the Hall, and Tural looked at their leader with a quizzical expression on his face. It was common for the Restored to hear the pleas of supplicants, but generally not out here in the yard, rather inside where the people were easier to sort out and ensure they did not overwhelm the white-clad acolyte. However, the bright blue eyes of the little child looking up at him had caught the Marked's attention, and he smiled gently.

"Child, your faith is touching. I do not have any power- I merely serve the Restorer, the God-Emperor, as do we all. But..." Vraks hesitated. He had been told by one of the elder followers of the Architect that a great power burned in his breast, an inferno the wizened petty conjurer had not seen in his lifetime. Nassimus was not a man to take lightly, possessing nearly three hundred years of life extended by the favor of the Dark Gods and stolen medaugments from the mid-Hive. Perhaps now would be a time to test such power- Tzeentch had not failed the Restored yet, and he was not likely to do so soon. He smiled down at the wretched child, and took her hand. "...I will do what I can. Take me to your home, please."

Around the acolyte those who had heard his words cheered and whispered prayers to the Emperor, pushing back against the crowd so he could pass. The child moved at speed, bare feet covered in gray dust of the wastes and the Outskirts. Hundreds followed the unlikely pair, the hulking bronzed superman flawless in every regard and the stunted child whose face was tracked in dried tears. Through winding lanes they passed, moving away from the more civilized regions into the warrens and slums of the Wall, the line of scrap buildings and messy architecture that formed a makeshift barrier against the true Wastes beyond. The streets narrowed rapidly, reeking of illicit chems and the castoff of a broken humanity. Then, suddenly, the little girl turned aside, and pushed her way through to a small hovel which had no door, but merely a tattered cloth hanging barring entrance to the ramshackle dwelling.

Inside, on a low filthy cot somewhat sunken into the dirt floor, law a woman. Vraks could tell at a glance that she might have been pretty once, but disease had taken a toll that was fearsome to behold. Her skin was pulled taut over the bone, and as he knelt next to the woman he felt an almost malign heat issuing from her skin. It was a wasting disease that had devoured fat and muscle and vitality with a greedy abandon, and the woman's eyes barely fluttered open as his shadow passed across the indifferent light of a hole in the roof. She was delirious certainly, and where he would have expected any naturally defensive hiver to thrash against his arms as he touched her brow and neck to feel the heat of her internal fires, the woman was so far gone she didn't even struggle. Pursed lips told Tural and the other brothers all they needed to know; this was not an easy case, or a simple problem to solve.

Outside the concerned whispers of the crowd pushed against Vraks' awareness, but he consciously shunted them away, concentrating on the burning flesh under his hands. When he brought restoration to the people of the Outskirts the Lord of Change worked through him, a conduit for the powers of the Beyond merely. But this, this feeling that gathered in his skull... it was something different altogether. The beating of his heart thudded loud in his ears, but under that Vraks heard another sound, one he could not quite identify. It was as if the babbling of a chorus of voices lay between his eyes, coming from everywhere and yet nowhere. In their own manners the voices talked and spoke, blasphemous things, wicked things, but also muttered hopes for the future, prayers for victory in battle, for relief from trial.

With consternation the Restored realized that they were, in fact, the voices of the people of Skarnis. His own hive he heard mentioned in the barely audible intonations, and names that were familiar. These were the souls of the men and women about him, cast out into the Immaterium like little candles, and far away as if calling from an immense distance he, hmm. It was hard to describe. Heard might be an accurate word, but perhaps felt would be more coherent. Vraks felt the spark of the woman on the floor before him, the mother of the weeping child at his side. It was guttering, wreathed as if by sickly green flame. A jangling sensation pressed against his nerves even as he knelt with eyes closed upon the cold dirt floor, a wrongness that made his jaw clench and his teeth grind. This sickness was false, out of place, not where it should be.

The chorus faded away as Vraks bore down with his will against the enveloping lurid green. It was not an act that he could expound to others, for what exactly he did cannot be described in the tongues of men who do not possess such abilities. Much like he did as a conduit for Tzeentch, the power ebbed and flowed in his veins, but this time it was his own strength that fled forth into the void. The voices became quiet, and then slowly began to sing, a languid tune the Restored did not recognize, but which his bones vibrated with inaudibly. Green flame flared against his eyes, almost as if one stared at a lasblast too closely and saw the retinal afterimage. Then, of a sudden, it was snuffed out. Into the tiny spark that remained of the life of the woman the white-coated man felt the power of the Architect course, apparently a worthy vessel for the plans of the Architect.

Sweat drenched the Restored's brow, and he wiped it away absentmindedly as his eyes opened again. The skin under his left palm had lost its hot clammy pallor and felt almost normal, but as he looked about the room at the four other white-cloaked figures, Vraks figured that something far from normal had just occurred. Even the men who had known him since he had first returned to the Outskirts had expressions that were one part awe and one part reverence, and Tural spoke in hushed tones.

"Vraks... you, you just glowed. A golden light, like a halo. It was so pure and clean it made the child weep anew, and those outside draw back in wonder."

At his side, the mother coughed and sat up in her bed sharply, eyes wide. With a sob the little girl grabbed her mother, and Vraks smiled. As he emerged back outside the hovel the crowd was already shouting and praising the Restorer-Emperor, for the woman who would die had been made whole through his prophet, the Restored. They looked at him with desperate hope, and fervent belief, and in that moment Vraks appreciated just how powerful the pull of faith and miracles was. But in his heart was disquiet. What had corrupted the woman so?

[Argentumurbem]

He could not see how large the warehouse was, huge containers stacked high forming walls through which his sight could not pass. In to this maze of idle produce he jogged, autogun snapping here and there, every shadow and alcove potentially hiding their quarry. Behind him came the three Enforcers drawn from the Mass of His Luminescence. They were former factory workers, menial drones in the endless quest to arm every Imperial soldier with enough ammunition to rid the galaxy of humanity's foes. A noble pursuit, but one less pressing than removing the foul taint of heresy from the Hive City.

"We are not judgement," Klade intoned. "That is His role as our saviour."

The men behind him nodded. They were not of his mass, not officially yet, and still they had come to understand why Klade slept under the table used as their command center. They had already pieced together everything about him and his life. And it made no slight bit of difference to him.

The three who had taken the stairs overtook them, their gangway clear of all obstacles. Icepick lead them, his fiery temper made manifest in the great mane of violet hair which framed a metallic face. Their autoguns scanned high and low, laser-sights fresh from the governor's stores cutting through the stale dankness which hung in the air.

Klade could just make out the rest of the mustering, breaking up in to four more pursuits so that the entire warehouse could be searched without delay. Fress would be running almost parallel to Klade's own detachment, the old man's maul lashing out at every shadow in the vain hope of striking rotten flesh.

Gregor would be behind the two, taking it easy so that he and his shotgun could smite whatever dared to try and sneak past the hunters.

They stopped. A shrine was arrayed before them, heresy defacing a once beautiful relic of the Emperor. Incense, the putrid reek of falsehood, wafted from three thick blocks. Here and there, wrong words were writ in blood. They were blasphemies, villainous denials of the God-Emperor.

"Destroy it, in the Emperor's name."

One of the Enforcers stepped forward, his autgun set to full auto. The loud cry of its muzzle heralded the death of the unholy shrine.

"We will find the heretic who did this."

That was when Gregor's scream assailed his ears.


EDIT: Whoops, sorry for anyone and everyone who read the quote

[Crysuko]

This day was a rare thing for Markus. A day off, which he had been working towards for several months now, he had heard of interesting shops in the market district, so that should be an interesting day out. He scraped a little money together, made his way out. He knew the area well, so didn't need to take transport, even if it took him a while to get there by foot.

The district was bustling, various sellers and vendors vying to get their wares noticed, but one particular store front caught his eyes like none other. It smelt exotic, with various interesting goods about it, he stepped up and examined some of them. "I don't think half of this stuff is even legal" he thought, turning to notice the bar, the smell of potent lho-sticks wafting over to him. But for some reason, he felt drawn to it, like how the hungry are drawn to the smell of food. He stuck out like a sore thumb among the others milling around, the only clothes he had was a slightly worn suit with little variation. Normally, he wouldn't look at a place for so long, but he couldn't shake the feeling of wanting to be here for reasons unknown to his concious mind. "maybe just a bit longer..." he mumbled to himself

[Ironsbad]

Village of Ovglor,
Mystibeer Tunnel,
Underhive Aurix

The Hive City of Aurix, a smaller city to its neighbor, Aslog and listens to its noble laws that make the city a smaller hellhole to the bigger one. The Hive City was considered a node in the interconnecting supply chains that export the industrial goods for the God-Emperor's armies across the galaxy in its endless fight for Humanity. The Underhive was no other than the rest of the Hive World, there were mutants, gangs, and your zealots killing each other for survival or their own decree of the Imperial Cult they bow too.

Most people just do what they can to survive and get out of the way of a crusader army or the PDF. However, there will be times that the Emperor, Chaos, or just by pure chance that a person can turn the tide of an army from burning down suspected heretics and mutants. This just so happen to be one of those days as one man who must kill an army to save a village. The story happened three days as Valks had taken a job in the Hive City of Aslog to help repair a Machine Spirit and he was considered cheaper than a Techpriest, plus it was an illegal thing to do in the Underhive but no one cared.

Valks didn't want to take the job because it would take a few days to get to Aslog alone and he feared that his loft would get robed. However, his friend and manager of the salvager team, Tyrius, coaxed him into doing the job as long that he put Valks' provisions in his safe sense he didn't have one. After having a stiff synthetic drink at the local Hive Scum watering hole to go get their muscle of the team, a mutant by the name of Odalia. It's a rare sight that Humans will deal with Mutants when many consider it heresy just to be near one and never associate with, which means many are always looking for mutants for their own sake.

Tyrius and Valks didn't care for Mutants, but the persecution of them was something that Valks personally spit at for he believes that the Emperor knows that they are still Human, at least in spirit. Tyrius believed that everyone should have an equal chance no matter what. Despite the open friendship with a mutant, they are a capable three-man team that made a good amount of wealth and survival. The guys were walking to Odalia's village was where the Mutants lived in a segregated state from the Humans and are occasionally targeted for purge mobs and crusades from fanatic cults and the PDF, like now.

It only took them a few hours south-southwest of their sub-block to see what was a normal fear to every heretic, witch, or mutant of the Imperium. " Valks!" Tyrius screamed as he pointed," get your rifle, do you see what I see?" Valks took his rifle from his back, it was wrapped with rugged leather in order to make sure it wasn't damaged in anyway. From unbuckling the leather straps to get the wrap and showed a makeshift, bolt-action rifle with a scope. It was similar to a normal stub-rifle, just that it was lower-quality and made out of scrap metal. The rifle itself was good at wounding people or scare off toxic beasts, but he never really did try to kill a person with it.

He used the scope and pointed it towards the direction Tyrius was pointing and saw what he feared. " Redemptionist mob, in the thousands." He said and his friend nodded," look where they are heading" He started to twist towards the western horizon of the artificial metallic sky that sections off the Lowerhive and the Underhive. " Right towards Odalia and her village." He put his rifle back in the wrapping and sling it on his back. " We can beat them there and get her ." Tyrius look at Valks with a concerned face, "and about the rest of the mutants? They will get slaughtered by that mob! Besides, she counts them as family as much as we are to her."

Valks didn't look at him, unfazed at his comment since he always gets like this. He always believe in acting when someone had the power to do so. " No, we are going to get our friend, not get in the path of the Emperor's vengeance." Tyrius knew that Valks was serious in his refusal, it had always been like this when it came to standing up against what Tyrius believed that is the injustice of the land. " Fine, we should at least get going, if Odalia is alright and she agrees to leave, then we leave. If not, then we have to at least help. Well you accept that? " Valks shook his head," no, some things that happened are meant to happen. Can't be saving everyone we cross paths with. Not gods, not worth it."

Tyrius got a little pushy," lets save it till we get to the mutant village?" Valks just sighed as they moved to try and beat the Redemptionist mob.

An hour later

Both of them were able to enter the village but the mutants were on high alert since the mutants sent out scouts to their other neighbors and saw the PDF and zealot warbands burning down hundreds of villages and slaughtering tens of thousands of mutants. The worse about it was that it was only the beginning. Valks was mad but very few knew it because he kept himself in checked but Tyrius knew why. The mutants numbered in the hundreds and only very few, like Odalia, had any major mutations that would give them any benefits or handicaps. Odalia was the youngest, but strongest of the three-man team. She was born a normal human but her mutations came when she was twelve and was cast in the Underhive and showed the kindness of the Mutant, but also knew about the wrath of the Emperor.

Her body was something of a monstrosity with her body was inhumanly large and bumps were all over her red skin body. A look of violence and survival that was all too familiar in the face of someone who lived in the Underhive. Tyrius and Valks were lead to her house, which was small and was made of scrap metal and hollowed out sewer, like the rest of the village. It was the only ways to make home for the Mutant, sense even the Hive Scum don't like the Mutant and fear the wrath of the Emperor with all they have.

Tyrius knocked on her door and the mutant came out with a smile on her face and grabbed both of the men with her long arms," guys! You've came! I knew you would help! I prayed for you and told Tyrius that we needed help to get rid of the mob so we can escape." Valks escaped from the hug and turned red," you told her that we would help Tyrius!?" Tyrius started to step back as he was trying to not get hit by Valks, though he was frail compared to the average man thanks to the toxins in the air, he can still hit. " I asked him to Valks." The mutant stood between the sharpshooter and the smooth talker. " Why didn't you asked me about this?" He started to calm down but hints of anger were still lingering in his voice.

" Because I knew you wouldn't do it, especially since you aversions to killing" Tyrius said calmly that made Valks give a sigh and walk out of Odalia's house. The both of them were looking at each other. They were in the wrong for lying to Valks in order to force him to kill just to save lives, but it was the right thing to do for they needed his help against a mob that outnumbered them 2 to 1. After a few minutes, the leader of the mutant village, a jackal beastman, came to Odaila's house in order to see if her friend would help.

" I don't know Cyrogor. My friend is a master marksman, but he only has wound people, not killed." Cyrogor was surprised that he hasn't killed despite the common Hive Scum would kill a person for a loaf of bread. He walked with Tyrius and Odalia as Valks was thinking deeply like he usually does. " I'll do it. I'll kill the Redemptionists to save your village." He turned around and unwrapped his rifle and started seeking for a nest that he can perch himself. " Are you sure you want to do this?" Tyrius asked as he got a ladder and he looked at him," try not to lie to me again." He turned to Odalia and Cyrogor," I need a spotter, we probably only have thirty minutes or less. I have about four or five targets to kill in order to route the mob from the village."

They both nodded and went to go get the village cook, who was a Ratling, to go help Valks with binoculars. The mutants decided to stand outside of their homes with whatever weapons they had around their homes and not all of them were stubguns. The sniper nest itself was secluded behind the abandoned sewer and a few homes, yet had a crack that could be used as a window with enough movement that can pick off the commanders and officers. It didn't take the mob long as the sounds of chainswords and napalm from flamers. The march of red robed masked men was the staple of fear for the heretic and mutant.

The Redemptionist Cult of Skarth wasn't as large compared to other Hive Worlds, but it was still a threat to the common Mutant and Hive Scum as they routinely make trips to the Underhive to purge the sinfulness of Man from the face of the world. Their numbers were in the 500 range, most were poor people from the other settlements of the Underhive or even in the Lower Hive. However, there was a host of cultist that lead the mob and protected their leader.

Cyrgor stood out with the other mutants in a group against the Emperor's wrath. Many were shaking, Valks knew that Odalia was shaking but it didn't matter as they stood outnumbered and outgunned. The leader of the Mob came out with his Cultists being a vanguard with their chainswords and flamers out. " You dare stand in the way of the Emperor's blessing mutant?" He screamed at the beastman. " I stand against fanatical fools who think that pointing a chainsword or the pyre at those who were found wanting by the manner of birth we were given."

Tyrius was on a vox that him and Valks had. " I see the leader." The Ratling nod as he spotted the leader," one big wig with a flaming chainsword, two of the bodyguards with flamers, and the rest with stubbies among the rest of the mob. Should be easy pickings for an acclaimed deadeye like yourself."

Valks started to take deep breaths and concentrate his aim. Compared to any military trained Guardsmen sniper, he was poor and shoddy at his sniping. However, to a common Hive Scum, few can match his skill. The commotion between the beastman and the Cultist led to its conclusion with the name calling and temper flaring as Cyrogor goaded the priest," if you wish to do the Emperor's will, then take me and my family if you dare!"

"Charge the Mutants!" The mob charged with the leader and his host in similar, disorganized fashion. Valks fired a round through the heart of the charging leader, dropping him before they had gotten to the Mutants. This made the mob stop as another gunshot was heard and one of the main cultists who had a flamer dropped dead.

"Sniper!" A cultist yelled as they started to run back and scatter, but not before Valks fell another three of the mob. The mutants cheered as the Humans fled and Valks' heart was beating faster and faster as he had just taken in the realization that he killed five Humans. This made him almost puke but the Ratling grabbed him by the shirt, " come on now Master Marksman, do you really want to throw up now? "

To him, it wasn't a victory, only a momentary retreat for the Cultists until they have more weapons or when he was gone. Him and the spotter got down from perch as Tyrius and Odalia cheered at him as he didn't say anything and checked his gun. It was alright and he expended a magazine and a half, but was able to scare off the mob.

"You did good Marksmen," the beastman said. "No, they will come back." Odalia came next to the beastman," then you will be there to help defend?" Valks shook his head but Tyrius intervened," we can try, but were not defenders or heroes, were technicians, scavengers, and normal survivors of the Underhive." Valks put down his gun and gave them his Vox,"take my Vox, if you have any trouble, call us, but you should run and hide until this is over."

The beastman nodded,"Odalia, hand me your map." She did as he asked and marked a new location," we shall be here once you've come back from your job." Valks wandered what he meant from that. " But you lied to me about the job." Tyrius gave him a pat on the back," true, but the beastman gave us this job. Apparently some of the Imperials are looking for technicans and mutant workers for an old manufactorium in Algos. We can get some wealth and food for the next month."

Valks gave a small smile, " thank you Cyrogor, I promise that Odalia will come back with profit to share among you." He only gave a nod and finally started to back up the necessities. Odalia gathered her traveling gear and gave a nod to go with them. Among it, they tried to pick through the bodies of the cultists before they were going to be put up on poles as a message for the Emperor's Extremists and those who wish to hurt the mutants. After which, they left to the Hive City of Algos and make their way to the old Manufactorum.

Current Day

It took about two days to get to the outskirts of Aurix and then another three to get to their destination in Algos. The Hive City was massive in comparison and this made the three of them look in awe but they had to get to the Manufactorm. The Manufactorm itself was old, nearly broken down, but it was still large and active. The three of them started to walk towards the large manufactorm until Tyrius stopped them when they saw a broken down man on the street covered in robes.

" Hey, this man here is shackled here." Valks was looking down at the man, " he's praying, must be either addled or drunk." Odalia gave it a thought," I think he maybe a mutant." Valks and Tyrius looked at him now puzzled," even still, we can't leave him out here. Could be hungry and thirsty" Valks questioned that idea," we can't be saving everyone on the streets. Besides, we don't enough food to share with everyone, we barely have enough to get back home."

Odalia started to get her backpack down and rummage through it to find a canteen of water and some bread. She put it near the side of the tramp in robes," here, eat and drink."

[Spindle]

Customers came and went, and Zoeriss' smile never left her face. She was whatever was needed: an adviser as to which brand of lho-stick was the best, a subtle influence to pull people into the more addictive substances or simply pleasant conversation. Some people could capture her attention, others were dull and boring. It was a game of chance whenever she talked with a customer, and more often than not she lost. So many of the people here had no potential and only the barest few had the slightest hint of something special about them. All were to be welcomed, of course, but Zoeriss felt that the Shifting Desire should not be for those who were dull. It should be for the vibrant, for those who were willing to grasp life by the throat and squeeze until they got what they wanted.

The soft ringing of the bell alerted her to the somewhat lost-looking man opening the door. He wandered inside, drawn from one item to the next. Zoeriss wondered if he knew what half of them even were. A straight up-and-down customer, she noted with a hint of derision colouring her thoughts. Probably a clerk, from the looks of his clothes, and unlikely to ever be more than that. Not bad-looking though, she admitted to herself.

As he made his weaving way to the bar, Zoeriss shot him a dazzling smile and pushed a shot glass of amasec towards him, silently cursing her misfortune that he should come to her out of all the people serving at the bar. Her eyes flickered for a moment to the door as it opened again, admitting Jadin and her mood worsened. She'd been looking forwards to talking with him again, but now he would go and talk with Dynaere instead. Lucky bitch.

"So," She began, "What's a guy like you doing here? We don't normally get someone quite so...regular as yourself here, after all."

[Crysuko]

Markus lightly picked up the glass and looked at the odd looking but nonetheless rather attractive woman who had just come to him. "I got a day off, so decided to come and have a look at the market. I felt drawn to this place, feeling like i'm supposed to be here for some reason." he sniffed the drink, before knocking it back with a quick flick of the neck "Besides, fun is strictly off limits in my life and I don't have a lot going for me in my work". he shook his head "ah hell, you didn't come here to listen to some deadbeat moan about how bad his life is, but I must congratulate you on owning such a unique place, I don't know what half this stuff is and It all fascinates me". He too a deep breath of fragrant air, stirring an ounce of pleasure.

[Spindle]

Zoeriss never let the smile leave her face as the clerk bemoaned his life and certainly never let her eyes stray to where she knew Jadin and Dynaere were talking animatedly. As he talked, something twigged in her mind. He had felt...drawn here? She knew the Mistress had told her something about that before, but she couldn't for the life of her remember what it was. It was something important, she knew that much, and she refocused her mind on the man before her.

Reaching across the bar for a lho-stick, she paused for a moment as she ran through the possibilities before selecting a pair of Thedas and deftly pulling them out of the rack, twirling both around her fingers as she placed one in front of the man and raised the other to her lips. Pulling a lighter from underneath the bar, she lit off the end of the long, licorice-black stick and inhaled deeply. Thedas weren't massively potent, but the hit was still noticeable to Zoeriss.

"Try it." She suggested, "I find it helps take your mind off of...well, everything. Don't worry: it's just lho. Nothing more."

Zoeriss took another long drag before speaking again.

"So, what's your name anyway?" She asked, "I'm Zoeriss."

[Crysuko]

"Markus" he replied, picking the stick up and lighting it before tentatively taking a drag. His eyes widened, "wow" he said, blowing some smoke out "this is pretty strong" a feeling of calmness began to settle on his troubled mind "thanks, this helps a lot. I've been getting weird dreams, halleucinations and other weirdness for weeks now. Just last night I dreamt some shadowy being told me that I was special, like I have a gift or something" he tried to think more about it, but the drug put a syrupy feeling of relaxation on his mind. He lightly shook his head, and took another drag "what about you? or am I just going mad"

[New Zacharia]

Odalia started to get her backpack down and rummage through it to find a canteen of water and some bread. She put it near the side of the tramp in robes," here, eat and drink."

Even through the dirge of the factorum's toil those words caught him from his thoughts. Abdus scrabbled for the offering with gnarled and twisted hands, whimpering with relief as he seized it. Devouring the bread, he peered out from under his rags and caught a glimpse of his saviours, and they too, caught a dreadful glimpse of him. One half of Abdus' face was webbed over with scars, and his hair grew only in withered clumps that clung to a blistered scalp like dying weeds.

His one good eye flickered between Valks and his men for just a moment, before he huddled back under his rags and prostrated his body before them. Having never experienced it, Abdus did not know the concept of charity. He could no more conceive of it than he could conceive of a world existing beyond the hive. To Abdus, by accepting their food he had been taken on as their slave. Struggling to speak, he sputtered "I..will..will serve - I can serve, masters".

[Wine-loving Chimps]

"Sandbags." growled a lowly Imperial guardsman while piling another one at the end of the street.

"Why do we even need these things?"

Sergeant Frank, the man who's likeness Games Workshop had probably copied to get the sergeant model for, is annoyed at this questioning." Private- the sandbag will to protect the Leman Russ while we clear the mutants. Now, if I hear you grumbling again Private I will refer you to the Commissar."

In silence, Julius Tottori handled the sandbags. Nobody would work near him, making him practically the only one working on the far side of the barrier. Not that anyone overtly hated him: au contraire, Julius was a popular man within the regiment... on the surface. If you kept him on the other side of the table, or had him 10 paces in front or behind you while on a patrol. But nobody wanted to be actually near him. To do so with a blank was uncomfortable, for some inexplicable reason.

Sergeant Frank pointed his chainsword at the last sandbag at the back of the Gorgon which had carried them here. Everyone understood the grumbler had to go through that extra effort, and he did so, silently. Sergeant Frank looked at something in the distance- was it the sun? No, it could not be, not this far into the crumbling and rotten underbelly of the hive. Then he looked back at his men and commented" Outstanding. Just in the nick of time for the barbed wire. Now, quick. High Command wants us to assist here, and I want you ready, with lasguns, when the tank arrives."

The barbed wire is pulled and strewn across the top of the sandbags. Looking out onto the deserted street, the sergeant simply adds" The mutants are likely to run this way. They think we don't know about this place. In the past they were right. Last time we cleared this place they were right. This time- they have something coming."

A rumbling sound. Julius Tottori turned his head to see the Leman Russ come to take its position of honour in the sandbags.

But what an underwhelming sight. If it had been repainted this decade, then that painter should be fired. A brass colour poked out of the black and brown mud and and soot that covered the tank. The engine wheezed and moaned, as if it was begging for a tech priest to examine it. The guns were in good condition, and so were the tracks, suggestion somebody had paid attention to it once, but all that was ruined by the man holding the auto gun at the top, who looked like he had escaped a graveyard. And was still proud of the achievement.

"Booyah! Time to kill some mutant filth in the name of the Emperor!" jubilates the gunner.