Voices in the Shadows

It begins; the data logs of Attilas Tzarin

(Session 2 of campaign) introduction of TECHPRIEST and cleric.

Cathedral. Data banks. Cache/ vault of relics.

Successfully operate machinery and scavenge spare parts.

Go up in lift. Assaulted by forge workers. Violence initiated by new comrades in arms. Wary of ‘doc’ clearly has a substance abuse problem and is a habitual liar.

Murat is unhinged but driven and acts with authority and clarity of purpose.

The cop is trustworthy. A valuable ally in this war zone.

The cleric seems uncomfortable around other imperials…

I need to make repairs and further fortify the complex from the green skin threat.

Corridor shenanigans. Shut off steam valve. More violence, i am caught up in trigger happy attidtude of Murat. Enter canteen. Lots of blood. Scan map. Move out to make contact with Colonel Inez. Big warehouse. I move to the lift and am inspecting the workings. Orks crash in. Gun fight. Cleric has taken leave of his senses. Leaps off gantry. He is very nervous about meeting more imperials. More Orks arrive and are gunned down by imperial guard forces. Fortunately I am clear of the fusillade. Enter lift… //end of session 2

(Authors note: sorry chaps. Will write this up properly ASAP. Currently just notes whilst its fresh. Backstory and session three to follow sometime this week.)

The Doc
The days before

The thick foliage crushed under the weight of his boot as his pace quickened, the sun was beginning to fade and only a fool would attempt passage through the forest by night. it had been nearly two full days since he’d drawn down on Commissar Jurek tearing him apart with a shredder shell a close range.

Being of noble birth in the hives of Necromunda afforded one a position of envy, and mild political influence. He bore the right surname, had the right friends and attended the right parties, but there was always something missing. A sense of excitement. Real danger. At times he would visit the underhive, incognito, finding a perverse charm in it’s filth and decadence. Its violence.

He was 19 when the Guard came calling, offering adventure. A sense of purpose, and the chance to see the galaxy.

After basic training he was dispatched to Lv4-27, a small moon orbiting the ocean planet of Indon.

Upon arriving a hunting party of whip tailed indigenous xenos tore the belly out of the landing party. He had never watched a man he knew to be a friend ripped limb from limb, but that day he lost count of the men he scrambled to save, most of them too far gone for his efforts to matter.

Days of bloody fighting resulted in huge loses until the xenos were scattered to the swamp forests and a second wave of guardsmen began landing and securing a base of operations.

Whilst undeniably deadly the beaten xenos, in their significantly reduced numbers could often be easily avoided and posed little threat to the Imperium from that point forward. Life began to quieten.

All he found was the monotony of daily drills. 9 years in med core treating scurvy and the occasional result of a run in with the locals.

Chems became his friend. Chems became his crutch to lean and developed into his crux to bear.

It started innocently enough with sleeping aids. Too much time to think on LV 4 – 27, too much time for something to go wrong upstairs. Pain suppressants, muscle enhancers, brain function inhibitors, all at the tip of his fingers. A battlefield medic who’s seen the horrors of combat can always ‘lose some inventory.’ There are ways to make stocks disappear and seem legitimate. He had become an expert.

Jurek was a stern man, a seasoned battle strategist sent only last winter to LV4-27. His left leg rebuilt with bionics, and his left hand was missing two fingers. A deep scare ran across his face, and his skin was peppered with shrapnel acne. Had he been sent to LV4-27 as punishment the men often surmised? It seemed a strange and dismissive place to send a soldier of honour. Whatever the case, Jurek carried that chip deeply on his shoulder. He ran the bastion with a iron fist, accepting nothing less than absolute excellence.

The day it all fell apart began inconspicuously enough, with the man going about his general duties within the camps infirmary. A patrol had left early that morning on a scouting party. Reports had identified a possible sighting of an Orc war party. These rumours whilst wildly outlandish and highly unlikely to carry any weight needed to be investigated non the less.

He shot up the last of the morphine chems in his personal supply, and opened the medical fridge to refill his syringe belt.

The door burst open and Sander and Newbury almost fell into the room. Sander was dragging something behind him.

The medic squinted, trying to adjust his focus. The morphine chems had slowed his reactions down and his eyes were glassy. He blinked again. Sanders dropped what he was pulling and hysterically yelled for help.

He blinked again. The sounds were slowly ebbing away to a distant echo. He tried again to steady his high.

“Fucking help him!!” Screamed Sanders. “What are you doing? Don’t just fucking stand there.”

He looked once more, understanding for the first time that the lump on the floor was Lieutenant Harrex. His chest caved in, claret spilled out all over the white infirmary floor. A trail of blood disappearing down the corridor.

“Hey,” said Sanders, “Are you in there? You gotta help the LT”

They lifted him into the operating table and began to try and remove some of his armour. The Chest plate was now mashed into his flesh, it wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. He wiped his brow, and reached for his scalpel blade fumbling it and dropping it to the floor.

“Orks, loads of em” said Newbury. “They come outta nowhere.”

He looked up at Newbury, registering the fear on the young mans face before looking back down to the fallen scalpel blade. He reached down for it, his head spinning, his body feeling light. Crash, his balance gave way and all he could see was darkness.

A full day had passed til he next opened his eyes. Chained to a light recon buggy he scanned the terrain trying to get a fix on his location. Jurek rode shotgun just infront of him, and two veteran guardsmen sat either side of him.

“Chem abuse, theft and negligence by right dictates a dishonourable discharge. Procedure, commission reports, council applications, but given the new Ork threat and the fact that your failure cost the life of one of my In my best men, im going to go ahead and skip all of that bullshit and just drop you in the deepest darkest part of this horrible cess pit of a planet and leave nature to take it course,” snarled Jurek.

The buggy pulled to a stop. Jurek exited, and the two vets dragged him from the back.

“On your knees scum” said one. “I’d just as soon as do you here and now,” he continued.

The Veteran raised his shotgun and pressed the barrel hard into the medics forehead.

“I like to keep this handy. Makes a real mess of things.”

Jurek reached into his pocket and pulled out a stogey. He lit it and pull back hard inhaling the fumes.“I’ll end it here for you boy, if you want me to?”

The medic closed his eyes. Silent. Accepting. Far away from the nobility of the hive Spires, this is where it would end.

A crack and a spray of liquid across his face. Before he opened his eyes he knew it was blood. He could taste the Iron.

The veteran’s face was split down the middle as single Ork had happened itself upon their party. The second veteran reached for his lasgun, but it was too late, the Ork swung around, firing wildly with his shoota. The round splintered the vets shin bone and he dropped to one knee, pulling a cobalt blade from his belt. He presented the knife infront of him attempting to parry the oncoming axe swing from the Ork. The blade shattered as the axe passed through it and lodged itself into the guardsman’s collar. Blood spurted out and he let out a manic scream. The Ork re positioned and dealt a final blow slicing the veteran from his shoulder to his gullet. He slumped to the forest floor.

The Ork’s blood thirsty eyes found the Medic still motionless on the spot and made a step toward him, axe poised to strike, before his next burst outwards and green flesh splattered onto the floor ahead of him. Jurek retracted his combat blade, and side stepped out from behind the Ork. He drew his auto pistol and fired three shots into the face and head of the stumbling Ork. It crashed backwards onto the floor.

Jurek holstered his weapon and took a moment to survey the carnage. He turned and called out to the buggy driver who was still sat in the driving seat, frozen with fear. “Radio to base. Give them our location. Send a full unit.”

He turned back again to face the medic.

The veterans shotgun poised and aimed at Jurek’s chest, a moment passed between them.

“Would you just let me disappear” the medic asked.

A beat.

Jurek reached for his holster, the shotgun fired, ripping through Jurek and sending into a large shrub.

“Didnt think so.”

The man got up, he ransacked the three bodies that lay before him, taking a medi kit , some stims, the shotgun, Jurek’s auto pistol and combat blade, and an assortment of other useful bits.

He turned his gaze to the buggy that was tearing away in the distance. The driver flooring it in the moment Jurek fell. He knew it was only a matter of time until they found him. He had to find a way off planet. If he could get back to the Necromunda he’d be safe. A man with his skills could go a long way in the underhive.

He began to run.

The thick foliage crushed under the weight of his boot as his pace quickened….

Suddenly he spotted movement up ahead. A lone grot. He slowed his pace and tried to measure the distance. He pulled out his combat blade and moved silently in for the kill. A stumble. It had been over 72 hours now since his last high, and his muscles were beggining to ache. He felt the sweat pooling up onto his forehead. The sickness was definitely in the post.

He steadied himself, and with that he noticed a second, then a third, a fourth, fifth. It was a scouting party. He froze still, then began backing away. The Grots, totally unaware of his presence. 5 Grots were no match for him on a given day, but in this state, and with what may lay ahead of them, retreat was the sensible move.

As he backed away he heard the snap of branch underfoot, something was behind him. He spun around to see the butt of a blunderbuss smash into his face.

Blackness again.

Hands pulled at him, a sharp pinch in his arm. He knew that feeling. The familiar sensation of medi chems rushing into his blood stream, a warmth, a shining warmth.

He opened his eyes. 2 guardsmen busied themselves over him. His hand reached out for a weapon, but they held him down as they dressed a wound on his arm.

Why were they helping him. To what end?

With that he noticed a pirate behind them. Golden haired, carrying a Fearsome looking gun blade.

Behind him was the cop. A cop. A hired gun no doubt here to take him in for the murder of Commissar Jurek. That’s why they were patching him up. So he could stand trial and suffer for what he’d done. This was a fate worse than death.

The Cop leaned over him. “What’s your name son?”

Maybe he didnt know. Maybe none of the knew he thought. If they didnt know, then they mustn’t be an IG unit attached to this planet. That means they have a ship. That means they have some use. For now.

“You can call me Doc” he said.

Gm's log 11/3/13
A brief review of the session as a catch for those not there and refresher for those that were

Murat and Flavian found themselves in FOB camp bulldog, they were introduced to the camp sergeant rick ‘mongrel’ johnson. The pair head off in different ways Flavian to procure some armaments and Murat for a quick beverage. Murat meets two vendetta pilots who are willing to offload some of the extra wares in the storehouse…for the right price. He also convinces two other guardsmen to act as hired guns for the pair (murat), they agree provided its cleared with the mongrel.

Murat gets into a scrap with johnson, when he says he cannot allow any of his already low troop count to leave and yells at murat for trying to intimidate him. Fortuanatly Flavian interupts before things get too ugly. The pair team up again as the sergeant stomps off to his office, and head of to meet Murat’s acquaitances. Flavian turns a blind eye as Murat divulges in some suspect dealings and procures some extra gear and the services of two vendetta pilots. They begin to head off to the gunships when Murat peels off and says he will catch up later.

Murat slinks into the mongrels office and ‘settles’ an argument….

The crew touch down in a clearing in the jungle as far forward as they can out of Ork gun fire range and head off in the direction of the forge. As they move along, Flavian spots a glimpse of light through the dense jungle and moves in to investigate, where he clumsily disturbs some grots kicking the crap out of a weary looking guardsmen. Flavian takes a shot to the leg from a grot shoota, followed by an unlucky lasgun shot from one of the pilots, which drops him to the ground. From there with gritted teeth – he exacts his vengeance sending bits of grot sailing through the trees using his shotgun.

The crew gather round the downed guardsmen and the pilots bring him round and patch him up using their field survival skills. The guardsmen introduces himself as Doc.

They try to continue but the jungle is too dense and they can’t get through so go back the way they come and take a different path from the LZ. once again Flavian takes point and carefully treads along, he notices movement in the shadows and the occasional flash of red, he sends a message to the others to take care over the vox. the others sneak along behind him, the doc follows the same path while the pilots move through the denser jungle.

Suddenly a great reptillian beast emerges next to Flavian, with a huge drooling maw lined with cracked and ragged teeth, and a barbed tail dripping with a purple ooze swishing behind it. Flavian rolls to the ground and fires his shotgun in its face shredding flesh and crushing skull, the beast drops to the ground in death throes, catching Flavian with its barb but fortuanatly not wounding him.

The doc tries to pull off a similar feat when another beast looms out in front of him, though he is not so nimble misses the head, however catching the body and knocking the beast back, Flavian steps in and finishes the beast off with his pistol…much to Docs dismay.

Meanwhile the pilots are ambushed by one of the beasts, while one rolls to safety the other is caught in its maw by his shoulder and pinned against a tree, Murat comes dashing in to save the day but gets his glaive stuck in a tree, the free pilot fires his rifle but misses in the confusion catching Murat. Who then recovers and frees his glaive swinging at the beast, but misses. The pilot stuck in the beasts mouth, drives his dagger into its eye causing his release. As the whiptail recoils in pain and paws at its wound, Murat darts in and slices deep into its neck but gets caught by its tail taking a slight nick.

The group rally themselves and patch up, before continuing along, they come to a fork. on the left a long straight line leading out into daylight, on the right a dark and winding path. Flavian starts off down the left, but is later forced to head back down the right path when everyone else moves off that way. Doc is on point and wanders haplessly into a stranglevine, shortly followed by Murat who heroically tries to help the Doc before blundering arse over tit into the vine too. As they struggle flavian strolls up and unslings the flamer, and sends a thick jet of flame spewing out over the main body of the vine. Allowing Murat and Doc to escape.

Murat struts off towards the head of the group with his two hired guns in front of him, with slightly dented pride. They continue along, forgetting the need to tread lightly, before too long they are met with a snarling Ork boy thundering along the path towards them, the two gunmen take aim, Smith panics and misses – but thompson is a little more collected (what with being a trained sniper) and manages to slow the Ork a little with well directed shot to the chest. The Ork still comes though and barrels into Smith smashing its choppa into his chest and sending him sailing through the trees. Murat charges in to run the Ork through with his glaive, but also gets sent thundering into a nearby tree with broken ribs. Thompson in his quick thinking grabs a hallucinogen grenade pulling the pin, causing the Ork to drop to the ground and start tearing at its skin yelling about bugz, while thompson stands up giggling and jibbering something about invisibilty before stumbling off the track into the bush.

Flavian goes after thompson, and the Doc walks over to the Ork and puts a bullet through its brain – before making sure Murat and Smith are ok and patching them up as best he can.

The group move a little further and come to the end of the jungle, the forge is not far away- maybe a few hours. They decided to set up camp as dusk is falling and they could all use some time to heal their wounds and aches.

Trooper de Lupa Log

Day one in service to the Holy Ordos.

I sit in the back of the shuttle carrier, listening to the thrum and whine of the engines as we enter the atmosphere. The deck begins to shake with the pressure of re-entry. I glance at the figure standing across from me chatting easily with the men around him. The self-proclaimed ‘Rogue trader’ Murat. He was young, too young to be a captain of a ship. I guessed his height to be around 6’1" – much taller than myself. He was flamboyantly dressed, with a main of yellow hair cascading down past his shoulders. A self assured smirk seemed constantly fixed to his face. But beneath this facade I could see something else. A slight subconscious lean into the metal surface of the hangar wall, away from the large open space between us. This is indicative of low level agoraphobia typical in hivers from the sub-hand. His narrow hips and broad shoulders revealed that he favoured fighting with a sword. When he spoke, his eyes narrowed slightly as if searching for leverage, an ideal trait in a pirate. He was precisely the type of person I would usually avoid. I figured he or someone he dealt with owed the Holy Ordos and he was here to make good on that. I can understand now why I was called in.

I was honoured of course. To be called upon by the inquisition was an opportunity few in the God-Emperors Imperium would ever be given. I had to wonder why me though. I was a trooper for run of the mill arbiter contingent. Sure, I was a good shot and a good trooper, but a trooper nonetheless.

Upon landing at camp bulldog, we were briefed by a gruff, grizzled guard sergeant referred to a ‘Mongrel’ an unflattering, but apparently fitting moniker. He explained the situation on the ground and that he’d been asked to provide us with the necessary pilot and carrier that would be able to slink us closer undetected to our target: a forge complex where a high ranking Ordos member was stranded. After the brief Murat made his leave to go and inebriate himself on the local mess hall, while I headed for the armoury.

Incoming message

Acolyte ######,

Your orders are to travel to the war world of Kulth in the Calixis sector, a former feudal planet being developed into a forgeworld, which is under invasion by Orks. A distress call was recieved from Inquisitor Constantine, however the signal was interrupted before we could receive the full message. He was working on a classified machine, which must be retrieved, at a secret bunker. The bunker has since fallen into enemy territory, you will be dropped planetside by valkyrie, near a settlement as close to the bunker as possible without getting into enemy anti-aircraft range.

Be cautious, the astropaths have noticed unusual warp activity and we have been tracking the ork invasion – it does not match typical ork behaviour.

May the Emperor’s Will be with you.


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