Dark Heresy: The White Chamber

Pius was haunted by the hole in space when they came into the room. He broke away from the sight to cover the rear while the others sorted out what to do next.

When the call came split the team in two he was satisfied going across. He didn't like the idea of staying with the psyker, something was just off with him. Seeing as the psyker was staying with the Arbite he was not to worried. Bringing his weapon around he fell in with the rest of the team going across, his attention being drawn constantly to the hole.
 
Garen's head was on a near constant swivel, scanning the area before them steadily. He spared the commotion of the Arbitrator admonishing the Psyker a passing glance, just to make sure all hell was not about to break loose. He was not exactly thrilled to be traversing further into the grand open space that had so effectively chilled his blood moments earlier. Too much open ground... not enough cover. Despite this fact, he was still wondering about the ending to the joke he had come up with. He'd have to wait and see what happened.

He made a hand signal to the group to spread out by a few paces. Not that he had a fear of being caught unaware by a grenade at the moment, but he had heard stories about space hulks in the past from other storm troopers. Those who had the displeasure of being selected to board one tended to either not come back or return with stories that bordered upon preposterous. A lot could be lurking within something that's been traversing the warp for any short amount of time... much less something as old as he suspected this vessel was. Better for only some of them to be eviscerated than all of them.

He paused for a moment, reaching his non-firing hand to brush gloved fingertips over the smooth metal surface of a wall, eyes flickering behind the concealment of his mask. He turned towards his companions. "Perhaps not an explosion. But what about an implosion? Can you see into the center of the hole? Is there anything there?"
 
Put simply, the chamber was unlike anything Caine had ever seen, and his augmented eyesight saw the dimensions of the sphere.
it was perfect it's shape perfectly sphereical to withing .02 of a nanometre and Caine whispered a benediction to the machine god, for such perfection was both humbling.......and terrifying.
for what but creatures of the warp, or one of mankinds other deathly foes could create such mechanical perfection on such a large scale.

as he walked and stared, Caine made notes on his wrist mounted dataslate and muttered as he did so, his laspsitol almost quivering.
 
It had been some time since their last report. Both teams evidently had been unsuccessful at ascertaining what had caused the hole, given the silence. Garen was beginning to grow weary of their blatant tactical disadvantage. They still had no idea what was inside the hole. He was even loathe to use illumination for the fact that it would make them even more blatant to whatever eyes might be hiding in the dark, and there was already a sensation of being watched permeating the hollowed guts of the hulk.

A great shape pierced the gloom not far from them; a large, once-ornate archway which had evidently led into the bridge. Just within the arch was an elaborate cogitator, showing telltale signs of linkages into the maintenance sections of the ship. Caine's trembling suddenly ceased and he quickly clomped over to the cogitator, eager to link with it. The group instinctively fanned out to provide him protection while he worked.

"Let's give the good machine doctor a little cover..."

Caine braced himself against the bulkhead as before, swooning as though in the throes of symptoms from some unknown narcotic. The cogitator clattered quietly, clanking every so often-- presumably from the age of the device. After a moment, the linkage cable retracted. Caine continued to lean against the bulkhead, however, not turning to face his companions.

Garen looked over his shoulder after a moment, noticing that the clicks and clatters from the cogitator had ceased. "... So what's the verdict?"
 
Julius paced carefully through the Hulk's immense halls, their steps resounding and echoing on the walls and ceiling, making them sound like a lot more people, that probably wouldn't be too good if another daemonhost was waiting in the next corner, and if Zayin didn't feel it, like last time… He shook his head and continued walking, shotgun up front, staying close to one of the walls of the much too silent structure.

"Gorrax, how quick are you with your powers?" he didn't look back at him, instead he kept his pace at the front of the team, "I'm no expert on how your people shredding skills work, so just tell me if you can kill them before they can rip us to shreds."
 
Severus was uneasy none of this fit. "What was...." his thoughts were leading him to dangerous places, but not as dangerous as what had caused ... this whole ship was cursed, he could feel it. Forsaken, dank, they should not have come here.

What had been in the center of the chamber, which machine spirit had lashed out in anger? Who had been on the vessel at the time? Had this been the emperor's vengeance against traitors or foul witchcraft? The latter was the more worrying and he eyes the psyker wearily, if the ruinous powers overtook Zayin.. His hand resting on the longlas gave nervous twitch, better to lose one psyker than an entire party and unleash a demon on the faithful.
 
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Vates jolted as his vox-caster chimed. The noise was almost deafening, given the suffocating confines of the corridor where the team was advancing. Trying not to show how unnerved he was, the Arbitrator pressed his earpiece. "Go ahead, Caine."

The mechanical voice of the Tech-Priest answered, sounding worlds away, even though the two teams had only been separated for an hour or so. "Arbitrator, I have recovered a fragment of the ship's log. The main archives were lost with the Bridge, but a sub-log was found in the engineering backups. I theorise that a high-level Servitor from the Bridge was undergoing maintenance and had its memory files downloaded to the..."

"Just play the logs, Jericus," Vates interrupted, trying to keep one eye on his auspex as he rounded the next corner. A few seconds passed before the faint voice of the Acherade's lost captain joined the footsteps of the teams.


57812911, Departing from Cloister's orbit. Our delivery to the Mendicant Order was on schedule. By the mercy of the Beneficient Emperor, the Order should now have enough food and medical supplies to last the next cycle. I leave this world with the comfort that comes only from aiding the pious. The Mendicants are an inspiration to the Imperium, surviving out here on only the charity of their fellow man. As way of showing my respect, I have granted passage to a certain Inquisitor who was among them. He seeks passage to Sigurd IV and, Emperor willing, I shall honour his wishes...


As the recording played, something shimmered on the wall fifty feet behind Zayin, who was at the back of Vates's team. The outline of the bulkhead slipped slightly then lifted back into place.


57813297, our second day on the Hazeroth Rim. Our journey goes smoothly and the Navigator reports all is well. I spoke with our "special guest" this evening and a most unusual individual he is, as perhaps can be expected from a Servant of the Left Hand. They say no two Inquisitors are alike and that each is as different from another as a hive world from an agri-world. Never was this saying truer than with this man, who calls himself simply 'The Evertore'. Had I not screened him when he first stepped into my hangar, I might have doubted he was human at all. The Evertore neither ate nor drank what I offered him, but simply watched me as I dined and told such stories as I have never heard. Tales of xenos and magics, of strange worlds and dark inventions. I felt it almost heresy to listen, but he has a way this 'Evertore', as if perhaps a little of the Emperor's own charisma has been instilled in him. He says he has a way to improve my engine-capacity and, Emperor forgive me, I'm almost tempted to believe him...


In a corridor parallel to Vates's team, a door opened slightly and a figure stepped through. It registered as the faintest half-blip on Vates's auspex and he lifted his hand to halt the team, shaking the device as interference distorted the image. He frowned as the blip disappeared again.


57814012, departing the Hazeroth Rim. I have finally given in to our guest's repeated offers of help. I can see him growing bored with sitting in his guest quarters and at the same time I fear I will never meet another Inquisitor for as long as I live. Perhaps the Emperor has sent him here for a reason. So this morning I granted the Evertore access to the engine-chambers and he immediately set about calculating improved ratios and re-callibrations. The chief techs were a little upset by his presence, but the machine-spirits seem to like him. And there is no doubting his results. Our systems are running at 110% already and I estimate we will arrive in the Sigurd System fourteen days ahead of schedule. A blessing indeed!


Meanwhile, the other team was continuing onwards. As Jericus played the logs through his own and Vates's vox-casters, he overrode the controls on the next door and made them cycle open. With Garen leading the way and Pius covering, the team stepped through into darkness.


57815719, in the shade of Seth Nebula. We have a problem with the propulsion engines - the techs say it is interference from the Nebula - higher than usual radiation. But this is the seventeenth time I have run this course and the Nebula has never been a problem before. Needless to say, I am troubled, but, thank the Emperor, the warp engines remain unaffected. Warp travel is possible, and it would certainly take us away from the nebula, but we are still a long way from our usual jump-point at the Regulus Threshold. Our Navigator says it is too dangerous to make an unscheduled jump. His third eye is clouded in this place, the Immaterium too unstable. So we are stuck here...


Vates smacked the auspex against his shield. There was no further sign of the blip and everything was quiet. He waved his team on, even as the wall behind him twitched.


57815724, border of the Seth Nebula. There is hope. The Evertore has told me he is a powerful Psyker and that he can help us yet again. In the commotion of being stranded I had almost forgotten about our guest. The Evertore has requested access to the inner sanctum of the Navigator, where he will assist with the warp-jump. Such measures are highly unorthodox, but the crew grows restless and the Navigator seems willing. Right now I believe the warp jump is our only hope. So we will try. By the Emperor, we will try...


On the other side of the ship, Jericus's team halted in the dark chamber as their searchlights faded and went out. They could see the hole again through a breach in the wall, but everything else was swamped in shadow.


57815720, location unknown. An hour ago we jumped to warp and I have now retired to my chambers after passing command to my lieutenant. Something more than the Immaterium troubles me - a memory of last evening. As usual I dined with The Evertore and as usual I drunk my own share of wine and his. It went to my head a little, such that the evening passed in a blur which only now is clearing in my memories. But I remember something the Evertore said. I will try to recall the words as best I can. "Tomorrow, Captain, when I am alone with your Navigator, you and all your crew will become a part of my stories. For the White Chamber will be opened." Just as I have spent little time with Inquisitors I have spent even less with Psykers. Perhaps it is a term used by warp-seers, but I have never heard tell of a "White Chamber". It is strange how two simple words can fill a man with such dread. Anyway, it is perhaps n_____________________________________________________


The recording ended in static, the last words of a dead man fading to silence.

"Jericus," spoke Vates into his vox-caster, "Check the schematics again. Tell me if the centre of that hole was the same place as the Navigator's Cha.."

He never finished the sentence. Vates's throat was pulled shut as a garotte wire hooked beneath his jaw. He was wrenched off his feet towards the vent shafts, legs kicking in panic as he tried to get his fingers between the wire and his throat. The wire cut the skin and only the hardened scar-tissue from his recent injuries stopped it slicing into bone and artery. Above him, in the vent shafts, all that could be seen was a slight blur, the shape of two hands moving in the shadows.

A split-second later, Zayin was blasted aside as the corridor wall tore open. A monomolecular blade sliced in front of his eyes, but he was already falling from the shockwave. He had barely hit the ground when a slender figure barged through the breached metal, standing between him and the dangling Vates. Its armour was shimmering black, the helm bone-white and masking eyes of a terrifying and utterly alien intellect. With ancient hatred in bloom, the Dark Eldar Incubi drove its Punisher Blade towards the prone Psyker.

Alarius was already turning, his blade at the ready to cut down the Incubi, but then another figure lurched through the breach, this one slender and half-naked, daubed in gruesome tattoos. The Wych blocked his weapon and snagged his other arm with a razor-net, a dozen barbs slicing through his suit and snagging the flesh. He was pulled off balance and towards the swinging knife of the Eldar maiden.

Julius was the last to react and by then he had already turned the next corner and realised his mistake. Around the next bend, nubile shapes spilled out of the adjoining rooms, indigo and purple armour glistening in the emergency lighting. The Dark Eldar Warriors fired their splinter-rifles in unison and sent a hail of crystals towards the guardsmen. He barely had time to jump back before they struck the bulkhead and shattered into dozens of poisoned shards.


On the other side of the ship, Jericus froze as he heard the chaos coming through the vox-caster. "Arbitrator? VATES! What's happ--" But as before, the Acolyte never got to finish his sentence.

The lights in the chamber came on all at once, a dozen candles bursting into flame. And then a hundred-fold bolts of terror shot through the hearts of the second team, as all around them they saw faces and twitching limbs hung upon the wall.

They had found the crew...

Like an obscene choir, the impaled and entombed crewmen screamed, faces yawning wide as electric charges rippled through them. They had been mounted like paintings around the chamber, and on the floor were the rest of the crew, stripped naked and strewn here and there. Some had had their skin peeled away and pinned open like a dissector's specimens, while others had had their bones broken and reset into obscene shapes. And each one of them was being straddled, licked or embraced by sensuous figures. Dark Eldar - male and female - in states of undress, swaying with erotic glee to the music of the screams.

And between the Wyches and Warriors moved the shambling Grotesques, who turned their horrid eyes upon the Acolytes and hissed. And one among them, a tall figure in Slaaneshi robes, gave a sickly smile as he conducted the choir.

"Welcome, Mon-Keighs," chucked to Haemonculus, "Welcome to my symphony..."

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Musical Score: Biomechanical Man - Lordi

As the lights came on the air positively filled with both lust and fear, and Caine bristled, hsi mechadendrites tensing and uncoiling like angry snakes.
The Tech Preist screamed a battle prayer asking the omnissiah for guidance, his machine altered voice unable to hide the abject loathing and hatred as the Grotescues loped forwards, lasbolt after lasbolt from Caine's hellpistol struck the filthy abominations but the former citizens of Cormorragh ignored them as if they were the bite of an angry insect

"Focus Fire! our weapons will be insufficient to kill these creatures unless we all attack the same target at once! but do not let them close!" he bellowed over the vox as he changed out the spent charge cell for a fresh one.

Caine opens fire on the grotesque to no effect. he tells his squadmates to focus fire and keep away from the dark eldar abominations.
 
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Garen paused and had to check his vox initially, tapping on the housing which was contained within the side of his helmet. It simply didn't fully register to him that the other team had been ambushed without any warning. Then the lights came on...

All questions were removed from his mind when he finally got the ending to his joke. He didn't really want it anymore. To this particular thought a little voice in the back of his mind impishly replied, 'No refunds.'

This isn't "ha-ha" funny, he mentally shot back.


And between the Wyches and Warriors moved the shambling Grotesques, who turned their horrid eyes upon the Acolytes and hissed. And one among them, a tall figure in Slaaneshi robes, gave a sickly smile as he conducted the choir.

"Welcome, Mon-Keighs," chuckled the Haemonculus, "Welcome to my symphony..."


'Too bad,' replied the little voice in his head.

The carnage mixed with debauchery was almost too much for Garen. He had seen his share of brutality, violence and cultist activity, but not quite like this. He bared his teeth with an outraged curl of his lip, and his eyes were wild with pain and anger behind the reflective lenses of his mask. The sounds of battle on the other side of the ship were still flooding in through the vox. It didn't take long for him to decide... there was only one natural solution to this unnatural situation.

"I... you filth... I HATE OPERA!" He snarled, dropping to one knee and releasing his Hellgun for a split second while he tore a frag from the harness of his carapace armor. If he survived and had time to reflect later, he would resolve to come up with better lines that could possibly be his last words. For now, he hastily armed the frag and tossed into the largest concentration of Dark Eldar.

The frag buffeted all noise from the room momentarily as crew and unclothed xenos alike were shredded and scattered, silencing some of the piteous wailing which was echoing throughout the chamber. The few Wyches and Warriors who had been caught within the grenade's radius were thrown off their feet temporarily, but recovering quickly. Inwardly, he swallowed the pain he felt for the crew of the Acherade. If there was any left untouched, he hoped that they would survive. But for the ones who had already been... 'spoiled'... it was the Emperor's Mercy.


"Focus Fire! Our weapons will be insufficient to kill these creatures unless we all attack the same target at once! But do not let them close!" He bellowed over the vox as he changed out the spent charge cell for a fresh one.


He wasn't certain who was the one that yelled it. It vaguely sounded like Caine. Adrenaline was thumping through Garen's veins now, fueled by contempt, disgust and rage. He viciously snatched up his Hellgun, rising to his feet and squaring his stance to take aim before depressing the trigger on the trustworthy weapon. The Hellgun barked a loud series of bass-ridden cracks, loosing a stream of concentrated lasfire on the Grotesque before them. The burst struck the monstrosity in the chest, crackling and splitting the pitted skin there while leaving a rather unsightly fist-sized hole in place of organic matter, but to no avail. It was still alive, and shambling towards them now.

The other Dark Eldar were moving in to flank them, causing Garen grit his teeth and turning his attention from the Grotesque. He readied himself to suppress the advancing xenos. He trusted that his comrades knew what to do, but the pucker factor was still enough to make him speak unnecessarily. "Commissar, Severus!"
 
He felt like a child that had been caught sneaking through the upper sectors. Only instead of sweet smelling air and light he was surrounded by xenos so unimaginably corrupt that he felt unclean sharing the same air with them. It was a tactical nightmare, virtually surrounded and there were so many of the enemy.

A white flash and the sound of an explosion followed by the moans of the dieing shocked Severus back to reality and longlas came up sending a crackshot though the neck of one of the aliens sending his half naked ford to the deck an ark of blood following seemingly in slow motion. Someone was shouting as with the soft click of metal Severus readied another shot.

Then the grotesques came, howling monstrosities the product of the sick debachery the dark eldar pleasured themselves in. On was struck by a hail from the hellgun and melting the flesh melt under the assault Severus turned his gun and sighting over the top of the scope put the last ounce of pressure needed to release the burninf strean directly into the wound.

The creature howled in frustration it was was knocked over where it struggle to regain control if a shattered nervous system. But more of them screamed as they came. Another was slowed by a sh to the leg but it didn't even wince as iy jumped over its fellows to get at the acolytes.
 
How quick am I? How fast does it take you to blink?

That's what Zayin was about to say. He had been ignoring Vates at the vox and was about to address Julius when he suddenly found himself lying on his back, covered in debris and feeling the shrapnel of the explosion digging into him through his flak coat. He could hear nothing; just a dull, empty ringing bouncing about his head.

He had been laying there for barely a second before he saw it, a figure of pure, alien malevolence, black armour shimmering in the small light of the corridor, the smoke lending it an almost mystical presence. The helm was a bone white, terrifying in it's alien design. Zayin could only wish he had seen it before.

But terror was not the emotion seizing him and forcing him to suddenly move. Fear was there, but it was a small part. It was rage, pure and unadulterated rage. Here was the enemy, his enemy. Not only was it his enemy, it was His enemy. Zayin was not the most devout or exemplary member of the Cult of the Emperor, but he was still a believer.

And he was still very angry at the way Vates had man-handled him earlier.

Staring down the tip of the Dark Eldar's plate, Zayin barely flinched as he suddenly released the pent up psychic energies he had been holding onto. It exploded in a tight, forward-focused beam, like a rubber band pulled as far back as it would allow before rocketing forward. An invisible hand smashed into the abdomen of the Incubi and shoved it into the ceiling, then through the ventilation system incidentally smashing into the Eldar that had Vates in a lethal vice, forcing the alien to drop the Arbitrator, and finally he ground the Eldar further upward into the metal floor of the deck above.

Zayin roared and raised his arm toward the barely-visible Dark Eldar nemesis, fingers outstretched. Teeth bared in a wild sneer of glee and rage, Zayin clenched his fist and the alien-shaped hole imploded on itself in the wild screeching of shredded metal, pouring upwards into the Incubi.

Rolling onto his knees, he began to stand shakily. His left-hand had been firmly clenching his Psy-staff the entire time; no wonder he had launched the alien warrior with such power. Suddenly he began to cackle, faint white vapors of breath visible as the temperature dropped severely around him, his eyes now faintly glowing. Invisible tendrils began to move from him in all directions, and he screamed a challenge,

"Who's next?!"
 
Alarius rolled with the attack, but his characteristic assassin agility won the day. He was pulled off balance but only for a fraction of a second, he rolled with the attack, missing the wych's dagger by milimeters, in an instant he drew his wrackblade and sliced his arm free. Now free of his bonds, he lunged at his opponent, wrackblade striking her in the stomach...

It was all he needed

The neuro-whip processor within the wrackblade did it's work with brutal efficiency, instantly liquefying his opponents organs within her body. He withdrew the blade from her as she fell, reaching for him as if expecting mercy.

"Suffer not the unclean to live," were his only words, yet his voice, even muffled by his mask was chilling in it's soullessness.
 
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Vates writhed on the floor, clutching his throat as he sucked air back into his lungs and screwed his eyes against the oxygen-starved headache.

He could already feel it - the garotte had been poisioned, just like every blade and appendage of the Dark Elder breed. There would be pain, there would be suffering, the sharp and exquisite torment that had nothing holy or purifying in it. It would be the agony of the Xenos and nothing more.

But he still had time.

With a strained grunt the Arbitrator got back to his feet and ripped his shotgun from his back-sling. The ceiling above him was a crumpled mess from where Zayin's psychic fury had been unleashed; but there was still the breach in the wall. He rammed his shotgun into the opening and fired once, twice - hearing the scatter shot impact on alien flesh and armour.

"We're surrounded - we need to move!" Vates roared above the cry of the Wych slaughtered by Alarius. And with that he dived through the hole, bringing up his suppression shield to barge aside the first shape that loomed before him. There was another alien cry and then the way was cleared.

Zayin and Alarius just made it through the breach behind him, but Julius was cut off in a hail of fire. They had no choice but to leave the guardsman, as the Eldar were already hot on their heels.

As Vates lowered his shield he realised they were on the edge of the spherical abyss, in one the chambers that had been cleaved in half. And this fact was made painfully clear as he was tackled from one side by a Wych. Arbitrator and Eldar tumbled across the ground and over the precipice, dropping three floors before landing on the next exposed platform. Vates shotgun was lost but he had no time to mourn it. Coming up onto his feet, he readied his power maul and hefted the shield in front of him, facing down the tattooed and slender Wych who was drawing two blades with a ceremonial flourish.

It would be the battle of his life... and the alien poison was already coursing through his veins...



* * * * * * *


As the first team was divided and conquered, the second team was being forced into a corner.

In the orgy chamber the Grotesques were taking the brunt of the Acolyte's firepower, while the half-naked Wyches and Warriors were stalking around the flanks. Garen and Severus were forced to switch fire to cut them down, but this only left Jericus exposed. The mechanicus agent was slammed by one of the Grotesques and lifted off his feet, carried towards the wall of screaming prisoners. The beast pressed him against the mangled flesh of the crewmen, crushing air from his lungs with a crooked smile of delight.

Garen and Severus had no time to save him. They were keeping up a constant barrage of fire, and Commissar Pius seemed to no longer be at their side.

He was suffering a worse fate than Jericus on the other side of the chamber.

The Wyches had snatched the Commissar in the chaos and dragged him beyond the ranks of Grotesques. In the chamber's corner they pulled him over one of the stone altars, stripping at his clothes and equipment. And as they did so the Haemonculus straddled Pius, his damp thighs and silken robes brushing against the man's naked flesh. The monstrous lord ran a finger over the Commissar's cheek, a long nail of porcelain probing his flesh. His feminine lips were wet with saliva as he savoured each word of his crude Imperial Gothic.

"Now you whisper your secrets, Mon-Keigh... now you give me the Evertore." He leaned over the Commissar as the Wyches held his limbs, and the Haemonculus's tongue licked the sweat from his face. "Tell me where he is..."

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as his biological mind faded, having been denied oxygen, the augmentic side of Caine Jericus snapped into action, former crewmen squealing as mechadendrites tore through them as they slithered through the air, working their way up the Grotesque's chest until the metal, snake like appendages slammed upwards, smashing thrusgh the hardened, leathery flesh of the lower jaw, up through the soft flesh on the upper mouth and finally and most obviously, through tough skull, wigging like grey and red splattered worms.

The grotesque fell to the floor and Caine's body fell forwards, his augmentic legs carrying him forwards as his biological brain scrambled frantically to regain control
"I am the Omnissiah's mailed fist" a dark, low growl came from caine's throat vox, and it was not the Tech-Artisan's usual voice.

Wyches danced forwards to greet him, dancing around his swinging mechadendrites.
one drew so close she swung her blade, which slammed into Cain's steel fist, as the the cry of metal on metal rang out, the wytch gasped in both extact and suprise as Caine's mechadendrites forced her the pointed fingers of Caine's other hand, the Tech-Preist felt somthing pulsate and closed his hands around it, tearing the Wytch's heart from her body

"In the name of the Machine Spirits I do dedicate this offering of weak flesh, that it may serve as a reminder to the strength of the Machine" the voice intoned, though it warbled and started to revert back to that of Caine as his Biological brain regained full function.

with a Blurt of Binary, Caine picked up the Eldar Wytch's blade and set to work cutting his way to the commissar.
 
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"Caine! CAINE!" Garen snarled, doing double-takes as the Techpriest charged heedlessly into the midst of their foe's ranks. That wasn't a good thing. He looked to his sharp-eyed comrade. "If we don't catch their attention, our Commissar will be like the rest of these poor souls. Severus... aim well."

Without further explanation Garen advanced with Caine, squaring off every so often to fire a controlled burst into the crowd until he was a few paces behind the berserk Techpriest. He used his comrade for cover momentarily, praying that Caine still had the faculties to fight without exposing him too much. For the second time, he fell to one knee and settled his Hellgun on the floor of the hulk. This time he tore a Krak grenade from his harness, pulling the pin but holding the spoon for a moment. He peeked around to gauge the distance, spotting two shambling grotesques that were close together. He loosed his thumb, causing the spoon to spring away. He counted silently... One...two...

He coiled his arm and flung the Krak grenade into the ghastly entities. It clattered to the deck at their feet unnoticed after striking one in the chest. They shambled on for a pace, just on the brink of breaking into a lope when the Krak grenade detonated. Where the frag had blasted the air from the room, the Krak grenade seemed to suck it away. The air compressed suddenly before violently expanding into a tremendous bang that rattled the teeth and organs of everything in the room. What was left of the Grotesques crawled out of a smoking hole in the floor impotently, their bodies ending just below the ribcage.

Garen felt more than a little satisfaction upon seeing this. He gathered up his Hellgun, beginning to rise to his feet just before the world turned crooked and he found himself sliding across the ground. The decadent, smiling face of an Eldar Wych glared down at him as she raised a wickedly fanged blade above her head. "What shall I keep of you as a trophy, Mon'Keigh?"

Training took over, and Garen immediately locked his legs around the alien waist of the Wych, tightening armored thighs with the intent of crushing the life from her. The Wych barked a lusty cry of surprise as Garen fully extended his lower body, pushing her away from him... but to no avail. Despite the bone crushing pressure he was inflicting upon her, her lithe reaching arms sent the blade sailing through the air into his torso.

He barely managed to twist out of the way to his right, presenting an armored shoulder for a target instead of his neck. The blade bit deeply despite, nearly cutting clean through the upper bicep of his carapace armor. It was all the opening he needed. His right hand found the hilt of his chainsword, switching the grip deftly so the blade faced towards his thumb instead of forward. He gave a violent swing of his left arm, tearing away the blade from the Wych's hand while swinging the chainsword up and around the back of her neck with his right. His left hand found the spine of the chainsword on the opposite side of the Wych's neck and he pulled the Dark Eldar's glowering face close to the skull motif of his mask.

"Suck void, xeno bitch." He spat just before thumbing the trigger and showering himself in Dark Eldar gore.

He swatted the Wych's head from his chest and kicked her spasming corpse from atop himself as he climbed to his feet with a stagger. He wiped the thick blood from his goggles, feeling a sharp bite of pain which caused him to look down at his hand in surprise. His blood was flowing freely. In tearing the blade away from his opponent, he had also given it the opportunity to bite into the flesh of his upper arm. He didn't think that the sweat coating his face beneath his mask was just from physical activity, either. He wondered how quickly the toxin would act as he clipped the deactivated chainsword back onto his belt and regathered his Hellgun.

His vision swam as he kept up with Caine, squeezing off covering fire...
 
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Alarius saw the Wych tackle the Arbitrator and dove for him, but he was just a moment too late, his fingers missing Vates by mere millimeters. At the moment he sprang back to his feet he saw something, it was only a glimpse, but he knew what it was, it was a symbol, a symbol that brought forth every hated memory he tried so hard to forget

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It was the symbol of the Dark Prince Slaanesh, and suddenly Alarius was overwhelmed by hate, his assassin psychological training kicked in, and that hate was focused, given strength, and grew. In a mere instant he had gone from concern for his comrade, to complete and utter mindless hate.

With wrackblade in one hand and the other free Alarius began to work his death art, he grabbed a krak grenade from his chest and held tight onto the spoon, he charged at the nearest dark eldar and punched it in the mouth, grenade in hand breaking it's jaw, the dark eldar reeled but before he could respond Alarius was gone, he however left the grenade in the slot in it's armor, between the Gorget and the helm. The Warrior howled with fury as it's head and most of it's torso obliterated, Alarius had drawn two frag grenades and almost tossed them to Zayin, making it perfectly clear the intention in his mind.
 
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In a lower chamber - the remains of a mess hall - Arbitrator Vates met his foe on the edge of the abyss.

His power maul and suppression shield crackled into life, and as he took his stance the Eldar Wych spoke in a symphony of harsh guttural sounds and beautiful intonations - the grace and perversity of the Eldar tongue as one. It washed over Vates, each word like an alien sickness, but there was one sound that kept being repeated.

"Evertore!"

And in the second before they clashed, a realisation nagged at the corner of Vates's mind.

The Dark Eldar were hunting the Evertore just as much as the Acolytes were.


But then the reprieve was over. With the limber grace of an insect the Wych used a table in the mess hall to perform a running vault. It took him flipping over Vates's guard and as he passed he cut another gash in the Arbitrator's shoulder. More toxin swum into Vates's bloodstream and for a moment he staggered. Turning, he brought his shield up against the flurrying of blows of the alien's twin daggers, which drove him to the edge of the abyss.

His balanced swirled, the prospect of a sickening fall looming below. The great sphere of emptiness was like a vacuum sucking in his soul and erasing all his faculties.

The Emperor is my shield.

He dropped suddenly to his knees and brought the tip of the shield down on the Wych's toes. The shock unbalanced him and Vates used the opening to swing his maul and knock one of the daggers from his opponent's hand.

In darkness He is light when all is lost.

As the Wych corrected his footing, Vates rolled forward on his shield and got clear of the precipice.

Before me and beside me He shall walk, till the ending of my days.

The Eldar moved with inhuman speed, barely giving time for Vates to turn. Still on his knees, he blocked the Wych's remaining dagger with his maul then brought his shield across. Another spark drove the foe away, both of them spinning apart once more.

And as demons before His blade, so shall fall my iniquities.

The Wych was on the edge and Vates had got his balance. He dropped his maul as he turned and flung his shield horizontally, at chest height, forcing the Wych to bring up a leg to deflect it. The shield clattered aside, but the force ripped open the alien's boot and heel-bone, making it hiss in exquisite pain even as it went to throw its blade.

But the red dot of a lazer was already between its eyes. In the space of the throw, Vates had drawn his autopistol in both hands, the sight locking onto target.

Then unto light He shall deliver me, and all shall be as one.

He fired, once, twice, a third time, the crude and resolute metal punching into the Eldar Wych and propelling him from the edge of the chamber. In blood and smoke the alien tumbled away, delivered to the mile-long plummet of the abyss.

And as the echo of the gunshots rushed across the void, the Arbitrator slumped against one of the mess hall tables, his heart pounding as poisoned sweat pumped from his flesh.

The Emperor is my shield.

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His breathing was heavy, he was tense, outnumbered, outgunned and surrounded, neither were good positions for guardsmen, maybe for the sense of pride of marines, but he was still mostly human, unlike his enemies.

He hid behind the corner of another hall, and in there he quickly looked at the slowly approaching warriors, they had him pinned, and were in no rush to kill him. He was, though. The two warriors let out a burst of splinter fire from their rifles, and some of the shards hit him on his bionic arm. This time he looked again with his shotgun aimed at the warriors, and the chaotic sound of fire from the inferno shell was followed by the writhing and agonizing screams of one of the warriors, it was a direct hit on the warrior's things and upper abdomen. The other warrior had dodged the shot, and now she was enraged at the loss of her companion.

She drew a dagger and lunged at Julius, he wasn't fast enough, and the blade hit his mechanical arm again, but the long blade had managed to penetrate armor and metal and reach for the flesh and bone on his shoulders. However he fought the pain enough, and out of instinct he pressed the trigger on his shotgun several times at the exposed xenos.

He didn't know if there were any other enemies around, he had seen Zayin take on the Whych and a warrior... But he saw the hole the rest of his squadron had gone into, luckily the Warrior's blade wasn't poisoned, or at least he hadn't felt it, and figured he would feel it. He laid on the ground and tried to reload new shells into his shotgun as fast as his wounded arm would let him, he still had the blade in him, and it felt stuck in the mechanic components of his arm, his limbs weren't favored by the Emperor, that was for sure.

Julius got up, he tried to remove the blade once, but it wouldn't move from its place. The guardsman grunted and grabbed the blade once again, but the thought that the bleeding would be too much for retention at the moment and the drip of any liquids from his arms into his flesh wouldn't do him too good made him think twice. He left it there, after all it wasn't bleeding too badly. He got out of his cover, into the ruined hall, stained with blood and flesh and armor upon the rusted steel of the hull. They couldn't stay there much longer.

"Vates, can you hear me?" There was no answer, he tried with Alarius and Zayin, but there was only static and gunfire. The fight wasn't over, those damned xenos wouldn't stop until the last of them died. Good thing he'd brought enough grenades.

"Alarius, can you hear me?! he tried another time as he went into the hole, but he didn't get an answer. He'd have to keep trying.
 
In the orgy chamber thing were going from terrible to hopeless. It was them fortunate that the faithful mind can go without the distraction of hope. Cain, Pius and Garen where gone, only the sounds of battle told Severus they were still alive, though among the screaming crewmen, echoes and general chaos it was impossible to tell direction.

Severus fired again the red flash of his shot drawing a line right into the neck of a wych who wend down wide eyed, hands flying to her neck even as the head went spiraling away the jagged blades she carried falling onto the body of a grotesque.

"The light of the emperor guide my hands, machine spirit don't fail me now." Severus muttered hand drawing another flash grenade and throwing it before his enemies. He shielded his eyes as the brilliant light of the emperor's might filled the chamber and the screams of several aliens echoed as they were cut down in their blindness and confusion. But it nor enough to stem the xeno tide that rushed forward relentlessly.

Before Severus had time to offer a prayer a wych fell upon him. Blades glowing malevolently cutting and arc towards the assassin. Quick reflexes saved him and he ducked. He had only on weapon ready to strike and with a red flash the wych looked down at a scorched hole in its body. Severus changed the grip on his longlas, shot counting telling him that invocing the spirit withing would be useless. Both hands on the barrel he swung it around with a raor. The blunt stock impacted against the side of the xeno's head and it fell to the deck to more no more.

More were close and severus saw no choice. With a clatter the longlas fell from his hands, too big and clumsy for close quarters. With his right hand Severus drew his auto stubber and with his left he drew with blessed knife. "Omnisiah help me." He said as his thumb pressed into the activation rune of the laser sight, a red line shining in the dark chamber. He fired as they came for him, to his satisfaction the shot passed through the unholy symbol of the prince of excess. "Your marks do not protect you." he spat, out sending a round through the shoulder of another xeno, his flank was his undoing. There were too many, despite the deck choked with bodies he could not hold them back.

"PIUS! CAIN!" he called out dodging backwards the tip of a wychblade tearing his tabbard and bodyglove underneath, the stinging pain of a minor cut throbbing in his chest. He stabbed at the offending filth but the eldar dodged and grabbed his arm. He brought the stubber up and fired into the under arm gap in its armour and it weakened. Another caught his gun-arm and dissarmed him and him melta grenade were torn from his belt. The wounded Eldar slumped down freeing his knife and he stabbed at the wych. His teeth gritted in determination backing up further not with only his blade against the filth of the galaxy. The cut in his chest has going numb and his entire chest was tingling. He was alone and outnumbered and at the end of his strength.
 
"I HEAR YOU JULIUS!" Alarius shouted after he'd eviscerated another warrior with his Wrackblade, He didn't have time to look as another dark eldar charged at him, swinging it's blade deftly at his head, he had just barely managed to doge. leaning backwards into a near table-top position but managing to hold his balance he popped back up and his blade parried the xeno's second attack.

"YOU'LL FORGIVE ME FOR BEING A BIT-" The he swung, Wrackblade parried but his auto-pistol found it's target, he fired fully automatic at that range, several rounds into the Dark Eldar's abdomen "PRE-OCCUPIED," he finished his sentance as he dove for cover, splinter fire grazing his right leg.

he drew another pair of fragmentation grenades and hurled them at the Dark Eldar, the force killing those closest to the blast and the shrapnel, finishing off the rest. He allowed himself a moment to breath, his first mistake as a wych came out of nowhere and had him garroted. He fought furiously, the sudden oxygen deprivation catching him in a moment of panic, before he vaulted off the bulkhead over the Wych and pierced he heart from behind, his Wrackblade tearing his innards apart from within.
 
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