The Rainwalkers

Titansbane-834.M41-0624: Fault Lines

As always hunched over; Emir stands motionless, knuckles white from his grip on the stainless steel sink, facing his distorted reflection in the cracked mirror mounted above it in his private quarters.

He looks over to his left; his power sword blade stripped from both handle and the primary power core – the newly cleaned and polished metal drying on a desk.

He looks down to the drain trap at the bottom of the basin; the small flecks of gore silting idly as the water runs slowly down the drain – the last remnants of the self-proclaimed Chaos “uprising” that dared cross him.

He looks to the right; soft tendrils of smoke drift about from the discarded low-sticks scattered about the room; in stark contrast to the neatly-arranged, high-grain glaser and big-bore rounds surrounding his cleaned, almost pristine, field-stripped weapons laid bare upon his cot.

His archeotech heavy bolter lays on two crates pushed together to create a makeshift workbench. Polished to a gunmetal sheen, it gleams with a murderous luster in the low-light; covered with some semblance of wraps to help appease any inhabiting machine spirit, the bolter shell keepsake wrapped around a wire and chain hanging from the obtuse muzzle.

He looks up; straight above is a solitary light-source, the illuminated shadows dancing and fluttering in the desolate chamber. He lets out a heavy sigh.

He takes two fingers on his right hand and traces over his collar bone, the deep scar tissue where the eight-pointed star was carved into him; all the while the words from Sigmund’s retinue meeting echoing dully in his skull.

‘No more deception; only loyalty’ he says aloud, almost mockingly.
‘Those were Sigmund’s exact words’

There is a brief hesitation as Emir starts to rotate his torso slowly.

‘Well perhaps it’s better this way’ he muses.
‘Throne damned if you, throne damned if you don’t. It’s not like anyone even gives a fuck about anyone else in this Void’, muttering quietly. ‘Sacrifices were made, only glory remains’.

He looks behind him; the solid grey mass of a container holding his grenade rations, his new pen and some scraps of parchment lay unused on top the lid, almost beckoning with the heavy silence.

‘The others would have figured it out later anyway. Can never trust anyone anymore’, he drawls through gritted teeth. He shoves another smaller crate to act as a seat, then sits down and begins to unfurl the parchment, pen gripped like a dagger in his left hand.

His thoughts a whirlwind, he recounts to himself steadily, talking all the while in his head. ’Can’t let the whole God-Emperor-damned crew know, that’s a fast way to get dead’

’I’ll just tell the main group: at least the ones that don’t know nothin. Sig and Nyx know already, so that would leave the Pilot and the Neck’, Emir pauses.

‘I guess that also leaves that misshapen old man’, Emir chuckles.
‘He and I haven’t had a talk yet. From the way he was staring at me in that corridor I thought he would have somethin to say’
‘Until he talks with me, he doesn’t get one of these’, he thought, eyes looking down at the disheveled parchment.

He lets a forlorn grin escape across his face:
‘Of course that Kriegsman knows. She held me at gunpoint twice: especially when she treated my wounds and asked about this mark’

His grin became a scowl: ‘Well if anyone asks again, my answer will be the same. I will not remove this. It reminds me of who I am, festers a constant reminder’

A faint echo of memory surfaces, causing his hand to pause ever so slightly, the pen barely glancing the semi-ripped parchment

‘You can never change who you are; you’re just some hivescum with a gun’, he mutters silently. Who told him that? Emir can’t remember.

‘Fuck em’, he swears as he begins to write, addressing the main crew carefully and with purpose.

[Missives have been delivered to Sigmund, Nyx, Zarko, Kayp, and Krieger. I.e., all Emir player secrets revealed. RP with Hodor incoming soon.]

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