You reverently lift the chainfist from the stand, nicking your gauntlets on the inhumanly sharp edges of the teeth of the blade. With no other place to put it, you mag-lock it to the bottom of your power armor’s backpack power plant, in the place where you would otherwise store your stalker-pattern bolter. WIth the relic in tow and Epistolary Tayib still indicating that your destination is ‘east’ of your current position, you move out.

Less than an hour later, you find yourself back in the round chamber where your last expedition into the Capitalis Congestus came to such a disastrous end. The rubble of the dead wraithguards is still there, as are the deep-etched bloodstains from spilled acidic Space Marine blood. New to the place is the fine layer of dust across the floor and creeping up the walls and the faint, half-swept tracks crossing and recrossing the chamber.

You kneel in the dust and try to make sense of who and what has been through this area.

Tracking (Int) skill check: Failed. Needed <44, got 53.

The tracks are old and faded, and are half swept away by a robe that at least one of the individuals was wearing.

“There are multiple sets of tracks here, but I can’t tell if they were all the same group, or if it was many different groups. The robe-wearer has done a decent job of obscuring traces, even if it was not an intentional act.”

“Indeed. A fresh set of eyes?”

“Go for it Epistolary, and lend your other senses to the task if you need to. We are walking towards something fel, and I would know what we are likely to find up ahead.”

Epistolary Tayib kneels in the dust as you rise to stand watch. The last time you were in this chamber resonates in your memory, and you strain your ears and autosenses, listening for the click of hoof on bone or the softer sussh of a booted foot in the dust.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Two groups. The first group of two individuals only crossed this chamber once, moving quickly. One pair of booted feet, human female combatant. Walking up on the balls of her feet, head on a swivel from the angles of the prints. One set of iron-studded shoes, mechanicus initiate by the worn cog-marks on the ends of the studs.”

“Interrogator MacWater and ZTO.”

“Possibly. Second group made multiple crossings. The robe-wearer was the last in the file each time, so I can’t make a good estimate of their numbers. At least four, no more than twelve. Two sets of heavier prints, astartes combat boots belonging to either scout-auxilla or Space Marines without power armor. They are not present in every crossing, nor does the group size remain consistent. Possible combat losses, or they split up to cover more ground.”

“The other Inquisitor you think?”

“Probably, but we have no way of verifying that.”

“We move ‘east’ then, towards our objective.”

“Also the direction of the Interrogator and Mechwright.”

“The let us hope for their sakes that they are still pure of warp-taint.

----------------------------------------

Two hours later you pass beyond the eldar ship into the half-crushed depths of an Imperial warship. The corridors are roomy by human standards at just over two meters in height and nearly the same in width, but you find yourself stooping under hatchways and scraping paint from the walls with your pauldrons. There are faint signs of recent scavenging like severed conduit boxes, missing wires, and neatly cut away sections of metal.

Abruptly there is a small commotion ahead of you - the wailing chirp of a proximity alarm. The stataco barking of a pair of bolt pistols. A hashed blut of incomprehensible techna lingua. Booted feet pounding on deckplates. You bring your stalker pattern bolter to bear, but just as quickly remove your finger from the trigger.

“Interrogator MacWater, status report!”

“Big ugly beastie in the main shell feed! Thing’s the size of a tank, and stinks worse than a drunk ganger on a six-week bender. Sword-claws taller than you, maw big enough to swallow me whole, and psychic hoarfrost on the walls!”

The description makes your blood run cold and your secondary heart kick into a high-speed beat. “Hive Tyrant!”