A few seconds passed, and there was silence. Even the usual noises of the camp faded away as the soldiers paused their duties to watch Iorzan’s diplomatic genius in action. Before he could speak, however, a third figure emerged from the rover, accompanied by the sound of scraping stone and whining servomotors. Some bizarre automaton with an outer layer of black-stone, which seemed to have been broken as it was brought to motion. Its left arm looked somewhat like one of the legendary dragon-heads, but Iorzan’s trained eye made it easy to recognize as a replica. Clearly, these were nomadic trader-scavengers that somehow recovered one of the hidden sentries from a human ruin and replaced its left arm with what they must think to be a legendary prosthetic.

“They must believe this thing is able to take on a chaplain,” he thought to himself.

Nevertheless, the thing moved as if of its own accord, walking forward to join the other heretics as it heaved about a massive bludgeon of a right arm. “What is your purpose in these parts?” he asked, looking to the chaplain among them for an answer.

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“Of course he would assume the decorated chaplain was our leader,” Fulgent thought, resentment and explosive hatred building in her head. She felt the fire in her chest spitting as if it were white phosphorus, and it took all the will she could muster to keep it contained.

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He’d assumed the noble would question him in particular, as did the others. After all, with his experience in the use of a Full Casement and the heavily decorated one he wore, he would have no trouble fitting in at one of the great cities - nevermind the fact Nesgon gave him ornaments at every opportunity back during the Ecclesiarch’s reign, specifically so that he would look the part for a chaplain.

A step forward, hands behind his back. A straight posture, helmeted head raised, a stiff pronunciation to emulate a noble’s accent. “We sought out this supply depot in the hopes that it might contain a zero-latency communications array, so that we may contact our employers regarding the situation of Canyontown.”

“Oho, and what might that situation be?”

“We were told by fleeing townsfolk that its ruler has been slain in single combat, supposedly by one who invoked the Right of Heresy and claimed himself to be a human. We did not wish to take a risk, and thus avoided it altogether.”

“Very well,” the noble nodded. “As far as we are aware, this depot does not contain a zero-latency communications array. However, we do possess one of these blacktech artifacts, and so I shall make you an offer. I shall provide you with one of our siege rovers, and one of yours is to lead this rover as close to Canyontown as possible so that a path may be charted. Upon the rover’s return, you will be granted usage of our communications array for the purposes of a single transmission. Are these terms agreeable?”

The Deserter Chaplain hesitated briefly, tapping into his helmet’s auxiliary cameras to look to his comrades for agreement without making it known that he was doing such a thing. They didn’t seem opposed to the idea, and some of them were clearly already thinking of a way to exploit the non hostile situation. He gave a nod, adding “Under the assumption that we are provided accommodations and access to the contents of the depot during our stay here.”

“Very good! It is good to see that there are still reasonable folk down south. Which of you will be the ah… Navigator?”

Before the Deserter Chaplain could say anything, Karzon stepped forward. “I will, your highness,” he said, his barely-restrained vitriol only masked by the throat scarring that distorted his voice.

With an approving nod, Iorzan gestured to one of the High Chaplains by his side. “Follow him,” he said, and the High Chaplain began to walk away without so much as a word, rightfully expecting Karzon to follow - which he of course did. Iorzan’s focus briefly rested upon the pair, then returned to the main group, once more shifting toward the Deserter Chaplain. “Now, if you would, follow me to the commander’s tent. I am certain you must be thirsty after journeying through the wastes,” he offered, not waiting for an answer and taking off toward a tent next to one of the supply depot’s cubical buildings.

They followed in his stead, not wanting to raise suspicions, passing through the closest equivalent the military camp had to a main street. Even from ground level, one could tell that it was meticulously structured, with four quadrants of tents each centered around what seemed to be a communal area, if the concentrated sources of noise were anything to go by.

As they passed by different tents, they heard and saw many noises that one would expect from a military camp. Hollering. Laughter. Swearing of a myriad different kinds. Mechanical scraping and clicking produced by equipment maintenance. The distinct whirr of a staple gun. Pained screaming. The click of a button, upon which the aforementioned screaming ceased.

It wasn’t long until they reached the so-called commander’s tent. It was nothing more than a particularly large tent. The same polymer fabric, the same printed supports, merely more spacious and attached to one of the depot’s buildings. In the corner, there was a supply crate, and upon the table sat a pair of square, polymer kegs, each with a tap and a number of cups beside it. The kegs had a stylized logo burned into the polymer, and even had what seemed to be nutritional information on the back. However, the text was a little off - in fact, all of the craftsmanship was a little off. As if the craftsmen of one clan or another had studied human containers and tried to replicate their designs without understanding the reasoning behind the design elements. “Cube-shaped stimmix kegs?” the Deserter Chaplain thought as he took a seat at the table, observing the others doing the same. Two of the High Chaplains remained outside the tent to guard it, two more stood behind Iorzan’s seat, themselves flanked by what looked like... Humanoid combat drones? He wasn’t sure.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The last one walked into the building that the tent was attached to, the bulky door shutting behind him. “So, how is trade down south?” Iorzan asked, reaching for a cup and pouring himself some off-red, runny stimmix.

“It… Hasn’t been good. Not since the Igrons raised trade tariffs for those in poor standing,” the Deserter Chaplain lied.

“Oh, is that so?” Iorzan asked, feigning surprise.

“Yes, we can barely break even with our usual trade route. We’ve had to turn to seeking out old ruins to scour for artifacts…”

The next half-hour was filled with weasel-words and lies, meaningless drivel meant to placate the noble and make the group look as harmless as possible. No more than struggling traders, caught between a rock and a hard place due to their less than favorable standing with the Igrons. Such a sob story was bound to appeal to an Elder of Clan Iktha.

Soon, questions turned to the zero-latency transmission array, once the Deserter Chaplain thought Iorzan was in a favorable-enough mood. The question of where the precious piece of equipment was located was answered with an off-handed gesture and a simple statement of “Oh, atop this shack. The nearest westward depot has a relay transmitter set up so we need not elevate ours. I’m told it delays the transmission by a few seconds, but extends the range significantly.”

“Delays the transmission? I thought it was instant.”

“I don’t understand it myself. Explain it,” Iorzan said, gesturing for the High Chaplain to his left. The Chaplain gave a stiff nod, rattling off “While the signal itself travels instantaneously, it takes some time for the smaller array to synchronize with the relay. Thus, a delay is created between the moment the transmission process begins and the moment it actually leaves the array.”

“There is your answer,” Iorzan remarked, proceeding to drain the rest of his drink. He sighed “Swill.” when he did.

“Why drink it if it’s sub-par?” the Armored One piped up, much to the noble’s surprise. He chuckled. “This swill is the best stimmix I’ve had in years,” he spat resentfully. Not towards anyone present, but rather towards the world itself in general. “But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why. You must have plenty of experience dealing with the hardships of being disliked by the local ruling clan.”

Fulgent’s voice sounded next. The words dripped from her mouth like poisoned sugar syrup, so overly polite the mockery would be obvious to anyone but a noble. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking… Why is Clan Iktha in poor standing with Clan Igron?” she asked.

Iorzan took a deep breath, and poured himself another cup of stimmix. He sighed, emptied the cup in one go, refilled it again, and began speaking. “The whole travesty has already been publicized far and wide, so I’ve no reason to hide it,” he said. “It all began when my third daughter broke into our clan’s artifact vault and activated an ancient blacktech weapon. Some sort of… Graviton accelerator. She somehow survived the full-body voidburn it caused, but… It drove her mad. It made her spew the vilest heresies at the slightest provocation, disobey the commands of her betters, openly question the honor of the most honorable men and women I’ve ever met. We had no choice but to exile her, but Clan Iktha’s honor has not recovered since.”

Iorzan poured himself another cup and downed it, the sound of his drinking the only thing to break up the bizarre, sudden silence that manifested itself within the tent.

“Was that what you told the judges?” Fulgent hissed from under her hood. She wasn’t visibly moving, but those sitting next to her could feel it. Her muscles tensing, her fury stoking the flame of void energy within her.

Rika’s gaze met the Chaplain’s. The two Distorted present understood the situation, and so did Armless, even in his weakened state. Before Iorzan - or anyone, for that matter - could react, there was a flash of yellow. A forceful shockwave shook the ground and a horrendous scraping noise followed as Rika forced open the door to the building and made her way up the stairs towards the zero-latency transmitter. A few more moments passed, and the black, obelisk-shaped machine dropped into the tent and onto the table, breaking it in the process.

Those aligned with Armless were more than prepared and readily jumped out of their seats, whilst Iorzan fell out of his chair and was soon picked up by his right-hand High Chaplain. Staring at the transmitter first, his eyes soon darted to the hole in the tent, and back down to Fulgent, whose figure now towered tall, her hooded face easily visible from where he was. As different as she was, he still recognized that face. “Is… Is that you?” he questioned, and his only answer was a hate-filled nod, accompanied by Fulgent reaching up to rip the cloak from her body and toss it aside.

Her third arm rose above her shoulder, its accelerator mechanism already spinning up, a livingmetal lance already forming in the cavity as she aimed it downward at the comms array. “Who have you… No, what have you become?! The judges were right!” the noble screamed accusingly as he still struggled to stand on his own feet. The High Chaplains guarding the commander’s tent would have burst in by now, were they not busy trying to fend off a nigh-impossibly fast tower of muscle armed with a livingmetal gun-cleaver.

The barking of two slug-throwers echoed from outside the tent, only to be quieted by loud scraping and a short-lived hiss of pain as Rika’s cleaver cut through armor plating and flesh with equal ease.

Meanwhile, within the tent, Fulgent stood looking down at the man she had once called father, the man she had once looked up to, the man she once cried at the feet of, burned and broken from volatile void energy exposure. Iorzan stood to his feet, his resolve galvanized in the fires of his own anger, and spoke with an iron coldness. “As your elder, I give you a last chance. Aid me in retaking Canyontown, and I may yet be able to accept you into the clan once more,” he said.

Fulgent scoffed. From her throat there rumbled an unearthly noise as she spoke her meaning, her words ripping through the air and the fabric of reality alike. “Your filthy blood no longer holds power over me, for my veins now run with the ichor of mankind. You are no family of mine, for I am human… And I spit upon your cruel law.”

An ear-splitting whine rose as the sand around her began to float, and she unleashed the full fury of her weapon against the zero-latency comms array. Clang.

The livingmetal spear ripped into the nanolith casing, ripping past it and into the delicate voidtech within, obliterating it.