Truth's Truth: Session 0 -- Campaign Preamble

“The Foundations have a series of opponents to consider beyond our own, basic rivalries. I need you to concentrate your thoughts in this way. You are an older order of Profanity than me. If I can manage, I expect you to find it possible.” Digitalis was King of the First Foundation but he paused for the other’s agreement before continuing. A brief nod was all the king received. Within clinging, grey mist, shapes shifted in menace at the perceived rudeness of the outsider’s silence. At least one wicked-tipped sword appeared from the Profane colouration that surrounded the interior of the chamber.

“Our mutuality has recently been driven home to me, rather like that estoc’s tip... I was more than surprised that you of all Profane answered my question recently. I had expected other, more senior response. Instead I collected you. One whose connection to a Foundation was meant to have been severed. A conundrum but little of that moment should make sense. In this, I place my concerns over that. Present circumstance means that I can, as safely as is manageable, trust that you Maldon, are the ideal candidate for what lies ahead.

Our recent agreement means I wish to involve no other in this now. The eldest Dragon stirs itself and I — we need to learn what it is after. I have been awaiting Time’s movement and it looks to have begun. ‘Begun’ may be a poor choice of word, Time being what it is.”

The Profane king glanced at the Blue-lit skull in his left hand before continuing. He tossed it lightly into the air and caught it casually as he continued.

“This fellow here... he throws me. I had him well in hand and now... I saw this skull’s previous owner alive and well. With his dead skull in my hand, I watched as he went jauntily about his dubious business in front of my eyes. This was no illusion or siphon. It was Ghostly. I saw to his death. His further actions done away with as must be. Now it appears this ‘doctor’ has found a way to cheat the hunting finality. Which brings this speech of mine to you. You’re another who’s cheated the final realm. I don’t expect you can tell me how you did this trick so I won’t ask. Something to do with your mixed-blood, I suspect. The perception is that you have a rather passé red hue to your vital liquid now. Preferable to the deathly alternative but only just.

You managed to hear my call. A call from beyond the Realm. To me that means you might have further use, or even purpose in what is going on. Having been drained and absent for some time I’m hopeful you have no stake in these events. My lurkers have informed me of your recent sojourn in the Canticle. I’m certain this means you are meant to return. As Mr. Grey -- … -- it might be difficult as I understand you had to depart the Canticle hastily. You will need a new presentation to afford you some room to manoeuvre. As your mother cannot be allowed to intervene in a thing so important, I would suggest these things your father’s heritage could provision. That you might not wonder or be morose I will allow the appearance of Profane gifts held on the Mainstay places if there are such you might miss being away for a while. In your absence the two thousand you bargained for will be dispersed among all the cities of Miranse as you requested. This will be as seeds sewn on a becalmed field. Proportionate. Methodical. Not at all Profane in style... I trust this will suit your newfound, mortal nature.

When you are readied, you will be seconded to the Canticle — one of the Canticles at any rate. You should be able to get something of a start before the baying hounds begin to catch your scent. Before that, you will need to have made something of your situation.

On the monthly eclipse of Sentry, the star held in the centre of the sphere that is Homeworld, you will fashion a messaging to me. I will be listening. This is the only certain time of safe message relay. Should you elect to make contact at any other time the agents of the Canticles’ many factions may well intercept what you say.

There is a struggle occurring in the Canticle. In the UDA Canticle the death of Ceriestrident has destabilised the Star Supremacy’s internal order. The delicate high wire act threatens to fall to the circus floor. Four ringmasters instead of five means there’s one ring too many. The Golden Warframes have lost their leader. The ghost-stalker moves them from behind his drapery of Time.

With the other Canticle, the Supreme Commander has decreed the heretics of the Horus Heresy in his region must be eradicated. He has sent the Ultramarines in to clean out heretical infusion. This hasn’t gone well. The heretics’ strength is more than spies could learn about before the Ultramarines launch. The Commander’s side has seen an exodus of its best informers to the heretical side. As this side promotes the freedom of choice it is most appealing to the more unique minds among us. Spies are infamously, independent, hmm? Speaking of which, it is more than useful to have you as you are. If you had still been one of many among your mother’s Court, I wouldn’t be able to speak to you. Too many questions and issues that would have arisen? Yes, I see you understand. Much simpler to have you placed in the care of my... questioners. Any who might learn of your being apprehended by these experts would never believe that they hadn’t done their worst... best? Well whichever, it’s not going to be a guess that you and I have met and spoken about these things.


Which brings me to another thing. Two things really. The Runeships or as you and I would see them, the Runeblades. Stormbringer and Mournblade. In Canticle space they appear much larger though no less devastating than we remember of them. Something to do with their brief visit to Warren. They patrol spaces and where they go life does not remain. Filled with the life energies they consume, the blades seem to have found an accord with one another. Let that sink in my friend. They’re working together instead of trying to test each other’s power. Luckily the Canticle has a far-flung and populous empire. The Runeships haven’t yet begun to taste a significant portion of the place. They are something to track if nothing else. It wouldn’t surprise me if the ‘ships’ attempt to breach The Veil and come into Shrine space. That’s what the region we inhabit is named. I believe that they have called it this due to our Foundations being here. The Profane seem to be what the Canticle... Canticles are primarily interested in.

That would be because they deal with the remnants of their place in First Realm. Within the Void space the elements of the Old Ones have been deposited. Something again that the affair on Warren caused... I sometimes wish I had been king during that selection. Things might not have gone differently and I would know a great deal more than I do. As it stands, the Chaos Gods of the First Realm have brought themselves and the vestiges of the Warp to the Void. You will need to pay attention to this. You seem to have done well so far losing your more-base attachments to your Foundation. This is usually a death sentence more permanent than the end you experienced. I still wonder at how you or they did it... The Warp is a primal place of Chaos’s strength. The Dragon of Chaos will likely have something to say about this at some stage. As to what the Warp and it’s four ‘rulers’ are about, there seems a carefree approach to their form of Chaos. Not like my own Foundation or your former one. Keep your distance from the Warp. It’s effects on any who come within its distortions are fated to be changed by whichever of the Old Ones finds you within their space. I know how you’d hate being told what to think.

In summation, you will go to the Canticle space. This to be clear is the region between Shrine space and the Void. There is a shielding effect that the Realm has managed to create. This I feel, is the work of Shadow and perhaps other similarly interested powers. Clearly the Veil acts as a barrier. The Canticle struggles to gain access to our space. Moreover, there is the confusing nature of Axildusk. My current inquiries lead me always back to that world. More and more it seems the place is a kind of portal planet. I am missing something about it still.

If you agree to act as my informant within the Canticles I will make certain that instructions you send will be received by... three of your individuals on Miranse. These will be carried by three of my followers. In time the three you choose will come to know the three messengers. This may be beneficial or harmful as you and I will not be there to manage these meetings. We will leave it to the vagaries of my Foundation and your organisation to determine what will come of this.

I will provide you a gossamer. A thing of my rule. An inanimate thread that is disconnected at both of its ends. A cord removed from Colour’s fabric. Bleached and made useful for other purposes. A loose thread, if you will. When you decide to inform me of what you have been about, it will join you to only me. You will keep the gossamer on your person. It will most likely be unseen but should there be one of Chaos about the gossamer may let you know by its sudden appearance from invisibility. The Chaos may see it too so be aware this may mark you as being knowledgeable.”

Digitalis motioned to the swirling mist. Four torturers emerged bearing silvered swords asleep in the latticed sheaths. The king looked at Maldon Sax lying spreadeagled and face down on the slab of impure gold. He motioned and the four fiends halted all movement. Digitalis took advantage of the stasis they were held in to say, “My questioners will move you and while they prepare the chamber for the next question to be asked of you, you will escape. This one will be the traitor who makes it possible.” The king motioned to one of the four ‘questioners’. The chaos denizen shifted form. To Maldon the fellow had taken on the appearance of his long-time companion, Praetor. Digitalis explained, “Somehow my questioners admitted an outsider into their ranks some time ago. The man hid his true nature while making his skills well seen. Now that he has abetted your escape, he will be tracked and dealt with. It may take my trackers a time to get his scent, what with his moving you through Axildusk and Shadowveil into Canticle space. This Praetor has many faculties as a Final Man I had not expected? I will want to speak with both of you in the future whenever you are apprehended sneaking into my private quarters. I am more reliant on you, Maldon, than I am the fact that you are your mother’s or father’s son. I hope you understand?”


Digitalis motioned and the four fiends dressed in professorial gowns resumed their movements from grey ambiguity. Two faces were clearly seen while two were masked. Being a questioner was not something to be ashamed of so the duo without masks were likely subordinates. The masks the other two wore would let any who met them know they did the king’s work. The first individual’s was a green, animated mask, covered partially with large, striped scales. The second wore a black mask that had small teeth sewn into the mask, surrounding the wearer’s mouth. Maldon knew this second mask to be Praetor’s. Digitalis left the chamber. Grey mists followed his wake, eager sycophantic swirls after their master and teacher. Praetor’s eyes spoke the other three questioners’ fates to Maldon. As Praetor passed Maldon on his way to the chest that contained Maldon’s belongings, he passed the former scion of Chaos a knife. The weapon was one that Maldon had been after for a time and last thought to be in the possession of a certain Rakshahasa. The mist bubbled and hissed in interest at the deaths dealt in the torture chamber. Maldon and Praetor followed a passage made evident by the mists beyond the room’s only exit. The Final Men made their way to where Praetor had joined the Foundation. A conservatively liveried, star-span vessel floated alone at the royal pier. Atop a nearby observational precipice they could just make out the King of the First Foundation’s form, bathed in blue hues cast by a relic skull. Praetor raised an eyebrow to his rescued friend, while motioning to the paired spear-armed ballistas that projected aft. A shot and perhaps the king would be toppled from the precipice and the Grey Plane might be conquerable by another. As the star-span took them away, they pondered the possibility, until the opportunity passed into the covering mist.


The star-span was well equipped and took them not too deeply into Axildusk. Skirting Orion’s sensors the vessel moved with a sure, pre-ordained grace. The two men took the time to reacquaint themselves with each other. Both had become unsure of their roles in the burgeoning growth of forces and arrivals to the story of the New Realm. They agreed it might be time for some of the newcomers to take the lead. Their act of saving part of the Second Realm should be their epitaph. Later they laughed a little at the same thought. These two men might be ready to rest but they weren’t ready to sleep.

A lens portal that led to Tebberan soon enough flickered into view. There were no embraces or tears. These two knew with a certainty that defied the infinite possibilities of finality that they would meet again. Praetor entered the Colour schism and without an acknowledgement was gone. Maldon awaited. The star-span hovered in space. A chest that held ballista spear ammunition opened and Absolom, Grand Master of the Lethality sat up from within it. A glow surrounded him so that Maldon knew this newcomer had not simply been lying in wait. The chest held a caste mechanism or disportation disk.

Absolom proceeded to outline other things of the Canticle that did not use the letters UDA before its name. This was the Canticle of Marine and Inquisitor, Chaplain and Astartes, Diabolical and Warp. A Canticle of the twelve supreme commanders and the Emperor of Man. This Canticle had forty millennia of history to look back upon. Its future was unlikely to last near as long…




Grime wiped from his sweat drenched neck, the adjuster-second class, watched the overhead clock-faced dial closely. The dial’s face was modified so that there were only the numbers one through three on it at quarterly spacing. The highest point of the dial’s face had a zero. A single, black-painted, heavy looking, wrought iron hand pointed ‘0’. The adjuster’s own hands were almost as black. Not from paint, it was from machine oil turned dark from soot and whatever else the man had not managed to wipe off them. If you wanted cleanliness you didn’t become an adjuster. His eyes focused on the hand as a sprinter awaits the gun signalling the start of a race.

Three large men stood alongside the adjuster. They weren’t paying attention to the dial. They were watching an immense blast door directly to their left. Where the adjuster wore heavy leg armour to his waist and from there up was uncovered, the three other men were entirely armoured. The armour made the men loom over the adjuster who was far from average in size. The composition of the armour appeared to be titanium. The metal’s tell-tale, dull gleam could be spotted from areas on the armour where crimson paint had worn away from surfaces.

A deep clunking announced that the motor that drove the large dial’s single hand was in motion. The adjuster reacted. He lunged at six, floor mounted levers in front of him. Steam hissed, hydraulics screamed and cams moved rhythmically. The adjuster threw the chest-high levers as the handles lit up blue. There was a series of these moves required, timed by whoever or whatever had designed the place. Despite the adjuster’s best efforts, nothing seemed to come of his exertions. With a growl, the lead armoured man raised his weapon and began shooting at the large doors. The other two joined in the mayhem of ricocheting metal. The doors resisted this effort but surrendered to the explosives next used. The adjuster stood apart from all this noting the irony of the blast doors being blasted away. The leader of the red marines turned to the adjuster, thanked him for his service to their cause and bayoneted him in the name of the Emperor.

This delay meant that the leader did not witness his soldiers being taken by six Ultramarines who awaited beyond the ravaged blast doors. He was taken by surprise as he went through the ‘opening’. They were dragged into the reliquary. There they were told to stand at attention until the founder arrived. At this, the three soldiers voiced curses in the name of the holy Emperor and they were silenced with strikes to their faces. They waited for the founder’s appearance in glowering, hateful silence. The founder was delayed. He had been on his way when an arrival from out of the warpskein made him stop. It wasn't every day that a member of the Officio made a peaceful approach.