A Faustian Legacy.

The halls were damp and mildewy. Inquisitor Kraston Holk hated coming down here, into the depths of the administratum complex. Terra was a teeming, smelly, horrible place. From a distance it was a grand, glowing, mighty symbol of power. Great statues and mile-high cathedrals all scraping the clouds above. However, if you looked closer, went deeper, you found filth and decay. The dark, dank depths of the machine were rancid with bureacracy. Adepts carrying bundles of paper, receipts scrambled to and fro. The halls were loud with chatter. Each work station was a thousand clerks, each doing their duty, never seeing the light of day. The tall inquisitor clad in sleek maroon leather and gold plating must have seemed like a god to them. Each adept bowing gracefully before running along. 

Holk stood for a minute and took it all in. This chamber of 10 000 adepts was a tiny drop in the great ocean of the administratum. Requisitions, new laws, supply runs, planet tithes, governorial appointments, taxes... all the mundanity of the great Imperium in one place. Holk had been summoned here. Summoned... he hated that word, as if he was some pleb, some adept like these pathetic creatures. He arrived at Consul John 778's office. It was probably grand by his standards, but it was a stuffy little cubicle by Holk's. 'Inquisitor Holt! I have papers for you'. No pleasantries, no formalities. He even said his name wrong. No time such things thought Holk. 'It's HOLK, Consul John 778' Holk said, making sure to use his full title. 
'My apologies. You are responsible for sector 117b beta 4 correct? Here are the reports as requested'  Holk was indeed responsible for that sector, he had specifically asked for any and all reports to go through him before being sent onwards to the main administratum filing office. 
'Have them back here within one standard year, all amendments must be made in triplicate and filed at the appropriate office. Sign here.'

Holk reviewed the reports as his shuttle took off. Sector 117b beta 4, otherwise known as the Helion System, Home of the Black Scorpions. The reports made for disturbing, strange reading. Glorious victory in the Faustian system, vanquished xenos forces, rescued citizens along side dark tales massacres, slaughter of seemingly imperial forces, capture of ships and pillaging. A general with the Krieg XVIIth had filed an accusation of heresy, demanding they be declared excommincate traitoris. 'Ha!' chuckled Holk. He knew of the Krieg... stalwart, grim, professional soldiers but not politicians. Not even remotely. It would take more for the Inquisition and the Administratum to take a general's word over that of a Chapter Master. The details of proof were scant. Mostly hearsay and tall tales but some compelling information. Holk would have to make some changes to the official report but he would not be able to hide this entirely, too many had died. 'Have they finally gone too far?' thought Holk. They were arrogant, impetuous and ruthless but heretics? Surely not. Holk scratched his chin, he already had enemies in the capital. They would use this against him no doubt. He pondered his predicament as the shuttle battled its way through turbulence. His forearm itched as it always did when he thought of them. It's as if it somehow knew he was having doubts, the faded scarred brand of a scorpion. He scratched it vigourosly. Holk would not falter. There were too many eagerly awaiting the fall of the Scorpions, eager to get their greedy hands on the riches of the Helion system. This would be their perfect oppurtunity to strike... Holk had to warn Kaine... and soon. Twenty Seven years he had been Kaine's loyal servant, Twenty One years an Inquisitor of the Ordo Astartes. He had worked too hard & too long to let some up-jumped general ruin his career. Holk had to get to the Helion System before the Scorpions made this worse. 


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


Again they came, out of the blasted treeline. A horde of dishevelled, emaciated people armed with pick-axes, mining shovels and scrounged weaponry. Their brown and tan colored worker tunics now stained with a multitude of bright, gaudy colours. They shouted incoherent chants and strange utterances. A language unknown. These former colonists had gone mad thought Captain Harkol. 'Hold!' shouted the Captain. The muddy swamp between the forest line and his trenches would slow their mad charge. 'Hold!' he shouted again. Waiting for the perfect moment. The horde slowed as they waded into the knee deep filthy swamp. 'FIRE!' He bellowed into his vox. Behind him booming concussions range out. Screeching artillery shells sailed overhead into the masses of enraged people.  The blasts thundered into their lines like meteors. Great gouts of swampy water, body parts and red sprays gushed up into the air. The shelling was relentless. Harkol held his ears tight, trying to save what little hearing he had left. The crazed masses did not stop. Several made it through the swamp and ran up the short hill to his trenches. The chatter of automatic weapons and grenade launchers quickly filled the air. The fools were pitched back as the bullets ripped through their unarmored bodies. Severed limbs and great splashes of viscera flew up into the air as the last few were mercilessly gunned down. Harkol drew his pistol. Three remaining men drew cruel blades and pistols as they reached the lip of the trench. Harkol brought two down with deft shots with his bolt pistol. Each one hitting centre mass causing each man to drop like a sack of groxmeat.  The last raised his blade for a downward slash, Harkol leaped forward, parried the downward slash, sending the man spinning. With a riposte, Harkol drove his power sword through the chest of his assailant. The sword hissed and sparked as the flesh cooked and the blood boiled. The crazed lunatic laughed and moaned in ecstatic pleasure, as if being run through with a sword was the thing he desired most in the world. His last breaths escaped him with a smile. Harkol slid the fool off his blade in puzzlement. All over the sector their had been uprisings. Strange decadent cults and groups of depraved lunatics were organising and causing all manner of chaos, all in the name of the Angel of Ecstasy. Some brothel harlot stirring up non-sense thought Harkol. 

Harkol looked out at the swamp, now a crimson soup of shattered ripped bodies. He sighed deeply. His forces along with the Scorpion overlords had cleansed this sector of xenos filth. Dirty refugees had sung songs of triumph and shared what little food they had in meagre but appreciative celebrations. Several populations however, seemed beyond redemption. The people who had been preyed upon by the Dark Eldar seemed different. Some too traumatised to speak, many taking their own life to escape their torment, some, strangely full of life, a strange eagerness, an obsessiveness about even the smallest of things. These sectors had seen the worst uprisings. Harkol wondered what seeds the Dark Eldar had sown. He knew little of their ways but he knew this. The presence of such xenos alone is enough to corrupt. Their very existence an affront to humanity. He wiped his blade and said a prayer to the Emperor. He would do his duty...The thundering drums deep in the forest were getting closer.