Hasran Tarkar's Statement

[This piece is a handout for my current Rogue Trader campaign. In isolation, it is silly. Deal with it. :D]

From the journal of Lord Commander Hasran Tarkar:

By the Emperor’s grace, we located the foul traitors hiding in a maelstrom within the Rift of Hecaton. The Tarkar’s Prejudice was sufficiently large to negotiate the maelstrom unaffected, though the rest of my fleet were not so fortunate.

I ordered the transports to hold position and had the Glory and the Ghost circumnavigate the maelstrom in opposite directions, to cut off any attempts at retreat by the vile enemy.

The maelstrom was dense and made good on obfuscating our sensors. The Will of the Emperor was with us, however, and guided our divinations into the abyssal dark. A pair of cursed raiders lay dormant, running silent in their efforts to hide from Imperial justice… A justice I refused to deny them. My voidmaster served admirably, ensuring our lance struck true, cleaving one of the abominations in twain, purging the foul influence of Chaos therein.

The other vessel, alerted to our presence, sought to flee. True to my expectations, it flew directly into the waiting Ghost. The Ghost unleashed its torpedoes and disabled the fell foe.

I assembled a boarding party – I led Voss, my archmilitant, Carrolus the Missionary, the Tech-Priest Condus, and a dozen conscripts aboard the disabled ship. The moment the shuttle doors opened aboard that stricken vessel, battle was joined. The air was thick – smoke, bolts, las-fire – and neither side sought nor offered quarter. This battle would end only in complete and total annihilation. Fortunately, the fiends graciously accepted the annihilation we offered them.

By the time our beach-head was established in their hangar, half of our conscripts had nobly sacrificed their lives for the Emperor. In contrast, we had purified over two score of the feeble denizens of the ship. A good start, though our casualties brought our zeal into question.

I allowed Carrolus to provide some further motivation to our assembled forces. His potent words, combined with the impromptu immolation of the most cowardly conscript, were commendable, and fostered inspiration and a renewed vigour to our efforts.

With our devotions properly in order, we stationed Condus and some enslaved servitors to hold the hanger, while we penetrated deeper into the ship.

The corridors were dense with bodies and smoke. It became quickly apparent that the damage from the Ghost’s torpedo volley was more extensive than we had initially thought. Indeed, without voidsuits, half our remaining conscripts died before reaching the Bridge – an ignoble death, to be sure. The others were sufficiently blessed to think of stealing breathers from the fallen enemy. (I would sacrifice them to spare them the ignominy of succumbing to chaos, once the mission was complete.)

The Bridge saw battle rejoined – numerous minions dressed in twisted and misshapen approximations of Space Marine carapaces lay in wait for us. Once again in a secure atmosphere, we were deafened by the roar of two dozen bolters and some chainswords screaming life and death in the close quarters. I admit, in those moments, my zeal to the Emperor overcame me. My own recollections did not fully return until their had leader had been thoroughly dismembered by my thirsty chainsword. The all-consuming rage blinded me to the casualties, and the patina of blood that coated me. As the smoke cleared and our victory was confirmed, I was able to tally the death toll. While Voss’s beloved pistol and sword claimed many foes, he was also lost. Carrolus lay mortally wounded, both arms severed. Of the conscripts, one remained. He too was daubed in red by the blood of the fallen. It was only now I noticed both that he had discarded the corrupted breather, and that he was wielding the enormous hammer that originally belonged to one of the Champions of the foe. I reconsidered my initial plan; this one may, with adequate training and devotions, serve as an adequate replacement for Voss.

Having taken the Bridge, it was a trifle to flush the rest of the ship. With that done, we were free to appraise our prize. Obviously, the ship itself was only suitable for destruction. However, its hold was laden with a variety of archaeotech and cold trade that would yield a food measure of profit. There were also a pair of items that warranted further investigation. Once we were safely restored to the Prejudice, I assigned Condus to the task of more properly considering these items.

While he could not be sure without the aid of the Ministorium Archives, he was reasonably confident that we had recovered the bolter of Saint Genevieve Almace – truly a unique and divine relic without peer. Were this to be the case, we stood to profit greatly from establishing a pilgrimage. This thought pleased me; especially now Carrolus was in no position to demand that we restore the artefact to the Ministorium. It also hinted that we might be able to find the Banestar for ourselves.

The other device was evidently Xeno and powerful, though Condus identified that proper investigation would take significant time. He was confident in labelling a Halo Device, however, so we instigated severe quarantine protocols upon it, securing it in a hold on its own.

With our fleet reassembled and our prizes stowed, I ordered the Navigator to return us to Footfall, that we might sell our bounty and liaise with the Family about a more fitting (and profitable) home for the Alamacian Artefact.

The Navigator drew his divining circle in blood on his dais. He uttered his prayers to the God-Emperor and kissed his Aquila, falling to his knees within the circle. His third eye, though closed, glowed furiously as he sought out the distant Astronomican to triangulate our passage.

As always, a tense silence fell over the bridge as we waited for his calculations and the subsequent manifestation of his powers.

A warphole opened. While it seemed very fast, none of us thought anything of it; we assumed it was the work of our navigator.

Which meant that none of us were prepared for the counter attack. The minions of Chaos fell upon us without mercy. Their opening salvo crippled our shields and our Gellar fields. The Emperor clearly smiled on us that their fury was so minimally effective. Further, in their misguided ways, they had focussed their assault entirely on the Prejudice; the Ghost and the Glory remained unscathed and able to deploy their fighters to intercept.

Our response was swift and brutal; the Void filled with fighters and return salvos from our macro-batteries.

We tore their fleet to ribbons in short order.

In our hubris, however, we did not notice the most sinister aspect of their assault. In the heat of the battle, a psychic war had also been engaged, leaving our Navigator twisted in a cruel mockery of humanity. He had turned his pistol on himself rather than suffer the depredations of the foe. While brave and honourable, his actions did mean we would need to abandon a ship of the fleet.

Adjourning to my Ready Room, I called an emergency meeting of my captains. At length we discussed the merits of each ship to the fleet, to ascertain which would be the most expedient to scuttle, so they may have the honour of providing the Prejudice with a replacement Navigator.

As we did so, I received an urgent notification from my Astropath, Ederan. The House had sent an urgent, top priority communique to all holdings. I cut my connection to the conclave and allowed Ederan to deliver his message.

As the message took over, his pallid flesh went limp, vacant, as distant voices manipulated the bare minimum of his body. The voice that spoke was distant and full of echo, yet resonant and forceful.

“Lord Commander! All is lost. The House stands accused of heinous crimes against the glorious God-Emperor. We are betrayed.

“Commence plan Alpha Zero Nine Omega.”

In that instant, our squabbles about which ship would be abandoned became irrelevant. Through Ederan I submitted a brief response – an affirmative, and the location we would move the fleet to – local, but not so close the enemy could fall upon us – in the ancient Tarkarian secret tongue.

Our treasures, our glory, were lost. It is my hope that this villainy will be promptly overturned and we can properly honour the Golden Throne. Until then, we have secured the fleet as best as possible in the Rift and gone into hiding.

Lord Commander Hasran Tarker

Ever loyal servant to his majesty, the God-Emperor.

January 14 1926, Penhew's Story, and related addendum.

[As with the previous instalment, this one concerns the end of the campaign. Spoiler warnings abound. Also note that the primary intent for this piece is to show the results of the PCs actions in-game, which does impact the narrative somewhat.]

Sir Aubrey Penhew has not been having a good day. Or year, come to that. If he thinks about it, well... He casts a guilty glance at the shelf where his beautiful Ming vase used to sit.
He can't really fathom where it all fell down. Things had started so well. His only consolation is that soon, he will rule over Ancient Egypt. He will become an undying Pharaoh. Such is the power of his Master, and the promise.
Assuming the last year's issues do not ruin everything.
Assuming everything did go to plan, he and Huston would be richly rewarded.
This isn't a safe assumption anymore.
He is to commence the ritual here at the sacred site on Gray Dragon Island. Huston is to commence it at the exact same moment from the ancient city under the sands in the hinterlands of Northwestern Australia. The Black Pharaoh's spawn was to do the same from the Mountain of the Black Winds.
Was.
From the reports he received, a band of mercenaries disrupted the birth of the spawn, and killed the mother before the birth. The stories included great African spirits coming into direct conflict with the Black Pharaoh himself. Penhew is tempted to think of the stories as outlandish...except for his own circumstances.
Now, that section of the ritual is being conducted by another mere mortal. He hopes this will be sufficient.
The descriptions of these mercenaries are disconcerting - they seem to be the same people who have interfered with other parts of the plan.
Huston was meant to be guided by the resurrected Nitocris. The resurrection was disrupted by a group who interrupted the proceedings and killed the psychic before the spell could begin. Penhew has had to spend months stepping Huston through the incantation rituals, to ensure that, without support, he would be able to complete his portion. Even with Huston's arduously acquired skills, there was still the question of whether Nitocris' aid was also a part of the spell. That, they can't know until it's too late.
These mercenaries appear to be the same people who attempted to interfere with the London operations and the Penhew Foundation. Fortunately, on that front at least, he could rely on his staff. Edward Gavigan is a formidable sorceror, and appears to have had no problems in disrupting the interlopers and preserving the all important shipping channels. It had taken Penhew five years to assemble the plans and have the various components crafted and shipped to the island. A single disruption could have ruined everything.
But there'd been no disruption, and now, his triumph nears completion. In the shadow of the gigantic monolith to technology, he once again considers the frustrations now present. Chinese police officers had been captured lurking on the island, and at least one escaped and launched a signal flare.
He wants to start now, but this part of the operation is timed to the second, and he must be synchronized with Kenya and Australia, or the ritual will fail. He can only hope that any response from the mainland will take too long. If they come by plane, it will be too close to call.
Regardless, he must proceed with the plan.
He climbs the winding, exposed staircase, lashed by sea-winds. He reaches the control room at the top sodden, cold and impatient. He waves gruffly at the technicians idling around. They promptly leap to their feet and resume their stations.
He counts them in and the room becomes abuzz with activity as they prepare the rocket for launch. So consumed is he with this work, that the time to the ritual flies by.
So it is that he is out of breath after running all the way from the operations room to the ritual platform atop the volcano, arriving with mere minutes to spare. He is a little panicked - what if he doesn't get his breath back in time for the ritual? This makes him more breathless. He forces himself to calm. Shuts his eyes, takes big slow breaths and relaxes.
He pulls on his ceremonial robes, takes up his staff and clambers atop the platform. Immediately before him is the very top of the gigantic rocket, prepped and ready to launch. Across the gap, gathered as closely round as they dare are his minions. Hundreds, if not thousands, all ready and eager to bring forth their dark father.
Taking his position and standing tall, he raises one arm to his audience and with the other, strikes the staff down against the platform. Its rich resonating tone is lost amid the explosion of cheers and applause from the waiting supplicants. Penhew cannot help but smile; he does not recall when he was last this excited. Kenya, maybe?
Penhew leads the incantation.
...as does Huston in the Pilbara...
...as does M'Weru atop the Mountain of the Black Wind...
Their chanting continues for several minutes and the skies darken. A maelstrom forms, a great whirling as if the sky itself seeks to consume the lands. As the chanting reaches a crescendo, Penhew strikes the platform three times.
In the base of the volcano, his crew take their cue, and run out to the rocket's support struts. With welding torches, they sever its ties to the ground and it strains and bucks for a moment, before launching. Its exhaust flames consume the technical staff in their own private inferno.
The rocket flies directly into the maelstrom, even as the chanters continue their ritual. In the eye of the storm it explodes, in a lurid purple, as if it were a bruise across the night's sky. The bruise crackles with alien energies, the sky alight with coruscations of green, blue and red, searing energies that tear at the very fabric of the universe.
Until the fabric of the universe gives way.
Standing in the breach, like gravity does not apply, a gigantic three legged, three armed figure appears. In place of its head is a gigantic tentacle, split up its centre with a cruel maw.
Nyarlathotep has come. The world belongs to him.
In a flash, Penhew disappears from Gray Dragon Island, finding himself blinking in the brilliant sunlight, with an awkward weight upon his head. There is fire and people screaming all about him. He smiles again, as he realises his cruel master's reward. He is Pharaoh!
As he relishes this discovery, he does not notice the squad of the legionnaires clambering towards him and smashing their gladii deep into his soft flesh.
As he lies bleeding, he looks out over his kingdom in flames.

Huston is granted dominion over Europe, but it is not what he expected. He is not a king or a president or a chancellor; he is a secret lord operating in the shadows, assisted by an aide of his great master.
For a decade he reigns. For a decade his grasp on reality slips more and more until he is but a drooling vegetable, forgotten in his villa.
In 1936 he is deposed, as a new favoured son rises to power. By 1939, that new son has brought the world to war in undying tribute to the Black Pharaoh.

While that war does eventually end, it ushers in a new, colder war, all the more fitting to the Black Pharaoh's quiet machinations. And the world never rests easy again.

January 14, 1926, The Policeman's Story.

[To any readers who have not played Masks of Nyarlathotep, and hope to at some stage, please note that the below is a postscript about the final events of that campaign. As such, it is FULL OF SPOILERS. Proceed at your own risk.]


Police Report provided by Captain Li Wei, from his hospital bed, on January 19, 1926
Gray Dragon Island is a small island amid an archipelago in the East China Sea, a few hundred miles East-South-East of Shanghai. It is comprised of a small, dormant volcano, and, to the North of that, a small forest. While it is uninhabited, it is not uninhabitable; something in the air just makes it uninviting. It does not welcome people.
Jack Brady, an American ex-pat residing in Shanghai, brought the activities at this island to our attention.
Brady is a severe man, ex-military. Prior to his arrival in Shanghai, he had been working as a bodyguard for a young American millionaire, Robert Carlysle. This same Robert Carlysle ran an ill-fated expedition that (according to various sources) was massacred by tribesmen in the hinterlands of Kenya. Brady tells a different story.

In summary, he states that while there was a massacre, it was a cover story so that the leaders of the group could disappear from media attention to enact some sinister plan. His employer was, by this time, no longer in control of his own mind; rather, the leadership of the group had fallen to Professor Aubrey Penhew.
Out of fear of what was coming, Brady made plans to flee. Out of honour, duty, and perhaps even love, he committed to bringing Carlysle with him. He spirited his employer away from the group and caught a trawler up the African coast, slipping away into the night.
He was not done with Penhew, however. He knew something of the man's plans (the stories are too fanciful to relay here), and was determined to do all he could to thwart them. As such, Brady determined that they would end their journeys in Shanghai; he knew Penhew would come there; he knew people there; and, it was a good base to try and organise broader resistance to Penhew's machinations.
He spent the subsequent two years tracking Penhew, and learning of vast networks of people all around the world working to Penhew's scheme. As well as tracking these people as best he could, and learning as much of their plans as possible, he also reached out to a journalist and author, Jackson Elias, to help with the investigation and with bringing these people from the shadows to the light. Though nothing came of contacting Elias, Brady was able to get detailed enough information that when he presented it to me, it was compelling. I was required to bring it to the attention of my superiors.

At dusk on January 14 1926, our expeditionary force had Gray Dragon Island in sight. Instead of a quiet, abandoned landmass, there was light everywhere - throughout the forest, on much of the beach, dotted all the way up the volcano - and even from a mile at sea, the queues of people in their thousands were obvious. Something was happening, and it was much larger than we anticipated.
We made landfall under a rocky outcropping, well hidden from the beach, and scrabbled up into the woods.
The sheer number of people meant that even the woods and undergrowth was not enough cover. We were spotted in moments by a rag-tag group in robes, with blank, large-eyed expressions. They started plucking our number from the undergrowth and dragging them away. I was the only one to make it back to the boat. From there, I rowed out as fast as I could and fired off the emergency flare. In its light, it was obvious the sea was not stopping my pursuit. I rowed as hard as I could, and these people pursued with a dolphin-like grace. I did not think I was going to escape, but just as suddenly as they discovered us, they turned back when I was about a hundred metres away from the coast.
I kept rowing as fast as I could, until I saw the aeroplanes flying overhead towards the island. I relaxed then, and blacked out. When I awoke I was being collected by a fishing boat.

End Report