Fuck it, you miss every shot you don't take and I actually have been doing plenty of writing around the edges but lemme show off some like... really old Ro writing, back when I had the writing voice a bit closer to the official style (which has subsequently been lost).
Mostly for @ossmodula's Fic weekend, but in part to light the fire back under my ass to get back to writing this. I was having fun many moons ago, and I keep meaning to pick it back up.
A warning that Ro has strong opinions for being who and what they are. They are aware of their role. They are aware of how they should act. They are aware they don't. They do not care about the repercussions. There is a reason this is not covered further.
If you're lost on why something is the way it is and why everyone is surprisingly [if not shockingly] chill: excellent! You're right where I narratively want you to be. If that's not the case I need to work at it more.
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Let it be known: being on a ship with self aggrandizing tax collectors all the way from Terra to the Vengeful Spirit was only made worse when you're part of the help.
Oh they played their part, carry this ferry that, no be careful you fool, and so on. Play the part, cover for your fellows- the expected song and dance they'd played for far too long now.
The fact that these people venerated Malcador over the Emperor was… Odd. Not the normal Imperium standard fanfare, no "beloved by all" tacked on at the end of a title.
Well. Yes, Ro was criticized should they not address their boss the Sigillite as such, but otherwise they were fine.
The offloading took as long as it took, and thankfully they knew enough of the back halls and shortcuts that they made decent time to Horus's sanctum- arriving shortly after Rathbone made her exit. They shook their head at her as they slink into the room, nodding to the Custodian who had been ready to cut them down in an instant.
Their eyes scanned the room, noting Horus sitting back in his chair, musing, "I have often thought," he began, "that it would be the eldar who unseat us. Though fading, they are the most ingenious creatures, and if any could over-master mankind and break the Imperium apart, it would likely be them," he paused rubbing his chin as he continued, "at other times, I fancied it would be the greenskins. No end of numbers and no end of brute strength," he let his hand fall, "but now, friends, I am certain it will be our own tax collectors who do us in."
There was laughter in spades, the men of the room finding the fleeting good humor where they could. Ro smiled with them, leaning back against the wall as they mumbled, "looks like even now the two certainties in life remain," they quietly muse.
Their tone was light and they thought it soft, but it was enough for the two Primarchs in the room to turn their attention to the back. A grin split both their faces, and Ro flinched back a bit when everyone else turned to see what caused it. They shrank a bit at the sudden weight of all the attention back on them, giving a little awkward wave at the many eyes.
They knew the Primarchs, Horus and Sanguinius both friendly and congenial faces.
They were familiar with Maloghurst, and though they'd heard of his… well. Everything due to 63-19's rebuke of diplomacy? It was another to physically see him like this.
They were familiar with most of the Mournival- Ezekyle, Tarik, and Horus each offering their own brand of greeting to the wallflower. The newcomer- they'd heard that Sejanus had been killed in cold blood, but… it was another to come and see him truly gone. An empty seat at a familiar table, with a new face they'd seen mostly in passing. Both of them took a moment to examine the other, standing with an equal sense of unfamiliarity, though they hoped to meet the man for who he is.
And then there was Erebus.
Fucking Erebus was here. Of fucking course. Why wouldn't he, worse than a bad penny.
"I didn't think you'd make it out this far," Horus called, gesturing for the serf to come closer, "this is a surprise."
"Well it generally takes my weight in paperwork to get me off planet," they joked, taking the easy shot at their corpulent bulk, "and I figured for all of the," they trail off, letting their face fall into how they really felt about Rathbone shine through, "specific company of the eaxectors you could use a friendly face. I'd say a pretty one but Sanguinius is already here, so," they shrugged as the Warmaster chuckled.
"Someone had to be the prettiest of us," the Warmaster mused, looking at Sanguinius and the Angel shrugged easily in response.
"If it wasn't you," Ro pointed out, "it'd have to be Fulgrim. For ego reasons you can't let him know that, or he'd never make it off the Pride of the Emperor," they pointed out dryly.
The brothers chuckled before Horus asked, "and what was it that you said all the way back there, hm?"
Ro's cheeks warmed a bit, "oh, you heard that huh?"
"I might've," the Warmaster deflected, the serf rolling their eyes at that, "but humor me. Say again."
"It's a quote from an ancient Terran scholar," they started, fidgeting with their fingers, "about the only certainties in life."
"Oh," it's Sanguinius who asks this, a look of good cheer warming his expression, "and they are?"
"Death," they began, turning over one hand as if to weigh the words themselves, before turning their other hand over, tipping as if they were scales unbalanced, "and taxes."
Though they slump forward, expression falling, "and it seems the latter found you first," they sighed, "I have thoughts on this, but I'm pretty sure you're in alignment."
"Oh," the Warmaster's guise of humor shifted enough for a note of professionalism to sneak in, "and that is?"
"Way too soon out here on the fringes," they groaned, scrubbing at hand down their face, "this has, repeatedly throughout history, proven to be a terrible idea that has led directly towards a resentment building that turns into subsequent strife and wars. It'd be one thing if they started with the worlds earliest in name of compliance, the ones with the better part of two hundred years to accept their place in the Imperium and ease them into it."
They sighed, slumping, "personally? Give each world, what," their hand made a bit of an ambiguous gesture, "at least fifty years to rebuild? A hundred is better. Get a generation or two who have known the Imperium as a home and not the one who left them scarred and scared among rubble. I mean," they shrug at this, dismissive and ready to fade back into the back of the room, "they don't want Terra footing the bill? That's fine. But going for mass tithes will sow resentment and cause more war on more fronts with greater costs? Well, that seems counterproductive when you could instead just gradually increase the scope of who sends a tithe," they shake their head with a little huff, "Thatcher bullshit."
"But," and they rock back on their heels, "I'm just a serf from a backwater town. It's not my place to offer counsel unprompted, so I don't."
Sanguinius laughed, not unkindly, "when has that ever stopped you, Ro?"
Ro's expression shifted to the brittle smile they adopted whenever dealing with nobility, and Sanguinius and Horus straightened a bit, "I have been informed that I am to keep them to myself unless asked."
Sanguinius's brow furrowed, "and who would order that?"
They do not reply, their expression not shifting as they simply deflect, "I didn't mean to interrupt the conversation, but while I am," they turn to the Warmaster's Equerry, "it is good to see you in one piece, Mal, you had me worried for a bit," they offer with a more genuine smile warming up.
Torgaddon scoffed, "not even a hello to the rest of us, then?"
Ro rolled their eyes, "of course," they conceded, "how could I forget. Horus, Sanguinius," they open, the newcomer and Erebus both stiffening at the over familiarity, "it's good to see you two again, and better still if you're in each other's company."
"Oh? Is only the one of us not good enough, Ro," Sanguinius asks, his teasing light and expression friendly.
Ro shook their head in response, "one of you is delightful, but the *pining* is what I could do without. Better you're together, less wondering what the other is doing, what he'd think, just enjoy each other's company and so on."
The primarchs laughed, and they turned to the Mournival, "Zeke, good to see you're still as committed to the bit as ever. Eyas it's good to see you, hale as ever. Tarik," they pause, flicking a gaze up and down his armor, smothering a laugh before continuing, "and a new face. It's a pleasure to meet you…?"
"Loken," he offered, and they knew his hackles were up. It was understandable, really, they were the help, nobody ever really cared to notice their movements.
"A pleasure to meet you, Captain Loken. I heard a bit about you from Dorn," they offered in way of peace, though from the way his expression gained a hint of confusion and further wariness they admit they probably missed the mark, "it sounds like Sejanus couldn't have asked for a better successor, he'd be proud."
He didn't know what to say to that, and they weren't going to wait for him to. Their face fell back into the polite mask, "First Chaplain," they stated carefully neutrally, "does your presence here mean Lorgar also has plans to join?"
He looked at the serf and they stared at each other for a moment before he gave his answer to the Warmaster instead, "my Primarch is busy elsewhere. My time here was as a favor to Kor Phaeron, though I would not burden you further at this time."
They watch the battle brothers and the Primarchs warm to the… not doubt magnanimous gesture, and Ro kept the practiced mask of politeness on as they slink to the back of the room, more prudent business matters calling no doubt.
They paused, a soft snapping of their fingers at the sudden synapses firing to remind them of a fact. They turned to the Custodian by the door as the warriors fell back into the conversation they had before Ro had entered, "I have a package for you from Terra," they mentioned, "it's currently in with the cargo that came with the eaxactors, I will retrieve it and bring it back if you have the time to receive it."
The golden giant nodded slightly, not moving from his post as the serf gave two thumbs up and headed for the door.
"Leaving so soon," Horus called, the serf pausing before the great doors, "here and gone in a flash?"
They gave a lighthearted scoff, "since when have I been accused of being fast? No," they shake their head, "I tried being fast to beat Rathbone here, and thanks to unloading that didn't work. Now I have to grab the deliveries and bring them back."
Sanguinius's brow raised, "oh? The usual sundries?"
Ro looked from them to Erebus to Loken and back before making an ambiguous noise, "somewhat? Some goods from Terra, to be sure, as well as some miscellany."
"Miscellany," Loken asks, tone with a hint of curiosity and a dash of suspicion.
Ro shrugged, "I don't have the clearance or the records to say anything further. The packages were trusted in the ship's care and it is my job to see them delivered."
"You're doing a fine one at that," Torgaddon chuckled, the serf blowing a raspberry that made him bark a laugh, "shouldn't you be off, then?"
They sighed, shrugging and turning back to the door, "a moment," the Warmaster called, the serf looking over their shoulder as they froze mid-step to look at him. He and Sanguinius met eyes before looking back at them, "do your sundries include-"
"The usual? Naturally. And before you ask," they preface, noting the way Horus's face was dimming, "I know where to go with it. There's a reason I ask the questions I do. There should be closure."
The five men nodded, Horus turning to the newest member of the Mournival, "go with them, Loken."
Ro turns back to them, "oh, no," they balk as he looks to the Warmaster in confusion, "no, Horus, he's your council-"
"And I can spare him for the thirty minutes it will take for you to have one trip," Horus cuts them off.
"And this way you won't be stopped from entering the room again," Sanguinius chimed in, "how many times has that happened now?"
Ro slumped, "do you want the tally for this ship specifically or in general," they deadpan, the Primarchs chuckling at their expense as they give Loken an apologetic look, "if you have a better argument I'd speak your piece, this isn't one I can refute anymore."
Loken looked from the Warmaster to the rest of the Mournival before nodding at their encouraging looks, "I don't suppose I do," his tone muted with resignation, nodding resolutely at the others before he turned and closed the distance between them.
Tarik chimed in, "come now, Garvi," he admonished, "you're too stiff! I could-" he began.
Loken watched as the serf's expression fell into one of remembering something they rather wouldn't, eyes unseeing as he whirled to face the others of the XVIth. As he did, they immediately chorused, "NO," their tones telling of a tale even he as a captain knew not of, though the Primarch of the Blood Angels simply looked politely away and sipped his drink.
The serf muttered something in that language the Captain didn't know, but evidently both the Primarchs did- Sanguinius laughing and the Warmaster groaning as he scrubbed a hand down his face. Tarik looked unrepentant and Little Horus and Ezekyle looked at him with an exasperated fondness.
The serf turned, going back to the door and with a last look of confusion Loken followed them out, leaving the Warmaster and Mournival to the company of the IX Legion's primarch and the First Chaplain of the XVIIth.
They hadn't gotten far, though further than he expected a baseline of that bulk to get. The astartes's longer strides easily catching up with them, though their hurried pace for a baseline implied familiarity with transhuman companionship.
They started to turn one way before pausing, looking back to him, "how comfortable are you going the back way?"
He blinked, brow furrowing just the slightest degree before they nodded, "you're not, got it, main path it is," they pivoted, both conversationally and physically to go the way Loken had expected.
"Back way," he asked, watching the main thoroughfare as their path was rapidly cleared, "what path did you mean by that."
They shrugged, "there are a lot of maintenance halls, servants paths, stairwells and so on not designed for the general population to routinely travel. They're all plenty wide for an Astartes to walk through," they explained, dodging a few iterators as they discussed something, though they easily parted for Loken, offering apologies as they did, "but there's less," they gestured to the pair's surroundings as they did, "all this."
"And how did you come to know them," they hum at his question, waiting for a loud group of remembrancers to pass, turning apologetically back to him when it became evident they planned on taking their dear, sweet time.
"I'm sure you'll get more context later," they waffle a bit as they waited the nosy group out, "but I'm familiar with the Gloriana class battleship. Any more than that is a conversation better left for when I can hear myself think."
They walk in silence to where the cargo is stored, the militarum stationed at the door falling into a more attentive posture at the sight of the 10th Captain. The serf ignored the looks, pulling papers from their pocket and offering them to the soldier in charge.
He looked from the papers to the serf to the Captain, brow raising, "you're the one retrieving these packages?"
The serf nodded, "is that a problem, sir," they ask with the same measured tone they took with the First Chaplain, the soldier flicking a glance back to the Captain who stood waiting as he mused.
"Stand by," he replied, taking the paperwork and walking into another room. Loken watched as the serf waited, rocking back and forth from heel to toe as they waited. Loken's more keen hearing could hear the muted tones of a discussion between the man and his commanding officer, and it was only after a few minutes that the two re-entered the room, the serf offering a little strained smile.
"You're the one retrieving this package," the commanding officer asked, a mild confusion painted on his features as he looked the serf over, "I- have we met?"
Ro tilted their head, "I apologize, have we, sir? My family runs about my size and our faces tend to be a bit similar for it, was it one of them?"
He shook his head, muttering to himself before gesturing to the grunts, "retrieve the high value cargo from the recent arrivals. Yes, that one," he barked the orders, striding over to reprimand the soldier who had balked.
Loken could immediately tell which of the two crates were for who- the Custodian's goods were in a crate that was closed and locked up securely in some golden crate- there were clearly additional mechanisms at play, and likely the cargo could withstand being jettisoned out of an airlock without any harm coming to its contents. Briefly he wondered if it would handle atmospheric re-entry, but slid the thought away, as fanciful as it was.
The box that sat atop it didn't do so for its magnitude or magnificence- by all means it was just another little box. The only similarities between the two seemed to be they were both cargo crates, and that they were both metal.
The smaller of the two was old, but well maintained. The surface scratched, but the structure not shabby. The color faded to time, but very evidently cleaned.
The Imperium would use what worked, naturally, but this was… different.
Odd.
Much like the serf in question.
They looked from him to the crate, gauging his willingness to move before they approached the stack of cargo. They squat down, leveraging one corner up and-
They make a small noise of alarm as Loken grabs the crates, popping to their feet and plucking the smaller crate off the top, "I- you didn't have to- I had a plan- I didn't want to-"
"You mentioned a back way," he cut in through their panicked fluster as he strode off, ignoring the soldiers' gazes. The serf hustled after him, catching up and nodding when they were in his periphery, "show me."
The back way was, indeed, far quieter. There were no soldiers, remembrancers, iterators, eaxectors, or fellow Astartes along the way.
It was quiet, and though it was technically longer, he supposed by the sake of having to navigate the throng this longer path was easier for them.
He paused when he heard the crate they held get placed gently on the floor, turning to see them standing with an odd look on their face. Their head was tilted and he watched as they slowly walked back and forth along a path, frowning.
"What are you doing," he asked, unconvinced at the necessity of the sudden stop.
"You can hear it," they mumbled, stopping at a spot on the wall and pressing their ear to it. They rocked onto their toes before slowly moving into a crouch before making a noise of satisfaction and shoving a hand into their pocket for something, "you just tune it out. Bad wiring, need to look into it," they mumbled before a bit of rummaging turned up a piece of chalk. Loken let himself 'tune in' as they'd said to the ambient noise of the ship, the high whine of an electronic with a problem indeed meeting his ears as they marked the spot, "I'll come by later on," they mused as they shoved the chalk where they found it, "it's not bad-bad yet."
Loken looked at them, and they looked at him. Well, he noted their lack of eye contact, in his direction or even at the civilians or soldiery from before. They were very brown- brown skin, a darker robe, eyes darker still, and hair darker than the rest of it. The biggest thing that set them aside from the usual servants or humans was, ironically, their bulk. A size not uncommon among the remembrancers, certainly, but for their role? Curious.
"Who are you," he found himself asking, a measure of displeasure at the picture that refused to add up between the human before him and the behaviors they were *allowed* to get away with.
The serf blinked, "oh, shit," they apologized? A word in a language he'd never heard making his hackles rise, "my apologies, I never introduced myself," they offered their right hand to shake, meeting his eyes for once, "call me Roaap. Ro if you're friendly, Relic if you're not."
He was used to the oddities of the handshake by now, accepting the gesture and returning it, "you know of old Terra traditions, then," he noted, also observing how their nose scrunched up and the brief eye contact disappeared, though they looked at his face.
"It is pretty old," they agreed, "but for as much as I put people on the back foot it's polite to let them know I'm not armed, anyway."
The Captain's brow furrowed again, "what?"
"Right," they mumbled, "uh. Okay, where do you keep your sword strapped- you do use a sword sometimes, right," they rambled, narrowing their eyes in thought.
Loken connected the dots, "it's a gesture that you're not going for your sword, then?"
Ro nodded, "kinda like some formal salutes used to be a gesture to lift your helmet's visor- I trust to show my face and recognize you and so on," they rambled, going to pick up the crate, "but before I go into left handedness let me put that away as a discussion for another time. I've kept you long enough," they pointed out, heading on down the hall.
He was no less confused by them by the time they made it back to the Sanctum, but indeed they were let in without further issue. The Custodian took the crate from Loken and, by the Warmaster's leave, exited the room.
Left inside the Warmaster, the Mournival, and Sanguinius all sat around a table and spoke animatedly. It was strange that the Warmaster had removed himself from the head of the table, instead sitting next to his brother while the other three of the Mournival spread around the rest of the table. Abaddon sat on the other side of the Warmaster, towards the opposing end of the table, and the seat between Torgaddon and Aximand was free. As the serf moved to the head he paused.
They placed the crate down, cracking the top and pulling out… books?
Books, small figurines, a bag with contents that clattered against each other- small scale trees and-
"Did you build a temple," the question came from Torgaddon, stooping a bit to try to peek in.
The serf shooed him away, "hey now," they scold lightly, "back up, bardy boy, lest a tarrasque fall from the sky."
He laughed as he leaned back, "you wouldn't!"
They raised a single brow as they pulled a spiked theropod out of the box and placed it on the table, Abaddon and Aximand laughing at the face Tarik pulled upon seeing the thing. Ezekyle looked at the serf, "giving up what'll be our next combat, are you?"
The serf shrugged, "there's a nonzero chance, but there's always a choice. Plus, there's always a chance the dice have their own plans."
"What," Loken finds himself deadpanning, the serf looking from him to the group and back, "is this?"
"This is improvisation with math rocks," the serf shrugged, plucking a little bag from the box and tossing it to the Captain who stood away. He caught it, carefully unlacing the top and looking in to see small dice of various cuts, numbers etched on the faces and carefully inked. His gaze flicked back up to the serf as they continued, "the current setting is high fantasy- complete fiction with no basis in reality, but fun to explore the bounds of the world and what you can stress within it. It uses the twenty sided die- the d20," they pull out one of the specific die from their own little bag, placing it on the table, "to base your general successes or failures around. You have base stats- how strong you are, how dextrous, how intelligent, and so on- which can add modifiers to the rolls, and any proficiency will add further additional bonuses."
They fiddle with the screen on the table, plugging some specific wafer in so that it broadcast a drawn map- the scale peculiar and aerial as they continued, "it's ultimately collaborative storytelling with probability impacting the levels of success, and as the storyteller it's my job to 'yes and' everything these menaces," they gesture around the table, protests falling from Aximand and the Warmaster as Abaddon, Torgaddon, and Sanguinius at least laugh and acknowledge their part, "throw at me. Sometimes they derail everything horribly, sometimes they play right into the story, sometimes they succeed masterfully, sometimes it's a comedy of errors," they give a shrug, "much like life, you can't know until you're walking out of a situation on how it'll go."
They fiddle more with the feed, zooming the picture out a bit before settling on a world map. They don't look up as they continue, "you don't have to stay, you're free to do as you please! But you're welcome to sit and watch and see how it plays out. This is the beginning of the end," they state, the players at the table straightening, "and if anyone here wants to give us a recap of the story so far they'll get a point of inspiration?"
"What's that," Loken finds himself asking as everyone goes over the slates they have before themselves.
The serf smiled at him, "inspiration is a free reroll, no questions asked. However," and they stress this, "you have to take the new roll. Even if it's worse. Handy for if you fail horribly and you know you can roll better next time- or at least hope to."
His brow furrowed, "but if it's a twenty sided die, each number has an equal chance of being rolled."
The serf paused where they were setting up a series of wooden panels to hide their dataslate and some scraps of flimsy, "and sometimes an equal chance at any other number is better than what you rolled. Now," they lightly clap their hands together, "who wants inspiration?"
Little Horus looked at Torgaddon, "I think you used your inspiration last time," the hints of mirth curling at the edges of his lips, "something about trying to preserve your dignity?"
"It looked human and trustworthy," the man in question protested as he plucked his little figure from the table, "Swallow's method of getting information had yet to prove ineffective!"
"You asked a xeno," Abaddon rolled his eyes, "it was inevitable!"
Horus laughed, "Ezekyle, Graham failed his saves as well!"
Ro piped up, "I wasn't expecting for the catfish mermaid to be a problem. Full disclosure, that wasn't an encounter I thought I needed to prepare ahead of time. If Abnett and Ben hadn't succeeded in their will saves this would've been a very different session," they gestured to Horus and Little Horus respectively, "and it was Dan that was the real MVP for that one," their voice taking a sorrowful note as they pulled a last little figure from the box, the mood of the room dropping as they slid it over to Loken for him to see, "but he always had good rolls when it came down to the wire."
Loken carefully and gingerly took the offered figure, looking at them before looking to what he held.
It was a small sculpture of an armored figure, careful brushstrokes imitating the shine of metal and the fabric of a cape. No hint of a face was visible under the helm, but the figurine's sword had a shine to it that seemed to reflect against the armor, and the shield was emblazoned with four moons.
He drew it closer to himself while the others spoke, Torgaddon going on and on about something or other. The small figure's shield was stylized for its size, but the new moon took prominence on its surface. It was haloed by the gibbous, full, and half moons, with the halo itself filled by what looked like the bright yellow of the sun, pointed rays shooting between the moons.
Loken lowered the figurine, tuning in to hear Torgaddon finishing up, "and so we came to the city of defiance, stopping overnight to be well rested before the battle which would surely determine the fate of the realm, with final preparations for the battle when we wake and before we take to the temple."
Ro nodded, "alright, you get the inspiration. I mentioned McNeill had met with you at the inn before you all went to rest, right," they confirmed, the players around the table nodding as Loken watched the serf hand Sanguinius a little miniature with wings, "perfect perfect, and before he gets lost- does everyone want to let Loken know who they play?"
Sanguinius smiled as he took McNeill from the serf's hands, "I don't normally join," he said in honesty, "but when I do and he happens to be around, I take over… what did you call him, Ro?"
"Usually the term is DMNPC," they explained, noting the glazed look in the eyes of the astartes as the foreign word, "but it's shorthand for the translation of Gaol Keeper Non-Touched Player," they stumbled over the phrasing a bit, brow furrowed as they tried to keep the implications from drifting, "which are not usually the implications of those words in this day and age but the acronym of DMNPC usually works well enough."
"Would you tell him what differentiates a DMNPC from an NPC," Horus asked, a fond look at Loken, "you tend to throw acronyms around and forget not everyone knows your mother tongue."
Ro nodded, "right right, so the difference is the DMNPC is usually more combat oriented, an NPC is anything from a shopkeep to a farrier to a soldier," they explained, "the former generally are more to help fill a blind spot in the party, the latter are random people in a town who travelers may interact with in a more limited capacity."
Sanguinius nodded, "Ro usually uses McNeil, I just play him when I'm around so I can participate with lower stakes. He's an aasimar," he looked to Ro to confirm he said it right, the serf nodding, "and is a wandering adventurer, recording the stories of the world as he goes," with this he placed the small winged man in the middle of the table before leaning back.
Horus nodded, "always good to have McNeill around," he chuckled, "but I play Abnett, a human warlock with a pact to hunt for treasure my patron demands," he shrugs, sliding the figure with a cloak and a hand with a white flame next to McNeill, "we've been trying to break the contract I have, and we came to the agreement that we have to finish my current list of goods before that."
Abaddon nodded as he slid a slightly larger figure alongside the other two, a bald figure with little in the way of armor, wielding an axe and longsword, "I play Graham, a Goliath Barbarian Fighter multiclass," he looked to the serf, continuing when they nodded, "we met when Abnett came to my home village and needed a family heirloom for some reason. Naturally I had to go with him," he shrugged, "just to make sure he didn't dishonor it."
Ro and Horus nodded, "naturally," they agreed in tandem, the two of the XVIth clearly poking fun at the serf and the serf rolling with it.
Aximand chimed in next, "I play Ben," sliding forward an armored… bird? Humanoid figure, "a falcon aarakocra fighter. Much like Graham, Abnett picked me up along the way when retrieving a relic from my home."
Torgaddon chimed in before Loken could guess if he's supposed to put the figure he held, "I play Swallow," he placed a figurine of a more squat figurine, holding some sort of instrument and a colorful outfit, "a dwarf bard who is in this for the love of the game, the stories, the ballads!"
"And the fame," Horus pointed out, Abaddon and Aximand chiming in.
"And the fortune."
"And the women."
"He has his vices," Torgaddon waved off, "it's tradition," he gestured to the serf, who sighed and begrudgingly nodded, "so I play to tradition," he leaned forward, to slide the figure with the rest.
Ro sighed, "and Sejanus played Dan," they reached out to Loken, and he handed the figure he held back to them, "he was a human paladin dedicated to the safety of the realm. Abnett needed a relic from his Order, and he went along with them to ensure its sanctity was not defiled."
"A religious order," Loken said, partly a question but a thread of concern mounting.
"Purely fiction," the serf assured, "quick and dirty explanation- there are somewhat gods in this world, but it's more that it- they," the serf paused, sighing before unplugging the one memory wafer from the table and rummaging through the box for another. They shot an apologetic look at the primarchs, "I wasn't sure if anyone else would've stopped by, so I prepared for Spelljammer as well, just in case," they offered when another graphic popped up on the screen.
It was a curious graphic, a central landmass in the form of a disk with a high summit, surrounded immediately by an area of green on one side and purple on the other. Around that there were four blocked off sections, the ends of each overlapping in some capacity. Further beyond were sixteen circles, each with a glyph of some sort encased within.
"Welcome to a map of how the average DnD universe is held together," they began, pointing to the land mass in the middle where all the figurines stood, "this is the material plane. People from here generally never leave it in their lifetime- it's all they know, and they don't think or need to interact with other realms. They probably have an idea they exist, sure, magic is tangible and basically anyone can learn cantrips if they try, and it has to come from somewhere. Plus," they tap a figure against the winged figurine of McNiell before gesturing to Ben, "some races are physical evidence of this."
They gesture to the green, "next to the material plane is the faewild," and point to the purple, "the shadowfell," they traced around the little ring of color around the three, "and the ethereal plane. These are all closest to the material plane, and if any given member of the general populace is going to leave the material plane, this is likely where they're going. The faewild is the land of the fae- and, wait," they turn to the rest, "before I go off the shits this is not relevant for this campaign. Does anyone here actually give a shit to learn about this or, wait- what was the question I was answering again?"
"Religious order," Horus prompted, the serf snapping and making a noise of remembering.
"Right! So, okay, much much shorter version- see these spheres," they gestured around the perimeter, "DnD plays with the even then-ancient philosophy of the solar system and stars all being held in crystal spheres that rotate around, right? Well, the material plane is one of them, and I'll skip the nuance, but these outer ones? They're where souls go when the person dies."
"Thought you said they didn't leave," Aximand pointed out, leaning a bit forward, curious.
"Not alive they don't," Ro agreed, pointing to the topmost sphere, "these are all alignment-based, and determined by your actions in life. There's a three-by-three grid that explains alignments and I'm gonna gloss over that, but effectively your actions as determined by two questions," they look at Loken, "firstly- do you adhere to a certain code, the truth, and keep to your duties, even if it isn't in your best interests? Secondly- would you protect an innocent life, even if it puts more than just yours in jeopardy?"
They gesture back to the map, "as you can see there are more than nine, but there is one realm for each of the points on that chart and an overlapping realm in between. If they're not careful and the alignment in one part of that plane changes too much they can actually fall from their sphere into the corresponding alignment's sphere. Fascinating stuff," they muse, tapping their fingernails against the table before continuing, "but! In this setting, when you die your soul will go to one of these spheres, and you'll generally be reincarnated in some capacity after some time, and work your way into that plane's natural order."
"Is that… different to the, what did you call it, material plane's in some way," Torgaddon asked, curiosity briefly taking over and keeping him from attempting a joke.
"Oh yeah," the serf nodded, "each of the planes is wildly different, and traveling between them is and isn't risky in their own way? It," their face scrunched up, "so- remember your antagonist, also a warlock, patron is a devil? One you're expecting to fight and banish from the material plane this session," there are nods around the table, though Horus and Sanguinius seem well familiar with the knowledge already, "you can't actually kill him here. It's not his plane of existence. You can send the devil back to the hells, but unless you follow him there and finish the job he's not dead dead. You know this, but part of why you needed to bait him here was to take the relics his warlock got to before your party did. It doesn't matter if he dies because it won't stick, it matters that you get the goods."
"Devils," Loken asks, brows furrowing, "demons?"
Ro wiggled their hand a bit, "they're different, it's messy- I don't really want to go into the blood war. But the warlock part comes into play because your opponent? He had to sell his soul in a contract. They cash it in, his soul goes to the hells. These souls are a bit more valuable than any who naturally die and go there because without the devil's intervention, this soul would never have gone there. It's a powerful leg up and an excellent way to pad the ranks. Especially since between the power struggles of the hells and the blood war they're uh," they gesture vaguely, "keeping busy."
"So a devil and a demon are different."
"Yeah, demons are chaotic. They don't care what goes on, they're in it for the love of the game- slaughter, destruction, they're thought to have destroyed their universe so completely that they tricked their way into the primary cosmology of the generic DnD setting to do it all over again. By the setting's mythology there are demons that predate the universe and the big bang. One in particular popped over, and once the universe existed it recoiled and viscerally rejected her existence- as it was they threw a sheet over her to cover her up."
"They threw a sheet over it," Abaddon speaks this time, "just to not see it."
The serf nodded, "the universe at a cosmic scale saw it, went 'oh no thank you' and threw a sheet over her. She's still around if you can find her," they stated, gesturing to one of the bottom glyphs, "she made her home in the middle of an endless labyrinth in one of the planes of the abyss. If you catch her in a good mood she might just chat, but if you annoy her she'll either show you a glimpse of what the universe sought to hide and drive you to madness, or trap your soul in the sheet that covers her against her will and damn you to an eternity of suffering much like she has."
Ro shrugged, "demons are like that. Devils are lawful at least- they'll get over and come out on top through loopholes aplenty, but they have strict rules and honor them- again, loopholes notwithstanding. Like," they sigh, running a hand over their hair and rock their weight back.
Thinking through everything they look up, "every deal with a demon will end poorly. There's an entire generation of celestial children that are in a layer of the abyss that can never grow up and were supposed to be hunted for sport because of a demonic agreement Pale Night made- and the agreement was supposed to be one to keep these kids safe. A demon will go back on their word to suit their needs, but bank on the other party filling their portion from either a sense of honor, or the knowledge the demon could eliminate them if they don't comply. At least if you get a good enough lawyer you can get out of a devil contract."
Horus's eyes flashed at that, but the serf was busy fiddling with the memory wafer again to put the first one back in, "but yeah. Religion has an actual tangible place that if you have the resources you can get to, and beings from these places can give you powers mundane to the physics of their realm but magical within the material plane. If you get strong enough you can even physically become capable of killing a god. Many high-level campaigns wind up usurping the power and putting player characters in that position, assuming the god doesn't abdicate and pass on the mantle. Fun stuff.
"Anyway," they clap, the map back to the aerial view again, "let's get this started, shall we? You all wake up to the sounds of wailing downstairs. You get the sense that everything is not as you left it, roll a perception check for me everyone? Abnett, Graham, and Ben you have disadvantage. Swallow, you're the only one with darkvision so just a flat one."