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General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on July 13, 2017, 04:04:27 PM »
The Church of Nagash

Near Viadaza, northern Tilea, Spring 2403

The graveyards were empty, the tombs bereft of bones. Viadaza had been harvested of all that could be made undead many months before, upon Lord Adolfo’s command. Yet once again the city swarmed with the vampires’ servants, an army of animated warriors with or without rotting flesh, having this time marched upon the city rather than arisen within it. There had been no shortage of corpses after the battle at Ebino to swell the shambling horde, which meant Biagino, craving followers for his new Church of Nagash, had been generously provided for. He arrived at the city with quite a congregation – not only the select servants of La Fraternita di Morti Irrequieti, but also the wild mob of his Disciplinati di Nagash. He had also been gifted the famous Cattedrale di Morr Re, which sat in its extensive grounds a little way north-east of the city walls. All this he received with a degree of satisfaction, but he knew it was not enough. If his church was to thrive, if Nagash was to be fed by its prayers and so return his blessings, then there was one more, (quite literally) vital thing he needed. Hopefully, Viadaza would provide.

As he waited before the castle-like front of the Cattedrale, he was accompanied by a cluster of servants.



Several zombies staggered hither and thither about their labours, lifting or dragging the last pieces of debris away so that the grassy space was almost pristine. Biagino’s guards and attendants, however, were silent and, for the most part, motionless. Three red-robed brothers stood in prayerful contemplation. They possessed a serenity which sometimes concealed their deep wickedness and at other times gave it a sharper edge. For now, they merely waited.

The first of Biagino’s Disciplinati was also present, his head a battered mess of misshapen bone and torn flesh, his hands disfigured by their size, somehow both swollen and emaciated at one and the same time, the splayed fingers elongated beyond their natural length. He still wore the dedicant’s robes he had been captured in, bar the gloves, of course.



Biagino had intended to turn this man into one of his Fraternita thralls, as he had done with several of those who had been captured alive, but in a fitful moment of uncontrolled bloodlust during the enspelling he had gone a tad too far and accidentally killed the man. Not wanting to waste the corpse, he chose instead to re-animate it. When he saw what resulted he decided there and then to form his Disciplinati di Morr, a huge mob of crazed un-corpses who would serve, as they had in life, as bloodthirsty dedicants, footsoldiers for his church, while his Fraternita would be his priests, clerks and lieutenants.

Apart from the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the faint sound of grunting and groaning from the foul mob contained within the cattedrali’s cloistered quadrangle, all was quiet on the tree-lined green.



Biagino had been waiting for another of his servants, a captain of his skeletal body-guard, to arrive. While he did so, he gave his mind up to the powerful swirl of gleeful desires born of his vampiric lusts, suffusing him thoroughly, and conjoining with the winds of magic animating his frame. He felt a surge building and allowed it to pour outwards, feeding all those around him and amplifying the eerie sound issuing from within the walls behind him.



Then something bright caught his eye and he realised the captain was already present - sunlight reflecting from the curved blade of the captain’s ancient war scythe. 



“What news, captain?” Biagino demanded. “How many? And are they coming?”

The captain responded immediately, yet neither by movement nor sound. His answer was without words, for he knew not the modern tongue and had no tongue to speak it. It was contained in a thought, or rather the echo of a thought, which washed through Biagino’s mind with cruel clarity.

They are coming, but it will be some time yet. There are not many, less than a hundred.

“So few?”

The city is almost empty. All the rest have fled.

“Which means I get the slow, the foolish and the unlucky?”

They live.

“Yes,” said Biagino. “At least they are alive. And they must stay that way until they have yielded unto Nagash all that they can – every anguished prayer and fearful misery. I will turn their screams into hymns, their cries into plainsong. Their torment will be delicious as their suffering sates our lord’s hunger.”

He thought of the blood he would take from them in their last moments. It would be a meagre nourishment, like thin gruel, but in great quantity. This in turn stirred in him the ancient hunger, a distraction he refused to yield to.

“It seems we have time on our hands,” he said. “We shall put it to good use and further prepare this temple for its unholy purpose. I will have it made ready before the worshippers arrive.”

Biagino turned to the first of his Disciplinati.



“It is time for your brothers to begin the vapouring,” he declared. Then he looked upon the three Fraternita.



“Bring the tome,” he ordered. One of the red-robed thralls stepped forwards to proffer said book.



Biagino made a sign over the book and gave a short prayer in the classical Reman tongue: “In virtute Nagash, non somnus, non requiem.”

The thrall then opened the book to a page marked by a finger bone and turned it around to allow Biagino to read its ancient text. He did so, aloud, intoning the words with exaggerated expression, an almost mocking tone. Allowing the etheric breeze to penetrate him deeply, to coalesce and swirl through and about his mind, he summoned his Disciplinati.

For a few moments only his shrill voice could be heard, but then another sound joined it, not one but many voices. They were wordless, first groans and moans, then guttural cries and growls. Biagino turned to look at the trees to his left. The others did the same …



… and he cried out, “There! My bambini. See how they run!”

They poured from the catedrale, their pace frantic, their arms outstretched, still part-clothed in the ragged remains of their Morrite robes.



“Ha!” laughed Biagino. “Look at them! They have not forgotten, but now they dance for Nagash!”

The Disciplinati cavorted onwards, forming a long column. Some carried the weapons they had died with …



… while others ran empty handed.



Wild they ran, barely balanced, as if falling ever forwards, each step made just in time to prevent a tumble.



Some wore the red or grey hoods of Morrite flagellants, others were topped with matted, ragged hair, while many were bald and bloody.



As they emerged from behind the trees onto the open space, their course began to alter.



The crazed column began to curve across the front of the catedrale, to commence its circumnavigation of the grounds.



Just as they had done at Ebino, when they hurtled pell-mell around the holy carroccio, they now did the same here, so that their clamourous cavorting might sanctify the catedrale. This time, however, they served a different god.

The Church of Nagash was truly re-born!
................................
Remember, to see the whole campaign, with re-instated pictures, please go to http://forum.oldhammer.org.uk/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=2889, or to see the WIP (slowly being rebuilt) version, visit my website at www.bigsmallworlds.com.
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General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on July 11, 2017, 07:36:26 PM »
Some amazing magic has been done to this thread on the Oldhammer forum, and they have replaced all the pictures. You can see the fully repaired thread at http://forum.oldhammer.org.uk/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=2889.

If, however, you want to read the slowly re-growing, 'improved' version of the campaign (in which I am editing all the posts for grammar, spelling etc) then take a look at www.bigsmallworlds.com.

This campaign will not die!
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General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on July 03, 2017, 11:20:59 PM »
I'm working on a website.
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Blades in the Dark / Re: Epilogue: The Drop Wars
« Last post by faceknives on July 03, 2017, 02:25:49 PM »
I think Mr Slaine will probably end up working for The Crows, who will likely recognise a good hitman when they see one.  The Billhooks are a possibility, but they're a bit sloppy for his liking.

He'll stay away from Baso Baz though, due to the whole "heretic worshipping the Forgotten Gods" issue.
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Blades in the Dark / Epilogue: The Drop Wars
« Last post by The Dan on July 01, 2017, 06:06:27 PM »
Well, it’s over.



The Drop Outs are gone, but not forgotten. They have, it’s fair to say, left their mark on Doskvol – mostly in the form of bodies and scars. Their turf is destroyed. Their (still missing) Product has earned legendary status. They themselves are known as “those crazy shits that destroyed everything they touched, including themselves.”

After blowing up the meeting between the secretly-returned Baszo Baz., Lyssa and themselves on Tangletown, they became pariahs. Despite attempts to muddy the waters and claim Lyssa did it, the truth came out – Plug Uglies abandoned them (an unlucky entanglement), and being at war with the Crows AND the Ogres, eventually and without any allies left, the Drop Outs are toast.

THE FINAL SITUATION

Crowsfoot remains unstable, and with far too much official scrutiny thanks to both prominent dissidents (and militia) and supernatural terrors. There are way more ghosts here than before, and whispers do a roaring trade protecting both citizens and the underworld. Every crew keeps one eye on the supernatural now.

The People's Militia is bloody sick of bloody gangs. They are small but dedicated, oppressed by the City Council as vigilantes. Finally the people have some muscle though - lets hope they don't get tempted into crime...

The Bluecoats have finally been given the military grade arms and armour, and help from Railjack and Spirit Wardens they have been after for years, thanks to the constant murder and supernatural shenanigans. Nobody is happy about this. They are, in the end, the biggest and most stable gang of Crowsfoot.

The Crows: Despite being blown up, Lyssa survives to lead the Crows for now (Bell takes the brunt of the blast for her, and is bedridden. They remain the largest gang with the love of the people, slightly sullied by the Drop Outs efforts. Their main problem is now Erin’s Billhooks right next door, and Baszo as her new “lieutenant” controlling most of his old gang. Lyssa now also has to deal with the Sons of Roric, who are gunning for her particularly.

The Lampblacks continue as part of the Crows… for now. Baszo got his people back and controls Blackouts and most of the Drop, via his old henchmen Adric Smiles and Mr. Wyck.

The Plug Uglies remains the wild, savage, fearsome thugs they always have been under the leadership of Fearsome Fergus. Chunk Flunkins languishes in Ironhook Prison. They raise a glass to Chimes each year. The people of Crowsfoot still hate them.  The Tub o Blud is still a rat and weasel-fighting arena, and bare-knuckle boxing venue.
Erin’s Billhooks (II?) recognise Lyssa as ward boss “for now” and as a result, the Billhooks as a whole become Tier 3, but the status of Erin’s “Crowsfoot endeavour” is uncertain.

The Fog Hounds are royally shafted, with their ship literally stuck, full of ghosts, and them forced to work for the Billhooks.

The Red Sashes are controlled by agents of House Anixis and their diplomatic guard. Mylera is a puppet. Zamira will likely work with the new regime though.

The Savages: Prosper under Marlo’s aggressive leadership and PC-supplied guns. Marlo contributes much to the legend of the Drop Outs, and thinks you guys were “smashing top shelf bloods.”

PC FATES

Breaker (Damian): Robbed the crew’s cache and absconded. Whereabouts unknown – but he apparently left the Dagger Isles Orchid to Grace.

Hugo Grimourd (Declan): Exploded by the grenades he brought to threaten his way out of the meeting (pins pulled by the finally-snapped Breaker). His ghost probably haunts the bowels of the Leaky Bucket… unless some enterprising whisper decides to bottle it and sell it to Lyssa or Baszo.

Dog (Justin): Continues to be the meat-puppet of Roric’s ghost, and the nucleus of the Sons of Ruric (with his sister, Willow)

Dr Hong (Sam): Continues as a plaything in a spirit bottle, tortured by Lord Scurlock, perhaps occasionally given a brief respite in exchange for services. Perhaps he’ll be one day given to Setarra as a pet?

Flint (Sam): Is eventually killed or captured in the ensuing riots, fighting against the state.

Frankie Sin (Justin): Survives as the broken plaything and servant of Velvet and her sisters…. Whoever they are.

Hermon (Jonny): Took a timely step back from the crew, and is in seclusion trying to teach the Frankentoku social graces – or at least to not be a murderous undead/demon-tainted/mechanical killing machine. 

Mister Slane (Sam): Stays loyal in the brief gang war, but once the crew itself is dead, moves on, the consummate professional.

Silas (Justin): Remains one of Lord Scurlock’s agents, and continues to look for a better life than the torrent of horrible things he’s been doing recently.

Toku (Jonny): Although his body is now a monstrous flesh golem, the state and whereabouts of his soul is currently unconfirmed.

ALLIES, CONTACTS, ENEMIES, ETC

Doctor Boden continues his work with Hermon, and testing the virtue of leviathan blood in medicine on the rogues that visit him for healing. 

The Dissidents have had a proper kicking. The Runagate Commune is destroyed, its leaders executed. The Janglers and Red Beggars are broken and in hiding. The Lost get caught in the crossfire and their campaign to protect the people of Charhollow is weakened. A few people are radicalised by the City Council’s clampdown, however. The Red Beggars become a crew of assassins and extortionists who specialise in hitting government targets. Crowsfoot has the People’s Militia now, with ties to the remaining Lost.

The Dagger Isles Orchid is left in the hands of Grace.

Hoxley will be missed. Poor guy.

Mister Pale’s real name and Agenda will never be known, he never gets the chance to avenge his niece Nensia Dunsane’s murder.

The Whispered Scream reach Tier 2, becoming a major player in Charhollow and threatening to push into Crowsfoot.

Midnight’s Bones continues to be the secret centre of monstrous, supernatural vice in the city. They begin to expand into other endeavours….

Mr. Wick remains Baszo’s right hand man and trusted killer.

Lord Scurlock has become “interested” in life in the city again… well done.

Roland Wott escapes blackmail due to the death of Hugo. His son remains a “bad un” he covers for though.

Riven is dead, his secret recipe for ‘Red-T’ remains a mystery.

The Demon Setarra: Lives free and relatively unrestrained, a force of major corruption in the city. Her strange and subtle “game” with Lord Scurlock continues…

The Silver Nails come out of this nightmare with a better reputation as reliable ghost hunters. Tier 4 is potentially within their reach.

Tick-Tock is a strange pre-pubescent transgender tinkerer, who was a friend of Ruric.

Willow is lured back to her brother’s side and is the Sons of Ruric’s new (insane) whisper.
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General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on June 30, 2017, 05:20:27 PM »
Bloody Photobucket have got me over a barrel. All my thousands of images, inserted into hundreds of bat reps, campaigns, stories and painting posts, gone. Unless I pay...
Quote
o Plus 500 Plan: 500 GB of Storage and unlimited bandwidth for $399.99 / Year. The Plus 500 Plan allows for unlimited image linking and unlimited 3rd party image hosting.
That's the cheapest option that allows third party image hosting. Nothing else does. From zero to $400 per year in one jump!

I don't even know for certain that if I pay the images will reappear or I would have to spend weeks re-linking them all. If I don't pay, then there will be absolutely loads of work to do trying to find the images from old files and folders and re-loading them elsewhere, so much that I would have to let everything but this campaign die. 10 years of 10 - 50 photo bat reps, campaigns with literally thousands of photos.

My hobby life, half my life, has just been zapped!

It's insane. All that work and effort.

Any tech-savvy people out there - if I don't pay the $400 which other image hosting site that would be best for my needs? I need one that isn't $400, allows third party images, and will allow me to start re-building  massive library.

Blogs are useless because they do things in reverse. If I posted my campaign there, readers would be reading the chapters in reverse order. And I would have to find, sort, re-label and re-upload thousands of pc-folder-file, riffle-shuffled photos. Nightmare.
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Blades in the Dark / Re: Word on the Street
« Last post by The Dan on June 17, 2017, 03:18:35 PM »
Mardin Gull: Plenty of deals made and scores planned, and a damn lot of screed and braggadocio: A fine birthday bash! Billhooks and Crows are both consolidating - not exactly friendly but mostly ignoring each other while they stabilise, that might work out but tut tut for bringing them in here, Drop Outs. That's trouble we do not need. Funny how things work out... Poor Phineas and Goldie, trapped between Sashes, Hooks, and the dead. That's no choice at all.

Cottonmouth: Slane, we have unfinished business!
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General Wargaming / Re: Pretty Models thread
« Last post by damo_b on June 14, 2017, 02:25:34 PM »
Like the new style, the Zombies are excellent
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General Wargaming / Re: Pretty Models thread
« Last post by padre on June 14, 2017, 12:47:54 PM »
My zombie cultists are all done.

I feel a bit sorry for them, as they were once Morrite cultists fighting bravely, insanely even, against the hordes of undead. But they lost. So now they too are part of the horde of undead.



I tried a new technique this time. Having painted in enamels for decades (black undercoat and ‘cell shading’ cartoon style over the top) I thought I’d have a go with acrylics. I still wanted the figures to fit in with my existing armies, so I didn’t go the whole hog, but instead sprayed an acrylic undercoat, then painted, washed, drybrushed and inked away at the flesh, then I slapped a black enamel on all the clothes and weapons and painted those in my usual style.

I really like the more ‘subtle’ way the faces came out – much better close up than my normal style. They won't photograph as well in big-scene bat rep photos, but they'll be great for story illustrations.



I will definitely use ink again - the faces came to life with a dab of watered down ink here and there.



I like the scabby bloodiness of the wounds, which I also washed some green into.


 
Some of the guys turned out particularly threatening.



     

Another new thing – I used square 4 figure bases instead of the long ones. I think it’ll make it even easier to rank them unit up.



As for the experiment with hair – I can’t decide if it worked well or not. I thought it would look more, well, hairy!




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If any of this conflicts with your intended canon, please feel free to make or request an edit!  I really wouldn't mind in the slightest.

---

Mr. Tenenbaum sat in front of a mirror, carefully grooming his hair and moustache.  Everything had to be just so.  After all, appearances were everything.  These sessions were a fine time for self-reflection and this evening's was no different.

He had been Tenenbaum for such a long time, now.

The years had been long.  How many of them now?  Ah, far too many to count.  He used to keep a journal, didn't he?  Yes, until there had been little of novelty to write about.  Until the volumes became too cumbersome to store.

Names, too.  Plenty of names.  Almost, but not quite, too many of those to count.

Tenenbaum had been alive for a very long time.  Unfathomably long for most people.  He, like most, remembered nothing of his birth and little of his childhood other than a general sense of... "rustic"?  That seemed like a word with the right sort of fit.  His parents were poor financially but rich with love and his childhood was a happy time.  Pinpointing his home town was something of a challenge, to the point that he'd never returned.  Times and borders had changed so much.  Perhaps it would correspond roughly with... hmm.  Despite this long-lived "British" affectation, perhaps a nationality of "Arabian" would be more appropriate.  No sense in updating the passport now, though.  Lord knows that every other detail on that document was probably a fabrication.

On the day of his 14th birthday, his powers began to manifest.  He finished people's sentences and had a knack for knowing when others were happy or sad.  It made him a good listener, popular with his peers.  By 15 he could outrun any person in his village.  By 16 he was troubled by what he perceived as visions (what he would later come to know as reading surface thoughts) and he left home without a word, living a life of self-imposed exile, travelling from town to town in search of inner peace.  Alas, as fast as he could run, it would always elude him.

In that unenlightened place and time his gifts would surely identify him a demon and lead to his death at the hands of his peers (or worse.  He shuddered whenever that murky thought rose to the surface).  In many ways, the modern world was little better.  More tolerant, that much was certain, but still with its prejudices.

Perhaps, he pondered carefully, he was a demon.  Wouldn't that be poetic?  By the age of 50, his speed and telepathic abilities increasing with every year, he realised that his body had ceased to age.  That was hardly normal.  Not even the memory loss and confusion that often afflict the elderly would trouble him.  Maybe he was cursed, much like that wretch trapped in the vault, entombed in the blade.  Every person he knew and loved would perish before him, but in contrast to that furious spirit, he would have the option of futile intervention.  He could try to fight the inevitable, to prolong the lives of those near and dear to him until...

No.  Better not to make social connections.  Such loss, such sustained and perpetual loss, that would be more than a person could bear.  Better to remain detatched.  Maintain a professional demeanour.  Emotion was a prying little crowbar, an addictive and dangerous distraction.  Many had referred to him over the years as aloof.  Never would it be denied.  Few, a select few, would sincerely believe he had slight psychopathic tendencies.  Ha, perhaps.  In Tenenbaum's personal experience, morality was somewhat subjective.  Quite frankly, many individuals tended towards using it as a justification to prevent their fear of their own unsavoury actions.

What was the first name that anyone had given him?  Yes, there was a first, almost a title rather than a name.  Maybe more a joke, told kindly and with good intentions.  It wasn't from his parents, no, their community was small and had little use for names.  It was given to him by a group of very motivated men.  Researchers, they called themselves, choniclers of... ah, yes.  Methuselah, that was the name they used.  They thought it ironic, somehow, and laughed about it for hours.  In modern times, "Tenenbaum" had a more satsfying ring to it.  That was the first name he had ever chosen for himself, possibly even his heroic psuedonym.  That sense of identity, of self recognition, that was important.  When one cannot rely on the brief and irrational people in one's company, rely on Tenenbaum.

Through most of the important moments in recent global history (recent being, of course, a relative term), the biggest players on the world stage had known the services of Tenenbaum or someone like him.  Hard to tell after all this time, of course, whether his life experiences had been his own or... vivid dreams?  Even recalled reincarnations were possible, would that he believed in such things.  He'd served tea to Ghandi, helped see to the living arrangements of the slaves of the mighty Khan, even sharpened pikes for Vladimir Tepes (quite a personable chap, really, but one wouldn't want to share his company for dinner).  Some had been more interesting than others.  Adolf had been a difficult client but always a professional (to a fault).  Richard the 3rd had kept him very much on his toes.  Through his now tired and jaded eyes, he had seen the development of an entire species.  Witnessed first hand marvels of science and art, great achievements, terrible atrocities.  A life, or perhaps lives, most certainly well lived though it had left him surprised by little these days and impressed by still less.  He had few regrets despite a few strong temptation to influence the course of political history.  But no, that would have been irresponsible.  Professionalism was his raison d'etre.  To try to shape events to his own preference was arrogance and a god complex was only a short step away. Never an admirable trait for a super.

And frankly, not much of a super at that.  A supernatural jack of all trades, maybe.

And now this.  This time period, this situation, these people.  Kindred spirits at last.  Not the kinds of people with whom he would normally choose to associate but at least people who would be able to accept him for who he was.  After all, they were similarly afflicted with superpowers and never to know the exquisite mundanity of a normal existence without the terrible burden of social responsibility.  Would this partnership last?  The date of the cessation of his contract with the New Sentinels was approaching fast and certainly money was not a particular concern.  Perhaps he should pursue his own satisfaction rather than taking up a new contract and living for the needs of yet another client.  What a novel concept, time dedicated to one's self!  And after all, the world had survived for many years before him.  The future could eventually move on without the aid of a Tenenbaum, once it had sufficiently matured.

To think that the events leading to this epiphany started during his time under Bert's employ.  Good heavens.  Hardly a high note, that one.  Not exactly a low, though... not exactly.  God alone knows how that behemoth was ever able to afford the services of the world's most efficient and discrete valet.  Especially one that was also cooking the establishment's books...

A flash of light caught his eye in the mirror.  He looked to his comb.  A grey hair.  The first he had ever noticed.  Was it simply the stress of the past few months?  Ah, no, there was something else.  A smell of brimstone, the feeling of warmth at his back, a voice that was both strange and familiar, all at once silent and unbearably loud.  It was paying another visit.  A change was coming.  Maybe Tenenbaum finally, after all these years, was not as young as he used to be.  Time for himself could wait.  Duty was about to call and this client, while renowned for His patience, was not one that it would do to keep waiting.  Best to start a fresh kettle.  Best not to turn around, despite there being nothing unusual about the reflection of the room.

Until the new master came calling, the New Sentinels were as good an employer as any other, despite that regrettable contractual amendment incident.  He would enjoy spending his last years in their service.  Of course, he would sue them for breach of contract but it wouldn't be anything personal.  As with all things in life, it was only business.

An unseen and heavy hand fell on his shoulder.  The sense of warmth was becoming quite noticeable now.  A sharp, cold pain struck his chest and in deference to ingrained social convention, his upper lip reflexively stiffened.  Already?  Sir, how terribly direct!  Perhaps the lawsuit would have to be abandoned, more's the pity.  He painfully took one last sip of tea.  It was unlikely that he would find any in his new accomodation and by God, he would MISS tea.  As the cup fell from limp fingers and he slumped gently forward, at last, briefly, he felt at peace.  As his spirit rose and he looked the great deceiver straight in the eye, another feeling rose in him.  Quite a familiar one, the sense of duty.

No rest for the wicked, old chap.





Personell termination report
Deceased: "Mr. Tenenbaum" (assumed alias, no standard identity records available)
Attending coroner: Dr. Drake Jenkins
Time of death: Estimated 20:15, 07/01/2017
Cause of death: Cardiac arrest
Additional:  Cause of death not treated as suspicious.  Mr. Tenenbaum, despite being in remarkable physical shape, was of an advanced age and had recently undergone a prolonged period of physical and emotional stress.  Death to be treated as "in the line of duty".  Deceased was discovered, at best guess, some 4 hours after his passing following complaints from nearby operatives that the usual dinner service appeared to be running late.  No items of concern noted in routine physical assessment appointments.  The meagre notes taken during such appointments may indicate that Tenenbaum has used his powers of influence to repeatedly bypass his physical.  This warrants further investigation.

No next of kin specified, no family can be identified, no mailing address listed.  A will has been discovered among Tenenbaum's meagre personal effects.  It is an uncharacteristically short document which requests three things:

-Any overdue wages, severance fees and the like to be donated to his former team of operatives (team leader Kenson included), distributed evenly, for whatever purpose they see fit (specifically noted that "Mr. Petal" may not be permitted to spend his share without "rational adult supervision").
-All suits and experimental weaponry should be made property of the Apollo Initiative for "research purposes".  Items include five (5) Apollo Initiative branded double breasted suit jackets with matching trousers, five (5) similar sets of garments (sans branding) and one (1) heavily reinforced "stunbrella" with enclosed instructions for use along with one (1) spare power pack and two (2) charge cables.  The origin of the umbrella is not known.  It ironically appears, we are warned, to prove quite deadly if actually used as a shelter unless the user is properly grounded.
-Remains are to be cremated "thoroughly and repeatedly".  The coffin should contain one (1) pair of customised reinforced leather brogues (to be fitted to the deceased) and one (1) sizeable leather-bound document, currently located at -REDACTED- safety deposit box, details of which attached under standard encryption.  Under no circumstances should personnel attempt to read the document and, to quote, "even prolonged eye contact should be avoided if at all possible".  This particular plea was repeated no fewer than 3 times.

A non-denominational humanist funeral has been requested.  Formal dress.  All items of religious significance should be removed or hidden from sight where possible during the ceremony.
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