No Rest for the Wicked

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09/4/2018 10:08 pm  #1

Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

**A note written by Interrogator Dalforth for the attention of Inquisitor [REDACTED]**

Thought for the day: Blessed is the mind too small to know doubt.


My Mistress,

It has taken some time but we have been able to compile more of the works of the Heretic Tollman. Contained within this file are extracts drawn from the wreckage of the [REDACTED] and the fields of [REDACTED] where [REDACTED] [REDACTED] came to [REDACTED] and was [REDACTED] by the Heretic Tollman.

I confess, I have not taken the time to study this particular volume of work. I am aware of the report filed by [REDACTED] with regard to the first collection of papers and vox logs that were brought to your attention.  As such I am aware of their import to you and of course of their decidedly unsavoury nature.

I must also apologise, the documents and vox imprints contained within do not appear to be chronological in order. I believe we can put some of this down to temporal shift as is common with extensive warp travel. Yet more we can place at the foot of the damage sustained by the [REDACTED] during the [REDACTED] but I suspect in reality it is the case that we have only scratched the surface of the works of the Heretic Tollman.

Perhaps we may yet find more should we retrace his steps and visit [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] though I leave that to your decision. In the meantime, preliminary interrogations of [REDACTED] have revealed a lead which points to [REDACTED] and as such I shall turn my attention to this matter immediately in the hopes of providing further insight to your search.

In faith,

Interrogator Dalforth


09/4/2018 10:09 pm  #2

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[If thine own flesh offends thee]

The mirror was a battered old thing, cast in pure silver certainly, but the frame of it was long tarnished with age. Only the reflective surface itself retained the original polish of its crafting, unnaturally so in fact when one considered the condition of the rest of the item. It was as if all that was good about it, all that had been poured into its crafting was focused entirely upon the reflective plain. Tollman’s thumb circled this as he clutched it in one hand, the ridges of his finger catching upon the tiny runes carved into the mirror, the edges of the precisely cut marks more than enough to draw blood from his flesh.

There was power here, in this thing. A dim flicker which sprang to life at the taste of his blood. It was a mere trinket compared to some of the things he had held in his hands, but this one served a particular purpose. It served to enhance certain telepathic practices, in particular the business he was currently about. He felt a flicker of amusement, cut of course with annoyance. There was a certain hypocrisy to his position, as ever. For all he warned others of the dangers of improvised practice, time and time again he fell victim to its dangers. It was necessary of course, he had learned that long ago.

There always had to be someone.


The thought came unbidden, a face appearing in the mirror, sharp enough so that even the dead orbs that served him for eyes could pick out every line, every scar. It was both his reflection and not his reflection. Older than he, an echo from the future or a shard of a thought given form by his practice, all of these things were possible.

“It always has to be you and they won’t stop until you are done. Then it will be someone else. But only then.”

There was something to that voice, an aged bitterness, an unleavened meanness that spoke to him of a hollowness of spirit. It was a broken man that spoke to him now, the voice of a man who had reached that point where he had given all and instead of finding some heroic reserve, some hidden depth to himself, he had found nothing and had in turn fled from it. Tollman was not that man, he had seen too much, done too much, to be that man. But he could have been that man, so very easily and so it was held within him.

He had damaged himself, in reaching out far further than he should have been able to. Stretched out his personality, his ego and it had snapped, fragmented somewhat. In a sense, it was like pulling a muscle. Painful, detrimental certainly, but with the correct attention, certainly something that could be fixed. So he had come to this place, one of the many chambers in which he practiced his art. This particular chamber was a place of arcane science, work that required as much precision as it did creativity. Yet this was no sterile, soulless place of the Mechanicum, but rather something more akin to a space that would have been the domain of one of the ancient masters of chymestry who had first plied their elementary science on behalf of courts and kings long turned to ash.

Tollman gazed deeply into the mirror, the surface rippling as if liquid to his sight. There were faces there, aspects of himself. The trick here was to draw ones personality back together carefully, slowly so as not to leave cracks. But such an injury was as much an open wound as a rent in the flesh was and so the other half of the battle was finding that which seeped into the wound while it was open and excising it or indeed retaining it if it was of use. A younger man appeared in the mirror at that point, Tollman has he had been when he bore an Interrogator’s seal.

“Waste not, want not.”

The boy repeated the old adage, a favourite of one of his former colleagues. Spoken with a hopeful, curious vigour. The reflection drawn from a memory of a time before those words took on an all the more unpleasant meaning. He disciplined himself then, pressing his thumb against the sharp edge of the frame and focusing his mind. It was unwise to dwell on such things when engaged in this particular working.

The pain served him well, it brought another figure to the surface. A larger man, long of hair and thick of frame. He snarled in his lilting accent, all brutality and rage. This was not of him, this was foreign. A shard of someone else, pulsing with the heated vitality of psychosis. The lieutenant, Renton. Whose mind he had tried to snare from so very far away. Even as he focused upon him, he felt the wounds in his leg, Renton’s leg, where the unexpected anti-aircraft fire provided by the Gaius Dynasty had torn through the lander’s fuselage and ripped into his leg. Tollman did not bear those wounds upon his flesh, but for now he carried them in his mind.

He continued to press against the edge, focusing upon this foreign shard. Tollman had known many men like this Renton, there were always men like him and he had used them, so very many of them. Just as he would now use this one. There was another purpose to his working, Tollman had been wounded in body too, wounded in a way he had not felt in decades. A violation of sorts. He could feel it even now, pulsing with its own sick un-life, a rhythm of wires and electrical charges than the clean beat of any natural pulse.

He knew what needed to be done.

Renton knew what needed to be done.

Ordinarily, Tollman would have taken these measures in a heartbeat. Corruption, taint, burns, bruises, cuts and more, all of these things were that which he could face, could take in his stride. But not this.

Anything but this.

So he needed that strength, to yoke the madness he had drawn into himself. That aggression, that callous disregard for the suffering of others. The honed cruelty, all the things He had said that Tollman must never be. That’s the place he reached into now, drawing upon that alien presence, focusing his will upon that which he needed to do. He could feel it, uncoiling in his psyche, growing hot and restless. Another thought rising to the surface of the mirror, accompanied by the snarling face of the man himself.

“Ag sies man, don’t be such a cuntzh, jah!”

The litany continued, taunting, goading. All the things that Tollman needed.

“Fokin, do it, bra. Do it!”

He felt it a moment later, the cold pressing of the dead metal that served him for a left hand, just as hated as that which lurked within him now. It pressed, Renton continued to extoll him to action with his accent, rendered guttural now by the bitter tempo of Tollman’s own disgust.

“Dog het gedog hy plant 'n veer en 'n hoender kom op”

Tollman screamed, fighting a blackness that crept into the edges of his vision as this mental fingers tore into his flesh, the hot tide of his blood washing over unfeeling fingers as he dug into himself. Machine coming to tear and machine as he tore wires, clamps and medical power cells from himself, casting them from his flesh as he would cast out a the daemon from the flesh of an innocent. He howled, Renton howled along with him, a sound of exaltation and madness combined into one. The last scraps of the shard of his presence bleeding off as Tollman burned through it to stay conscious.

“All don jah? Be seeing you real soon bra.”

Weak now, Tollman clutched at the mirror, focusing his will as his machine hand, slick with blood and gobbets of what he would later discover to be his ruined liver, grasped the thickset glassware he had set to one side, upending the vicious liquid within into the pulsing wound in his side. A rush of pain, smoke rose from the wound and the darkness rose to claim him. Even as Tollman fled consciousness, his bloody work done, the surface of the mirror became still once more. The whispering of one final voice, the voice of a man who had found the will to continue, the will to do what needed to be done, even at such a vast cost, this is what came to him in his last moments of consciousness.

“If thine own flesh offends thee…”


Last edited by Tollman (06/8/2018 10:17 pm)

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23/5/2018 11:04 pm  #3

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[Rum and broken things]


The enclosed seems to be some sort of diary within a diary, it appears to be an account of the heretic’s experience of some sort of rehabilitation facility. While these logs are somewhat lurid, I believe they hold little value in terms of intelligence but they are certainly of worth as evidence. What I find particularly curious is that while these logs are nowhere near as heavily encrypted as the others, we have been unable to ascertain the name or location of the aforementioned facility.

Naturally, while I enclose the full series of entries, I have prepared a selection of what I feel to be the most relevant entries.

In faith,

Interrogator Dalforth


Day 00
I wrote before about how there is a difference between passengers and cargo. I had rather thought that my previous experience of the difference between the two and how easily it can change was going to be my last. Suffice it to say, my brief incarceration aboard the Acheron at the hands of the Sororitas was not something I was eager to repeat.

There I was cargo, for a time at least.

I find myself now aboard the Civilising Influence.

I am a passenger here, but I could easily be cargo.

The invite to come here was just that, an invite. But the steel behind the word was clear, he would be coming upon the journey one way or another.

I am a passenger here, but I could easily be cargo.


Day 07
Company today.

Well, every day.

I take these walks sometimes, to one of the observation decks or to the quieter bars.

Sometimes they come to sit and drink with me or just to watch the stars.

You think I’d be used to being watched.


Day 12
We travel through the warp now.

No one will tell me where we are going.


Day 20
Screamed for two days straight.


Day 25


Day 33
Still no word as to where it is we travel.

I suspect there is something in the drink.


Day 42
I sleep I think, it is hard to tell now.

The ship has an advanced day and night cycle in terms of how it is simulated, at least in these quarters.

But how do they know?

Who set the time? Who started it?



Day 50
Made planet fall today.

Swapped one set of handlers for another.

Tropical, this world.


Day 54
No one here looks at me with that pity they think they can hide behind smiles and kind words.

Amazing what money can buy.


Day 62
Everything is so clean here.

Even the air feels like it is doing something good for me…

Makes a change, I dreamed a few nights past, of the place I was born. The air was thick there, iron and blood. You could catch your death if you caught the wind coming from certain districts without a ‘breather.

I can feel it.

It goes into my blood.

The darkness goes out of my blood.




Day 68
What is there in this world that a man desires that cannot be found here?

They left me to my books to begin with…

But then there was the drink.

And the women.


Day 76

100 days they say.

100 days and they can cure anyone.

I do not think they know…


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16/8/2018 8:09 pm  #4

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]


I find these entries to be of particular interest. The heretic makes extensive reference to the pan-dimensional xenos construct referred to as the [REDACTED]. Indeed, this seems to be an account of the journey to reach this location. Assuming of course it is not just ravings and is actually a true account… 

But what if it is true? I have heard the legends, you know I have. What if he was able to follow in the footsteps of [REDACTED] consider then that we might perhaps learn this secret from these writings. Imagine what we might be able to do. 

There is perhaps an opportunity to corroborate and verify these claims, this entry seems to come with a list of names. The heretic was careful not to name any of his known associates here, however this list contains a number of Astartes. I therefore suggest that we reach out to the [REDACTED] though I feel that they will not be overly cooperative, they seem to have become all the more [REDACTED] since gaining their new home world of [REDACTED]

On a more personal note, I must also seek your forgiveness. I had for a time felt that your interest in this individual was personal, given your history with him. However upon having read the attached entry, I have come to understand entirely. 


Thought for the day: And he searched and he searched and he searched and he searched for forbidden treasure old. And his curse and his curse and his curse and his curse shall forever now be told.

Loyalty is a curious quality.

There are those who have it and those who do not. I have seen those who claimed to have terrible knowledge, fit to reshape the galaxy, betray their cause for a moment of mercy less than an hour into an interrogation where their foot soldiers, the barely initiated, held and held to till the verge of death. I have seen factory workers take up fallen rifles to defend governments and noble houses that they will never set foot in and never be rewarded by for doing so. 

I myself have burned billions of lives, scoured worlds from the heavens to save further lives uncounted. I have given of my flesh, my sanity and endangered my soul, for people I will never meet. People who will never know my name… It is worse I think, when they know your name. It does strange things to you without you realising it. You get these ideas of nobility and sacrifice…

That is how I have found myself in my current situation. I am going to the [REDACTED]. Not once. But twice. The first trip, it understandable, I go to find out about an artefact that threatens the sector itself. The second though? I am off to ask a question on behalf of someone I cannot confess to care deeply about. But that’s how it gets you, you see, loyalty. I was asked in the spirit of friendship and found myself somewhat unable to refuse, despite knowing how much would cost me.
That I thought I knew how much it would cost me is laughable, the reality of course was far worse. Though, knowing that now, I do ask myself if I would do it all again and the answer is of course yes. That which I gained far more outweighed the damage that was done to me in gaining it.

Of everything that happened here, it was the journey I regretted most. Because there it was the case that others suffered so that I might progress. The second time was certainly worse, partly because I had no time to recover from my first journey but most because I knew what was coming. I just had to keep one foot moving in front of the other and when I could walk no more there were those who carried me, dragged me onwards until we reached a point where only I could pass and then I crawled when I could not walk.

But in all that time I could never look back. I knew that I must never look back. For if I did I’d see them there. The dead in my wake. People I had served with, broken, beaten, some driven to sheer insanity. There were dead Astartes there too, laying, dignified even in their death but no longer among the living none the less. I think perhaps that is what hurt me the most. I find the truth of the Astartes to be deeply tragic. These beings that might otherwise live forever, broken upon the altar of humanity’s wars, doomed to live brutish lives that would end all too soon.

Some of them had died for me here. A small number by the reckoning of Imperial conflicts certainly. I have in my time, killed billions. I feel the weight of that number, following me around. But there are a portion of those names that I will never know and will never care to know, because they deserved to die. But these names, [REDACTED], [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] I shall carry with me until the day of my own passing.

At once I can tell you exactly what I saw within the Library and I can repeat none of it. Merely the vague account of this event already condemns me. But to describe it further would be to not only fully condemn myself but to drive my reader into a madness I have no desire to inflict upon anyone. The point to this account therefore, is to give voice to this name, to leave behind some account so that any who read this might know that not only did they live. But they were my friends. 

Last edited by Tollman (16/8/2018 8:10 pm)

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02/10/2018 8:38 pm  #5

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

*A hand written note*

I have conquered the first of my great enemies.

Only two remain.


Last edited by Tollman (02/10/2018 8:38 pm)

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07/11/2018 1:04 am  #6

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[A memory – Julia]

Thought for the day: I rolled and thrashed the whole night through, all horrors I did see. The Devil stood at the foot of my bed, pointing his finger at me.

Tollman looked at the woman seated across from him, she was tall, good cheek bones, hair some tone between brown and auburn, it was hard to tell in the light of the bar. Her eyes were the thing that really caught him though. They were lively, there was a sparkle to them, something that spoke of curiosity, wonder perhaps. Her eyes were so unlike his own, there was no real life to his gaze and there had not been for some time.

Her name was Julia, she had a degree in genetic engineering and another in biological science. A Masters in selective gene editing and was in the process of working through her PhD in relation to the hybridisation of human and xenos genomes. Which was, he was told, a fascinating new area of science being pushed forwards by the university.

She liked to sing, had a sneaking passion for grav-ball and her favourite drink was some overly sweet concoction that involved apples and such. It wasn’t proper unless it had the little umbrella in of course and Tollman had been sure to ask for them when he had ordered the drinks. Bartenders on Arkangel, especially the good ones, grew to learn the tastes and wants of the various Lord Captain’s that passed through their establishments and so this one had struggled somewhat to avoid casting a look when Tollman had ordered something so far from his usual preference.

She had hopes, dreams and goals. Completing her PhD, getting that secondment with the professor, he was after all a brilliant man. Securing a grant, heading up a project of her own. Specimen Sigma-34 was proving to be unusually strong and she could write an entire thesis on that subject alone, maybe even get her name put on a wing in the university perhaps. There was a passion there, Julia was going to change the world one day.

He knew all this because he had taken it from her psyche in the moments before he had closed a bionic hand about her throat and choked the life from her.

She smiled at him as he looked at her, there was no sadness there.

He’d killed her because her work was abomination, the cross breeding of human and xenos subjects. Julia had experimented on children and had disposed of them according to what she had called the correct procedures. That meant she had to die and Tollman, had naturally seen to this as he had done so with so many others over the years of his life.

Yet he was given pause.

It had crept into his stomach, a feeling he had struggled to identify at first, but one that became all too clear before long. It was something he was unused to, something he had not felt in a long time. It was the feeling that he should not have done something. That in this case, he should not have taken Julia’s life. It was not a thought that sat easily with him and nor was it a thought that was going away.

Someone had said to him to be better and he had tried, he had tried for so long. But this, this was not the behaviour of a better man. There was so much more he could have done. He could have taken her off world, could have shown her something better. Helped her, shown her what she was doing and put that intellect to better use. But no, he had allowed his own disgust, his own rage to get the better of him and so he had stolen from her psyche before he had choked her to death.

Julia was part of him now, in the same way that the psychotic Renton had become part of him. It was the curse of telepathy, the way in which you were never alone with your own thoughts. The constant chatter and intrusions. There was an answer of course, a way he knew of taking those errant thoughts and traits and locking them away until they were of use, if ever. He had done that with Renton, the man had a dangerous, toxic rage to him and that was something he could not allow to run wild.

She’d have to go too, of course. Back into a little box, stored away in his mind like Renton was. But not yet, not for a while yet. He looked up, seeking her face again, but this time seeing only his own reflected in the mirror across the bar. Tollman sighed and looked down, peering at the lurid green drink set before him. The little umbrella was blue, Julia liked the blue ones especially. He pocketed that before draining the glass, knocking upon the bar to call for another despite the strange look it garnered him in return.

She’d have to go…

But not for a while.

Tollman looked back around the bar, seeking those eyes again.

Last edited by Tollman (22/11/2018 9:02 pm)

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01/4/2019 8:30 pm  #7

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[A dream]

“This is farther than anyone has ever come before.”

The Sensorium Primus calls across the bridge, it is a statement of fact. Calm, succinct and clear as is the standard Tollman demanded of his bridge crew. Yet there is concern, he did not need telepathy to read it from the man as he relayed the readings from his station. It would have been clear regardless of any words spoken, just by taking a look at the view screen.

There were no stars here.

Just an abyss.

Black upon black upon black.

Absolute and unbroken.


And yet he knew that it was not the case.

Others had come this way before.

He knew it for sure.

“Engines ahead full.”

The order came without hesitation.


     Thread Starter

01/4/2019 9:55 pm  #8

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]


This is a particularly important entry as you will see below. Not only does it describe an encounter with one of the Arch-Traitors but it also expresses notions that are clear and definitive heresy in nature. While I am aware that we have much such evidence and indeed that our burden of proof is much lower by the very nature of our work, each further item we come across that is definitive in nature as this one is only further serves to both enhance our own understanding and to strengthen your case before Conclave.

Interrogator Dalforth


[Abjure the Red Eye]

Thought for the day: This is our time.

I encountered two entities today, in two different fashions.

The first I expected to encounter, it introduced itself as [REDACTED] and it had been set to test me. But no test was forthcoming. It sat before me plainly and we spoke. It knew of me and said that there was no test it could render, no horror it could show me. It was pointless, it would be an insult to both of our intelligence and would achieve nothing, it said. So we sat and we spoke for a short time before I left it to its prison.

It claimed no guile, but I know better than that.

It made me no offers, because it knew better than that.

So we talked.

It spoke to me in such human terms, telling me of its loneliness, how it missed its family. Its brothers and sisters, lovers and rivals.

It said it was the [REDACTED] so I told it a truth I had come to realise.

The daemon exists, only because we as mankind give rise to them through our thoughts and our passions and deeds.

Their kind has bedevilled ours since the dawn of time.

But only because we let them.

Their kind, the daemon, they are our meat.

One day, we as a species will realise this.

And won’t they be in trouble then…

The appearance of the second entity was somewhat unexpected, it put horrible truth to an earlier rumour and threatened then planet upon which we stood. It had claimed dominion over this sector and all who lived within it.

We sought to challenge that dominion, to cast it from this place.

As is our duty.

As is our right.

I have fought many terrible things over the years of my life, I have banished the low, exorcised the exalted. I have bound greater daemon and destroyed princes. But this was beyond even that. Never before have I encountered such raw strength.


And yet we cast him back, little by little, prizing his grip from that world.

He sought to burn us with his fire, yet we endured.

He sought to take our clean language from us, but I speak older tongues than that of humanity.

We cast him from that place.

He knows our names now.

He knows that he had his time.

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30/5/2019 10:10 pm  #9

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[A reflection]

Thought for the day: They beat him up until the tear drops start, but he can’t be wounded because he’s got no heart.

It is a powerful thing to see yourself reflected in the eyes of another.

I met him shortly after planet fall, the representative of what served the Federation for their Holy Ordos. Their defence against the things that lurked in the dark. I met him and I understood him. I know the job and I know the responsibilities and the weight of it upon a man because it was once my job too. I could allow myself a grandiose indulgence here with a question of scale. If they are to be believed, this Federation is some six to twelve planets, an order of scale and thus comparable responsibility vastly lower than that of a Scion of the Golden Throne.

But I will not.

Scale doesn’t matter here, to hold power over one life or billions of lives holds the same weight, stains the soul in the same way. I have heard Generals and Lord Militants speak of casualty ratios and acceptable losses as a vehicle to achieve victory and I know why they believe as they do. But I also know that their battle is lesser than mine. Their war of passing importance. My battle is for the soul of the Imperium, the soul of humanity itself and so I know that each lost soul is a loss in and of itself. One soul or a billion, these things weigh the same in the end, when one has to look upon the balance of one’s own life and all that one has done with it over the years.

I subscribed to a particular school of philosophy that had me regarded as something of a liberal among my peers at the time. I tried to be even handed, measured and restrained in all that I did. My methods geared towards respecting the laws of the Imperium and preventing as much loss of life during the execution of my duties as possible. Then of course, what happened, happened and I learned other methods, other ways of doing things. I learned that such well-meant thought had no place in this uncivilised age.

He spoke to me for a time of his purpose and some of this methods and I wondered if he thought the same or had thought the same. It seemed to me that had I come here for a different purpose, then perhaps we might well have ultimately been allies. After all it seemed to be an efficient operation, ruthless in its oppression and control of the witch-breed. But it is not my job any more. The Rosette I carry is no longer the crimson of Hereticus but the purple of the rogue, the Excommunicate. I no longer see through his eyes, I am what he hunts, what he seeks to control now. What I once hunted, what I once sought to control. Gamekeeper turned poacher if you will.

My Rosette marks me as an Excommunicate for those who know. Within the Imperium, I would still wield the powers of an Inquisitor. But I am not in the Imperium. Out here, realistically, it is worth no more than the Warrants we operate under. Out here the only thing of true worth is your word and the only law is that of the gun. So I do this man the professional courtesy of listening to him. He calls me solid, dependable. He expresses concern that I am unmonitored and then calms when I point out that I am. I had harboured a small dislike for him at this time, but I had quite yet decided he should die, that came later.

Did he have a family? Was there a reason he came to this job? Some horror he had seen once and sought to prevent or had he simply been pressed into service. I did not find these things out and as I write, I realise that I do not care. I look upon methods that I myself would have once employed and I know nothing but disgust and rage. But I do not feel guilt, I am long beyond that.

I saw it in his eyes as he lay dying, heard it in his thoughts as disciplined mental defences gave way to the embrace of death. Or perhaps I did not, perhaps I saw only myself reflected back at me. After all, it could have easily been me laying at the feet of someone would have branded a heretic.

You may perhaps wonder what I saw there and I will tell you that in truth it was purest self-loathing. You may at that perhaps think that I have learned something about myself in that most intimate of moments. But I do not think so, I am haunted by a vexing sense that this revelation is as momentous as it is meaningless, that this moment of reflection, this confession written in my own hand, ultimately means nothing.

Am I lost?

Am I damned?

Do I even know any more?

     Thread Starter

06/6/2019 9:18 pm  #10

Re: Tollman’s Journal [Volume 2]

[Blood is freedom’s stain]

Thought for the day: The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now you begin to understand me.

There is fighting in the streets, you can hear it across town as easily as you can watch it from the sensorium up on the ship. Revolutionary violence, uprisings, these things have a soundtrack all of their own, a tempo entirely different from that of all-out war. That is not to say it is any less violent than full scale warfare, indeed there are times when the revolution is so much more violent than the war itself.

Revolutions tend to be so very personal you see.

People rise up and fight because they choose to do so, not because they are made to do so. They are fighting for something they believe in as opposed to something that is instilled into them. It is a war fought in their own streets, their own homes, their children learn of it with their own eyes. It is a war fought against friends, sometimes even family. The price for a better tomorrow is paid just as readily in the blood of the kind hearted as it is in the blood of collaborators.

It has been a long time since I brought down a government and I have seen many fall in my time. Some I brought down because there was corruption, the machinations of fell powers that rotted at the heart of them, others I removed because they threatened the established order I am empowered to enforce and defend. I am not by my nature a petty man, so I cannot put my hand atop my heart and say that I have brought down a government simply because I disliked it for whatever reason.

Though in fits of pique, I have certainly come close to doing just that for that very reason a number of times in the past.

This government had to fall because of what it represented. It was a government that beheld naked greed and did nothing. It was a government that sanctioned the oppression of my brethren and while I was once a part of such, I cannot abide it further. I will not. Above all I think, that really pushed me. Is that I could see in this world, this Federation, the potential for something greater. But the government had done what so many administrative bodies, governors and various other luminaries across the Imperium of Man had done. It operated in a way that fostered apathy as if it were a virtue.

Reva Moreau

Ambitious, ruthless.

I could feel it coming off her in waves, she knew what she wanted and we gave her the chance to reach out and take it. For all this I could feel that there was compassion there, a care that many of her fellows seemed to be without. I see potential there also, a chance to set this society on a better path. I see how they could be so much more, I see how they could become what was intended. It is within my ability to help them, but ultimately all I can do is show her, show them, the path. It is for them to seize this chance, it is for them to rise.

She will do well I think, I hope and should this endeavour fail, I shall do my best to save her. Perhaps in this there may be some small degree of absolution for me, something to ease the weight of Julia’s passing. Guilt is not a thing I feel often, I am unaccustomed to its weight and ultimately I fear I cannot bear it. I killed the woman months hence, yet still I see her face. Still I think of her when I rise and when I close my eyes to sleep. It disgusts me in a way, that my hope for a better tomorrow for these people does not come from an entirely altruistic place. I can feel this hateful alloy, my hope tempered with my own selfish desire. I feel it sat within my heart like a vein of some poisonous metal.

I must be free of this.

I must do something.

There is of course the chance that we or rather I, shall become a victim of my own success. There are some who say that I went through the Maw in order to escape the things I had done in the Imperium, they say that I am here, moving ever outwards because I cannot stand to look behind me and see all that I have done. Naturally I have a purpose out here, goals of my own. But in my darker moments, in those moments of introspection. I realise that I have come out here because it was a chance to leave behind so many of the things I have come to hate.

Yet in succeeding here, in bringing about compliance, I shall bring these things here and they shall come to haunt me again.

I wonder how far I must travel, how far must I go, before the bright lights of our civilisation are left so far behind me that I can no longer see them.

Last edited by Tollman (06/6/2019 9:23 pm)

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