Set on polluted Vharax-Null, this campaign unfolds within and beneath two colossal Hive Cities.
| Played | 35 times |
| Cloned | 2 times |
| Created | 24 days ago |
| Last Updated | 2 days ago |
| Visibility | Public |
12/4 Enforcer Hall
The Enforcer Hall is the heart of the Black Bastion—an armored command nexus and barracks complex where Arbites enforcers eat, train, rest, and receive their deployment orders. Built from plasteel and ceramite salvaged from decommissioned siege transports, the Hall is a blocky, low-ceilinged fortress within a fortress. Its entrance is sealed by a four-layered blast door, coded to Arbites genetic markers and guarded by twin autocannon turrets perched in retractable nests above. Inside, rows of armored bunks line the walls, each with a secured weapons locker beneath. At the far end sits the Command Oculus—a tiered tactical chamber with vox-seats, live-feed auspex data, and reinforced hololith tables displaying Gamma-12's hive layout in pulsing amber. Patrol routes, subversive activity, and known heretic movements are updated hourly. Adjacent to the barracks is the Doctrine Chamber, where enforcers drill in hive law, interrogation protocols, and execution procedures.
12/4 Judgement Hall
The Judgment Hall is the bleak heart of the Black Bastion's judicial machinery—a vast, echoing tribunal chamber carved into the former reactor vault of the old manufactorum. Its curved walls are blackened with age and soot, lit only by flickering lumen-strips and a single shaft of harsh, vertical light that illuminates the Judgment Dais, where sentences are handed down without appeal. Rows of steel benches flank either side of the chamber, though few are ever occupied—spectators are rare, and accused heretics, seditionists, or traitors do not warrant an audience. The dais is raised five feet above the floor, flanked by Arbites in heavy carapace armor and crimson tabards. Behind it sits the Magistrate-Vigilant, or one of their appointed Judex Proxies. Trial procedure is simple: Charge is read. Guilt is assumed. Verdict is delivered. Sentence is carried out. There are no advocates, no pleas, no delays. Most sentences end in summary execution—delivered by bolt pistol.
12/4 Motorum Bay
The Motorum Bay is a cavernous, blast-shielded deployment hangar carved into the under-structure of the Black Bastion. Built atop the ruins of a pre-Imperial transit hub, it now serves as the nerve-center for Arbites vehicular operations across Sector Gamma-12 and neighboring precinct zones. High above, thick gantries groan under the weight of suspended cranes, refuel lines, and automated repair rigs. Lumen-flares strobe between the hanging Aquila banners, each one scorched and stitched with the motto "LEX TALIONIS – THE LAW IS FINAL." Every wall bears propaganda holos projecting enforcement rites and execution footage. Arbites-pattern Rhinos: Reinforced with suppressor rams, shielded vision slits, and turrets mounted with tear-gas launchers or heavy stubbers. Used for riot intervention and prisoner transfer. Vox-Bikes (Interceptor units): Sleek, high-speed patrol units used in narrow hive corridors. Loud, aggressive, and capable of vertical climbing.
Ashcell 19
Ashcell 19 is a worker hab-block located on the outer edge of Cinderbarrow Forgefield—built into the rusted support strata below the main stamping crawlers and furnace lanes. Bolted into the slag-blasted ferrocrete of the Lowerhive, the block is fed by redirected power conduits, recycler vents, and castoff piping from the Forgefield’s endless production lines. It is the last stop before the shift and the first stop after collapse. Filthy, sweltering, and starved of resources, Ashcell 19 is a monument to survival through suffering. Tiered ferrosteel stack-towers with rickety scaffold access and corroded blast shutters.
Casket Stack 19
Casket Stack 19 is a massive, partially collapsed column of derelict hab-modules, defunct cryo-pods, and forgotten medical vaults embedded deep within Sub-Level J. Originally designed as a mass quarantine and cryo-storage facility during a long-forgotten hive plague, the stack was abandoned mid-containment when the disease mutated into something data-spirits couldn’t catalogue. Now, the structure stands as a macabre slum—the dead stacked beside the living, and the line between them long blurred. The Chem Snakes use it as a dumping ground for overdose bodies.
Hag’s Hollow Bazaar
Tucked inside the crushed carcass of a collapsed maglev underpass, Hag’s Hollow Bazaar is a chaotic, low-ceilinged marketplace pulsing with life and danger. The roof above hangs low, warped by collapsed ferrocrete and twisted rails. Jagged support beams jut like broken bones, while a patchwork of hanging glimmer-wire, dim lumen-tubes, and scavenged industrial panels provides a sickly, inconsistent light that bathes everything in hues of green, orange, and rust. It smells like sump oil, burning meat, fungal rot, and ozone. Voices echo and overlap in multiple dialects, many barely human. Haggling here is an art—and a threat. Everything from fungus bricks to bolt casings is accepted. Deals are loud, aggressive, and often reneged on.
Null Vault 12
Deep beneath Sub-Level K, accessed only through a collapsed mag-rail tunnel sealed with hexagrammic locks and chains of iron-scripture. Null Vault 12 lies behind a gate etched with wards in dead dialects, guarded by silence and dust. Originally established during the late Great Crusade, Null Vault 12 was not built to contain weapons, but knowledge. Severa Nox once tried to open the vault—but turned back when her tech-priests began “screaming data.”
Null Vault 13
Null Vault 13 was once a hidden repository of the Mechanicus, buried during the earliest days of Hive Primus. It was designated “Null” not due to warp-nullification, but because it was deliberately erased from all official records—a vault built to house things the Machine God forbade, things too dangerous, too corrupt, or too unknown to be trusted even by the Red Priests. Since then, Null Vault 13 has become a locus of curiosity and dread. Access corridors are infested with feral scavvers mutated by exposure to corrupted machine spirits. Gangers who enter often don't return. Those who do come back... different.
Null Vault 14
Null Vault 14 is a long-lost, heavily warded and quarantined containment site built during the Great Crusade. Designed by the Ordo Reductor and sealed with Mechanicus rites and hexagrammic wards, the vault was never meant to be reopened. Rumors say it holds a failed prototype, a tainted AI core, or perhaps something worse: a weapon that thinks. Only a few ancient cogitator logs hint at its existence, and those who go looking for it usually disappear—except Wailer Brogg, who claims to have heard it humming. Anti-psyker Null Field: No psychic powers function within 60 feet of the vault. Psykers feel nauseous, blind, or enraged. AI Echo: There’s something still thinking in the vault—and it doesn't like being ignored.
Purgatus Lance Deck
Function: Planetary bombardment systems and Exterminatus delivery platforms The Purgatus Lance Deck is where entire worlds are sentenced. A place of fire, silence, and colossal power, it functions as both sacred shrine and doomsday battery. Massive macro-lances, torpedo bays, and Exterminatus silos line the length of the deck, each tended by lobotomized servitor-crews that chant subroutine prayers as they load ordnance too large for mortal hands. Gargantuan payloads are suspended from crane-gantries inscribed with kill-liturgies, each shell a sermon in steel. Oil drips in time with hymn-rhythms from overhead chains, and lumen-strips flicker through choking incense and exhaust. Skull-totems and purity seals adorn every firing bank, while mech-shrines offer litanies to the Machine God before each launch sequence. The command lectern—known only as the Throne of Cinder—is where the final targeting rites are read aloud, often by Captain Trask himself, as the weapon-spirits are invoked.
Razor Alley
Razor Alley is a narrow tangle of overlapping corridors, collapsing scaffold-bridges, and lightless gantries nestled in the lower eastern quarter of Slagmarrow Sprawl. Once part of a cogitator maintenance grid, now it's a vertical slum of shadows and screams. The alley pulses with forbidden life—limb-thieves, black-market cyberdocs, organ rustlers, and memory bootleggers all operate openly beneath the glow of broken lumen-lamps. The walls are coated with soot, gang tags, and dried blood. Neon signs flicker weakly above entrances to bolt-hole chem dens and backroom butcher-clinics where human upgrades come at the cost of blood, debt, or dignity. The minor but ruthless gang that controls Razor Alley. Known for: Wearing barbed copper piercings along their jaws, cheeks, and foreheads Using improvised shock-lash weapons and blood-in/oil-out initiation rites Rumored to trade corpses to Severa Nox in exchange for chems and tech
Reactorum Liturgea
The Reactorum Liturgea is not merely the engine room—it is the soul-forge of the Vox Imperator, where plasma-fire and warp currents are bound in sacred union to drive the ship's immense systems. The chamber is cavernous and deafening, illuminated by the blinding heart of the primary plasma coil, suspended in the center like a miniature star chained in containment fields. Energy arcs lash from it like lightning given thought. Surrounding the core are high-gravity scaffolds, catwalks strung in hazard-yellow prayer tapestries, and cantilevered shrines built into the girders—each manned by chanting Machine-Priests, who sing the Litanies of Stability in binary over rust-caked vox-altars. Every power fluctuation is logged as divine anger or blessed surge. Dust hangs in the air like incense, and heat shimmers distort reality near the inner sanctum—where the Warp Reactor feeds folded space through the ship’s Gellar field.
Scraplock’s Nest
Scraplock’s Nest — Hidden behind rusted hab-blocks, this cluttered den is where the underhive sells what it shouldn’t have. Its owner, Karn Scraplock, is a grizzled tech-scav with a glowing red optic and grease-stained robes. Karn trades in xeno relics, broken weapons, and favors—quietly, and for the right price. Located in the Underhive of Hive Primus on Sub Level K. It is on a deep subterrainean level, there is no sun.
Shrine of the Dripping Skull
Shrine of the Dripping Skull: A heretical cult site where followers claim the Emperor speaks through liquid decay. Surrounded by broken pipes, the central "relic" is a human skull with liquid constantly dripping from its eye sockets. It is dark, wet and there is no sun or daylight, like the rest of the Underhive, it is underground and there is no sky.
Skag Row
Skag Row is a sprawling shantytown stitched together from ruined hab-units, tarp-covered walkways, and scrap-iron lean-tos. Located near a collapsed transit shaft on Sub-Level K, it formed in the shadow of broken cogitator towers and derelict cooling ducts. It’s a place where the unwanted settle, the desperate hide, and the forgotten cling to flickers of survival. The air here tastes of rust and wet cloth. Plastic sheets flutter in artificial drafts, stretched across rusted rebar to form makeshift roofs. Fires burn in cracked barrels, warming gatherings of soot-covered children, wandering junkers, and one-eyed preachers whispering about machine-gods with broken voices. Skag Row is unofficially controlled by whichever gang holds enough firepower to patrol it. Currently, that’s a shaky split between the Iron Maw Crew and the Coil Dogs, both extorting the residents:
Stamp Line Theta-8
Stamp Line Theta-8 is a colossal mobile stamping platform built on crawler tracks so wide they crush rail lines beneath them. It presses rivets, linkages, and chainbelt teeth for flak armor and weapon belts shipped up to Hive Primus’ outer regiments. Unlike the more mobile Walking Crucible, Theta-8 never turns. It moves forward relentlessly through slagfall trenches, flattening what stands in its path—human or machine. This is the line for the desperate and the punished. Every inch of its deck screams with hydraulic fury. Red-hot press arms slam into crude molds with skull-shattering force, timed by erratic cogitators dating back to the Great Crusade. Sparks fly like rain. Workers dodge the pressheads, sometimes successfully. You don’t sleep on Theta-8. You blink. You don’t rest. You lean. You don’t live—you output. Or you don’t exist.
Sub Level K Market Town
Sublevel K Market Town — A chaotic sprawl of rusted stalls, neon signs, and shadowed vendors packed into a maze of pipes and walkways. The air hums with energy discharge and whispered deals. Here, you can buy anything—if you survive long enough to spend it. Located in the Underhive of Hive Primus. It is on a deep subterrainean level, there is no sun.
The Bleed
The Bleed is a sprawling, open ruin—a collapsed manufactorum floor turned communal slum. Jagged steel beams form crooked canopies over makeshift tents, rusted barrels, and shattered ferrocrete. The air is thick with vaporized chems, wafting from burning braziers, leaking tanks, and broken dispensers. Colored smoke—green, blue, yellow—mingles in clouds above twitching bodies and flickering lumen strips that hang like limp vines. This is where the broken come to forget. Chem addicts slump in craters lined with trash, eyes glazed or twitching in withdrawal. Dealer hovels made from scrap, caution tape, and shipping crates line the walls. Each corner of The Bleed has its own scent, its own poison: Spook Alley, Glowdust Row, Obscura Steps—all ruled by small-time pushers under Chem Snake sanction. The ground is pockmarked with spill burns, collapsed ductwork, and cracked shrine-plinths long since defiled. Tech-salvagers sometimes trade here too—chems for parts, pain for profit.
The Choir Crypta
The Choir Crypta is a vast, cold, and echo-laden chamber where light is dim, sound is muffled, and even the air seems reluctant to move. A central dome of blackened ceramite, laced with psionic shielding veins, houses the astropathic choir—sanctioned psykers psychically grafted into the ship’s navigational and communicative architecture. Each astropath lies within a sarcophagus-like casket of silvered adamantium, suspended by grav-harnesses and surrounded by anti-warp incantations and pulsing hexagrammatic runes. Their bodies are withered, mouths sewn shut or fused, but their minds scream across the stars—chanting encoded messages, interpreting Inquisitorial orders, or divining threats long before sensors detect them. The chamber is lined with rows of psychic dampeners, scripted ward-scrolls, and litanies etched into the floor in blood-red script. Servo-cherubs drift above like vultures, recording every twitch and syllable.
The Chokewell
The Chokewell is a festering industrial pit, once a coolant and chem-recycling cistern that now functions as a sludge-harvest trench, a biohazard dump, and a liquid-waste processor for Cinderbarrow Forgefield. It is where the filth of the forge drains: promethium runoff, industrial coolant, lube oils, corrupted synthblood, corpse slurry, and bio-reactive grime all pool together into a thick, black, acidic muck. Workers are forced to wade waist- or chest-deep in the mire, armed with siphon-spears and clawhooks to fish out salvageable scrap, chemical cores, and power-rotted bionics.
The Clatter Vault
Built into the corroded shell of a collapsed power relay, The Clatter Vault sits half-submerged beneath a broken grid-stack in Slagmarrow Sprawl. One wall constantly vibrates with powerline hum, the other seeps with condensation that drips steadily into catch-wells. The floor is a mesh of riveted plates, old relay coils, and armored cabling that glows faintly red from residual charge. This isn’t a bar for conversation—it’s a place for deals, grudges, and the kind of drinking that drowns guilt before it can speak. Owned by a scarred ex-Arbites, Vael was discharged after an "incident" involving a psyker purge gone wrong. He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t talk much at all.
The Coil Tap
The Coil Tap — Hidden in a dead-end alley of Hive Primus, the Coil Tap flickers with sickly neon and hums with unstable energy. Its corroded façade masks an illegal tech market and the Coil Dogs’ main hideout. Buzzing conduits and rigged power lines hint that inside, the real voltage isn’t from the drinks. Located in the Underhive of Hive Primus on Sub Level K. It is on a deep subterrainean level, there is no sun.
The Ember Reliquary
The Ember Reliquary is a scorched and soot-blackened shrine-vault built directly into the central flow of the Cinderbarrow Forgefield, nestled between press lines and exhaust ducts. Constructed from broken promethium pipes, repurposed blast plating, and molten slag cast into crude effigies of the God-Emperor, this holy site is not optional—all workers are required to attend prayer cycles before and after their shifts, or risk quota penalties or punishment by the Ash Priests. Every surface is scorched. Every incense censer belches recycled chem-smoke. Every act of worship is surrounded by pain.
The Flamebridge
Function: Command center and sermon-pulpit of the Vox Imperator. The Flamebridge is more than a command deck—it is a sanctified throne of judgment. Vaulted and lined with stained-glass panels of martyrdom and flame, it bathes its crew in red-gold light. At its heart stands the Pulpit of Judgement, where Captain Trask delivers battle-orders as sermons, his voice echoed by servitor-choirs in sync with the reactor’s pulse. Tactica-officers man brass-enshrined cogitators, murmuring blessings over lance readouts and targeting displays. Every station is treated as sacred, every strike a divine act. Security is absolute—entry demands gene-code, retinal scan, and spoken litany. The Flamebridge is hallowed ground. And under its crimson glow, failure is not forgiven.
The Grate
The Grate is a brutal, blood-soaked fighting pit carved into the remains of an old vent filtration chamber, its floor made of interlocking steel mesh once used to sift industrial waste. Now, it sifts blood and teeth. The walls are scorched black with soot and ringed by jagged iron pipes, jury-rigged floodlamps, and metal mesh catwalks packed with shouting, half-mad spectators. Above the pit, a rusted vox-speaker system blares static-heavy fanfare, intercut with announcements and threats barked by a faceless announcer known only as Voice Nine. A cracked cogitator terminal mounted on the wall displays matchups, kill counts, and betting slips. Located on Sub Level K, It is underground, there is no sky or sun.
The Hangar Basilica
The Hangar Basilica is a vast launch bay, part shrine to Imperial retribution. Its arched ceilings are lined with servo-lights in stained lumen-casings, casting golden halos upon the landing decks. Down each side run rows of massive arched gantries, where Thunderhawks, Valkyries, and drop pods rest upon reinforced mag-plates—each one enshrined with purity seals, oils of sanctification, and icons of the God-Emperor. Servitor-ordained loading crews work in rhythmic unison, chanting munitorum litanies as they bless bolter rounds and recite kill-count prayers over each craft. Pilots kneel before embarking, receiving rites from void-priests who daub their brows with machine-oil and ash. Gunships are treated not as machines—but as living saints in steel, their fuselages engraved with names, martyr dates, and verses of wrath. The air is thick with the tang of ion drives and the endless thrum of pre-battle rituals. Vox-towers blare layered flight paths and hymns of descent.
The Hollow Shrine
The Hollow Shrine is a crumbling, soot-stained chapel long abandoned by the Ecclesiarchy, yet still dimly revered by the desperate. Its cracked stone altar is barely recognizable, flanked by broken statuary and walls blackened by chem fires. A faded aquila hangs crookedly above the entryway, its wings charred and pitted. Located on Sub Level J, deep undeeground. Chem Snakes tolerate its presence as long as it doesn’t interfere with business. Rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a Redemptionist who immolated himself in protest of chem corruption.
The Hollowed Vein
The Hollow Vein is not a place of pleasure—it’s a transaction wrapped in despair. Tucked away in a sagging sump alley near the Gutterline, the Vein is little more than a rusted ferrocrete chamber draped in torn cloth, stinking incense, and the haze of obscura smoke. Its only light comes from broken lumen coils—flickering pale green, casting long shadows across makeshift bedding and chemically-scarred skin. The walls sweat moisture from leaking coolant lines, and the floors are sticky with unspoken sins. A faded symbol of the Imperial Aquila hangs over the doorway, its wings burned and cracked—mockery, or memory, no one knows anymore. Those who come here aren’t looking for joy. They come because they have nothing left to sell but time, flesh, and tolerance. The workers are strung-out chem addicts, ex-scavvers, failed ganger initiates, or hollow-eyed orphans from deeper in the Underhive. Most are paid in hits, not creds.
The Iron Shattergrounds
The Iron Shattergrounds are a lawless, open expanse of wrecked metal and ruined transport rails—a no-man’s-land turned into a battleground for gangers, scavvers, and brutal turf wars. Once a cargo interchange for Promethium freight, the entire sector collapsed into itself decades ago during a containment breach. What remains is a twisted maze of slagged containers, fractured gantries, and rusted barricades. The area is split across multi-level wreckage: overhead walkways, tunnels carved into storage containers, and makeshift strongpoints reinforced with scrap and bone. Broken crawler husks serve as bunkers, while old loading mechs have been turned into firing nests. This is not a place of strategy—it’s a place of violence, bravado, and reputation. Gangs test initiates here. Vendettas are settled in blood. No one rules the Shattergrounds—but everyone watches.
The Ironwatch Bastion
The Ironwatch Bastion is a fortified command zone rising like a black spire from the heart of the Forgefield. Built into the upper levels of an old control tower, now reinforced with scrap armor plating and riot gates, it serves as the nerve center for Quota Overseers, Enforcer Clades, and visiting Mechanicus supervisors. From here, all worker movements, quota metrics, discipline logs, and purge orders are issued with cold, mechanical precision. It is off-limits to laborers. Anyone caught near its perimeter without clearance is assumed to be sabotage-prone, and is either flayed, lobotomized, or thrown into the grinder pits. Overseers monitor every crawler, press line, and worker sector from uplinked auspex pits.
The Lash Decks
The Lash Decks are a network of raised catwalks, steel struts, and grated gantries that run overhead through the core labor corridors of the Grindspan. From this elevated position, Overseers patrol and dominate the workforce below, armed with cruel implements of discipline and mind-control. The catwalks are fitted with vox-chant emitters, spot-beam trackers, and punishment turrets. This is where the real control happens. Below, workers grind, strip, weld, and haul. Above, the Lash Decks observe everything.
The Loadracks
The Loadracks are a towering labyrinth of industrial storage tiers, freight lifts, and collapsing metal gantries packed with crates of refuse, ordinance debris, rusted machine components, and misclassified relics from the hive’s endless churn. It’s where the unwanted, forgotten, or dangerous is dumped—and then repurposed by human hands. Workers must break open, sort, catalog, and repackage tons of unstable salvage each day. Quotas are brutal. Conditions are lethal. The sorting process is enforced by overseers with loaded autoguns, because many crates contain more than just parts—and some fight back.
The Molten Fang
The Molten Fang is a flickering den of chemical haze and synth-smoke, its entrance marked by a rusted metal serpent’s jaw pried open with rebar—glowing faintly from a cracked neon coil. Inside, flickering lumen-strips hang from chains, casting toxic yellows and sickly greens across stained walls and scrap furniture. The bar’s air is thick with chems: obscura, spook, stim fumes, and whatever concoctions the Chem Snakes are pushing that week.
The Ration Drop Rails
The Ration Drop Rails are an overhead, semi-automated delivery system that snakes across the entirety of Chainbarrow Forgefield. Suspended from rust-streaked gantries and insulated mono-track beams, the rails carry nutrient slabs, rehydration packs, stimm injectors, and med-bandages in rickety delivery pods—doled out according to each crawler line’s output quota. The system is brutal in its simplicity: meet the quota, and your rail stops. Miss it, and it doesn't. The pods are not secure—workers fight for them, especially on double shifts. Pods frequently drop too soon or too late. Some hit the ground and burst. Some are already picked clean when they arrive. And some never arrive at all.
The Sanctum Voxis
Function: High Chapel and spiritual heart of the vessel. The Sanctum Voxis is a vast cathedral buried in the ship’s armored spine, where faith and fire converge. Blackened adamantium columns rise into shadow, carved with saints and skulls. Iron-grated floors are warped from centuries of immolations, while promethium braziers roar like angels breathing flame. At the far end stands the Altar of Incandescence, draped in scorched crimson and gold, beneath a towering effigy of the Emperor wreathed in fire. Servo-skulls orbit above, chanting liturgy through crackling vox-grilles. Las-burned scripture scars the walls; the ceiling is a mosaic of martyrdom in rust and brass. The Confessor’s Chair, lined with flensing hooks, is reserved for the condemned—where heretics confess beneath flame before cleansing. The smell of ash and flesh never leaves. Only the Confessor and Trask lead rites here. Services are daily and often end with Trask’s sermons—broadcast in fire and fury across the ship.
The Spindle Grave
Deep within Sub-Level J, buried past collapsed catwalks and rust-choked tunnels, lies the Spindle Grave—a floorless industrial void, once part of a failed hive-core power distribution project. Generations ago, the decks beneath this sector were devoured by an uncontrolled energy backlash. The void stretches down into blackness, lined with dangling power lines and shattered mag-rails that hang like the severed nerves of a dying god. The Grave is not sealed, but most refuse to even speak of it. Tech-priests who attempted to map it vanished. Machine-spirits avoid its presence. Scavvers who get too close report hearing voices made of static and seeing the lights blink… in patterns.
The Sump Rat
The Sump Rat is a grimy underhive dive bar run by Grax Hallow, a scarred ex-ganger with a glowing red cybernetic eye and a permanent scowl. The rusted walls drip with moisture, lumen-strips flicker overhead, and the air reeks of recyc-liquor and promethium. Locals know better than to start trouble—Grax runs a tight bar, and he’s never far from his hidden stub gun. It’s a haven for smugglers, spies, and anyone looking to disappear. Located in the Underhive of Hive Primus on Sub Level K. It is on a deep subterrainean level, there is no sun.
The Vault of Iron Ash
The Vault of Iron Ash is a soot-blackened, fire-scarred labyrinth of iron corridors, sealed gun-caches, and reinforced holding cells. Half-buried under layers of repurposed hull plating and ancient reinforcement frames, it is one of the oldest sectors of The Vox Imperator, long absorbed into the warship’s ritual infrastructure. In the armory, red-robed sacristans chant over bolters, flamers, and plasma casters, anointing each weapon with rites of ignition. Weapons are locked behind chromed gates marked with purity seals and kill-tallies. The air reeks of burnt oil, incense, and scorched metal. The penal wing is worse. Its walls are charred from flamings past, and each cell is lined with scorched metal and null-field etchings—designed to contain psykers, mutants, or high-value heretics. Guards are handpicked veterans—silent, disciplined, and expressionless—armed with flamers and bolt pistols, and forbidden from speaking to the condemned.
The Vox Reliquary
The Vox Reliquary is a sealed Containment Vault buried deep in The Vox Imperator—a chamber of blasphemous code, corrupted transmissions, and forbidden machine-thought. Its adamantium walls are lined with hexagrammic wards and Inquisitorial seals, opened only by two officers who refuse to speak of it. Inside, data-caskets, cogitator coils, and dusty vox-spools hum softly—like tombs breathing. Each bears grim warnings: “To Think Is To Sin.” “Break Seal Upon Pain of Purge.” Tech-priests never enter alone. Some say it holds xeno signal remnants. Others whisper of a thinking machine that prays to itself in binary.
The Walking Crucible
The Walking Crucible is a colossal, treaded mobile smelt-crawler, an ancient forge-beast from the Great Crusade repurposed into a moving hell-engine. It lurches forward endlessly across the scorched black rails of Chainbarrow Forgefield, dragging chains of workers behind it like a rusted juggernaut god of labor. Entire families are born, work, and die chained to its flanks. Molten metal pours from side vents into troughs, carried into mold-feeders or dumped into processing bays. The deck shakes with each impact of the crucible’s iron treads, while steam-jets and lash-pistons hammer rhythmically overhead. Its furnace core is partially open—a glowing wound bleeding heat and madness into the hive. No one knows where the crucible was built, or how it’s still moving. Its machine-spirit is not docile—it hungers, and those who fall beneath its bulk are simply "reclaimed."
The Whisper Cages
The Whisper Cages: Suspended servitor pens filled with old vox-units that still whisper, despite being long disconnected. Some scavvers say the vox-spirit remembers orders from centuries ago. Located in the low parts of Sub Level J, it is dark, underground and there is no sky or sun.
The Wirecrawl
The Wirecrawl is a narrow, trench-like sector carved into the remains of a collapsed data-spine corridor, now repurposed as a brutal labor zone. Here, workers crawl through piles of broken conduits, shredded armor cables, and fused datalooms to strip them of their copper, plasteel, and rare fiber-insulate veins. The trench stretches for nearly a kilometer, flanked by scorched bulkheads and half-melted cogitator nests. It is one of the most grueling and dangerous tasks in the Lowerhive. Those assigned here are often maimed within a week, crippled within two, or dead from static embolisms, infection, or "nerve fire." Workers use crude hooked blades or their own fingernails to flay wire sheaths. Teams of three haul out reinforced lines with shoulder-mounted reels, often suffering nerve damage from overcurrent. The most dangerous task—crawling inside live ducts to sever deeper connections.
Thrummertown
Thrummertown lies nestled around a massive, decaying power-inverter complex deep in the Lowerhive. Once designed to redistribute excess energy to the upper hives, the infrastructure has long since degraded into a chaotic feedback loop. The resulting electrical thrum reverberates through every wall, floor, and bone. It’s constant. It never stops. Those who live here adapt—or break. Cramped dwellings built atop and inside failed capacitor towers, broken power couplings, and slagged mag-conduits.