(DH) Ashes of Dawn

[Cheesegear]

The pict-screen flicks on to reveal a square room, about six-by-six meters across. Central to the screen you see a man pointing a small remote device straight into the screen - into the camera. There is a wooden upturned table pressed against one wall, one leg of said table had been broken off, revealing sharp, splintered wood. There were also two broken chairs in the room, the parts of which were strewn about the room in a haphazard mess.

The man, you recognise him easily. Inquisitor Niklas Ulstrom. He is dressed in standard Imperial Guard-issue combat boots, standard Imperial Guard-issue fatigue pants, printed in the Snowblind pattern of greys, blues and whites. Not that you can tell, as the pict-screen currently capturing the Inquisitor is of relatively poor quality and only shows you the colours of green and varying shades of grey and black. But, you know this man, and you know what colours he typically wears. He also wears a rich blue muscle-shirt, and around his neck, he wears the Inquisitorial Rosette that is his right to bear, under his Rosette, on a separate necklace, he wears Imperial Guard dog-tags.

His right arm, is covered in devotional tattoos, many in the style of words and Imperial Credos favoured by the Imperial Penal Legions, as something to look at, to be inspired by, to feel protected by. Intertwined with these words, were stylized winged skulls, bleeding hearts and Double Eagles and numbers. The numbers that didn't mean anything to anyone, save Niklas Ulstrom.

His left arm - and indeed, his entire left side - is covered in scar tissue. The scars of the severely and irrevocably burned. As an Inquisitor, he would well have the resources to undergo juvenat surgery and drugs to slough off all his dead skin. But, Niklas had never done it. His visage was ghastly. Perhaps he liked it that way?

His left hand holds a bottle. You know what this is. Even without being able to read it's dark, Mechanicus Red label. It is Froke. A black syrupy liquid of carbonated water, caffeine and fructose syrup and some other low-strength Stimm only known the Mechanicarium that produces it. Froke, being a combination caffeine, fructose and Stimm was known to be highly addictive, and, often used as a substitute by those in long-term narcotics recovery, usually from the higher-strength Stimms.

Niklas Ulstrom moves to the side, to reveal the broken table leg, stained a dark colour in a puddle, of a likewise dark liquid, on the floor. And the figure...The figure on the floor, cowering in the foetal position in the corner of the room, it wore only a pair of cut-off pants, favoured by juves of the Underhives. It's torso was bruised and lacerated.
It wasn't an emaciated person at all. It was just...Thin. Long. Lanky. But, the ears. The ears had no lobes at the bottom, and were sharply pointed at the top...An Eldar.

Clearly, the fact that Niklas was now showing the interrogation...No, the torture, was almost proof enough that the worst of it was over.

"Acolytes, I think our...Friend...is ready to talk. I think we both got tired of the part where he couldn't understand Gothic. I think we understand each other now." Niklas smiled, and turned towards the broken figure in the corner. The Eldar glared at Niklas, stabbing daggers of impotent rage with his eyes. "Isn't that right, no more games?"

"Now, tell me what you're doing in Imperial Space. Last I checked, your Craftworld and us, the Imperium, had an understanding. You're to stay the frak away. But, no...You just had to come back, didn't you?"
"This galaxy was ours. And will be ag-"
Crack! Niklas' fist came smashing down on the Eldar's face.
"This galaxy is the Emperor's!"
The Eldar recovered. "Your Emperor is weak, is fai-"
Crack! Again, the Eldar said something he probably should not have.
"You just don't know when to shut up, do you Eldar?"
"I thought you wanted me to ta-"
Crack!
"I knew you understood me. Now, you're going to tell me why you've come back, and I may let you live."
"I have seen. And I leave this place."
Crack!
"Silence Witch! I now know what you know. What if I change fate? What if I destroy you? And prove your Vision false?"
"We are not permitted to witness our death. We share the same self-preservation instinct of you Mon-Keigh, we would be forced to prevent our death if we were able."
Niklas shook his head and gave a small chuckle. "Mon-Keigh? I know what that means, witch, and I'm geting awful tired of hearing. That. Word." the Inquisitor's fist hit the Farseer again. "If you saw this, why did you come here? Into our space. You knew this would happen, yet you came anyway...Self-Preservation, indeed."

"We come because we must. For the good of all Eldar. We had to come. Have you ever done something, because you believed that you must do it?"
Crack!
"I have been burned for what I believe in, witch! Now tell me what you know!"
"You know the world as Verinside. That is where the Craftworld was heading. That is where it starts. That is where the Eldar must stop the coming..."
"Verinside...I know that world." said Niklas, thoughtfully. He snapped back to the Eldar. "Coming? What coming? Coming of what?"
"Coming of the darkness. Coming of the evil. I don't know what it is. Only that it needs to shield it's presence from the Farseers, and from the Council of Seers. I believe it will bring ruin to us..."
"And what now? Farseer? What happens to you?"
"I am not to witness my death. But, in many possible futures, I leave this place."

"Then, we begin again." Niklas moved towards the upturned table, and began to break off another leg.
The Farseer moved with eerie speed, for one with injuries such as the Farseer has sustained. The Farseer stood, lightning crackling in his eyes, "NO! I will not submit myself to your will any longer!". However, abruptly as it began something passed from the Farseer, as the lightning dissipated from his eyes, and Niklas snapped around...Now with the same warp-induced lightning sparking from his own eyes.

"My will? My will, is the Will of the Emperor!" Lightning struck from Niklas' eyes and slammed the Farseer into the wall. The Farseer dropped in a heap.
With gasping breaths, the Farseer whispered "W...What...What are you?"
Niklas shook his head. "That's a shame, I was hoping you would know..."

Niklas turned back towards the camera.
"Acolytes! Orders! Head to Verinside. I will send a dispatch out for you to have you shipped to Verinside, meet with the Order of the Radiant, they'll take you there. Canoness Jamilla Ortez owes me a favour. I have a friend on Verinside who will greet you there, maybe he knows what's going on, if it's on his planet.

And men, please, the Order of the Radiant. They're more than you can handle." Niklas gave a wink. "You can certainly try, if you want. Some of you might like that. Frankly, I'm not that interested in your personal lives."

The Inquisitor turns towards the broken Eldar "Now, I'm going to tell you how I got these scars...". With that, he points his remote device at the camera, and the green-and-black view-screen switches off.

And, now, you, the Acolytes, are floating somewhere in the Void of space, barely a few days out from Verinside, on a battle-barge of the Holy Sisters of Battle of the Order of the Radiant.

[LCP]

Chaldia watched the pict-screen blink off, her face set and expressionless. Someone else might have been disconcerted by what they had seen - by the Inquisitor's appearance, or the state of the room, or the cheap stimms. Chaldia knew the Inquisitor was infallible. Someone else might have flinched at the savage treatment of something that looked so human. Chaldia knew the alien was vermin, to be expunged. Everything she had seen had been righteous and just. She knew that for a fact.

And now she was here, in the company of her betters. The Order of the Radiant. Their glorious battle-barge seemed very different from the Abbey of the Broken Hand where she had been raised. And here, among them, these men that the Inquisitor had seen fit to trust.

They were not infallible. They were mortal, fallen creatures, like herself. They had been chosen - but the poison of Chaos was subtle and insidious. No-one could be trusted.

She turned back to the blank pict-screen, waiting for someone else to speak first: Chaldia was comfortable with silence. She had lived with it for most of her life.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Eli found himself very comfortable being subservient to the others.
He stood with his hips at an awkward angle, right hand idly brushing the grip of the heavy, customized pistol lashed tightly to his right thigh. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a bolt pistol, and only a secondary examination (Or a trained glance) noted that the barrel was far too long, and that the weapons sported a silencer. Silencers didn't go on to bolt pistols.
The weapon was a comfort, its presence weighing heavily on the Acolyte's mind as he watched the events unfolding on the pict-screen with great interest, especially the parts where his Inquisitor began to beat the Xenos scum.

It was always a queer thing, to see something bludgeoned to death. Gunmetallican executions were short, there was little arguing with the business end of an autopistol, and even less arguing with the piece he carried. So the gunslinger stared, partly fascinated, and partly evaluating flaws in his head. Openings. Where he would twist and grip and try, for all his might, to stick a gun against the Inquisitor's chest and pull the trigger.

Memories of killings and duels rushed back to meat the young assassin, who smiled contentedly at the thought, hoping that his fellows would think he was rejoicing in the pain of the Eldar. It was an odd, tight smile showing no teeth - a trait he had long since picked up with the poor state of dental hygene in the Infernis. It changed the pattern of the oft ridiculous-looking facial piercings to shed more light into his blue eyes. The piercings were an unfortunate circumstance, and a reminder of things he had to do to gain the respect of the Gunscrakes he had run with. Some obscured lasburns making them appear simply as an odd aesthetic choice.
Despite all of that, it was a generally handsome face, although little moreso than the average Man.
When the pict screen snapped off, he grinned again, this time at his fellows.
"So, it's the pointy-eared Xenos?" he mused aloud, letting the gleam of anticipation shine through in his tone and cadence. "I'm eager to test my iron."

[Vikingkingq]

In the corner of the briefing room, a small light flares, and I cup it with both hands, try to draw the light into my lungs. The smell of lho fills my nostrils, and I exhale regret. I watch the interrogation with a faint pang of nostalgia; the Inquisitor wouldn't perhaps have gotten straight 10s from the Chasteners back at Precinct, but you had to give the man credit for improvisation and directness.

Lifting the stick, I scratch my cheek to cover a smile.

"Whole Craftworld might be bit above our pay grade, zek." I shoot the zek a look, half glad to see a fellow hiver of Gunmetallicos, but I've rousted enough Gunscrakes in my time to know that you can't trust them more than you can walk on lava. I point the lho-stick in the direction of the ceremite dame. "Luckily, the lovely ladies in battle armor are here to help keep them at bay. But the "coming of the darkness, coming of the evil"? All hidden-like, I'm guessing that's where we come in."

I push off from the wall that's been supporting me and find a chair to slouch in. "Anyone know the contact we're supposed to be meeting?"

[The_Shaman]

Garvel watched the screen with a trained impassive face. Underneath, he was mostly unperturbed - he'd seen worse done to much more deserving people than an eldar witch. Not that eldar qualified as "people" in any decent sense of the word, of course - the law didn't mention xenos much, but what little it said was quite direct. The witch was, at least in theory, dead the moment it stepped in human space, the rest were details - and the blasphemy, at least, deserved a good shot to the head. Still, he wasn't exactly enjoying this, but that did not matter. The interrogation was apparently effective, at least somewhat. What was more important, apparently it was something their master saw fit for them to see, so see it he did.

He made some mental notes about the scene, about their master's and the eldar's unusual abilities (by the standard operating manuals of his training and his own varied experience, a human with such injuries should have been half-dead, nevermind moving with such speed - so it was either heavy drugs or its own body), and, most importantly, about the mission. He forced himself to file all the unusual details (and by Terra, being allowed to witness his master saying the Imperium had an understanding with xenos, no matter how restricted, was a damnably unusual detail) somewhere deep in his mind for safekeeping. They had a job at hand, the rest was something to think about later.

He shrugged and reached for satchel he carried his gear into. All he had at present was there - the shotgun he carried from his regular duty (or, rather, his previous stationing - he had been merely "reassigned" officially) and equipment. He didn't have much more, really - aside from a few mementos he carried around, all he had was strictly functional. He hung it over his shoulder with a practiced, easy movement, perhaps a little too easy for someone with Garvel's wiry frame, but despite his looks Garvel was far from a weakling. Where he was coming from, the slow and weak - either in body or mind - did not last long, and he had made it to here.

He registered what the strange type with the piercings said, and thought about it for a moment - enough to hear what Sam had said. The other Metallican, Sam, was someone he was curious about. Although no longer active duty, he was someone who Garvel instinctively considered his senior - and likely a whole lot more reliable than some of the others. Relatively speaking, of course. He turned towards Eli, and shook his head. "Apparently not. The xenos said something about "coming of darkness", or some such. Unless he's lying about all that, it's none of theirs." Either way, he thought, it's ours to deal with. "I reckon we're not supposed to know the guy, Sam, and I'm pretty sure I don't. Verinside... wasn't that rimward from here?" he said, musingly.

Basically he's trying a knowledge check here

[Thanatos 51-50]

Eli shot a harsh look at the other Metallican before speaking in their native dialect "Don't mistake me for that upper spire dross, Two-shot." he spat voice full of venom and fire and lead "I've killed more than my share, and my nerves were forged in the Infernis. I'm twice the gunslinger of a born Scrake."

[Vikingkingq]

It's good to have another law-dog on the strength; balances things up between the two hired guns, the cogboy, and the dame. Even if he wasn't Metallican. "Might be, Garvel wasn't it? Point is, this Ortez dame had better know how to get us in contact or we're going to be running around trying to find someone we don't even have a name for."

"As for Verenside, let me see..."


Common Lore (Imperium) check. Do I remember anything about this planet?
If so, I'll say something brief about it.


I take a deep drag while staring down the gunslinger. "Figured you for mid-hive born, zek. You still use the right contractions - little trace of being raised right, there. Me, I'm Infernis, forged 'n hammered. Seen hired irons come and hired irons go since I was a juvie." I bring up my right hand and crack the callused knuckles absently. "I've brought in worse then you back in the Arbites, so you play it how you see it, fine with me either way. Just remember which side you're on come planet-side."

I stand up from the table and let my trench coat fall back to show the iron in its side-clutch, and then shrug. "I'm off to find some supplies, anyone in need?"

[Vikingkingq]

With that said, I wander out the door of the briefing room and wander down the corridors in search of the armor. Knowing the martial inclinations of the Sororitas.

The battle-barge is a strange place, as much a floating church as a ship of war. The walls are all gilt and polished brass, mosaic and fresco - the Radiant sisters like things to shine and glow, apparently. The contrast between the ship's baroque appearance and the austerity of the Orphanage with the plain wood furniture and the white-wash walls (white walls in Infernis, where the air was two parts ash and soot, a statement of purity and discipline that kept us juvies busy painting and repainting) makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, as if things shouldn't be this way. But that brings feelings of guilt - the Sisters are pious children of the Church, and one isn't supposed to question things. Then again, I never was very good at the Catechism of Blessed Ignorance.

After what feels like an hour of wandering around, I finally find my way to the Armory and press the entrance rune. "You ladies open for business?"

[The_Shaman]

Garvel nods at Sam as the other prepares to depart, and raises his shoulder in an exaggerated "what can you do" gesture. Eh, I suppose even if she doesn't, our guy would know us. I suppose he has his instructions as well. At least, he thought, it would be one poor some set-up if he didn't, and he had more faith in the Inquisition than that. If their master had a military background, which it looked like he did, he'd probably want his work guns clean. "I might go see how things are in a few mins. Don't hoard all the slugs."

He looked around, briefly scanning the others. "Well, lady and gents, if we haven't met, my name is Garvel. Nice to be working with you."

[Thanatos 51-50]

Eli grinned amicably at Sam's speech and let the former Arbiter head out to speak with the Soriatas. As the ex-Arbiter left the room, he let the grin fade and muttered "I'm a professional, don't worry." in Metallican to his retreating back.
"Well met, Garvel." he replied evenly. "Name's Eli Drake. Best gunslinger in the Infernis." he bragged, "No matter what that Two-shot will tell you. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Just point me at whatever you don't want alive anymore."

[Lycan 01]

A rather strange noise suddenly came from one corner of the room. It sounded like a yawn, but was infused with a somewhat mechanical timber. Anyone would turned to look would see a truely bizarre sight - a servant of the Adeptus Mechanicus stretching, as though casually waking from a nap. "Sorry," the red-robed Cogboy suddenly quiped as he twisted his head from side to side, resulting in several low popping sounds and odd mechanical clicks and whirs. "Space travel just gets so old. Didn't mean to interupt..." the Techpriest shrugged, slowly rising from his seat to stretch his back. Several more sounds - some those of popping joints, others low clicks and metal scrapes - echoed from his direction, and a few outlines of odd angles and shapes jutted from the his Adeptus Mechanicus robes.

"Quite a show, that was..." the cyborg mused idly, twisting from side to side to finish loosening up his joints, both organic and artificial. "I must admit, I would have liked to see more." The Techpriest hated most Xenos with the fires of a roaring forge, but Eldar were normally the lowest on his list of hated alien scum. Higher on the list were such blasphemous Tech abusers as Orks and followers of Chaos, but the moment the Wytch had called it their galaxy, he'd wanted to see her beat to a messy little puddle of pulpy bio waste. But, the Inquisitor seemed to want her alive for some reason, otherwise he'd have just killed her once she'd told him what he needed to know. Considering the note he'd ended the broadcast on, perhaps it was better if he didn't know why she was still alive. With a slight shudder, the Techpriest decided not to dwell any further on the subject.

Turning towards the other passengers, the Cogboy gave a slight bow. "Hiram Thrope, Techpriest..." he introduced himself, his green eyes casting a friendly glance. Smiling was no longer an option, since the lower half of his face had been replaced with a mechanical grill and vox unit, which was the source of his voices' electronic tone. Between the mask and the low hood of his robes, the only real parts of his face still visible were his eyes, nose, and cheeks. With a slight wave of his hands, which were surprisingly still human and pale, he began to casually stroll away from his seat. "I suppose I'll be providing a support role for the group, giving advice, working with Technology..." he paused, thinking for a few seconds, before finally adding: "And making the occasional witty comment."

[The_Shaman]

What, you too? Garvel eyed him in mock surprise, then smirked.We'd be a regular Scintilla comedy act the way that's going. Maybe we can get the lady to manage us? he said, ending on a warm smile as he tried to get some reaction of her. Well, ideally not too violent a reaction, sisters had... a sort of reputation at times. While he'd drop dead before admitting he trusted a Malfian's account of anything, you never knew when some of it was the truth. There was also the matter of the other one who hadn't said anything either. Actually, pardon me but I did not catch your names earlier. You are?

[LCP]

"Chaldia Nimus," said the Sister, flatly. She turned her head to look at Garvel. "And there is nothing comedic about this task. It is your solemn duty to serve the Inquisitor with competence and devotion."

She looked back at the pict-screen, as if believing it might switch back on.

"As it is mine."

[Cheesegear]

Sam
The entrance rune flashes a dull yellow as the door slides sideways with a shwww. As you enter the barge's armoury as kept by Sisters of Battle. Bolt Weapons of nearly every kind are neatly held in racks down the entire side of one wall, whilst on the opposite wall, contains a variety of promethium-fueled weapons and a series of heavy-duty Melta weapons.

Towards the shelves holding the Bolt weapons, sits one of Sororitas on a small stool. A series of wicked, parallel scars run down her cheek to under her jawbone. A potential claw-marking if you had to be any guess. A yellow fleur de lis tattoo marks her other cheek.

She is dressed in mostly plain white, woolen clothes. As you have seen nearly all the Sisters dressed during the voyage. However, on her lap is a power armoured breast-plate with a Sun Burst pattern on the left breast. Her hair is currently awash in a series of tangles and curls, and the smell of fresh-bleach permeates the air. The Sisters on-board the barge have so far all had bleached hair, and it appears that the Sister in front of you in the middle of applying a fresh coat.

One hand holds a polishing rag. The smell of that, combined with the bleach is almost enough to tingle your eyes. The woman is pointing a Bolt Pistol in her other hand at Sam. "I was told I was permitted a day of rest...And you are not one of the Radiant, speak, now."

*Checks character sheet*
Nope. The Sunburst iconography means nothing to you.

Everyone else
The pict-screen flashes back on. The green-and-black pixels quickly rendering the visage of Canoness Jamilla Ortez. Your hostess for the journey, and, from what you can tell, not a woman to be trifled with. Her hair is the platinum blonde of all Sisters of the Radiant, she sports a Widow's Peak on her forehead, and the rest of her hair has been cut as all the Radiant, a shoulder-length 'wedge' of hair ending at the nape of neck.

"I hope you have learned much from Inquisitor Ulstrom. And I pray that your resolve is a strong and unwavering as his. We are currently three days', warp-reckoning, out from Verinside. Perhaps earlier if the...Navigator" she sneers the word "can find the right Warp Currents. The Radiant Host will not be making planetfall with you, instead, we have our own business to deal with in the Rinside System. You are to meet with Judge Cruces, he is a ranking Arbite on Verinside, and both a mutual...Acquaintance of Lord Ulstrom and myself." She stops, appearing to think of something else. Then frowns. "That is all. Emperor light your path."

Canoness Ortez makes the sign of the Aquilla over her face as the pict-screen switches off for the second time.

[LCP]

Chaldia instinctively echoed the sign of the eagle, her head already bowed in deference to the Canoness.

"Three days," she murmured to herself. She could handle three days: confinement was nothing to her, although the thought of what boiled outside the hull of the vessel was best avoided. There was nothing to do but wait.

[The_Shaman]

There was nothing untoward at how Garvel was standing at attention while the canoness was at the pict-screen. While she was not technically a direct superior of his, the woman practically radiated authority. After the transmission ended, he nodded to himself. His first reaction to the idea that their contact was a judge was one of relief - the Arbites' finest were about as good an ally as he could hope for, and their reputation for unflinching devotion to the law meant that (though he'd never say it) the Inquisitor had reasonably fair dealings with the arbitrators. On the other hand, it was another indication that the situation could be quite serious.

Well, nothing to do about that, he though. They had to succeed, no matter what. Well then, he said, turning to Chaldia with a serious face. If she was a progena - as she probably was - she most likely thought all of them little better than maggots. Just so we are on the same hab-block - duty, competence and devotion are not unknown where I'm coming from, either. But I guess you'll just have to wait and see. She probably didn't believe him - yet, at least, but should be a little less reserved to working as a team. Having someone going lone-gun on the group would be ... bad, especially now.

[Vikingkingq]

Sam
The entrance rune flashes a dull yellow as the door slides sideways with a shwww. As you enter the barge's armoury as kept by Sisters of Battle. Bolt Weapons of nearly every kind are neatly held in racks down the entire side of one wall, whilst on the opposite wall, contains a variety of promethium-fueled weapons and a series of heavy-duty Melta weapons.

Towards the shelves holding the Bolt weapons, sits one of Sororitas on a small stool. A series of wicked, parallel scars run down her cheek to under her jawbone. A potential claw-marking if you had to be any guess. A yellow fleur de lis tattoo marks her other cheek.

She is dressed in mostly plain white, woolen clothes. As you have seen nearly all the Sisters dressed during the voyage. However, on her lap is a power armoured breast-plate with a Sun Burst pattern on the left breast. Her hair is currently awash in a series of tangles and curls, and the smell of fresh-bleach permeates the air. The Sisters on-board the barge have so far all had bleached hair, and it appears that the Sister in front of you in the middle of applying a fresh coat.

One hand holds a polishing rag. The smell of that, combined with the bleach is almost enough to tingle your eyes. The woman is pointing a Bolt Pistol in her other hand at Sam. "I was told I was permitted a day of rest...And you are not one of the Radiant, speak, now."

Thinking quickly, I make a quick sign of the acquilla - the effect only slightly spoiled by the lho-stick hanging from one corner of my mouth. Emperor help me, there's nothing more beautiful than a woman with a bolter. Bleach-blond doesn't hurt neither. "Wouldn't want to disturb your beauty rest. I'm with the Inquisitorial party, name of Hammurabi."

I remove the lho-stick and gesture with the same hand at the shelves. "Anyway, my team and I are getting ready to head planet-side, and we could use some supplies. I don't suppose there's any spare stub shells lying around we could make use of?" My eyes stare covetously at the racks of holy bolt-pistols and somewhere deep down in my Metallican soul something starts to drool.

[Avaris]

"And so Saint Helle stood upon the plains of Circe, and he said 'an accord with the alien has been reached. We will give them bullets, and in return we will take their lives. The only negotiator permitted to us is righteous steel, and his only words will be the bark of our firearms.' And the people rejoiced, for the fury of the Emperor was upon them."

Deimos Mabon sat, his attention fully focused upon the pict screen before him, emotionlessly watching as the xenos was beaten and subdued by his master. The words he spoke were a whisper, and seemed to issue from his mouth unbeckoned. He did not move as the picture faded, though his attention seemed to shift to his comrades. The words they spoke washed over him, and in his mind he linked them all to the blessed scripture, dissecting the sentences much as a body with his blade. The lessons of the Emperor and the Saints spoke of many things, and every experience could be understood through them.

The pict-screen returned to life, and the blessed daughter of the Emperor addressed them. Pride blossomed in his chest at this, that he was worthy of such attention.

"Upon the feral world of Kumara, those men of faith thought that they were few, and lamented for their foe were many. Yet the saint reminded them "Do not dismiss the woman who is strong in faith, for the Emperor will make her stronger than any man without."

[Lycan 01]

Hiram stands idly nearby, watching the pict-screen with apathetic eyes. He takes in whatever words she has to say, casually musing that this mission seemed to be lacking every aspect of the Imperium except for an Astartes. When she ends her message with the sign of the Aquila, however, the Cogboy responds by folding his hands over his chest in the cog-shaped symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. He didn't see her reaction, but he was sure that if he'd caught it, his ruined mouth would have formed into a smirk beneath his breathing aperatus.

Once the pict-feed ends, he turns towards the Sororitas, Arbite, and Assassin. "I think we'd best get along. If we can't put up with each other for three days aboard a transport vessel, then we shall surely crumble in the face of adversity," his mechanical voice muses. He stands there silently for several seconds, not moving or speaking, and then shrugs. "I'm sorry, were you expecting me to say more? That's all I've got for now."

[LCP]

Chaldia gave a slight nod in reply to Garvel - there was no need for more. The true test of his faith would be in actions, not words.

The man who had held his silence so far spoke words of scripture. They were words that had been etched into Chaldia's mind by painful rote: she whispered raggedly along with the second passage, her lips moving independently of her thoughts as her eyes finally moved away from the pict-screen, scanning the room.

"I will be in my quarters," she said, turning to leave. If they had three days until planetfall, she would make sure she was truly prepared.

OOC: Unless anyone wants to stop her for some reason, Chaldia repairs to wherever she's been billeted, brings her equipment to the best possible condition, and goes about her routine of prayers.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Eli Drake stood loosely during the Cannoness' briefing, and did not return the Aquila. The reflex had been bred out of him in the Infernis. Taking your hand of you gun meant death.

"Well, that was enlightening. If you all don't mind, I'll go drool over some pistols and then find the shooting range or something. Gotta keep sharp." Eli said evenly. All his gear was on his person, the Carnodon on his thigh, the holdout laspistol strapped to his chest. And the sword and spare Carnodon clips onn his belt. He needed little else. He wanted nothing else.

Assuming nobody stopped him, the gunscrake took his leave of the group, and began prowling around the ship, searching for the armoury or a hall where he could hone his skills.

[Lycan 01]

Hiram stands silently, idly watching the others take their leave. First the Battle Sister, then the gunslinger. Apathetically, he notes: "Ignored. Again. As always. Such is the life of a humble cog in the great machinations of the Omnissiah. Ever toiling, never tolerated..." he waxes philosophically.

After a few moments of silence, he suddenly looks up and asks obliviously: "What were we talking about?"

[Avaris]

Deimos turned to the tech priest, though his gaze appeared to be elsewhere.

"The time for talking is not over, because it never was. True servants of the Emperor do not talk, they act. Waste not your time with idle words, when idle hands could be made whole.' So spaketh Saint Eugen."

[Lycan 01]

The Cogboy blinks a few times, then shrugs. "I actually was suggesting we take action. By opening up a dialogue between ourselves, I had hoped we could strengthen our bonds as teammates and become a working, coherant group before making landfall. "The Imperium of Man is a great machine. It runs best when its citizens and servants work together, and grinds to a halt when they conflict. It is our duty to the Imperium and the Omnissiah to ensure that not a single cog grinds to a halt." - Magos Thermion. If our group does not work together, or even know what each others' strengths and weaknesses are, then how are we to stand united against whatever unholy abominations await us on this planet?" Hiram drones.

[Avaris]

"And so the blessed Warmaster Penon spoke 'It is not enough to know your own strengths, you must also know the strengths of those beside you. It is not enough to compensate for your own weaknesses, you must compensate for the weakest amongst you. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts."

As he spoke his continual litany, Deimos barely moved. Where a normal man would fidget and gesture, those actions were notable in their absence in the assasin.

[The_Shaman]

Garvel raised an eyebrow at the zealot. He would like to say "You sound like a priest," but that wouldn't be right. Preachers, in his experience, occasionally dropped a quote or two. Some of them could quote from the Holy texts for minutes, but they seldom did, at least not unless they had reason to. This man did not strike him as the sort that would minister to a crowd, either in front of a manifactorium or on a battlefield.

Well, zealots had their place. Hopefully, this one's was on the battlefield and not in solitary confinement. The cogboy, now, they were a breed that didn't often care much for talking with others. Only when the parts work together, however. If we are not united in purpose and action, we would fail our master's trust. I agree, it would be important to know each other better. Deimos, are you a cleric? You seem quite knowledgeable of the Holy Words, perhaps more than some who would teach them.

[Lycan 01]

The Cogboy surveys the man throwing quotes and Scripture at him, his own body showing no signs of movement or body language. Only his eyes give any hint of his emotion, and if one were to look close enough, one might wager that he appeared... bemused. This one does not back down from a challenge, nor does he let anything get in the way of his blind devotion to the Emperor. A zealot in the extreme, but with supreme command of body and mind. He can control his zeal, and recite esoteric quotes and Holy Texts known to naught but a few. Truly, a fine example of what the imperfected flesh can accomplished when pushed to its mortal limits. Interesting...

"It seems we are on the same data file," he quips at last. "I must applaud your command of spoken word and memory, for an Unenlightened. The unaugmented oft toil to no avail to build up such a respectable repetoir of responses. You are a testament to the determination of the human mind and body. You have my respect, in that regard..." the Cogboy gives a slight nod of his hooded head to Deimos, then turns to the new speaker.

He watches Garvel with a blank expression as he speaks, appearing almost as though in a daze. In reality, he is mentally studying the man and listening intently to his words. He chooses his words carefully. A level head like his will prove useful in tense situations. Excellent.

[Avaris]

Deimos, are you a cleric? You seem quite knowledgeable of the Holy Words, perhaps more than some who would teach them.

As if in reply, Deimos suddenly drew the blade that had hitherto remained in an almost invisible scabbard built into his clothing. Almost 40 inches long and wickedly sharp, it could be heard to cut the air as Deimos raised it into a warrior's salute, clutching the bone handle with what appeared to be reverence.

"We are children of the Emperor. His blood has been shed for us, and so we continue his work. Only endless blood can bring the salvation he has promised. We are the Emperor's Blades. We are the Moritat."

[The_Shaman]

Garvel's eyes narrow, but his face shows as little emotion as is possible. Behind his eyes, the little cogs of his mind are working, trying to piece together as much as he might have heard about that group. Religious zealots, perhaps more than a little unhinged, it would appear they specialize in melee weapons... he feels that this man might be less to his taste than even the smartmouth gunrake.

[Cheesegear]

Sam
The Lady of the Armoury narrows her eyes, but doesn't move from her stool, nor moves the weighty, Power Armour chest-piece from her knees. Instead, her aim, her arm, remains staunchly pointed at the Investigator. The only movement she makes, is her thumb sliding across the side of the holy weapon. Switching the Safety, to 'off'.

"I shall repeat myself; You are not one of the Radiant. If I wasn't making myself clear; You. Aren't. Welcome. Here. Yet, you still come to my quarters, to the Radiants' Armoury, asking for charity? No. Not charity. You came here asking for hand-outs. No. You are of the Emperor's Most Holy Inqusition? Yes? Where is the Rosette? Where is your authority? You don't have any. Here. None. You don't get to make demands among the holds of the Radiant Host." she smirks, a singular emotion aside from righteous anger. "Should you wish to bring this matter up with your Honoured Master, I will gladly relate the events to my Holy Mistress, and we shall see how that plays out."

The Bolt Pistol, that, deadly launcher of rocket-propelled micro-explosives was still pointed at Sam Hammurabi. "You've also brought lighted lho into a hall full of promethium. One of the Radiant would have taken twenty lashes. And another twenty for endangering the life of her Sister. But, you are not of the Radiant Host. I should shoot you now for such...Ignorance, and your arrogance. It is your aforementioned Master that keeps me from doing so. Now. Leave. I hope to not see you again."

Which is - of course - Code for 'I totally need to include her again' at a later stage.

Everyone else up to and including Sam
You've got a number of days to...Fratnernise with the Sisters on the ship. Feel free to write your own stuff. Keep in mind that you aren't one of the Radiant Host, and aren't exactly welcome. Feel free to have many dagger-glares pointed at your direction in the cafeteria.

[Thanatos 51-50]

As Eli prowled around the ship, he felt the stares of their host upon his back. The glares, and the contempt.
Such a fool was he, a man, unarmoured, ornamented, an outsider, to dift about the passageways of the Battle Sister's Domain like sparks on the air of the forge.
He'd done this before, been places he didn't belong, been in tight crowds, had the air about him laced with hostility and Hate.

And so, Eli began avoiding meeting the eyes of the Sisters, and consciously strayed away from the more heavily ornamented ones, and the ones bearing the most accouterments of rank and privilege. He searched as he could for any novice Sisters that might be about their ship, performing their duties, or taking a few hours of liberty, or, most importantly, training.

[Cheesegear]

Eli wanders the holds of the mighty Battle Barge. Throughout the holds, are many serfs, servitors, and engine-seers keeping the ship clean, tidy, operational. In the areas particularly dominated by the human serfs, such as the cafeteria, and in some of the more particularly less-used walkways are many women dressed in woolen shifts with their bleached, wedge-cut hair, on their hands and knees, working beside the common Imperial citizens. Sisters, mainly novices, earning their humility by working beside the ship's serfs. Or, earning penance for some unsaid wrongdoing.

Most of the sisters working in such menial ways are all fairly young. And, very few appear to be battle-scarred.

And that's when Eli stumbled upon the Hall. Roughly one hundred metres long and fifty metres wide, is a wide expanse of hydroponically grown grass. In the bowels of the ship. Off to one corner, is a number, a squad, of Sisters in full Power Armour wielding Bolters, practicing close-order drills. They walk ten paces forwards, and the first rank drops to one knee, as all sisters in the unit bring their holy Bolters to their eyeline.

Another squad of Sisters, this time, each of them in their woolen shifts, and, all young and unscarred, running around the perimeter of the 'field'. Behind the group, is another woman, clad in her full armour, easily keeping pace with the unencumbered women, girls. The armoured woman carries a whip, and Eli notices that if one of the wool-wearing women falls even a step behind the main group, the whip lashes out...Eli can hear the scream.

Another group, some dressed in wool, some wearing only breastplates, are sparring with wooden swords. Some have wooden bayonets attached to their Bolters sparring with women wielding two short pieces of wood, and another with one long piece of wood.

There are another two women, dressed in their battle armour, and their armour is gold, rather than the yellow as everyone else. Purity seals, and crusader honours bedeck their armour. Those two, are wielding what appears to be large, actual planks of wood against each other.

Eli gets the feeling that this isn't the only 'field' within the bowels of the ship.

[Vikingkingq]

Yet, you still come to my quarters, to the Radiants' Armoury, asking for charity? No. Not charity. You came here asking for hand-outs. No. You are of the Emperor's Most Holy Inqusition? Yes? Where is the Rosette? Where is your authority? You don't have any. Here. None. You don't get to make demands among the holds of the Radiant Host."

I curse inside, but I'm not willing to let Bleach-Blonde here see me pissed off, so I respond with more tact than I'd like to use. "I don't go around demanding what ought to be given freely - I came here to ask, polite-like, out of respect for you Sisters. But if your sense of duty to the Emperor is so narrow that you'd deny a fellow Adeptus ammunition on the eve of battle, that's your lookout."


"You've also brought lighted lho into a hall full of promethium. One of the Radiant would have taken twenty lashes. And another twenty for endangering the life of her Sister. But, you are not of the Radiant Host. I should shoot you now for such...Ignorance, and your arrogance. It is your aforementioned Master that keeps me from doing so. Now. Leave. I hope to not see you again."

I give her my most insouciant smile. "If you're offering to give me forty lashes personally, I'm game. But you'll have to buy me dinner first - don't want to get a reputation for being too easy." I stub out the lho-stick on my tongue, staring her in the eyes the whole time, and tuck the dog-end behind one ear for later.

"Later, Blondie," I turn and walk away with a dismissive wave, smacking the door rune. I step through and just as the door is about to close, I call out, "oh, and you missed a spot."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, I find my way to the cafeteria and glom a couple of hot grox buns, fried tuber-sticks, and a mug of recaff and find an empty table. Easier to get food than bullets here, I guess. Funny, just the opposite back home. I give a cautious look-see to make sure none of the Sisters are watching and freshen up the recaff with some Gorsk White Gyn from my hip flask.

A quick meal later, I'm enjoying the second half of the lho-stick from before and lay my weapons out for dis-assembly and cleaning. As my hands go through the familiar motions, I notice a young novice bent over scrubbing the deck. Admiring the view, I ask: "Don't mean to interrupt you in your important work there, but I have to ask, what's the deal with the bleach-jobs? Didn't think the Sororitas went in for hive-fashions."


Harubi? Tsk, tsk.

If someone could catch up Sam, that'd be great.

[Lycan 01]

Hiram decides to take his leave of the present company. Things were likely going to get a bit terse between the Arbitrator and the Assassin, and a nosey Techpriest would be wise to go be nosey elsewhere. As curious as he was to see where the other Acolytes had skittered off to, and what sort of scrap they were piling themselves beneath. The Cogboy exits the briefing room...

...and is almost instantly distracted by the lightbulb over his head. "Ooh," he meeps to himself, suddenly staring up at the ceiling. The old orange bulb was fastened into the ceiling beneath a small steel grid, which was bolted in place by a series of screws branded with the Sororitas emblem. Even on the smallest of items, the Fleur-de-Lis Icon could be found, it seemed. The wires supplying power between the bulb and the next light fixture where a series of interlaced black and white wires, bundled together with the occassional blue or green wire snaking its way to the surface. "Fascinating..." he mutters, absent-mindedly walking down the hallway, head held high and neck craned in an attempt to study the power lines above his head.

After several minutes of exploration, and more than a few sharp scoldings from Sisters he'd nearly tripped over, Hiram finally found himself passing by the Armory. "Later, Blondie," came a voice from the other side of the entrance, and a second later the Arbitrator known as Sam Hamurabi stepped through the door as it opened, looking back over his shoulder and not noticing the Cogboy. "Oh, and you missed a spot..." the Arbite calls out through the doorway before walking off after the door slides shut. Hiram watches his fellow Acolyte leave, then taps the entry key to the Armory. The door opens, and Hiram steps through.

The first thing he notices is not the rather irate Sister glaring daggers at the door, likely more-so after Mr. Hamurabi than at Hiram. Instead, he instantly bespies the wall rune used to open the Armory door. To the average human, it wouldn't have seemed out of the ordinary. But the palm-print his trained Adeptus Mechanicus eyes notice tells a story in itself. Someone had not gently pressed the door rune as instructed and required by even the most basic of Tech manuals and lessons. Everyone aboard the ship should have known that slapping even such a small piece of Tech could upset even the largest of Machine Spirits. Hopefully, the door's spirit knew patience, and had not grown irate with the crew and its passengers. And he hoped to the Omnissiah that the Machine Spirit of the ship had not yet learned of this infraction against the blessings of the Omnissiah.

With utmost reverance, Hiram uses the sleeve of his robe to gently clean and shine the surface of the exit rune. He then gently traces the Cog of the Omnissiah over its surface, and intones a small litany of respect and a few soothing words of his own to the small device. His job done, Hiram spins on his heel, and takes in the rest of his surroundings. It is at this point he notices the Sister and her weapon, and the look of disdain besmirching his scarred face. Hiram looks at her for a few seconds, then looks back at the door rune, then at the exit himself. With a shrug, he looks back at her and gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. "I feel as though working alongside that fellow shall be... interesting," he muses, his mechanical voice a bemused drone. "Some would say fun. I must disagree..." he shakes his hooded head. He then surveys the myriad of weapons, ammunition, armor, and other pieces of equipment that surround him. And the lighting. Such intricate lighting...

"Such an elaborate collection of Technology..." Hiram croons, eyeing a guilded bolter on the nearest rack. "I have not seen such esquisite pieces in several years. It is a pity that my... comrade..." he voices the word in a quisical manner, as though curious of its sound himself. He then continues: "...arrived here first, as I now doubt that I will be permitted to even so much as touch anything here, let alone examine or bless it. What a pity..." a sigh escapes Hiram's vox-grill, his eyes filled with longing as he stares at a viscious-looking chainsword on a shelf near the Sister. "Pity, pity, pity."

[Thanatos 51-50]

The gunscrake grinned appreciatively at the whole setup and let searched for the nearest person of authority who was otherwise unegaged.
This... particular style of combat was not to his tastes, and far from something he wished to practice, but surely somebody here would be more than capable of directing him to a firing range.

He could do this. Proper courtesy had not fled him entirely, and - as the former Arbitor had pointed out - he was, indeed, raised right.
The Gunscrake began paying special attention to his every movement, consciously making his hand drift away from the Carnodon on his thigh. When he was within a few meters of the Sister he sought out, he made the sign of the Aquilla and bowed deeply.
"Honoured Adeptus," he began, trying very carefully to pick out his words, and pulling on all his abilities as a social chameleon, "Might I inquire as to a simple set of directions to a place where a man such as myself may hone his craft at Marksmanship, so as to be a finer weapon in the Emperor's hands?" even as he said the words, they tasted like rot and corpse starch to him. He was better than this, and more than likely better than them, but quantity was qualitative, and there were so many, well-armed enough to rip him to shreds with but nails and teeth. He already wasn't welcome here, and that was fine, but if he had to tap these Sisters for information, it would prove best to fake humility.

[LCP]

Setting down her armour on the bunk, Chaldia inspected her work: every surface had been cleaned and polished to an obsessive gleam. Once again. Beside it, her flail and laspistol had been brought into a similar condition.

Murmuring a brief litany of preservation over her wargear, the novice rose off her knees, smoothing down her vestments before turning to leave. Let the others chatter and idle away the hours before planetfall. The strength of the enemy was his mask of lies, and it was beyond the power of reason to pierce. The only sure to road to truth lay within, through faith.

Walking through the corridors of the battle-barge with her head bowed to her superiors in the Sororitas, Chaldia made her way towards the chapel, like an iron filing makes its way towards a magnet. Kneeling beside one of the soaring columns, out of the immediate presence of the Sisters militant who knelt before the altar, she bowed her head in prayer.

O Immortal Emperor:
have mercy upon us, miserable unworthies that we are.
O Master of the Galaxy:
protect Your flock from the alien.
O Keeper of the Light:
guide our darkened path with your radiance.
We are Your warriors and we are servants to Thee,
We stand free from blindness of heart,
Free from hypocrisy, vainglory and deceits,
But captive to hatred, malice and anger,
To the filth, the alien, the heretic.
By Thy agony and bloody sweat;
By Thy Golden Throne and Thy Death,
By Thy Destruction and re-emergence as the god of Men,
Keep us and strengthen us, we who fight for thee.

[The_Shaman]

Garvel left soon after Hiram, excusing himself half-heartedly. He took several turns along the labyrinthine corridors of the barge, before going back to his room, where he stayed for a short while. He used the time to inspect his weapons, armor and belongings - while they might not win the approval of his old drill sergeant (then again, supposedly that feat was ever accomplished once in the history of the schola, and even that might have been a precinct legend), but they would fully be up to regulations. What am I doing here, he asked himself suddenly. How did I end up like that?

It was not desperation or unhappiness, of course. Were he to choose, he would have chosen this path again. Yet as he traversed stars far away from his home, in an ornate ship belonging to an order he had hardly heard of a bare year ago, he could not help but feeling he did not quite belong.

He shrugged, and carefully opened the large book on the table on the third page, where the introduction began. The ornate style had not been to his liking, but here it worked, the verbal equal of all the fleur-de-lys motives and ornaments of the sisterhood. It belonged here, and anywhere else he didn't. With it, so did he.

When some not-so-short time later he walked out, he spent some time walking around the ship, inobtrusively but confidently, as if it were his new beat. It was a walk like many he had walked before, and while he showed all due respect to the passers-by, the sights did not look nearly as intimidating as before. The glares were unpleasant, but they were something he was used to. Being disliked was a sensation every trooper on the beat learned in the first half an hour. He stopped as he passed one of the large training halls, and whistled quietly as he saw the sisters' toil. Well, now, he whispered to himself, barely out loud. "Now that's some training even old Two-fists would approve of."

[Cheesegear]

Sam
The novice in white merely looks at you. She may be on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor with smudge-marks on her hands, and on her forehead where she wiped away the sweat from her brow, but, she still looks at Sam, the investigator, like he was something she'd scraped out from the medicae's go-to bucket.

"It's not a Hive Fashion." the novice says in her best Sororitas 'I'm better than you' tone. "It is a style and cut that bonds us with our Sisters, to teach us that we are all equal in His eyes - may He reign forever." she makes the sign of the Aquilla without dropping her scrubbing brush. Amazingly. "Now, leave me alone before the Superior comes and punishes me for talking to you...I already have enough problems."

She bows her head slightly. Although, maybe she's just looking back down at her work?

Common Lore (Imperium) tells you that a lot of Progeniums cut-and-style their charges' hair all the same way. It seems the Soroitas aren't any different.

Hiram
The Lady of the Armoury merely watches the Tech-Priest as he looks around at the Bolters and Chainswords. Like many of the devout servants of the Emperor, the Lady isn't pleased at all with an Adept of the Machine Spirit rummaging around her quarters, and her charges.

"Are you done, then?" She raised an eyebrow, the Bolt Pistol in her hand tracking Hiram's every movement.

Eli
The Sister Superior merely looks at you. Then her face gives a slight smirk.
"At least you show the proper respect. However, at this time, the training range is occupied by the Sisters of the Radiant Host, and, as such, you wont exactly...Be welcome there." the irony that the Acolytes haven't been welcome anywhere thus far was probably lost on the Sister. "I can, however, tell you that the range will be unoccupied during feasting, and the preparation for rest. And prayers. As I highly doubt one such as your" she looks the Metallican up-and-down "calibre, would prefer to practice killing fake targets than offer up your undying servitude to the Emperor, may He reign forever." The superior raises her right fist to her left breast, above the sunburst icon on her yellow armour.

"You can leave now." It wasn't exactly an order. But, it didn't leave much room for questioning. And that whip at her belt looked like it was electrified.

Chaldia
*The GM makes a note to himself*

[Lycan 01]

"I see you have no patience for me," Hiram says matter-o-factly, staring down the barrel of the bolt pistol aimed at his face. "I will take my leave then."

With one last forelorn look at an esquisite plasma gun, Hiram gently taps the door rune and exits the armory. He then begins to wander aimlessly through the ship, spending the next few hours surveying the practices of the ship's resident Tech Adepts and Servitors, studying random light fixtures, and trying not to irk passing Sisters. Finally, he winds up in the Cafeteria, and bespies Mr. Hamurabi. As the Techpriest approaches the Arbitrator, he notices that the Arbite "investigating" a novice Sororitas before asking her questions regarding her hair, of all things. Hiram casually walks up behind Sam, but does not say anything or otherwise make his presence known. Its not that he doesn't want Sam to know he's there - Hiram just doesn't feel its worth mentioning, and he's also enjoying the chance to anonymously survey their conversation. He's also slightly distracted by the images of that plasma gun still swirling through his subconscious...

[Thanatos 51-50]

The Gunscrake offered the Sister Superior another deep bow, and the respect of backing away by walking backwards, and not taking his eyes off her.
"May your Aim be true, so that the Emperor's Foes shall fall all the faster. For the Glory of the Imperium." he improvised a blessing, before turning smartly and, while not exactly leaving the training field, does leave the general area of the Superior to which he spoke.

After finding an unoccupied area on the field, the Gunslinger spends some time going through simple calisthenics and gun-stances on his own.
He would practice his quick-draws later, on the range, when there were fewer Soriatas that would willfully "Misinterpret" his actions as hostile and open fire.

After spending several hours working up a decent sweat on his own, dutifully moving about the field whenever some group of Sisters moved to occupy his area, Eli cleansed himself in his quarters and partook of meal-times alone, idily flirting a little bit with the Soriatas serving on the mess line and in the scullerey, to results which consisted of a mixed bag of dagger-stares and half-concealed threats on his life and his manhood.

[Vikingkingq]

Sam
The novice in white merely looks at you. She may be on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor with smudge-marks on her hands, and on her forehead where she wiped away the sweat from her brow, but, she still looks at Sam, the investigator, like he was something she'd scraped out from the medicae's go-to bucket.

"It's not a Hive Fashion." the novice says in her best Sororitas 'I'm better than you' tone. "It is a style and cut that bonds us with our Sisters, to teach us that we are all equal in His eyes - may He reign forever." she makes the sign of the Aquilla without dropping her scrubbing brush. Amazingly. "Now, leave me alone before the Superior comes and punishes me for talking to you...I already have enough problems."
?
She bows her head slightly. Although, maybe she's just looking back down at her work?

Common Lore (Imperium) tells you that a lot of Progeniums cut-and-style their charges' hair all the same way. It seems the Soroitas aren't any different.


I give her my best smile as I continue to oil my shotgun. "Looks good on you though. Equal, huh? The Father at the orphanage I came up in, like the Progenium I bet you came up from-" I let the shotgun alone and pull up one sleeve, flex the bicep to show off the aquila. "he taught us that too. Said the Emperor's Justice falls the same on the rich and the poor alike, and that the best we could do was to be the instrument of His justice. That's why I'm here, trying to the best I can."

I look both ways. "I'll keep an eye out, you keep scrubbing. So, what kind of problems you got?"

[Lycan 01]

Hiram stands by idly, his mind now mostly on what's going on in front of him, rather than the lovely memories of the armory. The Techpriest stood silently, listening and watching the Arbite converse with the novice sister. It was... interesting. Almost amusing, Hiram thought. At least until Sam pulled up his sleeve and flexed. Then it was most definitely amusing.

Hiram couldn't believe Mr. Hamurabi was flirting with the girl. Conversing with her and trying to earn her trust with one thing, but showing off his muscles in an attempt to impress her? Even though it was a bad idea that was doomed to failure? How... human. Not that Hiram wouldn't have enjoyed the prospect of being with a woman, he just had little interest in such endevours. His Mechanicus path had not yet brought him to the point where his Vows would result in his most basic desires and pleasures being replaced by a blend of chemicals and artificial hormones. Even so, he still had enough self control and reserve not to go around flirting with everything that moved, or anyone for that matter. But it was simply remarkably stupid for anyone to attempt flirting with any member of this crew. Though there had been that one Technoscribe he'd seen replacing a hydrolic door gauge. The way her mechadendrites had lithly slithered from beneath her oil-stained robes, which clung to her augmented figure in all the right places, showing off all her curves and artificial angles........

Hiram gave his head a light shake from side to side, barely noticeable to any, to snap himself back to reality. He returned his attention back to the Arbite and Sister, and if he'd had the capacity to do so, would have grinned when Sam looked from side to side, but not directly behind himself. For the time being, his presence was still unknown. Hiram savored the extended opportunity to gather information, as well as amusement.

[The_Shaman]

In time, Garvel thinks he has seen enough, and he would prefer not to impose himself on the training regimen much. Not that the sisters seem to pay him much attention - for all they seem to show, he might as well be a (rather unimpressive) statue. Besides, he thinks, some of those superiors look like they might discipline anyone who as much as does not look askance at him in the right way, and he'd rather not have that on his conscience. He continues his walk, ambling calmly around the ship, seeing what happens without appearing to be actually looking out for anything just like he did when he was doing his plainclothes training, and by and large trying to figure out just what is the deal with those sisters.

[Cheesegear]

Sam and Hiram
The novice stops scrubbing the floor. The novice takes a deep breath in. "My problem..." the novice leaps into action, her crouched position giving her the power to rise from the floor in seconds, her hands grasping Sam's Arbite-issue vest, as she bull-rushes him into the bulkhead behind him, her forehead glancing Sam's jawbone, causing no real damage, but enough to take his balance backwards into the wall.

"...is that I'm already taking a penance. And then some...Man, decides to walk all over my clean floor, and starts talking to me, when I'm clearly too busy for his drivel!"

The other novices, and ship-serfs avert their eyes. And appear to scrub their places even harder. This isn't their fight. They've got their own problems. And getting involved in a fight - like the other novice - will only push their penances and work-loads further.

GM Mode: Sam's in a grapple. Surprise round is over. Hiram and Sam can roll Initiative.

[Lycan 01]

Hiram doesn't take a step back. He doesn't jump to the side. He doesn't lunge in to help Sam. He simply stands there, arms folded, expression blank. The Arbite and Sister lunge directly past him, missing him by mere inches. With a quick twist of his heels, he turns 180 degrees around and faces the wall where Sam is now being smacked against.

He contemplates staying silent, keeping out of it, and simply monitoring what transpires and taking note of the results. But Hiram knows that if he doesn't say or do something, Sam may get seriously hurt, or dig himself deeper into trouble. And Sam would more than likely be a bit off-put with him if he didn't try to help. With a mental sigh, the Cogboy decides that he's got to do something before things get any worse.

"Honored Sororitas," he suddenly croons through his vox-speaker in the most calmly and peaceful monotone voice he can broadcast, "Would you kindly not break Mr. Hamurabi? I realize that he has crossed a line, but if you harm him too severely, he will not be able to perform the services required of him by the Holy Inquisition. So for the sake of our mission and the Imperium, please unhand him. It would also be an injustice if you found yourself in trouble for this small conflict, as well. Don't let his... stupidity," Hiram puts it bluntly, not caring how Sam takes it, "Get you in further trouble with your superiors. So please, don't break the Arbitrator. We need him, and you don't need the trouble that will arise from it, Honored Sister."

After a few seconds, though, the Techpriest adds: "However, that is merely my suggestion, not a demand. If you must break him, I will not intrude. Just don't take your frustrations with him out on me, is all I ask." Hiram was not in the mood to repair himself over Mr. Hamurabi's own problems...

[Vikingkingq]

Sam and Hiram
The novice stops scrubbing the floor. The novice takes a deep breath in. "My problem..." the novice leaps into action, her crouched position giving her the power to rise from the floor in seconds, her hands grasping Sam's Arbite-issue vest, as she bull-rushes him into the bulkhead behind him, her forehead glancing Sam's jawbone, causing no real damage, but enough to take his balance backwards into the wall.

"...is that I'm already taking a penance. And then some...Man, decides to walk all over my clean floor, and starts talking to me, when I'm clearly too busy for his drivel!"

The other novices, and ship-serfs avert their eyes. And appear to scrub their places even harder. This isn't their fight. They've got their own problems. And getting involved in a fight - like the other novice - will only push their penances and work-loads further.

GM Mode: Sam's in a grapple. Surprise round is over. Hiram and Sam can roll Initiative.

One moment, I'm enjoying the scenery and trying to make small talk, the next my head is being bounced off the bulkheads by an angry dame. I feel more at home than I have in days.

I look deep into the novice's eyes...and burst out laughing. "Now this is more like it! Good use of surprise, good form. You had no idea how bored I was."

I move quick to grab her wrists. "So how 'bout best of three falls?"

[Cheesegear]

The novice glares at Hiram as he tries to plead to get the Novice to stop.
"If you're staying out of it, then stay of it!"

She brings her attention back to Sam, the Investigator, as he tries to break the the Sister's hold by grabbing her wrists. Trained in combat by the Order of the Radiant Host, she twists her wrist out of Sam's hold, and slugs him a strong right haymaker below Sam's eye socket.

Sam drops to the floor as the Sister rides him down to the floor straddling the Metallican ex-Arbiter across the waist. One hand on Sam's collar, and her right fist making ready for another punch.

[Lycan 01]

Hiram wordlessly takes several steps back from the fight, trying to distance himself from the conflict. If Sam fights back and gets himself in more trouble, then it would only make things worse if the the other Sisters nearby thought Hiram was involved. And the Cogboy was not in the mood to try and replace his breathing aparatus. However, he also doesn't want to pass up this opportunity to study Mr. Hamurabi's personality and fighting styles. So he decides to simply stand back and watch for now, arms idly by his side and expression blank while his mind analyzes every small detail he sees. 'This should be interesting...' he thinks to himself. 'Very interesting indeed.'

[Cheesegear]

Sam and the Novice roll around on the floor for about half a minute. The novice seems to be in a near-berserk fury, and every time she hits Sam, the blow seems to cause glancing damage.

Sam, likewise, on the floor, seems to be more interested with blocking the blows and tagging the Sister with half-hearted effort. Some blows miss, some blows connect, but, doing no particular damage. However, Sam's blaisé attitude towards the whole encounter only makes the Sister even more furious, and with every ineffective blow, her impotent fury only gets larger and larger.

Several Sisters have come out of the nearby cafeteria to see the fuss. The scene looks pretty bad, a borderline hysterical novice, sitting astride an Inquisitor's crony, who only seems to be laughing, and making light of the entire situation, several other ship-serfs and other novices, who have stopped work because of the commotion, and the tech-priest. Just standing there, his hands in the air, pleading for them to stop.

At that point, a Superior breaks through the crowd on onlookers, dressed in power armour, but, no signs of weapons. Her foot stabs out, knocking the novice to the floor, before Sam can move, that same foot comes crashing down on Sam's sternum. That heavy, power-armoured boot crushing most of the air out of Sam's lungs.

"We were told this would happen!" she growled at Hiram. The tech-priest the only one seeming to try and bring order to the situation. "You, Arbite," she looks down at Sam "you should know better." Sam tries to speak, but, she pushes her boot down. "Yeah. I heard you. Mouth of a Grox-Oil salesman on you. Best thing you can do, right now, is stop talking. So, here's what I'm going to do; I'm going to put you in the hold until we make planetfall. Pretty sure there'll be frak-" the novices near the Superior gasp and cover their mouths at the sound of the word. If they had said it, they'd be whipped, and they knew it. "-to pay if I even harm you in any way. So, I'm going to bring it up with Mother Ortez, and she can deal with you."

Her steely gaze turns to the novice, on her knees, head bowed, suddenly looking very contrite. "As for you. Novice Teneal, you should know better. I'm going to put you in the hold as well, and-" she glances about the room, noticing the crowd of onlookers, and the serfs and penanced doing no work, the Superior growls. "-sixty lashes. And, furthermore, I'm going to recommend to the Mistress of Novices that you're just not working out..." she trails off, as the novice looks up, her face having gone deathly pale. As have the other novices, and, many of the Sisters also have what seems to be a very sad look on their faces.

The superior hauls Sam Hammurabi up bodily, her augmented Power Armour-induced strength made the act easy. "March." The novice seems to need no further instructions as she leads the way to the hold, the brig.

Sam and the novice are lead down halls and walkways, and eventually handed over to another Sister, who locks both of the brawlers into seperate, but adjacent cells. The other cells are occupied by further novices in white, what they're doing there, Sam can only guess.

Hopefully, with Sam in the hold, and everyone else pretty much 'doing nothing' for three days, we can get on with this.

[Lycan 01]

Hiram sighs. He knew it wasn't right. Sam had started the brawl. The Sister had been provoked, and disrespected. Any other novice would have reacted the same, and the Sister Superior would have simply killed Sam in the same situation. But he knew there was nothing he could do. The Sister would have to accept her punishment. If he were to try and help her by pleading her cause, it would only make the situation worse. She'd likely get an even worse punishment, or feel guilt or rage at a lesser sentence, and the Sister Superior was highly unlikely to listen to a humble Techpriest's sense of right and wrong. The servants of the Omnissiah, even with the ability to view things from a truely neutral standpoint, were often ignored or looked down upon. At least the ones of Hiram's level. Besides, getting involved would only make Sam mistrust Hiram further, and further create a rift in the group.

With another sigh, Hiram spins on his heel and begins to casually shuffle his way out of the Cafeteria, arms folded within the sleeves of his robe and expression slack as always, though his eyes betrayed a hint of dissappointment. He begins to wander the ship for a few hours, allowing the previous events to fade from his mind. Gradually, his spirits lift, especially after he spends an hour watching some servitors repair a blast-door with a wire pattern he hadn't seen used in years. Eventually, he decides to swing by the part of the ship where the Tech-Adepts, Servitors, and other servants of the Omnissiah toiled and rested.

He spends several hours there, observing methods and techniques, as well as asking a few questions, some Tech and Theology related, others more mundane. Specifically, he is curious as to how the elements of the Adeptus Mechanicus aboard the ship put up with the Sisters and their attitudes and mistrust of everything not bound to their Order. He also makes time to chat with a few of the female Tech-Priestesses and Cog-gals, both to pass time... and to possibly try his luck. If anyone were to ask, he'd say morbid curiousity was his chief motivator for such attempts. He'd never admit that part of his reasons for attempting such activities was that, if successful, he was extremely curious as to how Sam would react to Hiram succeeding where he had failed quite miserably.

Once he runs out of things to do in the Mechanicus portion of the vessel, Hiram returns to his quarters. He spends the rest of the trip either meditating in his bunk, observing the activities of other Ad-Mech servants, or simply staring at light bulbs.



Hiram's done for now. I don't really need any more interaction, unless somebody wants to find Hiram and bug him about something. I'm sure he's always up for conversation. :smalltongue:

[Vikingkingq]

"We were told this would happen!" she growled at Hiram. The tech-priest the only one seeming to try and bring order to the situation. "You, Arbite," she looks down at Sam "you should know better." Sam tries to speak, but, she pushes her boot down. "Yeah. I heard you. Mouth of a Grox-Oil salesman on you. Best thing you can do, right now, is stop talking. So, here's what I'm going to do; I'm going to put you in the hold until we make planetfall. Pretty sure there'll be frak-" the novices near the Superior gasp and cover their mouths at the sound of the word. If they had said it, they'd be whipped, and they knew it. "-to pay if I even harm you in any way. So, I'm going to bring it up with Mother Ortez, and she can deal with you."

Her steely gaze turns to the novice, on her knees, head bowed, suddenly looking very contrite. "As for you. Novice Teneal, you should know better. I'm going to put you in the hold as well, and-" she glances about the room, noticing the crowd of onlookers, and the serfs and penanced doing no work, the Superior growls. "-sixty lashes. And, furthermore, I'm going to recommend to the Mistress of Novices that you're just not working out..." she trails off, as the novice looks up, her face having gone deathly pale. As have the other novices, and, many of the Sisters also have what seems to be a very sad look on their faces.

The smile slides right off my face and shatters in a thousand pieces on the deck. This was just supposed to be a bit of fun, a nice warmup, and now the novice dame looks like I just shot her in the gut. I lower my head for a second.

"...I'll take the lashes. This here was my fault. I was feeling stir-crazy and chatty, and I wasn't particularly fond of the way you dames have been treating us like we're something you step over on a crowded street.

But I'll be frakked sidewise if my mistake means that this juvie gets kicked out of her home, 'specially since no one really got hurt. "The Emperor's Justice does not err; the fires of retribution will turn to summer rain when they fall upon the innocent, the sword of vengeance shall strike without fail upon the guilty alone."

I won't say a word of protest, and I'll make sure my team does the same. Nothing to come back on anyone. Will that satisfy, Mother Superior?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Regardless of the outcome, Sam spends the next three days in the holds, shadow-boxing. When released, he'll gather his gear and leave the ship with relief.

[Cheesegear]

The three days aboard the ship yield nothing too eventful. Eventually the ship drops out of orbit, lurching the entire ship to a halt. Or, at least slowing down the relativistic speeds of Warp-travel versus the speed of inter-System travel.

The Acolytes are hustled into an Aquila-class Lander, and shot down to Rinside V, or, Verinside, in the local vernacular. The ship comes screaming down, and lands on one of the upper reaches of one of Hive Spires of the surface of Verinside.

Standing on the dock, is a well-built man. Dressed in full, matte-black Carapace Armour, a cape of dark red cascades down from his shoulders. He seems to be in his early forties, however, given his position, it's probably a lot more than that, given juvenat drugs and operations.

He gives the Acolytes a simple salute. His gold Arbites badge, and white-winged, dark red =][= insignia indicate that he probably is you contact on Verinside.
"My name is Judge Cruces." the Arbite says. "Come with me." it wasn't exactly something that any of the Acolytes could argue with.

[The_Shaman]

Garvel had spent the previous few days on edge, as the sisters had become even less friendly after some incident. He had kept himself to his comrades (though he was still having trouble considering them comrades) and his studies, but now it was over. He had been as polite as possible on leaving the ship, and despite being rather shaken by the atmospheric entry - something he was still quite new to - he was now curious. He was on a new world, away from anything familiar or supportive except his group. Well[, he thought, that's new. Although come to think of it, it was kind of like that when I joined the force back on Malfi.

The appearance of the Judge u as awe-inspiring as it was reassuring, although he tries to conceal both. Judges were practically living legends among recruits and young troopers, and not all among even the older arbitrators had seen one in person, much less talked to one. Yes, sir, he replies, naturally, as close to a picture-perfect salute as he can.

[LCP]

Stepping out onto the landing-pad, Chaldia looked about at the mountain-range of ferrocrete and steel around them, suppressing the feeling of vertigo at the precipitous descent of the spire walls below.

Hive World. Ten trillion souls, packed jowl to cheek in a teeming jungle of metal. Each of them mortal. Each fallible, unworthy of trust. By the law of averages alone, the home of a legion of heretics and sinners.

She saw the judge, the arbiter of the Emperor's law, and followed behind, making the sign of the Aquila in obedience to the lawman. He was a judge, one who dispensed judgement. Emperor willing, they were here to aid him in that task.

[Thanatos 51-50]

A hive. But not Gunmetalicus.
Eli was thrust into a world at once familiar and alien.

What was not unfailiar, however, was the Judge standing before them, bearing the badge of the Inquisition.
The Law was here, to try and whisk him away. He reflexes screamed to draw his weapon before his mind stayed them. This, too, was alien. He was the Law, now. He worked for them. He could relax.
Eli gritted his teeth, and hung towards the back of the party as they followed the senior Arbiter.

[Vikingkingq]

The three days aboard the ship yield nothing too eventful. Eventually the ship drops out of orbit, lurching the entire ship to a halt. Or, at least slowing down the relativistic speeds of Warp-travel versus the speed of inter-System travel.

The Acolytes are hustled into an Aquila-class Lander, and shot down to Rinside V, or, Verinside, in the local vernacular. The ship comes screaming down, and lands on one of the upper reaches of one of Hive Spires of the surface of Verinside.

Standing on the dock, is a well-built man. Dressed in full, matte-black Carapace Armour, a cape of dark red cascades down from his shoulders. He seems to be in his early forties, however, given his position, it's probably a lot more than that, given juvenat drugs and operations.

He gives the Acolytes a simple salute. His gold Arbites badge, and white-winged, dark red =][= insignia indicate that he probably is you contact on Verinside.
"My name is Judge Cruces." the Arbite says. "Come with me." it wasn't exactly something that any of the Acolytes could argue with.

After what felt like an eternity of boredom on lock-down, setting foot on a Hive and seeing a Judge feels almost as good as a thirty-year amasec burning down your throat. For the first time in years, I throw off a perfect Arbites salute - back straight, eyes level, heels click together just as right fist slams into left chest, arm held at a perfect 90 degrees - and actually mean it.

"Sir, yes sir!" I follow the Judge wherever he's supposed to take us, and I have a good feeling that it might be an Arbites Precinct house. If I can't leverage gear out of an Arbites Armory, might as well retire. Let me see, we'll need ammo, definitely, I could use something with a bit more firepower than my ol' Scalptaker, might need some Autoguns for range, some armor if they've got it...Debrief, then shop, or shop then debrief?...microbeads, hmmm...

[Lycan 01]

Hiram stares at the sky without evening having to crane his neck. This high up, the landing pad was almost equal with some of the lowest lying clouds. And the Spire still rose taller above them. The Hive was quite impressive, a true miracle of the Omnissiah. But there was no time to oggle his surroundings, Hiram mentally sighed. This rather imposing Arbite fellow seemed to demand all of his attention, as uninteresting as he was. Wordless, he follows along with the rest of the group, arms folded and expression blank as always.