Dark Heresy: Ratcatchers: The Cats

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Scintillan aerospace
0756 Sibellan Standard time

Looking down from orbit, clouds of grey and yellow form the weather systems that swirl about the glorious capital of the Calixis Sector. A dying ocean of effluent laps at scum-swirling shorelines while beyond the cityscapes' sprawls, jungle and desert war with each other for dominance over blasted wastelands--- the centre of which is the black splatter of a dead hive. Scintilla is no blue-green fluff-swirled paradise planet but rather a bloated and a choking thing, grown large from the men, the machines and the money of the hundred and hundred worlds of Calixis.

The Emperor's Edge cuts across the orbital scene, a majestic warship bedecked with gargoyles and guns, chapels and torpedo tubes, gleaming with divine gilt, overshadowing the space station at which it is docked for resupply after a long patrol. A great inelegant behemoth of a cargo ship emerges from warp translation trailing lurid wisps of purple iridesence as it hoves gently into port on the power of its flaring realspace thrusters and soon disgorges fat-bellied shuttles down to the planet below. The corroded nameplate bearing the brand of Blessed Benevolence hangs by a cable and a bolt off the near-flattened prow. Stray gusts of vapour puff out as the airgates engage and passengers debark into the orbital platform that bridges the rock below and the void above from the Catherine's Sigh, a chartist vessel that writhes with a frozen wind with innumerable pennons of purity seals slapped onto its modules.
These are but a mere handful of but one hour's interstellar traffic above the rotten egg that is Scintilla.

Past the sickly clouds is an even sicklier cityscape. Vast towers of steel and glass stab into the sky like primordial giants battling each other over an ever-fluid edifice of smoke and ash. Great gaping maws of rust and slime spew sewage and industrial waste into the frothy waves of the Sibellan Sea. Here and there--- mere flashes through the raging rainstorm that makes offworlders grateful for the virtues of Imperial armour on their shuttles--- are points of light. There, the Lord Sector Governor Hax's abode rises out of the waves, a vast tower of flame-coloured stone. There, slicing through the gloom, unlike all the other metallic monoliths of the hive-city, rising above all the rest is a gleaming tower of purplish obsidian that sends a dull, uneasy throbbing into the heads of all who pass it by.

All throughout the sky and all about on great soaring bridges, all in ordered lanes--- lest overzealous security servitors effect arrest with a blast from a lascannon--- is chaos in order... an ever-moving, ever-throbbing menagerie of cargo shuttles, hover-buses, private vehicles and all other manner of craft threading in and out of a tapestry of transports with thrusters and grav-drives and diesel engines growling and singing a symphony to the Omnissiah's aspect of the Deadline.

And there, past a swathe of smoke-belching manufactoria and the workers' tenements in their shadows, there squatting atop a plateau, there in its black stone menace is the Tricorn Palace, the throne of the Inquisition's holdings in this sector.

A crowd bustles in and out of the great entrance across a vast courtyard. A contingent of stormtroopers march out on A train of scholars bearing bound tomes hurry for the shelter past the gaze of two of the legendary Astartes in plain grey ceramite. Manhandled by a battered-looking team of senior Acolytes, a black box shudders and screeches as it is pushed past the gaze of two more of the Angels of Death, this time in plate of solid black.

There, a multitude of manacled captives moan their way past a pair of scarred, white-haired women in power armour adorned with the symbol of the sacred skull and the fleur-de-lis. Though gleaming in their parade ground condition, the bodies of the heavy bolters in those iron hands bear the same nicks and scars as those on the armour and flesh of their bearers. The rosette of the Ordo Hereticus hangs on gold chains between their breasts.

As the last of the convicted cultists’ screams recede into the distance, a bearded, bespectacled man in a Guard greatcoat over Ministorum robes begins to pace the great doorway of that part of the palace, glancing every so often out into the gloom beyond and checking a dataslate in one hand and a pocket-chron in the other. A muscular maiden in what seems like a Trancher's trenchcoat threads her way through the crowd, her bulk and that of a large bundle across one shoulder helping to part the milling sea of humanity, making her way to the pacing priest.

Suddenly, a sleek, black-finished hovercar hoves into a parking slot flush to the wall with a shuddering almost skidding stop. The driver's door pops up and open to disgorge a dark-eyed woman in a rather dishevelled state of attire, stained marshal's flak jacket hanging loose... an Arbite's emergency hip-flask dangling rather too lightly from twitchy fingers as her other hand fumbles with the car's keys and a dataslate that drops to the pavement with a KLAK and a curse.

Trigger fingers twitch as well at her approach, bolter barrels tracking the suspiciously inebriated vehicle and its driver. When she shows her face, however, the Sisters' aim relaxes, but only just. One of them rumbles to the cleric with a palm on his forehead, "Interrogator Konrad, your... associate? She does not seem... well"

With a sigh and a shrug, he replies to her, ignoring the drunken glare of the other Interrogator, "Well-spotted, Sister. That... is a piece of good news and bad news. Suffice it to say, s-s-something happened--- and the tail end of that protracted incident... well, actually proves the merit of one of this fresh batch of Acolytes. The Emperor protects... and hopefully a good veteran agent shan't be wasted, well, too much by the talent of a new one"

With a narrowing of flint-hard eyes as Interrogator Salanan sways and stumbles, the Sister replies, "The Emperor protects... and I suggest you protect your comrade better before I have her removed for... impropriety"

[Plumjelly]

Standing in the middle of all of this ordered chaos, legs still stiff from the abrupt shuttle ride, Pete slowly goes over in his mind the events of the past few days; the meeting of the inquisitorial agent, the run in with the druggy, and the eventual leaving of his family his home, his life. Staring at the iron clad astartes with awe, and sputtering to himself under his breath

Well Pete, look what we got ourselves into.

Wading through the crowd of oddities, grimacing from the screams of the damned, moving without more than a glance from any Pete was at least accustomed to one thing, large crowds. With the duster from his grand pappys days as a PDF member hanging off of the dislodged shopkeep Pete makes his approach to the Interrogator,


Hey, uh HI I'm Pete, I was told meet a man name, uh
hand reaching into his coat pocket pulls out a piece of paper quickly scanning it, hands shaking neviously,
A Mr. Konrad, yeah.

[Leman Russ]

'Subjects seem to be approximately 3 meters tall....yes, yes, accentuated by the battle plate of course...'

Lazerus looked up from his data slate, inspecting the Astartes with suspicious, quizzical eyes. This place he had been summoned to was rife with curiosities and exceptional things. As such he had spent a goodly bit of time archiving everything his eyes fell upon. Countless new entries populated his slate's file architecture and he relished the thought of reviewing and analyzing what he had collated thus far.

A snippet of conversation caught his attention. Lowering his slate and gazing into the madness of activity that was this place Lazerus' eyes settled upon two figures engaged in conversation. One, a rather...plain-looking fellow had just mentioned a name. Once again engaged with his data-slate Lazerus made a few practiced sweeps of his fingers.

'Ah yes, a Mr. Konrad.'

Slipping his beloved slate into the folds of his dark robe Lazerus picked his way through the crowd to stand adjacent to the two who had caught his attention. Affecting a professional tone not without friendliness he raised his voice to be heard, first addressing the "Mr. Konrad."

'Mr. Konrad,' turning to the exceptionally ordinary individual, 'Sir. I have the pleasure of being Mr. Kell. I do believe I am to meet with you.'

[Miraqariftsky]

"Indeed" replies the Interrogator with a somewhat distant look in his gaze. "One of you quite the famous graduate of quite an academy and the other, well, an asset forwarded by another Inquisitor..." He tilts his head, one grey brow raised. "...lucky, brave bastard but with his heart in the right place, or so he'd said"

Suddenly, silencing the hubbub and drama of the other gathered Acolytes--- and the rest of the attendant, ambulent crowd--- the rain ceases. The sky darkens and the a great shadow appears across the courtyard. An angular craft crests the Tricorn's battlements and hovers, a quartet of secondary thrusters rumbling. Its matt-black armour is scored and gouged in places, several slots in bulbous weapons pods on its stubby wings clearly needing reloads.

The bay doors open, disgorging a stream of stormtroopers in full carapace kit and still-humming hellguns, double-timing a half-dozen bleeding, shriveled wretches enchained with iron collars at neck and wrists. More than their captors' curses and rifle-butts, what drives them at far more than double-time, at terror's-pace, screeching and scrambling and clawing at their eyes and ears is when they pass by the flak-clad big, ugly brute in the irrepressible sneer...

...at which Interrogator Konrad slowly smiles, smug. Not wasting words against the roar of an aerospace asset's engines, he gestures curtly with a steel cane, like the shepherd that he is, for his flock to get in and strap in.


W'elp.
Looks like "something" had held up the other two up at the orbital station...
...damned customs agents. <---Har-har?

[Plumjelly]

Addressing the Dark robed Scholar, Pete fumbles putting the note away and streches out a hand in a gesture of goodwill

"I do think you're right, I'm Pete, Nice to meet you Mr. Kell."

"This place sure is something else isn't it?"

Pete gestures towards the Astartes
"Look at all the imperiums heroes just walking about."


Pete heads into the craft which Konrad is gesturing towards, asking
"So Konrad, why do you need us?"

[DaedalusMkV]

A dead man waits at the edges of the walkway, silent and still as only a corpse or a well-disciplined hunter can be. The First Blade watches the bustling scene of Inquisitorial power in front of him with vague interest, curious at the manifest power of the Imperium but trained long ago not to allow even such magnificent wonders to distract him from his duty to the Bretheren and the Emperor, and so he awaits his Dread Master's next order in silence. His Holy Blade rests comfortably against his back, arranged in this place of warlike paranoia with its hilt protruding from the folds of his too-large worker's clothing but more than capable of being slipped mostly out of sight when stealth would call for it. He watches his Master's representatives arrive passively, knowing quite well that he will be signalled when it is time to move on, and having no desire to spend any more time than necessary socializing with the Nonbrothers arrayed before him.
At the Interrogator's gesture, the dead man rouses himself to life and strides purposefully towards the dropship, reflexively keeping hold of his blade and avoiding the pebbles and gravel littering the walkway and landing area, resulting in a remarkably quiet approach. He says not a word to the Interrogator or his new comrades as he approaches, merely falling in silently behind the rest as they file into the large ship. If the Dread Master desires his presence explained, the First Blade his quite certain that his representative will do so, or at the very least express a desire for the First Blade to do so himself.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0732, Scintillan Occidental Time

The journey passes mostly without incident, although the craft had to pass through a crashing stormfront. Beyond the lashing of the wind and rain, beyond the roar of thunderclaps and the roar of the engines, beyond the central wall that held them apart from the other group of Acolytes in their cabin, there came some muffled noises, strange and sinister…


Upon a successful Perception check:
These are actually the sounds of a fracas, a fight, shots ringing, blows cracking, voices raised in pain and anger.



…but when their vessel finally sets down and their door opened once again, the others are nowhere to be seen. Father Konrad dusts off his coat and leans against the doorframe, handing Kell a dataslate. The Interrogator nods with his beard at each of them in turn. “The skill of the Brethren of the Emperor’s Light at the craft of death is seldom rivaled. Speaking of skill, yon voider’s with the long shot is… stellar. The skill that you, progena of San Marino’s Academy, wield over knowledge, bears no equal…”

The old man’s lip twitches in a momentary smirk. “…and you, Pete, are a damned lucky bastard who did the right thing at the right time”

Konrad leans now on his cane instead of the doorframe. “Your mission is to link up with a certain Agent Orange. She’d smuggled herself in from Fenksworld but had been misdelivered. Her last contact was traced to the railway station down at the Southern Gate, Ground-Tier. You are to escort her--- and her package of Vaakon books--- back to the safety of the Tricorn. Any questions?”

[DaedalusMkV]

The First Blade sits quietly through the flight, saying nothing and moving only when the shuddering and jolting of the craft's passage through the atmosphere necessitates it. Upon the vessel's landing he casually unbuckles his restraints and stands up carefully, stretching out muscles still ill-used to the rocky flight. At the call for questions, he finally opens his mouth and responds in a suprisingly pleasant voice, soft and polite. "Have we a description of this... 'Orange', Sir?" He coughs, then clears his throat, likely a result of going so long without speaking. "A photograph would be ideal, but a written description would suffice. Second, do you possess a map of this cave-city? I am unfamiliar with it, and may have difficulty navigating without aid. Third, have we a means of transportation to the Tricorn? I know little of this world, but from the length of our time aboard this machine, it must be some distance away. Likely too far to walk." He pauses, thoughtful for a moment, then adds almost as an afterthought, "What of any who seek to impede our progress? Shall we consider them in opposition to the Emperor's Divine Will?"

[Plumjelly]

After the uncomfortable flight Pete unbuckles himself checking his chrono nerviously after doing so, and listens intently to Konrad give the instructions.
Upon hearing the call for questions Pete chimes in with

"Hey Konrad, why would this agent orange need protection while delivering books?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0732, Scintillan Occidental Time

"Excellent" Konrad breathes as he listens to the First Blade’s inquiries. He then takes out a dataslate from a breast pocket and hands it to Wulfgar, flicking it to a series of holopict-files.

The first is that of a young yet grey-haired, flint-eyed woman. Judging by the bookshelf in the background, she seems to be less than a meter and a half in height. Her uniform of a yellow jacket over skirt seems to hang loosely upon her whip-thin body. Hard, white knuckles clutch at a clipboard. She bears a tattoo of a chained hammer on her left shoulder and certain pollution scars across her neck. “A file-pict, taken by her handler while on assignment in Volg, two standard years ago. She may have changed in the interim but the code phrase by which you can confirm her identity is ‘The bar is dirty…’ to which she should reply, ‘…but the bill still shines’”

The second is a flickering but comprehensive map of the Tholl region. At its first resolution, it shows a landscape of flowing farmland on foothills that slowly come together at the base of the towering Mount Tholl. The view zooms in to show a conglomeration of steel spires and glass towers and a sprawling labyrinth of stack-hab establishments and domiciles draped across the inside of the dormant volcano’s crater. Beyond the intricate web of minor side-streets weaving through the city, six main avenues run concentric rings across the crater walls while these connected from the rim to the depths by four more great thoroughfares. The day has already begun and these roads are already bustling with cargo and commuter traffic. Trains chug along on their rails while trucks, buses and groundcars grind against each other through the smog and the fumes that they and the multitude of manufactoria belch around them. Due to a lot of the construction following the contours of the irregular terrain, walkers--- mostly quadrupedal but with some bipedal models here and there--- are not too uncommon.
Again, the view zooms in, taking into focus the hive-tier nearest the crater’s lip and then again on a landing pad with the sign above it reading “A-3”.

Once more, the view shifts, flashing to a snapshot of a bustling train station. “South Station, Sibellus Steel. Her last report, dating approximately three and a half hours ago said that while attempting to dock at Scintillan Orbital, her transport had an emergency evacuation” At this point, Konrad frowns, then continues, “Nature of the emergency was unspecified, still being investigated. From her escape pod, she’d made her way here… presently waiting for the 0900 train down at South Station. Ground-level, Tier of Fane Takara. You will be provided with a stash of pocket-cash that you can spend on commuter rides to take you there, as well as any other incidentals… and Acolyte-idents, should these be necessary to expedite your progress”

A smirk twitches on the Interrogator’s thick beard. “As for any who might impede you… deal with them as you see fit. If any attack you on your assignment, an attack on the servants of Him on Terra is an attack on His Holy Majesty. And if these show signs of heresy or mutant taint, purge them as the Emperor wills. Though… if at all possible, try to be discreet. Every citizen here is armed and a panic can easily lead to armed anarchy. A danger, all the more, since skirmishes and conflict among these rival noble Fanes is the rule, rather than the exception”

Turning to the cat-loving shopkeeper, he says, “Though yon scholar Kell may well disagree, the less you know, the better off for you and the Imperium… if you fail. Suffice it to say, These books are neither fairytales nor bakeshop recipes and may well lead to cracking an… another important case. It’s not just Inquisitorial and Fenk-Vaakon agents looking for her… there are as well, assuredly, myriad other darker agencies who would profit from her capture, and, more importantly, the capture of those books.” The frown returns, deeper this time, an augmetic hand scratching his chin. “A mystery, though, is why she’s left Fenk, traveled all the way here and only now requested an escort. Still undercover, assuredly… and apparently considering that discretion is a priority”

[DaedalusMkV]

The First Blade nods confidently. "My questions are answered. Orange will be safeguarded, In Nomine Imperator, and the unfaithful who oppose His Will will be purged in silence." The words seem practiced and ritual to some degree, an acknowledgement more for form than necessity. "If there is aught else, we had best depart before harm can befall our prospective charge." He quickly reaches down to the holding area where he stowed his sheathed blade for the flight, then expertly inserts it into the complex web of straps and buckles he uses to affix the weapon to his back, adjusting his heavy coat so that enough of the hilt protrudes that it can be drawn quickly without being too easily visible, then looks expectantly at the rest of the disparate group, waiting for them to complete whatever preparations they need to before leaving.

[Plumjelly]

Agreeing with Wulfgar, Pete grabs his backpack from where it was stowed and slings it over his shoulder, as well as pulling up his shotgun and holding it under his coat.

"I guess we better get to it then."
"Where's the nearest public transit?"

[Leman Russ]

Lazerus nods and scans the surroundings, absorbing details.

"After you two..."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0735, Scintillan Occidental Time

"Indeed" their superior replies with a leathery smile. Leaning on his cane, he shepherds them out and then stops in his tracks as if remembering something. Konrad punches in the keys and unlocks a couple of strongboxes.

The first such box opens up into two compartments. The first compartment contains ammunition of all sorts--- ranging from cartridges of all calibres with bolt rounds and las-packs here and there. It also contains a simple stub revolver, a large-cal semiauto hand-cannon and a finely-made lascarbine. Set apart from these--- literally, since its storage pocket is affixed to the lid of the box--- is a gleaming compound bow and a quiver of arrows as well as a belt-ful of knives. Its second compartment contains an array of false-ident papers, dataslates, auspexes, magnoculars and other such bits of equipment, as well as more mundane things like backpacks, webbing, wallets and provisions of ration-packs and canteens. And in a corner of that second compartment, both in bills and coinage, Scints and Scintils, the local currency, as well as Thrones, the interstellar currency, are piled in plenty.


Passing a Challenging [+0] Common Lore: Imperium/War/Tech Use yields knowledge of the above weapons...
...w'elp. Kell takes this as a Routine Test [+20] because of his training under the drill-abbots of the Scholam.
The Scalptaker, goes by many names throughout Imperial space, an age-old and reliable design, seen in the hands of gangers, enforcers and even regular citizens the galaxy over.
The Carnodon, its mechanism resembling that of an Imperial bolt pistol, this finely-tuned tool is both a status symbol as well as lethal weapon.
The Minerva-Aegis Lascarbine, a highly sought-after weapon that marks its bearer as one of either high standing or high skill. Fires almost as fast as an Autogun.

Also, in terms of what gear's available for free requisition: Assume supply is "more than enough", where "enough" is how much your characters can reasonably carry. Assume as well that anything from the relevant Gear sections of the Core and IH books are available. Anything out of the ordinary, feel free to ask.


Gesturing towards the supplies, Konrad says, "Help yourselves to whatever you think you might need. Know, as well, that a common currency in some locales here is, well, ammunition, so there is that. Other tender is available as well"

The second strongbox opens to reveal a clear glass decanter bearing the Imperial Aquila and a handful of cups. Smiling, he says, "A little... refreshment for body and soul before you go..." then pours a measure of clear fluid into each, takes his in a hand tinkling with prayer beads and intones, "Pater noster / qui es in Terra: / sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; / adveniat Regnum Tuum; / fiat voluntas Tua, / sicut in caelo, et in terra. / Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie; / et ne nos inducas in tentationem; / sed libera nos a Maloet / adjuva gladia nostra en extremis, / sicut nos purgaren et protegeren / In nominae Imperator / Amen"


Also, yes, no liq, but it is holy water.
Also, apologies for the rusty Latin. Apologies as well to any Catholics out there.
Translation: An Easy check, if at all, for those who have been regularly attending Imperial Mass.
Our Father
Who art in Terra
Hallowed be Thy Name
Thy Will be done
Thy Kingdom come
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from Evil
Aid our blades in our plight
As we purge and protect
In the Emperor's name
Amen


The prayer and benediction done, he gestures to the lone stormtrooper manning the door who then presses a button...
...that lowers the boarding ramp with a pressurized hiss. Hot air blasts in from outside--- from the roaring heat of the engines' output and the heat of the city beyond. And beyond the landing pad's ferrocrete is the shadow of a defensive wall, topped with the silhouettes of patrolling guards, auspex arrays and heavy weapons emplacements. "The gate guards should know where best to go" he replies to Pete's inquiry.

"The Emperor protects" As the Acolytes turn to go, they hear the priest's cane clang on the craft's floor. Something tinkles through the air at them--- a pendant of crimson and gold, bearing the Inquisition's sigil. "Use it only when you truly need to and use it well when you do"


Awareness/Perception checks:
Challenging [+0]: Make out details of the defensive wall from this distance: Squat and crennellated. Guards in flak, pacing, bearing rifles. Two watchtowers that can be seen from this vantage point. A skull on a blue field over a pair of crossed Creed-9s flaps on flags beneath the flag of the Imperial Aquila on their spires. Cargo shuttle inbound looming in the sky, ETA one minute.
Difficult [-20]: For some reason, it is hard to focus on that one stormtrooper manning the heavy bolter at the door of the craft. For those who do, the build is vaguely female but might well be moot because of the heavy level of augmentation. Metallic edges gleam from sheathes on the forearms as well as blackened snub-muzzles on the other side.

[Leman Russ]

"Such fascinating specimens all, but this one is...familiar..."

After admiring all the weapons laid out and inspecting some of the more complex mechanisms Lazerus takes up the Carnodon. A few seconds later a data-slate is produced from deep with Lazerus' robes and small whispers of an internal conversation can be heard as his gaze pans around while his fingers whisk across the slate, taking notes.

[Plumjelly]

At the sight of the arsenal Pete starts sweating, eyes darting nerviously from side to side looking at his companions.

Panic striken Pete manages to blurt out.

"Uhh... Konrad I think you got the wrong man for this mission, I've never you know killed anyone I love the Emperor as much as the next guy, but this, I mean I was told to bring a gun, but Isn't this a bit much. Aren't we you know just to take the nice lady and her books back to the tricorn, not go into a warzone right?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0740, Scintillan Occidental Time

"Faith is our strongest shield. Be not afraid, for the Emperor is with us" Prayer beads and a brass Aquila clink against Pete's arm as the old priest's surprisingly heavy hand gives his shoulder a fatherly pat... but the glint in those bespectacled eyes is iron-hard.

Konrad gestures with his chin towards Kell and then nods towards Wulfgar. "He's here because he is a man of knowledge and would be useful in handling the books... should Orange need help... or need to be replaced. Knows his way around guns as well. Now, this fine fellow, he's here because he finds people and cuts them apart in the Emperor's name. In this case, he'll be trying to find them and cut them before they get to your charge, that... fine lady, as you put it"

He then points with his cane at the silent man in the shadows with a rictus of a grin and a ready rifle. "Him? He's the Emperor's piss... with a longlas"

The Interrogator now smirks as he gives Pete's shoulder a more-than-affable steely squeeze. "You? How do I put this? You're there to do what's... right. What's normal. You're there to handle people who don't need to die yet"

Konrad then releases him, pronounces one last benediction upon them and yells above the rising roar of the engines, "In the Emperor's name, go! Throne damnit, this craft's got more deliveries to make today than just you pups"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar looks over the equipment cache, largely distaining the advanced weaponry and giving the lasgun a look of general disgust. "You said that everyone here is armed? I had best blend in, then." He snatches up the revolver and its holster, opens the chamber and removes the bullets, returning them to the cabinet, then returns it to its' holster and straps it to his waist. "Even if I would never use such a crude tool myself." Taking one more look, something catches his gaze and he quickly alights on a worn but functional rebreather. He snatches it up, along with one of the smaller purses of coin. "Ah, excellent. These city-caves have more pockets of deadly gas than I'd prefer. I keep running out of the cannisters these things run on." He straps it around his neck so that it can easily be placed over his mouth on short notice, then loosens his sword in its sheath, then addresses his three new companions. "I am prepared. Head for the transit station; I will follow from the shadows and watch for pursuit. Make haste; even with the herds as thick as they tend to be, I will easily keep pace with whatever you can manage." With no further pointless words to utter he turns and marches out of the hatch, heading for the exit and the crowds beyond.


Taking the Scalptaker only as a sort of camoflage and distraction; Wulfgar would never deign to sink to using a firearm. He'll happily return it after the mission. I'll make a Shadowing check to try and follow the group unobstrusively, so that Wulfgar can keep watch for ambushes.

Shadowing: [roll0] vs TN 42
Awareness (Watching for Ambush): [roll1] vs TN 35

[Plumjelly]

Pete frowns looks at his companions, all of them to him seem foreign, frightening, and out of their minds. Looking back at Konrad Pete shrugs

"I'm going to need a drink, a really strong drink."

Hearing Wulfgar's comment on the guns, and spying the rather large sword Pete goes white

"Wait a minute why do you have a sword? I don't understand, aren't we on Gun Metal city, isn't that a little strange? I mean what kind of maniac runs into a gun fight with just a sword?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Just outside the Orthlack Stronghold
Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0743, Scintillan Occidental Time

By now, the Raven's Claw is a diminishing afterburning speck in the sky. Beside where it had landed is a massive cargo shuttle with its bay doors down and a steady line of biomechanical servitors trundling out crate after crate with inhuman efficiency.

The guards at the gatehouse, six of them, all told, cast wary glances at their guests who are about to depart, but avert their muzzles easily enough on a cursory inspection of their identification. "May your chambers never jam, may Father Tholl keep you hot" a couple of them intone in lieu of other worlds' Farewell, the Emperor protects.

Outside is a milling swarm of humanity and machinery thronging and throbbing down this first of many branching thoroughfares characteristic of the intricate web of roadways of hive-cities the Imperium over. A notable difference, however, is how indeed, everyone is packing heat. On that porch, a suspender-and-slacks wearing old man leans on a shotgun instead of a cane as he makes his way to download the morning's newsfeed at the corner zipbox. Along that curb, a trio of giggling girls saunter for their schoolbus, holstered autopistols flapping amongst their skirts beneath their bookbags. Together with his crewmates, a muscular manufactorium labourer yawns his way to work, revolvers thrust into their dirty trousers. A squad of night-watchmen celebrating a mate's engagement stumble out of a bar, trailing scents of liquor and ozone. From an apartment window comes a yell of surprise, a rattle of automatic fire, more shouting and another symphony of shots followed by laughter and singing "Happy Birthday".

Suddenly, a voice as cold as hard vacuum speaks up next to Pete's ear. "Strange, strange, yes. Take off the shielding mask of civility and you shall see the true maniac beneath. And yet... he is alive and doing his duty, is he not?" Cradling a long-barreled lasrifle, the black-bodygloved voider shrugs to adjusts the fit of the dun leather duster about his shoulders and the broad ratty hat about his head then nods at Pete and Kell. "Well, fellows... I may be a spacer, but I see still some space on that tram. One station, one Tier. Takara's the third stop. Do we hop on, or do we groundslog it?"

[Plumjelly]

Pete, after hearing Cain shakes his head a bit, pulling his jacket closer to himself as if cold, then speaks up.

"Well I'm just guessing, but taking the tram would get us there faster, and as that we are on a bit of a schedule it may be best."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Just outside the Orthlack Stronghold
Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0759, Scintillan Occidental Time

Only betraying a bit of his earlier groundsickness but barely suppressing his unease and disdain of this unruly crowd rock-siders, Cain sneers and staggers his way to the train. A ten-Scintil coin on top of a laspack later, he jerks his head at Pete and Kell to get on aboard...

...the first car, it is like a can of sardines with the stench of stale sweat and other bodily odours as well as the near-constant tang of cordite and ozone. Mostly manual workers and students off to their day's drudgery, but here and there are some more clean-cut officio drones as well. The one scent that draws not a few stares out the windows--- and even has some people alighting--- is a baker's shop putting its rack on rack of loaves and other pastries fresh from the oven.

Pete and Kell:

Awareness [Challenging]:

Two men, maybe more, got on the same traincar as them, had apparently been following them through the crowd. They have settled in at the far side of the car, but cast calculating eyes towards the three every so often.



Wulfgar:

Riding high and easy in the mek'abbie, Wulfgar sees that those ripples through the crowd are too consistent to simply be coincidental...

...there, there and there. Half a dozen figures at least, moving with a purpose. Got on the same traincar as his teamates. At least one of them has clambered up onto the roofdeck, clutching onto the brass safety rails like the score of other roof-riding commuters. Packing a pistol apiece, probably, but nothing certain at this distance. Unfortunately, the crowd had closed and the train had begun trundling onwards.

Above him, his driver raises a pair of bushy brows and grunts, "Well? Where now, bub?"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar curses under his breath as the train begins to pull away, both his allies and their hunters on it. That train is too crowded for a battle... Too many bodies to get in the way, too many guns to be fired. The hunters will wait until the crowd has thinned to make their move... He looks at the driver, then asks, "Does that train stop at Fane Takara, near South Station? Some of my... *Cough*... Er, friends, are on it, and we were planning on meeting there. If I could get there before they do, I would be... Suitably appreciative." The words do a great deal to imply further rewards for a job well done.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Inside the first car
Fourth Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0821, Scintillan Occidental Time

By now, the morning's rush has begun to peter out. When earlier the car had been packed near to bursting, with professional people-pushers from the platform even straining to pack more sweat-and-oil stinking bodies in...

...Now, people have at least enough space around them, more or less, to not come away covered in the dirt and fluids of a half-dozen fellow commuters at every rumble and jostle along the track.

This being the main lifeline of trade and transport that crosses all the Fanes' territories, despite the horrendous nameless rush and press of people, the turnover from station to station is pretty quick. What passes as scenery glimpsed from between bobbing heads and armpits is a blur of stack-habs, amphitheaters... and certain marketplaces and shopping malls whose advertisments can be summed up in "Guns, Goons, Gear, Girls and Groceries too".

Presently, Pete feels a flash of soft, yielding flesh pressing up against him as the rail rides over yet another bump in the rough terrain. Unless he's mistaken, it could well be the same young woman in tattered trousers, a black jacket hanging open to reveal a heaving bosom barely contained by the beige blouse beneath. Her soft, brown eyes alight on his, as she slurs, "Y'see, lye godda big gun, big boy, mah I give ye a proper Metallican girl's cleaning?"

Suddenly, the train lurches to a halt. Fellow passengers begin their exodus while a new batch of people start coming in...


Scrutiny [Difficult]: She's not just a whore, bucko...
Awareness [Challenging]: ...There be other buggers eying y'all up from certain points in the car. Following.

[Plumjelly]

Pete feeling the touch on his skin recoils first not knowing what is touching him, then seeing what Pete perceives as a woman of ill repute trying to size him up Pete starts to get nervous.

"Uhhh... Mam I'm sorry, but... but I'm happily married."

While gesturing towards the new entry's to the train Pete adds

"Maybe, uh one of these other fine gents are more your type."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Inside the first car
Fourth Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0822, Scintillan Occidental Time

Flicking an offhand obscene gesture at Pete, the woman staggers off, reeling away to offer her dubious charms to other passengers. Presently, the train's engines begin to rev once more as it prepares to continue its journey...

...and the spacer in the coat of sable and sienna sneers from beyond the door, already on the station's platform. With deft fingers he fishes out a detached telescopic sight and peers through it, scanning the far side of the city.

Rifle held ready in an easy grip, he jerks his hooded head out across the slowly-dwindling yet still vast expanse of Mount Tholl's crater. "What? Y'still wanna moon your two-penny girlfriend, or y'wanna get this job done? South Station's within sight... far side of this 'ere filthlock of a city. At least we're n'longer cutting across those damned border skirmishes. We ridin' or walkin'?"

[Plumjelly]

Pete sighs in relief at the loss of the lady of the night.
Turning to Cain he shrugs

"Well if we're close I guess we could walk wouldn't hurt to give the ole legs a stretch."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 A city block from the gates
Sibellus Steel, South Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0854, Scintillan Occidental Time

The travel goes quietly...

...if a steel-grinding, smoke-belching, street-hawking, machine-clicking, gunshot-ringing walk across half a small city could be called "quiet". But quiet indeed has the voider shooter grown, more and more withdrawn as they strode through the thronging nameless crowds.

Some things of note stood out...

...the clamour of a minor riot in labyrinthine backstreets as the distinct smell of fire wafted out of the gloom, voices and shots raised in pain and anger as looters fought looters only to be quashed by a heavily armed party of Regulators. Repair crews strapped into special harnesses repairing some hab-stacks' damaged emergency exits. Two rag-clad old women wailed in strange tongues, from whose stench and strangeness people recoiled.

But presently, they see the bold sign in blue block letters across an archway, coming up just on the next block...

...presently, on a sidewalk bench, a hatted man sits, busily reading a cheap news-slate and eating a surprisingly well-cooked dimborxner sandwich that he'd bought off the smiling girl with dark circles beneath her eyes at the nearby stall. Every so often, he'd lower his slate and shake it as if to change the page but those beady eyes do not let the world just bustle on by.

Ripples through the crowd... there, there's his quarry, casting glances about her as if fearing pursuit. Looking like, thirty paces behind her, but closing. A man in dirty finery, bearing a fat-muzzled lascarbine. Ah, the sandwich is good, but the hunt is better... and he's closer to her than that other bugger who seems to be leading his pack.

A sudden flash of familiarity... Three faces flashing through the crowd: the shooter, the scholar, the shopkeeper. Between his quarry and the ratpack closing in on them. Ah, the Emperor provides...

[DaedalusMkV]

The first blade stands up, chewing on the remarkably passable sandwhich with one hand as he stuffs the slate into his pocket, then walks distractedly forwards, heading for a place a fair distance ahead of where the three team members are walking. As their paths cross, he whispers surreptitiously to the tall voider with the rifle, "Foes at your heels. Do not alert them. Guard Orange." The warning given, the Assassin wanders ahead again as though he has no particular destination in mind, waiting for the opposing hunters to pass. With a smile and a covering motion with the much-useful sandwhich he palms one of his knives, then picks up his pace once more. The accursed crowds have been nothing but a frustration to his attempts to eliminate his quarry, but as thick as they are here perhaps they can also provide him with some degree of cover... As he nears the rearmost of the stalkers, the First Blade presses a button on a small device on his belt, flashes his knife in a cautious, well-practiced move then quickly steps in another direction while palming the blade again, hoping to use his plain appearance to blend into the crowd.


I've had enough of this silly waiting game. Best-case scenario I manage to shank this guy (with pure luck) and his allies are down a man when the fight behins, but most likely it'll just cause a distraction, maybe give the rest of the group time to react.

Wulfgar Readies a knife, activates his Stummer and tries to sneak up on the rearmost enemy (that is, the one with nobody watching his back) and stab him in some sort of vital location. Hopefully stupid Fatigue won't ruin this...

Silent Move: [roll0] vs TN 62 (42-10+30)
Assuming that works, he'll take a Half Action to aim, then follow again and strike.
WS Test: [roll1] vs TN 69 (39-10(F)+10(Aim)+30(Unaware Target)
Damage: [roll2] divide by 2 add 2

Finally, Shadowing to blend back into the crowd: [roll3] vs TN 32 (Hopefully Unremarkable provides a bit of a bonus here?)

Yeah, I'm going all Assassin's Creed on this one. So sue me.
Edit: Oh wow, that might actually have worked. Not killed him, per say, I basically needed Righteous Fury for that, but he's injured and Wulfgar probably got away with it. That should mess up their plans a bit. :smallamused:

[Plumjelly]

Walking along Pete takes in all of the foreign sites of this city, still not getting past the armed populace, with nerves getting to him Pete checks his chrono for the time.
Looking at his companions notices the reserved state of the voider, and heaves a sigh, and is about to open his mouth to comment on it as strange fellow with the hat approaches.
"Foes at your heels. Do not alert them. Guard Orange."
Realizing who actually the man is at this point, turns to his group
"Uhhh, I guess that means Orange is around here yeah?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 A city block from the gates
Sibellus Steel, South Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0856, Scintillan Occidental Time

Ripples in the crowd.

A spot in the sweltering city suddenly turns silent. A dozen conversations become voiceless, tongues champing in vain, eyes widening in surprise and fear. Wondering weapons fire into the air, barrels blazing into the silent sky experimentally while other more opportunistic street-rats dash in for purses and for throats. Other folk, though, wiser in the ways of technology, spit in annoyance at the sudden stumming and resort to whisper. The rest, hurry their pace or knock on chassis, anticipating an attack from some corner.

Blood drips down a long leg into a grimy gutter. The scarlet stain spreads across weathered denim, suddenly clammy hands clamping on the wound to stem the flow. A stubber clattered to the cobbles rises once more in a shaking, dripping hand, trying to track the shadowy stabber...

...an unsuppressed muzzle shudders, then slams home into a now-stained holster. Angry fingers snatch for a hand-vox while bloodied boots stumble for the nearest benched waiting shed.

Ripples through the crowd.

A commotion behind the other Acolytes seems to draw less attention than it should and yet the crowd around them seems to be hustling hurriedly even more. No voices, no footfalls, no gunshots, no screams, no growl of engines nor clank and clatter of machinery.

The voider sniper's wiry bulk hustles the scholar and the shopkeeper forward...

...and then he suddenly lets them go as he dashes forward, throwing caution to the wind as he hurls himself bodily at rather short somebody with more a casket than a bag strapped to their back...

...just before the great mechanized leg of a quadrupedal cargo hauler comes down right where the unwary woman was. Voider and carrier slam into a nearby hab-stack's corrugated iron wall. Unseen eyes widen in surprise, recognition, relief as the code-phrase is hissed into a shocked ear. A white-knuckled fist relaxes, the hand-cannon driven into the voider's gut is eased off with a flushed apology.

Cain waves the two others forward, not deigning to waste time or breath with speech, resorts to hand-signs. Two fingers jab at his other two teamates, a flash of an Aquila-sign, then a curt spread-fingered gesture towards the petite, cowled woman with the heavy-laden backpack. A thumb jerks at himself, a pointer finger makes a circle pointing all around, then pats the stock of his trusty rifle. Two fingers point back at the others, then jerk a thumb towards the gates of South Station, then close into a fist that he pumps twice...

...before melting away into the ripples of the crowd.


Awareness [Ordinary]: Additional Regulators, alerted by the sudden silence, are being called up, preparing for either a ganger raid or a terrorist attack or general riot.

@Wulfgar: Awareness/Shadowing [Ordinary]: Target he'd tagged is bleeding, but not fatally. Packmates alerted to flanking threat. At least two rippling in towards his general direction.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar grins in pleasure, his distraction having succeeded as well as he could have hoped. Not one of the heretical hunters was paying proper attention to the 'Orange' person he was supposed to protect, and they had only the vaguest idea of his presence. He flicks the switch on the Stummer built into his belt-buckle again, turning off its' sound-dampening effect, and starts making his way to the edge of the crowd. If I can lose them and circle around... He thinks to himself for a moment, then remembers that the train they need will be arriving in only a few moments. Ah, there's the plan then. Keep them busy, and when the train arrives make sure they can't get on. A plan in mind, the Death Cultist sprints as fast as he can in the dense crowd towards the station's gates, hoping that the hunters will follow. In the best case, they'll wind up in a less crowded location. In the worst, he can lead them on a merry chase for a few minutes then sprint back to the platform and board the train...

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 A city block from the gates
Sibellus Steel, South Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0859, Scintillan Occidental Time

Wulfgar slides through the shadows of the innumerable bodies of flesh and metal that throng the street and the station, casting backward glances every so often to check for his pursuers...

...suddenly, he slams up against a cargo-servitor's loading arm, knocking him dizzy and off-balance. Reeling, he carooms off of several peoples' backs, eliciting groans and curses. The crowd, the street, the station--- they all swirl around and past him in a blur.

Just as he catches himself--- and realizes that, somehow, he'd stumbled his way into the station, the great train's cars already filling not ten meters away, he collides with one last unfortunate. A wiry, scrag-bearded fellow whose grey eyes widen at a panicked glance and backpedals with a snarled "YOU!". The black muzzle of some laspistol glows from within the folds of the trenchcoat as it is hastily brought to bear.

Meanwhile, from the corner of his eye, the Death Cultist spots three familiar faces and figures pressing past the train's threshold. No sign of the voider. Regulators rippling towards him... but more gathering outside, trying to contain a riot that is about to burst.


Initiative [roll0]
Bzakt! TN 70 [roll1] [roll2]

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar looks down in surprise at the smoking scar left across his Flak armour and burned through his regular clothing, not entirely expecting his armour to simply absorb a point-blank lasbolt with nary a complaint. Seeming to recall his mission he springs into action, drawing his Blessed Blade from behind his back and slicing at the pistol-toting foe with deadly precision. "Die, Heretic." he whispers just loud enough to be heard above the growing din.


Combat it is then. Wulfgar could try to dodge that, but since it won't deal any damage through his armour and Toughness, there's no point. It takes one half action to ready his weapon, plus one half action to attack. No actions left.

Initiative: [roll0] (I done screwed this up. Dividing the d20 roll by 2 results in a d10 roll of 10, for 14 Initiative.)

WS test vs 39 (39+10 Best Quality-10 Fatigued) [roll1] (Take it!)
Damage if successful: [roll2] plus 5. (12 Damage total. Don't have my books on me to give location.)

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 At the platform
Sibellus Steel, South Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0900, Scintillan Occidental Time

The long sabre lashes out in an arc almost too swift for the mortal eye to follow. Its razored edge slices into the shocked assassin's face, ripping out an eyeball. Within such close quarters, the follow-up strike comes with the pommel, cracking him right where jaw meets throat, sending him choking, staggering...

...and toppling off the train platform down under its wheels.

Smoke drifts from his right sleeve, the stink of singed fabric and scorched flakweave merely tickling Wulfgar's nostrils.

Several people around him have drawn a plethora of pistols... but are either leery of shooting at a neutral ground such as the train-ways or are visibly shaken by the sight of a killer using something far older than the oh-so-sacred-gun and yet with so deadly effect.

Presently, with a great grinding of gears and hooting of horns, the leviathan train of the Sibellus Steel begins to move. The doors are already closing and those people who have given up trying to get inside are desperately flinging themselves at and clinging to the handrails along the walls and roof of the train.


All aboard's comin' aboard.
[Challenging] Agility tests either way. +10 with a running start.
Should that fail, there's still the option of stabbing the frikken train and clinging on like a steel-mouthed flea and working yer way on from there.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar grins in satisfaction at the cold corpse of the man who thought he could stand before the Emperor's will. Another Offering to His Divine Majesty, albeit one more haphazard than most thanks to his mission. With an expert flick he shakes the blood clean of his odd blade, then notices that the train is already moving. With a start, he turns and sprints towards it at the best speed he can manage, hoping to catch a handhold before it races away. While he hopes the other Acolytes will be able to safeguard their charge, he has no intention of leaving them if he can avoid it. He leaps, trusting in the Emperor to guide his landing...


Agility test, coming up: [roll0] vs 42 (+10-10)
If that roll fails, using a Fate Point to reroll: [roll1]
If the Fate reroll fails, then Wulfgar will resort to whatever desperate tactics are necessary, up to using his beloved sword...

Edit: Yup. Dice roller hates me in this game. Double failure, the second one a whole lot worse. Way to go, Fate Point. Resolve it as you see fit.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0901, Scintillan Occidental Time

Already on the platform's edge, with a prayer on his lips, Wulfgar leaps at the already accelerating train...

...only for that prayer to be dashed with a bone-jarring, nose-mashing impact as he misses his mark. For a fraction of a second, he hangs in a little world of agony, mere millimeters from being crushed into a gristly paste and then his arm darts forward, stabbing his trusty blade into the hide of the great metal behemoth.

Sparks and debris fly from the point of contact. Dark fluid seeps from the rent in car wall. He dimly hears the whoops and catcalls of the people hitching clinging to the roof.

With the reek of promethium befouling his breath and the taste of rust-flakes and blood choking his throat, he fights through and with a mighty heave, pulls back on his sword, rips a chunk out of the wall, then hauls himself into...

...what appears to be a cargo car.

For a breathless moment, he teeters on the edge of the makeshift doorway, then rocks forward just as a gasping, spurting, soon-to-be-corpse tumbles out. The only sources of light are the wan sunlight throbbing in from the hole he'd made and a single sickly incandescent lightbulb swaying from a ratty cord in the centre of the ceiling.

By their weak glow, Wulfgar sees crates stacked to the ceiling, held in place with arrays of chains. To the far left and the far right gleam brass doorknobs.

Of more immediate concern, though, is the mob of mutants and dregs who have made the train's guts their home. They hiss from the sudden light and sputter mockeries of the Gothic tongue. Their bodies are rancid with sweat, blood, rot and other fleshly fluids.

Eyes in grey and red glare at Wulfgar. Rags flap as they draw an array of plethora of lead pipes, rag-wrapped scrap-shards, nail-studded crate-bits and lengths of rusty chain. Some bits of real steel gleam in twitching hands while others gnash fangs, bare claws or simply crackle knuckles.

"Ee keeled Zornhoff! GERREM, lads!" comes the screeching order from somewhere at the back of the mob, the only words that Wulfgar could understand from their debased cant.


Surprise round for them was spent in pain from the sudden sunlight and drawing weapons.
Surprise round for Wulfgar was spent regaining his balance. Yeah, he's still got it.

Consider the Fatigue from sprinting across half a city taken down.
Feel free to roll both Parries and Dodges in one Reaction.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar lands with a hard thump, then takes in the scene around him with undisguised revulsion. "Filthy heretics. You are not fit to stand in the Emperor's light. Flee to the darkness or join my Offerings, I care naught." Without hesitating he raises his blade to an offensive position, then lashes out at the nearest of the misshapen dregs with his wickedly keen blade.


Not sure on positioning, so... If there's one within reach, Aim then Attack. If not, Charge the nearest of them. Either way, things get resolved the same.

Attack: [roll0] vs 59 (39+10 Best Quality+10 Aim/Charge)
Damage: [roll1] plus 5 (13), Pen 4.

Edit: ... o.0 That would be another 1, wouldn't it? And for a rather large sum of damage, too. Heh. Wulfgar's still got it, though that roll would have been absolutely horrifying with say, a Sniper-based Long-las. Stane would have blown some poor bloke's head clean off with that.

Go ahead and roll any Parries I might need to make myself, to save time. Parry target is 48, Dodge is 42 if necessary (say, someone pulls a gun).

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0902, Scintillan Occidental Time

Even as Wulfgar brings up his guard, two hulking brutes in dirty workers’ coveralls rush at him from two sides. They hurl themselves at him, froth flying from their mouths, a pipe and a length of chain swinging from their greasy arms.

The First Blade simply ducks low as the two strike simultaneously. Blood and broken teeth fly as one debased dreg’s weapon hits the other upside the jaw just as his broken pipe breaks the other’s wrist, sending his heavy chains clanging to the metal floor and the heretic himself hopping from foot to foot in pain, the dozen eyes covering the right side of his face streaming tears.

In the next frenzied heartbeat, the pack is upon Wulfgar, rags flying, blades flashing. His arms turn into a whirlwind of parries and counters. His longer reach and superior training tell as he manages to keep the lot of them at bay, for a time…

…then two more of them surge ahead, sparks screaming from blades as Wulfgar contends against the wiry fury of a man with a writhing, prehensile beard, tendrils of which lash and sting at the First Blade’s hands. The other one is a grimy woman seemingly clean of mutation yet still clearly a heretic, who ducks in under the assassin’s occupied guard, stabbing furiously with a rag-wrapped shard of metal.

Wulfgar’s knee comes up and knocks the bearded blighter’s arms awry, only for his comrade’s blade to rip into the flakweave over his right thigh. Instead of moving it away, he tenses his muscles there, holding the blade then raises his sword to strike her head off while she’s off-balance only for the other man to rush in, his mouth open in a silent NO!. He crashes into Wulfgar, slashing madly, catching him on the upraised arm and sending him back a couple of steps.

Wulfgar grapples with him and they trade punches, elbows and knees, with the bearded blighter’s dagger merely scratching the First Blade’s armour. The Emperor’s man is faster, and cracks him across the temple with his long-sabre’s pommel. The sooty woman tries once again to flank him, only to take a spinning back-kick to the chest which sends her flying…

…Past a rag-clad figure with white eyes, white hair and white needle-teeth, already charging, leaping at him with unnatural swiftness, howling and snarling and snapping. Almost waiting until the last moment, he lunges as it is almost upon him, its fetid breath blasting at his face as those fangs snap and take the skin of his already mangled nose...

...the lunge takes Wulfgar's blade through the mutant's left cheek and lops off an eye and an ear. Blood and grey matter spatter the nearby crates. Before it even gets a chance to scream or retaliate, the pommel comes around and snaps its neck at the same moment that a pivot-gun booms, and curses storm from the coven-master at the back when the ball-round rips a chunk out of the prize twist-brute’s ribcage and it slumps off Wulfgar's blade, dead.

[DaedalusMkV]

The smile on Wulfgar's face widens with each drop of heretical blood spilled, though as more and more of the mutated brutes gang up on him the grin disappears to be replaced with a mask of grim concentration. He parries, whirls and strikes with consummate skill, then makes his own retaliation when the opportunity presents itself. Dodging a swipe of a mutant's weapon he flicks his blade with ruthless precision at the foul degenerate, hoping to end another unclean life as quickly as he had the last.


Yeah, your descriptions are so colourful I don't really have anything else to say... Oh well, another attack. Aim, then attack.

WS test: [roll0] vs 59
Damage: [roll1] plus 5 (9), Pen 4.

Reaction against any attack heading for his head: [roll2] vs 42 (Dodge) if against a ranged attack, 49 (Parry) against melee

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0902, Scintillan Occidental Time

The relic blade's point flicks out in a curt arc. A moment before it finishes off the dreg whose tentacles had been molesting the monk's hand, the man beside Wulfgar dives into its path.

The left wrist drags awkwardly behind him, broken as it was by his fallen comrade's pipe. His face is a mask of pain and rage and dim, dim determination. His hand gropes at his unconscious friend's belt and rips loose a multi-barreled monstrosity of a gun.

Before he even has a chance to bring it to bear, Wulfgar's blade slices into one side of his neck and effortlessly comes out the other side without the jarring grating of hitting bone. Blood drenches the dreg's coveralls and spatters Wulfgar's coat. The gun clatters to the floor. He stumbles backwards, blood seeping between his fingers as he tries in vain to staunch the flow.

The other two shard-wielding scum who'd been kept at bay by Wulgar's long blade surge forward, screaming curses, rambling in a pidgin of the local hiver's dialect, thief's cant and terrible tongues of the disciples of Darkness.

The first one to reach him ducks outside Wulfgar's stop-thrust then underneath the assassin's guard. One reeking hand tries to lock down his primary sword-arm while the other stabs him in the gut, to no avail as the makeshift dagger bends awry as it hits bodyarmour. Failing that, he hauls back his head headbutts the Blade-Brother... but only snarls and groans in disbelief as Wulfgar doesn't even flinch... having only moments before headbutted a thundering train and by grace of the Emperor, lived to tell the tale does.

At such close quarters, Wulfgar responds simply by yanking his arm out of his opponent's grip through the age-old technique of ripping-through-the-weakness-of-finger-joints. At the same instant, he lets go with his off-hand and uses that to immobilize the man's weapon-arm, then with a savage twist, dislocates it.

Before Wulfgar could finish him off as he falls to his knees, the other shanker arrives with a roar and a stiff elbow to the solar plexus. Wulfgar, breath driven out in a rush, doubles over in pain... just as the rangy reaver slashes at his face only to miss and have his blade scrape a gouge out of the crates and containers behind Wulfgar. The blade flashes as it spins in a deft hand and descends on Wulfgar's thigh and skitters off the armour. Wulfgar tries to bring his pommel to bear...

...but he feels an unexpected resistance weighing the weapon down. He spares a glance to his right and sees the waster-woman having snatched her companion's heavy chains, bundled them up and was holding the First Blade with them. He grunts again as the other man slams him against a container-wall with a hard knee, then replies with his own knee to the gut--- that sends his opponent into a fit of retching, reeking vomit spattering Wulfgar's armoured coat. He crunches in again with another knee, then a hard headbutt dazes him and sends him reeling but misses with the low kick that was meant to send him sprawling.

Still spinning from his kick, Wulfgar grounds himself by driving his blade into the floor... through the chest of the mutant whose tentacles had stung his hand earlier. Wulfgar grunts as his prey flails in his death-throes, catching him in the groin with a lucky kick. The mutant falls limp as the relic sword is twisted about in his chest.

Wulfgar feels the chains drop off his blade and a pair of knees hit the floor as the woman begins wailing. Heedless of the executioner looming above her, she crawls towards her husband's still-bleeding corpse. She grabs him by his tainted beard and jerks him off the blade, inadvertently causing his right torso to flop about, then, still crying, she slaps him across the face. "Yeh stupid sunnuvabitch! Loved yeh an' THIS be where our 'til death do us part' leads us? Frakker! Slagger! Shadda tossed yeh to the Padres an' the Bronzes, damn you. DAMN YOU SLAGGER! But no! I cooked our fraggen 'Arry fer YER slaggen dinner! Emperor... Emperor... what have... oh God-Emperor..."

Across the room, now clearly visible without his mob of mooks, he sees the covenmaster stomp ritualistically upon the floor, lick a pair of blades and score his jowls with them. His rags upon rags shift every time his great bulk moves. Flicking the blood from his knives, he twirls them--- one a battered Guard combat knife and the other a broad, wavy-edged blade with a large, carven pommel. He bares yellowed teeth that have been filed down to points, his raving curses deigning to form speech that is a foul facsimile of Imperial Gothic. "Gooooood, gooooood, child of the Corpse God. You make a fine offering to Khorne!"


Opponents: Another one dead, another wailing, one knocked out, two others dazed--- one still stumbling, the other looks to be getting his wits back and has grabbed a pipe, but after the beating he got, seems to be considering escape. Oh, and there's the fat guy in rags with a pair of knives. Also, there's an "Oh god, a Meathammer" still rolling about on the floor, still un-fired. Thanks for the rules correction, my good fellow.

As you said, taking Actions into consideration, so, a pair of Quickdraws and a pair of self-slices it is, then. Given the distance, he CAN be Charged, but if you choose to do so, gimme either a Jump or an Agility test, given the motion of the train, the blood-slick, weapons and body parts littering the floor. Fail, and he either falls Prone or simply takes a -10 on his next attack-turn.

Also, er... Thanks for the appreciation, but... Should I apologize and cut back on stuff? :smallredface: The way you say't, sorry, might be drowning you such that you can't get your own words in?

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar glances up at the fat knife-wielder, the gleam of outraged fanaticism appearing on his bland face. "Leave your Daemon-god pretenders out of this, wretch. You and your blasphemous followers will be cut from the world in Offering to the Golden Throne." He pivots sharply and with manifest skill slashes his Blessed Blade one-handed into the mourning woman's neck, ending her weeping once and for all with a perfect executioner's strike. With a flourish he brings the graceful weapon back into a ready position and takes a single step forwards in challenge to the blasphemous cult leader. "There is no escape from the Emperor's justice. Make your peace, for your deaths will benefit Mankind even if your lives did naught but poison it."



Taking a moment to finish off the bawling heretic crouched over her dead mutant husband. Aim then Slash, as usual, should get an additional +10 for her being on her knees, maybe more if she doesn't try to avoid it. Not moving at all, but I'm pretty sure a righteous speech about how the Emperor's superiority and omnipotence will act as all the goading I need to get him to charge me. The Meathammer is in a good place; right at Wulfgar's feet in the hands of a dead cultist. Anyone trying to get at it is going to be taking a sword-slash no matter what they're trying to do with it. Either way, I don't mind the detailed descriptions but also wouldn't mind having a bit more control. Maybe let me handle my own attacks, and just describe Wulfgar's reactions to the enemy's attacks?

WS Test: [roll0] vs 69 (99 if she makes no effort to defend herself).
Damage: [roll1] plus 5.

Edit: Righteous Fury. Again. On a head-shot. Shall we count that as a flawless decapitation, then?

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0903, Scintillan Occidental Time


The strike is flawless. The head rolls down the car, bouncing like a macabre football as the train passes a rough spot. Even more blood slicks the floor.

The covenmaster's grin grows even wider, laughs and kicks the still-gasping head back at Wulfgar. He twirls one knife, then the other.

"Where then is your fire with which to light your way in the darkness?" he grates as he stalks towards the First Blade through a morass of entrails. "I and mine matter not. Things are already in motion that you cannot begin to comprehend!"

Still grinning, still spitting, he crouches, wavy blade forward and high, serrated blade low and held in a reverse grip. "Commmmme to me, Imperial dog."


Blather Eh. He moved. Full Move. Charge declined. W'elp. Looks like he may swear like a Khornate but when it comes down to it, he's... careful? Erudite?

Awareness [Challenging]: Wulfgar smells the sweat, blood and filth; sees in a flash of reflection and hears the footstep and breath behind him. Last bugger's sneaking up on him.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar snorts at the cultist's prefessions of knowledge. "My comprehension is irrelevent. The Emperor knows all, and will direct me as he wills. Your false god and imaginary schemes have no bearing on anything." Turning his attention from the curiously cowardly Khornate, Wulfgar sets his eyes on the pipe-wielder with the broken arm and strides towards him purposefully, his gaze intense and focused. As soon as he is within range he lunges forwards with a swift horizontal strike, looking to finish off the last of his original foes with one final blow. Once his attack is in motion he spares an instant of attention for the fat cult leader, watching for an attack over the corpse-laden floor where the Death Cultist himself had been standing. Even as the already injured cultist moves to dodge out of the way, Wulfgar expertly adjusts his slash to compensate, Blessed Blade shearing through the bone and arteries of his target's leg.


Move up to the wounded pipe-wielder, then deliver a Standard Attack. Let's see if my good fortune can hold out for one or two more attacks...

WS Test: [roll0] vs 49
Damage: [roll1] plus 5 (15), pen 4.

Dodge/parry if necessary: [roll2] vs 43 if Dodge, 49 if Parry.

Edit: :smalleek: Well, it appears that my luck is indeed holding. Another hit, another Righteous Fury. If necessary, go ahead and roll the confirming hit and damage. Not that I think it is. Looks like the Emperor really is intervening at this point, given the abysmal luck the enemy's been suffering and rolls bordering on divine providence on my end.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0903, Scintillan Occidental Time

The holy blade shears through both legs cleanly, then embedding itself in the nearby metal crate. The pipe goes clattering into the darkness. The last dreg screams and moans as blood gushes from leg-stumps.

Wulfgar bends to withdraw his weapon and finish off the screaming scum, then puts his back to it as he hears a sudden rush behind him. The sword comes free, but he's lost his balance and stance. He whirls about to at least take the blow at the fore and catches a glimpse of a serrated blade flashing in at gut-level...


[roll0][roll1][roll2][roll3] Just for fun, let's see how many Righteous Furies that woulda been, eh?

Congrats on yer streak-o-luck Emperor's blessing, my good fellow.

Wulfgar's Parry misses, looks like.

Move and standard Attack from the last bugger.
[roll4] TN 45 Sunuva--- Gaddemmet, ye worthless gits! Hrrmm. NPCs be reading the Script but not paying enough attention to the Choreographer. Grr. Yessssh, yer supposed ta die, but give it a better fight, ya worthless gits!
[roll5] Pen 2 Grr. Grumble.
[roll6] TN 50 Parry Whew.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar spins around gracefully, throwing off the knife-wielding cult leader's thrust with a rapid arm block, then quickly pivots and follows through with a hasty high slash, striking at his opponent's neck. When the fat cultist manages to adroitly deflect the strike with a simple knife parry, the First Blade seems at first slightly shocked and then grins. "Good. Perhaps you will give me a fight after all. Your minions were... Disappointing." He settles into a more standard fighting stance, using Flak-armoured arms and his blade's wicked edge to ward off knife strikes as he moves to make an opening.


Aim then attack, which is Parried even if it hits. That's what I would have done without knowing about the successful parry, so that's what's happening. So, I won't bother rolling or anything like that.

Wulfgar's parry: [roll0] vs 49.
Edit: Fail, again. That's four failures in a row. How disappointing.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0903, Scintillan Occidental Time

The long sabre rises and falls. Wulfgar's muscles burn with exertion as he deflects strike after strike. The fat cultist steps backsteps for a breath, swatting away a seeking thrust with an easy flick. Wulfgar steps back as well, sabre settled into a textbook defensive stance, the arms flexed and ready, the point held low for easy stop-thrusts and keeping the space open.

Unfortunately, the opening is far too open. Twin blades spin in almost inhumanly fast hands. The serrated knife's serrations lock upon the First Blade's edge, then lock hilt-guards as the fat cultist meets Wulfgar's lunge with his own while the wavy-edged blade tries to stab under his guard, then flashes back out and the two blades weave a tapestry of steel about the First Blade...


Full Attack, I suppose. Erngh, sorry for getting carried away, overruning you again, last turn?
[roll0] TN 35
Pen 2 [roll1]
[roll2] TN 30
Pen 1 [roll3]
Good news, bucko. Bodyshot. Also, looks like he's overcommitted, can't Dodge or Parry.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar grunts as one of his enemy's blades slips through his defenses and strikes dead-on through his armour, leaving a gash across his ribs. His counterattack is ineffective, a slash thrown off by the strike and a deftly dodged pommel strike. He takes a short step back, then continues the dance of steel.


Was that knife a Mono-knife or just some sort of wierd normally-AP1 thing? I need to know if it's Primitive or not; if it's not I take a bunch of damage. If it is, the AP of my armour is doubled and I take 3 less.

Aim then attack.

WS Test: [roll0] (vs 59)
Damage: [roll1] Plus 5

Parry for the next round: [roll2] vs 49


Oh come on. This is terrible. Three high-90s rolls in a row? I have better than 50% chances of success every time, and I've failed five rolls in a row now. There goes the Emperor's favour... And I only have one Fate point left and I'm not going to waste it on a reroll for an attack when I might need it to save my life later. Bah.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0903, Scintillan Occidental Time

Wulfgar staggers from the pain of his previous batterings as well as the burning throb of the gash in his side. A cruel smirk flashes just as twin blades flash high and low in the space he had just vacated, their tips grazing his outflung arm, but nothing more. Following up quickly, the fat fighter surges up and under his Wulfgar's guard, then lashes out with a low kick to the knees.


It's an Emperor's Whisper, actually. Standard, no Mono. Three less it is, then.

Well... several flat-1s or near-1s, with Righteous Furies abounding, it seems the wheel of fortune is turning.

Friggen kick. Bugger's toying with him, looks like. That, or trying to kick him back out the jagged hole he came in through.
[roll0] TN 30<--- Guarded Attack
[roll1]

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar grimaces but deftly moves out of the way of the kick, sensing an opening. He pivots and feints an underhand slice at the fat cult leader's legs before twirling out of the way of the inevitable parrying dagger, redirecting the tip of his blade towards the cultist's jowly throat. The attack is well-practiced, smooth and unerringly accurate, giving the fat man little time to react. No hint of his former enjoyment remains on the Death Cultist's face; he seems to be devoting all of his attention to spilling the lifeblood of his current target.


Sorry about the delay for this one. University just got started again, I've been busy and maybe a little bit messed up too. I should be getting back into the swing of things soon.

This fight's dragging a bit. I'm going to need to know how these rolls turn out before I can spin a narrative.

Feint: Opposed WS test, no modifiers. Whoever has the most Degrees of Success or the least Degrees of Failure wins. If I win, the following attack can't be Parried or Dodged: [roll0] vs 39

Attack: [roll1] vs 49 (Success)
Damage: [roll2] Plus 5 (11), Pen 3.

Parry just in case: [roll3] vs 49. (Success)

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0904, Scintillan Occidental Time


Wulfgar's strike lashes out low, then flashes high. The mound of rags before him hops backwards, wise to the ruse. His twin knives are already twirling blurs of steel as his almost inhumanly quick backfoot clangs on the steel floor, braces for a fraction of a second, then launches himself forward, right into the First Blade's blow.

The cultist covenmaster's grin is ear to ear as the wavy-bladed knife slashes into Wulfgar's right arm, then snarls as he realizes that the armour holds firm. Little black eyes widen and he gasps and gurgles as the First Blade's point slices into his neck.

The blood spurting from his wound paints a scarlet serpent on the walls of crates around them. Still he staggers on, slashing madly, wildly. Wulfgar deftly dodges the now feeble kicks and weakened cuts. Suddenly, the fat cultist's feet give out from under him, his last blow landing ineffectually across Wulfgar's left thigh, his last blood spattering the First Blade's boots.

His body clangs to the metal floor. Beyond the clank and rattle of the engine's travel, Wulfgar's keen ears discern that his latest victim may be weighed down by more than mere rags and fat.

Beyond, the cargo car's door seems unguarded.


Aye, been there, man. 'Tsalright. Ye need anything, feel free to vent on me.

If yer reading this now, well, yer right. What do the dice say of this matter, hmm? Also, yer right. Let's finish this.

Counterfeint? [roll0] <---beaten by thiiiiiiiis much. Wulfgar's 49 comes in handy, it seems.
Another All-Out Attack
[roll1] TN 50
[roll2] Pen 1 but Primitive
[roll3] TN 50
[roll4] Pen 2

Iiiiiiif he chooses to loot the bugger...
>a dirty and misused but still worn-about-the-neck Aquila
>a battered yet clearly aristocratic solid silver locket with the engraved heraldry of crossed knives over a leaping fish on the outside and a fire-blackened photo within of what might have been a family picture.
>rags and ganger leathers
>assortment of shivs, shanks and knuckle dusters
>coupla cheap bottles of cheap amasec
>igniter and smokes
>shells, shots, powder
>an Emperor's Whisper and a Mono'd Guard Combat Knife
>oh yes, and Carapace Cuirass beneath all the rag-cloaks

[DaedalusMkV]

His foes finally felled around him, Wulfgar lets out a breath of relief. With a careful flick of his magnificent sword blood and viscera simply seem to flow off it, forming an oddly clean pattern of gore in one of the few still-clean areas of the messily cleansed train car. He stumbles for a moment as the railcar hit a particularly rough segment of track, then kneels down just outside of the pools of blood and raises a gleaming blade in supplication. "Emperor, I make this humble Offering in gratitude for all of Your sacrifices. By Your Will the Infidel and Heretic are cleansed, their blood and broken bodies a testament to my devotion. I live as You command, oh Father of Mankind." The prayer is short by design, and once it is completed the First Blade rises quickly to his feet.

He stalks over to the fat cult leader, riffling through his pockets for any information that might be used to track down more enemies of the Imperium. When nothing is forthcoming he grunts, then notices the odd shape of armour beneath filthy robes. He quickly strips away the ragged, bloodstained cloth and sucks in a quick lungful of air when he sees the fine armour underneath. Such grand equipment should not be left to rot, when it can be used in the service of the Emperor. He strips away the fitted carapace as quickly as he can, seperating the front and rear plate before wrapping both in a fold of cloth and tying it to the combat harness underneath his own loose coat, leaving it hanging flat against his back. The weight is uncomfortable, but far preferable to leaving behind something so useful. He also pockets the man's two knives, recognizing the quality and value of the blades, then turns away and picks up the crude, brutal-looking shotgun dropped earlier in the fight and tosses it carelessly out of the train with a faint look of disgust.

Bloody work finished, the First Blade allows himself a moment of satisfaction, grinning at his triumph. Never before had he killed so many men so quickly; it was a heady feeling. Finished with the now-still car, he steps towards the car's door and quickly lets himself through.


Taking the Carapace (but not wearing it) and the two nice knives. Throwing the blasted Meathammer out of the train, hopefully wrecking it. Then moving on.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0907, Scintillan Occidental Time

...and is once more greeted with the rushing blast of foul wind and grit in his face. Gritted gaze gauges the distance between the cargo car he'd just purged and the next one, rattling about just a simple leap ahead--- a simple leap that, if missed, would spell an instant and horrendous death.

Bloodstained hands clench about the railings as he braces himself, then Wulfgar launches himself over the edge. The extra weight from the looted armour causes him to drop a bit too soon. The grinding of the train's wheels beneath him seems all too close. His legs churn in midair...

...then his hands catch onto the next car's rails and he hauls himself over. It is a simple enough matter for the trained assassin to slice through the locks on the door. Within, the wan sunlight reveals yet another car filled with crates upon crates of cargo...

...as well as yet more rag-clad dregs and beggars huddling in the shadows. Most of them merely whimper and whisper, but from what Wulfgar could discern, it seems most of this car's residents are loyalists. The bits of their speech that slip into regular Low Gothic from various street-cants and scum-dialects show that they had heard the purge and the offering after.

As Wulfgar nears the exit, he hears movement behind him. It seems to be a scrawny young man, clad in dirty baggy coveralls that might have been blue, once upon a time. His face is paper-pale, blonde stringy hair leaks out from beneath his cap. He falls to his knees, lifting up his hands to Wulfgar, as if venerating a saint. "Werra... werra da forge-treh youse t'anks, ser! Deh Emprah-Seeb, 'E be senderizin' yeh, dat 'E be! Senkz, we's ye all, da senkz, fer offertirizing deh 'eresitic Printchling ove' de yonda! Warp da take swal' dehm feelth! PTUI! Senkz ye, steel-saint, senkz ye, meenstreh deh Seeb-Empraht! Hweer da bang-swing da yuu click? May't werra 'elp da yuu?"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar walks through the car carefully at first, wary for any more attacks but eventually concludes that these people, while degenerate, have not been tainted and thus need not be cleansed, at which point he relaxes slightly. When the young street-rat approaches and falls to his knees, the assassin frowns slightly, which is quickly replaced by abject confusion as he tries vainly to puzzle out the child's mangled Gothic. He manages to translate a portion of it before the rest muddle themselves to a nonsensical blur in his mind, and responds quietly. "Do not thank me, thank the Emperor. I am but His tool, and it was His will that brought me here today. There are several objects in the other car that may be valuable to you; take them, sell them and use the money to better yourselves. I need to move on; I must find the rest of my group." Short conversation finished to his satisfaction, Wulfgar continues on his path through the train, searching for the other three members of his team and the young woman they had been charged with defending.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0921, Scintillan Occidental Time


It is the young urchin's turn to have his head tilt to one side, jaw hanging slack as he tries to puzzle out his hero's words...

...even as said hero leaps the gap between this car and the next. His hair and clothes whipped by the lashing wind and the jolts of the track, he suddenly gets an idea and climbs to the top of the car, to avoid being so vulnerable in such enclosed spaces.

There, desperate commuters who have paid but a Scint apiece for the cheapest legal passage cling to chains and ropes strung about the edges of the train's roof. Most of them cringe away when the Steel Saint draws near. Some murmur prayers, others whisper curses.

Trained agent that he is, Wulfgar has little trouble keeping his balance, scuttling on all fours to boost his stability. Frowning, he digs into his pockets, grabs the most pious-looking of the dreg-travelers and thrusts a random handful of Scintil coins, bullets and a half-squashed-still-wrapped sandwich into the hands of a woman with more grime on her face than there is grime in the smoke belched by the train. He yells a simple question to her about how many cars away until the cargo section ends and the passenger section begins, to which she flashes a yellow-toothed grin and holds up three fingers.

Thus enlightened, Wulfgar scuttles off once more. The first goes smoothly, but at the second, his grip slips and he nearly goes flying off before he manages to grab one of the safety handrails. His landing after the third is a bit wobbly, but he makes it in one piece to the first of the passenger cars...

...as his boots clang against the landing, Wulfgar's keen ears suddenly pick up scuffling from within, the tell-tale bare floor-rasp of a trained fighter surreptitiously getting into a defensive position. Immediately wary of some sort of pre-emptive attack, Wulfgar presses himself against the wall beside the door and waits. Ten heartbeats pass by, then thirty.

He chances briefly scrubbing at the dirty pane of glass installed at the rear door. Peering through that half-cleaned patch, he sees that the corridor within is clear, all except for a black-coated man leaning against the lavatory door, smoking a lho-stick. His arms are crossed over his chest, the right hand apparently holding the smoke, the left hand unseen. Wulfgar can't see the man's face or feet at this angle, unfortunately.


Well, then. Try to Spiderman across the side of the car, or kick in the door and shank this bugger? Or open the door and walk in as if nothing's amiss? Or take the chance and open the door, maybe it's Mr Sniper? Or something else of your choosing?

Also? Holy hell, I hope I'm not railroading, despite the fact that it's on a literal railroad and traintracks.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar pauses for a moment, clinging to the platform's meager railing while considering his options. He might be able to bypass this car by travelling over the top of the train once again, though the lack of handholds may make it somewhat more perilous than his previous travel, or perhaps via the side of the car. But... His mission is one of defense, not the stalking and destruction of prey, and if this man is hostile to the Emperor's Inquisition, he is undoubtedly a threat to the mission. Better to confront the enemy now, while he has the initiative, than to attempt to bypass him and wait for ambush at a later time. Besides, the rest of the group might well be inside the car. Still, perhaps it was best to maintain a degree of caution...

Resolved to this course of action, the Death Cultist rearranges his equipment slightly. He leaves the hilt of his Blessed Blade clearly visible over his right shoulder, then smooths out his loose clothing as best he can given the wind from the train's swift passage, then composes his face to a confident but neutral expression and raises his right hand to open the door. With a sure stride he crosses into the train, making sure to make eye contact with the black-coated man and watching out for any reaction, ready to draw his blade and strike at the first sign of hostility.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some cargo car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Heading to Hive Sibellus, from Gunmetallica
0922, Scintillan Occidental Time

The folding door gives way with only the slightest sign of rust on the hinges. Wulfgar steps through, the very portrait of calm and cold living steel.

He hears the telltale rustle he'd been expecting and springs into action, launching himself across the corridor just as silenced rounds punch holes in the opposite wall. He comes up from his defensive tumble with the scent of a musty carpet and lho-ash in his nostrils and his blood pounding in his ears.

The magnificent blade has already cleared its scabbard and Wulfgar pounces like a panther just as the unknown assailant rounds the bend...

...the muzzle, slide and a copper-jacketed bullet slide off the astonished ambusher's autopistol. The smouldering tip of a lho-stick follows the shards of the sundered weapon. Wulfgar reverses his grip for the follow-up, then halts himself mere millimeters from transfixing a familiar face to the wall. The black-coat, the incessant lho, the lasrifle slung over one shoulder, the bony body, the pallid and wide-eyed face of his voider ally glare at him, gasping, throat bobbing nervously. "Heh-hey, slasher. Fancy seeing you here. Thought you bought it"

He jerks his head at the cabin nearby, then winces as the finger he'd laid on the blessed blade to stay its wrath immediately bleeds for such is its sublime sharpness. "Th-they're in there. Safe fer now, Emperor be praised. It was a bit... exposed, earlier"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar eyes the sniper for a moment, then sheathes his sword in a fluid motion and shrugs. "Apologies for your weapon, spacer. I was not aware of your presence." He looks around the corridor for a moment, considering the situation. "It will take more than a few twisted deviants to stop me. I am glad you took proper advantage of my distraction." The assassin ***** his head for a moment, hearing the sound of far-off screams and gunfire, and sighs. "Do you hear that, spacer? Our foes close in once more. Quite a few, by the sound of things, and armed." Wasting no time, the First Blade closes his hand around the door's handle and opens it slowly, giving the room's occupants time to see him coming. Once inside he draws his sword, presses his body to the wood-paneling and bends his legs just in time to avoid falling as the train brakes and lurches to a stop. "Is there any vehicle to take us to our destination besides this one, or are we forced to fight here?" He asks nobody in particular, assuming that one of the relatively learned people in the room will have an answer.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Cain sighs with relief and massages his neck when the sword leaves his throat then tenses as he too hears the sudden not-quite-distant assault. Practiced hands prepare the lasrifle, then, apparently more used to min-grav inertia, he reels against the wall, barely able to stand as the train's brakes suddenly slam.

As Wulfgar's hand closes upon the cabin's door, both to steady himself and to secure their charge, the brass of the handle feels strangely cold--- far more frigid than the corridor's stale air and the blasting heat of the badlands outside.

He slides the door open and steps through...

...and then feels as if he were falling, falling off over a cliff's edge. Wind from nowhere and everywhere batters at his body from outside and inside all at once. He hears otherworldly whispers speaking strange and sibilant tongues that make his spine run cold and the hairs upon his skin to stand on end and the bile to rise in his gut. He feels the world around him warping, ripping apart, remolding, reshaping. He feels his own bones bending like rubber, his flesh flowing like wax...

...and then everything falls back into place. Wulfgar feels dirt and sand beneath his boot-soles. Desert mirages shimmer in the distance in front of them, while behind, seemingly miles away, is the train and the smoke, steel and screams seem far enough away indeed.

Of more immediate concern, however, is the fact that their singular cabin seems to have been ripped from where it was and spat out into the middle of the wasteland. Jagged rips and rents show where metal had once been joined to metal. The wood paneling within smokes with the reek of brimstone. Spots on the walls have either been punched through by hard rounds or scorched with las-blasts.

The shopkeeper lies in a puddle of filth and blood. Smoke still wreathes from the shotgun's mouth and the back of the man's head.

The scholar, however, seems to have been made of sterner stuff... But blood flies from his mouth as the Volgite Librarian's boot smashes across his jaw. He tries to backpedal and bring his Carnodon to bear, but she lays him low with a follow-up low, sweeping kick. He groans as his head hits the edge of the richly appointed leather couch then utters a wordless scream as a single blast from Agent Orange's hand-cannon practically rips his arm apart at the elbow.

The Librarian herself, however, seems to be staggering in some sort of pain as well, one arm clamped to her belly. The awkward casket that she'd been lugging around when last Wulfgar had seen this Agent Orange has been opened, dusty hardbound tomes and scrolls still in their tubes are strewn about, flowing from the bag like entrails from a gut-wound.

Agent Orange's red hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her greatcoat hanging a bit too loosely over a whip-thin body that heaves with laboured breathing. With her other hand, she shakes a pistol almost as long as her forearm at Wulfgar and the rest of her would-be rescuers and escorts. "You idiots! We could have been safe, just an... just annnnghh... from where we... I need to be! Now we're here in the middle of Hammer-helding-everlocking Bronze-pissing nowhere just because y'all can't take a little bit of shortcutting! I saved your asses, you know that?! Look at you, strutting around all drokkin' frak like that, you think you could stand against a small army of mercenaries and bandits on their home turf?"

"And you!" she spits at the moaning scholar whose life bleeds out into the sands from his ragged arm-stump, still gritting his teeth as he tries to crawl towards the snub-las he'd lost earlier in the fight. "Too hungry, were you? Couldn't wait until you could get to my precious cargo after I get dropped off at the Tricorn, eh?" She stomps hard on his stump and continues ranting. "You think I'm just a heretic and a vile damned witch what deserves nothing but a book-pyre and bone-pyre, eh? So bleeding hells thank you for saving me from the ambush at the city and here I thought I was repaying the favour!"

"You, the thin monkey with the big damn shiv!" she yells. "Done soiling yerself yet?" Agent Orange then kicks one of the tomes towards him. "Go ahead, read the damned thing! Hnnnnngh-uff-hhhhh-hhhhhffff..."

She locks gazes with the spacer whose sights are solidly locked on her forehead, a hotshot laspack freshly loaded and she snarls, "Everything I did, I did for the Emperor and for the Imperium. You have your orders to kill and replace me if things become desperate and then take the books to Father Konrad, don't you?"

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
Aboard the Sable Prayer
1414, Scintillan Occidental Time

Meanwhile, a trio of Valkyrie assault carriers zooms over the landscape. All three bear the sigils of Fane Orthlack on one side of their noses and the sign of the Inquisition on the other and the Imperial Aquila right down the middle.

Their passengers, however, are not just kill-squad enforcers in Orthlack colours, autoguns locked and loaded. Some of them are Westingkrup rangers, gauntleted hands resting easy on shotguns and pistols. Others still are Takaran Skitarii Regulators, clad in red robes, chittering to each other in blurts of Binary, sitting ramrod straight to a man, their caressing their lascarbines as if they were the juiciest of whores. Amongst the last are certain AdMech militia who are clad only in grimy rags but with a fire burning in their eyes somehow beyond the zeal of their brethren. All of their units have had their members mixed, so as to avoid factionalism.

In the lead vessel, Unit Yarach's synapses still reel from the revelations of their albeit hurried investigation in the depths of Fane Takara's stronghold. Though he'd already performed countless systems checks upon his cyberware and he'd already scrubbed his hands, he still feels the blood and brains staining them, still feels as if he were still cradling the still-twitching body of the late Colonel Takara. Yarach's spine tingles once more with wonder at his feat of having bypassed and restored so many corrupted and lost files in the memories of his brother-under-the-Omnissiah... but apparently he was still a man, a man who grieved over the loss of his childhood friend, the fallen Magos Zweiker. At the thought of the apostate, Yarach's cyber-senses' security systems flare up once more... such genius... so many notes, so many developments, so many discoveries... such madness...

Suddenly, the commbead in Alexei's ear crackles into life. "Captain Britanov, sir!" comes the voice of the pilot. "Dead ahead, a small army of bandits and other Badlanders, full-on assault on the Sibellus Steel train. They're dead in their tracks... comms confirm it, multiple requests for aid, multiple civilian casualties. Just as you'd said, sir, they're not stopping to loot, they're killing everyo... Sir! Auspex shows a massive energy spike, bearing four-one-two mark five-nine-one, counting. Off to starboard bow, around five klicks off, from current relative position. Orders, sir?"

[bluntpencil]

"Primary objective: Destroy their way out, take out any vehicles an' prevent them from escapin' Imperial justice."

Alexei is cold and as dispassionate as possible, but his voice is laced with anger.


"From there, air support is ta pin tha bastards down, whiles we then take the train and move ta defend it. Preventin' civilian casualties may be admirable in some circles, but it's a secondary consideration.

We're here ta deny the witch. That's yer goal, aight?"

Alexei Britanov isn't opposed to saving lives, but he knows that there are trillions of people in the Imperium, so they're inconsequential. Letting Chaos win, though? That was a big deal.


"Should yer come across any grox-lovin' warpcraft, stick close ta me. I'm far worse than any pathetic witch. Yer saw what happened earlier."

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar is thrown from his feet as the power of the Warp surges around him, tearing apart reality at "Orange's" command. He manages to haul himself to his knees after a moment, taking in his new surroundings and the fate of the rest of his team. "Warpcraft. Witchery. No, no, corruption everywhere. Emperor protect me." He repeats the last as a mantra as he takes to his feet and leaps behind a ripped-apart chunk of the train's frame, taking cover in panic as the foul energies of Chaos begin to subside around him. "No. No, no hiding. Emperor detests the witch. DESTROY THE CORRUPT! PURGE THE WITCH!" He screams, fanaticism finally overcoming fear. Shouting at the top of his lungs, the First Blade draws his Sacred Blade, instrument of cleansing, and charges forwards at the thing he had been trying to protect only minutes earlier, all vestiges of his mission forgotten. All that remains is the panicked urge to annihilate everything not fit to remain in the Emperor's sight.


2 Rounds, of course. Round 1, Run behind the nearest piece of cover and cower there because I have no choice, then Snap Out of It. Round 2, charge at the Witch.

WS Test: [roll0] versus 50 (+10 Charge, +10 Best-quality, -10 from the Shock) (Success)
Damage: [roll1] plus 5, Pen 4. (12 Damage)

[Urist]

Yarach draws out his longlas, and readies himself to fire on Alexei's command.

"Acknowledgement: Command received, Captain Britanov. All units, attempt to preserve the train; Steel Train, classification Sibellus, is vital to the production of the Emperor's armaments. Suffer not classification:heretics to live."

[bluntpencil]

"Aye, take out their armour or anythin' resemblin' it, then get me a fraggin' landin' zone. I want in there personal'. Suffer not tha witch ta live, lads...

...unless ye plan on torturin' the bastard."
Alexei seems convinced there's witchery afoot. He hates witches. Even more than he hates everyone else

When his Valkyrie makes its landing, he stamps out quickly and angrily, his men not following too close behind. People generally don't like getting too close to him.

"Unit Yarach, relay my commands to yer boys. We move on tha train, an' take up defensive positions once there! Go!"
He gets moving, running into cover and taking advantage of any smoke that may protect him. Sure, he hates witches and heretics, but getting shot by the four-score fellows with the heretek guns? No thanks. The air support could pin them down whilst he advanced onto the objective, shield raised.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
Aboard the Sable Prayer
1417, Scintillan Occidental Time

The three Valkyries of the joint task force had skimmed low over the Badlands, hugging the terrain, almost kissing the turf. Unfortunately, by sight, by scanners or by sorcery, the horde of heretics was ready for them…

…A veritable wall of flak greeted them as they crested the last scrub-topped hill. Airburst shells bloomed in the air while infantry-grade lasbolts peppered the armour of the three aerial transports. A barrage of brilliant beams from tainted multilasers screamed into the sky.

Klaxons blared in the cabins, red alarm lights blinking like the beating of a beast’s heart. Anything that wasn’t strapped down--- including the vomit of some troopers with lesser fortitude--- went clattering and flying as desperate pilots jinked this way and that to avoid the incoming fire.

The element of surprise was blown. They were not going down like slaughtered fowl. They were the bearers of the Tholl’s wrath, the Emperor’s just vengeance. Onboard weapons systems returned fire with a concerted volley, targeting transports according to their commander’s orders. Badlander buggies and scav-scum trucks that look more at home amidst an Orkish WAAAGGH burst apart as the Valkyries’ nose-mounted multilasers and wingpod autocannons raked the field. Too late to respond and the most prized kills of the lot were a handful of Chimera armoured personnel carriers, their crew-cabs fragged and their tracks slagged.

“Ha-HAH! Take THAT!” came the crackling crow of the pilot of Valk-2, Burying the Hatchet. His vox-frequency suddenly became more and more swamped with sounds of whining laser impacts; the crunches and the pops and the hisses of machine-components taking critical damage; the voices of the crew and the troopers raised in clamour, in cursing, in prayer. “THOLL’S BALLS! I’m popping the doors, get out while yeh can, boys! Alright, scum! Yeh want a piece o’ me? Come o---! KKKSSSSHH”

On the console of the Sable Prayer the auspex icon for Valk-2 silently blinked out. The vox static echoing through the cabin was deafening. A series of lights blinked red and more alarms blared as a barrage of autocannon shells raked along the right flank mid-jink. Through a confluence of the Emperor's blessing, the pilot's skill and the fact that the rounds had been High Explosive Armour Piercing shells, the shots had overpenetrated and exploded past their target.

Inside the crew cabin, air howled through fresh-punched holes in the side. One flank's bay door groaned on one hinge, then peeled away. Outside, the troopers saw a wing-pod's still-sparking, still-spewing, still-smoking stump where an engine once was. Holding onto one of the handrails, the starboard-side gunner drops a couple of primed grenades into the ammunition box of the now dangling starboard heavy bolter, then pulled the release lever and let the whole assembly drop off into space...

...even as the pilot desperately fought the laws of physics, wresting the lead vessel from an out of control spin into a controlled descent, multilaser and portside heavy bolter laying down a spiral of return fire.

The vox crackled with an incoming transmission. "Valk-3 reporting! Troops deployed, minimal casualties! Aerial auspex shows primary enemy transports are fragged! Pulling out! Groundpounders get under cover! I'll be back, damnit! The Emperor protects!"

And then, the Sable Prayer makes one final attempt to face skyward, ploughing into the sands of the Scintillan Badlands and managing to barely stay upright and mostly in one piece. The rear bay door hisses open and clangs hard on the broken ground. The troopers under the immediate command of Captain Britanov and Lieutenant Yarach acknowledge their orders and surge forward into the thick wall of smoke while their black-and-brown painted Drop Sentinel slowly peels off to the right, its multilaser seeking targets.

"Go on, sahr! Get to the chugga! We'll cover you!" Off to their right, through the stench of corpse-filth and blazing promethium, the Sable Prayer chin-mounted multilaser strobes out short bursts of suppression. The starboard gunner, his duty discharged with an ammunition bin's rippling boom, racks a crewman's shotgun and races to join the rest. The portside gunner has broken out a thick roll of lho and lit it, snorting the smoke out through his fat nostrils as his waits for something to emerge from the black haze across the no man's land of eviscerated vehicle chassis, gutted horses and blasted bandits. Though he is practically trembling with anticipation, his heavy bolter's sight remains steadily trained.

The joint task force of Metallican troopers meets at the rail, the massive bulk of the Sibellus Steel making a handy landmark. There, at the middle of the train, they come upon a space where a car should be, but isn't... a place where desert heat should be making them sweat, but their hackles rise, their spines chill. The Thollos-forged metal feels frigid to the touch. Once Alexei comes upon the scene, however, the blazing Badland heat returns.

A quick scan shows that at the far side, there seem to be remnants, mere edges of a train car... but something seems to have taken a literal bite of it, the metal seeming wrenched, twisted and torn, and then vanished with its catch. Behind the joint task force are what appear to be cargo cars, already derailed from the rest while in front of them are...

...passenger cars, where the rearmost door suddenly bangs open and a female corpse is pitched out and a bag of books rifled through then kicked out as well. "Eh! Damn! It ain't her an' these ain't wot da boss be lookin' for!" And then the two spike-haired submachinegun-toting gangers see the small army bearing down upon them. One turns tail and vanishes back up the train, the other man lets loose a terrified and incoherent shriek and cuts loose with some chattering autofire at Alexei. "Ohhh shiiiiiii~!"

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Meanwhile, several kilometers away, the voidborn sniper lifts a quivering lasrifle to aim, muttering the Litany of Protection all the while. Beside him, the sword-saint of an assassin who'd run halfway across a city, escaped the clutches of traitor Regulators, turned the tables on a pack of ambushers, survived slamming his face into a speeding train and had just utterly annihilated single-handedly a cultist coven, now cowers behind a piece of smouldering debris.

Trembling arms betray the deadeye aim. The zealot's resolve blazes into a white-hot fury as Wulfgar charges, sword flashing from its sheath, winter-keen point seeking the witch's heart. Agent Orange's stance shifts, backfoot bracing, left hand crooking. Kell crawls across the blasted floor, his remaining hand finally closing on the snub-las that had flown into the cabin's corner during their brief fight.

Agent Orange makes a pulling gesture and with a wave of warpcraft hauls up the body of her former victim into her hands to use as a human shield just as the voider fires. The lasrifle's shot zings past the Scholar's feebly kicking legs and sears a smoking graze right past her flakweave coat and charring through the meat of one thigh. Wulfgar slams into them, his sacred sword stabbing through his former teammate's armour, clothing, flesh, innards, bones and out again, killing the man and causing the witch using him as a human shield to hiss and wince in pain as the point pinks her in the belly. Wulfgar feels something inhuman pulse and writhe at the end of his weapon.

At that same moment, at the doors of death, Kell's fingers spasm on the pistol's trigger, spraying the immediate area with lasfire. Cain takes a blazing bolt full-on, one leg exploding in a bloom of superheated gore, sending him writhing back and screaming in torment. Another shot slams into Wulfgar's left leg, causing him to stumble momentarily, before he hauls himself forcibly upright, his arms anchored upon the hilt of a sword transfixing one and a half victims.

Agent Orange steps off her near-impalement, the air around her throbbing with unearthly moans. She sighs and shrugs, then crosses her arms across her chest in a parody of the Aquila salute, the blood from her wounds floating, flowing, coagulating, hardening around her left arm until it forms a jagged claw. Her hair now burns with a crimson light, the sigh from her lips like a crypt door cracking open and all the centuries of the dead within groaning to be let out all at once. "Ffffoorrrr the rrrrecord, your honour, loooooooks like I'll haaaaafta look elsewhere for sssssomeone to heeeeelp me get RRRRID of this coooonnndddition!"

"Asssss fffffor nnnnnow?" Supernaturally swift, she hauls back the massive claw and takes a swipe at Wulfgar. "Yyyyyou ffffforrrrrce myyyy haaaaannndddd, bbbbboy! I-i-i-i HUNGERRRRRR!"


Ganger soiling himself and ripping loose on Alexei on full auto <---Frigger misses wildly. Troopers duck for cover.
[roll0][roll1]
[roll2][roll3][roll4]
[roll5][roll6][roll7]

Agent Orange <--- HIT.
[roll8]
[roll9]

[bluntpencil]

Alexei's voice roars over the gunfire, amplified by the oversized speaker on his shield.
"Lay down your arms, or I'll rip them off, witch!"He stamps forward, ridiculous triple-shotgun aimed at the fool spraying bullets at him. He fears not his foe, for he is fear incarnate. That, and he'd had quite the morning, so was feeling quite up to making the little bastard squeal like a stuck pig.

He was probably wrong in calling them witches, but they were raking through probably illegal books in order to learn how to turn lead into gold or something, or were trying to work out how to try (and fail) to fart lightning bolts at him. So, yeah, as far as the Volgite was concerned, they were witches.


Intimidate roll [roll0] Success!

[DaedalusMkV]

Faced with the obvious taint of the open Warp, Wulfgar loses any sign of coherence. The small part of his mind still thinking in any way rationally takes note of noise in the background while the remainder devotes itself solely to the destruction of the Blasphemy in front of him. "WARPSPAWN. Die. Witch. Burn. Emperor. Hates. You." He grunts as he dodges deftly away from the creature's foul flesh-warped weapon with a quick pivot, then stomps down on her insole with a heavy boot to throw her off balance. Ever graceful despite his incoherent rage, the Assassin follows through with a beautiful horizontal slash, a flawless decapitating strike aimed directly at the tainted creature's neck...


Need... Rolls... To determine narrative...

Half-action Aim, then Attack. Wish I could all-out-attack, but a big hit could easily cause serious damage to Wulfgar at this point.

WS Test: [roll0] versus 50. Accursed Shock. (Big hit)
Damage: [roll1] plus 5, Pen 4. (RIGTEOUS FURY! DIE!) (Add 8 Damage from Righteous Fury, for a total of 23)

Dodge to save the GM some headaches next turn: [roll2] versus 42 (+10, -10)

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Somewhere in the swirling sands of the Scintillan Badlands, snow begins to fall. Frost rimes the wrenched edges of the traincar, a bank of steaming mist hissing into being as unnatural cold meets the desert heat.

The black-clad voider grits his teeth as he crawls about, dragging himself to the nearest piece of smoking debris. Eyes and mouth scream silently as he slams his spewing stump hard against the freezing steel.

Nearby, the tainted abomination stumbles backwards as the assassin's kick connects. Beneath two layers of boot-leather, the crushed foot feels comfortingly mortal.

Agent Orange throws up the warpforged flesh-weapon of hardened blood and bone. But for the streetfighter's trick, what could have bisected or impaled Wulfgar turns into but a glancing blow...

...a glancing blow that still smashes into his shoulder, spines ripping his flakweave and raking across his upper arm. He feels his right shoulder go numb, his elbow dead, his right hand feeling like every nerve is on fire.

And yet Wulfgar feels the fire of faith keeping the witch's venom at bay and the Emperor's light guiding his undimmed fury. Shards of hardened burst as his sword slices through the warp-dabbler's arm and then goes on to cleave clean through the tainted one's neck.

Such is the power behind his strike that Wulfgar goes spinning, staggering past his opponent. Right arm hanging useless, limp yet twitching, he slowly turns around just in time to see the warpforged flesh-weapon sink into the sand like a discarded sword. The Vaakon Librarian who had once been known as Agent Orange staggers forward a few steps, right hand twitching in arcane gestures...

...then falls to her knees before Wulfgar and then topples forward, head rolling clear. The First Blade smokes with bloody execution. As the temperature of the air around him slowly quickly returns to normal, Wulfgar feels a cold caress across his cheek and a whisper on the wind piss on his soul. I-i-i-i-i-i aiiiin’t goin’ down alone. T-t-t-t-tell that bastard Konrad I’ll see hiiiiiiiiiiiim in Hell.

With squinting eyes, Cain stares at the silhouette of his comrade. One hand keeps pressure on his rapidly-thawing leg-stump, the other fumbles at trying to light one last lho. Clearly delirious eyes dilate and the wrinkled cigarette and lighter tumble unlit to the ground. On dying lips he lofts a loyal voider’s hymn. “A-across the vast void aeth--- HKK ---erial / Singing-ING cl-ear His holy c-call / All-Father’s light blazes / D-dae--- HNN --- mons’ fortressethtt razesh”

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1417, Scintillan Occidental Time

Meanwhile, elsewhere, beneath a pall of promethium fumes, the two sinners’ Sentinels stalk their prey. One lofts its cannons skyward whilst its partner jinks between blazing Chimeras as it sets its sights on the downed Sable Prayer.

The nose-turret’s multilaser and the remaining bay heavy bolter of the downed Valkyrie blaze away at the heretic horde. A single brilliant beam lances out of the darkness, finishing off the vanguard vessel in an explosion that sends flame and shrapnel slashing across the battlefield.

“For Father Tholl and Captain Warren!” The third Valkyrie screams down once more. A hellstrike missile takes immediate vengeance on the wretch that slew its wingleader. Fire from the multilaser and both heavy bolters sends heretic troopers’ limbs flying as they dash for cover.

The two DropSentinels weave in and out of the cover of burning vehicles. They work in concert, one providing suppression with its multilaser and the other stepping in to burst the bandit infantry like ripe ploins with its heavy bolter.

Over at the lip of the last passenger car, the autogun clatters to the steel floor as the ganger loses his nerve. He drops to his leather-chapped knees before Britanov and blubbers, “We was after the loot! Wasn’t no witchery! ‘Tless, ‘tless… never knew, swear by smoking saints, I swears! And-and-and the LIBRARIAN! Volgite bitch ‘eaded for th-th-th Tricorn! Da Boss wanted ‘er boo…HKK!”

Suddenly, mid-confession, his head explodes, showering Britanov with gore. The joint taskforce of seasoned Regulators charges into the breach. The Westingkrup riot guns rack and boom, blasts of buckshot breaking the heretics’ charge while their Takaran comrades take careful aim with their carbines and drop a couple of them with single bolts of clean coherent light, train walls scorched with singular holes, heretic bodies slumping down behind them…

“For the Emperor! Get the bloody slagging bastards!”

…and behind them still comes a ragged cry. A dozen voices, maybe more, raised in fury. The sounds of retaliatory weapons echo through the train’s guts, the unknown assailants wielding everything from boomguns to revolvers to broken chair-legs and amasec bottles.

Suddenly, the ground seems to shake close to the Acolytes. The quaking comes closer and closer, a rippling, clanking, reeking shadow drawing ever nearer.

The cobbled-together metallic monstrosity of another Scrapdread looms over them. Black smoke gouts from its multiple hulls, its spider-like steel-plated legs digging into the sand with every clanking step. Beneath it swing two great rust-riven spiked wheels that hurt the eyes to look upon. Sigils of Chaos gleam in welded blood upon its iron hide.

The men of Takara and Westingkrup, being lower in the hive than the holdings of Orthlack, hold firm and but for some trembling fingers, hold their ground. The gunrake marshals of Orthlack take one look at the behemoth, lift their guns and mash their triggers…

…only for their Creeds to click and choke on a jam. Veteran Metallican gunslingers usually wouldn’t have a problem simply flicking out the offending round but these troopers’ nerves are frayed and they break and run, babbling incoherently.

[bluntpencil]

Crap. Damned witchery. Damned heretekery or whatever you... Britanov's mind raced, then realised, a tech-heresy like this could get the fires burning in the bellies of his men.
"Yarach! Get your tech-boys to show this fragger the punishment for tech-heresy!

Get the heavies and the air support to distract it, I'll have it beg for mercy, you take the train!"And with that, Britanov decides to take advantage of his unnatural nature and runs from cover to cover, shield raised, attempting to close on the Scrapdread. Hopefully it would consider their armour a greater threat.

[DaedalusMkV]

The First Blade wastes no time, reversing his grip on his magnificent sword and plunging it through the witch's heart. The fact that she is clearly already dead means nothing. With a shudder he falls to his knees before the makeshift shrine, then with unsteady voice attempts a variation on his prayer. "Emperor... Accept this Offering. The Bane is cut from Your sight... Your Will be done." His head hangs low for a moment, then he struggles to his feet, collects the Blessed Blade and returns it to its proper place with a flick to displace the blood marring it, nearly fumbling the attempt unused as he is to doing so with his left hand. Gripping his useless right arm, the assassin walks to the even more badly injured Cain, then once again kneels at his side. "Voider, you live. The witch is dead, Voider, but I know no means of saving you. Do you know a way, or would you prefer to go now to the Emperor's side?" He attempts to grab a sheathed knife with his right hand, then winces in pain as it seems to burn horribly. A second attempt, made with his left hand, brings a throwing-knife into focus, deadly-sharp and more than capable of delivering swift death in the First Blade's hands.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1421, Scintillan Occidental Time

The lone remaining heretic Sentinel dashes out of the debris field at a run, sidestepping a burning truck as its pilot is seemingly taken by a suicidal urge. The rapid-firing autocannon leaves bright muzzle flashes and shell casings in its wake, blood-matted dirt tossed into the air by its churning legs. Around it, the heretic horde yells in debased tongues, charging to retake the train after they had been bushwhacked out of their positions...

…only for their charge to be broken once again by scything laserfire from the sky. Bolt rounds blaze from the heavens. Bandit infantry burst apart in blooms of viscera.

Captain Britanov’s microbead suddenly booms with the sounds of explosions even as he and a man of the Takaran Red Rags charge out to meet the mechanical monstrosity. For several long moments, the comms fall eerily silent, then he hears the vox crackling with several incoming transmissions from his aerial and mechanical assets.

“Haaah… haaah… haaah… KSSSHHKKTTT… ing me, over? Vee-Three reporting. Heav ---KSSSSKKTT--- fantry movement. Wou--- KKSSSHKT--- rowned you guys in bodies. KSSSHHT--- pinned for now. KSSSHHHTTT--- disengaging. Took heavy flak. Both bay gunners dead. Vee-Three, out. The Emperor pr--- BAM”

“Sir, are you crazy?! They’ve got a human wave here, they’ll---“

“Cease insubordination, West-man. You were not there, this unit was. Trust the Arbitrator, trust Tholl. Get to coordinates T1-08. Fire on my mark.”

Beside Britanov is a sudden sound of smashing glass. One of the Red Rags leaps out, voxponder blaring out a cacophony of Binary chants, Imperial hymns and a mindless torrent of human rage. Mud, oil and guts fly as he charges across the field on furiously creaking augmetic legs, easily outstripping the heavily armoured Alexei, firing wildly inaccurate lasfire all the way.

The charging heretic horde pauses as the berserk Tech-Guard bursts from the fog of war. His robes trail smoke, rifle-butt and bayonet trail blood. A handful of heretic troopers stumble and fall, las-bolts punching through them, then the mad machine-man is amongst them, laying all about with las-bolts, with stock and steel, elbows and knees…

…but he does not halt his stride, leaping over men’s backs and using heads as stepping stones. All he sees is the tech-heresy that is the Scrapdread. The heretic troopers regain their wits and return the favour a hundredfold, cutting down the zealot with massed fire. He dies with a manic grin on the last flesh on his partly augmetic face. One of the lasers connects with the belt of grenades that he had worn.

Britanov dives behind an upturned traitor Guard truck as he sees the two DropSentinels’ bulk moving to flank at the edges of his vision, but more immediately, he sees in the corner of his eye the most grenade-happy deranged Cogboy get slaughtered by the rebel mob. The ensuing explosion rocks the chassis of his cover so hard that it threatens to fall over and crush him.

In the next moment, the air above Alexei blazes with heavy weapons fire from the flanking Drop Sentinels. The wrapping chains and their myriad dangling Chaos emblems clank and shudder. Battered by multilasers and bolt shells, armour plates begin glow red hot while jagged pieces of components fly off. Suddenly, two brilliant beams lance out of train windows. One flashes a heat-bloom across the cockpit’s armourglass while the other dives deep into the damage caused by the DropSentinels. With a great grinding and sparking, almost a quarter of the Scrapdread’s torso and two out of its eight fused legs drop off its main body.

His comm-lines are choked with a sudden influx of victorious whoops when his troops see the massive damage and with dismayed cries when the Scrapdred remains standing.

Reeling from this sudden loss of mass, the Scrapdread staggers, trying to reorient its balance on just three welded-and-chained Sentinel chassis and three pairs of fused legs. Scuttling around, it tries to shield the gaping hole in its side. Broken cables spew sparks and oil spills from busted lines. Beyond the jagged rent, something glows and smokes.

Though now stumbling backwards, its pilot is apparently wise to the fact that something had been disrupting his enhanced targeting system and has now apparently ripped away his sorcerous shields. And pissed.

Just as Britanov makes another push, the dead horses and dead troopers burst into hot gristle as the heretek cannon finds its range. The Volgite Arbite feels his shield and armour blasted with las-shot after las-shot, his left arm and torso shuddering with the strain of multiple searing impacts but he holds firm and makes it to behind a heap of Badlander buggies. The reek of burning rubber, roasted flesh, ozone-haze and scorched flak-steel clog his nostrils.

He hears the thundering footfalls of three mechanical monstrosities close by--- two apart and trying to maintain the advantage of their flanking positions; one scuttling, scrambling, limping.

A staggered volley of las-bolts rakes the ground near Britanov, one coming almost blindingly close and scorching a smoking line across his helmet…

…then it suddenly stops as a steady stream of autorifle fire halts the heretic horde. With brief transmissions tinged with shame and zeal, the Orthlackers report their return as four men hold off forty-four.

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Meanwhile, in the train, the rebel executioners rally against the mob of loyalist survivors. Broken bottles and broken chair legs, black market Scalptakers and Sigma pistols prove no match for flakweave coats and heretek laspistols that cut through several attackers at once.

As they stand laughing over a mound of their victims while the rest scamper back for better cover, the Westingkruppers take advantage to get to grips with them. Four heretic faces disintegrate under point-blank blasts of buckshot. The last stares right down Unit Yarach’s gun barrel and then throws down his arms and raises his arms in surrender.


Several kilometers away, four feet of sacred steel sink into the stained sand beneath the slain witch’s heart. As Wulfgar drags his weapon out, its point catches on the former Librarian’s flakweave coat and rips it open. Underneath, at least to the Brother’s eyes, myriad signs and symbols are written in tattoo over tattoo, scar over scar, wound over wound, across her belly and thigh--- and from the looks of it as the writing continues over her body unabated, her entire skin might well be one massive heretic document.

“You’re--- HKKH--- not the Emperor?” Cain says through a grunt of agony.

When Wulfgar stands over Cain and makes his offer, the dying voider’s eyes suddenly come back into focus on the keen point of the knife, flick up to Wulfgar’s eyes, then back to the knife. Blood-flecked lho-stained teeth flash in a short smirk as he says, “In p-pocket. Right s-side. Stimms. HNNGH. Shoot us both up. T-take my gun--- set cell to beam. GGGGHHHFFF. Cauterize the warp-shodding leg. Please.”

A trembling hand shoves a wrinkled, drooping lho-stick into cracked lips. Two streams of blue-grey slightly sweet smoke snort out of the dying man’s nostrils. “Or finish me the warp off. Been a good ride… c-can’t ‘elp but feel like it’s been a waste. Emp’rer fergive me. So, what’ll it be, steel saint?”

[bluntpencil]

"Right lads, watch this, eh?" whispers Alexei into his vox. He rushes forward as quick as his legs will carry him, skidding into cover, shield raised with one arm, lobbing a grenade with the other. He knows he doesn't need to be terribly accurate: Grenades have big explosions after all.

Leading by example is the only real leading that Alexei is capable of. Thank the Emperor that he's damned lucky at times, and one grim bastard.


Attack [roll0]
Scatter direction [roll1]
Scatter distance [roll2] [Frag grenades have a blast big enough to make this a hit regardless!]
Damage [roll3]


EDIT: Hmmm scatter for missed grenades seems to be different here from other 40K RPG games. Darn non-unified rules! Still, it's a bloody massive target.

[DaedalusMkV]

The First Blade listens to the sniper's advice, then nods shortly in acknowledgement as he sheathes his knife again, taking a hypo-needle from one of his own pouches while digging through Cain's indicated pocket for another. First he injects himself with the powerful stimulant, immediately showing signs of increased vitality, then uses the Voider's Stimm as instructed. Grasping the long Lasgun uncomfortably he mutters to himself. "Beam, beam... Is this it?" Indicating the fire-selecting switch after a few seconds' searching. At the sniper's assent, Wulfgar aims the weapon cautiously, then pulls the trigger. Even at point-blank range his ability to hit a target with the utterly unfamiliar longarm is minimal, and it takes him twice as long as it should to get the lasser on target to cauterize the wound. "Throne! How does anyone put up with these things... Apologies, Voider." The First Blade states as Cain screams in agony. Finally finished with his immediate task and infused with vigor, at least temporarily, as the result of the stimulant, Wulfgar stands up and takes stock of the surrounding area. "I... Have no idea where we are. Perhaps someone here has some sort of communications equipment..."

Shamelessly, a dead man begins searching and looting the bodies of the dead not lucky enough to have been given their final consecrations while still mobile. The dead should feel nothing, but this particular corpse is flush with satisfaction in the destruction of an abomination and manages a short burst of triumph as it pulls a micro-bead from the ear of the fallen shopkeeper, wiping blood and worse fouling it after his grizly, shotgun-based death, and activates it, broadcasting a message. "Any servants of the Emperor, please respond."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1424, Scintillan Occidental Time

The Scrapdread limpingly crab-walks away from the action, the chains that wrap about its hull clanking, the spiked Chaos wheels beneath it swinging erratically. Smoke belches and sparks spew from the great gash in its side. It tries to swing around, to hide its exposed internals from the two flanking loyalist Sentinels that even now scent blood.

It tries shooting at them with its cobbled-together cannon but only manages feeble infantry-grade zips before its multiple barrels sputter dry, crackling with multiple points of shrapnel damage. It tries popping missile launchers but the respective outer plates only grind and whine but fail to open.

And then the Volgite Arbite hurls his frag. Powered by the enforcer's brute strength, the grenade almost sails clear of its target...

...a breathless moment passes as it hits the inside of one hulking double-jointed leg and explodes against the knee. The Scrapdread's overlarge hull totters on its remaining two pairs of fused legs, then collapses like a drunkard who has had far too much. It thunders into the ground, the cannon snapping off as it was used to try and prop it up in vain.

Alexei's comms crackle with cries of triumph from his troops... and then one of alarm.

"Ha-HAH, Tholl's balls, lookit that!"

"...Yyyyyeah. Yeah, look at that. Look at yer big beastie fall, ye rebel scum ---KDDDSSSHHH --- LOOK AT THAT, damn you!"

"Slag it all, he got the bugger, slag it all!"

"This Unit did tell that Unit: Captain Britanov would be win."

"Smokin' saints! Look out, sir!"

Through the cloud of dust and debris, the Volgite Arbite hears a rapid clicking like the staccato of a the cogboys' Code and a skittering much akin to the sound of augmetic legs smothered by heavy robes. He tries to bring his shield around but is too slow as a heavy las-bolt scorches out of the darkness. Beneath its protective layer of flakplate, Alexei's upper right arm feels like a patty of well-done ratburger.

Alexei's ear reels from a sudden screeching in his commbead. "Diiiiiiie, TRAITOR!"

His assailant reels back as a las-bolt from one of Yarach's boys stabs out. A laser-truncated mechadendrite squirms like a stuck serpent of steel, its head a high-yield pistol, its venom laser-blasts.

Still, Alexei's attacker--- a hulking machine-man in ragged red robes and bulging augmetic limbs--- keeps on lurching forward. Another mechadendrite snakes out of the heretek's robes and sprays the train with rapid fire. In the heretek's gleaming hands are two spiked shock mauls. Trailing behind him are a swathe of broken cables, dripping machine fluid out into the desert sands. Alexei's trained eyes quickly spot as well the numerous patches of torn and bloodstained robe and the way the way the mesh cowls flicker with sparks from what might be damaged cranial circuits.

Over on the other side of the battlefield, overconfident at having driven off the loyalists' air support, the heretic pilot Sentinel pilot heeds his instruments' blaring too late. The digitigrade walker executes an about face, gears growling and squealing dangerously as it races back into the fray, spraying wildly inaccurate exploding shells.

Four figures in Fane Orthlack's suits of almost immaculate blue patches and stripes stand firm amidst all the devastation, advancing with at an insane stroll. Their long coat-tails flap in the desert wind, the Creed-Hackers spitting a steady stream of lead at the heretic horde hunkering behind smoking piles of corpses and wreckages.

Out in the open, the mad Metallicans are cut down by a volley of brilliant beams...

...only for the heretic horde to be forced back into cover as the Takaran DropSentinel's multilaser rakes the field. Its partner braces its legs wider for greater stability, centers his sights on cockpit of the last remaining enemy armour asset and fires a series of well-placed shots in short bursts.

Its own protective chains and Chaos charms clanking in the wind as its ace pilot jinks madly, weaving in and out of lines of fire, the incoming bolt rounds merely bounce off the armourglass. No matter how well its sorcery is woven, however, the sheer number of impacts first cracks, then spiderwebs, then shatters the cockpit's barrier. At just that moment, a sighting laser stabs out from the direction of the train, right at the pilot's eye...

...then the actual las-bolt bursts the heretic pilot's head. The body collapses across the controls pushing the throttle to maximum and sending the several-ton warmachine crunching into the dust with the distinct sound of pulped flesh as it ploughs into a clump of infantry.

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Meanwhile, out in the Badlands, a saliva-stained tooth-marked flakweave sleeve dries out in the sun. The voider Cain sits smoking in the shade of a mostly intact piece of car-roof. He cradles his lasrifle and rocks back and forth, muttering while twitchingly restraining himself from plucking at his newly cauterized leg-stump.

Casting his grey-eyed gaze and a tight little smoke ring at Wulfgar as he rifles through the dead, Cain asks, "Ey... hggghhh. The name's... HAH! Unngh. Frak this day, eh? Name's Cain. GEHK. H-hope you not granting me the Emperor's Mercy void'n be in vain. Which's to say... thanks, man"

When Wulfgar activates the commbead and transmits, he hears nothing but his own voice and long stretches of static. While he transmits again, he feels his wounded arm slowly grow heavier and more swollen, but he feels the pain begin to recede as well. His elbow and shoulder still feel dead, but his fingers could now curl without him feeling like he'd stuck his hand inside a furnace.

Suddenly, a husky female voice cuts through the noise. "KKKSSSKHT ---perator. This is Captain Salleh al-Akhbar of the Corax' Kiss... KKSSHHT ---trol. Identify yourself. KSSSHKKT--- ment. Auspex scans show that, uh, you're in the middle of the Badlands, your vehicle's dead in the water and... has there been warpcraft in your vicinity?"

[bluntpencil]

Alexei grins as the scrapdread goes down. Yarach was doing good, nobody had ever put half as much faith in him: Cog-boys tended to be smarter than others, he reckons.

He turns around, and sees his lurching heretek foe take a lasblast. Range? Short. Very short... but beyond arm's reach.

Perfect.

His Meat-Hammer is in his hand in a split second, and he takes aim, narrowing his eyes, then, spitting into the dirt...

....He fires all three barrels at once.


Shotguns at their best, I hope.

[roll0] to attack. TN 77 +30 point blank, +10 half-aim. Maybe a penalty for the smoke, but the short range may negate this.

[roll1]+6 Pick highest2 d10s, divide by 2 for d5s. 10s allow RF

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar listens to the transmission impatiently, trying to make out the staticky voice of his theoretical rescuer and remembering why he hadn't made regular use of these unreliable devices before. He considers for a moment, wondering just how much information he should really be giving out over an open Vox channel, then responds. "Captain, I am Wulfgar, in service to the Inquisition. My group was... Attacked by some sort of Witchery. The Witch is dead, but we are stranded and have suffered injuries. Need urgent medical attention. We request transportation to the Tricorn Palace as soon as possible."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft


On the second sally, the transmission seems much clearer.

"Acknowledged. We've got Guard-spec medikits here, but my unit's... unfortunately understaffed." comes the suddenly solid return. "Pick-up ETA five to fifteen minutes. Sorry for the delay, sustained damage. Hang in there, boys. Al-Akhbar, out."

While waiting, Cain sets his rifle aside and unbuttons his heavy, battered and bloodstained coat. The voider partially unzips his bodyglove, scowls as he stubs out his lho and wipes his forehead, sweating with the heat. Taking a knife, he cuts off his sleeves, splashes some amasec from a hip-flask on these, then grits his teeth as he uses these as makeshift bandages for his stump.

Panting, he takes a long drink from his canteen, throat bobbing as he guzzles thirstily. "Ahhhh" he says. "Ey, up. Looks like you c'd use a drink as well. 'S water, don't worry if y'think yer violatin' any vows or what."

Seemingly long minutes pass. Seemingly tripping on a stimm-pack, caught between bare functionality and certain death, the voider busies himself with disassembling and reassembling his weapon, as well as singing several ship-shanties. Save for some spots of groaning, croaking and coughing, his singing voice is surprisingly decent.

Out of the clouds, a dark speck swiftly resolves into the stubby-winged form of some form of aircraft, bearing down on their position. Cain fires into the air, waving and shouting in exultation.

VTOL thrusters throw up a cloud of dust and sand as a Valkyrie assault carrier in a desert-camouflaged paintjob of shades of brown lands a few meters from the two Acolytes' position. Though the engines still roar, Wulfgar hears the pilot's voice in both of his ears--- through the microbead he's using and through the vehicle's megavox that's currently blaring. "Alright, boys, I've got you cold. You truly who you say you are, please step out into the open and disarm. If you've got any official idents for proof, please have them ready, I'm coming over. I'm coming over with a medikit, a dinged-up voxcaster and an uplink to a cannon that's covering your sorry asses, so no funny moves, alright?"

Wulfgar hears some faint footfalls. Combat boots on metal... then on sand, marching surely towards them. A figure in flakplate emerges, augmetics covering one quarter of her face, including the right eye. In her left hand is indeed a medikit with an official Aquila on one side and a Guard winged skull on the other. In her right hand is a lascarbine, its red-dot sight hovering on Wulfgar's chest... and to her side, he sees the nose-mounted multilaser traversing and covering Cain.

Snorting, Salleh says, "Don't you just hate rebel scum? Drop 'em! Idents, now!"

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1424, Scintillan Occidental Time

Alexei's feels the beefy recoil of his brutal weapon travel up his battered bones, but his trusty shield's locks hold firm. He hears the distinct impact of pellets impacting on mesh armour, armour plating, augmetics and flesh.

The looming heretek pilot charges on long-striding legs, bringing his crackling clubs high, ready to strike a last blow against the servants of the Imperium...

...Then gets the blast full in the groin. His legs and guts are completely obliterated, his upper body flung forward by the momentum and crashes against the Volgite Arbite's shield, knocking him backward a couple of paces.

The heretic slowly slides off and when he continues trying to feebly club at Alexei, he gets a heavy boot to the face, smashing in the traitor's skull. The heretek finally slumps into the dust, dead, weapons falling from nerveless fingers...

...then those shock mauls that were dropped suddenly whine and keen, glowing with what the lawman now perceives as a dead man's bomb. He has just enough time to scramble back and brace his shield before the things explode in a blinding blast.

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1431, Scintillan Occidental Time

When the dust settles, he sees that his shield had splintered into several pieces, the only solid remnant the jagged bits still clinging by now heat-warped handles to his arm. Even his flakplate armour is severely shredded, barely hanging on from scraps of their straps. The pieces that remain on his body feel like they might fall apart if even a juve-ganger spat on him now. His hair stands on end from electro-shock, his mouth is parched from the sudden heatwave, the ringing in his ears just won't stop yet. His throat feels half-strangled from where the strap had pulled when a flying piece of shrapnel had smashed into his helmet. He is uncertain whether it is his eyes that have cracked and blurred or just his visor. The flesh on his left arm, legs and torso are raw and blistered while his right side has suffered several shards of shrapnel quivering in his still-bleeding side.

Suddenly, an incendiary bolt round detonates on the heretek's last known location, immolating whatever was left, just to make sure. Alexei feels a shuddering nearby and sees the silhouette of a Sentinel looming over him, then crouching. A hatch is popped and a figure in flak jumps out, bearing a medikit and reporting even as expert hands quickly set about removing pieces of compromised armour and clothing, cleaning the wounds, then spraying casts of synthskin. "SIR! THOLL BE PRAISED, SIR! THEY SURRENDERED, SIR! CANNONS ARE STILL COVERING, BUT SEEMS LIKE WE WON, SIR."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei staggers to his feet, using Aarureughureeurueauhgh as a crutch of sorts. He spits out a little blood, and dusts himself down. A few new marks, nothing too serious. He'd probably look better for it, as he was one ugly bastard to begin with, what with the dented skull and the facial scars.

He allows the medic time to close any wounds that are actually bleeding, then sees about putting the fear of Volg Hive into the prisoners.

He orders what's left of his men to line up the heretic bastards, after taking their weapons, and rips a laud-hailer from the hands of one of his subordinates.
"Prisoners of the Holy Ordos. If you have a shovel... Dig. If you don't, use your pathetic hands."Quite some time later, after the prisoners had dug a trench in front of them, he quietly voxed Lieutenant Yarach.
"Carry out the third."This order was rarely used, but wasn't terribly surprising when the troops of the Inquisition pulled it out. Every third prisoner would be killed on the spot. Fortunately, Alexei, the sick bastard, had the foresight to have them dig their own graves.

Those that were summarily executed were the lucky ones.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar narrows his eyes at the heavy combat flyer, considering, then realizes that if these aren't Loyalists there's little he can do to them with a collection of blades, however fine. As the vehicle begins its landing the First Blade unstraps half a dozen sheathed blades, piling them up before him, and he raises his hands as the booted footfalls announce the presence of the heavily-Augmented trooper. "Identicard in middle right coat pocket should prove my identity. I believe my comrade, as well as two of the three dead, have similar with them." He winces as his right shoulder begins to cramp, the hand twitching and shaking with increasing severity. "Throne! May I lower my hands? I think I might have broken a bone."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Some passenger car midway down the train
Sibellus Steel
Ripped out by warpcraft and tossed into the Scintillan Badlands
Around noon, but don't trust warpcraft

Captain al-Akhbar waits until Cain has clearly set the safety on his weapon as well as unloading the current powercell before commencing. The search is carried out as quickly and efficiently as she could, given only one hand to work with, the other still occupied with a laspistol, the carbine having been shouldered for brevity's sake.

As she pats him down, in those few moments, Wulfgar's training is still able to discern some things about their captor-qum-rescuer... as well as several ways to take her out, should things come to blows. Through the chinks in the armour, he sees enough hints of actual flesh to deduce that the only significant augmetics are the ones that aid with sight and piloting. Up close, Wulfgar's nose detects no hint of mutation or taint... but he does smell the tang of sweat mingled with a fast-fading scent of air conditioning. He also smells traces of promethium, oil, gunpowder, fycelene... and the distinct aroma of fear-urine as well as recently handled recently spilled entrails. Quick, surreptitious glances confirm the tell-tale stains. The warmth and the overforcefulness in her seeking hand reveals to Wulfgar that al-Akhbar might be concealing or suppressing something.

Once all checks are done--- including an approving smile on seeing the Acolytes' handiwork with the witch, al-Akhbar lets out an audible sigh of relief and seems to let down her guard, shoulders slumping, stance slackening. The pistol's muzzle still covers them, though. "Yes, yes, it's alright. Really, sorry about that" she says while kneeling and deploying the medikit. "Been all kinds of hell, these parts, y'know. Rebels and traitors and heretics squirming outta the slagging woodworks, eh?"

Al-Akhbar first inspects, then cleans and secures Cain's leg-stump with a dose of synthskin. After that, Wulfgar has his turn. The tactile examination of the arm is followed up with an auspex scanning, just to make sure. She says, flashing a smirk towards the end, while tending the assassin's open wounds, "Good news, bad news, swordsman. You look like you took a stroll through Infernis but came off with just flesh wounds and bruises. The worst you've got are these cracks in your skull and the venom in your arm. For the former, I recommend an ice-cold beer from the crew locker now and a trip for some serious medicae attention later"

"De-tox" she says as she prepares a syringe. "Fair warning, though. Y'might want to crap and puke yer guts out while yer nose becomes a friggen fountain and your head an anvil... but it will get rid of your blood-filth, almost certainly. Ye want to do this now, or later at a proper medicae facility?"

405.M41 Over the Scintillan Badlands
In the guts of Sibellus Steel
1524, Scintillan Occidental Time

Meanwhile, over blood and sweat and machine oil and human filth, the trench grows.

Over the huddled groaning of the condemned, over the ringing in his own ears, the Volgite Arbite hears noises and voices rising behind him.

A crowd gathers, picking through the scraps of the damaged train, crying over dead family and friends.

Here, he hears a young man with a Takaran accent cursing trilingually as he beats a metallic fist against a wheel as wide as he is tall, cradling the body of his beloved.

There, four children, now all bearing war-wounds, bearing blooded weapons, stand over the mangled bodies of their parents. The eldest brother, his facial hair looking it had simply been drawn on with pen-ink, stands over his siblings, whispering and comforting as best he could, but his eyes seem hard and dead. The youngest, not older than four years standard, is still hoarsely wailing, kicking and stabbing the bodies of the heretic troopers.

Amongst the ruins, a tribe of scav-scum roams and reaves. What smatchets of straight Gothic could be understood from their debased tongues reveals that they seem to be praying to "saints of steel and smoke and the Blazing Terra" for the souls of the departed before they proceed to loot them.

Beside them, Valk-1's sole survivor, the starboard gunner, leans against a shot-riddled wall, his longarm hanging limp in one hand, his helmet simply hugged to his flak-vested chest.

These are but a few faces, but a few voices of the mass of bedraggled and bleeding survivors of the heretic attack on the Sibellus Steel railway. It seems the joint taskforce did arrive in time.

Alexei hears crunching footsteps coming from the direction of where their two birds had crashed and burned. He turns to see a rotund man, in his thirties. The blood-and-ash stained duster hangs open to cope with the heat. His hand rests upon the butt of a long-barreled revolver, holstered at a belt where several bullet-loops are conspicuously empty. An Aquila scar is flushed and livid on the man's forehead. It was his bass voice that Britanov had heard chanting the last rites over dead troopers and passengers alike, at least those with remains too mangled for a proper burial detail.

With but a nod, he takes position beside the troopers manning the firing squad. A Fatebringer revolver, four Talon autopistols qoks and three Fury laspistols hum. Lieutenant Lorne of the Red Rags gives the word. A brief chatter of fire and eight prisoners fall into the ditch that they themselves had dug. The Takaran inclines his head at Yarach as if offering him something but then nods. More familiar with Guard procedures, he goes ahead and puts a coup d’grace shot in the heads of the condemned.

Blowing the smoke off his barrel, still scowling, the priest extends an arm towards Alexei. “Captain. In the Emperor’s name, on behalf of every slagging survivor here… Thank you”

[bluntpencil]

"Speak to my Lieutenant," grunts Alexei at the priest. He isn't interested in conversation, and knows that he'll only start another riot or something. He nods, and quickly shakes hands, his vile blood not having been properly cleaned off yet. He gives a creepy smile, and explains, disturbingly, why he's blowing off this newcomer.
"Unit Yarach will handle all the fraggin' niceties, eh? I don't do 'friendly'.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar sits through the poking and prodding with an expression of stoic indifference, though he can't help but wince once or twice as the medic touches particularly injured spots. When the suggestion of detoxifying drugs is made, he replies, "Very well, do so immediately. I will perservere. Please, ensure that the corpses of my fallen allies are brought with us... And the corpse of the Witch is properly and rightly destroyed. Do you have a flame-thrower, or an incendiary?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Roaring along the desert railway
Aboard the repaired Sibellus Steel
En route to Hive Sibellus
1548 hours local

"Who needs 'friendly' when what people need is getting crap done?" propounds the priest as a parting shot before he leaves Alexei.

Before him, the remaining prisoners, breathing heavily, proceed to bury their executed comrades. Their hands are blistered and bleeding from the digging. Entrenchment spades, rifle butts and pieces of debris help in covering up the corpses. Under their captors’ sights and butts, they cease grumbling and sniveling… for now.

Behind him, he hears hasty repairs being carried out. Maintenance crewmen, thinking quickly, along with the begrudging blessing of some onsite enginseers for their innovation, jury rig the two DropSentinels with industrial loader-grade manipulator arms taken from certain crates in the cargo section. With this reconfiguration, they manage to reattach the two halves of the train, as well as clear out any obstructing pieces of wreckage…

…just in time as a panting conductor runs up to the troopers still in the field. “Sirs! Comms officer just got a transmission. From the… the Tricorn and the Navy, sir! We really, really hafta get out as soon as slagging possible”

405.M41 Somewhere above the Scintillan Badlands
Aboard the Valk-3 Corax' Kiss
En route to Hive Sibellus
1548 hours local

“It’s your body” says Salleh with a scowl as she cleans and disinfects a likely vein on his swollen right arm, then plunges the powerful detoxification injector in.


[roll0] Wulfgar’s Toughness check
Arm slowly returns to normal. Incredibly, no ill effects beyond simple sweats and shivers. Consider both the Taint-toxin and the Stimm purged from Wulfgar's system.
[roll1] Perception
See note in OOC thread, please.


While her patient writhes as his system purges itself, Captain al-Akhbar quickly takes Cain up on her shoulders and hauls him off to the idling Valkyrie. Leaning heavily on his rescuer, he hobbles along as best he could, using his rifle as a crutch. She takes a moment to survey the scene of devastation, then drags the two bodies of the dead Acolytes in and then retrieves Cain’s severed leg.

Just as she seems about to decide whether to strafe the lot with cannonfire or set explosives from the vessel’s weapons locker, she suddenly stops, as if listening to something over the comms-set in her helmet. She then hurries to make sure her new passengers are securely tied in, practically leaps into the cockpit, performing swift systems checks and saying, “Gentlemen, the Emperor provides. Get comfy, and hope y’all enjoy the view”

[bluntpencil]

Alexei bullies a smoke out of one of his subordinates, and sees about relaxing a little on the flight back to their bosses. He could see things getting worse, since things always got worse.

Anyway, a job well done, he figured. Can't argue with results, after all.

[Urist]

Yarach has been strangely quiet throughout the ordeal. The knowledge gleaned from his exploration of heretics heads has been stewing, and much of his processing power has been devoted to correcting potential corruptions and reinforcing layers of blessed firewalls within his cortex, protecting the knowledge, sanctifying it, purifying it, and stowing it away until he could transfer it to a data slate and rid his brain of it. His body, and his commanding, have been on autopilot, his thinking brain submerged in the effort.

However, on the receipt of the word "Lieutenant", he snaps out of his fugue, and salutes the priest. The sight of the dying prisoners raises his spirits; the tech-heretics dying around him gives him hope that perhaps Zweiker's mad schemes might finally die.

When the Comm's officer makes his report, Yarach drops everything, a sudden inescapable conclusion roaring in his brain. Navy and Inquisition executing joint action? Many objects of Class:heretics? Site:Sibellan Badlands isolated from main hive? Only conclusion:Navy is about to execute action: Bombing and/or Orbital Bombardment.

"Troopers and Survivors: move out! Back to the Valkyrie."

He walks quickly to Alexei. In a whisper, he asks "Should this unit order that the rest of the prisoners except officers be shot? Unit: Valkyrie does not have much room to transport tech-heretics. And this unit has suspicions the Inquisition and the Navy working together will result in state:death for anything nearby this train in a few runtime cycles."

[bluntpencil]

"Take the officers captive, aye, but tie the others up and keelhaul them from the fraggin' plane, eh?

Need to show them the payment fer heresy. I want their minds ta break from terror before they die." Alexei has been wondering: Maybe his summary executions were too soft. Dragging them from the back of the Valkyries would be nice and terrifying.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar barely even notices the effects of the harsh purging drug cocktail, focusing on the task at hand until the mission is complete. Noting that the aftershock of the detoxifying drug is far less than stated, he stands up and helps Salleh haul fallen Acolytes back to the Valkyrie. He works in silence until all is in place, though he carefully notes the pilot's actions regarding the Witch's corpse. One all is loaded in and the Captain signals her readiness he straps himself in to the seat nearest the Valkyrie's cockpit. "What do you mean by that, Captain? Are reinforcements on their way here? I believe we have resources more than sufficient to the task of destroying one corpse." The First Blade, of course, has never seen an Imperial Navy orbital bombardment, much less considered that it might be used here. "Also, before we leave, I must ask. Did you take anything from the corpse of the Witch, Captain?"

[Urist]

"Order packet recieved, Captain. However, this unit has noticed that we no longer have any Valkyries left to load on to. Should this unit order troopers onto the train? If this is the case, this unit will commence program action: keelhaul." Assuming Yarach receives an affirmative, he turns to the surviving troopers, he barks out an order.

"Seperate these hereteks into Class: Officer and Class: Enlisted. Have all enlisted men tied to the back of the train, and load up in the passenger cars! Overclock these commands, this unit expects these tasks finished within 5 runtime cycles."

[bluntpencil]

"Aye, good call, Lieutenant. Get them dragged something awful. And if anyone can open a channel to request the fraggin' bombardment's cancellation, that'd be good.

Tell 'em that it would be a waste of holy resources an' such, since we brutalised 'em already." He then barks more orders at the men, ensuring that they move quick enough and get on the damn train. He doesn't really feel like leaving these guys behind; they'd fought and bled pretty hard today. These Gunmetal boys were pretty tough bastards, so deserved credit where it was due, and didn't deserve nuked from on high. He probably wouldn't say that out loud, though. They didn't need to hear it.

[Miraqariftsky]

Their orders are carried out swiftly and efficiently. The troopers' one insubordination is that they carried out a twenty-volley salute in honour of their dead.

Soon enough, both surviving troopers and travelers are bundled up in the passenger section of the train and the two DropSentinels climb onto the car roofs and clamp on with the mag-locks and traction spikes built into their legs. Meanwhile, Corporal Korren Holme, the former bay gunner of Valk-1, volunteers to sit at the train's rear, to keep watch over the chained prisoners as they are dragged along at well over a hundred kilometers an hour. Some of the scav-scum tribesfolk who had aided in mobbing the heretics join him, pelting the condemned with rubbish and abuse. Their screams of agony ring through the passenger car's intervox.

Lieutenant Lorne and the remainder of his Takaran Red Rags sit ill at ease in the couch-lined cabin that Britanov had chosen as their transport-***-barracks. For a while, they sit stiffly, running through weapons maintenance drills where normal folk would have fallen to playing cards or regicide or bantering. Before long, they excuse themselves to assist in the enginarium.

The car itself is a simple affair, with a central aisle and couches of red and brown synthi-leather lining the floral-printed walls. Bright sunlight scintillates through the side windows. Those who have sunglasses, goggles or some other form of eye protection have them on despite the drawn curtains--- now that they have cleared the chaos of the battlefield's clouds of smoke and debris, the full light of the Badlands tells upon those who matured within caves of steel. Here and there are still bloodstains, scorch-marks and bullet-holes.

The remaining Westingkruppers seem to be more at ease than their Takaran counterparts. Of the four, one heavily acne-pocked trooper smirks behind their captain's back as he replaces the cheap lho that Alexei had stolen with a half-stubbed cigar. A second seems engrossed in the Guns and Girls magazine that he'd found in the drawer within the central table. The other two, judging by their scars and the immaculately groomed handlebar mustache on one fellow and the matted tangle of beard on the fourth fellow are quite a bit older than their other comrades at arms. They've brought out a magnetic regicide set and pass around the room a bottle of good old vodka.

Despite their after action distractions, every one of them still has a pistol out, covering the four heretic officers chained to the opposite wall's set of safety rails and posts.

A rather voluptuous train steward enters, white-laced black uniform straining to contain her curvaceous charms. She pushes in a trolley containing hot meals of pepper-and-sizzle-grilled grox steaks, steamed and buttered carrots, chopped and fried garlic and onions and mashed potatoes practically drowning in steaming gravy. The drinks available are a couple of pitchers of cold water, one of beer and one pot of coffee.

When the magazine reading trooper swats at the attendant's ample arse, the groping gauntlet is deflected by a swift pivot and he almost receives a Hecuter's butt to the chin, but she stops a hairsbreadth from striking one of their saviours. She flashes a smirk while brushing back her fiery locks behind her ear and says while holstering, "Later, trooper. I'm on duty"

Suddenly, the cabin's vox unit crackles to life.

The first voice through, still with the screaming of the condemned in the background noise, is Corporal Holmes'. "---ror on Earth! Tholl's balls, they're lancing Metalli---!"

Another transmission cuts in. "Unit Lorne reporting. Have amplified comms reception, praise to the Omnissiah. Long-range vox traffic confirms multiple sightings of Scrapdreads leading massive-scale underhiver uprisings in Sibellus, Tarsus and Metallica. Units of PDF, Arbites, Guard, mobilized. Sisters and Astartes launching tactical raids. ...Hive bombardment has ceased. Scrapdreads neutralized"

"Reporting" Lorne continues. "Sirs. Further comms analysis reveals... Valk-3 has survived. Heavily damaged, though. Was evading flak, investigated an energy spike on her auspex. Rescued two alleged Inquisitorial agents, one heavily injured. Says they took out a Witch, heavy---"

Once more, something overrides the transmission. "This is Inquisitor Kut---" There is the sudden and distinct sound of a screaming mob, the crackle of lasfire, the throaty roar of bolters, riot guns and a discharging shock maul. "---ar of th---! Argh! GIVE THEM HELL, IN THE EMPEROR"S NAME!"

Meanwhile, even the heretic officers are struck with this news. They fall upon each other, spitting and arguing that this was not the way things should have gone.

A few minutes later, the sounds of battle cease and the Inquisitor's voice barks in again. Clipped, terse, grating. Oddly enough, the tone of her voice reminds Alexei of that of Grandmother Grimm, one of the oldest Hammers and most respected veteran wardens in Volg, still smashing skulls. "Again, this is Inquisitor Kutot Nar of the Ordo Hereticus to the Sibellus Steel, do you copy? Cell Ratcatchers? Team leader? Report."

And then one of the scav-scum tribesfolk knocks on the door to the cabin frantically. “Sightsa der, milords! Glorious fire! All jams be cleant ant cleart, Tholl be praised!”

~~~

Over in a certain banged up Valkyrie, with a pneumatic hiss, the shot-riddled remnants of the bay doors close. The engines roar even louder as the craft lurches into the air , then banks to the southwest, if Wulfgar is to judge by the location of the sun in the sky.

Salleh’s hands are a blur of sable and silver over the controls. When they reach a stable cruising altitude, she leans forward and opens her legs a bit so that Wulfgar can see beyond the arm of the pilot’s chair.

“Standard issue looting sack” she says as she reaches under the seat and tosses Wulfgar a small leather sack with a drawstring about the top. Inside are a handful of knives, a bandolier of shotgun ammo--- both scattershot and solid slugs, some spare clips of bullets and a couple of powercells, a short-barreled laspistol and a high-cal semiauto. Wulfgar readily recognizes these as the various armaments of the dead. Besides these, though, there are several small pocket-sized books and dataslates as well. “If these were your comrades’ effects, you have my apologies and condolences, Brother Wulfgar. If they weren’t… I’m quite willing to split the sells on these, whaddya say?”


Titles:
Discourses of Sebastian Thor
The Unfinished Book
Lex Imperia: The Hammer and Chain
Arbitrator Foreboding: The Grey Sea
Fenksworld: A History
Scintilla: From Before Angevin to Marius Hax
Lord Vincent Von Vaakon: Life and Times
Arbitrator Foreboding: The Skull and the Sword
Precious Hearts Romances: Across the Sea of Stars
Precious Hearts Romances: The Chained Rose


“Though…” she begins, with a smirk and a wink while grabbing her rear. “You’re not tapping this, nor this---“ That is when she fishes out of her rear pocket what seems to be another clip of ammunition. On closer inspection, it is a small black case containing a series of ultra-fine steel spikes. “Ssssssink, baby. All due respect, your honour, these be like buying a girl a retirement, eh? Just look at these, eh?”

And then the side window suddenly polarizes to compensate as the sky opens up in a brilliant pillar of fire, utterly purging the remains of the Volgite Librarian once known as Agent Orange.

[bluntpencil]

"Unit Yarach," says Alexei, puffing on his cigar,
"let tha Inquisitor know that List: Hounds has achieved its objectives, and will reach its destination all swift-like, eh?"
Grand. Everything had went pretty damn swimmingly. Sure, he was badly hurt, but he could sit and smoke for a good while. In fact, he made a point of sitting next to the prisoners, flicking ash at them.

Eventually, when the cigar was near-finished, he put it out on the face of the highest ranking captive. Because he could.
"Soon you'll be considerin' the boys getting dragged along the tracks lucky, son..."

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar picks through the sack carefully, looking through for any sign of blasphemy from the Witch's corpse, and upon struggling through the titles of the books begins to regret his decision to leave them to be destroyed. None of them seem to invoke witchery, so he begins withdrawing them from the sack and piling them at his feet. "The dead have no need for physical goods, Captain, nor pity. They died well, and stand now at the Emperor's side in readiness to join the Final Battle." The last of the books extricated, the Assassin closes the bag once more and tosses it back to his pilot. "You may dispose of those as you see fit. I will need to take these tomes, however, for my Master."

His response to the rest, however, is quite confused. "What are you referring to? And what are those things? I fear I do not understand."

[Urist]

"Command received, Captain. Transmitting data packets to Command, Unit designation Kutot Nar. Proceeding with transmission."

After politely commandering the vox operator's set, Yarach did his best to set up a secure communications channel, and identify the frequency that the Inquisitor had been broadcasting on.

"Brevet Lieutenant Yarach, of Cell: Ratcatchers reporting. Authorization code: 831461834792-RA-YAR. Unit: Ratcatchers inbound on Sibellus Steel. Takaran and Westingkrup irregulars assisting. Captives: 4. Officer class of raiding unit on Sibellus Steel. Wounded aboard. Orders, Inquisitor?"

After the broadcast, Yarach ambles over to Alexei, and interrupts him before he can put his cigar out on the prisoners face. "If this unit might execute this action, Captain?" Assuming he gets an affirmative response, he pries the prisoner's eyelids apart, and then stubs out the cigar in the mans pupil.

"Heresy blinded this unit; this punishment: fitting."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei is more than happy to let Yarach engage in unnecessary cruelty, and barks a horrific laugh as he carries out the burning of the heretic's eye.

He really liked this Yarach guy, now. He was the kinda guy that he could hang out with and torture folk and shoot up bad guys with. He wasn't an idiot either, unlike that moron that puked everywhere.

Today was a pretty good day, if he ignored the gunshot wounds.

[Miraqariftsky]

Apologies for the delay [and the brevity], folks. Got bamboozled by meatspace matters.

I estimate… they should be arriving at Sibellus in one to two updates’ time. Hope that’s peachy with y’all.

~~~

Salleh taps the small case of spikes against the edge of the console in the same way as one would tap a pack of lho-sticks.

"Needler shots" she says while banking the craft around the still-smoking crater. "Blowgun, handbow, needle rifle... or plain-ass stiletto, if you prefer. That is..."

The craft levels off and resumes its course, as well as a respectable cruising speed, back towards Sibellus, if Wulfgar is any judge by the few bits of scrolling text he could decipher off the navigation display. His pilot’s demeanour suddenly changes, the tone becoming like that of a juve with her hand caught squarely in the cookie jar. “…aww. Damn it. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could convince you to leave behind a spare new-tech data-spike to sell on the black market?”


Confirm?
Does Wulfgar give the books more than a cursory glance across the titles? If so, that’ll be a Search test, please. +10 because of the more or less stable situation at present.


~~~

Meanwhile, though Yarach is able to transmit his response to the Inquisitor’s call, the line suddenly crackles with a storm of static. The only solid returns he’s able to glean are the words “station”, “guard” and “protects”.

A quick glance outside, along with the awed murmurs of the soldiers and survivors around them reveals the source of the electronic disturbance. Even as the sun begins to set across the Scintillan plains, two new suns blaze through the wounded sky. Pieces of debris break off in seemingly graceful contrails as the two burning spacecraft plummet.

The smoke and screams from the half-blinded heretic, now sagging in his chains, are drowned out by the thunderous impact as the larger one, what seems to be a civilian cargo hauler, crashes into the ground in a great bloom of dust and flame.


Medicae check to stabilize Lieutenant “Cyclops” Howard there? +10 due to the lack of immediate danger. Or leave it be?

+0 Lore: Tech

Yep. One’s a civilian cargo hauler, the other’s an aerospace shuttle. Milspec.

Urist:

*Gets a +20 on the Lore: Tech check on account of his AdMech status.
-30 Tech-Use test, please.

He’s able to hear the dying feelings of the machine spirits of those two burning craft. The former is protesting its innocence and bemoaning its fate. The latter is roaring defiance at its doom; curses at the commanders who failed to send it to a glorious death in a true battlefield, curses at the Administratum drones who failed to give its countless [dead] crew good dang weapons, curses at the pilot who failed it at the end.

[Urist]

Yarach looks in awe upon the destruction wrought. He has seen much destruction in the last few days, but the power which has been brought to bear upon the Scintillan plains is far beyond his understanding.


Common Lore(Tech):[roll0] TN:38+20(AdMech)=58
Tech Use: [roll1] TN:38-30(Very Hard)=18


Disregarding them for a moment, Yarach turns to the prisoner.

"If Unit:Heretic does not abort program:vocalizations, this unit will be forced to proceed with the destruction of Visual Sensory Apparatus 2 of Unit:Heretic. Stay still, and this unit will attempt to limit damage to periphery biological systems."

Yarach asks around for a medic, and if he finds one, has them treat the injured man, assisting if he is able. If not, he will attempt to do so himself.

[roll2] TN: 19+10=29

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar frowns. "Ammunition, then, if somewhat exotic. Very well." He sighs. "The books I keep. They are the property of my Master, and I will deliver them. The rest should be more than sufficient a reward; you are doing the Emperor's work, after all, and that should really be reward enough." There is a minor rebuke in his tone, as he dismisses her materialistic concerns. He looks down at the books piled on the Valkyrie's deck-plates, considering what to do with them, then begins pulling off his heavy, baggy worker's coat awkwardly, partially undoing his restraints when necessary to remove to voluminous garment and reveal his now rather shabby, battered flak jacket and combat harness, idly picking a small knife fragment from the body armour, then wraps the coat around the books to form a makeshift bag. Immediate tasks cleared, the First Blade settles back into his seat and resumes patiently waiting. A minute or so later a thought seems to strike him, and he asks, "Captain, what were you doing close to my location? It seems to have been some distance from anything of importance, and this craft seems to have sustained some damage."


Confirming that Wulfgar is taking all of the books, but nothing else. Also, not bothering to do more than read the titles. While he is technically literate, it is at a very low functional level and he has no talent for reading anything but orders and prayer books. He won't willingly read something unless it's one or the other.

[Miraqariftsky]

"Indeed" Salleh retorts. "The Emperor provides"

Wulfgar's fine senses do not fail to detect the brief stiffness that passes through his host at the mention of the damage. "This vessel was part of an joint taskforce led by some of your colleagues, pursuing an army of rebel scum in the Badlands.

One hand keeps a steady grip on the flight controls while the other taps out a rhythm on a console--- just what it means escapes Wulfgar’s discernment. She continues, “It just so happened that that band of brigands had laid an ambush for the outbound Sibellus Steel and were systematically looking for a librarian or messenger or courier of some sort, or so the ol’ rumour mill said. Our Elle-Tee gave, uh, strong implications that that mightha been a bit o’ witchery though”

~~~

Yarach struggles to keep the cultist officer still as he thrashes in agony.

Something minute, ineffable, indefinable yet unmistakable in the heretek traitor’s ravings strikes an unseen chord in the machine-man’s soul and he lashes out savagely with both flesh and electrons, sinews and synapses. The officer of the Takaran Regulators formerly known as Lieutenant Howard suddenly sits unnaturally still as his captor rips out the optic array from his socket and stuffs the lot into his mouth after punching Howard’s respirator grille open.

Yarach regains his senses and sees his victim sitting up against the wall, blood matting the floor. The squad medic has her kit open, the formerly magazine-reading West-boy helping her stabilize the brutalized heretek.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar grunts in response. "No coincedence at all, then." Final question resolved, he sits quietly and waits for the craft to reach his destination.


Unless something changes, I don't think there's anything else for me to do in this particular scene.

[Miraqariftsky]

After the AdMech Acolyte's overzealous outburst, the rest of the trip passes in relative quiet. Magazines and games are put away in favour of weapons maintenance kits.

Long at last, the Sibellus Steel grinds to a halt. The sight outside is that of the vast hive city of Sibellus, its looming spires soaring into the blackness of the night.

A dust-haze of crumbled ferrocrete hangs thick in the air. Flames from some burning buildings give the ever-present smog a hellish light. Heaps of mangled wreckage and ruined flesh litter the streets.

A contingent of black-armoured Guardsmen and Arbites meet the survivors at the platform. Some quite clearly form a perimeter around the station, others escort those too weak to stand for themselves to medicae officers, while others still perform security sweeps despite the joint taskforce's assurance.

A squad of carapace-clad enforcers stomp up to the cabin where the joint task force awaits debriefing. Their visored faces are as unreadable as those of the two fully-helmeted Sisters of Battle who bring up the rear, Mars-pattern heavy bolters glare over that the enforcers' Vox Legis shotguns can't quite cover.

Their commanding officer steps out of the pack, nods to the others and coughs what might have been a chuckle as all but the Sisters and two other enforcers leave. Shouldering her shotgun, she touches a gauntleted hand to a comms unit in her suit's vox-piece and yells something into it...

...but her voice is lost in some aircraft's engine roars to a landing apparently in the station's parking lot, together with a contingent of idling Rhino APCs. Enginseers and medicae see to the craft and its passengers. If either of them would insist, the attending troopers would readily escort them to the Inquisitor.

The commander revs the power on her maul, causing an engraved =I= to flare into electric life at its tip. "Who do I owe a good long debriefing and a Brontian cigar? Where's the traitor and where's the Librarian?"


Time's up on my end.
Thank you for the patience and patronage, y'all.
See y'all next week.

[bluntpencil]

"I'll take the cigar, my Lieutenant will handle the debriefing. Medals all round, a'ight?"
Britanov wasn't going to sit through a boring debriefing when he should really be in hospital. Yeah, he was a hard-ass, but he hated paperwork and... even worse... extended conversation.

[Urist]

"This unit will handle debriefing, Sister. This unit is designated Lieutenant Yarach, at your Ladyship's service. The Librarian is unknown to this cell; this unit and task do not belong to the list of informed parties on this issue. The Traitor, if this designation refers to Magos Zweiker, is unknown; however, clues to his wherabouts may be found."

Yarach is absolutely terrified. A debriefing by a Sister of Battle? This could be interesting... He would, however, suffer through it; after all, Alexei needed to be treated by a medic!

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar finally arrives at the 'debriefing' a minute or so late, having been delayed slightly by the nearly panicked activity throughout the facility. He considers for a moment, then decides the fancy hammer is probably proof enough of her affiliation. "Ma'am. Are you my contact this time? The Librarian is dead, along with most of my Cell. She... Well." He turns pale and swallows down the sensation of bile at the memory. "She was a witch, Ma'am. She unleashed some sort of sorcery on us, pulling us out into the wastes with some sort of fell magic, then warped her flesh into some sort of twisted abomination. She was... Covered in Blasphemy. So I cut her down, then annihilated the body." His tone betrays his satisfaction with this outcome. "I have returned her belonging, as ordered."


Sorry about the delay, I actually kind of thought I hadn't arrived yet until I noticed the little detail with the Valkyrie in the middle there.

[Miraqariftsky]

The shadows deepen around the myriad scars and wrinkles of the Inquisitor's weathered face as she listens to the Acolytes' reports. Almost distractedly, she takes a cigar from a pocket, lights it on the crackling head of her power maul and tosses it to Alexei, the glowing end leaving an arc of bittersweet smoke in the air.

One gauntleted hand reaches up to massage her temples as she grunts, leaning back against a nearby wall, listening, seething, pondering. All the while, a lidless red-lit augmetic gaze bores into the Acolytes' eyes.

The power maul's head clangs and scrapes against the train's floor, Inquisitor Nar leaning on it as her scowl darkens still.

"Zweiker's back? Bastard" she says, then continues, glaring at Yarach, "I suppose that traitor scum Konrad never made any further contact after he set you dogs loose, eh?"

"Medals?" Squat nostrils flare at Alexei as she turns to him. "Medals? Dog, once upon a time, once upon a time... Let me cut you a slice of the tale of that Zweiker. Once upon a time, he was... like you--- tough, brilliant, did his duty for his fellow man and the Emperor. Did his time in the Guard, cared for his comrades, didn't like that the humble Infantryman's Friend was a piece of crap, put in a request for something better. Of course, the higher Magos and the Munitorum shot him down. Years passed. He made his own guns, better... horribly better... and came back from the void with a grudge."

Ceramite-armoured shoulders shrug as the Inquisitor spits and shakes her head. "That ain't all, of course, but you get the deal. Medals? Certainly. The whole damned lot of ye. No problem. They will come with the burden of duty, though. Duty. Will you be up for it?"

"Annnnnnnd damnation." Comes the growl at Wulfgar's report. Under her breath, she mutters, "Emperor's blood, why am I plagued with failures and traitors?" Looking over the contents of his improvised loot-sack, she lets her power maul hang from its belt-hoop and seemingly dispassionately takes out one of the tomes.

She flips to a random page in a certain thin paperback, muttering, "Orange, really? Precious Hearts was the best you could come up with?" Suddenly, the bored page-turning stops. Armoured elbows thunk against the train's walls as she stiffens in surprise, choking and spitting in shock. "A Throne-forsaken... Good bleeding God-Emperor..."

With hands that seem like they were shaking hands with a leper, she drops the book back into the bag, bundles it up and hands it to the Sister at her right and says, "Sister Ophelia, guard these with your life. Do not let anybody I haven't approved touch these... things"

Turning back to Wulfgar, Inquisitor Nar glares and says, "Are you absolutely certain that you didn't try cracking those pages open for yourself or anybody else from the time that you liberated them from the hands of Ag... the Witch?"

The judging gaze takes in once more the bedraggled yet seemingly hearty appearance of Acolytes and the other survivors alike and Inquisitor Nar straightens up and says, "Holy Terra greatly appreciates the manner in which you, all of you, have distinguished yourselves this day against the servants of the Ruinous Powers. You rose above your posts and answered the Emperor's call of duty, proved yourselves faithful and useful. Some might even say heroic. All of you who can still serve, follow me. All who need medical attention, follow me, the Tricorn has sufficient medical facilities, undoubtedly. All who can serve and will serve but are caring for dependents, follow me, file a case at the Social Welfare Department when we get there."

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar seems confused for a moment, though he is clearly somewhat proud after the Inquisitor's praise. "Master, what cause would I have to read those tomes? They were not devotional materials or orders, and I had no reason to believe reading them would have given me mission-critical information. Did I err in failing to examine them?" The First Blade genuinely fails to recognize the possibility of curiousity, or odder yet that someone would want to read to pass the time.

The assassin pats at his injuries for a moment, evaluating his condition as he falls in line behind Inquisitor Nar. He winces as he hits a particularly tender wound, then remains quiet. Let the medicae decide, then, how well he's doing. He silently follows behind the procession, waiting until called upon again.

[bluntpencil]

"Know yer enemy, I always say," grunts the soul-less copper.
He smokes the cigar given to them by his boss, and continues.
"Actually, boss, I was thinkin'. That filthy traitor, Conrad, promoted me ta Captain. Personally, I'm reckonin' that wasn't so great a move, what with my not bein' a people person. I got my Eltee handlin' the niceties, but the day'll come where this foolish setup will get the wrong folks killed.

The wrong folks gettin' killed, fer the record, is me. I don't plan on dyin' since some idiot thought I was friendly."

[Urist]

Yarach bows his head at the Inquisitor's praise, and winces as his augmetic senses clearly detect her curses. More than ever, he truly appreciates the burden that he has stumbled into, andmight have to shoulder, given time.

"Your Ladyship, the unit identified to these units as Interrogator Konrad, now renamed into List:Traitor, had no further contact with this cell. This unit operated under the directives given with no further direction."

Following the Inquisitor, Yarach overhears Alexei's remarks on his appointment, and a slight glow of pride suffuses him, until he realizes that Alexei is right. This setup, gratifying as it was, could easily lead to the deaths of the entire squad. A shift was coming. Right now, though, all he wanted was time to process the events of the last couple days, and to heal from the scars.

[Miraqariftsky]

Rumbling through downtown Sibellus in the crimson-lit confines of a Rhino, the Inquisitor Nar, along with her impromptu retinue,

The Inquisitor Nar, along with her impromptu retinue rumble through downtown Sibellus in the crimson-lit confines of a Rhino. The two Sororitas flank their mistress, cumbersome heavy bolters set aside in favour of Scourge-pattern carbines. The Enforcers are up front, one driving and operating comms, the other serving as lookout and manning the turret.

Brief glimpses of a suddenly wartorn sector capital flash by the viewing/firing-slots. Every so often, their convoy pushes aside wrecked vehicles or rubble-heaps from ruined sections of the spires and stack-habs. The city which had previously been bustling with life in flesh and iron now smokes in blood and shards.

@Urist:

The devastation hits Yarach more than most, as the hometown boy that he is. He spots in passing, illuminated by torches and muzzle-flashes, a band of looters running out of the doors and broken windows of the Coronet Theatre, one of the places he still remembers from back in his civilian life, before the Adeptus Mechanicus took him…

Was it watching a showing of an offworld performance group together with his parents? Or a date for a holovid and a dinner with his sole fleshling girlfriend? Or something else equally memorable? Your discretion, my good fellow.

Wulfgar’s hair is still askew from when the Inquisitor had ruffled him like a master with a good dog or a grandmother with a grandson. “Ha-ha, never you mind that, then, boy. Whussagoodboy, huh?”

Inquisitor Nar had then turned her crimson gaze on Alexei, listening to his concerns. She nods sagely as she answers, “You realize that technically speaking, that promotion is null and void because of his treachery? If I were more Puritanical about matters than I already am… or could afford to do so… you’d already be under inquest for having been under the orders of a traitor…”

“Pfft!” comes the grimacing snort. “And technically speaking, if I were some other Inquisitor, I’d be suspecting me of heresy, complicity or just plain frakkin’ incompetence for having let those two rats fester like they did.”

She stops up short, shaking her grey head, catching herself ranting and the two Sisters beside her getting… fidgety. “Ma’am?” says the one at the Inquisitor’s left, her young and otherwise fair face half-covered in burn-scars where the flesh seems to have roasted, flowed and set, what little hair remains on her head seems to be nothing but grist-stubs. “Suppressing the rebellion on that mining world, Pala? You weren’t to blame.”

“And all those other years before that, when these two bastards were surely marshalling their plans?” retorts the Inquisitor and sighs. She turns back to Alexei and says with a black-toothed smirk, “Be that as it may, you did get your frak done, didn’t you? Held your hell together and pushed through.” She rubs her temples again, grunting, “Well. We’ll see if the wrong people were killed. Or too many. Or too few. Immediate tasks, though, gentlemen. What matters now is we put down these rebel scum and restore the God-Emperor’s order in this sector.”

The convoy rattles to a halt, the bay door clanging open to reveal the entrance to the Tricorn’s Ordo Hereticus wing. Inquisitor Nar grunts at Yarach and says as she pulls herself to her feet and jerks her head towards the gates where a Scrapdread wreck smoulders in a glassed crater. “Well? Come on, then. Who but the hungry fight on empty stomachs? Twenty-one hundred hours, dinner’s on me…”


Thus ends our first Act, or rather, once y’all’s posts come in.
Thanks for the patience and patronage, y’all.

[Urist]

The cries of machine spirits, and men, were becoming rather familiar to Yarach. He supposed that that might indicate some potential glitches in his empathy sub-routines; after all, although the flesh may be corrupt, the loss of human life without good cause is still something the Mechanicus abhor, and the loss of a machine spirit, any machine spirit. Something to examine, when given some down time.

Yarach realized that his memory subroutines were still chugging along, however, when he passed the Coronet theatre, a grand old building. It was impressive, once; marble columns, banners of red and purple, and an engraved Aquilla, filled with gold, above the doorjamb, although stained with pollution, had made this theatre a beacon of beauty in Sibellus hive. To see it reduced to such a state made Yarach do something he had not done for many years: he began to cry. Once, he had performed on this stage, before the Mechanicus; he remembered fondly soliloquizing while his mother and father looked on with pride, that their child, the child of two lower-hive industrial workers, had been noticed, and gifted talent, by the Emperor. Now, no one else would ever perform at the Coronet, and all of the dreams and hope of every person to cross that stage had been struck down by the rebellion, by war, and by heresy.

As the Inquisitor looks at him, Yarach quickly squashes his memory subroutines, as well as his emotional processing. As much as he needed time to process what had happened, it wouldn't do to show weakness in front of an Inquisitor. Wiping his eyes, he steps out of the Rhino, and into his new future.


Well, that was an adventure, wasn't it? Fantastic job, Nexus, this has been a wild ride! :)

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar scowls momentarily in irritation as the Inquisitor ruffles his hair. Her treatment of the First Blade is her perogative, but he had at least expected a little bit more respect for his position. Nonetheless, it is not his place to complain, and he suffers the mild humiliation in silence. As the miniscule view of devestation provided by the Rhino's firing ports gives him glimpses of devestation wrought on the great mountains of steel and rockcrete, Wulfgar considers the price of heresy. No doubt thousands or even millions of loyal Imperial citizens slain, all because of malcontents and Heretics festering in the depths of society. In the past, he has killed not to protect or even to destroy such Heresies, though both are often welcome consequences, but as a mark of his devotion to the Emperor. Still, seeing this... The First Blade resolves to work harder in the future. Clearly there are many who need to die, heretics who would act against the Emperor's Divine Will and bring ruin to His children. So many more than even the First Blade had ever expected.

As he steps forth from the armoured personnel carrier to follow the Inquisitor to her feast, he considers the thousands who will die by his blade before his work is done. If it could ever be completed, in a universe as corrupt as this. Anyone looking back at the Assassin in tattered workman's clothes will notice something strange, for his normally dour face is stretched into a contented grin. A life spent cutting the corruption from the soul of the Imperium, years of good work ahead... Even a dead man could not remain composed at such an exciting prospect.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei sat looking angry. He always looked angry,except when he was inflicting punishment on folk, then he looked simply sadistic.

Still, the promise of decent food wasn't half-bad, even if his tastebuds weren't quite as good as most folks, what with the chem-pollution caused by Volg's water purification. It would likely taste like ash. Pretty damn good ash, but ash nonetheless.

Anyway, the Inquisitor seemed to be leaving him in charge. Damn. Right, well, okay, he'd have someone less, well, hated than him handle the details. When push came to shove, though, he'd be calling the shots, which was how he liked it, assuming he didn't get a good stabbing in the back. That seemed possible, after all.

He seemed to be getting an opportunity to crack more witch-skulls, which he did appreciate, though. It was an unpleasant job but... hell, he loved tormenting warp-spawn, it wasn't unpleasant at all. The Emperor might just be bloody real if the folk that had to do that job were the ones that loved it.


"I think everythin's gonna be pretty damned good 'round here, folks. We'll be warmin' our paws around burnin' witches, I can tell yer that."

[Miraqariftsky]

Two years after what official mass media simply dubbed unimaginatively the "Underhiver Uprisings", though a state of peace had officially been declared, pacification and reconstruction efforts across the sector are still underway.

Seething masses of howling mutants, raging hordes of rebel scum and common criminals as well as vile cultist covens had boiled out of the guts of the various underhives of Scintilla, Thical and Malfi. The element of surprise was on the rebels' side and the streets were choked with refugees, the gutters flowing with blood and filth.

Heretek-forged lasguns blazed through ferrocrete and ceramite, mowing down defenders and bystanders alike. The air shuddered with the howling shrieks of daemonic spirit-shards encoded into the inner workings of what were once simple and honest weapons.

Mechanical monstrosities designated by officials as “Scrapdreads” shambled through streets clogged with rubble and wreckage and climbed upspire across sheer walls of ferrocrete and armourcrys. Cobbled-together from castoff hunks of Guard Sentinels and industrial loaders, held together with bolts, welds and rune-etched chains, they were the behemoths of blaspheme that championed the murderous mobs, unholy energies deflecting most of the Imperial firepower hurled their way.

For over half a day, the heretic horde raged. They pillaged and plundered, raped and slew. The tide of battle turned when Naval bombardment was called in, pillars of fire slagging the Scrapdreads and routing the bandit infantry following them. Rallying around Astartes and Sororitas purge squads, local garrisons and law enforcers… even vengefully fanatic mobs of ordinary loyal citizens who’d been forced to take sides pursued the foul foe.

The worst of the lot was Thical where, beside all these, sinister plots were set in motion and Chaos cultists, led by a shadowy figure calling itself the “Shade Apostle”, either killed or converted all who crossed their path. Fortunately, the Imperial Navy arrived in time to purge the planet with Holy Exterminatus before the Shade Apostle’s full plans of convering Thical into a Daemon World came to fruition.

It has been two years since that conflagration.

While the hives of the sector’s greatest bloated centers of power reel and struggle to rebuild, on the edges, there are strange stirrings of progress. The once-mighty rebel forces that had seized control of the Kapellan system have been decimated and gone to ground. Morale is high among the Guardsmen and Arbites carrying out the pacification and their main concern now is holding so much recently taken ground. On the hellish war-world of Tranch, the mutant menace reels as a new

Two new factions have risen to prominence amongst the sector’s scum, and even reaching above and beyond.

The first is the Mechanicus sect calling themselves the “Sons of Zweiker”, calling for radical changes in policy for holy technology to actually benefit the common citizen and the common Guardsman. They also hold that reverse engineering as well as innovation from xenos, or worse, malleus templates rather than sacred STCs is acceptable so long as the end result is stable, reliable and helping humanity. Those looking in from the outside, especially from an orthodox perspective see them as dangerously naïve.

The second are known as the Whisperers, a cabal of diviners and soothsayers who practice their art from warp-dreams, from looking into patterns in filth and slag, in steel and smoke. On the surface, they are nothing more than a loose confederation of fortune tellers but certain reports have it that some of their members have been instrumental in guiding the rebels on during the Underhiver Uprisings.

~~~

The sun blazes over Scintilla’s smog-choked sprawls of steel. By the hands of couriers or the chirping and clicking of machine spirits, certain messages find their way to certain individuals, be they in barracks or cells or apartments or dungeons or wherever they might be…

@Everyone:

Clearance: Delta
From: Inquisitor Kutot Nar, Ordo Hereticus Calixis
To: Agent [XXX]
Subject: Mission

Message body: Come to Forward Base Lambda at coordinates Beta 613-271, on or before 0900 hours. Briefing and cell reinforcement. Be gone before 0930, hopefully. Rebel army expected soon, to attack commemorating the first day of their heresy.

Thought for the day: Only in death does duty end.


@Bluntpencil:

See PM, if ye please.


@Henry the 7th:

Clearance: Epsilon
From: Palatine Rhiannon, Sister Superior of the Order of the Ebon Chalice, Iocanthos
To: Sister Kaeli Etemara
Subject: Misplaced Package

Message body:
Ave Imperator.

Sister Kaeli Etemara from the Valon Urr Temple-Schola, recently seconded to Inquisitorial service under Kutot Nar of the Ordo Hereticus Calixis, we trust that you are well?

The Holy Hand a pilgrim transport from your homeworld, heavily damaged from an encounter with pirates, recently pulled into orbit over Port Skull for repairs. Amongst the freight and folk that they unloaded was a crate with your name on it. The Abbey of the Dawn being the only solid Sororitas outpost on this world, the handlers on the ground forwarded the crate to us. Thanks be to the Emperor, either the handlers were too afraid of retribution or were blessedly bereft of curiousity or greed and left your package alone.

We regret to inform you that we will not be able to send your package to wherever you are presently on Scintilla anytime soon. The nearest regular tithe-ship is still several months away and most of the starships anchored at station above are untrustworthy merchantmen. In the meantime, we will keep your package safe, rest assured.

Thought for the day: The Emperor provides.


@LeSwordfish:

Clearance: Delta
From: Inquisitor Kutot Nar, Ordo Hereticus Calixis
To: Sister Kaeli Etemara
Subject: Misplaced Package

Message body:
Ave Imperator.

I acknowledge that our methods in acquiring you were less than pleasant and that you do need to return to your flock. You have my apologies…

…and my aid. Complete your tour of duty and you can count on my support for your parish. Let me put it this way, you have your flock, I have mine. Sometimes, more hounds are needed to chase the wolves away.

Thought for the day: The Emperor protects.



Beyond the eaves of smoke and steel, beyond the ashes and asphalt of groaning Sibellus Hive, the air suddenly thrums with unrelenting heat. The skies above stretch out in an infinite blue expanse, an almost alien ceiling to those born and bred in hive cities.

Once beyond the immediate outlands of the hive, grass and twisted, stunted trees begin to grow again--- hardy scrub suited to the harsh environment of the Badlands. In the distance, frontier villages carve out homesteads from grasslands and forests.

Following the Sibellus Steel Railway--- be the mode of transport some groundcar, the train itself, a civilian walker, hitching a ride on an official Ordo troop carrier, or one’s own God-given feet for those of hardy disposition--- eventually leads to a fortified Guard camp straddling the rails. Sandbags and trenches, ring the camp, with autocannon emplacements at strategic intervals.

Armoured Sentinel combat walkers with mounted auspex arrays glare at the inbound Acolytes, verifying idents while multilaser barrels cover them, just in case.

Once their idents clear, a responding officer takes them into the ordered chaos of the camp. Presently, troopers busy themselves with preparing trenches and camouflage net-tarps--- mostly in shades of brown--- over their perimeter units. Here and there,

Their guide stops at one of the tents, seemingly no different from the others on the outside. The helmeted trooper jerks his head towards the flap, thumbs his palm, then gets back to his duties.

Inside, they find at one wall an empty coatrack and a small portable shrine of the God-Emperor of Mankind, the statuette done in carven iron. At the other side is a desk strewn with files, folders and slates.

Leading to that table are two metal benches facing each other. Five foil-packed meals are set on one bench and three on the other. Between the two benches is a closed cooler.

At the table, already kitted out in carapace cuirass and helm topped with a rosette-fastened wide-brimmed hat, the Inquisitor Kutot Nar waits. Her lined, augmetic-eyed face is grim, every hair white from stress and age. A gently humming hellgun rests across one side of the desk.

Flanking her and towering over her are two silent Sisters of Battle. Their power armour is pitted and scarred and much repaired over countless years. Scourge-pattern bolters gleam in their hands, unwilling to let their guard down.

Beside the desk however, is a young man, short of stature and of seemingly meek demeanour. He is clad in seemingly a standard issue flak coat and fidgeting with a pitcher of water in one hand and a fallen regicide piece in the other, about to return it to the boardgame set on the Inquisitor’s desk.

[ellna]

Sarah pushed aside the heavy plate of metal and crawled out of the guts of the city. Hot air rushed up into the street from below and with a grunt Sarah tugged her duffel bag up with her. She looked up at the clock face that hung on the rusted tower above the trainway. She trudged the rest of the way to the camp on foot, picking her way through side streets and abandoned buildings. Avoiding the patrols and wretched looking civilians alike. Sarah arrived at the camp and was pointed to the right tent.

Sarah pushes past the tent flap and hangs her mottled greatcoat on one of the hooks. She leaves her duffel bag with the coat and sits down at the table resting a chemical resistant satchel at her feet. Wearily she pulls off a pair of elbow length gauntlets and wipes her sweat-beaded brow. Her short, rust coloured hair sticks to her skin. With a grim determination she begins forcing the meal down her throat, ripping the foil packet apart with her teeth.

Sarah is a heavily muscled woman. Her hair is a dirty red and cut short to almost a military style with a fuller top. Her skin bears the marks of many scars; bullets, blades and burns. She is wearing a sodden tank top covered with grim, military camo pants and bulky boots. A bandoleer is slung across her shoulder filled with wicked looking spikes and twin holsters on her hips house what look to be flintlock pistols. The clips housed in the webbing near them though are clearly meant for las and slug throwers. Her eyes are a mossy green and fully absorbed on the meagre fare in front of her.

[bluntpencil]

To pass the time on the train journey there, Alexei Britanov, Captain Alexei Britanov, flashed his Arbites badge in order to get access to the exterior of the final carriage, which was normally reserved only for the Sibellus Steel's armed watchmen. The guard had been increased threefold after the events two years previous.

Alexei looked down at the railway beneath him, puffing on his cigar with a faint, ugly smile. Everything he did was ugly.

A number of emptied beer cans, vaguely resembling those Scrap-Dreads, bounced along the tracks behind him, attached to the railing by a long line of string. Witch-cans, he called them to the train's young bus-boys and waitresses, putting the fear o' Terra into them, letting them know the wages of heresy. That's what would happen to them if they strayed. He'd keelhaul them from a damned train, he would. Stories were still told on the tracks about that one.

He puffed again. This was the life.

---

The freak stamped into the Inquisitor's makeshift office, throwing up an inelegant salute, as would be expected. Nothing he did was elegant. It was all ugly.

He marched over, and tilted his head when he reached the two tables with the food on, obviously making a request for permission to sit and eat. After a moment of hearing nothing, he sat down anyway, tearing open two of the foil-packed rations, and piling one on top of the other. Whoever arrived last wasn't eating, it seemed.

It all tasted the same to Alexei. It was very weak tasting, whatever it was. Purification chemicals did that to your tastebuds. That, and a live of bloodshed made everything taste a little like ash, but that was probably psychosomatic.

"You should get yerself some o' that power armour, boss," he grunted, pointing a fork at one of the Battle Sisters.

"I'd ask yer ta get me some too, but the, y'know, chestpieces would only make me a laughin' stock."

[ellna]

Sarah reacts immediately to Alexei's presence. Her mouth empties onto the ripped foil, as she struggles to speak. She chokes as his voice assaults her ears. "Frak it! You're alive?" She stands abruptly leaving the half-eaten meal and travels nervously over to her coat. Fishing around in the pockets she pulls out a jumbled bunch of Dog Tags. She flicks through them, her hands shaking, and throws one to Alexei. She then produces a hip flask and takes a drink, just to steady her nerves. Alexei still made her skin crawl and what should of been a smiling face and a warm tone was a grimace and a harsh, resentful tone. Her trembling hands clutch small cog as she sits gingerly back at the table, ready to retreat again. Her meal remains as she left it her appetite gone.

The dog tag is blank apart from the image of a hound on one side and a 5 point star on the reverse.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei grins evilly, responding with only,
"Frak it, you're alive... sir." He says little, and merely continues munching his food, looking up at Sarah with narrowed eyes and a horrible smile. She would need watching, she would. She had probably survived the riots two years back by hiding in a dumpster. If she got lippy again, she'd get another beating. Nice and simple.

After a while, realising she isn't eating, he helps himself to her leftovers. You never knew where your next meal was coming from, after all...

[ellna]

"Sir." The word rolls off her tongue, a drawn out sound with all the grace of a dying fish. The bare syllable tastes worse than the food did, she knocks back another hit from the flask. As Alexei reaches across to take her food she recoils. Her eyes remain fixed down at the table staring at the now empty spot. The golden cog makes a metallic note as she drops it onto the table. Sarah watches it with a blank expression as she pokes at it.

[Strawberries]

The young, dark-haired man standing beside the Inquisitor's desk quickly puts the pitcher down and straightens a little when he sees other people entering the room. He is indeed quite short, and judging by his facial features you probably wouldn't peg him as more than 16 years old...and not a very healthy one, at that. No weapons are immediately evident on his figure, but he is clad in a plain flak cloak, slightly open to show entirely nondescript clothing below.

He gives a slight, hesitant nod to the woman who's the first to enter, and suddenly, there is a feeling of... unnaturalness, stronger than most things he's ever felt, menacing to overwhelm him. It's all together a prickling on his skin, nausea at the pit of his stomach, and his head spinning out of focus, like he's about to faint - and above all, the sensation that there's something WRONG, something that shouldn't exist. The feeling comes togheter with a glimpse of another man. Marcus has barely the time to register the impression of a man with a scarred face before the nausea forces him to avert his gaze Emperor's mercy, who IS that?

The young psyker recoils a couple of steps, and has to lean against the wall. He is shaking, but he is making an evident effort to control himself. "What..." he starts to whisper, and then, the answer comes to mind on its own. A Blank. One of those rare people without signature in the Warp. He's heard about them, he never thought he'd meet one. "My apologies" he says instead. His voice is very tight, like he's in pain. He straightens from the wall and takes the two steps ahead with a visible effort, "I will... keep this under strict control". Ir's not clear if he's speaking to Alexei, the Inquisitor, or both.

[bluntpencil]

After the psyker's little outburst, Alexei tries hard not to bark out a laugh. Brilliant! That one must be Marcus, then! He continues eating his two-and-a-half servings of rations and points his fork at the boy, speaking to the Inquisitor,
"He's not gonna puke like that complete failure we had two years ago is he?" The Captain seems to find the whole situation quite funny. Sure, nobody liked him, but plenty folk were scared. It lightened up his day a little.

[ellna]

Sarah looks up from the cog to register the other speaker. She smiles slightly and extends a hand holding the battered flask. As Alexei talks she has to resist taking another swig herself. A long distant memory swirls in the recess of her mind. She can already feel bile rising in her throat...

[LeSwordfish]

Kaarli had hitched a lift in the trailer of a pair of pioneers, and had paid in the last of her stock of anti-ague medication, and a benediction for their enterprise. She'd missed exactly what their enterprise was, but judging by the smell in the trailer, it involved herding something.

They'd dropped her a short walk from the base, and she'd walked the rest of the way, trying to enjoy the pace and the heat. In reality, she was just rather nervous.

She'd heard of the underhiver uprisings. Who hadn't? But that was history. That had happened and was over... and it looked like she was going to be thrown into it's repeat.

She paused on the outskirts of the base, made the sign of the aquila, and repeated the Benediction to Calm the Nerve.

For the power of the Emperor flows through me, and His light shines upon me, and my corporeal body and immortal soul will be shielded from harm while I hold Him in my spiritual heart."

Thus feeling slightly better, she took a deep breath, adjusted her bag, and stepped inside.

---

Inside the meeting room, Kaarli glanced around each member of the group. They seemed... aside from the thin, rather sickly-looking man, they seemed far better for dealing with a uprising than her.

She forced another bit of focus, and cleared her throat. "Good morning?" Thrones name, Kaarli, you're working with these people. You really are useless outside your comfort zone.

"Good morning. Sister Kaarli Remora, of the church of the emperor's light, Maccabeus Quintus."

A bit better.

[Strawberries]

The young man shakes his head, seemingly both at the... man's (the abomination, his mind interjects on its own, and is swiftly silenced) question and at the woman's offer of, apparently, something to drink. He can manage not to puke, at least he hopes, but if he tries drinking something, he won't have a chance.

Marcus tries to force himself to look at the man and finds out that he simply can't: his gaze rests on him for just a couple of seconds before he has to avert his eyes again. He's grateful for the entrance of the other woman, and for the fact that she introduces herself, giving him an excuse to look away from Alexei and towards her.

[ellna]

Sarah lets the flask hang in the air for a moment before she realises Marcus is shaking his head. She takes a moment to greet the newcomer the flask meeting Sarah's lips once more before she speaks. "Hail. I'm Sarah off Malfi." Sarah extends a hand, to shake guessing that a sister wouldn't partake of the grape*.

*Well fungus actually...

[Henry the 57th]

Sister Kaeli Etemara finds her way to the camp on foot, taking the time to exercise rather than succumb to laziness by taking an unnecessary vehicle. Awaking several hours prior to the time she was bidden to arrive, Kaeli jogs the whole way there, armor, weapons, and all. She is sure to bring along adequate hydration, but it turns out to be mostly unneeded. A light, paced jog is barely sufficient to make Kaeli sweat at all, in comparison with her usual morning training. She would go faster, but fears wearing herself out too greatly prior to her mission.

Regardless of the restrained pace of her jog, Kaeli arrives at the camp in plenty of time, not breathing hard or even sweating to any great degree. On the way there, she had read her message from her Sisters. It is a shame that her package was not yet available, but she has faith that the Emperor will get it to her when she really needs it. In the mean time, she'll trust to her own skills, her armor, and her Emperor to protect her.

Her identity is rapidly confirmed, and she is allowed to proceed to the tent without incident. She stops her light exercise as she approaches the Inquisitor's tent, taking a brief moment to examine herself and make sure that she has nothing that would embarrass the Sisterhood in front of such an esteemed figure. Satisfied that her appearance is relatively normal, Kaeli takes a brief swig of water, utters a short benediction for the Emperor's blessing, and opens the flap.

Striding in, Kaeli's armor immediately acts to blend in to the surroundings, making her figure much more difficult to perceive. If she hadn't removed her helmet, her head would be the same. As it is, it is the most visible part of her. Kaeli notices the Inquisitor and her fellow Sororitas immediately. Clearly a good omen. she thinks of seeing her Sisters.

Aloud, she gives a brief bow of respect to the Inquisitor and says, "Greetings. Sister Kaeli Etemara at your service." To the Sororitas, she makes the sign of the aquila, nods, and gives a brief smile.

It is only then that Kaeli looks carefully at her presumable companions. She nods slightly to each one of them, giving them her best welcoming smile. Even to the rather emaciated-looking young man near the desk, though she did not immediately see what use he might be. "Hello to all. I am Sister Kaeli Etemara of the Adepta Sororitas."

She finds herself a spot to sit down, says a short benediction over her rations, and begins to eat. She, rather paradoxically, enjoys the fact that the food has little taste to it, as she would rather avoid unnecessary luxuries whenever possible.

[rbmflrcdst]

Taking the train, Lupus Sinderfell arrives at the meeting point. He goes through the security without any issues, and is taken to the other acolytes. What an odd bunch we have here he thinks, not that he could be considered normal anyway. Thin and of average height, blue eyes, brown hair and a fair skin, he wears administratum robes clearly over some kind of armor. He glances around the room, apparently no one he knows aside from the Inquisitor. This should be very interesting he thinks to himself again, time for introductions. He speaks in a soft but confident voice: "Well met gentlemen, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Lupus, Adept and loyal servant of our God Emperor."
With that said, he elegantly bows to everyone in the room and waits for the others. He was punctual as every noble should be, getting to the appointments exactly a few minutes earlier, but not too early to trouble the host. He was still unconsciously attached to the principles of nobility.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli looks up from her food to smile and nod at the new arrival. "Greetings Lupus, I am Sister Kaeli Etemara of the Adepta Sororitas."

[ellna]

Sarah proffers her hand and name to Kaeli as she enters and bows clumsily to Lupus. "An honour... I think."

[Henry the 57th]

Kaali shakes her hand firmly, smiling with a warmth unexpected from the Sororitas. "Pleased to meet you."

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar doesn't take the train. He doesn't trust the strange, monodirectional vehicles, not since last time. Once you're on a train there's nowhere to go but wherever the train's going, and you have no control over that. No, better to move under his own power than to trust in a train when he can avoid it. Instead, he wakes himself early and sets out on foot, a ghost in the desert unseen and unheard by all, hiding underneath a cloak that bends light itself to the First Blade's will, a glorious gift from his Master that the Assassin prizes greatly. Nonetheless, he arrives at the camp on time, revealing himself to the camp's defenders just long enough for them to scan his identification card, as instructed in his orders, before replacing the hood of his camoflaged cloak and walking through the camp, invisible to all but the most perceptive of the Imperial soldiers on duty thanks to the miracles of Imperial technology.

When he arrives at the designated tent, the First Blade's arrival is heralded only by the slightest stirring of its entry flap, the quietest rustle of his own clothing. With all already going on in the tent, it would be very easy to forgive oneself for missing it entirely. He contemplates the coat rack for a moment, considering removing his new cloak, then settles against it and moves inside, taking in the room for a moment before moving to a corner and rolling his shoulders to throw the Chameleoline cloak onto his back, definitively revealing himself. He bows slowly to the Inquisitor, hands crossed across his carapace chestplate, reclaimed from a Chaos cultist and resanctified by an adept of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Imperial Aquilla carved into place by Wulfgar's own hand. Short-haired and plain looking, the First Blade would be utterly unremarkable were it not for the array of knives, grenades and technical devices secured carefully to his person by various straps and webbing and the unmistakable shape of a sheathed long-sword resting on his back. Bow completed, the Assassin speaks. "Master, I have arrived as requested. I am prepared to undertake any further orders."

While he waits for a response, the First Blade of the Bretheren of the Emperor's Light surveys the rest of the room's occupants.


Why yes, Wulfgar has precisely no manners. And he's a sneaky bastard, especially thanks to the huge bonuses provided by his little technological aids. Feel free to talk to him, but don't necessarily expect a response unless it's about religion or something practical to the mission.
How sneaky? Just for argument's sake.
Concealment: [roll0] vs TN 82

[ellna]

With the appearance of Wulfgar Sarah manages a hearty grin. As each new person enters the tent she feels as though Alexei is further from her mind. The hairs settle back down on her skin and her verdigris eyes twinkle with a slight mirth, so long as they skirt around the edges of the imposing figure. Sarah approaches this business-like figure and offers a hand for him to shake. "I'm Sarah, you got a name?"

[Miraqariftsky]

"Suicide bomber with Krak. I was lucky." The Inquisitor replies to Alexei. "Suit's in the wash for repairs."

The Inquisitor returns what greetings are tossed her way with a nod and a grunt, a weary smile and a palmed Aquila.

A rifle-butt bangs on the desk to catch the Acolytes' attention and restore order.

"Right, you sorry lot" the Inquisitor begins, all the while, her crimson omni-optics glaring from stainless steel sockets. "Sit the frak down, get chewing, get listening."

"New Meat, be known" the Inquisitor's grating, leathery voice grinding out names and deeds. "Lupus Sinderfell, late of Malfi. Up and coming professor, had his studies not been aborted after the Emperor called. Sole functional survivor of a raid on a cult of daemon summoners. Sister Kaarli Remora, late of Maccabeus Quintus. Beloved of the Emperor and of the people, has a way with hammers and a way with hearts. Sister Kaeli Etemara, late of Valon Urr. Stealth and flamer specialist, with some vehicular and driving skill. Sarah Haxta, late of Gunmetal and Malfi. Sanctioned scav-scummer and bounty hunter. No, you may not re-assume the identity of Inquisitor Jackal, unless necessary for clandestine work."

"Old Crew, meet the New Meat. New Meat, meet the Old Crew. Yon scar-dogged ork's armpit over there's your commanding officer for this cell. Obey him as you would obey me. He's Captain Britanov, late of Volg, Magnagorsk, Gunmetal and Sibellus. He's put away more hardened criminals and put down more warpcraft than you could shake a shock baton at. This blade-dog here's Agent Wulfgar, First Blade of the Brethren of the Emperor's Light. Last thing any heretic to face him'd know is his voice singing hymns. Without the Emperor's grace channeled through this man's blade and blood, we likely would have had not just simple witchery but an unbound daemonhost on our hands..." and then the Inquisitor pauses, glaring at one empty seat.

She nods at Alexei and asks, "Your trusty Eltee? Held up in traffic, I assume? Tholl's arse, hope ol' Cogs can catch up."

Scowling, she stands and limps kicks the side of her desk. A panel flips open and a fizzling holo-field hisses into being. She bangs the side of the clunky contraption with the rifle-butt to steady the static.

Two faces appear onscreen--- one a cable-festooned Magos and the other an old priest with glasses. The only other distinguishing physical feature of the latter are augmetic hands that seem to always be fidgeting with a string of rosary beads. The Inquisitor chuckles in dark humour. "The bane of the Imperium. Frakked-ass unremarkable faces, eh? The Traitor and The Apostate, by whose heretic conspiracy, a hive world fell to Chaos and was burned, and if they had had their way, three more worlds would have fallen and mayhap the entire sector with them. Gone to ground these past two years..."

"...had my junior Acolyte cells sniffing around. By Terra's grace, found them, or at least, traces of them." At a wave, the holoprojector flashes images of certain planets and certain pict-captures. "Volg Hive on Fenksworld. On the one hand, Vaakon's Library is loudly denying any involvement with the witch known to some as Agent Orange. On the other hand, initial investigations and confessions have yielded that it was there that the Rogue Magos Zweiker had first learned the forbidden arts of the Brotherhood of Thollos. Somewhere in the Iocanthos Badlands, a patrolling Flag Marshal reported sightings of an outworlder missionary suspiciously similar to the Apostate Konrad. In the slum-tracts of Malfi, there are reports of a warp-dabbler having been inspired by bootleg holovids and cooked himself up his own warp-beast menagerie."

She pauses, coughs, takes a drink, then continues, "On the frontier world of Ganf Magna, suspiciously powerful weapons are turning up in the hands of the local militia and they're too happy toasting orks to care that these may not have been Munitorum-standard. The local black market has a sudden influx of "newtech" soon after the reported disappearance of an up-and-coming professor whose researches delve into the field of xenoarcheology... Meanwhile, the night sky lights up with strange sightings near certain ruins in the untamed lands... "

The Inquisitor lets the battered old holoprojector whir to a halt. "You frakkers are all God-blessedly competent in your fields. Use initiative and prerogative in pursuing this matter. I want it clean and the Emperor's order restored. Any... Ah, yes..."

She then massages her forehead and points to the sickly-seeming young man beside her desk. "Agent Marcus Lumen, late of... somewhere even I cannot mention. Seconded to me by an esteemed colleague from the Ordo Malleus. Last functional survivor of said cell, actually. Without Agent Lumen, we would have added the planet Drhan to the list of casualties. Kept his cell together when they scrabbled at each others' throats and blood and filth rained from the sky. Put down the cultist scum on that planet, prevented a summoning..."

The Inquisitor then leans back and with a barely perceptible smirk pulling at the corners of tired old lips, clamps on a pair of ballistic-grade ear-protectors before finishing the sentence, "...And he is a Sanctioned Psyker."

She removes the muffs once she could see that everyone's inevitable yelling has calmed down and says, "Alright, you buggers, any questions?"

[ellna]

Sarah's roving hand is jammed into her pocket as the inquisitor calls order. She sits down and focuses her attention on the briefing, ignoring the discomfort that Alexei causes as the fungal brew spreads a slow heat through her. When her name is called she stands to make herself known with a slight flourish and a smile.

As the holo flickers into view Sarah watches with rapt fervour committing the visages of the two heretics to memory. Sarah listens and at the end is about to speak when the inquisitor reveals Lumen's nature. Her reaction is immediate. The cog drops from her fretful hands and spins on the table, before it has settled a pistol is drawn and pointed at the young man. Her finger twitches as the cog spins slower and slower. Sarah looks at the inquisitor and then across to Alexei. Her skin crawls and her heart sinks as her brain kicks in. Sanctioned. The arm drops and she releases the pistol. The flask once again finds her embrace and she takes a long swig her eyes fixed on Alexei hoping he'll do what she is to weak to commit. Odd that Alexei be so sickening yet the young man, Marcus, seemed so... ordinary. She remembers the wretched palantine, it's not for her to think on. Sarah sets her mind instead to the problem of the heretics. Hunting that was her reason.

Common Lore Imperium: Malfi [roll0]
Common Lore Imperium: Fenksworld [roll1]
Common Lore Imperium: Ganf Magna [roll2]

Sarah also attempts to remember what she can about her Malfi attempting to conjure up a link to the black market, the slums, the scum and the scavengers. Anyone who might still be alive.

Memory:[roll3]

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli's face tightens slightly as the nature of the young man is revealed. Her eyes narrow as she looks at him. A witch... She breathes a faint prayer to the Emperor to protect their souls from daemons and witches, and to let her see past any deceptions.

Kaeli listens attentively to the Inquisitor's description of the numerous situations around the sector. Most serious indeed... She thinks for a moment after the Inquisitor finishes, then says, "Yes. You brought up several problem areas. Would you rate any of them as particularly more urgent than any of the others, or are they all of roughly equivalent importance?"

[LeSwordfish]

As soon as Sarah drew her pistol, Kaarli sat sharply up in her chair. Oh throne, don't let this become a gunfight.

She at least had the presence of mind to not draw her pistol, instead shaking the sleeve away from her bionic arm in a practiced gesture that was by now instinctual. If this started, she'd be ready. But emperor on earth, don't escalate it.

"Can you tell me any more about the apostate on Iocanthos?" She asked. It was the first thing to come to mind to defuse the situation, but in truth she'd have been most interested in that anyway. Those who preached to turn others from the emperors light were, if anyone was, beyond redemption.

[bluntpencil]

"Calm it, girl. I won't have any infightin' in my crew. Especially seein' as ye've still not made up for last time..."
Alexei doesn't look up from his food. Pfft. A psyker? Zero threat. Sarah shootin' up her own team, though? Pretty damn likely. She'd better watch it, or she'd be gettin' his lightning-beat-stick rammed someplace unpleasant.

He draws a cigar from a pocket and looks around, hoping that someone will find his smoking distasteful, before lighting it up and opining on the situation.

"Volg, eh? If ye think ye can handle it..."

[ellna]

Sarah scowls at Alexei and angrily thrust the pistol back into it's holster. "Sir." Sarah looks around the room hoping that one of the other perhaps will end the pysker. A vain hope she feels with Alexei's command hanging in the air. Her nose twitches as the pungent smoke reaches her flaring nostrils. Her hand still rests on her pistol though, her fingers drumming on the hard wood.

"Volg? Sir. Anything that could churn up such warp lovers is sure to have a wagon of scum..."Sarah's eyes look at Alexei for a brief moment before seeking refuge elsewhere. She drums her fingers and twirls the tiny cog seeming slow to put her thoughts together. "Find the Thollus fools, find a lead on Zweiker? Aye? Perhaps the Malfi lead could turn something up though. I know the place well enough to get some swift answers."

[Urist]

A strange clanking of metal and flakplate can suddenly be heard outside of the office, growing louder and louder every second. The footsteps that accompany it are quick, but measured, in no way hurried or rushed. They stop right outside of the door, which opens, revealing a broad, tall figure in the red robes of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Although it has a large bulge on his back, it stands straight, giving its profile an unnatural, machine-like quality. On its hips lie a gleaming longsword, hilt fashioned to resemble the cogwheel of the Adeptus, along with an oversized laspistol. Although unornamented, the gun has clearly been well cared for, the new-gun shine on its body contrasting with the well-worn leather grip. When he sits, extending his hand to Alexei for a shake after a brisk salute, the black of carapace armor shows under his sleeve.

"This unit must apologize for its lateness, Captain, Inquisitor. Units of Object Class: Guard were concerned about this unit's appearance, and this unit was delayed in convincing them of this unit's credentials."

Turning to the rest of the group, he makes the traditional sign fo the Cog, along with an Ave Deum Mechanicum.

"This unit is designated Unit Yarach, Rank Classification Lieutenant, seconded to Captain Alexei, Second-in Command of Unit: Hounds. This unit is pleased to make all of these units aquaintances."

Turning to the holoprojector, Yarach pauses for a moment, and looks at the Inquisitor.

"Would the Inquisitor like this unit to examine the hololith? Its machine spirit appears angered."

[Strawberries]

The young psyker reacts...oddly to having a gun pointed at him. Which is to say, he doesn't react at all, aside from a brief stiffening of his shoulders. He had started to raise his hand a bit, in an unconscious defensive gesture, but he has immediately forced himself to bring them back down. It wouldn't matter to the others that he is unarmed...of course it wouldn't. It's not his weapons that make him dangerous.

Oddly enough, the blank -our commanding officer he thinks, with a wince- had not reacted the way he could have expected him to. Marcus would have nodded in thanks, were Alexei any other person. As it stands, he barely manages to bring himself to look at him again, this time forcing himself to hold his gaze there. It's hard, for the first couple of seconds, and painful, but thank the Emperor, it seems to be something that becomes easier with practice. He'll just have to control himself long enough for it to become an habit...and the concept of controlling himself is not something that is foreign to him.

Marcus doesn't say anything, turning to the Inquisitor instead, waiting for her answers to his new companion's questions.

[rbmflrcdst]

Lupus only watches as the scene develops. The old lady introduces them all, he didn't like the way she introduced him, oh he didn't like it one bit. Then again, not like he has free time to spend caring about that. He paid attention to the projection, many things he knew, others he could find out. A Warp-dabbler was messing with his home and he would pay for that, this one at least was a personal matter. He then watched amused for the reactions of the group at the young psyker. Hell young, he was not that much younger than him... But still, he seemed like a kid. A sanctioned psyker and they were all afraid (except for the captain), what a bunch of cowards to work with. Still, it could be amazing to work with them. How much he would be able to uncover, how many heretics he would be able to kill, to satisfy his soul. A small grin appeared on his face, which he hoped no one noticed.

"I believe I have a good grasp of how serious the situation is, but I would appreciate if you could answer the Sister's question, dear Inquisitor. If the investigation priority is the same for all of those, I'd like to pay a visit to Malfi, as that is my home, and I'll let no Warp Dabbler go around unpunished."


Rolling
Common Lore (Imperium) [roll0] vs 73
Common Lore (Adeptus Mechanicus) [roll1] vs 53
Common Lore (Tech) [roll2] vs 53
Common Lore (Underworld) [roll3] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Adeptus Mechanicus) [roll4] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Archeotech) [roll5] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Cults) [roll6] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Daemonology) [roll7] vs 73
Forbidden Lore (Heresy) [roll8] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Psykers) [roll9] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Warp) [roll10] vs 53
Forbidden Lore (Xenos) [roll11] vs 53
Failed at the important rolls...

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar looks up at the woman approaching him with hand outstretched, but is saved from the need to reply by the Inquisitor's introductions. He listens to her explanation of their next mission with rapt attention, clearly hanging off of every word. Upon the introduction of the Sanctioned Psyker he is clearly slightly startled, licking his lips as he eyes Marcus nervously for a moment, but as weapons are drawn he narrows his eyes and quickly palms one of his many knives, ready to intervene if things come to violence, but is equally quick to return the weapon to its sheath when Alexei resolves things in his normal, obnoxious fashion. As the others ask their questions, the First Blade brings up his own. "You desire these two Heretics dead, then, or returned alive to be questioned? Or, for that matter, are we on a simple intelligence-gathering mission? We will need more detail on the objectives and constraints of this mission, if we are to succeed on your behalf."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei shakes Yarach's hand roughly when he enters, even bothering to stand up to do so. That is, of course, an unusual show of respect from the (hellishly rude) Blank.

He nods, a grim look on his face, as he welcomes the only friend he has ever had. 'Unit Yarach' is still the only person that would actually offer to shake his hand. The fact that he did it without flinching was worthy of respect, if only a little.

It was the sticking things through the past two years that almost had the Captain trusting him. Trust wasn't something a Volgite did, and certainly not one like Captain Britanov... but Lieutenant Yarach was almost trusted by him, and that's saying a hell of a lot.

"Good ta see yer, Eltee. We're back to houndin' Zweiker an' his pals."

[ellna]

Sarah watches Yarach enter and brief smile crosses her lips. It's quickly lost however as Yarach shakes Alexei's hand. A bitterness unaccountable for by the rot gut festers at her heart. As he turns and makes the sign of the cog she waves the golden cog at him before tossing him a set of tags. She doesn't watch to see if he catches them turning his attention back to the inquistor.

The dog tags are blank apart from a hound on one side and a cog on the reverse.

[bluntpencil]

"Aight, enough o' tha frakkin' pleasantries," growls Alexei.
He knew what to do. Considering the skills in his team, and the information he had been provided with, they weren't going to Volg. Probably a good thing too, half of these kids would get eaten by the chem-mutants or worse.

"We're headed to Malfi. A sumbitch 'Warp-Dabbler' is a non-threat, as far as I'm concerned, aye? We've all burnt our share o' witches, an' comeout none the worse.

Add in tha fact that two of ye dogs are from that hole, it seems tha best bet. I'll be expectin' yer local know-how to sniff out our witch, then we'll set about tearin' its throat out after the standard torturin' session.

Any questions? Submit 'em in writin' ta tha Lieutenant."He then glares at Sarah.
"If yer can't read an' write... Learn... or beg Unit Yarach ta help yer out... Yeah... do that. I don't trust ye wi' books yet. Dang'rous stuff, is knowledge."

[ellna]

Sarah looks like she was slapped. A snarl grows on her lips, but she quells it. Her mouth opens and then snaps shut as a burning heat builds within her cheeks. With nothing good to say she keeps silent bears the obvious insult.

[Urist]

Although Yarach's face cannot be seen, at the mention of Zweiker, an immediate change in his demeanor can be observed. Tensing, he mutters, seemingly to himself:

"Such chances are highly improbable. Volo damnatio ad eum!"

Turning to regard the rest of the group, he speaks, in a terse, commanding voice

"Attention, units! As of the present time, these units are added to Unit List:Hounds. As instructed by Unit:Captain Alexei, all search queries, informational queries, and other questions to this unit. Unless given leave by this unit or the Captain, all actions performed in relation to this lists functional purposes, namely heretic hunting and extermination, must be authorized by direct verbal command. Are these orders comprehensible to all units?"

[LeSwordfish]

"Understood." Kaarli responded, trying not to stare too openly at the mental struggle between the Captain- of what, again?- and the Lieutenant. There was a whole bunch of history here, and oh throne, what had she got herself into.

She smiled rather feebly at the sanctioned psyker. She'd met psykers before. She liked this one more. He was just a child though.

[Strawberries]

Marcus nods, reflexively, but then forces himself to speak up "Yes, sir" he says, quietly. He would have told the woman that he could help her with reading, too, but judging by the fact that she has pointed a gun on him, he doesn't think it would go over so well, and...is that other woman smiling at him? Hesitantly, Marcus returns a nod of acknowledgment .

[Henry the 57th]

"Yes, sir." Kaeli says, simply enough. She looks at Kaarli smiling at the witch, and her mouth tightens just a fraction, almost imperceptibly. What kind of priest smiles at a witch? Curious, very curious... Kaeli files the thought away in the back of her mind, in case she should need it later.

[ellna]

"Sir. Understood. Sir." Sarah speaks quietly barely taking notice of Yarach as she struggles to contain her embarrassment. The cog twirls across her knuckles as she stares at the inquisitor and the pysker. If the pysker could just... do something. Her head swirled. Was that the pysker's doing, or was the booze just settling or perhaps something on Alexei's smoke was rubbing her noggin the wrong way. Sarah gritted her teeth. Life was simpler as the Jackal. Easier to control, to understand.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar takes in the half-mechanical Techpriest for a moment, considering the order. "No. Those terms are unacceptable and foolhardy. Independent action may be required to achieve mission objectives and neither you not the unit commander have any experience in stealth operations, my field of specialization. I will consult you where the situation permits, but success of the mission must come first, and some degree of flexibility is necessary." He switches the target of his attention to Alexei. "This is not the Imperial Guard. Many here are experts in fields where you have no ability. Forcing them to seek your approval merely hamstrings their ability to use that expertise."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei growls.

"Ye've worked wi' us fer two years now, boyo. Ye know fine well ye can op'rate as yer like, so long as ye don't do anythin' ta piss me off.

Submit any complaints ta Unit Yarach in writin', instead o' gettin' insubordinate on me, aight? I don't ask much from you dogs, except ye do as directed when needed."
Goddamnit, they were already getting uppity. Wulfgar should know better than to have the others doubting his command already.

"From now on, 'no' isn't in yer frakkin' vocabulary, aight? We won't be demandin' anythin' foolish, as ye well know, but ye'll be showin' the Lieutenant tha respect he's earned, aye?"

[Miraqariftsky]

At Yarach's entrance, there is a brief smile and a grandmotherly pat before she shakes her head and says, "My thanks, Unit Yarach, but I doubt we have the time for a full syscheck."

There is a brief flash of anger as she gets on the vox. "Commissar Corin, Inquisitor Nar. Commend your troops for their wariness. Extra rations for extra paranoia. But next time that you get in the way of my Agents, I will hold you personally responsible and introduce you to how the Bronze did it, back in the good old days. Do I make myself clear? Remember, the Emperor protects... but more protected are they who obey. Nar, out."

@Urist:

Upon entering the tent, Yarach's cyber-senses pick up a sussurus of close-bandwidth comms connecting the two bodyguard Sisters, one Isabel and one Martha, as he'd picked up from the previous times he'd worked with Wulfgar, Alexei and the Inquisitor.

++Sister Martha?
++Hrhmm.
++Pay up. You owe me.
++Hrhmm.
++What? I called their reactions, didn't I? Ten Scintils, Sister.
++That Sarah was the one to...
++Ehhhh...
++HAH! Gotcha.
++Pfft. Neither-nor, then?
++The Emperor Provides... and Protects.
++HAH! I mean, amen.
++Amen indeed.


The Inquisitor waits for the hubbub to die down, the scowl twisting into a brief smirk as pet mastiff silences the rest of the pack. The while that the Acolytes had objected and spoken and asked, her hands had been rapidly typing in an open dataslate.

One cheek twitches in alarm at a sudden beeping from the vox. She hunches and writes faster.

The vox chimes again just as Yarach seems to have seized the helm. The Inquisitor barks into the comms, "Colonel Lox, sitrep acknowledged. Team departure imminent. Barrage. Foxholes and trenches. Ambush lines. Very good, affirmative. Nar, out."

The furious keystrokes end with the Inquisitor seizing her rifle and standing, making for the entrance. "Gentlemen. Ladies. This grid is now officially a battlefield, enemy ETA to effective engagement range, 5-10 minutes. Artillery acquiring bearings, barrage ETA 2 minutes. Sorry I can't answer your questions in person..."

She then flips the slate over into Marcus' hands. "You've got your answers there. Transport waiting out back."




++Fenk, Malfi likely more strategically important. Powerful politics and economics. Opposite ends of sector, empower them, weaken Scintilla in the centre, Calixis becomes ripe for open civil war. Though both are still strong, Fenk is the stronger dog--- politically, intellectually, economically, socially, militarily. Malfi is older, less disciplined, more prone to corruption--- thus, more dangerous. Iocanthos, war-world, drug-world, a world of sinners and saints. Got some rather holier than holy places there as well as documented accounts of walking dead, daemons possessing wreckages, warp-crap. Ganf Magna, relatively recent Imperial acquisition. Settlers cutting down forests for farming, warring with native feral Orks. Rumours of Eldar ruins and Dark Age lostech in the untamed lands.

++Apostate on Iocanthos, not confirmed, but suspected. Performing unnatural acts with and upon certain desert tribesmen. Marshals attempted pursuit but fled after a sharpshooter winged the suspect. Rank-level cultists/victims also fled/vanished. Incriminating materials found at scene of crime, including a defiled Aquila rosary with the initials "K.H." inscribed on the back, matching his handwriting, upon comparison. No further sighting. Other tribes suspecting foul play of "Father Phantom" as their members seem to be randomly vanishing.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Marshal Mitras, Sister Zhotal, Sister Kali, Specialist Stane
Contacts Bigwigs: Palatine Rhiannon of the Order of the Ebon Chalice, Vervai Skull, Prophet Seth

++Fenk
Lead/s: Zweiker studied there under the Brotherhood of Thollos. Books looted from Agent Orange actually contained notes scribbled in the margins, along the spines and even behind certain characters regarding the finding, summoning and binding of Daemons. Said books came from the Vaakon Library of Knowing.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Adept Severus, Arbite Asar, bounty hunter Grox
Contacts: Brother Dreilling and... ((OOC:*see: Britanov and his buddies))

++Malfi:
Lead/s: Art school "Liberty University" burned down, terrorist act suspected, no suspects yet found. Another academy, "Santo Marcos' Gold" burned down, no suspects yet found. New gang in the underhive, the "Watusi Syndicati" gaining prominence. Suspected to have newtech guns, boss suspected to be a fallen noble of some sort. Neighbourhood militia patrol sent to investigate, got fried, corpses defiled horribly.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Bounty hunter Gago, Lady Hannah Mondragon, Ratcatcher* Sergeant Rosethorn, Brother Robin Gast
Contacts: Throne Agent Armageddon, Professor Warren Smith, Dean Horace Hallen

*Local Enforcer rank for those assigned to sewer-watch

++Ganf Magna
Lead/s: A visiting Explorator Magos attached to Rogue Trader Patricia Horn was down on the ground, investigating rumours of newtech smugglers. Warp-tainted lasguns found in possession of colonist militia. Most were bought out but some resisted, massacring a good number of the away team. Village New Hope was bombarded from orbit in retaliation. Governor Rotash filed a formal complaint. Newtech-smuggled weapons appear to be on the rise... on the other side of things, ork populations are rapidly being pushed back. Various village militia think the ends justify the means and "A gun is a gun". Little regular traffic there, rural world that it is, caused a stir when renowned adventurer-archeologist from old Malfi's Oberuniversitat led an expedition into the wastes. Nobody has yet to return.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Agent Khawla, Scholar Lager Barst, Techpriest Xakt 94-Sigma
Contacts: Governor Rotash, Chief Waldas, Boy John Doe

++++OBJECTIVE: Search and Destroy. Report on any findings. Minimize collateral damage if possible. If not, use your wits, your means, bring wrath to the Emperor's foes.

++Anything more, direct to the Captain [who will most likely know but redirect to the Lieutenant.]

++++THE EMPEROR PROTECTS.++++



"Oh, and Captain..." Presently, the rifle has been slung and in the Inquisitor's hands now is a belt and holster containing what seems to be a bolt-pistol and two extra clips by the shape, but with the flap down, there is no way to tell. "Those two warp-frakkers forgot their Emperor's Day gift last year. Do be kind enough to give this to them. It was from Watch Captain Rogal Trinity Hirst, an honourable man, dead on Endrite by his brother's unholy hand."

The Inquisitor's leathery hands close on Alexei's and give it a squeeze as she leaves the heavy holster with him. "Be wrath."

She turns and seems to start for a round of ritual comradely blessings on the others, but seems to receive a commbead transmission. Reaching into her coat, she quickly pulls out a belt strung with seven grenades minutely inscribed with passages from holy scripture. "One apiece" she grunts. "Woulda done this with more, frak me sideways, finesse, but no time now. Rebels've come a-calling and we'll be singin' 'em to the Emperor's feet soon enough. Wulfgar, search and destroy. Further orders and details in the slate. More crap, ask the Captain. Kaeli, seek and burn. Also? Remember: Just as the Guard are the Hammer of the Emperor, the Sanctioned Psyker is a tool of the Imperium. Sarah? Howl and bring me some bones. Lupus, I hope I don't need to tell you that your team and I are counting on you. Make your mother and the Emperor proud. Kaarli, at least for now, these are your new flock. Take care of them... and take care of the kid. Yarach, beware the ghosts in the shell, trust always the algorithms of the Emperor."

Yes, if you're wondering, those are Best-Qual Sanctified Krakker-Fragger Grenades.

"Hey Agent Lumen" says the Inquisitor last, "Look into my eyes. Get it? The Emperor Protects."

@Strawberries:

Damned hell frak me. Sorry. Running out of juice. Use your own imagination at what the frak might be "reassuring" for poor little Marcus over there.


Outside the tent, what ordered havoc earlier is now an almost eerie silence as the troopers of the Scintillan Slag Dogs have hunkered down in their foxholes, awaiting the barrage, awaiting the push. The Sibellus Steel sits on its tracks, idling, a fat juicy decoy.

An Aquila aerospace shuttle sits on a pad, thrusters revving, doors open, swirls of dirt skirling around its swept-back wings.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli looks over at the assasin, the back to the techpriest and captain. "He raises a valid objection. It is likely that considerable tactical flexibility will be required on the course of our missions. Reporting everything and asking permission will simply waste time. The mission comes first. Remember that we first serve the Emperor, not you, captain, or you lieutenant."

Kaeli takes the Inquisitor's gift gratefully, adding it to the rest of her grenades, before replacing her helmet and moving towards the shuttle as quickly as she can.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei notes the Inquisitor squeezing his hands. Very few people had the fortitude to touch him without trying to kill him. Yarach was the only man to shake his hand willingly, and this gesture from the Inquisitor earns a very respectful nod.

He salutes, something he never did as an Enforcer (those officers were arses, after all).

As he hears the cleric speak, he unveils the Sacristan Bolt Pistol given to him, its stylised 'I' of the Inquisition very visible.

"Aight, listen here, Hounds. This here pistol shows I've been trusted ta do what's right.

Now, if you weren't listenin' just a minute ago, this is how my jobs always work:

I'm not here ta hold yer damned hands, aight? Yer gonna do yer damn job yer own way. Yer gonna show tha correct amount o' initiative; not a jot less, an' certainly not a jot more.

I won't be givin' yer orders unless it's highly bloody necessary. If yer couldn't do yer jobs, ye wouldn't be here.

But, now, if I do tell ye ta do somethin', ye'll do it, an' do it well. No damn questions, an' no faffin' around..."
He stops to point at Marcus,

"This goes double when there's warpcraft goin' down. I don't have the fastest risin' successful Witch-Extermination rate fer an Acolyte o' our clearance fer no bloody reason...

So, here it is:

Do yer job yer own way. Good.

But...

When there's witches an' sorcerers afoot, ye get yer ass behind me an' follow my lead.

And...

If I do see fit ta actually order yer around, or provide direction..."
He pauses to brandish the Inquisitorial pistol he was just given. The others might not know, but Sacristan Bolt Pistols are only given to trusted Acolytes of rank in an Inquisitor's service. The big 'I' is something of a giveaway, though.

"...in those rare occasions, in tha absence o' Lady Nar, I'm tha voice o' tha Holy Inquisition.

Now, as tha good lady says, 'The Emperor Protects, but more protected are they who obey.' That's yer damn motto now. Understood? Good.

Any questions will be ignored, so I advise savin' yer breath.

Now, I'm done talkin' at yer, so piss off an' get ready."
The damned idiots with their problems should have waited until things got going before getting insubordinate. They could have at least waited for him to give his bloody briefing. He was going to let them run free anyway... well, Sarah excepted. She was weak.

Still, it was truly an honour to be shown such trust by Inquisitor Nar. In fact, it was an honour not to have her wretching by virtue of his presence. She either really trusted him... or was hellishly dangerous.

[ellna]

Sarah throws her coat on as Inquisitor Nar announces the imminent threat already bolting to the coat hooks. The sleeveless greatcoat stained with ancient blood. She snatches up her bags and takes the offered grenade. Her head is swimming with the sudden movement and gives a wobbly smile to the inquisitor. The grenade gets shoved into a pocket, bags shouldered and the shining cog snatched up. Her gloves thrown on top of the duffel bag. She gives staggered howl in response to Nar as she leaves. Sarah certainly doesn't dwaddle long enough to listen to Alexei's rhetoric. Struggling to juggle everything she pushes out of the tent and towards the waiting shuttle. Cowardice or survival instinct she'll certainly be alive to not worry about that later.

Left behind on the army table are a pair of dog tags, battered, worn and now forgotten.

Sarah grabs her stuff. Shoves loose stuff into pockets and is heading in the direction of away as the inquisitor is still looking at Lumen.

[Urist]

Wulfgar takes in the half-mechanical Techpriest for a moment, considering the order. "No. Those terms are unacceptable and foolhardy. Independent action may be required to achieve mission objectives and neither you not the unit commander have any experience in stealth operations, my field of specialization. I will consult you where the situation permits, but success of the mission must come first, and some degree of flexibility is necessary." He switches the target of his attention to Alexei. "This is not the Imperial Guard. Many here are experts in fields where you have no ability. Forcing them to seek your approval merely hamstrings their ability to use that expertise."

Turning to Wulfgar, Yarach addresses him, loudly and obstinately.

"First Blade Wulfgar, in a stealth situation, this unit will the aforementioned leave, as this unit has earned a place on list: High Confidence individuals. As well, when operating in an independent situation, operatives will be granted such clemency. This unit, however, will not tolerate insubordination. As a member of the Emperor's Most Holy Ordos-"at this, he raises his voice again, turning to the rest of the cell- "Disobeying a direct order from a superior officer is a crime placing the offender on List:Heretics. Do these units understand?"

As combat breaks down, and the Inquisitor presents them with parting words and gifts, Yarach bows, and offers the sign of the Aquilla awkwardly, unused to doing so.

"Ave Imperator, Inquisitor. Commencing operations. Move out, cell!"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar listens to both Alexei and Yarach's little speeches, then nods in response. "Acknowledged. That is acceptable." Turning back to the Inquisitor, he bows once more. "I hear and obey, Lord." Finally, he shrugs his shoulders again to return his cloak to its proper position and pulls up its hood, settling it over his head again. Once more, the Assassin is nearly invisible unless you know precisely where to look, and without another word follows behind the others en route to their transportation. Best to be gone before the Heretic force attacks, really. The First Blade is well aware that his skills are very ill-suited to a stand-up battle against a horde of gun-toting heretics, however much he might enjoy killing them.

[Strawberries]

Marcus takes the dataslate from the Inquisitor hands with the expression of someone that is glad to have something to hold to. He manages a brief, stiff nod at her statement, actually relaxing his shoulders just a tiny little bit... till Alexei starts talking to him. What the man is saying is neither unreasonable nor particularly malevolent, but it is hard to judge it rationally when every instinct he has is telling him that this man is WRONG, an horrible thing that shouldn’t by rights be alive. But he is his commanding officer, and the concept of obedience is something that has been ingrained into Marcus since before he could talk.

The psyker makes a supreme effort to neither flinch nor step back and to look Alexei in the eyes when he points at him. He manages...barely, even if he can feel his heartbeat in his throat “Yes, sir” he replies, again, his voice low but without choking or stuttering at all. A small victory for his self control... but still, he’s been gripping that dataslate so tight that his knuckles have turned white. He would like to read what it says, but it would have to wait till they’re all on the transport. The boy merely nods stiffly at Yarach, moving to follow the others outside.

[rbmflrcdst]

Lupus heard all they had to say without a word. It is not the for words when battle is about to break, the main focus is staying alive. He never had anything against the cog boys, but he was starting to really dislike that specific tech priest. He thanks the inquisitor for the grenade, but no more than that, and prepares to move out. He knew he was more intelligent than all of them, maybe more than all of them together. He took care of his previous group, kept them alive, something the captain, even if willing, was not smart enough to do. Anyway, it is only their fault if they get killed.
"We thank you inquisitor. May the emperor protect us all. Hounds! I would recommend get moving immediately."

[Miraqariftsky]

Their last sight, for now, of their patron Inquisitor is as she and her bodyguards board an open-topped Guard Salamander. Standing tall behind the pintle-mounted bolter, barking into the vox, face lighting up as she orders the artillery to intentionally miss and pound the ground a close kilometre behind the incoming bandit battalions to goad them onwards such that the succeeding volleys will hit them just as they come into range of the Guard ambush. Hard and fast, before the tainted guns could fully be brought to bear.

Meanwhile, seen up close, the Aquila Lander has a mottled brown paintjob and heavier armour than one would expect for the Imperium's standard VIP aerospace shuttle. What on most other chassis would have been a luxury observation dome up on top of the chassis...

...is still an armoured turret with auspex arrays and quad-linked autocannons. Below the nose is what seems to be another auspex array married to a lascannon barrel inscribed with protective passages from holy writ.

Two superturbine engines growl beside the fuselage, wind and grit whipping at the boarding Acolytes, lashing at cloaks and coats, scouring at exposed faces. Backswept delta wings with decorative pinions give the craft its name.

A panel engraved with a life-size wrought iron icon of St Elana proves unyielding if they mistake that for a door. Instead, they hear a loud metallic clang as a trapdoor beneath the craft drops open. The landing gear seem to be long and strong enough such that full-grown men need not stoop when boarding.

Once the Acolytes are fully inside, the ramp closes and the craft pressurizes. For those who have heard of, read of or previously ridden in standard Aquilae, the interior might be a surprise. In other craft of its line would be luxurious minibars and decadent seating as well as cheerfully painted-and-padded walls. Whoever'd reconfigured the craft had replaced the plush chairs and sofas with barely-padded bolted-down benches, bolted down equipment lockers-qum-desks along the middle, slapped on a robust-looking voxcaster at the far end of the now-cramped cabin.

Whatever the new pilot's tastes were--- well-polished-well-oiled plain gunmetal walls--- the various safety harnesses, medikits and emergency equipment are well-cared for. The internal vox crackles with a seemingly young and jovial pilot's voice, "Ave Imperator to y'all, ladies an' gents, this is your Captain Salleh speaking, welcome to the Too Cheap For Missiles, Tholl-Frak-Me. Syscheck optimal. Cain all good up there? Alright, strap yourselves in, dogs, and let's pray it's not a bumpy ride."

The launch and the subsequent transatmospheric flight are sudden, brutal, bone-bruising and thankfully brief that soon enough, the friction-blaze in the portholes' armourcrys is replaced with the star-pricked vastness of outer space. Along the way, the pilot had apparently seen fit to slap in some music disc, blasting out a growling pseudo-pound beat. Those amongst the Acolytes who might be street-savvy could well recognize the halfway-intelligible lyrics sung by the popular performer, one Gundilox-45.

GRUUUAAAAAGH!
Only in DEATH does DU--- GRAAAAAGGH--- TY
ENNNNNNNDDDD!
Only in DEATH! DEEEEAAAATH! Does duuuuuuuty ENNNNDDDD!
To TAAAEEERRRRUUUUH--- TEERRRRRRUUUUUHHH
We all shull wennnnnnd!
DUH sinnuh an' duh SEINT
AAAAAUUUUHHLLL shull fessss duh HAMMAH an' duh HAAEEETT
GRRRUUUUAAAAAGGH!
Where IZ yyyouuuuaaaH pyuuuuuhrrrr-EETTEH?
Ye DOGS! Ye DAMNED! Ye ash-worm FOOLS!
Where AHR duh maaaahhhks of YAAAH
---REPENNUNCE?
Come on! Warp-beauties AAAWWUUHHHL! Letsch dantsche!
RAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA---wuuuuaaaaaaggggh---DAKKA-DAKKA!


And then the Infernis-popular song suddenly screeches to a halt, then segues into a classically-trained, measured-cadenced, soprano rendition of a psalm usually sung by void-wayfarers and missionaries traveling to feral or backwater worlds.

The vast void aetherial
Mysterious, eternal
Legends walk and daemons roam
Beyond black firmament's dome
The Allfather's light blazes
Daemons' fortresses razes


The thrust then noticably cuts and the internal vox crackles again, "W'elp. First tracks apiece. Y'all got any requests? I got a coupla bargains off a guy who knew a guy. Y'all want 'em in different languages, got 'em... I think... Ehem. Right. To business. Granmam Iron left a briefcase and a 'slate in the locker for y'all. Said she'd leave it here, in case she forgot. ETA to Scintilla Orbital Spaceport lessee, 5-10 minutes. Sort out whatever y'all need to sort."


Briefcase: Locked. Easily opened with any of y'all's keys, at this clearance grade.
Contents:
20,000 Thrones. Denominations are: A quarter-worth in 100s, a quarter-worth in 50s, the rest in 20s. [Computed it, as per InqHdbk: Void chapter, should be enough passage for 8 people, with change.]
Writing kits, blank passbooks, blank 'slates, everything that might be needed for the creation of false idents or documents.
Authentic Inquisitorial warrants for the information/search/arrest/execution of Konrad-Zweiker-accomplices, as well as official warrants for cooperation/compliance. [Do note, won't work on every instance. Not as good as a full-Rosette.]

Dataslate:
++Relevant Calixis Sector starmap

++Reports on presently most ready outbound transports:
>Emperor's Edge battleship, Artemis and Beowulf destroyers, Drusus' Fist, Charon and Retribution, transports. Bound for Iocanthos, Lethyde Ten, Tranch.

>Pater di Proviso freighter/merchantman, bound for Settlement 228, the Lathes, Landunder and Malfi

>Imperial Starways 739 standard passenger ship, bound for Settlement 228, the Lathes, Landunder and Malfi

>HUNTER Rogue Trader, bound for Dusk, Malfi, parts unknown

>Trekker's Prayer pilgrim vessel, bound for Iocanthos, Sophano System, Pry System, Merov, Luggnum, Sepheris Secundus, Valon Urr, Sinophia Magna, Cyclopea, Ganf Magna, Sleef Outworld

>Ducky freighter/merchantman, bound for Ysai Ydumer, Zunthor, Canopus, Fenksworld

>Holy Hellhound darkholder proto-hulk warship/penal transport/pilgrim vessel bound for Iocanthos, Bront, Solomon, Munsk, Snowden's, Fenksworld

>Santo Galileo Mechanicus-Explorator aligned Rogue Trader, bound for Iocanthos, Ziliman's Domain, Abandoned Hope, Tsade, Fenksworld

[bluntpencil]

Alexei leans over to Yarach and whispers his orders to him. Others can probably hear if listening, but he obviously wants things relayed by his Lieutenant.

"Have tha Sister carry tha cash. Their sort can generally be trusted wi' such. It's not ta be used unless entirely necessary... likely fer transport or similar."
He grabs the arrest warrants and carefully puts them into a pocket under his carapace chest-plate. They would probably only need to show such after any executions anyway.

"Aight, work out which is the quickest and best way ta get ta Malfi. Cheap, fast and not owin' no Rogue Traders any screwy favours."


[roll0] Scholastic Lore: Judgement on the arrest warrant. What can we get away with?

[ellna]

Sarah climbs through the hatch and looks in dismay at the interior. Making her mind up quickly she selects the most sturdy of the benches and drops down on it. She wraps herself in the various layers of straps, belts, bandages and wiring securing her and her gear solidly to the bench. As the craft takes to the air she bites her lip so fiercely that blood drips from the corner. Eventually the craft's ride softens and she manages a shaky smile.

Sarah does her best not to eye the money when Alexei tugs open the briefcase. She licks the blood from her mouth and averts her gaze. Easy to do when it was the Cap.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli listens as the captain talks to his lieutenant, smiling. Yes, a good choice. Perhaps he is wiser than I thought... She smiles again.

Kaeli looks at the records of the outgoing ships briefly, then comes to a conclusion: "Captain, if we are to make all speed for Malfi, then I suggest the Imperial Starways 739. Taking a merchant ship would risk getting caught in commerce-related delays. Furthermore, a passenger ship is likely to have some people returning to Malfi, from whom we might learn something of value."

[ellna]

Hearing Sister Kaeli speak Sarah adds "A merchant ship might be a good idea I have experience dealing with traders. I used to be in the business before all this..." Sarah waves one her arms at the surroundings, her arm catching on one of her self-applied straps.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei stands, holding onto a railing above himself, and simply nods at the Sister's suggestion. He'd obviously make a decision when everyone had said their (probably stupid) piece.

Still, he does reckon her idea is likely best, but doesn't see any need to say so.

[ellna]

She pauses a moment before saying. "Though I believe Kaeli is right in this matter, delays could be costly and setting us up as merchants sure as frak would complicate this needlessly."

[Urist]

"Orders received, Unit Captain. Shall this unit regard these instructions as a standing directive in case of any further aquisitions of monetary resources in the immediate future?"

Whatever the answer, Yarach proceeds to close the briefcase and hand the entire thing to the Sister, making sure it is securely closed and fastened.

"This unit has been entrusted with the monetary resources of this endeavor. Please keep these resources on hand."

Formalities aside, and the threat to his command and commander seemingly ended, Yarach suddenly seems to become less imposing, his posture slumping slightly, and a note of humanity creeps back into his voice.

"This unit believes that these two units have not yet had their designations explicated. I am Lieutenant-Enginseer Yarach, of Scintilla. What is this units designation?"

Maybe too little, too late, but Yarach hoped he could maybe salvage relations with the crew from his earlier shouting. If the Hounds couldn't operate trusting each other, they would all die like dogs.

[bluntpencil]

"Aye, add 'Responsibility: Finances' ta her list o' jobs, eh?"
Alexei doesn't seem pleased, but he seems less angry at the moment. It's good when people do their jobs right. Still, he doesn't speak up, and lets the others discuss what is best,regarding transportation. He's pretty set on the Sister's idea, but he wants to see what the brainy folks they brought in have to say.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli accepts the briefcase with a nod. "By the Emperor, I shall."

[LeSwordfish]

"A merchant or passenger ship is best if we're not worried about time. Reliable, inconspicuous. I only visited Malfi once, but just standing out there can get you in trouble." Kaarli offered, craning her neck to look at the ship list. "Also far less likely to go... gallivanting off like a trader ship."

She leaned back and carefully traced a few of the more familar holy symbols on the grenade with her thumb before slipping it into her pack.

"If we have the materials here to set up false identities, that might be a sensible thing to do. I'm sure we all have... history."

[bluntpencil]

"Pilgrims. We're pilgrims."
Alexei gives a simple cover story, that should work fine. Surely Malfi has a big church or some spot where Drusus got shot at, or stabbed an Ork or heretic.

Nobody would ask the Tech Priest his business either. He could just start talking about engines or something until folk left him alone.

[ellna]

Sarah smiles at Kaarli's words. "I won't be hiding my history. I have links that might even be useful to our endeavour, in the right places at least." She snarls at Alexei. "Pilgrims. We're Pilgrims. Sir. I'm a returning one."

[Henry the 57th]

"Do you think I should go openly in the garb of a Sororita? Few would question a group of pilgrims with a Sister. Or would that be too conspicuous?"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar considers the situation for a moment. "I have no past, and my name is irrelevent. I could, perhaps, pose as a missionary. I have used the identity of a Bounty Hunter before as well, one Solomon Kage. Such an identity might be useful, were we to make open inquiries." He remains silent for a few seconds more, still considering. "Perhaps more consideration should be given to the Rogue Trader. I understand that their ships are very fast, and that route has less stops before our destination, which should decrease travel time yet further. Any reduction in the time we use reaching our hunting grounds increases the odds that our prey remains when we arrive. I do not know much about ships, though, so I defer to the judgement of those who do."

[Henry the 57th]

"But Rogue Traders are known to be eccentric, somewhat unreliable, and very independent. Also, our captain said he did not wish to owe one any favors. Given that even the least of them is unimaginably wealthy, favors is almost certainly what one would ask for in payment. Finally, such an arrival would be conspicuous, and possibly notched by the wrong parties."

[rbmflrcdst]

The sister is probably correct, we don't want to owe nothing to Rogue Traders, even if I have to say a group like us probably stands out anyway, so the way we arrive would not be a major problem in that regard. The merchant transport may well be our best option, if we are able to strike a deal with them. Other than that, we should just take the passenger ship and be done with it.

[Strawberries]

Marcus breathes a little more easily as soon as he sets foot on the transport. Space vehicles, at the very least, are familiar...and it feels reassuring to have hull and bulkheads around him again. Thinking quickly, he selects a seat in the corner, as out off the way as possible, silently praying the Emperor that the captain will chose to sit as far away from him as possible. He proceeds to strap himself down just like Sarah has done, with the practiced ease of someone who’s used to space vehicles, and then finally flips the slate that he was still holding and reads through it. Marcus reads quickly: it takes just a minute to read from it and memorising the important information.

He follows the discussion of which transport to take with a certain interest. He agrees with Kaeli, actually, on the passenger ship being the best option. Not that he’s going to speak up, though: those people had drawn a gun on him even when he had been silent. Even if... surprising even himself, Marcus speaks up. As usual, his voice is low and even. He speaks to noone in particular, his gaze jumping from one person to the other. “If we used a passenger ship, we could pretend we aren’t associated with each other. A... a merchant ship would mean that we would have to present ourself as a group.” Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but something that Marcus feels needs to be pointed out.

[ellna]

"Yes a passenger ship removes the need for us to back each others lies. I would love not to have to associate with you, warp taint."

[LeSwordfish]

"It's a good idea." Kaarli offered. "If something happens, we can help each other more easily if we're separate. Plus..."

How do i phrase "then there's less chance of us shooting each other?" nicely?

"Less chance for friction."

[Strawberries]

Marcus just nods jerkily at both Sarah and Kaarli, apparently not even registering the insult. He still has the data slate in his hand, and it's turning it over like it is some sort of stress relief device. He looks down like he's surprised at it still being there.

"Sir..." he starts, addressing Yarach, but he realises almost immediately that that's not the way to go about it. The commanding officer is capitain Britanov, no way around it. He draws a breath, visibly steeling himself, shifting his eyes to include Alexei in the conversation. It's a bit better than before, now that he knows what to expect. "Sirs. The details of the mission are on here. If... if you want to look at them." He had started well, but his tone becomes more uncertain towards the end, perhaps from the strain of keeping eye contact with the blank.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei, having picked Yarach to be his go-between for this very reason, merely jerks his chin at the dataslate, indicating that his second-in-command should take a look at it.

Letting the poor, unfortunate morons under his command treat Yarach as their direct superior was easier than trying to be nice to them, at any rate..

[rbmflrcdst]

Having some personal interest in the mission this time around, young Lupus approaches the cog boy.
Unit Yarach Lieutenant Sir, would you mind if I take a look at the mission dataslate with you? I might be able to provide you useful information, being born in Malfi myself.

[ellna]

Sarah looks slightly annoyed at Marcus merest nod. Her hand finds the golden cog now adorning the dog tags around her neck. She speaks quietly to Lupus. "Perhaps you could read it aloud. Save passing it round like a Valkian Cigar"

[Urist]

Yarach, noticing the look from Alexei, takes the dataslate, and quickly scans through it. Nodding, he looks to Marcus.


"Response to Unit: Marcus query number 1821: affirmative. Please proceed. This unit also agrees with Unit Sarah, in that the mission data should be compressed into audio packets, such that all units can intake the data at more efficient rates."

[ellna]

Sarah smiles and spins her cog. Machines, Yarach and efficiency. They could be counted on. Infallible. The Emperor was in all of the whirring gears. The flickering lights and cables. "I hope you've got a nice reading voice."

[Strawberries]

Marcus nods and takes the dataslate back, getting up to read it so that his voice can carry more easily. He has a nice reading voice, actually. When he's speaking in a normal volume, and not struttering or hesitating at all, he has a clear, level pitch, albeit still a bit high, betraying how young he is.

((OOC: spoilering for lenght, but copy-pasted for ease of access))
"++Fenk, Malfi likely more strategically important. Powerful politics and economics. Opposite ends of sector, empower them, weaken Scintilla in the centre, Calixis becomes ripe for open civil war. Though both are still strong, Fenk is the stronger dog--- politically, intellectually, economically, socially, militarily. Malfi is older, less disciplined, more prone to corruption--- thus, more dangerous. Iocanthos, war-world, drug-world, a world of sinners and saints. Got some rather holier than holy places there as well as documented accounts of walking dead, daemons possessing wreckages, warp-crap. Ganf Magna, relatively recent Imperial acquisition. Settlers cutting down forests for farming, warring with native feral Orks. Rumours of Eldar ruins and Dark Age lostech in the untamed lands.

++Apostate on Iocanthos, not confirmed, but suspected. Performing unnatural acts with and upon certain desert tribesmen. Marshals attempted pursuit but fled after a sharpshooter winged the suspect. Rank-level cultists/victims also fled/vanished. Incriminating materials found at scene of crime, including a defiled Aquila rosary with the initials "K.H." inscribed on the back, matching his handwriting, upon comparison. No further sighting. Other tribes suspecting foul play of "Father Phantom" as their members seem to be randomly vanishing.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Marshal Mitras, Sister Zhotal, Sister Kali, Specialist Stane"

"Bigwigs:" Marcus hesitates slightly here "Er...contacts, I think she meant: Palatine Rhiannon of the Order of the Ebon Chalice, Vervai Skull, Prophet Seth

++Fenk
Lead/s: Zweiker studied there under the Brotherhood of Thollos. Books looted from Agent Orange actually contained notes scribbled in the margins, along the spines and even behind certain characters regarding the finding, summoning and binding of Daemons. Said books came from the Vaakon Library of Knowing.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Adept Severus, Arbite Asar, bounty hunter Grox
Contacts: Brother Dreilling and... ((OOC:*see: Britanov and his buddies))

++Malfi:
Lead/s: Art school "Liberty University" burned down, terrorist act suspected, no suspects yet found. Another academy, "Santo Marcos' Gold" burned down, no suspects yet found. New gang in the underhive, the "Watusi Syndicati" gaining prominence. Suspected to have newtech guns, boss suspected to be a fallen noble of some sort. Neighbourhood militia patrol sent to investigate, got fried, corpses defiled horribly.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Bounty hunter Gago, Lady Hannah Mondragon, Ratcatcher* Sergeant Rosethorn, Brother Robin Gast
Contacts: Throne Agent Armageddon, Professor Warren Smith, Dean Horace Hallen

*Local Enforcer rank for those assigned to sewer-watch

++Ganf Magna
Lead/s: A visiting Explorator Magos attached to Rogue Trader Patricia Horn was down on the ground, investigating rumours of newtech smugglers. Warp-tainted lasguns found in possession of colonist militia. Most were bought out but some resisted, massacring a good number of the away team. Village New Hope was bombarded from orbit in retaliation. Governor Rotash filed a formal complaint. Newtech-smuggled weapons appear to be on the rise... on the other side of things, ork populations are rapidly being pushed back. Various village militia think the ends justify the means and "A gun is a gun". Little regular traffic there, rural world that it is, caused a stir when renowned adventurer-archeologist from old Malfi's Oberuniversitat led an expedition into the wastes. Nobody has yet to return.
Junior Acolytes reporting: Agent Khawla, Scholar Lager Barst, Techpriest Xakt 94-Sigma
Contacts: Governor Rotash, Chief Waldas, Boy John Doe

++++OBJECTIVE: Search and Destroy. Report on any findings. Minimize collateral damage if possible. If not, use your wits, your means, bring wrath to the Emperor's foes.

++Anything more, direct to the Captain [who will most likely know but redirect to the Lieutenant.] "

[ellna]

Sarah's teeth clench as the Pysker reads out the mission information. She looks over to Alexei, then directs her attention to one of the portholes, trying to pretend that someone else is reading. Towards the end Sarah finds herself smiling and turns to look on that familiar face, but see Marcus. A brief look of disappointment crosses Sarah's face, yet the wistful smile lingers a moment on her lips. Sarah clears her throat her first words catching slightly. "Solid evidence links Zweiker to the library, but likely a cold trail and dusty tomes. Malfi with a gang of oddly-well equipped men. Likely the play thing of some lord. Could be a noble is funding Zweiker, humans give their secrets up easier than pages. I suggest we continue to Malfi and track down the dillente fop behind the whole thing. Once we have that link we can follow it back to the souless abomination. Anyone know anything about the Thollus? Is destroying art in the twisted beliefs?"

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar leans back in his seat and listens, face placid and eyes closed, to the briefing materials, as well as Sarah's opinion on the best course of action. When he speaks, it is quietly enough that he can barely be heard over the sounds of the shuttle's engine. "You sound afraid, boy." The fact that the Assassin is only a few years older than Marcus never enters his mind. In Wulfgar's eyes, his childhood ended long ago. "Why? You are Sanctioned; even I know what that means. You have been to Terra. You have trod the Holiest of ground. Perhaps, even, you have heard the whispering of the Emperor's will on the wind? What was it like?" He sounds almost reverent, as though imagining that holiest of scenes. It is, in all likelyhood, the first words he spoken unrelated to a mission since his death and ascension to First Blade. There is a great deal of time left before any decision must be made with regards to mission deployment, and frankly the Assassin is well aware that he is ill-suited to such strategic considerations. But, quite simply, he cannot resist the urge to hear stories of a pilgrammage to Terra, even if it must come from a Psyker.


Yeah, a total non-sequitor from Wulfgar. It's not likely to happen again unless we run into some sort of immensely holy relic, but in this case religious mania overwhelms distaste for psykers.

[LeSwordfish]

Kaarli had opened her mouth to suggest a course of action once they arrived on malfi, but the assassin's question was... she wanted to know the answer too.

She realised she was holding her breath.

[Strawberries]

The boy stiffens, his eyes darting automatically between Alexei and Wulfgar as if looking for the permission to say something...and hoping that the permission is denied.

When no immediate objections are moved, he draws a breath and answers. "I... I can't speak of the sanctioning. But Terra was..." pain and terror and people dying, and he was ten, he was barely more than a toddler, all his memories are shadowed in the remembrance of how scared and alone he had been. But there was something else as well, wasn't it? Something that he's absolutely incapable to define. He tries his best all the same "It is a holy place and you... you c-can feel it. You can feel how close the Emperor is. Even if he didn't speak to us, w-I... I knew he was near. It's.. it's difficult to explain" he finishes, in a small whisper.

[ellna]

Sarah's smile fades as she hears Marcus's weak and flimsy voice return. Unworthy even to repeat what he was witness to. Shame to waste such a blessing on one so poorly equipped to appreciate the Emperor's joy. The scorn is ready on her lips, but she can't bring herself to speak it. Sarah looks away, back out the porthole her eyes distant and watery. She hums a faint tune beneath her breath until the smile finds it's way back to her.

...

Unfortunately she catches herself and tears away from the reverie. Her hand instantly resting on the pistol at her hip. She stares, venom in her eyes, at Marcus.

[bluntpencil]

"I reckons the Emperor had better things to do than bless little witch-children personally, Hounds. I'm sure it was truly a soul-rendin' experience, though..."
Alexei makes a point of using the term 'soul-rending'. It could be taken many ways. Of course, his meaning involved the punishment he imagined the Emperor would torture little witches with. A cruel bastard, the Emperor was, as far as the Captain was aware. Still, it was necessary...

[ellna]

Sarah actually smiles at Alexei's comment, but it is shaky and unsure. Her hand moves from her pistol back to the cog. He saw the truth and didn't waver in it's sounding. Cowardice. The word rang still in her mind.

[LeSwordfish]

Kaarli smiled brightly, hiding her disappointment. "Really? Wow. Uh."

"So. Malfi. Investigating the destroyed colleges is probably a good place to start, as is asking around in other colleges and other places for links."

[Urist]

Wulfgar's question stirs a certain curiosity in Yarach, atypical for him on anything not regarding technology. He finds himself listening closely, hanging on the childs' response. The words resonate. He remembers his own holy experience, and how, if he had not been as logical, coldly augmetic, the touch of the Omnissiah would have blasted his sanity to cinders. That the boy was afraid was proper, it seemed; only the foolish would not be afraid of the awesome power of the Emperor, in his aspect-as-Omnissiah or not. A quick blurt of binary, under his breath, betrays his prayer.


01010100 01101111 01101100 01101100 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 0100000 01000111 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110100 0100000 01000010 01100101 01101100 01101100 0100000 01001111 01101110 01100011 01100101 0100001 01101 01010 01010000 01110101 01101100 01101100 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 0100000 01001100 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 0100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 01110111 01100001 01110010 01100100 0100000 01110100 01101111 0100000 01100101 01101110 01100111 01100001 01100111 01100101 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01101 01010 01010000 01101001 01110011 01110100 01101111 01101110 0100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 0100000 01010000 01110101 01101101 01110000 0101110 0101110 0101110 01101 01010 01010100 01101111 01101100 01101100 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 0100000 01000111 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110100 0100000 01000010 01100101 01101100 01101100 0100000 01010100 01110111 01101001 01100011 01100101 0100001 01101 01010 01010111 01101001 01110100 01101000 0100000 01110000 01110101 01110011 01101000 0100000 01101111 01100110 0100000 01000010 01110101 01110100 01110100 01101111 01101110 0100000 01100110 01101001 01110010 01100101 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 0100000 01000101 01101110 01100111 01101001 01101110 01100101 01101 01010 01000001 01101110 01100100 0100000 01110011 01110000 01100001 01110010 01101011 0100000 01010100 01110101 01110010 01100010 01101001 01101110 01100101 0100000 01101001 01101110 01110100 01101111 0100000 01101100 01101001 01100110 01100101 0101110 0101110 0101110 01101 01010 01010100 01101111 01101100 01101100 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 0100000 01000111 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110100 0100000 01000010 01100101 01101100 01101100 0100000 01010100 01101000 01110010 01101001 01100011 01100101 0100001 01101 01010 01010011 01101001 01101110 01100111 0100000 01010000 01110010 01100001 01101001 01110011 01100101 0100000 01110100 01101111 0100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01101 01010 01000111 01101111 01100100 0100000 01101111 01100110 0100000 01000001 01101100 01101100 0100000 01001101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101 01110011 0100001


That over, he looks over at Sarah.

"This unit agrees. Malfi appears to have been assigned to List:Strategic Priorities. Does this compute, Captain?"

[bluntpencil]

As the others seem to chat amongst themselves, Alexei leans over to his Lieutenant, informing him of the current state of affairs, and confirming his request for information.

"Relay orders. We are going to Malfi by way of Imperial Starways 739, assumin' that tha Pater di Proviso isn't a lot faster or cheaper.

We'll hammer out tha details shortly. Have tha others find some information regardin' costs and time."

[ellna]

Sarah smiles at Kaarli. "I would say I could poke my nose in on the Watusi Syndicati. I could probably infiltrate them with ease."

Sarah looks uncomfortable as Yarach churns static though she manages a slight smile when he looks her way. "Yarach, surely you could have a more melodic output?"

[Urist]

Yarach smiles slightly at Sarah's question, and one might even see a small chuckle, if they looked close enough.

"This unit apologizes for the nature of its output. Tech-language does not have attribute:melodic when outputted in its straight form, it is true. This unit was offering prayer to the machine-spirits of all the machines which will bless this cell in their journey."

Nodding, Yarach proceeds to relay Alexei's orders to the rest of the crew.

"Attention Hounds! Cell:Hounds shall utilize one of two paths: either Imperial Starways 739 or the Pater di Provisio to World:Malfi. Utilization of each option is contingent on price and time required to elapse journey. Sister Kaarli, Marcus, investigate cost and time required, and report on said statistics back to this unit."

[ellna]

Sarah pats the heavy duffel bag that is strapped around her. It produces a slight metallic jingle. "I'm sure it would be a simple enough modification to alter the frequency of your pure machine um... static. The efficiency would remain optimal, I think. "

I'm pretty sure this is a faux pas. Surely thine tech-priest must smite me now :smallsmile:

[Urist]

The noise of Sarah's duffel bag catches Yarach's attention, but he quickly looks back at Sarah.

"Unfortunately, this unit cannot alter the frequency. The "static" that this unit hears is a series of subsonic clicks meant to represent 1's and 0's, which comprise the statements of which Tech is composed. Machine spirits ususally only hear statements expressed in this manner, unless these spirits are programmed otherwise."

Looking back at the bag, Yarach's head tilts inquisitively.

"Query: does this unit still maintain Amadeus? This unit's custom firearm was an intriguing piece."


Nah, Yarach, zealot that he is, understands the lack of knowledge of the Machine Cult the layman has. As long as no xenotech or Chaos tech finds its way into your gear, he usually doesn't feel strongly about non-believers. After all, put him in an Ecclesiarchy service, and he'd probably be strung up...:smallbiggrin:

[ellna]

"I do indeed. His song has kept strong over the past years, although his pitch may have changed..." Sarah smiles and twists in her jumble of straps, but whatever action she was attempting was restricted. Sarah looks out of the porthole. "It's a shame I may have to hide his identity for the mission. We'll both be undercover then." She turns to Alexei "Do you feel it necessary for me to hide behind a cover? The truth makes a finer shield."

[bluntpencil]

"I'm not here ta babysit, girl. Work it out yerself."
Alexei is giving Sarah some free reign here, but he's certainly not going to be pleasant about it. That would be weird.

[ellna]

Sarah winced as the Alexei spoke, the man was just plain wrong. She nodded to him. "Sir."

[Miraqariftsky]

There is a brief crackle on the intervox, "Holster yerselves, Acolytes. We're coming up..."

To those who can still see in some portholes, the grey-and-white swirls of Scintilla below rapidly recede. Lanes of space traffic merge and flow...

...and conspicuously avoid the Tholl-Frak-Me, giving them a quick and clear path to a hangar bay. From those peripheral glimpses of various freight-loaders and shuttlecraft as well as the outer hull of the station's modules, for a breathless moment the Acolytes could see at their left a fraction of the bulk of a vast warship teeming with gargoyles and guns and at their right another fraction of a starship that seems to be made largely of magnificently tinted cathedral windows.

And then the hangar bay doors soundlessly close behind them, vertical thrusters briefly flaring to assist their landing before mag-clamps and arti-grav forces assert themselves over simple gut-wrenching inertia. Pressures equalize with a hiss, then the bay door clangs open...

...seemingly right in front of an already-open module door, the metal of door and walls well-scrubbed and anointed. There, standing at attention and seemingly waiting on them is a trooper in a Naval Provost's dark blue flak jacket and visored helm. One arm salutes them sharply, the thumb properly in the Aquila Wing position. A large empty holster hugs the right hip, a shock baton hanging at the left. A dataslate flickers in the left hand, a Creed-Hacker autogun hanging from the provost's shoulder by a well-worn strap.

"Sir! Provost Carr, SN 6295619 reporting, sir!" he calls out to none in particular from the incoming party, then his gaze fixes on Alexei's and Kaeli's imposing figures. From what they could easily tell of his stance and tone, it is a formality as Captain Salleh could well have been broadcasting an Inquisitorial signal to speed their progress through customs. "Confirm identity, outbound Cell: Hounds, code Gamma-Four-Five-Niner, CO Captain Britanov? Which exactly's your transport? Several are imminently outbound, but passage could still be squeezed in. And... sorry sirs, we could abbreviate customs, security checks, and the rest, but the pay still has to be paid. Uh, sir."

[bluntpencil]

"Aye, Captain Alexei Britanov,"
Alexei stamps out of the lander roughly, and doesn't bother too much with introductions - he lets the others speak to the Provost. He gestures to the man with his right hand, indicating the others should handle this.

"Request info on both tha Pater di Proviso and Imperial Starways 739. Then, we pick our transport."
Hopefully picking a damn ride wouldn't be a bloody complicated exercise.

[Urist]

Yarach steps in to intercept the Provost, before Alexei's aura can put him off.

"At ease, Provost. This unit is Lieutenant-Enginseer Yarach, designated second-in-command of Inquisitorial Cell: Hounds, G459, reporting. This unit requires a brief readout on Variables: travel velocity and cost for Imperial Vessels: Pater di Proviso and Imperial Starways 739. What are their dispositions, Provost?"

[ellna]

Sarah unbuckles herself from the complex array of strapping she had woven herself into and disembarks the shuttle, with no small amount of relief. Once off she picks a spot a slight distance from the provost and begins tugging on her gauntlets once again. She then removes Amadeus, a heavy and bulky rifle with various gears and wires. While Yarach talks to the provost Sarah wraps the stock in dirty bandages stained with crusted blood. As she, removes the wrappings, the clinking of glass and the tell-tell slosh of liquids can be heard from her duffel bag.

[LeSwordfish]

"Have we considered taking two different vessels?" Kaarli asked Britanov quietly. "If they arrive at least reasonably close together, it might be a good way to get in under somebody's radar."

[Henry the 57th]

"But there is no way to guarantee that they would." says Kaeli, "The Warp being what it is, we cannot say how close or far apart the arrivals might be. Should we do so, we might not be able to link up again for months or maybe even years. That might mean the difference between success and failure. And failure is not an option."

[ellna]

Sarah refills the battered hip flask from a small bottle that she removes from the duffel bag. "Kaeli's right. Trusting the warp is folly. Trusting two ships to behave to same way, predictably." Sarah laughs, before swigging the from the clouded bottle and ramming the cork back in.

[Urist]

Yarach listens to the conversation, tilting his head to one side.

This unit agrees. Equations become far more difficult to solve by adding variables, and the equation of Cell:Hounds already contains many counfounding variables. One ship is safer, and easier.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei nods at the appraisal made by the others. They had no idea how long they had to complete this task, and it was best to assume they had very little time at all.

[Miraqariftsky]

Though clearly used to dealing with hull-bursting warp-horrors, the simple shipboard militiaman cannot suppress a shudder as Alexei casually looms over him. Confronted with the business of the questions, he snaps out of it swiftly enough, flicks through some electronic files and shakes his head decisively.

"They're right, sir" he says. "The Pater's a freighter, passenger accommodations would be... uncomfortable, but a good lot cheaper. Fifteenh-hundred cred-standard would be the lowest they could go. Relative rates, two to four warpspace weeks, and that's under favourable currents..."

He gives a shrug and thumbs his palm nervously. "...'msure voidboy there could corroborate. Realspace translation would be, as well ye'd know.... tricky."

A nod and a grunt come before he speaks again. "Seven-thirty-nine, she's dedicated passenger craft. Faster at one to two weeks on favourable warp currents, but will probably go for twenty-three hundred Thrones per head, with or without Inquisitorial consid'ration. Sir."

He gives one last check to his slate, then half-turns, jerking his head into the passage beyond. "Ticket terminal's this way, airlock modules for craft on imminent departure marked near there..."

[Urist]

Yarach looks to Alexei, his head clearly occupied with calculations.

"Query: Unit Priority, sir? This unit would favor 2 to 4 weeks with more favorable rates, so as to have adequate resources for establishing a base of operations upon planetfall. However, the consideration of time is very, very important as well."

[Henry the 57th]

"I suggest we choose the passenger ship. Speed is vital, and Emperor alone knows what might happen the longer we delay our arrival. Comfort means nothing to me, and I will willingly accept inferior accommodations, if money is the issue."

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar nods in agreement with the Battle Sister's sentiment. "Two weeks could mean the difference between success and failure. I will sleep on the deck-plates if necessary. Comfort means nothing when compared to the chance that we will lose track of our prey."

[Urist]

"Speed is a vital operating parameter., but proper resource management protocols must be observed. The 1,600 Thrones remaining after budgeting will not procure substantial local resources to aid in completion of this cells primary objective efficiently. This unit agrees, accomadations are a non-issue; the primary motivating factor is ability to complete objectives upon arrival."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei points at Sarah and Lupus,

"These two could probably find a way ta get a base set up wi' little fuss once we get there.

If cash becomes an issue, we can make unreasonable demands o' folks we dislike. It's our right.

We're takin' tha fast boat. See if we can secure substandard berths, to lower costs. Folks can claim ta be servants or somethin', so should only sleep on tha deckin'."

[ellna]

Sarah is half way through the process of climbing into robes, so tattered they might as well be a gauze, when she hears the two choices. "Unfavourable currents. If we take the Pater we might not even make it here. Alexei speed is of an essence in this matter. We arrived on scintilla to late in the mechanisms of Zweiker's plots two years ago. Look what tardiness wrought then. If money is a concern, surely it weighs not against the safety of the planet and the foiling of whatever insidious plot may be afloat. Also maybe Yarach could offer his services to the ship, I'm sure a mechanicus could be a boon set against the cost of his travel?" As she speaks she pulls the various holsters and webbing from her legs and stows them with there pistols into the duffel bag.

~~~

She slings her bags back over her shoulders. The tattered rags covering her are caked with mould and dirt. Amadeus rest easily in her hands it's name-sake hidden beneath the wrapping and the bandoleer holding it's spikes peeks out from beneath the missing patches in the beggar's dressing. She Straightens with a grunt as she advances on Alexei. "Setting up shop should be easy enough. If they, as I suspect, hide in the lower-hive. We will have little to worry about that cannot be bought with a few thrones. However the Noble behind the gang might require various financing to get to."

She ponders for a moment before saying. "We should head for Taj'ken in the underhive. It's relatively safe and from there we can reach the vault of Jericus. It has many tales with bad omens that will keep the locals away. It would serve us well as a base of operations. Best of all I know some of the people in Taj'ken so finding information on the Syndicati will be relatively painless. Downside is it's down in the slums though if our investigations lead us to the puppeteer Noble we may have to relocate." Sarah has sweat beading on her brow, a cold, fearful sweat. She looks away from Alexei and rearranges her robes slightly.

[bluntpencil]

"We set up two positions ta work from. You're on tha one below, 'Jackal', Lord Sinderfell will find us someplace higher up."
The Captain is very businesslike at the moment. He wants to get the details ironed out as quickly as possible, largely because it's efficient, but also because he doesn't feel like talking to this sorry lot.

[ellna]

Sarah manages a smile while actually meeting Alexei's eyes. Only for a moment though. She stands bolt upright and give a rigid salute. "Yessir!"

Happy at least to be going home, on a ship slightly less inclined to fall apart, Sarah moves back out of the immediate presence of the Captain. She hums a little tune as she goes.

[LeSwordfish]

"How are we going to split up once aboard the ship?" Kaarli asked, adjusting how her crossbow hung on its strap. "What if Wulfgar, the psyker, the malfian native and i went together, and the rest of you went with Sarah? That way we have one person who knows the planet in each group, and those pairings most likely to cause trouble are split up."

[ellna]

Sarah jerks her head and stops the humming. "Alexei and Yarach's are officers surely it would make more sense to have one in each grouping? Alexei is a walking signpost to Arbite presence and I'm not sure Kaeli would be less obvious. Though her flamer would be most useful in the lower hives for clearing out the bilge... Yes and her fancy armour I doubt anyone would spot her from a distance... There's a Arbite HQ near Taj'ken that Alexei could perhaps rouse from their corruption... Yes, Yes and I wouldn't have to tolerate that... thing." Sarah speech starts loud and fades away quieter and quieter as she convinces herself of the merit of Kaarli's idea. At the end she's really just mumbling to herself. She continues to shuffle around as the details are worked out.

[Urist]

Yarach inclines his head, clearly defeated in this particular engagement.

"This unit defers to the Unit Captain's cogitations, sir. Adjusting Variable:Speed to Priority Alpha in further cogitations."

Considering for a moment, he continues:


"As stated, this unit may be able to curry its services on board the ship for some amelioration of this units passage, and possibly others. Techpriests are always necessary on any vessel. As for splitting up, this unit sees merits and flaws in the currently suggested distributions. Clustering officers, in most cases, a poor choice; however, this unit is also very noticable, very slow, and unused to working his way around the environment of the Underhive. As well, this unit posits that there might be merit in the performance of computer analysis, which this unit is quite skilled in; this is more likely obtained in the Upper Hive, where this unit can interface with fellow Adeptus Mechanicus."

[ellna]

Sarah continues her mumbling... "The hive beats with the blood, the metal of its bones. Yes split the officers, better to manage. Yarach perhaps you would be better suited lower than you think. The Tech the gang has must be analysed. I could do that, done it before. Picking the cogs from the bones, the wires a painting. I have experience enough to verify the heresy. Yarach's bulk tripping in the rust. Noisy. Cumbersome. Solid. Reliable. Could be needed to put down the rats. Alexei should be enough, harsh boom of justice. Kaeli's fire of zeal. The burning fire of life. The engines of the Imperium. Perhaps I could serve as you're aid on the ship. I have repaired machines before, we could cut two from the cost. I could see the beating heart of the ship. It's life spooled out. Robust. Enduring. Far from the rickety shambles of the cabins, the incessant groaning, the uncertainty. Tossed along on a sea unknown..." She fingers the cog as paces back and forth.

[Strawberries]

Marcus had sit back down as quickly as he could, glad that the attention was not on him anymore. As he listens to the discussion about splitting the group, he realises that there's probably something that the others would need to know... even if he would really prefer not to bring up the argument.

He forces himself to look at Alexei as he speaks "I... Uhm... I have no preferences, but it would be better if I am not in the same group as you. Sir." He realises how it sounds, but that's mission-critical information, and he's not sure if Alexei knows that "It's because, er... I can't function properly if you are too near, sir." He is not completely sure of what it would happen if he tried using one of his powers when a Blank is near, but the mere fact that the only feedback he's getting is that sensation of WRONG, and not the usual whispers and impressions that are familiar and almost comforting makes him think that it'll be nothing good.

[Urist]

Yarach listens to Sarah attentively, weighing the pros and cons of her suggestions Her rambling is slighlty disconcerting, but who is he to judge, considering his vocal oddities?

"This unit sees your point that this unit may be helpful in the underhive in some capacities; however, such an eventuality depends on the heretics not being alerted during investigation. Unfortunately, this unit has a distinctive appearance, and this unit is unlikely to be abe to change it. These untis will be staying in contact, ideally, and this unit could be brought in when necessary. As well, if the Underhive cell identifies a large, embedded heretic population, these units could be called in to assist with cleansing."

[ellna]

Sarah continues ranting for a bit, until the words become unintelligible. She stops herself, taking a gulp from the flask. She wipes her lips and manages a smile at Marcus' discomfort and apparent weakness. Alexei blocks his power. Interesting. Useful to know. A lot of things started to slot into place within her mind.

She turns to face Yarach. "Yes spread the web to catch the truth and collate to strike the spider. I kept my issued communicator working. It's voice is unbent by time." She keeps grinning as she returns to mumbling, though in a calmer manner than before. "If I can infiltrate, join, the Syndicati the information might require less of a heavy hand. We could hide our presence in the shadows. Leave them to an arbite crackdown. This has already been attempted, we must oversee their demise to endure it's success. Too much is at stake. Strike down the head, sabotage their weapons and they would lose their foul advantage. Would they know me, by my past. Could they trust me. Danger, risk and reward. A story is needed. What cost to joining? The Emperor watches..."

[bluntpencil]

"Aight, Hounds, here it is!

Lieutenant, Organise List: Hounds into Sub-List: Jackals and Sub-List: Wolves, aye?"
The Captain says this with something of a smirk; he seems to enjoy mimicking Yarach's manner of speech.

"Tha Jackals are as follows:

Myself (That's Captain Britanov), Sarah Haxta, Kaarli Remora and Wulfgar. We will hit tha lower hive. We'll sniff aroun', then brutalise us a witch, aye?

Tha Wolves are as follows:

Lieutenant Yarach, Lupus Sinderfell, Marcus Lumen and Kaeli Etemara. You will hit tha upper hive. Try play it quiet, an' find out what tha hell is goin' down."
He doesn't seem to want to discuss this matter, but seems to be waiting for input or acknowledgement. He might not be the most likeable commander ever (in fact, he's probably the least likeable commander ever), but at least he's decisive and not too much of an idiot.

[ellna]

Sarah asks "...maelstrom, prove this ship... Should we assume the organisation at boarding or departure of the chosen vessel. I would place merit on freedom of movement while aboard the boat... worthy of protecting..." The question springing out from the middle of a muttered prayer against warpcraft.

[Miraqariftsky]

Naval Provost Carr seems decidedly nervous as he leads the way through the relatively clean and bare corridors of the station’s departure terminal. Several times, he casts sidelong glances at the openly chatting Acolytes behind him, his march even missing a step or two.


Scrutiny test, +20
Failure by several degrees

Argh! He's leading us into a trap! KEEL HEEM!


Simple failure

Huh. Looks like he wants to be rid of us quickly. A tryst or did he eat something spoiled and needs to unload soon?


0-1 degrees of success

Huh. Bugger's nervous. Might be afraid of, or impressed of so many veteran Throne Agents...


Severe of success

Huh. Bugger's nervous. Might be afraid of that he might be ordered executed on account of having heard too much of our too noisy planning...



The passageway reverberates with hurrying jackboots on deckplating. Some might be wondering, some might be yearning, some might be dreading what might happen if or when things revert to their natural state with the arti-grav plates losing power somehow.

Carr stops before a grille and barks into it, relaying the Acolytes' orders regarding chosen transport. He then jerks his head at the Sister who appears to still be clutching the briefcase protectively. Once the transaction is done, the change is quickly spat out of a shiny metal box that cranks its way out of the booth, as well as eight yellow-skinned magnetic-stripped plastek tickets.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei makes a point of keeping his distance from people. The Arbitrator uniform likely helps here, as does the full-face helm. He doesn't see the point of mingling with a bunch of ignorant dogs, and making their neck hairs rise with his winning personality.

Sure, tormenting people is fun, but he has an important job to do. Duty is its own reward, after all.

Maybe the others would speak to these folks and gather some helpful info, though. Kaarli would likely be accepted by these poor bastards.

Before boarding, he made a point of telling Yarach to have the cell split into its two parts before boarding. However, it was to be suggested that Sarah and Kaarli keep their distance from the uniformed lawman, so that they didn't look like police-rats.

[ellna]

Sarah mumbles quietly to herself as she follows the provost along the winding root. Suddenly she twitches violently the heavy rifle in her hands spinning up to point at their guide. There is a hissing sound from the weapon...


Naval Provost Carr seems decidedly nervous as he leads the way through the relatively clean and bare corridors of the station’s departure terminal. Several times, he casts sidelong glances at the openly chatting Acolytes behind him, his march even missing a step or two.


Scrutiny test, +20
Failure by several degrees

Argh! He's leading us into a trap! KEEL HEEM!

[bluntpencil]

Alexei, being quick on the draw, and standing behind Sarah, presses his bolt pistol against the base of her spine. He leans in far too close and whispers into her ear.

"Not again, girl. Not on my watch. That's strike two."

[ellna]

Sarah feels the hard metal press against her. She feels the itching presence of the captain. His hot breath, rank with lho. She feels terror. "It's a frakkin trap... Sir." The words stutter from her mouth accompanied with the clanging of her precious weapon on the metal floor.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli sees the scum bring out her weapon, then watches as the captain sticks a pistol to her spine and whispers in her ear. She has no idea of what is being said, but draws her own bolter and levels it at Sarah. Just to be sure. Then she hears the woman stutter something about this being a trap.

"What's going on, sir?" Kaeli whispers to the captain.

[bluntpencil]

"A second attempt at friendly fire from Miss Haxta. Next time, tha sentence will be death,"
he quietly explains to the Sister. He then blows the whole situation off by yelling at the Provost. He probably didn't want to know what just happened behind him.

"What!? Keep moving, dammit!"

[ellna]

Sarah falls to her knees as the pistol is removed. She remains there a while as the rest walk past and onwards. Sister Kaeli leans down close to her and whispers in her ear. She bites her lip so hard that blood wells there. After the group move past she sobs quietly. Only when she realises that if she loses them, she doesn't know where to go does she picks herself up and hurries after the others. Clutching the weapon to her chest.

Well then. If anyone else wants to react to this in a manner other than following Alexei and the provost I'll edit this otherwise. Onto the ship. I guess that anyone else the fails miserably at the scrutiny will handle it better with Alexei's example.

[Urist]

Yarach's electronic senses, as well as his paranoia, seem to be acting up, and he reaches for his laspistol. However, as he sees Alexei draw his bolt pistol, he realizes that he must be being too paranoid, and he wills himself to calm down.

At the warp transition, Yarach shuts down his senses for a moment, disconnecting his impressions of the Warp from his electronic brain, so as to protect his sanity and purity. However, he still feels the effects of the transition, and his nausea threatens to overwhelm him briefly. Unable to see anything in the dark hold, Yarach sticks close to the groups, his hands within his robes grasping at his autopistol, ready to draw, if need be.

[Miraqariftsky]

((Ha-ha, warp-time? Put this 'ere somewhere up there, eh? Ha-ha.))

Tickets flutter to the floor. The Provost slides a good step away, his standard-issue Creed-Hacker bullpup autorifle in his hands. For a moment, the shuddering sights steady on Sarah's face, then seeing the situation under control, slowly lowers his weapon. "SER", he grates. "What in Tholl's balls was that? Inquisition's joke? Or am I to be summarily executed for having inavdertennly 'eard y'all's plans?"

"Huh? Hell!" he spits, then conspicuously clicks his weapon's safety on. "Throne burn me, I'm the Emperor's man. Infernis Redeemers, Slag Dogs 44th, got me leg fragged by rebel scum, only just got free of the medicae, Regiment left me here on this ass-hell station. But Tholl slag me, tis me duty. So here I be." He stands tall and unships his magazine. "Kill me and be done with it if ye hafta"

~~~

There is a flush as he hears both dismissal and approval in Alexei's bark and he quickly obeys, carrying out the rest of his duty.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli stops to bend down and whisper briefly in Sarah's ear. "Another "friendly fire" incident like that and I'll carry out your sentence myself."

Kaeli then resumes her full height and walks onward, only putting away her bolter with great reluctance.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei points the pistol at the Provost now, and barks a laugh,

"Our plans? Pfft! Haha! Ye know where we're goin' an' ye know we're splittin' inta two groups. Ye must be tha most dangerous man in tha whole sector now!

Just move, aight, war hero?!"
Interesting. The Inquisitor must have offed folk in the past for overhearing things. Feigning ignorance would be the order of the day now.

In his head, he ticks a checkbox in favour of the Sister. She probably couldn't be trusted with anything subtle, but she wasn't as much a loose cannon as the religious paraphernalia might suggest.

[Miraqariftsky]

No longer quivering, Provost Carr clicks his heels together as he snaps a salute, then points, "Third door on the right, SER."

When they get there and the door-servitor clicks away at their tickets, entry past the turnstile and double airlocks is uneventful. There seems to be no significant difference between the modules of the station and the interior of the standard Imperial chartist vessel. Drab walls of gunmetal grey, flourescent illuminators, clanging deckplates, hissing air vents, tiny and distant portholes...

...and then there is a chime the slightest shudder as the 739 undocks from Scintilla Orbital, setting off on its course. Another chime sounds while the Acolytes are mayhap midway through the ship--- but who could truly tell?--- and the intervox crackles with a recording.

++ALL CREW AND PASSENGERS, ATTENTION. BRACE YOURSELVES. THE EMPEROR PROTECTS. TRANSLATION TO WARPSPACE IN 10 SECONDS...++

Soon enough, the decks, their clothes, their bodies, everything seems to shudder and stretch. The lights blink and flare and swirl, leaving throbbing, writhing afterimages. Blood beats in the ears, the blood within their veins and the blood that flows through the veins of the starship. They feel the groaning and the creaking of every deckplate and beam and bolt of the ancient vessel.

++EN ROUTE TO FIRST STOP, AGRI-COLONY "CRAMBEAN". THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTINUED PATRONAGE.++


Toughness checks, please. +10 for the Voider. Fortunately, no Feral who might otherwise receive a -10.
Success---Arrighty.
Pass---Queasy
Failure---Nauseaous,
Horrendous Failure--- Nausea for 1d10 hours, 1d5 Wounds-worth.


And then reality snaps back into place, everything more or less where it should be. A loop of music now plays on the vox, some young soprano singer from Tarsus, based on the accent, singing an operatic duet with a rather older, rumbling bass. Quintian or Drusine? The song is of a hero's journey, a fallen prince with an exiled mother and dead father. He sets off as jackals tear at his estate, after a bride seized by rivals. Comrades die and kingdoms burn. The hero sits upon an ashen throne in an empty shell of a home, his rivals' heads as his footstools. Where lie the mother and the bride? Where the baseborn maiden bedded upon a midden 'ere all began? Where now the bastard begat upon the nameless huntress in a nameless wood? Where now the fate that...

Along the way, they spot a panel, a brass engraving of a map of the ship. Passenger cabins are amidships, cargo holds behind, the bridge above. The chapel is at the heart of the vessel, the galley just beside that. A library occupies a slice of the viewing deck at the bow. The holovid theatre is behind the viewing deck. At the prow itself is what seems to be but a single, paltry cannon, the most meagre defense. Behind the cargo holds are the enginarium, the warpfield generators and the gellar-field generators.

The tickets say "DECK 3: HUMAN CARGO" and "DECK 4: HUMAN CARGO". The air is thick with the scents of human sweat and filth, as well as dark with luminators few and far between, creating great canyons of light and shadow. When they get to their respective berths, they find from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, stacked with crates upon crates, barrels upon barrels. Some of them seem to have been opened and converted into coffin-like improvised hab-stacks. In certain areas, fires flicker in oil-drums while otherwise upstanding passengers huddle for warmth, with little difference from scav-scum gangers and vehicle-guts tribesfolk.

They gaze on the newcomers with a mixture of dread, curiousity, affability... and hunger.


Awareness +0

Severe failure
Can't see nuthin'. Too dark.

Flat failure
W'elp. As stated in the unspoilered narration.

Simple success
Most are armed, at least with blades and some form of slugthrowers. There seems to be a preacher there, beginning a sermon. The people seem at least attentive. There seem to be several family units. There seem to be the scents of food on the cook and... laundry? dishwashing? detergent.

Severe success

There seem to be at least two or three mercenary groups or heavy-gangs, judging by their heavier weapons, heavier accents and heavier armour jacks, having staked out some defensible territory. They seem to be keeping apart from everybody else. What, or rather, who aren't keeping apart are some merchants who seem to be hawking wares in an improvised plaza that they've eked out in the centre of the respective cargo holds. What wares are actually being hawked, none could tell yet, at least at this angle. Children? Is there a friggen school here? Or a puppet show? ACK! Kids! Puppies! Kittens! KITTENS! AAAAAGH.

Koff. Ehem.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei makes a point of keeping his distance from people. The Arbitrator uniform likely helps here, as does the full-face helm. He doesn't see the point of mingling with a bunch of ignorant dogs, and making their neck hairs rise with his winning personality.

Sure, tormenting people is fun, but he has an important job to do. Duty is its own reward, after all.

Maybe the others would speak to these folks and gather some helpful info, though. Kaarli would likely be accepted by these poor bastards.

Before boarding, he made a point of telling Yarach to have the cell split into its two parts before boarding. However, it was to be suggested that Sarah and Kaarli keep their distance from the uniformed lawman, so that they didn't look like police-rats.

He does make sure to tell Kaarli to keep an eye on Sarah, and prevent her from doing anything Throne-damned stupid or murderous.

[Henry the 57th]

Kaeli endures the translation to Warp-space with stoicism, mouthing prayers to the God-Emperor throughout the entirety of the translation. She does not flinch away from it, and when it is done, she moves on without pause or comment.

When they arrive at where they are to be staying, Kaeli looks around with a degree of disdain. "Mercenaries. she practically spits. "Or heavy gangs, at least. Two or three, perhaps, with heavy weapons. Merchants too." She says, pointing them out.

[Strawberries]

Marcus had stopped in his tracks when he saw the little scene between Sarah and the Captain... it's not clear if because he wanted to intervene on her or his behalf. When he sees her sob to herself there's a flash of concern in his eyes, he actually takes a couple of steps back towards her, and he does seem on the verge of saying something... but he he's quite sure that approaching her won't be appreciated, judging from how she has reacted towards him till now. Plus, he doesn't have any idea of what to say to her. He just bites his lips and turns back, walking to catch up with the others.

-.-.-.-

The jolting back into normal space is so familiar for the young psyker that it's almost welcome. Less so the sight of the other passengers... he shudders slightly, and nods to the Sister when she points out the different groups. He couldn't distinguish them himself.

[DaedalusMkV]

Wulfgar obseves the milling Mercenary forces uneasily. "They are very well equipped. Likely mercenaries, gangs rarely travel off-planet. This ship is more dangerous than I had expected. I will scout for a defensible position to secure ourselves for the journey. Stay here, be on your guard. Too many firearms here..." Without another word the First Blade slips away, putting his plan into motion.


Not sure exactly what sort of Test to make here. Basically, Wulfgar is looking for a good nook, cranny or corner that the group can take over, fortify and hide in, just in case things in this cargo hold turn dangerous. I'll throw an Awareness and a Search test at it, see what sticks.

Awareness: [roll0] vs TN 55
Search: [roll1] vs TN 45.

Wulfgar uses his Photo-Contacts, and as such is entirely unaffected by poor lighting conditions.

[bluntpencil]

"If they're hired guns, I wanna know who's hirin',"
whispers the Captain down the sub-cell vox; Sarah and Kaarli could find out. He was actually happy the folks here turned out to be mercenaries as opposed to gangers. Gangers would be shooting him right about now. They didn't like Arbitrators, and would like him even less. Still, he figured it best to play it safe, and set about hunkering down in cover with Wulfgar.

[ellna]

Sarah gets shipboard slinking in behind the others like a beaten dog. She keeps her distance watching them warily, before selecting whichever deck Alexei isn't on. A panic builds in her eyes as the count-down continues and then ~ Sarah hurls chunks against one of the battered walls as the vessel spins her stomach like a cog. She stumbles around the ship disoriented. Feeling her way by touch she finds a empty recess and stows herself in it. The ships slams back into the warp as slips down the bulkhead, her head bouncing hard of the unyielding frame. Frakkin warp travel. She fumbles through the filthy rags that adorn her and pulls out the flask. Her hands tremble as she clutches it. Amadeus rests on her lap and her other hand rummages through the duffel bag, now splattered with her bile, the fingers closing around the familiar shape of her pistol. She closes her eyes, they're not doing her much good anyhow and rocks quietly. Humming a small tune. She remains there in whatever hole she could find until reality reasserts itself.

When her vox crackles she presses send with the battered flask. "Hmm... No feeling... Frakin Warp... valley of..."

Sitrep: Holding Fat Vera and Salanan's Flask.
Sick, Nauseated and Injured.
Nauseated: 3 hours.
Wounds: 7/10

She knows nothing of her surroundings, so assume she is in whichever deck don't have Alexei and crawled into some random hole, corner or crate.

Conditionals:If approached before 3 hours:Sarah pulls out a pistol in the dim light it looks to be a primitive flintlock, but the gleaming fat clip of ammo that hangs from it puts immediate bed to this."Frak off!" She screams waving the weapon at them.
If approached by team-mate:Sarah takes a moment to recognise the person that approaches. A slight twitch of one hand concealed in bag hints at danger. She looks confused for a second and then smiles broadly. "I'll be alright just lemme settle the warp plays us all."
If approached by armed nasties:Sarah looks up groggily at them. "I have an Orthlack aimed at you right now, I wouldn't test me now. Let me get the rhythm I'll find you."

After three hours she'll take stock of the situation:Sarah stands blood dripping from her head and fumbles for the Vox...

[Urist]

Yarach, his carapaces built in photovisor allowing him to see in the dark, takes in the squalor of the hold around him. Turning to Kaeli, he whispers "Affirmative." as she identifies each of the groups of armed men, ammending target flags to each of their memory files, if need be. His hand still on his laspistol, Yarach turns to the group, and again whispers:

"These units need to find location:Berth to occupy, and set up rotatio:Watch. This unit shall take first watch. Query: can these units identify possible locations? This unit is less adept at such things."

[LeSwordfish]

Kaarli had travelled on warp-vessels less than a dozen times before. She'd never taken well to warp transitions, and felt nauseous within minutes of the shaking as the transition took. She couldn't remember the prayer for the voidfarer, and her prized holy books, heavily annotated, had been left behind on Quintus under the guard of a friend. They were far too heavy to carry.

"Vox me or find me when you have a berth. I want to walk about. Get to know the people." She glanced back at Wulfgar and Britanov guiltily. "They look like they need a cleric. And everyone likes the ecclesiarchy. I might be able to get some information... Look, Yarach wanted to work on the machinery of the ship? It's sort of like that."

Before either of them could argue, Kaarli had already wandered off into the mass of humanity.

Away from the blank and the magos, Kaarli had her first moments for quiet and introspection. She considered her position for a few minutes and then put it aside, moving amongst the mass of humanity, passing out benedictions, sharing prayers, and doing what good she could.

As she walked, she began to answer questions as well as ask them. "I'm on a pilgrimage with my fellows. I've also got a brother on Malfi. A student at Santo Marcos Gold university. Have you heard of it? Any news from Malfi?"

Charm test for the crowd in general. Basically just trying to help people and such, as stated IC. [roll0] vs 60 (Fel 50, +10 Peer (Workers))

Inquiry test, looking for rumours from Malfi, or any information that can be picked up. If anyone mentions having come from/recently visited any of our other target planets, Remora will ask questions about that too. [roll1] vs 70 (Fel 50, +10 training, +10 Peer (Workers), which i knew would come in handy.)

[roll2] Decieve roll vs 60, for the lies told in order to get this info, if needed.