Ketzerei gebiert Ketzerei, Akt 1: Shadows of the Spires

[Urist]

5.880.965M41, Scintilla System (Local Reckoning: 28.7 of Unification Month, 9.28.7.965M41)



Scintillan winters, such as they are, are not pleasant affairs for most citizens. The cold condenses hail and snow laden with heavy metals and pollutants, producing drifts of black and brown powder streaked with red rust. Only on the Lucid Palace and the accompanying Sector Synod does the snow fall a blessed white, ancient air-purifying systems laboring to provide clear, clean air to the representatives of the Emperor's Truth. The power of that imagery is not lost on the Ministorum; according to the sermons of some preachers around the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension, if Scintilla's masses were to abase themselves before Him He would honor them with a pure snowfall. From the windows of the penthouse apartment provided by your Inquisitor, in the heart of the Cathedral District, you can see the spires of hundreds of churches reaching towards the sky, seemingly striving to reunite with their Lord on Terra. For those not privy to the knowledge you carry, the darkened city seems entirely peaceful. For those of the Inquisition, though, such a scene cannot hold for long. Heresy bubbles under the surface; it is your job to prevent it from reaching a boiling point.

As is typical of Inqusitor Vorback, you received no briefing prior to arrival on Scintilla. Through courier, dead drop, and Astropathic communication, you all received a simple missive instructing you to head to Scintilla. Upon arriving at the spaceport, discrete drivers approach you all, leading you to waiting automobiles. The rich leather interiors and well-stocked bars are also typical of the Inquisitor, and are mirrored in the beautiful interior of the penthouse apartment the drivers usher you into after a quick ride from the spaceport. The butler, who if allowed will deposit your bags in your rooms, asks you to congregate in the main living room at your earliest convenience.

The living room is well but starkly appointed with white leather couches arranged in a semi-circle facing a large glass window, looking out upon the Sector Synod and the Lucid Palace on the Governor's Court. In the middle of the circle is a hololith worked into the center of a large glass table, clearly operational, but not well used judging by the lack of ozone smell and accumulated wear. When all of you have taken your places, the hololith stutters to life, an attendant darting forward to give it a whack when it fails to focus. Inquisitor Vorbak's hooded form comes into focus, the eerie blue tint of the hololith magnifying his already mysterious image. His raspy voice, colored by an accent unknown but by now familiar to you, drifts from the speaker, slightly out of sync with his image.


“I'm glad you have all arrived at the villa in a timely manner and, it appears, ready to begin our most holy work on Him on Terra's behalf. Hopefully it is not too late already; the plans and plots which have been set in motion are even now working to destroy the peace and sanctity of this palace of our Lord."

"The Imperial Creed tolerates many divisions and differences; we all know this. Perhaps far more than you or I would perhaps enjoy, ya? But the Ecclesiarchy has long had a doctrine of plurality, allowing as many different Creeds as there are stars in the sky. Only rarely will a world undergo the paroxysms of a religious war, and almost never in such a place as Scintilla, the seat of the Synod, the center of the Ecclesiarchy in this benighted realm. It appears, however, that just such a thing has taken place. Deep in the Middle and Underhives, the preachers speak of a resurrected Emperor, and their talk takes on disturbing hues of xenos-worship and heresy. To speak of the Emperor being resurrected is in and of itself disturbing, considering that He still lives on Terra; but to speak as if he will come to Scintilla in this lifetime? Such a thing has gathered many disaffected followers, and they prepare to march on churches which do not accept these words as truth."

"Already, the Arbites have suppressed two riots, with 500 dead and over 10,000 imprisoned. We cannot move against the church leaders as of yet, however; they disclaim responsibility and publically condemn the actions of the mobs. The leaders of each all claim to have come to the revelation separately. However, when they all speak in the same way... quote the same scriptures, use the same phrases... some dark hand, or hands, are at work here, my acolytes. I know not what, or who. You will discover these things, purge them, and report back to me. A religious uprising on Scintilla could jeopardize all of the Sector Synod's holdings, ya? So work swiftly, diligently, and delicately. The justice of the Emperor will fall like a hammer on those deserving, but first we must seek them all out, prevent the ringleaders from slinking away into the darkness of the Underhive or the cold void of space."

"My men will distribute dossiers containing all the information my network has managed to obtain; this villa and its resources are yours for the duration of your stay. If you require more information, the Cathedral of Illumination has received directives from myself to aid in your endeavors. Report when you have something significant, but for now I must attend matters elsewhere. May the Emperor protect you, my acolytes."

As the lilting tones of your master's voice fade and the hololith flickers out, the servants reemerge bearing dossiers, containing information on the various churches, sects, and officials under suspicion. A few seconds later, an aged man emerges from another door, clad in a simple black robe. Although his thick accent might give the impression of dimness, the practiced way he examines you all and the twinkle in his eye argues against this impression.


"Gre'ings, mastas! Me name is Bertol, 'Quisitor Vorbak's private librarian. I 'ope tha I ken be of service to ya durin your stay. I also run the masta's house during his absences. I 'ope you'r ungry! Dinna will be on the table in 5, roast grox, knudeln, and a noice salad. I'm goin ta head down ta the wine cellars and grab a bottle or two of Amasec, methinks; anything for the masta's?"

With any drink orders taken down, he shuffles over to the kitchen door and down the stairs into a small storage area. If any follow, they find a small closet-like room, well-stocked with rare vintages and culinary oddities. Although well cleaned, the area does not look heavily utilized; judging by the lack of wear, Bertol is likely the only person who ever ventures here, and even then only to clean.


Feel free to interrupt at any point in this and perform whatever actions you deem necessary. Lord Vorbak will not take questions as of now, however; he appears in a great hurry. Also, remember,all documents will go in the first post in the OoC under Plot. :)

[bluntpencil]

Marius raises an eyebrow at the so called 'librarian'. He did not expect to have servants running around after him, being something of an ascetic himself. Even were he to end up a Primaris Psyker, he'd expect to be the servant, as opposed to the master.

"Water, please, Bertol. Purified."

He's not the type to indulge in hard liquor, unless duty requires it of him.

He doesn't take a seat. He's, very obviously, on edge. He paces, slowly, clicking together a set of prayer beads in his right hand, his left resting on his sword's pommel.

Click. Click. Click.

"Resurrection? Hmm... what did Sebastian Thor say about such? I do believe he thought it possible..." muses the Templar aloud, in a soft tone of voice, as he continues to absently fidget with his prayer beads.

Click. Click. Click.

[ellna]

Varrog had been enjoying a fine vintage when the Inquisitor's missive found him. A century old Amasec matured in a Nalwood Cask that was rarer than it's contents given Tanith's fall. Yes, thought Varrog, it had been a especially good taste made all the sweeter since the prior owner now rotted with his confederates at the emperor's mercy. The debauched cult safely behind bars Varrog had looked forward to a spot of leave before his next task, but he had barely kicked of his boots when a knock dragged him from the fine vintage.

Varrog stepped out of the car a cursed the cold, briefly wishing for the warmth of the forge before marching into the villa. The spaceport had been a relatively simple affair for him, a flash of the Adeptus Arbites special permit allowed his heavily armoured form to stomp through the security checks and into the waiting vehicle, pausing only to give his name to the expectant chauffeur. Within the villa Varrog handed his shotgun and small case of essentials to the dogsbody, before carefully lowering himself onto a couch pleasantly surprised at the lack of creaking his bulk made.

He watches and listens to the Inquisitor's briefing, mentally swearing when Vorbak rules out a direct assault on the church leaders. A resurrected emperor, what tripe. It was unfortunately just the sort of tripe the masses swallowed and apparently they were judging from the reports of riots. For a moment Varrog considers how many of the causalities had been Arbite officers, oh well that's what they were for. As Vorbak faded from view, Varrog found himself wondering and not for the first time, why his benefactor never showed his face. Perhaps he was just hideous, doubtable. Varrog personally suspected his mysterious methods concealed a hidden trick, perhaps explaining his longevity, or the fact that many man wore the mantle of Vorbak. Varrog pushed aside his musings, since they had no benefit for him, and grabbed the dossier from servant studying it closely.

Varrog is five foot tool and built with a frame more suited to a mining servitor than a breathing man. He is clad from head to toe in thick carapace armour, uniformly dull blue, without any identifying marks, not even an aquila and baring more scrapes, scuffs and dents than a chimera fresh from the front-lines. Currently lacking his shotgun the only other weapon he carries is a hefty club at his side, a heavy slab bound in leather. His bandoleer sports numerous shotgun shells as well as various hard pouches one of which bears a faded emblem of the Adeptus Medicae, while another boasts the cog of the Mechanicus. A set of heavy manacles hang freely behind his solid baton and a grimy respirator hangs at his neck.

When the servant mentions food, Varrog speaks. His voice sound harsh with a tinny note, perhaps due to a helmet vocal augmenter.

"I will require additional portions and anything golden and wet will suffice."


http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs21/f/2007/273/e/d/Collaborations___Marine_by_Lethus.jpg (http://lethus.deviantart.com/art/Collaborations-Marine-66208440)
Varrog looks like this dude, replace the machine gun with a shotgun and bingo.

[bluntpencil]

Marius stops pacing when Varrog speaks, and looks him up... then looks him down. The clicking of the prayer beads doesn't cease.

Click. Click. Click.

He nods, respectfully, to Varrog and the others, before introducing politely introducing himself.

"I'm Brother Marius Duplantier. It's... an honour."

His voice remains soft, and a little quiet. It's not so quiet that it can't be heard, but quiet enough that people need to stop and listen. His speech is slow and deliberate, as if he's carefully choosing his words. Those with an eye for such things can tell that the prayer beads are no mere affectation, and that the sword is not merely for show.

[ellna]

Varrog tosses the Dossier to one side, letting it land beside him on the comfortable couch. It's clear that he's finished reading it rather than responding to Marius' introduction. He reaches up to remove his bulky helmet, the sturdy defence resisting slightly before coming loose. Varrog drops it beside the dossier and lounges against the couch, thickly armoured arms draped over the back at either side. His face is squat and thickly set, at places his skin is stretched dangerously thin over subcutaneous metal plates and dark stubble covers his chin. His hair is short, but hasn't been cut in a while and sprawls messily on his head. When Varrog speaks, this time to his fellow and not the steward, his voice still has the same tinny note. It wasn't the helmet creating the distortion. His tone is dictatorial and self-satisfied.

"You will call me Varrog. I'm here in service to the Inquisition, Ave Imperator et cetera. I am a trained Arbite, Chirurgeon, Verispex and as of now" At this Varrog lazily waves his hand at the projector dominating the room. "the smartest person here. Rather than listing everything I can do, I'll just tell you what I can't. I'm heavily augmented so I ain't going to be holding any soirées or sneaking around in the shadows. My combat abilities, while effective, are messy and won't win awards for precision. Now each of you spit out what you bring to the team and please keep it brief."

Varrog pauses long enough to allow each member to make their introductions, rudely interrupting those that try his patience. Then he lays out his plan, admittedly it was the first he had come up with, but there was no point in being shy.

"Right, the situation is we got person or persons unknown behind this heresy. Some one feeding words to these pious men, now best way to find this person or persons unknown is to ask one of these pious men... Politely. The inquisitor said we can't go straight after them, all out in the open so we'll need a spot of skulduggery. This First Blade Ludo Resh, head of The Shrine of the Gathering of the Chosen and former redemptionist can't seem to keep his flock whole. Verge of a civil war says the dossier. All it need's is a shove, feed information to both side, it'll lead to a riot sure, deaths sure, chaos sure. But let's be clear here if we don't deal with this fast that's what we're looking at anyway, but with all this nut-jobs not just one sect. So we do this in the chaos nab Ludo, and ask him Politely to point us in the direction we want. Simple enough I think..."

Having spoken his piece Varrog reclines again awaiting a response.

[bluntpencil]

"I'm a swordsman, although I've a good read on people too," offers Marius by way of explanation of his skills. He doesn't mention the fact that he's a psyker. That may, or may not, be on a need-to-know basis.

"Your plan involves lying to honest Throne-fearing citizens, and leading them to their deaths. I may be able to extract information without such."


Using Telepathic Link to read Varrog's surface thoughts, using a PR of 1, to get a total of +10 (-10 difficulty, +10 for lower PR, +10 for Psy Focus).

[roll0] TN 50

If this succeeds, he'll then tell Varrog what he's thinking, to show that his plan has merit.

[bluntpencil]

The clicking of the beads stops, and Marius begins to pace again, pointing a gloved finger. It obviously isn't meant in an accusatory or aggressive fashion, as he slowly, and gently, moves his hand up and down to punctuate his speech.

"I suppose we could spark a civil war, yes. Perhaps we could somehow contain it to those chosen and gathered. Perhaps the church could censure him.

Or perhaps I could get the information out of him. Perhaps I could have an excruciator in my luggage.

Or perhaps I could do things in a more subtle fashion, instead of having our Lord reprimand me for use of excessive force, Varrog, polisher of Lathe blades."

[R-Group]

Not four Terran days prior, Gulliver had been thoroughly, happily, debasing himself amid the more scandalous locales of downtown Baraspine. May life learn you, indeed. Nothing but the call of his Inquisitorial master could have separated him from his reverie of Throne-funded moral degeneracy - alas, that's exactly what did. And now, after a brief argument with the courier, some encouragement from the courier's aides, and clearing more than a few taps, Gull was back on his way to Scintilla. Suffice to say, it wasn't much of an enjoyable trip; warp-travel aboard a shoddy export vessel, and straight from the junkyard it would seem, is never the most comfortable or classy.

As could be expected, the Reclaimator's mood was seriously less than even pleasant when he arrived to Inquisitor Vorbak's introduction. Sure, he'd put on a serious face and take some notes, but it wouldn't matter much in the long run. More can always be found out by infiltration than just looking at the face of it. Gulliver felt that could be applied to practically all his troubles: what's on the surface doesn't matter for a wick, it's what's underneath that counts. Funny wasn't it, that he was basically the same. He's just a happy little cog-boy, after all. Smile for the camera.

Now then, let's see who we're tasked with this time, shall we? For his own part, Gulliver fashioned himself as dilettante of many sorts. Depending on what angle you say him from, you'd pick up on lots of controversies. For example, he wore what was unmistakably the robe of a Mechanics priest, but it had long ago been slashed short and the remains stuffed through a thick leather belt. Besides that, his dress was part mechanic's coverall, part soldier's flak - and all the grease. Tools littered pouches, bandoliers, and holsters all across his slim form; sometimes melding into a network of thin wiring and mechanical implants. Most notable, of which, were his eyes. Years ago the worn organs had been torn out and replaced with a set of buzzing and blinking lenses, constantly shifting positions, focusing and refocusing once more. Their constant motion gives Gull a bizarrely twittered gaze, which is then opposed by the set jaw and sly smile. His robotic eyes look ready to run, but his mouth wants to blather more and more.

Right now, those two counterpoints were switching quickly between the nimblish Swordsman and the hulking Arbites. Gull's smile widened an to touch his ears, breaking the dark black scruff of an unkept forest that was his beard - his teeth flashed a mealy yellow. Several had been replaced with chips of gold or silver, which glinted captured light uncomfortably.

"So, you two gonna fight or somethin'?"

[ellna]

Varrog's expression changes as his entire posture shifts while Marius speaks. His lazy smile fades and his hands slip forward, to where his shotgun no longer hangs, the armoured hands clenching into fists. His brow furrows, an action that creates a grating sound as metal plates slid over each other. Varrog controls himself, his hands unclenching as he fixes Marius with a stare that could melt steel.

"Be careful. That's a neat trick, but if you ever do it again I will rip your head from your shoulder's."

Varrog held Marius gaze a moment longer before continuing.

"Now speak plainly psyker, what else can you do other than read minds."

Then and only then does he address Gulliver.

"And no were not going to fight this is the inquisition not some schola progenium. So name and purpose."

Varrog continues to glower at Marius, but his mind is already formulating a fresh idea. Tools after all should be used to their full potential. The conspicuous absence of his shotgun was quite acute now.

[bluntpencil]

Marius smiles, just a little, although his eyes betray the fact that he doesn't find anything particularly amusing.

"Like I said, I'm a swordsman," offers the psyker with a nod, "I'm a Templar Calix."

Both Varrog and Callidia very likely know that the Templars Calix of the Scholastia Psykana are an order of warrior-psykers, with a temple-monastery somewhere in Scintilla's wastelands. 'Swordsman' is, therefore, probably a very accurate description of Marius' talents.

The clicking begins again, his prayer beads being subconsciously played with on a near-permanent basis.

Click. Click. Click.

[R-Group]

Gulliver looks the pair up and down, as if reconsidering their presence. Eventually, he settles on the Arbites medic, especially after the display of restrained violence. Crossing the room until the brawny arbitrator is within arm's reach, he raps several times on his metallic armor plating, creating a dull knock.

"Get over yourself, metal-man. Inquisition or not, everyone saw you empty hand a gun-rush at our fair Brother over there. Lucky for him you're missing that cannon of yours." Gull steps back politely, returning him personal space. "The frak are you anyhow? Metal skin like that ain't natural, I know that for sure. You hire a graftist yourself, or were it not a choice?"

[ellna]

Gulliver's approach and armour percussion is met with a lazy swipe, clearly meant to dissuade the fellow. Varrog doesn't put much power behind it, but if Gulliver is foolish enough not to move out of the way he would soon discover the practical amplifications of mass times acceleration. Varrog doesn't seem angry, more irritated this wasn't how he had planned his day.

"I've said what I am. Now your name and what your use is, or am I supposed to play a guessing game?"

[Miraqariftsky]

Earlier...

Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition. Well, well, well... shall I see these magnificent meatba--- ah, agents' mettle?

Strangely, despite the Acolytes' meeting already being under way, despite their patron Inquisitor Vorbak's message having come and gone, there still remains one untouched copy of their mission's dossier on the table. Where might be their cell's last member? Had they met some misfortune on the road, or were they just THAT irresponsible and disrespectful of their colleagues and their Inquisitorial employer?

Indeed, milord Inquisitor. So, so, so many beeeeaaautiful differences in doctrine and culture. Pity the wars of faith that sometimes follow, pity the little cogs and scraps who fall by the wayside.

"EXX-cuuuuse me, kind sir... pardon me..." says the large-bodied maid in a surprisingly melodious voice for the umpteenth time. Though in the presence of her betters, she keeps to her duty, keeps on dusting furniture, sweeping the floor and arranging the curtains, flower vases and paintings around the apartment's main living room.

Hmmmmm. How curious, this... All knowledge must be treasured, eh? If the legends are true, or can come true, what might possibly come of, hypothetically, the Allfather, the God-Emperor, the Omnissiah, et cetera Praise Be Unto Him, walking the galaxy once more, in the flesh? Hah, flesh... Will the Astronomican collapse and plunge the Imperium into darkness? A new age of glory and invention rather than merely rediscovery? But, won't those who refuse to believe, or are too entrenched in their own star kingdoms be tempted to secede?

Now... IS the Imperium, despite all its faults, good enough as it is? And any efforts to destabilize that would be Recongregatory at least or heretical at most?

Ah, well. Ours not to question why, ours but to do and die... Ha-ha-ha-ha, and not our place as well, to question the appearance, or lack thereof, of our most noble patron?

Oho? Xenos-worship, milord says? Definitely'd be heresy, but what had suggested such?

SUCH uncanny similarities? Indeed, that'd be... too uncanny. And indeed, a religious strife born of schism spawned right at the heart of the galactic sector, and the political and economic, as well as both literal and symbolic center of the Calixis Sector would indeed be... disastrous, to say the least.

And THAT, folks, IS heresy.

Though larger of body than the average hiver, she sweeps about the room gracefully, making little to no noise as she moves other than some whistling and clicking and the rustle of her black over white uniform smock, it is evident to the discerning eye that there is something more beneath that dress. The bulk of armour? The bulk of augmetics? Is this merely an extraordinarily well-crafted high-hive domestic-model servitor? There is indeed, as well, a strange hump near her nape... neither clothing nor hair behaves in that manner. A slouched gait, a bent back are common traits amongst the Imperium's diligent workers be they manual labourers or paper-pushing scribes... maybe this is merely that? Or a battery for a servitor's cyber-ware? Or, Emperor forbid, a mutation?

HMMM. Hmmmmmmm... mmmmhhh!

Arbite, almost certainly. Moriturge officer, possibly? Medically trained from that patch, been through some tough times too, undoubtedly... hmm. Verispex, he says... well, just as well. They're a good lot of cogs, that they are. Forgeworlder of some form, from that physique? Sharp, brutal, dutiful, straightforward. W'elp, as his ilk should be.

...uplink with the local Arbites, assimilate what they've uncovered thus far. Unless there's some mole within their ranks? Hope to high Tholl not.

Innnnnnnteresting. A monk? A scholar? Possibly a psyker, given that our lord IS almost certainly one, and because there had been Sanctionites in at least three of the previous cells I'd worked with. Aye, a swordsman, an up close assassin. His pistol, is it for cover fire, or mercy kills? Hmmmm. That resonance of the clicks, that luster of the beads, Badlands or Baraspine manufacture? That sword's design is of the shirasaya form, is it not? Interesting. And elegant.

Hello-hello-hello, you grinding Reclaimator, you. Schola'd scorn it, but, making what they can out of what little they have, living up to the potential of both man and machine, what's wrong with that? What iron's he packing, I wonder? Mmmm, hallo, sir, hah, is that a Tronsvasse or a Talon? 9mm rounds of what payload, I wonder?

And I wonder who here shall snap? Or fail? Or try to kill me?

Ahhhhh, Omnissiah forgive this cog...

As the maid makes another circuit about the living room, passing by the hololith that had borne the Inquisitor's message, somebody might swear they'd see her hand giving the machine a caress as she leans over and polishes its chassis, its console, its power supply, its projector. And hear just the tiniest sigh. Or mayhap they'd see some telltale similarity to note that she HAD been the attendant who'd carried out the ritual of Awakening the Machine Spirit. Or mayhap they'd simply see just another Mechanicus-reject servant going about her Emperor-ordained duty in her pathetic capacity.

Callidia, ol' girl, don't be stupid now!

Or perhaps the intrepid Acolytes are too focused on their discussion to discern the deception among them.

For some reason, the maid's circuit of cleaning slowly deviates from her previous paths around the room. A smile gleaming in her gaze, standing before Marius--- with whose eyes she makes the briefest contact--- the maid gives her feather duster a twist and with a click, a glinting blade suddenly extrudes from within the bristles and plumes. She gives it another twist, retracts it, and carefully sets it down on the table and spreads her arms to signify there is presently no threat from her to the others.

Though, as always, standing ready to blow away the first fool who might attempt any nastiness, neither of her hands are clearly close to the Fatebringer revolver presently obscured by the myriad folds and shadows of her skirts.

She then doffs her maid's uniform's obscuring cowl--- ah, that aristocratic tradition that forbids those of lesser station from gazing upon their faces--- revealing a pale face framed with a dark blue hair that gradually differing hues that merge into a cluster of green AdMech cranial cabling.

She flashes a smile and slides the duster-dagger over to... the as yet unnamed and undeclared Reclaimator, with a flash of the Sign of the Cogwheel.

Then clicks bootheels and salutes Varrog and says, "Sir. Current name, Agent Quill, reporting for duty. Listing operative proficiencies. Infiltration, socialization. Gathering, assimilation and disposal of data. Mechanic and medicae. Soldier, work best in a team, with hit and run tactics. Suppression, maneuvering and precise shots. Ave Imperator, gentlemen."

[Urist]

As the acolytes argue, attack, and antogonize each other, the din of a hurried cook can be heard from the next room. Bertold's voice can be heard over the commotion:


"You bloody 'eard me, tha man wants moah! Ya, I know I shou'da told ya an hour ago,but I din't know then! Just...serve the first bit, and bring tha rest out as it's ready. I'll go an bring'em their drinks, den. And make sure tha strudel dough is as transparent as me own soul; I should be able ta read a prayerbook through it once s'its folded!"


With an apologetic smile, he then edges slowly into the room, bearing two large bottles of amasec, two bottles of what appear to be carbonated mineral water, and glasses on a silver tray. Although reluctant to intercede in the affairs of acolytes, his professional pride appears to win out, and he raises his voice slightly to get your attention.


"Pardon tha intrustion, masta's, but dinnah is served in tha main dining room. More'll be coming out as we eat; please, folla me."

If you follow, you find yourselves in a large formal dining room, perhaps more suited to banquets than intimate meals. The hardwood floors and panelling gleam with a golden luster, and tapestries depicting the Emperor's glory adorn the walls. At around 10 meters long, the main table is enormous in size, although again the lack of any wear betrays the relative rarity of its use. Multiple dishs are already set on the table, including what appears to a grox stew of some kind, roast grox steaks, bowls of potato dumplings, and a host of different salads, vegetables, and sauces. 4 places are set on one end of the table, with the head of the table's spot conspicously left bare.


"Roight, I must 'pologize for the lack of a propa spread, but I 'ope this will do fur now, masta's. Ring tha' bell over there if ya need anything, and I'll be out roight quick."

Leaving the drinks he's carrying on the table, he shuffles towards the kitchen, muttering something about dessert under his breath.

[ellna]

Varrog does his best to conceal his surprise and even more effort to not attack the sudden threat in their midst. However he's smart enough to recognise an agent when he sees one and before she has slid the the hidden blade back within the duster his initial surprise is replaced with further irritation.

"I was wondering when you would join us. Infiltration, well done working yourself into a maid's outfit. What is it with you people, can't just use words you have to show and tell. Still a salute and answers that's still better than you."

His voice drips with heavy sarcasm and it's hard to tell if he's growling or if it's distortion from his augments. Varrog looks to Gulliver.

[bluntpencil]

The psyker merely raises an eyebrow at the Arbitrator's outburst, and the reveal of Agent Quill. They should have been provided a file on the other agents, really. Information on who they would be working with, along with their skills. Without an indication that such was to be shared, it makes Marius rather cagey. Everything is on a need-to-know basis, when it needs to be known. Alleged Inquisitorial acolytes are the last people anyone with any sense should trust, after all.

He allows his prayer beads to slip onto his wrist, their black obsidian matching his shirt. He takes a seat, and nods his thanks to Bertold,

"Thank you, Bertold. Your staff's efforts are much appreciated," he says quietly, almost timidly, although his body language betrays a very obvious confidence.

[R-Group]

At the dear Agent's dazzling entrance, Gulliver's face cracks again in a wide smile, his mechanical eyes lingering perhaps longer than is ordinarily polite. But just as quickly, he shifts his gaze at the Arbitrator's retort, his mood visibly souring for a moment - though it doesn't last. Throwing his hands in the air, he strides off to the dining room in with a laugh, calling back over his shoulder.

"Fine then, if we're all going to bend a bloody knee to the haymaker, then I suppose there's naught I might do but concede the point. The name's Gulliver, and I do what none of you can - and that's make nice with the sorts that don't make nice with us. And pleased to meet you, miss."

He takes a seat on the far side of the room, and immediately begins to serve himself and eat, muttering various indiscernible prayers and curses. After downing a large mouthful of the stew, he turns and addresses Brother Marius.

"Say there friend, I've been wondering about that sword of yours. You said you made it yourself, which is rather impressive in its own right, isn't it? So then I'm curious - mind divulging about how long the process took?"

[bluntpencil]

"I said I was a Templar Calix, yes, and we do make our own swords," begins Marius as he delicately cuts into his vegetables.

"The craft of 'Zeal', my soul-bound weapon, took three hundred and thirty three days in total, in order to properly observe all the required rituals," he explains. His voice doesn't betray any pride or artifice at all. It's all very matter-of-fact.

He sips his water, and bites into the food in front of him, with a polite smile at Gulliver's interest in his craft.

[ellna]

"Gulliver, so grateful you could join us."

Varrog follows Bertold to the dining room and lowers himself into the closest chair, he does this with a fair amount of care obviously used to inadequate furniture. He places his helmet on the table and gingerly pulls the various foods towards him. He continues to devour all available nutrition with a measured, slow but steady pace, obviously enjoying the superb cuisine. Only pausing to knock back the amasec, he takes his time to appreciate the liquor allowing the aroma to tantalise him and taking small sips, however his ceaseless intake rapidly takes it's toll on the bottle's contents. As he indulges himself he speaks, his voice still metalic, but becoming softer in tone as the fine dining lulls him.

"Thank you Bertold, this is delightful. Right, so obviously Marius skills remove the need to capture one of the heads. All three churches have public sermons that we can attend, The Votive Church of Lieutenant Governor Freidrich is a recognised pilgrimage site, and thusly has the least prohibitive security of the three. Renewal of the Emperor is most secure, given the criminal element, but still open to the public. The Shrine of the Gathering of the Chosen is probably the simplest affair, redemptionists sure but nothing to keep anyone out. Marius can head to the votive church and read the mind of Hiram Gibs. Find out who's feeding him this fetid verse he's spewing. No point in the rest of us sitting on our thumbs while he does it though. Gulliver, make nice with the Renewal group, criminal element should be up you alley, Quill you reckon you're up to some snooping see what you can find. I'll ditch the armour, don a frilly red dress and recon the Gathering chosen. We all meet up back at the villa and plan our next step. I think that's all we can do till we've got more to go on, we need information, lots of it and fast. And tune your beads to tac frequency 18.783.221."

[ellna]

Varrog continues to churn the delicious food relentlessly down his throat, despite his vigour not a single scrap escapes; Varrog keeps his mouth closed while he chews savouring each bite and handles the polished tableware with a cautious grasp. Considering it looks as though an ogyrn has joined them for tea, it's spectacular that his gauntleted grip shatters nothing, however this seems to stem from concentrated restraint rather than a delicate ease. His voice continues.

"Splitting up is certainly the fastest way to cover multiple avenues of investigation. However given the riots slumbering scintilla could be considered dangerous, the situation on the ground could shift rapidly. No, we'd best stick together to better react to the intel you gather, Marius. No telling what it is and we may have to act fast. Then the question becomes where do we focus our attention first. The Gathering chosen is likely to be chaotic and the most problematic, a powder-keg if it sparks. If we're embroiled in a riot it could delay our investigation. We'd likely have the least trouble gaining entry, but there is no guarantee after that. The pilgrimage site, the votive church. It's still a simple affair, yet the press of thousands of pilgrims... another delay. Arbite credentials might enable us to jump the queue, but no promise of seeing Father Hiram Gibs. Also Given Gibs, miraculous , talents he may not be the best target for our initial probes. Especially since he has a great deal of public support, any move against him must be certain or risk a blood bath at the votive. No, it's clear the renewal is our best bet. Secure, sure. No doubt dangerous criminals, enforcers and bosses. But with Gulliver's professed talents, we may be able to get a private reading... or at least a good seat in the sermon. Marius? Would that be enough for you to tell who is feeding him the bile?"

While Varrog talks he continues to eat and continues to drink, finishing the bottle he reaches for another pulling another grox steak within reach. His voice has a mildly disconcerting habit of continuing after he closes his mouth, he does his best to move his mouth with the words he says, but the preoccupation of eating means that sometimes he's finishing a sentence while popping another slice into his mouth.

Sorry bout the double post in the IC, but plan V 2.0 for no party splitting.

[Miraqariftsky]

"HAH. 'Miss' says he!" comes a surprised but pleased snort as Quill says to Gulliver, "Seems I'd misplaced the stamp-log of when I'd last been called that..."

Strudel? Searching... searching, let's see... ancient traditional pastry, common among uphive old families. Related in terms of descent with the baklavas of the Scintillan and Iocanthan steppe peoples... Ah, here we go... interesting. Curious. Aromatic? Yes. Delicious? ...Hmmmm. Yyyyyes.

"Ah, weakness of the flesh... FINELY done, master Bertold, thank you." Quill takes her time with the food. She'd had camp-roasted wild tribex on Endrite, stomach-churning mussels on Landunder, the various rat and mutie cuisine on Volg, the deep-fried cogbugs of Ambulon, the thick and heavy brew-soups of Luggnum's mines... and everyday porridges, standard issue nutri-slurries and combat rations everywhere.

It's not every day that a Scholam professor... or an adherent of the Adeptus Mechanicus... or a freelance scholar of sociology and archeotech... or a Throne Agent... gets to savour such exquisite cuisine.

Tholl-bleeding geniune STEAK. Omnissiah forgive this rusty's weakness, but... STEAK. Saints of steel and smoke... STEEEAAAAAKK.

When Gulliver asks of Marius about his sword's craft, her mouth presently occupied, a lumen-and-sensor topped mechadendrite snakes out from her collar, blinks its light and nods in her stead. When she swallows, she blurts an incoherent stream of mechanical litanies, then says, "...ah. Just as I was about to ask. Innnnteresting. How smooth is the transition, and transmission, and storage? of your... power, into... Zeal?"

Still taking her time with dinner, nodding every so often in acknowledgement of Varrog's points, she raises a brow when he finishes, nods again, and says, "Yes, sir, quite right. To business, shall we? Would it not be wise to adjourn to the librarium--- if we may, master Bertold? To prepare, of course, before we begin the investigation-proper."

As they reconvene in the library, the scholar's hands are already leafing through their mission dossier, and then she pauses, leaning on a desk's edge.

Staring at the papers. Holding the sheaf with her right hand, reading and re-reading with her eyes while her left hand and her now unleashed optic mechadendrite jot away notes on a dataslate.

"Interesting. Disturbing..." she says while reaching for certain tomes and conferring with Bertold every so often for counsel and confirmation of her growing suspicions.

Hrhmmm. Why do I get the feeling that I'm forgetting something, something in my... encrypted research slates? May the Omnissiah's light show the way...

Even as she lays out books and rattles away notes, she begins a discourse, "Gentlemen, this matter IS certainly a heresy, of that have no doubt...

On the surface, it's not that much different from many other common sermons, but. Note here, and here, those discordant notes? And, note here, when have you heard any '---mercy through service---' push in a common sermon?"

Knowledge is power, guard it well... says AdMech doctrine. All knowledge is precious, never stop searching.

And, by extension, questioning.

Then again, does not faith grow by testing, by trial and by questioning?

Interesting.

Disturbing.

These Resurrectionists... Something is rotten in the heart of Scintilla...

"But, note. Thought begets doubt, doubt begets heresy. To question the power of the Administratum, the Ecclessiarchy, and all the other institutions of His Holy Majesty--- is to question the authority of the High Lords of Terra. And to question Terra is to doubt the Emperor. That, gentlemen, is heretical doctrine and heretical practice. To preach something like that is to mislead the masses, to engender rust in the cogs of the Imperium... Indeed, what this is leading to is not just heresy but outright rebellion.

Hmmm... hmmm...

Jam these slaggers.

That phrase itself, 'Mercy Through Service'? In all of the myriad accepted and sanctioned variants of the Imperial Creed, there is no mention of that doctrinal phrase in any bit of true Sacred Scripture.

Quite right, Master Bertold, quite right... ah, indeed...

Moreover, though there are as many subordinate versions of the Imperial Creed as there are populations in the Imperium, and even myriad different images and depictions of Him on Terra, Our Father On Earth, Hallowed Be His Name, Allfather, Omnissiah, et cetera praise be unto Him, there is absolutely none that includes any variant of the key phrase 'a million million hands'. Indeed, such a phrase is more commonly seen amongst the followers of THE Archenemy.

Well? Is that so, Master? Interesting. Disturbing. Agreed, agreed...

And... that's not all... Gentlemen, we may well be having outright conflict within the Inquisition with this heretical matter...

Are you familiar with the Radical-aligned Recongregation faction? In brief, what they seek is renewal and revivification of the Imperium through outright upheaval. Revolution. Quite a few Inquisitors were detained, tried and executed by the Conclave for stepping far too far beyond... acceptable parameters.

Once again we come to that damned phrase "million million hands" and its subordinate clauses. That is not exactly directly related to the Recongregants, but rather to another little known faction, the Ordos Hydra. By now, it has been nearly two centuries since their concerted purge by the Tyrantine Conclave. Further details are... unfortunately, beyond this humble cog at this time. My apologies..."

At the end of her long, tome-and-notes-and-consulting interrupted discourse, Quill stretches and grunts. "Omnissiah forgive me. I need a drink. KRK."

Once she returns with a tall glass of milk, leaning on the library's main table where the bulk of their preliminary research is laid out, she says, "Well, then. Have we a plan, gents? Considering officer Varrog's points, earlier... yes, out of those three suspect churches, should be good to hit the Renewal first. And sticking together.

Hmm. Also, do you reckon we could interview some of the line troopers who'd been there to repress the first few riots? Mayhap they may know some things that never made it to the official records?"

[ellna]

Varrog finishes eating his personal feast and joins Quill in the library. He spends hours pouring over dusty tomes and flipping through pages. In the end he listens to the discourse from Quill and helpful hands her a glass of amasec when she expresses her need. Varrog himself quite happy to finish, what is his third bottle, without the aid of another glass.

"My own analysis concurs with yours, I have nothing of value to add. I believe we have exhausted what we can learn without boots on the ground. Interviews with the line troopers could tip our hand. We can't divulge our intent to the Adeptus, until it is a necessity, to do otherwise would compromise our investigation. As for a plan, we have one, tomorrow before daybreak we shall head to the renewal. Unless anyone has a better idea."

I'm aware Quill got herself a glass of milk to drink but Amasec. Assuming no-one objects the plan is to be at renewal as the sun rises tomorrow and then rely on gulliver's talents as necessary to get marius close enough to voodoo the answers we seek.

[bluntpencil]

Marius nods his agreement to the plans, although he is careful to point out his own limitations,

"We should prepare a Plan Beta, should the unexpected or untoward happen. Although my mind-reading powers are likely to be invaluable, as demonstrated, the powers of the warp can be fickle. They're unlikely to reveal us as investigators, of course, but we should be prepared to lay the blame on others should they become visible, for instance.

I believe that Gulliver appears gifted enough to deflect any such accusations, on the small chance that they may come up. As small as such a chance is, it is best to be informed and prepared for such an eventuality."

Again, he seems very matter-of-fact, to the point. He seems rather accepting of his own limitations, and the risks involved in using his powers.

[ellna]

"Plan B is always withdraw and regroup. If you can't perform, we'll have to go with the other strategy and grab one of the church leaders for a quiet conversation. I'm sure that Gulliver can play off any unfortunate situation that may arise, otherwise violence will, by necessity, be our likely recourse. We have limited knowledge now and little time to waste. However as our investigation proceeds other options may become apparent."

[R-Group]

Gulliver found himself, at the end of long day, grumbling and cursing to himself once more as he twisted through the passageways of the Inquisitor's villa. Without a guide, the going was significantly more frustrating than it had been previously, and that did not help his mood. Ever since he left behind the fine food and drink of Inquisitor Vorbak's finest refinements, the quality of his day had steadily degraded - there's nothing worse than having to deal with ignorant churchgoers, though the irrelevant ones were almost as bad. The few that would ever actually respond to his lost pilgrim shtick were little more than common city-folk, who either didn't know enough to be useful or weren't intelligible enough in their slurred-cant to have their meaning understood. Usually, Gulliver prided himself on his ability to adapt his speech to match his environment; but here, some of these people were practically Hivers, Emperor damn it. And not the nice kind either - these were stuffed into too tight seams with prideful glances swept beneath sweat-sopped brows; they clambered about their sanctimonious business, just as ants work in inept silent servitude. Mindless, they speak was naturally devoid of anything worthwhile.

Though it's entirely possible that Gulliver was just sour from having been spat on.

The few citizens that were actually willing to share words with the grubby AdMech pilgrim wandering the Scintillan streets that day were mostly asked general questions about the "beautiful" Votive church. Their praises flew quickly, for who wouldn't praise such a majestic institution? It was only right that they'd guide the lost soul to its doors, wasn't it? But then things took always took a turn for the worse, when the bloody cog asked about the Shrine, or worse yet the Renewal. No one wanted to speak then, and the worst of them became more than angry with Gulliver in his line of questioning. It was not a pleasant day.

It took long enough, but finally the Reclaimator found his way to the central chambers of the Inquisitor's, where he could meet his not-yet-erstwhile companions. Their rough company, sure, but better than the drivel outside. Much better; at least they can handle a decent conversation. Collapsing onto the furniture, Gulliver grunts loudly and tosses aside his simple disguise (the remains of his Scarlet Adeptus robe, usually tucked into one belt or another). He kicks his feet up, leaning them against a table within reach. He waits a moment longer before speaking.

"Well then, how's it been? I'm hopin' your Library search was more productive than the commons, since not a one told me jack more than we thought already. Votive is nice, can't say the same for the Shrine or Renewal. More than a few didn't like the fact that I even mentioned either of them. But hey, what was I expecting, really?"

His ticking gaze spins across the room, taking in the remains of the others' research. "My my, the tin-twins have been up to some serious reading. Hope the two of you got plenty to talk about. Info, plans, anything? Or are we just going with spooks over here to get what we need?"

[ellna]

Varrog looks up from the stacked tomes, swirls the amber liquid in his bottle and answers Gulliver.

"Information, yes. Useful, not in the immediate. The creed they're preaching is heresy. But I knew that already. They're making up patches of creed whole cloth the bit about mercy. Ha. Not something the emperor is really known for. And the spiel about many hands, that usually means frakkin' warp ghoulies not our lord. Quill proved good at hunting down the information, but the plan still the one we were mulling over when you stepped out. We're heading to criminal's church and you're doing the talking. Try an' get a private audience with the man if you can, or at least some front rows seats for his sermon. Then spooks will do his thing, hopefully everything will go off without a hitch. Ha. Get some rest, we've a busy day tomorrow."

Varrog finishes off the miserable remnants of the amasec and moves off in search of whatever rooms the inquisitor had provided.

[Urist]

In the morning, after an exhausting course of research either in the library or on the streets, you awaken to the smell of recaff and a similarly extravagant spread as last night for breakfast. Bertold seems to have indulged in the recaff before you awake; the dark circles under his eyes seem to do nothing to dampen his energy or spirits. However, this morning he does not join you for breakfast, merely making sure you have all you need before hurrying out the door on other errands. If asked, Bertold says that he is making contact with another Inquisitorial team, but refuses to elaborate; on his way out, he suggests taking the mono down to the Mid-Hive, where the Renewal of the Emperor is located.

The early morning sun on the spires of Scintilla, combined with the results of the nights snowfall, transmutes normally grimy surfaces into gleaming wonders. The entire city appears transformed into crystal or glass, at least in the Cathedral District. As you travel towards the transit station, however, this impression fades; the footprints of citizens, pilgrims, and functionaries combines with pollutants to render the snow an ankle-high greyish-brown slush marked in places by red drifts of rust. This grimy, slushy substance clings to any available surface, and seems to refuse to be removed; any cloth it touches for long begins to bleach due to chemical exposure.

On your way to the transit station, you attract a few stares from passers-by, although not the type that suggests a tail; rather, you are one eclectic collection out of many these folks will see during their day. The only passengers on the mono headed towards Mid-Hive appear to be Arbites, returning from rest-shifts to their posts; thus, they pay you little attention.

At the Mid-Hive station, though, a young, smooth-faced Arbites control officer stops you as you step off of the mono. Although clearly intimidated by Varrog's size, he stops all of you with a barked command:



"Halt citizens! I.D passes, please. No unauthorized traffic is permitted at this time in Mid-Hive. Failure to heed this directive is a crime, as is deceiving an officer of the Lex Imperialis."

He holds one hand out for passes or some form of I.D, with another hand on his combat shotgun. Three compatriots of his stand ready 5 metres away.


I would like one Opposed Deceive Test from the group, opposed by this Awareness test: [roll0] Of course, assistance is absolutely allowed. And other methods, if y'all have another idea.

[ellna]

Varrog himself was running on recaf, having drank several shots of the stimulating substance over the evening's night of work. When they departed Varrog placed himself directly behind Gulliver, following like a loyal hired gun. When the arbites stopped their small party, Varrog smiled beneath his helmet. Inside his pocket was a I.D that make this routine stop vanish, but he wanted to see what Gulliver had...

Varrog crosses his arms waiting to see what Gulliver does.

If possible Varrog will use his shear intimidating-ness to "assist" any play Gulliver makes.[roll0]
Edit: This is a failure, by 2 degrees.

[bluntpencil]

Marius, of course, presents his identification rather meekly. It doesn't identify him as a psyker, he has other papers for that. There are few details at all on it, but it has the necessary ones, or at least he would hope so.


Deceive [roll0]

[Urist]

The stream of traffic coming off the train has lessened to a trickle, a few stragglers who were either slow, or have stopped to watch your altercation. Three of these Arbitrators, noticing your reluctance to provide I.D, have begun to approach, with hands on the handles of their shock mauls. Meanwhile, the young Arbitrator is becoming agitated, and a Lower Hive twang previously carefully suppressed has started to bleed into his Gothic. His eyes bore into you, dilated pupils almost obscuring the green of his iris. Spittle flies from his lips in small droplets as he shouts, the echoing of his voice loud in the empty station. His hands are balled into fists, but within easy reach of his shotgun, an intimidating, large piece.


"If ya want ta get outta this station walkin and not in a body bag, ya need ta stop frakkin me around and ansa tha question! What do ya want in tha Mid-Hive, and where is yer proper I.D? If yur here by mistake, tell me, and I'll make sure ya don't get hurt, maybe a week or two in the cells. But if ya lie to me again, I'll 'ave to consider ya enemies of tha Emperah and deal with ya right here!"


It doesn't take a perceptive individual to see that this Arbitrator is about to snap if you don't find a way to defuse the situation. Either another opposed Deceive test, this time with a -10 penalty against his earlier Awareness of 51, or anotherr clever solution, will be necessary to avert bloodshed.

[R-Group]

Gulliver was no gambler, not really - never saw the profit in relying on luck for coins; the black market's just as kind to the pockets, and even more so to the kneecaps than the former; and that's saying something, mind you. Gulliver Amstel had no need for fickle fortune to win his fights, thank you very much.

That said, he couldn't deny his own licks of good fortune through the years, when every so often things might just swing in his favor for no discernible reason. Lady Fortune's Wheel and all that, what with its lows and its highs. Gulliver just so happened to get some damn fine highs, that's all. More than a few times it was nothing but luck that'd saved his skin: like that time the mecha-whore he'd hired turned out to be some poor forgotten Arco-Flagellant. Sure as hell wasn't skill that saved his hide that day. As luck would've had it, the old thing's claws had rusted away some centuries ago. Now THAT was some frakking excellent fortune. Still, he'd come out of the whole affair thoroughly terrified, and with more broken bones than he'd ever experienced at any one point in his life before; he'd barely even escaped with his life. And considering his line of living, THAT was saying something too.

Hey now, don't be so prude. How is else is this cyborg pile of piss going to get anything? Empire's a big place, life's life, urges are urges, etc. All this shallow reminiscing almost made Gull want to laugh, if he'd been by himself. Good thing no one else could listen in. Within the confines of your own thoughts, no one gets to hear you laughing at them. See? Damn lucky.

Of course, back then revenge had been rather prominent in Gull's mind, but that's when his luck ran out for concerning the whole ordeal. Almost as if, he had some certain allotment of fortune per important event - only so many things could go his way during any one thing. Made Gull wish that he had control over it. Even if you can only do it three or four times, making your own luck would be quite the ability. The rest of the story? The electro-pimp must've either fled the planet, or more likely, some other sour sod had gotten to him first. Yeah, that dastard was dead, surer than spit.

See, the trouble is, you just can't rely on any little bit of luck to save you every time. Take the here and now, for example. With every passing second, Gulliver was more convinced that no amount of good luck could save them from a gory death by the present shotguns, and the shotguns of those shotgun's reinforcements. It was during trying times like these that one had to be true to himself. And if in our most challenging moments, we don't give in to our own truest-self, than can we even claim to possess an inner-self? This was one of life's greater mysteries - what separates the sentient from the bestial, beyond self-delusion? Gulliver may have been more willing to ponder, if he hadn't already taken a few meter's run from the scene. If there was any mantra that defined Gulliver's true self, it'd be, "when the going gets tough, it's time to get going."

That said, he simply couldn't bring himself to keep going. So there he stood, acting like a damned fool, two meters behind his companions, hoping beyond hope that Varrog's bulk would block the Arbites' line of sight. And yet, there was more to it than that, that "feeling that halted his step". No beating around the push, Gull knew what it was. Being himself no newcomer to guilt - Gulliver knew that's why he hadn't bolted yet. Call it force of habit, but usually the law and he weren't the best of friend.Today it looked as though he wasn't the only one feeling that, so it would be his responsibility to help out. If there was ever an emotion the AdMech should slice out it would be guilt, damn it all. But he supposed that one couldn't maintain any sense of human sentience (or sanity?) without a subconscious, and the former emotion practically came with the latter effigy, so far as Gulliver was concerned.

Of all the times to make himself an ass, it had to be now, didn't it? Gulliver spun around, ensuring that he still maintained some cover between the Officers and himself. Wouldn't do for them to see him now. Drawing his crimson adorned Mechanicus cowl over his head, he pulled deeper into the shadows the worn covering provided. He quickly accompanied the motion with an adjustment to the mechanics of his eyes, allowing the glowing orbits to protrude beyond the edge of his hood. Drawing his heavy coat around his scrawny frame, he completed the image by assuming a stiff-legged gait, implying unseen (and nonexistent) leg-splints, or further augmentations. He clicked his teeth together several times in anticipation, then shouldered through the cluster back to the Arbites. He was no miracle worker, but dammitall he'd give it a go.

"Calm, Fellow, Calm." He hissed in the uncanny stilted monotone of the ubiquitous cogger. "He's Only A Young Compatriot, Does Not Yet Know The Proper Operations. Pay No Mind." Gently, he pushed Marius behind him with the one hand, slowly maneuvering him out of the Officer's direct view. With that same obscured hand, he gestured to the rest with a twirl of his wrist (play along, please Omnissiah, let them understand).

"Now Then. I Received Notice Of An Mid-Hive, Which Has Need Of A Tech-Crew." Here he flashed the Cog embroidery of his hood, and tapped his mechanical eyes knowingly, eliciting several twitches and buzzes from the complex ornaments. "Did Any Of You Give Call, Or Was It Issued By A Superior Officer? I Was Informed Of Severity Only, Not Detail. Implying The Significance Of Haste. As Such, I've With Me An Expert, A Recently Issued Servitor, And Then This Acolyte. He Presence Is One Of An Educational Purpose, Nothing More." In turn, Gulliver gestures first to Quill, then Varrog, and finally Marius.

"I Myself Am Projective Manager Veteran Major-Reclaimator Amstel Bailey, Newly Transferred From Off-System. Do Any Of You Possess Knowledge Of The Situation Awaiting Us? We Are Required Presently. If Not, I Request Passage, And Shall Inform All Pertinent Superiors Of This Delay In Our Required Task."


Hope you guys don't mind Gulliver being raunchy. I can tone it back if you prefer, but I was having fun. But on the topic of rolls: though I feel like I've been suitably clever, I also have pretty much attempted to Deceive the Arbites as well. So here's the roll for that:

Deceive [-10]: [roll0] vs. 40

And just in case it does come to combat, is it safe to assume that Gulliver has all of his equipment on his person, with the exception of the large and obvious Sniper Rifle?

[R-Group]

Shoot. Editing seems to have removed my roll. Also, it would seem that I wrote 40 for Deceive rather than 50, since that's what Gulliver's Fellowship score is in actuality. So without further ado:

Deceive [-10] - [roll0] vs. 50

[Urist]

As Gulliver manuevers Marius behind him, all hell looks about to break loose; the Arbitrators' hands reach for his shotgun and then-

He sees the cogwheel icon on Gulliver's robe, and hesitates. That is all the opening Gulliver needs, and as he weaves his story, the Arbitrator begins to breathe more steadily, and he backs away from the group slightly. Evidently the Cogwheel makes him slightly superstitious, as he can be seen uttering a chant of forgiveness under his breath. As he gets himself under control again, his accent mostly vanishes, leaving only a slight twang.

"Beg your pardon, sir. I would neva want to disrupt an agent of the Omnissiah on their holy duty, oh no I wouldn't. I don't know anything about any service call, but I imagine you know better than I, why would they tell the rank and file, right? I'm sorry for the delay; please, let me speed you on!"

He waves you through the perfunctory security-screening awaiting all visitors, and then ushers you through the main doors onto Emperor's Avenue, one of five such streets in the Mid-Hive district officially known as Mercy and unofficially known as the Sump-Heap.

"Best of luck, gentleman!"

The Emperor's Avenue train station, seen from the outside, is a disheveled, and yet somehow grand, place. Aging marble, once likely white, has been stained brown by the pollution of ages, and the gargoyles, statues, and other decorative elements dotting its facade have lost any gilding they may have once had. However, in contrast to everything else on the street, it at least looks structurally sound, and appears to have all of its original building materials. The other buildings surrounding are mostly ramshackle metal and stone constructions reaching at most 12 stories, with the Hive ceiling not far above. Oily liquid occasionally drops from the metal roof to plop into the general refuse piled on the sidewalks, which are surprisingingly quiet for this early in the work cycle. Arbites patrols roam through the streets, although none appear to notice the dregs around them unless they are in their way. The Church of the Emperor's Renewal can be seen on the far end of the avenue, seemingly the only actually clean thing around.

[Miraqariftsky]

Inwardly, for their journey thus far, Quill had been seething with curses. Much to her chagrin, ever since barely surviving the ordeal on Volg, her sense of focus was never the same. Certainly, slaking one's thirst for knowledge is held a virtue among the ranks of the Omnissiah's adepts, but having a mind that's prone to too much wandering is of less val...

With a conscious effort, she files away her churning thoughts for another time, some other time when she could better indulge, with the... research... in the unmarked and encrypted slates in her bag. Frustration? Shame? Weaknesses she could do better without.

Glass of amasec. Ticking clock. Preparations, come and gone. Gull's return, report, processed. Morning newsfeeds. Breakfast, brisk... not standard issue rations. Door closing. Alley cats yowling. Sector capital traffic. Monorail transit... newer sections, numbered filed with alphanumerics, city's old sector, still named in commemoration of past centuries' notable people... interesting... look it up later, not now, not now...

The various details tick by in a psychosynaptic exercise to rein in her thoughts...

Arbite ID check? Papers or pistol?

Before she could draw either, though, their resident fast-talker had already deployed his guile.

Scrap... scrap, SCRAP. May the Omnissiah forgive and unjam me.

Quill actually did have her papers on her. Several sets, in fact. The most recent issued from the local Scholam at which she'd been teaching for the past few years. The most relevant being the standard papers and insignia as a techpriest, though of a different branch of the Cult Mechanicus than Gull---

---whose story she presently corroborates with remaining silent beneath her coat's hood, and snaking out a mechadendrite and giving the inquisitive patrolman a blink of the optics.

Once clear of earshot, she coughs, "Well oiled, brother."

[ellna]

Varrog moves past the suddenly cowed arbites, beneath his helmet a smirk grows. He moves stiffly, something that doesn't require much effort on his part, to sell the act that he was a servitor. He considered briefly adding some mechanical sounds for effect, but decided not to over-sell the bought story.

Once past the arbites Varrog joined Quill in congratulating Gulliver.

"Smooth as Nickadian oysters. A servitor, Hmmm. Smart. So let's find our target, make a bee-line for the chapel."

[R-Group]

Leading the shambling trio of fellows through the Arbites blockade, Gulliver is just able to maintain his composure past the hard glares of the Officers' helms. Once out of eye- and earshot, he quickly tears off his ruffled Mechanicus hood and whoops with self-satisfied laughter. Regaining his breath and some sense of personal dignity, he shuffles through his various bandoliers and pockets to ensure all of his equipment is properly stowed away. Spinning back to the rest, the light mood rapidly dissipates, even in the glow of praise.

"Right then. Yes yes, thanks and all - but we just came too damn close back there. We're fortunate that Officer still had some respect for the other Adeptus Institutions besides his own, but not all of them will. If there's anything any of you might have to prevent another near-shootout, not including my glibness, let's hear of it, yes?"

[ellna]

Varrog reaches into one of the armoured pouches at his waist and removes his own identification, the symbol of the Arbites is clearly visible, a fist clenched on the scales of justice. Beneath his helmet he allowed himself a small smile, the hint of which could be heard in his grating voice.

"Official Adeptus Arbites Identification. It will allow us to pass further inquiries without trouble."