Dark Heresy: Empty Promises

[blackouttwo]

"Dead men tell all tales." -Opening line of the heretical text Disruption of Eternity, declared forbidden in 482.M40 - Author unknown
--------------------
1900 Hours Prophet Shipboard Time

121.816.M41

Inbound to Iocanthos Orbit

The trip to Iocanthos was pleasant, for a journey aboard a voidship. No mechanical failures to speak of, and the crew of the Prophet and its shipboard Inquisitorial Stormtrooper contingent have mostly kept to themselves.

Thus far, none of you know exactly what you're in for, but your relatively recent selection as acolytes of Inquisitor Jetak 'the Gourmand' Kolaire of the Ordo Hereticus certainly hasn't left you with any shortage of hand-wringing thoughts on the matter. All you know is that he's called you to his office to give your first assignment in service to the Inquisition.

Now if he would just look the part for one minute, you might be able to take your new boss a bit more seriously. As it stands, he sits across from you, at his desk, twirling a fork around strands of a heaping plate of pasta as he carefully observes you all with a bespectacled gaze.

For an Inquisitor, Kolaire is an unremarkable and unimposing man. Certainly far less...intimidating than one might have expected. An unassuming man in a bland, modest forest-green Administratum adept robe, sitting at his desk, looking every bit like some quill-scratcher from your choice of mid-hive neighborhood, a short, unruly mess of brown hair atop his head, appearing to be in his mid-twenties (but definitely far older than that, with the availability of rejuvenat treatments), and eating quietly as he watches you.

In spite of his unassuming visage, Kolaire's private office is well-decorated, with various trophy cases around the room containing a variety of archeotech relics and an odd assortment of rare weaponry. Several large articles of stuffed xenofauna rest in the corners of the office, including an Ur-Ghul (http://pre04.deviantart.net/c385/th/pre/f/2013/030/5/5/ur_ghul_by_rayph-d5t9uus.jpg). His desk is, massive, ornate and hand-carved from an unusual red wood. On it rest several knick-knacks, model Imperial Guard vehicles (including a Sentinel in Cadian colors, and a Leman Russ tank hand-painted in the colors of the Death Korps of Krieg), a bolt pistol loaded with an unusual drum magazine resting off to one side, a small stack of dataslates, and a small hololithic projector built into the center.

The Inquisitor wipes away some pasta sauce with a napkin as he finally speaks. "Thank you for coming." He reaches for a button on his desk. The hololith crackles quietly to life, and hovering in the air is an image of the world of Iocanthos. "I'm sure you're familiar with the reputation of Iocanthos, but for good measure and the sake of clarity- " He reaches for the stack of dataslates resting on the desk, and pushes it across to you all on the other side of his desk. "-A quick primer, should you require it. Keep those, I won't need them back."

Ref: Inq/045678499/BI
Author: Inquisitor Jetak Kolaire
Subject: Mission Briefing
Name: Iocanthos
Location: Segmentum Obscurus
Sector: Calixis (Scintillan Subsector)
Tithe Grade: Exactus Median
Notes: ref—Ghostfire Pollen

Society: Iocanthos is an anarchic pseudo-feudal society, where all power-relationships are based on violence or its threat. Control of the planet rests with various warlordist and raider factions that compete to harvest or steal the planet’s only tithed material, Ghostfire pollen, in order to turn it over to the Imperium in exchange for weapons and supplies. The most powerful warlord is currently Vervai (a title that translates roughly to 'prince of princes', or 'king') Skull who is currently acknowledged as Iocanthos’s de-facto planetary governor. Iocanthos has a single fortified Administratum-controlled spaceport, Port Suffering, where the Imperial tithe is collected and shipped offworld by Chartist vessels.

Founding: Iocanthos was taken by General (later declared Saint) Drusus’s 2nd Army Group during the Angevin Crusade prior to the founding of the Calixis Sector. As the planet lacked any significant technological base or industrial capacity, Drusus’s forces soundly defeated the indigenous people, known as the Ashleen. Drusus later remarked in his memoirs that the only memorable aspect of the planet was the vast fields of wild flowers which resembled “Shimmering fields of rippling explosions, caught at that fleeting moment between beauty and destruction” [Ref. pg. 526—Breaching the Darkness].

Additional Notes: In times past, Iocanthos served as a penal dumping ground for undesirables that the Scintillan authorities for various reasons didn’t wish to execute or expatriate further afield. Such exiles were given minimal supplies and allowed to thrive or falter without further interference. The current population is largely a mixture of their descendants and the native Ashleen.

Ref—Ghostfire Pollen: Iocanthos’s sole tithe. It is a powerful psychoactive substance used as the base for a considerable number of combat drugs used primarily by the Imperial Guard’s penal legions throughout the Calixis Sector's Spinward Front and elsewhere.

Iocanthos also boasts the Abbey of the Dawn, an Adepta Sororitas training facility. This facility is forbidden to outsiders, on pain of death, unless authorities from higher up within the Ecclesiarchy or Inquisition approve the outsiders' entry.

Past Inquisitorial Involvement: To the average Iocanthan, the Inquisition is merely another legendary organization from beyond their world, and while there are records of several Inquisitorial missions to Iocanthos in the past, they are all classified beyond your clearance rating. I have reviewed them and judge none to be relevant to your mission unless new evidence comes to light suggesting a connection.

The planet historically registers a slightly higher per-capita rate of psyker births, but not significantly so.

The Sisters of the Abbey of the Dawn regularly report any unusual heretical activity to the Conclave. Other than this, the Holy Ordos retain no standing official presence on Iocanthos.

"Now then, onto our little briefing, and your assignment. Several local matters of note have been brought to my attention by an informant of mine in Port Suffering, the planet's only spaceport." The hololithic image of Iocanthos freezes in place, and a large red dot marks a specific spot on the largest continent on the planet. "There's been what can only be called a terrorist attack - of all things - on the primary refineries for Ghostfire pollen within the city walls. The message stated that...unusual means were used to do it. Two things stand out to me as exceptionally unusual about this occurrence: The very fact that any parties on Iocanthos would interfere with the Ghostfire tithe in any way, and the methods the attackers used to do it." The Inquisitor pauses to take another bite of pasta from his plate before continuing to speak with his mouth full.

"Mah oprahtive hah requessed thah hel' of an akka-lyte cell tah deal wit' the prahlem, and'll have more infahmayshah fah yah uh'on yah arrivah. *gulp*" The Inquisitor pauses once more, to wipe his mouth with a napkin. "Your shuttle leaves in one hour, and the Prophet will not be staying in orbit to await your return or provide support. The ship and I are needed elsewhere, so you'll be on your own for this one. Questions?"

Right to business, Inquisitor.

[Artemis97]

A lithe woman sitting at the table raises a delicate hand from her lap to catch the Inquisitor's attention. "What was so unusual about their methods of attack?" She asked, tilting her head slightly, Causing her straight white hair to slip over her shoulders in a silver cascade. Her vibrant green eyes glittered with curiosity. Caelina Lux was, in a word, beautiful. She held herself with a noble bearing, and took the title 'Lady' though she had no real blood to make such a claim, as far as anyone knew, anyways. She was knowledgeable and captivating and, in perhaps what was less than expected in an Inquisitorial Acolyte, unbelieveabley kind. Perhaps it had been the years acting as a nursemaid to the children of nobility on her homeworld that had softened her. Still, her associates would know Caelina armed herself with sword and shield, and it was not just for the romantic look.

[Deathkeeper]

Marcus sits in his chair, looking impassively at his superior, and subsequently the materials being produced for him. He doesn't care one bit about the food. It's unprofessional. He really wishes he was taking this more seriously. But if he went through the channels to reach that rank and did well enough to casually have a damn bolt pistol just lying around, he can do whatever he damn well pleases. So the former enforcer just sits and listens. His short black hair and pale complexion are not incredibly striking, though his somewhat large frame does make him a bit more noticeable. Obviously not choosing to pack his gear to a briefing, he's wearing mostly just his uniform black jacket and pants with his sidearm at his side. And a knife in his boot, but that's not exactly obvious.

He'd been born on a ship. Lived on a ship. His father helped work security, and he'd taken after that love of peace. Or at least, trying to give it to everyone else. His world was always one of calm constantly spattered by violence. He'd heard kids talking around him, about a raid on the supplies of a station they were at, security be damned. He'd said sure, sounds great. Eight hours, five rounds, four kids with bullets through the back of their legs. No fatalities, but there might have been if they'd gotten any farther than they did- just far enough to incriminate themselves. Mark got a job that day, and he'd kept it until last year, when this little "promotion" happened. It's all the same, really. He just roots out the scum instead of striking back at it. Or at least, that was the plan. He hadn't really expected to get a promotion out of that supply run, but pirates are pirates. And pirates get shot. Two hours, sixteen shells, five rounds, three casualties and fifteen dead pirate scum. He'd gotten his little speech and the equivalent of a medal for that impressive amount of blood, and the supplies they'd delivered were important to some Inquisition raid or something. Of course, they were supposed to be "on time" not "in the nick of time," so someone had to give a report to the man in charge, and Marc's name had come up. That'd been that.
Of course, the incident could have been worse, but the second boarding ship had gotten slagged by some hotshot rookie on a lasturret. Marc wonders if he got anything besides a little copper plate for his trouble. Whole thing was luck but hey, five seconds, two charges, twenty targets down, it was a record he couldn't beat with a shotgun.

So here the man sits, with a little Inquisition locker with his name on it and his shotgun in it, watching a man eat pasta while talking about murders. Gotta love Imperium decorum.
"We talking about attacks on the refineries themselves, or on the people manning them? What was the target? Any chance it's someone from outside the system trying to take out something here instead of someone actually from Iocanthos?" he asks, once prompted.

Every once and a while, those who can see him occasionally see a flicker of movement in the corner of their eye, but he remains almost perfectly still. Some are bothered by this, but those people aren't spacers. He has to fight not to habitually lay a hand on the grip of his Armsman-10, rubbing a finger like he always does on the sigil carved into its grip, of the coat of arms of his ship, his home, and the little letters carved below them.
Temerarius.

[ThirdEmperor]

There's nowhere to hide in this room.
Wurra Decla slouches where he sits, trying to find some way to sink into the chair and cease occupying so much space. There are strange people around the table, no doubt, and not the least of them the Inquisitor himself, this soft-spoken and understated man incessantly eating as he calmly discusses matters of state. The same man who's brought them across star and void to meet glory in the face of death.

A lady in fine clothes and austere grace, a spaceborn who twitches in a way painful to follow, and a one-armed mutant. But Decla would call himself the stranger at the table, scarred and tanned, wild-haired, a crude knife of bone and leather hanging at his belt and polished wooden charms clacking on his neck with each fidgeting motion. Yes, these others seem to have their place. They bring manners, weapons, some sense of place. He can only try to push the thought of the ship beneath him from mind, the all-powerful atomic roar of the engines, countless leagues rushing past, and focus on his psalms.

I tread the path of Righteousness. Though it be paved with broken glass, I will walk it barefoot; though it cross rivers of fire, I will pass over them; though it wanders wide, the light of the Emperor guides my step. Although Decla is silent and attentive throughout the briefing, his lips can be seen to work now and then, in endless repetition. They trace each vowel like the beads of a rosary.

"How did they attack the refinery?" He finally asks, when the time has come for questions. It seems like the right thing to ask, oddly absent from the Inquisitor's speech. In his mind there is every certainty that this, too, is a kind of test. As is everything. Till death, for glory, through fire, and always in the Emperor's name.

[Destro_Yersul]

"What sort of unusual methods?" Uriah, unlike Decla, didn't need to try to make himself small. He was a lathemaster of Hesh, short, stocky, built for power rather than speed. The techpriests of the lathes had done a lot for him and his kind, making them hardier and stronger, but the upshot of their meddling and the strange gravitics of the Lathes meant that Uriah topped out at one and a quarter meters tall, barely high enough when standing to see over the top of the Inquisitor's huge desk. He'd have taken a seat, but his feet wouldn't have reached the floor, and Uriah liked having his boots planted on something solid, even if it was just the deckplates of a void ship. Uriah hated voidships, but the truth was that Uriah hated most everything, glowering out at the world from beneath bushy, lightly-singed eyebrows and a truly magnificent beard. He'd never been to Iocanthos before, but he hated it too. Filled with a load of primitives, was his understanding of the place, and the prospect of visiting a world without quality data uplinks and servitor relays was not his idea of a good time.

Not that he'd had much choice in the matter. Insubordination was not a thing that happened in Uriah's world. You kept your head down, and you did your job, and if you were really lucky nothing broke or exploded or got noticed by the senior techpriests. This last was what had happened to him, and look where he was now. Just because the Inquisitor needed some technical expertise, and happened to have some friends in the upper echelons of the Mechanicus, and Uriah happened to be the first expendable minion they'd run into that wasn't a servitor. Of course, his unlicensed distillery in the back of maintenance level gamma probably hadn't helped matters, and there had been that issue with the utility drone... Well. Fuel out the exhaust, now, but nobody said he had to like it.

Well.

Nobody he intended to pay attention to, anyways.

[blackouttwo]

"It's interesting, because they went out of their way to destroy the refinery rather than merely rob it. Demolition charges. Beyond the means of almost anyone on Iocanthos, but the attackers were tribals from among the native Ashleen." Another bite of pasta as the Inquisitor lets that sink in. Chewing and swallowing before he continues. "Or at least, they looked the part. It could've easily been a disguise but my informant insists the attackers were native. They seemed interested in destroying anything and everything they could. The refinery, the Ghostfire pollen itself, the workers, and - here's the reason for our involvement - there's reports of a 'sudden intense rainstorm' that struck as the Suffering Marshals mobilized to deal with them to defend the tithe. The Arbitrators 'lost track of the attackers' in the storm, and they ultimately got away."

He lets that hang in the air for a moment. "Needless to say, that simply doesn't happen. The Suffering Marshals are exceptional trackers, even by the high standards of the Adeptus Arbites. Some rainstorm wouldn't have even given them pause, let alone cost them the trail of the attackers, and yet they lost the trail quickly, according to my agent. So I'm sending you four to make some sense of this. We're almost certainly dealing with some brand of heresy here, so I expect you to be on your toes. I want the matter dealt with conclusively before the Arbitrators have a collective fit."

He pauses before twirling another few strands of pasta around his fork. "Further questions?"

[Deathkeeper]

"So we're looking at some unholy tricks at work or someone somewhere is lying. Perfect." he says quietly to himself.
It's not like the tracking could have been foiled by rain, no. Not unless they were just following tracks. They knew better than that, right?
Marcus looks expectantly at the others. He can't think of anything else right now, but he doesn't think he'll have the last word on this one.

[Destro_Yersul]

Uriah grumbled something about destruction of sacred machinery, lapsing into surly silence and staring at the bolt pistol on the desk. Interesting magazine on that, he'd have to look up the pattern later. It was certainly nonstandard... perhaps one of Hadd's designs. Lots of nonstandard stuff on Hadd, from what he'd heard. No rain, though. Rain was distressingly nonstandard, and Uriah hated to think of the effects it would have on anything made of metal. Seemed nobody else had anything more to ask, though, so...

"Are we dismissed? Want to see the shuttle we'll be taking, run diagnostics."

[ThirdEmperor]

"One thing. Do you know of anyone on the planet we can trust?"
He too is looking between his companions, and meets Marc's gaze briefly, with a small nod of acknowledgement.
The other man seemed to be cautious, with all his question. The dwarf acted like a lowlife. Simple enough people.
And Decla believes strongly in simple people.

[Artemis97]

"Have there been threats to the refineries previously? Have the natives been this hostile in the past?" Caelina wonders, trying to get as much history on the situation as she can before being dropped into hot water, so to speak.

[blackouttwo]

The twirling of pasta strands stops in an instant as Kolaire glances to Decla. The Inquisitor simply gives the Shrine-Worlder a look, and that look says 'you should know better than to ask a question like THAT around here, especially to me.' One didn't normally become a prospective student of an Inquisitor with the belief that people can be trusted.

There's probably going to be a discussion on the matter later, but for now, Kolaire redirects his attention to Caelina. "The Ashleen have a vested interest in ensuring the continued flow of Ghostfire pollen offworld. They're hostile, certainly, but not to Imperial authority. More like they're hostile to almost everyone else. Not out of some faith or deep-rooted belief in the Emperor, of course. But it is simply the way of things. Iocanthos is a brutal world, Ms. Lux. The locals do nothing but fight over Ghostfire, harvest Ghostfire, and trade it away to the Administratum for guns, fuel, and vehicles so that they can continue to do nothing but fight over Ghostfire, harvest Ghostfire, and trade it away to the Administratum for guns, fuel, and vehicles, and so on."

The Inquisitor spreads his hands wide. "A simple, brutal, vicious cycle, and one that both the natives and the Calixian sector government have a vested interest in guaranteeing remains unchanged. So an act of violent sabotage like this is such an anomaly that the Arbitrators are scratching their heads about motive. My interest in this matter is the 'freak rainstorm' that covered the attackers' escape; the attack itself is tangentially-related, but no less important for that fact, and I expect you to find out everything you can." He resumes twirling his pasta on his fork before taking another bite.

"Ah espekt yer repohr in uh munf. Go geht pahcked."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Got nothing to pack," Uriah muttered. Indeed, everything he owned was with him, somewhere or other about his person. The Inquisitor's order had certainly sounded like a dismissal, though, so he felt it was alright to shove off towards the launch bays, where he would spend the time until launch shuffling around, glaring suspiciously at the shuttles, and making sure there was nothing untoward going on.

[Deathkeeper]

Marc nods, getting up and offering a salute before walking out, giving his team a terse, "I'll be at the launch pad in ten."
Ammo belt, waist. Grenade, ammo belt. Pack, back. Shotgun with sling, shoulder. Easy loadout. He'll be ready to meet the dwarf exactly on time, as promised.

[Artemis97]

"As you wish, Inquisitor." Caelina rises and bows respectfully before turning and leaving to collect her things. It takes a good half an hour for her to arrive at the shuttle, and the reason becomes quickly apparent, the adept is dressed in full feudal plate armor, polished to a shine and decorated with gilded filigree. From a thick leather belt hung a sheathed mono-edged sword on one side and a stub revolver on the other. A sturdy pack rested on her back, and she carried the armor's help under one arm. Her long hair was up and braided into a crown about her head, keeping it out of the way, but still looking elegant.

Lady Lux smiles broadly at the others as she approaches. "Apologies for taking so long, I had quite a bit to prepare." Packing up all of one's life was no simple task, afterall.

[ThirdEmperor]

Decla only nods, planting his hands against the armrests to lift his way from the uncomfortable, tiny little chair.
They'll find him idling at the door to the shuttle, turning the aquila pendant over and over in his hands. There's little else the shrine worlder has to his name - and the rifle that hangs from around his shoulders is beyond another check, polished free of every nick upon the barrel, the names of brothers before him etched upon the stock plain and clear. He waits for the rest to board before shuffling through the airlock, hating every moment as he buckles in to the plastic bench seat.

[blackouttwo]

As the acolytes strap themselves in, their pilot finishes sipping the cup of recaf he's been brewing in the shuttle cockpit's glovebox, with what's almost certainly a small case of modest tech-heresy inside: A small hotplate rigged up with duct-tape, combined with a cheap strainer, a funnel, and a small, dinged-up metal pitcher (the man needs his recaf; he had to get creative) resting on the hot-plate, and a box of recaf packets at his feet.

"OK, kiddies, strap yourselves in. When we get planetside, I'm not sticking around very long, so don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." The calm pilot's clear Landrian accent can be heard through the vox-speakers in the passenger compartment.

The Aquila lander’s interior is cramped and uncomfortable, with cheap seats and heavy padded straps to keep a passenger from flying around inside during the bumpy descent. Once the acolytes are seated, the shuttle doors seal shut with a hissing noise and finally, with a gut-wrenching lurch, the shuttle falls into the void of space. The forces of the void assert themselves, and any loose objects float through the air in zero-gravity in front of you, abandoned odds and ends drifting idly. After a few moments of quiet as the shuttle drifts through space, an ear-splitting roar can be heard from the shuttle’s engines as it makes its descent into the atmosphere.

The ride then immediately gets much more uncomfortable.

Conversation is rendered impossible thanks to the high-pitched shriek from the engines. The sheer level of noise is absolutely deafening. The shuttle shakes horribly for the next thirty minutes as it burns for Iocanthos's surface. Looking out the viewport, you can see the planet below. It certainly doesn't look like a massive war-torn rock from up here.

After what seems like an unbearable amount of time, the screaming from the engines recedes. The last dregs of sunlight and the onset of dusk can be seen out of the lander’s viewport, and the shuttle hatch opens without delay.

Outside, a woman standing about five feet with sunburnt skin and a half-shaved head with dark red hair (clearly dyed) and looking every bit the underhive ganger, stands waiting several dozen meters from the landing pad. She nods as the four of you pile out of the shuttle, and approaches you with a stern expression. Around the shuttle, you can see the spaceport is a large area of hard-packed scorched ground, punctuated with rectangular pads of rockcrete and heavy-duty docking clamps surrounded by a high wire fence to keep out wandering creatures.

Several industrial walkers, power-loader Sentinels, sit idle at the edge of the spaceport perimeter, clearly left exposed to the open air and the weather, as if they haven't been used in some time. The air smells of burnt metal and chemicals and a haze hangs over the place from the scorched earth.

The ganger-looking woman finally draws near. "Welcome to Port Suffering. You must be Kolaire's lot."

Not exactly an introduction. Or subtle.

[Artemis97]

"That obvious, hm?" The armored adept asks with a broad smile and a light giggle. She unstraps the gauntlet from her hand in a practiced motion and extends it for a handshake. "I'm Lady Caelina Lux. Nice to meet you miss...?"

[Deathkeeper]

Marcus gives the woman a nod of acknowledgement and lets the adept handle the more formal introductions.
"You sent out here to greet us?" he asks.

[Destro_Yersul]

Uriah settled into his seat, sparing a glare for the pilot's homemade recaf maker. If he'd had the time, he would have rigged up something proper, but there wasn't the time. Instead he resigned himself to slouching in his seat, looking slightly green at all the bouncing around the shuttle was doing. The noise was nothing next to a forge going at full-bore, but the motion was something he'd never get used to.

Arriving dirtside, Uriah stomped out of the shuttle, scowled at the spaceport, scowled at the sky, and skowled particularly hard at the lack of any tarpaulins over the loader sentinels. "I hate it here," he declared, kicking at the dirt. "There's too much foliage. Isn't natural."

And then, the group was approached by a ganger of some sort. Fantastic. Uriah looked up at her. "You must be the welcome party."

[ThirdEmperor]

Decla pauses and leans heavily on the door as he shuffles out after the rest, white-knuckled fingers gripping the frame for support as the industrial stink of the place slams into his raw sense. The shaking, the shrieking, the everything of their flight has worn him thin, and he can only stare out in despair at the miserable little world.
Wherever his enthusiasm came from before, the descent has convinced Decla that it was deeply misplaced. He rubs his nose and sniffles at the acrid air, watching the rest handle their welcome.

[blackouttwo]

"Nia Jertiv. I'm Kolaire's informant in Port Suffering when I'm not out with one of the war-clans." She takes Lux's hand and gives it a quick, firm shake, speaking quickly and matter-of-factly as she gives every one of you an appraising look, trying to get the measure of all of you. "Get used to the look of the place. It never gets much better. The Arbitrators cordoned the scene off and left a detachment to guard it until specialists arrived to take a look. They'll let you in. I came to ensure you arrived safely, because it's likely that whoever hit the refinery will expect Inquisitorial involvement." Her accent is light and thin, but unmistakably from Gunmetal City on the sector capital world of Scintilla, and she's a gunslinger from the look of the pistol belt and large, well-kept weapons at her hip.

She pauses to take a look around the spaceport, as if looking for someone, before turning back to the motley band of acolytes. "Watch your backs, aye, rookies?" She pauses to reach into her belt, and hands Lux a rough, handmade map of Port Suffering. "Here. To help you find your way around the city. I've done some quiet asking around. Other than the crime scene, there's apparently a witness to the attack hiding out in the almshouse. You might also try asking around the markets in the Pits, see if anyone saw anything suspicious around the time of the raid."

http://brennor.dyndns.org/~steve/Warhammer40K/CombatMaps/40K-Map-PortSuffering.jpg

"I got a client's war party gearing up to go on the march this time tomorrow and I have a long drive ahead of me to their rally-point. I can't stick around. If you have any last questions for me, ask 'em now." She pauses to check the massive pistols at her hip, looking for imagined flaws in the weapons' workings before looking back to the four of you expectantly.

[Deathkeeper]

Marcus nods. "Thank you, Miss Jertiv. We'll keep in touch." he says.
"I suggest we examine the scene first." he suggests to the team, and will be making his way there with the help of the map unless someone suggests otherwise, slinging his gun over his shoulder without complaint. Work to be done, answers to find.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Aye. Maybe there's something that's not been blown up, and it'll at least be inside. Mostly. Probably." Uriah glared at the sky. "Wouldn't put it past the blighters here to have a factory outside."

[Artemis97]

"Who would we be looking for at the almshouse? Do you have a name?" Caelina asks of their contact before she disappears.

[ThirdEmperor]

Leaning over Lux's shoulders, Decla glances between the map and their guide, looking through the marked location.
"And where will we find the Arbitrators headquarters?" He looks between his companions then, and to Marcus especially. The voidborn was suspicious of them as well. "We'll need to talk to the team sent to track the perpetrators."

[blackouttwo]

She quietly nods, apparently satisfied with the questions that Lux and Decla are asking. As if she's grading them based on what they're asking and why. "The Arbitrators responsible for tracking the attackers can probably be found guarding the crime scene. There's only a dozen or so Arbitrators on Iocanthos at all and they've wanted all hands on deck for this one. Someone hitting the Ghostfire pollen works isn't exactly an every-day occurrence, child. As for the witness, find Sister Xanthe and ask her. She's the senior Sister Hospitaller at the almshouse. She'll know more. Fair warning, she has a temper."

Jertiv checks a chronometer on her wrist, and grunts in annoyance. "Alright. I need to get moving. I'm far behind schedule as it is. You rookies pull this one off and I'm sure Kolaire will break out the premium grox-steak in celebration. Maybe invite you to dinner." She cracks the first grin any of you have seen her wear and turns to leave, calling back as she walks away. "Try not to get shot!" She calls out in an encouraging manner, and you all immediately get the dismal sense you might be completely ****ed.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Hrmph." Uriah watched their contact's retreating back with a frown. Try not to get shot? What the frak did she mean by that? Grumbling about the unhelpfulness of that piece of advice, he starts walking - slowly - in the direction of the destroyed factory. There were arbitrators to question.

Uriah did not appreciate the irony.

[ThirdEmperor]

Decla nods in return, clapping his arms crossed over his chest. "Good luck with your hunt, Nia Jertiv, and don't you get shot either." But it's not her hide he's worried for, as he watches the informant head out. She's not the one on foreign turf rooting out heretics.
"I'll go see to the crime scene. Will one of you come with? I'd feel better against possible traitors in numbers, and we could use a full set of eyes."

[Deathkeeper]

Marcus nods curtly to the woman. They've said everything.
"I said it first, so of course I'm going with you. How many groups do you guys wanna make?"
Asks Marcus, looking everyone over.

[ThirdEmperor]

"I say one for the almshouse, three for the factory. We should have a show of force." If these arbitrators have erred, they will need to be reminded they are no longer the law here. And Decla is proud of his authority.

[Artemis97]

"I'd like to get to the witness as quickly as possible, lest something unfortunate happens." Lux volunteers.

[blackouttwo]

[The Works]

The trip through the city's closest thing to an industrial district is one part watching your pockets obsessively as you move through the filthy press of humanity in Port Suffering and one part determination. The buildings are an overbuilt hodgepodge of prefabricated metal sheeting, clay brickwork faced with crumbling plaster and stone blocks baking in the oppressive heat of the sun. Everything here is drab and dusty, hot and reeking of scorched metal. The locals are grimy and hard-faced, and most of them have a scavenged appearance wearing patched coveralls, headscarves and coats, most stained a flat grey-brown with dust.

The main streets are a sea of dust-stained workers, the din of a hundred different dialects and the strange iron-sweet stink of Ghostfire flowers hanging heavy in the air, mingling with the heat and stink of too many people crowded into a single space. As you approach the Works, the industrial area where the Ghostfire flower tithe is refined, you notice a clear shift in the architecture of the area: A series of ugly squat buildings and silos where the Ghostfire pollen is refined and stored for shipping, the whole area clouded with choking dust kicked up by the refining process.

The sight that greets you strikes you as one that's not common around here. A hole in the wall of one of the refineries that looks like it was either blasted or rammed open, cordoned off and guarded by one tall, imposing man in a suit of iconic Arbitrator carapace armor. Several other burly, stockier men with respirators are on guard nearby with cheap, double-barreled shotguns, slouching in a bored fashion as they patrol. The additional guards are very clearly not Arbitrators.

The Arbitrator's response is unusual to anyone who's dealt with Arbitrators before: He simply stands aside to allow you entrance. No statements or commentary. Arbitrators have never been the most talkative bunch, but this one's quiet even by their standards.

Checking around the scene of the crime, aside from the large hole in the wall, the first thing that you notice about this particular part of the refinery is that it's clearly a storage area. Pallets of barrels rest at the far end of the room, the open tops revealing that they're empty. Large, open security gates at the back end of the otherwise-empty room reveal a large, open area filled with massive containers and large amounts of refining equipment necessary to refine the Ghostfire pollen extract. Ghostfire dust coats the floors of both rooms.

All of the machinery that would normally be running for hours a day has fallen silent, even though you can hear off in the distance that other refineries are still working at this time of day. It seems only this refinery and the attached storage building were attacked and shut down for investigation. Off to one side, you can see what looks like light from a glowglobe, just beyond your line of sight, around the edge of the security gate's large frame. Possibly some kind of overseer's office.

From the look of it, the Arbitrators haven't done much but carry away the bodies and put the building under lockdown until you showed up. The interior very clearly has signs of damage from the attack; bullet holes pockmark the walls near the security gate and there's evidence of old, dried bloodstains on the floor.

You three probably have your work cut out for you, but there's obvious information here for the case to proceed, if you can just figure out where to start and how to parse it.

[Almshouse]

Finding the almshouse isn't especially difficult for Caelina. Following the map leads her to a squat, grim structure, a fusion of a dozen or so rust-red hab-blocks that house sick and injured workers. A dull-witted looking guard at the front doesn't bother to bar her way. She finds a fairly grim sight upon her entrance; gurneys and cheap cots greet her, with victims of various petty crimes across the city either bleeding out from knife or gunshot wounds that are clearly infected.

Everything about the building screams that it's not a place of healing so much as a charnel house. A lot of the wounded here are workers suffering from various industrial accidents at the refineries and other injuries suffered on the job. One of the Sisters Hospitaller, an older woman with wrinkled skin, stark white hair, and an expression of utter disdain for one of the orderlies she's barking orders at points across the room Caelina finds herself in, at several very obviously wounded refinery workers. "Over there! That one needed stitching! Throne help me if I find out you botched this one..." The orderly flinches at the older woman's shouting, and turns to go and take care of the task.

More than likely the older Hospitaller is Sister Xanthe. And as Kolaire's informant said, she very clearly has a temper.

This is going to go well, you can tell already.

[Destro_Yersul]

Urist said nothing along the way, walking past the arbitrator with hardly a glance. He decided he might like the arbitrator, if assuming the man was this quiet all the time. A brief search of the storage area was conducted, before Urist wandered off to look at the machinery. Let someone with actual social skills talk to the overseer, he wanted to see what the real heart of the refinery did.

[Deathkeeper]

Marcus frowns at the site. First things first, he needs a little more context on the scene of the crime.
"Can you tell me about which part of the plant this is? Is it close to where the most important parts are, or where the most people would be?" he asks the Arbitrator.
Inquiry roll [roll0] /35

[ThirdEmperor]

It feels familiar. Earth beneath his feet. Not the strange stink of disinfectants and the thrum of engines, but the noise of people around him, and Decla another face lost in the push of the crowd. He tucks his hands into his pockets, relaxing for the first time since they met in Kolaire's briefing as they shoulder through the mess of humanity.

The Arbitrator gets a nod, a brief look to fix the face beneath the armor in memory. Decla steps carefully across the empty floor, not sure what may matter among the dust and bullet marks, heading for the security gate - the light - past the wide warehouse space.

[Artemis97]

Oh dear, this was going to be... difficult. Caelina takes a deep breath before striding confidently across the room to the Sister.

"Sister Xanthe? I am Lady Caelina Lux and I need only a moment of your time. The faster you answer my questions, the faster I'll be out of your hair. Now, who was it that witnessed the attack on the factory? I need to speak with them."

[blackouttwo]

[The Works]

Urist finds himself in the heart of the refinery shortly. The machinery looks to be a series of rows of large, metal boxes about four meters high, and five-by-five meters wide. The metal boxes have small, plastic panels in all four sides, with a dizzying array of mechanisms inside them, built with the intent of rapidly extracting large amounts of pollen from Ghostfire flowers and packing them into barrels. One of the four sides in each metal box has a connector-port for a large hose, which is used to get the finished Ghostfire extract into a waiting barrel. Tools rest nearby to seal the barrels once they’re filled, with a power-loader Sentinel off to the far end of the refining chamber waiting to load it onto a pallet for shipping.

The apparent refining process strikes Urist as inefficient, but apparently acceptable for the Administratum. Time-wasting louts.

Meanwhile, Decla inspects the security gates. Opened, and in good condition. Not damaged in the attack. And with no indication of what opened them. Footsteps in the Ghostfire dust all throughout the storage area, and the refinery just beyond the security gate tell that there were multiple intruders, at least, but barring a closer examination, there’s no way Decla would be able to tell more.

The Arbitrator, meanwhile, looks back at the hole in the wall, and then back to Marcus. Marcus gets a hint of a small, humorless grin under the Suffering Marshal’s helmet. Either he’s humoring the relative rookie as if he were a tourist, or he’s genuinely relieved at the nature of the question. “Every part of the refining operation for the Ghostfire is self-contained. Individual structures with refining rooms, storage facilities, and attached vehicles and packing equipment. Helps to contain the damage in case of a refinery accident so the Administratum doesn’t need to process paperwork regarding the shutdown of the entire pollen extraction process on Iocanthos. And to keep the pollen flowing in case one component falls out of alignment with the rest of the metaphorical machine.

"The warbands out in the wilds bring the flowers in, they’re distributed among the different refineries, and the work crews refine it, pack it, and load it for shipping offworld. Naturally the refinery crews don’t ever stop. Day shift comes in, works for thirteen hours, leaves, and the night shift follows for the same timespan. Every refinery has a crew of about thirty-five people plus a few logistical staff and overseers per shift. About forty to fifty people inside at any one time. What you’re seeing here-”

He turns and makes a broad, sweeping motion with one armored gauntlet. “-Is damage to one refinery structure. The rest are still working night and day, but until this matter is resolved and you give the all-clear, it’s shut down. All we did is remove the bodies and let you Inquisition types get the luxurious job of doing the heavy-lifting on this case.”

In short? This arbitrator is saying yes. This is almost right where the most people would be, and the most important parts of the refinery aren’t too far beyond the hole in the wall and the storage room just beyond it. However, Marcus knows about suppression tactics used by the Arbites. Civil unrest on this planet is uncommon in the first place outside of the usual tribal infighting, but they’d be equipped and trained to handle something like this here in Port Suffering.

Why the attackers singled out this particular structure is another question, but the fact of the matter is the dissidents got away with it. This couldn’t have been some kind of work-riot that escalated, or anything similar. Needless to say, something about this simply doesn’t fit into the picture.

[Almshouse]

Sister Xanthe turns to Lux as she approaches her. The elderly Hospitaller eyes Caelina with barely-concealed suspicion. "And who’s asking, child? As a matter of- Who let you in? You don’t look hurt and you don’t look like you belong around these parts. You’ve got fifteen seconds to stop wasting my time. I have injuries to treat. This mortuary isn’t going to stem the tide of dying on its own in this wretched city, and I'm not admitting anyone to see my patients before they pass without Throne-damned good reason."

[Destro_Yersul]

Uriah 'hrmphed' and spent a brief period of time inspecting the machinery to see if it was all the same, and poking about inside the access panels to see if there was anything there that shouldn't be. He wasn't the most familiar with this sort of machinery, but the inefficiency irked him. Weren't there any proper techpriests about to look after the equipment? Mechanical efficiency was the answer to most everything.

His curiosity thus satisfied, the forge man wandered towards the sentinel to inspect that. The whole time, he grumbled about how plastic was an inferior material for access panels, and the bloody things should be made out of something less flimsy and harder to pry off.

[Artemis97]

Almshouse]

Caelina's expression falters slightly, but she rallies and replies. "I am an acolyte of the Imperial Inquisition here investigating the attack on the factory. Is that sufficient?"

[Deathkeeper]

The Works

Marcus nods at the man, and spends some time pacing. Yes, just walking around, looking at the scene. Not even necessarily looking for specific details. Just gathering thoughts and looking.
And then, once he feels like he's stewed enough, he asks another question.
"You know what they did to escape? Feel like anyone who blew up a bomb in the middle of the city must've had something pretty damn fast to get away from all you folks close by. I'm not really sure what we'd be tracking if we found a trail."

[ThirdEmperor]

Decla turns back from his inspection of the gates, cupping a hand over his mouth to shout through the emptyness of the warehouse space. "Hey! These gates, they like this before the attack? Left open?"