Ravia prepared twelve servitors, which dutifully filed in to an Arvus and were sent off to explore the wreck. Each was equipped with a vox feed and full audiovisual sensor arrays. The Arvus was piloted by another servitor, since it was a simple shuttle mission back and forth, and none of the human pilots had exactly wanted to volunteer. They watched it on the auspex as it vectored in to the wreck, settling in one of the great rifts in the hull to disgorge its cargo before returning.

One by one, the servitors shuffled through the ship. Their journey was recorded on grainy pict-feeds, broadcast back to the Sting through a relay the shuttle had dropped off. Two had been dispatched to the bridge, but both of them got lost almost immediately, wandering through empty halls and stomping into rooms long abandoned. Everywhere they found evidence of an ancient battle, fought long ago. The walls were pocked and scarred by weapons fire, the floors littered with forgotten equipment. Everything organic had long since turned to dust, at least in the parts of the ship that still had air. The air that existed was by no means breathable, fouled without a proper recycling system to sustain it. Fortunately, the servitors did not need to breathe.

Both of the drones sent to check on the gellar fields eventually found their way there. The old generators were in remarkably good repair, despite having operated for ages. A small handful of servitors were present, engaged in maintenance tasks. One was trying to apply sacred oils, entirely unaware that its dispensor had run dry. The rest plodded about unconcerned, or sat idle in charging stations. The hatches that led to the generator chamber bore witness to heavy fighting, but here at least it seemed the defenders had prevailed. Though who, or what, they had been fighting against was unclear. Time eroded the bones of the faithful and heretic alike.

The servitors sent to check on the plasma drives were foiled, but not because they got lost; the chamber where the vast generators had once sat was gone, torn open to void. Conduits ended in jagged ruin, and a mess of cables drifted in a tangle. Ravia had done her job well, though, and rather than pitching themselves into space the servitors turned about and went searching for the auxiliary banks. Here, as with the gellar fields, they found things in good repair. Undoubtedly the maze-like nature of the ship had helped preserve the towering capacitor arrays and power plants, which were buried deep within the substructure. Fuel for the great generators had nearly run dry, the giant coils still producing power out of the dregs that remained.

Of the two that went looking for the Pride's missing captain, only one made it. The first tried to head down a darkened corridor, the feeds struggling to filter through the darkness. The lights in this section of the ship were dead, the blackness complete. There was a sudden lurch as the machine missed its footing, and a thud as it landed three decks down. The last image from its picter was blood-spattered deckplates, lit by the sickly green of the servitor's optics, before it flickered and died. The other was more fortunate, winding its way through to the teleportarium. The glow of a work lamp betrayed the position of the captain and his crew - there were five of them in all, slumped to the ground in their void suits. The suits were undamaged, their breath misting the interior of their transparent faceplates. They appeared asleep.

The remaining four servitors had mixed success. Navigating the winding corridors of the ship would have been difficult even if it weren't a half-airless hulk, but in its current state the challenge was greatly increased. One of the servitors wandered for hours without finding anything more than old shrines to the omnissiah, scattered about in forgotten corners. Another suffered a similar fate to the seventh, ending its mechanical life when the decking beneath it tore free with a screech of tormented metal. The other two had better luck, one wandering into the powered sections of the wreck. The fighting seemed to have been lighter here, and they got several good images of barracks and mess halls that looked servicable, if in need of some polish and new fittings. The background hum of old machinery followed the servitor around as it explored the various crew areas, before linking up with the last servitor just as it made perhaps the most significant discovery: following a trail of ancient stains on the decking, the two servitors happened upon a suit of ruined power armour.

The armour was bare of paint, the iron-grey ceramite pitted and scored in a dozen places. The trim on the armoured plates was hammered gold, held in place by tarnished brass rivets. It was sitting on the deck, leaning against the wall where its owner had died. One gauntlet still held a massive boltgun, its casing painted with black and yellow hazard stripes. The same design was repeated on one of the ovoid kneepads, and the left shoulderpad bore a grinning skull device. The helmet looked like a knight's helmet, such as might be seen on a feudal world: a heavy reinforced brow ridge, a single narrow vision slit, its lens cracked and broken, and an angular front plate to deflect hits. Here at last was a hint towards who the occupants of the ship had been fighting.