The Ocularian Conspiracy IC

[Henry the 57th]

Scintilla, Hive Tarsus, 5433976.M41

High, high in the clouds, far above the hive city where the teeming masses toil for the glory of the God Emperor, lies the Sibylline Spire. The origin of its name long since forgotten, this gleaming edifice of Imperial architecture has long been a playground for the wealthy, the decadent, the bored, and the unhealthily curious. Tonight is no exception, as modest-sized crowd of well-dressed, oft-masked aficionados of all thing strange, hideous, and forbidden are gathered before an immaculately polished pair of silver doors. Whispering, gossiping, feuding, and making covert arrangements, the two-hundred strong gathering awaits the formal start of the night's soiree with an unusual degree of patience - something special must be on offer. As the planet's sun dips slowly below the horizon, visible in the vast armorglass portals running along both edges of the reception hall, their patience is at last rewarded. With only the slightest of shuddering squeaks, the doors before the crowd slide gracefully open.

Within, spread out over an open ballroom to match the largest cathedral, is a gloriously heretical panoply of the wonderous, the grotesque, the risqué, and the outright bizarre. Encased within a neat arrangement of hardened display shelves, armorglass cubes, and even the occasional stasis casket are a bewildering array of tomes, tablets, blades, guns, pottery, statuary, xenos flesh, jewelry, carved images of snarling beasts, actual snarling beasts, suits of inhuman-proportioned armor, crystalline star charts of unknown skies, shattered fragments of strange stone, and much, much more. As the first waves of the would-be owners of this tainted bounty filter in to the richly appointed auction room, treading almost noiselessly on the lush crimson carpeting, it becomes apparent that there is a method to the sprawling madness.

The displays that are spread out throughout the vast enclosure can be loosely separated into four distinct categories. Right at the front of the room, and most visibly striking of all, is the array of alien flesh, both dead and alive. Snarling grey canids with oddly avian faces and black quills running down their backs snap up at the intruding humans from their chains in a deep pit. Preserved hides of all colors and textures are spread out throughout a dozen cases and wracks, many fashioned into elegant coats and gowns, precious gems twinkling delicately amongst the alien flesh. Mounted heads and stuffed corpses abound, from fanged greenskin maws wide enough to swallow a man's head whole to strange chitinous, hunched grey creatures with a dozen compound eyes. Spherical cages hold glittering, golden insects constantly emitting a low hum, dripping tiny amounts of some faintly fluorescent blue fluid. Other such orbs are filled with a deep green water, in which float odd creatures resembling some combination of crustacean and cephalopod, running their long feelers endlessly over its surface as if probing for weakness. Towering over them all is a truly hideous monster from the cold void, white of flesh and armored in purple carapace. Mantis-like thorny limbs sprout out of its back, complimented by a long pair of muscular arms terminating in vicious red claws. Easily twice the height of a man, cold, unblinking black eyes stare down from the xenos monstrosity's tentacled face at the debutantes trickling by. The crystal clear armorglass of its display case offers a spectacular view of this starring attraction, drawing more than a few appreciative nods and mutterings from the assembled upper crust. It looks certain to fetch a high price tonight.

While the remaining objects for sale lack the sheer panache of the assembly of xenos specimens, alive and otherwise, they are no less heretical for it. To the left of the alien displays are a collection of writings, some in gothic but most not, inscribed, carved, and even tattooed onto a wide variety of materials. Clay tablets bearing unreadable alien hieroglyphics sit freely next to thin metal sheet bearing high gothic hymnals, books visibly bolted shut adorn cabinets beside scraps of what appears to be poorly tanned leather proclaiming the imminent end of all things. To the right lies a veritable treasure trove of armor and weaponry, much of it clearly not intended for the human form. A nearly complete suit of scrap armor adorning a facsimile of a roaring greenskin towers above an almost delicate-looking chestplate and helmet adorned in bright yellow and blue. A trio of of flawlessly flowing crystalline spears adorns a display case next to a brass and silver dagger cut into the shape of a teardrop. Fine master-crafted bolters bearing inscriptions in a language none can read are arrayed beside blocky energy weapons of an imminently practical design.

To the rear of the ballroom sits perhaps the most curious display of all. Rather than flesh or arms or knowledge, this particular trove of the forbidden appears dedicated to nothing more than sheer aesthetics. Jet-black statues of writhing alien figures share space with bejeweled dragon's heads. A series of bronze gyroscopes swirl endlessly around nothing, around a small image of a thin alien, or around a miniature globe constantly shifting its color palate. Half a dozen smooth, pearly-white devices of unknown providence rest atop a violet and gold tapestry depicting a shrieking phoenix emerging from blazing warpfire. Among these many curios can be found a simple figure of mirroring crystal, perfectly polished to an immaculate sheen, encased in an artistic rendition of a swirling flock of doves forged from ivory and gold. From Inquisitor Tyrus's descriptions of it, there can be no doubt that this is the Window of Ages, the true reason for the agents' presence here tonight, the one item they are ordered to retrieve at all costs.

As the assembled crowds flitter throughout the vast space, ooohing and aaahing as they pick delicately over the selection of available prizes, servo skulls float high over head. The death's heads announce in monotone machine voices that the initial bidding will begin shortly. The Inquisition's agents will have only a few minutes to look over these foul works and identify the objects on which they intend to bid.

[RedSand]

Dyveke walked ever so slightly ahead of the other acolytes, not wishing to immediately associate herself with them. They were all of perfectly decent houses, of course(save the somewhat eerie cogboy, who Dyveke preferred not to think about), but good auctioneering was about not showing your hand-why should she let everyone know they were all working together? Besides, it befit the role she was dressing for tonight. She sauntered through the crowds in her black knee-high boots, face heavy with dark makeup and a bevy of silver piercings. Her mesh armor, freshly dyed a dark violet, had been clipped in several places around her body-not to keep it in place, of course, but to draw it taut around her body. The pressure of the clips was just enough to make the armor stiffen slightly and seal tight against her skin, as if she'd been issued a can of military-grade body spray. It was profoundly uncomfortable and would've gotten her thrown out of anywhere respectable, but it was certainly attention-grabbing. She completed her look with a little waist belt for her sundries, a black purse replete in skulls, and the pièce de résistance-a rather expensive longjacket she had cut to midriff length years ago.

This was, quite obviously, not the look of any kind of respectable businesswoman, nor was that the part she'd signed up to play this evening. She looked like someone's idiot consort, or a noble wife run amuck, or maybe even the spoiled daughter of someone actually important, if her makeup skills were still that up to snuff. Showing up to any serious event looking like you don't entirely belong there was a gamble, to be certain, but there was something just a little bit unnerving about walking into an auction house looking like you were armed with someone else's money with no absolutely idea what you're doing. It also distanced her from the rest of her cell-when you look like you just showed up to have fun, people don't make much fuss over you chatting up your fellow acolytes. She could mingle freely and not arouse suspicion. And overall it was always nice to be underestimated. Most nobleman already had a very loose concept of respecting women-why bother correcting them when you could be taking advantage?

Dyveke made a token effort to peruse the trophies section-mostly to create the impression that she was shopping for someone else-before getting a through look at the data storage devices on display. Old dusty tomes were of moderate interest to her-a bit of reading material was nice but she craved more practical prizes. She wanted dirt-information on local pirate rings, or the illicit goings-on of a rival trade house, or maybe just a cache of police records that fell out of some clumsy arbite's pocket.

[TankLaser007]

The priest's red Mechanicus robes hung in what looked like strips from it's shoulders, the long slits were by design allowing the mechadendrites full articulation of motion from their cervical and thoracic anchor points. The two stabiliser mechadendrites were concealed beneath the voluminous crimson cloth, entwined round the priest's waist, the claws periodical clicking open and closed in self maintenance joint and lubrication rituals.

In addition to the muted, rhythmic metallic clicking was the uniform release of sacred aromatic oils and consecrated fluids the aerosol mist was ejected into the air from the censer mounted over H3X's left shoulder, the system was self-contained and most efficacious cycling the mixture of oils and blessed fluids ejecting them through the electro-heated censor and reabsorbing particulate residue from the air via an esoteric intake, the entire system was much like the respiration of organics. The only approximation of normal breath left to the heavily augmented scion of Mars.

From the same shoulder a long snake like appendage lulled lackadaisically to and fro possessing an assortment or archaic and inscrutable tools, needle like protrusions, blades, strange whirring keys and spikes and clasping pincers all diminutive but with clear intent and purpose. The utility mechadendrite's hypotonic sway was much like that of an old Terran reptile intent on subduing its prey through repeated mind dulling motion.

From the right shoulder a much more active mechadendrite was mounted, there was a barely precipitable sound of whirring as the optical mechadendrite predatorily pivoted, frenetically orienting forward and backward, left and right, even making a circular pass at the ceiling above, pausing momentary on each cyber skull and tracking its orbit before again turning its avaricious attentions to the assorted congregants and curios.

As H3X slowly and deliberately made its way through the crowd it noted the presence of its fellow operatives. For the time it was deemed tactically advantageous not to congregate en-masse, nor actively or openly communicate with one another. Yet they had other means. The priest activated a test pulse of three sustained beeps to the micro beads of those in their cell.

Honing in on the frequency and test tones, the mechadendrite located the first of their cell, ++Subject located, Male, Mathias, House von Drakkan, Scholastica Psykana, Sanctioned, Grade Unknown, Standard Operational Protocol, maintain distance of 5.5 meters at all times, Operational protocol override; if abnormal manifestation of abilities, close distance to 3 meters and initiate pacification counter-measures; Non integrated ocular augmentation present allowing visual functionality sans illumination. Status, within operational norms++

The serpentine cybernetic sharply turned, cutting through the mass of flesh and cloth until it found its next target, ++Subject located, Female, Dyveke, House Atraxes, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum, True Flesh - Auger Array. Status, within operational norms++

++Searching, Subject Male, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum, Flesh is Weak. Status, unknown.++

With most of the cell located H3X turned attentions towards assessment of the security measures in the area, looking for Servitors, weapon emplacements, pict-recorders, monitoring systems, emergency egress points and any organic anti-personnel countermeasures and possible hostiles.

It would be advantageous to subvert or utilise any Servitors or systems in the area, thus the priest began broadcasting its presence to the machine spirits in the vicinity, releasing a binary pulse in regular 60 second bursts as it made its way through the large hall.

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Spoiler: Binary Pulse

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++Hail the Omnissiah! He is the God in the Machine, the Source of All Knowledge! The beast of metal endures longer than the flesh of men. Those that tend the beasts of metal must labour long to learn its ways, for a single beast must suffer the mastership of many men until ready to shed its vorpal coils. Those that seek apprenticeship must attended closely to the runes of mobilisation, the rites of maintenance, and the words-of-power that describe the parts of a beast. Nor must they neglect the tutelage of the Adeptus Prefects, nor the casting of the proper roboscopes. Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X Tech-Priest and Engineseer of Lathe-Het is present to bless and tend to you, present yourself for routine inspection and blessing.++

Having little use for armaments, nor the weak and imperfect abased accursed forms of the wretched xenos H3X turned attentions to the location of their mission objective, having located the item, H3X made note of its precise location and made way towards the collection of data storage, noting the many analogue catalogues it searched the collection for any digital or machine spirit storage devices, keeping a keen 'eye' out for any possible Archeotech or relics of the Adeptus Mechanicus such as STC fragments.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Before...

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"I can imagine a universe in which this doesn't get ugly; but I'm unusually imaginative."

In sound-proof quiet of their Hive Tarsus safe-house, only the interior noises filled the room. The clicking and shuffling of boots, and mesh-seals; the tickle-clatter of weapons being assembled after checks; and the growling, muted machine-song of the the party's heavily augmented attaché.
Soren himself contributed with the clickety-buckling of his finely tailored blue greatcoat, with its gilded and hagiographically ornate frogging. This was an operation of his left hand; his right held a fine brush, which delicately painted the dark shadows around his eyes. He used the reflection cast in the enviro-sealed window of their bolt hole, showing him the sunblasted expanse of Tarsus' adjacent desert. Bloody Tarsus.

"There will obviously be high-rollers from underworld wings and most of the clandestine appendages of the Adepta; but I wouldn't be shocked if we weren't the only cell looking to pick up something particular at this soiree. We definitely won't be the only operation who is willing to shed blood rather than let a prize slip away into the dark, again. One of us ought to be with the Mirror at all times; I'll defiantly spend a lot of time in its orbit. But if it all comes apart early - well, you know all know what we're here for."

Nor formally the cell's alpha, the others in the cell would know this kind of presumptuous-but-not-demanding tone is highly common for Soren of House Neibelung. He's made no secret of his desire to go all the way as far as Inquisitorial agents can go; going as far as to suggest, on one drink-fueled after-action session, that he would send them all sentimental pict-cards from Terra, when he takes his place with the High Lords some day. A thick bundle of those unfilled cards comes with him as a talisman of the cell's journey; one showing the magnificent cliff-skirts of Hive Sibellus; one from a less than pleasant mission on Iocanthus... he must have made many of these himself, it seems, since half the places they have been do not have a noble tourism racket sufficient to warrant pict-cards; but he has them, all the same: dog-eared, awaiting smug dispatch from Terra, some day - just moved in across the hall from the Golden Throne; hope things are alright in Fenksworld with you lot...

He thumbs away some of the painted shadow under his right eye to blend away the excess back toward his temple, then glances over his shoulder at H3X.

"...You're really not even going to try for a disguise, are you? Not even as another Machine-Cultist? I feel you don't take the pageantry of our craft seriously."

Blue and gold, he is; his panoply reminiscent of a naval officer of high station and esteem - though it is costume, and not uniform. The colors and style have that evocation; and the delicate golden mask, shaped like an eagle in flight such that its wings wrap around his temples, and its tail shades his nose, marks him as just another monied fool who may well be here for the society more than the contraband. Two cutouts in the mask's wings reveal his eyes, and the painted shadows around them; and he rakes his vision across the hall full of exotic artifacts, and fantastic beasts, and swanning nobles and criminals. He inhales deeply.

"Throne on Terra; it's beautiful..."

Having spent a great deal of time before the doors opened chatting and gossiping with the other hopeful bidders, there's no time to waste when the doors fly apart; and the tall, slender scion of Neibelung glides through the crowd, past so many of the fascinating oddities, towards the one they came for. His three servo skulls zip after him, only occasionally twitching in unison at the binary blurts of H3X across the room, as if tempted to defect toward him. Each is dressed for the occasion as well - all three skulls topped with small, child-sized blue berets which fit perfectly on the fleshless skulls of these fallen servants of the God Emperor. Soren beckons Melchior - the augur skull - up to the fore, and it quietly chirps as it scans the mirror with its senses. It's hopelessly under equipped to discern useful data about such an esoteric item.. but no one else needs to know that. He touches the steel plate on the back of his well-travelled and encrypted dataslate to the matching plate on Melchior's occipital bone, and the machines chime in harmony as data-whispers are exchanged for the master to look at the readout. The taps at the screen a little, and frowns.

"Ah, how disappointing," he says to no one, with the distracted, indiscreet tone one might expect of the self-indulgent wastrels of upper-spire breeding. "But it's a good fake..."

[dojango]

Matthias adjusted his cobalt-blue coat and shifted the thin red sash beneath it. He straightened the handful of decorations pinned to the lapel; he'd picked them up from a cheap pawn-shop a few days before. The last formal affair he'd attended had been General Krol's danse macabre, which had been the last party many people had attended... for a variety of reasons. Before the event, he'd told the others (well, the two other nobles, at least) that they'd do well to identify as many participants here as possible, as well as try and figure out who bought what. Even if Tyrus didn't seem interested in it, Matthias was sure someone would be, even if it was to keep that information secret.

"Throne on Terra; it's beautiful..."

He entered the room next to Soren, trying to keep as far away from the strange tech-priest as possible. When he heard Soren, his arm violently twitched and he dropped his walking staff. He scowled, embarrassed, and recovered it. As he went into main room, he instinctively avoided the most horrible of the xenos, the one with the weird psykic taint. He let his mind wander the room, and then stopped short as he was flooded with a cacophony of information. By the time he recovered his bearings, he made a note of the rival psykers in the room, and saw that they were making a note of him. He'd have to pass that information along to to the tech-priest, in case it were necessary. But first... first he needed a drink.

Drink in hand, he made to take a closer look at the weapons that had displayed psykic energies; such items should really only be in the right hands. His hands, for example. He leaned in closely to examine them, and also to subtly see if any of the other psykers were examining them.

Spoiler

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(1d100)[70] v. 55 forbiden lore psyker to see what the deal with those weapons are.

[Henry the 57th]

At the forefront of the cell, as ever on such occasions, Dyveke browses briefly through the xenos hides and heads only briefly before turning towards her true passion - data storage. Regrettably, her perusal of the offerings up for sale uncovers precious little in the way of such immediately available plain information. There were plenty of strange plaques, metal sheets, and leathery hides covered with symbols in unknown tongues, as well as thoroughly-bound shut books with strange names listed as being "of unknown origin", but more practical things are not so easy to find in this auction for the elite. More mundane-looking devices simply lack the sort of fashionable exoticness or thrill of the forbidden that made strange tomes and alien carving so appealing. The closest that she finds is some sort of oddly small, square data slate, bearing an unknown circular symbol in black and white.

While making her way through the display stands, the apparent courtesan has a few instances of polite but distant and brief exchange with those men and women likewise interested in the lure of forbidden lore. Truthfully though, not too many people attempt to chat her up. Her rather gauche outfit, while not entirely beyond the realms of what was acceptable, certainly put her a bit outside the realms of good taste. It wouldn't do to be seen speaking with someone uncouth enough to come dressed like that for too long.

If Dyveke is unpopular with the assembled gentry, H3X is practically a pariah. Being a heavily-augmented tech priest with next to no regard for aesthetics is bad enough, but there's simply something about the red-robed cyborg that gives the surrounding blue-bloods a profoundly uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. Not being especially welcoming at the best of times, the crowd seems to part like waves in an effort to avoid his presence. He experiences precious little difficultly in getting as much space as he would like to pick over the data storage section of the auctions.

Unfortunately for the mechanical clergyman, he swiftly finds himself running into the same issue as the noblewoman. Namely, that this is first and foremost a place for titillation and excitement, and chunky-looking bits of technology simply aren't that exciting for the gathered crowds. The only thing he spots that seems of relevance to the Adeptus Mechanicus among the heretical xenotech and strange carvings is a sheet of metal inscribed with what H3X immediately recognizes as a form of visual binary, though he would need time to decipher the encryption on the data written upon it.

Spoiler: H3X

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You binary pulses do not reveal any hidden murder servitors or elaborate security systems that are in place to subvert. Not even some hidden security camera observing everyone, just depressingly mundane wailing alarms build into the armorglass of the displays. There are ten servo-skulls making announcements overhead, which you are able to backdoor yourself into, but they are not armed. It's like someone just sort of set up a set of incredibly valuable displays in a rather ordinary ballroom and is relying purely upon the armed meat scattered throughout the room to protect it.

Odd.

Soren, meanwhile, busies himself with the fine art of surreptitious deception. In between his efforts to identify objects of any great worth or interest to himself, he allows it to "slip" that he considers the Window of Ages on display to be a fake, multiple times, within earshot of various crowds of nobles. Naturally, even within such a wide space, such rumors do have a way of spreading, and no one likes to look the fool. When, a few minutes later, he happens to overhear one elegantly-dressed lady tell another that she's quite sure the Window is just a cheap piece of knockoff art, he can be confident that he's made the people more reluctant to put in bids on that item.

While ensuring that deception went out was a little time-consuming, Soren does have a brief window in which to browse the collection of curios towards the far end of the ballroom. Nestled among the many odds and ends which he finds there, he is able to identify a particular black and silvery wave-like sculpture as being anything but. This is an archaeo-tech device of the sort that could, with properly prayers and electro-stimulation, emit a jamming signal capable of cutting off all communications into and out of a variable radios - even those relying on the warp itself. A zone of silence like that could be extremely valuable in the right circumstances.

Spoiler: Soren

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You made quite a few more rolls than you have time to carry out, honestly, so I just went with the first one.

As to the Window of Ages itself, from your vast mental store of lore, you recall that the first mention of this object comes shortly after the passing of the prophetess Luciana. A holy and devout woman said to be blessed by visions from His Divine Majesty, she lived a quiet life in the deserts of Sentinel, meditating on the glories of the divine, and only occasionally arriving at the sacred Shrine of Saint Drusus to consult with the clergy, providing unerring accurate foretellings of what was to come to their humble world. It is held that she did so only the behest of the Master of Mankind, for she immensely disliked human contact. On her final appearance, she told the faithful matter-of-factly that they would never see her again, and that they should search her distant hut for a blessing. Sure enough, she disappeared so afterwards and is believed to have passed away quietly somewhere in the vast, bleak desert. When some pilgrims took her up on her offer of benediction, her tiny home of stone and hide was found to be bereft of anything of value, save only for this beautiful mirror. Since that time, it has found its way across the Calixis Sector by means unknown, falling into many hands and leaving just as suddenly. They say that mirror contains the spirit of prophetess herself, placed there by the Emperor to deliver glimpses into the future for those that prove themselves worthy.

While all of this is happening, Matthias takes the opportunity to peer over some of the multitude of weapons that are displaying subtle psychic energies, at least for those with the talent to see. Sweeping over the wracks upon wracks of more mundane implements with little more than a casual glance, he finds to his dismay that the psychic aura of the multitude of blades and guns that he attempts to probe for more details are a but more reticent than he would like. Though they clearly shine in the immaterium, closer inspection offers little but confirmation that they are, indeed, psychically active. He does, however, pick out at least three of the five psykers he's identified in the crowd likewise surreptitiously hovering over those blades hat resonant in the warp, under the guise of the ooohing and aaahing that everyone is doing over the exotic curios. All three are obviously dressed in the manner of noblemen, one young with long hair and a charming face, one so heavily augmented that he looks but a few sworn oaths away from joining the priesthood of Sacred Mars, and finally one just looks like a silver-haired, unpleasant old man.

Spoiler: Matthias

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Unfortunately, you find that you can't identify anything meaningful in regards to these items specific psychic resonance or abilities. Perhaps under better conditions, with more time to study.

High overhead, the orbiting servo skulls blare out another warning - one minute remains before bidding is to begin.

[RedSand]

Attempting a smooth recovery from the devastatingly poor selection of knowledge from this century on display, Dyveke would've casually strolled over to the arts section, where she would've made a strong effort to ooooo and aaahhh over every item in the selection, both to commit the bit and to mask her attempt to listen in on prospective buyers. She'd made brief small talk, where she could, to try to gauge interest in the mirror that way as well. And, most importantly, she gazed at the mirror, long and hard, and tried to remember if the little voice in her head had told her anything about a pretty little trinked like that. She assumed it was a warp artifact-a purely historical artifact likely wouldn't require a team of acolytes to escort it, and besides, why else would they have brought along a psyker?

Spoiler: Rolls

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(1d100)[1] Awareness vs 60 to listen in
(1d100)[34] Evaluate vs 64 for a rough estimate of this thing's value
(1d100)[30] Forbidden Lore Warp vs 54

[MrAbdiel]

Soren remains in the orbit of the Mirror, tapping away at his dataslate. Gaspar, the medi-skull, briefly sweeps an unprompted flicker of its strange attention over him; the small light mounted just to the right of its rightmost eyesocket blinks green, confirming that he is indeed still alive and unharmed. Covering his mouth with a hand feigning the action of pensively clasping his own jaw, he subvocalizes into his micro-bead; managing to inject even those restrained tones with trademark playfulness.

{"Looks like no one here appreciates today's inspired wardrobe choices on you, Dyveke. Nevermind. It's tragically Hive Tarsus, but I know a pretty good solarium bar a spire over from our bolthole. I don't see any reason some of our operating budget couldn't be peeled off for miscellaneous expenses. Has anyone found anything they're dying to acquire? I think I can get our objective. I'd be surprised if it went above a fifth of our budget, but I'd like a window of operation up to half atleast, if it ends up as a late item on the bid ticket. If there's anything else you want me to try to nab, tell me now. Fifteen seconds."}

[RedSand]

Dyveke answers her micro-bead cheerily with a flourish, and talks a bit louder then would really be polite. "Yeah, yeah, no everyone here is absolutely feeling my vibes, I'm very seen. No, no, see it's like. I absolutely have enough for a couple things but I don't know if I'm going to buy much. Some of the art is nice but I don't need more then one or two pieces, xeno taxidermy is for nobles who want to pretend to have fought in the guard, they have bolters but like, I only know how to use the pistols so I don't see how that helps me. If I were dumb enough to go looking for old heretical books, I wouldn't go here, because this is straight up like, the least secretive way to buy a thing? People are going to know you grabbed a copy The End Times Weekly or whatever the ****, you literally have to shout about how much you're paying for it. The armor here is mostly ugly, and none of it would fit me so like. Ugh. Kind of a letdown not gounna lie. Maybe I'll doublecheck the live animal section, I've been wanting to get one of those like, tracker dogs. Bio or cyber, I'm sure I can vibe with either. Yeah. Yeah no we can hit up a bar tonight. Yeah. Hold on bidding is starting let me call you back."

[dojango]

Matthias quietly comms into his microbead "There are some weapons that shouldn't be in the hands of the public. I mean, even more so than all the others." He rattles off the lot numbers of the psykically active weapons. "If we can't obtain them, at least we need to identify the buyers so they can be visited later. Also, Master Magos; keep an eye that heavily-augmented man. If anything weird happens, I expect him to be right in the center." The other two psykers were so bland as be impossible to identify more thoroughly. But Matthias tried to maneuver himself so as to keep an eye on them once the bidding started.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

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Spoiler: Before

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The mechanicus, observed the preparations with an array of senses his weak fleshed compatriots would likely not comprehend. His true face was utterly void of expression forever frozen in the embossed likeness of a skull, a pale tribute to the Opus Machina, in honour of one of the ancient icons of the cult. Two crimson augmatic ocular implants glowed a dull red in the faux skull's sockets.

The priest stood motionless in the corner where it could observe all the occupants with dead red eyes. The optical mechadendrite swivelled, poised behind its back like the barbed tail of a scorpion ready to strike its prey. The binocular orbital input was processed in tandem with the serpentine cyclopean nest of cameras to form a panoramic panoply of overlain images, normal luminary spectrums blended with ultraviolet, thermal, and electromagnetic data that even H3X's MIU and cranial circuitry enhanced neural network had difficulty fully parsing.

H3X didn't simply "see" the world in the limited, inefficient and inferior manner an organic eye did. The priest, utilised its perfected sensory systems to combine a network of sensory data into a unified "image". Such "sight" however required the type of focus and concentration not normally possible with standard ambulation and interactions.

Yet in these moments the red robed acolyte revelled in the transcendent spiritual communion of integrated augmatics, its auger array feeding data on the energy emissions, ambient radiation and electromagnetic fluctuations, the most minute of motion, bio-signs, gases, particulate matter micro fluctuations in temperature and air currents. H3X could see the respiration of the nobles as they readied themselves, the variance in the surrounding air pressure, variance in temperature with each exhalation, the composition of carbon-dioxide in the oxygen laden atmosphere, the sound, slight and barely precipitable motion of the torso, shoulders, diaphragm. It was almost, beautiful in its frailty and simplicity.

The Tech-Priest stood, statuesque and watched.

"...You're really not even going to try for a disguise, are you? Not even as another Machine-Cultist? I feel you don't take the pageantry of our craft seriously."

++Subject Male, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum, Flesh is Weak. Status, within operational norms. Acknowledge subject, initiate external vocalisation, Low-Gothic.++

The skull masked face and optical mechadendrite simultaneously turned to focus on the noble,

++Tactical value of such subterfuge is unlikely to be advantageous. There is a less than seven percent chance of successful deception. Furthermore our abnormal antipathy resonance field makes prolonged social interaction unlikely. Non-operationally mandated impersonation of Adepta personnel is strictly prohibited.++

The priest let out an exhaust of acrid mist from the globe over his shoulder.

++Should there be anything else anyone of you require do so now. Mission commences in fifteen seconds.++

Finding the seeming lack of security measures, alarming, H3X began moving towards where the mirror was on display, being cautious to cling to the periphery of the main throng of flesh.

The thought occurred to the priest that perhaps this was some well lain trap. There was no need for "security" when all attendees were considered to be cordoned and controlled. However, they had their orders. The parameters of their mission were clear and it seemed there may even be an opportunity to add to its personal store of knowledge and experience through whatever secrets were contained within the old binary cipher on display. Such a relic, should it in fact one, would be shared with the appropriate Logi for cataloguing.

There was a bevy of chatter on their comms, synchronous with the alerts of the cloud of loud hailers above. H3X listened to the varied replies of its cell mates and responded as well once the Chanel became clear of chatter:


++Data fragment. Notify via tone pulse when present.++

The response was terse, yet satisfactory. Now they need but wait.

[Henry the 57th]

Dyveke has only a short interval to take a look at the Window of Ages before the auction is due to begin. Thankfully, the voice in her head doesn't seem to have anything to say about the lovely little mirror, at least for the moment, so she can take her brief look in relative peace. Even while she does so, she keeps her ears open to see if anyone else intends to bid, and to her mild displeasure that indeed, someone does plan to make a bid.

Spoiler: Dyveke

Show

Well, from what you can hear at least one fellow, an older gentleman dressed as a noble but positively festooned in cybernetics, to the point where there's barely any pale, greyish flesh left on his body, remark that he intends to acquire the Window, among other wonderous things, tonight. Mentions it will look good in his private chapel. Most other people that talk about it to someone else seem to have heard at least some whispers doubting the thing's authenticity, and aren't likely to bid very highly.

Your best guess would be that it would be worth around two or three thousand thrones purely for the lustrous materials. Craftsmanship and aesthetic value is a little harder to price out - there's no accounting for taste - but depending on how much someone likes the look of it that could double or even triple the price. Finally, if someone knows that it's a psychic artifact or believes the rumors behind it, that could easily drive the price up over a hundred thousand thrones. Maybe even more, depending on just what sort of weirdo is bidding.

A Warp artifact this mirror indeed is, though it does not have the same sort of immaterial feel as the thing which is partially tied to you. You would need a prolonged investigation to truly understand its properties, but the rumors say that under the right circumstances it can pierce the veil of time and show you uncannily accurate visions of the future. That wouldn't seem very implausible from what you can see.

Not so far away, Soren continues his own prolonged hovering near the mirror, earning a few side glances by those keen eyed enough to notice his failure to go very far from it, but otherwise not especially regarded by many members of the upper crust.

Meanwhile, Matthias takes a last-minute opportunity to glance at the other two psykers that he was able to spot, the ones that showed no apparent interest in the mirror. One of them appears to be a noble woman in a rather matronly gown just approaching middle age, which would indicate her juvenant treatments are starting to lose effectiveness. The other is a younger, thin fellow wearing the robes of some kind of scribe, albeit far more elaborate and well-appointed than most. He continuously checks a dataslate of his own in between looking at exhibits, and has shown no apparent interest in the cell's quarry.

Even as H3X is moving to join several of his fellows in the proximity of the window, the servo-skulls whirring high overhead emit a brief, squealing wail, drawing all eyes upwards.

"My Lords and Ladies, your eminences and excellencies," a voice blares out from all of the floating, macabre decorations simultaneously. "My sponsors and I are deeply awed and grateful for your deigning to spend your valuable time at our humble event tonight. If you would please direct you attention towards the rear of the ballroom."

As the crowd's eyes dutifully track back down towards the earth, they notice that the walls towards the back of the room have slid almost noiselessly open, revealing a broad array of lushly-appointed seats spread out around in a wide semicircle around an elevated stage. On that platform, hands folded neatly behind his back, stands a distinguished-looking older gentleman with augmentic eye, a silvery head of hair, and fine maroon dress coat. Four other figures, armored in maroon carapace plates trimmed with elaborate silver flourishes and likewise masked with silvery death masks built into their helmets, stand ready to back him up. Rifles are visibly slung over their backs.

"Your graces," the man says with a flourishing bow, voice coming from every skull, echoing easily even across the vastness of the ballroom. "My name is Thaddeus Hrosavar, your eager attendant and coordinator for this evening's entertainment. If you would please begin making your way back to our auditorium, there many wonders awaiting you all."

As the crowd begins to murmur, whether in excitement, impatience, boredom, or trepidation, they nonetheless broadly begin to make their slow, meandering way back towards the little auditorium, helpfully shepherded by more of the maroon-armored guards that seem to appearing from the surrounding walls. There appear to be a good few more of them now than there were just a minute ago.

Spoiler: All

Show

Alright, here's where the fun begins. Rather than bore you with describing the auctioning off of a metric boatload of irrelevant items, I'm going to ask you all to post what items you'd like to bid on, and how much you'd like to bid of your budget of 500,000 total thrones. The Window of Ages will be coming up last, so do remember to leave some for that.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

---

Seeing the appearance of the enforcers, and the seamless perfection of the secreted seamless apertures, H3X was taken aback at the beauty and excellence of the design, the priest could almost forgive its inability to have noticed their presence previously. ++Notation: Archive M.L.H3X.53.4F.50.20.53.70 65.78, scan all enclosure hard points.++. As the servant of the Omnissiah shuffled along with the rest, it attempted to gain an accurate count of the guards, their armaments and any overt augmatics or cybernetics.

It was then for the second time in so many seconds that the priest cursed its own slowed cogitation. The Magos mentioned by Sanctioned Psyker Mathias of House von Drakkan was, in fact, Adeptus Mechanicus Astynomia Acuitor Mech-Assassin H3X.

++Mathias of House von Drakkan, error detected. Correction; H3X of Adeptus Mechanicus is not Magos. H3X, Tech-Priext of Adeptus Mechanicus is Lexmechanic Genetorus.++

Recalling the rest of the message it had previously ignored the priest continued, ++Confirmed, subject 'heavily-augmented man' acquisition initiated, threat grade, primus. Readying pacification routines.++

H3X scanned the crowed searching for the existential threat posed by this 'heavily-augmented man', given the operational function of Sanctioned Psyker Mathias of House von Drakkan within the cell, the logical conclusion was that the 'heavily-augmented man' was a Psyker of unknown allegiance and grade. Such an individual necessitated vigilance and the preparation of suitable counter and containment measures.

Spoiler: Bidding?

Show

Do we know the "opening bids" for each item of interest amongst us? So we have an idea of low end of our possible expenditures or do all items start at the same "base amount"?

And yes I did completely miss that reference to the cyborg psyker/wyrd the first time ... "Literacy: Fail!"

[Henry the 57th]

Shuffling along, H3X is able to determine that there appear to be a total of around thirty four guards visibly scattered throughout the vastness of the ballroom, gently herding the upper class masses towards the designated auction site. On closer inspection, he realizes that none of them are showing any flesh whatsoever - beneath their maroon and silver armor they wear black bodysuits, high boots, gloves, and the death masks that cover their faces. All are carrying some form of las weaponry slung over their backs, though none are actually holding them as if expecting trouble.

As to the heavily-augmented psyker, H3X is able to spot him at a distance, though through the crowd and exhibits his vision is limited. The small amounts of grey flesh visible contrast greatly with his shining cybernetics, which are immaculately polished and seem to be working smoothly. The well-dressed psychic cyborg is near the front of the pack, and readily takes a seat in the very first row of the auditorium, mere paces from the stage where Thaddeus Hrosavar and his guards are standing.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

---

H3X continued the methodical progress in the psyborg's wake, ++Target located, first row centre. Operational assessment, procure object via fiscal means. Secondarily, via subterfuge, direct confrontation in present locale non-optimum due to presence of overwhelming force.++ the null navigated through the attendees as they were all shepherded into the auditorium, the goal being to procure a seat behind the target.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

If I can get a seat in the row directly behind the psyborg that's best, if the closest that can be gained is two row behind that may work. I want to try to ensure he's well with the 5m. radius of the disruptive aura.

[dojango]

Once the unusually clad guards start herding people into the auction proper, Matthias hangs back to find a spot in the back, near the center, so he can get a good view of the crowd and have eyes on any rival bidders. The presence of so many potentially unsanctioned paykers was making him nervous, and so he began muttering the litany of the tranquil mind underneath his breath as he tried to keep his eyes on all of them.

Once the tech-priest mentions the "overwhelming force" from the guards, he turns back and looks closely at them, too. I mean, really looks at them, not with his mundane senses but with his true eyes, to see if there is anything psykically sinister about them.

Spoiler: ooc

Show

Going to use psyniesence in this room to see if there is anything wired (or "wyrd") about the guards. (1d100)[59]

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Before...

Show

"Fifteen-" He checks his chrono, and swears mildly. And, as if this time frame was somehow H3X's fault, he enacts a petty revenge. "Balthazzar, help H3X with a disguise, will you?" The utility skull, snappy with its little child-sized beret, comes hovering up to the mechanicus operative, an outrageous false moustache clasped in its tiny articulated pincers. The task is deliberately a little more complex and abstract than the skull can manage, not to mention somewhat blasphemous against its core cognition-script; and it gets stuck in a loop of hovering within a foot an a half of H3X's face before recoiling, as if shy.

"Damnit. Dyveke, are you ready, or what? And have you seen Melchior's beret? I have the other two. No time to buy matching hats on the way..." Parking the makeup brush between his teeth, he discretely opens his purse to note the two thrones rattling around in there, along with an unredeemed promissory note for a little more. The attaché case in H3X's keeping had Tyrus's loaned wealth; but Soren liked to keep a little more liquidity on him, when he hadn't recently made foolish decisions. He swore again. "Matthias, I am never gambling with you again. I mean it this time. If I try it, you're honor bound to tell me know. You've enough of my money."

In mock-sullenness, he finishes his eye-lining. They'd be a little late - but if that was the worst thing that happened tonight, he'd call it a win.

Soren moves with the crowd, simulating dilettante delight with practised ease as he goes. His attendant skulls drift stylishly in his wake; Gaspar offering another brief scan and confirming chime in a redundancy that seems to suggest a glitch that manifests almost as paranoia, in the medi-skull's intrusive watchfulness. The scion of house Neibelung produces an embroidered cloth, raises it to his mouth, and coughs into it unconvincingly; then sniffs, convincingly, ensuring that onlookers will disregard his brief preoccupation within the handkerchief as mundane noble chemical dependency.

{"Go time. I'll make the winning bids. Dyveke, when the mirror comes up, wait until the bid passes the thirty-thousand mark, then double it. I'll come in right after and bury that bid, and you can backoff after that. Feel free to swear colorfully, at the time. After that, anyone who tries to keep up with me will be second guessing themselves, and be thinking about making after-purchase offers to winners of the bids they let slip hoping to get the mirror. H3X, if there's someone chasing my bids after that, I'd appreciate it if you got too-close-for-comfort with them. Matthias, if we happen to be bidding against someone with more money to blow that we do and they pip the mirror anyway, we're going to need you to be taking note of the winner's immaterial profile, so we can shadow them later for a recovery effort. Success or failure might come down to you."}

He finishes up with the handkerchief, pops it away, and then adds as an afterthought, wiping at his mouth with the back of one white-gloved hand as he pushes a last message on a closed channel to one member in particular...

Spoiler: Dyveke

Show

{"Also... I need to tell you later, about-"}

But then it's too late for any last words; the auction is about to begin, and he turns his full attention to Inquisitor Tyrus's business.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

---

Spoiler: Before

Show

H3X observed SS.UTL.42616C7468617A6172 as it hovered in place on its repulsers, something gripped in its small manipulators. The small servitor likely required assistance in analysis. The optical mechadendrite slithered forward examining the proffered item microscopically while the priest's auger array collected further data.

░░▒░░░▒░▒▒░░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░

Spoiler: Binary

Show

++SS.UTL.42616C7468617A6172, woven protein filament 34% ovis 57% human 9% unknown, bound with chemical adhesive, xeroderma detritus detected, 81% chance of human origin.++

Momentarily distracted by the servitor, H3X realised the 15 second mark had passed. Checking that the Inquisitor's attaché case was still secured beneath its robes, before once again returning attentions to the rest of the cell.

++Deployment delayed, immediate departure required++

Organic, subvocalisation was inefficient. The signals typically routed to H3X's vox emitters were, instead, routed directly to the micro-bead via binary electro pulses in the priest's left auditory input orifice. While not instantaneous the process was more efficient and rapid than standard organic speech.

++Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum message confirmed. Intercept bidders post-bidding of Dyveke, House Atraxes, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum.++.

[RedSand]

Dyveke shifted a bit in place, quite unconsciously. The moment of truth was coming up. She was glad Soren had, largely without her even explaining it, understood how she wanted to go about bidding. He'd start out low, she'd look pensive for a moment, then double the bid, making sure to look very pleased with herself for bidding so high and outdoing Soren. The strategy then was to bid increasingly erratically-start with an increases of 5 or 6,000, then decrease as the price rose and bidders gradually ran down. She needed to look like she really, really wanted that mirror, and didn't quite understand the value of a throne-but also look increasingly nervous about how long this was taking, to deter onlookers from bidding just to make a fool of her. If she did it right, if she pulled off the grift just well enough, no one would even want to get involved, in the same way a child might leave a turtle on its back to see if it can flip itself over. She steadied herself, and allowed herself a brief glance over the crowd, to just to really get a feel for her audience. This was it. The uncomfortable wardrobe, the babbling like a moron, the dull small talk-all set dressing for this one little performance. She wondered, just as the auction began, if it would be a good idea to start crying during the final bids.

Spoiler: Roll

Show

(1d100)[10] Deception vs 85

[Henry the 57th]

H3X, with his remarkable skill in parting the crowds around him, finds that he is able to get a seat behind and about two seats to the left of augmented psyker. The comfortable, plush crimson cushions of his chair mean little to the Mechanicus assassin, but the way the man first fidgets, scratches his paltry grey flesh with augmentic fingers, and finally turns around to glare pointedly at H3X certainly does. It is, however, already too late for the man to find another front row seat, and he apparently values that more than the discomfort that the blank causes him, so he stays put. There is no doubt in the cyborg blank's mind, though, that his target's augmentic eyes took several pict-captures of him for future reference. Whatever that entails.

"Lords and Ladies, it is once again my pleasure to welcome you to our gathering tonight," the auctioneer calls out from the stage, bowing once more as the last few ladies and gentlemen find their seats towards the rear. "We'll be starting tonight's bidding with a simple but elegant piece: the Twilight Tome of Mandragoria." Hrosavar gestures grandly, as one of the death-masked guards pushes the exhibit containing one of the elegant-looking locked books onto the stage. "Now, we shall start this fine evening's bidding at a meager amount - a mere ten thousand thrones."
___

"Sold!" the well-dressed salesman cries, a few minutes later, "Twenty-six thousand, to the lovely lady in black."

The aforementioned younger noblewoman, her stark white coiffed hair contrasting nicely with her jet-black, jewel-studded gown, sits back with a self-satisfied smirk on her face as the shining, gold-trimmed cyber mastiff is led off the stage and to a side area marked with her number. The cell's first bid of the night has gone poorly.
___

"Sold!" comes the announcer's voice again, "The Malaadrian Quintet to the gentleman in blue!"

This time, the cell has reason to be excited. The set of five psychically-active swords is theirs, for the bargain price of only thirty-two thousand five hundred thrones. As before, its display is wheeled off the staged, to be held off to the left-hand side for pickup after the auction's conclusion.
___

"Sold! The Hastam Peruersio to the dashing lord in blue!"

Another victory, this time for the price of twenty-eight thousand three hundred thrones. The pair of crystalline spears, each emitting their own psychic hue, joins the swords already won in awaiting their new owner's payment and delivery order.
___

"Sold! The Shardspeakers to my good lord in grey!"

Alas, forty-eight thousand seven hundred thrones was simply more than the cell proved willing to hazard on the pair of Warp-touched guns. They go instead to the augmented cyborg sitting so close to H3X, who somehow conveys a triumphant expression despite his lack of facial muscles and visible discomfort.
___

"Sold! The Fatecutter to his excellency in grey!"

Another psychic item, another setback. The augmented psyker, doing his best to sit tall and proud in his grey dress coat despite what has to be getting to be a pounding headache by this point, raises his fist in celebration before going back to massaging his pitiful scraps of grey flesh.
___

"Sold! Readout Omega 9ER-11723481 to his lordship in amethyst!"

Tragically, another defeat in the arena of wealth, though this time not to the mechanical man. The thin, encrypted sheet of binary writing goes to another psyker that Matthias identified earlier, the handsome younger gentleman who couldn't be more of a visual contrast from their previous antagonist.
___

"Three hundred fifty thousand going once... Three hundred fifty thousand going twice... Sold!" Hrosavar calls out, his voice clear and strong despite having to keep it raised for several hours by this point. "The Window of Ages to his regal excellency in blue!" he gestures once more at Soren, while his attendants wheel the mirror's display off the stage.

It's surprisingly anticlimactic, in a way. Between the efforts of Soren and Dyveke driving up the bidding price in odd increments, the preexisting lies about the Window's status as a replica, and discomfiting effect that H3X's presence clearly has on the psychic cyborg nobleman, the last of the competition dropped out around two or three bids ago. Even the other psykers seem to have given up after he did. The rest of it was just for show. As with all the other items, the Window of Ages and its display case are carted off to the side, placed by the number assigned to the winner of each bid, waiting for the auction's end to make formal arrangements for transportation.

"And next we have something truly special," the auctioneer calls out, while three masked guards struggle to push a truly massive armorglass display up even the stage's gentle slope. "A xenos beast of vilest sort, come from the lightless depths, slain by toxin and immaculately preserved by the finest taxidermists in Calixis - a truly worthy centerpiece for any collection!" he gestures towards the titanic white monster, its purple chitin glinting fainting in the spotlight. One man lies slumped against the case, visibly struggling to breathe, and is unceremoniously tossed off the back of the stage by two of his fellows, to the raucous laughter of the crowd.

"For such a fine exhibit, the bidding starts at five hundred thousand!" Hrosavar's voice booms once the callous chuckles have for the most part subsided. "Do I hear five hundred thousand?"

"Five hundred thousand!" one woman immediately shouts.

"Six!" a second yells out from somewhere behind the cell.

"Six hundred fifty!"

"Six seventy-five!"

"Six hundred seventy-five! Six hundred seventy-five thousand thrones! Do I hear seven hundred thou-"

The boisterous auctioneer's voice is suddenly cut off by a horrible, screeching squeal, followed immediately thereafter by a deafening boom that the confined space turns into little less than a sonic weapon. As men and women all the cell double over, clutching their ringing ears and screaming, the more perceptive have the sense to turn around, looking back across the vast ballroom and its half-empty exhibition towards the double doors that formed the original entrance. Doors which are currently lying in several smoking pieces some ten to fifteen meters from their original portal.

Currently flooding through the open gap is a faceless mass of humanity, armored in the carapace of Stormtroopers and even blood red examples of the distinctive Sororitas power armor. Hellguns and bolters alike are leveled at the startled and half-deaf crowd on the room's opposite side, as the intruders fan out into a broad, sweeping advance. Striding directly in the center of the oncoming mass is a striking woman clad in deep golden armor reminiscent of the Battle Sisters', decorated with crimson clothe bearing holy symbols, clutching a shining blade in her right hand and holding up an uncomfortably familiar badge of office in her left. It blazes so brightly that it almost appears to be on fire, leaving no one in any doubt who it is they face.

"In the name of His Divine Majesty's Most Holy Inquisition," the blonde-haired woman's voice resounds easily across the ballroom, "Everyone here is under arrest."

Spoiler: Dyveke

Show

You hear a riotous peal of otherworldly laughter from somewhere inside your head.

[RedSand]

Dyveke immediately ducks back, doing everything in her power to put as many bodies in the crowd between her and the new arrivals as she can. As she does so, she squints a bit, taking them in. Was this a pissing match between Inquisitors? Did Tyrus set them up? Or did he just have them doing something they absolutely had no business getting involved in? She didn't have anything on her that confirmed that she was in the inquisition, though the others might, and oh boy did she go through hoops to not look like an agent of the divine today. She rattled her brain. Running was very unlikely to work. Was there some kind of Inquisition signal she could get her out of this? Or at least give them pause?

Spoiler: Roll

Show

(1d100)[77] FL Inquisition to try and think of something that would make an inquisition firing squad less likely to shoot you

[MrAbdiel]

Soren's frustration crests early; the failure to snag the handsome cyber mastiff getting right up his spine. He bangs out some notes on his dataslate, shaking his head a little; but the mission, of course, was paramount. Shearing away two sets of the psy-active weapons was something of a boon, though a little less enchanting: these were purchases to isolate and destroy, he thought, and not to use or enjoy. But he did win them, and winning brought him a considerable amount of joy. Perhaps his luck was turning around. Perhaps he should set up another game of Kings and Cravens with Matthias, and win some of his lucre back.

Then another reversal, as the last of the psychic lots fell away; and Soren accidentally lets a barely audible frustrated growl slip through the microbead feed as he allows himself to be shot down on the datachip bid. The vindication afterward, as the final purchase requires an expense within a margin of only fifty thousand thrones, has the final soothing worth, though. "Alright. Alright, well, that's the important party. Let's get out of here. Before someone does to us what we planned to do to them, if they came out on top."

"In the name of His Divine Majesty's Most Holy Inquisition," the blonde-haired woman's voice resounds easily across the ballroom, "Everyone here is under arrest."

"Frak!" Soren ejects impulsively, a curse lost in the initial wave of fear and alarm and similar curses. He activates his microbead, and repeats his salty pronouncement for the benefit of the channel.

"Frak! Horus in a frakkin' headlock, it's a raid. These people are debauchees and heretics, they're not going to wander lambishly into the frakkin' excruciators. H3X, I hope you're near that mirror; because in about thirty seconds this is going to become a damn bloodbath and we need to book."

Spoiler: Roll Perhaps...

Show

FL: Inquisition to know who this is, perhaps? And their relationship to Inquisitor Tyrus? Vs62 - (1d100)[43]. Possible FP in the OOC if I vacillate about it long enough.

[dojango]

Matthias had had that dream again last night. For his 16th birthday, his uncle had given him a KA Mk 3 Duelling Las inscribed with the von Drakkan family motto: "Duty. Discipline. Orbital Bombardment." He'd taken it to the Lady Governor's soiree celebrating re-unification day, and in a drunken bet, had tried to shoot a bottle of '45 single distilled amasec off the head of a statue of Lord General Mongezi Ntsokwana. He'd succeeded, the bottle had exploded in a shower of glass and liquor, but the whole manse had shaken violently after that, and within a half an hour, Matthias (and his new pistol) were in the hold of the black ship.

"All this has happened before," he muttered. And then into the commbead, "Execute plan R! R for run!" He saw a vision of the chandelier falling to the floor, and he quickly drew his trusty duelling las and fired a shot into the bolt that held up the massive crystal and gilt chandelier closest to the entrance of the grand ballroom. As the ground around him heaved and shook as reality struggled reassert itself, he felt himself being thrown to the ground... The emperor protects.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

---

While most, including, or especially those in the Tech-priest's cell found its form of communication laborious and convoluted, they would likely be surprised to know the mechanicus found their colloquial parlance equally confounding and frustrating. H3X registered a drop in linguistic efficiency while parsing Soren's colourful language rife with allusion laden idioms (some bordering heretical) turns of phrases such as"we need to book" coupled with Soren's flair for dramatic inflection always cost the Lexmachanic precious microseconds in comprehension. Why Tyrus had not yet allowed H3X to improve upon the rest of the cell's communication potential via the installation of binary capable emitters and some standard cranial circuitry was not easily understood.

++Confirmed. Proceeding to secure the objective.++

Before the proverbial dust could settle the assassin sprung from its chair with a speed belaying its previous shuffling gait, there was a grating metallic screech as the pair of previously concealed mechadendrite rapidly uncoiled themselves from the priest's torso sending the cloth of the robes billowing outward as the two talon tipped tendrils were freed.

++Initiating command override of localised Servo Skull network. Override Laud Hailers. Auditory input, re-routing auxiliary channel, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum.++

Spoiler: Soren

Show

++Access to Servo Skull choir of Laud Hailers routed to your personal auxiliary channel.++

Pushing through the chairs the newly liberated limbs grasped onto the stage as H3X half leapt half was lifted onto the perch the auctioneer previously inhabited. Moving quickly to the left it honed in on the mirror, simultaneously the stabiliser mechadendrites covetously plucked the prize from the assembled items as the utility mechadendrite struck at the alarm system in a flurry of rapidly rotating tools, spanners, screwdrivers and static electro magnetically charged blades. The drone of binary static, a chant of subdual. emitted from the skull faced priest's vocaliser.

░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░░▒░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░▒░░▒░▒░ ▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░

Spoiler: Binary

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++Submit O' spirit of the spark, your touch does complete the orbit true, in perfect symmetry and radial completeness does compel the screeching spirit to journey forth to the magnetic cone suspension, seat of the puissant clamamus coil, a spiral of immense rotation. Be at peace. Be silent in submission to the blessed touch of the True Flesh of the sublime slave of the Deus Mechanicus.++.

With the wailers disabled the priest began moving towards the back of the stage making use of the large armourglass ensconced xenos to screen it from the bulk of those assembled in the auditorium. The time for subterfuge long gone the priest's left hand splayed open disgorging an ornate barrel of a masterfully crafted and concealed Lathe pattern integrated Las pistol. An infrared targetting beam swept the space in front of the priest as the camera clustered mechadendrite scanned the area in hopes of locating an exit.

++Objective secured. Searching for alternate exit.++

[MrAbdiel]

++Initiating command override of localised Servo Skull network. Override vox hailers. Auditory input, re-routing auxiliary channel, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum.++

Soren breathed. In the Colleges Hetaireia Lexis, he was a minor legend; a prodigy of keen mind and promise. In the glamours upspire parties of Scintilla, he could glide through the matrix of social dangers and rewards like a fish in water. He was skilled. He was cool. He was clever. But one thing Soren was not was physically courageous; and having so many guns pointed at him - or at the crowd he was in, but still - turned his knees to jelly he had to will, desperately to stop shaking. He heard his own steadying breath through the laud-hailer network.

Well. Maybe, maybe, she'll listen to reason.

Having followed the crowd in an instinctive, herd-coordinated crouch at the threat of the guns, he reversed the trend and stood; upright amidst a sea of cowering reprobates and nobles. Cowering was a luxury he could not afford, right now.

"Interrogator Altier! Refrain! Burncode Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho, Pattern: Vermillion! Your forces are threatening operatives of an ongoing operation and if you order your warriors to pull those triggers you will be directly responsible for inciting a House-Divided Ultimatum and I will see you hauled up to the Attarachan Stair and judged!"

This was mostly true. Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho was a burncode; a once-off recognition code for operatives in a particular sector to identify each other. The Attarachan Stair was a known euphemism for the Tricorn's byzantine internal council judgement process. And Altier was very close to opening fire on agents of a recognized inquisitor.

But he in no-way had the authority to invoke Pattern: Vermillion - it was highly presumptuous for him to speak to the interrogator like a peer, and he relied on her not knowing who he was for that to skate. She wasn't threatening an ongoing operation; she was imperilling an offhanded purchase attempt. And a House-Divided Ultimatum was reserved for when Inquisitors, and in some cases Interrogators working for opposing Inquisitiors, used lethal force on each other in such a way that one or both sides felt they could make the argument to the Tricorn for excommunicating the other side. And they were miles from that, as far as he knew. These sisters and troopers could blow them to fist-sized chunks of meat and would probably get away with a formal letter of apology and a free upgrade to better human assets, to Inquisitor Tyrus. But he felt the blend of falsehood and truth had legs, and might buy them time to escape; or atleast, a precious couple of seconds before they needed to weave through the bullets and escape.

Then the spire began to shake, and a chandelier fell - and Soren, with his massive prodigious intellect, determined this was not going to be resolved reasonably after all.

[Henry the 57th]

There are a few heartbeats of brief, pregnant silence across the ballroom, as the rich, indolent, and heretical find that for the perhaps the first time in their lives, someone is daring to point weapons at them. Only a few have the presence of mind to start moving, among them H3X, whose sudden display of hideous mechanical claws would probably cause a good deal more alarm in other situations, but here is barely noticed at all. He is about halfway through scrambling up onto the stage when he hears Soren speak, the adept's voice booming out from the compromised servo skull network overhead.

"Interrogator Altier! Refrain! Burncode Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho, Pattern: Vermillion! Your forces are threatening operatives of an ongoing operation and if you order your warriors to pull those triggers you will be directly responsible for inciting a House-Divided Ultimatum and I will see you hauled up to the Attarachan Stair and judged!"

The golden-armored woman actually blinks, momentarily taken aback by the sudden appearance of someone spouting secret Inquisitorial codes and procedures in this nest of debauched heretics, and her blade lowers by just a fraction. It's only a momentary pause though, as her Sororitas instincts kick back in, and the urge to butcher the traitor even at the risk of her own life comes to the fore. Her gleaming blade rises high once more, as if waiting to fall upon some wretch's neck, but before she can say another word an altogether different woman does it instead.

"Spy!' shrieks the noblewoman in the jeweled black gown, who had earlier won the cyber mastiff, pointing at Soren. "Inquisition!" One of the many gold rings on her thin fingers suddenly lights up, and a pinprick-thin lance of blue light leaps through the air at the adept.

Spoiler: Soren

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The noblewoman attacks you with a digi-laser. (1d100)[42] vs 40 to hit, if hit take (1d10+3)[4] E damage, Pen 7.

Almost simultaneously, several things happen. Even while the miniscule but deadly energy payload soars through the air towards Soren's chest, H3X finishes disabling the alarm on the display case containing the Window of Ages, seizing its armorglass prison roughly in his clawed mechadendrities. While his integrated pistol is just coming out, Matthias' is already aiming. Calling on the Warp to guide his shot, he accurately places a ruby-red lance of energy right onto an ornate chain holding one of the room's three chandeliers up. The ornamental thing was never built to take such abuse, and plummets to the ground. With a tremendous crash, half a ton of metal, crystal, and filagree smashes down on top of two Stormtroopers and and a Sororita, shattering into a million pieces and sending bits of glass and twisted metal spiraling across the floor.

Even that isn't all. Interrogator Altier's sword falls dramatically at the same moment that the price for Matthias' use of witchery comes back to haunt him. The hive floor all around him buckles and quakes, caught in the grip of a sudden and unnatural energy storm. Dozens of men and women alike are hurled from the feet, plastering the floor with a dizzying array of colors and fashions caught up in moaning flesh. A bolter barks and a floor-bound man with a glowing red plasma pistol in his hand explodes in a shower of gore.

Spoiler: All

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All party members beyond H3X are thrown from their feet as the hive around them buckles and quakes under the strain of a psychic phenomenon.

Spoiler: H3X

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From your position toward the back of the stage, you can see two immediately-visible exits. One is on the left-hand side, about 10 meters or so from where you're standing, behind the mass of sorted, won items. The other is across the stage towards the right. It looks identical, though you feel it's worth noting that Hrosavar, the auction master, is doing his level best to edge towards that one despite being further from it to start.

Likewise, even in the second or so that has passed, the source of Matthias' little stunt has not gone unnoticed, and one of the God Emperor's vengeful furies turns her weapon on the fallen psyker, careless of whether she hits anyone else in the crowd. The lives of heretics are worth precious little to fanatics.

Spoiler: Matthias

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One of the Battle Sisters attempts to gun you down. Semi-Auto Burst with Godwyn-De’az Pattern Bolter (1d100)[20] vs 55.

If hit:
(1d10+5)[14] X damage, Pen 4.
(1d10+5)[13] X damage, Pen 4.

The sounds of actual gunfire, spaced mere heartbeats apart, prove to be enough to rouse the crowds from their stupor. Men and women of the most aristocratic bearing begin to scream, many beginning to bolt for the stage or the ballroom's sides as fast as they can manage in their impractical costumes, while others struggle to rise from where the psychic earthquake has left them sprawled out across the plush floor. The bulk of the Battle Sisters and Stormtroopers are advancing on the heretical mass, weapons raised. Some decadents are drawing weapons of their own.

"For the Golden Lord" one of the maroon-armored guards, thus far inactive, suddenly screams. Immediately before yet another bolt round punches straight through his silver death mask. Though he collapses to the floor in a shower of blackish crimson, his insane courage seems to be enough to snap his fellows into action.

Las-rifles spit searing hot beams of ruby red death in both directions, as both the Stormtroopers and auction guards join the brewing firefight. The former fight with iron discipline, carefully picking their shots, while the latter blaze away with a wild fanaticism to rival the Sororitas' own, modified lasguns blazing away at full auto into the mass of the intruders.

In those first, critical seconds of the firefight, one of the red-armored Sororitas is hit right above her gorget, just as she was pulling the trigger on her boltgun. The holy warrior drops, gargling blood from a torn throat, and her spray goes wide. Nearly half a clip of bolter fire rakes the stage at random, catching one impudent noble wretch in the back and dropping him, but more importantly several shots rake the massive armorglass display containing the xenos beast. Though the bolt rounds aren't quite enough to outright shatter the thick material, they do cause massive cracks to appear along its surface, which proves to be more than enough. The motionless monster within suddenly strikes with the speed of a cracking whip, driving horrible red claws into the weak spots, shattering the spacecraft grade material as if it were sugar-glass. Shards explode out into the backs of the crowd, shredding several debauchees with the misfortune to be too close. The alien beast takes a step, leans forward out of the shattered cage - then its outline shimmers and seems to vanish.

Spoiler: Lictor

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Concealment: (1d100)[21] vs 70.
Any attempt to spot using Awareness takes a -30 penalty due to Chameleonic Scales.

Finally, and perhaps most unsettling of all, with H3X removed from his proximity, the cybernetic psyker's powers appear to come flooding back. Swept from his feet like so many others by the sudden hivequake, from his position on the floor he unleashes a sudden horrible blurting shriek, blending nonsensical snips of binary with sub-natural syllables to make the ears bleed. From nowhere and everywhere comes an answering roar, and the room is suddenly thick with the foul stench of brimstone. Between the nobility and the Inquisitorial strike team, reality buckles, and a screaming red-skinned, black-horned daemon thing is born, already charging Interrogator Altier with a blazing hellfire sword in one hand.

[dojango]

Matthias yelled (screamed, really) as he felt darkness and blood engulf him. Dazed, he cried out, "Emperor, watch over me!" as he staggered to his feet, clutching his head as blood streamed down it.

[RedSand]

Dyveke stays behind the largest bit of cover she can manage-likely a large stone pillar or something, and resists the urge to just run. Leaving the mirror was just as much a death sentence as staying and fighting, but H3X could deal with the mirror. Soren had outed himself, and if she could she'd get him out, but after her performance no one would think they were affiliated and she could probably finagle her way into getting the auctionhouse to sell it if they couldn't manage to steal it. That said, nobody also knew that Matthias was an acolyte, and given that sister had just unlawfully fired on an agent of the inquistion, she felt perfectly justified in getting off a shot or two of her own.

She draws her bolt pistol, takes quick aim and lets loose a single shoot, hoping it rings true.

Spoiler

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(1d100)[2] vs 43 with red dot, assuming a range of about 30-40 meters away
(2d10)[1][10](11)highest + 5 if it hits, with a penetration of 4

[MrAbdiel]

Soren leans back as the digi-laser zips past his cheek, amazed at his own reflexes and perhaps failing to entirely credit the debauched noble's general incompetence. His efforts to get distance are fouled as he is rocked to the ground by the anomalous quake, but he finds his way back to his feet, keeping crouched and using the crowd callously as a shield, as he begins slinking toward the stage, magnetically clipping his dataslate back to his hip.

His attention is wildly divided, now; the escaped, vanishing xeno causing a flash of gut-freezing fear dwarfed only by the direct and sudden manifestation of a daemon in the midst of the gathering. But even this is pushed to the side of his focus when a sororitas bolt shell creases the side of Matthias's head, throwing blood, millimetres away from a hideous decapitation. Good old lucky Matthias, so close to such an ignoble end - and to hear him scream in such a way...

"Attend him! And... where did that thing go!?"

The skulls know their duties. Gaspar whirs through the air to the suffering psyker, sweeping him with a lattice of flickering green light and producing a tiny cluster of precision surgical instruments where the lower mandibular ought to be.

Melchior's lensed sockets blink, and it begins emitting a hissing, crackling stream of data-tones as it strives to accomplish its master's command, while keeping in pursuit of him.

Spoiler: Actions and Rolls!

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Soren stands up, and starts moving toward the stage.
He sends the Mediskull Gaspar over to Matthias. When Matthias is ready to spend an full-round action being treated, the skull will spend its commensurate full round action to do the treating.

Meanwhile, Melchior the Augur skull will do its thing, and try to track the invisible 'Nid!

I'm not sure if this is more appropriately an Awareness test or a Tech-Use.

If it's Awareness, then vs45 - (1d100)[58]; looking for 35+20 (mastery) +20 (Auspex) -30 (Chamaeleonic Scales).

If it's Tech Use, then I think Soren would have to spend a turn actively 'using' the skull's auspex for that purpose.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X

---

H3X didn't usual experience much in the way of what most would categorise as "emotion." In part due to long periods of isolation in the data vaults of Lathe-Het, perhaps due to extensive modifications, so little of H3X's weak flesh remained and large parts of his organic neural network had been improved and blessed with augmatics, links, cogitators and circuitry. It could be due to the abnormal esoteric nature which made the priest a wound in the, a shadowless abomination to many, the same feelings of loathing many instinctively felt towards the null also meant that it lacked some of that innate vibrancy, that spark that so many possessed which seemed to an impetus for so many feelings and sentimentality. Some would call it a soul. And some, even in the Ordos, viewed blanks, other than the Sisters of Silence as soulless affronts to the purity and perfection of humanity.

Whatever the myriad reasons, the Tech-Priest, clearly more machine than human rarely experienced emotion. Yet the xenos beast explosive emersion from its armourglass chrysalis truly started the Lexmechanic. Yet when it seemingly vanished, that sent an alien almost forgotten coldness throughout his body. It took what seemed like ages for him to process what he was experiencing. Like tasting a dish from your childhood, and trying to remember when last you ate it, what was in it and then suddenly being overwhelmed by a flood of memories. H3X remembered what this was. Terror. Irrational, illogical, and purely primal. The flesh was weak indeed.

The priest was suddenly aware of every click, hiss and creak, the sound of the red robes swaying and the thick cloth brushing against the true flesh was deafening. H3X was grateful that data was fed directly into the mircro-bead without need of external vocalisation.

++Exit located, stage right, rear. Objective Secured. Warning, xenos is obfuscated and active. Position and disposition unknown presume hostile.++

The priest quickened its pace trying to overtake master Hrosavar, the invisible infra red laser bouncing between the auctioneer's shoulder blades as the priest shadowed him.