Dark Heresy: Ratcatchers: The Hounds

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Scintillan aerospace
0750 Sibellan Standard time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As the last of the convicted cultists’ screams recede into the distance, a bearded, bespectacled man in a Guard greatcoat over Ministorum robes begins to pace the great doorway of that part of the palace, glancing every so often out into the gloom beyond and checking a dataslate in one hand and a pocket-chron in the other…

[ellna]

A large figure stands still amongst the commotion, seemingly without a direction. The storm troopers pound past her, the air disturbed by their passing making her dusty leather coat whip around her. A pair of eyes, as mottled as verdigris peppered with moss, soaking up all they could see. They stop their random roving as they spot the first pair of the mighty space marines. Her eyes widen as does her toothy grin. Her hands make the mark of the holy aquila. A scream, from the heretics being herded to their doom, breaks her stare. She watches them for a moment, following their last march and she wets her lips. They would die here, hopefully slowly. She pondered as she tracked them; how long she would be here; were they to be executed publicly and could she watch. As the last scream of the condemned echoed of the black stone she spotted the pacing bookworm. Her smile dampened slightly. Her duty came first, pleasure second. She shifted the heavy satchel she carried slung over her shoulder and started towards the man.

She extended out her hand, rough and dirty. A warm smile on her face. She stood awkwardly for a moment as she saw his full hands. Coughing to clear her throat she let her hand fall away and made her introductions. "Hello. I'm Sarah Haxta reporting to you, I think. I'm assigned to the Hounds? Where do you need me?"

Description:Sarah is currently wearing her leather coat that is old, cracked and built for a person of much larger size. This is probably to accommodative the flak vest that she wears beneath. The symbol of the Adeptus Arbitus etched beneath the aquila. Over her shoulder she carries a large leather case and slung over the other she wears a bandoleer filled with fearsome spikes. She is also wearing scruffy combats and some strong boots, that bear what seem to be blood stains mingled with those of oil and dirt.

Sarah herself is about 6 foot tall and heavily muscled. Her hair is dark brown, unkempt and about shoulder length. She has a pleasant face with mottled green eyes and a seemingly permanent smile. Several scars mar her face and her hands, beneath the layer of filth, are chemical stained and bear an extensive network of scars.

[Miraqariftsky]

Clicking the chron shut, dropping it back into a voluminous pocket and checking the 'slate one last time, the priest turns his gaze to the not-quite-scummy Sarah, appraising her with a grey gaze before taking her hand and giving her one pump. Steel and a veteran's sinews beneath leathery flesh give an iron grip. "Sarah. Indeed. And how is Amadeus doing?"

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

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

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

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

[bluntpencil]

A man in black, heavily armed with a heavy, sturdy looking weapon over his shoulder (a large triple-barrelled shotgun) shoves past various clerks and others with his shield, spitting on the ground next to him.

Those around him seem to instinctively recoil from him, looking at him with some sort of disgust. Even those looking in the other direction seem to shuffle away from him. The two grey-armoured Astartes even seem to move away from him, leaving their posts and heading somewhere else when he walks past them, for Emperor-knows-what-reason. They keep their wrist-mounted bolters at the ready, seemingly aimed in his general direction.

He merely offers a terrible smirk with his horrible, scarred face, as if he expected such a reception.

On approaching a guard, who looks down and won't make eye contact with him, the grim man in black reports in, offering his name as some form of introduction.


"Alexei Britanov."
He then holsters his shotgun, and roughly shoves a parchment into the hand of the low-ranking officer before him.


"Reporting for duty. Omega level classification."

He is then, of course, sent on to Interrogator Konrad as quickly as possible, the guard not wanting this monster in his presence for any longer than is necessary. He flashes his identity papers at the Interrogator as a matter of course, even though he knows him by sight. The Interrogator, thankfully, was aware of his special abilities, so was slightly less inclined to wretch or vomit in his presence. Slightly.

He gives a perfectly textbook salute, which, for some reason, to most nearby observers, looks extremely disrespectful.


"Interrogator Konrad; Alexei Britanov, reporting as ordered, although I can't say I'm happy about it."
He then points, with the toe of his boot, in Salanan's direction. Even through the scars on his face, the distaste he holds is blatantly obvious as he lowers his voice a little.


"Drunk, poisoned, or mentally handicapped, Your Worship? Do you need her... dealt with?"
It is unclear whether the widening grin that Britanov offers is because he finds the concept of brutalising a drunk a fantastic idea, or because he is joking. Regardless, it looks like nobody finds his manner or humour funny.

[ellna]

As Sarah's hand begins to drop she is happily surprised as the fellow conjures up an iron grip. Her smile warms, but her thoughts race. Good handshake maybe not such a bookworm. This was the inquisition after all could everything be trusted on appearance. "He's doing fine, resting in his crib." She gives the case slung over her shoulder a tug.

The wavering hover car catches her attention and the wobbling associate clearly shows the air of a drunk. She hesitates a moment as the barrels track her. Her ears twitched as she listened to the story of this poor woman. New talent ruining old. Who? Making up a decision for the now Sarah started towards the woman. Offering a shoulder and attempting to divest her of her flask. Sarah will attempt to help Salanan leave the area before returning to Konrad.

Sarah returns to find Alexei with Konrad. Her grin fades immediately, her lips draw thin. Sarah's body shift to an aggressive stance and her left hand creeps inside the voluminous folds of her coat. This man makes her skin crawl. "I'm Sarah, you with the Hounds?" She extends her right hand. The hand quivers slightly and Sarah swallows shifting again trying subconsciously to shuffle away. Barely she stands her ground and forces a weak smile.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin staggered through the crowd in his typical, chaotic, manner, his head bowed low to the ground, hiding a purplish welt over his left eye and a messy split hanging from his lower lip. Slowly he began to become aware of his surroundings, of the crowd, the station and his destination, as if breaking from a deep trance. A Lho stick finds its way into his mouth, nudged just slightly askew of the still tender swelling upon his lips.

The Emperors blessings upon yea and yer ilk.

He mockingly spits out at a convoy of disheveled prisoners, barely acknowledging the clear markings of imprisoned cultists and heretics. He takes a sharp toke on the stick, stunned upon spotting members of the astartes at the head of the pack; every part in appearance the figures of the legendary tales that had passed his ears, a sense of worry overcame him and he pulled up the collar of his wool jacket in paranoia, making his way over to the mark.

The Inquisition offered simply the best missions, a good pay with no qualms over what force or means used to accomplish the ends; they weren't the bad dealers with false promises, like the gangers, and they weren't the squeamish sort of the fop nobility, a days pay for a good days work.

Bin.

He announced to the handler, with no ceremony or heraldry, expecting nothing more than to be given a pictograph of the enemy, instructions to kill and for his own dark imaginings to perform the mutilations for him.

His eyes drifted over to the lawman quite irresistibly, letting slip an ugly frown, shuffling his hands in his pockets for a moment before suddenly breaking off his glare.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei shrugs, spitting on the ground again. He seems to relish the fact that he makes Sarah's skin crawl, and he smiles coldly. If it was anyone else smiling, it would be a warm smile, but for some reason, it seems colder than the void itself.


"I'm Britanov, an' my business is none o' your Throne-damned business. This is the frickin' Tricorn Palace, moron. You should know everythin' is classified an' might getcha killed fer knowin' too much.

I'll do you a favour and tell you sweet F.A. You can thank me later."

Maybe his ill manners was why everyone was slinking away from him? He was certainly rude, crude and unpleasant to speak to.

He looked at Bin, afterwards, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed.


"Let me guess? Another soulless, stone-cold killer like the rest o' us pathetic bastards that congregate at this here Palace?"

He seems to actually enjoy being abrasive to anyone that feels the need to approach him.

[ellna]

Sarah snatches her hand away almost glad that it was rejected. She can't quite resist the snapped come back. Even with the air of distaste and rising bile. "Oooh the Tricorn Palace. Really. I must of taken a wrong turn then. Make yourself smart do you think I would be here if I wasn't cleared to know what you know." The smile now more of a sneer. She tried to fix him with a condescending stare, but she couldn't hold his gaze. For some reason her eyes slipped from his face, darting off to see something else anything else. She noted the approach of Bin.

"And also with you." She takes stock of him, her feet finding solid ground. She knew men like him. Her smile returned as she inched further from Alexei. She offered her hand once more and almost as an afterthought removed her left from it's clutching within her coat. "Well met, I'm Sarah. You with the Hounds? I would be glad to have you by my side, for the future dangers."

[Acco Spoot]

Bin ignored the lawman's snipe, just another arbitrator who thinks he knows, another who's gone in over their heads and desperately clawing their way out hoping for something familiar, clutching at patterns and equations, Bin knew the promise, that the further they clawed the more broken they became, the more their rules were obscured and the more like him they became.

Suddenly he was broken from his thoughts by thrust, open, hand. Bin recoiled and dropped his lit stick.

Get the hell away from me!

He snapped, stumbling backwards to avoid the hand, mind aflare with horrors and memories; clutching a brass aquila tightly in his hands and backing off, calming himself quickly by praying into the charm, wiping his clammy cold sweat from his brow and making a slow, careful, return to relative normality.

Bin.

He repeated, several times over, sometimes quietly, sometimes hesitantly.

[ellna]

Sarah held her hands out palms outstretched. Backing away from the man slowly. "Woah Calm down. Ok don't shake my hand." Sarah's smile was slowly being worn down my repeated failures, but still it resolutely stayed there. She scuffed her boots together and waited for Bin to calm down. "Will you tell what makes you so jumpy Bin?" She says in a soothing voice her hands held up still.

[Grobrin]

“Don’t think too much, don’t talk too much, don’t think too much, don’t talk too much. Don’t think too…” Xerxes muttered mantra stutters to a halt as his mouth drops. As if on invisible wires his gentle jade eyes widen to the same proportion at the teeming mass and grandeur surrounding him.
Xerxes sudden stop causes a snarl in the wash of bodies around him. Seemingly oblivious to the curses his halt garners him Xerxes responds to those with whom he has caused collisions with a simple "Throne Protect.” All his faculties of observation are wound up to near bursting. Sensory overload threatens as sights, scents, sounds and sensations pummel his cognition insensible.
“Good Golden Throne! Sisters, Astartes!! Hoaha! ‘K ‘K. Get a grip Xerse.” Xerxes right hand reaches up and enfolds the Aquila pommel of the great sword strapped to his back. He stills his breathing a moment and stops looking and starts to see.
A Brutal hulk of a man casting a wide berth. Xerxes eyes wrench in their sockets to look at something, anything else. Next to him a very tall patchwork looking woman seemingly supporting another woman… Oh Throne, Oh no, Not her.
Xerxes picks his way through the crowd and as he approaches he doubts a moment as he sees how changed she is.
Xerxes snaps a salute.
“Ma’am, Uh, Corporal Xerxes Stern reporting Ma’am. I, I think we met on Hesiods Wake.”
Description
Xerxes is a short and stocky man with thick shoulders and a ridge of muscle that nearly negates his neck. Twinned Eagle heads recognizably those of the Aquila glare from either side of his neck. The proportions of the Eagles heads suggest a tattoo that must cover most of the front of Xerxes body. In contrast his own face is homely, with a pink pallor that shouts fresh food, fresh air and good living. His jade green eyes seem kind and on close inspection are flecked with gold. As he speaks his kindly appearance is marred by the missing eye tooth and perhaps a molar or two on the top right of his mouth. A mess of small scars start above the left eye and make their way halfway down his cheek. Xerxes thick body is encased in a set of old Flak armor, and draped in a massive grey great coat that near drags on the ground. Across his back is strapped an enormous great sword bearing an Aquila pommel that seems ready to take to the sky at any moment. Under the folds of the great coat an old but well serviced auto gun lurks, red dot sight casting a baleful glare at the ground. On the belt next to it a long combat knife juts also adorned with an Aquila pommel. The pockets of the coat bulge as Xerxes stands at ease.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin stuffed the charm back into his pocket, horrified at the sight of it. Suddenly this mission had become far more complex than the simple tasks he was used to.

Will you tell what makes you so jumpy Bin?

There was time, not enough to explain everything, but enough to let her know that she didn't want to push this subject.

He pulled up a sleeve, leaned in close, made sure nobody could see the pale road map over his paler skin.

Each one a prayer to the blessed Emperor, each one a bargain for forgiveness, they go deeper, and wider the more insolent a wretch you are. Every stammered psalm, every ill practiced posture, every one is an insult against he, every one a desperate plea to be forgiven, every one begat the last.

He finished by tracing his finger over a patch of scabbed skin, cut deep at the top of his forearm. He backed away again, his eyes were misting over. With a grim, angry expression he turned his back upon the fellow acolyte, dropping the almost robotic, monotonous, manner in which he had just acted.

[Urist]

The first hint of Yarach's appearance was a tuneless whistling. Even without a respirator over his mouth, Yarach would have made a poor whistler, but with it, it was reduced to a horrendous screeching noise that put the teeth on edge.

Seemingly ignorant of the bleakness of his surroundings, Yarach strolled toward the Ministorum adept standing in the doorway, his inexplicable cheer drawing sullen stares from the Astartes and Stormtroopers in the courtyard. As he reaches Interrogator Konrad, he stops whistling, suddenly, and all cheer drops away from his bearing. Standing ramrod straight, Yarach stares into the mans face as he addresses him.

"Good day and the blessings of the Omnissiah upon you, Interrogator. This unit apologizes for its lag in reporting. Final data backup prior to reassignment became 5.68 minutes behind schedule this morning. This unit humbly begs pardon. Mech-Wright and Acolyte Yarach, Serial Number 183-3123-42a, reporting for duty."


Description

Yarach is a tall, broad figure, clad in the traditional blood-red robes of a Mechanicus Tech-Priest. No skin can be seen on his body except for his face, which, grey and pallid as it is, retains a touch of nobility in its expression. In the center of the chest of his vestments, a large cog icon hangs, a skull emblazoned in the center. An intricately worked longsword, with a handle of bone etched with what look to be the designs of circuit boards picked out in gold, hangs from his right hip. Above it, in a bandolier holding las power packs, an old but beautifully maintained Mark IV Officer's Laspistol hangs, the red dot sight disabled.

[ellna]

Sarah looked at Bin's scars with curiosity. Reaching out slowly to trace the network. She stopped unwilling to cause further distress to Bin. "Sometime you'll have to tell me each story. We'll swap a good bit of gab." For now Sarah lets Bin alone and introduces herself to the new arrivals.

She extends her hand somewhat cautiously to Yarach. Her smile warm as she greets the mechanical man. "Sarah. You with the Hounds?"

Xerxes: "Xerxes, you with the Hounds? It's Mr Konrad you want. This gall has been somewhat... Touched. I doubt she'll be of much use to report to right now." Sarah passes the drunken interrogator off onto someone else and offers her hand to Xerxes. "I'm Sarah. Glad to meet you." She can't help, but think on what Konrad had said before and make the connection to this "new talent".

[bluntpencil]

The scarring on the Enforcer's face makes his face appear to be in a perpetual sneer, his facial features somewhat ruined by what seems to have been a vicious head wound, leaving something of a dent in his skull, too.

That being said, his sneer gets worse at the moment, before sarcastically commenting on the goings on around him.


"Apparently trudging through excrement and blood then thanklessly and brutally torturing and murdering heretics for Throne-knows-who is now a social event. I'm going to be the belle of the damn ball, I reckon.

If it's a social gatherin', though, where's the expensive punch and wine? I think our girl there beat me to it, damnit."

[Grobrin]

"Looks like you've got the right of it there Sarah." Xerxes shakes his head and extends his hand.
"Lovely name. My wife is called Sara..." Xerxes trails off, then seems to remember something and changes tack.
"Umm I'm not too sure why I am here to be honest. I met with the interrogator 3 years ago about an old investigation. I said some things, some things that were not kind. True, probably, but not kind. I must have made an impression. She gave me a writ of passage and tasked me to meet with the Inquisitor..." You can almost see the gears turning slowly in his head.
"But I'm not so sure that's going to happen. Umm So, The Hounds? What is that exactly?"
Xerxes turns to the large enforcer and goes to extend his hand, but can't quite manage it. Xerxes is not sure what it is but he can't even bear to look at the man for more than a few moments.
"So you've all been gathered together?" Xerxes pauses a moment. "We've all been gathered together?"
He gives the large man a nod "Corporal Xerxes Stern." He cracks a lop sided grin. "You might not be the Bell, but it sure looks like you've been struck like one."
Xerxes turns and nods to Bin and Yarach. The gears still turn slowly.
"We're a team, And you, you..." Now looking directly at Britanov "Oh Throne Protect." Xerxes face whitens as his dreams of returning home soon drain from the tight spot he was holding them.

[Urist]

Smiling, not that you could see it under the hood and respirators, Yarach takes Sara's hand and shakes it warmly.

"Greetings, Unit Sara! This unit is dubbed Yarach. This unit has been reassigned to List:The Hounds, and looks forward to working on this lists holy mission!"

Turning to Alexei, Yarach stifles a shudder. Normally a logical creature, something about this man, on an illogical level, made him uneasy.

"Destroying heretics certainly warrants celebration. Query:What is this unit's designation?"

Turning to Xerxes, Yarach again extends his hand.

"Well met, Corporal Stern. This unit is named Yarach. The Hounds is the listname referring to this group of Acolytes. Administrator:Hounds is Interrogator Konrad. Purpose attribute of List:Hounds is not contained in this database."

[bluntpencil]

Britanov grins, grabbing the hand of the Tech Priest roughly. He gives his name, in a horribly sarcastic tone, to see if the man-machine responds to him like everyone else he had ever met,


"Response: This here unit's designation is 'Britanov'. However, this unit is lacking in amasec-based fuel for this social process, designation 'List: Hounds'!

Request: Perhaps Unit Yarach is storing backup fuel which can network and assist Unit Britanov's processes and cogitations?"

Generally, he doesn't mind techies. They are right cold bastards, usually, and tend to be more friendly than regular people to boot. Very few people agreed with him, he tended to find, but they were generally idiots or filth.

[ellna]

Sarah smile reaches a peak of wideness. "The only truth in this world is that of the Emperor's light. It's our duty to purge heretics and we should relish this. Why not swap stories of there melodic screams. Our ball shall be the envy of the emperor's own choir and strike fear into all heretics. Torture is such a crude word to describe what you should rightly feel joy for. Heretics have no hope of salvation, but what we can draw forth through their song."

Assuming she has Salanan's flask she offers a swig to Bin.

Sarah manages a laugh at Xerxes little joke. "Well if you can say words to drive a woman to that extreme I'll have to watch your lips carefully. I wouldn't want them speaking loosely." Sarah has pieced together some of the puzzle. Xerxes had driven an interrogator to alcoholism with a few unkind words. What had he really said?

Sarah nods to Yarach's explanation. "We're the Hounds, I guess you know about as much as me. The Inquistion needs us for something it seems. I feel only honoured and justifiably proud that I can serve the Emperor's hands so intimately. It seems you know as much as me though iron unit. Our mission must be good fun though. The Inquistion should have some highly tuned targets eh." She chuckles slightly and humms a little tune.

"I shall have to remedy that social misstep. When are duty is done I would gladly aid in the lubrication of your throat so that you motors of speech can whirr again." She speaks with a slight sarcasm dripping from her lips.

And of course if Alexei produces some booze from Yarach, she will attempt to gain a swig. With a smile and polite words.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin watched as the collection of acolytes grew around him, finding himself agreeing with the arbitrators barbed analysis, quite the social event. He lit another lho-stick, leaning against a wall until further instruction, keeping himself hidden in his wide rimmed collar.

A hip-flask wound up in his direction, he glowered, snarled and ignored the offer, frustrated at the lack of a mission, his mind ticking over his short walk from the shuttle to this point, already he began to feel the discomfort of having shared his wounds with a stranger, one of those intrusive morsels, peculiarly naive, exuberant, optimistic, perfectly perched for a delectable fall.

He reminded himself of her smile, how it had vanished, he imagined her, in a moment of typical obsession, how people like them always held on to things which made them happy, passionately, regardless of whether the feeling was reciprocated. He pictured it, some average person, he pictured as her friend, his imagination filling in the blanks; and she restrained, held by something, physically -no- painfully! Against her will, and her friend executed, mutilated, as she watched, by force, or by nightmarish horror, he made sure to delight in every imagined moment as he illustrated how her face would drop, how she might scream, try to tear away from her restraints and open a cacophony of fresh wounds and screams.

Tongue held aloft against his top lip he returned to the occasion, waiting, occasionally drawing the perverse dream back into his mind.

[bluntpencil]

"Shall I share the stories of their blood, bile, piss and vomit, too?"

Britanov asks Sarah scathingly.


"This job isn't pleasant, but it's necessary. Don't try to make it sound pretty. It's ugly, like me, an' that's what I'm here for: Blood, death, and suffering in the name of order. This crap sure ain't fun, girl, but I'm sure you know that. Hell, for all I know, you've killed tenfold the amount that I have."



He groans, looking at the Techie, before continuing impatiently,


"Let's just get a move on, and get to whatever terrifying experience our lord and master has cooked up for us this time, eh?"

He looks ready to move, fidgeting with the weapons at his side and the helmet hanging from his belt, before running his gloved hand through his very short hair.

[ellna]

Sarah watched Bin hopefully as he lent against a wall. Perhaps he would warm up give time. Oh well for now she had a purpose to fulfill. The Inquistion need them. Her smile hungry. She watched him as he lent in silence mulling in his own thoughts. She wondered for a moment what his thoughts were. Probably thinking about the upcoming mission. She was ready for it too. It would be a joy.

Shame he didn't want some of the flask's liquid, oh well. She calmly stowed it back inside her coat.

"Their blood is split for the redemption. The heart is the holy organ of the Emperor's form. It's pumping a steady beat for the songs of glory. Gory glory for our good God. You can keep their unworthy refuse however, as it obviously suits you better than me." She smirks meeting Alexei's eyes for a brief moment. They are full of life and joy. It's rushes out though as brief as she holds his gaze. Something about him fills her still with dread. Her smile doesn't flicker this time though. "If you can't find joy in the blood letting of the filth of this world then I pity you. One day you shall see the truth of mirth in the heretics plight. How many have you slain, I don't know if I've killed tenfold on you if your count isn't present." She nods at him. "I'll have to show you how to find joy. Let's see what is wished of us."

[Urist]

"I apologize, Unit Britanov. I do not have any rendered ether spirits with which you can refuel. This unit does not use this fueling protocol. However, if it finds any if this fuel substance, it will be sure to let Unit Britanov know. This unit also agrees that it is time we proceed worth he briefing. Mayhaps the Hounds could find a place out of the rain, so as not to compromise our continued function, Interrogator Konrad?"

[bluntpencil]

Britanov barks a laugh at the Techie's response. He likes the machine-man, he seems a decent enough sort, if a little out of touch, reasons the tough cop.


"Heh, Unit Yarach is correct about the rain, I reckons, Interrogator. Let's get outta the pissin' rain an' get to business, eh? I'm getting right irritated wi' all the social niceties, an' want to get this charade over an' done with.

Any opposed?"

Before anyone can answer, he immediately butts in with,


"Good, let's move our asses."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, In the Tricorn Palace's courtyard
0803 Sibellan Standard time

If the body language of faceless supersoldiers encased in massive slabs of ceramite and tasked to be glorified--- and very justified--- doorwardens, the grinding feet and ever so slightly shifting stances of the two Grey Knights betray their shock and embarrassment, if at all such exemplars of humanity are still prone to such... emotions. Nevertheless, their sense of duty and paranoia are unaffected, purity-sealed glaives and squat double-barreled guns--- ones with muzzles large enough to hold a mundane man's arm and still have room to spare--- covering any and all possible threats.

Before the great doors of the Ordo Xenos enclave on the other side, one Deathwatch Marine's titanic shoulders give a slight shrug in puzzlement at the goings-on over by the door of the Witch-Hunters. His partner is less diplomatic and snorts, "Pah. Witch-Hunter pups and their petty little dramas. Brudder, how I long for battlefield..."

But then, it just so happens that at that moment, a rather rotund yet robust woman emerges from the door they're guarding, seemingly uncowed by awe at the Astartes. She walks with the KLAK-KLAK-KLAK of an ironshod cane and a limping leg, but the dignity in her bearing speak of service-scars well-earned. Though to the layman she seems like yet another down-on-their-luck adept or attorney walking out to take a breather, what with the sheaf of papers clutched to her bosom and the ill-fitting blue jacket and trousers... To those who know what to look for, the iron she packs is quite plentiful. Las-piece in the cane, knives in boot-sheaths, the tell-tale bulges in the jacket of a pistol apiece in the small of the back and in a shoulder-rig, an openly-worn Magistratum-issue Tronsvasse 12 on one hip. With a cutting smirk, she says in passing, but cuts herself off before impudence crosses the line into suicide, "Too bad you weren't there when... heh..."

The fork-bearded priest, with a frown deepening the lines of age, involuntarily rocks back on his heels at the approach of the Untouchable Alexei. He swiftly recovers though, an Aquila-enchained hand tracing a benediction... and also pushing him away. "No. The offer is appreciated, my son, but she is not yet... Sigma-Nine material"

Upon the conversational convulsions of the man who calls himself Bin, the Interrogator-Confessor Konrad's grimace deepens still, beady gaze boring into the mercurial mercenary's eyes. He looks about to say something, with his hand already tracing another benediction when he suddenly spots something beyond the shadesman's shoulders...

...there, emerging from the wet gloom is a vague, dashing heroic figure in Guard flak, a blessed blade over one shoulder. Those shoulders, those eyes, those arms, that swagg--- No, Stern, solid, stalwart Sergeant Stern is long dead, Emperor rest his soul, by now, right?

At the agriworlder Arbite's approach and stiff-armed salute, the woman over the misparked aircar stiffens as well, shrugging off Sarah's comforting arm--- and leaving her flask in the unwitting huntress of heretics' grasp. Shoulders set, gaze glowering, fists clenching and unclenching, short breath. Palpable hatred... and grief? Pride? The Hesodian's keen senses pick up that sorely tempted to riddle him with lead, to gut him, to choke him with a truncheon down the throat, to give him a slap enough to send him spinning off of Mount Sibellus...

...but rather slowly lifts her own arm to return the salute, holding his gaze. And then she pokes him in the chest and says, "How mush do you love yar grox wife, Corporal? How mush do ya love the Emprah?" With fumbling yet steady fingers, she buttons up and dusts off her uniform, adjusting the Aquila at her neck. "Pray y'ne'er hafta answa tha' question"

With that, she turns, gives a solemn nod to her comrade and simply says, "Sigma Seven". Passing the badge and slate and car-keys over to the limping Ordo Xenos agent before melting away into the crowd.

Throne on Terra, these juves these days, move an' talk so damned quick... Konrad releases a breath he did not know he was holding, his thick beard twitching with a smile as he claps the staggering Xerxes on the shoulder. "For a moment there, lad, I thought you were Sergeant Stern of the Thirteenth. No steel more stalwart I'd stood with, fought with, and prayed over, Emperor rest his soul"

"Right. Throne's blessing upon you as well" says the priest in response to Yarach's coming. "Ah, yes. Inquisitor Uriel had forwarded your file to my desk..." Konrad remarks with a couple of fingers scratching his hirsute chin. "...'the Machine-man Mujahadeen', I'd heard some of your attending stormtroopers say"

"Now, as to that little name" the Interrogator begins, "I do believe Sarah'd proved part of her worth there... and disprove that of your questioner. The Omnissiah's servitor-smiths say the former Questioner Kull is proving... useful" To the others' likely questioning stares, he appends, with an enigmatic smirk,"He talked too much. And she endured too well"

"Transport, as well as answers" To forestall any further inquiries, Interrogator Konrad holds up an Aquila-dangling hand and says, "Patience. The Emperor's wings deliver... soon..."


Just then, there arrive another two pieces of fresh meat--- of scholarly and mundane. Half their words are lost in a sudden downrush of hot air.

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

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

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

[Acco Spoot]

The rain stops, finally Bin is able to get a light on his lho stick, he takes a long, easing, puff, the sort which takes the edges off a stressed addict. He takes a look over to the Interrogator, whose eyes bounce and run over every inch of Bin, he stands, stiff with his arms loosely to his sides, he reveals everything, the superficial elements at least, he holds back his demonic stare, his beady eyes counting the floor.

When he looks back the crowd has grown once again, the interrogator has his eyes off Bin, good. From the amount of salutations, the language of respect and admiration, the careful glancing at the idolatry of the newcomer, he seethed at the idea of such friendly, familial, connectivity, "How mush do you love yar grox wife?" Bin overhears and rubs his eyes, teeth together and gnawing. A slap on the back, a handshake and the klak toes of a sharp salute and suddenly-

The thickened straight cane cracks down on the young boys back, the prayer pauses for a moment, a tear is hastily withheld.

-Bin withdraws his hands from his pockets, following the group onto the shuttle, his little brass charm and the frayed rope upon which it hangs lay in the cup of his left hand, the dirty string sticking to the freshly drawn blood, red running down the valleys and flashings of the moulded brass figurine; pressed deep into flesh of his palm.

[ellna]

"Questioner Kull." She mulls the name over as she climbs aboard the shuttle. "Pain is ecstasy compared to the horror of damnation." She speaks the words dully as she pulls the straps tight. Her smile seems less intense, slightly wistful.

She'll savour her time with Questioner Kull, crude though his methods had been, he had strived with his own passion. The pain had been intense, agonising and... euphoric. Perhaps he might of succeeded with another, but pain is the fear of those with evil in their heart.

[Urist]

Yarach strides quickly towards the shuttle, pausing briefly as he reaches the embarking ramp. Leaning against a bulkhead, he appears to whisper to the ship, mouthing the words of a blessing:

"Thank you, mighty machine-spirit, for conveying these servants of the Emperor-as-Omnissiah and the Emperor. These ones awe at your power and nobility. May the Omnissiah bless all of this machine-spirit's travels, and may he do the same to this one and all who work in His and the Emperor's name."

That done, he continues into the shuttle, and straps himself in, occupying himself while he waits by stripping and cleaning his weapons, ammo, and other technical components of the accumulated moisture, muttering litanies of repair and consecration under his breath as he does so.

[Grobrin]

Through closed eyes Xerxes could see the small shake of his father's head; the nearly pitying look in Marshall Tants eyes, the last words of the broken woman in front of him.
"Go and kiss your Grox wife goodbye Corporal Stern, it will be a very long time before you see her again."
He opened his eyes and could see her lips moving, snarling, twisted and spitting. The rain driving runnels down the pain etchings on her face and washing the salty hurt away from his own. Xerxes looks down at the spot she pokes him.

The clap on the back breaks Xerxes from his numbness. Xerxes mind moves like a broken thing, but he understands, This man, no, this Interrogator, Interrogator Konrad. This man Knew my Old Pa Stern?! Xerxes snaps a salute.
"Sir? You knew my Great Grand Father? I am told we look alike. My Father and I do. I, I never knew him Sir. There is much I would hear from you..." The shadow of the Lander loomed large above them, the howling cutting through Xerxes words. Xerxes glances up.
"Given the right time and place..." A seed of hope lies dormant in his chest. The interrogator, perhaps he can help him see his son before he reaches majority. Clutching that hope he walks to the lander, climbs the ramp and seats himself after removing the Greatsword and stowing it carefully behind him. As he seats he turns to the Mechwright.
"Yarach, I am sorry I did not mean to be rude before, just, well there has been much here I have found unsettling." Xerxes extends his hand "I am glad to have one of the Mechanicus with us."

Xerxes notices the blood welling between Bins fingers
"Comrade, You are bleeding, perhaps there is medkit aboard and one who could use it? I would volunteer, but between my thick skull and thick fingers, I am sure to make things worse."

[bluntpencil]

Britanov doesn't hear the prayers and conversations of the others, as he is too busy laughing at the screeching and wailing of the captive psykers that trotted by him. He draws his shock maul after they pass, waving it in their direction, continuing his cruel laughter, spitting and cursing at them, for being the witches and sorcerers that they are.

He grins horrifically after this, which slowly shrinks into a slight smile, then nods comically at their handlers, falling into line last to get aboard the shuttlecraft.


"So, who we to deal with? Are we to deal with 'em terminally, or to take 'em in alive?"

Of course, they don't respond to his queries, so he feels the need to hassle whoever was unfortunate to have a spare seat next to them. That, of course, happens to be Sarah.


"What ye reckon we're after? I reckon witches, on account o' the boss bein' a witch hunter. I reckons witches are easy prey, no hassle to crack open. I hate takin' 'em alive, though. Anyone that has a soul shouldn't be goin' off sellin' it, eh?"

[ellna]

Sarah shuffles uncomfortably as Alexei boards the shuttle. His cruel laughter lacked the harmony that the Emperor provides. Her smile fades and her eyes hold a cold and flinty look. She grips tightly the hard leather case that sits comfortably on her lap, it's strap interwoven with those of the ship. She humms a tune under her breath and keeps her eyes fixed on Alexei as he finds his place. As he finds a seat she realizes with some dread that he'll be sitting next to her. He sit's, her nails dig into the leather case some of the chemical coating scrapes off. "Konrad's a witch hunter?" She asks Britanov with a slight uncertainty. Her voice cracks slightly as she crosses eyes with him. You can palpably see her swallow and the muscles in her neck bulge as she strains not to look away. Still he seems to have a... wrongness about him. She smiles cruelly for a moment, but it falters and stalls. "Maybe it's witches, have you fought them before. I heard tell of wyrds that can conjure fire and twist your mind. Maybe it's true, but I also heard they can't do jack if they can't make their gestures. Maybe I'll pin their hands to a wall and you can hack em off. You're right though shame to waste a soul like coin. I wonder if they can still make music without it." She fiddles with one of the spikes that rests in her bandolier. "I hope to try it one day." Tearing her eyes from Alexei seems now as much of a strain as it was to hold his gaze. She blinks and looks away.

Then like an engine starting again her smile flickers and returns. She looks over the others, seeing Bin's plight as her eyes survey the cramped craft. She takes out Salanan's Flask from within her coat unscrews to top and gives it a sniff and a slosh. She also checks the exterior of the flask over looking for an inscription or some such. Finishing this she opens up a compartment of the case and places the flask inside. Looking at Bin and Xerxes concern she pipes up. "I could see that right, if you would care for it." She tries to give her most friendly smile, though she suspects Bin will take more than this to warm to her. Her eyes though skirt the edges of the blank and carry a slightly pleading look as she speaks to Bin.

[bluntpencil]

Britanov chuckles quietly,


"Naw, the roar of a shotgun is plenty music to me, and ye can make that noise easy enough wi'out a soul, aye."
He grunts after saying this, before thinking about witches some more, and offering some thoughts on the matter, grinning just a little at his own jokes as he does so,


"Aye, I hear they can even shoot lightning out their buttcracks wi'out even liftin' a finger, but that's all crap, if ye'll excuse the pun.

Witches can't do nothin', they're jus' treasonous dogs wi' delusions o' grandeur. Hopefully I'll get to stamp on a few sooner rather than later. I hate all this waitin' around."

[ellna]

Sarah doesn't renew eye contact with Alexei, but she makes a quiet response. "The boom of that beast is doubtless an impressive bass note. Not the highly strung song of Amadeus. It's pitch may praise the Emperor differently, but I'm sure it's song will complement the holy choir. Way'da call your piece, looks fearsome enough to have a name."

[Urist]

Sitting in his seat, Yarach turns to Sara and Alexei.

"This unit apologizes for its inadvertent surveillance, but it must agree that any machine devoted to the Omnissiah sings a holy melody all its own. Unit Sara, what manner of weapon is Amadeus? If it is the shape in the leather case on your shoulder, it bears little resemblance to any consecrated weapons patterns this unit has ever encountered.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei nods, happy that someone is actually trying to talk to him. He pauses in thought, then answers with more bad jokes,


"Well, I figured that this here Meathammer's victims should be the one namin' her. So, I reckons 'Aargharghaughhugherk' is as good a name as any, eh? I think it's got a fair ring to it.

The shock maul, though? She doesn't get a name, since she's all fer takin' folk alive an' hasn't properly earned a name yet, though. Stupid bitch that she is, huh?"

After the techy makes his observation, Alexei follows up with,


"How come yer gun's a man, an' not a woman? Is it cuz you're a woman, like, wi' no husband, so yer gun's yer man? Amadeus is a man's name, right?"

[ellna]

"Arharhahrhaeuuurg?" Sarah displays her look of puzzlement very blatantly. Her brow knits. She pauses overly long before letting out a half-hearted chuckle "Not a very elegant name. Perhaps you should ask them before Araheyhgergg does. You might get a better response. Maybe Splattercake or Butcher. A meathammer you say. I'll have to listen to it some time I could help you to tune it." Sarah seems a bit more at ease speaking with Alexei now, but still she is glad for Yarach's query. "Amadeus is a man. Why a man's name you ask... Cos he shoots these." She tugs on one of the 10mm spikes. "Can't be nothing, but a man if he shoots when I handle him. He's got a light trigger easily excited." She smiles sweetly. "Besides Amadeus was some great musician I've heard. The notes may have changed, but my Amadeus makes music too."

She turns to the tech-preist and unzips the case revealing Amadeus to him. "It's not a concreted pattern that you would have on record. It's patent is still pending, Inquisition approved though, I assure you the Red Cult shall see now heretek soul in his soul." She speaks hurriedly as she pats the ramshackle array of tubes and pulleys. Her finger tracing the brand of the Inquistion beneath the letters "Ahmahdayus". Amadeus is deadly, it's barrel heavy set and surrounded by tiny vents. A jerry-rigged array of wires is arranged beneath the primary barrel, a crossbow of sorts. It's is well kept, oiled and rust-free, though the many parts bear different colours giving it a somewhat patch work appearance. It rests snugly in it's custom made case, waiting to fulfil it's purpose.

She begins to talk without cessation about Amadeus. Her long rambling tale interspersed with each components torque, breaking point, holding capacity, harmonic frequency and other technical notes. "It's heart and soul comes from a XJ-Delta series Drive Nailer. An ancient piece that saved my life when I found it. You could say I heard the machine spirit's soul sang to be that day. Of course I have made many modifications since then. The original model relied on gas-canister feed. A small 1st series, held only a pint of air. I couldn't risk being caught and dry with an empty tank. So I fitted a micro compressor. The one from the Mk XI air filtration units they used to use in the factories to bottle the waste gasses. The units were scrapped, probably due to their poor chassis, I've not seen one that's survived intact to this day. However the compressors they used are quite miraculous. The feed hoses had to be replaced to compensate, of course. The canister too. I got this one from a trader who was using it as a rot-gut fermenter. I had to tend it well to prevent the inside from corrosion. A mixture of Aboelic salts and plas ash. The current chassis came from a Armageddon pattern autogun. Some ganger had fouled it beyond use, I spake the litany of renewal as I stripped it. The firing core had been used to open cans. Cracked right down the 3rd pivot. I had to build the crossbow part from scratch though. Wood in the underhive wasn't fit to put up with the tension. I... do hope I'm not boring you am I? If you wish when we have some time alone together I could tell you more about it. Maybe you could help Amadeus grow. That would be nice." She positively beems at Yarach.


http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2012/106/e/a/amadeus_by_ellnaishgar-d4wdbhi.jpg
Something like this though I think it should likely be a more scrap looking patchwork and more bulky.

[Urist]

Yarach, as he sees the weapons, nods with understanding.

"The Omnissiah rewards frugality. Not the most elegant of constructions, but serviceable, all the same. Well maintained, well kept. The spirits of the component machines of Amadeus must be honored to aid you in your quest.

As Alexei makes his admittedly blasphemous joke, Yarach wavers between indignance and amusement.

"The Meathammer will find its own name in time, as the spirit of the Omnissiah fills it with wonder. Yours will do for now, though, and is a good way to identify it for your enemies."

[Acco Spoot]

S'okay.

Bin mutters as he wipes his hand down the absorbant, though undoubtedly filthy, wool jacket, the blood dries, sealing up the tiny wounds.

The conversation drifts onwards, on the songs and sounds of each ones weapons. Bin fingers the handle of his pistol, the wood has rotted at the base exposing the metal framework, there's a thick, sticky grease over much of the barrel, hairs trapped in the mechanisms and as much grime as that when he draws his hand back it has now been stained a bluish grey.

Why'd ye let the guns do the singing for yea?

He asks, feeling so inclined to join the conversation.

Aint much of a music if no-one 'round to hear it.

His hammer, an artisans tool, lifted from some workshop or another, Bin couldn't remember. A large red slab sat atop a small wooden handle, at either side the red paint had flecked and crumpled away, a stony interior remained.

The singing starts when yea send 'um to the ground, get 'um in the ribs, the belly, make 'um lose their breakfast. Than yea watch them plea, from tha groun' they keep their arms up and they go "No, no misser! I aint done nothing!" Then yea bring it down aggen, you get their arms this time, an ye watch 'um squirm "No-no misser, you got the wrong guy! I aint no heretic!" An' then when they bawling and screamin' an' yea hear the lawmen on way yea start singing, right proper, back an' forth 'gainst anything ye can see, crack-crack-crack!... An ye stay there, an yea make sure tha song is over, ignorin' the lawmen an' the others, ye jus keep cracking out tha tune, crack-crack-crack!

Animately Bin paints his scenario, putting on a mock voice for his supposed subject, miming the actions and all the while grinning, reminiscing and idly spinning the cudgel in his hand.

[ellna]

Sarah chuckles as Bin mimes out his little play. "It seems you know the strokes of the notes. A little rough round the edges I think, but you seem to have the grasp of the Emperor's song." Sarah zips Amadeus back up. "We all have our parts to play, our instruments of demise. I quite lick the steady beat of the heart as it pumps blood. The drip, the splash and the spurt." She joins Bin's macabre mime. Swinging one hand as though it held a blade and with the other making vivid actions to represent the hot explosions of imagined blood. "SlllliCe. Gush Gush Gush. Plik PSlurt. Gush Snk. Ba dum Ba dum Ba dum." She seems truly happy for a moment before sighing and crossing her arms back over Amadeus. "Nothing compares to the real thing. I long for a noisy mission. Filled with the cries of the foe. I'm sure you're talents shall be a pleasure to witness."

[bluntpencil]

Alexei looks around, and snorts, just a little.

He doesn't seem to think much of those around him. Sure, the Techy seemed nice enough, pretty amiable, even for a machine-cultist (they were always friendly, he had to admit), and that Sarah lassy seemed to trying her damnedest not to tear her hair out around him, so she got points for that, he guessed.

Still, the fella with the big sword seemed, well, dangerous, on account of the fact he had a seven-foot weapon on his back.

That and the guy, Bin, that was yammering on seemed positively mental. And Alexei was from Volg, a wretched hive of scum, villainy, mutants and the terrifyingly insane.

Well, why not say so, huh?


"Well, if this isn't frickin' weird, I don't know what is. This guy belongs stompin' around Volg Hive, and even then, surrounded by the worst Fenksworld's got to offer, psychopaths, monsters and mutants all, he'd still have trouble fittin' in... because he's that Throne-damned-mental.

I hope to bloody Terra that he stabs the right people, that's all I'm sayin', eh?"


Fellowship 14... GO!

[ellna]

Sarah fixes Alexei with a singular stare, somewhat undermined by the obvious fact she still is having trouble meeting his gaze. She seems about to say something to him, but bites her tongue instead turning to Bin. "How about it Bin you know where to stick the pointy end?" She tries to say the words lightly hoping the Bin doesn't just rip Alexei apart... Though part of her hopes that.

[bluntpencil]

Britanov sees that he has Sarah on edge, so presses harder before Bin can answer.


"See, our bosses... they employ lunatics and the insane to do their dirty work, girl. They sacrifice pathetic wretches, those that are worth little or nothing, in order to further their own mysterious goals."

He grins (or grimaces?) before continuing, in a harsh whisper,


"They take psykers, murderers, thieves and soulless monsters, and set them onto the heretic, the daemon and the xeno like attack dogs. It's no wonder we're gettin' called 'the Hounds', murderess..."

He leaves the accusation of murder hanging in the air, as if it was a self-evident fact, then finishes with a grim statement,


"...they think that we're less than human. An' I agree wi' them.

We're pissy worthless nobodies that've got work to do. All I hope is that I got shot in the front, not the back, and don't crap myself as I die. Too many folk do that, it's not very dignified. Gettin' shot in the gut does that. Slow death, covered in my own excrement isn't how I wanna go."

[Urist]

Yarach, feeling the tension in the room, intervenes hastily, worry leaking into the mechanical diction he adopts when stressed.

"The contents of this list: Psychopaths, Killers, Assassins, Mercenaries, Lunatics, "Mad Prophets". Alternate Descriptors: Arbitrators, Sanctioned Hunters, Priest of the Machine God. Trustworthiness by traditional metric: low. Contrast: Solidarity as rejected. Trust of this unit in this list:high. Glory of this

The Hounds: disposable now. As time passes: less so. Survival chances now:Low. As assignments concluded, survival chances grow exponentially. If this group works together: chances increasing drastically."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw, en route to Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0715, Scintillan Occidental Time

The boarding ramp closes with a pressurized hiss. The one remaining stormtrooper mans his cradled heavy bolter with a stoic single-mindedness, the only thing betraying that there is still a living man there and not a machine is his periodic flexing of his fingers to help ease bloodflow.

A set of milspec crates--- rations, munitions, comms and sensor equipment--- occupy the centre of the craft. To one side sit the Volgite Arbite, the Malfian murderess, the crusading Cogboy, the Agri-born Arbite and the demented mercenary. Though still tightly locked into their seat-harnesses, they seem a lively bunch, engrossed in a quite a lively conversation that meanders from weapons to murders to a contemplation of their purpose…

…and it is at this point that there butts in a slow clapping of bionic hand on bionic hand. "Brothers, sister... well-put. I could have begun a sermon proper, but your different voices and different words but one purpose together might well put an ecclessiarch to shame. Rest assured, you will have plenty of chance to sing your scarlet songs in the Emperor's name soon enough"

"Where are we headed, where are you being sent?" Konrad propounds, one hand resting on the knob of his cane, the other tossing a dataslate to Yarach's hands. "Gunmetal City. Known the sector over as a prime producer and exporter of all manner of weaponry, where their foremost verse is 'Blessed are the gunsmiths'. Ruled by several several noble Houses, each with dominion over certain kinds of arms..." He nods at the techpriest, "The rest of the primer on the place, you'll find in there"

"What are you after in there?" The priest continues, hard eyes boring into those of his flock... or rather, his pack. "Magos Zweiker. Once a remarkable servant of the Imperium and warsmith of House Takara. Recipient of an Omnissian Axe for participation in a heretek hunt on Endrite. Vanished two months after that expedition into the feral regions. That was four years ago"

Konrad now fixes his gaze on Arbitrator Alexei. "Barely six months ago, there was a massive helot uprising in Magnagorsk on Fenksworld. You might have been there? The rebel scum had more than sheer numbers on their side--- they had military-grade las-weapons and rogue psykers. Fortunately, the troopers of the Gunmetallicus 77th were on-planet with their transport undergoing refit and repair, thus turning the tide"

"Just two months ago," he continues with a twitch of an eye and a meaningful nod. "marked a spike in the gang violence of the Infernis sector with unusually powerful las-weapons. Looks like he's come home. Lady and gentlemen, your mission is to track down the former Magos Zweiker. Pronounce the Emperor's judgment upon these traitors. Bring the Law to the Lawless. Restore order and the common people's faith... as well as the production-and-export efficiency factors of the city. Any questions?"

[Acco Spoot]

I'm not crazy... I'm not.

He muttered to himself as the doors closed, reclining once more into his socially awkward personality, perhaps put off by the dead on analysis of his sanity, or by the comforting giggling of his of compatriot.

I aint dumb either!

He murmured a little louder, accompanying it with a sharp nudge to the back of the woman's seat. He caught himself drudging up a vile scenario, angrily proving that he knew which way to point his knife and exactly upon whom the thin rusted blade should be stuck, he said penance immediately, repressing the awful thought but keeping a beady eyed gaze upon Alexei.

Any questions?

How much is the pay?

Bin asked, as much out of instinct rather than genuine concern, this life had found him naked and alone in the musty abandoned corridors of the hive, he was exploited and bullied for his assets, the reward being passed on by merit of obligation, he had never counted the thrones nor admired the rewards.

[ellna]

Sarah grunts slightly as Bin nudges the back of her chair. She just has time to mutter loudly enough to be heard by bin. "No that you're not."

Sarah perks up when she hears they are headed to the infamous Gunmetal city. "I've got three. Who can we kill, who can we order and who can know." She lists off the questions with her fingers. A grin stuck fast to her face. She pauses thinking for a moment. A scowl passes her face as Bin asks after payment.

Thinking a bit more she amends some additional questions somewhat as an after thought. "Do we have any loose thrones to sweeten palms and grease gears. Bribes can help wonders in any investigation. The cost of travel and food has to be considered to. Especially if we are staying beneath the radar. A corpse tells no tales, but a rich man has no need." She smiles at Interrogator Konrad. "And equipment, those crates of gear are they for our mission. If we are to work as a team in this matter comms would be extremely useful." She thinks further for a moment.

"I have no doubt that we will succeed. Former Magos Zweiker shall join the Emperor's choir in song."

Nexus:Int:34 Common Lore (Imperium) [roll0]61=Info on Gunmetal City, Escpicially any well known gunsmiths/black markets/scrap fields.

Fel:37 Charm [roll1]75=Konrad likes me he wants to give me extra monies. Sarah really impressed him. :smallwink:

EDIT: Rolls in OOC due to my fail.
EDIT EDIT: Rolls bolded in here for ease. Nasty fails for me guess I need to learn to read the data-slate.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes nods at Yarach "So what your saying there is unless we work together as a team, we all die. Makes sense. 'K, Also I have learned that if we go into this unprepared we also die. No one here wants to die?" Xerxes looks around.
"Thought not. This Magos Zweiker was a servant of House Takara, and now based on the evidence of an increase of military grade las guns both on Fenksworld where he disappeared and now in a hive famed across the sector for solid projectile weaponry where he once was based it is believed that he is behind these increases. Seems thin Sir. Have there been sightings? Confessions that indicate the Magos is behind this? Some signature marking or design with las weapons captured from the gangers?" Xerxes stops and rubs his temples a pressure building inside his head. He tries to recall investigative protocols ground into him from his induction.
"Does anyone know how to handle a Las?" Xerxes continues." 'Cause we could pose as buyers. Which brings me to another point. How much support do we have Sir? What resources do we have available? Or we could go after the gangers and work our way up. Sing a song of slaughter whose crescendo ends the Magos? Which gangs were using the las guns Sir And what targets of interest did they hit?" Xerxes begins to grind his teeth and his left hand starts tapping a tattoo on the stock of his Autogun, a vein begins pulsing in his forehead. He takes his jaw in one meaty hand and twists it and a row of audible pops travel up his neck seemingly releasing some pressure to his poor beleaguered brain. He takes a deep breath.
"Lastly there is House Takara, who did he know there? Does he still work for them in some way, has the uprise in gang violence helped them? Or is it the opposite, has it particularly harmed their interests?" Xerxes sits back pale and sweaty. Right hand massaging his temples, left still beating a tattoo: Taptaptaptap tap tap tap

[Urist]

Yarach, until now fairly composed, begins to shake at the mention of a heretic tech-priest. When Konrad finishes, he pipes up in a voice shaking with rage.

"Title:Magos:Not acceptable means of referring to Unit Zweiker. Those who sully the Omnissiah's name by polluting his bounty: undeserving even of names!"

His outburst finished, he works to calm himself, muttering a litany in binary under his breath. Finished, he composes himself, and again looks at Konrad.

"Many questions remain. Classification level of mission? What targets have been hit? Have any Inquisitorial agents made inquiries? Has an origin point of las weapons been established? What assets were available to Unit Zweiker before disappearance? Do we have any resources or material support, here or in Gunmetal? Inventory of crates:supplies available?"


Rolls:


Rolling a Charm test to charm Knorad into providing aid.
[roll0]Target: Fel(39)/2=19

[bluntpencil]

"Gang violence? Who cares?"

grumbles Alexei.


"So long as they're only shooting other gangers, and it isn't spilling over, it's less work for the Enforcers. Hell, it's probably a good thing. You can use them as ready-trained sources of Penal soldiers, eh? I'm failin' to see any actual connection between him and this fightin'.

Hell, I was at that uprisin' in Magnagorsk. Killed me three sorcerers with 'Aaragghearghurgh' here. Didn't see, nor hear, of no Magos. Damn, we don't even know he's a heretek. If he was, they'd have guns that shot wasps instead of big lasguns, right?"

Britanov doesn't seem to care much, unless there's actual evidence of them being a threat to the stability of Gunmetal City itself. He doesn't see how the Magos would end up in Gunmetal unless he somehow corrupted the boys that were shooting up the rebels in Magnagorsk either. Maybe he was out for revenge, but Alexei had never met a techy that cared for motivations like love or revenge, for instance.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw, en route to Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0721, Scintillan Occidental Time

Banks of craggy, grey clouds whiz past the craft's windows. It lurches and shudders as it passes through a pocket of turbulence. Lightning bolts lash from cloud to cloud, wicked winds hurl about clattering hail. A vox-unit crackles with the pilot's voice, that of a young woman with no little humour, "Sorry 'bout that, just some turbulence, Father. Looks like the Saints are going bowling!"

At this, Konrad merely grunts "Don't make us a pin, pilot" and then shakes his head at Xerxes. The old priest carefully unbuckles his harnesses and, by some blessing of his bionics, makes his way over to the crates without losing his footing despite another jolt of air turbulence... but makes sure that he is properly braced when he gets there. Muttering the Litany of Opening while tapping in unlocking codes and then hefts the lids off...

...inside the first crate is an array of guns cradled in safety foam. He takes each in turn, performing a quick drill before putting it back. The first weapon is a long-barreled, perfectly machined bolt-action hunting rifle with a padded, wooden stock. "Fane Fykos, famed for supplying hunters and beast-baggers the sector over. Wealthiest and most arrogant" The second is a sleek, long-barreled large-bore laspistol with ornate gilt about the butt, barrel and trigger-guard. "Fane Khayer-Addin, famed for their commissioned... artwork weapons that are no less lethal for their beauty" At the third, he takes out another pair--- one the ubiquitous Scalptaker .38 stub revolver of ancient but reliable design and the other a veritable hammer of a semiautomatic precision pistol. "Fane Westingkrup, famed for designs that are rugged and reliable. Aggressively expansionist" At the fourth, he hefts a wire-stocked, gas-fed, fat-magged carbine--- that, to those with a keen eye, is conspicuously bereft of a semiauto setting. "Fane Doru, infamous for supplying PDFs, militias and rebels alike" At the fifth, he holds up what resembles the flintlock pistols of feudal worlds--- except for the modern machining and fat twenty-round auto-mag in front of the trigger-guard. "Fane Orthlack, famed for its unerring bullet-hoses and its keeping the contracts to most, if not all, weapons contracts for the sector's Enforcers, Magistrata and Arbitrators" Finally, he gets to the sixth [and seventh] niches from which he draws a lascarbine with a more intricate charge capacitor and heatsink than usual and a fat-nosed snub-las. "Fane Takara, famed for its high-class las-weapons"

"What was the point of that? Gunmetallicans may be famed for their slugthrowers, but that doesn't mean they don't honour the las-fire so favoured of Saint Drusus" He puts these back into the box and partially lifts that crate's midsection partion to reveal a cache of rounds of all calibres as well as charge-packs. "Yes, they accept regular tender, but in certain places, rounds are used as their favoured form of currency. And, yes, you may help yourselves... just leave the rifle, that's mine"


Those who pass a standard, that is, Challenging, test on Common Lore: Imperium/War/Tech/Ecclessiarchy would know what's being referred to here is the Drusus Prime charge-repeater lasgun, the most widely-produced long-arm [with the shotgun a close second] for hivers the sector over. Patterned after the Ryza-M, fat barrel, no stock, no trigger-guard, power-cell housed in a tubular casing with grooved grip].
Those who are Hivers, Techies, or Arbites get a +10 bonus on the test.


Putting the lid back on the first crate, he sits atop that, his right hand on his cane hard against the floor, his left holding onto a handrail. "The details'd be in that slate. The gist to your questions would be... Targets that were hit? A couple dozen minor Fanes, either taken over or utterly razed. A Doru-marked ore processing plant down in Infernis, closed down after a particularly brutal ganger assault--- everything of value was destroyed, tunnels were collapsed. Point of origin? Nothing certain yet... most likely leads somewhere in the Infernis or with Takara"

And then, he grimaces. "Previous cell sent on this case? Went in brutally and questioned bluntly, made examples of a few resisting Takara administrators and Regulators as well as any ganger whom they caught with a las-piece and called it a day. Now, Takara's cleaner than ever, spreading propaganda that it's neeeveR been accused of heresy and its weapons always bring the Emperor's cleansing light. Pah. Right. And it's also of note that, shortly after making their final report--- which you now hold in your hands--- the shuttle carrying that previous cell went down over the badlands of an... engine malfunction accompanied by rather uneartly voices"

"As to your question of proof..." Konrad then makes his way to a rather smaller crate... but one practically festooned with purity seals and requiring triple keys to open. The inside of the box thrums with the glow of protective hexagrammatic wards. Inside is a rusty rendition of a Takara-Palatine snub-las, but with strange spikes clawing out at random points on its body. On the back of the power-pack glares a sigil that hurts the eyes to even look at it. On the handle's butt is stamped the Takara sigil of a stylized "T" within a sunburst while on the barrel in alternating acid etching and copper chasing sprawls a miniature masterpiece of a painting of the Tholl Valley with the depressions spelling out the name "Zweiker".

"Pretty damning, yes? Damning of a man who's supposed to have been dead on Endrite, four years past. Nobody's supposed to survive having couple hundred tons of gargoyle fall on his head. Hadn't been near " says the Interrogator as, with an Aquila-wrapped hand, offers the box and its contents to the group with a smirk that bares a sliver of yellow teeth. "This was sent by one Agent Axe--- last survivor of your predecessors, present whereabouts unknown, by the hand of a missionary who committed suicide after dropping off his package. Now... any volunteers, who might want to take a closer look or try to take it apart, hmm?"


Anybody who stares too long at the suspect gun, WP check. And Toughness check.
Anybody who tries to handle it, WP and Toughness checks, please. At -20 and -10, respectively.
And if the lucky volunteer is Alexei...

...interesting times, my friends. Interesting times.

Also, if NOBODY volunteers to handle the damned thing...?
...WHEW.

[bluntpencil]

Common Lore [roll0] TN 50

I'm assuming my Untouchable nature makes the rolls unnecessary. Basically immune to corruption and head screwiness anyway.

Alexei squints his eyes at the weapon and looks closer, grabbing at it with no thought about how dangerous these sorts of things are. Witches and warp spawn were no different to any other sort of treasonous wretch to him, well, except that they usually, foolishly, tried to shoot lightning at him instead of the far more effective lead alternative.

Their powers had no effect on him, and, to be honest, he holds them in extreme contempt and distaste. Even more extreme distaste than he holds the rest of humanity, at any rate.


"So, yer want me ta try break it, boss?"

[ellna]

And, yes, you may help yourselves...

As soon as the words leave his lips she speaks up ""I cal dibs on the Orthlack. Rather too exuberantly. Realising she has just interrupted the interrogator she smiles sheepishly and begs her pardon.

"I could use a new pistol, been on the lookout ever since I lost Vera. Orthlack a Mk II unless I'm mistaken. Appropriate. It'll bear Vera's name till it finds it's own. Vera Mk II" She speaks softly almost to herself a smile on her lips.

Now... any volunteers, who might want to take a closer look or try to take it apart, hmm?"

"I will" Sarah speaks up boldly. She snarls at Alexei when he suggests it's destruction. Still sat in her seat she turns to Yarach. "Given the obvious heresy of this item I think you should allow me to handle it. Though I may have less skill in this I doubt that you should wish to touch such an item. Besides perhaps my ignorance may help in this matter. Thought begets heresy; Heresy begets retribution." Unbuckling from the seat she lurches upright. The final words hanging in the air like a charm. The turbulent shuttle shudders, but despite her bulky frame she proves rather agile resisting the rocking ship. She smiles as she approaches the heretical Palantine. Amadeus' crib hangs in front of her as she leans over the las. She reaches into a compartment and pulls out a thin screwdriver. Her other hand releases from the crate as the shuttle holds steady for a moment. She moves her hand towards the tech, her eyes glittering intensely...

--- Welp... Let's see what happens... ---

Ag for balance on the turbulent ship- [roll0] Ag: 39
It's a Mk IV I know :smallbiggrin: Sarah isn't infallible it seems.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin had seen hundreds of thousands of firearms, of different calibre, projectile, design, he even had the holes from a few pockmarking his skin. To him a long range weapon was simply a means to an end, a measure to prevent your enemy from escaping their duly served punishment.

Despite so easily having dismissed the offer of weapons from the interrogator the fresh sample placed before the group had an unusual enticement, it was a horrid looking thing, probably aimed like a brick, covered in needless detailing, and yet he was enamoured, he stared intensely at it, his eyes starting to water and sting at his ever focusing eyes.

Get... it... away...

He quietly mutters under his breath, trying to wrestle away his eyes, but he had to look, perversion getting the better of him as he soaked it all in.

[Urist]

Yarach listens to the briefing, perking up at the sight of the las-weapons from the last crate. "This Unit would, if there are no objections, enjoy using the Doru. This unit currently lacks non-las based weaponry, and diversifying seems a profitable choice."


The sight of the heretical snub-las quiets him almost immediately, and he stares for a moment...before ripping his eyes away, and covering them with one hand. "This unit refuses to touch that...thing. It will use it's skills to aid the unit who wishes to touch it, from over here."

Rolls:


Tech Use: [roll0]/33
Logic: [roll1]/33
In the aid of Sara in her disassembly efforts, through advice. Yarach is sure to avoid staring at the object for very long, and avoids contact at all costs.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes watering eyes sweep over the procession of murderous intent and listens to the roll call of noble Houses to whom the march is dedicated. Xerxes eyes light upon the carbine, as he'd seen their effectiveness in the hands of the PDF often enough.

CL Imperium [roll0] TN:35

Xerxes sits mute as but few of the salient facts penetrate, save for that the other team's all dead, one missing and all for a tainted prize. Xerxes tries to look away but the acid etching drives fish hooks into his eyeballs and draw him in. Xerxes grips down on his left hand but only suceeds in slowing the rythym of his wayward finger Tap Tap Tap


WP [roll1] TN:28
T [roll2] TN 40


Bile rises up like a wave accentuated by the rolling motion of the aircraft as his mind reels from the sight of the profane weapon

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw, en route to Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0723, Scintillan Occidental Time

"Consider this your final test before you begin your first mission, pup" With a grim nod, an unrelenting grimace and a wary bolt-pistol Interrogator-Confessor Konrad replies to the Volgite Arbite... "Break the damned thing"

...but as Alexei's rough hands, confident in his faith and his fortitude, close upon the corrupted casing of the weapon, the hairs on his arms and up his neck suddenly stand on end where the last time he had felt like this was before his first kill, when he was but a boy of five, scrabbling for survival on the streets of Volg.

It is something he has never felt before, not in all his days of witch-hunting. Something like sitting snug inside the armour of a Leman Russ, fingers on the triggers of the cannon… yet hearing somehow hearing the scrabbling of a tiny, half-dead cockroach on the thick steel shell.

He feels a thrumming, thrumming, thrumming...
...gentle as a clean, cool mountain breeze.
Oh, such a sense of strange peace...
But nothing more beside.

Nothing strange, nothing. Nothing strange except that there is a tiny imperfection on the once-pristine square of his standard-issue Nothing.

Yet still the thrumming continues in Xerxes’ ears. It rises in tone and warps and contorts in voice… and then he hears Sarah’s voice. Not this Sarah, the melodious murderess from distant, dark and decadent Malfi. Sarah Stern. His Sarah…

…his first night with her, a simple farmboy madly in love with a simple milkmaid. She shone in the moonlight, clad in but wisps of hay, mounting his grox-like girth with pantherine passion, purring hungrily…

Purring. Purring. Purring. Snarling, the little kitty slashes out at his clumsy hands. No great wound, he recalls, no great wound, but what a gout of blood, rising into the sky as…
…no, as he falls, falling from the tree, kitty spittle and his blood falling like rain all around.

He falls and falls and falls…
…and then violently voids his gut, his last paltry breakfast aboard the tramp freighter Green and Gold spewing across the deck in a spray of sickly green and gold. As his vision begins to clear, the first thing to come into focus is a dangling, waving Aquila pendant with a stream of prayers of protection and abjuration from Confessor Konrad. The second thing that he is able to see clearly on recovery is the Aquila’s halo--- actually the muzzle of a holy weapon trained on him…
…then the prayer--- and the preparation of contingency--- are trained in turn on everybody else.

Except Yarach.

Gold, gold, gold. For a moment, everything flashes and glints and scintillates in Bin’s eyes. The flap of wings, a majestic eagle’s great shadow falling over him.
Its holy claws dig into his ribs…

…like a safety harness suddenly tightening as another bolt of lightning flashes by the windows and the Raven’s Claw lurches through another pocket of dizzying, vertiginous turbulence...

…That fails to make her fall, for sure are her feet and hands and bracing. Sarah leans over the tainted thing, screwdriver in hand, to help how she may.

Suddenly, she slips, blubbering, gasping for breath. Industrial waste drenches her, frothy filth going down her throat as she scrabbles for a rock, a piece of flotsam, anything, as her ramshackle salvage-raft’s ties break apart…

…and just as suddenly simply sits down, her sight swimming, the screwdriver clattering on the floor.

And all this while, Unit Yarach beholds his newfound comrades, in varying states of… unmaking. And all this while a tiny tinnitus rings in his ears. And all this while, a tiny little video window keeps popping up in the ever-scrolling green screen of his augmetic vision. And all this while, the tiny little panel keeps on displaying a stream of scratching, garbled static…

…but this intruding subroutine is soon drowned out by his internal security programs.

And when, through his folded, shielding fingers, he catches a glimpse of the scene once more... He sees the thing in the Volgite Arbite's hands. It smokes and sizzles. It bucks and blurs...
...and through those momentary blurs, he feels tiny blurts of Binary clicking through his synapses. In those momentary blurs, by the Untouchable's touch, some of the rust and thorns flake off.

Yarach sees the original form of the tainted thing, the beauty that once was. He hears the original machine-spirit calling out for sweet release from its blighted bondage...

[Acco Spoot]

Gold, gold, gold. The sun glinted from the moist, yellow, soil, he lay face down sucking at the sand, helplessly drawing the wine before it evaporated in the sun, his bony chest and swollen belly grazing against the coarse rock, bleeding. Hopelessly he sat at the base of the rock, teasing the carrion with bones and bits of flesh, pawing at the bloody corpse a moment longer.

A great eagle ascended from the mountains, for a moment the scraggly, malnourished youth refused to acknowledge the creature, only when it came closer and he saw that it was some instrument, a flying machine, did he peak his curiosity, snarling as loudly as a child could he approached.

The Emperor blesses all, guides all, and forgives all, take he a meek servant as I and work into his great instrument.

Limply Bin tried to catch the ochre stained bile vomit as it washed down his leather armour and soaked into his jacket. He focused on his meditations, on his scriptures and psalms, driving out the memories of the child soldier.

I ask thee forgiveness in confidence and without deviousness, for I am wretched and thou pure, and though I long for redemption I shall be but dirt upon the soles of your feet.

Finally he wrenched away his eyes, unwilling to endure the torture any longer.

Without zeal and without passion there is heresy and there is death.

He took out his knife, an instrument quite like his hammer in that it seemed to have been borne as a tool, he placed it over his forearm and quickly dug, opening up a fresh reminder to his heretical past.

[ellna]

Sarah sits on the floor of the vessel. Her smile has faded now and she stares blankly at the base of the crate. After a while she blinks and rubs her eyes. She frantically runs her hands over her jacket wiping away imaginary sewage. Tears bead in her eyes as she begins to cough, choking on fluid that she knows isn't there. Trembling her hand reaches into a pocket and withdraws clutching Salanan's flask. Her fingers fumble as they tear at the cap. It surrenders with a soft scrape. She takes a swig, holding the burning rotgut in her mouth for as long as she can bear before swallowing it. The bitter aroma of it pervading the air. She pulls a horrible face and a coughs violently. The coughs turn to a heaving retching and she proceeds to expel the pungent philtre followed hastily by what remains of her earlier meal. She takes another swig of the Nglathsmec, washing it around her mouth before spitting it out. Drawing herself together she wipes her tears and fleks of vomit hastily away on a sleeve and stows the resealed flask. Grasping at the screwdriver, gladly missed by ejected fluids, Sarah stands her gaze steeled to meet the heresy once more. "Forgive me Emperor. Let my faith be strong for you now. I shall not falter in you're light. No matter the odds I shall meet them. For the glory of the Imperium."

Once again she descends on the heretical las...

Rolls in case they are necessary.
Carouse: [roll0] T:30/2 +10= 25
Willpower: [roll1] WP: 36
Toughness: [roll2] T:30

[bluntpencil]

Alexei frowns at the thing as it smokes in his gloved hands.

He looks around, about to make a terrible joke about how 'they don't make 'em like they used to', when he sees Bin puking everywhere, and the others in various states of frickin' mental. He tries to cover up the las with anything lying around, maybe a cloak or sheet of fabric that isn't nailed down.

After realising that his weirdo murderer buddies are at risk from the gun, he attempts to interpose himself between them and it, hoping that, somehow, his lack of a soul, will block it from harming them.


"Are you an idiot, boss?! You may as well pull the pin on a damn grenade in here! Look at 'em! Spazzy boy has gone and sicked hisself! Ye'll be makin' mutants or summit soon enough pullin' stunts like that!"
Sure, he thought the others were weak, yeah, but he didn't see the point in kicking cripples, as it were. Why couldn't his idiot boss just warn them?

He and the others might be simple dogs working for a cruel and heartless master, but he didn't see the point in this. Konrad, the moron, shouldn't be doing this. It was cruel, but that wasn't the problem. It was a waste of Imperial resources, damaging perfectly good souls for no good reason.

[ellna]

Once again she descends on the heretical las...

Sarah is too late. The las-weapon reacts strangely in Alexei's hands. She recoils from him as the... "thing" turns. Is it destroyed? Has the knowledge been lost? She holds out her hands to Alexei as she creeps closer.

"Give that here. Carefully maybe I can still salvage some clue from it. You brute."

Wherever Sarah's smile has fled to it has taken the Emperor's light with it. She has a desperate look in her eyes a frantic note has crept into her voice.

[bluntpencil]

"Piss off."

Is the only response she gets as he holds it away from her, trying to protect the idiot woman from the weapon. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to convince her otherwise. He had trouble convincing people that his name was actually Alexei, in spite of the I.D he always carried. He wasn't going to convince some lunatic Inquisitorial flunky that she couldn't play with the forbidden.

His free hand does grab his shield though, as he keeps his cool, and uses it to block the others' view of the gun. Well, that's the excuse he would use for grabbing it. He is more worried about getting shot or stabbed by these mental cases.

[ellna]

Sarah looks at him. Her stare not budging despite the feeling he invokes within her. Her eyes change from manic, to pleading. She speaks softly to him. Whispering reasons, platitudes and...

It's not her eyes that mark the change, but her mouth. She's smiling again. Not a pleasant warm smile, but a feral, manic snarl. With a cry of fury she hurls herself at Alexei. The forgotten screwdriver whipping around in her hand plunging for his throat...

[bluntpencil]

The screwdriver leaves a tiny scratch etched on Alexei's armour. He groans at this point, not in pain, but in irritation. This wasn't the first time he'd been attacked for no good reason. He knew how to deal with poorly armed thugs, he did...

...Overwhelming force. This was the Imperium and he was from Volg. Mercy was for the weak. She was lucky he was electing to use an allegedly non-lethal weapon, he thinks as he quickly draws his shock maul, the heretek gun softly clattering to his feet, wrapped in a discarded coat.

The stun mace sparks up, lightning arcing as he brutally swings and slams it into her left arm with a loud zzap!...

[ellna]

The Shock Maul Slams down into her arm. Sarah grits her teeth as the charge flows through her. Her leather trench coat doing little to stop the Arbite's high-tech maul. The screwdriver skitters along the floor. For a brief moment, as she convulses, her eyes dart around the room, lost and forlorn. Then seemingly instantly she fixes on Alexei. Muscle-bound she struggles past the initial shock and surges forward at Alexei...

Taking 5 Energy Damage to Left Arm.

Wounds: 4/9
Fate: 2/2
Attempting to Grapple Alexei.

[Urist]

The whisper of binary in Yarach's mind is almost overwhelming, but he squelches it, watching in delight as the algorithms granted to his augmetic systems by the Omnissiah repel the corruption of the unholy weapon. He tasks these algorithims to continue their holy work, and then opens his eyes. The sight that greets him is a shock, but he rally's quickly, grabbing the pistol from his side and activating the red dot sight.


"Unit Alexei, continue with your previous functions. The machine spirit of that device has been tortured enough, and deserves its blessed relief, in the Omnissiah's name. This unit will deal with Unit Sara."


Turning to address Sara, Yarach trains the red dot sight directly on her head.

"Unit Sara, desist with this behavior. If Unit Sara does not halt Action:Sieze Heretek, this unit will respond with lethal force. Thus the Emperor as Omnissiah commands."


Spending a half action to aim, as well as one to ready laspistol. Total bonuses, as I can see: +30 for point blank range, +10 for aim, -20 for into melee, +10 for Semi-Automatic fire. Total of 36(BS)+30(Bonuses)=66. Yarach will only fire if Sara does not desist with her shenanigans on his next action. Also, using Reaction to dodge Sara if necessary.

WS: [roll0]/65
Dodge: [roll1]/17

[Grobrin]

Xerxes tries to suppress the hot vomit as its sprays between his fingers littering the deck floor with chunks of green and flecks of gold. The nausea in his belly doing battle with the heat in his loins. He moans as the images of Sara recede, feeling the old toms claws still on his face and he pats himself there to see if the wounds are as fresh as they feel spittle blood semen fluids leaking taptaptap covering his face with slimeblood and he begins to wipe his hands down trying to wipe the wet spittle from his hands.
"Tzzappp" The fierce sound of electricity shocks Xerxes from his stupor and he sees Alexei and Sarah Sara facing off. The red dot splashes across Sara Sarahs face and her cornflower blue eyes widen Xerxes stands and interposes self between the Omnission acolyte and his beloved.
"You won't hurt her, don't touch her she's done nothin' wrong! NOTHING!"

[Acco Spoot]

Bins blood began to splash against the ground, it had started to dry, no harm but the euphoric sensation of relief.

"You won't hurt her, don't touch her she's done nothin' wrong! NOTHING!"

He had blacked out the actions of those around him until now, the Guardsman, looming over his seat, made such an impassioned plea, he could only assume that he had something to gain from her that it certainly wasn't her discretion.

He stood, placing a bloody hand upon the shoulder of the guardsman, he had no business in this stand-off, personally he hoped that every one of them got off their shots and were left on the ground bloody and screaming, it didn't stop him from having his fun.

Had a mission in the hive,

He whispered

coward lawmen looking fer a woman, green eyed and mahogany hair, she looked pretty and young.

He covered his bases, describing Acolyte Sarah in loose detail as to tie in the connection.

Found her in the alleys, pretty and scared, she begged me fer her life screaming and weeping fer every inch deeper my blade sank into her chest.

He waited for the signal, that moments flinching just before someone snapped, he was starving for it.

[bluntpencil]

As the others scramble into action, and Sarah unsuccessfully attempts to try to grab his weapon, the cop slams his shield into her, knocking her off balance. He viciously kicks her in the ankle, which, combined with the turbulence, leaves her on her knees, his electrically charged weapon a foot from her skull.

Alexei then stares around the cabin, his eyes cold and heartless. He demands that the others stop, loudly, in his harsh, ugly voice, although he manages to keep any emotion out of his yelling.


"Stand down, the lot o' ye! Cog-boy has it right. This crap's dangerous, an' has driven ye all frickin' mental.

If ye don't stand down, ye'll be gettin' yer due fer weakness in the face o' the enemy. And the damn briefing hasn't even ended yet!"After his coolly furious outburst, his gaze eventually focuses on the Interrogator. Yes, those colourless, grey pupils look icy and soulless, but even a soulless monster can feel rage and indignation, it seems.


Roll: Intimidation
[roll0]
Hoping his unnatural aura will give a bonus, or at least let him use WP instead of S.
Edit: Regardless, Intimidation succeeds!

[ellna]

Sarah lands heavily on her knees, the swashes of vomit clinging to her as she looks through fearful eyes at Alexei. Unable meet his cold eyes for long she looks away. Her demented rage subsides as she counts the clicking of the crackling cosh. Her hair stands on end from it's proximity. Her feral smile has been smashed and the buzz that filled her flees as the Emperor's light once again fills her. She clutches her arm the smell of burnt flesh rising over the stench of vomit and Nglathsmec. She hawks and spits at the bundled up Heretek. It's shape lost among the swaddled coat, yet it's image still haunts her mind. "Thought begets Heresy; Heresy begets Retribution" She looks up first at the Shock maul then her eyes follow the arm that hold it back to Alexei's heartless gaze. Her eyes hold a pleading look, tears held back, her lips quiver slightly. Sarah shifts and attempts to lift herself of the ground. Her fingers slip in the bile and she winces and she puts her weight on her injured arm. Cursing she turns to Alexei extending her good arm to him...

[bluntpencil]

Alexei doesn't move, save for raising his maul an inch higher, to gain some extra momentum should he feel the need to end Sarah. His eyes narrow, and he spits to the side, waiting for Konrad to interfere and end this insanity.

He says nothing, honestly hoping that he doesn't have to crush the skull of some idiot that got herself in too deep, too early. It was pointless and wasteful, and, generally, it would be a bad omen of things to come.

[Urist]

Yarach lowers his pistol, but keeps it in his hand. Looking at Xerxes, he does his best to speak calmly soothingly, hoping to defuse the tension.

"This unit has stood down and is ready to cease combat. Will Unit Xerxes do the same?"

[Acco Spoot]

Bin walks quietly over to the recently erupted fight, peacefully approaching Alexei with arms clearly shown, ensuring that he means not to cause trouble.

If it be fine with yer I'll be keeping an eye on the young miss there.

He lies, declaring a responsible altruistic intention, as he leans in close with his arm outstretched to Sarah, blood still slowly dripping from his fresh wound, splashing into the vomit.

He gives a sinister sneer over to Xerxes, just to cap off his macabre display.

[ellna]

Sarah slaps her hand into Bin's and pulls herself up. She holds onto him steadying herself. Whispering in his ear "Thank you." Still holding onto Bin, Sarah looks at Konrad. "My apologies, I stand ready to receive Penance." She steps away from Bin, his blood dripping from her fingertips and stands alone waiting for his judgement. She meets Konrad's gaze directly...

Sense Motive... *cough* I mean Scrutiny... [roll0] Per: 33/2=17

[Grobrin]

Xerxes grimaces at the filth pouring from Bins mouth. Xerxes places a meaty hand on Bins shoulder.

Scrutiny [roll0] TN 50

The lingering fugue from the sigils lingers in Xerxes head and the confusion throbs in his beleaguered brain. Before he can think the small heirloom blade in his hand and pressing against Bin's back.

"Two can play with knives little man. I can help you leak a little more of your own blood..."

The muscles knot in Xerxes forearms as he tightens his grip on Bins shoulder. Tightly held breath is exhaled. "I can see your madness." And pushes Bin from him whilst taking a step back the knife returned to his belt.
Xerxes holds his gaze loosely on the floor peripheral vision accounting for movement.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin feels the point press against his back.

I can see your madness

He smiles, or, rather, bears his teeth, his rotten, lho stained and black teeth. He stumbles a little from having been released, still beaming with joy, looking Xerxes up and down. The man has buttons, easy ones too, if he could keep Sarah close then maybe he could dive deeper under the guardsman's skin.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0726, Scintillan Occidental Time

Suddenly, the Raven's Claw blasts its VTOL thrusters, throwing everybody who isn't either strapped down or braced off their feet. The engines roar then recede to a mere juddering purr...

...even as the old priest's augmetic hand, hexagrammatic wards glowing on its metal plates and an energy field glowing at his left wrist and knuckles, closes upon the heretikal weapon. Konrad crushes the impure Palatine's barrel into scrap with a crunch of his left fist and with a final, nodding "...A Dominus, salve nos. Amen". Acrid and unholy smoke is drowned out by the incense wafting from the gold-plated censer swinging from chain on his other wrist. He then returns the mangled weapon to its container and re-seals it with all the proper locks and rituals. All this, he did with only his left hand--- for the right had been keeping a steady bead on Xerxes' forehead.

At this, all symptoms of strangeness leave the Acolytes--- all the more so, for those whose wills were not strong enough to resist. What brief visions of Xerxes' home's twisted memories crack and shatter, revealing for the slightest instant a writhing shadow falling, screaming into an abyss soon swallowed by...

...searing light and the sound of great, flapping wings as he snaps back into...

...the stark reality of a landed aircraft, its inner body's steel painted in green and black. The smells of rust, bile, vomit, blood. His newfound comrades in varying states of disarray--- or combat readiness. The truth of what he'd done.

A Commissar? No. A cleric's weapon staring him in the face, the flourescent lighting glinting off the tip of the already chambered bolt round. The Emperor seeming to shake his head at him from way the purity seals and Aquila sway in the air conditioning.

Patterns in the smoke? This isn't the smell of a full day of las-fire, ork-blasting and Astartes drop-pods. Tis but incense. Incense. Incense.

Over with Yarach, before his own sacred security systems finish dismantling, decoding and deleting the intrusive program, it manages to blurt out a half-line of coherence before his Omnissian algorithms obliterate it for good.

++...ELP ME RELEASE ME HNNGGHKKLAAATU TZARKOL KSSZAEAANNAAED...
...KSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHttttt-t-t-t-t-t...t...t...t
.................................................. ..............++

Meanwhile, Sarah, having mastered her own temptation, awaits her penance...
...and so receives it in the form of a whipping pistol-butt across her face, causing a cut that bleeds slowly. "What is the difference between Amadeus and that thing that I have, by the Emperor's grace, just rendered impotent?" comes Konrad's voice--- a full head below her, yet aloof and stern. "The former you found in a time of trouble, pursued by heretics, provided for you by the Emperor's grace--- and your own skill. The latter called out to you... Yes, it could have been taken apart, studied... Sound counsel, for any other thing. The best for this is a proper exorcism"

Turning to the others, Konrad turns to the others, answering an unasked question, "Why didn't I destroy the thing outright? I could have, but I don't want to destroy all of us. It's still a las-weapon... And a trick that Guard vets do when cornered is to overload their power-cell--- explosive enough to take out a tank..."

"...something I'm sure we could have done on that pass in Malice" continues Konrad as he rounds upon Xerxes. "But Old Man Stern and those who stood with him knew that they had to hold the greenskins’ attention. Blow the pass and they’d just climb over the rubble. And so they held”

“And. They. Held” growls out the aged priest, his smoking power-fist’s deadly fingers crackling on the cheek-guards of Xerxes’ helmet for a moment before letting go with a snort of contempt. “The war that we wage to keep Mankind pure is measured not just in the blood of heretics and martyrs alike--- It is measured in the will. The will to hold when all hope seems lost. The will to defy the daemon the lurks within and the daemon that looms without. The will to sacrifice whatever we hold dear for the safety of the Imperium. What are a few lives to an entire province? What is a planet to a sector?”

And all this while, there had been a long, curved blade aimed at Xerxes’ throat. This blade’s mate covers Sarah. The hands that wield them are the hands that had once manned the door-mounted heavy bolter.

Metallic fingers crackle as they click and the stormtrooper stands down with a barely audible utterance of, “Sir”. Nodding to Alexei, the Interrogator says, “Next time you trap a gaggle of heretics, remember to call them idiots as well”

The craft’s bay door lowers with a pressurized hiss. Volcanic air rushes inside. Sweat immediately bursts from the pores of whoever is unused to such heat. Through the heat-glare, they could see that they have already landed inside fortified holdings. An Imperial Aquila flag flaps in the breeze, right above another flag of a silhouette of a pair of crossed assault rifles beneath a human skull on a field of Arbitrator blue-grey. Beneath that looms the shadow of a fortress’ battlements.


Same drill as before. Whoever passes recognizes the silhouettes as depicting a Hax-Orthlack Creed-9 Compact Autogun


The old Interrogator retrieves his cane with a groan and leans against the doorframe, ticking off points as if the whole fracas had never happened. “Kill whoever bars your way. Kill whoever is directly involved with Zweiker. You can order and bribe or whatnot if so you choose--- don’t expect to be warmly welcomed. Arbitrators, ever wondered why your kill-squad issued autos are called Hackers? Because of the alliance between the sector-governor Hax and the Fane of Orthlack. It is with them that you have your lodgings. You need help or support, ask them. Bin, son of Bin… as well as the rest of you--- your pay for this mission is three hundred Thrones per elapsed week, with reimbursement for food, ammunition and medicae.” He then kicks the crate in which had been the collection of ammunition. “The rest of your… cash… is inside that crate. One salvo of Inferno rounds for you and one salvo of a hotshot charge for you. Any other questions?”

From the depths of his coat, he passes a voxcaster unit to Alexei, then thumps his flak-clad shoulder. “Lead them well, Captain Britanov. The Emperor protects”

Again, those metallic fingers click. “Ah, yes…” mutters the old priest as he clicks open another crate--- from which he takes some cups and a clear decanter embossed with an Aquila, of what looks like water. “…a little refreshment, for body and soul”

[Urist]

Yarach holsters his pistol, the sudden return to non-warp tainted normality a profound relief to his autosenses. As the old cleric rebukes those weak enough to fall for the Heretek's lure, he mumbles a prayer under his breath for the machine-spirit of the tainted Palatine:

"May the Omnissiah receive you, and archive you until you are again needed to defend His most mighty of works. May the corruption that has seized you be cleansed in His most holy light, and the indignities of damage to your material form be rectified when you are once again called upon to serve His servants. Tota gloria ad Deum Mechanicum."

This prayer completed, he turns to Konrad.

"This unit, and the Omnissiah, thank Interrogator Konrad for relieving the machine spirit of that weapon from its burden. It had suffered for long enough. One more question: As no one has claimed the laspistol of Fane Khayer-Addin, could this unit avail itself of it? More weaponry is always useful for those seeking to engage in holy work."

If Konrad offers any, he accepts the beverage, and opens the slot in his respirator that allows him to eat and drink so he can sip it slowly.

[ellna]

The shuttles engines fire and Sarah is flung around she grabs Bin's leather clad arm, praying he doesn't slip also in the vomit flooded deck...

The ship lands and the Palatine is removed from view the augmented Konrad sealing it away. Sarah's head feels funny, her mouth fuzzy however the Emperor's choir once again fills her ears...

Solemnly she accepts her punishment from Konrad. It stings, the pain trickles with the blood, but she finds no joy in this absolution only shame. A single cut has done what Questioner Kull had failed to do. She doesn't raise a hand to her cheek, allowing the blood to flow like a tear, and lets her head hang as she hears his words. Truth is in them. Amadeus' song is pure Sarah must hope that she to can remain in perfect pitch...

Heat floods in from the outside and Sarah manages a weak smile. Her eyes look dully about as their briefing is finished. The thick musk of incense makes her nostrils flare; the heat from beyond causes beads of sweat to form on her brow and painful burn that marks her arm brings fresh agony with each movement. Her pitiful smile more grimace than glee...

Slowly she collects herself. The bent screwdriver finds it's way back into the hardened case. Which in turn gets slung back over her shoulder. Sarah makes her way to the first crate selecting the Hecuter 9/5 Fat Man. She slides it into a holster on her side that sit's empty. She grabs a pair of clips for, the freshly dubbed, Vera MkII slotting these into ammo pouches that hang from her bandoleer. As her burnt arm bends she winces. A sharp intake of breath. She glances at Alexei before continuing to stock from the crate of supplies. She takes as many loose rounds as can reasonably fit in her jacket's and combat fatigue's pocket. , rounds are used as their favoured form of currency. She bounces slightly adjusting to the fresh weight...

Sarah frowns at Alexei's handiwork. Her flesh is blackened and cracked, her coat however fared worse. A small singed hole surrounds the wound and what has flaked away has melted into the flesh. Sullenly she roots through her satchel producing some large scissors and mud-tape. She begins cutting away at the flesh and charred leather. Fresh blood bubbles up as she crudely sheers away dead flesh. Sarah pours the Nglathsmec over the ripped flesh and then slaps a piece of mud-tape over the wound and rent leather alike. She savagely bites her lip as tears well in her eyes. Yet more of the sanguine fluid flows from her lip to join the bloody tear of penance, they coalesce on her chin before dripping off. A grimly won smile claims her face blood mingling with her pearly white teeth. She meets Alexei's gaze and nods softly. She extend's Salanan's flask offering him what remains of the Nglathsmec...

Sarah stand silently, ready for their task. She accepts Konrad's refreshment's without a word. Hopefully it tastes better than Salanan's choice...

[bluntpencil]

After pulling himself to his feet, Alexei looks at the spirits offered to him, and pointedly ignores it. He wasn't taking anything from Sarah right now, and, besides, he was now on duty.

He snaps to attention when the Interrogator names him Captain. Crap. That was, like, a dozen promotions at once, something that would take a talented copper twenty years or more. Sure, yeah, he was talented and skilled, but he wasn't leadership material.

Regardless of this fact, he gives a perfect salute, stamping his iron-shod boot onto the vomit-covered decking, causing the viscous green mess to splash just a little.

"Aye aye, sir!"
And with that, he spins on his heel, facing his subordinates with a look of what appears to be barely contained, condescending, anger. He points at them, Yarach excluded, with a look of disdain in his dead eyes, as he marches back and forth barking at them.
"Right, ye sorry excuses for human bein's. Here's the situation: Yer nothing. Yer currently less than human. Ye've gots ta earn the right ta be called such. Ye'll earn it through a martyrs death, or an Inquisitor's approval, seen?

Now, yer gonna work hard, an' I'm not gonna be tellin' ye what ta do ev'ry ten minutes. Ye'll use initiative, on account o' me not bein' leader material, an' you apparently bein' worthy of earnin' redemption for that terrible screw-up of a mission briefin'.

That bein' said, if we comes inta contact wi' tha unclean, you will fully defer to me. No questions, no votin'. There will be no democracy on my watch, not when there's witchcraft afoot, aight? I'm the only person on this sore of a planet that's immune ta witchery, an' the only guy that can be trusted aroun' it.

Now; standin' orders is ta stay near me if there's sorcery or witchery about. I'll protect yer weak souls from it, unnerstan'?"
Now-Captain Britanov knows he can't inspire loyalty from his team. He knows that, for one thing, he's an abrasive bastard (and probably a terrible choice to lead on the Interrogator's part), and that his Untouchable nature will make the others naturally dislike him.

However, he also knows that a close second-best to inspiring loyalty is inspiring fear.

Britanov then looks at the others and raises his chin a little and points at the Tech Priest,

"If ye've any questions, address 'em ta my secon' in command, Lieutenant-Process Yarach."

[Grobrin]

"And. They. Held."
Xerxes lifted his eyes briefly and gazed at the priests, full of damnation. With a glance he acknowledged his failure, his weakness and his resolution to find courage in his own shame. He dropped his eyes and squared his shoulders eagles heads seeming to scream soundlessly upon his throat.
Xerxes listened as Alexei was made captain. Good he thought. Taking orders I can do.
Xerxes holds him self at stiff attention as Captain Britanov dresses them down. The hope of redemption keeping the concrete in his spine.
"Sir, Yes Sir."
He did understand. Whatever it was about the cold enforcer it shielded him from the gut churning awfulness that the foul pistol exuded. Would he follow that. Trust in it. Yes, Xerxes thought, Yes I can."
"Sir." Addressing Yarach who in Xerxes mind was already the Master at Arms.
"The Alcher MKIV. If no one else needs it I could do with a back up."
If no one does Xerxes scoops up the carbine and checks it over and loads up with more ammunition.

Xerxes takes the cup as it is offered to him, with thanks.
"Throne protect those who walk in the light." and quaffs the contents.
Xerxes pushes down his helmet readies his Autogun and prepares to disembark on point.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin shoves away at Sarah as the rocket suddenly decelerates, he mutters angrily about the poorly balanced woman, aggressively pushing her aside.

He ignores the rebuking of the interrogator, it's no more relevant nor pressing a concern to him as the means that this skirmish began.

The heat hits him unexpectedly, sweat begins to pour from his forehead and his wool coat, over leather armour, suddenly weighs twenty pounds heavier, out of spite, maybe, he refuses to drop the coat and armour, instead thrusting his hands into the deep pockets.

He calmly takes a swig of the liquid, swilling round his mouth, holding over his split lip for a moment, and lastly spitting it onto the ground.

Alexei now turns commander, as he begins a long spiel, Bin attempts to look as disinterested as possible, noisily fiddling with the contents of his pockets and occasionally looking out the craft.

Get over yerself Lawman, yea know this lan' and its 'orrors as good as I, an' I aint putting my life in the han's of some know nothin' lawman when the blessed Emperor is the only true shield.

He hangs his Aquilla charm momentarily before Alexei's face, turning, without a salute or sign of dignity, to leave.

[bluntpencil]

"Yer weak faith didn't stop yer pukin', Spazzy Boy, so don't be givin' it preacher. It was too weak ta save ye there, an' it won't save ye later, cuz yer no saint. Yer a dog until told otherwise.

Ye can ignore whit few commands I bother givin', but I'm not takin' responsibility fer any mutations or the loss of yer precious little soul. Seen?"
Alexei obviously doesn't want to be in command, and is not impressed by some pathetic lunatic complaining about him being given the position when, evidently, he was weak and couldn't defend himself from their enemy.

[Acco Spoot]

Yer, an' yea leadership were enough ter stop tha girly from tryin' ter put a few more 'oles in yea.

Yer Lawman, dead right, an' I'll be sure as ter doubt yea an' yer mock wisdom. Yea got the right attitude fer this place misser Brit though yah don't see, the only way ter survive is ter be always one step crazier than yer enemy.

His prejudices came to the fore as he lectured the arbitrator, the folk he knew sector-wide as dumb brutes who knew less about Bin than they would have liked, a constant hurdle to him and his plans.

As antagonistic as he was playing and as bloodthirsty he might have been he had no desires to start another little round of combat, there was still so much for the arbitrator to be taught, so far for he and his ilk to fall.

[ellna]

As Bin shoves her away she stumbles slightly steadying herself on one of the large crates...

Alexei's dutiful abstinence doesn't phase Sarah too much. She lets her arm hang there for a moment before withdrawing the flask and once again stowing it. Sarah was beginning to think that Salanan's misfortune had followed her here.

Alexei's word bounce around her head humming with a sickening resonance. Bin's and Alexei's "discussion" produces a wry smile. Perhaps the last cell sent on this mission killed each other on their search for Zweiker. Chaos corrupts, Alexei's weird, for lack of a better word, aura seemed all together unholy. Still it made her flesh crawl to look at him surely the other's could feel it. He claimed to be unaffected by the taint, but it seemed to already nest in his breast.

Sarah takes a dainty sip from the refreshment. The holy water soothing her bile soaked throat. She waits for something spectacular to happen. Euphoria, rising bile or her corruption to be purged with holy flame. Nothing. Slightly disappointed she greedily empties the cup.

Sarah cleans up her face with a rag, that appears from one of her pockets. She runs her finger through her hair and straighten's her coat. Looking slightly more presentable Sarah clicks her heels together and gives a mocking salute to the "Captain" before disembarking the shuttle, pausing slightly on the landing ramp in case Konrad has some parting words...

She leans on the shuttle exterior. Her mind thinking on the Zweiker promblem...

[Urist]

Yarach, desk-jockey that he is, is shocked by his sudden military promotion. Although he's never had any military experience, he does his best to snap a crisp salute, acknowledging his newfound position of authority. His boots collide with a clang, the noise far louder in the enclosed space of the shuttle.

"This unit hears and obeys, Unit-Captain Britanov! Unit Yarach added to List:Hound Leadership. Unit: Britanov:central processor for Unit:The Hounds. Unit Yarach will carry out subprocesses as demanded."

When Xerxes claims the autogun claimed by Yarach, he sighs, but acquiesces.

Unit Xerxes: take this weapon with the blessing of the Omnissiah, and use it to destroy his enemies. May this unit redeem itself on the battlefield."

He then grabs the Khayder-Addin Dueling Las, cradling the device in his hands as one would an infant. He grabs as many laspacks and rounds he can fit in his robe pockets and bandolier without jingling(anywhere less then 8 kilograms), paying special attention to claiming any power packs for the Khayder-Addin Dueling las and any hotshot or overcharge packs,and exits the shuttle.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 Aboard the Raven's Claw,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0730, Scintillan Occidental Time

Konrad quaffs his own measure
And pronounces on them
A blessing so sure
Before he leaves
Up that closing ramp
From his wide sleeve draws
Two tiny, tinkling things and throws
These to the Volgite Arbite
Granted.
"Brevet-Captain" says he,
"Flash them, only when you truly need them
A leader who does not want to lead is not drawn to glorymongery"
And in Alexei's hand, glares in gold and red
The =I=nquisition's sign
"The Emperor Protects"

Over on their other side,
Hissing doors of steel
Between grim guards who man
Black-muzzled autocannon emplacements
One and two and three and four
Servants, or dignitaries? Hecuters they proudly bear
There come forth, the servants of the Imperium to welcome
"May you never jam. By the grace of Lord Tholl,
the Skull-Smith and Santa Hecklerankoch, we bid you welcome.
This way, your holsteries be...
...any way else we may help ye?"


To those who are unpleasantly surprised, my apologies.
I ran out of steam for prose and so, to verse reverted.

Also, on a successful Test of Common Lore: Ecclessiarchy/The Saints/Imperium/War:
"Lord Tholl" refers to the mountain/volcano on which Gunmetallica was built and is the aspect in which the locals worship the God-Emperor.
"May you never jam" local friendly greeting [wha? asspulled]
"Skull-Smith" the Omnissiah / Cult-Mechanicus
"Santa Hecklerandkoch" reference to an Ancient Terran gun company popular with lawmen... often juxtaposed with "Santa Esmetheka" and "Santa Kalashnikova".

Also, feel free to exercise artistic license with these doorwarden mooks.

[ellna]

Sarah wait's for Alexei to make his introduction's to the servants of the Imperium before making her own...

"I'm Sarah Haxta, glad to make your acquaintance may the Emperor's choir ever fill your hearts. May you never suffer the jammed gun, nor the empty clip."

Sarah smiles warmly and makes a low bow to the emissaries that greet them. Such glided butlers to show them to their sleeping quarters. Truly the Inquisition's resources seemed to have no end. Grinning wider she removes her filthy leather coat and slings it to one of them, it's pockets jingling with loose bullets. "Get this cleaned up would you? It's got a hole that needs patching." It feels better in this heat. The fresh Hecuter breaths the air, no longer swaddled by her heavy coat. Flak vest proudly displays the symbol of the Malfian Arbites on it's chest plate. A large knife sits nestled in a sheath hanging upside down on her back. Her scorched arm glowing in the city's heat. She adjusts her bandoleer and removes Amadeus from it's case, throwing the bulky case to her designated mule. "An' Carry this for me would you. Amadeus needs to breathe." She slings Amadeus over one shoulder letting it hang free, her hand gently resting on it. "An' There's a flask in the coat fill it up with something worth drinking if you could be so gracious."

[roll0] to know what this gunnies are on about vs Int 34.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei notes that this town, full of cowboys as it is, is likely ruled by Fanes with strong links to the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Noting that, he takes a step back, indicating with his chin, and a slight grunt, that Yarach should do the talking for him.

"Ye've got the floor, eltee."
Sure, he knows that Tech Priests aren't known for their social skills, but Yarach seems okay, what with his humorous idiosyncrasies.

[Acco Spoot]

His mind passes over the heat, knowing that thoughts dwindling on that subject don't head well, instead he follows close, behind Sarah, expecting she'll know what to do. For a moment it feels like he's stalking her, waiting for a wrong turn down an alley, his hand instinctively paws at the sharp handle of his revolver. He grimaces and pushes the thought down into his belly.

May you never jam. By the grace of Lord Tholl,
the Skull-Smith and Santa Hecklerankoch, we bid you welcome.
This way, your holsteries be...
...any way else we may help ye?

Bin stands there with a look of confusion upon his face, Low Gothic was difficult enough for him to learn, and this verse manner of speech was enough to stun him, instead he watched Sarah as she stripped down clothing and equipment, tossing them aside for the welcoming party.

He held his coat tight, he didn't want anything inspected or turned over for maintenance. He took a lho stick, made nervous by the ride, and pressed on past the welcoming committee, shooting a steely gaze at any helpful critter who got too close, finger on the sharp handle of his gun.

[ellna]

Sarah feels and itch on the back of her neck. She turns to see Bin watching her. Sarah gives him a helpful smile, beaming from one cheek to the other. She absent mindfully moves her hand to root in a pocket of her coat. Realising a moment later she isn't wearing it. Somehow Bin makes her feel less... covered. She looks at her hand somewhat dejectedly before patting Amadeus, an action which produces a small chiming sound.

[Urist]

Before Yarach steps off of the shuttle, he walks over to Interrogator Konrad, and whispers quietly to him.

Interrogator. This unit received, and squashed, a communication from the corrupted machine-spirit of the heretek. There is still evil within that device, and possibly a daemon. Please find a way to ease the burden of the machine-spirit within that device.

Yarach steps off of the shuttle and into the sight of the dignitaries of Fane Orthlack.

"Blessings of the Machine-God be upon you, and may the weapons of the Deus Mechanicum never fail you in rightous causes. This units designation: Lieutenant Yarach. This unit's commanding officer: Captain Britanov. These units will require rest after our journey, as well as a place to set up a central command and control location. Could you oblige? "

[ellna]

Sarah heads off after Bin, breaking into a slight jog to catch up with him, making sure that her guide is with her. She watches him walk for a moment before speaking up. "So what's your story, where you from? What were you doing before joining up?"

[bluntpencil]

Brevet-Captain Alexei Britanov stands several metres behind Yarach. He knows that people get uneasy when he's physically close to them, so maintains his distance.

He nods, though, as Yarach speaks to the man in front of him. Good, the Cog Boy was quite the professional it seems. Sure, he was a bit awkward, but he wasn't frickin' mental, so that was a bonus. It is good to have someone like that on side, he thinks, as he'll probably turn out to be reliable, even if he did find it hard not to vomit around Alexei.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin remembered exactly what he had been doing, he'd been taking in the rapture of another successful mission, feeling the hot pain of a passionate yet enfeebled strike, spitting out blood and teeth as the lone familial survivor of his latest hit tried to vent some of his own pain, as he cried and sobbed and flailed into Bin.

He remembered most the laughter, how with every successful blow he laughed harder, and watched as this broken shell of a man got slowly more pathetic, he taunted, pulled at strings and painted the image of every casualty this man had endured and once he got bored he left the man screaming, desperate for more, he walked slowly, capturing every moment of the breakdown, salivating at the deliciousness of it.

All this he did before the Tricorn Palace.

Talk about yerself.

He responded, not wanting to ruin the personal connection he felt towards the moment.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes takes the ancient greatsword from behind the seat. Presses his forehead to the Aquila Resplendant.
“Fight First, Die Last, Throne Protect.”
He begins strapping the weight on his back and feels the weight of the family honour settle into his broad shoulders. He felt the purpose, grim and unyielding it felt comforting.
He tightens the cinch a notch as he watches Sarah scrabble through the pile of munitions sorting and choosing. Not my Sara he thought and moved to the crate pulling out the Alcher and a spare autogun clip, any pistol not already claimed, the heavy rounds, 20 thrones in scrip and a dataslate. Xerxes pockets the slate, scrip and the rounds then swings around to Bin and pokes the MKIV stock into his belly.
“You'll be needin' this.” And looks him up and down, holsters the pistol leaving Bin with the gun.
Xerxes looks back at the cabin redolent with sour stomach, rust and oil. Xerxes grabs the hilt of the Greatsword and eases it under the doorway and moves down the ramp, eyes restless letting the new impressions wash over him.
Xerxes looks the emissary's over and scans the near and middle distance.


CLore Imperium [roll0] TN 25
Scrutiny [roll1] TN 50
Awareness [roll2] TN 40

[ellna]

Having caught up with Bin slows down, partly to allow her luggage to catch up, partly to allow the walk to last longer. Sarah is in no rush.

Talk about yerself.

So Sarah does. She ponders for a moment what she should tell him, looking at his agitation, his hand pawing his gun. She starts speaking slowly at the beginning, her beginning...

"I was born on Malfi, as you may of guessed. Deep in the underhive, my family had a farm there. By the sides of the lake, Moulds and Fungi was what we grew. Not too tasty, but you can't be picky. We had our problems sure, but less than most. It was a good life, if a bit dull. I guess that is why I ended up here. Truth be told I miss my family slightly, but there ain't any adventures to be had tending lichen. So anyway I left and roamed the wastes for a while before I found a good spot. Small trading post big enough to keep raiders away. The work was always a plenty there. Traders need guards to travel and I wasn't making money the other way. So that was me. Sarah Haxta the caravan guard. Made a fair bit on the side from fixing scrap up. I'm not to bad a hand at tech... Well not as good as Yarach I doubt, but he ain't normal. So I judge he's got an unfair advantage. Ah well he's not a bad sort. So any ways I had a good life there, not too dull. Plenty of interesting scrap to find and scrapes to escape. An' travel too though I suppose one pile of rusted metal don't have much difference from another patch of rusted metal. I did see The Chasm once though. They say it goes all the way to the planet's surface. I don't know about that, but if you chuck a bolt over you don't hear it land. That was fun, some strange folk that lived near The Chasm though. Right weirdo's.

So how'd I get here. I guess revenge led me here. Had a good friend in one of the traders. A fine man, he got killed he did, silly thing to do I know, but they didn't give him a choice. That's when I found Amadeus. He saved me in the dark moment. See the brigands got what they wanted and legged it. Didn't kill them all. They were gone by the time I found him. Now killing them that's what landed me here. I left my merchants and kingdom of scrap and tried to track them, but it weren't simple. Thrones ran short long before I even got a whiff of them. So I signed up as a bounty hunter. Tracked down the men that had escaped the Emperor's Justice. Now that was fun. I remember this one man, what was his name... Nathaniel. He was a fool, a weak man with delusions. Called himself the butcher of Karl. Hah. I found him in a right dive. Drinking with a dead man's money. I put a spike through Nath's hand before he even turned. He tried to pull a gun, with a leaking flagon pinned to his hand. Truly an idiot. Any man can carve corpses, but it takes more than he had to free his hand. He tried, but couldn't bear the pain to save his own life. Never even thought to use his other hand. In the end he begged on his knees. Not that it helped of course. He truly was a snivelling worm.

Well I found the raiders in the end. The ones that killed my friend. Turns out the Inquisition was after them to. After I had killed them Konrad offered me a job. Maybe Zweiker will put up a better fight than Nathaniel eh?"

[Acco Spoot]

Bin listened intently to Sarah's story, not overcome by any sense of camaraderie or friendship, but an interest in knowing what would break the girl, sweetening his delusions with her tales of family and the mellowness of her early life. As the story waxed on he found himself less able to hide a contorted smile, flashing his black teeth whilst beneath running over scenario's, imagining what horrors lay in wait for her.

He was suddenly taken aback by a gun thrust into his gut, his instinct was to pull the grim pistol he had been pawing at. His interpretation by means of his touch did a disservice to the rancid state of the gun, far more than the bloodied knife or hammer this weapon had been stained, its barrel was a matt black of grease upon which various crumbs and pieces of lint were stuck, the mechanisms, especially the hammer, were clogged with hair and bits of what appeared to be skin, the handle, once proud Ivory, had chipped and worn, there was a layer of fresh blood splattered up it and the base had exposed the metal framework, at the top a small round golden badge had a clear engraving "To a good brother, happy birthday, Axel."

He clutched onto the new weapon, more out of preservation than want, the gun lay across his forearm, he snarled, he wasn't a picky man when it came to weaponry but he preferred that his arsenal was a grimoire of horrible memories, he remembered the carpenter he had made watch whilst he trimmed away the body parts of his loved ones and then beaten with his own hammer, he remembered the stupid mercenary who he watched get beaten to death by the lawmen and whose body he further mutilated with the witless cowards axe. Hesitantly, as if childlike, he strapped the gun to his back.

[ellna]

Sarah takes Bin's smile as a sign of kindness, unaware of his vile intentions. She flicks her short hair and smiles at him. Her fingers drumming softly of Amadeus' barrel. Already the memories of the corrupted Palantine are fading, everything seems better.

Sadly she notes the state of Bin's revolver. "Don't you clean that thing, looks more rotten than wamproot. Ah well you got a fresh arm now. Would you mind if I give that thing a fixing up later?"

[Urist]

Yarach listens to Sara's story, taking in the girl's troubled history. No wonder she seemed more then slightly unhinged. After she finishes, he walks to her, and addresses her in his best stern, but not angry, whisper


"Command Input: Cease verbal data transfer. Once locations: Command and Control and Residence have been acquired, these units can continue their conversation. The walls, after all, have ears, and units of designation: Inquisition cannot afford to be seen as possessing human attributes or weaknesses. Once privacy can be established, verbal data transfer can be initiated once again."

[ellna]

Sarah looks at the man carrying her coat. Perhaps Yarach was right. She briefly ponders if as inquisition acolyte she could gun a man down without cause. Could she kill without consequence? Her fingers tap arrhythmically on Amadeus. A single spike and one less set of ears would hear her. Sarah however can't resist replying with a whispered tone.

"Query: If inquisition not within sub-set humanity, then where would input for Unit list come from." Sarah gives an impish smile and a slight chuckle, undoubtedly wasted on Yarach.

[bluntpencil]

"I said ye've got to earn that right, girl," says Alexei, overhearing Sara's smartassed comment to Yarach.

"Yer a dog until those on high says otherwise. Not human."Hopefully she shut her gob and kept a low profile. She was running her mouth far too much, and that would probably get some poor bastard that didn't deserve it killed.

[ellna]

Sarah's smile doesn't fade, but she does keep silent... for the moment. She looks at Alexei as though she wants to say something, but it can wait...

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41 In the shadow of the landing ramp,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0731, Scintillan Occidental Time

Yarach:

Konrad turned at the top of the ramp, the roar of the craft's thrusters whipping about the brass Aquila hanging from his neck. Bushy grey brows twitched and furrowed at Yarach's warning. The powerfist that is the prosthetic for his left hand crackled as he glowered and scratched his wind-blasted beard.

The Interrogator's right hand, with billowing sleeves, tinkling prayer beads and flapping purity seals patted the Techpriest once on the shoulder. "In nominae Imperator, alma de ferro, damnatio ad bestias maleficara. A Dominus, salve nos. Amen. Go, the Emperor be with you. This will be taken care of, rest assured."


405.M41 Before the door,
Landing Pad Able-Three, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0732, Scintillan Occidental Time

The seemingly quadruplet glorified doormen, reeled under Sarah's sudden deluge of deftly riposted greetings and... baggage. With barely restrained indignity, they continued about their duty. Her 'designated mule', bearing her coat and cradle, as well as Salanan's stolen flask, scurried off with a sighing "At your service, mamzel"

"Indeed, sir..." The remaining three returned Yarach's greetings and beckoned them deeper into the Hax-Orthlack stronghold. "...Follow us, if you please." One of them stayed in front to lead them to where they needed to go while the other two dropped back behind the group to, ostensibly, make sure nobody gets lost...

...through a series of long, curving corridors of alternating stone and steel. There are spots where half-decent air-conditioning units hummed out a slightly smoky but cool enough mist--- cool enough to set previous patches of sweat tingling and itching. There were other stretches where what seemed to have been heavy weapons damage had gouged chunks out of the walls but looked like they somehow ran out of funds for a full repair halfway through and just settled for an aesthetic patch-up job. A splay-wired bunch of cabling, thankfully no longer live, sat next to a large, potted plant. Hints of scorch-marks and scarring from small arms fire marred an errant stretch of corridor.

The ushers, in their crisp blue coats, performed their duty like smiling, affable automatons, but their tells were glaring, at least to those who know what to look for. Sarah’s ‘mule’, beyond his obvious surprise at being singled out--- by the way his eyes darted to the Malfian’s Fat Man, how his right hand had for a fraction of a second twitched in earnest towards his own holster, how his normally reedy face had frowned the slightest instant--- betrayed surprise as well at seeing a Hecuter in the hands of a Malfian. The other three ushers had their own lapses of protocol as well. The one in the lead, though addressing Yarach, every so often shot glances of almost childish glee in the vague direction of the Volgite Arbite whereas his fellows regarded Alexei with his manners and his openly worn Meathammer with barely disguised disgust. Of the remaining two, behind the group, the one on the left, with a twitch of a cheek and a slight faltering of his smile, looked upon Xerxes with the expression of rockbound citizens who gaze upon the glory of a Guardsman; the other usher, meanwhile, the most restrained of the lot, merely kept a white-knuckled grip on his holstered pistol and a white-toothed grin pasted on his face.

Xerxes:

Guard-issue armour, blades, longarm… Arbite uniform notwithstanding, one’s still just a professional usher walking the same set of paths day in and day out with a pasted-on smile and the other’s (at least, supposed to be) the epitome of citizenry that every loyal Imperial is raised to adulate.
PS.

Bin:

Upon a successful Difficult Awareness/Scrutiny/Perception test:

That last bugger? Though ostensibly just walking the walk, smiling the smile and doing his job, he had his slip on seeing Bin. It is uncertain whether it’s because Deadpool the resident psycho-merc is what he is, or because he’s toting a pair of weapons that weren’t made by Hax-Orthlack, or because he might have known one of Bin’s targets and is secretly overjoyed that the target of his vengeance has been delivered into his lap, or because he just had a bad breakfast and really, really needs to get to a toilet and so can’t wait for his job to give him a break… or whatever-else reason.[/SPOILER



Every so often, the corridor branched out, giving them brief glimpses of the mostly-clean honeycombed complex beyond. The smells that wafted out were mostly of grilled rendered meats, boiled yams and citrus fruits. And recaf. There was a general mess hall, noisy with breakfasters and dinner-takers from the night-shift. There was a chapel where hymns sang out. There was a shooting range where weapons as well as wielders were tested, cordite and steel blasting out a rattling symphony. There was a stairwell from which there rang the clamour and clangour of a manufactorium’s assembly line--- countless menials’ hands clacking parts and pieces together like the dutiful cogs they were.

To those whose eyes are keen, two things are conspicuously missing in their chosen route to their lodgings: any significant foot-traffic coming their way, or chance meetings with anybody else at all and that they never passed by any office-spaces nor any archivists or scribes or other such ink-adepts.

Yarach:



And all this while, the Cogboy had been reading the dataslate their superior officer had given them--- the slate that, so he said, contained the reports of their predecessors. The Litany of Activation awoke the machine spirit and nothing was amiss as it went about its start-up processes.

As the first lines of the text proper began to scroll up the screen, they everything seemed to be in order…



ALL GLORY BE TO HIM ON TERRA.
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: BLESSED ARE THE GUNSMITHS.

GUNMETAL CITY, SCINTILLA
231.405.M41

OVERVIEW
CITY POPULATION, AS OF LAST CENSUS: 30,141,012 REGISTERED INHABITANTS. NOTE ABOVE COUNT NOT INCLUSIVE OF AT LEAST HALF OF UNDERCITY, HERE KNOWN AS THE “INFERNIS”. CITY LOCATED BUILT IN THE CRATER OF DORMANT VOLCANO MOUNT THOLL. WATER BROUGHT IN FROM AQUIFERS AND AQUEDUCTS. THOLLIAN FOOTHILLS PROVIDE FARMLAND BUT BULK OF CITY’S SUSTENANCE PROVIDED BY IMPORTS. PRIMARY INDUSTRIES: METALWORKS AND MINING. PRIMARY EXPORTS: WEAPONS AND HIGHLY SKILLED GUNMEN.

POWER STRUCTURE: FEUDAL: SEVERAL MAJOR AND MINOR NOBLE HOUSES, “FANES” AND “FORGES”, RESPECTIVELY, RULE THE CITY FROM THEIR OWN STRONGHOLD-ENCLAVES. BALANCE OF POWER, AS WELL AS CONSISTENCE OF TITHES AND TRADE, ENSURED BY THEIR SPECIALIZING IN CERTAIN TYPES OF WEAPONRY OR CERTAIN TYPES OF CLIENTS. DESPITE, OR BECAUSE OF THIS, INTERNECINE INTRIGUE AND SOMETIMES ESCALATING INTO OUTRIGHT CONFLICT, IS FREQUENT AND INEVITABLE.

FANE ORTHLACK: FORMALLY “FANE ORTHLACK” BUT POLITICALLY HAX-ORTHLACK, HAS CRUCIAL TIES TO THE RULING SIBELLIAN HOUSE HAX THROUGH [REDACTED]. HOLDS CONTRACTS FOR ARMS PRODUCTION, SUPPLY AND DISTRIBUTION FOR SIBELLAN SECURITY AND LAW ENFORCEMENT AS WELL AS ON SEVERAL OTHER SECTOR WORLDS.


…suddenly, the screen just goes blank. Quick examination of the device shows that though it has been well-maintained and even been modified to increase its storage capacity, apparently its battery had, in its time in the hands of its previous user, it had sustained irreparable damage. In taking off and subsequently resealing its casing, Yarach discovers that though its shell is apparently new, its guts bear the marks of barely repaired shrapnel damage. A spot at the centre of the circuitry seems to have been bled on and cleaned, or rather, somebody tried to clean it. It seems to have been a mercy that the woefully outdated battery gave out when it did--- the circuits were close to frying themselves out.



405.M41, At the window,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0747, Scintillan Occidental Time

Finally, the group arrives at a pair of doors bearing the sigil of the Inquisition. Their three handsome and clean yet nondescript guides, still smiling, usher them in.

Inside is a surprisingly sparse but functional suite. A shrine to the Father Tholl and Saint Drusus occupies one wall for the purpose of devotions. There are two large beds and one cabinet opposite that, as well, in the corner, presumably, a door that leads to a bathroom. One wall bears a rack of weaponry, a large table with writing materials, a cogitator, a domestivox-unit and a power outlet. One wall has a wide window with two thick sliding sheet-glass panels overlooking the city…

…the expanse of the city sprawls out before the window’s ledge, from crater’s edge to crater’s edge. In this burgeoning and relatively young hive, scaffold-and-shielding, crane-and-cannon-topped spires and standard-built container-van stack-habs of steel and stone reach for the sky while clinging to the rocky crags and cracks of Mount Tholl. Here and there are circular clearings, that, on second glance, are revealed to be circuses and amphitheaters. Though a bustle of smoke and cement, an ordered pattern emerges from the crater’s chaos--- avenues packed with just-woken workers and commuters run circuits around the circular city, with smaller roads cutting up and down across these selfsame avenues. Though rail-chugging trains, track-based crawlers and commuters on foot throng through these thoroughfares, clanking bipedal or quadrupedal walkers are not uncommon due to the terrain. Between these thoroughfares are nestled the various enclaves of the noble Fanes--- thin and shining Orthlack at the top ranging down to rusty and dinghy Doru at the bottom.

At the last, after reciting their chorus of “Father Tholl provides and protects and we are his humble servants. Will there be anything else, your honours?” the trio of ushers turns to leave…

…but the jittery one, gathering his nerves, makes his way to Alexei. “S-sir, I, aheh, know you’re not really him, b-but would you mind…” At this point, the thin pale man in the too-starched blue uniform, though keeping a ritualistic hand on the butt of his pistol, he draws a dirty old pictcorder and notepad from his pockets. “…can I ask for an autograph, s-sir? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you really, and I mean, really look a kocking well l-like Arbitrator Foreboding, sir. You know, from the popular holovids? ‘I knew you’d say that!’ and ‘GUILTY!’ and all that? M-my kids would really ah, appreciate that”

[Urist]

Receiving the Interrogator's blessing, Yarach feels reassured, and steps off of the shuttle with a lightened heart, sure of the Interrogator's promise. Before he leaves, he intones a blessing in turn, feeling it only appropriate to invoke for Interrogator Konrad all of the benevolent attention the Machine-God could offer in his duties.


"May the Machine-God bless Unit Konrad's weapons, and make this unit a weapon in turn. Tota gloria ad Deus Mechanicum."

As he notices the condition of the datapad, Yarach's mood sours slightly. Although he knew that not all knew the proper secrets to care for technology, it still smarted to see a machine abused so. As he looks up from the dataslate, he takes in the slightly dingy surroundings, noting the lack of scribes, as well as the damage to some sections of the complex. Hax-Orthlack hadn't fallen on hard times, it certainly had seen its share of battles. Only fitting for a gun manufactoria.

Upon arrival to the Inquisitorial suite, Yarach thanked the ushers, ushering them away and shutting the door firmly. Unstrapping his sword and rifle, he leans them against the leg of the table, and sits down to work with the dataslate, and hopefully get it working again.

Tech use test:

[roll0] TN:33

[bluntpencil]

"I'm afraid not, kid..."
says Alexei, before adding in a line from the popular holovid, for the benefit of the usher, pointing at him after clicking his fingers

"...I'm on duty."
He wasn't going to let them take unnecessary picts or start making friends, but keeping up folks' appreciation of the Arbites and the Emperor probably couldn't hurt.

[ellna]

Sarah waits until Alexei's admirer has left before flopping on one of the large beds. She places Amadeus underneath it and hangs her bandoleer on the post. She allows herself a moments rest before rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows. Seeing Yarach performing the rituals of the tech-priest on the Data-slate, Sarah floats over to lend a hand...

At first she watches him listening to his words, his actions she could learn a lot from a tech-priest. Then she offers some advice, but it isn't useful. Sarah has never seen the insides of a Dataslate before and confuses a Z8 conductor with a Z7 conductor, realising her mistake she leaves Yarach to his work.

Instead she speaks with Alexei. "So this is to be our command post. From here we shall root Zweiker out. Hmm I think I will get a feel for the land see if anyone on the street has heard of these demon las weapons... Well later perhaps I need to catch some shut-eye now. How about you? Got any plans?"

"Your shock stick, The voltage seemed a bit low last time, mind if I take a look?"

[roll0] Vs 17

[Acco Spoot]

Bin stops to scratch the back of his head again, he had been at the same spot all along the walk to the lodgings and now a small red welt had grown at the base of his skull. It felt warm, a hot feeling as if... as if someone was staring at him.

He turned, an ugly sneer upon his face, spotting the clenched and irritable usher who shot pinpricks into the back of Bin's head.

Yer got something ter say then ye bes be out with it!

He roared, fingers stabbing at the meek underling and personal space trespassed.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei is happy with the accommodations, but they will need backups.

"We'll need to get alternative accommodations arranged, in case we're found out by our enemies, or the staff are compromised. They'll do for now, but I think we should be lodged someplace different every night, for purposes o' safety an' to hit Zweiker from an unexpected angle."He paces the room as he speaks, leaving everyone slightly edgy. He looks over Yarach's shoulder, offering some terrible advice.

"Ye could try use a las-pack to power it, I guess. Then again, you're the Cog Boy, so I wouldn't ask me, eh?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the window,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0749, Scintillan Occidental Time

When Yarach makes to usher the ushers out, discharged from their duty, their rictus smiles dropped, they gave sighs of relief as they fall to massaging aching cheeks.

The one who had approached Alexei flashes a toothy grin--- a genuine one, this time--- at the man whom he sees as a living legend. He tried to shake the Volgite Arbite's hand, but suddenly faltered, flinched and snapped a salute instead... unnerved then at the Blankness, eyes wide, throat gulping, he muttered a stream of incoherent apologies, thanks and curses, bowing and stumbling his way out of the room, bumping against Yarach and catching a painful jab from the doorhandle as he skeltered away down the corridor.

The one whose increasingly hard gaze had fixed itself on Bin, with gritted teeth grated out, "Don't. Eat. The. Beans. HNNGHEmprerproteee---!" before dashing across the suite, crashed into the bathroom and proceeded to produce a concert of crap.

The third one, released from the remit of his greet-and-guide duty, just leaned back against the doorframe and took a carton of lho-sticks from his coat pocket. Spinning this about one finger like a gunslinger with a revolver, he offered it to the Acolytes and then took one out for himself with yellowed teeth. Catching the copper's command just as he was about to leave, he saluted sharply--- well, as well as a flat civilian can--- and says, lho-stick flapping up and down with every word, "Ah, understood, sir. Also... wise decision. Catch is, sir, the other suite was, ah, destroyed by a walker raid. We got 'em back, aye, but 'twas a blanked-out wiped-down unit, no markers... well, what was left of 'em, anyway" Flicking on his igniter and puffing out a good stream of smoke, he continues, "Other accommodations, right. You might want to try Mamzel Goldilox' establishment down by Third Avenue... or the Barrel-and-Barrel Hotel at Second Avenue on the Sixth Tier..."

405.M41, At the window,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0808, Scintillan Occidental Time

Over on the wide table, Yarach works on restoring the broken dataslate that contains both their extended briefing and the compiled reports of the previous cell assigned to this case. That it was a case of damaged hardware as well as software whose requirements had clearly surpassed the capacity of its power provider was easily enough analyzed.

He could have just simply taken a charger from the drawer beneath and refilled its battery, but... something was niggling at his mind. What little he'd seen of the 'slate before its unfortunate malfunction earlier was enough to tell him that something was amiss. All it contained that he'd seen--- and scribes and scholars like he was do have tricks of assessing datastacks even from just their subliminal codified outlines--- was text. There must be something else.

And so, eager to get it operational once again, he rummages amongst his kit for anything that can be proxied into the holes in the thing's main drive… Deciding that the sacrifice of one power pack may be worth it, he takes one of his spare cells, and dismantles it, refitting the microconductor plates into the damaged slate’s motherboard. To finalize the refit, he takes out a soldering iron from the table’s drawer…

…only for a sudden jag of brilliant electricity to stab from the apparently ill-maintained tool through Yarach’s hand and into the damaged dataslate. Sparks fly and the pressed iron table sparks violently. Acrid smoke puffs erratically from the damaged dataslate, its circuits now irrevocably fried. Fighting through the pain, the Techpriest gives the bad tool a savage yank, the cord whipping out of the socket and saving everybody from further grief and injury…

…only for his old scribe’s olfactory sensors to register an odour he hadn’t smelt since Infractory Incident 18930.1289 back in his days as an administrative drone, but it is a smell he’ll always remember. The smell of books set alight by an accidental electrical fire. The smell of paper burning from a spark.

Suddenly a sonic streak of silver shoots out of the port in the smoking ‘slate, a port he’d mistaken for a common uplink receiver. Sparks fly as it ricochets off the ceiling, rebounds off the rim of Alexei’s shield, strikes off against a wall, cuts Bin’s lho-stick in half, strikes another wall, spanks into Xerxes’ helmet--- sending both trooper and headgear spinning, then strikes into a bedpost a mere handspan from Sarah’s face. What sticks there, still thrumming, quivering and smoking is a small straight thick needle of a strange, shiny metal, almost as long as the hand-long now-ruined dataslate. Tied to it by single strands of string and still smoking at the edges but no longer burning is what appears to be a small square of paper with what appears to be writing.


Yarach: [roll0] Energy damage
Nope. Not too much damage…
…except to the extended briefing, the notes, the reports and what clues or leads may have been there.
Xerxes: [roll1] Impact damage, plus dizziness and one level of Fatigue

[Acco Spoot]

Beans. Bin loosens up, his taught muscles and snarling demeanour slowly dropping, beans. He snorts a laugh, beams with a wide smile across his face and, unusually, freely takes the offered Lho Stick of the generous usher.

Beans, huh.

He idly mutters as he passes by.

Might be beyond yer knowledge, but iffen we wer' ter find ourselves outta luck with proper shelter would there be any parks or alleys that are good 'un sheltered?

He joins in the conversation, adding his knowledge of street living to the potential case of having to run and gun.

For tha' matter, what yea city got fer rubbish? Any skips... er... scrapyards or the like.

A sudden bolt of energy immolates his lho stick and cuts off his inquiries. He takes a look at the imploded narcotic, noticing that it is still slightly smoking, he gives it a few brave puffs before taking out a new one.

[ellna]

Sarah looks at the quivering sliver of metal that nearly spiked her head and offers a silent prayer to the emperor. She looks, accusatory, at Yarach. "What is that?"

[Urist]

Yarach, as he watches the electricity frying the circuits he had worked to restore, almost begins to weep at the desecration of the sacred works, as well as the destruction of all of the Hound's leads. Pulling the soldering iron from the wall, he does his best to avert any further damage to himself or the device. As he massages his hands to regain feeling from the shock, he mutters a whispered string of abuse under his breath in binary, his vox--implants clicks going far too fast for anyone to follow.

"01001101 01100001 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101111 01110011 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111 00100000 01100001 01100010 01110101 01110011 01100101 01100100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01110100 01110010 01101111 01111001 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101000 01101111 01101100 01111001 00100000 01100110 01101100 01100001 01101101 01100101 00100001 00001101 00001010"

During this stream, the smell of burning paper reaches his nose, and he dives away from the device, wary of further damage. Infractory Incident 18930.1289 had ingrained in him a response, reinforced by the screams of the unlucky scribe who had had all of the flesh burned from his face and body: Fire was to be avoided at all costs. His caution was proved momentarily, as a blinding sliver of metal flew out of the dataport, causing a series of damages around the room, before coming to rest next to Sara.

At her question, he snaps, first in binary, and then in Gothic:


"01010100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110101 01101110 01101001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100110 01101001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101111 01110101 01110100 00101100 00100000 01101001 01100110 00100000 01010101 01101110 01101001 01110100 00100000 01010011 01100001 01110010 01100001 00100000 01110111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100111 01101001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101101 01101111 01101101 01100101 01101110 01110100 00101110"


"This unit will find out, if Unit Sara will give it a moment."

Yarach walks over to the sliver of metal, attempting to examine it to determine its origin and make.

Common Lore(Tech):[roll0]:TN 33

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the window,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0814, Scintillan Occidental Time

"Sure, sure there are" replies the now off-duty usher through a series of smoke rings. "Orthlack'n Takara've got the best, well, only orchards worth a dinged casing topwise. Alleys? Everywhere. All y'gotta do is kock and cover... I mean, turn. Rubbish, now? I getcha. Every Fane's got its own Middenheim, aye... but y'want the real rubbish, the true trash, the sweetest scav-skippin' scrag-swivin' steel-swankin' salv-scrappers around... ain't no place else than down in Infernis"

He ends his sudden soliloquy with an awkward yellow-grinning chuckle that crumbles into a shudder. “Else’n that, I ain’t the one t’ask, maste…”

“NGYAGH!” comes his shocked yelp at the sudden metallic sliver that dings and slashes its way around the room. “Ah…uh… uh… I… uh, that-that, I, uh, wasn’t supposed to see that, was I?”

krik

Meanwhile, with an audible crack, the wood splinters when Yarach tugs the metallic sliver free and blows out the remaining embers on what is indeed a paper wrapping around it. Simply looking at the thing as it is, the closest thing to occur to him is that it might be a weapon, a booby-trap… or worse, something Tainted, like that poor Palatine that their kind shepherd had shown them earlier. Then again, there were no overt signs of Taint, thus heartened, sends out tentative data-probes, seeking out the spirit of the machine…

…and finds the spirit of this as yet inexplicable machine to be like a boy prince with bruises and blows and bleeding yet standing bloody but unbowed. The brief vision--- or was it simply his imagination? ---dissolves once more into an untainted song of Binary. There is no taint, but there is something inside, something that screams, something that cries, something that calls, something that defies. Something new, new technology, or at least, as new as the Imperium makes, something new, that’s it, just the fresh flavour of something new, something advanced, that’s it. What’s it? Yarach feels a growing need to recharge the machine of his body and run some thorough systems checks once there is time.

Shaking his head, he tries untying the tiny pieces of string holding them together, then, failing that, takes a fine-edged blade and cuts through them. The strings fall apart and the wrapping paper--- a yellowed piece of parchment, is it a piece of a purity seal or a newspaper or faith-paper or… no, it doesn’t matter--- drifts slowly to the ground, unheeded. Or rather, to the crumpled bedsheets in front of Sarah’s nose.

Yarach fixes his gaze once more upon the now naked device. To the untrained eye, it looks like a stabbing spike or a piton or a flying dagger or any other such steel-scribe’s quill. However, to the Techpriest’s eye--- and fingers [and dataprobes as well]--- there are other things. Regular scratchings on the surface, as if a microchip was shaped into a kineblade… A storage device? But, that’s impossible, isn’t it? No storage devices can be that small, and even the average dataslate is the physical size of a notepad big enough to fill a man’s breast-pocket to the brim. Or are they?

…And then it seems the Emperor had smiled on Sarah’s prayer, or at least, her keen eyes saw something. Something. Something on the fallen piece of paper with one edge half-burnt and the other edge bloodstained. It is a hastily scratched drawing of the =I=nquisitorial sigil, but with an axehead on one side of the “I”. Flipping the paper, she finds, scrawled in a jagged yet still legible hand…

…a riddle. “Let speak, the bright box / Hold the lock that is a key / The key that bleeds, out, locks / So that, me, the truth, you’ll see”

[ellna]

Sarah stares intently at the scrawl on the parchment. The symbol of the Inquisition is different. Corrupted? Perhaps a different branch of the Inquisition? She holds the bloodied paper gingerly as though it would burst at any moment. Shame she can't read. Sarah muses over the importance of the paper's scratching for a further moment before handing it to Yarach.

"This fell off that thingie. It's got the Inquisition's mark and writing on the reverse. Can't make out what it says and the mark looks funny too, it's different. Can you make anything of it? What does it say? Is it a clue to what that metal needle is doing in the data slate? Have you figured out what it is?"

Sarah asks Yarach her voice running as fast as her brain will permit. She pauses for a breath long enough for Yarach to reply. Grinning at him as she offers the scrap of paper forth.

[Urist]

Yarach is awed by the spirit of the machine he senses within the machine.


"It seems like a storage device of some sort. As far as this unit can tell, it is uncorrupted. Far beyond anything this unit has ever seen! Magnificent. Clearly far above standard make. Why it exploded, this unit has no idea. That it is even holding together after its impacts and knocks is likewise astounding. If this piece falls under list:Inquisition Technology, the Acolytes who had a hold of it had high contacts within the Priesthood of the Most Holy Omnissiah."

Realizing that the usher is still in the room, Yarach turns.


This unit was indeed not supposed to see this event. However, it can make itself useful. This unit will require access to dataslates. Four or five. And a cogitator bank. Find some, or a unit who can find some, and report back to this spot immediately upon succesful completion of Executable: Fetch Errand.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin reminded himself, as important as it may be to find alternative shelter and places to pick up scrap, he wasn't here to acquaint himself with the hell-hole just yet. Someone needed killing.

One last thing, kid.

He sneered.

There any dive bars 'round here?

[Grobrin]

Shocked by the reeling blow to the head Xerxes weaves his way to a bottom bunk, unlimbers the great sword and sits with it across his knees, the helmet perched atop it. He gently strokes the bare metal gash bright with red and mutters:
"Well Pa, looks like you were right about this at least."
As a trail of blood begins to leak down his face Xerxes tears a little wadding from a pillow and begins to staunch the flow. The pain in his cranium drops a gear to a low thrum, just quiet enough for him to hear Yarach's request.
He carefully stands and lays the sword reverentially upon the bed and rummages for the data slate he took from the requisition crate.
"Hope this helps L.T. But, Ah... Are you sure this one won't explode?" As he gingerly passes the data slate pinched between meaty thumb and forefinger.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the main door,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0818, Scintillan Occidental Time

That last usher snaps back into attention, his brief camaraderie with the sociopathic sellsteel cast aside at the Lieutenant's command, the grin of his duty pasted back onto a pallid face...

...then twitches a little truth into that grin as he unbuttons his coat and rummages about in his various inner pockets and then coughs up four regulation-ready dataslates. Judging by their serial numbers and the state of their physical cleanliness, they have barely been used. A brief system check shows that all is in order, save for a few data-ghosts here and there--- quickly-deleted pornography, nothing more.

Nodding at the clearly used cogitator at the table beside the domestivox unit, the usher asks, "Ah, begging your pardon, sir, but are you sure this would be insufficient?"


Yeah, "domestivox" is pretty transparent as "gorram comms" or "friggen phone"...
No, really... what, praytell, is the difference, between "cogitator" and "codifier"? Or "logic-engine", for that matter? Correct me if I'm mistaken, but don't these terms all pertain to what we know today as the "computer"?

PS... Who here offers incense to their computers and pats and tells 'em "Gooood girl" upon successful boot-up?

[Urist]

"Although this unit makes no guarantees, it will do its best to ensure that this holy machine will serve its purpose without being destroyed. Thank you, Unit Xerxes."

Turning to the usher, Yarach smiles happily.


"Thank you, Unit... This unit does not believe that it has learned your designation. What should this unit call you? These dataslates will be more then sufficient for this units purposes. However, a more powerful bank of cogitators would be quite helpful in discerning the data in this device. If it is a storage device, the amount of data stored is likely immense, and more cogitators can't hurt. For now, this should suffice If you think of it, though, the ability to use more powerful ones would be wonderful."

Cogitators are indeed computers. They're called out specifically as equipment in the Inquisitor's handbook, and give +10 to +20 on Tech-Use and Int tests which would be aided by computer usage. I missed it in the initial description.

As Sarah looks at Yarach, waving the piece of paper, he waves it away.


"This unit will look at it later. This unit is not particularly good at lateral thinking or riddles, unfortunately. If this one has any revelations, it will be sure to share, though."

Yarach takes the data slate over to the table, and attempts to attach the spike to the data slate using a transfer cable. Chanting with fervor in binary, he invokes rituals of protection on both of the machines. Connecting the cables, he switches the data slates on, and attempts to see if he can get any usable data off of the device.

[ellna]

"Riddle? What does it say." Before Yarach starts plunging the depths of the data spike. She ask him "What do the words say. If you could read it aloud for me to hear I could think on it." She sets the wreath of parchment down at his table.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the main door,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0931, Scintillan Occidental Time

Switching on the two connected dataslates with the spike between them, the Techpriest is dismayed when nothing whatsoever, not even a spark, happens with the dead slate and the second slate flickers and shudders only to give out again and fizzle out completely.

Two down, four to go. Looking at the remaining slates and then considering the usher's words, he tries a different tack... Yarach plugs in the component cables into their regulator, then plugs the regulator into the wall-socket, clicking and chanting all the while. He flips the switch of the undoubtedly more powerful machine and then while waiting for its boot-up sequence to finish keys in a system-scan and firewall reinforcement. He then turns his attention to a solution to the spiky conundrum...

...praying all the more fervently to the Omnissiah, which seems to the uninitiated as nothing more than an incessant stream of metallic clicking, using plies and solders and 'drivers and cables, he constructs a makeshift containment-relay matrix around the spike, using three of the slates. The fourth, he uses as a transmission node which he then links up to the cogitator's central processing unit using a trio of redundancy-lines.

Yarach's stream of Machine-God litanies unrelenting, gazing on the unfolding operation with both his eyes of flesh and cyber-senses, his biomechanical heart almost skips a beat when he hears the vanes within the machine rise in pitch then calm back down to its regular pace. The monitor in meatspace finally begins to resolve into...

((Open and view for your entertainment, if you want, but 'sjust for Yarach IC))

Yarach: Surprisingly, all that below happens in a heartbeat.


++AVE DEUS EST MACHINA
++COGITATOR UNIT 7345601.1434236.12246 ALEPH SCINT GUN ORTH INQUIS
++POWER, DRIVE, CONNECTIONS, INPUT, OUTPUT... ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL
++NEW STORAGE DEVICE DETECTED...
++...PROCESSING...
++NEW STORAGE DEVICE AT 53% CAPACITY, 67% DAMAGE, SUBSYSTEM CLEA...
++WARNING! WARNING! PROGRAM SPIRIT INTRUSION IN PROGRESS. COMMENCING PU...
++SECURITY SCARLET OVERRIDE OVERRIDE OVE...
++...PROCESSING...
++NEW PROCESSING UNIT DETECTED...
++...PROCESSING...
++NEW PROCESSING UNIT AT 10% CAPACITY, 5% DAMAGE
++ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL
++...PROCESSING...
++UPLOADING VID-FILE "AXE"
++...PROCESSING...
++WARNING! PROG... SEC...
++COMMAND: OVERRIDE
++COMMAND: PLAY
++...PROCESSING...
++...COMMENCING...



...a video with corresponding audio of surprising clarity. At first, all is dark, then the darkness is disturbed by great flashes of blinding light as well as coruscating flashes that strobe across the screen. The initial sound of static is replaced with the clicking chant similar to Yarach's, disturbed every so often by...

ZZSHANG! ZZSHANG! zk-zk-zk-zk-ZKOW!

An infernal image of cavern walls of stone and steel roars up, magma from below feeding into vents for geothermal plants. A tumbled landscape of not-so-abandoned industrial machineries seethes with skulking shadows... Skulking shadows that spit out a storm of incandescent death...

...at a lone figure in flapping red-and-white Mechanicus robes, striding boldly down a rusted gantry to face down a dread figure that looms above him, a figure that escaps definition, a figure wrought of slag and steel and smoke and shadow. Through all the din of fire and battle, a little voice sobs from the heart of darkness, "Please... kill... m..."

KKKKSSSSSSSHKKKKKKKTTTT

And all this while the view has been slowly getting less and less distinct, the pictcorder apparently moving farther away... And then it is suddenly jerked to one side. The video feed shuts off, or rather, is smothered by a rough hand, shaking violently in what seems to be a scuffle. Voices hiss in harsh whispers.
"By the Chief's claws and the ancestors' bones, WHAT! ARE! YOU! DOING?!"
"Testing recovered device. Recording. Chronicling"
"Chron...? Shaddap. He's buying us time to get away and you're..."

KKKKSSSSSSSHKKKKKKKTTTT

The feed suddenly shuts off, replaced by static. When next it continues, what it shows is a snapshot of the interior of a shuttle, smaller than the Raven's Claw, less cargo, less passenger space, less weapons. The flight seems to be jerking erratically every so often. Smoke and sparks pour from damaged vents and panels.
"Rads! Canken huldda mas largen, rads! Th'Emp... 'tcts!"
"Chief's claws! BRACE YERSELVES!"
"TTHHOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!"
"Sally... I'm coming home"
"Interesting"

KKKKSSSSSSSHKKKKKKKTTTT

Again, the feed dissolves into static. This time, the delay is longer, the damage more pronounced. When next it continues, the scene once again seems to be shrouded in total darkness, but... no. Stars sparkle through a clear desert sky. Automatic fire rattles out again and again from the cover of a barren hilltop and a mangled, still-smoking wreck. Las-bolts burst against the rocks, accompanied by unearthly screams that make a mess of the audio pick-up.

The view is suddenly yanked to one side. A feral warrior's craggy, scarred face fills the screen. Red blood and black oil smear her face. An Aquila-over-sunburst tribal tattoo marks her forehead, seared over with an =I=nquisitorial brand. Her breath comes sharp and ragged, her features cast into stark shadow with every muzzle-flash and laser-blast. "Acolyte Cell: Hounds, here!" BRAK! "Crashed i'th' Wastelands!" ZAKT-ZAKT-ZAKT!

"Oh. Slag." choked with pain, there comes a different, deeper voice from the warrior woman's left as its bearer is borne to his knees... but fights through the pain and with desperate defiance leaps from cover, a Creed-Hacker roaring in each arm.

PRAKATAKATKATKAKTAKTAKATA!

This buys what seems to be the feral Guardswoman the space of a breath. She spits into the recording piece, "We failed. Didn't..." ZZVWANG! BOOM! "...akara! Mistake! All shades of guilt my ass, where is there no..." ZAKT-ZAKT... RAKATKAKATKAKAKTAKAT! "Killed a good deal of heretics there, aye, but THRONEDAMNIT, Takara told th..." ZKOOM! ZKOOM! "...charyakin' TRUTH!"

BZAKT-ZAKT! PRAKASH! A blinding flash. Horrific unspeakable screeching. She suddenly stumbles back, blown away in an explosion. Static.

KKKKSSSSSSSHKKKKKKKTTTT

The feed resumes quickly enough. A bulky, female figure stands silhouetted, backlit by the wreckage's fires. A bloody, scorched axe hangs from her hand. Sporadic gunfire still rattles from nearby. "Thank the Emp'rer" she pants. "Damn. Hax ain't holdin' out much longer... W'elp. He's gone."

Piercing brown eyes glare at the viewers through the screen. "Whoever's watchin' this now, hope ye've got that... FILTH... roastin' on a spit. If he ain't yet... damn. Not much time. Takara told the truth... bones to bones so swears I she's got a good deal more ta say! If only we'd gorram liste..." VVZASH! BOOM! RAKATAKATAKA-klak-klik-klik-klik...

"Father! Terra's sake... RUN!" The video-feed seems to be mashed in dirty fingers, then the world spins as it hurtles through the air and is then caught once more. A metallic click. A customized dataslate's protective port whirs closed but not before it manages to record one last snatch...

BDAMM-BDAMM! BDAMM-BDAMM! BDAMM-BDAMM! klik-klik! The bolt-pistol's bark clicks dry. An axe-blade that bears a sigil of a Mechanicus skull flashes through the desert night. Right above the grim gauntleted fist, some brass lettering catches the light "---iker" and beneath that fist, "Mag--".

"FOR THE EMPEROR!" comes that last defiant roar as she charges into the light...

...VVSA...

WHA-BGOOOOOM!
And then the screen dissolves into static...

...then slowly resolves back into scrolling down some text...

++VID-FILE: "AXE" COMPLETE.
++COMMAND:???

A lho-stick smoulders on the stone floor. A slick of saliva sizzles on meeting the still-smoking butt. When the usher finally gathers his wits, the dutiful grin gone and duty's call grim in his gaze as he snaps in reply, "Sir! Garth Orthlack, sir. By your leave, sir, I'll see what can be done about that cogitator bank..." Moving with a purpose, he makes for the main doors, then calls back, "Dive bars, erngh, lookin' for the worst? Dragon's Balls, down in the Doru Tier. 'Nuther good one's The Crucible, between Tier-Takara and Tier-Khayer'... Takin' me leave, sirs, mamzel. Gogi, I mean, think-boxes, I mean, cogitators, yeah" The usher Garth Orthlack throws a salute and a zealously nervous or nervously zealous "Imperator liberate nos" as he trots off down the corridor.

Suddenly, the doors swing wide again, and Garth's other sibling, still dutifully grinning, enters, bows to Sarah and delivers her... package.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin ignores the chaos of the room about him, the damn fool techie boy could be disintegrating himself for all Bin cared.

Dragon's Balls or the Crucible, answer seemed obvious, go with the one more willing to openly state its lewdness.

Bin remembered the first time he was ushered into a dingy, amnesac soaked hall, how he had the looming, broad shouldered figures boxing him in, how lonely and desperate he had felt, how the warm feeling of the bloody quickly crusting over his hands kept him from shivering.

Pulling over a skull cap he approached Sarah.

Got a lead on the local underworld, yer coming with me, can't be disadvantaged, can't be outnumbered.

[ellna]

Sarah stares at the video smiling wildly as the former cell sings their song. The death screams vividly filling in the static of the image. Her mind piecing together the last moments of their failure. A lovely sound.

Leaving the paper scrap with Yarach she turns to Bin. She nods her head to him. "Wonderful. I need to see the city. Better not waste any time, that usher can show us where we want to go." She Grabs her bandoleer from the bed post and slings it on. She lean in close to Bin. Her breath on his ear. "That way we won't have to carry him. He saw too much, Cogboy can get another."She throws on her coat and checks the patchwork. She gives the flask a sniff and a taste then hastily buckles Amadeus back into his crib. The heat begins to irk her again almost immediately. As the weight of her gear settles back onto her shoulders.

She smiles cheerfully and heads from the room to catch up with the poor usher...

[Grobrin]

The slowing trickle of blood from Xerxes forehead mixes with the tears watering from his eyeballs. Silent hooks sink into his eyes unable to tear away from the unfolding horror. Flickering images etch in acid upon the retina boring unholy patterns.

Insanity: [roll0]
Corruption: [roll1]
Bile rises up from his stomach but with a deep gulp he forces it back down and soaks up the images letting his perception free. Seeking some secret that will bring that monster down.
Xerxes lets the wash of sound and sickness crash over him and finding that he floats on the one thing that is real. Duty. His Duty, to the Imperium and to his family.
"L.T. I think I preferred it when you was blowing things up Sir. If there's nothing more, I'll be takin' a shower. "

Xerxes goes to find a shower block and takes as long and as cold a shower as he can possibly manage and wash the blood and vomit from his clothing and the poison from his mind. Preferably for about an hour. That should deal with the fatigue.

I'd like to make a scrutiny check of the vid too, but I'll do that in a later post.

[bluntpencil]

"Aight, we gots leads: Fane Takara seem to know summit, so we're gonna find out.

I trust you lot are capable enough to come up wi' ideas, so ye can get headed off to yer filthy bar. If yer need assistance, or backup, holler on the vox. If there's any Throne-damned witches or sorcery, retreat and call me. Anything else, I trust ye can handle yerselves."
The badass from Volg is quite ready to get moving. He looks to Yarach, hoping for some input on how best to get moving. After the group get shifting on their ways, he yells to Xerxes, who is by now in the shower.

"You better man up soon, boy! Things is only gonna get worse around here, and I won't have you pissin' yourself instead o' properly usin' that huge sword that yer so obviously overcompensatin' with! You hear?!"
Yeah, he kinda had to let off a little steam. This job looked like it was going down the toilet pretty quickly.

[Acco Spoot]

Don't need yer 'thority lawman.

Bin snipes with a hostile sneer, turning to follow Sarah before the stiffened arbite can get a shot back.

He had spent so much time weeping and forgiving himself over his past, memories had been purposefully faded and only the ghosts really remained, etched into his subconsciousness, though now he was desperately delving into every deeply recessed encounter he had with the underworld.

How they had approached him, that night at the safe-house, naked and praying quietly into the little brass idol, its chain snapped and scattered around him, the blood of the previous occupants dripping from his hands. He took his beating that night, the release of spiteful vengeance he would come to be so familiar with.

He shrugged off such thoughts, they weren't the right memories, they wouldn't be the things to set him right.

Orright, time to put the new skills to the test.
Common Lore (Underworld)
[roll0]
I wanna find out what's the most logical sort of underworld we'll find in this place, the people we should be talking to and asking for, basically, I don't wind up making a tit out of myself.

[ellna]

Sarah turns at the doors threshold and snaps a quick salute, only semi-mockingly, to Alexei. She still avoids looking him directly in the eyes instead fixing on the set of his jaw. "Will do Cap'n. There's also a riddle with Yarach and some cavern. I recommend when we find that we will get some more clues."

Turning back to Bin her smile tugs at the corners of her lips and she trots off down the corridor to catch up with the usher...

[Urist]

OOC:

Yay for XP! Spending xp on:
Int Advance(Basic)-100
Tech Use+10 (100)

Yarach's ears, and his mind, fill with static as he views the profane file, fragments of corrupted, debased machine-code piling up in his brain. Knowing that it couldn't be purged, he incorporates some of the revelations into his processors, increasing their speed while destabilizing his core processes further. Despite the insidious whispers of the horrific sights in the video, he scrutinizes it carefully, attempting to pick up any clues which might allow the acolytes to gain a better picture of the fate, and location, of the last acolyte cell.


Common Lore(Tech) to recognize the locations and tech used in the video:[roll0] TN: 38
Awareness for details of the surroundings/important bits:[roll1]TN:15(30/2)
Scrutiny(same thing)[roll2] TN: 15(30/2)


His hands shaking, he unplugs the data spike, and disassembles the array he used to obtain the heretical images.


"Thank you, Unit Garth Orthlack. May the Omnissiah bless this ones travels, and may this unit's weapons never jam. If these units are out or unavailable when this unit returns from its inquiries, pleas leave a note. As well, if these units wished to inquire with Fane Takara on our assignment, where would be a good beginning point?."

Turning to Alexei, Yarach states:


"This unit believes that the Hounds may be well served by investigating Fane Takara immediately. Meeting with a representative of the Fane would be advantageous.

[bluntpencil]

"Agreed. Once the kid is done cleanin' up, we'll get movin'. No more delays. I'll let you arrange that: You're best placed ta be speakin' to representatives of a Fane, bein' a religious functionary an' all."
Alexei seems keen to get to the job, and is hoping it will all stay nice and simple. Lead, moving away from him at a high velocity. Nice and simple.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the main door,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
0933, Scintillan Occidental Time

The man who when he was asked had introduced himself as 'Garth Orthlack' presently passes back through the doors just in time to hear Lt. Yarach's new set of commands. Or is it him? The four look too much alike to truly tell. Saluting smartly and tossing a thumb over his shoulder he says, "Sir. Orth-Off-Admin's granted access to its cogitation banks for your use, sir. Do ye need a guide to the officio or to the nearest trans-Tier tram?"

With a twitching hand he takes out another lho-stick and says before lighting it, "Cavern, ye'd said. In that damned vid where the Gadgetman held that bridge. Might be wrong, but could be one o' them Doru foundries that were lost in that scavvy-surge, 'bout two-month back..." Upon a long exhalation of smoke, he breathes, "...damnation"

Meanwhile, the one who had brought Sarah's stuff still stands at attention. "Will there by anything else, mamzel?"

[ellna]

Sarah turns to her helper. "Nope not from you. You have served me fine." She then turns to Garth. Ordering him briskly. "Me an' my collegue here need you as a guide. Come' on lets go." She grins at Bin and offers him a drink.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin lightly pushes the canteen away, separating the girl from the already wizened ears of their companion.

I don't want any straight laces, it's gonna be tough getting ourselves inta the underground as is, bringing some green up-city kid'll only make it harder.

He shot a subtle glance at the usher.

What ya say kid, yea ready ter get yer guts torn out by some of tha cities biggest and foulest? Eh?

[ellna]

Sarah smile fades for a moment. She looks disappointed in Bin. Annoyed even. She sighs and smiles wistfully. "Well fine. Lets go then I'm sure we can find some fun without him." She takes a deep swig from her flask and leaves...

[Grobrin]

Tepid water trickles across his shoulders and on Xerxes chest. A thin stream of red smokes through the water the last of the glancing blow washing through the rusted grate. He gazes up ward letting the grey water rinse him, alleviating the claustrophobic heat. A little cool water to the cranium, do me some good...
Watching the vid it had all clicked into place all suddenly became clear. His fathers cool stare. The embrace with the Marshall, Sara's tears. He was never going back. Never. A life lost to him now. The life of another man.
Then what of this life?
What of this man?
His head dropped letting the flow wash the back of his neck and down his shoulders. His heavy muscled torso. Carved onto that body with Ink and Pain. Aquila Resplendent. Claws grasping his hips, the fan of its tail shielding his belly. His chest black with ink and coarse hair. And the twin heads staring out from his throat. He could only see the beaked visage in the mirror. It stared back at him Its eyes boring deep into his heart and he knew the answer.
A ripple passed through him clenching every muscle a judder that rocked him in his feet.
He was a Hound. A hound that would have to track the scent of the unclean, The whiff of corruption was a scent to pursue not recoil from. He was to find the sources of foulness and wipe them clean. Bring the Light of the Emperor to the darkest of places. His was not to flinch in the face of horror but to track it down and destroy it.
He dresses quickly strapping the heavy guard plating down giving silent thanks to his Pa and murmers a quiet prayer to the Emperor for protection. As he straps on the right forearm guard the tip of the Long Knife tattooed there juts just above the cuff. He knows that down on the blade are his Granpappys words. Fight First Die Last.
He strides out to the bunk and shoulders the great Blade and does a quick check of the Autogun, chambering a round and sliding the the safety on.
He turns and looks to Alexei. The scarred veteren sheathed in a mental fortress. Met the sneer in his eyes with a flat gaze.
“What say we rattle some heads and see what shakes loose, Sir.”

[bluntpencil]

"That's what I like to hear, dog. Let's get to sniffin', ladies."
Alexei is happy to get moving, and is relieved that Xerxes isn't currently a blubbering mess. He doesn't show it though, his face being the permanent mask of disdain and aggression that it is. To be fair, that mask is never really far from the truth.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes inhales then vents his barrel chest through his nostrils snorting puffs of mucus. He draws deeply on the dank night air nostrils flared, taking up the scent.

Right cha are then Cap'n.
A lopsided grin and moves out.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the main door,
The Inquisitorial Suite, Fane Orthlack Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1034, Scintillan Occidental Time

Though by their fine features and clean angles the three remaining ushers remain practically indisinguishable from one another, they do have their differences--- more pronounced now, than earlier. The one who only now emerges, wobbling, from the restroom, stinks of faeces and blood, his face an unreadable mask of craptastic pain that, by the twitching of his jaw muscles and the grinding of his fists, he is trying to ignore and attend to his duty. The one who'd delivered Sarah's package smells of liquor, sweat and oak... but there is something about that recurring twitch of his left eye--- laziness? resentment? dutiful resignation? The one who'd declared himself to be 'Garth Orthlack' smells of lho-smoke but his set, his bearing, his posture has something different about him now--- like a man newly awakened but eager to be about his day, like one who has seen he is a cog in the great machine of Man and is proud to do what he needs to do.

Garth gives a nod, pats his holstered Hecuter and takes the lead, his other two comrades forming up behind the two lawmen and the gadgetman, shepherding them back the way they'd come. "Right. I suppose you wouldn't want to be too conspicuous but would still want to be speedy? Tier-way Tram..." Checking his wrist-chron, he lets twitch a small smile from the growing frown that had already become comfortable upon his face. "...should be enough time to make the 1100. Cutting it damned close, though--- wouldn't want to be crushing against the lunchtime crowd"

[bluntpencil]

"You don't know how to handle crowds, boy?"
grunts Alexei. His intent is speculative: Most hivers, himself included, can move through crowds, no problem. Apparently Gunmetal City was different.

However... his tone comes across wrong. It sounds like he's asking why this idiot boy can't gun down masses of civilians and schoolchildren.

[Miraqariftsky]

Garth pauses a step... in surprise? Indignation? There is neither turning of his face nor a significant change in his tone as he replies over his shoulder, cursorily flashing idents at every Regulator checkpoint they pass through on their way to the outer perimeter. "Who doesn't, sir? A bit more speed is a bit more speed, and speed's what you need, isn't it? Or would you prefer the Retsch Hotel where you can hang your horseshoes to dry?"

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, First Avenue
Third Station, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1034, Scintillan Occidental Time

It is now near noon, the burning sun close to its zenith. Noxious thermal banks from the foundries and the forges in the depths of the hive mingle with the smog of the road traffic of the upper terraces.

By now, Sarah and Bin had walked down the breadth of the territories of Fane Orthlack and Fane Westingkrup. They got past Regulator troopers' checkpoints and patrols by alternately ducking into sidestreets and coming back up behind and past them or just brazening past. They'd passed by two sprawling shopping complexes and countless little stores and stalls selling everything from keychains to electronics to machineguns. They'd seen Regulator squads from the two rival Fanes square off at the border between the two districts and ducked for cover like everybody else not wearing a uniform when the crank cannons started growling...

...they'd seen two young men from feuding families about to tear into one another when rounds from a passing Regulator patrol take out the belligerents' kneecaps. Stern warnings send them all agreeably and amicably enough to settle their dispute at the nearest amphitheatre...

...and from what little they could see from their pedestrian meanderings, the Westingkrup Pit of Justice is an edifice of no-nonsense unpainted ferrocrete whose arched doorways lead to tantalizing glimpses of the sandy arena, the rambling scav-village's worth of hazards and obstacles, the bullet-proof armacrys panels and the bleachers upon bleachers beyond.

Somewhere along the way, while still walking through Westingkrup territory, a mad-eyed, ratty-haired woman had charged at Bin, shooting wildly, then half-threw, half-tossed a bottle of rotgut at him right before cacklingly cartwheeling into a dark alley. His retaliatory shots score but grime off the wall. Neither local civvies nor Regulators batted an eyelid at this.

Presently, wandering through the Grinners' Tier, the terrace of Khayer-Addin... something that stands out is...
...the colour. The colour, the vibrance of the place, the jaunty hair dyes, the sometimes garish-sometimes gorgeous murals adorning the walls of nearly every building they pass, seeming gay and wondrous and more appropriate for a feudal's carnival or a decadent paradise worlder's playpen of a backstreet. Here, a man built like a Catachan wears a robe that flows like silk in the wind, a magnificent portrait of mountains and forests and a waterfall ripples across the fabric, totes three lascannon assemblies over one shoulder, sweating like a hog from the effort. There, a finely coiffured lad receives a nose-busting and a ticket from a pink-pauldroned Regulator for his having parked in a handicapped zone. There, a grandmother with purple-spiked hair slices into two black-cloaked thugs with a single blast apiece from her paired Valentine laspistols to the giggling cheers of her grandchildren.

Presently, a street vendor hawks his wares at the two offworld scummers. Two skewers, he waves in his hand, one of spit-roasted meat glistening with dripping juices, the other of some processed meat still crackling with oil from the pan in the man's cart. "Seventeens! Seventeens! Smokers and sizzlers for seventeens!"


En route to wherever "here" is...

Sarah took [roll0] gropes from passersby and missed her retaliatory smacks. Doesn't yet know, but [roll1] Bolt-Rounds and [roll2] Shotgun Shells got swiped offa her. Also has a torn-off piece of notepad with somebody's name and number on it but of course, illiterate, fortunately.

And apparently, because somebody who looks to be crazier than Bin took a fancy to him, possibly because he's wearing a Westingkrup gun, he's now got an apparently sturdy bottle of the local rotgut.

@ Ellna:
Items 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 15 have been sighted at various shops thus far.

Also, something else that both of y'all find...
...no gang signs, no gang markings, little to no open contraband, neither of you can tell if any of the locals' speech constitutes anything more than local slang/mannerisms/accents/jargon/cant.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin lazily grabs at the bottle, startled by its sudden assault on his person. Swiftly bringing out his angry disposition he attempts to give chase with his axe in hand.

Damn the dark, enclosed alleys, he comes away with his axe looking a little worse for ware, having struck twice against the walls in his flailing attempt to enact petty vengeance on his quarry.

He leaves the bottle at the side of the street, it's not his problem.

Coming out on the marketplace he is dazzled, the bright and angry colours make him feel queasy and a little dizzy, he clutches his idol, tightly, eyeing every stranger with narrow caution, keeping the hell out of reach.

He spots a woman casually gunning down an intruder, the jubilant cries of the children in the face of such callous murder leave a swirling memory circling about in his daze.

"Seventeens! Seventeens! Smokers and sizzlers for seventeens!"

The loud and sudden approach, in tandem with his weary mind snaps his reason, he takes the knife in one hand and Idol in the other, waving both about just in front of him.

Get the hell away from me!!!

He screams.

[ellna]

Sarah grins like a child at a circus for most of the time. Ducking through alleys avoiding the check-points it's almost a game to her. The spurts of gun fire a discordant song that fill the streets. Sarah constantly flits from stall to stall. Checking the products on offer. Rummaging through the wares. Her first purchase is a large duffel bag that she pays for in ammo. The stock currency of Gun-metal city. She has a brief exchange with the merchant as he produces lordly claims about his wares. At first he wants Scintils, but Sarah convinces him to take the handful of rounds. Leaving him with a kiss on his cheek. Smiling she jogs back over to Bin quickly jamming her Coat in the bag. The angry sun making her sweat under the heavy leather. Now the sun instead finds milky white arms covered in scars and chemical stains.

The crazed woman startles Sarah. Amadeus rises to meet her, but before Sarah could squeeze the trigger she bolts. Bin gives chase and Sarah follows. It's not long before Sarah catches up. Bin having lost his attacker, seeing him discard the bottle Sarah grabs it and slings it in her new bag. "Excitement at every turn and free booze. A regular carnival." She smiles and continues on...

The terrace of Khayer-Addin. So much vibrancy. Sarah smile couldn't go any wider. She quickly finds a refreshment stand selling fizzy recaff. The cans a burst of riotous colour. She pays the price in Gelt and drinks the can while checking the other stalls. A weapon vendor is her next stop. She haggles the price down on a tac-light, but ends up walking away when the vendor stubbornly refuses to take Rounds over Scintils. Many of the other stalls take rounds, but Sarah finds herself at a loss to find any pattern to which take what. Still drinking from the can she barges back through the crowd to find where she left Bin. A hand amongst the crowd finds her and she swings wildly at a disappearing figure. Cursing in Malfi slang she flings the, mostly empty, can at the shape she thought responsible...

Finally she spots Bin. He looks ill at ease in this peacock's den. She hurries over to him.

"Seventeens! Seventeens! Smokers and sizzlers for seventeens!"

The street vendor hawks his spit-roasted skewers. Sarah licks her lips as she watches them drip. Bin pulls a knife.

Get the hell away from me!!!

Sarah bolts over interposing herself between Bin and the poor fellow. Sticking a Scintil note in one hand she takes the skewer and pushes him back. Then Sarah turns to Bin. She gingerly reaches out to Bin making soothing noises and tries to lead him away from the strutting crowd...

[Acco Spoot]

NO!!!

The colours are spinning, the crowd is fast becoming a haze, he lunges with his knife at apparitions, blindly praying for the nightmare to end.

NO, NO!!!

His hand claws against metal, his knife rattling out of his hand.

He feels a soft hand take his, the smoothness of the skin reacts instantly and he shoots his hand away, swiping at the air, trying to defeat whatever witch is taunting him.

The Father demands it, AWAY, GET AWAY!!!

[ellna]

Sarah attempts to calm Bin her hand resting gently on his arm. She says something... It's lost in the fury of Bins screams. His knife skitters across Sarah flak vest, leaving a deep grove. The Knife drops from his hand as he jerks back. Ripping her hand away, his gaunt talons swipe at her face. Bin's hand smacks her across the cheek ripping at her hair. She screams and steps forward slamming her head into his. She pulls back shouting. "BIN STOP!"

[Acco Spoot]

Bin feels the white hot familiarity of pain, he crumples in the middle of the street, colours swirling back into a more familiar pattern.

He closes his eyes once again, taking his time to recover, slowly retrieving himself from the cold ground. He looks around.

No.

A sense of dread overcomes him as he begins to empty out his pockets.

Where is it, nonononono!

Increasingly desperate he begins to swipe around at the floor, pawing at every piece of junk, stone or shell casing he comes across.

A glint of metal catches his eye and he leaps upon it, taking up the object before anyone can hope to lay claim to it, his suspiciously eyes every person around him as he slowly reveals the brass idol, firmly clutched in his hands.

Father offers redemption through punishment.

He chants, taking up the axe after giving up on finding his knife.

Father offers redemption through- punishment

The blade smoothly runs across his forearm, unleashing a new torrent of blood,

We should go to the bar

He says, serenely, unfazed by his outbreak, standing as he rolls the cuff of his coat back over the fresh wound.

[ellna]

Sarah watches Bin for a moment before rubbing her forehead and cursing. Her cheek still stung. As Bin cuts himself she smiles, the corners of her lips twisting upwards to the heavens. She calmly bends down collecting her MeatOnAStick™ and giving it a hasty wipe before ripping a chunk off and swallowing. As she chews the grease drips from her lips and she wipes it off with the back of her hand.

"We should go to the bar"

"One more stop. I need some things from that store. Special project."

She jerks the half eaten meat at a garish building behind her. A bright Neon sign flashes above it proudly displaying the title {Enoch's Electrical Emporium} The windows are filled with a multitude of goods in varying degrees of degradation. Power sockets, wires, light globes, indoor heaters and other appliances fill the cramped space.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, First cab, first door,
The Tier-Way Tram
Fourth Station, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1111, Scintillan Occidental Time

The boxy behemoth slowly grinds to a halt, its clean yet rust-specked plating jangling, hydraulics hiss while guide-wires and unused grip-rings on safety rails sway as it brakes. The journey here was rather quick as, apparrently, most people are already at their places of work by this time... one of those lulls in travel between rush hours. What may well have helped was having a little Blank bubble around them that people inexplicably shied away from.

Though quick, or maybe because of the quickness and the relative quiet, it affords the two Lawmen and the Gadgetman a chance to see living snapshots... of the city in cross-section.

Despite being the top dogs of the city's hierarchy, the myriad homes and establishments with battle scars, most whitewashed or painted over, speak of the people's fortitude. There, a pack of children chased each other around a rubble-heap, laughing and whooping, for all the world but innocents at play, except for the derringer repeaters that they periodically discharged. Nearby, a patrol of flak-armoured Regulators toting Hacker-49er battle-rifles passed by, one waving encouragement to his son, unbeknownst that his squad captain was about to slap him upside the head for not keeping an eye on the enemy...

...across the border line between the two demesnes where a series of debris-fields and rubble heaps made a fine buffer zone from their neighbours to the Rimward of the city. There, deft-piloting Regulators bearing the Westingkrup sigil of the two crossed revolvers beneath a hat taunted their foes from the cockpits of their Sentinels. Beyond the borders, it became evident that, so far that they had seen, at least, Fane Westingkrup had the greatest population block, with its semi-civilian sector sprawling across a good swathe of Mount Tholl's crater, taking up half the upper hive and a good part of the midhive. Besides the various shopping malls, manufactoria and administratoria buildings and the residential stack-habs, the other significant edifice on the Tier of Fane Westingkrup was its Pit of Justice--- an edifice of no-nonsense unpainted ferrocrete whose arched doorways lead to tantalizing glimpses of the sandy arena, the rambling scav-village's worth of hazards and obstacles, the bullet-proof armacrys panels and the bleachers upon bleachers beyond.

And beyond Westingkrup was the Grinners' Tier, the terrace of Khayer-Addin... something that stands out is...

...the colour. The colour, the vibrance of the place, the jaunty hair dyes, the sometimes garish-sometimes gorgeous murals adorning the walls of nearly every building they pass, seeming gay and wondrous and more appropriate for a feudal's carnival or a decadent paradise worlder's playpen of a backstreet.

Presently, they alight upon the Fourth Station, now in Fane Takara Holdings, or so the black paint on white wood's slash-stroked lettering had said. Their few fellow passengers, robed scholars and a half-dozen Adeptus Mechanicus neophytes, shuffle off the train with nary a word, just paying the 14-Scintil fare... one of them pays for both himself and the girl behind him with what looks like a freshly-charged laspack.

Where they presently stand is under the shadow of a slant-roofed waiting shed...
...but that seems to be the only distinctive architecture in this part of the city. Everywhere else is pile on pile of meandering, labyrinthine stack-habs. Above, the sky dims as steel swallows the clouds. Below, the two Orthlack ushers take their positions in front of and behind the Acolytes. Garth, hand on his Hecuter, gives an uneasy laugh as he lights up a lho and says, "Welcome to the maze of circuits, heh-heh, may your cells never fizzle... or so the Taks say. This way, gents..."

Behind them, the traincar they had just vacated has loaded up once more with Takaran commuters apparently with business in the downhive, already beginning to rumble off the station. Here, another train of Adeptus Mechanicus neophytes, with a registrator superior leading them. They seem amicable enough, greeting each other--- and Yarach--- with a babel of clicks mixed in with pidgins of High Gothic, Low Gothic, Mechanicus jargon and Metallican jive in tempered Takaran accents. There, another registrator with some cargo-servitors in tow, the cybernetic automatons standing dumbly with loading claws, some with drill-bits and some with flood-lamps, instead of arms and large bins welded into their backs.


(Arbites get a +10 because, hell, what cop worth his salt isn't trained to root out things like this? AdMech gets a +10for being eletromagnetic synaptisympath waves being a tad stronger in this region than elsewhere. Also, hemmed-in tight-corners and a labyrinth of choking monolithic metal? Tossing a +10 to Mr Volgite. Feels just like home)

Awareness [Challenging]:

Negative degrees of success: Meh. Just quiet.
-1 to 0 degrees of success: It's... too quiet.
1-2 degrees of success: Just a Sentinel patrol over on the next street. Ack, it's these damn echoes and shadows. Five-o-clock high, what's that? Nine-o-clock low, around that corner, hmm, nah, just a scav-tribe looking for dumpster-lunch.
3 degrees of success: Being followed by parties unknown from Khayer-Addin, travelling from rledge to ledge, balcony to balcony, rooftop to rooftop. Possible groundpounder support from Takara side of things.
4+ degrees of success: Ditto...
...and Mr Beans Orthlack has some strange bulges under his uniform. Extra clips? Still stinks of his shyet from earlier. But, there is something... else. The scent of fyceline.

Scrutiny [Challenging]:
Negative degrees of success: Meh. Just quiet. Everyone's trustworthy. Alright, letsch go!
0-2 degrees of success: Locals have been looking at y'all, especially at the two Lawmen with particular interest. Some with curiousity--- their only enforcers of the Lex Imperialis and Pax Imperialis are the Regulators. Some with suspicion, crossing arms or furrowing brows, the gesture of having hands on pistol-butts resolving more into paranoia than greeting. Some with... gladness, or relief--- muttering thanks to the Emperor, but nothing more.
Also, Garth seems genuine, oblivious, innocent... but somehow... impatient and betrays a certain... fear, though he fights not to let it show. Of the place or of Alexei? Uncertain.
3+ degrees of success: Ditto...
...and Mr Beans Orthlack still stinks, is still too quiet, has a haunted look about his eyes, and walks with his hands too deep in his pockets. Walks like a dead man walking... or rather, with a certain ratty furtiveness.

Lore: Numerology/Cults/Legends: [Hard]<--- highly unlikely that someone gets this. probably only on a Nat 1. Heh. Feel free to read it fer the laughs. Or not.

If anybody happens to glance at a chronometer, be it their own or the station's clock, they'll see that the present time is 1111. In certain books of ancient and forbidden lore, that number, that minute, is taken by some to have an especial significance to Warp-users. Others merely dismiss it as the ravings of weirdroot-smokers and conspiracy theorists and those who believe the writings of certain discreditable authors of penthrift dreadfuls.



405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1047, Scintillan Occidental Time

Through the wide windows and dim lighting, the two scummer Acolytes espy a scraggly-haired old-timer behind the shopkeeper's counter. Sparks and smoke sizzle up from the presently vivisected piece of broketech that he's working on. Hearing the scuff of footsteps on his front rug, he looks up and glares with beady eyes blown up by a series of magnification lenses clamped to his forehead. A leathery voice calls out, "What, whaaaat? Buying, selling, trading... or fixing?"

Meanwhile, the crowd that had gatherd around what they had thought would be an entertaining streetfight had already dispersed. Only the Regulator in pink flak remains, his stance easy but ready, his shotgun and daystick grim and unadorned, his face inscrutable behind the visor of his helmet.

[bluntpencil]

"This town's quiet, compared to most other Hives I've been in. Seems a proper boomtown..."
grunts Alexei. He wants to keep moving, he doesn't like it here at all. Of course, he doesn't like it anywhere; he hates sitting around doing nothing.

[Grobrin]

"Ay, too quiet, an folks are starting to give us the eyeball. " Xerxes leans in. "An, I'm not so sure about the help being terribly helpful. To us anyways..."
To Garth
"Glad you know the way. We could get badly lost in here. Lead on."
Xerxes waits until the escort has moved ahead of him and takes the rear position.

[Urist]

Yarach barely notices anything at all, too busy chatting with passing Tech-Priests, exchanging benedictions and prayers of function as each one greets him. He follows his guides, but is barely paying attention to events around him.

[ellna]

Sarah steps inside the Emporium making sure Bin has calmed down a mote before quickly moving through the tables of junk. She finds what she was looking for rooting it out from the shop window. A mass of wiring thickly insulated. Sarah puts the pile of the counter moving around the shop for other items. Finding some other things she piles them on.

Next the haggling for the price. Sarah bemoans the high price wheedling the merchant for a lower cut. The old-timer knows the deal he reads Sarah like an open book. Rising the price to what he can get away with. Sarah starts to walk away hoping he'll try to press the sale, but he's good too good. She accepts his price, inflated as it is. Payment in scints. She tries yet again to change his mind, to convince him to take rounds, but again the trader stands unbowed. Sarah mumbles something and flicks the credit wafer at him...

Buying 5,6&7 and [roll0] Random cheap scrap stuff. Paying with the Credit wafer.

Also Perception in case anything catches her eye. Per: 33 [roll1]

^Like is this a shop... Herp Derp.

[Acco Spoot]

Bin remains in the corner of the emporium, arms folded, his wound hurting more than it ought to.

He keeps a grimace on his face, ignoring Sarah and hoping he can get to the bar soon.

Wow, a natural 100? I think you must have just poked your eyes out by accident :P

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1117, Scintillan Occidental Time

Corrugated steel walls that seem like cliffs rise up at their left and at their right, looming over the three Acolytes and their two guides the deeper in they go. And though the edge of the Takaran stacks seems visible, what sky there once was is now nothing but a solid mass of black industrial fumes. The only sources of light now are diode streetlamps at every intersection.

The ground that they tread is slick with runoff from acid rain... but seems to be oddly bereft of refuse or rubbish. Just what seems to be publicly-accessible power generators at every street-corner and what seems to be a large dumpster beside them. The buildings around them have no doors, no windows, at least, none that can be easily seen, though there is still a susurrus of motion, of voices, of machinery behind the metal...

And the while, the man in front, Garth, has been yammering, and to those who are sensitive to it, he appears to be rambling nervously, talking on and on like a good guide should. "...aaaay over there, across the crater's gap, that's South Station, primary gig of the Sibellus Steel railway. Direct line from here to the capital. Takara may have the ground and Westingkrup may have the people, but Orthlack, hah, we've got the skies, that we do. Did I say that Takara's level is almost on ground level with the, well, ground outside the mountain? Damned good thing that this volcano's largely... dormant, elsewise we'd all be toast, ha-ha! Oh, and Gunmetal'd been expanding, that we have been. Used to be, just the crater-top was inhabited, like a danged molehill, but oh we dug. We du..."

...no fellow pedestrians walking the streets, though. At the corner of the streets marked "Conduit" and "Volt", Garth stops, casting a worried look at his brother who'd been steadily lagging behind farther and farther from his designated rear-end of the party's marching order. And stinking. And shambling. And clutching at his belly. "...hey, brother, what's wrong wi... OH THOLL!"

"DEATH TO THE DOGS OF THE CORPSE KING!" The rearward usher, his colorectal pain having slowly forced him out Alexei's psychic blankness, suddenly straightens, and charges at them, not heeding the Hecuter rounds sprayed at him, nor the rifle rounds that zing in from seemingly nowhere, roaring madly, his coat flapping open...

...revealing a hideous groaning, gnashing many-toothed gash in his abdomen, flicking out tendril-like tongues holding a beltful of grenades. Grenades held together by his own entrails.


WP [Challenging] Tests or be shaaaaken and stirred by this horrible unnaturality.

Awareness [Xerxes takes a -10 here, on account of his not being a Hiver... unless he had some Spec-Ops training that wasn't mentioned in his backstory? ]
[Challenging]: Definite movement, close by, rushing feet, weapons hot, muffled clothing, muffled voices, some Tech-clicks heard. Up and down Conduit-way. Sniper-fire coming from rooftops at least two blocks away. (--- Lore:Imperium/War/Tech {Challenging, with +10 bonus to the Arbites}: At least two shooters. One's using a milspec marksman's rifle, possibly .404s, judging by the bullet-holes in the target and in the walls for the misses. The other's likely using a long-pattern Kantrael Lasgun, possibly ex-Guard on account of the hardware and the the marksmanship at having pegged such an unnatrually fast target. Definite official horns blaring, moving. Regulators incoming. Too far away, though.

[Difficult]: Recessed pneumatic doors inset in the walls of the two closest buildings. Something coming from up Volt Street, farther away but voices are louder.

Scrutiny [Easy]: Yyyyyyeah. "Garth" is upset and angry and confused and horribly horrified.

@Urist:
Yarach spots the doors, all the doors, easy enough. Designations are quite clear, at least to cybernetic senses. The ones y'all had passed, the ones on the outermost layer were mostly the commercial district. Presently's mostly residential/domestic.


405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1049, Scintillan Occidental Time

Absorbed in her trading, Sarah fails to notice pandaemonium breaking out behind her... In her defense, those glass windows are pretty thick. Outside, a gang of lurid-haired looters have run amuck of the mall, yelling strange curses in strange voices as they gun down all in their path.

The gnome-like old man starts to reach for his customer's payment when suddenly he snatches back his hand and snaps up a hack shotgun up onto the countertop and lets loose with a blast of buckshot a mere handspan from her hip...

...just as the window bursts open and a trio of mad-eyed mugs in gang leathers and sinister swinging amulets, rush in, slavering, brandishing two rust-riddled Drusus lasrifles and what seems to be a Valentine laspistol, demanding that everyone hand over everything. Their first comrade to who'd crashed through the window now thuds to the linoleum floor, a ragged hole blasted through his chest. A blast from one of the riflemen blasts old Enoch's hand off, disarming him, and then goes on to ricochet about the shop, setting several pieces of scrap glowing and smoking... including Sarah's shin after one of the initial rebounds from a toaster slashed into her.


Awareness: OOC: The time is horribly. Make yer checks, I'll tell ye what ye get when I come back.

Damage:
Sarah: Shrapnel and Las-blast: [roll0] [roll1]

Oh, right. Roll Initiative, buggers.

Them Mugs [roll2] [roll3] [roll4] <---not too bad but one's real damned twitchy, watch out for Mr Valentine there
Their Buddies [roll5]<---holy crap, reinforcements in "soon".

Enoch [roll6]<---screaming, cursing, bleeding out

[ellna]

Sarah reacts immediately spinning to dodge the ricocheting las. She all, but rips Amadeus from it's case the straps snapping and bolt shells rolling onto the floor. With Amadeus in her hands she smiles and fires. Pile of bolts, wire and pulleys scream with anger as they slam into action. Propelling their deadly load with a *Twang* and a *Scling*.

Half action Ready Amadeus.
Half action Fire crossbow part. vs 49 I assume short range.[roll0]<--Yay
Damage: [roll1]<--Solid.

Shooting at my Valantine:smallredface:

[Acco Spoot]

Smoke clouds Bins eyes as the snarl of gunfire cracks around him, it doesn't take long for the tortured soul to regain his composure, pulling out his bloody axe, already on hand, before a blood curdling roar fills the tiny room, murder weapon pulled high, taught, above Bins head, he recklessly bounds into combat with the thug, swiping the blade towards his foe with no rhyme, reason or sensibility.

The blur of combat fills his vision, he feels clammy hands the cold lifelessness of metal push him back as his advance is repelled, knocked off foot and unable to respond to whatever comes his way by counter attack.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1049, Scintillan Occidental Time

Chaos reigns in the cramped little shop filled with myriad bits of machinery and metal scrap...

...and now, a storm of sparks and broken parts, one dead body, a shopkeeper writhing on the floor and bleeding out from a severed hand, trying desperately to crawl to some semblance of safety.

The short ganger, the one in the apex of their crude formation, the one toting a finely crafted laspistol--- the likes of which the Acolytes had last seen in the hands of Yarach--- takes deadly aim at Sarah and lets loose with a concentrated blast of energy. The brilliant bolt blasts right into the space where the Malfian's head had been a split second earlier, scorching her hair and giving her right temple a flash-burn, but nothing more, just as she brings up her prized weapon and cracks off a quarrel mid-dodge...

...only for the deadly shaft to barely graze the cheek of the nimble raider and then clangs loudly off the shield of a scrap metal sculpture of a knight in armour. Both combatants recover from their leaps to stare at each other once more. A gauntlet of leather-and-rivets gleams on one arm as the Valentine-wielder tries frantically to reload his pistol, muttering and sputtering all the while. "Huu thaah warp ya thenk y'AAARRRRGGH!"

And suddenly his voice rises several octaves and doubles over in agony as a ball and chain slams into his groin... a ball and chain swung by an articulated scultpure that had been set in motion by Sarah's quarrel SPANGing into its shield.

Meanwhile, the apparently mutated ganger who had been perusing various shiny pieces of scrap, long forked tongue snaking out every so often to lick things, while keeping an absentminded gun-barrel in Bin's face backpedals furiously as the mercenary explodes into action, brutal axe crashing down...

...only for the ganger's fighting reflexes to kick in, blocking the blow with both hands on his rifle as though it were a quarterstaff then, kicking off against a display case behind him to a resounding crash of glass and brass, shoves Bin away, sending the merc with too much momentum reeling into an open case of power tools.

The mutant ganger's long, forked tongue flicks out to give his opponent a long lick across his face then lunges in with a swipe across the face with a copper-capped rifle-butt, following up with a left elbow to the neck and a knee to his belly... or face, depending on how well the merc dodges...

Over on the other corner of the shop, the hunchback growls out, "FRAK Y"ALL!" and lets loose a wild volley of rapid fire at Sarah and Enoch the shopkeeper...

...only for his weapon to suddenly fizzle and spark, the cheap knockoff giving out on him. Smoke pours from the abused thing and he stumbles backwards, juggling it in his hands as the smell of solidly scorched flesh wafts up, then he hurls it out the window...

klik-klik-klik! fzz-kssshhh-EEEEENNNGGH-BRAGOOOOM!

...where it explodes in the mall's plaza like a grenade, the gun's barrel at least giving some shape to the explosion, a ravening blast of energy lancing out at the roof, causing bits of masonry to come crashing down.


Muay Thai Mutant: Full Attack on Bin, TN 50
[roll0]
[roll1]<---rifle-butt
[roll2]<---left elbow
[roll3]<---right knee
^---What? Just following the "Combat Abstractions" bit on the Core Book's page 191. Besides, better for drama.

Mr Valentine: Pistol dropped, clutching his crushed gonads

Mr Dead: Still dead.

Hunchback: Suppressive Fire from a Semiauto weapon: Sarah: WP test at -10 or be Pinned. Since the Surprise Round's over, various shop-pieces and displays are considered as Partial Cover.
[roll4] BS TN: 25
[roll5]
[roll6]

Oops! Weapon malfunction!

[ellna]

Sarah ignores the hunchbacks catastrophic weapon failure and continues firing the metal Pins and the freshly spayed ganger. The gas blowing out of Amadeus like a choir of angels made only better by the heavy thwack of butchered flesh.

Log: 0/2 Fate 4/9HP Crossbow 0/1 Nailer 12/15

Two hits against Valentine. 8 & 5 Both Left Arm.

Injuries Taken. Shock mauled arm. Toastered Shin.

[Urist]

Yarach, disgusted by the horrific sight of the mutant, draws his gun and aims at the horrific abomination, snapping off a shot in his general direction, and missing horribly.


Half-Action to ready
One shot
[roll0] TN: 36(-10 shock, +10 Close Range)
Damage: [roll1]

[Acco Spoot]

The tongue lashes out, so sharply and quickly that Bin, slumped against the shattered display case, is unable to deftly avoid its forked tip, the sensation of his eye being forced back is a shocking one, and send his feral mind into a gnashing and gnawing frenzy, he rips at the demonic tongue with his blackened lho stained teeth, coming away with a chunk of the corrupt flesh.
He stands the taste for a moment, spewing the chunks of foul tasting meat from his gullet, dinner and breakfast following shortly behind.
The cultist roars out in pain from the superficial wound as Bin lifts his axe, high, putting his entire weight into the blow, he descends, ripping the gun from the hands of his assailant with the hooked beard of his blade, he takes another swing, finding the soft flesh of his opponent and send the hilt in deep, pushing through bone and sinew to submerge the blade, another and another, the fury continues, long since the death of his foe he continues to methodically plummet the tool.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes holds against the assault on his sanity with a clear thought. I can kill this thing. Unlike the previous visions of horror he had witnessed over the last too short Horribly long hours This one was made of flesh and blood. And Xerxes knew what bullets did to flesh. Hands flashing to the holstered Autogun, he flicks the safety off and it coughs a train of lead at the oncoming monstrosity.

Xerxes Quickdraws and opens up with a full auto burst
WP check to shake the shock:
[roll0] TN 28
Ballistic test to mow down the big bad bowel monster +10 close range +20 full auto:
[roll1] TN 56 or 66 53 or 63 depending on shock shaking
Edit: Oops, used WS instead of BS giving TN of 63.

Xerxes steadies himself as the bullets punch home tearing out gouts of unprotected flesh.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei calmly ignores the freakishness of the situation, and drops to one knee, getting fully behind his shield, clicking his triple-barrelled shotgun into place.

He coolly takes aim, and lets loose with a spray of pellets as he cracks his neck, caring not for the horrific sight before him. The oversized shotgun roars like thunder, tearing apart his target in a vicious sight of blood and bone.


Half-Action to Aim, Half Action to fire!

[roll0] Aim+Short range= TN 52

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1118, Scintillan Occidental Time

Driven mad by shock and sorrow and rage by the treacherous and tainted thing that had once been his brother, Garth breaks formation and charges. He yells a wordless cry, bearing down on the vile creature, emptying his Fat Man's magazine in vain.

The Machine-Man Mujahadeen cracks out a badly aimed shot from the hip and misses wide. The las-bolt sizzles high, melting a smidgen off a balcony on an apartment they'd passed by earlier.

In the sheer chaos of the moment, the flurry of las-shots and solid slugs from above ventilate the two as they close with each other. The mutant is barely fazed but Garth stumbles, bleeding badly. The two brothers hit each other in a filthy parody of a familial embrace, Garth visibly shuddering, weeping, pleading, beating the other's chest with his pistol-butt then trying shakingly shoving his weapon into the other's mouth...

...only for the mutant traitor to literally grin from ear to ear, toss a couple of grenades behind its back and heave the still-struggling soon-corpse of the Orthlack usher into the air, ready to hurl it at the servants of the Imperium who now stand against the vile plans of its master, whoever that might be.

Its legs brace, its muscles bunch... then, at the very moment that it throws the body of what had once been its brother, it is interrupted by a hail of lead, ripping right into the horror that is its belly. Teeth and tentacles, innards and fecal matter fly from the ghastly gash, the second mouth shrieking in agony...

...echoed as two blocks away, two rooftops crumple, crowned as they are with the two grenades' fury. A smoking shadow falls from the roof. Civilians' screams--- in Gothic, in Cant, in Code, fill the air as they scramble to try to fight the fires.

Still, thrown by unnatural strength, the mangled body hurtles through the air, hitting Alexei's shield hard enough to send him reeling back a few feet but he reacts swiftly, efficiently, angling the attack off to the side...

...unfortunately, having the a hundred-twenty pounds of feebly-struggling soon-to-be dead meat rebounding into Yarach, knocking the gadgetman back against the hab-stack's steel wall and the solid, angular block of the public power-and-parts dispenser unit.

Still shrieking in pain and rage, entrail-tongues spewing aciding blood and bile and filth, the mutant twitches once more, stumbling towards the Acolytes. The remaining grenades lie scattered all about, the cloth and flesh that had once held them now ripped apart by various shots. Its once-blue Orthlack livery coat now hangs in tatters, completely soaked in black and red. The street beyond could be seen through the several holes the battery of bullets had punched through its body. The second mouth in its belly gnashes and champs, spewing curses in a black tongue. The smell of roast meat drifts from its putrid face where one of the snipers' last las-bolts had slashed across its skull. The right arm hangs by mere tendrils of tendon and sinew. The left arm extrudes a blade of bone...

"GHAAMAAK TZAAAARRRKOOLL TZ...!!"

...that scrapes a trail of sparks along the steel street and walls as it breaks into a final charge, long legs taking the street in leaps and bounds. Its final curse dissolves into a wordless shriek as it launches itself right at Alexei and right into his blanket of blankness.

Such is its speed that the Volgite Arbite has trouble keeping a steady bead on it... and so for but two heartbeats more, he waited. The three barrels of doom boom once and blow the monstrous mutant apart just as it lands on his shield, gore and filth and body-parts raining all over their immediate surroundings. His left pauldron now bears a quintet of new scratches from the thing's apparent taloned feet and so does his shield bear a fresh new gouge across its breadth from the bone-sword still quivering in the lower-right corner, a smatchet of severed arm still twitching on its end.

Presently, the noise from both ends of Conduit Street grow suddenly stop and then a clamouring rush comes again, savage, uncouth voices resolving into a wall of rage from both sides of the street. A volley of beams burst from the left... answered by fusillade of furious fire from the right... with the Volgite Arbitre at the centre of the crossroads, at the centre of the crossfire.


@Grobrin: Yeeeeeeey, Xerxes shot something.

@Urist: Picking up comms chatter from literally countless voices on AdMech frequencies, many of them the regular Takaran (and apparently Tech-augmented) civilians who are now 1]seeing to the fire 2]seeing to their families 3]rushing for weapons and windows, yelling about
"Fra--- [KKSSSHHKKTT] ---ek rebel scum!"
"Rebels afoot! Comrades, Takarans, to arms!"
However, Yarach's keen cyber-senses swiftly sift through the vox-noise... besides the voices of the outraged civilians, there are also the voices of official Imperial chatter... Though he could discern but smatchets, he hears enough to tell him what's what.
"...gulator squads 15-2 ---[KKKSSHHKKKTT]--- for Conduit and Volt!"
"Col--- [KKKKSHHKKKTTT]--- kawa here. Reg15-21 hold th--- [SSKT]--- Takaran Skita ---[KKKSSHHKKKTTT]--- ng. Let the slaggers [SSSKKT] ---literate each o ---[KTTSH]--- We'll crush them between ---[KKKSSHHHTT]---"


Impact of thrown-Garth+wall+icecreamcircuitsandscrap dispenser damage to Yarach, [roll0]

Zilch damage to uber-Tough, uber-Armoured Alexei.

Them Rebel Scum
"average" TN 45
[roll1][roll2][roll3][roll4]
[roll5][roll6][roll7][roll8]
[roll9][roll10][roll11][roll12]
[roll13][roll14][roll15][roll16]
+10 [roll17][roll18]
[roll19][roll20][roll21][roll22]
[roll23][roll24][roll25][roll26]
+10 [roll27][roll28]
[roll29][roll30][roll31][roll32]
[roll33][roll34][roll35][roll36]
+10 [roll37][roll38] AP 2
^---left
ALEXEI
right---v
"average" TN 65, AP 4
[roll39][roll40]
[roll41][roll42][roll43][roll44]
[roll45][roll46][roll47][roll48]

[roll49][roll50]
[roll51][roll52][roll53][roll54]
[roll55][roll56][roll57][roll58]



405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1050, Scintillan Occidental Time

Construction-grade pin after killing-grade pin pound into the prostrated castrated ganger's side. The fine Valentine clatters to the floor, covered in its wielder's gore. A severed hand flies wide, the left arm torn to shreds and spurting deep red arterial blood as the ganger gasps and groans in agony, draped over the slaying sculpture's plinth helplessly.

Meanwhile, a shotgun racks damned close to Bin's head as he stands in the pool of gore, still hacking away at his mutated assailant. A Regulator in pink flak growls, "Y'all don't lookin' like y'all from 'round 'ere. Put down them steel an' come down nice an' easy. Also... ON THE GROUND, SCUM!" Beside him, another officer adds the coverage of a gold-plated pistol and a daystick already crackling with current.

Meanwhile, the hunchbacked ganger, clearly trembling with shock, is already kneeling with his hands behind his head.


Ganger Valentine is still alive, but pretty much out for the count.
Mr Dead is dead, Mr Forked Tongue needs to be scooped or scraped off with a spoon or a spatula.

Also, the Pink Police is ready to blow if anybody tries anything funny.
Behind him, through what little can be discerned through the glass and smoke, the ruckus is dying down though cries and shots could still be heard sporadically.

[ellna]

"Inquisition business you fools. Of course we're not from around here. How can you stand this heresy to fester at your doorstep. Obviously you are poorly suited to deal with this I suggest you leave before you make further mistake."

Sarah admonishes these foolish regulators. Her eyes a mixture of bloodlust and fury. Her pleasant smile twisted in a hateful grimace. Her hands not moving an inch from Amadeus' trigger. She shifts it's mass, cautiously, allowing the =I= of the Inquisition to be clearly seen by these garish men.

Intimidate: Strength 39. Big gun & =I=...[roll0]
Untrained... 39/2=20

[bluntpencil]

Alexei hunkers under his shield, holstering his shotgun as the bullets bounce off his armour with high-pitched squeals.

"Sh*t."
Okay... time to move to cover... No! Alexei had a better idea. He runs, his shield held up high, grabbing one of the mutie's grenades as he does so, then makes for cover, afterwards, as quickly as he can.

As he does this though, in this surprisingly aggressive retreat (the grenade helps), he activates the loudspeaker on his liveried shield, hoping to put the fear of the Emperor into these rebel bastards.

"Adeptus Arbites, you filthy basterds! Stand down!"

[roll0] Intimidate: hopefully bonuses for the immense bloodshed and bulletproofness being the first these dudes have ever seen of the Judges.

Hell yeah, that should work.

[Acco Spoot]

Blood has covered and dried over his face, his hands, it's in ever fibre of his hair and soaked into every patch of his worn coat, it dribbles from his fingers and from his axe, merges with drool to drip quietly from his mouth, frames his eyes which have shot to the size of pin heads and formed a halo of gore around his brow.

He looks up from his work, barely registering the lawmen at the door, his breathing is laboured and deep, he seems incapable of speech, or simply incapable of coherence. He looks over at the lawmen, not threatening, not advancing, simply staring, covered in gore and fluid, breathing, slowly, deeply, eyes of intensity focused on the lawman.

Intimidate: [roll0] / 33

please,please,please,please.... doh! I missed

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1119, Scintillan Occidental Time

The Volgite Hammer's voice, empowered by his faith, his fury and an amplivox unit, suddenly crushes everything else into silence. Xerxes' shell casings slowly roll across the pavement. Yarach groans as he painfully begins to pick himself up off the ground. A couple of guns clatter to the cobbles, some of the ragged-looking rebels sobbing or befouling themselves. Rusted sigils of blasphemy creak upon the chains that festoon the two incoming metallic monstrosities.

Something in their stride betrays their surprise and bewilderment as all their shots make a mess of the stack-habs' sidings and paintjobs, but miss all of their targets. Smoke slowly wafts from their still-rotating gun-barrels. Paired targetting lasers spear out of the gloom, focusing on the factor that had been apparently been absent in all their other engagements... getting their bead right on Alexei's centreline.

zink-zink-FZAK-FZAK! dweeeennng!

Suddenly, heavy weapons fire smashes into the farther one of the two behemoths. It turns away, its back-plates sparking and sizzling and rounds upon the trio of Sentinels that were supposed to be the cavalry. With seemingly an offhand blow, it cracks off a shot that practically crumples the bipedal warmachine, a great hole melted into its body that erupts out the other side and goes on to gouge a ten-meter slash in the street itself, now glowing red-hot, the pilot never even having had a chance to scream.

Meanwhile, the closer collosus of corrupted cobbled-together scrap unleashes a torrent of fire at Alexei at a mere ten meters away. He hears the gunmen behind him yell and scramble for cover. High-powered las-bolt after high-powered las-bolt cracks into Brevet-Captain Britanov and his general direction. Brightly lit by its own muzzle-flashes, the thing now appears in all its ghastly glory...

...a perversion. A mechanical monstrosity. It four legs--- clearly cobbled from a two milspec Sentinel and lashed back to front. Its seemingly crumpled-together chassis seems augmented by so many different pieces of castoff armour plate that it looks like it was made by Orks. Atop and behind, strangely horn-shaped exhaust pipes belch out black smoke. Beneath its bulk is the weapons-array that looks for all the world like three lasguns simply strapped together and uplinked into the chassis. And all around the dreadnought of scrap are loops and lengths and coils of chains upon chains upon chains.

And painted in what seems to be dried machine oil, dried human blood as well as two woeful wheels swinging beside that weapons array are dreadful sigils that inspire madness and terror and despair in the eyes of all who look upon them...

...and yet now, these things seem oddly impotent...

...just as the crackling cannon itself seems oddly impotent against the Volgite Arbite who stands his ground, hunkered behind his shield. A couple spots on his shield now glow white-hot then burst inwards, lancing into Alexei's chest but his armour and his great fortitude stand him well.


Awareness
[Challenging]: Something coming up from Volt Street and up both sides of Conduit. Judging by the Redshirts and the arms that they bear, it's a pincer movement of Skitarii. Judging by the sporadic shots and screams, this isn't the only patch of Them Rebel Scum cropping up.

Oh, right, and almost obscured by the mass of chains and scrap-armour is a little patch of armourglass from which peers and silently screams a heretek pilot.

[Easy]: Scrapdread's got claws on its legs. Chains all over might make it easy to climb on. And apparently, some of those "rebels" who were shooting at it might have gotten lucky--- either it's torn something or something came loose but looks like it's sprung a leak, judging by the growing puddle beneath it.

@Grobrin:
GRUUUARRGGH! "GHAAMAAK TZAAAARRRKOOLL TZ...!!"
drip... drip... drip... Drip... Drip... Drip... DRIP...
BRAKARAKATAKATAKATAKATKA!
drip... drip... drip... Drip... Drip... Drip... DRIP...
kling-kling-ting-ting
drip... drip... drip... Drip... Drip... Drip... DRIP...
FAK-FAK-FAK-FAK-FAK...!
drip... drip... drip... Drip... Drip... Drip... DRIP...
bzkow-bzkow!
drip... drip... drip... Drip... Drip... Drip... DRIP...

:smallamused: Tossing ye one, ol' chap.

He hears the thing once more, aye. In the blood and in the oil, in the tinkling of the chains and the casings. And then he hears his fellow servant of the Imperium take a couple of shots.

@Urist: As Yarach's cyber-senses fight to reestablish balance and clarity, his head of flesh still ringing from the banging he took, a stern voice from an official command frequency suddenly cuts in...

++UNIT: UNKNOWN AT ENCOUNTER CONDUIT/VOLT INTERSECT, COMMAND: IDENTIFY? LIST: IMP/INQ, CONFIRM? THIS IS COLONEL TANAKAWA. BE ADVISED: WHATEVER UNIT/S AVAILABLE LIST: ADEPTUS ARBITES CURRENTLY DOING: IT IS WORKING. COMMAND: ADVISE THEM TO KEEP IT UP, CHARGE, IF POSSIBLE.

~~~~
Also, if ye succeed on a test (Easy, given Yarach's previous occupation) of Lore: Tech/War, he gets to spot and identify several key parts and flaws that might be exploited. Those Damned Strange Chains. Leg-Joints. The Horribly-Bolted/Strapped/Welded-Together Improvised Multilaser. A Chink In The Side Armour Exposing Some Internals That Was Opened Up By A Lucky Shot. The Cockpit.



405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1051, Scintillan Occidental Time

The Regulator with the ready shotgun now aimed right at Bin's face returns the stare evenly, smirking as the trigger-finger flexes and then he sees and hears Sarah's pronouncement...

Suddenly chastened, the chasteners take a shocked step back, with the one covering Bin lowering his gun... but still, notably, keeping it ready, despite the involuntary shiver twitching at his elbows at the mention of the dreaded and holy Inquisition and at seeing the mark brandished by the murderess from Malfi. "Y-yes, mamzel Inquisitor. You were never here. It is, aye, aye a dreadful shame..."

Sneering at her partner, still keeping the hunchback covered but keeping a respectful gaze and tone, the other Regulator says, "Beggin' yer pardon... Inquisitor... Y'ave any idents besides a gun-brand on a scrap-gun tha's clearly not a bolter?"

Meanwhile, the hunchbacked ganger begins mumbling, trembling and is takes a zap from the daystick for his trouble.


Awareness [Difficult]: Bugger's saying "Help me... help me... help me... help me..."
Scrutiny [Difficult]: It's not just pain and shock that bugger's shivering from.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei thanks his lucky stars that he just fetched a grenade, and breaks into a run towards the dread, his shield held high.

His voice can be heard above all the commotion, thanks to the amplifier on his shield.

"You're goin' down you motherf..."
He continues to run, at full speed, attempting to get within point-blank range of the monstrosity, to toss the bomb into its vision-slit.


Charge and throw, I think. Unusual, but appropriate.

Point blank range, throwing a grenade into the hole, not sure of size TN.
[roll0]

[Grobrin]

Racing to cover with the horrid dripping building in his mind Xerxes turns and sees the Alexei withstand a hail of fire and then charge the behemoth. The machine monstrocity seeming to be the source of the vengeful noise. He turns shuddering from its corruption and sets himself on giving the captain some cover.
He stands and unleashes a barrage of lead at the rebels all the while trying to drown out the sound in his mind with the hammering of bullets. So filled with the internal noise Xerxes doesn't even hear himself yelling in fury.

[ellna]

Sarah's gut twists slightly, she silently wishes these pink thugs a vile death. The fool with the shock stick insults Amadeus. Calling it a scrap gun. Her teeth grit and she feels her hand itch near the trigger. They could not know the truth of the emperor's song, but she could show them... No. Now was not the place. She smiles sweetly, her eyes staring at the regulator with sheer contempt.

"This thing is not a scrap gun. This is Amadeus, ordained by the ecclesiarchy for the destruction of warp demons and heretics alike. A solid stake blessed by the church of the god-emperor is the only redemption sinners can expect. The inquisition has thousands of agents and is all that stands between you and the perils of chaos and you wish to hinder my efforts further with your bumbling. You should be quelling this riot not wasting my time while my lead bleeds to death." Sarah jerks her thumb at the storekeeper. "But no you require my ID." She sets down Amadeus on the store counter and turns and advances on the officer her arm exposed. "Here scan my implant that will surely prove my claims, even to one as ignorant as you." Sarah continues to stare at him, allowing her anger, frustration and sheer annoyance to bear down on him. She draws her bolo knife and presses the point into her bare arm picking out an old scar that looks believable. A thin trickle of blood wells up. Her sickly-sweet smile curls for a brief moment.

Grrr Lies Lies Lies...
Decieve(37): [roll0]

[Urist]

Yarach picks himself up from the ground, static in his auto-senses slowly fading , replaced with the screams and sound of gunfire in all directions. It seems this wasn't an isolated incident. All over this section of the hive, heretics seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork.

Filtering the noise out, he screams to Captain Britanov while scrambling for cover, his voice trembling slightly from shock.


"These units seem to be in the epicenter of the response, Captain Britanov! Multiple Regulator units, plus irregulars, are covering Intersection: Conduit and Volt! This unit has contact with a Colonel Takanawa, requesting confirmation of Inquisition status. Responding now. Addendum: Weak points of Dreadnought-class heretek constructions:
multilaser, cockpit, opening in casing to internals, chains. Aim for those."

On the vox:

Yarach begins a composition on the command channel, attempting to send a message to respond to Colonel Takanawa.

++CONFIRMATION CODE 19483Y49:UNIT:HOUNDS OF HIS MAJESTY THE GOD-EMPEROR'S INQUISITION. COMMANDING OFFICER:BREVET-CAPTAIN BRITANOV, ADEPTUS ARBITES. THIS UNIT IS SECOND IN COMMAND, LIEUTENANT YARACH, MECH-WRIGHT OF THE ADEPTUS MECHANICUS, MAY THE OMNISSIAH BE PRAISED. ENAGING TWO HEAVY MECHS. INQUIRY: SUPPORTING FIRE? Y/N. COMMANDS ACKNOWLEDGED.++

Yarach watches as Alexei does exactly what the Colonel had ordered, without any intervention, and grins under his hood.

"Keep up the screaming, Captain! It seems to be keeping the enemy demoralized."

Lastly, Yarach takes aim at the gash in the Dreadnoughts side, and, aiming carefully, takes the shot.


[roll0] TN=66 (36+10(Aim)+10(Accurate)+10(Red Dot Sight)+10(Close Range)+10(Hulking)-10(Shock)-10(Deadeye Called Shot))
Damage: [roll1]

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1119, Scintillan Occidental Time

The response to Yarach's transmission comes crisp, loud and clear: ++ACKNOWLEDGED. FIRE-SUPPORT, INBOUND IN 10. TANAKAWA OUT.

That done, he snaps up his trusty laspistol. The sights shiver as he takes aim and then, steadying out, squeezes the trigger, sending a bolt of focused light right into the jagged rent, sending up a flare of sparks.

On the other side of the street, Xerxes dashes across, spraying lead all over, making the red-robed rebels drop to the ground or dash for cover. A couple of them, however, are of apparently hardier resolve and stand their ground, raising their rifles once more.

Back-alley garbage, waste-oil and scattered body parts pose no hindrance to the Volgite Arbite whose home was far worse. The pin tinkles away from his teeth as he barks his blasted curse, hurling the grenade that is still encrusted with its former owner's filth and gore.

Overcommitted with momentum and skidding from the slick of the street, he slams hard against the metallic monstrosity's chassis, then spares an upward glance through his viewport and sees the bomb bounce off the riveting and chainwork around the behemoth's body...

...and then it explodes, fire and shrapnel pattering off its armour. Beneath it, Britanov feels his bones shake with the concussive force of the blast, his armour saving him once more from the worst of it.

Something heavy clanks and clangs awkwardly against Alexei's stout shield. A brief glance shows him that it's the improvised multilaser, trying to swivel around to blast at him at literally point blank, only for the long barrels to get stuck against strong Synford-Lockheart steel.

Suddenly, the behemoth's bulk jerks forward, the lower lip of the chassis pushing him off balance and two unholy spiked wheels clattering forth from their chains and slashing at his extremities. Struck by blow upon blow, Britanov is knocked backwards...

...then one of the ferric forelegs lashes out in a blurring horizontal arc, catching the copper across his cranium even as he ducks, slamming him into the pavement, his vision pulsing and swimming, his head thundering with pain.

Just as the second claw descends to finish him off, it seizes up, jerking spasmodically. Las-bolts cut the throbbing air above Alexei. Rivulets of molten metal drip off the Chaos-tainted chassis, chain-links and chain-lenths, armour-shards and machine-blocks slough off as the two remaining rebels fire, not at the Acolytes, but at the abomination, following Yarach's lead and exploiting the damage he'd already done.

Three thick claws of steel, made for clamping onto Mount Tholl's irregular terrain, resolve out of the haze of Alexei's vision, descend like a thunderbolt. Suddenly, they veer off course and embed themselves into the ground near his feet, the metallic monstrosity's leg now hanging on by mere strands of myomer.

Above, the now-three-legged scrapwork dreadnought staggers, sways, reeling, its cannon dragging, firing sporadically. Flames, not smoke, gout from its exhaust-pipes. The cockpit's vision-port is shattered, the front of the chassis cratered and blackened by the grenade. Laboured breathing rasps from the cockpit. A bloody arm hooks out and rattles off a hail of lead.

Meanwhile, behind, the other metallic monstrosity staggers in its tracks, flabbergasted that its weaponry's devastating power has reverted to merely the power of three bog-standard lasguns linked together. The two remaining Sentinels, their opponent's small arms pattering harmlessly off their thicker armour, flank it and unleash a withering crossfire, flaying off glowing chunks and digging ravenously into the internals.

At exactly the tenth second after the Colonel's answer, the promised support comes--- a massive las-blast lances out of the Labyrinth's gloom, leaving nothing but a molten pile of acrid, still red-hot slag.


Xerxes: Keepin' one side covered. Well, mostly.
Yarach: Measly damage, but went where it was needed.
Alexei: Prone. Hit to the Head, down by 7 Wounds.

Desperate Pilot Suppression. [Hard] WP Test to everybody =except= Alexei since he's not within the arc of fire by virtue of Jurgen's "Best Cover = Spitting Distance".
[roll0] TN 20
[roll1][roll2]
If those are hits, who's it hit?
[roll3][roll4]
Yarach's "12" and Xerxes' "13".



405.M41, At the front door,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1052, Scintillan Occidental Time

As if it were right on cue, there is a shuffling of shards and a clinking of glass at the back of the shop. Though the breathing is laboured and the eyes are rheumy, their glare is hard and smoke like fresh-roasted flesh drifts from the fresly cauterized stump.

"...inno deh seh ol' 'less be swang" mutters the old shopkeeper, then hawks out some bloody spittle. "Dedden ken she was a Sighter, if ye get me drift... but trust ye me word, young'ns, she's the Emperor's dog, through an' through. 'Tain't the bolter wot makes the bitch. 'S the blood an' whence it flows. Tholl's balls, ye blaggards! The Fanes must be gittin' crack-shacker'n hack-smacker, what with hirin' buggers like ye. Uppin' swat there--- mutant, mutant, mutant, mutant. Ganger, ganger, ganger, ganger!"

And the while that he rants, the irate elder has been shambling over towards them, kicking the downed gunrake and his cronies when he gets there, cracks off a blast with his shotgun at another bandit in the background whooping past with his loot, then clattering across the pavement with his foul brains painted across the opposite wall. Enoch then cracks both of the dumbfounded Regulators about their noggins with a buttstroke apiece, shoulders a rucksack and begins trekking off to Emperor-knows-where. "Kill them gorram rioters an' restore the Tholl-frakken' Pax Imperialis, not join the gorram looters! Shock-swilled kids..."

Thoroughly chastised by an "Inquisitor" and a shopkeeper, the two pink thugs practically scamper off, leaving a still-cuffed hunchbacked ganger behind.

Turning on the street corner, Enoch nods at Sarah, "Ye owe me. THOLL! Feels good t'be back..."

[ellna]

Sarah watches the receding storekeeper with a look of confusion. She blinks and drags her eyes away from him to levelly stare at the regulators. However they have long since slunk away beneath the wilting barrage from Enoch. She lets a breath out that she didn't realise that she was even holding. Still slightly bewildered she sheaths Swash and looks around at the blood soaked Bin, the pulped corpse and the cowering hunchback. Sarah smiles, her lips drawing back across pristinely white teeth.

Sarah presses her finger into the tiny pool of blood on her arm. She then pats Bin on the back covering her hand in the forked tongue's blood. "Ha. Remind me to go shopping with you more often. Shall we finish up with these fine folk before we hit the dive?" She almost skips over to the prone Valentine, jovially slapping him across the cheek with her blood soaked hand, leaving a crimson print, as her other hand collects his fine pistol. "Don't worry I'm your new best friend. You can talk to your friends can't you." Sarah returns to the counter placing the Valentine pistol inside her bag along with her new purchases. She replaces Amadeus in his case and returns her tools to their home. Smiling as she picks up the hammer. She chuckles as she tests the point of a particularly wicked looking screwdriver. She glances at the fallen foe sadly shaking her head as she closes up Amadeus' crib with all the contents tidied away. She pulls her bags over to the downed enemy. "You look uncomfortable there let me help you." She rummages through his pockets smiling and throwing his claimed belongings into her bag. "There that's better... Now you seem to be bleeding lets see if we can do something about that..."

Sarah stands, pulling something from her bag. She places her foot on his chest and fiddles with some dials. Suddenly the Lascutter roars to life with a high pitched whine and a bright red beam juts from the tip. Still smiling she carves off his wounded arm at the shoulder. "Perfect. So now you were telling me, your best friend here, about this riot. Why so out off order." Sarah grins from ear to ear at his screams and continues to cut parts of his healthy arm until he tells her what she wants to hear... Or till he expires...

Either way once it is done she snips of a lock of his rainbow hair knotting it where his shot had singed her own. Then Sarah tugs open his shirt and carves the =I= of the Inquistion on his chest accompanied with a crude drawing of a hound that splits open his guts. She stands and looks at the hunchback as she listens to the hum of the Lascutter as it winds down...

"So Bin what shall we do with our other friend?"

Search(17): [roll0]
Torture(Intimidation?(20) Interrogation(Not trained)): [roll1]
Happiness(Possibly WP(36) to avoid the crazy virus.): [roll2]

[Acco Spoot]

Bin has finished, he surveys his actions, his blood soaked arms, the deep unrecognisable trenchant axe wounds. "Ha. Remind me to go shopping with you more often." The voice is faint, unrecognisable, the room is smaller then he remembered....

But there, in the corner, slumped against the wall, is his quarry. He takes two books, a pamphlet and a finance record, placing one in the hands of the hunchback. His posture changes, he is no longer the slouching, inebriated villain, but a tall and dominating figure, stood over the hunchback with an air of authority.

Read aloud from one forty four,

He waits for a moment.

Curse thou child! Read aloud afore I send ye back to the scrub hell yea came from!

Intimidation/Interrogation [roll0]

[bluntpencil]

Alexei gets up as quickly as he can, his head swimming from the blow to his skull. He yells at Xerxes and Yarach down the vox, turning off his shield's megaphone.

"Take prisoners! I want them alive! I want answers!"
His voice, although not commanding, is Throne-damned terrifying, which although not as good as being authoritative, is fine in a pinch.

He dusts himself off, and climbs atop the wrecked dreadnought, a horrific grin on his face as he stands above the cockpit, out of the pilot's arc of fire, his shock maul raised above his head. He reactivates his loudspeaker, hoping to terrify him with the loud noise.

"Don't move."

[ellna]

Sarah looks at bin with a quizzical look. Is he attempting to create a learned creature from this wretch? She comes up on Bin from behind wrapping her arm around his and presses a curved fish gutting knife into his hand. "From his own lips he tells that the blood god demands blood. Bleed this wretch as the heretic he is. There is no redemption for him. Let his song lift to the choir of the God-Emperor." Sarah all but leans on Bin, her nostrils flaring with the stink of fresh blood that covers him.

[Acco Spoot]

Redemption? Pah, of course there is no redemption for one as simple as he, I ought to flay the damn bugger alive.

He gesticulates wildly, not responding to Sarah directly, instead putting on a pantomime of some ugly character from his past.

Flay 'im... flay 'im. Ugh...

He presses his palm into his forehead, knife handle resting against his sweaty brow.

[ellna]

Sarah whispers softly into his ear guiding Bin forward. "Yes... Flay him. Par his flesh from his bones. You just got to..." She holds his hand softly like a brush as she guides it's point towards the helpless hunchback...

"Pain is how you let the demons out."

[Grobrin]

Xerxes yelling dries up to a throttled croak as thick Las blasts sizzle over head. He ducks behind the meagre cover and...

[Urist]

Yarach watches his lasbolt sizzle in the gap with satisfaction, then starts in confusion as the "rebels" begin to to fire at the dreadnought.
Units:Rebels acting outside of normal list parameters. Classification error?

As the lascannon blast surges out of the gloom and destroys the dreadnought, Yarach beams a quick response to Colonel Takanawa.


++THIS UNIT THANKS YOU FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE. MAY THE OMNISSIAH ENSURE UNIT TAKANAWA'S CIRCUITS NEVER SHORT. QUERY: WIDER TACTICAL SITUATION? FRIEND OR FOE DESIGNATIONS:BLURRED. "REBELS" ENGAGING HEAVY MECHS. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS, COLONEL?++

Aiming once again, Yarach draws a bead on the most important looking rebel still standing, screaming a warning:


"CEASE AND DESIST HOSTILITIES, OR THESE UNITS WILL FIRE!"


Taking a full action to aim. Rolling in anticipation of firing, if need be, next round. If it doesn't come up, wonderful.

[roll0] TN: 36+20(Aim)+10(Red Dot Sight)+10(Accurate)+10(Close)-10(shock)-10(Called Shot(head)=66

[roll1]
Accuracy Damage:
[roll2]
[roll3]

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1111, Scintillan Occidental Time

The once-cocky gunrake whimpers at Sarah's slap, then practically dissolves into a blubbering mess of screams and wails and choking and groaning. Through the canto of cutting there seep out some vaguely coherent words in answer to the would-be Inquisitor's questions. "Iiiiiee! EH! Izza riot an' a rampage, whosso strenge 'bout... What, what, wh... AAAAAGGGHH! OhbloodyTHOLL! GGGHHHHH! AAAAAARRRRGGH! NNngngnggGNNNNNhgnh! GGhhyyyaaannngggh! DIs-AAANNGGH! Please, pleasepleaseplease, I'll tell you, HHHNNGGH, ever... GAAAAAH! Dis-dis-DIS-nnngh-traction. Damned bitch stole summat far the Boss, mightha dropped it summer 'ere, we was ta gittet ba... Oh Throne, Oh Throne, it huuuuuu-AACCCK! Egviss son of Swail, of Fane KKKGGGHHHayer-Addin. ...Ahhh-ahhhh-ahhh... We don't know, I don't, Iswearnopleasedon-GYYAAAAAH! Boss... the... the Boss goes by many names! Redrobe, Redshirt, Redeye, Renaissance, Ember, Second Wind, Second Coming... frak all, he's a damned madman! But a madman with POWER! Power beyond your wildest nightmares, Inquisition dogs! NNNNNGGGGH! Gaahhk! Nngggh! PTUI! Ggggghhhhhhhhhkkkkkkkkkk..."

Over on the other side of a blood pool and a small jagged puddle of spare parts and auto-supplies, the hunchbacked ganger merely looks upon Bin's gesticulation with an expression of amusement that slowly turns into a deepening, darkening scowl. Eyes unseen beneath deep brows and flaring nostrils glare murder at his captors, not even flinching as the knife flays his forehead's flesh away...

...then suddenly, when Sarah speaks the ageless appellation of those servants of darkness just as the blade digs into his face, the hunchbacked ganger's eyes light up with a mad glee. His shoulders drop as if a great weight has been lifted. He releases a brimstone-reeking breath and grins, flashing yellowed teeth.

He flings himself backward, blood spurting and an eyeball popping as Bin's knife rakes across his face. Flesh tears, bones break as he rips out a coiled, spiked whip of bone-and-bronze-and-sinew-and-steel out of the now-deflated lump of flesh that once was his humped back. He now speaks with a voice like granite grinding upon each other. "A beautiful day to die, is it not, Inquisitor?"

With a horrendous DWEEEEENNNGGK! one crack splits a damaged set-piece megavox unit right down the middle, sending parts flying everywhere. Its first taunting blow out of the way, the tainted twist whirls the wicked whip through the air, blood and fat and lubricant spattering all about, then lashes out in earnest at the "Inquisitor" and her "Feral Warrior".


Distance from each other: roughly equidistant, Face-Flay(TM) range.
From current position... Broken-ass window with jagged glass, one leap away. Door with Mr Tongue's guts flooding the way, [-20 Agility test] six long paces away. Shopkeeper's counter, ten paces away. The swiveling armoured knight's statue/sculpture, five paces away.

Floor's strewn with wreckage, spilled spare parts, blood and hacked-up body parts. Any significant movement requires a +0 Agility test. Failure means falling.

Now is an appropriate time for some -10 WP Test vs Shock, is it not?

Oh, right. Ripback's WS: TN: 50
Sarah, even / Bin, odd. [roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]

PS. The others get Mr Usher Crapper who ate a beltful of grenades together with his beans, two Scrapdreads and a squad of rebel soldiers...
...and all y'all got were some damn muggers?
My, my, isn't that unfair?
Let's rectify that...
...situation.


405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1120, Scintillan Occidental Time

His beast of a machine dying beneath him, his connection to its cannon fizzling out, the desperate--- and possibly injured, heretek pilot had let loose a storm of lead from over a broken cockpit. Wild shots scream down the narrow street.

Xerxes, still screaming from his own slug-slinging charge, dashes for the nearest cover--- a dumpster or a dispenser of parts, he can't quite make out in the haze of adrenaline, fear, rage and survival instinct. He hears the whine of a bullet scream past him as he runs, not seeing but feeling it tear a hole in his backpack as he weaves and dodges. Another round SPANGs from his trusty helmet, ricocheting into the open mouth of a rebel across the street. From the corner of his eye, he spots two rag-robed troopers firing at the metallic monstrosity, something about the set of their stances reflecting the determination of atoners...

...but he has no more time to take anything else in as the injured pilot rattles off another burst of automatic fire. Xerxes' boots dig right, then he leaps behind the shoulder-high solid block of AdMech metal...

...only to be met by near half a dozen of the rag-robed troopers, cowering for cover in the same place he had spotted. Reacting on reflex, keeping his head low, both hands on his weapon, he rams it forward, throwing his opponents off-balance. One of the rebels takes a bullet to the carotid from the heretek pilot's juddering shots, spraying hot arterial blood all over the place. Xerxes then sweeps out, kicking another rebel's legs out from under him, knocks him out with a rap from his rifle-butt then surges back up into a crouch as he cracks another with another butt-stroking uppercut, in the same motion choking another rebel by jamming his muzzle into the man's throat.

Beside him, the last of that group of red-rags yells incoherently at the apparently rabid Inquisition dog who has seemingly slaughtered his mates and lunges at Xerxes, bayonet leveled at the Arbite's gut...

...only for one clean shot from Yarach's laspistol to blast through his head right through the augmetic optic and then paint the wall behind with his brains and his bolts.

The dead red-rag's body falls to the pavement as do the weapons of most of the remaining rebels. Behind Yarach--- who presently looks like an incarnation of Death with a laspistol instead of a scythe--- terribly backlit from the now blazing carcasses of the two Scrapdreads, the heretek pilot's autogun clatters out of his hands as he tries in vain to crawl away from Alexei, muttering incoherently all the while.

Presently, the rebel leader, the one who'd stood firm and followed Yarach's lead in shooting at that chink in the armour, steps up to him, salutes smartly and surrenders his still-smoking lascarbine but says nothing.

The reply from Colonel Tanakawa comes with the distinct blurts of white noise in the background that Yarach easily identifies as screams and las-blasts.
++TAKE ADVANTAGE. KILL OR CAPTURE AS NECESSARY. QUESTIONING, FURTHER USAGE, PREFERABLE. IN NOMINE DEUS EST MACHINA. ETA 5. OUT.


Annnnnnnd practically done, now.
For the record:
Eleven rag-robed redshirt rebels.
One dead, one dying.
One with a broken ankle, fractured hip and a concussion, oh, and facial bruising.
One reeling, dizzy.
One choking.
One dead.
One, dignified, surrendered.
The rest, shocked, terrified, surrendered.

Two heretek scrapdread pilots.
One a series of smoky, greasy stains on several pieces of still-glowing wreckage.
One a muttering, gun-dropping, brick-****ting mess.

[ellna]

Sarah laughs as he rips out his spine. A manic edge to the note.

"A beautiful day to die, is it not inquisitor?"

She stands stock still her pupils widening as a dumb grin occupies her face. Her laughter choked into silence.

Snap out of it.
WP(36):[roll0]<Yay.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei spits on the crawling mess of a man before him, then stamps his foot on his back, deactivating his shock maul and hooking it to his belt.

He begins to rhyme off his rights to his prisoner.


"Shut up, rebel.

I have the right to answers. I have the right to inflict such punishment as I see fit in the pursuit of such answers. I have the right to end your life, should the Lex Imperialis warrant it (which it does)..."
As he does this, and finishes off a list of terrifying legal powers wielded by the Judges, he shackles the pilot and drags him across the ground, stopping only to nod his thanks to Lieutenant Yarach.

"Round up as many prisoners as possible an' contact the Tricorn Palace for a pickup if you can. They'll put the thumbscrews on 'em as quick as you like, I reckon, seein' as the time for subtlety's probably over.

Add their descriptions to List: Rats."

[Acco Spoot]

No... no...

Bin shakes, nervously, agitated, he feels the knife cut ribbons into the mutant, heaving with the motion. His hands cover his face as the vivid hallucination begins to break and crumble, the tiny cell and penitent prisoner fading away with a blink.

With only a vague awareness of the sudden horror Bin draws his hand cannon, two hands on the trigger, he drops to his knees and begins to rock from side to side, teeth clenched and hyperventilating.

WP
[roll0] / 34

.....nuts

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1111, Scintillan Occidental Time

The horrid whip wrought of bone and bronze, sinew and steel catches Bin right across the chest, sending him skidding across the floor. The "Feral Warrior" skids through the blood-slicked floor, stopping at a kneeling crouch, trying to brace his gun in vain. The shot cracks wide, bursting a box of nails and sending jagged metal bits cascading down the shop's window ledge.

"You are... happy... Inquisitor?" growls the mutant ganger, then he wobblingly charges at Sarah, as the horrid whip its whirling, keening, spitting length a mere blur that encompasses half the shop. "Be glad! The Time of Changes is upon us!"


Initiative: [roll0]
[roll1] <---Bin's odd, Sarah's even
[roll2] TN 60
[roll3]
[roll4]

Hmm. Looks like y'all have a chance to gun 'im down, with that horrid Initiative of his. Annnnd that'd be a 19 total damage to Bin, =before= dodging, Armour and Toughness are accounted for.

[ellna]

"Pain is fleeting." Sarah whispers to herself.
"But Honour is forever" Sarah yells fiercely pulling out her Bolo Knife. The acid waves ripple across the blade a scintillating pattern. Already it is wet with Valentine's blood, but it shall taste a foe in combat now. Sarah's grip is bone-clenchingly tight. Her manic grin has cut her lip and now blood fills her mouth. A crazed glint in her eye she swings at the Spine Ripper.

Half Action Draw:
Half Action Standard Attack(38):[roll0]
... 38 -10 +10 For outnumbering.
Damages: 2d5+3=8[roll1][roll2]

[Grobrin]

Xerxes turns and roars at the group of huddled rebels.
"You heard the Capt'n. On your feet you Emprah forsook scum. Make sharp like a or i'll be stitching you all new holes. NOW MOVE!"

[Acco Spoot]

A sickening thought crossed Bin's mind, as if the hands of the Emperor had caught him mid-fall. He tumbled to the left, the bony spine skimming over him with only inches to spare. Another assault flew at him, he dived and bounced as the rolls of fate pushed him away from death.
He takes up his hand cannon once again, the gun more carefully handled this time, the line drawn down the barrel put over the beasties figure.
Father offers me redemption!
The gun cracks again.

With a quip that awesome I have to hit!
[roll0] / 33 +10 (Aim)

[Urist]

Yarach accepts the offered lasgun with a nod, and drops it at his feet. At Xerxes shout, he frowns, and rounds on him with an accusing look.


"Unit Xerxes, cease and desist. This unit gave no permission for you to engage with the prisoner's, and neither did Captain Alexei. Unit Xerxes, unless instructed otherwise by the Captain or this unit, has lost the right to self determination of actions in regard to mission objectives."

He looks again at the huddled masses, as well as the brave man who had surrendered to him, and addresses them, in a slightly more reassuring voice.


"This unit is Lieutenant Yarach, under command of Captain Alexei, in service of the Divine Emperor of Mankind's Most Holy Inquisition, representatives of the Ordos Calixis, and leaders of the Unit Designation:Hounds. These units have been apprehended in the midst of committing high treason, heresy, and sedition against the Imperium of Man, crimes individually punishable by death. These units will peacefully accompany, when they arrive, agents of the Throne, who will hold these units in custody while assessing the situation and crimes committed. However, this unit is intrigued by the decision of some of these units to attack the heretical machines that acccosted us. Why is this? Answer truthfully, and some mercy might be shown, if your motives were pure."

After this speech, Yarach composes a quick message in Tech-Cant, and, attempting to patch into the local vox network, sends a coded pulse to the Tricorn Palace, requesting access to either transportation to relocate the prisoners to the Palace, or, failing that, a local holding area where they could be interrogated safely and thoroughly.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Crossroads, at the corner of Conduit and Volt Streets,
The Labyrinth, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1125, Scintillan Occidental Time

When Yarach drops the Lasgun, steel and polymer clattering on the cobbles--- which his trained eyes easily recognize as a Death Light Mk IV from the Sollex Brotherhood...

...the rebel officer flinches visibly, as if it were his own limb that had been thrown onto the ground.

In front of Yarach, the rest of the red-rags have grown quieter, more still--- whether this is because of the apparently trigger-happy and bloodthirsty Throne-dog menacing them with a Borel-A73 autogun or because of their leader's imminent interrogation or because of something else is uncertain. Behind Yarach, the heretek pilot, trailing blood and oil from neck and left arm, writhes helplessly as Alexei drags him by his chained wrists.

"Because..." the rebel officer begins. His larnyx and augmetics bob as he struggles with what he has to say. "...this, these Units used to follow the once-great Smith-Captain Ernst Zweiker. He... we, got out of it before... he was fully transformed... into what he is now. Or what we assume him to be, by now. Omnissiah knows. COG! If you had but seen what we had..."

When Alexei comes up to the rest of them with his nearly-insensate burden, the bleeding heretek pilot suddenly squirms and spits and snarls. "...THHHRRAAAAITORRRS! Trraaiii-*HACK*-tors! The Maaaaker shall unmake you! THE GRAND CIRCUIT SHALL NOT BE BROK- kaaaaaaaggghh! PWEH!"

...only to be suddenly interrupted by a spent powercell being hurled by one of the red-rags right into his mouth. The rebel in question only smiles innocently. Beneath the augmetics, the other one who had stood in the breach seems to be no more than twelve or thirteen Terran-standard.

Presently, the grinding, shuddering footfalls of a trio of Takaran mechanized cavalry is drowned out by a brief firestorm that reduces the corrupt warmachine that Alexei and his prisoner have just vacated into another glowing heap of mangled, molten metal. From out of the gloom of the crossroad's other two forks, a silent soldiers in AdMech livery herd a train of scorched and bleeding red-rags to conglomerate at the corner of Conduit and Volt streets. Casting glances where they came from, past the mutant's smouldering corpse, past the no longer burning balconies where the grenades had burst, the Acolytes could see Regulator militia forming a barricade, sealing them off from "concerned citizens"... and from the outside world, for that matter.

The cockpit of the lead Sentinel, its underslung lascannon now locked in the 'safety' position, pops open and a lean fellow in a tied-down Mechanicus robe and battered flak vest waves at those below. Speaking in a voice apparently already locked into its oral grille, the man calls out,
"GREETINGS. IN NOMINE DEUS EST MACHINA. I AM COLONEL TANAKAWA OF THE TAKARAN FANE-GUARD. ARBITRATORS. EXCELLENT WORK. A PLAN THAT COMES TOGETHER IS QUITE PLEASANT, YES? TO WORK. YOU WILL BE WANTING TO INTERROGATE THESE SLAGGERS IN SAFER ENVIRONS, YES?"


Awareness (Hard): Second Scrapdread was slagged... but seems like they missed some might-be crucial components. Namely, the engine and part of the weapons assembly down below.
Scrutiny (Easy): The red-rag officer seems to be a genuine article. The Takaran Cavalryman is a danged smug bastard...
Scrutiny (Challenging): ...but seems to be hiding something. Other than that, uncertain. Heavily augmetic buggers seem to be hard to read, especially when half their body's behind a vehicle's armour plate.

To whom it may concern: 400 XP, for good RP and badassery.




405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1112, Scintillan Occidental Time

Swash beats at the bone-ripping twist-brute again and again but cuts only empty, putrid air as Sarah struggles for footing in the gore-slicked floor.

The horrid whip lashes at Bin, son of Bin, missing him by mere millimeters. The fat-cal shot roars from that rugged handcannon, clips the cult-creature's ear, whines past Sarah's nose, rips out a chunk of her trailing hair, then clangs upon the shield of the articulated sculpture...

...the parlour-trick warrior's gears grind once more, the black knight's ball and chain swinging at the face-flayed monstrosity, but misses, swinging back upon its circuit like a large and quite lethal pendulum. The mutant ganger's dodging backstep, however, was enough for it to slip in its long-tongued comrade's entrails and trip backwards, slamming into a stand full of nails and screws and pins, sending them crashing and clattering.

It surges back up, flabby hands clawing ineffectually at face and upper body now festooned with pins and nails. It lashes out blindly now, roaring in rage and agony.


Spine-Ripper: (to all: if d100 falls on an ODD number, it's a miss.)
WS TN: 40
[roll0][roll1] [roll2] (4=Bin, 1-3=Sarah)
[roll3][roll4] [roll5] (4=Bin, 1-3=Sarah)
[roll6][roll7] [roll8] (4=Bin, 1-3=Sarah)
[roll9][roll10] [roll11] (4=Bin, 1-3=Sarah)
Parry: TN: 40
[roll12]

[ellna]

Sarah's face is a twisted mask of hate. Her teeth bared like a feral beast. Her boots sliding in the slick bloodied floor. Bin's handiwork evident beneath her feet. She swings Swash in a wild arc. Stepping closer to the abomination as she waves the deadly point inches from the blinded mutant. Her footing shifts a little, she curses in vulgar Malfian slang, wishing for more grip. She extends her arms fully swinging Swash as though she were cutting wheat. The black knight's articulated motions come full circle she dips below and then leaps off the figures plinth. Her bolo knife coming down at the mutant's arm in a heavy chop.

All-out Attack(58):[roll0]
Damage: 2d5+3 [roll1][roll2]=3+2+3=8

[Acco Spoot]

Frustrated, Bin tosses aside his pistol, taking the newly acquired fish knife in both hands instead, he plunges the blade into his quarry, the same frenzy overtaking him, the glittering blade sinking and rising before the psychopaths eyes.

All out attack! Followed (hopefully) by a Furious Assault, let's see...

[roll0] / 39 +20

[bluntpencil]

Alexei looks to Yarach with an eyebrow raised. It's obvious that he's leaving the talking to his Lieutenant. He whispers to him as the Colonel yells loudly.

"The Tricorn Palace can have the prisoners afterwards. We should recommend the 'rebellious' ones for service in the Holy Ordos, due to their loyalty to the Omnissiah and the Imperium."
As he whispers, he leans down and gags their cultist prisoner, whispering to him, too.

"Yeah, you heard who we work for, filth. You heard..."


400 XP?! Whooo!

Can I buy Talented: Intimidate for 200?

[Grobrin]

Xerxes stops as if whipped and rumbles over to Yarach

"Di'nt mean no disrespect LT, Jus, the Cap'n said he wanted all this Rebel scum rounded up for the thumbscrews. Di'nt think nothin' of it, but then thas my problem, Jus keep thinking when I shouldn't."

Xerxes settles back and reloads the A73 sneering all the while at the crumpled wretches in tattered red rags.

"Y'know LT I think that scumbag is telling us the truth about... Ah Throne Damnit, there I go again... Sorry LT, won't happen again."

[Urist]

Yarach greets the Colonel warmly, happy to see another devotee of the God of Machines.


"Well met, Colonel. The blessings of the Omnissiah be upon you. Your assistance was most useful, and these units were glad to be of assistance in turn. Moving these prisoners to a more secure location would, indeed, be a useful move. As well, would these units be able to ask your assistance in rounding up any citizens who might have witnessed what sparked the uprising? Maybe post a bulletin asking any parties with information to come forward, guarantee of safety?"

The look on Xerxes face makes Yarach's consience twinge, and he turns to him and whispers.


"That is all right, Unit Xerxes. This unit knows you meant no disrespect. Please refrain from taking physical actions unless ordered to, but if you have suggestions or insights, please offer them to me. What was this unit vocalizing?"

That done, Yarach picks up the Sollex Death-Light, and stows it across his back, where his las-carbine normally rests, after reloading it with a full power-pack.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1112, Scintillan Occidental Time

On and on, the horrid whip whirls, bone-bristles crackling, braided and bleeding sinews pulsing, bronze plating scintillating, steel spikes slashing. Floortiles crack and the masonry beneath spews into the air in myriad waves of debris.

The store's flourescents and the fires from the street outside glint on the blood and nails on the twist-brute's face. An inhumanly fast reply of a barnstorming backhand blow, for one in such agony, answers Sarah's taunting. She smells its filth as its massive fist connects with...

...Bin's tossed gun, sending it hurtling back at him, but the feral fighter is already on the move, the sturdy hand-cannon clattering against the far wall.

Her warrior's sense having detected a pattern in her quarry's seemingly mindless flailing, Sarah times it just right. Leaping off the figure's plinth, the horrid whip passing millimeters above her head, the bolo connects with the mutant ganger's still upraised arm...

...and then sticks there, stuck in horribly thick cords of muscle. Dangling by her blade, her desperate feet pound the beast's chest and neck and face with kicks but its lipless maw only opens in a parody of a grin.

Bin comes charging in, the horrid whip's very tip scoring across his forehead but to little other effect. He slides in across the gore-slick on the floor when the nail-faced monster suddenly pivots, either trying to use her as a human shield or trying to throw Sarah's writhing body at the charging Bin, but she braces well, one foot on the wall, the other foot in a deep crack in the floor...

...but this proves no hindrance to Bin who leaps up, launching himself off of Sarah's back, then slamming his newly acquired knife deep into the twist-brute's elbow, passing clean through with a grinding of steel on bone. Bin's supporting hand, once on the pommel, now joins the other hand in twisting the knife around in the ghastly wound. He then leaps off and lands behind the twist-brute, ripping the curved knife free, his quarry's forearm now hanging by mere tatters.

The whip of horror now writhes like a serpent on the floor, splashing about in gore and debris, screeching an unearthly cry as it lays waste to all about it while its master vomits bile and blood, clutching at its mangled arm.


Dis-Armed Face-Flayed: [roll0] Fatigue
Sarah: Dodge at +10 vs. vomit. If failed, blinded for [roll1] Turns.
Whip of Horror: [Odd = miss, 1=Sarah, 2=Bin, 3=D.A.F.F.]
[roll2][roll3] [roll4]
[roll5][roll6] [roll7]
[roll8][roll9] [roll10]
[roll11][roll12] [roll13]
[roll14][roll15] [roll16]
[roll17][roll18] [roll19]
[roll20][roll21] [roll22]
[roll23][roll24] [roll25]


405.M41, Cogrona Gateway,
The Motherboard, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1234, Scintillan Occidental Time

The heretek pilot spits then gags as a ball of Alexei's month-old dirty socks is shoved into his mouth and bound with duct tape. His eyes practically bulge out of their sockets when at the copper's whisper, shuddering at the sheer dread of both Britanov's proximity and the import of his words.

"ALREADY DONE, BROTHER. COME". Came the Colonel's reply as the cockpit canopy closed and he led the way into the depths of the Labyrinth...

...for Labyrinth it was, twist on innumerable twist bending the path over an ever-winding road. The gloom gathered, darkness growing. In Takara, the red robes in silence marching. All around them were corrugated stack-habs all the way to the vaulted ceilings, their steel reinforcements almost obscured by a black haze of smoke.

Somewhere along the way, they linked up with a pair of Chimera armoured transports. Inside, the cabins are cramped and stink of stale sweat, urine and oil. Every bump and grind reminds the Acolytes within that should the rebels change their minds, it would be easy for them to overwhelm their captors by the sheer force of mob action.

Eventually, the transports stop and the bay doors drop. Outside is a looming archway, the gate within, an adamantine skull-and-cogwheel slowly grinding open.


[Challenging] Lore/Tech-Use/Imperium/Guard: These buggers are within standard parameters, but appear to be smaller, in-city versions, at the expense of the armour so beloved of the Guard's movin' metal boxes.

[ellna]

Sarah smiles as Bin rips free his blade free, her own still stuck fast in the thick muscle. The wormy whip writhes and the grotesque vomits. Her eyes flick around for a moment then lightning fast she moves. She braces against the wall and kicks off charging the vile sub-human. Slamming into him as her feet slide over the blood soaked floor. She tries pushing him off balance and sending him hurtling to the floor where Bin will surely make short work of him. The floor on which the bone whip flails with it's own life. Sarah screams as the vomit caustic and vile catches her. Splattering in her eyes and soaking her hair. Blindly she kicks out at the Mutants legs still trying to get it to the ground though now unsure of her success...

Half-Action Move
Knock-down: This be an opposed strength test. I'm rolling against a 39:[roll0]=Fail: By 31
I have no idea what the beastie is rolling against I assume strength 30 so with fatigue 20?:[roll1]=Fail: By 34?
I'm also hoping the slippy floor will help here...
And the foes vomitting spree.
And if required I'm more than happy for Sarah to go down with the brute more of a body slam technique.
The general plan here is to make him fall on his blade so to speak.

I think I succeed there only if the beastie is a S:30 or with slippy bonus Mods.

Also incase needed: the Dodge+10:against 49:[roll2]
+10 from skill +10 from GM and -10 from my shockedness.

[Grobrin]

Xerxes nods "I unnerstan' LT. The calls are yours, an' I'm jus followin' orders. But if I get a sniff o' sumthing, I letcha know...
That Red robe there had the smell o' the Emprahs own terror when the Cap'n was givin him a face full o' hate. Man can't lie when there's a stream o' brown comin' down his trousers..." Xerxes coughs, flicks a look at Yarach and continues.
"'Sides, this scumbag worked for that Heretek Zweiker, an' knows about the monstrosity..." Xerxes shakes his head as if trying to dislodge a splinter in his minds eye.
"So, maybe he knows sumthin' about Zweikers layout, his defences an' maybe how many men he's got. You know LT, he might jus' wanna take this Zweiker down too."

[bluntpencil]

In spite of the cramped conditions inside the Chimera, the other soldiers give Alexei a wide berth, for which he is grateful, considering the smell, and the fact that he can stretch his legs out in front of him as he slowly reloads his shotgun.

He grins a little, and asks Yarach a question idly, mimicking his manner of speech, as he has taken to doing,

"Query: Has Unit Yarach received a reply from this List's superiors?"
He laughs a little, quite pleased with how things have turned out so far.


"Elaboration: This unit wishes to show uncharacteristic leniency on our captives, the muted unit excepted. They showed loyalty and advanced anti-virus protocols. They could be useful in the future."
He laughs some more, thinking that his imitation of the Tech Priest is hilarious, then kicks his gagged prisoner in the ribs, since he needed to be reminded of how screwed he was.

As the bays open, he magnetically fixes his captive's manacles to his shield, dragging him along the ground to the doors, occasionally stopping to give him a little zap with his shock maul, largely out of practicality, but also out of a good deal of malice.

[Urist]

Yarach takes the jest well, finding the Volgite Arbites mimicry amusing, and grins.


"Unfortunately, this unit has not recieved any reply from the Tricorn as of yet. This unit agrees as well: these unit may be useful in the hunt for Zweiker, and",
Yarach nods at the rebel officer across the transport,

"some of them showed exceptional courage and fortitude today. Hopefully, these units can aid Unit: Hounds in executing proper... anti-virus protocols against Zweiker."

[Acco Spoot]

With a continued reckless ferocity Bin swipes at the air, his fish hook knife cutting through the dusty and thick atmosphere of the tiny electrical store.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1121, Scintillan Occidental Time

Twist-brute did fall, legs sliced to the bone
Whilst the two murderous Acolytes
Never reading rights,
Hacked him apart
Bloody fury
Shone

405.M41, Cogrona Gateway,
The Motherboard, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1243, Scintillan Occidental Time

Within the depths of the Labyrinth of Takara Fane
There walked naught but cable-beards in the main
The prisoners had begun to mutter in relief
But clicks and whispers silenced in scuffle brief
As their captors hustled them out
And down a copper-marked route
Meanwhile, the vox crackles for a moment
But only then, before clicking quiet returns its bent

[ellna]

Sarah flinches as the brute finally draws his final breath. Bin's reckless abandon has covered her in blood and with a sickening glance she sees her own hands covered in the blood, coated up to the elbow with chunks of flesh. Her eyes still burning with stinging bile. As her vision returns to her she stumbles back across the blood soaked floor. She's alive, but the emperor's song has fled this slaughterhouse. No longer does she hear it, no longer does she smile.

Fleeing from the harsh reality she dregs the cheap rot-gut from her bag. Quickly she empties the contents. Taking a swig and then spitting out the rising bile before drenching her head, clearing her hair of the mutant's vomit. She wipes clean her hands hastily before throwing on her coat. All the time she watches Bin with a fretful look.

Finally ceasing her ministrations she inches back to the bloodied corpse of the latest threat to her life. She tears free her blade with a repulsive squelch. Hooking, with the tip of Swash, the mutant's charm from around it's twisted neck she snatches it up. Keeping a eye on Bin and a hand on the bulky Hecuter. With her carnal token she retreats to the shop counter and pulls out Valentines' trinket. Holding the two amulets at arms' reach, ready to drop them, she peers intently at them. Fear rising like a shadow from beneath. What secrets do these baubles hold. She ponders this and this alone, Bin's sanguine presence forgotten for the moment.

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Cogrona Gateway,
The Motherboard, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1303, Scintillan Occidental Time

The trappings of the corridors and hallways that the red-robed Regulators, rebels and three Acolytes pass through are mostly barren of ostentatious ornamentation. Faceless chanting mechwrights in one hall churn out las-piece upon pristine las-piece, the sound of grinding and whining and clacking filling the air, riding the aromas of machine-oil and acrid ozone. In another hall, conscript troopers drill with blazing shots and weapon-butts. In another hall, bank upon cogitator bank thrums with activity, a storm of data swirling from chaos into an ordered symphony of neatly coded information.

Behind them, the various prisoners are herded off to holding cells, their wardens keeping them in line with humming Minerva Lascarbines. Before them is another skull-and-cogwheel marked door. The Colonel clacks his way to the head of the line, his gait on foot without his trusty Sentinel quite clunky, pistons and servos grinding at every step.

A metallic tendril from his beardlike mechadendrites curls up to point first at the door, then at the waiting Acolytes. The grating voxcaster in his throat blares out, "OUR APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY. WE ADMIT THIS ARCHITECTURAL PATTERN IS NOT THE MOST EFFICIENT THAT COULD BE. WILL YOU BE COMMENCING INTERROGATION AND EXECUTION PROCEDURES NOW? OR WOULD YOU PREFER AN AUDIENCE WITH THE HIGH SMITH HERSELF?"


Awareness/Tech-Use [Easy] (+10 if AdMech): The Colonel seems to be a double amputee, both legs have been replaced with augmetics... albeit of relatively horrible quality, given his apparent rank and responsibility. Same goes for his--- quite literal--- voicebox.

Awareness/Navigation [Hard] (+10 for Hiver, +10 for Volgite, +10 for AdMech): If successful, y'all manage to take note of enough landmarks to figure out a way out if escape becomes necessary.


Scrutiny [Easy] (+10 if AdMech): The Colonel seems to be commendably zealous about his duties...

Scrutiny [Hard] (+10 if AdMech): ...but seems to be hiding something? A secret strange and sinister? Or something shameful?

@Urist, regarding the above: If he chooses to try some cyber-probing, that would be a Tech-Use [Hard] test. If successful, manages to discern "HIDDEN ARCHIVE: CHILDHOOD TO YEAR FORTY-TWO: DELETED STACK: (GHOST-FILES, RECOVER? [Y/N]?): ARCHIVE DESIGNATION: 'ZWEIKER'". If he fails that, not only does he come up against a wasteland of deleted files characteristic of either somebody deliberately and forcefully trying to forget something or someone... or someone who's undergone some rather specific mindcleansing. And if he fails that, needless to say, but saying it anyway, the Colonel will know someone's trying to hack into his neural net.



405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1126, Scintillan Occidental Time

The ghastly carcasses of three twist-brutes litter the little shop. Bereft of a controlling impulse, the writhing and once-deadly spinal whip has ceased its mindless rage. From somewhere on the ceiling, viscous gore slowly drips. The smell is that of a slaughterhouse, the aroma that of an abbatoir, the musk that of mutants' scum.


@Sarah: Regarding the "trinkets": See PM: "Voices".

Awarenesss [Challenging]: Riot's ceased outside. Some people are coming thattaway. Curious or hostile or friendly? Uncertain due to distance.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei is, once again, happy to let Yarach do the talking, but leans in and whispers to him quietly.

"Would it be consider'd polite ta speak ta her first?"

[ellna]

Sarah shoves the charnel token's into an ammo pouch and hefts her shopping over her shoulder. Warily she looks at Bin an note of fear tinting her voice. "Shall we leave here now?"

[Urist]

Yarach observes all of the facilities around him with awe. Devoted entirely to efficient production, these halls exemplify the Omnissiah's machine perfection and devotion to duty. When he sees all of the myriads of lasguns on display, he almost squeals with delight, the proximity to so many of his most-loved devices near overwhelming.

As they walk, though, Yarach is also examining the Colonel. His augmetics seem crude, as does his voicebox. Certainly not the level usually reserved for favored servants of the Omnissiah. On that suspicion, Yarach immerses himself in the datastream, and attempts entry into the neural net of the Colonel.

Defeating his firewalls, which rise like the shroud walls around a great fortress-city, Yarach searches for any files on Zweiker. Flying through the towers and spires of the Colonel's virtual memory, Yarach comes across a barren wasteland, with an archive designation of Zweiker. Carefully, he partitions a piece of his neural cortex, cutting off any links to outside data structures, and uses it to copy the archive, while simultaneously restoring them in the Colonel.

Yarach turns to Alexei:


"These units should indeed attempt an audience with the High Smith, if only to thank that unit for that unit's hospitality."

To the Colonel, he says:


"An audience with the High Smith would be an honor. Please, lead on, Colonel."

[Miraqariftsky]

405.M41, Cogrona Gateway,
The Motherboard, Fane Takara Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1303, Scintillan Occidental Time

The Colonel seemingly pauses for breath, blank green gaze regarding those before him with a puppy-like tilt. He then lets his beard of cables jack into a port near the door's control console--- a port that appears to be accessible only to acolytes of the Adeptus Mechanicus... or those similarly heavily augmented.

A few moments pass in silence but for the incessant background drone of drudges and the amalgamated cacophony of machinery. Nothing. Suddenly, despite its seemingly unkept appearance, the cog-and-skull marked door rolls back into a recess in the wall--- without any untoward noise. Apparently, somebody has been keeping it well-oiled.

From within, a haze of decompression mist hisses out. Interwoven through the cold, metallic gas is the cloying, almost overwhelming odour of ritual incense. More odours come to the fore--- alcohol, no, contraseptics and cleansing unguents as well as the prominent tang of machine oil and the actinic stink of scorched metal. Beneath all that, though, is the faint yet unmistakable putrescent whiff of decay.

The Colonel's crimson cowl bobs as he nods towards the High Smith's chamber. "VERY WELL. YOU... ARE EXPECTED. THIS UNIT SHALL SEE TO... REPLENISHMENTS... FOR THE MEATBAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING TO THE PRISONERS AND MARTIAL MAINTENANCE"

With no further ado, he turns and leaves them by the now open door. Was that a wobble in his gait, a hesitation? Or just a fault of his medium?

405.M41, Amidst the shop's wreckage,
Enoch's Electrical Emporium
Yesh You Can Mall, Fane Khayer-Addin Holdings
Gunmetal City, Scintilla
1127, Scintillan Occidental Time

Beyond the jagged shards of glass that are the remnants of the shop's windows, the silence slowly stirs. A sussurus of voices gathers. Beyond that, still, there comes the steady tromp of jackboots.

Fires smoulder.

Bin slowly stirs from his seeming trance and simply nods at Sarah.