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:

Spoiler

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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

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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

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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?"