Dark Heresy (Light in the Void)

[Prophaniti]

Having been taken from their various posts, some merely handed new orders, some sent in secret, a few even went to sleep on a normal day and woke to find themselves in a strange place with strange people shouting orders at them, a disparate group of people are herded into a small chamber. The lights were dim, except for a bright raised area against one wall. After a few minutes of quiet, save for the mutterings of a few, there was a loud clang. A door behind the lighted area opened and a man stepped out. He was of average height, build and looks, everything about him unremarkable. He would have blended in with a crowd in a second, if not for the bright steel plate covering roughly a quarter of his skull and one mechanical eye glowing an eerie green. He was garbed in military clothing, boots and a long overcoat, which he wore open.

"Some of you may be wondering why you're here." he said after surveying the group for a moment.
"You are all now in the service of Inquisitor Escarus. For whatever reason, his lordship has decided you might have what it takes to serve the Inquisition. Your old lives are gone. Now you will begin new lives, as the arm of an Inquisitor in the Emperor's Most Holy Inquisition. You will be his weapon, his sword in his continuous fight to root out heresy wherever it is found."
"I am Interrogator Konthus. It is my job to forge you, to weed out those too weak in mind or body to serve. Emperor knows I have my work cut out for me this time, but by His grace I shall prove worthy of the task. I may even find a few usable acolytes among you rabble. If you will consult the data-slates you were given, you'll see a briefing has been downloaded to it. Read it though and commit it to memory, you won't have access to it for long."

Briefing:

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Ref: Inq/089746251/LR
Author: Inquisitor Alaric Escarus
Subject: Briefing

Overview: This will be your first assingment from me, a small task to see how you can handle yourselves in the field, as well as to grow used to working with each other. You will be sent to the world of Tranch, a minor hive not far from Scintilla, and on the edge of the Adrantis Nebula. There you will infiltrate a ganger slum, gather specific intel, and report back. A simple mission which should give you little trouble.

Planetary Briefing: The two primary hives on this world have been doing their best to kill each other for the past hundred or so years, which indicates that their best isn't very good. The cause for this war is forgotten, likely some offense from one major house to another. Lately the war has lulled, seemingly both sides tired of throwing men and resources at the other. Most of the fighting now is contained to small skirmishes, often raids into the other hives more outlying facilities.

The war has had a major effect on the world's economy as most resources are allocated to the conflict. This has boosted the black market to a great extent as various luxuries are rationed and illegal material even harder to come by.

Target Briefing: The man at the center of this illicit trade network is Thard Gordus, a ganger turned crime lord who now controls most of the smuggling both on and off-world. Ordinarily, such a man would be beneath our concern, a task for local Arbites and the noble Houses of the hive. Thard, though, seems to have made a grave error; he is now trading in proscribed texts and alien artifacts. It has come to my attention that he now has in his possesion various works which might to great harm, works both heretical and damning. He must be captured and made a public example, and any texts or artifacts confiscated, catalogued, and destroyed.

Directives:You will find your way into the hidden warehouses Gordus uses and confirm both his presence and the presence of the illegal cargo. You will operate under the guise of an under-cover Arbites patrol, poorly disguised as gangers, a common enough occurance to arouse little suspision. The gangers will be hostile, but will not attack unless they greatly outnumber you, as such patrols are frequently well armed and not far from backup.

Summary: Find the location of the hidden warehouse and confirm Gordus' presence, then exfiltrate and relay your intel to Konthus, who will be waiting for you. Remember, he is my hand here, any order he gives you is to be treated as from my mouth and by my word.

After giving you a few minutes to read the briefing, Konthus speaks again.
"Departure will be aboard the freighter Crowfeather in three hours time. Speak with my adjutant about any gear you think you might need, and he will see if we can aquire it for you." he gestures to the back of the room, where a small, mousy looking man stood, apparently having entered without being noticed while the briefing was read.
"Report to hanger 5864D at 17:35. Dismissed."

((OOC:Post your reactions and what you do in the time before departure, as well as any questions you ask Konthus' adjutant. You all have a small, spartan cell available for personal time, which you've been staying in for the past few days/weeks since you were brought here. Tomorrow (or later tonight if everyone's posted by then) we will be in the hanger and aboard the Crowfeather en route to Tranch.))

[Illiterate Scribe]

The, short, emaciated woman, with skin the grey-brown colour of scar tissue, shivered, drawing her coat - a strangely out-of-place Commissar coat, trailing slightly along the ground - around her to stave off the bitter chill of the starship bay.

Aviva had always had a strange relationship with the great beasts, with their ferrous skeletons, and lacquered adamantine skin stretched taut over them like the wings of a bat; the craft of the Imperial Navy (or the Adeptus Mechanicus, or the Most Holy Inquisition, or the Chartist families; ownership swiftly changed from hand to hand) were where she had been born, but that memory was marred, tainted by other recollections - of Black Ships, of staying for too many weeks to near to the Gellar field generators, with their horrible, but nonetheless essential, actinic light pervading the cell. Nonetheless, she had steeled herself to come here, and follow her first posting since her 'pilgrimage' to Holy Terra.

She had no need of weaponry - rather bemusedly, she had had a laspistol and combat staff thrust into her hands, as well as a fairly unpleasant looking smooth, long, metal shard, which she was told to use 'should the worst come to the worst'. What this was, exactly, or how she should use it, she didn't know, but she had liked the way the Inquisitorial seal that it bore segued into a mystical, open eye, winged, like an Aquila - it gave her a reassuring feeling that she had someone watching her back. On the other hand, she was well aware of the importance of information - and, so, hobbling forth on bare feet, she came before Konthus' adjutant, looking up at him with eager, if somewhat sunken, eyes. She pipes up in a very quiet, somewhat faltering voice.

Er ... sir? May I ... may I ask a question concerning that which Escarus sets before us as our assignment? This may be a question which our masters in their wisdom qualify as 'restricted', or 'classified' - and if that is indeed the case, then I take this question, along with any implied meanings that it may carry, back - but his message made reference to 'proscribed texts and alien artifacts', I believe - do you know of what more precise nature such heresies may be? Are we to expect ... Immaterial or Xenological incursions arising as a result of this man's actions, or is he merely an ignorant fool who knows not what truly he traffics in?

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OoC: I apologise to anyone's eyes for the small font - Aviva will get louder as she gets more confident. Anyhow, I intend to spend the next 2.5 hours wandering about, asking questions about details of our assignment, and staring at people; following that, she will proceed to the Crowfeather half an hour early.

[A Soporific]

Talmas was still quite sullen, and he had been in a deep funk since arriving. This fact shown through in his appearance particularly in the unkempt status of his uniform. Oh, he was clean enough, but it was the functional sort that cared nothing for appearance. After all, to be unclean on Scufflegrit was an open invitation to death. Such smells attracted the ire of animals and people that were invariably best avoided. Still, this was the first time he had truly been away from home. When his Cenn's defense force was called off to join the Imperial Guard it wasn't that big of a deal, place had always been a secondary concern. It was the lack of people that pulled this mood out of him.

The marching orders lifted his spirits some, but not by much. Finally, he would have the opportunity to do something. Not something that he felt particularly suited his talents, that would reunite him with his cenn-mate, get him back on a familiar open plain, or even something that would give him an excuse get back into a Chimera, but it was something. In the end, something to do would help immensely. The idleness was something alien to someone who had spend his entire life on the treads of Chimera and other cobbled together machines, and the strangeness of an absence of immediate tasks only highlighted the sudden and painful absence of the familiar.

He began to think over his instructions. He was supposed to go to a place he had never been, in a hive no less, and find something hidden. It wouldn't have been a problem if there was one of Clique's Ratling crew around. Talmas didn't grasp how they got where they did, but there was nothing those little screwballs couldn't find or get into as long as no one was watching them. Without Clique's group around, the Scufflegritter would have to largely play by ear. He would have to depend upon his mate's ab...

He ran into a wall of emotion there and had to stop that line of thought, but the block was easy enough to bypass when not in the well worn ruts of habit. The acutal navigation would have to be done by one of his new comrades, but the gangers were more up his alley. His weapons were clean and ready. It wasn't for sure that there would be a fight at all, but that didn't stop Talmas from looking forward to it.

Talmas didn't want to return to the small cube, rather he sought a small personal space to check and recheck his gear. It was one thing to maintain gear because of boredom, it was quite another to maintain gear becuase of the looming promise of activity. Besides, just about anything was better than sitting in a cube missing people that he would likely never see again.

[Prophaniti]

The mousy little adjutant, Kerrs by the badge on his frayed uniform, looked down at Aviva, his expression a mask of calm and almost bored composure. Tilting his head slightly, he answered her in a thin nasely voice.
"The nature of the texts and artifacts we believe are in his posession is indeed classified, ma'am. We believe the danger they pose to be mostly psycological and morale-related, the kinds of things that might spark riots or lead people from the Light of the Emperor. There is little to indicate that there is any real danger posed here, certainly not from the Immaterium." he made the sign of the Aquila with the same bored air of his speech, "An ignorant fool who does not understand what he is selling would indeed be a most accurate description of the man."

Accross the room Konthus, apparently having heard every word, spoke,
"Nevertheless, you should be cautious. There are many texts that we have little knowledge of, and could easily be underestimating their danger. The Emperor knows what any xenos artifacts are capable of, they could be benign as a childs toy or as dangerous as a virus-bomb, or anything in between, and always carry the potential to taint our humanity." his green eye seemed to bore into Aviva, and she sensed a psychic tremor about him. ((you may make a psynescience test to get a more precise feel for it))

Kerrs gave his master a wan smile and nod, then looked again to Aviva.
"Did you have any other concerns ma'am?"

[Vikingkingq]

As he waited for Interrogator Konthus to speak, Guardsman Drake Guilliman stood to rigid attention, clutching his gleaming pith helmet under his right arm, his mutilated left hand held in a sharp salute to his brow. In part, Guilliman was seeking the familiar comfort of Imperial discipline to ward off the deep feeling of dread he felt in the presence of a member of the Inquisition, remembering how his mother had used the specter of "the Inquisitor will take you away" to get him to eat his greenstuff or read his scholam slates or pay attention in mass. Well, mother, you've got your wish now. Bloody old cow.

After Konthus was finished, Drake snapped his hand down and brought his heels to the bulkhead floor with a sharp bang. "Yes, sah! We'll nab this blighter, no problem, sah! Can't say I approve of fighting out-of-regulation-uniform, meself, but needs must, eh wot?" Oh nice, some light duty. And no or-or-greenies in sight, thank the Emperor.

Following the briefing, Drake made his way down to the small cubicle he had been assigned to, and heaved his footlocker out from under the bunk and laid it on top of the bed. Humming "The Legions of the Faithful Shall Trample The Heretic Under Iron Heel," he surveyed the gleaming array of weaponry, kept at a flawless perfection. Now let me see...ooh, I'll have one of them...

The Mars-pattern lasgun came out of the locker, with a mono-knife bayonet firmly attached. Looking through the different sidearms that he had collected over the years, Guilliman went with practicality and grabbed a lightweight laspistol, which he secured at the small of his back. As he checked the settings on his weapons and measured the charge on their powerpacks, the Praetorian lit a cheroot and puffed until it began to draw. Selecting a few spare 'packs, which he tucked into the gleaming white webbing around his waist.

Now for a disguise, doesn't feel quite right, but at least it doesn't have to fool anyone... Drake frowned for a minute, and then pulled out a moth-eaten old greatcoat that he'd won off a Vostroyan in a game of caroc, and complimented it with a battered forage cap in place of his pith helmet. "Well, that should do the job. Damned if I'm going to mess up the uniform, though. Wait a tic, did that Interrogator bloke say we could ask for anything?" The Praetorian smiled. Never give a guardsman free reign in requisitioning...

Securing his locker, Drake left the weapons on the bed and marched out of the cubicle, swinging his arm in time with the march. Finding the adjutant, he pulled the man aside with a comradely arm over the shoulder, and proceeded to blather away.

"Now see here old chap, while my old kit is perfectly acceptable, I was wondering if you had any of the following:
- one mesh-weave bodyglove, as carapace armor is a bit obvious, what?
- one Haig-Class HellRifle, complete with frag-launcher and mounted zoom-sight?
- one Naval Vibro-Cutlass?
- and one micro-bead vox link?

Now be a good chap, and see what you can do, eh?"

[Illiterate Scribe]

Morale related, but a fool; well, I see both good and bad in that. While the unilluminated by the Emperor's holy thought scorn the name of Him that protects, those who turn into the shadows from it poison the well from which we draw our life and light.

She turns across the room to Konthus, meeting his impassive green eye with a wan gaze.

Your knowledge of such matters has a well-deserved reputation, master - I stand in deference to you on this matter. I presume that simply destroying these artefacts, dragging them into the light of true faith is our preferred method of dealing with the objects? For he who deals with them dances upon a fine threshold, but such laxity may be as a gateway narcotic to the three poisons of the Imperium.

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Unknowingly - as with all her psychic abilities (I've finished off the background on her) - Aviva is using pyniscience on Konthus, believing that she is just regarding him.

Pyniscience (1d100)[7] vs. Perception 29.

[Prophaniti]

Kerrs listened to the barrage of requests from the Praetorian with his customary bored expression, his hands flicking accross the data-slate he held. He nodded at each request, occasionally giving an unenthusiastic smile. When the guardsman paused for breath, his nasal voice piped in.

"No, no, no, and yes to your first four requests. I'm afraid we have limited stores at out disposal, you see. You'll all be given MK III Micro-bead vox units, good to about 400 meters in an open field, though of course substantially less in a hive. Suitable ganger-style clothing will be given to you, and any armor worn will have to be at least mostly hidden under it. We have servicable flak vests if nothing of your own will work. Weapons will have to be limited to what is available in the hive, we don't want to appear overly conspicuous. Even your lasrifle there will have to be scuffed and dirtied a little to be believable down there. Quite the dank place, I'm told. All the final arrangements will be made after you've landed on Tranch, most likely. Anything else?"

[Vikingkingq]

Drake's face fell. Damnation. "No, nothing else." Useless bugger. The Guardsman returned to his cubicle and retrieved his existing gear, looking mournfully at the gleaming chrome. "Sorry to do this to you, ol' boy. I promise, I'll shine you right up after, eh?"

For lack of anything better to do, Drake returned to the briefing room, passing the time by blowing smoke rings and idly playing Isolation with his caroc cards.

[Prophaniti]

Konthus regarded the little psyker with an unreadable expression. Strange, he thought, that this one would come so highly recommended. Still, her faith seems strong enough.

"You will do nothing with them. As the briefing stated, you are merely a recon team. Any such materials are to be left alone and will be dealt with by others."

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Your psyniscience test is successful and you are certain that Konthus is either himself a psyker, though he bears no obvious markings, or he carries an item charged with similar energy, perhaps a psionic weapon or warding of some sort.

[Ghal Marak]

Rabalios was rarely still during the briefing, constantly fiddling with the respirator mask attached to his face and muttering a prayer over and over. Tightening bolts, pushing wires back beneath his robes, and other menial maintenances to his persons. He was very proud of his respirator mask, as it was carven to resemble a regular face, a small vox caster set inside slightly parted iron lips.

He stopped with his maintenance when he received the data-slate, and intensely focused upon it. When he finished reading it, he slipped it into his robes and stepped up beside Kerrs. He spoke in the distinctive monotone of the Tech-priests. “Will the xenos artifacts deemed to be of a safe nature be sent to the Technomancers of the Adeptus Mechanicus for further study?”

[Wiz]

Magnus

Magnus stands there, listening to the briefing without comment. He makes no attempts to ask questions or examine his compatriots. Many adepts tend to cultivate an air of unremarkableness... this would be a waste of time for the two-meter tall, gangly albino. Quite obviously void-born, his parents might have been exposed to too much radiation, for his all the muscles in his face and body bunch and twist like tense whipcords beneath a bleached leather camisole. There is a brutishness to his build that is quite uncommon in those who've lived thier lives on shipboard. He carries a battlestaff equal to his own height that looks like it was salvaged from a ship's deflector array.

What value I, now out and about in all this sky. Too large and too new, but so much there is to know. I keep myself and others alive on the Damdhulk. It was my knowing kept the ohtwo flowing and the merglites glowing. Perhaps this is my purpose in the greater universe. To serve the quisitor and stop the dark visitor.

Finally when all is done and all other questions asked, he turns his voice toward the strange speaking of the Imperials. "It shall be done as you say."

[Prophaniti]

Kerrs answered the tech priest's question with a perfunctory explanation of 'proper channels' and 'arrangements will be made', never looking up from his data-slate.

The time passes, slowly for some, quickly for others, with little to do in the few chambers and corridors you are allowed to access. It is now apparent, even to those who did not immediately realize it, that you are on a starship. The area you are in is unremarkable, mostly blank walls, piping and cables showing through grates both above your head and below your feet. There are no markings or indications of what kind of ship you are on, or how large it is.

At last the time for departure draws near. One by one the group trickles in to hanger 5864D, not far from where the sleeping cells were. On entering the hanger, you immediately realize the ship is very large indeed, as the chamber is enormous. Huge openings gape into empty space, invisible energy holding back the killing void.

Konthus is standing in front of an open shuttlecraft, Kerrs beside him still tapping away on the data-slate. He says little, merely directing everyone to board the shuttle, and deflecting any questions. On the shuttle, you are shown to uncomfortable seats with crash harnesses set along either wall. Kerrs remains on the hangar floor while Konthus proceeds to the cockpit and the door seals behind him. Any luggage you bring is stowed in compartments and webbing tightened over it. After a few minutes of waiting, the red lights in the cabin flare to life, clangs and crashes sound outside the shuttle, and it gives a sickening lurch as giant mechanical arms lift it to a launch pad. A high-pitched noise builds steadily for about a minute more, then the shuttle gives an even more gut-wrenching heave as its rockets throw it out the hanger.

There are no windows in the cabin, and no artificial gravity. Weightlessness settles on everyone and you know you are out in the void of space now. The red lights and cargo are the only other occupants of the small shuttle, and nearly half an hour of uncomfortable silence and smatterings of small talk goes by. A change in the sense of wieghtlessness is your only cue that something is happening, until suddenly you are slammed against your harnesses as the braking jets fire, slowing the shuttle as it enters another ship's hangar. The artificial gravity of the new vessel hits you, and your stomach drops back to its customary place. After more clanging, and more waiting, the red lights in the cabin finally wink out, replaced by yellow and green ones. The hatch to the cockpit, as well as the one leading off, open back up and Konthus emerges, waving everyone off the shuttle.

You find yourselves in a much smaller hanger, crowded with cargo crates and run-down servitors. A slightly less battered servitor waits impassively at a doorway leading out of the hangar. Konthus approaches it and hands over a small object. The servitor places it in a recess and clicks for a minute, then turns and rolls out on tracked feet. Konthus directs you to follow, the servitor leading you through a maze of unkempt and battered corridors, leaking fluids and the smells of machines are everywhere, while no one but the servitors are apparent. Eventually the servitor leading you stops at another door, gives a jerky bow, then rolls off again.

Konthus opens it and you are lead in to an antechamber, off of which stem numerous bunk rooms. Again the place is run down and dirty, and it seems no actual people have been here in ages.

"This is where you'll be staying until we get to Tranch. Its an estimated two day journey, so don't bother getting too comfortable. The shipmaster has requested we keep ourselves to these chambers and I have agreed. Do not go wandering about unless I say so." his green eye swept across everyone, "I must speak with the shipmaster now. We will be dropping into Warp space in roughly one hour."

Konthus departs, leaving you to yourselves for the next two days. Servitors show up three times a day with food, and there are working, if disgusting, facilities for washing and relieving yourselves. Konthus returns late on the second day and explains they are delayed by a minor warp storm, and will not be shifting back to realspace for another 12 hours. He then vanishes again, not waiting for questions.

((More waiting! Yay! You may, of course, post any of your actions or speech in this period. Tonight (around 6pm MST) we arrive on Tranch.))

[Vikingkingq]

Drake looks over the dirty bunks with a disdainful eye and tries his futile best to clean his bunk up a bit. "Join the Inquisition, they said. See the galaxy, they said. Bah. Same rotten digs as the Guard, it's like I never left."

Perching himself on the bunk with a blanket between him and the no-doubt vermin-infested bedding, Guilliman fishes a pack of caroc cards out of his greatcoat. "Anyone up for caroc? Just to pass the time, of course."

[Illiterate Scribe]

Aviva's packing consists, for the most part, of neatly stacking the Psykana mercy blade, the writing tools, and the Imperial Creed - and restacking them, so that they balance well. This process takes quite some time.

If it does not offend you, I shall pass.

She regards Drake quizzically. I haven't ever seen anyone so jaded. That said, I haven't seen that many people of any sort, so perhaps this is to be expected.

So, how came you to be working here? If my intrusions are not too unwelcome, I see that you are a veteran - you carry Ork 'teef' and are missing a finger ... it's ... strange. What stories lie behind these idiosyncracies, pray tell?

As she talks, she picks up the mercy blade - upsetting the delicate pile yet again - and, holding it lightly by the blade, begins scuffing it with an oily rag, produced from one of the many pockets of the tattered commissar's coat, in order to dull it down.

[Vikingkingq]

Aviva's packing consists, for the most part, of neatly stacking the Psykana mercy blade, the writing tools, and the Imperial Creed - and restacking them, so that they balance well. This process takes quite some time.

If it does not offend you, I shall pass.

She regards Drake quizzically. I haven't ever seen anyone so jaded. That said, I haven't seen that many people of any sort, so perhaps this is to be expected.

So, how came you to be working here? If my intrusions are not too unwelcome, I see that you are a veteran - you carry Ork 'teef' and are missing a finger ... it's ... strange. What stories lie behind these idiosyncracies, pray tell?

As she talks, she picks up the mercy blade - upsetting the delicate pile yet again - and, holding it lightly by the blade, begins scuffing it with an oily rag, produced from one of the many pockets of the tattered commissar's coat, in order to dull it down.

Drake felt intensely uneasy as the strange young woman with the knife began asking personal questions. To cover, he took a long draw on his cheroot and grabbed for his amasec flask. "Ahem. Well, ye see, I am-was a Guardsman of the Victoria IV Praetorians. My -my unit was doing a standard r&p, that's Recon and Patrol don'tyouknow, mission on the high veldt on Rorke Prima, which an agri-world in the Praetorian Sector, producing high-quality grox meat. Anyway, Rorke Prima had been dealing with an or-or-or-damn-greenskin infestation-" the Guardsman took the cheroot out from between his teeth and took a fierce pull on his flask. "for several months, and the local PDF Rangers couldn't handle the job. So we were sent in. Where was I? Oh yes. So my patrol was scouting along a gully along the northwest border of my Regiment's sector, when a mob of hideous, foul-smelling, things, green, big teeth...hideous big teeth...."

Drake's eyes went vacant and his pulse began to speed up. His hands began to tremble noticeably, and his missing finger began to throb. Pull it together, damn you, soldier! Remember: I am a man, prone to weakness, but I am a Guardsman. "Sorry. Anyway, they attacked, and I don't remember what happened. A rescue patrol found me a few weeks later, apparently under a pile of dead greenies, and I had lost my finger. Don't know what happened exactly. After that, I went a bit funny in the head, I'm ashamed to admit, tended to lose me temper around the greenies, black out again, wake up surrounded by dead greenies. Picked up the teeth along the way, as a way to keep track, y'see. Got a bit of a reputation, that's why they call me "Mad" Drake Guilliman, y'see, and couldn't fit in with any new unit. Kept missing me old mates, I think."

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "And then I got the notice to report for a transfer. Don't know why the Inquisition wanted me, didn't ask. Suppose they might have a need for soldiers experienced with fighting xenos. What's the time-" he pulled out an ornate brass-and-silver chain-clock. "By the Throne, I've been rambling for nearly an hour. Don't know why I did that. Sorry about that, miss, won't happen again."

[A Soporific]

Talmas found the weightless travel to be somewhat disconcerting, and not at all homey and welcoming like a Chimera would be. At this point, he might even deign to be packed into an unadorned one. At least it was something new.

There was a fellow who was talking about some experience with Orks. That was interested to Talmas, he hadn't had any direct combat experience against Xenos yet. He would like to pick the fellow's brain.

"Say," the lean guardsman piped up. "Is it true that Greenskins make thing that they truly believe happen through magic? My Cenn-mates are heading out of fight some invading some world or other."

[Vikingkingq]

His normal level of jumpiness starting to accelerate with the constant mention of Greenskins, Drake took a long drag on his cheroot to calm down. "I doubt it. Greenies aren't intelligent enough to believe things, not like us humans. Granted, they can mimic things, bit like a parakeet, but it's not the same. They do like the color red on things, tho. Stupid buggers."

[A Soporific]

Talmas snorted at the parakeet comment. There were a few humans he would characterize similarly. Many individuals said similar things about Ogryn when they weren't familiar with them, which was wrong. Ogryn throught different, but they still thought. Still, orks were DIFFERENT, so this other fellow was likely right.

"Sometimes mimicing is enough," Talmas answered. "Have you gone heads up against anything else? The most I've done is put down traitors, and even then they were so ragged when I got there that it wasn't much of a fight. I wonder if this is going to go the same way."

[Vikingkingq]

"No, mostly greenies, rebels, a few heretics. I hope to the Emperor that this mission goes easy, I've earned a bit of a rest, I know that much."

[Ghal Marak]

Rabalios looked up from his data-slate and emitted the noise of a cough through his vox. "We are to infiltrate a slum. I highly doubt that it will be anything less than severely problematical. As we have limited information on the activities of Thard, we know not what to expect.” He slid the data-slat into the folds of his robes and continued. “Additionally, no matter what we do we shall stand out as outsiders to the slums. And while it may be assumed by others that we are Arbites, the chances of something going wrong are staggering to say the least. But probability has a humorous way of changing in ways currently un-calculable, so it stands to be seen whether it shall be easy or not.” Rabalious once again pulled his data-slate from his robes and again began re-reading the mission specs.

[Wiz]

Magnus

The gangling whipcord of an Albino looks up from where he's been crouching in a seat, unmoving and apparently unaffected by the various shifts in gravity.

They chatter and yammer and scream and sigh, but nothing they say adds up to Pi. The Damndhulk was quite quieter, but this is a liveship... shuttle, fighter.

He turns his head slowly, the hood of his tattered and patched administerium robes framing his white face. His red eyes regard Talmas. "There are always monsters in the basement." He turns his head to look out the port again..

[Prophaniti]

You are just starting to get used to the boredom of the past few days when Konthus returns again. He tells you all to gather your things and follow him, barely waiting before walking out again. You hurry to catch up and are once more lead through the maze of run down corridors, leaking fluids, and servitors, some of which you feel surprised are still running. You quickly realize that the hangar you arrived in is not the hangar you are lead to now. This one is perhaps a little larger, perhaps a little more clean, and a great deal more organized. A shuttle is parked in the launch position, hatch open and waiting. A man standing near it, the first person you've seen besides your group, taps his foot, appearing impatient. By his robes and the air of authority he wears, he is likely the Shipmaster. He grunts at the sight of you and shoots a strange look to Konthus, who nods to him.

"So these are them, huh? Well, you know your own business, Gar," he said, addressing Konthus, "but they don't look like much to me. Still, be glad to see the backs of you, meanin' no offense. People get in the way on my ship, only room for one of us. Don't know what kind of cargo I'll be able to pick up here to make the trip worthwhile, but I'm not complainin'. We do what we can, for the Imperium, and the Emperor." he sounded less than enthusiastic. Konthus spoke to him in a low voice that did not carry, though you catch a few words, 'compensation' 'audit' and 'Lord Escarus' being key ones. The Shipmaster's face goes even more pale than usual, and he gives a brief shake of his head.

"No, no. Won't be necessary, I think. Like I said, glad to be of assistance." he quavered, in a tone that was less than glad.

Konthus waves you aboard the shuttle, where you find seats much like the previous one, and are directed to settle yourselves quickly. Within minutes, the process from your first trip repeats itself, bangs and red lights, lurching drops and accelarations. This time, though, the weightlessness of zero-g never quite settles, the artificial gravity of the ship being almost immediately replaced by another pull. The shuttle lurches again as it impacts atmosphere, and the cabin grows noticably warmer.

It is not long, however, before the shaking stops, and the shuttle settles to a stop again. The green light comes on and the hatch opens, Konthus there once again urging you off. At first some of you wonder if your on yet another ship, as the chamber looks very similar to the one you left. But as you turn around, instead of seeing stars and blackness beyond the opening, you see gray sky, filled with wan sunlight and clouds of smog.

"Welcome to Tranch. Come."

Not a moment is given to you for reflection, as Konthus ushers you out of the hangar and into a large elevator. Down it goes, past door after door, plunging ever deeper until you are certain you must be below the planet's natural surface by now. Finally it grinds to a halt, and the door scrapes open. A wall of noise immediately assails you, the great machinery of the hive endlessly clanging and grinding all around you. Konthus again does not hesitate, leading you down more corridors, over catwalks that span great empty spaces, and down staircases.

"This is the underbelly of Hive Vergos, one of the two main hives on this world. Most of this area is unused, a kind of no man's land between the inhabited hive above, and the ganger and mutant ruled slums below. Our last stop before you begin your mission is here, a small staging area we've set up. You'll also meet your last companion there, a native who we decided would be helpful guiding you around down here."

Finally, he stops in front of a large steel door. He pauses for a moment, then knocks in a specific pattern. A panel on the door opens, both a face and a gun barrel poking out. The eyes narrow, then widen and the panel slams shut. A few seconds later there are numerous clangs and the door opens with much squealing. Inside is a moderately sized room, the walls covered in racks and crates everywhere. There are four people in the room, all armed with a motely assortment of weapons. One steps forward, a grizzled man with a puckered scar down his face, just missing his eye.

"Gar, good to see you." he glances at you, a sneer pulling his scar tight. "This them?" he grunts, "You sure know how to pick 'em Gar. Only two look like they know one end of a lasgun from the other, and what'd you plan on a tech-priest and a scrivner doin' down here? A child, too..." he stops short at that, glancing uneasily at Aviva. "Perhaps you do know what your doin'. Still, maybe Fii can keep 'em alive. Fii!" He belows over his shoulder and one of the others, a tall lanky woman in her early twenties, comes over. Half her face is covered with tattoos and she bears numerous scars.

"Sarge," she said, "This them, then?" giving the group a similar look to the scarred man's, she spits. "The lot of 'em look less frightening than a ganger whelp with his first gun." She does, however, give Drake and Talmas a second, more appraising look, and another uneasy one at Aviva. "Still, if they know how to keep quiet and shoot, and when to do one or the other, we shouldn't have too much trouble."

The scarred man grins. "This is Fii, her right name's Fira Ralgos. She was a ganger down below most her life, then she was... brought into our service. Great shot, fancy with a blade, too. Now she helps us track gangers with bounty's on 'em, gets a cut for her work." Fii spits again. "Anyway, come in, the lot of you. The clothes you'll need to wear are laid out on that crate over there, and we got some old flak vests to put under 'em if you'd like."

Konthus addresses you while you prepare. "This is it then. Once you leave the door over here, your on your own. Remember the objective here, keep your heads level. Official chain of command is Talmas, Drake, Rabalios, Magnus, Aviva. Don't let that go to your heads, your a team, remember. The chain is there only in case of disputes or emergencies. Fira is technically in an advisory position for this mission. You got five minutes before go time."

[Wiz]

Magnus

Silent, and unhesitating, the albino "scrivener" walks over to the bunks and leans his staff against the wall. He removes his robes with lack of concern for modesty... perhaps a serious flaw, because without the bulky robes his tight packed bundles of whipcord muscles which distort his frame make him look even less human.

Dowatisa... Dowatisa... Dowatisa... and I. Wonder why they need an archivist's eye. Banging and burning isn't my fit. Was hard enough keeping the Damdhulk together without blowing holes in it.
He takes the clothes that have been set aside for him and dresses quickly, putting his robes in his pack.

[Vikingkingq]

The Praetorian, trained from untold hours of the foulest verbal abuse imaginable from his drill instructors back home on Victoria, focused his eyes on a spot on the bulkhead and tuned out the riff-raff and their snide remarks.

However, Drake did clench his jaw at the sight of the no-doubt filthy proffered clothes, and positively blanched when the albino adept begins to disrobe. "Oh God-Emperor..by the Throne, man, show some sense of propriety, of decency! There are ladies present, dammit!"

Realizing belatedly that the close quarters offered little room for modesty, Guilliman found a corner and turned his back to the room, dressing quickly, and with as little removal of his existing clothes as possible. Never thought I'd ever think this, but I'm starting to miss the Guard.

[Illiterate Scribe]

No matter. I have seen ... worse.

Aviva sheds her tattered black overcoat, and then dons the tattered flak jacket. Having then replaced the tattered commissarial coat, she then puts on the overclothes proffered to her. They are several sizes too large - and, did I mention, tattered - but together, they turn her into a mildly convincing hiver - although a trained eye would notice some odd elements, such as the unusual style of her blade, as well as the fine - albeit ruined - quality of some of her garments.

So - while I of course defer to our friend of the 8th Scuffegrit - what should be our principal means of approach? To fail to plan properly would be to neglect the trust that the Emperor places in us.

She looks searchingly, and a little too long, at each of the other members of the 'team', oblivious to any suspicious or uneasy glances that she may receive in return.

[A Soporific]

Being in charge, even in name only? Talmas wasn't overly eager to take that role at this point. This wasn't his Cenn, not yet at any rate. Besides he hadn't even been given a "tha'way". Being told to command a seemingly random collection of total stragers towards and ill-defined goal with little to no situational awareness or intellegence seemed like a perfectly fine getting everyone killed. Talmas didn't know who this Thard Gordus character was, but the guardsman was absolutely certain that he wasn't worth anyone's life much less someone he actually met. Well, it could be worse. That void spawned ghost-thing could be in charge.

"Remember, I don't know nothing about nothing," Talmas stated simply. "But we're going to have to find a hidden place. Fortunately the Emperor saw fit to give us someone who actually has some idea of what is going on here. If inquiries are to be made I suggest Fira and Aviva do most of the talking. Mad Drake and myself will be far more useful if it comes down to a fight, but until we know what's going on I suggest we avoid that if at all possible. I would feel better if we had a bagaining chip, even an obviously fake one, that would 'justify' our interest. Having a small piece of physical evidence to support whatever hackneyed story we come up with would go a long way, and it would be the exact sort of thing that an Arbitrator would try."

He changed as he spoke, used to living in such tight quarters with an extended family. It just wasn't as homey as a Chimera would be, though. Still, the clothing itched and the flak jacket didn't fit right. After he got it on, he quieted down significantly. He felt unclean, back home that vine jackals would have circled the chimera already. He was sure that his lasgun felt likewise. Talmas fervently wished that it wasn't angry at him. Without realizing it, he muttered a little saying under his breath. Once it may have been one of the rote prayers of the tech-priest, but falty memories, translation into and out of languages, and many generations distanced it form anything that would have been considered useful to a servant of the machine god.

[Ghal Marak]

Rabalios looked over the array of clothing, hoping to see at least a ratty old robe of the Tech-Priest.

[Vikingkingq]

Feeling rather miserable in his ill-fitting garb (in all senses of the phrase), Drake did something rather unusual, for him at least: he looked to his Infantryman's Primer and lifted up his voice in a fine tenor.

"Emperor of Man, overseer of all things right," he began. "Whose powers none can resist, save and deliver us, we beseech, from the hands of our enemies." That goes double for me. "By granting us dominion over them, show us the path to victory." Because we're lost without a clue. "That we might follow it in Your undying name." Because we don't have much of a choice in the matter. "Amen."

"Right, what are we waiting for?"

[Wiz]

Magnus

As Drake begins his litany, Magnus joins right in, holding his staff before him almost ritually...

"Emperor of Man, overseer of all things right. Whose powers none can resist, save and deliver us, we beseech, from the hands of our enemies. By granting us dominion over them, show us the path to victory, that we might follow it in Your undying name. Amen!

Magnus grins at Drake, which with his facial muscles distorsts it into a skull-like mask. You see tiny veins of blue and red visible beneath his nearly transluscent white skin.

As Drake says, "Right, what are we waiting for?" Magnus falls in behind him.

[Prophaniti]

Fira watched them get changed with a somewhat smug look on her face, and sneered inside when the stiff guardsman began reciting from his primer, though she did mouth the 'Amen' at the end. Growing up in a hive, you learn to at least show devotion, even if you don't feel it. Charismatic clerics can turn a mob on you in a moment for so much as a bungled signing of the aquila. She'd never had much place for prayers in her life, the Emperor to her was a great, awesome, and distant force, with no import on daily life. She thought he likely saved all his energy for the prayers of important people, and no amount of noise she made would draw his eye. Better to keep her own eye out for herself.

She went about checking everyone's gear and clothing, doing her best to make them look as close to gangers as she could. Looking at them again, she thought, Anyone who isn't half-blind or too drunk to stand could spot them as out of place. Well, it would have to do.

"Ok, most of what we'll be doing here is just bein' quiet. We'll be goin' into the Fist gang's territory, that's where the 'quisitor's man here told me to look." She gestured to Konthus. "They're big, but they haven't had any one who wants to scrap with 'em around here for a while, so they're lazy and soft. If any see us, and don't just start blastin', I'll try to convince 'em we're Arbites, just like the plan. That'll do one of two things. Make 'em slink off to hide until we're gone, or it'll kick the grek nest and get 'em all on us. If things get real ugly, I know some back ways outa there that most a them don't."

As the group spoke among themselves, Konthus looks on, arms folded and face impassive. The other men in the room looked about, at the group and each other, eyes never still.

"One minute." Konthus said loudly.

((Any other questions or interactions need to be done now. Fii will be leading you into the underhive tonight, probably around 22:00 MST, which is my time zone.))