Blood Moon - Chapter 1

BACKGROUND INFO: You all have been recently recruited by Inquisitor Vidal Torquemada of the Ordo Hereticus. Torquemada operates out of Hive Sibellus of the planet Scintilla, though his investigations range across vast swathes of the Calixian sector. You have only known him for a brief period of time, and your actual interactions with the man have always proved fairly short. However, you have also heard snippets, rumors, and tales regarding the Master from other servants, acolytes and serfs of the Inquisition as you underwent the indoctrination and training regimens.

You know that he is tough but fair, zealous but generally soft-spoken, devotional but not ostentatious, and determined to eradicate traitors at any cost. Torquemada's other aides seem to admire him for his "hands-on" approach. Of course, he must prioritize his time and presence for the missions he deems most critical, but there is no mission too dangerous or too menial for the Master.

You may have held reservations or doubts when you were first brought to Torquemada's base of operations in Hive Sibellus - and who could blame you? From the outside, it looks like little more than a run-down manufactorum in the lower middle-hive, another decrepit building churning out small arms munitions in a maze of similar structures.

However, once you step inside and flash your badge for the seconded-arbites serving as security guards, you enter a different world entirely. Once you pass through a pair of blast doors at the base of a dimly let stair set, you enter a catacomb of offices, evidence vaults, librariums/databanks, and twisting hallways. The entire facility is thoroughly soundproofed for secrecy and is staffed 24/7 with various carefully vetted psykers who stand watch for those who would try to scry any insight into its shadowy functions.

Of course, you've only seen a fraction of the headquarters thus far...and there are countless enigmatically marked chambers off-limits to anyone but the Master and a few of his most trusted servants. But you have seen Torquemada's office. It's a bare concrete room adorned with little more than the Iota of the Inquisition, the Imperial Aquila, and a few spare litanies on the wall next to his dark, beat-up wooden desk. Beside the desk is a tall bookshelf with tomes of all shapes and sizes, in languages you know and several you don't even recognize. In the other corners of the room sit some metal chests that are secured to the nines with padlocks and chains. It is to this room that you have been summoned today...


The aide that leads you to Torquemada's office informs you on the way that he is occupied at the moment, but that he will be with you shortly. In the meantime, you stand outside of his office, perhaps conversing with one another if you haven't already. Every once in a while, your conversation is punctuated by muffled screams of pain accompanied by angry shouts from down the hall, which culminate in a few muffled gunshots. No one in the vicinity seems the least be perturbed or acts like it's out of the ordinary.

Torquemada emerges from a door down the hall, carefully closing it behind him. You hear him asking an aide if they would be so kind as to clean up the mess as he does so. He then strides casually down the hall, greeting you and unlocking several padlocks to his office. He is wearing attire very similar to that you last saw him in - long, plain black coat, commoners clothing underneath. He tucks away a massive revolver behind his coat, and frowns when he notices a small spot of blood on his lapel. After you enter and exchange pleasantries, he tells you why you have been summoned.

Through various contacts and informants with the Adeptus Mechanicus, Torquemada has heard tales of something going awry on an explorator research station in a distant corner of the sector, at the fringe near the Halo Stars. The station, named Epsilon-63, was established to study the remains of an ancient, subterranean human colony on the moon of Remus-5, a system centered around a blue giant star. The moon's landscape is little more than frozen oceans and treacherous mountain ranges covered in snow and ice. The research facility is led by one Magos Artelinus Tilaris, and consists of a crew of 40 Mechanicus adepts and various servants.

Recently, their Astropathic communication with the Mechanicus has grown erratic and inconsistent. For example, one report indicated that they had lost about half of their staff and needed reinforcements. When prompted for clarification and intel on the cause of so many losses, a follow-up report noted that this was a miscommunication, and that they were at full-strength. The astropathic communication insisted that there was no need for reinforcement, and that the prior report was in error. Regular reports arrive weeks, or even months late.

In a few days time, you will board a shipping freighter heading for Port Wander, which will drop you off in Arvus lighter on the moon. You will have two weeks to investigate the research facility and identify and exterminate any questionable activities before the freighter passes by again, where it will stop in orbit and wait a full day for your return.

Torquemada's expectations for you are simple:

"Find out what's happening on this moon. If there's anything you deem heretical...exterminate it entirely. You are more than the eyes of the Inquisition - you are the boots with which it crushes those who defy the Emperor's will."

[You can ask him any questions you may have for him, as well as make 2 Requisition tests in Hive Sibellus before you leave. All winter weather gear will be provided to you by the Inquisition. If there's any other random errands you would like to run in the Hive before you leave, you can do so now.]

The short, motherly figure of Leta bows her head as Torquemada appears, and does not properly lift it to meet his eyes the entire time they are together. Dismas, her servoskull, usually orbits high over her head, chanting hymnals, but now it hovers still at her waist, silent.
"My lord, what happened to the colony?" The missionary's voice is somewhat hoarse, husky.

The air whizzed and buzzed around his head like it always did. Information flowed through it on sound waves and at various frequencies. Usually he attempted to pick up on the various things moving past him; he never got much from it, but it kept him focused when there wasn't a task at hand. This time was different though. This time they did have a task and he was almost as hyped up as the buzz of data around him that only he could comprehend.

Felyx-080, 80th of his name, formerly of the Adeptus Mechanicus Ordo Dominus, allowed a smile to pass his lips as the Inquisitor read off the mission info.

Another research station. Only this time I have my run of the place. Without further intelligence he wouldn't know what was really going on at this "Epsilon-63," but he couldn't help but think of it as anything other than an egg whose shell was eager for him to crack open.

Unconciously his left hand twitched and the tiny scribe-twines that had replaced his flesh there whirred in anticipation. Aside from that unsightly bionic replacement and the data-interface port at the base of his skull, Felyx-080 was not horrid looking. Should he have spent his days among the Astra Militarum enduring physical training, he may have been considered handsome. As it was, he currently passed as almost-normal. He already had the look of an explorer. His yearning to be among the Ordo Explorator, the main reason for the accusations of "heretekal behavior" against him, had seen him dressed as such. Well traveled sturdy grox-hide boots fit over tan pants and a shirt with many pockets. Over this he wore a flak cloak, as he was no fool to the dangers of the galaxy. A belt with more straps and pouches kept it all together, complete with a hanging data slate and pistol. On his back he wore a tight fitting pack with a long pole and claw fixture strapped to that.

He cleared his throat and addressed their boss.


"Lord Inquisitor, have the only outgoing communications from Epsilon-63 been astropathic in nature? If not, what of their electronic correspondences - have they too been riddled with anomalies?"

Standing at attention, green eyes flicking between several points on the wall behind Torquemada, Alistair saluted briskly. Outfitted in clean, well-maintain Imperial Guard flak armour, most people would notice the collection of pockets, tools and gadgets prepared for easy use. His lasgun, however, was conspicuous in its absence. Alistair was not yet to be trusted, it seemed. Keen observers will noticed the carefully scrubbed contours where one would normally find company symbols and identifiers.

"Lord Inquisitor, Sir. Is the station expecting the Freighter to pass by? I assume that the Mechanicus is not expecting us, personally. Sir."

Alistair asked, his clipped tones and quiet voice audible over the respirator hanging on his chest, not currently in use.

"Would we be the only Inquisitorial assets in system, Sir? Or, perhaps, a better question, is there any secondary objectives or considerations, Sir?"

Donna stood, looking as irritated as she always did. Whereas the other members of her party looked like inquisitorial acolytes, she was a peacock.

Her bright hair was pulled into a tight ponytail-mohawk that flowed down her backside like the tail feathers of a tropical bird. Her mesk armor was bright yellow over her chest and a magnetic blue over her legs, leaving her midriff and cleavage visible in the traditional vein of hive ganger scum.

Her dark eyes were set in pits covered by dark makeup to hide the traces of heavy slaught use, and she chewed on a piece of sugared gumrite disrespectfully.

She didnt have any questions, unlike the others, she was here for her penchant for violence, and as long as they gave her the substances to keep the shakes away, she didn't give a fething bit who they wanted her to kill. She listened to the questions of the others, but cared little for what they actually had to say.

In turn, Torquemada listens to your questions intently and fixes each speaker with a stony stare. It's the type of stare that makes you feel as if he's combing through every last dank corner of your brain, reading your thoughts like the cheap newspaper littering the hive alleys. The type of look that makes you feel a little guilty for things you didn't even do. It even gives you half a mind to fess up to old sins, like the time you beat up some helpless punk in the street five years ago or when you silently cursed the emperor for some astronomically bad luck.

Thankfully, you're not here for judgment or interrogation. As such, you just fidget a little uncomfortably while you wait for his answers. His cadence is smooth and steady, his voice neither high-pitched nor low. He'd blend in remarkably well just about anywhere.

"According to my scholars and imperial databanks, the colony doesn't exist at all. There's simply no record of it."

"The only electronic messages we've received word of are some communications intercepted by passing voidships - but it's nothing more than dissonant white noise, punctuated by garbled, distorted voices. I suspect warp interference."

"To my knowledge, there's no inquisitorial assets, or imperial assets at all, in the Remus system. This is a backwater moon in a backwoods corner of the sector. We just need to make sure those friends of yours" he gestures toward Felyx "aren't doing anything we should be worried about. I think investigating the research facility and taking care of any heretical behavior will keep you busy enough." He pauses, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his coat. "Just don't leave without exterminating what you can. This isn't a simple recon mission; your orders are to seek and destroy if you find anything I wouldn't be happy to see sitting in my office."

"They should not be expecting you. You are free to present yourselves as you see fit."

EDIT: for words and to answer a stray question I missed.

Felyx's continued smile belied the slight nerves he felt at the Inquisitor's look. His excitement was clearly winning over his anxiety.

"I can assure you that these imbeciles on Epsilon-63 are no friends of mine and that they are definitely doing something you would not be happy with." His smile grew wider then he pondered the response to his first question.

"Lord Inquisitor, I would respectfully request those communiques be uploaded to my dataslate for review in transit."

No surprise at all that the Imperial records are light on information about a secret, backwater, Mechanicus research facility.

"If I may be so bold, while the Imperial record is lacking, obviously we know this station exists. And I understand that what we know," he gestures toward the rag-tag group of which he was a part of, "Is on a need-to-know basis. The logic of that makes total sense. However, if we are to gain access uninvited, any physical information you may have would go a long way in seeing us complete our mission. Assuming you have access to schematics or facility layout, I would humbly request access to those as well for review."

His hand fidgeted on his data-slate, eager to pour over what little information the team had access to.

Torquemada nodded politely.

"Yes, I will let one of our data technicians here know that you should have access to the communications from the station, as well as the schematics we have on hand. Though you should keep in mind that there are no guarantees that they haven't modified the station, or made any additions. We just have the original blueprint."

"To be clear, imperial data is lacking regarding the colony, not the research facility. I've given you what I could gather from the Mechanicus regarding the research station. It's the remains of the human colony that is an enigma."


[Assuming you have no more questions...]

Torquemada dismisses you, urging you to gather whatever equipment you may need now before meeting your orbital taxi in 3 days time. He gives you the address for the landing pad, letting you know that the pilot will be expecting you and that you should ensure that you are there on time.

[I'll ask that you briefly role play/detail your search through the hive and interactions with local merchants for requisitioning your gear.]

Two hours later and Mission Leta is in a busy mid-hive marketplace, thick with the bustle of business and the air is rife with the smell of humanity and all the spices and perfumes used to mask it.
She has pulled together a crude platfrom, lay out her wooden bowl and is talking to Dismas.
"So I want Redemptionist's March part III in E-minor, starting quiet and reaching a crescendo, can you manage that?"
The hollow-eyed skull beeps compliantly.
"Good lad." she smiles, giving it an affectionate rub.

As the solemn song begins, the priestess starts chanting in high gothic, getting a few looks.
The song continues to build until, with a crash of thunder, she starts a powerful sermon on the Emperor's love for humanity and their duty to serve their fellow man for humanity as a whole. To give up their pride, their petty feuds and worldly possessions, in order to find true grace in service.

The woman is exotic by the standards of the hive, and her theatrical, hellfire preaching strikes a primal chord in many onlookers, her bowl soon fills with coin and cheers join the percussive rumble pouring from Dismas at each interval.
As she draws the address to a close, she has the faithful link arms and join each other in prayer, before finally giving blessings to a pregnant woman and her child-to-be, and leaving.

She hunts around for a suitable trader, tucking a lock of hair back into her bun, pleased with how well her oration took. It was generic, but she knew little of this world, and it clearly struck a chord with the hivers.
She enters a scrap-traders, selling technology refurbished from past lives, and the scrawny young man is happy to take her money. Not sure on the value of things here, she tries her best to gauge him on how many coins she places down, alongside a small earpiece to connect to vox-networks, as well as a box that could capture sights, but as she walks out with just the earbead and no more coins, she can't help but feel as if she got a raw deal.

"Yes Sir. Glad there isn't any additional concerns."

Alistair studiously ignored the gaze of Torquemada. Having dealt with Commissars before, the strong feeling of unease and illogical guilt was nothing new. The difference was that, well, one would shoot you for thinking about home too loudly, and the other... was too distressing to consider.

----
As Felyx requested schematics of the station, Alistair nodded thoughtfully.

"Additionally, Sir, if we could also get any information on the moon itself? Atmosphere, local flora and fauna, gravity, terrain, size and shape, whatever we can get Sir."

---

With the dismissal of the acolytes, Alistair salutes. With the haste born of purpose, Alistair quickly retrieves his lasgun from the Inquisition security guard, before pausing with a thought.

"Hello, just a question that I'm hoping you can help me with. I would like to acquire some gear before heading off world. Would you be able to recommend someone or somewhere for me to go to?"

It was a long shot, but Alistair hadn't spent much time on Scintilla as of yet, and hopefully a fellow Inquisitorial agent would be willing to point him in the right direction.

Donna goes down into the lower hive levels.

Here, she was more in her element than in some inquisitors office. She spent much time down here since being whisked away from her own world. The gangs here were fierce and territorious, but there was a relative piece and she had drank and done whatever illicit materials she could find with many of the different gangs.

Down here in the dregs of proper civilization, she could find what she needed. She went to a weasley trader who was known to deal with all the gangs. The greedy and squat man saw her approaching and instantly was all business. "What can I get for you?"

She looks at all the items on the shelf, "Im gonna need that holster, and that rebreather."
He looks at the items indicated, his eyes lighting up with glee. "Thatll be lots of thrones, you good for it?" he asked.

She smiled and leaned in close. "And some slaught, my price? Not tellin the arbites bout your operation down here."

He laughed, as he did when he was nervous, "Whats a few items between friends eh?" he asked as he retrieved what she asked for.

Felyx-080 made his way out of the Inquisitor's office politely. He was all smiles as he went. He had schematics and white-noise to pour over; what could be more exciting? But he knew he had other responsibilities to tend to before that. They were going to be traveling to a hostile moon. Thankfully they would be provided with survival gear, but he needed more than that. Harsh weather was not the only enemy on this little trip.

His brain ran through a litany of possible encounter scenarios: hereteks experimenting well outside the boundaries of what was proper, perhaps tinkering with xenos technology; perhaps they had traded allegiance from the Imperium to one of its many enemies; perhaps there was archaeotech they could not possibly comprehend and it was causing internal strife.

He was practically salivating at the possibilities. But he needed tools - more than what was being provided anyways.

He made his way to the lower-mid section of the current hive stack. In an alleyway off the main drag was a merchant he had dealt with before. The borderline-heretek couldn't simply walk into a gangers hole and barter for what he wanted. Not if he wanted to end up ith second-rate, malfunctioning garbage. And then he would have to plot a way to murder who had sold it to him. It was too time consuming. No, he needed someone reputable.

The shop smelled of sweet, holy lubricants and oils. The whirring and soft clanking of well taken care of machinery greeted his ears as he entered. A soft bell above the door announced his arrival. The proprietor, a heavily augmented man named Brayzun, who had always been fair to Felyx wasn't around. In his stead was a horrid looking woman with two green bionic replacements where her eyes should have been. Brayzun's daughter.

Feth.

"Brayzla, your face is look beautimous as the Omnissiah's chrome hind quarters look," he began in Low Gothic. Her bionic eyes came as close to rolling as they could.

"Emperor's holy balls. Your Low Gothic is still grox shit, you know that?"

"Ha. Ha. You make joke. Was fun. You joke was fun."

"Stop with the small talk. You're making me want to put a stubber into my mouth and see how many shots I could get off." She folded her arms over large, not very comfortable looking, breasts. "What do you want?"

"I would like to speak Brayzun. Your father. Is he being here?"

She shook her head. His heart sank. He cleared his throat and decided to go for it.

"I would like-"

"No."

"Maybe you could-"

"No."

He was getting frustrated, but did his best not to let it show. The grox held all the cards and she knew it.

"MonotaskServoSkullForToHackWith!" He blurted out before she could respond. She stood stone faced for a few seconds before erupting into laughter. When she composed herself, she sounded simultaneously bemused and annoyed.

"Look, I don't know what my dad sees in you, but he ain't here and I say you ain't gettin' shit. You know why? Because you don't seem right to me. Never have. I doubt you even have the thrones to spend - probably swindling my dad, I'll bet."

Felyx-080 didn't give her the pleasure of responding verbally. Instead, he frustratedly drew out a handful of solid thrones from a concealed pouch on his belt. It was close to his stub revolver and for a brief moment he thought about taking her up on seeing how many shots he could get off into her head before logic took over.

"Explosives."

She cocked an eyebrow. He felt as though she would deny him again, but after a moment she nodded and directed him to a drawer filled with fuel filled bottles.

"Best I can do."

The Inquisitorial agent looked surprised, apparently people asking for directions in an Inquisitorial base wasn't particularly common.

"What? Gear? Uhhh, there's the Quartermaster, down that hall, follow the hauling servitors. Fair warning, I wouldn't bet on your chances of anything."

"Regardless, I thank you for your assistance"

------

Alistair knocked loudly on the door frame, dodging the numerous Servitors moving in and out of the room. Standing in the middle of the room, coordinating the bustle like some deranged, shouting conductor, stood the figure that Alistair assumed was known as the 'Quartermaster".

"Excuse me, I've been told to come to you in order requisition some gear?"

"Your name?" came the response

"Alista -"

"Trick question. The answer is no."

"I'm sorry-"

"You will be if you don't leave right now. I have no time for fething idiots that can't follow rudimentary regulations and fill out basic paperwork."

"Where-"

"Not my problem. Sort it out with your superior. Now, feth off, before one of these servitors decides to store your limbs in separate boxes."

Alistair beat a quick retreat. That was a good start. With my luck, next time I'll piss off the Inquisitor.

-----

Thoroughly chastised, Alistair left the manufactorium covering as Torquemada's base, with a embarrassed glance at the smirking security guard. With a shrug, he moved through the alleys and backstreets of Hive Sibellus, heading to the one of the few places he would be accepted. Within an hour, he stood at the door of a Order Hospitaller covenant, pushing past the long line of the sick, infirm and wounded. A stern faced older women stared at him, looking both wary and confused.

"Can I request bed and board for a couple days?" he asked respectfully. The Order Hospitaller was a favourite of Imperial Guardsman across the sector. There was nothing like some angelic saviour fussing over wounded soldiers for improving morale. Of course, the number of minor injuries would often skyrocket, for unrelated reasons.

"I have some medical training. I'm happy to earn my keep. I can also pay if needed." he offered. The woman's face softened, and offered a weak smile.

"We're in desperate need of trained staff at the moment. I would normally ask why a guardsman is here, instead of with his regiment, but at this stage, I will not question the Emperor's blessing. If you can help, you can stay here as long as you want."

--- ---

The next couple of days were filled with sick people, frantic treatments and the deep sleep born purely from exhaustion. Despite the harsh workload, Alistair seemed to enjoy himself. The elderly matron, Ephrael, had a wicked wit, and the Sisters were happy to have an extra pair of hands doing the Emperor's work.

On the day he had to leave, Ephrael approached him with a box in her hands.

"I appreciate the help you have given. We can't give you much, but hopefully, with this, you can continue serving the Emperor." She smiled, the constant tiredness etched clearly across her features. The box contained a collection of basic medical equipment, packaged into a kit and stamped with the Hospitaller sigil.

"Thank you, your generosity is much appreciated. Will you accept payment?"

"Just do your Duty to the Emperor,"

"I plan to do just that."

Damiel stood quietly, focusing on breathing quietly and avoiding anyone's gaze. Even his soft breath has been known to bring people to violence. He was often told as a child to eat in another room, breath quieter, or to stop thinking so loud. Damiel held the rare privilege of being hated by everyone, not because he had a hateful personality or particularly distateful looks, but because he had lost the genetic lottery and was born one of the few of untold billions who had no soul. It was because of this that his very presence made people uncomfortable to the point of violence, often lashing out at his smallest disruptions.

And so Damiel has become a quiet man, only opening his mouth on matters of the utmost importance. It was this very point of the conversation that he spoke, and his voice assaulted the ears of those in range. Every strong consonant struck like a needle to the eardrum, every soft vowel drowned like water.

"Do you have a list of personnel? Registered psykers? It would make it easier if I knew who to keep tabs on."

Still, many years of constant negative reactions have made him highly unapolagetic. He kept polite and succinct in his speech, but cared little for the discomfort he knew he caused others.

+++

After the meeting, Damiel took to the streets of Scintilla, hoping to find some important gear for their journey. He kept mobile and aware as he moved, he had more than once caught a ganger's blade as they passed, and often received heavy shoves as he brushed against the multitude of people in the streets. He walked through many shops and stores in ganger town, consistently seeing the barrel of laspistols and glint of knives as he was less-than-politely denied service. The further he moved up the spires, the fewer stores pointed weapons at him, but it wasn't until he made it to the top of mid-town that he found a store which accepted him. In a high-brow martial art outlet, he found what he was looking for,

"Is that for sale?" Addressing the clerk as he pointed to a glaive resting on the wall.

The clerk sighed heavily as he walked from behind the counter to the polearm, detaching it from its mounting and handing it to Damiel. "You look like you'd steal it if it wasn't. Do you have any thrones, ganger?" He said shortly.

"I'm not a thief and I'm not a ganger, just looking for something to put on my wall after I started taking weapons classes. I've got the money." He says, reaching into the top of his robes and removing a few big notes. "Is this good enough?" He says as he hands the bills to the man.

"Yeah, whatever. Take the sheathe and get on." The clerk replies as he walks back to the counter. Damiel gives a nod and walks out of the store, the new weapon slung over his shoulder.

His next order of business was one he wasn't entirely sure he could get easily. He returned to the lower habs and scouted out a few dealers. After a couple hours, he decided to approach one of them.

"Feth off." The mohawk sporting ganger said as he approached. "Yeah ok. Krak 'nades and photo-'tacts." He says, showing off a couple bills.

"What, you plannin on raiding a hab tonight? Every arb' here knows what I do, they let me do it cause I'm a nice fella. An no nice fella is getting away with giving a breaching weapon to an Emperor damned degenerate like yourself. Feth, off." He said. Damiel caught the man's hand shift around his thigh and knew he was reaching for a weapon, but Damiel persisted.

"Alright, easy. What about some cuffs then? Something for the lady." He says, holding out the thrones. The man's hand comes back around his leg and he appears to think for a moment. "I don't want to think about what kind of disgusting things are attracted to you. Take it and finally leave me be." The man says as he pulls out a rectangle with two circular holes in it, then snatches away the Thrones. Realizing this was all he would get, Damiel gave a polite nod and took his leave, back to Torquemada's hideout until the team was called to leave.

Egill strode into the Inquisitors chamber his head held high, a proud warrior shaman although he no longer wore the trappings of his people. There were no talismans, animal hides and tribal tattoos that might mark him as a barbarian born but then 15 years with the Adeptus Telepathica will do that to a man. Wearing simple clothes which were well filled out with his muscled form and an armoured cloak he looked like any other imperial citizen were it not for the massive sword strapped across his back. Dropping to one knee before the inquisitor he drew his claymore and placed its tip on the floor while his hands rested on the cross guard, his head bowed slightly in supplication “My Lord, my sword and mind are the Emperors and so yours to command.” Egill waited for the Inquisitor to speak before raising his head and listening intently to what his new Lord had to say.

He was not disappointed with the Inquisitors words and rejoiced when he was told he would be the boot that crushes those that opposed his Emperor. Finally standing Egill sheaths his blade and stands easy before his master “My Lord, I assume there will be others who travel with me with diverse skills?”

Inquisitor Torquemada answers each of your questions in turn.

Theoretical wrote:

"Additionally, Sir, if we could also get any information on the moon itself? Atmosphere, local flora and fauna, gravity, terrain, size and shape, whatever we can get Sir."

"Roughly Terran-sized. No data on flora and fauna - the system has not been exhaustively cataloged. I believe I discussed the landscape and terrain previously - be sure to give my briefing your full attention, guardsman." Torquemada fixes you with a stern gaze as he speaks.

Murcurie wrote:

"Do you have a list of personnel? Registered psykers? It would make it easier if I knew who to keep tabs on."

"Two astropaths. 40 other personnel, mostly mechanicus adepts, with some other assorted staff."

Carnelian wrote:

“My Lord, I assume there will be others who travel with me with diverse skills?”

Torquemades outlines the specialties of each of the other PCs in the party.

Egill stepped out of the local market bazaar district with a package under one arm, his thoughts on his father – he wondered if he was still alive. His father had been big on being prepared for a situation and despite that Egill had been taken by the blackships when he was only fourteen it was a lesson he remembered well, the survival suit and glow globe in the package were a testament to that. Thoughts of his father naturally led to his mother, she was fiercely protective but at the same time ensured her offspring were independent. Letting out an audible sigh Egill wandered the hive level for a while, his fifteen years with Adeptus Telepathica had given him a lot of time to consider what had become of his family, were they still alive and what were they doing? The initial pain of separation had faded a long time ago but he still thought of them as he hoped they still thought of him. Family was important to his people and he would ensure they would be proud of his actions even if he never saw them again.

For the first time in an hour Egill took in his surroundings properly, he had wandered a lot lost in thought and it was only now he realised that he was probably lost. He’d been given directions to a smith who he’d been told could add a keener edge to his claymore but the detritus, vermin that scurried about and the looks the residents were giving him suggested he might be in an hostile place. The years on Terra in his relatively cloistered life had taken the edge off him, made him ignorant, less alert for dangers his initial life on <insert feral world name> had bred into him. He would try and retrace his steps…

Barely a minute had gone by when two men stepped out of the shadows, they carried an assortment of weapons none of which met the might of Egills claymore but he assumed their numbers gave them courage…

“Lost are you? Perhaps we could show you the way, they’d be a price of course.”

As the lead thug spoke Egill could sense another had stepped out behind him and a quick glance confirmed the fact. Holding up his hands Egill spoke in a firm voice.  “I’ve no wish for trouble…” his father had taught him something else ‘strike when your opponent least expects it, don’t let them dictate the pace of a fight’, so in a blink of an eye Egill was on the attack in the hope it would catch the thugs off guard. His claymore was out in an instant and be brought the flat of the blade firmly down of the lead thugs head, knocking him to the floor and he managed a follow up elbow to glance off the second thugs head causing him the stagger before the fight was upon him.

Egills attack had served him well as he walked away from the fight, one of the men probably wouldn’t wake and the other two weren’t going anywhere for a while. He was not unscathed though, he had a shallow cut across his belly and minor cuts and bruises on his face… he’d look really pretty tomorrow. He’d have to skip the work on his claymore and try and get his stomach patched up instead.

As Alistair walked travelled between Torquemada's headquarters and the Order Hospitaller covenant, he turns down a dark, dingy street somewhere in the lower hive. The avenue was neither busy nor empty, but he had to step aside and move around passerby nonetheless due to the cramped, claustrophobic nature of the lower levels of the city. Gangers, dregs, and downtrodden manufactorum workers pass him, seeming not to notice him whatsoever.

Up ahead lie a small group of homeless individuals dressed in little more than rags and tattered clothing, dirty and unkempt. Others were stepping over them and ignoring their pleas for change or a bite of food.

One of the men makes eye contact with Alistair. The man in question lay curled up against the plascrete of the hab-block behind him, covered in a blanket covered with stains of various shades of brown and dull red. When he looks at Alistair, a blank expression crossed his face, followed by utter surprise. His eyes go wide and he leaps to his feet.

"Hey! Hey! I know you!" Although his dialect is thick - and he was not enunciating as clearly as he could be, given that he was missing two of his front teeth - the man's voice does not appear to be slurred by drink or drug.

"You're the man from my dream! By the Emperor, I can't believe it!"

Before Alistair can answer the man, he details the dream he experienced in a rambling manner. He seems stricken with fear, while simultaneously amazed that he has met the man from his dream. As the man tells it, the dream is paraphrased as follows:

Alistair and the man are walking through some deep pine woods on overcast day. They are each carrying shovels. Behind them walks a uniformed man with no face. They are marching under his orders. There is a tacit understanding that it will not end well for them if they do not do what he wants. They march for miles, each too afraid to look behind them to see the faceless man striding silently at their heels. The pine woods seem to go on for miles and miles, and the gray cloudy skies above are unblemished and unbroken by sunlight.

An anguished expression crosses the beggar's face as he continues to recall the dream. He elaborates on how real everything felt. The soft give of the dirt under his boots. The hefty weight of the shovels in their hands, the grain of the wooden handle on his fingertips. The scent of pine needles in the air, the smooth, cool breeze on his face. The whispering and whistling of the wind in the branches above their heads. The creaking of trees as the breeze turns into a strong wind.

Eventually, the man wordlessly orders them to stop. He doesn't motion to anything, he doesn't make a sound. In the irrational manner unique to dreams, they just KNOW that he is ordering them to stop. Next, the man orders them to dig.

Beside them is a small pile of human bodies - no more than 5-10. It's hard for the begger to recall the exact quantity. The faceless man again soundlessly orders them - this time to dig. To dig one large, communal grave. Somehow they both know that if they refuse, their end will come swiftly, in the form of a snapped neck, the gasping pain of a heart attack, or another grisly demise. Reluctantly, they drive their shovels into the dirt, slowly digging the mass grave.

The beggar wraps up his tale with an unsettling bit of information.

"It was your friends, man." He sighs weakly. "I don't know how I knew, but it was your friends we were gonna bury. Shit. I'm sorry. I just had to warn you."

Alistair had instinctively flinched, weight shifted, hands rising, as the beggar had leapt towards him. With a effort of will, Alistair fought the paranoid instinct to kill or flee this unknown attacker, slowly relaxing as the beggar related his dream. With, what he hoped was an encouraging smile, Alistar paid close attention to the disheveled man, even pulling him aside to avoid other passerbys navigating the alleyway. As the man finished his story, looking pitiful and desperate for acceptance, Alistair once again smiled.


“It’s alright. I do have some questions. You see, I don’t have any friends, not anymore anyway. Can you tell me anything about the bodies? Were they wearing uniforms, Imperial guard, by chance?”


There was three options, as far as Alistair could see it. Firstly, this guy was crazy and was talking gibberish. Hopefully further questioning could confirm that theory. Secondly, the man was a latent psyker, or had been afflicted by one, and had some kind of premonition about Alistair’s past. Thirdly, and most worryingly, the man knew something, somehow, about the future. It was this case that worried Alistair.

With her slaught stash at a decent amount, Donna felt that she was good to go.

She returns to the upper hive where her new master would be waiting for them to return.

The new holster on her hip underneath her coat added a welcome weight to her hip. She could only smile her scarred face at being able to gun someone down. Throne, she loved the kick of the autopistol when she fired a burst at some rival scum; she hardly ever hit them, but that hardly ever mattered now didn't it?

She stalks through the underhive, back towards the upper hive, ready to spill blood for whatever cause for the right price.....

Theoretical wrote:

“It’s alright. I do have some questions. You see, I don’t have any friends, not anymore anyway. Can you tell me anything about the bodies? Were they wearing uniforms, Imperial guard, by chance?”

The man shifts uncomfortably back and forth.

"I...I don't think so. No uniforms. But it's all hazy. I don't know if they were your friends or just people you knew. Maybe not though. I don't know man. I....I gotta go now. Emperor be with you."

The man shuffles off, first walking then striding at a rapid pace to disappear into the crowd on a nearby side street.

Sent from Topic'it App

"No, wait! Throne cursed scum" Alistair asked, and then cursed under his breath. He didn't like leaving leads unfinished, much less an unknown, untested link that might know more about him than he would like. And yet, there was no time to fix this problem, Alistair didn't have days to go tramping around the dregs of the hive, looking for some, more than likely, madman who had a bad dream. With a sigh, Alistair fished a scrap of paper and a marker out of his combat webbing, and then scribbled a quick description of the man, his location, and a few keywords from the dream. This would have to be something Alistair would have to revisit.

Three days past your briefing with Torquemada, you all gather at the rendezvous point, a large munitions dock on the west side of Hive Sibellus. You weave your way through the large crates, loading machinery, servitors, and promethium tanks until you spot the Arvus lighter meeting Torquemadas description. You flash your credentials to a nondescript pilot waiting outside. He nods in response and ushers you aboard the ship, instructs you to buckle in, and flies you up to orbit, where the Ourang Medan is docked at an orbital station.

The Medan is much like you would expect from your average munitions freighter - cramped, dirty, and populated by downcast, rough-and-tumble crewmen. An officer greets you curtly, clearly impatient to get back to more important matters (or perhaps a bottle of amasec in his quarters). He directs you to your quarters - two rooms of four bunks each, packed in like a can of sardines. With a slight air of condescension, he informs you that you are free to wander the ship as you like, but to stay out of the crew's way. Additionally, he notes that you're expected to arrive in the Remus system in approximately 7 days.

The munitions dock was a buzz of machinery, sweaty workers, and vehicles. Reminds me of the Guard, Alistair mused with some nostalgia, tinged with the bitter taste of guilt. The sight of the Arvus Lighter brought the guilt to the forefront, before Alistair crushed it beneath the combined weight of Duty and Self-Preservation. With a forced smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, Alistair looked to his companions.

“Well, this looks like us.”

-- --

Communication with the rest of the team was at a minimum, as Alistair was more interested in observing his team. The engine noise from the Arvus Lighter certainly limited easy conversation, and Alistair took the opportunity to examine his new allies in more detail. Well, that was the plan. Unfortunately, Alistair had managed to sit across from the most unsettling member of the team. Eyes bordering on being pools of black nothingness, sickly white flesh that felt like it was visibly secreting oil, and hair that seemed to swim in the sticky liquid, sitting lankly across his forehead. An unwashed dreg that had been mistaken for someone competent, dragged off the streets, and thrown into an inquisitorial team. The worst part is that the idiot seemed to know he didn’t belong, a knowing smirk plastered over the filth he claimed as a face. Those lips hinted at the irony of his involvement, the knowledge of his inadequacy, and his willingness to bring everyone else on this team down with him. He was the most frustrating person Alistair had ever had the misfortune to look at, and Alistair just wanted to PUNCH THE THRONE DAMNED SMILE OF THAT WARP-CURSED FACE.

With a gut-retching force of will, Alistair forced himself to look away, to consider the rest of the crew, and the tide of anger receded. And yet, the obscene figure before him once again drew his eyes, like some morbid black hole of frustration. With a sigh, Alistair leaned back as far as he can, and closed his eyes. Well, this is going to be a long trip.


-- --

The officer of the ship had directed them quickly, if curtly, to their quarters. WIth a polite smile, eyes carefully never looking directly at one particular companion, Alistair thanked the officer for his assistance.

“Thank you. In regards to our arrival, is there someone we can talk to, in order to organise our departure and subsequent pickup? I would like to make sure that we know any relevant details.”

-- --

As the officer leaves, Alistair looks inside their assigned quarters.

“Well, better than some of the other places I’ve been. Shall we settle down, then go exploring? Or should we start planning how this task of ours will go? Oh, and we should probably work out some kind of sleeping arrangement.”

She boards the ship silently, looking as board as she ever did until people started dying.

She quietly picks her bunk and sets her meager possessions, ragged rags by the looks of it, on the bunk. Her important items were carried on her person at all times.

"'Ouim all foh findin me somethin to do oui am. 'ew else fancies a trist round this blasted
tugg?"

She has a devious smile on her scarred face as she purposes not exploration, but finding trouble.

Something was wrong. A sick feeling washed over Egill as he sat in the Arvus Lighter as it sped towards the transport ship, it was a strange feeling not unlike nausea, but it also made him feel… dirty. Looking amongst the other acolytes in the cramped compartment Egill wondered if they felt it, was it the ascent of the ship? No it wasn’t. Egill’s gaze fell on Damiel and it became clear, his trainers had spoken about Nulls during his time on Terra and the sick, pasty looking man was surely one. He was no diviner, a reader of auras but even Egill could tell the man lacked something, there was an emptiness about him.
This would make the trip ‘interesting’. Leaning back in his harness and closing his eyes Egill prayed to the Emperor.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

By the time they’d landed aboard the Medan and had been showed to their bunks Egill had had enough of being in Damiels presence so jumped at the chance at looking around the ship “Aye lass, I’ll have a look about with ya.” He just hoped the cursed null would stay put.

Felyx-080 boarded the Arvus with the rest of the team. In the three days since he acquired his single firebomb, he hadn't canoodled much with the team. He did, however, like what he saw.

Guns, swords, muscle - all things that would be wonderful to have between him and any potential psychotic cousins in the Omnissiah who may have ventured off the reservation. He would have really liked to get to know them, to listen to their pasts should they choose to share, or find out what they excelled at. In other words, he was very interested in why Inquisitor Torquemada had chosen them.

But he had work to do. The supposed white-noise was nearly burning a hole in his pack, such was his interest to listen to it. He knew he could get something from it; if anyone could do that, it was Felyx.

Ordo Explorator, he said internally.

He sat right near Damiel, noting with confusion, or was it revulsion, the sickly pale features of the off putting man.

His brow furrowed and he wore a quizzical mask and asked a very genuine question. "I am not liking to you. Why is this?"

Damiel sat on the Arvus, his feet propped up on the bits of his gear that stuck out under his seat. he brushed the straps over his shoulders carelessly as he leaned back. The team looked capable, through the reason Torquemada had stuck him in with a psyker was beyond him. The obvious addict looked like she'd do anything for a hit, which may be a good bargaining tool but could also get them into a lot of trouble. The psyker seemed like he would hate this trip from the start.

And the guardsman made Damiel keep his wrist casually pointing towards the man. The concealed weapon wouldn't take much to fire off in case the expression of hatred on his face turned violent. Still, the guardsman seemed well trained and properly restrained himself. Damiel gave a nod. "Yeah. It doesn't get easier. I'll try to keep distant. Don't make eye contact. Makes it worse."

He turned to the coghead. "Nothing wants to touch me. I'm a disconnect. A blank. Pariah. Whatever it is, psykers can't psyke, and everyone hates me. That's why that guy wants to kill me." he says, gesturing to the guardsman with an open hand.

Damiel looked at the strangely-speaking man again. "Biologis researcher? what good are you in an investigation?" He said directly, with an almost unnerving stare.

“Did you not just be answering your own question?”

Felyx was using all of his willpower to refrain from insulting Damiel. He was truly intrigued and wanted to know as much as he could about the null.

“Adeptus Mechanicus. Research biologist. To where we are going, hmm? Adeptus Mechanicus station. You can making to the connection, hmm, yes?”

He squinted his eyes. Took in a deep breath and then tapped his temple.

“I know much. I seek much. Cogitators, machines, weapons, gear; to these I can maintain. The spirit of the machine, to this I can speak. To our endeavor, my uses are many.”

He got in close, detailing every part of Damiel’s off putting features.

“Being you though. Blank. Pariah. Nothing?” Felyx’s eyes seemed to vibrate left and right as his brain scanned through its vast collection of internally stored data. It took only seconds.

“This words - many meanings. But being in this context. Of you. I am intrigued. What is being your purpose at the Adeptus Mechanicus station of research?”

Sent from Topic'it App

Damiel gave a nod, "Right. That marginally answers my question.

To answer yours, I'm doing the same thing at the station as I do anywhere else. Find psykers that shouldn't be psyking, and then quiet them down.

It works for all sorts of stuff, but if there's anything warp related out there, I'll put it down for us."
He says, leaning back and closing his eyes for the flight

Seeing that no one took her up on her offer, she seemed interested when Felyx and Damiel were just inches away from a fight.

When Damiel backs away, she prods him with an insult.

"He got in your face wit all his blatant tawk, an' you just be lettin it slide off your back like a spineless wankah?"

She smiles and jumps down from the crate she was on, and moves close to Felyx, opposite Damiel.
"I know who I be wantin on my side when we start-a-scrappin'" she says with a amused smile.

-- -- * On the Arvus Lighter*

Alistair grunted as the self-proclaimed Pariah gave his speech, his eyes firmly closed. he had never really heard about these blanks, but Alistair was glad of the explanation. Damiel didn't seem to give, or know, the specifics, but simply to know that it wasn't Alistair's fault was a blessing.

The conversation brought Alistair out of his thoughts, the tension, already thick, was rising a couple of notches.

"Well, I don't know anything about blanks, but if you can stop the warp touched from killing us all, then you're useful. Lucky for you." Alistair offered, in a mono tone devoid of his usual polite manner. His eyes were still firmly shut.


-- -- *On Medan*

"I am certainly up for a bit of a look around. And remember, as the nice officer said, please don't disturb the crew." Alistair winked at his compatriots.
"However, I would heavily suggest a get together of sorts. Introduce ourselves properly, offer information and ideas, and work out some sort of plan. I don't think the spat on the Lighter really counts. Shall we say, meet back in our rooms in 3 hours?"

Alistair was making an effort to gently corral the team to some kind of organised group. From what he had seen, most of the team were a undisciplined mess, or at least, looked like one. Alistair wanted to see if Torquemada had actually provided useful members for the team. At least the Pariah had some use, if only as a backup plan in the case of pysker presence.

Murcurie wrote:

Damiel gave a nod, "Right. That marginally answers my question.

To answer yours, I'm doing the same thing at the station as I do anywhere else. Find psykers that shouldn't be psyking, and then quiet them down.

It works for all sorts of stuff, but if there's anything warp related out there, I'll put it down for us."

Felyx tilted his head to the side as though he didn't understand. "Margin-ally. Marginally. Oh. Hmmm. No, this word is uncorrect. I am thinking you are understanding my import." He smiled and nodded, satisfied that both Damiel and himself understood their parts. He had many, many more questions for Damiel, of course; he was the first anti-psyker he had ever met and his inquisitive nature pushing through his exterior almost to the bursting point. The only thing that stopped him was Donna's comments.

"I am thanking you for the compliment. However, I must be warning you that in a fight, I am more to supporting." He reached back and patted the man-catcher attached to his pack lightly. "I will be holding the specimens while you... uh... um," he thought hard for the phrase he had heard one of Torquemada's subordinates use. When it came to him, he snapped his fingers. "While you are fucking to them up."


[On Medan]

Felyx-080 nodded excitedly as Alistair set up the get together. His research into the audio recordings had yielded unexpected results and he was eager to share them with the team. Three hours would give him just enough time to finish analyzing and collating what he had found. He agreed to meet at the proper time and place. As he walked to his quarters his pace quickened. While a get together and exploring a ship was exciting, his research always excited him more.

[On Medan]

Egill nods at Alistair "That sounds sensible and I'm fine with 3 hours time." the barbarians gaze then moves to Damiel "I do need some 'fresh air' though." Egill knew what it was like to be shunned and feared as even sanctioned psykers were not always treated well so he did feel sympathy for Damiels curse. "Let me put my cards on the table; I'm a sanctioned psyker and our friend here makes me feel sick." Egill raises both hands in apology before Damiel gets to say anything "I know you can't help it and I bare you no ill will because of it, but I do need to go for a walk first."

Egill turns to leave, his claymore strapped across his back "I'll be back in a bit, if anyone wants to join me yer welcome..."

[Planning Meeting]

Alistair looked around at the assembled members, an eclectic group of individuals. First impressions hadn't been amazing, but Alistair hoped that this meeting improved them.

"Well, thanks to all of you for joining us here. I'm hoping to get a better idea of all of you, what we can do as a team, and some sort of a plan of attack for this research base. So, if you please, if each of you could tell us your name, what you bring to the team, any information you have about the task ahead, and suggestions for a plan of attack."

Egill and Donna begin to wander the ship, making their way through cramped corridors and bulkheads. You pass the compartments for the engine and associated machinery, where a few tech priests perform rites to the machine spirit and conduct various diagnostic tests.

There's little to be seen mid-ship, as the compartments are mostly devoted to cargo. However, one compartment has been converted into something of a prayer chamber. Numerous crewmen are praying or speaking with the few ministorum priests in the room. A statue of some imperial saint sits in front of several rows of rough-cut wooden pews.

In the aft of the ship, after making your way past a large number of living quarters (not far from where your own cabin is), you find the mess hall. Crewmen mill about, eying you warily. Some are waiting in line for food, while others are slurping down a thick, brown gruel at stainless steel dining tables.

As you are making your way back to your quarters...you hear some loud voices coming from an area near the cargo holds. Poking around, you find a narrow passageway that leads to a ramshackle, makeshift "bar". Tucked away between some shipping containers is a plasteel "counter" atop two low boxes. A frail old man puffs a lho stick, pouring bottom-shelf amasec for greatly inflated prices. Despite the costly pours, a group of 15-20 crew men and women are gladly indulging. Most seem to be morosely sipping the cheap beverage, but a few laughing revellers seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves. The patrons of the bar are scattered about the compartment, some standing, some leaning against shipping containers, some sitting on loose boxes in the room.

[You can feel free to interact with anyone at any of the aforementioned locations, or none of them. Your choice]

She enters the makeshift bar with the loud pomp and fuss she usually causes when she enters anything.
"Well Well, look at wot we gots 'ere" she says loudly, speaking to everyone and no one.
"Egill, we gots us a water'in ho' here we does."

she says as she moves to the bar, all eyes upon here.

"Most interestin' thing oui've found on this buckhet all day it is." She says as she takes a seat.
"Nawt great. But itll do. Gimme a swig o' something good chum." she orders the bartender.

The ship was dreary and oppressive but still Egill preferred it to the company of Damiel. He had a positive bounce in his step and things certainly looked up when they found the 'bar' no matter the state of it.

"Ya lass." the big feral worlder cheerfully replied back "this place will certainly help the passage of time."

Leaning against the bar Egill takes a look at the amasec on offer "Best make that two old timer."

[At the Meeting]

Felyx glanced around the room curiously. He didn’t smile nor outwardly look excited, but he was. But beneath the excitement was a bit of anxiety.

”I know much. Having this knowledge I can fix to things, understand to things. I am formerly of the Mexhanicus, but the Mechanicus are being too... too... strict. Dogma and rigidity was not being to my liking - and so I am here.”

His left hand twitched and whirred. Mechanical fingers spun in place, well oiled. He had much to say, but it was difficult to articulate. Still he felt excited and his electoos began to glow blue.

”I will be proving to you my expertise now. Many hours I spent studying this vox recordings from the Mechanicus base. The warp was tricky to unlock. It complicated the noise. Made it in hearable. But I fixed to it.””

He laid his data pad carefully down on the table. With the push of a button, an audio recording began to play. It was scratchy at first, but muffled noises in the background soon became very clear. Felyx paid close attention to the reactions of those around him as it began...


+++“...headaches and visions from the very start...Madness. Sheer madness..."

"...Mechanicus fanatics..."

"...under half strength..."

"...quarantine...send in the guard and kill us all..."+++

Shortly after was an  indecipherable speech interrupted by a loud sound and a crash. The sound is too distorted to discern what the source may be. Afterwards, no speech can be heard at all.

Felyx picked up his data pad and placed it on his left hip.

”I am not of the believing that our arrival is to be welcomed.”

At the "bar"

Carnelian wrote:

[color=#00cc00]Leaning against the bar Egill takes a look at the amasec on offer "Best make that two old timer."

The bartender looks at both of you, his gaze lingering over Donna. He nods. "You got it, friend." He pours two glasses of amasec and gently pushes them across the worn plasteel, his hands shaking slightly as he does so. "Welcome to the Medan." Afterwards, he gingerly sits down on a wooden stool behind the bar.

Having entered the bar and gotten a better look around, you notice a group of sullen, tattooed men in a corner of the compartment. After glancing in your direction, they exchange a few whispers and promptly walk out.

After sipping your drinks for a minute, a crew woman with a shaved head ambles over to you. She reeks of the cheap amasec.

"Not evryday we have "guests" aboard. Let alone inna crewmen's dive. Flashy 'uns, too." She chuckles to herself, taking a long pull on a lho stick. The smoke stings your nostrils - it's clearly an old, stale stick. Chatter around you quiets as everyone listens and watches expectantly. "Fill us in, Rainbow." She smiles cheekily. "Whatcha doin' on our ship?"

She takes a hefty drink of the rotgut and smiles. It was a twisted smile that somehow contorted her scarred face into something even more cruel than it had been before.

"Well lass, wot 'eve been doin' 'ere is looking for a good scuffle. I 'ear where we goin be provoidin' all that. Lest yous wantin' to be Givin us all that 'ear n' now?"

She takes the lho stick out of the patron' mouth and puts it in her own. She takes a big puff while she waits for an answer.

Sent from Topic'it App

[At the "bar"]

Sylphilis wrote:

"Well lass, wot 'eve been doin' 'ere is looking for a good scuffle. I 'ear where we goin be provoidin' all that. Lest yous wantin' to be Givin us all that 'ear n' now?"

She takes the lho stick out of the patron' mouth and puts it in her own. She takes a big puff while she waits for an answer.

A look of alarm crosses the bartender's face, and you see him reach behind his back. A few of the nearby drinkers shuffle away.

The woman with the shaved head puts her hands up in a gesture of non-confrontation. She waves at the bartender, who keeps his hand behind his back but seems to calm down slightly. "It's a'right."

She turns back to offer Donna a wry smile. "Shit, if ya were fixin' for a smoke, ya coulda just asked fer one." She pulls another lho stick out of a pack and lights up. "No need fer the whole badass bitch act. I ain't lookin' for a fight." She points her thumb nonchalantly at the bartender. "Alls yer doin' is making ol' Slim here jumpy." Slim laughs uneasily, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of you.

"Just tryna talk. So fill me in - wot exactly are a hive ganger and a brain doin' so far away from home, let 'lone on our grimy vessul?"

Donna was a little upset they didn't take the bait. A facetiously hurt expression crossed her face before she regarded the barkeep,
"Yaa gov. Best be keeping tha' wepons 'idden from me. Oui sees 'em and sees all red till ev'ryone who be a threatnin me be bleeding on tha' ground."

She turns back to the lass who so politely paid tribute in a lho stick,
"Thas a tough question it is. You see, Oui got bosses me do, they tell me t'go somewhere and make someone bleed, an' thas what oui do, I dont be both'rin with petty detail like 'why' or 'ew':

Eager to make Egill squirm, she nudges him, "Maybe bookwaam 'ere gots a better answah then me?"
She smiles deviously. She knew they were not in a position to be broadcasting their mission to anyone who would listen.

[The bar]

Egill nods at the barman and drops a few thrones on the makeshift bar as he hands over the drinks. There was little to see at the bar as far as Egill was concerned so he was about to make conversation with the barman when there suddenly seemed to be trouble brewing, it seemed Donna was spoiling for a fight. Sighing inwardly Egill ignored the two women and took another sip of his drink, he’d no interest in fighting the dregs that inhabited this dreary place although if Donna got into trouble she couldn’t handle he’d back her up.

With a six foot claymore strapped to the back of his 6’3”, 215 lbs frame he was a little surprised at being called a ‘brain’ – he doubted that his branding mark had been noticed on the back of his neck as that was hidden by his long, unruly black hair. He let it slide and continued to sup at his drink and listen…

When he was finally asked a direct question he turned and looked the crewmen up and down – no threat here he thought. “A brain, am I? A bookworm, eh? I ain’t got no books and the only writin’ I’ll be doing is with me big sword here.” He directs his thumb over his back at the claymore. “As to what we're doing here? I was hoping for a quiet drink, but as you’re askin’ we’re going from one point to another and being paid to not speak about it – so that ends that question eh?”  

[The meeting]

Egill nodded as Alistair spoke, it was good that someone was trying to organise the new cell, someone certainly needed to do it, the big feral kept his own council for now as he noted the Mechanicus adept seemed eager to speak... The first sentence Felyx spoke was lost on Egill, who was distracted by the adepts strange way of speech and his twitching and spinning of fingers, so he forced himself to concentrate on the strange half man and then the vox recording. Egill found himself leaning forward, straining to pick up anything among the distortion, the smell of alchol on his breath obvious to those close by.

There was a pasue after the recording stopped before Egill leaned back and spoke “It certainly sounds like there was some kind of trouble at the facility. You say the warp was tricky to unlock, how so Mechanicus; I assume you’re no psyker?” at this Egill gathers his hair up to relveal his sanctioning brand burned into the side of his neck “That would be my speciality, peherps along with Damiel here.”

[The Meeting]

The recording was eerie, but it was the barely intelligible broken sentences that worried Alistair. Still, it was intel, and intel is often useful.

"Thanks Felyx, that is useful. And having a Cog-boy on the station will probably be useful. I just hope you have no qualms about what we might need to do. These messages seem to indicate that the Mechanicus on site are probably tainted, and then it would be our job to kill them." Alistair was going to make sure everyone knew what they might have to do.

"Egill, was it? Now, I don't have any real experience working with Brains, but it's generally considered a bad idea. However, you're here for a reason, what can you do? How does the blank affect you? If we put the two of you together, do you cancel each other out?" The line of questioning might have been blunt, and probably rude, but psykers had been treated like live earth-shaker shells, at a distance and hopefully pointed at the enemy.

"Look, so far, I don't think we're going to be welcomed at this base. I think it's safe to assume hostiles. Now, we obviously don't have a regiment of Guard to assault the station, so I think we should approach this carefully. Land offsite, and approach quietly. Felyx, do you have schematics of the base? I remember you asking for them.

[the bar]

Carnelian wrote:

[The bar]
When he was finally asked a direct question he turned and looked the crewmen up and down – no threat here he thought. “A brain, am I? A bookworm, eh? I ain’t got no books and the only writin’ I’ll be doing is with me big sword here.” He directs his thumb over his back at the claymore. “As to what we're doing here? I was hoping for a quiet drink, but as you’re askin’ we’re going from one point to another and being paid to not speak about it – so that ends that question eh?”  

The woman stubs out her lho stick, a deadpan expression crossing her face. "Right. Not too friendly, are we?"

She starts to saunter off, then pauses and glances back at the two of you. "Just, uh...watch your back around here, eh?" She offers a wry smile. "Not everyone on the Medan crew is as...cordial as me." She finishes her drink, placing the empty glass on the counter, and walks out of the bar.

[The meeting]

"Yeah, thats right Egill, Egill Skallagrimsson of the Skal Tribe, son of Chieftain Kral Skallagrimsson slayer of the great Diabladon." Egill nods when Alistair alludes to the danger of Psykers "Yes, 'brains' as you call them bring inherent risks but I use my powers such as they are sparingly. As to what I can do, well my powers are in their infancy but I can summon lightning to destroy the Emperors enemies - I am a biomancer." As Alistair continues with his questioning Egills gaze falls upon poor Damiel "I've no idea what effects the null here will have on me, thats a question for him."

[THE MEETING]

Donna stood leaning against the bulkhead. She was bored, this place was boring. She needed a bit of the ultra violence, and soon.....

"Yew guys all a bunch o stiffs aint ya? Book and words an' powahs an such. Ouim jus interested in spilling a few pint o' blood oui am. So when yew stiff get ina real fix, be callin on me an ouil be there choppin em up roight."

She sneers, her scarred face twisting into some harlequin parody of a demon.

"This bet'ah be fun."

[The meeting]

Egill regards Donna with a smile "Bunch of stiffs. HA! Not me lass." the big barbarian glances at the claymore's hilt that poked out over his right shoulder "I prefer to use my sword here."

He looks back at Alistair and the others "Given we know so little caution is a good plan, lets go as Alistair suggests."