Chapter 1: Blood on the streets (IC)

Location: Pilgrim Long haul Transport vessel “The Canterbury’s Flail”
Travelling through Sassan Nictor system, Thule Sub Sector, Askellon
Two days from scheduled docking at Agat Tha

As the last peals of the vox amplified bells echo through the ship, the sound is quickly replaced by the dull reverberation of movement. Sleeping pod doors open and shut. Sandaled feet shuffle forward, occasionally accompanied by the staccato tap of walking staffs on the metal grills. The bells signal the end of this evenings penitence reflection and time for a simple repast.
As with most Pilgrim ships, there are only two meals, in the morning and the evening and both served in two vast cafeterias. While the Canterbury’s Flail has five of these throughout the ship, the other three are closed off, due to the ship being less than half full.

While you normally may have followed the pilgrims, and scattered variety of other travellers for the nightly meal, tonight is different. Earlier today, upon returning to your single birth sleeping pod, a small rectangular berth, with room to stretch flat, but barely able to sit up straight, you discovered a message. Simply printed on parchment in Low Gothic, it directed you to a numbered room, ten minutes after the evening bell. Stamped below the script in red ink is an image: two interlocking circles, with a small bird in flight between them. It’s a symbol you recognise as the seal of Inquisitor Yannick.

It had been a month since you had last seen this symbol, when it came attached to a ticket for your berth and a note informing you to board the ship and to then wait on further instructions.

The sleeping pods are stacked in squares ten high and the same across, accessible by a simple ladder. It is a short journey from here to the numbered room in question. The corridor leading there is typical of many aboard the ship. The metal panels and grills are well worn, some through completely, leaving behind holes of darkness which easily injure the unwary. Filth of all kinds line its edges, and the air is dusty and tired, struggling to sustain after being recycled too many times.

The door to which you were directed is unremarkable, with only the faint indentation in the metal signifying this as the correct destination. Upon entering you find that it is a storage room of some kind. No-one appears to be present yet. Its walls are lined with shelves upon which are scattered a variety of well worn and decaying objects. Dirty robes, broken equipment, a variety of deceased tomes and an assortment of religious iconography are the most easily identifiable of these.

The centre of the room is taken up with a large wooden table, around which are sat six chairs.

{Feel free to depict how your character appears or how they make their way to the room or what they do inside it. We'll be treating time as in order of post so while the first poster will enter an apparently empty room, each subsequent character will enter the room after. I'll give you a little time to interact with eachother if you wish before moving on. If there is anything you'd like to attempt to do which might involve a test, the Chapter 1: OOC thread is for you. This will be purely for In Character stuff. Also this is probably a good time to pick a colour for your characters spoken dialogue- it makes it easier for us to know when they are speaking out loud.}

Radomil enters the empty room and looks around for a moment.

"Must be early."

He sighs and slings his battered weapons over the back of a chair where he can face the door. He takes a seat and produces a lho stick from his vest pocket and lights it. While he waits, he tunelessly hums an old military ballad.

Octavius expected to be the first one, but when he arrived, wearing his red Mechanicus robes, someone else was already waiting in the briefing room.
A veteran of the Guard by the looks.

Greeting Soldier.

Was all Octvius said, before taking a chair.

"I'd be guessing the Twitcher sent for you too? Seems you and me'll be sharing the same hole for a while." Radomil remarks sardonically, eyeing Octavius up and down. He notices the mechadendrite.

"You got less tin on you the most cogboys I met."

Don't let my face fool you... Yes seams like we have been summoned for the same task. I'm Octavius He said an extended his hand over the table

"Brezlov."

Radomil holds his lho stick in his mouth as he shakes Octavius's hand.

"Seen much combat then, cogboy? You still have both legs it seems."

A small cafe, hive downtown, raining, 21:00 hours.


Anika looked hard at her partner from across the table; two steaming cups of what passed for coffee between them and her steely-eyed gaze.

"Show me again."

Sighing and shaking his head, Gabriel reached into his coat pocket and produced the ticket, sliding it across the stained table.

Furrowing her brow, she picked it up between chromed claw-tips that had once been the long fingers of her left hand, turning it over and inspecting it thoroughly.

Gabriel smiled, shaking his head and reached across.

"It's no good 'Nika. I had the adepts in the lab examine it. Nothing doing partner." He plucked it from her grip.

A brief spark of electricity danced along the metal sinews of her arm, briefly illuminating the booth where they sat and causing some of the other patrons to flinch and murmour beneath their breaths.

Anika smirked.

"So, you going?"

"I have some leave owed me and Ghaele put the okay in for it. My bags are packed."

"You don't think this has something to do with..." her voice trailed off.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Whoever arranged this has some juice though. Cut right through the departments administratum officers. Even Ghaele caught a grin out of that."

"Heh. Those slate-cradling sonbitches." They both laughed. Her grin faded as suddenly as it was birthed.

"Be careful Gabe. Or I'll punch your return ticket myself, and you needn't worry about the change."

"Don't worry about me 'Nika. Throne knows, I'm overdue a vacation. Nice to be away from the politics for a while. Suntan, exotic locales, vibrant nightlife…"

Rolling her eyes, Anika's gaze wandered outside. Grey hab-blocks revealing wary flickers of light as the throngs of people began to diminish, retreating from their daily duties and the unspoken promises of the night.

"Yeah, well. Just watch your back cowboy. Things been getting dark lately. There's enough blood on the streets. Make contact when you get up there, a'right?"

Gabe nodded as they both stood to leave, placing a reassuring hand briefly on Anika's shoulder. She hated that. "I'll be fine. In and out. Up and down. Okay?"

A sheet of iron rain descended, scattering the neon particles of the cafe lights and cloaking them both as they parted ways, two shades amongst many cloistered in the gathering darkness of the hab-block.



One week later. Present location.


Gabriel shrugged his hands into the sleeves of his Imperial issue navy long-coat, his light footsteps resounding on the metal grates of the ships floor. It was colder here.

So much for a vacation. He thought. Maybe I should have dressed for the weather.

Arriving at the doorway, he paused a moment to examine it.

Reaching into a pocket he produced a cred-chip and flicked it at the portal. Waiting expectantly as it hit the door and then bounced off, landing on the floor.
Nothing.

Better safe than sorry. Retrieving the chip and pocketing it, he opened the door and entered the room.

Gabriel nods and smiles at both men in friendly greeting as he removes his coat, carefully placing it on the back of a chair.

Smoothing out some errant creases in the arms of his shirt and adjusting his tie he sits down, eyes beaming as he eagerly extends a hand to each man.

"Hi, I'm Officer Kantor. Gabriel. Pleased to meet you."

Approaching the door indicated the parchment, Cassandra sees a man in a navy coat flick something at the door, pause, and enter.

"Perfect," she thinks to herself. "Not even a minute into the mission and already I'm learning the inane tics of one of my colleagues. I'll have to keep an eye on him in case he displays too much instability."

Without pausing, Cassandra follows in on his heels. Entering the room, she could easily be mistaken for one of the ship's pilgrims that had taken a wrong turn were it not for the gilded chainsword and heavy hand flamer hanging from her hips. Besides those, she wears a simple robe of plain brown cloth adorned with no less than two dozen handwritten purity seals. Looking briefly around the room, she eyes Gabriel up and down, scowls at Octavius, then settles on Radomil. She walks over and pulls out a chair nearby him and as far from Octavius as possible.

As she sits, she nods at Radomil. "Guardsman."

Adélaïde's heart beat a little faster. She put the note down and sat up, making herself ready. She had only limited dealing's with the people associated with that symbol, and she knew not to keep them waiting.

Two circles, interlocking, a small bird caught in the middle. She sighed and got into her robes. She had become accustomed to sleeping in nearly nothing, reveling in the cold recycled air. She also made sure that a weapon was never out of reach - ever.

But she was smart enough to know her area and her audience. Chances were, in this setting the heavier ordnance wasn't necessary. She scooted her body over to her in-built locker, punched in a five digit combination, and opened it up. Her hand slid across the rosewood stock of Anima before settling on her autopistol and chainblade. Both were attached to a separate hip, hidden out of sight under her robes.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slightly.

Let's see what curveball life has thrown me now.

The cold steel around her neck comforted her. It culminated under her robes, colder steel against her chest, well out of sight. She crawled out of her sleeping cell and moved off in the direction of her benefactors.

+++++++

There were already voices from within when she approached. Again, her heart sped up, but she took a breath to calm herself.

She walked in, straight backed and confident, with eyes wary of every individual they settled upon. Her dark black hair was pulled back into thick dreadlocks that hung down to about the middle of her back. Large eyes, one green and the other blue, scanned the room. There was another woman and three men, one obviously a follower of the Machine God, the other clearly a soldier of some sort, and the last she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She sat down in an empty chair. Her robes and sandals spoke of traveler - well worn, but comfortable and trusty. Her eyes told another story...

"I guess I ain't tha'only lucky one then. Adélaïde Beaudoin. You can call me Adélaïde."

Radomil nods at each of the newcomers, sizing them up them. More fresh meat for the machine. Capable companions? Maybe. He's not sure about the gearhead or the smooth-faced, fancy dressed fella, but the girl sitting next to him certainly seems well armed and the newest arrival has the air of a survivor around her. Hardly an assault team, but he's not sure if that's good or bad news.

Usually Radomil wouldn't waste energy on getting to know new squad mates, but being taken out of the trenches has him in unusually high spirits.

"Name's Brezlov, if you think it'll matter."

He takes one last drag on his now burnt-down lho stick before setting it on the table and snuffs it out with his thumb. He chuckles.

"Regular storm trooper regiment Twitcher's put together here, ain't we?"

Cassandra laughs. "Those Glory Boys don't have anything on us, for we have the righteous purpose of the Holy Inquisition behind our actions. My name is Cassandra Ellanosta. It's good to know that there's at least one other person on this team that I can trust to hold a weapon."

With that, Cassandra turns her attention to the newest arrival. The cogboy and the suit were easy to dismiss, but she had trouble reading this new woman. She seemed like a civilian in appearance, wearing no obvious iconography, but there was some air about her that Cassandra couldn't quite place. After a few moments of examination, she decided that the woman seemed competent enough, though what she could contribute was yet to be seen.

Leaning forward a bit, Cassandra folds her hands on the table, and looks between her new companions, making eye contact with all except the Mechanicus adept.

"Comrades, I propose that we begin our journey together in prayer to our lord, the God-Emperor of Mankind. By His power and blessing, the Holy Inquisition, through us, will bring light into the darkest corners of the galaxy. Join me in recitation of the Libation to the Emperor."

With that, Cassandra closes her eyes, and briefly lowers her head before lifting her face to the ceiling.

"The Emperor is our guiding light,
A beacon of hope for humanity in a galaxy of darkness.

As we serve Him,
He is our greatest servant.

As we pray to Him,
His thoughts are only for us.

And in the dark when the shadows threaten,
The Emperor is with us,
In spirit and in fact."

Kobras_Aquairre wrote:

"Brezlov."

"Seen much combat then, cogboy? You still have both legs it seems."

I've seen more then i could care for.

---

More and more arrived. Octavius returned their greeting and introductions.
At  least to those who offered one. Wearing only his armour would have brought him more respect here then the robes.
But why hiding his roots. He knew that attitude towards him well enough - especially from the
more religious servants of the Emperor.

Adélaïde returned greetings with a polite nod when they came back. When the pious woman - Cassandra - begin reciting the prayer, she didn't object. She kept her eyes open. She never closed them and never bowed her head.

The intonation and cadence was familiar, but the words were different. Of course, her upbringing was different from this woman's. The prayers would be subject to change.

She sat politely, saying very little unless directly asked a question. She didn't know any of them, not yet.

An' until I do, I can't trust 'em.

Gabriel exchanged enthusiastic handshakes with the other two men; his tone polite, formal.

"Brezlov. Pleased to meet you sir. Would that be Sergeant or Lieutenant?"

"Brother Octavius."

Sitting back, he relaxes and watches as others gradually file in, nodding respectfully at the shaven-headed woman he took to be a priest, possibly a member of a sisterhood or other Imperial cult.

He smiles at the other robe-clad traveller as she introduces herself.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance Adelaide. I'm Gabriel."


He eases back in his chair, thoughts already beginning to race, seeking patterns and something familiar to grasp; a foundation, somewhere to begin. Musing upon his new-found companions; pondering their movements, mannerisms, motivations...

All the big players are here. Militarium, Ecclesiarchy, Mechanicus and an unknown quantity. A battle-pilgrim? Maybe a psyker, though she doesn't fit the usual descriptor. No. Something else.

He is awoken from his reverie by the sonorous tones of the shaven-headed woman as she begins to recite a prayer.

Radomil nods respectfully to the prayer, but doesn't join in. He thinks to himself "Oh throne, she's one of those sorts. Likely enough to run off and get herself killed at the first sign of a fight. That's a pity, hoped she'd be able to watch my back."

In response to Octavius, Radomil nods knowingly, "Aye, might be there's a bit more in store for us, don't you think?"

In response Kantor, Radomil wryly replies, "Private, thank ya very much. Brass never took me for the leadership type. Much more of the getting my ass shot off type."

Cassandra isn't too perturbed by the lack of participation in the prayer. It would have been nice, but the respectful silence tells her that at the very least her companions aren't Emperor-scorning heretics. Once the prayer is concluded, she leans back in her chair and observes the further interactions between the others. Brezlov was showing the reserved nature she had come to know and respect in soldiers of the line. Gabriel has a thoughtful expression on his face. Cassandra thinks back and seems to recall that she had caught him introducing himself as "Officer" as she walked in, so that must mean he's some sort of investigator (he's obviously not a soldier). She admits to herself that that sort of profession might be useful to an Inquisitor, though based on his appearance he doesn't seem like he'd be any help once the lasfire started.

The other woman, though, there was an enigma that she just couldn't penetrate. Cassandra continues her silent observation of Adélaïde, trying to glean anything she could from her body language, though she was never particularly adept at reading people.

Adelaide nodded when Gabriel introduced himself.

"Run fas', run far, Gabriel," she said with a slight nod in her particular dialect of Low Gothic. The phrase was a greeting where she was from, and she had no reason to assume at that moment that it wasn't used in other places as well. The monks on the pilgrim ship had been mostly silent, so she hadn't had much direct interaction outside of the small group that had taken her from her planet.

She paid the soldier less attention than the rest. She thought back to the suit of flak armor in her personal belongings. It had belonged to a PDF troop back home, not barely a man. It hadn't done him much good, but she took it all the same. She figured she might as well be polite, since that was the feel of the room.

Her multicolored eyes found Brezlov. "Was you PDF back where you from?"

As Adélaïde asks her question, the door is opened once more. The woman in the doorway appears to be somewhere in her late twenties, though it is difficult to be completely sure. Feral tattoos mark her face, two thick bands of colour progressing down from her forehead, through her green eyes and ending with triangular points on her cheeks. Her black hair is tied in a simple braid running underneath the collar of a black worn overcoat that covers her upper body and as far down as her knees.

There is a noticeable poise and precision to her movement, and almost no sound from her boots, as she quickly traverses the distance to the table. As she nears the empty chair, she shrugs off the overcoat and hangs it over the back of the chair, before leaning forward, resting her arms on its back. With the overcoat removed, it is now clear to see that she is clad in a black armoured body glove. A leather belt runs down from her left shoulder to her waist, to which are strapped a number of throwing knives and grenades. An intricately patterned sword hangs from her left hip, and a quiver of arrows from her right. Her final apparent weapon, a longbow is secured to her back.

Her voice when she begins is low and serious, and with a rough edge to her accent indicative of a feral upbringing.
“Our time is short. You are here under the orders of the Inquisitor. The Twitcher has chosen each of you, so you must have valuable skills.
You will work together as a team to investigate a possible treachery. I am here to provide your initial briefing and answer any questions.”

Reaching into an inside pocket of her overcoat the woman withdrew a data slate which she placed on the table. At this close proximity it is easy to spot that her hands are also tattooed, marked with a series of concentric circles.

“This data square contains background information on the Sassan Nictor System and names its most powerful people. It is here that the Twitcher wishes you to make your investigations.
This system and its central planet is considered important. Much more than my birth world, and probably yours too. It produces weapons of great value and the armies of the Imperium are hungry for more. If its flame burns out many more will be lost to darkness.”

She paused for a moment and moved her gaze to look at each of you in turn. There was a flash of something across her face. It might have been humour, a pang of some memory or even interest in what she was saying but it was gone before it could be better identified. As she continued though her voice was a little more animated.

“Every ten years seven leaders of this systems most powerful clans gather and choose a new Governor. A tech red cloak, a scribe, a Sister, a General, a Captain, the Arbites chief and an Off worlder. The grand hosting will happen later this year. Normally elections are of no concern to the Inquisition, even if the streets run with blood. However The Twitcher believes that there might be someone or something else at work here. And that they might be using this election as cover.

Her contact on this world, The Philosopher has reported a rising number of suspicious incidents. Breakdowns on the mag train line supplying arms. Riots in the naval yards, followed the next day by the same in the Cog factories. A heretical cult whose growth has been unchecked in the capitol. Evidence of gangs fighting alongside each other. Xenos activity at a higher level than in living memory.

One of these, perhaps two might be normal. All of them, and while the nobles fight for power? The Twitcher is suspicious.
She wants you to investigate these. If there is an person, or group behind all of these, she wants to know why, before you unsheathe the Emperor’s justice.
We will be making landfall at Agat Tha- the capitol city shortly. The Philosopher works in the Administratum and will provide you with your false roles. He will also act as your local control and you will report your findings to him.
Do you have any questions?”

{The information on the data slate is available to read in the NPC and Briefing Materials thread. This is your chance to get any additional information before landfall}

Before Adélaïde moves to read the data slate or ask any more mission-specific questions, she has another, simpler question.

"What's your name?"


+++


Regardless of whether or not the woman answers, Adélaïde picks up the data slate and skims it. Thankfully, it was in Low Gothic and she could understand it. It was a lot of compiled information, the most of which meant little to her, but with a few worthy notes. One thing she found interesting in particular.

"These two here, an' again here" she said indicating the leader of the Administratum and the Fleet Admiral as well as the PDF Major General and the Cannoness. "They kin? Kin that get along?"

Turning her head, the woman looked at Adélaïde. Her expression was serious but not particularly surprised.
"There is power in someones true name. Power that those beyond this life would use to corrupt and control. I do not use true names. You can refer to me as Sarge. It is the reference I use most often now"

Adelaide took a moment to process the words, then she gave a mischievous grin. "I like that, Sarge. What'chu gonna call me then?"

The expression on the woman's face didn't change but there was a glint of something in her eyes as she replied.
"The Exception"

Responding then to the earlier question, she continued.
"Yes, the Sister and The General are both kin. Brother and sister. The Scribe and the Admiral are related by marriage. The noble families try to spread their power across as many of the factions as they can. The Philosophers reports suggest though that the Factions hold more sway than blood"

Previously relaxed, Radomil falls silent and stands at attention as soon as the woman walks in and remains at attention unless directed otherwise. The military mannerisms and nickname of the agent actually makes him feel quite in his element.

He asks no questions on principle, but listens intently. Politics are mostly beyond him, but the briefing sounds familiar. Eventually he chimes in.

"Heard of this before, Sarge. Got dropped into a civil war once. Bunch of nobles in their high towers start bickering over their cakes and wine, and soon enough the planet's burning. Nasty turf it was. All city fighting and prol killing. Would have been faster if we shot a few spire dwellers instead."

The thought of stopping a war like that from occurring is pleasant enough to put a slight smile on Radomil's face.

Octavius takes up the data slate, enactes the ancient rights of communication and copies it contents to his internal memory. The electo crafts in his skin, usually invisible, pulse slightly in a faint blue during the transfer.

I have two questions ...Sarge."
He hesitates a moment with the nickname. Then continues while waving the data slate slightly in his hand
"The report says nothing about the cult in the capitol. Or is that part of the redacted information? And then secondly, what "weapons of great value" are produced on Sassan Nictor?

As Radomil begins to speak, the woman turns to give him her attention, before giving him an inclination of her head.
"No need for ceremony here. An ocean of blood on the streets is what we want to avoid. Civil war will only benefit Them. But you will need to be thorough. While the nobles conflict over the election will be a major focus over the next year, it may be someone else who is using their infighting to further their own aims. Corruption's roots can go deep below the ground."

After the Sage asked his questions, a grim half smile briefly animated her features.
"The missing information is black for me too. The Twitcher believes its danger outweighs all our lives. It does not concern the cult. All we know about it comes from the Philosopher and he has been brief. He had a prior team- his men, not ours- investigating them and they brought back some data before they were ambushed and killed.

They said it began a few years ago, with a former priest. A renegade, who works in the poorest area of Agat Tha. Their chant is 'We are the change we seek'. His name was Father Raz el Tin. Now he is known as 'The Cleanser'. Claims he can wash away your worries and fears. That he can provide forgiveness and absolution. Since the ambush his whereabouts are unknown but his power seems to be increasing. Their chant has been written on walls across the city- even within Planet Fall. Enforcer reports tell of mass gatherings in the city but they break up and disappear before reinforcements arrive. The Philosopher may know more."

As she had spoken about the cult, her eyes had moved from each of their faces, watching their reactions. Her attention returned to Octavius to answer his second question.
"I can update the data square with more information on the weapons. In short though. A large amount of their work is tank fitting. Fitting Chimera's and Leman Russ tanks so they operate better on extreme battlefields. Under water, desert, stealth.
For soldiers they produce the Lileathian Auto-Las and Lileathian Fire. More powerful versions of standard weapons. The most famous weapon they make, and the rarest is the Haywire Rifle. Disrupts and disables machine spirits at long range. Only a few are made every year.
These are known and evidenced. Personally I've heard rumours of others. Close combat aids, one which is said to strike fear into every opponent. And single person skimming vehicles similar to those of the Eldar."

She gave a shrug after these last few sentences.
"The last may be only fire light stories, but Lileath produces much for the Imperial Armies."

"Increase knife-ears in the area an' makin' skimmers what work like a knife-ear's? Hard to find coincidence there. If it's bein' true."

Adelaide didn't care for xenos none. Didn't care for anything that wasn't human. Hell, she hardly cared for most of them.

"What's 'Lileathian Fire'?"

Gabriel listens intently to the new arrival; elbows propped on the table and chin resting on top of his hands, his expression thoughtful.

I wonder how she landed in all of this. One minute you're herding grox, the next...


He waits patiently for Adelaide to complete her scan of the data slate before reaching across to take the device.

"May I?"

"Course," Adelaide responds with a gentle shrug.

Ain't mine after all, she thinks absently. The potential family power struggles intrigued her, but talk of the cult intrigued her more. Rather, a lack of talk since that information was redacted.

"What can y'tell us 'bout 'The Philosopher' before we meet him?"

"Thanks."

Gabriel studies the device, eyes scanning deliberately across the screen. Nodding slowly, he places the slate carefully back on the table.

We're being dropped straight into a powder keg here.

His tone suddenly taking a more serious edge, he addresses the Sarge directly.

"Who, or what is suspected of manipulating events on this planet?"

Without missing a beat he continues.

"You said there was an enforcer presence on the planet. How have these events been allowed to escalate unchecked?"

"Does the Governor, this Gedred Lanwin, heed the Emperor's Law?"

The Adeptus Arbites only concerned itself with matters relating to the Dictates Imperialis. Local law enforcement was the duty of whatever peacekeepers were employed, and could often be found wanting. I'd be surprised if the regional Arbitration presence hadn't picked up on something by now though.

The woman continued to lean against the back of the chair, as the questions continued. While the pose might have been relaxed, there was an alertness and tension to her body.
Looking at Adélaïde again, she waited until the other had finished.
"If its true, then yes. It would be surprising if there wasn't a connection of some kind. However the rumours about Lileath's secret weapons have been about for many many years. Older perhaps than even the Twitcher. This sudden increase in Eldar activity has only recent. Something seems to be attracting them now."

She shrugged her right shoulder.
"Their motives are difficult to understand. Lileathian fire is a used in the same way as standard, in grenades, and handheld flame weapons but it burns harder and hotter. Melts armour better too. A killer in a city fight."

While her reply to the second question had been detached, she looked clearly more animated to answer the last, as if she had been waiting for it.
"The Philosopher is a long term agent of the Inquisitor. Served her for many more years than I have and is considered a highly trustworthy source. He works within the Administratum and is in a position of much power there. Apparently he has never been off world. I have not met him myself.
The Twitcher values him, perhaps due to his information. Or it may be due to the Systems importance. This is why she has not supplied his true name. In case something should happen to you first. After you make landfall you are to proceed to the Administratum Headquarters. The Philosopher has been made aware of your arrival and will make contact with you once possible."

She turned to look at all of you individually again as she spoke, taking her time.
"To this. The Twitcher wants your investigations to be under a low profile. An Official Inquisitorial Response could cause further escalation. IF, there is a central mind behind this it may be why the cult is yet to be seriously suppressed. Or it could cause them to hide and delay their actions until our attention is elsewhere. Or it could be solved simply through your direct action. She has chosen you as you have shown skill in responding to situations with faith and judgement and without the full Inquisition behind you. The Philosopher can provide you with some limited authority thanks to his position but beyond that, it is on you to find another way.

However should the situation escalate dangerously, the Philosopher can provide additional authority to you, extending to full Inquisitorial status. If anything should happen to him, send a message care of 'Sarge' to the Moritat Lodge at the Labienus 2C Space Station, Thule Sub Sector and assistance will be provided."

She paused after this, before turning to Gabriel.
"If there is a central influence manipulating all these events, it would be one of darkest heresy. Be it Xenos or Chaotic influence. However this is just a suspicion at this point. It could be a number of smaller heresies which could be removed in turn. Evidence is still limited at this point. Which is why you are being sent to investigate further.

Sassan Nictor has both Arbites and Enforcers or as they refer to them, the Commissariat and the Urbanue Praetorianue. One element of your investigation will likely be into their responses to these events.
And yes, he appears to do so. The Philosopher has reported nothing that would suggest otherwise."  

Cassandra waits patiently, listening to the other people in the room voice their questions and opinions while waiting for the data-slate to make its way to her. As she waits, she ponders the wisdom imparted onto her by her teachers in scholam, and her mother in their prayer sessions:

Analysis is the bane of conviction

Contemplation is the womb of treachery

Reason is the cloak of traitors.

However, she was now no ordinary servant of the Emperor. She was a member of the Holy Inquisition. That which treads into the darkness of the cancer of heresy so that it might be burned from the roots and purged from the holy body of the Imperium itself. This train of thought leads her to another verse that she had never been able to reconcile: Knowledge is power, hide it well. At this time, in this place, she begins to see the wisdom there. Undoubtedly, knowledge of the works and teachings of the mutant, the heretic, and the alien were blesphemous in the extreme, but not all knowledge is of that sort. The heretics on Sassan Nictor had knowledge about their own locations, strengths, and plans. That gave them power. Were she and her team able to root out these secrets, they would rob the heresy of its power and be able to put it to the cleansing flame.

Nodding to herself, Cassandra sets diligently to the study of the data-slate while it copies to her own personal device. She removes the glove from her right hand to manipulate the slates, but her left hand remains gloved. Once she has read through the briefing material, she leans back and speaks up.

"I agree with Adelaide. It is not uncommon for those more obsessed with knowledge than with righteous faith to meddle in affairs that they should not." She glanced sideways at Octavius before continuing. "The rumored secret technologies are too close to that of damnable Aeldari works to be a coincidence. I also recall from my militant training that the Aeldari are known to make use of haywire technology. That this planet is at least rumored to produce two technologies so similar to Xenos tech is suspicious in the extreme. To add to this, the report says an increase in Eldar activity, not a beginning to it, implying that they have been in this system before. I believe we are looking at at least some Xenos corruption among the Mechanicus on the planet."

Cassandra turned to face Sarge.

"I have a few questions as well. First, the Argent Shroud is an order with a reverent reputation. I assume with the presence of the Cannoness comes a garrison of Battle Sisters on the planet as well? Do we have numbers for their strength? Or that of the PDF, Guard, and Skitarii forces for that matter?

Second, should the situation arise that we require additional firepower to purge the taint, would the Twitcher prefer us to call upon Inquisition forces directly to maintain discretion, or should our first course of action be commandeering local forces?

Finally, is there any more information on the feral population between the cities? Such an overlooked and underestimated population might provide a fertile breeding ground for heretical cults, especially if they lack access to the holy word of the Imperial Church. Specifically, tech level and population would be useful. We need to know if they are capable of disabling the mag trains or transporting people and goods across the sea. After all, mankind has been plying the seas for longer than it dreamed of sailing the stars."

Ocativus decided to simply ignore the stab at the Mechanicus and thus his integrity, his loyalty to teachings of the Omnissiah.

Although i have to admit she has a point. That skimmer sounds ... interesting. It could be genuine. Some kind of Astartes specialty for instance. Humankind has mastered anti grav tech long ago, it was just not as wide spread as with the Eldar or the Tau. I hope to get a good look at that - let it be a child of human mind or some kind of techhresy.

When the righteous woman was finished he added his own thoughts to the conversation:

You said we were going in undercover, so is there some kind of cover story provided? Are we getting false identifications to cover our
tracks? And are there any other contact persons of note? Especially in the other columns of power? Are there any in the Mechanicus?

Adelaide didn't even attempt to hide her confusion at some of the words being used. She had never heard of a "Tau," and she damn sure never heard of no "As-tar-tees" that the man - Octavius - was talking about.

She decided that if it came up again, she would ask about it, but just supposed they were talking about something not human.

Talk of going undercover was fine with her. She had armor, but only put it on if things got really heated. Again, she felt the cold steel against her chest and took comfort in that.

"What about people an' weapons where we goin'? They allowed? If not, I got a few things I need ta hide."

The woman watched as the final member of the group spoke up, summarising some of the key information regarding the Eldar.
"You are correct in your reading of the square. While for many years, their activity has been occasional and minimal, this system is a place they return to. It could be related to the Mechanicus. However Haywire and skimmer technology are not unknown to the Imperium. Though not at this level."

She then moved on to the other questions.
"The Cannoness has a number of Sisters as part of her high table, but no more than two hands worth. Both the Church and the Mechanicus operate as independently as they can. Exact numbers are difficult, as is direct information. The Philosopher estimates for the Church 50,000 who could serve, plus the sisters. The Mechanicus about 1 million. A rough estimate.
The PDF have 10 million. The Guard is at the beginning of their cycle, 50,000 untrained but well equipped.

The Inquisitor would prefer a silent blade to the blasting of a gun. Strategic killings rather than a purge. If additional assistance is required, look to the Philosopher. He will be acting as your direct control and he can get additional firepower. Commandeering local forces will be your last resort.

Information on the feral population is limited. They have no major settlements we know of and they move frequently. Of the two sides, those on the north are hill tribes with primitive weapons and those on the south seem to have black powder technology. Dark smoke and burning engines. Population? Anything between 50,000 to a million is estimated. They occasionally attack the mag trains but with little success. If they disabled the trains, they have been given assistance. As I understand both sides cross the sea sometimes to make war on each other. The old war of the system."

The woman nodded as Ocativus mentioned being undercover.
"There is little we could give you which would not stand out as an outside power on the planet. They are their own system. The Philosopher has been given your names and will be providing light cover, with roles within his Department. Until he can meet you, be careful. Do not draw attention. And no- The Philosopher is the Inquisitors sole contact on the planet. He will have others, though the Mechanicus is very difficult. You may need to make your own."

There was a long pause at this juncture as if she was considering something. When she started to speak again, her voice was slower.
"I have one contact. Two years ago, I had a mission. He's a criminal, a smuggler. Passes regularly between the two cities. Has useful information mostly underworld but you might have to pay, or squeeze. The Philosopher won't know him. The gangs will know where he is. If they think you come from Planet Fall- they'll probably kill him, if he's not already dead."

Reaching into her overcoat she pulled a scrap of torn scroll from a pocket, before flipping out one of the knives on her belt. Using the blunt hilt, she indented a number of printed letters before rubbing the parchment on the edge of the dirty table. Finally folding it in half, she handed it to Ocativus.

If Ocativus opens:

"In his 40's, quite hairy and lightly built. Bad smell and always talking."

Finally she turned back to Adélaïde again.
"Official areas very little, but light weapons ok. Pistols, chainblades. Outside these you can have more but if the Urbanue Praetorianae see you with chainswords, lasguns they'll stop you for a talk. Better to hide what you have in Planet Fall and the area's close, unless your cover is sufficient."

The woman then stood up straight, and pulled the battered overcoat around her again.
"You have two days before the hunt begins. Walk softly and watch your backs. The Twitcher waits."

Turning she moved to the door and disappeared through it, closing it quietly behind her.

{I'm going to give you a little time to get prepared before we move on to landing on the planet. If there is anything specific you'd like to try or do before this, let me know via the OOC thread. Just know that as a Pilgrim ship your options are going to be limited to other Pilgrims or the few sailors. I'm planning to maybe move on, on Sunday unless you want to do something or rp some planning/ interactions.}

"Guess I'm gonna need to hide some shit." Adélaïde stands as Sarge leaves, making ready to leave herself. If anyone wants to say anything to her, now is the time, because she definitely doesn't look as though she has anything to say to anyone else.


+++


She lines up for supper as usual, sitting with a random group of pilgrims. She digs into her meal with relish, as she did all hot meals almost regardless of what they were. There was something about cooked, hot food that spoke to her soul; something she was deprived of for a long while.

When she speaks, she addresses the table. "Anyone got anything to trade? Or anything they are willing to donate to a fellow pilgrim?"

Ocatvius takes the piece of parchment, and nods in appreciation. Without reading it, the note vanishes in the depth in the depths of his robes.

Later, alone in his quarters, he took it out and read it exactly once. Then he burned the parchment, leaving no evidence.

Radomil wanders the crew deck, looking for some sort of marketplace. He's fond of his lasgun, but Sarge said to keep things low key. The mission sounded like high possibility for some CQC anyway, and a pistol might do him more good in close quarters.

He brings his remaining stash of lho-sticks in case the pilgrims won't accept his Departmento Munitorum script.

With Adélaïde
There were five other pilgrims at the table Adélaïde joined. All were dressed the same drab grey cowl, the rims of which circled their pinched and shadowy faces. Two were recognisably female, one old and one in middle age, with silver and blond hair respectively displayed around their necks. Two were male, and in middle age, one clean shaven and one bushily bearded. The gender of the final pilgrim was impossible to tell, as they sat with their head inches away from their bowl of gruel.

Silence followed Adélaïde's words. Eyes pointedly turned away, to look in the opposite direction from the outsider. After an uncomfortable amount of time, it was finally broken by the old woman. Her voice was low and rasping, but the others stopped eating immediately.
"Second letter of Blessed Thimosey to the Aventine's
Following his pious acts of giving away the families meagre supplies, St Barthomelu's father lost his patience and took him to the Agat Tha markets to sell him away. However the Emporor's blessing shined brightly upon the young boy and this was recognised by the prefect who took the young boy into his service.
And so the boy grew, uplifting those around him. The prefect went on to become Governor. However he looked past what brought him to this position and instead became hungry to keep his power. While St Bathomelu wanted to spread the Emporor's word, the Governor wanted him to marry into a leading family. In vain the young boy pleaded that his virginity had been promised to the Emperor, the Govenor would hear of no refusal. At an official party a noble woman tired to flirt with him, but he rejected her. In spite she told him
'Those beautiful eyes of yours will belong to someone here whether you like it or not. The Govenor has said so'
St Barthomelu responded by putting his finger into his right eye and pulling it from its socket and offered it to her.
'Here have it. I offer it in His name. But beware, it will be the only eye you own.'
The woman was later blinded, and forced to beg for forgiveness. Such are the consequences to doubting the Emperors word."
"Emporor look kindly upon these heads." The other four chanted this as one.

With Radomil
As Radomil continues through the ship, he is presented with corridor upon corridor of the same. Pilgrims and the occasional sailor moving through it. There is no obvious sign of any economy. Pilgrims pay before they enter and are then supplied with food until the end of their journey. However eventually he finds what he is looking for. A dark dank corridor, off the main walk way. A number of sailors and pilgrims mill about in pairs, all deep in earnest discussion.
As Radomil watches, a pilgrim eventually bows his head and hands over a las pistol to a stocky red haired sailor, who quickly makes the weapon disappear into his cavernous trench coat pockets. He hands something else to the pilgrim who clutches it to his chest before moving away and past Radomil  hastily. The sailor starts whistling badly, his eye curiously looking over the new arrival.

Gabriel sat for a while in the room once the others had left. Trying to work out the angles, formulate some plan. His thoughts drifted from that lonely vessel to the planet of his birth; it seemed so distant now. Like his time at the Schola Progenium.

He recalled a bed-time story that his father used to tell him as a boy. Millennia ago, a primitive earth tribe used to worship the Emperor as a one-eyed barbarian chief, a seer and prophet who hung from an ancient tree, sacrificing himself for greater wisdom and knowledge of other worlds. While gifted with a grand vision for humanity he lacked true omniscience; so he entrusted two ravens to be his eyes and ears. These creatures he sent forth to gather information on his vast domain; his scouts and spies. In time, as He began to realise this mighty vision, He entrusted others to act in His stead; faithful men and women committed to this righteous cause. Acolytes.

Once he asked his father, recently returned from a long voyage he was reluctant to speak of:  "Are you one of the Emperor's birds then?"

His father would laugh and say: "It is just so. We are the Emperor's dutiful ravens, ever at his beck and call to fulfill the plan he would have wrought were it not for the traitors who once laid him low."


Ravens. More like crows. We're all linked by one misfortune or another. Plucked off some battlefield like carrion because of what Fate has decreed. Black birds in service to a distant liege, a mad prophet bound to a wooden throne.

Gabriel quickly shook his head, clearing it of further intrusive and unwelcome thoughts.
He missed his father's stories. He missed the precinct and his partner. It had only been two weeks.


Sarge seems like a decent sort. Especially if she was willing to give up a contact so readily.

Aeldari though? I thought they were nothing more than a dwindling race, forced to resort to piracy in order to support the remnants of their colonies.
If anything, this is simple human devilry. The usual round of greed, ambition...
Damn, you're starting to sound like Solomon! Lighten up.

No point sitting in here brooding. I'd best try to make contact with 'Nika and then get some chow and shut-eye.

Adelaide listened to the tale without breaking eye contact. It was hard to say if she even blinked. She spoke after giving back the exact length of silence they had given her. She leaned in real close, her voice almost a whisper.

"Whacchu think woulda happen, had that noble lady reached over and took out his eye firs'?"

Radomil approaches the sailor casually. "Hail, traveler. Been looking for something I think you have. I've got gelt, if you're selling."

Walking out from the meeting room, Cassandra heads first back to her sleeping quarters to meditate on the new task and pray for guidance. Once in her bunk, her mind keeps wandering and she finds it hard to concentrate on the mission at hand, so she begins reciting her litanies while field cleaning her weapons, which always helps her center herself.

After she finishes, she feels much more centered, and has an idea of where to start this mission: with the common folk. She rises, hesitates, and then regretfully places her weapons, except for her chainblade, back into the bunk. It would be easier to blend in without them, though she is always remiss to be separated from them.

Once she has divested herself of the weapons, she strides through the halls to the ship's nearest prayer hall. While it was not official prayer time at the moment, in a ship full of pilgrims there would always be a few found at the altars.

When she arrives, she looks for a person sitting by themselves and goes over to them. "Do you mind if I pray with you, friend?"

With Adélaïde
While the young woman may have kept her eyes peeled on the group of Pilgrims, it was difficult to know if they noticed, as all of them were pointedly staring in the opposite direction to her. It was clear though, that they heard what she said, as their was an obvious stiffening. Eventually one face turned back to look at hers.
It was the young clean shaven man. His pinched face was pale and nervous but there was a kind look to his face.
In a slow whisper he replied to Adélaïde, his tone that of someone trying to explain something complicated to a child.
"I don't think you understand. The lady was speaking as they did in those times. It wasn't really his eye she wanted, no it wasn't. She wanted to own him, him St Bathomelu. But he belonged only to the Emperor. So HE took out his eye, not her. She got what his eye, but it wasn't what she wanted. Emperor look kindly upon this head."
"Marl your bowl is getting cold. The Emperor displeasure is on those who waste his food."
At these words the young man jerked with surprise before turning away and leaning down to scoop the gruel into his mouth.
The rest of the Pilgrims waited in silence, occasionally lifting spoons to their own mouths.

With Radomil
A broad smile crossed the sailors face as the ex-soldier approached. He gave a perfunctory check over both soldiers, but it was clear that he didn't think there was a high chance of getting caught.
"Whadda I know, but we've got some sorta mystic here. One of 'hose body reading Johnnies. Ooo looking fer summit I 'ave? Only one fing I have an I be feeling generous today! Eh Eh."

He suddenly clapped a hard hand down on Radomil's should and guffawed.
"Look on yer face. Aghh, bet I be jesting ooo guardsman. What's on yer mind? What'iv got that oo want? I'm just shutting shop here but we'll hold the horse and shake one more hand. Unferl yourself Boots."

With Cassandra
The person the Sister had chosen, was a large woman, her girth almost matching her height. It was readily apparent that she was heavily pregnant and yet she was still on her knees before the alter, hands clasped together.
When she turned to look at Cassandra, there was a nervous tension gripping her face and a fear in her eyes, that had nothing to do the other traveller.  Despite this, she still smiled a sad smile at the Sister.
"Of course not my dear. It is a blessing to be joined by you."
She cast a distracted eye up at the alter before continuing.
"So close now to Sassan Nictor and everyone prays with St Bathomelu. I've always felt a kinship for St Yurri though. So kind and strong for the poor children. Never to be adults. They died for His name and all were said to be smiling at the end. It is His light that shines."

One arm went down to cup her extended belly.
"Shall we pray to her my sister? Pray for the strength to do the right thing, no matter how it hurts."

Leaving the room, Gabriel heads towards the mess hall in search of coffee, company and something to eat.

Wonder if they have any hot re-caf?

Adelaide hadn't been hostile before; her question was genuine. It made sense that if the woman noble woman had wanted to get his attention, she missed an opportunity. Especially since this St. Whatever seemed to be a real self-harming type. Could have saved him the trouble.

But to be told she didn't understand was another thing entirely.

"Only ones who don't understand is y'all. That's a good story; it is. But that story won't protec' you when they come. Flesh like leather, teeth like spinning saw blades. They don'care 'bout no words, no songs, no prayers. Don't get me wrong - ain't got nothin' 'gainst prayers, but I ain't never seen 'em work when it counts. Now somethin' you fill with prayers, somethin' special - that is powerful. That could make 'em look away - give you that split second you gonna need to run. An' don't you dare look back fuh your friends, 'cause if they ain't beside you, or ahead of you, they already dead."

She casually tossed her empty bowl aside. "And if they ain't, they wishin they was. So, what you got then, pilgrim? Got a prayer trinket? Because I need it more than you ever will."

The look in her eyes told anyone with a lick of sense that she was not simply puffing up her chest. Her eyes told stories that these soft pilgrims couldn't dream about, for they had witnessed abomination that only existed in their myths and tall tales.

With Adélaïde
Despite the fervour of Adélaïde's words, the Pilgrims showed no particular reaction. Perhaps their faith was so strong, that they brooked no alternative. Or perhaps they were so used to fire and brimstone that this particular rendition left them cold. In any case it was clear, that they were far from intimidated.
As the young woman's bowl clattered on the table, Marl finally looked up, his bowl finally emptied. Slowly the group rose to their feet and moved to file in behind the old woman.
Her face was scrunched and withered, the lines of wrinkles on her spotted skin so thick it was like there were worms under the surface. Two tiny eyes, stared out from deep shadow, their colour the shade of a jaggedly frosty sky. Looking up, from her hunched position over her stick, she stared for a second into the younger woman's face.
"When it comes we will meet it with faith, as we always have. When it comes for you, you will fall as you have before. As Heretics always fall."
There was little fire in her voice as she spoke. It sounded like hot blooded emotions like that had long since burnt out inside her. Instead her voice had the rigid certainty of natures law.

Following her words, she lent down on her stick and hobbled forward followed by the rest of her group. As the hollow tapping of the stick continued, a laugh sounded out. It was coming from the long bench directly behind Adélaïde. The woman sitting there looked scarcely into her twenties, an opposite in almost every way from the former speaker. Bright red hair spilled out of the hood of her dusty travelling cloak, and her dirty face was smirking.
"Like so much grease traveller. Riling up ole Witherwick was a nice touch. You'll be checking under your bed for nasty grannies till we make shore."  

With Gabriel
As Gabriel opens the door to the mess hall, he is immediately caught by its size. The floor stretches so far that he loses it, and instead can only see row upon row of dark metallic tables. These are just starting to empty, cloaked figures getting to their feet and shuffling towards the numerous exits.
One side of the room is taken up with a series of massive metal open barrels. Sailors in stained grey aprons stand beside each, occasionally dolling out gruel. No other food are drink seem readily apparent.

However the smell of recaff is unmistakable. Next to the open barrels is a open door space, seemingly leading on to a kitchen of some kind. Gabriel is certain the smell is coming from here.

With Radomil
"Ooo have a bitty bother that way Boots? Rigid an unbent that's me. 'Gular Boots on parade."
He guffawed loudly before suddenly pulling open his coat and reaching down inside a pocket and withdrawing a weapon. Radomil had seen many las pistols before, but rarely one as good as this. Sleek and black, it was a lot less blocky than standard, and highly polished. On one side was embossed a family crest or symbol of some kind showing a bear paw, with a red stone of some kind in its centre. The grip was padded leather, obviously also well maintained, as it looked unscratched.
"'e look straight enough for oo? Fine piece no question. Ooo could walk away? Pass these hands with gelt and we be conchording."

Faith won't stop your screams as they peel the skin from your dusty bones. Adelaide noted mentally right then and there that the old hag had none of it. Just empty prayers and a wasted life.

The woman's voice caught her attention. She leaned down and scooped up her bowl, placing it on the table. The woman intrigued her - clearly not a Pilgrim. That was a plus. She was growing so very sick of them.

She moved over to the woman, not sitting without an invite, but curious all the same.

"Would if I had an actual bed." She stood there waiting for an invite to sit, if she didn't get it, she would move on.

Radomil takes the gun and checks it. He was hardly expecting to find a pistol of this quality in such a squalid locale. Usually Radomil is cautious of fancy nobleman weapons, but the action of this laspistol is clearly that of a quality weapon. "Ain't Munitorum standard, that's for sure. I'll take it. Got any charge packs for it?" Radomil says, counting out gelt-scrip for the sailor