[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Nicios/Bardas:

Etiquette duly observed, although what it looks like to the three of you is a different matter, you leave the Administratum building, stepping into the broad thoroughfares of the middle hive. The boulevards are much different to the hovel-like, clautrophobic walls below, enough for repulsorlift air-cars to zoom past in their dedicated lanes.

Timing, as Falk will know is everything, and his new commanders do love precision. 

One air-car with reflec-tint windows pulls over, tucking into the decanting bay close to where you stand. A man waves to you through the open gull-wing door, but only Falk recognises him. Garbed in civilian clothes, his face would be obscured from anyone observing other than the angle at which you stand.

Voyager.

Once you board, a strange silence closes down along with the door. A Stummer or some such device perhaps. No-one speaks as he drives, and Nicios perhaps finds the most stillness, the amulet around the driver's neck is supposed to be his conveyance license, but you can feel the odd power rebuffing your own.

The car turns left, into the downzoom, taking the company lower. Down and down Voyager delves, until the start of vertiginous nausea grips your innards, pressing them into your sides as he keeps his constant speed, slipping and side-passing other vehicles smoothly, effortlessly.

A rail station awaits. Tickets are produced in silence and the compartment is empty - in fact the whole train is bereft of people.

Soon, you are decanting at an Arbites precinct - or at least the façade of one, Falk may realise. The hustle and bustle of lawmen talking is sparse, but they feel close enough for the uninitiated. It dawns on you that you are actually outside the hive. A march through security takes you down in a lift. It travels for a long time, the whirr and creak of plasteel cables running over well maintained gears perhaps soothing to Bardas.

It bottoms out, and before you realise it, a tunnel composed of doors and numbers ends with a solid barricade, and the distinct, unmistakeable symbol of the Emperor's own Inquisition.

The man escorting you has travelled every inch of the way, keeping his posture alert, and whatever concealed weapons close to hand. His eyes cease their constant roaming of the environment and he stops moving. You sense this aggravates him, since his left hand fidgets. He looks you over once more.

"Throne be with you, that are not found wanting."

He places his right hand on a tile set to the wall.

"Voyager. Exitus Acta Probat, three Subjects, ready."

Red lights turn to green, and the door grinds open, apart from the crunch of metal on metal, the hall judders and the screaming begins.

Any players are free to drop responses if they have them, especially Nicios, whose abilities might be blunted by Voyagers' amulet but the sheer power of the wailing perhaps cuts that stifling fog...

Otherwise, I'll update again later this evening to break up the posts a bit.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

The blankness of the psi-dampener on the escort's neck vanishes as the door opens and a wave of terror/pain/fear washes over Nicios. His eyes tear up and instinctively his hand reaches for the pistol at his side. 

Training and control take over, freezing his hand before it touches the weapon. Psychic walls build against the emotions battering his mind, reducing the pain and bringing focus back. 

This place is not a good place, the feeling of old deaths linger underneath everything. 

[A.T.]

Falk:

Falk had stood a step back lest the others should bolt at this final step of the journey but it would seem that his task was not over, nor even truly begun. Now he stepped ahead as the wrongness of this place was held in stark contract to the symbol of the Emperors will.

What manner of man would be kept this way? To have seen too much would bring the Emperors mercy of death, to have cross him would have brought his wrath by the hands and executioners of the Imperium. But this... labourers for some terrible cause perhaps, or something far worse? And what need would they have of those from this world unless one had escaped unto it...

[Mazer Rackham]

All:

The doors, complete with their grim sigils slam shut with the finality of a coffin lid closing. Ratchets screw into place as the suffocating lid is clamped tight into place.

You all have the impression of lozenges of light, painting individuals or a cluster of other figures in stark silhouette. All but the basic details are obscured.

All is silence, and black. The change from the bright, blinding threshold of the corridor to the darkness thwarts flesh eyes and augmetic implants alike, and the strange sense of falling strikes you, almost like a boot striking you behind the knee, crumpling you to a penitent state. Maybe one among you finds that fitting. To those with the second sight, there is naught but peace - the pressure of hexagrammic and pentagrammic wards push against your mind, pressing it firmly back into your skull, blinding your give, so that you all may be in the dark. Then, slow light begins to coalesce at the centre of the room, and after a minute, your eyes begin to drink up the meagre brilliance to make sense of the space.

The walls beside and behind are circular, completely devoid of artifice or interface. There is no object your eye can fix on, the darkness and blue-grey lamp from the holotable before you lets your gaze slip along the concave rotunda. Above, a domed ceiling, likewise without visual anchor.

Yet it is the floor which is most interesting. Upon the threshold of the door, are High Gothic letters, which reflect in the gloaming illumination.

Veni, Vidi, Veritatem.

The mantra repeats around the vault, giving you some idea of breadth, perhaps some 30 metres in diameter.

The floor is uneven, with each square metre panel of the deck plating beneath your feet set at an angle to the next, and no two facing the same direction. The peaks and troughs of the uneven footing would give the hardest, and most ignorant stomach a dose of Nauseam Mare. The fact each facet carries strange and uneven staining leaves no doubt what might go on here. Hinges at the edge of each panel might give away the secret to those of the Omnissiah, that each of these panels is a piece of a massive jigsaw, fitting the whim of some unknown master.

The air is cool enough to stir gooseflesh, and even though a small mist stirs a fresh scent, the draught carries counterseptic and the tang of cleaning fluid lingers.

+Move to the table.+ A male voice, strong, constant and firm.

The voice is everywhere, in the dark and the light. It comes from no vox caster you can discern, but it surrounds you as sure as the air. It bounces from the walls, and it would be easy to understand how a prisoner might feel, trussed to an excruciator throne, and being battered by that voice. How it might feel like a hundred throats bawling into your ear.

Datapanels, similar to those at the doors light up around the edges of the circular holotable, as it begins to flare, carving a tall image in the centre, of a hooded, robed man. Armed and armoured, the faceless visor looks at each of you simultaneously, the projectors and picter-flectors set to cast the image. Ten panels light up in crimson. Ruby glow against base plasteel.

+There are ten places. Choose one and put your hand flat on the data panel. Do not remove it.+ His voice reverberates. +And I would suggest using your off-hand.+

He stands there, immobile, waiting. 

Edited August 7, 2022 by Mazer Rackham
Cleanup.

[Trokair]

Bardas had remained quiet during the journey, evaluating the events and what facet of the Omnissiah’s will he was now following, or was he straying from it.

The clerk for all appearance was more than he seemed, the building, unlike the countless amongst which it tried to camouflage itself had extra security in its wall. He could feel the electrics sing in unusual ways, and somewhere deep within in there had been a machine spirit of most unusual kind, he felt it but fleeting and did not wish to dwell on it.

The onwards journey up to the door was equally in silence, were they as content to see where the path would lead, or did other concerns occupy their minds? He did not know, but was sure that to inquiry would be most unwelcome.

Now within the door, there were others gathered here and now for the path that lay ahead. Their would be master revealed, commanding them onwards to the table. As the others stepped forth, one by one, some reluctantly, others eager, Bardas did not observe them all to know.

He remained standing where he had entered, shrouded gaze fixed on the table, he knew what would come next. A surprise for the others no doubt, for him memories form his youth amongst the Magos’ study hall.

Removing his left glove he raised his hand, but still he did not approach the table to lay his hand, while familiar this was not the same, and the blessed parts of him might react with scorn.   

Edited August 7, 2022 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

Bardas:

The figure that has never flinched from implacably regarding you, now dips his head. Maybe a sigh lurks behind the blank visor.

+Tech-Sentinel Bardas,+ he speaks again, more forcibly. +Our Adepts have calculated well. Make yourself known in the light of knowledge.+

He pauses a short moment before a rough blur of binharic cant enters your mind...

Spoiler

010000110110111101101101011011010110000101101110011001000010000001100011011011110110010001100101001110100010000001010011011010010110011101101101011000010010000000110011001011010101010101110000011100110110100101101100011011110110111000101110

Before you realise it, you have moved forward and are reaching for your headgear, to cradle it under your arm, your body moving of it's own volition. It is a demonstration and invitation both.

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal walked into the Temple. A place of pleasant screams, harsh light and a chaotic panelled floor.

+Move to the table.+ A strong male voice rings out from all around, yet it must be from the sensed presence.

There are nine other applicants, victims all, he senses. Not artists. A test, a burden to overcome that needs a sum of many parts.

 

Datapanels, similar to those at the doors lit up around the edges of the circular holo-table, it began to flare, carving a tall image in the centre, of a hooded, robed man. Armed and armoured, the faceless visor looked at each of you simultaneously, the projectors and picter-flectors set to cast the image. Ten panels light up in crimson. Ruby glow against base plasteel.

 

+There are ten places. Choose one and put your hand flat on the data panel. Do not remove it.+ His voice reverberates. +And I would suggest using your off-hand.+

 

Kerr Restal moved like a cat to the first panel in front of the hooded figure. He knelt down and stretched his arm, he then placed his hand down flat on the panel, palm upwards.

 

 

 

Edited December 11, 2022 by Machine God
Kneeling or sitting is best for palm up

[Trokair]

Shaking his head, a wry half chuckle could be heard. ‘Sigma 3-Upsilon’ indeed, while he was familiar with the Magos’ way of imparting commands directly into their subordinates he was no thrall to be puppeteered or servitor to be instructed.

Finding himself at the table, whisk there by the imparted binharic cant, it was but a momentary compelling, and for one such as him, stationed away from direct line and oversight for years on end sufficient independence and resistance to such compulsion were a required trait. Else a misplaced order could leave a shrine abandoned while its custodian dug a well all the way untill the lava flows.

Aware that all eyes were likely now on him, Bardas instead first removed the other glove, then with care, head bowed, he pushed back the cloaks hood. Next were the green tinted goggles, carefully placed on the edge of the table. Lastly he unwrapped the cloth that covered the rest of his head.

What you all will notice first, before he even lifted his head, were the ears, or rather the scars on the weather warn skin where they should have been.  As he raised his head, mouth open as if screaming or laughing, any that cared to look would have see that there was no tongue in residence.

Lastly your gaze would have been drawn to the empty eye sockets, darkened seared flesh where eyes should gaze out at you. Were it not for the nose, weather beaten as it was but otherwise intact, you could have imaged you where facing a skull and not a living head.  

+++I do not recognise your authority over me+++ The vox speakers in the room sprung to life with a new voice, one that Falk would recognise.  

+++By the Treaty of Olympus Mons we are independent of you and your lords, save the Omnissiah itself.+++

Reshrouding his features, for Bardas was aware that many a fellow human would find it disconcerting to be regarded by his uncovered head, he continued in a ... softer voice.

+++ As a fellow faithful servant of the Omnissiah, I will however aid you in your duty, if you will aid me in mine in turn. To have found me here you must know the why of my journey, and therefore that which I seek. +++

Looking up at the holographic visor, left hand held out, but not quite touching the Electoo inscriber, Bardas stood.

+++ Accord?+++

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard frowned. It sounded suspiciously like they were about to be branded in some fashion… not an idea he liked at all.

For starters, he wasn't a damn grox. Reynard didn't belong to anyone but himself.

For seconds, much of his 'work' depended on convincing people of something… while often at the same time convincing someone else of the opposite. Not easy to do while wearing a badge that proclaimed your allegiance! And presumably that was exactly the kind of job he was here to do for them, else why pick him?

For thirds, who was this hooded figure who ordered them around without giving them any information about who he was or what he wanted? The badge of the Inquisition could be used by anyone, if they had the stones to do it. This shade could be the devil Haerus himself, for all any of them knew!

Several of the other… prospects? …stepped forward almost immediately. Reynard sneered internally at their lack of caution. He moved sideways, shifting around the chamber without actually getting closer to the datapanels. He wanted more time to observe, to think.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Bardas:

The figure looks down, nodding slowly. +Sentinel, you speak well. We know all. Trust me - the power to complete your sworn mission will literally be put into your hands. I trust that is accord enough?+

Kerr Rastal:

+Unwise,+ the figure advises, +but as you will.+

I'm going to hold off on Reynard/others until more replies come in, which will add a little to the tension and hopefully provide a little more payoff for Reynard/everyone later.

[A.T.]

Falk:

So be it. What doubt the others might feel as to the origins and authority of this figure Falk had seen and verified, in so far as the short reach of his own authority could.

The choice of surroundings, the choice of words, the effort of it all seemed to entice disobedience like the hint of a sheep in wolf's clothing. A deepening puzzle.

[Necronaut]

In the dim lighting which emerged from the darkness, he found himself groping about on his knees, searching for a way to anchor himself. He beheld other gray, human shapes across the chamber from him in the gloom and he crept toward the central dias at the insistence of the voice. Suddenly an armored figure appeared before him, suspended in mid-air. The expressionless figure glared down at him, the groveling penitent. His many years of warring in the name of the God-Emperor, and his deep faith in his Lord, were all that kept him from quailing before the projected entity, such was the dread he felt. He had faced down xenos and heretics alike, but never before had he encountered a presence that radiated such malevolence. 

He swallowed and straightened, attempting to walk more confidently towards the table cast in an evil crimson. The white haired beauty had told him he went to his judgement. Truly this was the will of God. 

So be it.

He muttered a prayer to the God-Emperor and placed his left palm upon the blood-red panel. 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

+There are ten places. Choose one and put your hand flat on the data panel. Do not remove it.+ The voice reverberates. +And I would suggest using your off-hand.+

Nicios felt the psychic strain fall away. He saw the Machine-God servant he arrived with place his hand on one of the panels and then unwrap his head. Another, shadowy figure placed its hand on another panel with almost unseemly haste. 

Nicios didn't really want to put his hand on a panel, or follow the instructions of the hooded figure whom he couldn't read. Trust wasn't something natural to him. Still, the Inquisition was the power he had guessed would reassign him, one of the few agencies that could. The Inquisition was power itself, the right hand of the Emperor. He would do whatever he needed to, to join that power.

Walking steadily to the third alcove, he stripped the glove off of his left hand, placed the hand that was missing a finger on the panel. 

[Beren]

Darkness.

Darkness.

Darkness.

His ragged breathing, panicked gasps and beating heart eclipsing other sounds.

No, wait, there.

Breathing.

Others.

What was this? The voice the table, your off hand?

Oh feth. Others, stepping forwards. How? Why? What was the point of this? He wasn't anybody important. He know anything that the Inquisition would be interested in?

Others, yes, others. Attention, pay attention. Who? Clothing, body language. He ought to be mirroring somebody, something, and yet they were all still just... blurs in his mind, everything eclipsed by the central artifice. What was the point anyway? They were all going to die down here.

Oh, look, there. One of those martian tech-fanatics, gabbling on some nonsense about treaties, conversing with that figure in a voice that seemed to reverberate and reverbreate through the chamber until it was splitting his head open...

Garvek wanted to scream in the man-thing's face.

THIS IS THE INQUISITION! YOU ARE IN THEIR HANDS! THEY DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR GROX-FETHIN TREATY!

Instead he just trembled, staying back, waiting to see what happened to the first figures to lay their hands down on the panels.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Penitent:

The stern patrician towering above you unfolds a hand in benediction. +The faithful fear not, and are forgiven. Your journey is over. Welcome home.+

Nicios:

The panel is cool, and free of any taint or grammatic wards, in fact, you can sense the echoes here, the spirits of those gone before you. Some lived, choosing courage over hesitation, others perished in their treachery, falling at this - the final hurdle. Some greater colour waits to be poured into your monochrome life, passion, fear, hope, excitement. All of these are aftertastes of previous incumbents. You feel their shock, their pain as something important is added to them, but also their resilience. Men who would be called weak, scum and those who would be called great, have all stood here surrounded by silence and darkness. Their shades welcome you.

Falk:

An Arbitrator's lot is not a happy one, but at least it is predictable. Your proposed masters promise something different. Probably painfully, but as the figure towers above you, it nods, very distinctly. Approval, respect. Perhaps this man shares your outlook, for the shake of his head at the others, as imperceptible as it might be, lingers in your notice.

Garvek 'Stimms' Halsome and Reynard:

+If faith in the Emperor will not power your leap forward, then faith in yourself will suffice. You must stand together, or eternally stand apart. Choose now.+

His voice gives no hint, no succour to your troubles, no direction. Perhaps the screaming and tumult in the corridor was not in fear at all, but warning.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

The trickster frowned as the voice spoke again. Eternally stand apart…? That sounded decidedly judgy. Unpleasantly permanent too.

So there was no option, no negotiation, at least at this point? He paused a fraction of a second longer, looking for another angle. Then, with a shrug, he stepped forward. As he did, Reynard offered a tiny nod, a tight, momentary grin, and a roll of his eyes towards the other man smart enough to hold back. Smaller, older, wiry, not a fighter by outward appearance - though of course that could be a deception. A specialist of some sort? Or someone with more local knowledge? Either way, potentially a useful ally.

He stood before the round table, not quite opposite the big Arbitrator who had picked him up the day before. So, not as high up the food chain as Reynard had thought, but rather a fellow inductee? Interesting.

Then he looked down at the glowing datapanel. After a moment longer, he shrugged again. No other options right now.

Well… just to pick which hand… but he was equally good with either, so perhaps it made little difference? So, sinister or dexter?

In the end it was the simple desire to be different from the rest, to rebel against the unfairness of this enforced whatever-it-was, that made his choice. With outward cool and calm, he placed his right hand palm down against the glass.
 

Edited August 8, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Beren]

Slowly, slowly, Garvek brings his breathing under control. As he does so, he realises that the others in the room don't look like cowed convicts.

Alright, maybe that should have been obvious, given the whole tech-priest thing, but who could ken with the martians?

The others...

One might be a nobleman, from the quality of his clothes, yet the blatant extravagance common to the egos of that class was missing, and most wouldn't be caught dead wearing that flak coat under normal circumstances. There was something else too, about his bearing, that spoke of conviction. Solidity.

Another was clearly a psyker. Creepy buggers. Unfettered too, by the looks of the things. Stay away from psykers. They can pluck a thought from your head like a gloom-berry of a vine. Feth, he might have just heard that one. Feth!

Cheaters.

The tech-priest (If anybody could somehow manage to be creepier than a psyker, it would be a tech-priest. Only they did it deliberately.) whose faith in a treaty signed with the Inquisition now only seemed idiotic instead of grox-fethingly lobotomised.

Two more he couldn't see the faces of. Not that he needed two. Both clearly of violent bent, one clad in the tattered-voidsuit of a spacer... he couldn't tell. There was something about him that sent every one of his nerves screaming look away, look down and pretend he couldn't see it.  and the other whose jagged metal armour might have seemed quaint if it wasn't so damned terrigying, and if not for that fact that he too was equally laden down with weapons.

Weapons. Weapons. The unfettered psyker. Clearly not prisoners then. Throne above, had the others actually chosen to be here? Why was he here then, and for what? Why was he in a room full of freaks and psychopaths. Was this some elaborate form of Inquisitorial torture he hadn't yet heard of?

Movement drew his eye to the last remaining figure. Well cut clothes, but again, not extravagantly so. A grin, roll of the eyes, and then strolling forwards.

Well, at least there was perhaps one other sane individual in the motley group of... what exactly?

Alright. Alright then.

Garvek straightens up, steadies his breathing. He'd probably already given away more than he should (hadn't exactly thought there's be much point), but it couldn't hurt.

Calmly now, at least in appearance, the man strides forwards to lay his hand down on the nearest available panel.

Edited August 8, 2022 by Beren

[Mazer Rackham]

All:

The whine of a power generator starting up, electrifies the air, making the hairs of your hands and arms stand on end first. Static clings to your clothes, makes your teeth ache. Bardas alone looks unnerved, either due the the fact he is of the Mechanicus, or his fleshy faculties have been blasted already.

Something stabs each of you in the meant of your hand, there, but suddenly gone, a nip of steel punching flesh. Your hand begins to feel divorced from your body, counter-agents in implants or your flesh do not appear able to stop it.

The figure above you looks down.

+All men can stand adversity. If you wish to truly test a man - give him power.+

Heat sears into flesh, a las-pulse strikes your hand, burning without setting your appendage alight. The brilliant golden beam elicits the smell of seared skin, and your hand begins to glow as as a pattern is traced upon it. Blood vessels, bones and any augmetics within are painted dark against the panel's fiery lantern, nerve ending alight with an acidic sensation that will not cease.

After what seems an eternity, the beams cut, and a jet of counterseptic bathes your hand. The sting of this hurts almost as much as the first touch of the beam.

+Bio-luminescent dynamic electoos. Undetectable by simple means.+

Examining your hand reveals an electoo has been inducted into your flesh, seemingly of no affiliation or design. An auramite sheen begins to fade quickly as the counterseptic quenches the subdermal plasma-printing. A small drawer opens beside each panel, presenting a small case in fine leather.

+These are your Seals mated to your biodata. Made from bronzite and sanguinium, they weigh little, but are the heaviest burden you will carry.+

He opens his own palm, and in it is a small ingot o metal and ruby, in the shape of the cruciform =][=.

A miniature image of the figure erupts from the seal, projecting a hologram of his credentials. He closes his palm, and the demonstration ends.

+You are responsible for them. Worth a thousand Thrones on the black market. However, if you lose them...+ His gaze travels across the assembled company, but does not encompass Falk. +...Or damage them, or even sell them,+ his gaze lingers on Garvek and Reynard for half-a-heartbeat, +your lives are forfeit.+

Suddenly, a door opens in the far side of the room, spilling light and cool, fresh air into the rotunda.

+As Novitiates of the inquisition you may go forth. Beyond, there is a refectory, apothecarion, dormitory and a briefing room. Convene in the latter in one hour.+

His image fades, the cool brilliance replaced with the crimson light of the Inquisitorial symbol.

Your symbol.

Right folks, this is where we open up a bit. The rooms beyond are self-service or automated, Servitor controlled. You may sleep/rest, seek medical aid for your hand (narrative only, there's no damage), or get food. If you should wish, a small alcove in the apothecarion will serve as a sanctum for prayer or reflection.

Each room is of similar size (30m square), and as you leave, the food is on your left, 30m down the corridor (no doors), bunks are directly opposite that, and a further 10m on is the chopping shop on the right, briefing room is opposite that on the left. Q's in the OOC.

There are no switches. Admittance and services are through your electoo (It's an RFID).

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Placing his glove back on his hand and the Inquisitorial emblem in the breast pocket of his flak coat, Nicios strode out of the room. 

Looking through the complex, he saw a medicae station, a cafeteria, and a bunkroom. He was not hungry, nor did he need healing, for after a brief flash of power he sealed the electoo wound. 

Moving to the bunkroom, he sat on one of the bunks. Meditation was taught at the Telepathica to center oneself and prepare for the future. In doing so, he kept a  psychic eye on his surroundings and fellow Initiates.

Edited August 13, 2022 by Lord_Ikka

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

As he lifted his hand from the plate, the manacles around his wrists dropped away. Sourly, Reynard realised they weren't needed any more. He examined the electoo. Just as he thought, an identifier that could not be removed. Then he picked up the trinket. Likewise, an item that could not be discarded, even in a worst case scenario. Best to put it away and forget about it as much as possible. The offending seal went into one of the concealed pockets hidden in the lining of his long coat.

He moved quickly through the open door and along the corridor, looking through each doorway in turn. Having identified each room, he slipped into the refectory to take a closer look at the available foodstuffs.

Not terrible.

He wasn't starving, but like most Hivers he knew that if food was there, you ate it. Using a spoon he smeared two pieces of bread with a thick layer of multi-hued nutrient paste, laid several slices of grox meat on one side and then used the other to make a sandwich. Three pieces of fruit - a typical red-green apple and two dark purple skinned things that looked like oranges - disappeared into his voluminous coat for consumption later. He poured a large earthenware tankard of water and took it along with his sandwich to explore further.

Behind the refectory was the apothecarion. There were numerous items of value there, a pharmaceutical goldmine on the streets, but the chamber was guarded by the imposing figure of an Adepta Sororitas in full armour. She was a beautiful woman, but when he saw her Reynard didn't even attempt his usual wink and grin. Without speaking, he sauntered over to the supplies, putting his food to one side for a moment and picking up a tube of analgesic-counterseptic and rubbing some of the soothing gel into the electoo. He didn't actually need it, but it gave him the opportunity to palm the rest of the tube into one of his pockets. Then he picked up his meal and walked out with a small, inoffensive smile at the Battle Sister. She smiled back, and he was sure she had not been fooled at all.

Nothing of value to be gleaned from the briefing room - yet - so he moved back across to the dormitory, finishing the sandwich. It was far, far from the worst thing he'd ever had to eat to survive.

In the dormitory, there were a dozen hard metal frames covered by only slightly less hard mattresses and pillows, but he figured they'd still be more comfortable than the floor. The witch was already there. Reynard almost walked back out immediately. But... he'd have to get used to the psyker's presence. Without speaking, he sat on a cot opposite the door and stretched his legs out. He pulled out one of the purple fruits and started peeling it, surreptitiously watching the corridor to see what the rest of his new comrades would do.

Time to observe, and think, and plan.

Edited August 8, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

Be not of the Herd. Kerr Restal had known this when he had been chosen. Lateral thinking had maybe on some level impressed the Sensei, of course it wasn't outwardly shown.

 

He had watched the marks to his left and right whilst the electoo had been implanted. He could smell the burnt flesh from the operation and witnessed the others flinching in pain, he as ever was not effected.

A small ingot was linked to the electoo, this he placed carefully away in a hidden pouch inside his belt.

 

+You are responsible for them. Worth a thousand Thrones on the black market. However, if you lose them...+ The Sensei said to the other nine and him. +...Or damage them, or even sell them, your lives are forfeit.+

 

So I'm walking around with Nine Thousand Thrones worth of company. Or at least Six Thousand Thrones? Kerr Restal thought.

 

Yes look at his walk, Arbite. A Guardsman in spiked armour, A Witch, a Tech-Freak, two shifty Gangers one scruffy the other a weaselly juve in finer clothes.

Kerr Restal watched the Witch leave first, then the Weasel left.

His stomach needed food so he went to the Refectory just as the Weasel had left. He drank some water, took some fruit and some rolls of bread with him and left.

 

Next he went to the Briefing Room and stood in the right corner to watch the arrival of the Sensei and the Marks.

 

 

 

Edited December 11, 2022 by Machine God
left corner has door

[Trokair]

Bardas inspect the addition to his blessings. Was it a blessing, he wondered, if it was bestowed by one not initiated into the faith of holy Mars? Alas he would leave that to the theologians, he was no scholar of the sacred lore.

Following some of the others he glanced into the rooms now opened to them. It had been late when he began this new journey, and would be later still he suspect before the forthcoming briefing was over. As such he passed by the dormitory for now and headed into the refractory. Selecting a varied fare, with some stowed for later and his flagon refilled, he headed to the briefing room.

He might be able to get a few moments of rest there before the hour was up.

[Beren]

For a few moments, Garvek just stands there, massaging his sting hand.

Damn.

He might have to lose the hand at some point, and augmetics could be hell to wrangle.

...and he was still more or less utterly in the dark as to what any of this actually meant. Evidently nobody else was, because they has all started wandering off without so much as a word. Should he ask somebody? Not the witch, or the tech-priest. Best... just stay away from him. Not the two gun toting warriors who had the look of fanatics. Certainly not the highborn looking chap who Garvek couldn't quite ken yet.

...and the other reluctant? You could hide a lot in that kind of clothing. Carried himself with a natural kind of ease, despite the fact that he too had arrived manacled. Perhaps a future ally? Garvek almost liked him already...

...which almost certainly made him the most dangerous of the lot.

No, best not to give anything away for now. Best act as if he knew exactly what was going on. So, straight back, stride forwards. Nothing worth talking about...

The man explores the facility looking one way, then the other. A sororitas in the medbay... another fanatic... wonderful. Best stay away from her too for now, a canteen, the bunks...

Atop one of which was a weathered green bundle. His pace increases a touch as he makes straight forwards. His rain-cape, bundled around... other items. Don't check, not for everything, not in plain view. The inquisition might know everything already... but the others. His weapons on the other hand...

Garvek withdraws his pistol and las-gun from the mass. The pistol is compact, battered but resilient. A voider's piece. The lasgun is close enough to the militarum standard issue he'd trained with, traded from an ex-pdf member who like Garvek had narrowly escaped the moon of Horon. Methodically, the ex-guardsman begins stripping down and inspecting both weapons, letting the repetitive process calm his nerves.

[Mazer Rackham]

Garvek:

Rummaging through your kit, your hands bump into something. From the small bit of you can see, it looks a lot like a canvas bag.

It isn't a medical bag, just a beaten up old side-satchel. Innocuous. Common. Unremarkable.

A note on a scrap of paper catches the light.

"Thought you might need this. A friend."

The bag has some bulk to it.

Beren, if you haven't already, have a think about what other/extra stimms or doses you want in there. What you've already paid for is there as well.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard's eyes followed the 'specialist' as he entered the dormitory and headed to the other end of the room. He stopped at one of the far bunks, half in shadow, where something lay that Reynard hadn't noticed. Too busy watching the door. Cursing his carelessness, he took the opportunity to look properly around the room.

Each bed had a low table beside it. On one, next to a bed at the same end as the other man's bundle but on the other side, was a smaller parcel. Something was sticking out of it, something Reynard recognised immediately. He stood up, moving down the dormitory much faster than he had moved before.

The bundle was formed of a pair of leather holsters, as well as several sheaths. The object sticking out was a knife hilt. His knife. One of his favourites. Short blade - though plenty long enough - and beautifully balanced. It had been taken from him along with the rest of his kit by the Arbitrator.

Quickly he sorted through the pile, carefully strapping blades beneath his coat or placing smaller knives back in pockets. Last were the two guns. A long laspistol, without decoration but elegantly made, he fixed to his left thigh. The other was not so pretty, a double barrelled shotgun with stock and barrels sawn off to bring its length down to barely longer than the pistol. This ugly weapon he holstered right to left across the small of his back, facing diagonally downwards for an easy draw with his right hand. Ammunition and a few other bits and pieces went in various pockets all across his body.

He looked over to the other man, noticing the las weapons and the familiar, methodical way the man checked them. Guard? He still wasn't sure what kind of specialist the man was, though. Maybe a scout? Driver? Field medic? EIther way, even more useful than Reynard had thought. He offered another nod and a grin, tapping the side of the pistol holster. This time he spoke.

"By the Emperor, it feels better to have these back!"

Edited August 8, 2022 by Lysimachus