[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

We are waiting on @Machine God /Kerr Restal, but we can move things forward a little without causing this player too much infringement.

The Lander:

Cloud obscures the view, before deep blue-black abyss gives over to thrashing heat lashing the armoured glass black with soot, quickly expunged by bursting through into low orbit, and leaving the atmosphere behind. The vessel ceases rattling and all is deathly silence, as Voyager's hand slowly ratchets back the throttle and coasts forward, rolling the Lander over again gently, so her belly is to the planet below.

Up above is monster of admantium and death, a solid, concavely bevelled prow gleams from sun and starlight, and even at this distance it seems as big as the hive cities some of you hail from. Lances of blue balefire stream out from behind her as the wallowing anvil manoeuvres, you can just make out the attendant excorts, row upon row of miniature renditions of Hector's Revenge.

Voyager keys some icons. +Fleet control, Flight 442, requesting clearance to enter formation.+

You do not hear the reply.

+Understood, Control. Adjusting vector 223.762.21-neutral. Servitor control enabled.+

There will be time to relax and talk now.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Through the porthole beside him, Reynard could see the sky darkening into space contrasted with the increasing red heat-glow of the Lander forcing its way out of the atmosphere. With a grimace, he released his webbing and stood, intending to join Voyager in the cockpit and demand the reason for the pilot's sudden and insane course change from horizontal to near vertical.

As he entered the cockpit and sat down in the copilot's chair, Reynard gained a much wider view of what was happening around them. All thoughts of complaint at Voyager's piloting dropped out of him just as quickly as his stomach had during the ascent.

The Armageddon-Class floating above them was a mighty beast, awe-inspiring indeed… but it was the view of Damocles' surface that took all his attention.

He saw a vast circular hole in the otherwise endless layer of dark, poisonous smog - where the atmospheric gases had been blasted away, perhaps by a huge pressure wave? At the centre of the empty circle, a massive, still glowing, fungoid shaped cloud was expanding upwards and outwards to fill the gap.

He could also see lights in the smog and the tips of spires that showed the position of Hive Primus much closer to them… and over there, that would be far off Hive Secundus... which would place the strange cloud directly over...

"Throne! Is that Tertius? I thought your boss said we had two damn weeks before anything happened? What the hell is going on?"

 

Edited August 18, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

Voyager looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised behind the helm visor. Reticules and HUD displays are painted at odd angles as he cants his head. +Yes, that was Tertius.+

He pauses in thought, his gaze going past you, briefly resting on Restal and the Penitent, before returning to match your challenge.

+You wouldn't have felt it in the Vault - we're quake buffered being so close to Primus, but Hive Tertius was blown when you were being imprinted,+ he sighs, his body language conveying the expulsion. His brows knit, disgust trickling through the vox as he continues. +It's what happens when you ask a maniac with a gun to your head if they're serious, and expect the answer to be 'no'.+

He falls silent as the light from the stars and sun blots out, the lander cruising under the shadow of Hector's Revenge.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

" me…" he breathed. Five million lives snuffed out in a matter of instants. Madness.

Reynard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. No. Not madness.

"Not a maniac," he replied slowly to Voyager. "A maniac might well have blown all three Hives, just because you said something that annoyed him. These guys…"

Tertius was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Five mil was tiny for a Hive, nothing compared to Primus' seventy mil. Or Secundus, only slightly smaller. It felt deliberate. Precise. Cold. Like starting a negotiation by snipping the other man's little finger off with a pair of bolt cutters. It hurt, yes, but more importantly it let them know you were serious, that you didn't have any problem with doing horrible things if you needed to.

"This is not a lack of impulse control. They're professionals. It's part of a scheme, carefully considered and planned. They have a goal, and a timetable to attain it. We need to work out what they really want."

Reynard was guessing, of course, but that was how he would plan a job. He couldn't prove it yet, not until they could get into Primus and start the investigation properly. He looked upwards, thinking, then finally shrugged. No point wasting the mental energy on it without more evidence. The colossal bulk of the ship Hector's Revenge hung above them, totally blocking the light of Damocles' sun. There was something he could be doing.

"Tell me everything your cell knows about that vessel, please Mister Voyager. Where have they come from, why are they here, where are they going? What do you know about its Captain and crew?"

These were things Bertram Von Graen would know, having travelled aboard her for weeks, perhaps even months. So Reynard had to know them too.

[A.T.]

Falk

"The tech priest, did he remain behind? What did you see?", Falks questions were quickly answered by Stitches muted reply, why had the damned interrogator not been clear on the nature of the passage before sending a simple adept on a task so unbefitting.

The damned unpreparedness of it all. He checked his chrono as Stitches looked for a drink, "do what you must to steady your hand, but stay sharp and pray our arrival is less eventful. I suspect by this haste that our time may be shorter than we are given to believe".

[Necronaut]

The lander, at last, slowed its reckless and incredible ascent and rolled over one last time, giving them a proper view of Damocles. He undid his crash webbing and shakily got to his feet, wobbling as he took a few tentative steps forward in search of an overhead rail to grasp. He lifted his helm to just over his nose and spat out the remainder of bile coating his mouth with a grimace, and took a swig of water before lowering his sallet back over his face. Voyager was a maniac of a pilot, but seemed to be exceedingly good at what he did. Reynard proceeded to interrogate the pilot regarding the looming bulk of Hector’s Revenge which hung above them like a great cetacean. 

He looked at the others and then back down at the poison-clouded world below them, and the gaping hole in the atmosphere where Hive Tertius once stood, a towering monument to the Imperium and might of humanity reduced to an enormous, glowing crater and slag heap. The cloud of ejecta from the world-shaking explosion was starting to rain back down onto Damocles as fiery meteors, each heralding the demise of some five million souls. He made the sign of the Aquila and bowed his head in prayer, wishing those lost souls peace and safety as they fled across space and time to sit at the foot of God's Throne.

"Godspeed, ye children of the Emperor. Be bathed in his light and suffer no more."

He turned to regard the pilot, the charlatan and the executioner. 

"Whoever hath committed this atrocity must be brought to justice. This evil, this sin must not go unavenged."

He paused considering his words. He was about to do something he had never done before. The hairs stood on the back of his neck as the indignant fury he felt at the mass-murder of servants of the God-Emperor swelled.

“You asked for mine name. I hath no name, for I have forsaken my past. I am penal system inmate numeral MVZXK3394125. I am a penitent sinner, a soldier of God. But henceforth thou may’st call me Scourge!”

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard smiled glibly as the Knight spoke of justice and vengeance.

"A noble goal, Scourge."

Then he paused suddenly, as a very worrying thought crossed his mind.

"I perceive you to be a man of honour, whatever the crimes of your past…" he offered winningly "...but to be successful in this vital task, we may be required to speak and act with… less than total honesty. Are you content with this?"

 

Maybe I can say he's taken a vow of silence…?

Edited August 19, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

Voyager reaches into a pocket on his pressure suit, extracting a dataslate. He keys up a few details, and then passes you the device.

I know you've already seen the Data Thread post, but here's the hand over for narrative.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

Nicios made an Aquila in the direction of their fallen comrade.

"I hope, for the Throne's sake, that his passing was quick."

He double-checked his equipment and weapons to make sure that the scramble onto the train did not result in any lost items. With nothing gone missing and his weapons still appearing functional, Nicios turned to his two remaining fellows.

"Now, the question is do we wish to arrive together or separate?"

[Necronaut]

He growled in response, "I am not blind to the realities of war; I will be the mailed fist over your velvet glove. Honor is afforded to those worthy of it. We must bring these murderers to justice by any means necessary. Any means."

Edited August 20, 2022 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

With a mental sigh of relief, Reynard nodded.

"Good. Then let us get to our destination with all possible speed so we can begin."

He turned to address Voyager, and found the dataslate held out towards him. With another nod of thanks, he took the device and began to scroll through pages of information.

The Inquisition's ability to access secure data was very helpful. He flicked through shipping routes, logs, cargo manifests and picter images, mentally cataloguing names and places, building a history of Bertram's time with the fleet.

Yes, yes, we came aboard at Colchera-III… I thought the Damocles Gulf sounded intriguing, very mysterious… The Third Mate on the Robed Scholar kindly assigned us to use one of their diplomatic suites. A beautiful ship, Lunar-class… Captain Chambers was in command, big man, bearded, very fierce looking… oh no, didn't get the opportunity to speak to him personally, he was much too busy to speak with a lesser member of a far away House such as myself… but I did see him from a distance when Flag-Captain Halbast held a formal dinner on the Revenge while we were in orbit above Cicero... several hundred guests, very grand…

 

Edited August 20, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

The Lander:

Voyager looks hard at the grim-faced sallet, punching through the visor slits with a penetrating stare. His easy demeanour and genteel ways put aside, his voice is firm, robust with approval. +Exitus Acta Probat.+

A soft chime calls his attention back to the guidance controls, and several other contrails erupt from the large ships scattered in glittering shoal. More landers drop, filled with personnel. Some will be on shore leave, others on fleet business. It is easy to tell which - the buyers descend quickly, the spenders taking their time.

Voyager pushes the column, nudging into formation with the wallowing bloatfish landers.

+All possible speed?+ His humour returns. +I suggest then, Von Graen, Scourge, you take cue from the sell-blade in the back.+

He grips the sticks, and power trembles into engines.

Train:

The servitor announcer begins to list off stations to the destination. After another hour, you realise you don't have much longer to wait.

The train carriages do have connecting doors. This would allow you to alight from different carriages to give the appearance of distance should you wish it. There is no other station to disembark at which would set you into the hive. I'll leave it up to you to describe how you mingle and then disembark. If you wanted to go it alone, an agreed rendezvous point could perhaps serve. You will end up in the territory of House Tirant. Here there are three notable areas on the Lowest Stratum.

1. A drinking establishment known as the Oily Wrench.
2. A Mechanicum Temple
3. The Machinist's Market, a large and well-established open market for tool hawkers and souvenir peddlers.

ALL PLAYERS (Minus Trokair/Bardas):

Note we are about to move into the Hive. Remember how big this thing is, and as such, traversing the different blocks will be abstract, and rely a lot on player/GM description. Travel time is going to be a factor here. In the upper hive, it will take at least 30 mins to traverse a block, because the layout is fairly well made and open - with well-maintained access and conveyors, lifts etc.

In the Mid-hive, this time will go up to 45 mins minimum, the layout closing down, stuff not reliable, more crowds.

In the lowest tier your traversal time is 1 hour. The streets are narrow, grimy, stuff is broken or hasn't worked ever. Any talents you have for pushing through the formidable crowds can of course be leveraged, but narrative hurrying will require a Toughness Test per block, with an increase in Difficulty step per block.

Questions in the OOC.

[Trokair]

As awareness crept back. Slowly and painfully Bardas focused first internally, in the mental space in which he would visually when interfacing with his shrine to commune with the spirit, or to check the spiritual working of his gifts rather than it elctro-mechanical wellbeing.  Taking each error message in turn he categorised the ones critical to survival and dismissed the rest for now.

Massive and major damage, but curiously nothing actually fatal, or unrecoverable, a grace from the Omnissiah perhaps, prayer of thanks would have to wait. The pain was still threatening to drive him back into oblivion, but as he regained some semblance of order inside his head he found that he could modulate some of the sensory paths temporarily in some unortherdox way lessened the worst of the pain.

He was sunsure how long he had been lying there, but movement and balance sense from the rmains of his ears alerted him that something had changed outside his body. His Ocular sensors where still unclear, they would need some recalibrating he suspected, but his Otic sensors had been picking up more than just background noise, and entire conversation that he quickly revived. He had been found by Grog the big man and another.

While he had been assessing his situation the internal minor vox synthesis -transmitter had not been important, has he had not belived anybody would have been in range to receive it direct or hear his little personal speaker that served as his voice when needed. Rebooting the former and connecting to the latter he found hardly any error returns, and they all related to already known errors and should not impede his ability to use them, albeit more crudely than normal.  

Activating speaker out put the little sphere resumed its last command where it had stopped.

+... th dose Duty End+ it proclaimed on his behalf.

[Mazer Rackham]

Bardas:

The strange undulating motion, trainlike in sway and tilt, ceases abruptly on your proclamation.

"Skinny! Did you 'ear dat?"

"Course I did, it were enough to raise the whole bleedin' hive!. He's comin' round. Nice and steady now, Grog. Nearly there."

The motion resumes, but how long you've been like this is a mystery. You can feel, even if you can't see, the changes around you, the heat of overhead lamps, and the echo of the voices in a wide space, narrowing over time.

Of course, a capillary tunnel. The tiny networks used for transport of mining equipment and personnel building the real tunnel. Olfactory nodes misfire, then clear, sporadically feeding you strange information after good. Overall, you determine the dankness has receded, and a slight slope has taken you up out of the slump.

The motion stops once again, and you sense the bulk of Grog shifting beside you, can smell rotgut alcohol as his face drops over yours, examining. A heartbeat later he is gone and there follows, into the relative silence, a tremendous banging noise. It reverberates robustly, but you detect it is truncated up ahead. Ah, a door.

Rusted hinges and a broken, makeshift lock rattle and sqeal.

"Yur? Whosit?" a voice demands.

"Skinny and Grog. We got a stray," says the smaller man, Skinny.

"A bloody what?" replies the surly voice.

"We needs to see the Chief!" Grog bellows. "Everythin' goes to the Chief."

"I knows dat! Bring it in, den."

More poor maintenance, and an abuse of the machine-wrought spirits stings your aural sensoria as the gate is hauled open and you are wheeled through. Perhaps it is a boon your optics cannot perceive what horrors are around you! More voices, almost drowned out by distance, the thump, hammer and searing noise of industry plasma torches. An illicit salvage yard, then. Perhaps your consternation grows. Unregulated maniacs like this are capable of anything - maybe even 'salvaging' expensive augmetics!

"Got this 'un chief," Skinny reports. You can fell his chest swelling as the cart arrests.

"Yur, ain't no wire-brain," adds Grog.

A chuckle. "Put him on the table there."

This voice is new, calm, and precise. It is well-spoken, educated. The accent and cant has altered from the original speech though, to something smooth enough to fit in with the rough individuals around you.

Flying, as you are gently carried across, your back meets something hard, flat, cold. It smells of oils and lapping powder. You can feel a narrow channel in your back, and a concave bowl that accepts your head quite readily. There's a hole in the corner directly under your left heel. A drain? Experienced hands pat you down, pulling items from belts, pouches and pockets, the slap of greasy palms taking it away is painful. His hand pauses when he finds something....else. Questing fingers test the shape of the box, pull it free, then creak the hinge open.

He whistles, low and long.

You sense his close scrutiny, as his face closes to your battered visage. "Can you speak, Cogger?"

You are close enough, and have sufficient awareness to attempt to grab your Seal from his hand. However, as you cannot see, this will be a Hard (-20) Weapon Skill test, (standard for darkness) and as he is reasonably close, I will waive the Strength test requirement. Failure by 4 or more DoS will result in him grasping your wrist instead.

Edited August 21, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Trokair]

Spoiler

Seal retrieval test
WS: 33 – 20 = 13
D100: 25, Fail, 1 DoF

 

+I thank thee and thin for the assistance you have rendered, and will render, and out of kindness I advise that you do not open that box.+

His voice was coming from slightly to his right, one of them had clearly picked up his little speaker unit, no matter it did not need to be in his hands to voice for him.

Making an effort to sit up and look in the right direction of where he suspected the Chief of these people to be.

+My path and business lies elsewhere, if you assist I can return the favour, perhaps see what is ailing some of the spirits I sense nearby. If you decline then I have no doubt that either of my corporeal masters will deem a visit on the cards, and that be a shame, for then we all would have joined the Omnissiah in the hereafter.+

Turning to where Grog and Skinny should be, based on the last sounds he could attribute to them, the speaker continued.

+Would one of you scurry back to where you found me, some of that which is mine is still there, most likely some distance back along the track from where I was, amongst them my lasgun.+

Spoiler

I assume that all other possessions, including pistol and staff are actually present and correct and with Bardas/his rescuers but in case they are not I’d intend them to be included within this request in addition to the lasgun that fell away during the train incident.  

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Bardas:

As you ask for them to scurry away, there's a burst of laughter, it's deep and from the direction, and size, it's certainly Grog.

Chief inhales slowly through his nose, blows it out again through pursed lips. "No-one goes back into the tunnels after a scrounge. The Sleekers will be waiting, after we've stirred them up."

He lowers himself, after having dodged your attempt to retrieve the case. His voice shifts to something intense, an apocryphal storyteller, weaving a tale around a campifire. "You know what they are? Eight feet long, all pink and raw, with a mouth full of teeth, and dripping venom that. Take off a leg, before they clamp onto you again, dragging you into the ooze to smother your screaming, all the while biting chunks off you."

He presses the case firmly into your hand.

"Nothing else gets returned to you, yet. You speak fair, but I don't trust you. Are you a Judge spy, little Cogger? Come down here to purge us? Are those your corporeal masters? Just threats, now you've been caught?"

His questions - very oddly, are not directed at you, but towards Grog, Skinny and whoever else is lurking. Chief's voice is hard, cold as the metal under your back. You can hear an...instrument being pulled from a metal tray, rattling free of other tools. A tin of something shakes, water? Cold mist and the scent of sacred unguents stings your nose, perhaps comforting, before you sense a probing tool pushing into one of your implant sockets, and as it turns, the darkness shifts to white lines, then static, and finally a semblance of a poorly received holotransmission. The probe withdraws.

But you can see.

Above you stands a tall, man. His hair is cut roughly on the sides, with a long slick combed back over the crown of his head. A full beard in the same cool black adorns his face, hides his lips. Overall he is reasonably groomed. He wears technical coveralls, sleeves rolled up to the elbow to reveal scarred, hairy arms. Beneath his work gear, peeks a flak-coat, with extra metal plating bolted on. He's wiry, strength in endurance and agility, but his green eyes carry his true strength. Of will, of mind. His thick belt carries pockets, tools and pouches, knives and pliers.

In your peripheral vision, you catch sight of someone huge. He could be an Ogryn if he his features weren't fine enough to be human. No harsh gravity forged this man, just hard labour. On his massively ample shoulder is a tattoo of a pickaxe, the handle passing through a skull. He makes the large room you're in seem small. In his hands is a large sledgehammer, the head of which is twice the size of your own cranium.

"Well?" Chief asks.

Edited August 21, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

The journey had been one of glum silence following the loss of the techpriest, as Falk studied the cartograph of the hive and commited it to memory. Normally such a journey would be opportune time to strike up a conversation seeking threads of guilt in a suspect but here it would likely cause only more difficulty. News of the stations approach was welcome relief.

Given the circumstances it seemed unwise to risk further losses, and an unescorted psyker would only draw further suspicion. "Three pairs of eyes are better than one, and our appearance is of little note in the mid hive. We should alight from the nearest carriage and move with purpose until we are clear of this sector."

Falk knew what the arbites and the servo skulls scattered around ther terminal would be watching for, actions that would mark the group as potential suspects or see their descriptions relayed for further assessment. To be seen but be unnoticed was the path of least resistance here.

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal

Verdict passed out purses containing a hundred Thrones. Kerr Restal distributed them about his person.

He marked the Weasel when the money was doled out. 

"...Bertram Von Graen of House Graen of Cal Ferrina, at your service."

Yes now for the deception.

"Milord Von Graen" he said with a flowery bow, "My name is Tarrant, I shall assist you as a Huntsman on your archaeological expedition. Might I suggest that you recruit the guardsman as your bodyguard."  

So off went the mark and talked with the guardsman.

Kerr Restal boarded the lander-shuttle after the Weasel and the Guardsman. As he was boarding the lander he looked up and caught a Voider wink and a 'headsets' motion from Voyager. Kerr Restal smiled and watched the two marks move into the passenger compartment confident that they thought that he would follow them. He reached up for an overhead ladder, climbed into an auxiliary pilots throne and strapped himself into the restraints and donned his headset.

The scare the Gropos routine, he thought.

The lander sped off to catch some serious G's to make orbit. Kerr Restal listened to both sets of nets.

 

INT33 -10 = 23. Result: 14, Pass

Off on the horizon Kerr Restal saw something new, the aftermath of a lance strike in a gravity well. Forewarned he relaxed and felt the G's go up as they took evasive maneuvers.

I am a Son of the Stars.

 

 

 

Edited August 21, 2022 by Machine God
typo

[Mazer Rackham]

Lander:

Lightning bolts would be well-duelled by your pilot.

He tips the nose of the lander down, as you harness your crash webbing once more, and the vessel plummets, gravity assist taking a toll on your internal organs. Around the lander you can see other vessels in similar tumble, heading down, to the crenulated crag of Primus. Heat blooms from re-entry swelter the cockpit, and shafts of golden light spring from the aurumite spinnaker. It appears the lander is going to be speared, and everyone slathered across it in red gore.

Voyager hammers the levitators, and yanks back on the stick, levelling out to fill the viewport with a long envelope of amber light, a slot in the side of the hive. Above it, towers the tall Templum of St Iacinda, bedecked with silver gargoyles, and reliefs depicting the heroism of the noble Ecclesiarch whose relics no doubt dwell within.

The lander's automatic counter cuts in with a steady, modulated masculine tone.

+One Hundred Metres.+

Voyager nudges forward, the sedate pace being forced by turbulence and the hive's own gravity mass.

+ Eighty...+

+ Sixty...+

+ Forty...+

+ Twenty..+

+ Ten...Pull up, Pull up.+

Voyager drops the landing gear, and with a final flare, you pass through the refractor field envelope, and steadily make your way into the large hangar bay.

You have arrived.

Train:

The maglev train begins to decelerate for what seems like long minutes. The last station contained no-one of import boarding, and was merely an offload of cargo for the out-buildings supplying and trading with the surface caravans. You move to your chosen carriages, trying to ignore the press of humanity cooped up inside a steel tube, sometimes hurtling at 400 miles an hour. Around bends.

A soft chime announces you are pulling into the Terminus, and as the train leaves the tunnel, you are greeted with the wide platforms and plaza beyond it, polished glass and plasteel. You can see the tourist kiosks are hard at work making ready, and much to Falk's personal satisfaction, Arbitrators are patrolling, with Servo-skulls draped with purity seals hovering lazily, turning this way and that, providing overwatch of the citizens now under the jurisdiction of the Primus Arbites.

The doors hiss open with hydraulic shunt, and the smell of the platform greet you, a cool waft of air that is moderately fresher than that which you have suffered. A large, painted mural, which has been covered over again and again with paint proclaims the good news:

Hive Primus Welcomes You!

+ END OF CHAPTER ONE +

Alright everyone, I'm going to hold it there for now. We're going to pause for a little while to allow me to set up the mission timer and formally introduce Chapter 2: The Crucible. Please use the pause to consider what your characters think, what their motivations and options are going forward, and generally have a chinwag in the OOC. It will allow Players to catch up too - so no rush at the moment. If you have scenes planned out (I'm keeping Tro/Bardas in mind here), hold onto them for just a while longer so that everyone is on the clock.

Please do not post until requested to.

[Mazer Rackham]

CHAPTER TWO: THE CRUCIBLE

MISSION CLOCK: 0000HRS ZULU.

REMAINING: 336 Hours/14 Sols

++Message Incoming ++

+Origin: SEARCHING...

//Recd-SectorCmd.0998

//Op-Ord-Subjunct(Aleph)-TechWright [CLASSIFIED]

=Begins:

++ DELIVER LOCKE ++

=Terminated.comm.line//END.

//Cmd-Auth_Intercept-(Notify:Verdict)

= SEARCHSTAT# Fail.

= END. +

+++++++

The World of Damocles, Hive Primus Night Cycle, 2nd Segment .999.M41:

Broad viewscreens flicker into life, displaying the head and shoulders of a woman somewhere in her thirties. Across her upper face is a veil of black lace, barely hiding her brow, cheekbones and chin. These features are finely wrought, either by accident of genetics, or artifice, but her skin carries a radiance beyond the paleness expected of hive-dwellers. A pile of copper hair stands in a tower of ringlets above a slender tiara clinching it in place, a large, ovate emerald staring from the wrought metal.

She appears troubled, cultured brows knitting as her piercing eyes punch out from the picter-glass mounted in the walls of every stratum, every sector of the hive. A thousand vox-casters hidden in the mouths of gargoyles, or affixed to the back of Crier-prelates, catch her intake of breath, before the babble is silenced with theatrical pause.

"Loyal Citizens of Primus. As you know, our noble cousins of Tertius live no more, laid low by a Xenos vessel. The glorious Imperial Navy have destroyed the interloper, and assure me of our security. We hereby announce a vigil to their heroism, and the memory of our lost. This will be held in the Templum of Saint Iacinda for one-hundred days, their names committed to scrolls, that they may live forever."

"Ave Imperator."

The screens flicker, and return to their normal broadcast material, the demand by the Arbites to be watchful, alms for the poor, the welcome of strangers and vital coin.

Some people shake their heads, break into conversation once more, others do not appear disturbed, staring glassily at the screens, or at the newcomers amongst them. Servo skulls resume their flitting and flight, recording outbursts and anger, as the hive grumbles threats against the enemies of man, and all who would deal with them.

Spaceport:

Voyager kills the feeds carrying the announcement into the lander, and trips the switch for the disembarking ramps. He turns the pilot throne and tugs at a dataslate in his thigh pocket, fingers beginning a dance. Small chimes echo from your chronos.

+You're synchronised. For some reason I'm getting bounce from your microbeads. I'll have to wait here and act as vox relay for the Vault.+ He smiles. +I'll let you see yourself out.+

Rail Station:

As business returns to normal, you can see the servants and staff representing the different Houses by their lively coloured tunics and vestments. It is as promised - from Magisters to cutpurses, every walk of life is to be found here.

The Tunnels:

A door bangs open, out of your peripheral sight.

"Chief, we've go trouble with the silt-drains."

The leader looks down at you, and as he turns his arm to fold them, you see a flash of a tattoo, similar to Grog's. "I guess we'll find out whether or not you were worth picking out of the muck. Follow me."

Little bit of scene-setting and 'previously on' update.

Players may post as they see fit. One point to consider is that everyone now knows Tertius is gone. How and why, of course, will be different depending on group. Please narrate accordingly, questions in the OOC as normal.

Edited August 26, 2022 by Mazer Rackham
Update

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard nodded thoughtfully at the woman's words. Sensible to provide the ignorant masses with some sort of reason for what happened to Tertius, even wiser to lay the blame with duplicitous - and immediately destroyed - xenos. Presumably the speaker was the Lady Magda of House Aldario. She looked young for a Planetary Governor, though of course the existence of rejuvenat treatments could make appearances deceptive. He wondered if she had any idea of what was really happening here. He grinned. She'd done a damn good job of selling the lie, if he hadn't known better he'd have believed every word.

He turned to Voyager.

"The tech-adept your master selected did something to our microbeads… and now I can only connect with the rest of the team? Do you have a spare here somewhere that I can take, so we can reach you or Verdict if it becomes necessary?"

The pilot wordlessly handed over another earpiece and Reynard pocketed it with a nod of gratitude. Then he stood, running his hands over his clothes to make sure his attire was hanging properly. Satisfied, he moved towards the lander's ramp. As he stepped off onto the spaceport deck, Reynard waved airily for 'Scourge' and 'Tarrant' to follow him. As they crossed the wide hangar bay, he called loudly to both men.

"Come then, my friends! I believe it is only right that we pay our respects to the fallen and ask the blessings of the Emperor and Saint Iacinda before we begin our exploration of Damocles!"

It felt right, something that Bertram would do. Plus Reynard had an idea that might help them get where they needed to go a little faster.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

Nicios looked at his companions, then at the waiting mass of humanity in the terminus.

"I will be travelling by ground car. I suggest we meet at the sanctum in four and a half hours- that should give us plenty of time to make it there. If you wish to accompany me, we leave shortly."

He then made his way through the terminus, stopping to purchase a couple portions of corpse-starch bars and some recyc-hydro. Quickly eating and drinking, Nicios located the conveyance-hires and secured passage from the terminus to the sanctum.

 

Purchased items: 2x corpse-starch bars (low-grade), 2x recyc-hydro flasks (low-grade), transportation (mid-grade). Total cost: 24 (2 + 2 + 20)

One bar and one flask consumed, one of each left in inventory

Edited August 26, 2022 by Lord_Ikka

[A.T.]

Falk:

Nicios matter of fact tone caught Falk off guard, still questioning whether the fate of Tertius was coincidence or somehow tied to the actions being taken. The first warning had come upon the arrival of the original team, was this a second warning?

"We move together, take no act that would reveal our destination or record our intent. We must assume that someone is watching".

Food and drink, who knows when they will next have the opportunity to provision themselves.

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal

'Tarrant' drank some water and availed himself of some auxiliary ration packs situated to the side of his co-pilots throne. Silently he climbed down from his throne and waited for the arrival and departure of the Weasel.

Presently 'Von Graen' appeared looking green about the gills and talked to Voyager about auxiliary comms.

"The tech-adept your master selected did something to our microbeads… and now I can only connect with the rest of the team?"

 

+Bar-Dass+ Kerr Restal hissed. Could he hear us? He wondered.

 

Vogager wordlessly handed over another earpiece to the Weasel who pocketed it with a nod of gratitude. Kerr Restal gave his thanks to Voyager for a fun trip via wordless void cant.

The Weasel moved towards the lander's ramp and stepped off onto the spaceport deck. Letting him get into role, Kerr Restal fell lightly in step behind and off to the left of 'Von Graen' as he waved airily for 'Scourge' and himself to follow. As they crossed the wide hangar bay, 'Von Graen' called out loudly.

"Come then, my friends! I believe it is only right that we pay our respects to the fallen and ask the blessings of the Emperor and Saint Iacinda before we begin our exploration of Damocles!"

"Of course, milord. Did you both have a pleasant trip?" asked Kerr Restal cheerfully.

 

 

Edited December 11, 2022 by Machine God
typo

[Mazer Rackham]

Kerr Restal:

Your attempt to contact Bardas only returns static. It does not surprise you, of all people, a voider understands distance, and Bardas and your other comrades are so very far below you, through a man-made mountain of adamantium and plasteel.

As you leave, Voyager nods his acknowledgement of your void-cant.