[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Beren]

'Stitches' was slow to react to the others' words, eyes still fixed to the viewing screens that, though now returned to normal affairs, had just nonchalantly announced the death of billions of people.

Throne-cursed luck, are they ever going to send me somewhere that isn't about to be blown up?

With a muttered curse he twists his head slightly towards the others. He's not so sure he wants to arrive in the presence of a lawman and a freak, but it'd be better to play to the arbiter's handbook for now. He really didn't want that one looking at him any closer than necessary.

Besides, better the psyker picks up the cost of the transport than him.

As he maneuvers his way through the crowd, Stitches breaks off to accost a vendor, arguing over the quality of his wares, before taking up a sauce drenched... something in one hand, and a battered container of water probably tapped off  somebody's distillation rig without them knowing, taking alternate bites and sips as meanders his way back towards the other pair.

Better than guard rations.

Alright, maybe only different to guard rations. He'd seen local cooks and foragers make fortunes off soldiers in his old regiment. Didn't really matter how good they were, as long as nobody ended up dead.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

As they walked across the wide concourse, heaving with people of all means and social status travelling to and fro, Reynard looked for signage that would indicate the route to the nearby Templum.

The vast hall was full of garishly lit information pillars and loud with the sounds of a thousand conversations, as well as muffled, unclear announcements being made. Around the edges were various emporia and retailers, taverns and eateries. Smaller traders, selling from trays or carts, were set up wherever they could find a lull in the movement of human traffic.

Reynard moved easily through the noisy throngs, his Hive upbringing making him comfortable in a crowd. He paused beside a seller of some sort of street food, buying a crude parcel formed of a thin, folded piece of flatbread filled with… something - a blend of meat and/or vegetables? - made practically unidentifiable by heavy spices. Edible. Along with it he purchased a small bottle, filled with similarly unidentifiable liquid, sludgy brown in colour and decidedly lukewarm, but with a tangy, not entirely unpleasant taste. 

Most nobles might have preferred to take their meal in one of the eateries, or somewhere even grander, but a longtime traveller like Bertram would know that the wisest course was to eat here and now, where provisions were plentiful and cheap.

As he took the hot food, he nodded to the vendor.

"How do we reach the Templum of St. Iacinda?"

 

 

Spoiler

Spend 2 Thrones on Low Grade Food and Drink, covered for first 24 hrs.

 

 

Edited August 27, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Nicios/Stitches:

Falk's words linger, and even though there is a mass of humanity pressing and moving around you, but you know what he means. Many eyes meet you, or heads turn as you hurry about your covert business, but they are merely seeing if you mean them harm, or if they know you.

You are looking for other eyes, a look that rests too long, that judges. One that belongs to a hunter.

There are options to play to strengths/character here. You may make Challenging (+0) Perception Tests, or Scrutiny Tests if you have that Skill. For Perception, a pass is sufficient. If you use Scrutiny, this will be Opposed, but you have a chance to spot your observer. Psychic powers are allowed, of course, but it's up to you!

If you would rather try to evade notice, as opposed to watching for prying eyes, you may attempt an Opposed Agility Test. If you have the 'Unremarkable' Talent, this will add +1 DoS, or remove -1 DoF.

Reynard (I am unclear how close Tarrant or Scourge are, but it is possible for nearby allies to hear):

The Vendor smiles, gap-toothed, then scratches at a hairy wart on his unkempt chin. "Ah, it is good to have such faith in these terrible times! I pray at my own shrine at home, a modest and unworthy thing, but the Emperor sees all said in his name."

He rubs his hands on the greasy and stained apron, nodding as other orders for his street food are barked from all manner of patrons. He doles out more of the snacks and bottles, copper and silver Thrones glint for only a moment as he pockets them.

"You may follow the Pilgrim Trail, my faithful friend." He points to a ribbon of polished silver protected by glass, that leads from a seal in the middle of the passageway.  Next to it stands an alabaster statue of a robed woman clutching a bowl. Scrolls drop from purity seals affixed to the sturdy marble plinth she stands atop, and a ragged beggar sits at the back of the statue, a small cracked bowl in front of his tattered, form.

Scourge would recognise the pose. Mea culpa, Mea culpa, his hands clutch together, sweaty, dirty. Mea Maxima Culpa.

"A donation to the white lady is expected, squire," he warns from behind his smile, "as a visitor, and kind patron, I thought you should know."

His eyes track to a bevy of three Ecclesiarchs, striding through the press, censers in hand, open palms in benediction as they pass the masses who give them space. They turn onto the silver trail, talking to each other, and laughing. They are burly, encrusted with true gold and silvered bracelets and gorgets of office. Amulets hang from their finest robes. They are plump, and walk in that stately, unhurried manner.

The beggar, for all his voluminous, threadbare swaddle, is gaunt, and dares not even raise his eyes to heaven.

Edited August 27, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard nodded piously.

"But of course." he answered shortly, dismissing both the vendor's warning and his attempt at camaraderie. After all, there were limits to what a true aristo would accept, even one as comparatively lowly as his cover. Inwardly however, he grimaced, watching as the fat, greedy clergymen passed.

But of course, the priests are the biggest swindlers of all. Just like home.

As they walked on, he quietly opened his microbead to Tarrant and Scourge, covering his words by bringing his food up to his lips.

+++Gentlemen. I thought that, given the Sanctum's prior connection to the Ecclesiarchy, the keepers of the Templum might be able to tell or show us a quicker way to reach it.  However, if they are going to try to fleece us of half our coin, it is possible that the potential benefit will not be worth the expense. Shall we continue, or would you prefer to quietly turn aside and find a less… holy… route downhive?+++

Edited August 27, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Raynard/Tarrant/Scourge:

One of the advertisements shows a man in dark, fashionable tunic and trews, promoting a spectator event in the upper hive arena.

"A contest of skill and strength, of guile and brawn, come all to watch in the Arena; wager and cheer as Megiddo the Mighty takes on Brawler Breakjaw!"

Other informational text and litanies follow, but it is clear that it will be some kind of traditional wrestling contest.

Betting and general gambling is allowed at authorised venues. The Arena is such a venue.

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal

His combat shotgun secured by its sling over his right shoulder and under his duster, Kerr Restal let the weapon fall to his side as he made the Aquila with both hands as he dipped his head in a short bow to the statue of St Iacinda.

Quick as a flash he flicks his hands back to grasp his weapon as he does this two Thrones are deposited, one in the beggar's bowl and one in the statue's bowl. "For the God-Emperor and his nine Sons!" said 'Tarrant.'

+++Von Graen, the Church will help us out in our holy mission. There are of course many ways of leverage, we have speech and of course we have rosettes.+++

[Mazer Rackham]

Kerr Restal:

The podgy clergymen ignore your piety and offering, treating you to a small glance as you submit your tithe.

The beggar responds differently. He does not look up as he pulls his bowl back into his rags. Your solitary Throne is the only thing in it. He reaches out to you.

"Emperor guard you, and spare you from my fate!"

As he reaches out, you see an old, faded tattoo across his scarred arm. The mark of the Guard, with the names of places he served, and the mark of a man discharged through wounds. He gathers his tattered bundle, all he possesses, and limps away, one leg shorter than the other, the foot a wooden ball. The crowd swallows him, as though he were never there.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

Nicios pauses, focusing his attention on the ring on his left hand. Falk's words are troubling, and for him it is unusual to be the hunted rather than hunter. Perhaps he could do something to help. Reciting the words from the Warding Inemita in his mind, he moves the interlocking bands of the ring around each other. 

Spoiler

Using Psi-Focus (ring) to boost Invocation skill Test

Invocation Test - 58 needed (48 WP + 10 bonus)

Roll - 42, test passed

His mind now calm, Nicios casts out to the warp, searching for other minds that are moving with his group.

Spoiler

Casting minor psychic power Sense Presence

Threshold- 7

Roll - 3 + 5 

Result - 12 (8 + 4 WP bonus from Invocation)

Power successful, will be sustained for the moment (needs a re-roll every 10 rounds)

The multitudes glimmer in his mind, a greasy sheen over reality.

Edited August 28, 2022 by Lord_Ikka
fighting with bbcode nested spoilers...

[Beren]

Stitches walks with Nicio and Falk, but stays some distance apart. Mostly behind, sometimes ahead, often moving at angles as he exaggerates the difficulty of navigating through a ground, occasionally getting turned around or dropping something and spending a minute frantically searching for it. A harried, distracted individual, in somewhat of a rush but seemingly unable to make any headway. Enough of those in the hive, and not what one would be looking for in an Inquisitorial agent.

Agility - 35

d100: 34

DoS: 1 + 1 (unremarkable) = 2 

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

'Tarrant' made a valid point. The Church would have to assist them, if they used the authority they had been given. However, Reynard didn't even want to think about the rosettes they carried. Better to forget they were there entirely, to rely as much as possible on their own wits and skills.

After a moment, he followed the voider forward. As he passed the statue he made a show of bowing low and throwing a few Thrones into the offertory bowl… though in his heart he hated giving the Ecclesiarchy so much as a copper penny. Reynard wasn't the charitable sort, but he'd rather have given the coins to the beggar. However, the man had already limped away. Reynard shrugged and continued along the silver path towards the Templum.

As he did, he noticed the advertisement emblazoned across multiple screens. This 'Arena' sounded interesting. A place to invest and expand some of the coin Vigilance had given him, perhaps? Not in the wrestling contest being promoted, of course. Reynard knew little about the sport, and when gambling, knowledge was vital. Knowing the game, knowing the other players, knowing the odds and how to alter them in your favour. He preferred cards, where he could use his intelligence, observantness and memory to mitigate the vagaries of chance. When that was not an option, dice. Harder to change your odds there, but a 'special' set of dice, with several of the cubes weighted in slightly different ways, rested deep in one of his pockets.

If the Arena had either type of game, he was confident that in a relatively short time, he could turn the one hundred Thrones into a thousand. For a moment Reynard felt his fingers itch, then he dismissed the thought. Something to remember for later. For now, his business was in the Templum.

 

Edited August 28, 2022 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Falk:

Too many eyes here to pick apart, watch for those that seemed to linger without purpose or turn away towards nothing when eyelines were met.

Falk let out a breath. Do not get paranoid, watchers and pickpockets were everywhere. Remember those that stand out and watch for them in the future.

Scrutiny: 36 vs skill 47 - pass with one extra DoS (opposed)

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Stitches/Nicios:

You all discern the attention to varying degrees. To Stitches, it is a blanket he slips under, a tripwire deftly avoided. Falk relies on instinct, on the tells and signs of human behaviour from his time as a lawman. People watching without looking is something of his nature. Nicios delves further, down into the deep eddies of cause and effect, of realities birthed and whispers drowned.

Nicios feels them, the other minds are bubbles floating as arubajellies in a current, but within are the hard angles, the predators with teeth and knives hunting the shadows. More than the crabs and shrimp looking to fleece the plankton, three monsters lurk. Minds coloured by the same tint, wary. Arrows on a compass, all trying to find North.

Falk's flesh-eyes pinpoint a man trying too hard to be innocuous. He searches the stalls, but lurks near places with a reflective surface. His head bobs up and down, intermittently, scanning. He wears modest clothing in drab browns and greys, nothing sticking out. A canvas holdall is slung over his shoulder, with the bag itself close to his hand. Partly open. He buys nothing, doesn't haggle. He stands close to others but is not with them.

Stitches has passed him, off to the left of your group. The man paid him no heed, but the medic betrays his guile to one of his clade. He blends into the mass and stands almost married with the background.

The man you determine to be a lookout, moves from a clothes trader to a costermonger, gently testing the jarraberries with his left hand.

[A.T.]

Falk:

Falk bides his time, waiting for the passing crowd and obscurement of the terminals support pillars to comm Stitches, "canvas bag, jarraberries". This place was too public but he had little doubt that his companion would choose caution over action.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

Falk's words echo in Nicios' earbead. They had spotted one of the hunters, but two remained. While Nicios had some tricks that could possibly delay or hinder the lookout, he was more worried about the other two that his fellows hadn't seen yet.

"Two more mind-traces, hunting us. Unknown location."

Nicios' terse whisper conveys what he has felt in the Warp, inasmuch as those unable to feel the psychic realm could understand it. He keeps up his walk, leaning on the silver cane for feigned support. While his hands itched to feel the grip of his gun or the mind-bending power of his talents, he steeled himself to merely walk and observe, to see if he could spot the other two hunters.

[Mazer Rackham]

Not heard anything off Necro, but can move forward without too much trouble for the players.

Scourge/Reynard/Tarrant:

Having paid your dues, no-one gives you any heed as you begin the silver trail. Carpeted marble steps, on each odd landing a mosaic of the Saint in her many labours to the great triumph of the Emperor's Will, matched in scope and beauty by the stained glass windows, cut together from crystal of all different hues, allowing the bold dawn and outer-hive lamps to illuminate the pictures of the Imperial institutions, great warriors of the Astartes, and even the all-seeing =][= of the Holy Ordos. Perhaps a pause stills you, or maybe like everyone else traipsing up and down the long staircases, you hurry on to avoid association. Where steps cease, escalators take over, the balustrade panels fitted with tall braziers which emit incense to enhance the thoughts of pilgrims, and turn their minds to the betterment of their souls.

The silver line leads you across passageways, bustling with nobles, their courtiers, and well-regarded Scions of the trading houses, their raiment marking them in berry-red, mint green, azure blue, and well-trimmed grey, the latter tunics and robes very smartly cut - lacking in colour, but boasting style. Officers of the both the Imperial, and merchant-class Navy dally here too, from subalterns to Lieutenants, Commanders to Captains. Gold and silver frogging, gilded spurs and pelisses as takes the fancy of the individual. Hard looking men and women of all professions making their obeisance  to the Emperor for his bounties or mercies.

Here you can see the blending of the mid and upper hives, and the underlying tensions. The middlers who want to reach up, the Spyrers who like to push down.

Ever was it thus.

You reach the temple doors, monstrous gates that stand one-hundred and fifty feet tall, and yet, only sixty feet across. Guarded by robed men of the Fraternis, there is a gentle energy, a reverence in the crowds of folk going in and out. There is a stoup of blessed water, presided over by a tall priest, a large bowser strapped to his back, who is continually blessing and refilling the stoup. A choir of cherub-servitors flit on anti-gravitic motors to mop up the spillages, and wring them out into a small funnel attached to a filter-box atop the brass-coloured barrel. As you close with him, he spies you, and takes a moment to rest the butt of his crozius on the marble floor, with a faint look of gratitude. He turns the nozzle off, which ends the trickle of water.

"Blessings upon you, souls who dwell in the shade of our temple. You have the look of confusion, sirs, and must be from off-world?"

I'm just going to take the opportunity to throw some direction to Tro - if you follow the Chief, you'll end up in a large pump room, and two of the devices are not functional. There will be tools and parts to clear them. Feel free to deal with this narratively, geek out with it as much as you want.

Edited August 29, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

As they moved along the path, Reynard kept his eyes open, watching as nobles mingled with wealthy traders and shipmasters. He focused especially on the latter, making sure that there were no naval officers from the Robed Scholar present that Bertram should have recognised. As far as he could see, none of the faces matched the picter images supplied by Voyager.

The trio reached the vast Templum doors and Reynard stepped solemnly forward, ritually cleansing his hands in the proffered stoup. Still dripping holy water, he formed them into the sign of the Aquilla and bowed to the inquisitive gatekeeper.

"Indeed so, Revered Father. I am Bertram Von Graen, of House Graen of Cal Ferrina in the Havilar Sector. These are my retainers. I am an explorator, newly arrived and seeking knowledge and adventure here on the edge of the Damocles Gulf… but after hearing your Governor's announcement, I felt I must first pay my respects to the fallen faithful of your world."

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

"A great tragedy. So many souls sent to the great Master and Father. The Xenos sent to scourge our impiety," he raises his voice, calling over your shoulder. "And an outlander teaches us more than our own young Prelates!"

A rotund Ecclesiarch turns and lifts an eyebrow at the older priest. The man looks over and grins, until the younger man realises he is being mocked twofold, and busies himself with a doting Matriarch pressing him for a blessing in return for a handsome offering of Thrones.

"And you are no strangers to trouble, yes?" He drops his chin to meet Reynard's eyes first, then glances to Tarrant, looking him up and down, switching to Scourge. 

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal

'Von Graen' stepped up to the stoups and washed his hands and then made his announcement to the chaplain.

'Tarrant' also washed his hands and bowed in greetings to the chaplain when 'Von Graen' announced him and 'Scourge.'

'Tarrant' made the sign of the Aquila to the chaplain with his left hand over right, drops of water running off his newly scarred hand.

Int 33 = 33. Result: 93, Fail 6DoF. Fate Point used for Automatic Success

As a 'Voider' he always thought that frivolous washing was a waste, but in the holy acts he made an exception.

"Yes it has been a hard and dusty pilgrimage Padre, might we wash our feet?" asked 'Tarrant.'

[Mazer Rackham]

Kerr Restal:

The old priest chuckles, doesn't even twitch with your use of the informal reference to his station. "To cleanse your 'soles', my son? That will not be necessary."

He beckons to you, using his aspergium-staff with measured gait as he leads away from the stoup. The cherubim flutter to follow, swooping to grasp long eaves of parchment streaming from his shoulders and water tank. He bows deeply and steps onto a small plinth, which forces the large doors to part further, until the threshold stand completely clear.

The vestibule offers a panoramic view of the nave, a large, octagonal space, which appears to hold a remarkably small footprint for a Templum of such repute. It is then you realise, as the hushed speech and mumbles hymnals reach the ground floor, that what the Damocleans lost in breadth, they made up for in height. The Templum boasts a hollow, vertical nave of tiered stairs and seating, each attended by servo-skulls, a cloud of cherubs, and a brace of Ecclesiarchs in gilded pulpits.

Even without the full spectacle, you can imagine the size of this place.

"Ten sancturies, each with an altar to Him on Terra," the old priest says. "A tower of prayer to the Emperor. May he hear us."

[Beren]

Canvas bag. Javaberries.

On their own, the words seemed nonsensical. Until you slot in context. For any ganger, soldier or anyone involved in any profession where someone else might prove a danger to them, that context normally meant 'threat'.

There. A canvas bag, just setting the javaberries down. Stitches let his gaze slide onwards as if he hadn't seen. The arbitrator presumably knew his stuff, so best to...

Two more mind-traces, hunting us. Unknown location.

A chill ran up Stitches' spine. Feth. Groxdung. Three of them. Worse was the fact they didn't know where the bastards were. You can't run if you don't know that, or you'll trip right into the snare. Can't so much as pull a weapon before they have the knife in your ribs. He had to restrain the each to flick his face across each person in the crowd, looking for someone stalking towards him with murder in their eyes.

Damned Inquisition. They'd only just got here and already someone was trying to kill them!

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard was impressed, as always, by the sheer scale of the Church's thievery. What an incredible scam! Even if the God Emperor was watching over the Imperium, as they taught, what difference did gold and silver make to how well He could see you? And the priests lived in palaces and got fat.

He didn't say any of that, of course.

"By the God-Emperor, what a magnificent place! You are truly blessed to worship daily in such a structure! Its glory makes our family Cathedral back on Cal Ferrina seem a rude shack by comparison!"

He paused.

"Revered Father, I know you must be very busy with the vigil, but I wonder if you might be able to assist us for a moment?" 

Edited August 29, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

The battered old curmudgeon raises a hand in benediction over your head, taking in a huge breath. "And did not Saint Iacinda say: 'Knock and the door shall be parted, and upon thy foot be stomped by the holiest of sabatons, whilst thou gawpest at the statue with the large corset?'."

This outburst gains a few half-hearted bows, and people continue to carry out their own business. He lowers to you conspiratorially. "You see, they listen with only half an ear. The faith is gone from them, this temple is just part of the hive, known, and mundane."

He looks suddenly very old, and rather sad.

"What do you need, young starfarer?"

Edited August 29, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

Reynard gaped, dumbfounded for at least half a second. What did he just say…? Oddly, the trickster found himself liking the old priest. He didn't feel like the pig-eyed, fat-fingered gluttons that seemed to make up most of the Ecclesiarchy's hierarchy. Reynard coughed, finding his voice.

"We require accommodation for our sojourn here on Damocles… but I fear the Grand Halls here in the Spire may be temporarily beyond my means…" he lowered his voice confidentially "...at least, until such time as I can make contact with the banking Factors of my House, of course. Would you be able to recommend a half decent lodging place within the main Hive?"

He didn't really care that much about a place to sleep. He'd slept in the gutter enough times in his life. But it covered and distracted from his real purpose. Theatrically, he looked around before leaning in and lowering his voice even further.

"Also, a matter of some minor delicacy… I understand there is a medical Sanctum within the Hive, once maintained by the generosity of the Ecclesiarchy? A place where aid may be procured for those less fortunate?"

He nodded to where Scourge had knelt down in prayer before the grand altar.

"My lifeward… he is a simple fellow, but very devout… and a fiend in battle against the Emperor's foes! While travelling aboard the Robed Scholar, he has developed a minor… condition… of the skin. Fungal in nature, I think? Nothing too serious, but the smell is…,"

Reynard paused, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He was sure Scourge wouldn't mind him having a little fun...

"...well, anyway, I thought to see if the Sanctum could provide a salve or poultice? And I wondered if, given the... religious... connection, you might know what is the most efficient route to travel downhive to reach their facility? I would like to go there and handle the matter as quickly as possible… for the relief of my nose as much as for the comfort of my guardian."

 

 

Edited August 29, 2022 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard/Scourge/Tarrant:

The old priest considers your words. "Hmm, very convenient, having threadbare pockets around my collection boxes. I know of the Ecclesiarch Sanctum, down-hive. Terrible business, one of the Medicae Superiors was found dead there." He shakes his head, and the cherubim flutter to adjust for his movements.

"How long they will be able to supply the needy I do not know."

He steps down from the shallow plinth, and approaches Scourge, standing over him, thrusting out his arms wide. "And behold! A penitent man before his Lord, true in the knowledge his heart is washed in forgiveness!"

Here he turns the crozius aspergium and pulls the lever, a torrent of silver rush handily soaking the portly priest and the lady with him. "Unlike those who barter their souls! Lo, does the holy beneficence cleanse the lowly and rich! Saint Iacinda be praised!"

"Saint Iacinda be praised," the cherubim chorus.

"Confessor Hyronimus! Control yourself, Brother!" the priest bellows.

"I cannot! Zeal for the Master of Mankind cannot be denied! Saint Iacinda be praised!"

"Saint Iacinda be praised," echo the cherubs.

The Confessor grins, ceasing his tirade, and touches Scourge on the shoulder. You notice he breathes through his mouth. "Let your sins be your burden, my friend, ever driving you on to do better. Lodgings can found in the Borodi Halls of Residence, Block 30, Trade Sector, Stratum 3. It is modest, but serves some of the Ecclesiarchy. A series of...reliable...lifts can take you down."

Looking at your map of the hive, you can ascertain that the residential block he's pointing out is to the left hand side of the hive sink, in the first pink segment. This will take you out of the upper hive, and involve travel times of the equivalent values (30 mins upper hive, 45 mins mid hive, per block). Hyronimus has given you the way of the pilgrim (ie free) but there are always services you can get for travel. (See the updated data thread with the notes from the OOC).

+++++++

Falk/Stitches/Nicios:

As you move through the crowds of peddlers, workers and wary Arbitrators, Nicios still at the counter of a vehicle dispatcher, an air car slips from a lane reserved for that kind of traffic, coming down. Your eyes meet it briefly, instinctively, but otherwise you continue to gauge the crowd. You are not the only ones whose attention is elsewhere.

The man testing the jarraberries drops them, looking towards the train, a compartment at the front which has not yet opened. You spot his companion, one of them at least. He stands some 30 metres to Falk's right, leaning behind a support pillar, invisible from the train doors, but with angle enough to watch them. He too carries a satchel, and his robes are grubby, stained with oil and soot, but the clothes do not fit him well, slouching over his smaller frame. His right hand is inside the bag.

The third is close to Stitches. Three feet from the medic, he takes one look at the train and crouches, fumbling or fiddling with something. The sudden movement cannot fail to draw the notice of all three of you.

He also has a satchel, and he has unzipped it, the gleam of something metallic within, something boxy glints up at Stitches.

The first carriage opens, and men armed with las-carbines, dressed in smart, matching green uniforms disembark, forming a line of guards, and fit, young man with swept back blond hair, peers out, then takes a few steps outside. He splits his time between the air car, and watching his step. As the hover-vehicle comes closer, you can see it is well-armoured, and an array of augurs and antennas spring from the roof.

Edited August 29, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk:

The damnable timing of it all, whoever this was the arbites would lock down the whole sector and chase down any possible conspiritor. "Dissuade them, quietly", he hoped a gun or knife pressed against the back would forestall them but this was already more attention than they needed.

Moving to flank the closest he chanced a perhaps vain hope, "unless you can stall them, sanctionite?"

(for Stitches / Nicios)

A little bit of psychic 'inflict pain' and perhaps 'deja vu' may bring the guards/arbites down on one or two of them without revealing our presence here. Pity we don't have weapon jinx.