[RT] The Silent Architect (IC)

[A.T.]

Malvolio

 

Death was a constant companion on any star vessel but one could never be too careful, especially within the immaterium where such things were not always final even if their cause was mundane. Those deaths witnessed were accounted for by the judgement of the sector leaders but those that occurred in the shadows were checked and weighed lest they lead to more.

 

The superstitious on many ships believed the loss of life in warp transit was unavoidable, some had even been known to take it or arrange for accidents to occur such that the fate would not be visited on them. It aided morale but the Emperors coin could not be spent so vainly, nor could more disturbing or heretical causes be ruled out without examination.

 

Normally this task would have fallen to a lesser member of the choir but the journey had been uneventful and long days within the chamber pondering the meaning of the tarot had left him restless.

 

Malvolio will maintain a fettered 'soul of adamantium' power, rending him immune to willpower loss and corruption.

When he arrives at the site of the death he will investigate with Psyniscience, aided by his familiar:

Target 55, Roll 31 - pass

[Mazer Rackham]

Malvolio:

 

The hardening of your soul a sensible precaution in amongst such a soulless company as found in the servitor racks, your senses edge out, brushing against the truly living, Sola, a mixture of concern and business, a couple of crewmen detailed to recover the body, both confused and sad.

 

The echoes of a soul gone are no less confusing. The blood patterns seem to mean something, but maybe mean nothing. The cuts are random in some places, deliberate in others. Defensive wounds against an attacker accustomed to edged weapons.

 

Beneath the surface, there is a mix of deep confusion. A lingering sensation of anticipation, elation, happiness. Then begins the sour note of terror, and the creeping tendrils of darkness.

[A.T.]

Malvolio

 

Raising his hand he signalled the attention of the others, what few were here of the ships medicae and security staff but one of the ships officers had also attended the call and so her he spoke directly.

 

"Let the body not be disturbed until those cuts of intent be separated from those of conflict." The work of a death cult perhaps, the tenuous edge between praise and heresy in his name for he could sense no breach in the warp nor passage of the unclean... then again such things faded quickly while not in realspace.

 

"The eyes of the ship are ever open" he intoned to the voidmaster, for indeed few not of the vessels complement could hope to move far without stumbling into the path of some construct of the mechanicum, but by the same token the fleeting servo skulls and lumbering servitors could pass no judgement of their own will on the humans they encountered.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Fancy digs.

 

Reynard's fingers - organic, and oddly, bionic too - itched with a sudden desire to pilfer. Foolishness, though. Thievery on a vessel this size, with so few crew members upon whom to shift blame, would quickly result in punishment. Besides, he wanted this man's assistance. He took a seat on the other side of the opulent desk.

 

“My thanks, Lord Seneschal. To put it bluntly, I am trying to find someone. A matter of honour, a debt owed to a young man, and a promise made to a young woman's father. I know that the young man and woman left Damocles together approximately six months ago, on a ship headed along a similar course to ours. Unfortunately, although they will be pleased when I reach them, when they left they were seeking to avoid pursuit, and therefore the details of their ship, their route and their destination have been… obscured.”

 

“My investigations uncovered very little, except a single name. It means nothing to me. A ship, or its Captain? A world or Sector? I do not know… but I hoped that with your knowledge, it might mean something to you? The name is Androcles.”

 

 

 

Edited April 25 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Malvolio and Sola:

 

GM: OOC It will take a professional to determine with any certainty. A Difficult (-10) Medicae Test, or a Very Hard (-30) Perception Test shall reveal more.

 

Reynard:

 

At your mention of a debt of honour, Cheeky sits up straighter, a wry smile hovering about his lips.

 

'Hmm. A name that haunts a thousand histories, young man. It might be worth scouring the docking logs since there may be some traffic,' Chekhov replies, thoughtfully. His fingers drum a brief, random tattoo on the desktop. His eyes wander to the several astrogation sextants on the shelves around the room, lit by sconces. It appears each is  more antique than the last.

 

'We could petition our Navigator. She could perhaps delve the Warp for threads from Damocles. Otherwise,' he drawls, 'we would need to browse the Librarium and burden our researchers. One used to be an explorator-archeoexcavator.'

 

Chekhov sighs, hits you with a level look. 'It could take a while.'

Edited April 25 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

All good suggestions. Reynard nodded, then grinned.

 

“I feared it might… but surely it is good to give the crew something else to focus their thoughts on during the warp transit to the Demeter system?”

 

He paused thoughtfully.

 

“Except the Lady Navigator, of course. We can ask her later.”

 

 

Edited April 25 by Lysimachus

[Trokair]

Sola

 

“Sage Malvolio, I hope your presence is not down to having felt a Geller field failure in your meditation.”

 

Crouching to get a closer look, with some reluctance, and making sure to be in no danger of touching the remains, body just did not suffice, even by accident.

 

Spoiler

Per: 39 -30 (Very Hard) =9

D100: 23

 

“It’s not a pretty sight, shift crew, female.” Eyeing the congealed blood. “some good many hours at least, and quick I’d hazard, but more is beyond my ken.”

 

Stepping away again to let the attending crew cordon off the area while the Ships Master Surgeon could be roused.

 

“With your leave Master Sage, I will see if Explorator Marlov can recover any sight from some of the eyes.”

[Necronaut]

Petrus

 

He detested warp travel. Many times he had sailed through Hell aboard Guard troop transports en route to the Imperium's far-flung battlefields, but it never got easier. While no psyker himself, the great roiling ocean of un-reality the Chylde plowed through made him feel queasy nonetheless, and his sleep was often disturbed by awful dreams of battles long past and the faces of dead comrades and foes alike.

 

He detested it and yet here he was again, traversing the Immaterium amongst strangers. Always a man of action, he had lived his life ever on the move, and wherever the Emperor's flock went now, so too would he.

 

Petrus woke in a cold sweat and shuddered, attempting to forget the horrific, twisted faces that assailed him in the nightmare. He had dreamt of the Golem again. The awful stench of the machine-thing still seemed just as immediate and putrid as it had those many months ago on distant Damocles. Running fingers through his short-cropped hair, he rose and pulled in a lungful of the ship’s recycled air through his nose.

 

Something seemed amiss, but he couldn't place the source of his unease. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink in his modest cell and shrugged on his hauberk. He secured his heavy leather belt around his waist next, feeling some measure of relief from the comfortable weight of the chainsword on his hip. The newly issued ship’s steel followed, fitted behind the small of his back in its neat leather sheath. Finally he stamped on his boots and made for the door.

 

He needed a walk to clear his head and to help the dreams fade.

Edited April 26 by Necronaut

[Lord_Ikka]

Castinius

 

He danced among the training servitors, spinning away from shock-mauls and dodging nerve-deadening flechette rounds. Castinius' blade flashed and bolt pistol barked; this was the glory of battle. His blood thundered as he fought three of the servitors at once, sparks flying from his armor as the mind-locked training dummies barely missed him. A quick thrust from his saber, a well-placed bolt, and then a final turn and slash finished the combat. 

 

Castinius breathed deep and slowed his hammering heartbeat. He moved to the training arena's maintenance shrines and began to polish his blade. Trusting others to check his wargear was not something he believed in- he would service his own weapons and armor because his life was on the line when it was needed. 

 

Listening to his vox-bead, he listened to the discovery of the dead rating. A curled lip showed his scorn of the murder-servitors; useful terror-troops for sweeping through the dregs of an enemy ship, but he preferred to fight alongside those not goaded into combat with implanted violence-engrams and chem-shunts. {i]Most likely one of the damned things got free during the transit and the rating was the first it stumbled across. Bad luck. [/i]

 

Maybe a hunt for the malfunctioning servitor would be called? A good hunt would rally the men and be an auspicious start to the hunt for the Inquisition's prize.

[Mazer Rackham]

 

The StarChylde:

 

Upon discovery of the young woman, and the when all reports have been made, the human crew swings into action. Inventory of the menial servitor roster shows one Murder Servitor is missing, having conducted a routine patrol, it never returned. Even the Captain is roused to make a proclamation from his stateroom that a sweep is to be undertaken, every nook and cranny, every bilge-seam and engine compartment is to be scoured. The Captain is wrothful, umbrageous and demands the culprit servitor is to be destroyed utterly, spaced into a black hole, and the remaining stocks of murder-wretches are to be taken apart and inspected down to the cranial wiring.

 

With touching gentleness, De Wiart attends the body himself. Ashen-faced, his well-groomed moustache usually vibrating at every energetic action, is stilled. Blooding his  own hands by lifting the shattered body onto the stretcher, watching her carried to the infirmary for further inspection and final committal. He merely nods to the assembled crew and repairs to a sanctum close to the Astropathic Chamber.

 

Reynard:

 

The Seneschal doesn't tarry. Once committed, and even with the ruckus now engulfing the Chylde, he leads off at a clip to the bridge. On duty is the second watch, and he points to one of the comms sub-officers.

 

'Jenkins, be a good man and help Mr Reynard? Plough up all you can from Damocles docking traffic, we're looking for keyword Androcles.'

 

The middle-aged man, slightly balding and reasonably well-fed in comparison to his counterparts in the Navy nods. He directs you to a data inspection terminal. 'Mr Reynard, if you please.'

 

GM OOC: You can now make a Challenging (+0) Search Test on the database for pertinent information. This will be an Extended Test ( 3 x Actions, which may be completed in the same post since we're Narrative), as there are reams if useless trivia of import only to dock officers and deckhands.

 

@Xin Ceithan Are you about to handle interaction with Gunnery Girl Sola, sir, or should I autopilot you?

 

Any other character can take part in the search for the servitor as described. It may be best to discuss/coordinate which areas of the ship you are searching to maximize coverage. However, the wider you spread the net, the more likely you are to miss something. You may take crew appropriate to your Specialty with you to provide Assistance, but this will require a series of Successful Difficult (-10) Search, or Difficult (-10) Psyniscience Tests depending on sector.

 

Stern: 4 Tests

Midships: 5 Tests

Bow: 3 Tests

 

Questions and Shouting in the OOC.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard started to scan through the datafiles. He wasn't confident of finding much on his own - that was why he had asked the Seneschal for help!

 

Spoiler

Extended Search Tests:
Per33 ÷2 (Search Untrained) = 17 +10(HS:Sight) = 27
Can I assume any Assist from Cheeky/Jenkins?
Anyway, 3 Rolls: 85, 54, 16

 

 

 

He spent the best part of an hour trawling through dock records, with little success. Half of the files here seemed to be identical to the records he'd searched back on Damocles! Reynard was just about to give up, his eyes beginning to ache, when he thought he spotted something. What was that?

 

“Jenkins…? What do you make of this…?”

 

 

Edited April 26 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

 

OOC: Yes, you can assume Jenkins will Assist. Chekhov is busy on the intracoms vox links.  From vaguely overheard noises, you can detect he's being kept appraised of the situation in the servitor compartments.

 

'Hmm.' Jenkins makes an interested little buzzing noise as he peruses the data, practiced fingers dancing to isolate and track. It appears it's a metadata string for a compliment of medical supplies going into port, the actual string converts to a icon, a lion's head, with a proud, swept mane. 'It's a receipt tag. It would have lain pretty much ignored in the junk-stack which gets purged every thirty days.'

 

He rubbed his chin. 'Throne's bones, it isn't much to go on.'

 

Chekhov comms off the comms and snaps a switch on a vox-horn in the console of the comms-sub deck.

 

'Cassie? It's the Seneschal.'

 

'What's the matter now, Cheeky?' the woman replies, with an annoyed sigh.

 

'Get your books ready, I'm coming down with an exoarcheo-palaeontologist.'

 

There's a cough, then the voice comes back, full of excitement. 'Really? Wow, that's f- er, that's great! I'll be ready!'

 

The link cuts and Chekhov grins at you. That way. You know the one.

 

Edited April 26 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Malvolio

 

"The field waxes and wanes as all dreams do, but the unending sleep has not been disturbed. Still I will see to the sanctity of those who ward this vessel, may their peace be eternal".

 

Making the sign Malvolio turned away followed by an entourage of his menials. They would not be permitted beyond the outer seals but few were, as more-so even than the bridge the gellar chamber was protected. Even the servitors here gave way to mortal crew raised to serve this one post until death and servants of the mechanicum that had been chosen to learn of the arcane secrets within.

 

But even they did not see as he did, as the ship itself began to fade and reshape in proximity to the inner chamber. There held beyond time and yet still aware lay those who would dream the eternal dream, psykers all that cast memories of realspace that none had known except as infants before their internment, amplified and shaped around the vessel by dark age technologies for what was the immaterium if not the stuff of dreams and a daemon could no more endure in a dream of the materium than it could in the materium itself.

 

 

 

Psyniscience: 41 vs target 43 - pass, one bonus DoS from familiar

Edited April 26 by A.T.

[Mazer Rackham]

Malvolio (ONLY):

Spoiler

Something foreign to the dream wended close nearby. An observer, but it dwells here no longer. It desires murder, even though it does not know why. It heads for the beating heart to kill the biggest victim it can find.

 

The ship.

 

ALL NOISE MUST CEASE.

 

[A.T.]

Malvolio

 

A silent warning flashed out across the ships only to those of most senior position, the infil-trator, it's nature as yet unsure and as such its target might yet be a place or person or thing though its goal seemed only death.

 

The depths of the engineerum sectors called but such madness could be as symbolic as practical, and the captain must be warned.

[Mazer Rackham]

Sola:

 

When you enter Tavesh Marlov's demesne, the smell of formidable alcohol is drowned out only by the sheer depths of blue cursing. The Squat Enginseer is furiously rubbing his hand, digits significantly reddened and throbbing, and what appears to be an exceptionally mangled and dislocated thumb is thrust into your face.

 

'See this? Your fault, lass! If you hadn't buzzed the bloody door...!'

 

He swears again, but this time it's lower volume, until Tavesh tears a chill-pack from a small toolbox, the metal case red, pitted with rust and reeking of oil. It doesn't appear to be the first time this cool-pack has been used, but as his temper subsides, he looks at the...mechanism...he's been working on, and in the teeth of a couple of intermeshing cogs, you can just make a scrap of knuckle.

 

He rubs a grimy hand on his ship's coverall, pulls himself wearily up onto the bench, parking his backside so he's level with you. What he lacks in height is more than made up for the immense power of his compact, muscled bulk. He pops the top off one of his home-brews and takes a pull.

 

Sighing he turns back to you. 'Now, what do you want, lass? If it's about Cheeky's money, I haven't got it.'

Edited April 27 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Restal:

 

A murder-servitor had got loose and needed to be found.

 

A new untrodden ship was not good to get lost searching around alone he thought as he rested in the shadows.

 

Something will present itself

 

 

That something did, although it was a friend. An acquaintance just passed by walking alone.

 

Kerr Restal effortlessly stepped out of the shadows silent as a ghost.

 

 

"Tis not a place to walk all alone. Even for the Scourge!" Kerr Restal announced himself.

 

"Two are better than one in this search Petrus. Now what ails thee?"

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Petrus

 

At the sudden imposition, Petrus immediately reached for his chainsword, but stopped at half draw and chuckled to himself when the accompanying face materialized from the gloom and realized who it was.

 

“Restal, thou rogue! Thou shouldst not go skulking about like that. I am relieved ‘tis thee.”

 

He returned his chainsword to its resting place and his demeanour grew more serious.

 

“I… erm, required a change of scenery. What searchest thou for? Is something afoot?”

[Machine God]

Restal:

 

“Restal, thou rogue! Thou shouldst not go skulking about like that. I am relieved ‘tis thee.”

 

His ally re-sheathed his sword and his demeanour grew more serious.

 

“I… erm, required a change of scenery. What searchest thou for? Is something afoot?”

 

 

He was pleased at his quarry's reaction.

 

Still got it.

 

 

"Petrus, surely the corpse of the Rating would have come your way in the Medicae. It has been posited that the killer was one of the ships Murder-Servitors gone rogue upon translation to the warp." Restal showed open palms as he talked.

 

"There is currently a ship-wide search to find and cull the beast. I was just looking for another pair of hands and eyes to aid me in the search and providence produced you.."

 

 

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Malvolio

 

The final thoughts of the victim still troubled the astropath has he moved deep within the ship, his aides at his side once more, such portents were always muddled but what circumstance could bring elation at the sight of a murder servitor?

 

The vessels plasma reactor was perhaps the most obvious destination, both the vast central chamber containing a fragment of a stars power and the web of conduits that spread beyond provided power to the vessel and drawing in fuel and coolants to maintain a tenuous balance between safe operation and utter destruction.

 

By comparison the inner workings of warp drive were not easily accessible at the best of times, and sealed even more tightly during the transit of the immaterium.

 

Temperatures in this part of the ship were inhospitable and though little noticed by Malvolio beneath his void cloak they served to blind some of the ships eyes, and as the core approached so magnetism and radiation blinded them more... though no such concerns could impede the vision graced by the Emperors touch nor would the toughened construction of a murder servitor be slowed.

 

The flow of power here was palpable as he reached out with his mind seeking the one who did not belong.

 

Psyniscience:

Target: PER 43, -10 (diff), +10 (familiar)

Roll: 10 - pass with four extra (inc familiar bonus)

[Trokair]

Sola

 

Anastasia holds up her hands in mock protests.

 

“and here I thought your kind were so stoic that pain was a foreign concept, no?”

 

“So,” she continued once he had regains some semblance of decorum, “Was it cards or dice this time? I am not here to seek settlement for unwise wagers. There has been a death that has about as much to do with an accident as the chef’s special has to be with, well, anything.”

 

Elaborating further on the details of the deceased and the surrounding she got to the point in rather short order. Even with excessive details there just wasn’t much to say so far.  

[Mazer Rackham]

Sola:

 

'I thought you were more stoic,' he apes in a mocking tone. 'Never mind I just had a bloody religious experience fixing the bosted gubbins on this bloody rust bucket!'

 

He forms a fist, looking for the nearest bit of superstructure to thump, but settles for tossing a rag at the hull. So soothed by the rejoinder, Tavesh contemplates what you tell him over several long pulls of his obnoxious...amasec - which is perhaps is too civilised a word to describe this...beverage.

 

'Aye, we can try to pull up some passive ocular data, but I'm not sure what we'll learn. Those stabby buggers are inactive when they're not deployed.' He offers you a conspiratorial glance. 'Don't want one of them running around carving people up...'

 

Tarvesh shuffles up his bench and pulls an down two armatures. One is equipped with a cogitator and display, the other a keyboard. 'Well lass, hop up and sit here. You're going to be doing the typing. I'm going to sit here being stoic.'

 

He grins nastily and holds up his thumb.

 

GM OOC: Tarvesh will provide assistance, but it will require a Routine (+10) Search Test. However, if you have it, an Easy (+20) Tech Use Test will draw up the necessary records.

[Trokair]

Sola

 

With an aside glance at Tarvesh, musing that their master of machines definition of stoic was a little  off, she sat down at the console and begun working as indicated. While sensory feeds were not her speciality she was accustomed enough to read ships sensors to direct the guns that there was a certain similarity. Despite these sensors being cataract grey feeds of mostly ship walls that the servitor happened to be starting at when ordered into standby.

 

Flicking through another dozen or so feeds, each a another greyscale shot with no changes or motion.

 

“So you getting all religious I see.” She quipped with a nod toward the table and the innards that had won the scuffle with Tarvesh’s hand.

 

 

Spoiler

Search Test

Per: 39 /2 (Basic) = 19.5 +10 = 29.5

D100: 83 – not a Chance...

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Sola:

 

'Ha!' Tavish replies, looking malevolently at the block of machinery. 'The religion of frustration. It's one of the aft cargo lift shunters.'

 

Seeing your own frustration, he gently pulls the keyboard over. Tongue out, he pounds the keys one at a time.

 

'Hmm. Can't get into the coggies themselves, but I can get the access logs for the bay. Someone used a low level passcode to get in. ID Code 0266, Rosenda Karpov. Gunner's Loading Mate, Third Class. Aft Crew compartment 34.'

 

His bushy brows arch as he looks at you steadily.

 

Kovac & Restal:

 

Your search takes you wherever the other sweeping teams haven't ventured, still the Armsmen and crew do what they can to direct or spot for you. The ship's level of alert does not recede. Perhaps it is beneficial the killer-machine is rampant in your midst in the middle of a warp transit.

 

Reynard:

 

The Librarium, whilst not as grandiose as one planet side, is festooned with statis stacks preserving mighty tomes of astrogation, dynastic lineages, arcane tomes of lore about anything you can imagine. All this strikes you with the smell of autoquill ink and stale, stolid vellum. Sacred preserving oils battle with acrid tallow twang as the large candles burn in sconces, the stack fields glowing a faint grey as they rise to the vaulted rafters of dark iron. History weighs heavy here, tradition thick as the rimes of dust congregating in the crevices between the book-spines. Each stack is listed by decimal number in the Rote Of Dewey, an archaic method of cataloguing not even used by the modern Imperium for as long as you have been alive, and likely long forgotten before that.

 

In the central aisle are several reading tables, complete with angle-poise lamps and magnifying circlets. Large books lie open on two of the tables, huge, sturdy things of black Korvirian oak, bound in brass and iron.  A serried rank of servo skulls float by the main door you and Cheeky emerge from, manipulator clamps clasped together waiting for the word to begin their labours.

 

A group of scribes abide at the entrance to the stacks, yet one approaches.

 

'Throne, you're the 'explorator'?' a young woman demands, thick with disbelief. You recognise the voice as the young woman from before, Cassie.

 

Cheeky controls himself, despite an amused quiver of the lips. 'Now, then, be a good lady. We have a mystery to solve.'

 

'The only mystery is why I let you do this to me, Cheeky.' She threw back her hood to level a fierce stare. Cassie sighed, completely crestfallen. Sweeping her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her head to tie it up in a quick, messy bun, she recovers and fixes you with loam-coloured brown eyes. 'Fine. What is it you need, oh learned one?'

 

Malvolio:

 

As you hurry with your acolytes, one peels off to do as you bid and warn the master of the ship. The trail of the infil-traitor fades quickly, but it still leads to the plasma reactor. As you breach the outer layer, you come upon an empty station, which should be manned by an Enginseer fire and damage control officer wrapped in flash hood and gauntlets. A blood trail leads around the corner of the semi-circular engineerium observation deck.

[A.T.]

Malvolio:

 

"Sound the alert, inform the armsmen and advance"

 

It would not do to let the trail grow colder, "The Emperor protects"