[Dark Heresy] The Unthrinn Legacy

[Inquisitor]

You begin, now your newfound quest, your calling. Whether you were brought into it willingly, or forced, by chain and lash, into this life, you have had no choice. The Immortal Emperor has spoken to you through his servants in the Holy Ordos, Sector Calixis.

Gird yourself with the Armour of Contempt, for your uncouth and unworthy eyes will soon be forced to behold the stuff of nightmares – things so grotesque, so horrific, that you may wish to gouge your own eyes from your skull, lest the images stop, and you are granted eternal peace.

But for the sake of Mankind, and ever vigilant God-Emperor seated upon his Golden Throne on Holy Terra, you must remain strong.

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Post structure is as below, once again!

Character Name - Character location

Post.

Small OOC comments, what you are rolling, etc.

[Dice Rolls]

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Char sheets:

http://nexxushost.com/forums/index.php?topic=62083.0

OOC thread:

http://nexxushost.com/forums/index.php?topic=62117.0

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You've been summoned to Hive Sibellus – all of you – by a very non-descriptive message from the Inquisition. It wasn't hard to understand, and it was easier to obey blindly – many of you have been serving the Inquisitor Unthrinn for years. This is the first he has ever called you to some far off land – and, indeed, this may be the first time you've received a direct message from the Inquisitor, or even heard the voice of the man who has been silently commanding your life for quite some time.

Stepping off whatever your transport may be, directly into the Goldenhand of Hive Tarsus,  you'll be given a message wafer from your pilot, instructing you, quite simply, where to go. It also comes with a simple account number, in order for you to find a place to stay.


“Hive Sibellus. Main Spire, upper level, 637. Three blocks from Tricorn. The servants will see you in.”

[Inquisitor]

Thrall – Unthrinn's Estate

To you, it is just another day. You have been travelling with the Inquisitor for more time then you remember – for all you know, it has been since your 'birth'. You have served for nothing more than an adjutant, a server, and he had trained you well in both the strict art of death and combat, as well as the art of caretaking.

It would be possible to say 'much to your chagrin', if you had any emotion left at all. You had been trained in transit, re-taught the litanies of the God-Emperor, the proper way to hold a rifle, the ways to follow a person without making a sound. Though most notions of hospitality and companionship have been washed away, you have still been drilled with proper adequate, and the correct knowledge on how one should set a table, bring about drinks, and prepare a room for guests.

You have been the sole occupant of Inquisitor's Unthrinn penthouse home for nigh-on three years. A private security firm comes in to check on you once a day, but for the most part, leaves you be as they patrol the offices below and the likes. You have kept the house clean and fresh for the Inquisitor's eventual return routinely, spending your nights training, reading the texts allowed, or, if you were to so choose, enjoy a small amount of time on your own with the small wages you earn.

Unthrinn has returned, and you reacted without surprise, preparing his study for him, his favorite meal and drink, and sparring with him when offered. This is what little pleasure you find in his acquaintance.

And one day, while delivering a meal of sautéed grox, dribbled with juices and the finest of spices imported from Tarsus and a glass of amasec, aged for a century in a hardwood barrel, had turned from his slate and glanced at you, before speaking.

“Tomorrow, my Thrall, our guests should be arriving. Prepare six guest chairs, and bring in my own – the leather one, from my quarters, if you would. See them in and make them as comfortable as you can.

Drustos - The Goldenhand

You have been traveling through the Warp for months now. Tired, alone, and still reeling from the...Unpleasent Events suffered back on one of the immeasurable war zones in the Calixis Sector. Left alone by the troop ship you traveled with, you were unceremoniously shuttled off to Tarsus, given your message wafer, and then left to your devices.

You are jumpy and paranoid as you step into the giant caverns of steel, filled with throngs of people and shouting voices. Great pict displays flash numbers and symbols of unknown intent and design. This is not the small Scholams you grew up in – but it was very different from the din of horrific battle, and the smell of blood and fyceline in the air. You're bumped into the crowd, another face amongst the untold millions of Imperial society.

Skive - The Goldenhand

Two years, standard, and seventy days. That's how long your trip, from Malfi to Sibellus, was meant to be. But due to complications, you have spent two and a half years trapped in the Warp, surrounding by the sounds of madness and hellish nightmares. But the Inquisitor had summoned you, so long ago, and you had answered.

You step off the shuttle and the Rogue Trader you had been with was more than happy to see you off and you were more than happy to leave his company. No stranger to a Hive, you feel no culture shock from the deafening din of people, words bouncing off steel walls. You are, however, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people.

You set off, for shelter and to get on with your mission.

Hack – The Goldenhand

Fate had dealt you a cruel hand, and you had been cruel in return. From space hulk, to beyond, to Hive City, the culture shock is astounding. Already, you have been bounced around, beaten, and roughed up, scammed, and abused.

Digging around in your pocket, you find the message wafer to pay for your lodging and passage to Sibellus, that the pilot had slipped into your coat pocket rather then speak to you for a moment longer.

Venton Octus The Goldenhand

It is marvellous, and almost what you had read, heard, and expected. A city of vaulted steel, with pict displays and light sources on every wall and celing, with great vents and generators pulsing with energy, recycling, purifying, straining the air into a breathable resource. Bidding your brothers from a passing Expedition Fleet farewell, you step into the wharf of Tarsus.

You see many of your bothers – those followers of the Cult of the Omnissiah – working on the docked ships, repairing broken displays and terminals, chanting in Binary and working anointing oils into the various metal surfaces of the area.

You would feel shivers down the spine, if not for the fact that beneath your deep crimson robes, you had replaced such useless bone structures with glorious steel and ceramite, to support your immaculate form better. You remember, after a few moments of stunned awe (where the tide of men steer around an esteemed Tech-Priest), that you were here on business, and not pleasure.

Atella Lucillius - The Goldenhand

“...get yerself killed ya will, yeah! Haha, quick, too. Like Klybo.”

You wake up from your sudden daze, with a rather grungy man with a shock of multi-colored hair atop his head, and a thick, unkempt black beard. He makes a caricature of a bomb exploding, hands spreading out and fanning before him. The two big, brute-like men around him laugh. Like Klybo, alright. He's immeasurably dirty, wearing a quilted vest with loops and belts over a leather, patchwork stormcoat and pats, with heavy boots. Only one sleeve, though, revealing one sleek, pale arm, covered with a sleeve of ink.

You realize that, after stepping off your transport, you got lost and bounced around in the sea of people and machinery that marks the wharf of the Goldenhand, and someone, yes, you remember this quite well, someone had jostled you good and hard until you tripped and bashed your head nice and proper against a steel wall.

You had come to Sibellus with such happiness, remembering the fondness of the Hive's great scholams. But those were protected areas, great halls of learning and study in the arts of the Imperium. This, though, was different. The Goldenhand had every type of man, from the intelligent to the wicked, all under one roof. And it was easy to get lost under foot, and easy to get picked on by a group of...miscreants, such as this.

“You 'ear me, miss all prim-and-proper-an'-pretty? Yer gonna get yerself killed.” A dirty, cruel smile slips across his face as he reaches into his belt and snaps a knife open, stepping forward.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

The chairs have been arranged. Six chairs, plain wood stained dark, and simple crimson padding at the seat and back. Arrange in semi circle, facing the Master's ornate leather chair, inset with the familiar skull motif that seems to tie the vast Imperium of man together. Thrall's own chair, the same as any other, is adjusted to the left side of Unthrinn's. As his Master is one of the Emperor's left hands, Thrall is the clenched sword.

A single table sits in the middle of the arranged chairs, as remarkably unassuming as the rest of the furniture provided. It's mundane appeal only serves to make the rest of the room see that much larger, somewhere between comfortable library and condemning court room. An Inquisitor's home through and through.

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

Attempting to navigate the mazes of the Hive cities were nightmareish. The crowded streets pushed her around, and the crowds didn't give her enough time to stop and try and figure out where the hell she was. Directions were out of the question. The crowds weren't going to stop for a freakish void born unless offered a coin, and she'd be damned to part with the few she had willingly.  The better part of the day was spent meandering the many streets and ladders, the crowds and shops, the scum, the merchants, and who knows what else these places had lurking in the crowd. By some bit of luck, and the experiance being lost in the Hive cities for a few hours gave her, she managed to find her way to a train to trasport her to yet another maze, in yet another part of this god forsaken planet. The few hour trip was spent in silence, and she used the stillness and lack of bustling groups to rest her eyes. Another round of wandering lost was soon to come, and she needed every bit of energy she had to get through it, lost in this mad world of people.

The trip was spent only half in consiousness, and so she wasn't quite sure how many hours had passed since she'd been thrust into the sea of bodies. But the navigation still did not come easy to her. It took her three times the amount of time to push,shove, and move her way to the front of what she really hoped was the correct place. She stood in front of the door, examining the address as she finished off her latest Lho-stick. Half a pack at least was spend in this insane wandering, and she was almost dependent on the familiar smell and taste to keep her from losing it.

"Throne I hope this is the right fucking place..." She trails off, peering upward at the dizzying hight of the Hive city, licking her lips and knocking on the door. She tossed her finished lho-stick to the ground, not wanting to insult the host she hoped was inside with such little things as smoke.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

The door opens the smooth hush of metal on polished metal. Simple artifice to make even a Tech Cultist proud revealing a bald man with an embroidered tea towel over his arm and a pistol that may have been a Land Raider in a previous life all but riveted to his thigh.

Brown eyes focus intently on the girl, less as a man studies a guest and more as an autosentry decides whether or not to perforate a potential intruder.

"This is." He speaks, his voice an uncomfortable medium between hoarse and whispered. His arm extends to her, palm up. Waiting. "If..." Clearly he expects some sort of sign that this pile of rags and flesh has purpose. Purpose is all.

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

Hack didn't have to wait long it seemed, and she studied the thing that appeared in the door with suspicion, pink eyes studying him through tinted glasses. Then he extended his hand, and she stares at it a while blankly before frowning. "Oh right, probably want...." Her hands slide into her pockets, and she offers the man the invitation sent to her to meet here. "Tell me I'm in the right place."

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

The time on Malfi had aquainted him with Hives, but they still grated on his nerves. The raucous, fumbling masses of people pushing against each other, the mobs writhing along like some mindless, flailing centipede. If your eyes closed, amid jostling bodies and frenzied shouts, it was all too much like the vaulted holds of the slave-ships, although there the crying broke into sobs and the floors grew slick with bile and blood...

Still. It was better than being spacebound, caught in the void with nothing between himself and the howling voices of darkness but the thin envelope of the ships warp-field, a soap-bubble that somehow staved off the thousand dripping maws that lay beyond. No, he reminded himself, thats not all that staves off the darkness beyond. He stepped into the chaos of the Goldenhand, whispering the Litany of the Warp as he had done every hour for the past two years and  a half years. "Shield me from the maelstrom, prove this ship worthy of protecting Your legions, who bring Your light wherever they travel".

Sadly, there was no Litany to help the faithful confront the mess that moving between Hives necessitated. Skive did his best, but his wild appearance and best-like eyes did little to curry favor and indulgence from locals, be they security personnel or administrative staff. The locals tended to ignore him when they didn't simply offer a smirk for the savage. The day was crawling onward and he worried that he would be late - well, technically he was already ninety days late, but he hoped the Inquisitor would not fault him time lost to the perils of the warp. Time wasted in the Hive, however, was his own fault. At the most recent transportation alcove he had been directed to, he produced not just the regular sheaf of papers, but the burning-eye emblem of the Adeptus Telepathica. He did not savor the fear and suspicion that even a Sanctioned psyker drew, but he knew one thing - it would spur a functionary to get him far and away as quickly as possible. So he found himself bound for Hive Sibellus, though on a cargo flight instead of a regular passenger relay, and with the armed guards far more nervous than he preferred.

He did not rest.

Once at the Hive, locating the Tricorn was much simpler - merely a matter of moving against the flow of traffic, fighting the tide toward the looming palace the populace would much rather avoid. Truth be, he would rather avoid it himself - to be summoned like this could bode six types of danger. But if meeting with the Inquisitor was likely to be dangerous, disobeying him was guaranteed to be fatal. Near the Tricorn, now hundreds of levels up into the Spire, Skive believed he had found the place - only most of a day after landing. He took a moment to arrange himself, clasping the fur of the two-headed Noxwolf across his shoulders. Gnarled staff in hand, he approached the doors.

If its simpler for Thrall and Hack, assume Skive arrives after she's passed in.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall-Unthrinn's Estate

The item is received without pomp or fanfare, and the sight of some rag-robed individual shambling closer prompts the bald headed man to settle a hand at his hip. He's not reaching for his gun, this is just a stock standard waiting pose. Hack will be let to stew a moment longer, though the Inquisitor's left hand is polite enough to offer make it obvious that he's looking over the sigil she'd pressed into his palm. "Soon." She's passed the first test, and the only one he was instructed to give.


The psyker is met with no formal greeting, just an open hand awaiting the invitation. They were called for a purpose, not a tea party.

Statuesque, Thrall waits until he receives the needed token before ushering them inside and to the conservatory where the chairs have been set up. "Any but those two. Tea will be forthcoming. Stay here."

[Ketch]

Venton-Unthrinn's Estate

To Venton, the people milling about, clogging the streets and walkways, were bugs and chaff, little worthy of consideration. Indeed, as he walked among them they provided as much resistance, parting and flowing around him like empty husks in his wake. He had little difficulty making his way through the crowds which were less than eager to bump into a tech-priest. He, in turn, paid no mind to them in the least, caring little that he caused such eddies in his passing. It was the city itself, the cables and wires, the electricity flowing through them, the machinery they powered; this was the real life on this planet, not these crude vessels of flesh, this was what held his attention as he made his way toward the address he'd been given.

After walking for some time, pausing occasionally to admire some especially immense power generator or pict display monitor, Venton eventually found himself at his appointed destination. The estate was impressive in its size and aesthetic beauty, but Venton was unimpressed by polish or art. Though he would much rather be inspecting the inner workings of the massive air purifiers below, he made his way to the door.

[Hilda]

Atella Lucilius -The Goldenhand
 
The journey to Hive Sibellus was made in ease and comfort on a luxury transport; such commodities were afforded without second thought by  members of the upper-class. And here, eyes closed and waiting for the ship to come to a stop she reminisced on the time she had spent here years ago, roaming the great halls of the Lexis Maxima. Sweet daydreams of days gone were rudely cut short by the sudden jerky stop. Into the madness she stepped, and soon after the world went black.

“You 'ear me, miss all prim-and-proper-an'-pretty? Yer gonna get yerself killed."

"Well of course I heard you!" Atella snapped as she spat blood on the floor. The gangers were at least an arm's length away, but the rancid smell of their breath hit her square in the nose and she recoiled from the wave of nausea that rolled through her, intensified by the splitting headache they'd so kindly given her.. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement." Atella stalled and added, "Besides, I'm quite late for an appointment at Inquisitor Unthrinn's estate." If she could only distract them, perhaps she could disappear onslaught of faces that were ever charging and vanishing around her. Either that or she could simply try to blow his head off. She just didn't want some lower life form's blood staining her robes.

[Inquisitor]

Atella Lucilius - The Goldenhand

The lead man laughs, stepping forward with a pleased swagged, balancing and turning the knife over and over in his gloved palm.

"You 'ear that, my boys? We got us a prit-n-prim one, all sure enough and hopped up, yeah? Awww, lookey that, she's got a meetin' with His Holy Ordos, eh?" He turns his head to look back, and laughs with his friends. She stalls, saying maybe they can work out a deal, and he's more than happy to slide up towards her, face to face.

"Well, ya better start speakin' Gelt, or somethin' else..." Another thick laugh from the man and his dirty friends, as a man roams and gropes through the noble's robes.

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

She waits patiently as the strange doorman looks over her invitation, and another approaches. She turns ever so slightly to peer at the robed man lumbering foward with his staff to stop at the very door she was standing at. There was no attempt made to hide her stare at him, though it was hard to tell just why she did it. No greeting, or even a smile was offered. Just a stare before she turned back to Thrall.

"Thanks." She offers her one word reply as she's ushered in, taking her sweet, sweet time in looking about the place. She was not use to such elegant arrangements, and it showed in how her eyes wandered slowly, taking in every detail, though she was very aware how badly she stood out against such a grand backround. A hand goes absentmindedly to the charm around her neck, what looked like a simple scrab of metal. One last glance would to given to the stranger in his robes before she took one of the allowed seats in the conservatory, crossing her arms and legs, and letting her eyes close once more. Waiting.

[Voonderking]

Drustos - The Goldenhand

Shuffled about in the nameless crowd, Drustos gripped the sling of his Hellgun tighter to his shoulder, his ahdn also slipping about the strap of his backpack. It'd been a long time since he'd been on a hive world, but then everything seemed so long ago now.

He wandered through the crowds for what seemed like an eternity, finding it difficult to get his bearings and figure out where he was going. With a weary and shakey sigh he fumbles about in one of his pockets for the vague message, attention no longer on the people ahead. After a few moments he finds the message but it's no longer important as he's apparently walked in on some kind of altercation. With the hand about his sling he shifts the weapon off his shoulder and shoulders it in a semi-relaxed position, finger on the trigger.

"Pardon me, but do you gentleman think it wise to accost a servant of the Emperor?" As he speaks he points his Hellgun in the direction of the lead ganger.

[Intimidate test: 1d100 = 29]

[Hilda]

Atella Lucilius - The Goldenhand

The thugs didn't seem particularly impressed by the guardsman's sudden and unexpected appearance, although Atella was so relieved she could have kissed him. Her left hand disappeared inside her robe as he spoke, and, hoping that if she could position herself just so the other two thugs wouldn't notice her, she turned away slightly. Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the grip and she jerked her hand back out, bringing the gun level with the knife-wielding ganger's head. "Let's make a deal. Why don't you take your greasy hands off of me, alright? That way I don't have to splatter someone's head."

[Intimidate test: 1d100 = 8]

[Inquisitor]

Atella and Drustos - The Goldenhand

“Who in the hell do you think YOU are?” Says the man with the knife, gesturing wildly at Drustos with the blade. “Get 'im, ya bluh--”

Atella's talking, and the scum looks back, only to bump his eye directly into the barrel of a pistol.

“Book it!” He screams, shoving Atella against the wall of the steel cavern, and takes off into the ever-moving throng of people. The two dregs almost wet themselves in confusion, before they, too, take off after their boss, disappearing into the crowd without a word and, soon, without a trace.

[Voonderking]

Drustos - The Goldenhand



Blinks a few times in confusion, but shakes his head and makes his way over to Atella, offering her a hand up as he slings his Hellgun back over his shoulder.

“Perhaps the Emperor did not gift that man with a caring mother.” He says, in regards to her being the one that seemed to scare them off. A slight smile crawls across his features and the scar on his face seems to make it look just a little out of place.

“I overheard you telling those fine young men that you had an appointment with a certain Inquisitor. As luck would have it I'm also headed to the same place, though I'll admit I was quite lost when I came upon your predicament.”

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

Skive was having a less exciting - and thankfully less gun-punctuated - time. The Psyker clacked his way to the door, eyeballing both the strange doorman and the other caller as he approached. A strange pair, but the simple presence of another caller was more notable than their appearance. Clearly this was one of the 'servants' that the directions had mentioned, though the Inquisitor seemed to apply that term far more broadly than the other nobles that Skive had had the opportunity to meet. He supposed, thinking about it, that he could easily be called a servant himself, bound as he was to the orders. That thought had a bitter taste to it, and he grimaced as he fished around his ragged robes, which looked as if they might once have been respectable red velvet.

Hack has no doubt passed inside by the time he produces the invitation, which is passed to Thrall in a slightly suspicious manner. What if this isn't the address? He hadn't expected there to be anyone else - all his previous encounters with the Inquisitor had been discrete, indirect, and he never expected a personal meeting to have an audience. Once ushered inside he grunts and nods his thanks to the departing Thrall. "As He wills it." He pushes back the simple hood of his robe, revealing both his wild man of hair and his scarred features - tiny puckers about an inch apart form a perfect grid over his face and neck. 

Once Thrall is gone and the woman seated, he takes the time to look around the room. He's not particularly interested in the trappings and decorations - he doubts anything of real interest would be left in the front room untended - but pacing takes the edge off his anxiousness. Being summoned made him uncomfortable, and his mind is still weighed down by the pressure of long months in space, with all too little room and company and all too much temptation. Having prowled the room like a trapped beast, he turns his gaze back onto the pale woman, his yellow eyes flashing in sunken sockets. She seems not to be aware - perhaps dozing? - so he stares without concern for etiquette. What was she doing here? To what end did she serve, and why would they be gathered at the same time? Watching her, he grew aware of the implication of the table layout.

"We seem to be short a few bodies for these seats." His voice rings over-loud against the preceding silence of the setting. His Gothic is strangely accented, and his voice rings clearer than you might expect to look at him - it matches his years, while his greyed hair and leathered skin make him seem twenty years older to the eye. And to the soul - the gift and curse of the psyker wears the mortal body out. "I have no friends to join us, none that need a chair at least. How about you?"

He runs a hand over the back of an empty chair. The gridwork of scars emerges from his sleeve and covers his entire hand as well. One might guess its full extent.

[Hilda]

Atella Lucilius - Unthrinn's Estate

"Bah. He probably murdered his own mother for Gelt." Atella grumbled and cursed under her breath as Drustos pulled her up. Clearly in no mood for jokes-- no doubt on account of the fact her head felt as though it had been split down the middle-- she brushed herself off and put the gun away, ignoring his smile. "Yes, well, we best get moving, hmm?  Inquisitors do not like to be kept waiting." She spat again, recalling the loathsome scent of burning wood and paper and smoke.

Turning towards the writhing crowd of people and dipping her fingers into her robe to feel the token given to her for her mission and said absently, "Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Atella Lucilius, Scrivener to the Imperium. You have my gratitude."

Introducing herself over her shoulder as she plowed north into the crowd, making sure Drustos was close behind her at all times. "Atella Lucilius, Scrivener to the Imperium. You have my gratitude for rescuing me." The Hive rose all around them and if she looked up it made her quite dizzy. "My tenure in Hive Sibellus was quite short. I studied briefly at the Lexis Maxima and I never quite got used to the architecture. The Lucid Palace, well, obviously that's a truly magnificent sight to see but the rest of the hole, well. It's a veritable mess! Very fascinating, of course! People who stuff dead relatives and leave them for decoration while they kill themselves to reach higher and higher." Suddenly the Tricorn appeared in the distance and they had arrived at the Main Spire. She rapped hard on the door, invitation in hand.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn Estate

For the most part the two recently arrived guests are left to their own devices. He glides in and out of the room, playing the part of the silent butler. Tea is poured as good manners dictate, and once he even stops briefly to listen more obviously to the conversation as it presents itself.

"Correct. Three more are expected." This would explain the empty cups and perhaps the empty saucer next to the large leather chair at the head of the assembly.

A sudden backstep, opening the door on those amazingly quiet hinges. A member of the Machine Cult. Thrall doesn't seem surprised by the company his master keeps. "Invitation, please. And enter."
Members of the holy orders are treated with respect, or at least given the correct treatment.

The Techpriest is shown the way into the seating room, giving the doorman only a moment before he's giving another brief glance away as though distracted by a noise only he could hear. Without excusing himself he withdraws from the room, opening the front door once more just as Atella's knuckles make contact for the fourth knock.

Palm up to receive the token, a look to the scrivener's companion. His nostrils flare momentarily at the sight of a few flecks of crimson on the woman's lip. With the very well armed looking rather unharmed, he rules out that he's her bodyguard. Abusive lover seems slightly more unlikely. A hand extends to take Drustos' invitation as well.

[Ketch]

Venton - Unthrinn Estate

The smooth, soundless opening of the door thrilled Venton and he was quite displeased to be so rudely interrupted by this man in the doorway while he was busy admiring the craftsmanship. He stared at Thrall for a moment in what might have been a harsh manner if he'd still had enough face to do such a thing, before reaching inside his robes and withdrawing his "invitation". He handed it to the man wordlessly and brushed past him, surveying the entryway. After having the way indicated to him he moved into the room that had been prepared for them.

Venton was annoyed to find that there were other people here as well. He hoped he wouldn't be expected to deal with them; people were such bothersome creatures and, as far as he was concerned, mostly good at only one thing: wasting his time. He did not bother to great any of the others but simply scanned the room, noticed the chairs set up--a quick count revealing that there were yet more to come, much to his chagrin--and took a seat himself. As two more people entered the room he glanced up with little interest until he noticed the man's hellgun. His eyes fixed on it, taking on a sudden intensity. A similar make to his own, it would seem. The urge to inspect it more closely was powerful, but the fact that he would almost certainly have to interact with the man holding it in order to get a closer look was enough to deter him. He satisfied himself with an analysis from afar.

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

If Hack is aware of his staring, she shows it not. Her appearance boast little. Her clothes are ancient, torn, and frayed, and the flak jacket over them worn, but obviously newer. Her skin is pale, almost pure white, with small bruises around the jaw line. Her hair, bleach blonde, was gathered in a bun behind her head, kept together with small metal rods. As Skive spoke, she sighed and opened her eyes to peer at him, adjusting her tinted glasses. She didn't bother with etiquette, and just stares at him as she speaks. "Hardly surprised in this hellhole of traffic that everyone isn't here. I'm amazed I wasn't the last one to arrive." He sits up some, rubbing absentmindedly at the back of her neck as she peers at the psyker, trying to guess why he was here, though she thought she had him pegged. Time would tell.

"If I have friends comin' I don't know it." She looks to Thrall as he enters with tea, giving Skive a break from her staring. She stares at the tea in thier cups a moment, not quite sure what was expected of her concerning them. Did people really drink out of these dainty little cups? She wondered how much they were worth. "So while we got some time, who're you." She asks as a tech-priest glides his way silently into the room. She stared at him a while in silence before going back to examining and estimating the value of this tea set. Others soon join thier little gathering, and each is given a brief glance, no where near as interesting as the psyker, and tech-priest.

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

He keeps a half-eye on the strange figure of Thrall, who looks far less like a housekeeper than he acts. Who knows what sort of cleanup you have to handle in an Inquisitor's house, though, so perhaps he's simply prepared for the job. Skive finds the polite cups of tea somewhat ridiculous, but it was a long trip here and he didn't stop for anything. He scoops up one and knocks the whole thing back in a single motion, then brushing his mouth with his sleeve. His time on Malfi [h]had[/i] actually taught him some manners, it was just that they had started so far down the ladder to begin with. For instance, he didn't take Hack's cup, even though she seemed less interested in it. "The Hives are always like that. People are scared to be alone, so they pack together for comfort".

"And three more, eh?" That seems like a lot. And no sooner mentioned, then they have arrived. The techpriest is first, and he receives a fairly guarded and suspicious examination. Skive had heard of the men of iron before. had even seen a few at a distince on their way to whatever tasks they attended - but he had never been this close, or in such a ...social setting. It was hard to believe that there was still a person amid all the wires and metal. Was there still a soul? He clears his throat and answers the woman's question. "Call me Skive. Of the Adeptus..." The precise  organization is left unsaid as more flow into the room. A woman and a man, distinct again from any that were gathered.

That would fill the chairs and Thrall's requirement. It seemed mostly a collection of strangers - only the last pair seemed to bear any connection, everyone else had arrived alone and seemed as unfamiliar with each other as he was. It was good not to be the odd one out. "It seems we've all arrived!" He grins sharply, which wrinkles up his bronzed face. "All but our host, that is, and may he come with answers." Many of the others seemed comfortable to sit in introspection, but Skive seemed more interested in talking. Introspection was not always comforting for the Awakened.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn Estate

"Almost all." Brown eyes flicker momentarily to the two remaining empty chairs before something distant calls to him once more.

Thrall returns soon after, a fresh pot of tea being dispensed to those freshly arrived and the one individual who had finished. "The Master will do what is necessary." A plate of biscuits is placed on the table, the subtle scent of honey seeming so out of place against the backdrop of dusty tomes and the cloying aroma of machine oil and razor sharp ozone.

"If anything is required, ask. Until the Master arrives, you are to be treated as guests in his home." A hand smooths over his bald scalp before the man takes up a position at one of the doorways that leads into the room. A single arm folds to his chest, the other draping listless at his side. An idle thumb brushes against the callous on his trigger finger while unblinking eyes take into consideration every individual in this rather random assortment.

It was not his place or desire to second guess the Inquisitor he served, but there was still a level of fascination in the parts of his mind that were still completely his as to the purpose to all this. Surely Unthrinn could have just dipped a hand into the local Imperial agencies, prisons and schools and gotten the same collection of skills. What was the reason?

[Inquisitor]

Unthrinn's Estate

At least thirty minutes, Standard time, have passed since the arrival of the last of the people. The light outside grows dimmer and then darker, as Sibellus has an open view of a great sky, and a seat of lights below the Inquisitor's penthouse. Of course, taller buildings rise up all around, but that is not important. The windows automatically untint, and the lights along the edges of the walls warm up dimly, giving the room a very soft, welcoming appearance. It also casts odd shadows along the walls, casting people into shadows. Though the lights seem to, oddly, focus upon the eight chairs in the room.

Thrall, cast into darkness, feels a light, familiar tapping on his shoulder. A broad arm points him towards the others, to stand with them.

And with that, the Inquisitor steps into the room, fine carpet dampening the sound of his heavy leather boots. He is an imposing figure, standing somewhere over six feet, with broad shoulders, a broader chest, and arms and legs knotted with hidden muscle. He's wearing a light robe of fine silk, with gilded edges over his simple clothing, hood drawn up to hide his face. The two sigils that hang from his neck, however, are impossible not to notice: the Inquisition rosette, with it's stylized “I” motif, and the symbol of the Ordos Xenos.

“Welcome.” Says the man. His voice comes out, daunting, deep, rasping. His gloved hands go up, and he draws his hood down, so his face can be seen in the pale light of the room. A short length of smooth black hair, kept neat, tidy across his head, smoothly gelled over no doubt, kept looking clean. His skin is a white with traces of red, from agitation or possibly inflammation.

And then, from the nose and below, his face disappears. A puff of ugly, scarred red-purple skin and then cold, hard steel. A horrific mask is clamped tight against his skin, from nose to hard jaw. Stainless steel and polished, the mask depicts the snarling mouth of a monster, complete two rows of sharp teeth, and a metallic tongue pressed against the back of “his” teeth.

A series of tubes connect to the edges and run back down along his throat and into the back of his clothing, hiding some sort of respirator, or some other mechanical device. His breathing is amplified into the hoarse, labored sound of a predator on the hunt. His bloodshot, pure blue eyes don't seem to blink as he looks each and every way about the room.

“I trust you all fine yourselves...comfortable? Has my Thrall been doing his...job?”

He steps in front of his high backed, fine leather chair, and sits down, arms caressing the arms until he can sit back fully, liveries and robe trailing around his legs, which he crosses deftly. His arms come up before him, hands knotting against his chest, the skull above his head peering tirelessly forward. He takes another moment to glance between everyone, before speaking.

“A motley crew. I'm sure you're all...wracking your minds, greatly, wondering why you have been called together. Well. You've all served me for some time, and I'm allowing you join a...circle within a circle. I'm forming a cell. All of you have your uses, and unfortunately, the far-reaching hand of an Inquisitor cannot be everywhere, directly. And that is where this 'cell' comes in, you see – you will act within my name, to root out heretics, and enemies of the Imperium. In my steed, you will do the God-Emperor's work.”

There is a slight pause. “If you are fearful of what this may entail, if you are afraid to put your life on the line for your fellow man and for your Emperor, you may leave now. You will be severed from my care. Of course, I will pay for your trip back to your respective homes.”

And then he stops and leans back, letting his words hang in the air, letting his presence and his mission have time to settle, and to see who will shirk from a duty that will only end in death.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

There's no shock at the sudden contact, just the recognition that the first portion of the evening has come to an end and the second must now begin. He takes the empty seat by the Inquisitor's left side, adjusted so that he may look at both speaker and audience at the same time.

 I'm forming a cell.

The words hit the adamantine vault of his mind like a Earth Shaker artillery round. There was something huge in the presented offer, something that calls to the empty spaces in his memory, that appeals to his undying hunger for service and purpose. Without thinking, Thrall leans forward slightly, intent hearing whatever further details might be given. Knuckles pop has hands clench into fists so tight they could shatter the wafer thin porcelain of one of the tea cups settled on the table nearby. There was no time needed to consider this opportunity

"I wish to serve."