[Dark Heresy] The Unthrinn Legacy

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

Hack hadn't touched her tea, save for one experimental sip early on. As the intimidating Inquisitor entered, she fell respectfully silent, watching without stareing as he spoke to the group. A cell? There was a rush of pride in her chest, and she was suddenly very aware of the Aquila tattooed to the back of her neck, and the ring of prayers encircling her right arm. They screamed with purpose. She listened intently, almost sneering as the Inquisitor spoke of fear, and those who would back out. Never. Never.

"Let enemies of the God-Emperor burn." Her voice  quaked with passion, and that last word was spoken with such sheer power it made her answer very obvious. She paused a moment, and sat, only now realizing the vigor of her declaration had thrust her upward.

[Voonderking]

Drustos – Unthrinn's Estate

Drustos paused for a moment in the door when he arrived, but soon handed off his invitation with no comment to be heard. With a weary look about the room he made his way to an empty chair silently, appearing to be lost in thought.

The Guardsman said nothing and was jolted from his thoughts when the Inquisitor himself arrived. His offer pleased Drustos. The thought of a renewed purpose in the Emperor's galaxy causing him to smile genuinely. His smile leaves his face as the Inquisitor offers the chance to back away. Back away? What manner of thoughtless coward, heretic even, would think of backing out of His most Holy Emperor's Divine service?

With a loud bang, Drustos slams both tightly clenched fists onto the table, causing himself to stand up. “With respect, Sir, I do not believe anyone should be given any choice in this matter. I take great offense that you even offer the choice to back out! The mere thought of denying service to His Holy Emperor disgust me to the very core!” His face red, knuckles white and breath heavy in his chest he sits back down and he appears to collect himself, “Please... excuse my manner, sir. I have seen to many a good man die in his service, and to deny such service would be an affront to their glory in death.”

[Ketch]

Venton Octus - Unthrinn's Estate

As the others drink their tea, Venton simply looks around, his eyes finally settling on his own cup. He picks it up and holds in in front of his face a moment, studying it. He glances over to the others as they bring the cups to their lips then looks back to his own drink. After a moment he simply replaces the cup on its saucer and returns to sitting quietly.

As the inquisitor enters, Venton watches him make his way to the chair. He doesn't seem particularly interested, though it would be difficult to tell one way or the other. His mind began to work as he noticed the symbol of the Ordos Xenos, his head flooded with images of rare and powerful technologies and the knowledge that might be acquired through potential xeno encounters. As the hood was pulled back, however, Venton's attention became fixed on the man's face. He barely heard the man speaking as he studied the mask, admiring the craftsmanship of the wrought steel, desperate to glean every possible deatil on its construction and function.

At the mention of the Inquisitor's intention to form a cell, however, and the enthusiastic replies of those gathered around him, Venton was pulled back to the immediate situation. The intensity and fervour of these people confounded him; it was difficult to remember a time when he had been known to show such emotion himself, and in all honesty such memories only served to further reinforce in him the desire to separate himself from the illogical nature of the flesh.

"I do hope that you'll excuse me for not making a scene, I'm afraid I lack the excitable streak present in the rest of your company. What I do not lack, however, is the will and desire to serve the Emperor and His holy Inquisition. My services are at your disposal, sir." With that he gave a slight bow of his head and awaited elaboration on how, exactly, his talents might be put to use.

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

The Psyker watched and listened to the Inquisitor in a guarded silence. Inquisitors were figures of power, awe and fear to many, but they held a special place in the hearts and minds of those who had travelled the Black Ships. Inquisitors frequently traveled with the ships, to evaluate the potential corruption and psychic phenomena developing on a planet by inspecting its tithe. A Psyker always stood beneath the watch of the Inquisition, and knew that the slightest slip in their control or a single wrong decision in their power would mean their death. The recruits did not always survive such tests. So he licked his cracked lips and idly rubbed the back of one scarred hand.

The deluge of agreement from around the table is a little startling, but not surprising. Wouldn't an Inquisitor ring himself with those of greatest faith, and surely only the sternest of those would be invited to such an enclave. Which draws him to question his own presence - certainly, he bowed to and revered the Emperor, for those who did not would never complete the trials of the Telepathica - but he was seldom as outspoken or fervent as those he found himself among. It was certainly a strange thing to find oneself more in common to the twisted machine-man of the Mechanicus than to those of full flesh-and-blood.

He carefully set down his cup, drained once more, and considered his reply. "I pledged myself to the Emperor's service every day of my training, vows which have been tested and held. If my service has pleased you so far, as it seems it has, then I will gladly serve further in your name, and in His. I swear to remain steadfast and true in my loyalty, and may the darkness claim my soul if I prove unworthy." The Oath of Obediance was common to any servant, but the psyker knew how truly the darkness hungered for the souls of men.

[Hilda]

Atella Lucilius - Unthrinn's Estate

Ignoring the appraisal of the tattooed-man servant, Atella headed straight for the facilities where she promptly rinsed her face of blood and grime. It wasn't until after everyone else had sat themselves that she emerged again from gilded doors, looking greatly refreshed, and sat herself with the rest of the group gathered in conservatory, surreptitiously examining the girl and four men. The girl stuck out sorely from her surroundings and Atella eyed her suspiciously as she touched her fingertips to the cut on her head.

The Inquisitor seemed to materialize from the darkness, interrupting Atella's assessment of the strangers sitting among her, and when he stepped fully into the light she shifted uncomfortably. Anytime they locked eyes she felt her stomach knot with worry and fear, and perhaps a little excitement as well. The Inquisitor was an imposing figure, and Atella was certainly not immune to his affect. He towered over her, and even if he had been shorter than Atella she knew that the feeling of being towered over would still be there.

As he spoke of cells and and the duties of the Inquisition to the Empire and it's God-Emperor she began to wonder how the other had been called. Were they here because of whatever specialized skills they might have? Or were they here because the Inquisitor wanted his enemies closer? And did Atella fall into the latter group?

"Has my Thrall been doing his job?" And so the 'doorman' had a name. Who was he really, though? One by one the party gave their answers, most exuberant, some more reserved. When it came her time to answer she did so without hesitation. "The noblest works incur the heaviest risks. I submit to His will and serve." She said, partly as her answer and partly to allay her paranoid mind.

[Inquisitor]

Unthrinn's Estate

The Inquisitor listens to everyone, eyes never blinking, bouncing from each person to each person. He says not a word, the chamber becoming devoid of all sound except for air recyclers, the various confirmations of duty, and the Inquisitor's own amplified, labored and harsh breathing.

Drustos speaks, and a light laugh emits from Unthrinn, with no mirth in it; a hollow sound akin to metal scraping against metal, ugly and chilling. When everyone had spoken, he points a finger at Drustos specifically, and speaks.

“I like to believe, Drustos that I am...a fair man. And I like to believe, presented with the right opportunities...that most people will make the correct choices. If I wish to create a cell – and I will, with or without compliance – I'd rather have men and women of...a steadfast faith with us. If one would shirk from his duties willingly, but was forced into their work, do you not believe they would be detrimental to the unit as a whole?

“You were once a Guardsmen. An armsmen, I believe? You know well enough the plights of Man, and you have no doubt seen your fair share of...deserters, cowards. Those who would run. And what is the course of duty taken out on those that are detrimental to the flawless workings of the Imperial Guard?”

The Inquisitor is, of course, referring to the Commissariat. A moment of pause, and the Inquisitor speaks once again.

“I mean no disrespect, of course. I did not intend to insult your honour.” He stands from his chair, discarding the robe as he does, so he can stand in his simple but fine garments, that drape his form. He wears no discernable weapons or equipment, except for the small square box against his back, tied about his shoulders, in which the iron mask is attached. “I mean only to make you think in multiple scenarios, as your job will soon be.”

He nods, and gives one final look about, before looking to Thrall. “Lead the guests to the dining room, my Thrall. I will join you all, momentarily, for debriefing and whatever questionings you may have.”

=][=

The Inquisitor leaves the room and drifts down a hallway, and Thrall will surely usher his new comrades into the dining room as instructed. The room is dark and dominated by a long table, two chairs on each end, three flanking it's broad side. It is immacuately carved and aged dark wood, covered in a light white cloth. Plates, cups, and utensils are already set down. There is a candle before each plate, and one between each food stuff, serving as the only form of illumination within the chamber.

Upon the table, there is a feast of incredible portions to most of you, coming from war zones, space hulks, and the poorer sides of planets. A roast of grox sits at the center of the table, tender and all but falling apart, drizzled in fine sauces and a warm red in the center. A poached type of swine is at one end, as well as some type of exotic bird, and other, more eccentric things. Workers bring in more foods, odd plants of the earth, fine, fresh glistening fruits many of you have not ever even heard of, rare seafoods.

A bottle of amasec, fine and well aged, sits open at the table, with a full glass sitting before the Inquisitor's empty chair. The servers ask their odd guests what they would like – from water, to harsher sacra, to amasec and joliq. They seem to not notice the strange company the Inquisitor takes, though most tend to avoid asking the tech-priest too many questions.

The guests are allowed to seat themselves as they'd like, of course, and begin to partake as they choose. The walls, from what you can make out, are adorned by all sorts of paintings and treasures – scrolls, portraits of proud Imperial Generals, Astartes motifs, tapestries, paintings of grand battles. And other things of odd nature...Xenos sculptures, artefacts. Up above, the night sky is visible, eclipsed only by the lights of other towering buildings up above. At the center of the glass is a great aquila, it' golden wings spread wide, the Inquisition “I” clutched between it's great talons. Thrall, for some reason, keeps his eyes strangely averted from the walls.

It doesn't take long for the Inquisitor to return, breathing now normal. “Eat.” He commands, his voice now a soft, normal tone, though still powerful, and utterly commanding. As he walks past, he places his hand on the table, and deposits his mask on Venton's plate, for he surely will not be using it for food.

The imposing man moves and takes his own chair, wordlessly placing different food stuffs on his plate. The light shows his face, unadorned, as horrifically scar – a brutal, purple ripple from his lips back to his ear, caused no doubt by some sort of horrific, rending blade. His face also displays the lighter, white-pink quality of his skin, no doubt attributed to some sort of horrific burning. His entire face is a mess of ugly scars, each with their own stories, no doubt.

“Your mission is quite simple. I'll be sending you the world of Joqur, a planet some seventy-four standard days from our very seats right now. Joqur is a simple world – Imperial by standards. Your travel has been arranged for you, flying with the Rogue Trader Markus Vrun, and his ship, the Silent Word. Direct passage to Joqur-Ni, planetary capital and main Hive of the planet. Joqur-Ni is located in a cold desert, though you won't notice it, for the most part.

Now. This is, of course, just miniscule details. The governor of Joqur has reported a new cult uprising that's gaining notoriety. The...” The Inquisitor pauses momentarily to take a bite of food, a sip of amasec, and glance over a paper he'd brought. “The Enlightened, they're calling themselves.” A small sneer.

“It seems to us, via their methods and message, that the Enlightened are a cult focused around a Xenos artefact, or maybe focusing on a central Xenos figure. Either way, I'm employing you to track down and get as much information on this cult as possible. If you find yourself in a position to damage the cult, I expect you to do so. Eliminate the cult, even better. Send all information gathered back to me, and I will assess the threat as much as possible, and send the aid needed. In essence, I need to you track, identify, and harry the target as much as possible.

“Questions?”

Speak freely to the Inquisitor or yourselves. Venton may make a Tech-Use roll to try and understand the Inquisitor's iron mask.

[Voonderking]

Drustos – Unthrinn's Estate


Having been seemingly placated by the Inquisitor, Drustos speaks no further until they are ushered into the dining room; Drustos seating himself at the first available seat, which happens to be the one nearest the Inquisitor's.

With an appropriate amount of awe, the Guardsman stares at the food decorating the table, though he makes no motion to take any food himself until someone else does, obviously not wishing to be the first.

When the Inquisitor re-appears, Drustos appears to take no notice of his scars, or is seemingly not bothered by them. Being a Guardsman would probably mean he's seen his fair share of brutal wounds and scars.

The Guardsman's attention is drawn entirely by the Inquisitor when he begins detailing the assignment he has called them all together for, Drustos face serious, his eyes squinted. As the Inquisitor finished Drustos stares down at his plate, which is now filled with many glorious foods he hasn't touched. After a brief moment of silence he looks to the Inquisitor, “Sir, without meaning to sound... ungrateful or even hypocritical, I'm curious as to why you would have chosen one such as myself for a task like this.   Surely one such as Arbites, or perhaps one with experience in the darker places of a hive would be much better suited. Perhaps I am just narrow minded, but I cannot see where a simple soldier like myself fits in with people such as these.” He gestures to the table around him, “I mean no offense, of course.”

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

The thin man remains silent as they are escorted to the dining room, still thinking on the display in the other room. He was not sure what to make of his newly found comrades, but he would need to get their depth quickly if he was going to survive. It was doubtful there was more to the Adeptus Mechanicus than meets the eye - certainly there was no impersonating the half-machine beings, though perhaps that one served complicated goals. He had heard a little of their strange rituals and religions, whispers that they honored the Emperor in a peculiar light. But all the same, the Mechanicus and the Guardsman he thought he could gauge, at least to some degree. But the others? The two women were strange, one fervent and the other reserved in their declarations, and no telling what their talents might be. Warriors, thieves, scholars - perhaps even another Psyker? And then there was the strange assistant, Thrall. A servant with a pistol at his hip, he must certainly be the most surely loyal and dedicated - to the Inquisitor - among them all, or serve this close. Skive felt that was one to watch, one that would watch them all too closely and strike without warning. If they were to be the Inquisitor's hounds, then Thrall, he was sure, was the leash.

All this rattled around his head while they were seated - Skive did not bother greatly over his place, letting others swoop on their claims. He'd take the middle chair on the side of the table, if it came to it. Unlike the good Guardsman, he does not balk from helping himself. He has already begun to stack food onto his plate before everyone has seated themselves. If the Inquisitor wishes them ill, then surely he can strike them down with near - if not absolute - impunity. And if this night does happen to end in some terrible bloodbath for himself or them all, then he intends at least to be well fed. He bites noisily into a succulent fruit, juice running down his chin.

The man eats heartily, and with a sort of practiced haste, but he doesn't immerse himself in the servings. He looks over the walls and their trappings, scanning them for anything he might recognize although he doubts that any of the apparent trophies or tokens will mean very much to him. If they did, it would probably be better to pretend otherwise for now, anyway. He also pays heed to the other guests, noting their indulgence or abstention, and their general mannerism. "Quite a bit better than I was doing in my previous employ, eh?" He flashes a grin to the others, though the return of Unthrinn stifles any motivation to talk and chatter. He'd like to know more about these people, as it seems he shall need to depend on them all too soon.

Unthrinn's appearance doesn't visibly disturb him, but his enthusiasm for the feast does seem to decline. It's possible he's simply stuffed himself adequately, but the painful-looking scars probably don't help. It's hard to roam the Imperium without running into horrific injury and death, but that can just mean that every scar reminds you of a dozen more you've seen given. So he mops up the remaining Grox gravy with a piece of bread while the Inquisitor delivers their mission assignment. It doesn't sound like a lot of fun at all, and he's troubled more than a little - he doesn't know too much about any of the myriad races the Imperium holds off on a daily basis, so his presence here seems at odds. Unless the Inquisitor anticipates Xenos Psykers, or rogue and untamed users among the followers?

He waves aside Drustos' apology with the bread before tucking it into his mouth, chewing carefully. He'll add his own questions to the Guardsman's. "I will go and serve, of course, and bring His light onto this coven. Do we know whether we can count on the local enforcement for assistance? Or should we regard them as suspect themselves?" The Arbites, at least, would probably be trustworthy, but it did not take a lot to sway some local police to turn a blind eye - or even lend a gun to the wrong side.

[Inquisitor]

Inquisitor Unthrinn - Unthrinn's Estate

The Inquisitor looks between the two speakers, eye brows raised as he listens intently, and eats. When both have said their part, he sets down his fork and knife, and daps at his lips. He addresses the Guardsmen first, eyes a piercing blue.

“You needn't be so cordial. You are my agents, yes, and I am an Inquisitor – but you mustn't fear me so. You will see many, many things soon enough, and I will need to know of them, in full detail. You will spare me no detail, and fear not my rage for speaking out of turn. Unless, of course, your words will ring of blasphemies and heretical things. Though, of course, all that is subject.”

“You were all chosen for something I had seen in all of you. It differs from every man to another, of course – but I have put some deal of trust in each and every one of you. In all the worlds in all the galaxy, trustful men are the hardest resource to come across. I care not what your particular skills in investigation my be...you will find a purpose within your cell, no doubt. That is not up to me.”

He then turns, and looks to Skive, replaying his words in his mind. The Inquisitor leans forward on the table, fingers laced through one another. A slow smile spreads across his face – the ugly scars twist it in two directions, giving his smile a surreal effect.

“Skive, if men could be trusted, there would be no need for the Inquisition.”

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate

Hack had never seen so much food in one place. She was use to the scavanging and salvaging of the space hulk, and here was all this food, set out, well cooked and just waiting patiently to be eaten. She was seemingly hypnotised by the sight of it, and make her way to her seat only half aware. It was all so grand, she hardly knew how to carry herself. A brief glance was passed to her new comrades and she gaged thier reactions to such a rich display of edibles before helping herself to some of the feast, and some sacra.

She would already be eating when the Inquisitor arrived, having no patience to wait in front of such a display. The idea of a long stint in space was comforting. Home again, then back to some human infested Hive. She sighed and removed her specks a moment, folding them, and sticking them to hook on the front of her shirt, sitting back, eating not another drop, though sacra was still on the menu.

"So we're dealin' with a cult that, we think, centers worship around a Xenos object? We have any idea which Xenos the planet's been in contact with? Any leads at all, or is that our job?" The word Xenos is almost spit out, as it if left a bad taste in her mouth.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

For his part, Thrall just listens. He has nothing further to add at this juncture. Questions are forming, no doubt, but this is a prime chance to see how the minds of everyone else present at the table operate with such massive developments.

There's something alarming about the ease with which the man handles the knife in his care. Quick slices to serve himself roasted Grox, a ladle of sauce to accompany the meat and vegetables on his plate. The carving knife spins into a reverse combat grip and is settled onto the serving tray. Utterly focused on his meal, there's a steadfast refusal to look up at the walls, so much to the point that when people speak and manners demand eye contact (and basic intelligence gathering demands attention be paid to body language, facial expression and all the things that the voice alone can't tell an observer) he ensures that every ounce of his focus is on the person speaking or a nearby compatriot, thusly avoiding even looking at the walls and their adornments.

It can be considered a small blessing that only water fills the man's cups.

[Inquisitor]

Inquisitor Unthrinn - Unthrinn's Estate

Sitting back, the Inquisitor begins his meal again, listening to the ganger-girl speak. He swallows a piece of roasted grox, thinly sliced and absolutely drowning in brown, succulent gravy made from bone, stock, and the trimmed fat from the grox shank.

"My dear, I know of fifteen hundred cults in this subsector alone." Says the Inquisitor. For most - this would be a shock. The dogmatic Imperium teaches all those who will listen there are only two Cults - the Lectio Divinatius, and the Cult Omnissiah. Any renegade cults are instantly stamped out, of course, without issue. So many cults, active and operating under the watchful eye of the Inquisition... "Ranging from two hundred to a few thousand souls each."

"I hold nothing back from you. What I know, you know about this specific cult. You will have to build yourselves from the ground up."

[Ketch]

Venton Octus - Unthrinn's Estate

Venton followed the others into the dining room where they were greeted by the splendid feast. As the others piled food onto their plates and savoured the rich flavours of the meal, Venton simply sat and made what was as close to a sneer as he could manage. Such a grotesque display, stuffing dead flesh and organic matter into their maws, filling their gullets with biological matter simply to have it stew and decompose and be excreted out again. The entire process was disgusting beyond belief; how could anyone fail to see such a display as anything but putrid and foul, not to mention a complete waste of time and energy?

The reappearance of the Inquisitor was of minimal interest, until the mask was placed on Venton's plate. His eyes widened and he leaned in close to inspect it before picking it up. He ran his fingers over the surface of the thing and studied its surface intently. The craftsmanship was indeed fine, finer than he had seen in a long time. Venton was not used to such fine machinery, having spent most of his life buried deep in the belly of the forge world. There, the machinery was huge and much more straightforward, at least by tech-priest standards. This wonderous device was of a type reserved for priests far more advanced or specialized than he; he had never dealt with such a thing.

He pulled a combi-tool from inside his robes and began attempting to coax the mask to reveal its secrets to him, but by this time the conversation had turned toward the nature of the cult. Venton had been completely absorbed in his examination of the mask that he'd barely heard a word of the conversation. At the mention of potential xeno tech, however, his eyes darted up from his task. His mind raced as he tried to maintain a calm disposition. He knew it was best to appear disinterested in alien artifacts, even disgusted by the thought of them, but the idea of uncovering some secret new piece of tech was mouth-watering. At least, it would be, if Venton still had a mouth.

[Tech-Use: 1d100 = 63]

[Inquisitor]

Ventonn - Unthrinn's Estate

The supremely crafted metallic piece you hold in your hand is an utter enigma. Even with the secrets the Holy Priesthood of Mars has taught you, after so many long hours of arduous study from the Scholars of the Red Planet, you cannot even begin to fathom the inner workings of the Inquisitor's grotesk mask.

You can make out the simplest of things. Connectors for oxygen intake, food paste, water, and the likes. A re-breather built into the grating voice box that amplifies and distorts the sound of speaking into a growl – though the purpose of this is lost on you, as the workings of a fleshvoice aren't the preferred method of speech for your Priesthood – and various sorts of scanners. Running your fingers over the object, you accidentally trigger a mechanism that causes two metal prongs to spring from the top of the mask, sharp and pointed, laced with receptors. It's purpose is once more lost on you, but simply looking at it teaches you that it would force itself into the Inquisitor's skull and behind the eyes, into the brain.

It refuses to give up it's secrets to you. You wonder if you even want to know anymore.

Inquisitor Unthrinn

Finishing with dinner, servants came and took the remnants away, replacing them with pies, pastries, cakes, and other delights, as well as fresh pots of caffeine and teas. The Inquisitor partakes in the meal and urges the others too, until he is sufficiently filled, the candles having burned themselves slowly down, runnels of thick wax along their structure.

The large man put his hands down atop the white table-cloth, and pushed himself to his feet politely, his face almost disappearing into the expanse of darkness above the candle light. The great aquila ahead still shines it's dull gold, however, though the features of the room have since been swallowed up by the further encroach of darkness.

“I trust you are all satisfied. Your transport will have made dock in roughly eight hours standard, and leave twenty-four hours after that. I trust you will all find Scintilla to be a very...eventful place to pass time in.”

He smiles, before folding his hands against his chest, wrists folded over one another, thumbs intertwined, so they point backwards in opposite directions, fingers held closed. The sign of the aquila. “The Emperor Protects.”

He says, before looking to Ventonn, who should be relinquishing the mask any time now. The Inquisitor, respectfully, mashes his fingers together into the shape of a cog, the Icon Mechanicus. “Praise be to the Omnissiah.”

“Thrall, see the guests out. I'll need to speak with you.”

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

The Inquisitor leads you down a hallway, hands held comfortably behind his back. You know this route very well; floors covered in a luxurious, blood red carpet, and walls of black. The Inquisitor's study and bedroom lay at the very end, with many doors before it, rooms you were explicitly told never to enter, and had never had the thought too. There are, after all, some things that are best to remain unseen.
“You'll be allowed the personal effects you have trained with, the items you have purchased during your tenure, and the allowance you have earned working under me. I expect your full loyalty – though I've come to expect nothing less, of course. You, my Thrall, will be my ears, my eyes, and my voice to your cell. Acting Primaris.”

The Inquisitor stops for a moment as they enter the study, glancing about. The “study” was a huge thing – an expansive library with all sorts of books about, writings, manuscripts. All organized. A few great tables are about, strewn with ink, writing utensils, pages and papers and books, as well as odd idols and odder texts. Things he's been working on. Stranger yet are certain bone structures, drawn diagrams, models of xenos races. There are more things, no doubt, hidden and locked away from view. This was the first time that Thrall had been allowed into the Inquisitor's study without the instruction of looking down and wearing a pair of horse-blinders.

“Your training has completed, and I have use for you once again.” Another pause. “I always found it so strange, T...Oh, here that damnable thing went.” Unthrinn produces a small, plastique card with a few numbers written on it. It bears no stamp, and nothing else on it. “Take this. Present this to the Guild Astropathica, and any message you need will be sent directly to me. You can also use it to send me any items you deem important enough that I must see them – if not, you know how to send them here.”

Thinking back again, he speaks once more, staring at one of the diagrams on his wall. “It's so...so interesting. Imperium and Mechanicus, a race permanently intertwined and sharing a God, but yet so different. You have heard the old mantra, yes, Thrall? 'Ignorance is a blessing.' One of the Emperor's many. The Mechanicus have a mantra, as well. 'Knowledge is power.' “

He scratches his brow, and sighing. “I'm considered a Radical, Thrall, did you know that? I have been accused of heresy, many a time before. Heresy, by the people of my own organization – my own Ordos, even! All because I seek knowledge of those that are so different from humanity, so different from us. They call me a conspirator...” He shakes his head.

“Knowledge is indeed power, Thrall. But some powers are better left unknown, lest we destroy ourselves in order to obtain them. Report every minuscule detail back to me. Don't think anything too small that I need not be bothered with it. Go. You have much work to do.”

“The Emperor protects.”

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Unthrinn's Estate

He nods to the Inquisitor's answer, and seems to spend the rest of the meal considering that mote of wisdom. He's certainly thinking, but not on the Inquisitor's words - that he had discarded. After all, were they not all men here, as well? Should any in the company be trusted, given the Inquisitor's warning? He had no doubt that they would all be watching one another, even as they worked side by side. Something that he was well used to by now, both from working on Malfi and his tenuous position as Psyker. People were grateful for the help, but all too ready to plunge in the mercy blade if they thought you were slipping. And there were those devout enough here that he doubted they would hesitate - the Guardsman and the pale woman, certainly, would bear watching. It was possible they didn't grasp the... subtleties... of service in the Telepathica.

Despite this grim thought process, the man shovels down a healthy (or perhaps not) serving of the deserts, and drinks two more cups of caffeine as well. It's entirely possible that he managed to stuff a pastry into his robe in the process, as any good feral worlder knows enough to stash food for scarce times.

When they are effectively dismissed, he touches his Telepathica medallion - partly obscured - in response to the invocation, and responds quietly. "As He wills it." Once they've been shown out, he'll stump down the steps, sorting out his various bits of gear and equipment, resting his weight on his staff. If nothing else is good about this mission, at least they got a good feed. He belches audibly and turns his attention on the others emerging from the estate as well. He offers all a grin, a toothy expression that looks somewhat predatory beneath yellow eyes. "Well, well. Seems as we're all to be brothers - and sisters - in arms, eh? I trust that our lord of the Ordos has picked us all for a purpose, his own or the Emperors. You should call me Skive, if you will. Does anyone have an idea how to pass the next thirty hours in this mess of mobs and tunnels?"

He could probably muddle his way through the Hive if he needed, but if someone else is familiar with the area he'd prefer it. Besides, he was hoping to get some chance to gauge his new companions before they were all stuck in space together.

[Daeva]

Hack-Unthrinn's Estate


She was quiet for most of the meal, mainly due to the gorging of food and drink, though not to the point where she was ill. She considered her companions. The tech priest would be useful, sure, but he creeped her out. What was he? Man? Machine? An eternal hybrid trying desperately to choose machine over flesh? Whatever. The mass of wires, the strange appearance, it was more than enough to convince Hack she wanted to spend very little time with him. The strange man-servant had a similar air about him. He was quiet, controlled, almost hollow. The rest seemed human enough, she might even be able to bum things off of them.

As she was shown out she lingered away from the rushing crowds, watching the waves of bodies pass with something close to disdain as she pulls out one of her lho-sticks and lights up. How to pass the time... her internal question was echoed by Skive, the feral looking one she suspected to be a psyker. She turns to consider him, a lopsided grin on her face.

"Was thinkin' about making some money as a ways to waste time, but if you have other ideas, by all means, share em." She scratches at her shoulder idly, sucking in the sweet smoke she'd been craving. "Mm...get some sticks too..." She considers her near empty pack. A poor woman's indulgance.

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

Confronted with the potential of his Master's heresy, Thrall's face seems to take on an almost puzzled countenance. Momentary reflection gives him new insight into the words, and he responds in kind. "I don't agree. In combat, the more you know of your enemy, the more effectively you can end them. Intelligence must be gathered." His arms are folded behind his back, chin touching to his chest out of deferential habit. Should he be struck down for thinking as he does, he'd not fight back in the least.

"I am ever at your service, as willed by the Emperor." Behind his back, a thumb plays over the edge of the card. New responsibilities. New duties. New purpose. This must be the feeling the spirit within a chainsword feels when it first hums to life, thirsting for enemy blood.

"I will go and ensure the others are guided about the Hive until it is time to depart. They may wish to acclimate themselves within the vessel before it departs."

[Inquisitor]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

The Inquisitor holds up his hand as Thrall starts, before speaking again. “I wish to make you think in different ways. You see, the Amalthians – enemies within my own sect they may be – are not entirely wrong. Amalthians are very strict in their ways, very...rigid. They believe the Imperium must continue it's status quo in order to exist.”

He pauses, before speaking again. “They're not entirely wrong. Do you know, Thrall, the story of Quixous? I'm sure you do not. Quixous was one of the greatest Inquisitors, the stuff of legends. Brave, powerful, intelligent. Operating in the Helican sector, I believe it to be that he purged over two hundred cults, before disappearing.”

The impressive man pauses once more, before speaking his mind once again. Had he already gone too far? “You see, Quixous disappeared into the unchartered space surrounding the Helican sector, never to be seen from again. As the story goes.” He licks his lips. “But of course, that is not the truth. Quixous returned and had been found operating in the Helican sector once more, purging cults and the enemies of the Imperium. However...He had become something that wasn't him. Sprouted horns, and other foul signs of Warp-taint. He was also wielding a daemonsword, and enslaving spirits and daemons to bodies for his own use.”

He looks down at Thrall, gauging a response. “An Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos tracked the man Quixous down and killed him. And a great debate has raged since, my Thrall: to what extent can we go in order to preserve humanity? Was Quixous right or wrong? He gave himself over to Chaos, this is undeniable, but the power he wielded in turn was great, and he still continued to do the Emperor's work. Is this tainted? Is this the true, undeniable flame of Man's faith, to go so far over the edge yet continuing to do his work? Is this man Quixous a hero, or a monster?”

The Inquisitor turns, ushering Thrall out. “I want you to think, my Thrall. I have quizzed you and taught you well, and I know your mind has been locked away, but you must still think for yourself. Dwell on humanity and your God-Emperor, and decide what is far enough, to what ends justify your means.”

“And, most importantly...dwell on the fact that no man, not even an Inquisitor, can be trusted. Do what you will.”

[SixStringSamurai]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

"To give over to Chaos is to removes oneself from humanity and the pity of the Emperor's mercy. There is no saying what influence Chaos can have on a mind, the extent to which it can be corrupted and even lofty goals reduced to daemonic plotting." There is the hard edge of belief backing up that statement, a resolution reforged from tattered shreds of his psyche. The familiar feeling of looming over a massive void in his mind, of knowing of the gaping holes in memory and his own self.

No.

Not his own self. He was no longer his own person. He is a weapon in the arsenal of the Emperor's Will.

"I will not falter in His service, or in yours, my Lord." Without thinking, his hands fold in the sign of the aquila.

[Inquisitor]

Thrall - Unthrinn's Estate

The Inquisitor offers no response. He gives no word, no reproach, no more insight. Thrall has given his opinion - something the Inquisitor had very purposefully never drilled into him - and there was no need for the Inquisitor to argue or rebuke.

He makes the sign of the aquila in return. "Go, then. Gather your things. You are hereby relinquished from your duties within this household."

[Ball-o-Cheese]

Skive - Main Spire

He wasn't sure about this pale woman. It wasn't just her odd appearance, with too-white skin and blooded eyes. There was something in the air about her, a subtle tinge that spoke off the void between the worlds and that dark, terrible Void outside the world. It reminded him off the ships hold and the long hours spent pacing its halls, waiting for the return to realspace and the blessed cushion of the Emperor's protection.

And, more mundanely, her zeal was a little unsettling. You could never quite guess what someone might do when they were swept up in their fervour, and his life had always demanded a high level of caution and pragmatism. Still, the Inquisitor had decided they should sail the same ship, so he might as well get an idea of what he was in for before the bullets were flying. When that happened, we wanted to be able to know who he could count on and for how much.

He considered her suggestion briefly, using a scarred hand to rub his chin. He hadn't taken the time to clean up completely before coming off the ship, and a thin layer of stubble was barely visible, oddly pocked by his regular scars. "Make some money? Hnn." He wasn't entirely sure what method she had in mind for that, though a few were open to him. He could turn his hand at dice with some 'help', but that was risky - and not just for the use of powers, the only thing worse received than a cheat was a supernatural one. "I was going to get away from the Tricorn and find somewhere closer to my nature. I'd think you'd find some Lho there" He flicked his hand toward her pack "And probably some chance to turn some Gelt. And if not, at least something to pass the time. We've a day and a half before our ship leaves." And he was not eager to get there before he had to - Hives were tolerable enough, though the press of so many minds and emotions could wear. He could handle that much better than the stillness of space and the voices beyond it.

"I haven't been here before, but I'd suggest finding a less... prestigious district."

[Ketch]

Venton Octus - Unthrinn's Estate

Venton gazes at the mask a few moments more before placing it on the table next to his empty plate. He sits upright in his chair and stares blankly ahead at the table. Such social encounters seemed so ludicrous to him, couldn't the inquisitor have achieved whatever he sought with a simple data communique? Or better yet, a holo projection. Having to sit through this unsavoury display and waste an entire afternoon and evening, not to mention all the time it took to get here from Haddrack in the first place, was illogical almost to the point of insult. Venton, however, knew better than to question an Inquisitor; at least openly.

As the meal finally came to a conclusion, Venton, relieved to be released at last, was eager to go. At the Inquisitor's address he nodded, returning the gesture wordlessly, and stood to leave. Once at the door he paused momentarily to once again admire the craftsmanship, before attempting a hasty retreat.

As the others began to file out, however, the sound of the psycher's voice gave him pause. He knew it was likely expected that he at least acknowledge his new 'fellows', but he was desperate to get away. He knew, however, that he may want to get at least a rudimentary understanding of who these people were and what merits they possessed, if any. If he was going to be working with them, despite his hesitation, he ought at least to know what service or skill they were expected to contribute to this 'cell'. He hovered just outside a comfortable conversation distance and waited to see what plans might be made and what he might glean about these people.

[Daeva]

Hack-Main Spire

She was likely the only one seriously looking foward to the extended period aboard ship. The long empty halls, the silence, stillness of space, surrounded by metal, housed in small, enclosed spaces. The low rumble of the machines at work moving the hull in the correct direction would be far more welcome than the constant noise of billion of bodies moving at once. Even a stint in the Warp again seemed more appealing than lingering here. At least there, she'd be at home, and know what to expect. Well, as much as anyone can expect what the Warp will do. Her joy was displayed only in her lingering grin.

"Yes, money." She repeated, eyeing her wild-looking comrade to be. Her gaze was more directed at what he wore, and where, than truly paying attention to what he spoke. She brought the lho to her lips and turned away, peering back at the machine man as he decided to join the rest of them. She stared at the tech-priest while she spoke to Skive. "Lho's not hard to find...but I'd agree. A less prestigious district would be more my taste. Shall we tempt this maze of bodies together?"

She's rather be lost with someone that at least had some minor connection to her, newly formed as it was, than try to navigate the alien Hives alone.

[Inquisitor]

Skive, Hack (, Venton?)
The Tin Can

The psyker and the void-scum move their way away from the Inquisitor's home and the Tricorn, away from the Main Spire, and away from wealth. As you travel down and out, the air gets progressively foggier, the streets progressively dirtier, the people progressively sketchier. Skive knows well that while nobles and well-to-do's care not for those touched by the essence of the Warp, those who tolerate and accept psykers are often times exponentially worse.

After moving to a place where there are at least two city blocks over your head, dripping sewage and rumbling with the passage of great trains and speeders, you find a local shanty, with a light bit of pound music playing, drowned out by the sound of voices, laughter, and yelling. You can quite clearly smell alcohol, lho, and such things like obscura. A drunk shuffles out while a group of three dregs sharing a hit of obscura slip in.

A large, rusting bucket hangs over the door, with the words “The Tin Can” spray painted across it in a stark white. Stepping in, the place is alive with people and thick with smoke. An absurdly large and ugly man stands behind the bar, arms covered with tattoos. His hair is a thick, dirty, dreadlocked blonde, with an equally unkempt beard. He's cleaning stained glass after stained, dirty glass. There's a kitchen behind him and all sorts of low-lifes around him.

There are three pict displays on the walls – one showing the latest feeds from the Goldenhand, one that shows the local news, and one displaying various “sporting” events, pit fightings, and the likes. Booths line the wall, filled with decrepit wood and leather barely clinging to it's threadbare fabrics, equally rundown people, and tables for cards and gambling.

[Hilda]

Atella Lucilius - Unthrinn's Estate



The meal laid out on the table before them was exceptional. Atella was clearly quite at ease in the lavish home-- indeed, that it might be unusual for other members of the party hardly occurred to her-- and she sat herself with a practiced fluidity. Opting not to touch her food until the Inquisitor had begun, the Scrivener, saying nothing and offering only to pass plates of food when needed.

Unthrinn appeared from what seemed to be nowhere. Atella attempted to sit straighter, a nervous habit that didn't have much affect on her already perfect posture. She ate minimally and listened as he spoke of a cult on Joqur, picking up a small, whole translucent fish wrapped helplessly around a piece of dark pink fruit and lifted it to her mouth to take a bite when something occurred to her and she paused, hand midair: with so many cults in this subsector alone, what about this particular cult required a full team, handpicked by the Inquisitor himself for their own specific skills. Interesting, indeed, and the mention of Xenos objects made her dry swallow. So much temptation, so much to learn and discover. Risky, of course, and no one in their right mind would want to be on the Inquisitor's bad list. Coughing behind her hand she popped the fish in her mouth and chewed, deciding on her course of action.

When the Inquisitor left, she turned to Drustos. "Find me tomorrow. We ought to stick together." Without explaining further, she turned away to finish the small slice of cake on the paper-thin china plate in front of her.

The meal was signaled to an end and the, while the guests, were being shown out, Atella excused herself to the powder room and slipped away from the group, disappearing down a long dark hall. Ignoring the powder room door she set off to find the Inquisitor's library, where she hoped she'd be able to get a head start on her research-- she couldn't help herself-- on The Enlightened, and where perhaps other rare and utterly forbidden lore might be waiting, her personal and risky little act of revenge.

=][=

Silent Move vs. Agi 31(+3)
1d100
90 = 90

Rerolled using Fate Point (2 left)
Silent Move vs Agi 31(+3)
1d100
51 = 51