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| "The Higher Call" Episode III; "Under the Hammer" | |
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| Topic Started: 27 Dec 2010, 12:44 AM (15,273 Views) | |
| ☺Commissar Molotov | 27 Dec 2010, 12:44 AM Post #1 |
Captain
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 IC THREAD This thread is the IC (or "In Character") thread, where you'll be able to participate in the actual game proper. I'm going to be posting the story here, and then this first post will be a hub for you to keep track of the story. Contents
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 24 Apr 2011, 09:08 PM.
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| ☺Commissar Molotov | 3 Jan 2011, 12:01 AM Post #2 |
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Captain
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 Hive Praxis , Hyades, 911.M41 Service in the Imperial Inquisition has not been as you might have imagined it to be. Removed from your past lives, you have been incarcerated and subjected to a series of seemingly endless questions and interrogations. Forced to engage in bizarre and mind-numbingly repetitive tasks for hours on end, you have been tested and measured against criteria that you could not begin to understand. You were taken into rooms filled with the scent of sacred incense, where robed seers peered into their holorogic decks and imparted you with words of great import; prophecies that have weighed heavily on you in the days since. Your questioners have pried into your background, teased at your sanity and torn apart your life, looking for any suggestion that you might in some way be unsuitable. It appears that you have been accepted. Without ceremony, you were taken to the mid-levels of the Praxian hive and installed into an anonymous hab-hostel under a false name. Hidden in plain sight, amongst the teeming billions of the hive city, you were told to await a summons. It has been almost two weeks. Alone, you have been left to your own devices in these less-than-salubrious surroundings. You have had little to do but to reflect on your experiences, and the events that have led you to this place. You may even have begun to question the wisdom of this endeavour - or if it even really happened. Above all, you have waited restlessly for some contact from your new Mistress. That contact has finally been made. Last night, a blank-eyed courier arrived at your lodgings before thrusting a parchment into your hands and disappearing. You were left to examine the document, which bore the waxen seal of your Mistress. The message contained within was terse and perfunctory; you were provided with a time, a date, and a location. you are told only to "come prepared and expect company." The instructions are signed off with a simple phrase: "The Emperor Protects." Along with the parchment is a small silver-metal pin-badge, about two inches long. The badge is of a downward-pointing dagger impaling a rose. Barbed vines twist around its blade. If you were to study the dagger's handle, you might see the thrice-barred sigil of the Inquisition - a symbol which is still powerful enough to make you shiver somewhat. The rendezvous is in a scant few hours. You will have to prepare and leave quickly in order to make it in time. ++GM: You now have the opportunity to introduce us to your character. In this, your introductory post, you can describe how you have spent the two weeks since your initiation and how you feel about the summons. For some of you, this might be a righteous call to duty, an opportunity to go far and see something new, the first step on the road to glory, or just a chance to survive. Regardless of how trepidacious you are, you must leave your lodgings, and this post provides you with the opportunity to describe the process of packing your belongs and getting ready for the rendezvous. As of now, the adventure is afoot! You have heeded the higher call, and taken the first step on a long road. Quite where it ends up will be down to you!++ |
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| ☺Easy E | 3 Jan 2011, 01:06 AM Post #3 |
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Captain
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Solitude. It is a word that I have transcribed many times, but a sensation I have not had for many, many years. The constant buzz of service to Him-On-Terra has always surrounded me. It is gone now. There was still sound everywhere, but it was random and unstructured. Sounds without true purpose... it was curious and fascinating to listen too. For the past two weeks I have listened and documented everything that I have heard. The scratching of my quills on parchment soothing my nerves. 10:14 A.M. The rumbling of a travel tube. 10:16 A.M. The neighbor on the right of me coughs loudly. 10:17 A.M. A hawker on the street shouts to a comrade. And so on and so on for the last two weeks, reams of paper meticulously detailing every sound. All neatly stacked and organized by time. The only pause to this careful documentation was my short rest cycle. I documented while I ate, I documented while I contemplated the nature of service, and I documented while I prayed to the God-Emperor. Now, however, I stopped documenting. I slowly turned the metal pin between my thumb and forefinger. I had seen many symbols and seals such as this. The only thing marking this one out as unique was carefully engraved I, the symbol of the Inquisition. I have served many masters. None such as this. The Inquisition. The word alone was enough to make my palms sweat. The terrible choice... the choice to serve. The thought was terrifying, but the only comfort was that of simple service. I set aside my documentation, leaving off at “12:15 A.M. Knock on my door?” I memorize the location of the meeting and destroy the message from my new master. Seeing the parchment crinkle and darken makes me twinge in regret. All messages have value, and now that value will be lost forever, precisely as it needs to be. As the fateful time approached, I dutifully study a map of the area on my Dataslate, and study the transit tables. I find myself absently recording the data with my left hand. I have to stop and put down the dataslate, consciously will myself to stop transcribing the data, and then begin memorizing the transit routes again. The charts and tables of the schedule comfort me with proscribed order as I prepare to step into the unknown. I pack my scant things. It all fits easily into my backpack.. Dataslates, chronometer, glow globe, lot's of paper, and ink. I secure my St. Oliander Medallion to the belt around my robe. I say a quick prayer to my patron saint as I attach the metal pin under the folds of the collar of my robe. I walk out the front door, hesitating for only a moment. Ahead of me... only questions. |
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| Valdez | 3 Jan 2011, 01:39 AM Post #4 |
Lieutenant
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Brother Majster opened doors to his "new home" on this loud world. Doors shut behind him with a hiss. He scanned room, cheap room in a cheap hostel. Bed 1, closet 1, bed table 1, coffee table 1, chairs 2, window 1, doors 3, lamps 2 (1 on a table). He put his bag on the bed and check the other doors. He opened the doors on the right: small bathroom, just a cubic with shower (1), sink (1) and toilet (1). Next doors: kitchen annex: sink (1), table (1), chair (1), food processing unit (1), coffee maker (1), mugs (2), plates (3), cutlery (3 sets). With a quick prayer to a Machine Spirit he swap whole apartment with a blessing of Macine Spirit sight and check for the plugs, cameras etc. He memorise outcome and open his bag. He took out his Dataslate, close the bag and put it into the closet. He sit down at the table turn on Dataslate and connect to a local news network. After checking news he connect with a city library and download data about history of planet, city and statistic data. He watched how download strip slowly advanced trough the screen. He put it down and took out his necklaces with a glass bowl full of sand. He took bowl in his hand and look trough it on a light coming from window. Shake it and looked on a sand glistering in light. His memories slowly overcome his mind. Two suns over a desert planet. Unbearable hot air burning lungs with each breath. And then earth start shaking, slowly then stronger. Thump, Thump, sound of something heavy hitting desert surface. He turned his had in the direction of sound. *BLIP* He blinked his eyes. Dataslate signalised end of download. He put glass bowl back in to the robe and start reading. Past two weeks Majster spend on knowing everything about new world. He was no only reading about history but also tried to know the city, if you ever could know a Hive. He checked official blueprints of severs, ventilations, canalisation, water supply networks. Traffic data, planed and ongoing building works, anything what was official available. He decide that until he don't know what exactly he'll be doing he doesn't want to be spotted. When the courier gave him a massage he read trough it, and check the badge. Light glistered on the sword and flower. In whole mastercraft and shinning of the item there was a dark shadow in the "I" mark. He study it for a moment. Inquisition, the way, the opportunity, the painful end of existence. He choose to step on the knife edge and here he is. He pin the badge on the inside of his hood, put Dataslate in to the bag and left his apartment. He decide that there is plenty of time to get in to the meeting place so he doesn't need to rush and will have some time check how accurate was road data available in city network. He calculated the way and three emergency scenarios in which he will be on a meeting place 10 minutes before the time. He entered the crowd. Edited by Valdez, 3 Jan 2011, 01:49 AM.
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| # El Diablo | 3 Jan 2011, 02:21 AM Post #5 |
Warmaster Of Chaos
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Father Zarkov sat in calm contemplation in front the hab's tiny window, not really looking at anything, just looking, as if searching for something that was not there. He thumbed the edge of the message parchment absently, having already committed the timings and location to memory. The route had been planned using a local map he found in his meagre lodgings, one that wasn't too far out of the way, but also not too public. No need to draw too much unwanted attention. He had somewhere to be and didn't want to attract the attention of local citizens asking for forgiveness from a passing priest. The image of the bar crossed 'I' had burned in his dreams in the nights leading to this point, the righteous flame of purity burning brightest towards the west, the direction of his journey to the rendezvous. When he awoke the burning image played on the edge of his vision, as if the after light from a picter flash. The time was now. He dressed in undergarments, still favouring the guard issue items from his service with the Brimlock 4th, and strapped the bulky hand flamer to his left hip. The heavy pistol would not be seen under his robe and various other belongings, and although he was sure he was walking into somewhere vaguely friendly, his time in the guard had taught him not to be too careful. He pulled on his heavy Ministorum vestments, and clasped his belt around his waist. He noticed he needed to let the belt out another notch and privately chided himself for the excesses that came with being idle. With no flock to care for he had let himself go in recent years. With the belt came the discreet laspistol holster in black leather, which was currently empty. He picked up the pistol from the bed and checked the load - full and operational. His periods of devotion aside, he made great pains to check the weapon daily. It had saved his life in the past and it would not do to see it fail. His tome, open on the floor from the previous nights prayer, was added to his person next, the heavy chain looping over one shoulder to sit at the small of his back. He added his backpack next, the heavy weight and the cutting straps a small penance. He moved to the table at the edge of the room and picked up the icon. A small, unassuming thing, the rose and dagger icon nothing but a piece of jewellery to the untrained eye. But Zarkov knew better. For better or worse his fate was tied to the small brooch. He moved towards the door, and picked up his hammer, a battered and well used weapon, from where he had placed it to jam the door closed. He slipped it into the weapon loop at his belt. He removed from his pocket a flask, one that had been filled weeks ago during his trials with the agents that had recruited him. He popped off the cap and drained the contents in one swig. 'Special occasions, eh Drake' He muttered as he pulled open the door. He stepped into the stale air, into the hum of hive life. He didn't look back into the hab, he knew he wasn't going back. 'Time to meet my new flock' said Father Zarkov as he slammed the door behind him. |
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| Deleted User | 3 Jan 2011, 03:56 AM Post #6 |
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Deleted User
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The small room was illuminated only by a single glow globe fixed to the ceiling. Below it was a large, square, wooden table at which Varrin sat, the constituent parts of his disassembled Lasgun spread out in front of him. A small, oil filled radiator on one side of the room emitted a surprising amount of warmth, so despite the cold outside he wore nothing but his boots, a pair of dark green combat trousers and a vest that displayed the contours of his muscled arms. His beard was untrimmed and his pale skin shone in the lamplight. In one hand he held a rag doused with cleaning solvent from the small pot by his side and he meticulously, thoughtfully, rubbed away at the grey metal of the barrel. He liked the smell of the cleaning solvent. There was something comforting about it. Warming even. Before he joined the Imperial Guard, when he was just a boy, the importance of cleaning your weapon had been impressed upon him by his father who told him tales of weapons that were badly cleaned and maintained and the horrific results that followed as they blew up in the users face. Even as a child, Varrin doubted the stories, guessing the weapons were cheaply or poorly made but he knew that he would never take the risk. At a young age he decided on two things: never brag about how good a shot you are, and always clean your gun. When the cleaning process was finished, he clunked all the pieces together in order, smiling in satisfaction when the last one slotted in. He caressed the gun momentarily, then scraped his chair back and stood and stretched. He eyed his time piece. Time to go. Varrin attached his holster to his thigh adjusting the straps so as to fit comfortably and picked up his side arm, a standard issue Laspistol, loaded it, then tucked it into the holster. He carefully stowed the rest of his equipment into his backpack, put on his flak armour and adjusted the straps. He loaded his Lasgun and slung it over his back. Next he threw on a long black poncho with deep hood which he would use to cover his appearance while moving through the hive, to this he attached the small pin-badge showing the dagger and rose. As Varrin left the small room and closed the door behind him, he smiled to himself. He wasn't nervous or even apprehensive about serving an Inquisitor, he just wanted to be useful again after weeks of inactivity. Life was about to get very interesting. |
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| ☺highmarshaldave | 3 Jan 2011, 09:28 AM Post #7 |
Urban Leg-End
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Aridius reclined on the couch in the corner of his room, considering his surroundings and his circumstances. He had done this many times of the last couple of weeks, arriving at different conclusions every time. Though he couldn't later his circumstances, he had a small amount of influence on his surroundings. Every day he would change something in this room to better suit his wants. On some occasions money would, regrettably, change hands; mostly, however, he let his own charisma and charm do most of the work. He was under no illusions of grandeur, and attempted nothing crass or showy. Sitting up from the couch he picked the single bolster off the floor and placed it back on the couch. The chocolate and teal silk pattern was a stark contrast against the worn grey of the upholstery he had vacated, but he appreciated the splash of colour and luxury. Walking to the control panel set into the wall he paused for a second on the small rug positioned at the foot of his single bed. Sinking his toes into the fur, he smiled at the sensation and the difference in texture from the surrounding threadbare carpet. Having lost himself for a second Aridius continued to the control panel, dimming the electrocandles arrayed throughout the room and activating the central glow globe. Though he found its searing light to be deplorable and excessive, he would require more light than half a dozen electrocandles could afford. Picking up his chipped and scraped stub-pistol from the wooden table at the side of the bed he pulled the slide back and checked the barrel, squinting down its length. It was smooth and dust free, cleaned many a time over the last two weeks but never used. Satisfied, he let the slide snap forward before slotting a magazine into its housing in the pistol grip. Pulling the grip towards himself again, he heard the mechanism draw a round and move it into the firing position. Checking the display he saw that it read thirteen; with one round in the chamber, the under filled magazine contained the other twelve shots. Putting the pistol down, he turned to the clothes laid across his bed. A pair of dark grey britches were picked up first, pulled over his long underwear and buttoned into place at his waist. Following this, a black collarless shirt was donned and buttoned to the top. He set his flack vest over this, checking it was held firmly onto his body. Then he picked up his jacket, a dark bottle green item with black cuffs and dark grey rope-work stitched across the chest and abdomen. The flashy, if practical jacket, was put on but not buttoned past midway; the room was a touch on the warm side to fully seal it. A deep red sash went around Aridius' waist, while black leather boots, reaching the top of his knee, were tugged on. Finally, a leather belt has draped from left shoulder to right hip, with the accompanying waist belt buckled in the centre of the sash. Picking up his equipment, he began to array it across his body, remembering what his associates had told him in the past. The pistol went to his left hip, where it could be easily drawn, and his sword was buckled on his right side. His three spare magazines were placed in their allotted pouches on his chest; the knife, silencer and dataslate were all put in the appropriate places. Aridius checked himself in the mirror, thinking that he was starting to get too old for this. The lines on his face betrayed a difficult few years, which would doubtless get any easier. Picking up the note he slid it into one of the pockets stitched to his flak vest, before buttoning his jacket. Well, he thought, its now or never. . . Dave out. Edited by highmarshaldave, 3 Jan 2011, 10:02 AM.
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| Commander Von Drake | 3 Jan 2011, 10:06 AM Post #8 |
Warrant Officer First Class
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Lukas walked into his new home and looked around, it was basic but it reminded him of his home. Lukas had grew up on this planet in a small shack in the lower part of the hive, this was much like his old house, three rooms, a small bedroom with a few drawers, a lamp on the set of drawers next to his bed and a sturdy metal foot locker under the side of his bed. The bathroom was more of a cupboard than a room with a toilet a shower cubical and a sink all very close together. The last room in his home was a front room, this contained a table and chairs, a food processing unit and a few sets of cupboards where the plates, bowls and cutlery where kept. After the pleasantries of finding where he was going to be staying for the next to weeks Lukas packet his things away, mainly in the footlocker under his bed. Lukas spent the next two weeks reflecting on what now seemed like a past life, so much had change in such little time, it felt like a dream. A strange courier came to Lukas and handed him a letter, which bore a strange wax seal. Lukas broke the seal and took a seat on the edge of his bed, as he read the letter his head was filled with a flurry of fantasies abut what could happen, but with every fantasy Lukas got slight more nervous and for the first time in his life anxiety could be seen clearly across his face. Lukas tried to show fear and nervousness and little as possible when he was a ganger because he knew showing fear and being nervous was a sign of weakness that people could use against you. After Lukas had read the letter he placed it on the bedside table and immediately started packing, he walked down to the footlocker at the end of his bed, still buzzing with fantasies and anxiety. Undoing the lock on the old metal footlocker he took his backpack out and started to pack his numerous belongings. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, sheathed his knife on his belt, loaded and holstered his pistol and checked and loaded his autogun and slung it over his shoulder, before leaving Lukas took the note from his bedside table, folded it up and placed it in his pocket. As he was walking out of the door he took a lho stick from the packet in his pocket, placed it in his mouth, light it and then set off. Edited by Commander Von Drake, 3 Jan 2011, 06:48 PM.
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| # Marovian | 4 Jan 2011, 10:46 AM Post #9 |
High Lord Admiral of the Imperial Fleet
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Artemis had been restless, which for him was not unusual. Two weeks of inactivity would have driven any man to boredom, but he had nearly been driven to madness. Sitting day after day, listening and watching as the outside world of the hive went about it's daily life. On too many occassions he had watched black marketeers selling their wares on the streets, gangs roaming unchallenged and everywhere people breaking the Emperors law that he had no idea how he had kept himself together. It went against everything he had been taught, everything he believed. He hoped to the God-Emperor it would prove to be the right thing to do. At least now he had some purpose. Laid on the table before him, in a familiar ritual, where the tools of his trade. Yet something was not the same, and he felt the difference keenly. For the last two weeks he had been working hard to get things ready. Where normally he would fill his time polishing and cleaning his kit, to look every inch the instrument of law, now he was about concealement and sticking to the shadows. His arbitrator ID would go under his uniform, as would his flak jacket and weapons. His crowd shield, folded and stored could just about be made to hide over his back, under the loose uniform. It had also taken him time to shorten his shotgun so it would not be seen. At least now, at short notice, he was ready to go. The uniform itself was altered in a way that almost seemed like blasphemy to him. All ID was gone, as were any distinguishing marks. He had made it a looser fit and more easily flowing so that he looked more like a local. He had, however, not quite managed to convince himself to let his hair grow, so his sharp, practical shaven head still looked a little out of place. Then he got dressed. Inside to out, as his father had taught him. Over a vest top went his armour, and into a variety of pouches and pockets went everything else he would need. He felt weighed down and yet comforted all at the same time. It had been too long since he had gone out on an investigation. The final two pieces were the parchment and the pin. The note went into an easy to reach pocket, for quick and easy reference. Artemis had already committed it too memory but knew he would check it a thousand times, just to make sure. It was a habit he hated himself for having, but it was habit all the same. Finally, the pin was fixed to the front of his unrecognisable tunic and he stepped out of the hab. He didn't look back for a second, now it was all about duty. Edited by Marovian, 4 Jan 2011, 10:48 AM.
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| ☺Commissar Molotov | 4 Jan 2011, 05:58 PM Post #10 |
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Captain
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The location given in the parchment takes you into the heart of the Administratum district, which occupies much of this hab-level. You arrive at the appointed hour - just as a tolling bell signals a shift-change which rapidly fills the streets with a faceless mass of grey-robed adepts. You make your way through the bustling crowd. Regardless of how out-of-place you may look, the adepts appear to pay you no heed, focused as they are on their singular task. You find yourself at a large and imposing building, which stands several floors high. The impressive facade has been decorated with bas-reliefs of skulls, half-draped urns and other symbols of death. In alcoves above the street-level, you make out statues of various saints, all sculpted in various poses of distress. Some are clawing at their faces, others reaching out for salvation. One clutches a broken sword, whilst another seems to be knelt, attempting to gather the scattered beads of a rosarius. Peculiarly, each has had its face chiselled away, entirely obliterated. After some delay, you realise you have been directed to the rear of the building. It takes a few minutes to walk around the structure, but on the other side you find a sliding metal shutter, beyond which an unmarked service elevator is situated. The servitor standing sentry outside the elevator studies you implacably for a few moments before uttering a single word, issuing from a speaker-grille set into its chest. Its voice sounds like the grinding of cogs. ++PASS++ As you climb aboard, you realise the details given in the note were correct; you are not alone. You make a diverse and somewhat uncomfortable group, standing in terse silence as the crowds throng by. As the last of you climbs aboard the platform, the servitor chimes three times. There is a sudden lurch, and then the squeal of machinery as the elevator begins to descend. The journey affords you the opportunity to look around at the others who have been summoned. |
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| Valdez | 4 Jan 2011, 10:55 PM Post #11 |
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Lieutenant
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Brother Majster was on a meeting place 10 minutes earlier. He walked around building and check everything around. When the time was coming decide to stand in the background and look what will happen. He saw couple of individuals standing out from the crowd which just burst out from buildings around. All of them looked different and similar at the same time. On each of them he spot same badge as one he kept on inner side of his hood. When the time was coming he left his watching place and went to the back of the building where he spot an elevator with a small crowd of individuals he spot and a servitor standing in front of it. He showed his badge to the servitor and step in to the elevator. His hooded face was covered by shadows. He doesn't want to show them his face. He was afraid that in this moment he will not stand they looks. This mixture of disgust, fear and envy. It was always in the eyes of others. This bothered him only at the beginning at the Brotherhood but now he felt to exposed. He prefers to stay on the safe side. He waited. |
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| ☺Easy E | 5 Jan 2011, 01:24 PM Post #12 |
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Captain
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As he rode up the elevator, Scribe Astelan realized he was a long way from Seat 15A. The Scribe wedged himself into the back corner. He scanned the group, making sure to avoid any eye contact. Many of the people he was with were obviously far more lethal than he was. They carried their danger easily, far too easily. It was little comfort that some of them openly wore the same pin as he had received. The press of the cramped elevator was nothing to the Scribe. In fact, the close proximity was more of a comfort. There was no place else for him to go. He was trapped in, and any second thoughts he had now were far too late. Astelan distracted his mind by itemizing everything he saw, and creating categories for it. A. Tall man with blonde hair and beard- Hencforward designated Subject Alpha. Alpha's Possessions: 1a. Black Poncho 2a. Backpack 3a. Grey slacks 4a.... etc, etc, etc. He slowly ordered and sorted the contents of the elevator in his mind. As he worked, the fingers on his left hand twitched, ready to mark his mental list down in his ledgers. By the time the elevator reached the top, his mental accounting had been mostly complete, and Astelan was beginning to imagine an alternate way he could sub-divide the information for further insight. As the elevator came to a jerky halt, the Scribe banished his sorting. He swallowed hard. Again, the cramped press was a blessing. His only choice would be to follow the crowd. No turning back. His duty was to serve. Edited by Easy E, 5 Jan 2011, 01:26 PM.
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| Commander Von Drake | 5 Jan 2011, 06:05 PM Post #13 |
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Warrant Officer First Class
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Lukas checked this was the right place before finishing his lho stick, as he was finishing his lho stick he noticed several other people that stood out from the crowd heading in the direction off where the letter had instructed him to go, maybe these where the others the letter spoke of. He finished his lho stick and walked into the large building, keeping an eye open for anything strange or out of place as he headed further into the building, it was decorated with skulls and large marble statues. Lukas came to a servitor standing in front of a service elevator; the servitor made a low noise and let Lukas past. He stepped into the elevator, there were several other people in the elevator all wearing the icon from the letter, this must be the place… CVD- Edited by Commander Von Drake, 5 Jan 2011, 06:06 PM.
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| # Marovian | 5 Jan 2011, 06:13 PM Post #14 |
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High Lord Admiral of the Imperial Fleet
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For his part he was not really that glad to be out of the crowd. He was standing on the platfrom, very aware of the close proximity of the other two. Neither seemed to be paying him too much attention, one of them was clearly thinking of other things and the other was hidden in a huge hood that totally hid his features. As he stood there, Stroud looked forward, studying the crowd. Every so often someone would break from the throng and head forwards. Each was unique is their own way, and stood out from the crowd long before they approached the servitor. With the practiced ease of years of obeservation he took in the details of each one. At least some of them were carrying concealed weapons. Artemis could tell this, as a careless Arbiter was often a dead Arbiter and he knew all the trademarks of a concealed carry. The way an arm didn't quite rest against the body, or the slight difference in how the clothing sat were all give aways to the trained eye. He was not unduly disturbed by this - each person had shown the same badge as him to get onto the platform so he summised that all had passed the same stringent checks. At least that was what he told himself. He noted a preist and a man who simply had to be ex-PDF, if not ex-guard from the way he moved. Another was clearly of high birth - he couldn't quite hide it, no matter how much he tried. And the last one, well, Artemis had to grit his teeth when he guessed he was a ganger. He wandered if this was a test of his resolve of how much he wanted to serve the emperor, to be forced into apparent alliance with a criminal. Once the 6 of them were all on the platform, everyone continued to stay silent. He noticed the others staring at him and each other. They were a diverse group, each so totally different from the other. Artemis hoped that they had all been chosen for a reason and a skill. He didn't feel afraid, he knew he could look after himself, but was always apprehensive of people who hadn't proved to him that they had his back, and this group had a lot to do to prove that to him. Without warning, the platform began to move down. It descended with squeals and creaks, into the darkness and who knew what else. |
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| # El Diablo | 5 Jan 2011, 08:26 PM Post #15 |
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Warmaster Of Chaos
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Zarkov passed the servitor, into the grim hold of the elevator. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Not the smell of the unwashed ganger, or the perfumes of someone born into nobility but the smells of oil, gunsmoke and war, like the hold of a troopship. He looked at each of the other men in turn, giving each a barely perceptible nod of greeting, which was returned by none. He'd heard stories while serving with the Guard, stories of groups of meN with no apparent connection brought together in service of the God Emperor. This was apparently one of those groups. Zarkov lowered his head, the heavy hood casting dark shadows across his face. The large sleeves of his robe hid his hands as he watched the group and was glad of it - in one hand he held his aquilla pendant, the beads of its making bringing comfort to an uneasy situation. With his other hand he slowly unbuttoned the laspistol holster at his waist. He may be a holy man in a time of war, but that was the unfortunate thing about war - war comes to everyone. |
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| Deleted User | 6 Jan 2011, 12:25 AM Post #16 |
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Deleted User
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Varrin checked his time piece as he walked around to the rear of the large building, spot on. Walking slowly he made a few last minute checks and adjustments, rolling his shoulders making sure his backpack wasn’t restrictive and slowly pulling his Lasgun that was slung across his back to his side so that he could bring his weapon to bare quickly should the need arise. Lastly he checked himself over for a final time, making sure nothing was catching on his flak armour and that his poncho covered the Lasgun at his side. He moved toward a lone servitor that was standing idle outside what looked to be an elevator. As he got closer he noticed that the elevator was not empty, several people standing a few meters apart from one another, clearly keeping their distance. After being scanned and allowed to pass he moved to stand towards the back of the elevator and he didn’t have to wait long before the elevator started to descend into the darkness. Varrin stood silently with his back to the rear wall of the elevator, his right hand on the grip of his Lasgun. Movement caught his attention and he slowly turned his head to look at a small gaunt man standing directly to his left. He was trying to squeeze himself into the wall and was clearly nervous. Varrin inclined his head to the man noticing the stranger relax, albeit only slightly. Varrin took the opportunity of the descent to quickly scan the others, noticing one in particular. A large well built man, who was looking directly at him, his eyes twinkling in the shadow of his hood, he was slowly almost imperceptibly moving his hand to his belt. Varrin narrowed his eyes slightly and stood a little straighter, his right hand tightened on the grip of his Lasgun. The hooded man nodded very slightly and Varrin relaxed, the big man was just nervous, hardly unexpected. The next person Varrin looked at was a tall but slightly built man with short cropped hair. He was standing straight but a little awkwardly as though he was hiding something or carrying something uncomfortable. He had an air of authority around him that stood him out as a man who was used to being listened to. Time would tell if that assumption was true. Varrin tipped his head back to rest on the elevator wall, thinking of what was to come. |
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| ☺Commissar Molotov | 6 Jan 2011, 07:09 AM Post #17 |
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At the bottom of the shaft, the platform shudders to a stop. Heavy shutters roll back, revealing a wide grey corridor lit on both sides by pale lumen-globes held aloft by carved stone cherubs. Only the first part of the corridor is lit - the rest trails off into the darkness. As you all disembark the elevator, the shutters close once more, sealing tight. You are alone in the corridor, with the faint smell of a chemical disinfectant assaulting your noses. As you begin to move down the corridor, more lumen-globes flicker fitfully into life, showing you the path forward. Those behind you extinguish. It is clear which direction you should travel. Edited by Commissar Molotov, 6 Jan 2011, 07:18 AM.
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| Deleted User | 6 Jan 2011, 02:41 PM Post #18 |
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Deleted User
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As the elevator shutter rolled upward Varrin got his first glimpse of what awaited them, a dark corridor lit only by a few lumen-globes. Immediately Varrin was alert and he quickly flicked his wrist, moving aside his poncho to bring his Lasgun up to a ready position. He stepped first off the elevator, looking around he noticed the only way was forward. He knelt down and removed his backpack, feeling inside he pulled out a glow-globe and deftly attached it to his Lasgun and switched it on wanting to add more light to the dim surroundings. Putting his backpack back on and standing up Varrin looked back over his shoulder and noticed hesitancy from a few members of the group and so decided to speak first, “Shall we?” said with a hint of amusement in his tone as he motioned with his rifle down the corridor. |
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| ☺highmarshaldave | 6 Jan 2011, 03:10 PM Post #19 |
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"It would appear as though we have little else to do," Aridius said as he stepped after the thug with the lasgun. Having arrived fashionably late, a habit his parents had chided him for many times in the past, Aridius had been left with no choice but to ride the elevator with his nose almost touching the greasy metal. Now that the metal was gone, and Aridius free to breathe through his nostrils again, the corridor ahead presented the only route the group could take. A route to what, Aridius had no idea. Unbuttoning his holster he withdrew his pistol and screwed the silencer into place. Though the report of a stub weapon didn't bother him, someone in the group would probably be thankful for the fifteen centimetre cylinder. Twisting metal against metal until it stopped, Aridius held the weapon in front of him and winked to the man with the poncho. For better, or for worse, he was about to walk down this corridor. |
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| ☺Easy E | 6 Jan 2011, 03:55 PM Post #20 |
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Astelan was a bit shocked to see weapons. He tried not to gape, but he was only starting to realize the gravity of the decision he had made. He thought that this was a meeting with his new master? Then, he remembered the defaced saints on the stonework of the building. Perhaps everything was not what it seemed? That, or he was overthinking it. Why would anyone spend so much time testing and recruiting him just to kill him? Unless of course, the person who invited him here wasn't his "true" master? Twists and turns, wheels and double-wheels. It would take him time to get use to this way of thinking. Astelan quickly made a decision, the safest place was going to be behind Subject Alpha and his rifle. Astelan clumsily scrambled out of the elevator and fell into step behind the two leaders. He hoped this would put him between the armed men in the front, and the obviously dangerous men still in the back. A nice safe place between a lot of dangerous people. For his own peace of mind, Astelan snatched out his Dataslate. If everyone else was brandishing weapons, he didn't want to feel empty handed. Edited by Easy E, 6 Jan 2011, 03:58 PM.
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