Drawing a Blank [40K]

[Horologer]

"It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth."

{ }​

"Attention, all hands," the vox crackles. "By the Engineseer's estimate, the Fidei Maiorum will exit the Warp and re-enter realspace in approximately two standard hours."

You crack open your eyes and sit up, then give the servo-skull sitting on the bedside table an accusatory look. You'd set your alarm to wake up about three hours before the transition to realspace, not two. You blearily peer into the skull's eye socket to read the time, and blink in surprise. The alarm is set properly. It just hasn't gone off yet.

Maybe it's not that surprising, now that you think about it. You've been told that time is a fickle thing in the Warp. You turn off the alarm, and pat the cybernetic skull absentmindedly, feeling a little bad for getting upset at a perfectly functional machine.

Then you shake off the covers, and walk into the bathroom, ducking slightly to avoid hitting your head on the door. You undress, toss your nightclothes in the laundry hamper, and then walk over to the shower. After some very careful fiddling with the controls, you manage to get the water at a temperature that won't burn you or give you hypothermia. Probably.

After hopping in the shower, you wash your hair, careful to avoid tangling your long hair with your wiring. Cleaning your body off is only slightly easier, since the shower stall is so small you have to do a few slightly awkward contortions to scrub your legs off. Climbing out of the shower, you towel off and walk over to the mirror.

You glance yourself over to make sure you're in good shape and that you haven't caught anything. You don't think you have to worry about some of the Warp plagues the crew is terrified of, but the confines of a ship are also breeding grounds for more mundane diseases. Pulling back your bangs slightly, you note with some relief that the bruise on your forehead has finally faded to a pale yellow. As you look down, you also notice that the cuts on your forearm have basically all healed and probably won't even scar.

You turn around and glance over your shoulder. The augmentations that run up your spine seem about the same as usual, and the wires coming out of them look in perfect shape. The skin around them is still a little pinkish, but if your skin wasn't so pale it probably wouldn't be noticeable. No rashes, blemishes, or extra limbs, as far as you can tell.

Shrugging, you tilt your head a little and carefully pull aside tufts of black hair, revealing the skin just above and behind your left ear. There's a small metal socket embedded in your skull there, with a black wire about the width of your thumb coming out of it.

You grasp the wire firmly, twist slightly, and then press inward a little. With a click that you feel more than you hear, the wire gently detaches and you pull it out of its socket. You inspect the port carefully. The inside is slightly damp, so you wrap a cloth around your little finger and carefully dry it off.

It still feels a little weird to be sticking your fingers this far inside your own skull.

Draping the wire you've just unplugged over your shoulder, you pull your hair back to reveal another port a little behind the first, and repeat the same process. Then tilt your head the other way and carefully repeat the same process for the other side. When the final cord comes out, you breathe a little sigh of satisfaction.

You roll your head around, revelling in the feeling of freedom. The implants are extremely useful, and you would not even think of removing them permanently. But it's nice to be able to move your head without the subtle tug of the wires every now and again.

Then you carefully clean the wires and plug them back into your skull. There's that same click again, a slight vibration, and then a peculiar feeling of vertigo as your brain readjusts to the implants. You blink once and the sensation fades.

You carefully comb your thick black hair until it no longer resembles a particularly unruly bush, get into your uniform, glance in the mirror to make sure you look presentable, and then walk into the other room of your quarters. You're not quite sure what to call the room. "Office" or "study" are too generous, since the room barely has space for the desk and two small chairs. Perhaps "cubicle" is the most accurate description.

Though you sit down on your chair as gently as you can, it still creaks in protest at your weight. You wince and look at your desk. Not that there's much to see. Just a small lamp, a pile of papers, and a very old cogitator.

You'd gone to bed a little early last night, so you hadn't properly sorted through the papers on your desk. Not that there's much to sort, since you practically never get paperwork, but still, it's the principle of the thing. You shuffle through the papers on the desk, but as you'd expect, all of them are just your own sketches. And, as usual, you still can't get the Inquisitor's nose quite right. You sigh and carefully file them away in your drawer.

Turning to the cogitator, you quietly intone a prayer to its machine spirit, and press the activation button. The cogitator whirrs gently and then the screen flickers on. You smile. It may be old, but the cogitator is extremely reliable, and you probably wouldn't get a new one even if you had the chance. You check your intranet messages, but as expected, there's nothing new there either. Just orders to report to the ship's bridge. Stretching, you turn off the computer and get up from the desk.

It's probably best to get going now. The Inquisitor will be on the bridge soon, and if you weren't there in about thirty minutes, he would be displeased.

{ }​

Ten minutes later, you are carefully standing at attention on the bridge.

The Inquisitor walks in. He cuts a striking figure– tall, with chiselled features, wearing a red-and-black coat adorned with the sigils of the Inquisition. His eyes are blue, and so piercing you often half-wonder if he's ever killed someone by just glaring at them too hard. His right arm has been replaced by a mechanical substitute, which holds a sacred tome in its metal grip. His left hand is still flesh and bone, but it never stays far from the bolt pistol at his hip. The Inquisitor's red cloak billows behind him, framing his powerful body.

You stand to attention as he glances around the deck. The crew rises from their stations and salutes him.

"As you were," he says coolly, and they sit back down. He turns to look at you and seems slightly displeased. "You are early," he says, and he makes it sound like an accusation.

"Yes, sir," you respond.

"I do not tolerate idleness among my servants," he says irritably. "You would be wise to use your time more productively than this. While your studies progress well, that is certainly no excuse for laxity. Better to be ten minutes late performing the Emperor's work than to be punctual and spend ten minutes standing about."

"Understood, sir." Last time, he had lectured you for being five minutes late because you were busy with said studies, but you're not going to bring that up. Contradicting a person face-to-face rarely ends well, especially if that person is an Inquisitor before he's had his morning recaf.

Fortunately, your quick compliance seems to head off yet another lecture, because he simply gives you a slightly imperious look and says: "Very good, Miss Ariadne." Then he walks over to the wall and activates a communications panel.

"Navigator Darwin, this is Inquisitor Cleistos. How goes our journey?"

"Quite well," says the tinny voice at the other end. "The currents of the Warp are quite favorable at present, and I expect us to arrive in about ninety minutes."

The Inquisitor nods. "Very good," he says, then turns to you. "Well, since you are up and about, follow me to the briefing room. You will be accompanying me in any case, so it cannot hurt to keep you informed."

"Yes, sir."

{ }​

The briefing room is an impressive feat of Imperial architecture. Even though it's only a small auditorium capable of seating a few dozen people, it manages to loom over its inhabitants like a Space Marine glaring down at a ratling. The walls, stained by centuries of incense, are adorned with various frescoes depicting stern-faced saints performing various miracles, most of which involve the enemies of the Imperium dying in a particularly eye-catching way.

In the front of the room is a raised platform of marble, covered in sigils and decorated with the occasional skull. At the front of the platform is an imposing lectern embedded with yet more skulls and emblazoned with a large, golden Imperial Aquila. Behind it stands the Inquisitor, reading aloud from a thick book of scripture to the soldiers seated in front of him. Behind the Inquisitor stands his retinue, the Inquisitor's companions and most favored subordinates. And behind the retinue stands you.

"...and may the Emperor grant us His sight, that we may see His enemies as clearly as He does, and smite them. May His enemies find neither shelter nor refuge while we pursue them. May we deliver His justice to His people, and death to the impure who dare to stain our galaxy with their presence. Then may we have the peace within that comes from righteous victory. For what is written in the Lectito Divinatus?"

"The Emperor Protects," everyone in the room responds.

"And we must follow in His holy footsteps," the Inquisitor concludes gravely, finishing the recitation. "Now, to more mundane matters," he continues, his tone now far more businesslike, "as I am sure you are aware, we will be entering the Chorale system shortly. There have been reports of heretical activity on the planet. We will investigate those reports thoroughly and excise any heresies we uncover."

"We will be operating under the standard rules," the Inquisitor continues. "Do not disclose any information to anyone outside the Inquisition without explicit leave, observe and report any deviant behavior, remember to use approved ciphers when communicating, and attend Ecclesiarchical services regularly to ensure the holiness of your souls."

"I anticipate no immediate difficulties with the local government. But given the regrettable incident over Aerum IV," the Inquisitor says dryly, and a few people in the audience grin, "our dropships will still be flying in on full alert. Still, I remind you to fire only if fired upon, and no more than is necessary. A few well-aimed shots should resolve any... unfortunate miscommunications." He gives one last look around the room. "You will be given your specific flying orders when you reach your hangars. That concludes this meeting. Ave Imperator."

"Ave Imperator," the audience choruses, and begins to file out.

When the last of them has left, the Inquisitor turns to his retinue. "The planetary government itself seems to be corrupt only in the mundane sense," he says grimly, "but I am not sure. And in any case, corruption can go from bribery to sorcery in a heartbeat. I have strong evidence that a cult of hedonism is active on Chorale Prime. I have no doubt it has wound its tendrils into the nobility of this world, even if it has not corrupted the bureaucracy yet."

He sighs, and then adds: "As usual, we may expect the nobility to be an impediment, although I doubt any of them will be foolish enough to raise an army against us with an Inquisitorial ship looming above their heads. This investigation seems about as straightforward as they get. You are all familiar with your duties and I am certain you will have little difficulty with these heretics. Does anyone have any last-minute information to add?"

"My lord," says a short woman in power armor, stepping forward slightly. "The governor seems to have acquired a collection of various artifacts. I had contacted several people who might have knowledge of the finer details. Nobody responded with anything helpful until a few hours ago, when I received an astropathic message from a contact aboard a Rogue Trader vessel. My contact didn't have the expertise to tell me exactly what those artifacts were, but they were able to describe several of them from memory. Some were possibly xenos devices, but I can't be certain without seeing them myself. A few may be related to the Ruinous Powers, but none appear to be psychically active. What concerns me, however, is this." She opens her book, flips a few pages, and motions for everyone to huddle around.

While you're standing too far away to see whatever's on the page, the Inquisitor frowns in confusion as he bends down to look at it, then his eyes widen and he grimaces in disgust as he recognizes the thing on the page. "If that's what I think it is… it had better not be." He straightens, still scowling. "Good work, Interrogator Iona."

Another person pipes up. "He may not actually be using it, my lord. We have picked up several that were simply on display as mere curiosities."

"Perhaps," allows the Inquisitor, "but I wouldn't count on it. Since he did not call for aid himself, and he has been collecting potentially heretical artifacts, we must assume he is our enemy until proven otherwise. Of course, we will observe the formalities, so that he does not suspect our investigation until it is complete. Or until we are in a position to eliminate him cleanly, whichever comes first."

"If that is all, we will prepare for departure. Interrogators Aurum, Telos, and Iona, you will be with the first detachment of Thunderhawks. Take your agents and be sure my landing is not obstructed. Interrogator Karst, Navigator Tasman, and Miss Ariadne–" he looks over at you and gestures for you to come over– "you will be with me."

"Must we bring the Pariah?" someone grumbles.

"Yes," says the Inquisitor sharply, "Miss Ariadne is our most reliable defense against psykers and daemons, and I will not brook further complaints about deploying her, no matter how uncomfortable you find her presence." The person gives the Inquisitor a hurried apology, and the Inquisitor waves it away irritably, then gestures at you. Everyone turns to look at you, and you internally cringe, even as you carefully maintain a neutral expression. You hate being the center of attention.

"I recognize," the Inquisitor continues, "that many of you are not used to a Blank's anti-psychic field, much less a Pariah's. I will overlook your complaints just this once, because this is new to many of you, and because her presence can cause genuine pain to the more sensitive amongst you. But she has been blessed with cybernetics to harness and direct her powers, and should not unduly perturb you." You're relieved to notice that most of his retinue is looking at the Inquisitor now instead of you, but you still have to fight the urge to look down at your feet.

The Inquisitor gives the person– you still can't tell exactly who it is– a withering glare for another second, then continues. "I expect that none of you will let your aversion to her interfere with your duties." He pauses for a moment, then resumes. "Interrogator Claritus, you will be directing logistics from orbit. Now, are there any other objections? No? Excellent. Then let us be off."

{ }​

The Inquisitorial shuttle is one of the strangest vehicles you've ever set foot in. You're barely a mechanic, and certainly no Tech-Priest, but you can tell that it was made of the highest quality materials. And even a brief look confirms that this shuttle was constructed with immense skill and care. You can't even guess how expensive this must have been. Even if it was blown to scrap, the pieces would still be worth more than everything you've ever owned put together. Not that your possessions are worth more than a pittance, but it's still an unimaginable luxury.

And yet it's almost completely undecorated. No gilded edges, no rolls of purity parchments, no carved saints. Just a token incense burner in the corner for the shuttle's machine spirit, and the Inquisitorial seal mounted on one of the walls. The walls and ceiling are painted a dull grey and the floor is an equally plain black. The seat you're currently strapped into is much the same. It's almost sinfully comfortable, but the padding is just dyed a plain red.

You like it, but right now you wish there was something more interesting to look at, because you could really use some kind of distraction.

You're struggling to avoid fidgeting already. This will be the first time you've landed on a planet. You don't know whether to be more nervous or excited. Interrogator Claritus has told you some of what to expect, and you know that the inside of a hive city isn't that different from the inside of a station or voidship, but still, you'll be landing on a true planet for the first time. When you step out onto the landing pad, nothing will be above you but the sky.

You spend a few minutes listening to the crackle of the vox as various pilots report in. You can tell it's going to be some time before you leave the Warp. You take a deep breath and try to distract yourself by calculating the powers of three in your head. One, three, nine, twenty-seven, eighty-one, two hundred forty-three, seven hundred twenty nine...

You get up to the eleventh element of the series before you're forced to admit it's not really working. Normally, a little mental math calms you down, but you're just too wound up to keep your mind on something this tedious.

You look around the cockpit you're seated in. It's roughly oval shaped, with a wide windscreen at the front. Just behind it, a pair of pilots are running diagnostics on the shuttle, probably just to pass the time. In the second row of seats, the Navigator appears to be reading something, while the Inquisitor simply stares out the front windscreen, lost in thought. You're sitting in the final row, next to Interrogator Karst, a broad-shouldered man with enough muscle to put a grox to shame. He looks like he's just as bored as you are.

Frowning, you try to decide how you should spend your time…

What should you do?
[X] Try to strike up a conversation with Interrogator Karst.
-[X] Ask him about planet-side life. You were born and raised in space, and you have never set foot on a planet before.
-[X] Maybe he's willing to talk about this mission. The Inquisitor was a little vague, and any more specific information might be useful, if he's willing to share.
[X] Navigator Tasman has the right idea. Reading time.
-[X] Read your prayer booklet. You forgot to read your daily prayers this morning, and you doubt you'll find a better time to do so today.
-[X] The Inquisitor instructed you to read a short pamphlet on Warp physics. It's as good a time as ever to get started.
[X] Make a more concerted effort to calm yourself down.
-[X] Look out the front windscreen for anything interesting going on in the hangar.
-[X] Double-check the calibration on your implants again. Best to be completely sure they're properly tuned.

{ }
​

Welcome to the grim darkness of the far future. You are playing as Ariadne, an Inquisitor's subordinate. Ariadne is a "Blank" or "Pariah", a person born without a presence in the Warp. In effect, she does not have a soul and cannot use psychic powers. Instead, she emits an anti-psychic field, which she can partly control with various augmentations. Unfortunately, since everyone who has a soul is at least partly psychic in nature, her presence makes others uncomfortable. Because she's a Blank, Ariadne is also technically a mutant in a society that is sharply prejudiced against them. As a result, she will find often find socializing difficult, to say the least.

Still, there are a few silver linings. Ariadne's anti-psychic field can be weaponized to attack her enemies and nullify psychic powers. As she has no soul to lose, those who seek to steal the souls of others will pass her over, which is no small mercy. Imperial propaganda villifies the mutant, but you will find that many do not buy the party line. Even when all else fails, perhaps talent, adaptibility, and raw determination will see her (and you) through to victory.

Good luck. The Emperor Protects.

 

[Horologer]

+++Thought of the day: Wisdom is the beginning of fear.+++

{ }​

You reach into your jacket pocket and pull out the small, thin book on the Warp. The only thing on the front cover is an Inquisitorial seal with some kind of reference number underneath it. You flip it open to the first page and begin to read.

This book is the sacred property of the Holy Orders of the Emperor's Inquisition.

Do not read this if you have not been given explicit permission to do so by an Inquisitor. Do not attempt to sell it, trade it, or gift it to another. If you have acquired this book, return it to the Inquisition immediately. If you cannot return this book to the Inquisition, burn it to ashes, ensuring that all portions of the book are thoroughly destroyed. Then scatter the ashes, preferably somewhere remote and isolated.

Failure to abide by the above instructions will jeopardize your very soul and incur the wrath of the Emperor and his servants. You have been warned.

You turn to the next page with some trepidation, but it's just a title page.

The Immaterium, by Inquisitor Excruciatus of the Ordo Malleus.

You take a moment to wonder what kind of person would name themselves Excruciatus, and then flip to the next page.

Having served in the God-Emperor's Inquisition many years, I have discovered that most of my servants are ignorant of even the most basic facts of the Immaterium. When questioned or interrogated about the nature of the Immaterium, they will give many answers. They will claim it is a planet somewhere, or that it is the God-Emperor's will made manifest, or that it is a xeno-infested alternate dimension, and so on.

All of those answers are mostly nonsense, of course. The only true answer they can give is that they do not know anything about the Immaterium, or Warp, as most call it. But that is good. A small mind is easily filled with faith, and faith in the God-Emperor is all that stands between us and damnation.

Alas, not all of us have the luxury of such innocence. The Inquisition's task is to hunt for knowledge, to uncover the rot within and purge it. If an agent of the Inquisition is wholly ignorant of the nature of the Immaterium, that is an unacceptable dereliction of duty.

Yet while we must know something of what we fight, it is best not to know everything. The shield of ignorance is the most pure and effective defense against the insidious evils of the Warp. For knowledge begets compromise, curiosity, and sympathy. I have known a few deluded fools who have claimed that these are virtues. But the truly wise know that when confronted with any heresy, no matter how small, compromise is moral cowardice, curiosity is intellectual gluttony, and sympathy is spiritual weakness.

Seek knowledge of the enemy only so that you may better destroy them. Only by armoring yourself with the armor of righteous hatred can you avoid falling to those three perils.

Hmmm. You try mustering your anger…

Spoiler: roll

1d100 DC 30
76 - 40 Charisma - 20 (???) = 16
not really feelin' it right now

...but as usual, you don't really feel any different. You'll have to do without that armor for now.

Now that you are properly warned, we may begin discussing the subject of this book.

The first question we must answer is: what is the Warp? The Warp is a world totally unlike our own. It is a dimension composed entirely of psychic energy. Every thought, dream, hope, and fear is reflected there. As a result, it is intimately intertwined with the universe we are most familiar with– the four-dimensional space that we all call home.

It is a hellish place. The imperfections of the galaxy are writ large in the Warp. Every debauchery and impurity is twisted to grotesque proportions there. It is a home only fit for daemons and worse. To look upon the Warp is to see the face of madness, and anyone who does so will inevitably go mad themselves.

Maybe you shouldn't have read this passage while in the Warp yourself, you think nervously.

The second question we must answer is: Why do we not simply leave the Warp be, and purge ourselves of its stain wherever it is found?

The answer is that we cannot do so, for the Warp offers an irreplaceable service to humanity. The void between the stars is too vast to be traversed by any method other than Warp travel. Even light, the swiftest of all things material, can take years to go from one star to another. Were it not for the Warp, the Imperium could not fulfil its sacred duty to rule the galaxy. The Warp, and the dangers it brings with it, are a grim necessity.

Still, we are fortunate in some respects. The veil barring our world from the Warp is not easily breached. Very little can enter the Warp from realspace or leave it unless that veil is weakened. Unfortunately, there are many things that are designed to do precisely that. The most well-known is the Warp Drive, a device that allows ships to enter and exit the Warp safely, but there are many others.

Of course, there are limitations...

There's a sudden twist that you can't quite place, as if the universe itself had momentarily stumbled and then caught itself. "Attention all hands: the Fidei Maiorum has transitioned back into realspace," drones a voice over the intercom. The pilots up front let out a little cheer of celebration, and you think you catch a sigh of relief from the Interrogator.

The Inquisitor grabs a microphone and fiddles with it for a moment. Then he says "Engineseer, what is our current trajectory?"

You can't hear the response, but after a moment, the Inquisitor responds. "Yes, that's excellent. Are we getting hailed by planetside officials? None? Very well, let me know when someone does respond. Yes, that will be all. Thank you."

The Inquisitor sets down the microphone and sighs. "Throne on Terra," he grumbles, "we warped into the system two hours' hard burn from the planet, and they don't so much as ask us our names?"

"Someone's going to lose their head over this when we respond," says Interrogator Karst.

There's silence for a few minutes, while the Inquisitor waits for a response. Then the Inquisitor starts talking again. "Has someone responded? Good, finally. Patch them through, and send them my verification codes."

"This is Chorale Voidship Traffic Control," comes clearly bored voice through the other end. "Unidentified vessel, please state your name and business in the system."

"I am Inquisitor Cleistos, and my vessel is the Fidei Maiorum. Rejoice, for I have come here in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, to root out any hidden heresies or treacheries on this planet. The first of my retinue will be landing on this planet in three hours to meet with the governor and local dignitaries, the better to organize our collective efforts."

There's a good ten seconds of stunned silence on the other end, before the other person works out a suitable response. "I see," they respond weakly. "May– may I have your credentials?"

"They have already been sent," says the Inquisitor sternly.

"Ah, so they have," responds the person on the other end, who now sounds thoroughly embarrassed. "Very well, Inquisitor Cleistos, I will… notify the authorities and deliver their response to you once I receive it. Ave Imperator."

"Do so. Ave Imperator," says the Inquisitor, then turns off the microphone.

"Poor bastard," says Karst. "At least this one remembered to ask you for proof."

"Flash an Inquisitorial rosette in some people's faces, and their brains shut down," remarks Navigator Tasman.

"Flash it in other people's faces, and their brain begins working twice as fast figuring out how to make my job harder," the Inquisitor says sourly. "I'm sure the station's Astropath is getting rolled out of bed for this."

{ }​

Silence falls again, and you read on.

Of course, there are limitations. For whatever reason, strong gravitational fields repel the Warp. This effect is normally scarcely noticeable under normal conditions– but the Inquisition's endless quest rarely deals with "normal conditions".

This disruptive effect is particularly important for voidships. Navigating the boundaries between the Warp and realspace is a delicate and dangerous affair. It cannot be safely conducted while too close to a massive object; one might as well run headlong into a plasticrete wall. Those foolish enough to try leaving the Warp too deep inside a gravity well are fortunate if they merely perish in the attempt.

Because of this, one can only safely enter and leave the Warp at a certain distance from the planet's star. In most cases, this distance is well past the outermost planet of the system; our beloved Sol system cannot be entered or left except well beyond the orbit of Neptune. If the sun is particularly small, it may be possible to enter or leave the system closer.

There are exceptions, of course. Perhaps the best known are the Warp gates: sacred relics from our ancestors that allow ships to leave and enter the Warp regardless of how strong gravity is at said Gate. Blasphemous xenos copies exist as well: the inferior knockoffs of degenerate species, merely copying the works of their betters.

Extreme natural occurrences can have even stranger effects. The Warp seems to have a peculiar and unwholesome attraction to certain electromagnetic disturbances. The arcane designs of the Warp Drive are again the most familiar example, but far from the only one. Certain places have unnatural auras or strange afflictions that make Warp travel near them possible, although such travel is rarely safe.

Very close to large stars, psykers have difficulty even touching the Immaterium. Oddly, this has no correlation to the experience of gravity in the area. Even if a ship's motion is properly plotted such that the crew does not feel the force of gravity, such as during freefall, the Warp is still pushed away by the gravitational field.

The most extreme gravitational fields have correspondingly extreme effects. Close to star-corpses, such as white dwarfs, neutron stars, and black holes, even the strongest psykers struggle to manifest more than the most pathetic parlor tricks.

This effect is similar to that of the benighted mutants known alternately as Blanks, Pariahs, or Nulls, whose presence naturally pushes away the presence of the Warp.

You had been wondering when you'd get a mention.

But they seem to be a separate phenomena from that of high gravity, because their presence does not much impede Warp travel. It seems that these unfortunate aberrations are simply the inverse of the psyker. Where the psyker draws the Warp close, so that they may manipulate it, the Blank merely pushes it away. Such mutants are tolerable because of their usefulness, but their lack of presence in the Warp marks them as soulless beings– equal parts untrustworthy and pitiable.

Untrustworthy, for they cannot be examined by sanctioned telepathy, for no psyker can peer into their minds. Pitiable, for they cast a terrible pall over those about them, as their presence dampens each person's connection to the Warp. Most terribly of all, without a soul, they cannot truly receive the Emperor's blessings, which are given in the life to come.

You stop there for a moment, unable to continue. Life had never been easy for you, but you had always consoled yourself with the fact that it was never easy for anyone. You also knew that after this life, the Emperor was waiting, and that if you followed all his rules and obeyed all his servants, your soul would go in front of the Golden Throne and be judged worthy. A lifetime of tears and toil was nothing next to an eternity in paradise.

It had been some consolation on lonely nights.

Then the Inquisitor arrived at your station– your world, however small other people might call it– and then suddenly everything had changed. He had explained to you what you were, and why there had been so many of those lonely nights. Now that you've known him for a little bit, you think he was trying to break the news to you gently, which was kind of him.

All those times people had muttered 'mutant' or 'freak' under their breath, they had been right. Most of your mumbled prayers had been a waste of time and breath– you didn't have a soul for the Emperor to save. The only reason you hadn't lost it entirely was that you knew that the Emperor still existed. Your faith may have been pointless, but at least it wasn't wrong. During those terrifying moments of revelation, you had clung to that scrap of truth like a lifeline.

Then the Inquisitor had taken you into his service. He was nice enough to make the offer politely, but you held no illusions that there was any real choice being offered. Still, you had agreed with as much gratitude as you could manage under the circumstances, leaving everything and everyone you knew behind. Not that there was much to leave. You don't think you'll ever look back on those first few weeks in the Inquisition with fondness, but at the time the grueling training had been a welcome distraction from your thoughts. And you can't deny that you've learned more than you thought was possible.

For example, you now know that Interrogator Claritus can knock you out with a padded training truncheon. One-handed. Without breaking a sweat.

You've been trained to use most standard-issue Imperial weapons competently, but your favored weapon is:
[X] A lasrifle. Common, easily replaced, and very reliable.
[X] A flamer. Short-ranged but incredibly destructive.
[X] A chainsword. Incredibly deadly in close combat, if a bit unwieldy.
[X] A shock maul. Surprisingly versatile, for such a blunt instrument.
[X] Write-in.

{ }​

For a long while you just stare at the page as your mind wanders. Then you rouse yourself and read on.

The psyker is the most common way in which Mankind touches the Warp– although it is certainly not the only one. The method by which a psyker asserts their will upon the physical world is touched upon in more detail in other sources, so I shall mention it only in brief.

When a psyker wishes something to happen, they use their connection to the Warp to create a change there. Because realspace and the Warp are so deeply connected, a change there creates a change here. But what form that change takes is rarely consistent. Individual psykers find different changes easier to affect. For some, conjuring flame is second nature; for others, uncanny prescience comes quite easily.

Some psychic abilities are stranger than mere talent for one school of psychic power. Some psykers cannot use one form of power at all, often due to some kind of mental impediment. Others have peculiar gifts unique to only them. Yet others have a hereditary ability, such as the Navigator Houses provide them with the singularly unusual ability to look upon the Warp without immediate madness. Or at least, without suffering the kind of madness that leads to heresy. At the other end of things, some xenos are so inferior to humanity that they only possess one kind of psyker, and the most pathetic possess none at all.

No matter what form a psychic power takes, it is subject to the dangerous whims of the Warp (and, of course, the God-Emperor's will, should He wish to intervene). Even when wielded by the pure of heart and iron-willed, any Warp-craft can prove fickle. It must not, cannot, be relied upon. For all the boasting of witches and heretics about their psychic prowess, I find that it rarely protects them for long against a volley of lasgun shots or a bolter round to the head. And sometimes the power of a psyker even turns upon itself in strange and terrible ways. Even sanctioned psykers are at risk, should their faith waver.

For daemons live in the Warp. Such things are no threat to the pure of heart, and they cower and snivel before the terrible might of the Imperium. Yet a few of them are cunning, in their own low way. Having no great strength of their own, they will seek to beguile people away from the truth out of spite and jealousy. They will whisper sweet-sounding words into the ears of the unvigilant. Fools who listen to them teeter upon the precipice of damnation, for all daemons are liars. If you encounter a daemon, ignore it, destroy it, and purge it from your memory as best you can.

Because the Warp is their home, however, the power of daemons is somewhat greater there than it is here, and destroying them is rarely possible. They may conspire mischeviously to hinder a voidship's journey, or their incessant squabbling may disturb the Warp and make navigation difficult. Or they may flee, and leave the path forward clear. Which occurs is as much a matter of chance as anything, and it is best not to question why. Attempting to understand the mind of a daemon is as futile as it is heretical.

It cannot be emphasized enough: the Warp is fickle and dangerous. This book contains much on the physics of the Warp, such as they are, but I must caution how foolish it would be to assume that the knowledge within always holds perfectly true. With the aid of this book, you may calculate expected times for Warp travel, determine an acceptable Gellar Field strength, and so on. These tools are invaluable, but not infallible. Strange tides may dredge up fell surprises.

Place your trust in steel and faith, not science and warp-craft.

That looks like it's the end of the chapter. Isn't that last bit basically a fancy way of saying "it works until it doesn't"?

...Well, having done a fair bit of maintenance, you have to admit that sometimes that's just how things go. Besides, this is coming from another Inquisitor, from the Order that deals with the Warp, so it must be accurate.

Spoiler: roll

1d100, DC 70
75 + 0 Guile = 75
Something seems off.

Although... you had asked Interrogator Claritus about the three major Ordos, and she had been a little vague about what the Ordo Malleus fought. Ordo Hereticus and Xenos were pretty easy to understand, since their names were basically their job description, but "Order of the Hammer" doesn't really tell you very much. You know they investigate dangerous Warp stuff, but you don't really know the details.

Frowning, you leaf back through the chapter. It talks a lot about how dangerous the Warp is, and you've heard that from a lot of others too. But you realize that both the book and the rumors are kind of vague on why the Warp is so dangerous. This book seems pretty adamant that you're not going have a really big problem in the Warp unless you're stupid enough to go looking for one, and that mostly lines up with what you've heard elsewhere. Sure, if you do go and do something stupid like look at the Warp or talk to daemons you'll probably go insane or get eaten or something, and that's definitely a problem. But how many people are that brainless?

And since they become heretics, wouldn't fighting them be the Ordo Hereticus' job? Well, the author does tell you he's not going to give you more information than you need, so maybe you don't need to know the fine details. It's just... confusing, you have to admit. Hopefully the author is willing to explain more later.

You read on, looking for clarification. The next chapter is about Gellar Fields, which keep the ship safe in the Warp. It's definitely not useless; it does tell you how to measure how strong the field is (use a grav-oscilloscope or psy-auspex) and how much of the ship's power should be diverted to it (as much as you can spare), and so on. But nothing that's particularly relevant to your question, although this chapter does tell you that "unfortunate spontaneous mutations" and "intrusive auditory hallucinations" are a sign that the Gellar Field isn't working properly. So you don't have to look at the Warp for bad things to happen– you just have to lose your ship's Gellar Field.

That makes a little more sense. Maybe the Ordo Malleus' job is to kill Warp-mutants and heretics? That still seems oddly specific, though...

Spoiler: roll

1d100, DC 50
49 - 10 Inspiration = 39
It's probably fine.

But it's not your place to second-guess the Inquisition, you remind yourself sternly. If they've got an Ordo for just that, then you're sure it's for good reason. You shouldn't bother important people with pointless questions.

There are a few physics problems at the end of this chapter. It looks like this booklet also doubles as a textbook of sorts. You figure you probably should do a few of them, so you pull out a spare sheet of parchment and small pen. As you work on the problems, though, you can't shake the feeling you're missing a key piece of information.

{ }​

You can tell this book is deliberately avoiding something, and you suspect it's something important. You know it shouldn't bother you, but you still feel…
[] Uneasy. Politely ask the Inquisitor if he's willing to share any further information.
[X] Confused. Put your questions aside for now, and avoid making assumptions until you can privately ask someone who can explain.
[X] Interested. See how much you can figure out on your own before asking someone else.

Progress:
Knowledge: (The Warp) - 87/200
Knowledge: (The Threat Beyond?) - 0/???

 

[Horologer]

Name: Ariadne
Gender: Female
Species: Human, Pariah
Age: 20
Description: A taciturn Blank currently serving as a member of an Inquisitor's retinue.

Health: 4/4

Strength: 1
Dexterity: 2
Constitution: 0

Reasoning: 2
Inspiration: 0
Focus: 2

Charisma: -4
Guile: 1
Composure: 2

Background: Voidborn
Many ships traverse the void for centuries on end, and there are many stations lightyears from any habitable world. Countless people call such places home, and most of them will never set foot outside the bulkheads and passageways of the places they are born. Such people are often considered strange or even ill-omened by outsiders, but they tend to be relatively skilled workers who are used to living in hostile environments.

Child of the Long Night - Space is dark, windows are risky, and lighting is expensive. As a result, your distant ancestors developed slightly better night vision. Unfortunately, you aren't used to bright light, which you find painful and distracting. +10 bonus to perception in dark environments, and a -10 bonus to perception in very bright environments.
Room For One More - In the vastness of the galaxy, space is not at a premium, but livable space certainly is. As a result of your upbringing, you are very used to living and working in tight spaces and do not mind cramped conditions.
So Much For Gravity - You don't get nauseated or disoriented by microgravity.
Weak Immune System - Voidborn typically have little exposure to the world outside the environment of their ship or space station. While their immune systems are functional, it will take some time for them to acclimate to more varied conditions. For now, you're likely to catch something every time you get aboard a new ship or land on a planet. -1 Constitution, ???

Attributes:
Attributes are personal traits, and usually don't change much.

Aeronaut - (A dream of flight...)
Artistic - +1 Inspiration, +20 to all rolls involving art.
Aspiring - For all experience gain rolls in a skill, add +20% to that roll for each rank you already have in that skill.
Bookworm - +1 Reasoning, +20 to rolls involving lots of reading.
Friendly - (It would be nice to have friends...)
Heart of the Void - +20% to all Pariah experience gain rolls.
Iron Will - +30 bonus to rolls when under adverse conditions, such as pushing through fatigue or ignoring distractions.
Just - When you stand by what you believe is right, roll twice and take the higher result.
Lonely - (It would be nice to have anyone at all, really...)
Mathematics Savant - +50% to all mathematics experience gain rolls.
Paranoid - -1 Charisma, -20 situational malus to social rolls, ???
Pariah - See the Pariah section of the character sheet.
Shy - -1 Charisma, -20 bonus to social rolls when interacting with strangers.

Pariah:
You have a mutation called the Pariah Gene. As a result, you have no connection to the Warp. In fact, you emit something called a Null Field. This field has a number of very odd effects on reality. You don't understand much about it, although you have a limited degree of control over it. Some attributes may have effects that you are not aware of. Some skills are not listed because you are not aware that they exist. You may make a Focus roll to try and use your Null Field in a specific manner. You may attempt to use skills untrained, if you are aware that the skill exists, but you will take penalties for doing so.
Normal penalties to combat apply. All Null abilities are Forbidden unless otherwise noted.

[Eyeblinder] [Innate] - You can't be directly detected or located by psychic powers. People in your immediate vicinity are also subject to this effect. Indirect attempts to detect or locate you are massively more difficult.
[Psychic Abomination] [Innate]- Your Null field presses down upon the souls of others, filling them with an instinctive revulsion and fear. You take a -50 -20 penalty on all social rolls where you attemp to make a positive impression on someone else, and (???)
[Soul Singularity] [Innate]- Psykers are even more strongly affected your presence than others. They have difficulty accessing the Warp and using their powers. The closer you are, the stronger this effect.
[Limiter] [Implant] - You have received augmentations that interface with your brain. When activated, they mitigate the effects of your Null field. You are unaware of any specifics beyond that.

[Nameless Fear] - [502/1300] until complete.
[Touch of the Untouchable] - [94/1500?] until complete.

Skills:
Unless otherwise stated, skills add a bonus to relevant rolls equal to the level of the skill times ten. Weapons bonuses only apply to-hit.

[Combat Experience] - +10 to most combat-related rolls.
[Electronics] (Lv. 1) - [0/200] to next level.
[Engineering] (Lv. 1) - [0/200] to next level.
[Literacy: Low Gothic] - You can read and write Low Gothic.
[Mathematics] (Lv. 2) - [0/400] to next level.
[Mechanics] (Lv.l 2) - [0/400] to next level.
[Physics: the Warp]* - You understand the nature of Warp on a scientific level. (But you feel like you're missing something important...)
[Sketching] (Lv. 1) - [0/200] to next level.
[Weapons Expertise: Laser Rifle] (Lv. 2) - [276/400] to next level.
[Weapons Training: Basic Imperial] - You know how to use the most common weapons in the Imperium, and can operate them without penalties.

Skills marked with an asterisk are Forbidden.

Pending Skills:
[The Threat Beyond?]* - 0/??? [Stalled]

 

[Horologer]

"Carpe Diem."
– Horace, Odes

{ }​

You awaken with a start as the shuttle's engines activate. You must have dozed off...

Hastily stuffing your book and pen in your pocket, you peer out the window. The hangar is already mostly empty, and the few people left in it are quickly leaving. Lights are blinking above every door, warning everyone that the hangar will soon be depressurizing. As you watch, the last few people exit, sealing the doors behind them.

There's a faint hiss that fades as the pumps evacuate the last of the air. Then, with a deep rumbling sound that makes the shuttle vibrate slightly, the hangar doors slide open, flooding the shuttle with light.

Leaning forward and squinting into the glare, you can barely make out more than white patches with something darker between them. Before you can take a better look, you're shoved back into your seat as the shuttle suddenly accelerates out the hangar. You let out a little yelp of surprise, and it sounds like you're not the only one caught off guard, as Interrogator Karst lets out a slightly strangled-sounding curse.

You close your eyes and grope around in your pocket for your sunglasses. Putting them on, you peer out again. Even behind the dark glasses, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and you can't see much more than the patches of white. You peer at them more closely, noting their strange, irregular textures: here they look almost like bubbles, there they look more like the stroke of a paintbrush.

Clouds, you realize. You're looking at clouds. Now that you can see them a bit more clearly, you can tell they're floating off the ground. Giant chunks of white the size of entire voidships simply levitating in the air, casting immense shadows across the surface of the world.

Some tiny part of you knows that they're just condensed vapor, not truly solid, but that means nothing to you right now. You simply stare, awestruck, at the drifting giants.

The shuttle's engines stop for a moment, and you suddenly realize that you've been so busy gaping at the clouds you haven't thought to look at what lies beneath them. You look again. The darker surface of the planet is less clear, but what you can see…

Words fail you entirely. You see patches of dark blue slide past, now and then glittering with refracted light, which can only be water. Patches of green that might be forests intermingle with patches of grey and brown. Those must be cities, judging by the smoke coming off them. As the shuttle gets closer, you think you can even pick out the largest of the individual buildings.

Then the world tilts away from you as the shuttle pulls up, the beautiful vista replaced with the more familiar expanse of space. Even if you sit up as tall as you can and crane your head, all you can see is the faintly curving horizon, hazy blue. Glancing up, you look for any familiar stars, but you know it's futile. You're hundreds of light-years from home. If any of the stars you know are visible, they're going to be faint and in the wrong place.

A few minutes later, you notice something sticking up over the planet's horizon. You can guess what it is long before it's clearly visible. A hive city. At first, all you can see are the topmost spires: massive spikes of metal jutting halfway to space. Then you can see the upper hive itself, glittering with countless lights. Then the hive city proper, a man-made mountain sloping away from the spires until it becomes lost in the clouds that swirl around the city's base.

As you approach, you can pick out more and more details. Smokestacks loom out of the clouds, some of them larger than entire hab-blocks. Buildings are crammed together like candles on a shrine, so densely packed that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. As the shuttle flies over the edges of the hive, you can make out the haphazard web of wires, pipes, and vents that seems to coat the city like a second skin.

Then the shuttle reaches the upper spires, the tallest of which are so monumental that the shuttle flies between them instead of above them. You don't get a good look, though, because the shuttle quickly reaches the landing pad, touching down with a faint thud. You tear your eyes away from the spectacular view, take a deep breath, and steel yourself for what's coming. It's going to be a long day.

{ }​

The shuttle's ramp makes a slight clunk as it hits the ground, and the wind of a new world blows in through the opening.

Spoiler: roll

DC 40
1d100 = 57 + 0 Constitution = 57
Fine, but not happy.

And by the Emperor, it smells terrible! The air has an acrid odor so strong that feels like it's searing your throat and lungs. You cough a few times, bending over, and your eyes water. You've never smelled anything as foul as this. The only comparison that comes to mind is the time someone forgot to change the atmospheric filters aboard the station.

You straighten up and look out. The view is even better from this angle, but you're a little too nervous to properly appreciate it right now. The landing pad has a short walkway leading to what you guess must be the governor's palace. On either side, an honor guard of soldiers have drawn up, three ranks deep. As the Inquisitor steps out, they salute and shout something that you don't quite catch over the wind.

As you walk down the pathway to the palace, you glance at the honor guard, and note that they're all very carefully staring past your little group, rather than at you. That's probably a good idea. It's what you'd do in their shoes.

{ }​

The inside of the governor's palace smells much more pleasant. The air is thicker and smells vaguely floral. Art decorates the pastel-colored walls, and carefully chiseled sculptures line the hallways. You don't have time to appreciate it, though, as the Inquisitor strides quickly from room to room.

Eventually, you reach an enormous pair of doors with a guard on each side. The guards bow to the Inquisitor and speak. "Hail and well-met. We shall not obstruct you, but it is tradition for all of those who enter the Hall of Magnates for the first time to state their name and intentions. We humbly beg that you honor us by doing the same."

"That will be no problem at all," says the Inquisitor calmly. "I am Inquisitor Cleistos. I come here on behalf of the Emperor of Man, to fulfil my sacred duties."

The guards bow again, then walk in front of the doors and grasp their enormous handles. Despite being almost forty feet tall and made out of what must be solid wood, the doors swing open with barely a sound, although you think the guards are straining a bit.

The sound of conversation drifts in from the room behind. "...the Arbites have long known there is some lurking heresy in the lower hive– well, beyond the heresies that down-hivers are naturally predisposed towards, anyway– and have been taking steps towards eradicating it."

"Good, good. Do you have any details?" You recognize Interrogator Iona's voice.

"I am afraid not, but I believe the Chief Arbitrator can offer greater specifics, although I'm afraid they're all a little busy at the–"

The conversation abruptly halts as the Inquisitor enters the room.

Walking in behind him, you take in the scene before you. The room is round, with a vaulted dome covered in murals. At the center of the room is a raised platform with a semicircle of what you can only describe as thrones, each of which is currently occupied. Around the platform are rings of seats for… spectators, maybe? But all of them are empty right now, thankfully.

As the Inquisitor approaches the platform, the people sitting on the thrones stand up and bow slightly at the Inquisitor, who nods in return.

"Inquisitor," says Iona, "I have the very great pleasure of introducing you to the foremost citizens of this world."

"First, Governor Theodorus Dei," she gestures at a slightly overweight man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a slightly boyish face, who smiles and nods as he is introduced.

"Lord Aridus Sidereum," a man who looks a little like he's been rolled out of bed, despite his finery, but he still gives the Inquisitor a dazzling smile. "Lord Leo Castitas," is a small, thin man whose smile is far more nervous than the governor's. "Lord Rufus Palus," looks slightly bored, but "Lady Rosa Aquilarum" has the grin of someone who's just been told they're getting double rations for a week.

"Lady Lily Veritas," turns out to be an old woman looking right at you with a shrewd sort of look that makes you distinctly uncomfortable. As Iona finishes by introducing one "Lord Thell Mors," who completely fails to make any sort of impression, you fight the urge to squirm or stare back at her.

Spoiler

DC 40 + 20 Paranoia = DC 60
1d100 = 37 + 20 Composure + 20 Determined = 77
Hold it together...

No. You grit your teeth and stand still. You're not going to embarrass yourself on your first mission out.

"I am afraid that the head of the Arbites is currently preoccupied putting down a riot. The lords inform me that rumors of our arrival have been leaked, and some recidivists panicked. Lord David Angelos would also be here–" Iona gestures at an empty seat– "but it seems he is not feeling well in his old age."

"That is unfortunate, but it is a great pleasure to meet you all," says the Inquisitor calmly. To your relief, Lady Veritas' gaze turns to him. "With your cooperation, I am certain this will be resolved satisfactorily and with minimal difficulty. Unfortunately, as you have doubtlessly gathered from Interrogator Iona's questions, I do not know as much as I would like about the… challenges… this world faces. I received your astropathic call for aid, but while my astropath was able to determine where it was from, he could not determine the contents with any great clarity."

Spoiler: roll

DC 40 - 20 Insider = DC 20
1d100: 7 + 0 Guile = 7
Nope. Be strong in your ignorance.

The lords glance at each other, clearly confused. You're momentary thrown as well, until it clicks. Right. He's bluffing about receiving a message. He came here because he got a report from somebody, not because of a distress call. But he doesn't want the nobles to know that, and you're not sure why. "With utmost respect, Inquisitor," the governor says carefully, "I do not believe that any such message was sent."

"Impossible," says the Inquisitor briskly, "that astropath was one of the finest I have ever worked with, and was exacting in his duties. While he was martyred before he could fully decipher the message, he was quite certain that it came from this planet."

"Then it was not sent with my blessing," says the governor, "and although I am glad as ever to have the honor of hosting the Inquisition, there is no great task I require your assistance with. As far as I know the majority of my citizens are innocent."

"If that is so, my visit here will be short," sighs the Inquisitor. "Very well, let us make this swift, then. I have a few more questions for you, but I am sure I will have many more for the astropaths at your command. Navigator Tasman, if you would go to them?"

"Of course, Inquisitor," says the Navigator smoothly. "I will also make enquiries with my fellow Navigators on this planet. Perhaps they will have more information."

He turns to the rest of you. "Interrogator Karst, take the rest of my entourage. I trust you to find a suitable task for them while I am otherwise occupied."

"Sir," says Karst, and nods. You follow him out the chamber as the Inquisitor turns back to the assembled nobility.

{ }​

You follow Interrogator Karst through a maze of rooms to what must be the Inquisitor's temporary command center. A group of Tempestus Scions are standing at attention beside the door, and they salute as Interrogator Karst approaches. "At ease," he says, and then gestures for you to remain outside. You stand awkwardly a few paces from the Tempestus Scions and just wait for a few minutes.

"So," mutters one of the Scions, "this'll be a short stay, right?" They all laugh.

"Hey, don't be a buzzkill. Maybe Karst will get us planetside leave this time," says one of them.

"Well, careful what you wish for," another retorts. "We technically got leave last time, remember?"

"Yeah, but at least–" the other Scion stops abruptly as the door opens and the Interrogator walks out.

"Good news," says Karst cheerfully. "You're being deployed." He nods at you. "And you're going with them."

The Scions glance at you, but if they're uncomfortable about you tagging along, they give no sign of it. "Yessir," one of them says. "Where to?"

{ }​

Where are you going?
[X] "Lord Angelos' mansion. He's not coming to us, so we're going to him."
[X] "The underhive. Arbites have been keeping tabs on a suspected witch for a while now, and Telos thinks she might have intel."
[X] "Governor Dei's artifact collection. It looks like someone stole a few items, so Iona's going to go investigate."

 

[Horologer]

"You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."
– Obi-Wan Kenobi, A New Hope

{ }​

"We need more guns in this fight," says Telos abruptly, looking up from the papers she's been hunched over.

"With respect," begins the Arbites standing next to her, but Telos interrupts him.

"Let me finish. I have no doubt we can win this battle, but with the resistance we're up against, there will be casualties. Arbites don't grow on trees, Chief. Neither do Scions, for that matter." She glances over her shoulder. "And between you and me," she says in a quieter voice, "we may need every reliable soldier we can get in the next few days. We're not sure how high up this goes."

The Chief Arbitrator nods slowly and thinks for a moment. "PDF will take too long to get here, and the local enforcers aren't going to show up for something like this," he says. "Did you have something else in mind?"

"We've got a hive full of stubber-sucking gangsters. Find me some."

"This far down, ma'am?" the Chief says, clearly taken aback. "These rats wouldn't attack a hardened position for love or money."

"Then conscript them," Telos says irritably. "They'll be doing their duty for once in their lives. Shooting things up is their only skill, so we might as well make use of it. If they whine, you've got a shock maul. And if the cowards try to run, you have a bolt pistol."

"I can probably find some, but I have to warn you that the quality will likely be poor, even by what passes for standards in this pit."

"I don't care. They don't need to be good. All they need to do is shoot at the enemy and take bullets meant for us. Just get them fast. The more, the better."

The Arbites nods. "Understood, ma'am. I'll see what I can find." He turns and walks out, surprisingly quiet for someone wearing heavy carapace armor.

Telos turns to you. "Blank, your job is to not die. Your orders are to stick with me and follow my orders. And then once we see the witch, you grab the witch. Don't kill her, we need to extract answers from her first. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Interrogator," you reply dutifully.

Telos gives a satisfied nod and turns back towards the window. "Throne, it's a relief not to be talked back to," she mutters. If you hadn't had the habit thoroughly beaten out of you, you'd be rolling your eyes right now. If she thought the Chief Arbitrator was talking back to her, you wonder how she's avoided executing everyone beneath her for insubordination.

"This place really is a pit," grumbles Telos, still facing the window. Much as you'd like to disagree with her, she's not wrong. The building you're in is a covert Arbites safehouse, so it's reasonably clean and heavily reinforced, but outside…

You turn to the window. From here, you have an excellent view of the district, which is only slightly impeded by the grime coating the outside of the windowpane. This particular district is nestled inside the superstructure of the hive. If you look up, you can see the ceiling, a grim grey slab of metal stretching across the entire width of the district.

The sheer height of the ceiling is unnerving. You remind yourself that on planets, a ceiling stays a ceiling. The gravity's not at risk of going out or being turned off. Or being reversed because some idiot installed something backwards again. Up is always the same direction; there's no risk of falling or floating away. It's fine. You're fine.

The city below the ceiling is less unsettling. This area is built on some kind of platform raised above the planet's surface. Small buildings carpet the "ground", squeezed between the narrow streets and the enormous support pillars that dot the area. At the center of the district sprawls a tangle of piping and scaffolding that might be some kind of refinery. The air down here is so hazy that you can't actually see the edges of the district from here, and so polluted you need to wear a mask to avoid coughing your lungs up. Even through the window, you can hear the dull roar of machinery and the steady thrum of generators.

Looking out into the distance, it's hard to believe that people truly live here, breathing the brown air and trudging the filthy streets. But they manage, somehow. You peer down. The streets far below are so crowded that you can't even see the pavement. It occurs to you that right now, you're probably looking at more people than all the other people you've ever seen before in your life, all put together. It's a disconcerting thought.

{ }​

Spoiler: Recruitment rolls

Quantity?
DC: 30 / 60 / 90
1d100 = 96 + 10 Don't care who = 106
No shortage of warm bodies.
2d10 = 4, 6 = 10
2d10 = 3, 7 = 10
2d10 = 5, 8 = 13
33 gangsters as 'reinforcements'.

Quality?
DC 30 / 60 / 90
1d100 = 55 - 10 Press-ganged = 45
Low.

Rally the troops?
DC 50
1d100 = 5 + 40 Charisma - 20 Arrogant + 10 Command = 35
nope.mp4

Your opinion on the gangsters?
DC 40 / 80
1d100 = 73 + 0 Guile - 20 Paranoid = 53
Suspicious.

The building's courtyard is packed with gangsters. They smell of cheap lho sticks and cheaper alcohol. They wear a wide range of frankly ridiculous hairstyles that sharply clash with their drab clothing. All of them have the wiry bodies of laborers that don't quite eat enough to truly bulk out, and are covered in tattoos of varying quality and taste. To complete the stereotype, they're also armed to the teeth with stubbers, knives, and stubbers with knives.

Normally, this would be the point at which you turn around, walk out the door, and let them be somebody else's problem. Unfortunately, in this case the Inquisition is that "somebody else", so you can't do that. Fortunately, they're on your side. Kind of. In theory. You're still keeping both eyes on them. The last time you ran into a gang… You shudder a little and tug your coat into place. Well, you're glad that you're wearing flak armor.

Telos has been giving the gangsters a lecture for the past couple minutes. You think it's supposed to be an inspiring speech, but it's falling pretty flat. Not that you're one to talk about bad speeches, but this would probably work better if Telos didn't obviously despise her audience.

"Now," Telos says coolly, "I understand that you were just shooting at each other, and that this is quite a lot to take in for people of your class. But the Emperor, in His infinite grace, gives us countless ways to serve and countless paths towards that service." Telos pauses for a moment to give the gangsters a very insincere smile.

The assembled gangsters give each other nervous glances. Earlier, the three gangs were hissing insults and making gestures at each other. Now they're quiet and still. Mostly still, anyway. Apparently the Arbites had found these gangs caught in a three-way firefight, so some of them are probably still coming down off an adrenaline high. Or coming down off of a regular high, now that you think about it. You've heard rumors that gangs load up on stims before getting into a shootout.

"Succeed," Telos says, "and I will personally ensure you are rewarded. Not that you should require it, I should hope," and a disdainful note creeps into her voice, "but if that is what it takes to motivate those whose faith is lacking, so be it."

"Fail," Telos says conversationally, "and you will be making your excuses to the Emperor in person." Wow. And you thought they looked nervous before. "Any questions about the orders I have given you?" Unsurprisingly, the gangsters keep their mouths shut. "Good. Follow the Arbites. Do whatever they tell you to. The Scions are also your superiors, so if they give you an order, obey them too. And remember, do not shoot the witch."

{ }​

Your group marches along the back streets. Everyone is covered in drab cloth hoods and cloaks to make your arrival a little less obvious, but anyone who looks carefully can tell that some of you are wearing serious armor underneath. The faint clank of guns against armor is another dead giveaway for those close enough to hear it over the noise of the hive. The crowd practically jumps out of your way as you cross the district, so you make good time.

Spoiler: How sneaky are you?

DC 60
1d100 = 83 - 10 Obvious - 10 Enemy lookouts = 63
Sneaky enough.

You eventually stop just around the corner from a small hab-block. The building is a plain chunk of unpainted plasticrete. The crenellations and facade seem to have been carelessly bolted on, and here and there you can see places where they've fallen off and haven't been replaced. Half of its handful of windows have been boarded up or bricked closed. In short, the building's drab, run-down, and utterly unremarkable. The only signs of anything unusual are the two gangsters standing by the front entrance.

Looking over your shoulder, you can see the Tempestus Scions and Arbites slipping on their helmets and tossing aside their dirty cloaks. The gangsters check over their stubbers, and a few of them nervously make the sign of the aquila. As you look down at your lasrifle and mutter a quick litany to its Machine Spirit, you feel your heart beginning to beat a little faster. It's happening. Your first real battle. What are you going to do?

{ }​

How will you act during this skirmish?
[X] Aggressively. You can keep safe and still prove your worth.
[X] Flexibly. Just keep an eye out for any opportunities.
[X] Carefully. Keep your head down until you're needed.

 

[Horologer]

"We don't make mistakes, just happy little accidents."
– Bob Ross.

{ }​

You decide to just stick with your instructions. Going above and beyond might earn you some credit, but it could also get you killed. Not like Telos would care until she had to explain it to the Inquisitor. For now, you'll leave the shooting to the experts.

"Cordon squad," Telos says in a low voice, "assume positions." A small detachment of Arbites and Scions quietly move out down a side alleyway.

A minute later, Telos taps her earpiece and nods. Then she suddenly walks forward, steps around the corner of the building you're standing next to, and fires her bolt pistol twice. "Go!" she shouts, and the gangsters surge forward like a human wave, with Telos right behind them. You sprint after her, and you can hear the remaining Arbites and Scions following.

Spoiler: Are you sneaky?

DC 60 (Difficult)
1d100 = 25 - 20 Shots fired + 20 Loud in here + 10 No lookouts - 10 ??? = 25
No, you are not.

As you round the street corner, you can hear shouts coming from inside the building– apparently, the deaths of the guards didn't go unnoticed. Telos swears something under her breath, and then roars "For the Emperor!" Everyone else takes up the cry, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. As you run into the building, you catch a glimpse of the enemy guards' bodies, slumped against a blood-splattered wall, but before you can do more than note their presence, you're inside.

The corridor is just wide enough for four people to pass side-by-side without touching, and just tall enough for the soldiers in carapace armor to walk without issue. The group slows down a lot due to the close quarters, moving more at a hurried walk than a sprint. Which is good, because you can't really see what's going on in front of the crowd and you don't want to trip over anything. The press of people is pretty dense, and even though most of the gangsters are actually shorter than you, their hair gives them an extra couple of inches.

The column suddenly screeches to a halt as the sound of gunfire fills the air. You still can't see what's happening at the front, but since that's where the sound is coming from, someone must be shooting at the enemy. Since nobody's dying and no bullets are flying overhead, they must not be shooting back. "Emperor's teeth," growls Telos, and begins elbowing her way towards the front. "If they're not shooting at you, then move, Warp take you!", she shouts, as she disappears into the crowd. Your orders are not to get shot, so you'll just wait for her here.

You glance around nervously, just in case. Fortunately, this section of the corridor seems fine. Relatively speaking, anyway: the inside of this place isn't any better than the outside. Most of the electric lighting on the ceiling has burned out, although it looks like someone's replaced a few lights recently. The wall and ceiling are a particularly nauseous shade of brown, but you're sure it's just encrusted smog, not paint. You don't think anyone's ever bothered to paint a square inch of the interior walls.

Your internal monologue on the finer points of Hive architecture is suddenly interrupted when someone up front gives off a yell, and the battle begins in earnest.

Spoiler: Notes on combat.

Combat is messy, and no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Nothing is ever as clean or easy as it looks on paper, and sometimes whether plans succeed or fail hinges purely on luck. Or the favor of higher powers, if you prefer. Skill is still vital, since even the slightest advantage can mean the difference between life and death, but it's not as decisive.
Characters and units in combat are considered to be under pressure. Characters or units under pressure have halved modifiers from their stats, attributes, and skills unless otherwise noted. Characters without the relevant training or experience will take additional penalties while under pressure. Traits or abilities alter the modifier for being under pressure.

Anyway:
What's goin' on?
DC 40 (Easy)
12 + 10 Focus = 22
And I say AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

The first thing you learn about combat is that it's loud. Extremely loud. Instantly, people are shouting at each other and the chatter of gunfire is almost constant, occasionally interspersed with the hissing crack of hellgun fire or the booming report of an Arbites' shotgun. Deafening is the only word you can think of that even comes close to doing it justice. You can barely hear Telos' shouted instructions over the din, and you strain to pick out the meaning of her words. You can't even tell where the shooting is coming from.

Spoiler: Combat Round 1:

Strategy time!
Attacker: 62 + 30 Telos - 30 Tactical Constraints = 62
Defender: 87 + ??? = ???
Attackers advance

You're not directly involved in this combat, so I'll just simplify these rolls a bit...
How are we all doing?
Enemy: 54 + 10 Defender = 64 Fine.

vs.

Gangsters: 61 - 10 Meatshields - 10 and they know it = 41 Badly.
Arbites: 95 + 5 Meatshielded +30 Quality = 130 Fantastic.
Scions: 86 + 5 Meatshielded + 30 Quality = 121 Excellent.

The crowd begins jostling forward. As you follow, you look over your shoulder and see that the Arbites have turned around and are shooting at someone behind them. Oh. They must have ambushed you from both sides…

You turn back around and freeze. Just in front of you, someone is lying face down in a pool of blood. They're not wearing any armor, so it's not one of the Arbites or Scions, but still… Are they alive or dead? Are they friendly? Should you help them? Can you? For one terrible moment, you stand there, torn with indecision.

Then, carefully keeping your gaze on the backs of the advancing gangsters, you step over the body. You have a job to do. Can't get distracted. But a few seconds later, you nearly stumble over another person, this time facing upward, and even out of the corner of your eyes, you can tell that they're definitely dead.

Again, for a split second, you hesitate, caught between fear and shame. It seems cruel to just step over the body of a soldier without even giving them a second glance, especially after passing over someone who might still be alive. But you've got nightmares enough as it is, and it's not like looking at this person will actually change anything. Oh, this is so stupid. Why are you having this problem now of all times?

...
[X] Look.
[X] Do not.

{ }​

Something must be going right, because you're still moving forward. The shooting dies down, and the pace picks up again. As you move forward, you pass room after room on either side. The doors of most of them are open or missing, giving you a chance to glance in, even if only for a second or two. They're all tiny bedrooms, barely large enough to hold a bed. Each is no different from any other part of this building. Greasy brown walls occasionally marked with dribbles of grease or ancient rust. Disintegrating furniture that all seems to have broken down at different times, but in all the same places. Floors worn smooth and then rough again by the march of countless feet.

If you had to summarize this place in a word, that word would be used. Not used in the sense of a beloved and reliable old tool, but used up, like a screw with its threads stripped, or an ancient battery that can barely hold a spark. Whatever happens here, you're not going to miss this place.

The corridor abruptly ends in a slightly larger room with a few other hallways leading out of it. At the center of the room is a stairway leading upwards. A few of the gangsters are peering down the hallways, guns in hand, clearly getting ready to shoot anything that shows its face. Most of them are forming a group surrounding Telos, who is giving them a lecture. Or maybe some orders. It's hard to tell.

"...don't care who they say they are, you shoot them. No exceptions. If you're soft enough to feel bad about it, apologize to the corpse later. Make sure you clear out the entire floor you're assigned to. Anyone here is a heretic who will kill you if you let them live, assuming they get the chance before the Arbites uncover your treachery. Is that clear?" A muttered chorus of "yes, ma'am" answers her. Some of them don't even seem to have it in them to respond at all, and just mutely nod along with her. You can practically smell the fear in the room.

You wonder uneasily what exactly you missed during the earlier shootout. These gangsters were surly and afraid before, but as you take a closer look around, you can see some of them visibly shaking. Suddenly, Telos grabs you by the shoulder. "Turn your limiters down by half," she says quietly, a grim look on her face. "Something's not quite right with this place."

You oblige with a sense of relief. Telos grimaces, and you can see a couple people flinch at the corner of your vision. Oops. It might've been better to turn them down gradually. "That's better," Telos says, although she sounds like she's trying to convince herself more than you. You take a closer look at her and… is Telos afraid? Her face is impassive, but her eyes are darting around quickly.

You look around too, but although you think even the Arbites are looking twitchy, you don't see anything wrong. As Telos begins drawing together a group of Arbites and gangsters to escort her as she cleans out the upper level, you're quietly glad that you chose to be cautious. As you head up the stairs, you can hear gunfire begin to start up on the level below. You realize that you didn't see any Scions in the room below. A little voice in the back of your head wonders where they got off to, but you find that you don't really care all that much about that. At this stage you're just hoping that Telos fights better than she talks.

{ }​

Spoiler: Are you any sneakier this time?

Do they hear you coming?
DC 40 (Easy)
d100 = 16 + 20 Obvious - 20 Loud in here = 16
Nope.

DC 40 (Easy)
Do you hear them coming?
d100 = 34 - 20 Loud in here = 14
It's just not a good day for anyone.

Your group encounters the enemy almost immediately. You all turn the first corner in the hallway, and then suddenly you run into them. Literally. You're at the back, so you don't see the moment when it happens, but you can hear the thump and the cursing. And as you round the corner a split second later, you see your gang facing down a bunch of equally shocked enemies in stunned silence. For a split second, you note with bizarre calm that these people look almost exactly like the gangsters standing right beside you, and quietly regret not memorizing everyone's faces. Then you bring your lasrifle up and all hell breaks lose.

Spoiler: fight!

Who goes first?
Enemy: 7 - 20 Surprised = -13
Telos: 74 + 15 Focus + 10 Veteran - 20 Surprised = 79
Arbites: 7 + 10 Focus + 10 Veteran - 20 Surprised = 7
Gangsters: 11 - 20 Surprised = -9
You: 95 + 10 Focus - 20 Surprised = 85
You > Telos > Arbites > Enemy > Gangsters

babby's first shootout:
DC 70 - 20 Fish in a barrel + 20 Stuck in the back = 70
45 + 10 Focus + 5 Expertise: Lasrifle = 60.
you tried

Does Telos fight better than she talks?
DC 70 - 20 Fish in a barrel = 50.
Telos: 66 + 5 Strength + 15 Expertise: Chainsword = 86
Damage: 2d6 + 1 = 8
mook is kill

Everyone else rolled so badly that they didn't attack this round.

It should be a simple matter to shoot the enemy, but the people in front are blocking your aim and the person right in front of you makes the angle awkward and– well, your shot goes wide, sizzling against the roof of the hall.

Telos takes that as a cue to fire up her chainsword, and oh seven hells in the Warp that's a lot of blood. You flinch back and manage to only get splattered a little, but you're pretty sure everyone in front of you gets a faceful.

Spoiler: Interrupt:

Locating: 97 + ??? = Enough.
Power: 79 + ??? = Enough.
Control: 5 + ??? = Uh...

How much Fun are we having today?
d100 = 70
A lot of Fun.

Heads or tails?
Heads.

Think fast: DC 80 (Challenging)
68 + 10 Focus + 10 Defensive = 88
Success!

Containing the fallout?
1
...you successfully have a lot of Fun.

You only get the briefest warning about what happens next, and then several things happen all at once. You have vague sense of something only a few feet in front of you, barely enough to put you on your guard. A malignant light blooms between Telos and the enemy, moving towards you. Just as suddenly as it appeared, it halts with a crackling noise and a sudden brightening. In that same moment, some deep-seated reflex takes over, and you deactivate your implants completely, blasting out a wave of anti-psychic energy.

The presence in front of you lurches, flickering once. Then without warning, there's a blinding flare of light and a tremendous crack. You're thrown back by an unseen force, landing hard enough to knock your rifle from your hands, and everything goes dark.

You immediately open your eyes, but you don't see anything. It's black as the void, and you can't hear a thing over the ringing in your ears. You take a breath and start coughing. Your mask blocks the worst of it, but the air is thick with dust, and the air reeks of ozone. You blink repeatedly, but it doesn't seem to make any difference whether your eyes are open or closed. You sit up and scrabble around in your coat for a flashlight. After a panic-stricken moment, you find one and flick it on.

Nothing happens. You try again. The flashlight stubbornly refuses to turn on. You don't think you're injured, but you have a horrible feeling that could change in an instant. You can't see, you can't hear, you have no weapon, and you're in a building full of enemies. All you can do is grope about in the dark.

What do you do first?
[X] Try to find a place to take cover.
[X] Try to find someone.
-[X] Telos. Let her figure this mess out.
-[X] An Arbites. One should be close by.
-[X] Anyone friendly. You don't care who.
[X] Try to find your gun. It can't have gone far.
[X] Write-in.

 

[Horologer]

"War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it."
– William Sherman.

Content Warning: Violence, death.

{ }​

You immediately get on your knees and begin patting down the ground around you, but you only find grit, gravel, and bare concrete. You come up emptyhanded, and shove down panic as you expand your search area. Surely, it can't have gone far. Can't it?

Things go from bad to worse when your side suddenly flares with pain and you go sprawling. Then your breath gets knocked straight out of your lungs as something heavy lands on your back. And then when you try to get up, the person on your back frantically scrambles off of you, knocking you back down. You can hear them cursing as they get to their feet, so either your hearing is improving, or they've got a very impressive set of lungs. Then someone else trips over your thigh and they go down too. Yeah, your hearing is definitely improving.

You still can't see a thing, and at this point all you know is that you're going to be very sore tomorrow. If you live that long. Strangely, these collisions are just a little reassuring, despite the circumstances. You're not actually alone. There's somebody between you and the people who want to shoot you.

You get on your hands and knees to try searching again. Then someone trips over you. Again. This one just kicks your foot a little, but you decide it's time to cut your losses and get out of the way before you get trampled. You press yourself against the wall, listening as various people start running into each other. You strain your ears to listen for the sound of someone stepping on your lasrifle.

Your effort is rewarded when you hear a faint clatter off to your right. You reach out, and after a few seconds of grasping at air, you grab onto the barrel of your lasrifle. You clumsily feel it over as best you can in the total darkness, passing grimy fingers over its cold metal surface. As far as you can tell, it's intact. Good. You breathe out a shaky sigh of relief.

You replay the events of the past minute in your head. The sudden light that must have been the witch trying to do something. You tried to shut it down, suddenly there was an explosion of some sort, and now there's this darkness. This situation doesn't seem natural. Your flashlight didn't do anything, so either it's broken or there's something psychic going on.

If your flashlight is broken, there's not much you can do. But if this is psychic interference...

You concentrate on shoving the darkness away, pouring your power into the area around you. Go away, you think. Go. Away.

People start shouting, and now there's a definite note of panic in their voices. You hear a sudden commotion off to your left. You fervently hope that whatever's happening there is the enemy's problem. You don't even know whether your left is in the enemy's direction: you've completely lost track of which direction is which by now. You push harder. Your head feels like it's getting pricked by a thousand ice-cold needles. The electronics in your skull sputter and hiss in protest, static electricity sparking between the wires running down your neck. And yet... you feel almost giddy, despite the increasing panic surrounding you.

"Turn it off," you can hear Telos yelling over the noise. "Blank! Turn it off!"

"What?" you say.

"Whatever you are doing," Telos shouts, "stop it!" You turn your limiters back on, and soon the hallway is almost eerily silent. In the distance, you can hear shouting and crashing, but this hallway is quiet. You can hear Telos' footsteps as she walks over to you. "Blank," Telos hisses in a shaky voice, "never do that–" Then she stops short. "Restrain yourself," she finishes, with a surprising lack of vehemence.

You hear heavy bootsteps approaching. From the faint clank of armor, you guess this must be one of the Arbites. "Interrogator," says someone in a low voice, "what in the name of all that was holy was that?"

"The witch tried something and failed spectacularly. Then our Blank... got a little overzealous. Beyond that, I can't say. Arbitrator, is your equipment malfunctioning as well?" You blink. So you weren't the only one?

"Everything more complicated than a club seems to have jammed or gone inert," whispers the Arbitrator. "No idea why."

"Damnation. Must be psychic backlash," mutters Telos angrily. "I hate when this happens. It's almost as annoying as when the psyker succeeds. With our luck, the idiot witch probably blew out all the lighting in the building permanently. This is the worst I've ever seen, but I'm sure it will wear off eventually. Still, we're blind for now, and equipped with little more than cudgels. Fortunately, our enemies are in the same situation." If the witch accidentally disabled everything mechanical in the building, that would explain why your flashlight wouldn't turn on. And why you haven't heard any gunfire yet, come to think of it. They must be having a brawl downstairs instead of a shootout.

"Speaking of which, where did they go?" says the Arbites.

"Our recruits seem to mostly have cut and run after the explosion. They will pay for that later, but we don't have time to round them up right now. We will have to make do with the few that have kept their courage. The witch's gangsters seem to have panicked and fled when the Blank did... " Telos pauses. "Actually, what did you do, Blank?"

"...tried to make the dark go away," you say quietly, your heart sinking.

There's a pause for a moment after that, and you can practically hear the irritation on Telos' face. Then she sighs. "At least you made the enemy flee, so I guess your... presence... has been useful so far," says Telos. "More than I can say for the gangsters. Certainly not a high bar to clear, but I suppose it's something. Turns out the little rats are afraid of illusions and loud noises, apparently. How many of you are still here? Four? Well, I'm glad that you aren't afraid of a few parlor tricks or the lights going out." Thank the Emperor. She's too busy being mad at the gangsters to properly focus her attention on you.

"Arbitrators," she continues, "you have performed truly excellently thus far. Keep it up. Despite these unexpected setbacks, we are still in a good location, and we can't let all this slow us down. We have to keep going: the witch must be close. Blank, limiters to half. With luck, we'll get the drop on the witch, and if you do that thing again, I am sure we will succeed." She pauses for a moment. You hear a distant explosion. A few seconds later, the building shudders ominously. "Forward," says Telos tersely.

Spoiler: various rolls

Ariadne: find gun (DC 50) = 46 Failure.
Telos: find Ariadne (DC 70) = 63 Failure.
Arbites: find each other (DC 60) = 83 Success.
Gangsters: find each other (DC 50) = 15 Failure.
Enemy: reorganize (DC 80) = 17 Failure.

Morale check: (Threaten to retreat at 20, lowers at 60.)
Ariadne: 58 + 10 Determined = 68 Fine.
Telos: 35 + 10 Determined + 10 Veteran + 15 Fanatic = 65 Fine.
Arbites: 83 + 15 Quality + 10 Zealous = 98 Fine.
Gangsters: 9 - 10 Wavering = -1 Retreating...
Enemy: 45 = 45 Shaken.

Gangsters roll to resist fear: DC 50 + 21 (Margin of failure) = DC 71
17, 36, 97, 5, 63, 64, 37, 100, 5, 41, 88, 29 = 3 + 1 (crit) = 4
Four stay, nine flee.

Ariadne: find gun (DC 50) = 76 Success.
Telos: find Ariadne (DC 70) = 17 Failure.
Arbites: find Telos (DC 70) = 37 + 10 Numbers = 47 Failure.
Enemy: reorganize (DC 80) = 57 Failure.

Ariadne: use power (???) = 88 + 15? Null = 105? Unknown.
Morale check:
Telos: 19 + 35 (Telos) - 30 Nameless Fear = 24 Shaken.
Arbites: 28 + 25 (Arbites) - 30 Nameless Fear = 23 Shaken.
Enemy: 21 - 30 Nameless Fear = -9 Retreating...

Enemy rolls to resist fear: DC 50 + 29 (Margin of failure) = DC 79
(???)
Five stay, fifteen flee.

Telos: find Ariadne (DC 70) = 86 Success.
Arbites: find Telos (DC 70) = 60 + 10 Numbers = 70 Success.
Enemy: organize (DC 70) = 6 Failure.


Allied Objective: Consolidate and advance.
Telos: 98 + 20 Charisma - 10 Arrogant + 5 Command = 113
Morale restored, allies advance rapidly.

Enemy Objective: Retreat in good order.
???: 87 + ??? = ???
Enemy retreats without further losses.

{ }​

As you carefully navigate the darkened corridor, your eyes begin to gradually adjust. You still can't see much of anything, but occasionally you can make out a few trickles of light leaking in through the gaps in the the boarded-over or bricked-up windows. It's not much, but it is enough to orient yourself by, if just barely, and now you can see the dim outlines of the people around you. Judging by the way that they're fumbling around in the dark, you think you're the only one who can see anything at all.

Suddenly, one of the Arbites whispers: "Quiet. We've got company."

As you keep moving, you begin to hear faint murmuring. As you creep closer, you start to pick out individual words and voices.

"...then why the frak are the bucket-heads here?" a female voice is whispering.

"Boss must've cut the buzz of someone up-hive, the frak else would they be here?" someone else interjects. Looking down, you strain your eyes to pick out the faintest picture of the ground, trying to avoid any spilled objects. Alerting the enemy by tripping now would just be embarassing. And maybe fatal.

"We still outnumber 'em." a third voice says, rougher than the other two. "I say we shoot 'em up an' do a runner. Let boss an' the buckets fight it out themselves. We're not gettin' paid for this sump-swill."

"Boss' got powerful friends..." the second voice says nervously. "You 'member the up-hiver she met?"

"I 'member he was a bastard an' a half," growls the rough voice. You put your feet down as carefully as you can, wincing each time as your foot makes a faint crunching noise on the gritty floor. Thankfully, the speakers don't seem to notice.

"Yeah, I know he was an up-hiver, sump-brain, that's not what I meant," the nervous one hisses. "We cut an' run, maybe boss' friends come after us."

"Bucket-heads got even more powerful friends," counters the female voice. "We fight, they kill us. We try an' run, they follow us an' kill us, an' that's if we even get out of here alive. We should hide in the other bolt-hole an' wait for all this to blow over. Not our frakkin' business. We're paid to tell the badges to shove off, an' that's it. If boss' friends get whiny they can take it up with the bucket-heads themselves."

"If we hide here, then they'll find us sooner or later," retorts the rough voice. "We can shoot our way out and find a better place." You can hear them very clearly now. They can't be far. You wonder how everyone else has managed to stay eerily silent, despite the pitch blackness. If you weren't looking at their faint silhouettes right now, you'd be worried you'd left them behind somehow.

"They got armor and shotguns, sump-brain. Like hell we can," the woman says.

"Maybe the boss has something..." says the second voice nervously. "You know, like the trick she pulled with that one job up-hive."

There's a brief silence. As you reach the end of the hall and turn the corner, you can see a cluster of dim shapes a few meters away, barely visible in the darkness. "I dunno," the woman says uneasily. "That wasn't... It was kinda..."

"It was creepy, an' Deci's been tweaked out ever since," finishes the gravelly voice, sounding just as uncomfortable. It's hard to pick out details, but you think you can tell which person the voice is coming from now. "And that was with soft up-hivers. Buckets are different. Dunno if I want that." Now that you're closer, you can see that there's a crowd behind the speakers– it looks like there are a lot more than three people here.

"You want to be target practice for someone else, go 'head," says the second voice, who seems to have found some confidence. "Rather be tweaked out than dead. You have fun with the Arbites. I'm going in to see the boss."

"What a coincidence," says Telos coldly, "so are we." The people in the hallway freeze. For a moment, a terrified silence lingers in the air, like the smell of promethium about to ignite. "Get them," Telos hisses.

"For the Emperor," roar the Arbites, and they begin lurching towards the enemy, still nearly blind. It's not much of a charge, but it doesn't need to be. The enemy is only a few steps away, and they can't see either. With a sudden chorus of shouts, battle is joined again. But this time, there is no gunfire to mask the terrible sounds. Screams of pain and anger ring out, metal strikes flesh with grisly cracks, and the points of knives screech as they scrape across armor. The coppery scent of blood fills the air. You squint into the darkness, but all you can see is an agitated clump of bodies in front of you. It's not nearly bright enough to tell friend from foe.

Safety off, a stern voice in your head says. You instinctively obey, flicking the switch on the side of your lasrifle. Then you give yourself a mental slap upside the head a second later. The gun's not going to do anything. Telos just said everything mechanical is out. Or maybe not, you think, as your gun vibrates slightly in your hands. Thinking quickly, you grab your flashlight, slot it onto your lasgun's holder, and flick it on. This time, it works, and light suddenly fills the hallway. Looking up, you see four Arbites a few paces in front of you, struggling against at least twice their number of desperate gangsters.

Almost mechanically, you bring up your lasrifle. For a moment, you stare down your target. A young man, you think, with a shock of blue hair and a bloodied nose, blinking at the light with his mouth half-open in confusion. Then you pull the trigger and his head snaps back in a flare of light and a spray of blood. The rest of the enemy gangsters don't notice the shot or don't care, and by sheer dint of numbers, they start pushing the Arbites back. Their armor protects the Arbites from the worst, but it can't stop everything. One of the Arbites stumbles back, blood dripping slowly from their side.

You take a second shot, which misses head of another enemy by bare inches and scorches the hair of the person immediately behind them. You don't think it actually hurts either of them, but the second shot seems to have a stronger effect than the first. The enemy flinches back, hesitating and giving the Arbites some breathing room.

Then the crowd of gangsters turns to flee, but it does them little good. The people at the back don't quite realize what's going on, so they trip over each other, and before they can move, the Arbites are on them. The Arbites' shock mauls are still unpowered, but against such disorganized and unprotected opponents it makes little difference. They're still heavy metal clubs striking bare flesh. You hear a series of wet thuds as the Arbites lay into the enemy, finally able to see who they're swinging at. You fire again, thankful you can no longer see the faces of the people you're shooting at, and another person topples to the ground.

In a matter of seconds, it's done. The enemy are dead, dying, or fled, and once again your group is alone in the hallway. The smell of charred flesh fills the air and you swallow thickly, fighting the urge to vomit. You steel yourself and glance down at the fallen again, then look away. There's... not much to see.

Telos suddenly steps into the light from behind you. You jump, and it takes you a moment to recognize her. Her uniform is covered in dirt, blood, and something pale that might be ash. Her helmet is missing, and you can see little dark ringlets on her face where drops of blood have partially dried before being smeared away. For a moment, she simply stares at you with hard blue eyes. Abruptly, she nods. "Well done," she says, and holds out a hand. "I will take the flashlight." You hand it over, too preoccupied to be annoyed.

As you follow Telos down the dark hall, picking your way around the corpses, dark thoughts swirl in your mind. You wonder whether any of the three people you heard talking escaped. You wonder what they look like, if you'll ever be able to put faces to those voices. You think about the man you shot. There's no question about his death, of course. You know you killed him. A laser bolt to the face at that range has to be fatal.

Just insulting the Emperor's servants is heresy, never mind attacking them. He was guilty, no question, and heretics wind up dead sooner or later. One of the first books you ever read covered that subject. Fully illustrated, too. If you hadn't stopped him, you would have been just as guilty as he was. But something about those words sounds off, even if you're not quite sure why. Well... it is your duty, but nobody said you had to like doing it. Or is it also your duty to enjoy this? Isn't sympathy for the heretic also heresy? As the group comes to a halt, you're only really sure about one thing. Like it or not, you've killed someone.

Telos points the light on a door. From beneath, you can see light leaking out, and you think you can hear faint whispers coming from inside. "Here we are," Telos whispers. "Finally." You shove the brooding thoughts out of your mind. The witch must be on the other side of the door. You're almost done here. Thank the Emperor.

{ }​

So far, you have been keeping yourself to the back of the group, and have come through battle basically unscathed. But now you're headed into the final stage of this skirmish. Should you change strategies?
[X] No. A defensive stance has worked well enough so far.
[X] Yes. You won't behave recklessly, but it's time to step forward.

 

[Horologer]

You take a deep breath and walk up behind Telos, who's still shining the light on the door. The Arbites walk up next to you, forming a rough semicircle around the door. For a moment, you just stare at it.

Then an Arbites walks up to the door, and without preamble he kicks it in. As the door's pieces scatter inside the room, light floods the hallway. The Arbites beside him charges in, launching forward terrifyingly fast for people wearing so much heavy armor. As you follow them in, you enter a room entirely out of place with the rest of the buiding. The walls are freshly painted, the floor is clean, and you can see colorfully patterned flags hanging from the ceiling. A few lanterns dot the area, all with purple or red shades. It actually looks pretty pleasant.

Near the edges of the room are a collection of worn furniture that looks comfortable, and at the back of the room, you see a pile of neatly packaged boxes. But most importantly, in the center of the room, a cluster of people are staring at you. You get a glimpse of two groups: one ragged and bloody, the other one colorful.

Almost immediately, things go wrong. An Arbites trips over something by the door. You manage to jump over him, but one of the gangsters following you isn't so lucky. Two more of them land flat on their faces, and the last of them lingers by the door, hesitating at the tangle of bodies in front of him. The people in the center of the room go for their guns and you look wildly about for cover– but no luck. At least you still have the Arbites in front of you.

Telos immediately guns her chainsword and charges at the enemy, the remaining Arbites close behind. The enemy draws their stubbers and takes aim at Telos. But to their obvious surprise and horror, nothing happens. The only thing that reaches Telos is a chorus of faint metallic clicks as their stubbers simply jam. As they realize their guns simply aren't working, they scramble out of her way, but there's just not enough space. Telos' swing connects with the neck of one of the colorful enemies, and everything above their shoulders simply disintegrates. Not even pausing, Telos reverses her grip, takes a step, and bisects another enemy trying to step aside.

Then a woman steps forward and holds out their hands towards Telos. She's got long hair streaked with different colors. "The Dark Prince will eat your soul!" she shouts, making a strange gesture at Telos. A pair of jaws erupt from her wrists, transparent but glowing. The jaws form into a twisted shape that might be a grin, then they lunge towards Telos. Telos swings at them, but her sword simply passes through them, and they clamp down on her shoulder. Telos howls in pain as the jaws dematerialize, leaving her armor untouched.

The Arbites try to charge the witch– there's no doubt that's who she is– but her allies get in their way, wielding their guns like clubs to block the Arbites' mauls. It's crude, but it looks like it works, because all you hear is the strike of metal on metal.

Spoiler: Rolls, round 1

Surprise!
Enemy: 33 - 10 Surprised = 23 Eh.
Ariadne: 29 Eh.
Telos: 23 + 10 Veteran = 33 Eh.
Arbites: 5 + 10 Veteran = 15 Oops.
Gangsters: 2 - 10 Morale = -8 Double oops.
Telos > Ariadne > Witch > Enemy > Arbites > Gangsters

Equipment working?
Enemy (DC 50): 32 No.
Telos (DC 50): 95 Yes.
Arbites (DC 50): 40 No.
Gangsters (DC 50): 93 Yes.

Ariadne:
Take cover (DC 30) 26 - 5 Inspiration = 21 Failure.

Telos:
LEEEROY JENKINS (DC 50) 63 + 10 Veteran + 5 Strength = 78 Success.
Attacks (DC 70): 94 + 5 Strength + 15 Expertise: Chainsword + 10 CQC + 10 Charge = 134 Critical success.
Damage: 2d6 = 7 + 1 Strength = 8
Damage: 2d6 = 6 + 1 Strength = 7

Witch:
Power (DC 70): 67 + 40 UNLIMITED POWER! + 10 Experience - 20 Pariah = 97 Success.
Control (DC 50): 68 + 10 Focus + 10 Experience - 10 Pariah = 78 Success.
Jaws: 2d4 = 4 - 1 Pariah = 3 damage to Telos.

Enemy:
Regroup (DC 50): 32 Failure.
Situation? (DC 30): 89 Success.

Arbites:
Charge (DC 50): 55 Success.
Enemy blocks? (DC 50): 55 + 20 Numbers = 75 Yes.
Shoot (DC 50): 19, 32, 11
All whiff, none badly.

Gangsters:
Don't get to go. Again.

2 Enemy dead.

To the Warp with cover, you decide. Judging by all the knives people are drawing, cover wouldn't do you much good anyway. You take two steps forward and quickly shoot at someone trying to circle around behind Telos. Your shot catches them right between the shoulder blades, scorching a hole in their back. You get a lovely view of charred spine before they flop forward sound soundlessly.

Telos swings her chainsword again, but it seems like people are onto her: her swings hit nothing but air as people scramble out of the way just in the nick of time.

A static buzz fills the air as the Arbites' shock mauls activate, and suddenly things get very loud. The witch shouts something else you don't hear, and holds her hands towards the Arbites, fingers splayed. Whips of white-hot flame erupt from her fingertips. They grasp at the armor of the Arbites. Two of the Arbites simply shake off the burning strands, but one of them stumbles as the witch-fire twists his arm in an unnatural direction. One of the enemy, either suicidal or just insanely brave, steps forward and sticks his knife into a gap in the reeling Arbites' armor. The Arbites grabs at the knife and goes down hard.

He doesn't have very long to look pleased with himself. One of the other Arbites pulps his head with a shock maul, and he goes down, twitching like a cockroach. Some of the other enemies retaliate with a round of gunfire, but the bullets simply bounce off the Arbites' armor. The gangsters you're with seem to be better shots, though. Two of the foe simply drop where they stand, blood staining their vibrant clothing.

Spoiler: Rolls, round 2

Equipment working?
Arbites (DC 40): 67 Yes.
Enemy (DC 40): 91 Yes.

Telos:
Attack (DC 70): 19 + 5 Strength + 15 Expertise: Chainsword + 10 CQC = 49 Failure.

Ariadne:
Shoot (DC 70): 59 + 10 Focus + 5 Expertise: Lasrifle + 10 Close range = 84 Success.
Damage: 1d6 = 6

Witch:
Power (DC 70): 75 + 40 UNLIMITED POWER! (terms and conditions may apply) + 10 Experience - 20 Pariah = 105 Success.
Control (DC 50): 74 + 10 Focus + 10 Experience - 20 Pariah = 74 Success.
Damage: 3 1d6: 6, 2, 1 - 2 Armor - 1 Pariah = 3

Enemy:
Shoot (DC 90): 94, 29, 27, 5
Damage: 1d4 = 1 - 2 Armor = 0
Stab (DC 80): 41, 44, 100, 38, 83, 45
Damage: 1 1d3 * 2 = 3

Arbites:
Shoot (DC 60): 44
Smash (DC 50): 59, 6

Gangsters:
Shoot (DC 70): 60, 91, 15, 87
Damage 1d4 = 2, 4

1 Arbites down.
1 Enemy down.
2 Enemy dead.

In the chaos, you can see a path forward to the witch. The Arbites have pushed most of the gangsters to the side, and the others have backed away due to Telos' menacing swings. You immediately turn off your implants and run towards her, threading your way through the furniture and bodies that now litter the room. As you make your way forward, you can see the witch backing up as she frantically makes gestures. But this time, her hands simply spark and nothing happens as Telos advances on her. Someone steps in Telos path, gun aimed at Telos' head. He doesn't get a chance to use it before Telos drives her chainsword through his chest. The witch screams as she falls to the floor. Off to the side, you hear repeated cracks as the Arbites keep bashing their way through the enemy.

Spoiler: Rolls, round 3

Telos:
Attack (DC 70): 58 + 5 Strength + 15 Expertise: Chainsword + 10 CQC = 88 Success.
Damage: 2d6 = 2 + 1 = 3

Ariadne:
Spot an opening (DC 50): 89 - 5 Inspiration + 20 Opportunistic stance = 104 Critical success.
Charge (DC 50): 16 + 5 Strength + 10 Crit = 31 Failure, but still advances.
Power (DC ??): 55 + 15? Null = 70? ???

Witch:
Power (DC 70): 86, 40 -> 40 + 20 Unlimited power...? + 10 Experience - 40 Pariah = 30 Failure.

Enemy:
Shoot (DC 90): 64, 90, 88
1d4 = 3 - 2 Armor = 1
Stab (DC 80): 69, 62, 23

Arbites:
Shoot (DC 60): 17
Smash (DC 50): 35, 55

Gangsters:
Shoot (DC 70): 24, 94, 75, 39
2 1d4 = 2, 2

1 Enemy down.
2 Enemies dead.

As you get closer, you finally get a good look at the witch you've come all this way for. You don't really know what you expected, but it wasn't this. The few times you've seen pictures of witches, they'd looked like hunchbacked old hags, scarred musclemen, or deformed, pale creatures with weird machines strapped to them. What you're looking at is a young woman wearing very little other than tattoos.

You can't see what's going on behind you, but from the sounds along you can tell this fight is nearly over. Telos circles the psyker warily as you approach, taking a swipe at a nearby enemy, who panics and backs up straight into an Arbites. The Arbites doesn't even bother turning around– he simply reaches behind him, grabs them, and slams them to the ground. You tear your eyes away before his shock maul finishes the job.

Spoiler: Rolls, endgame

Telos:
Attack (DC 70): 8 + 5 Strength + 15 Expertise: Chainsword + 10 CQC = 38 Failure.

Ariadne:
Advances (No DC): Enemy too sparse to intercept.

Witch:
19, 45 -> 19 + 10 Very limited power + 10 Experience - 50 Pariah = -11

Arbites:
Shoot (DC 60): 13
Smash (DC 50): 72, 65

Gangsters:
Shoot (DC 70): 75, irrelevant, irrelevant, irrelevant.

All enemies down or dead.

And suddenly, it's silent. The only people left standing are the Arbites and the gangsters with you.

Telos stops her chainsword and puts it down, still dripping. The witch stares at her with undisguised horror. She tries to say something, but it just comes out as a terrified squeaking sound.

"Excellent," says Telos with relish. "Arbitrators," she says calmly, "see to your fallen comrade. Blank, we have a witch to apprehend."

"Stay back," yells the witch, her voice cracking in terror. "I'll... I'll hex you!" Telos just smirks. "The gods are with me," the witch says, and Telos laughs at that. You're just confused. Not by the heresy: that was definitely expected. But the gods, plural, is kind of surprising– there's only the one. What else would you even pretend was a god?

"Are they, now," Telos sneers, as she approaches. The witch shrinks back in fear. "Funny. I only know one God, and he is with me. Divine favor aside, it doesn't hurt to bring backup. Let me introduce you to mine. Blank, grab the witch."

"What?" you respond, taken aback.

"Are you deaf?" responds Telos irritably. "Grab her."

"By her hands, or–"

"Anywhere!" she snaps.

"Yes. Yes ma'am," you say hastily. You walk over to the witch, glad that you have a few inches on her. As you approach, she grabs at her head and doubles over in pain. For a moment, you pause. Unable to find any place that looks particularly convenient, you opt to just put your hand on her shoulder.

Spoiler: rolling to resist

Bad Touch: 97 - 10 Constitution - 40 Delta Psyker = 47

She slumps to her knees, gasping in agony. She manages to twist out of your hands on the way down, surprisingly limber for someone who obviously has the mother of all headaches.

"Don't just touch her, grab her and hold on!" yells Telos. "This is not a difficult task, Blank!"

You bend down and grab her by the upper arm, yanking her up.

Spoiler: rolling to resist dos

Bad Touch: 98 - 10 Constitution - 40 Delta Psyker = 48

The witch groans as you haul her to her feet. She tries to pull away from you, but fat chance of that; you'd prefer Telos yell at the witch than you. She gives you a very nasty glare, then her eyes suddenly widen and she looks away in a hurry.

"Please tell me this is just a dream," she mumbles.

"Silence, heretic," barks Telos.

"Fuck you," the witch sneers.

"Ariadne, punch her," says Telos.

"What?" you splutter.

"Oh, for the Emperor's sake," grumbles Telos, "why can't I get subordinates that are obedient and intelligent? She's just committed heresy in front of you and you've got hands. Punch. Her. Or are you too busy admiring her shapely figure?"

"Um," you say, and then give her stomach a halfhearted punch at an awkward angle.

"Ow!" hisses the witch, then looks at Telos with a smirk. "Ooh, 'shapely figure'? Does the big bad Arbites like what she's seein'?"

"Well I should hope they don't," says Telos in a sickly-sweet voice, "but I wouldn't know because I'm not an Arbites myself." The witch frowns, and you can practically see her mind working as she tries to reason out who Telos is. "My name is Interrogator Telos, scum. You have the very great honor of meeting a servant of the Inquisition." For a moment, the witch just blinks in confusion, then her eyes widen as she realizes what's going on. You see horror and despair warring on the face of the witch.

Eventually, despair wins, and she sags slightly in your grip. She doesn't respond to Telos, just stands there staring at the floor.

"Out of witty little retorts?" says Telos acidly. "Good. Ariadne, watch her. If she causes any trouble, you know what to do." You do?

Oh. Right. You do.

{ }​

The Arbites are bent over their fallen comrade, carefully taking off pieces of armor to get at his wound. You watch with somewhat morbid interest– you've never actually seen someone get out of carapace armor before. The man underneath is unconscious and pale, but still breathing.

You look over at the gangsters, who are just standing in the center of the room, glancing around but never making eye contact with anyone. You find yourself avoiding eye contact just out of habit.

Telos is off over into the corner, talking into her earpiece. From the snippets of conversation you overhear, she's talking with the other Arbites and Tempestus Scions in the building. Eventually, you hear a knock on the door. The Arbites crack it open, peer out, and then let in a few Scions, who salute Telos. She walks over and they have a conversation in low voices that you can't pick out. Telos doesn't sound happy, though. Eventually, two Scions walk over to either side of you and silently take up guard positions.

Then she walks over to the remiaining gangsters and orders them to gather up the bodies. You don't envy them their task, especially since they don't have a shovel. You avert your eyes as they get to work.

You look over at the witch, but she's still giving the floor a thousand-yard stare. You look back around the room again instead. A few minutes ago, you would have been happy to call it home (if it didn't have heretics in it, anyway). Now it looks like a slaughterhouse. You can see splashes of blood where chainswords and shock mauls did their grisly work. The furniture is riddled with holes and gouges. One lamp looks like it got obliterated by a bolt round.

The smell of blood and cordite is overpowering. There are other, fouler smells on the air, but you don't even want to think about what they might be. The room is slightly smoky, but you don't know if that's from the shooting or if this place was like that already. Throne, you can't wait to get out of here.

One of the gangsters breaks the silence. "So," he says weakly, "worse than the time we tried to lift the food shipment an' the Enforcers caught us, or nah?" That draws a few strained chuckles from the others. The silence drags on for a few seconds, then the same man speaks again. "Sab, I'm sorry," he says, in a much more subdued tone of voice. "if I'd known..." You look him over more closely. He's a taller man, but rather thin. His grubby skin and shock of green hair makes you think of some of the saplings from hydroponics back home.

The lone female gangster giggles weakly. "Conz, you couldn'ta possibly known we'd get dragged into a firefight an' then 'pressed by the Inquisition on my lunch break," she says in a slightly watery tone of voice. After another long pause, she adds: "You an' Max are okay, so... so I'm okay."

"The others," says... Conz, you think she called him. "You think...?"

"Gone," another gangster cuts in. You recognize him as the only one who didn't trip in the doorway. His shaved scalp glistens in the light of the lamps as he shakes his head. "An' if the lady asks, 'member to tell her we didn't know the others well."

"But–"

"Sig's right," cuts in the fourth, a shorter man with short blue hair. "It's even true, mostly."

"Max, we can't just leave 'em hangin'-" objects Conz, but the woman cuts him off.

"Conz, there's nothin' to leave hangin'. Inquisition lady told 'em to stay an' fight, an' they didn't. Someone walks through the back alley without a light or a stubber, there's nothin' to be done. It doesn't matter if you live at the top of the hive: Inquisition says to clean the floors, you better be ready to eat off 'em."

Silence falls again. The woman– Sab? Sabrina, maybe– she's not wrong. "Practical" is probably the most charitable way to describe your schooling. And one of the most practical skills a person can have is to know who they take orders from. Your particular list used to be quite long: the Mechanicus, the Imperial Guard, the Imperial Navy, the Administratum, and on and on. At the top were the Inquisitors and the High Lords on Holy Terra. That list was one of the first thing you learned in school.

The second thing you learned was what happened if you disobeyed those orders. And while there were an endless array of creative methods, the sentence itself was always the same.

"They going to shoot us?" asks Max, to nobody in particular.

"Who knows," responds the bald man, and silence falls again.

Out of nowhere, the witch whispers: "I'm damned, aren't I?"

You think back on what you've seen today. The dead man sprawled in the hallway, blood splattered across his face, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A flare of red light and a spray of gore as you gun someone down for the first time. The witch's shouted heresy, and unnatural teeth digging into Telos' flesh.

"Probably," you respond, and leave it at that.

You hope Telos comes back soon.

{ }​

She does come back, eventually, accompanied by grim-faced men with flamers and bags. You walk through the dark halls, out to a boxy troop transport of some kind. You wonder where the other gangs went, and decide not to ask. You pile into the back, keeping a firm grip on the remarkably pliant witch.

You get out at the Arbites' headquarters, a grim fortress whose every stone seems designed to intimidate. There, the witch is restrained with strange handcuffs and shepherded into a soundproof cell. The four remaining gangsters are shuffled off down another corridor– unrestrained, which you think is a good sign. Then you take an elevator up to the governor's palace, and before you know it, you're standing at the doors of the Inquisitor's command center. This time, you follow Telos in.

You hear voices, and look over to see the Inquisitor and the other Interrogators gathered around a table with something on laid out on it. As you get closer, you can tell it's a body, and as you get close enough to touch, you get a good look at it and recoil in horror.

It is the most profoundly disturbing thing you have ever seen. It looks like someone took a human and simply kept adding things to it. The upper face looks human enough, but that's where things end. The mouth is wider than any human mouth has a right to be, and even with all the extra space, there are far too many teeth packed into it. They're large, sharp, and you don't think any two of them look the same.

The flesh around the neck and shoulders is swollen and discolored, and a gaping wound stretches across the throat. The arms are far too long- and you don't think either of the elbows are placed right. The fingers are long and end in wicked-looking claws. Scales and thorns dot the distended chest, giving way to a beetle-like carapace below the waist. The feet, which are now close enough to reach out and touch, are almost frog-like. The thing is studded with scorched black holes, presumably from when someone put it out of its misery.

"What- what is that?" you manage, your voice coming out higher than you would like.

"Ah, Telos, you're back. And Ariadne too," says the Inquisitor, glancing over at you. "As for your question... well, let's just say this is a perfect object lesson in the perils of the xeno menace."

"This is a xeno?" you say in horror.

"No. It is worse," says the Inquisitor darkly. "At least the xeno cannot help its nature. No, this is the late Lord Angelos." The man Karst went to meet! You look over at him. Karst seems fine, but you can see white bandages on his cheek. He nods back at you, and you feel a little better.

"A– a xeno did this to him?" you say, still reeling at the sight in front of you.

"In a manner of speaking," says the Inquisitor coldly, "but ultimately he brought this upon himself. See here?" You look where he's pointing, beside the... beside Lord Angelos' head. It's a piece of jewlery, but it's not much to look at. Just a nearly circular ring of metal about the width of your finger and about as wide as your head, with a few weird flourishes and filigrees. But looking at the terrible cut around the dead lord's neck, you can guess what happened.

"Is it– cursed? By a xeno?"

"Precisely," says the Inquisitor. "It is what we call a Halo Device. Ah, I can see the question on your face– why would anyone put such a thing on, if this is what it does to you? The answer is the same as it always is. This was a man who feared death more than he loved the Emperor.

"A Halo Device, as you have realized, is a nefarious xenos contraption. They are found in the Halo Stars that circle the edge of the galaxy– hence the name. Thankfully, they are not common even there. They are only found in unwholesome ruins, the cities of long-departed xenos, and only madmen and fools seek such places out.

"The Device is insidious. First, it begins to heal the user, restoring them to perfect health. If they are aged, it is said that it even restores a portion of their youth to them. It is, of course, certain they no longer age. A delightful lure to those whose bodies augmentics and juvenat can no longer sustain. Doubtlessly, whoever sold this Device to the late Lord Angelos said as much.

"But of course, there is a terrible cost. The Device begins to change its user to suit its twisted desires. Observe how it has profaned the sacred human form. But the change is not merely physical. The wearer begins to have strange hungers and cravings, shunning the sacred for the unnatural. And their memories begin to vanish, replaced with the recollections of an alien intellect.

"In the end, there is little left of the wearer. Perhaps some portion of the body remains unaffected, if it amuses whatever twisted xenos fiend lives in the thing they carry. But they are swallowed up, mind and soul, by the abomination. By the time Karst encountered this poor, damned fool, he was a broken thing babbling in the dark, gnawing on the bones of those he once called his friends and family... a far cry from the lord he once was." The Inquisitor smiles sardonically for a moment. "Or at least, the lord he once claimed to be. Still, he was no less dangerous for his madness."

You take another look at those claws and shudder. The Inquisitor looks at you with something like approval. "Your disgust does you credit," he says calmly. "It is a proper reaction to heresy such as this. Speaking of which, I hear you were quite helpful to Telos in apprehending the witch." You glance at Telos with some surprise, but her face reveals nothing. "That, too, does you credit."

"Th- thank you, Inquisitor," you say, unsure how else to respond. You get a strange, warm feeling in your chest.

"I ask that you do not reveal what you have learned about the late Lord Angelos' passing to anyone who does not already know it. In fact, it is best if you do not reveal that he has passed at all... I believe I can rely on your discretion in this matter," he says, and you don't miss the meaningful tone in his voice.

"Yes, Inquisitor," you respond immediately.

"Very good. You are dismissed."

{ }​

[Combat Training] upgrades to [Combat Experience].
+1 Health.
+200 XP for completing the mission. Additional +100 XP for following orders and not taking any damage while doing so. XP will be distributed based on the activities you choose during this vote.
[Nameless Fear] unlocks at [0/???]
[Experise: Lasrifle, Lv. 3] [0/400]-> [66/400]

You've stared death in the face. Now that you have some time to think about everything you've seen, how do you respond?
[X] With satisfaction. You don't like to hurt others, but you're pleased at your success.
[X] With determination. You will not hesitate to do what's necessary, however ugly you find it.
[X] With indifference. Planets spin, stars shine, people die.
[X] With regret. Bloodshed saddens you, and you'd prefer to avoid it.

You have a brief window of free time. Choose three actions:
[X] Explore the palace. There must be a library somewhere.
[X] Lord Angelos left behind a lot of material possessions, and Interrogator Iona is sorting through them. Perhaps you can help her, and maybe acquire something for yourself.
[X] Keep chewing through that book on the Warp. Maybe you'll get some answers there...
[X] Hit the gym.
[X] Practice your marksmanship on the shooting range.
[X] Telos will be recuperating somewhere. See if you can chat with her.
[X] You used your Blank-ness (is that even a word?) to terrify people down in the lower hive. Find someplace quiet and see if you can repeat it.
[X] Slack off. You'd say you've earned a break.
[X] Write-in.

Choose a project to focus on for the next short while:
[X] Fitness (Strength)
[X] Health (Constitution)
[X] Art (Inspiration)
[X] Secrets (Guile)

The next update will be from somebody else's perspective, then normal updates will resume. Pick whose eyes you'd like to see through:
[X] The Clerk.
[X] The Aristocrat.
[X] The Inquisitor.

 

[Horologer]

You are Inquisitor Cleistos, of the Holy Orders of the Emperor's Inquisition, and you are less displeased than you expected to be. In fact, as you survey the newest addition to your retinue, you feel a great deal of satisfaction.

On the surface, there's not very much to see. Dark eyes and black hair are common enough. The greyish-white skin of a low-class Voidborn less so, but certainly nothing you haven't seen before. Like most people born in space, she has a slightly stretched look, and a lifetime of poor diet only heightens the effect. Despite Claritus' best efforts, she's only gone from 'skeletal' to 'stick-like'. At a glance, she's effectively indistinguishable from the countless other menials that staff the ships and stations of the Imperium.

But those who look only at faces and features rarely find what they're looking for. Posture and voice are far more revealing. The woman's eyes are constantly darting around, looking for something. Enemies, doors, hiding places. It's the wariness of someone who's being hunted, but doesn't know by whom. Her voice is uncertain and slightly rough, and from that you can surmise she doesn't do much talking. Nothing you don't already know, but it's a nice exercise to keep yourself sharp.

Standing this close, you can feel something… different. An uneasy feeling in your stomach, something between disgust and fear. Most would probably consider it intuition. Others might believe it was an evil omen. A few might suspect that the young woman in front of you was to blame. But only a few would recognize what she really was.

To some, she is a mutant closer to a xenos than a human, something to be shot or preferably burned on sight. To others, she's a recruit. To you, she's useful. You dismiss her with a few words of thanks and a suitable warning about secrecy.

As you watch her go, you reflect on her performance. Despite considerable disruption to the mission, she followed Telos' orders, demonstrated some control over her Null field, and apprehended the psyker. Even better, there's barely a scratch on her, which is a promising sign. You've had very capable subordinates who have done worse on their first mission. Aurum nearly exploded.

You turn to Telos. "Well done," you say. You see no need to stand on formalities in this case. "You're dismissed."

"As you wish," says Telos, sounding slightly put out. "But sir–"

"You are dismissed to seek medical attention, Interrogator," you add, letting a little bit of your exasperation seep into your voice.

"You're bleeding on the carpet, Telos," interjects Karst dryly.

"Yes, sir," mumbles Telos, now sounding thoroughly embarrassed, and you watch her carefully as she limps out the door. Her injuries do not concern you. Telos has been wounded far worse than this. No, it's her attitude that puts you ill at ease. She's far too reckless. Perhaps you should have kept her in orbit to manage logistics, instead of Claritus? No, you remind yourself. she is here to seek redemption– and you will not deny her that chance. You just hope she doesn't get herself martyred in the process.

"Permission to be dismissed, sir?" adds Iona, sounding preoccupied. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"Permission granted," you say. "Good night." She files out after Telos.

For a moment, you're silent. Then you glance down at the misshapen figure before you and let out an irritated sigh. This is not what you needed.

"A fine mess this is," you say.

"Well, he's certainly isn't beauty pageant material," Aurum says with a slightly queasy laugh.

"You're not wrong, but I wasn't referring to the body," you respond. You gesture at the neck ring. "I was referring to this."

Aurum frowns. "But the torc and the body are both in our custody now. The heresy has been dealt with… hasn't it?" You suppress a sigh. Aurum is a man of ironclad faith, and you hope to make an Inquisitor out of him someday, but he has little head for subterfuge as of yet.

"Yes, this particular heresy has been dealt with, but what we are looking at is not truly one heresy. It is many heresies perpetrated by many people. Remember, Aurum, it is in the nature of heresy to spread, to draw in others, to seduce, to corrupt… Where there is one heretic, you are sure to find another.

"Angelos is not the problem here. He was just a coward afraid of death, determined to prolong his life as long as he could. The Emperor alone knows why. What was he going to do with all that extra time? Acquire a few more trophy wives? Obstruct justice one last time? Assassinate somebody he particularly loathed? Commission a few more chapels to salve his conscience? Bah.

"Yes, Angelos was contemptible, but that kind of man is hardly a threat. No, what worries me is whoever got him this," and you fight to keep the disgust out of your voice when gesturing at the Halo Device.

"But Iona said he stole it from the governor, didn't she?" frowns Aurum. "How could someone have sold it to him if he–" then his eyes widen. "Oh. Oh, of course. He didn't know what the device was, any more than the governor did. Someone else told him."

"Precisely," you say. "But they did more than that. Think about it. A Halo Device that could sell for a pile of relics just so happens to be sold to an unwitting Governor. The Device then vanishes not longer after, stolen by someone who knew exactly how and where the device was stored. Someone who just so happened to have a psyker that was able to bypass some of the Governor's defences. And the thieves just so happened to take the records as well, so we don't know when the device arrived or who shipped it to the governor."

"Given the amount of planning that must have been involved," adds Darwin, "I suspect Lord Angelos knew the device would be arriving before the Governor did. The Governor was just an unwitting smuggler. Someone else must have slipped it into a package. Nobody would suspect another strange trinket in a shipment full of them. And if it was discovered, suspicion would fall on the Governor, not him. A clever plan."

"So," says Karst, "the question is: who did it?"

You frown. That is the question, really, but you don't have a good answer. "The pleasure cult on Chorale might have helped, but they don't have the reach to smuggle this all by themselves. And I think we can eliminate the people who dig these blasphemies up directly. They don't bother coming this far in from the galactic rim. The risk of getting caught by an Inquisitor isn't worth the reward. No, someone else acted as the middleman here."

You sigh, and you are forced to say one of your least favorite sentences. "And as of right now, I have no clues as to this person's identity. We will have to cast our net widely, and see what we dredge up... Do any of you have suspects?"

Aurum gives a rueful smile and a shake of his head. "I'd suggest talking to Iona's contact, but she seemed pretty adamant that was a dead end." You nod. The contact's message had been admirably clear about what he had seen, but the when and where seem to have gotten lost in transmission. Iona had immediately sent a response asking for clarification, but you have no idea if you can expect a response. You'll have to assume none is forthcoming.

Karst speaks up. "Nothing specific, but a Rogue Trader is probably the most obvious suspect here…" he trails off, and frowns. "But I don't have a damn clue why they'd do it," he finishes. "This is about as heretical as contraband gets, short of shipping around daemonhosts. If the Ordos manage to pin this on a Rogue Trader then the Trader could lose it all. At best they'd be risking the revocation of their Warrant, and for what?" He gestures at the Halo Device. "Even a restricted Warrant's probably worth more than the Governorship of this entire planet. Why bother? What could Angelos have offered?"

"Perhaps Angelos was blackmailing them?" suggests Navigator Darwin. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time Rogue Traders have spent a fortune to bury a scandal. Or perhaps they needed a favor and only Angelos could do it for them?"

"Maybe," you allow, because it is possible, "but I find it unlikely. If the man had that kind of pull he'd have shown it off. Maybe the Trader was another unwitting accomplice, just like the Governor seems to be." You doubt that the Governor is totally innocent, but the man truly seems to be blissfully unaware of how close he came to ending up on the Ordo Xenos' hitlist.

Darwin hums and closes his eyes. Both his visible ones, anyway. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it was smuggled in on the regular merchant marine, or on an unlicensed trader, or even just on a noble's private ship. There are too many options to be sure. Normally I'd suggest checking the trade records– not the ones kept by the planetary government, governors meddle with those as a matter of course. The ones the Navigator enclaves keep." He opens his eyes again and sighs. "But in this case that's not helpful. The biosphere of this planet's on its way out, and food imports are ramping up to compensate. If we tried looking through all the records, we would be here for months."

You sigh. Setback after setback… well, you were expecting something like this. "That's too long to be stuck here." And too much time for someone to bury the evidence and the witnesses. "How can we speed that up?"

"Pin down exactly when he got the device," says Darwin instantly. "The narrower the time window, the fewer records we have to dig through."

"The good news is that there's probably a very short gap between when this thing arrived on-planet and when he put it on," adds Karst. "Someone like this is too paranoid to just leave this lying around. He probably had it stolen as soon as he could, and he probably began using it the moment he got it."

You nod. "Good points. And we have the witch who helped with the theft, so if I can get her to talk, we should know about when it arrived..." The room lapses into contemplative silence for a moment, then you ask: "Aurum, does your witch-sight reveal anything about the device?"

"I hadn't thought to check," says Aurum awkwardly. He looks down at the ring of metal, then closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they've gone from amber brown to glowing gold, without pupils. He stares down the Halo Device intently, his eyes casting an eerie glow across the room. Despite the slightly unnerving display of psychic power, his voice is normal when he speaks again. "Nothing unusual, sir. I can definitely tell something's off about it, but nothing more."

Damnation. Relying on a psyker's powers is risky, but a tenuous lead would be better than nothing. "Unfortunate. Darwin?" you ask.

Darwin nods and bends over, pulling the skullcap from his shaved head. You've known Darwin for years, and he is one of the handful of people you trust implicitly. Yet the third eye in his forehead still unnerves you. The hard black orb is a tangible reminder that despite outward appearances, he is not quite human in the same way you are. Darwin closes his two regular eyes again, and his third eye begins to glow with strands of pale blue and magenta. The smell of ozone fills the air as errant strands of ghostly lightning flicker out from the glowing iris.

Then the light fades, the eye closes, and Darwin leans back with a sigh, his face even paler than usual. "Nothing useful either, I'm afraid," he says, putting his cap back on. "I couldn't even figure out who touched it last, nor could I get a glimpse into its past." Then he shudders. "But I think I managed a glimpse at whatever is trapped in that thing, and… Well, it's not human. Not remotely."

"Was it Warp-tainted?" you ask, curious despite your revulsion.

Darwin considers the question for a moment. "No, I don't think so. But if the thing still lived, it would be labeled Xenos Horrificus regardless. Of that much, I am certain."

That's one facet of this mystery solved, at least. "Hmmm. Good to know. I shall have the body preserved and sent to the ship. Perhaps Magos Felix will uncover something of use. If nothing else, the Ordo Xenos may take some interest in an intact specimen."

"Anyway, I think we have a way to get some intel," says Karst, practical as always. "Darwin gets the records from his, uh, fellow Navigators. Telos makes the witch spill her guts. Iona can dig through Angelos' stuff for clues. I'm not much for detective work, but I can kick over the underhive and see what comes swarming out. Aurum can go wherever we need him."

"That seems like a good plan," asks Aurum, turning to you.

It does. Karst might not think much of his ability to 'snoop about', as he puts it when he thinks you're not listening, and it's true that he's not very intellectual. But he's got a natural shrewdness, a soldier's practicality, and he's methodical almost to a fault. It makes him a much cannier operative than he gives himself credit for. "A very good plan," you say to the rest of them. "Very well. We will do just as Karst has suggested. If any evidence is found, we will reconvene and examine it. Until then, you are dismissed. Aurum, I will contact you shortly when I've determined where you are most needed."

Aurum and Karst file out, leaving you and Darwin alone.

"So," says Darwin. "what are you going to be doing?"

You smile. "I'll be organizing a party."

"Oh dear," says Darwin. "Dare I ask why?"

"Why?" you say in mock confusion, "Darwin, you wound me. A personal visit by an Inquisitor is a rare honor. Besides, we've just apprehended a dangerous thief and uncovered a nefarious xenos plot to corrupt Lord Angelos. Surely that deserves some celebration."

"Well, if you must be coy, I won't pry," Darwin sighs. "Just let us have some fun before you send in the flamer squads."

"No promises."

{ ≡][≡ }​

There's going to be a party, and you're invited... but what kind of party is it?
[X] An elegant cocktail party. A little soirée is just the thing to remind nobles how much they hate each other.
[X] Something more animated and informal. The Inquisitor will pay to replace any broken furniture.
[X] A masquerade ball. What could possibly go wrong?
[X] Write-in.

AN: Monday is part of the weekend, right? As compensation for the delay, have a vote. Other actions are coming in the next update, don't worry.

 

[Horologer]

You flop down on the bed with a huff.

You're getting pretty tired of people not just telling you things, you decide, as you finish another chapter of the book on the Warp. The book is informative, but it... well, it can suddenly get very uninformative at times. And there's not much of it left to read, so you doubt it's going to suddenly do an about-face in the middle and suddenly start answering the obvious questions.

You flip open the book again give a particularly annoying passage a baleful look:

"...the fluidity of the Warp is what allows ships to pass through it (though the careful reader will again note that 'through' is an abstraction, as the Warp does not truly possess dimensions as we understand them), just as it allows its denizens to move within it. The substance composing the Warp is more analogous to liquid than anything else; thus we speak of 'currents' or 'storms' in the Warp. This fundamental mutability is hypothesized to..."

"Denizens". That's all you get. There are truly terrifying things that live in the Warp, that much is very clear in the book. But the book just tells you how to keep them out. Of course, that's definitely useful information. The consequences of them getting in are pretty dire– at least, the consequences that the book actually tells you about, and doesn't just allude to. The secrecy is more than a little frustrating. Why bother?

With a sudden chill, you remember the warnings on the front pages of the book. The Inquisition is willing to kill to keep what's in this book secret. That's not in question. So what would they do if you found out whatever this book is hiding? If this book is secret, and they won't even talk about whatever it is here, then... well, is it any of your business? Do you want it to be?

It's not like you have a choice, you realize. You fight psykers. Whether you like it or not, the Warp is now your business. The question is: what are you going to do about all this? Of course, you could just ask the Inquisitor, but...

You hesitate. Questions are dangerous unless you already know the answer. And you've just gotten in the Inquisitor's good books. You don't want to ruin that by pestering him, or by looking like you don't know what you're doing.

So you're going to figure this out on your own. You stare at the ceiling and try to figure out where to even begin.

So... what do you know about the Warp, aside from what this book's told you? You wrack your brain, but come up with nothing. The Warp just wasn't something people talked about. Everyone born in space knew that it existed, of course– it was where ships went when travelling between systems. But people always danced around the topic whenever it came up. The saying goes that the Warp is like the captain's mistress: the less you know about either, the safer you are.

There's probably a lot of truth in that statement, but it's not very helpful. You sigh, rolling over and staring at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you sit up with excitement. No, wait, you do know something. Now and again in their sermons, the Ministorum priests had mentioned that daemons come from the Warp, and that they lived there. But more than that, they were made of the Warp. How had they put it? "Witchcraft and heresy made flesh." They hadn't been really clear about the details, but they had clearly implied that daemons were made of Warp-stuff. At the time, you though they were being vague because nobody wanted to hear about it, but now you suspect it's because they just didn't know themselves. Still, now that you know a little more about the Warp, you can understand what they were referring to.

You try to think back if the Tech-Priests had said anything similar, but you didn't think so. Most of the Mechanicus services had been more practical than spiritual. After one particularly hectic week, you had all been treated to a very long and pointed lecture on the Omnissiah's opinion of improper maintenance. No, you don't remember them saying anything about the Warp.

So, that's all you've got. Daemons are made out of the Warp.

Actually, does the book mention daemons? You flip back through, but it barely talks about them. It warns about them in a few places– the introduction is one– but it's essentially nothing you haven't heard over the pulpit before. It says they come from the Warp, of course– but you knew that already.

So either there's something else in the Warp, or daemons are more dangerous than you've been told. You're beginning to suspect it's the latter, and the more you think about it, the more certain you are. The thought has the sort of bitter taste to it that the truth usually has, and it wouldn't be the first time someone's lied about your safety.

Everywhere you turn, more and more mysteries and unanswered questions. One false step, and you're dead. Part of you wishes it was somebody else's problem. But it's not. It's the Inquisition's job to inquire. You're not an Inquisitor, but that doesn't exempt you from the duty to investigate. Well, you should really start pulling your weight there, but you don't even know where to start. You'll just have to pick one of them and try to be as helpful as you can.

Mysteries aside, you think you've got a firm idea of what the Warp is, and you think you're making good progress towards mastering the more complex equations involved. And even though the author seems to have made it as boring as they possibly could, it's still fascinating reading. With the right equipment, you could leave this world behind entirely. Technically, you've already done that, but the idea still fills you with awe. With a little more reading and some practice, you think you'll have gotten everything you can out of the book.

So even with all this, it's been a good day, you decide. Not only did you get your own room again, you got a really fancy room. And the bed is amazing. Half of you wonders if lying on it this much is some kind of sin, and the other half of you is trying to figure out a way to smuggle it off the planet. You wriggle into it, smiling sleepily.

You drift off, and dream of equations written in blood.

Spoiler: rolls

4d100 = 75, 13, 27, 72 = 187
Gettting anything more: DC 100 = 40 + 20 = 60
[The Warp] is revealed to be Forbidden -> Completed
[Physics: The Warp][Forbidden] -> 174/400
[The Threat Beyond] is revealed to be Forbidden, and is now Stalled.

{ }​

You wander through the back hallways of the governor's palace, looking for somewhere quiet to practice your... you still don't know what to call it. Calling it your "power" is overwrought, and a little presumptuous, besides, but you're not sure what else to call it. "Fear" just sounds like you're some kind of two-bit villain from a fable. And after thinking it over, you're definitely sure that "Blank-ness" isn't a word.

You're so preoccupied that you barely notice the guards standing beside the door until you're right in front of them. They stiffen for a moment, and one of them opens their mouth, then shuts it and stares at you silently for few seconds. When she talks, her voice is extremely polite. "What can we do for you, ma'am?"

It takes you a full two seconds to realize that the "ma'am" they're addressing is you. It takes you another five seconds to figure out what in the Emperor's name you're supposed to make of that. Eventually, you just decide to let it pass without comment.

"Is this room unoccupied?" you ask them quietly.

"Er," she says, "let me check, ma'am," and slips inside, leaving you outside with her companion. You glance at him. He gives a weird little half-bow and continues standing at attention. Oh, Throne. Are you supposed to say anything? Are you supposed to bow back? This man is looking right at you and you don't know what to do–

Oh, thank the Emperor, he's looking away now. You elect to just give him an awkward nod in reply and hope that's not too rude.

You hear some noises from behind the door, gradually getting louder. Eventually, you can make out voices– some kind of conversation? It sounds rushed. You can just make out two people speaking, one low and agitated, one higher and irritated.

"My Lady, I am terribly sorry, but she specifically asked that the room–"

"Really, Colonel! I don't think it's necessary to presume her intentions from one..."

The door opens, and you find yourself face to face with a woman that looks... familiar? You try to place her, but you can't quite figure out where you'd have seen someone like her before. She's blond, blue-eyed, and wearing a dress that probably costs a few small fortunes. You don't know her, that's for sure, but... well, she looks like a lot of models you see on recruitment material, so it's probably that.

And now she's staring at you with her mouth half-open. Right. It looks like the guards took your question as an order, so you basically just barged into her room and demanded she get out. You frantically rehearse a half-dozen apologies before just giving each up as a lost cause.

"Hello," you say, then immediately fight the urge to hide in the nearest corner. Yes, Ariadne, that's just what this lady wants to hear after you've rudely evicted her. Introductions.

"Hello," she says, after a moment, looking slightly put off. Oh no. "I'm... delighted to make your acquaintance." Oh no. "Sorry for all that, I, uh, I'll be seeing, you later?" She gives you a strained smile, then turns and walks away. Wishing you could just melt into a puddle right then and there, you walk inside, close the door, and shove your face in your hands.

Then you pull your face out of your hands, take a deep breath, and take a look around. You have no idea what this room's supposed to be, but it looks nice. There's a wooden desk in the center, covered in some papers. You decide not to pry. You've already imposed enough...

You sit down to practice, and then stop. You don't actually know what you did down there in the underhive. You just turned off your augmentations and started mentally... pushing? Your memory is kind of hazy, but maybe you'll learn by doing.

Well, the first thing to do is to turn off the implants. You don't quite know how your implants work: you just concentrate in a specific way, and they turn off or on. Concentrate in another way, and you can tweak their power output, although that's a little bit more fiddly. By now, it's second nature to you. You're intensely curious how they actually work– I mean, how do your thoughts activate something mechanical? Even if they weren't fascinating pieces of machinery, they're now stuck in your head for the rest of your life. But when you had asked Magos Felix about the details, you had just gotten an earful of incomprehensible jargon and binharic, and you're a little too unnnerved by the man to ask him again.

With a twist of though, the impants go off. You try that same mental push to extend your powers, but nothing happens. Maybe you did it wrong? You spend some time concentrating in different ways. You try focusing on the area around you, on yourself, on your memories of what happened. But nothing happens. Finally, you try focusing, but not on anything in particular. You just focus on being focused. After a few minutes of nothing happening, you get that strange pins-and-needles feeling across your face again.

In your excitement, it slips away. You try again a few times, but nothing happens. At least... you think nothing happens. You realize you don't know if it's actually working. You don't feel any different. It's useful that you can figure out how to push yourself a little, but you don't think you're going to make much progress if you can't tell what effect said pushes have.

With a sigh, you get up and get ready to leave. It looks like you'll need to find someone to help you...

Spoiler: rolls

1d100 = 78 / 2 = 39
Nameless Fear = 39/???
Nameless Fear is Stalled until you find someone to train with.
XP held in reserve until Nameless Fear is no longer Stalled

{ }​

You're suprised at how simple it is to hitch a ride to the late Lord Angelos' mansion. You'd expected more questions, but when you say you're going over to assist Interrogator Iona, nobody bats an eye. You're simply given a seat on the next shuttle out.

You touch down on a landing pad like the one in the Governor's palace. Once you set foot insie, you're surprised by just how similar it is. There are paintings, sculptures, little shrines, all spread out in the same way as they are in the Governor's palace. It's not exactly identical, but if you didn't know better you'd think you were in another wing of the governor's palace. You even think the air is perfumed the same way.

You follow some Scions through the passageways of the mansion. The place is nearly abandoned: no servants bustling about, and no lords step out to greet you. Nervous soldiers that must be from the PDF salute you as you walk through the outer corridors. But again, nobody so much as stops you. Even as you get further into the mansion, where fresh scorch marks dot the walls and where the PDF guard is replaced by other Scions, you're simply waved through.

As you arrive at the ornate doors to the late Lord Angelos' private chambers, you're still puzzled. Then the doors swing open, and the mystery begins to unravel. There is no perfume on the air that billows forth from within, only a musty odor and the faint smell of rot. As you walk through the rooms, you take stock of your surroundings, and the mystery begins to unravel.

The rooms must have been extravagant. Instead of paintings being mounted on the walls in frames, it looks like artists painted directly on the walls themselves. In addition to the scuptures placed in alcoves, the columns of the room have been delicately chiseled into various shapes. Here and there around the room are luxurious furniture, and placed in the corners are what must have been rare or fragrant plants.

Yes, it must have been beautiful, but no more. The painted walls are dull with grime and splattered with dried blood, and some are so riddled with gouges and scorch marks that it's hard to tell anything's painted on them at all. The columns are chipped and broken, and some of the sculptures have been shattered. The furniture is broken and even filthier than the walls. The plants are bare skeletons, their leaves lying in blackened piles around their pots.

The room is lit by floodlights that the Inquisition must have brought in. It looks like the original lighting is missing. It's hard to tell, but you think it's been physically ripped out of the ceiling. If you squint, you think you can see claw marks around the edges of the holes. No wonder the guards weren't suspicious. Nobody would want to come into this place. Honestly, you'd be more worried about someone getting out. You're tempted to leave yourself, but it's too late for that now.

Eventually, you find yourself in a large room, far warmer than the others. In one corner, there's a furnace, squat and grim, casting a flickering light across the room. In the other, a massive pile of something, surrounded by floodlights. You hear Interrogator Iona before you see her. "Yes, that one can go in the incinerator. No, not that one. The one with the slime on it. Use the tongs, unless you're volunterring as a test subject? No? Not even for hazard pay? Smart man."

You walk towards the pile, since it sounds like the voices are coming from behind it. As you approach it, you can see that it's made of... well, stuff, for lack of a better word. You spy books, clothes, jewelry, even entire pieces of furniture, haphazardly piled together. It doesn't smell as bad as you expected– but that might just be because it's been here a while. There's a fair bit of dust on the pile.

"Miss Ariadne," says Interrogator Iona, "it's quite rude to sneak up on people."

You jump and whirl around. Iona is standing right next to you. In full power armor. How did she...?

"Um, sorry," you respond, thinking quickly. You hate coming with excuses on the spot. You didn't mean to sneak up on her, of course, but telling peope that never seems to work well...

"Oh, well, since you're so polite about it, I'll have to forgive you." She smiles, the white of her teeth a sharp contrast to her dusky skin. You're not reassured by the expression on her face. There's something a little too jocular about it. "So, here on the Inquisitor's orders, or eager for your slice of the pie?"

It seems like a pit opens up in your stomach, and you begin to rehearse a plausible story, wracking your brain for statements by the Inquisitor that might justify your trip here. If she figures out you just came here to see what you could get, you could be in for a world of hurt. Damn it all, you should have seen the question coming and prepared in advance. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"If it's the latter, you can relax," says Iona airily, "because as of two days ago this is all property of the Inquisition." She- She doesn't care? You step back forward, and open your mouth to apologize again. But Iona's already turned around, and you're left staring at the back of her stark-white bob cut. "Come on," she says, "I'm glad to have the help."

You follow her over to the other side of the pile. "Behold, the great wealth of David Angelos, Lord of House Angelos, scion of the Great Houses of Thalassa, blah blah blah."

The silence drags for a bit, and you wonder if she's expecting a response. "It's..." uh, what are you supposed to say here? You can't exactly compliment it, because it's a heretic's treasure, but you can't exactly lie about it, either. "It's a lot of stuff," you manage.

"Sure is," says Iona, tapping her chin. "Funny thing, though... you'd think a noble of his stature would have more– or at least, more that was worth a damn."

She thinks it's worthless? You peer over at the pile. You see plenty of things that even you could sell quite easily. Some of the rattier furniture could probably be swapped for a few rations. Plenty of dust and grime, but nothing a little elbow grease wouldn't fix. And the smaller stuff would sell even better. You could have bought your way off the station with even a tenth of this stuff...

"Well, since you're here," says Iona briskly, "let's get to work. Here," she gestures at a small group of artifacts. "Turn on your... er, power? Then hold these." You blink down at the stuff. You don't see anything particularly interesting about them, but if she's asking you to hold them, she must think they're psychically active.

"Just... hold them?" you say, still uncertain.

"Yes. Unless you can do something else?" she asks.

Well, can you do something else? "Uh," you say, not sure how to respond for a moment. "No, not reliably," you decide.

"Oh, now that sounds exciting," says Iona, and you turn to see her grinning. "But for now, just turn your power on and hold them. Don't forget the gloves."

Slightly unsettled, you pick of the first item. It's a jug of some kind... with some art on it? You peer at it, but you can't tell what it means. Nothing happens, and Iona tells you to put it down. Then you pick up the statue of a woman. Then some kind of crystal. You pick up a variety of objects, none of which react to your touch.

Until you pick up a large urn, grunting slightly at the weight, Iona gestures for you to put it down, and you frown as you do so. Something feels slightly weird about it. "I think," you begin, but that's as far as you get before the urn cracks as it hits the ground. "I'm really sorry–" you say, but Iona cuts you off.

"Don't apologize, this is the best thing to happen today! Look," she says excitedly, pointing at the cracks in the urn. You can see something white underneath. "Stand back," she says, and gives the jug a hefty kick. Her power-armored boot makes short work of the urn, cracking it like an egg. Chunks of pottery fall away. Underneath the plain outer surface of the urn is some kind of white stuff.

"Wraithbone," Iona breathes. "Fascinating." She takes her gauntleted hands and begins carefully pulling off the remnants of the urn. Eventually, she steps back, and you look at what she's uncovered. Underneath the outer layer of pottery is another urn. Someone must have covered it in clay to hide it. This one is slimmer, and you don't recognize the material it's made out of. It calls to mind ceramics– it's white, and ever-so-slightly translucent, like it's been glazed. But it has a polished sheen to it, like metal or glass.

You bend down, looking at it with curiosity. The art is deeply strange. Parts of it are extremely detailed, but parts of it are vague and full of hazy shapes. It reminds you of a half-loaded picture, still full of blank spaces and pixelated outlines. You see... snow-capped mountains, you think? Some kind of spiky thing. You see insects of some kind... is that a butterfly? And woven around it all, a black serpent, covered in red eyes. It's surreal and vaguely ominous, but still beautiful.

A chunk of the urn's bottom is missing. Peering closer, you can see that it's actually got two ragged holes in the bottom. You wonder what could have caused that kind of damage. It's too clean for a violent impact, but too messy for some kind of tool. Some kind of acid, maybe? The tiny holes next to the big ones might match a stray droplet of solvent. But the edges are gently scalloped– too smooth for the work of something strong enough to eat its way through metal.

"Touch it again," says Iona suddenly.

"What?" you say, confused.

"Touch it again," Iona says, with a slightly dangerous-looking grin on her face. "I've got a hunch."

Bemused, you reach out to the urn, and gasp. Your fingers go straight through the urn's side, barely meeting any resistance. As you watch, stunned, the white substance around your hand begins to disappear. The gap spreads, like you dropped ink in water– only instead of ink, you had managed to trap nothing in a bottle. The substance makes no noise as it vanishes, and leaves nothing behind. You yank back your hand and pull off the thick rubber glove to take a close look at it, but it seems the same as it always is.

You stare at the hole your hand made in the white urn. Iona's kick didn't even dent the thing, but somehow... "What," you manage. You turn to Iona, who's putting a recorder down.

"It's wraithbone," Iona says. "A material the Aeldari use. Some people claim it's a purely physical compound, but I'd say we've just disproved that. Others claim it's corporeal psychic energy, absurd as that sounds. And given what just happened here, I'd say they're right."

"Eldar?" you say nervously. "This- this is xenotech?" And you'd thought it looked so nice, too! At least you hadn't said that out loud...

"Yes, it's technically xenotechnology, but calling it 'technology' of any kind is really a stretch, if you ask me. Wraithbone usually doesn't really do anything without an Eldar to use it. Apparently they shape it with psionics, but I've never seen that in person, unfortunately."

You think you're actually pretty fine not seeing xenos witchcraft yourself, but you're not the Interrogator. Still, you admit, the stuff– wraithbone, she called it? It's interesting, in a eerie sort of way. You look at the hole in the urn. Now that you've pulled your hand back, the hole has stopped growing. In fact, as you watch in horrified fascination, it even seems to be repairing itself– the harsh, almost sawtooth edges of the gap have softened into a gentler edge.

"Um," you say, "it's growing back."

"Oh yes, it does that," says Iona conversationally. You stare at her in disbelief. The weird alien thing in the room is growing like some kind of plant, and her response is 'of course'? From her tone, you'd think you were telling her that repair work was dull or that space was cold.

"Well," says Iona briskly, "that was fun. Put that glove back on, and let's try our luck again."

You pick up the rest of the objects, but though you both peer at them carefully every time you pick them up, nothing happens. Iona breaks all the pots, just in case, but they're all just clay underneath. Iona seems a little put out by that, but you're relieved when it's over. You decide you're instituting a policy of one weird thing per day, if you can help it.

"Back to the pile," Iona sighs. You perk up at that.

{ }​

The pile turns out to be full of literal treasure. Gold and silver coins, of course, but you think some of this might actually be worth more than its weight in either. You have to resist the urge to grab at everything you see and stick it in your pockets. It might not be safe, you remind yourself. Still, it's almost physically painful to watch the Scions hurl it all into the fire. More than one perfectly good wardrobe meets a fiery end.

Some of the items are truly unsalvageable, though. You encounter a few things that look like they've been drooled on by something, and the Scions toss those in the furnace immediately. A few books look to have been gnawed on. It might be rats or worms, but it might not be. Iona decides to toss them in the fire, just to be safe.

Now and then you encounter a stray bone, and those have definitely been gnawed on. Those, you learn, go in another corner instead of the incinerator. "We're still not sure who the damned fool ate," Iona says, apparently guessing the question from the expression on your face. "We've got a team in another room, trying to reassmble the remains with genetic testing. Apparently Cleistos is trying to determine whether Angelos still has an heir to prosecute. Pointless, in my opinion, but he can be a real stickler for following the letter of the law."

As you dig through the enormous pile, you notice a pattern. It takes you a few minutes to carefully work out a phrasing that shouldn't be blasphemous, and a few minutes more to ask Iona. "Interrogator, may I ask a question?"

"Sure," says Iona casually.

"Angelos was a heretic," you say, trying to inject confidence into that statement, to show you're not doubting or wavering. "So why do most of his things have holy images on them?" You hold your breath, hoping she doesn't take it the wrong way.

"Good question," says Iona. "The reason he paid to have saints and aquilas on everything is because he's a heretic. Ah, not because those are heretical," she says, catching the confusion on your face, "no, it's because they're holy. Now obviously, he's dead, and we can't know his mind without a psychic probe, but I think he felt guilty about it. Not guilty enough to change his ways, but I'm sure he felt he owed something to the Emperor for his misbehavior. And he tried to pay it back with... Well, this," she says, and waves at the pile of luxuries in front of you.

"It's ridiculous. You can't buy off the Emperor. Just the idea of it is galling. And even supposing that you could, there's no pockets in a shroud. The only thing a person brings before the Golden Throne is the record of their deeds." She sighs.

"But he didn't really get that. All men like him know is trading favors and buying loyalty, hoarding the family fortune and upholding the honor of his line. Really, all of these gilded saints are just hush money. Some part of Angelos knew he was going to be put on trial for his crimes. And like most nobles do, he tried to buy his way out. He probably thought he was making some great sacrifice by spending the family money on this... Frankly, I don't know how the Sisters of the Famulous stand it. I'd be breaking out my flamer by the second week."

The rest of the work progresses with little fanfare. Several hours later, Iona declares that you're done for today, and you turn your eyes to the small pile of treasures you've accumulated. Iona holds up a hand to forestall you.

"Only three," says Iona firmly. "You've earned yourself a reward, but this isn't Sanguinala, and if Claritus finds out I've been spoiling you, she'll give me hell for it." You gaze longingly at the all the things laid out before you, but you have no room to argue, and three is better than none. It's a tough choice, but in the end you make your decision.

{ }​

That night, you can't sleep. Your mind keeps looping back to the events of three days ago. The scramble in the dark. The feeling of your first kill. The witch shouting, and the unnatural jaws that had closed about Telos' shoulder. The glowing mouth had smiled before biting Telos. Did the witch make it smile like that, or did it do that on its own? ...Never mind. You don't want to know.

The Dark Prince will eat your soul...

You get a cold feeling of foreboding, and you shift nervously under the covers. How are you supposed to feel about any of this? Nothing you've ever read or heard has prepared you for this. These memories just don't go away. They make you want to pace, or shout, or... Or something. Anything, if they'll stop running through your mind.

Well if they won't go away on their own, you'll just have to make them go away. You grit your teeth and imagine the nasty thoughts are an ugly little bug. Then you imagine stepping on it and grinding your heel as hard as you can. You turn over and will yourself to sleep. You drift into an uneasy slumber, dreaming of false smiles and writhing serpents.

Do not gain the Trait Iron Will, but you are now more likely to gain it in the future.

{ }
​

So many secrets, so little time. What mystery will you help solve?
[X] [SECRET] The Lords. The nobility of Chorale is quiet, so some of them must be up to something. Find out who and what.
[X] [SECRET] The Device. A nightmare from the outermost reaches of space found its way to a human noble. Try to figure out how and why.
[X] [SECRET] The Cult. A seditious cult is engaged in unmentionable heresy. They have to be meeting somehow– but when and where?

You can't really develop your abilities if you don't have someone who's not a Blank to work with. Should you go looking for one right now?
[X] [NULL] No. You have other things to do.
-[X] Hit the gym.
-[X] Keep calm and read on.
-[X] Explore the Governor's palace.
-[X] Practice your marksmanship on the shooting range.
-[X] Slack off.
[X] [NULL] Yes. You will ask...
-[X] Interrogator Telos, since she has already experienced the effects of your abilities.
-[X] Interrogator Iona, since she may be interested.
-[X] The Inquisitor, to see if he can find someone suitable.

You took three items out of Angelos' hoard. What were they? (Vote for as many as you want. The three with the most votes will be chosen.)
[X] [LOOT] A stubber pistol. Not nearly as powerful as your lasrifle, but excellently crafted, and it fits perfectly in your hands.
[X] [LOOT] A small bag full of of nice clothes. A greatcoat, scarves, gloves, two hats, some pairs of socks, stockings, and even a dress.
[X] [LOOT] A beautifully illuminated prayer book. You're not sure it's your kind of thing– but even if you wind up not liking it, it would make a excellent gift for someone else.
[X] [LOOT] A trombone. You have no idea how to play it, but it might be fun.
[X] [LOOT] A spyglass. Unfortunately, it doesn't telescope out, but it does have an infrared mode and laser rangefinder.
[X] [LOOT] A hard drive. Enough space to store nearly all the information you want, crammed inside a case sturdy enough to survive a Valkyrie crash.