There was nothing to compare to the way that spacecraft simply
appeared as you approached, no human frame of reference that could make sense of how the vast sizes and vast distances conspired together. It looked for all the world like the dropship was heading toward an anonymous patch of black void at first, then that became a small, dim star. As you closed, the reflected light took on shape and meaning, slowly, until you could see the outline of it, until light and shadow produced contours and details. It didn't look far away, it just looked
small; there was no atmospheric haze to give a sense of distance or scale, so it looked for all the world that if not for the windscreen, you could reach out and take it in your hand.
Then you looked away to speak to Dremel and looked back, and there was a city looming ahead like a cliff face, getting ever-closer.
Pilgrim's Wake had begun its life as an ancient class of merchant vessel. It was so old and obscure that nobody knew what, exactly, it had once been, even before the long history of refits and repairs and gradual expansion that had followed. It was old when the Merchant Fleets had released it to private hands for lack of spares or knowledge of its workings, and
that had been four thousand years ago.
It had been built and rebuilt so often that it was debatable that any part of it was of the original build, and it was impossible to know. The history of it was so immense you had taken to wearing gloves when walking the halls, to lessen the weight of it when you held the railings in its crooked staircases or operated its doors. The closer you got to its core, the more this feeling grew.
A listless wander had taken you through a long-worn hall, lined with windows facing the blank steel of a different bulkhead. The air was old and still; it hadn't known lungs in dozens of lifetimes. You'd touched a windowsill with bare fingers, and saw a planet out the window, a beautiful marble of green and blue, swirling with clouds, with a single large moon glittering with lights. It was a vision so ancient and so
lost, a moment that this window had held for the desperate need to share it with somebody. The world the ship had launched from, perhaps?
You wondered if you'd ever see it, wherever it was, and what it would look like now.
The dropship was now flying between the vast structures which jutted from the surface of the ship, guided toward an appropriate landing bay by radio waves. There were few places on the vessel that could store the vehicle; you'd be heading directly toward the Captain's berth.
Pilgrim's Wake was now owned by the Chandyll family, who'd come into possession of it alongside a hundred other vessels in a high-stakes game of Black Five. This change of ownership had meant little for the ship until, just a decade ago, Inquisitor Praxis had spared the life of once-Governor Eloise Miranda Heinricus Chandyll, now
Lady Chandyll after an unlikely series of accidents and one of Praxis' most valued, if unexpected, allies.
There had been a series of vessels which had taken you to the East over the past year, of which Pilgrim's Wake was the last. The Chandylls had an ancient contract with the Navigator's guild, which had enabled a series of what were usually slow, fixed-route vessels to seize on the currents of the great Caecus Torrent and make double-time to the edge of the galaxy once Praxis saw the need.
The great dropship disappeared into the cavernous hold of the captain's berth, but even here it almost scraped the walls.
Pilgrim's Wake was not a large ship, a mere two kilometres long, and its internal holds had long been cut apart and converted into hundreds of warehouses and living spaces. It was a city that moved, which traded labour and expertise as much as goods and materials, making slow tours between the same two-dozen worlds on a decade-long circuit. This was the first time it had broken its pattern in centuries.
The great doors closed and sealed behind you, atmosphere was piped into the space, and the light against the far wall turned green. You descended to the lower deck as the great door opened, your companions forming around you, and descended to the deck below. You were met by one of the ship's managers, a thin and long-limbed woman whose name escaped you, and she asked only where the vessel was to go next.
"Macragge. With all speed," you responded without hesitation. "How is your supply situation?"
"We haven't had time to restock here. I should think we will need to make a stop to trade before we can make such a journey," she said, glancing at the data-slate in her hand and scrolling through the controls. "With your permission, we shall consult the charts and find a suitable world."
"How long will such a stop take?" you asked.
"... if we send a message ahead by astropath, it shouldn't take more than a week," she responded. Dremel chuckled.
"A week? To take on food?" he asked. She looked at the ogryn with disgust, but spoke on.
"Yes. This vessel is home to twenty-five thousand souls. Taking on the provisions to feed them for months is a great undertaking, made worse by the bottleneck of our airlocks. There is a reason our way is to stop at a world for several months." Dremel nodded, but didn't look convinced. "We will be underway as soon as we rouse Lord Cassini and have chosen a destination. Our guards will take you to your quarters."
"Thank you…" you strained to remember what her rank was in the esoteric system of the vessel and failed. She didn't seem to notice.
---
This vessel is going to need supplies before it can make it to Macragge. Where to?
[ ] Gathis II, the homeworld of the Doom Eagles Space Marine chapter, is within reach. It is classified as a Feral World, but has considerable orbital infrastructure to feed and supply the Fortress-Monastery below. You will be putting in at the Ghost Star, the primary orbital station.
[ ] You will put in at Protos, a vital world in western Ultramar. It is classified as an Imperial World, and is considered prosperous and well-developed. As Inquisitorial Representatives, you will be expected to travel to the capital and meet with the Governor in exchange for resupply.
[ ] You will head for Prandium, a dead world scoured clean by the Tyranids two centuries ago. The Munitorium have established large bases in orbit which attract many trade and supply ships; the rumour is that the planet was home to vast underground munition stores which have recently been discovered to have survived and which are being recovered.
