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Thread: [M] The Prophet In Silver - IC

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    Default [M] The Prophet In Silver - IC

    Rated M for violence and distressing themes.
    Potential strong language and drug references.


    "We must have been...what, 15 or 16?" Kelly Black was saying, pausing as she tried to convert Solomon years to Imperial standard for Vincent's benefit. "They never checked ID in Plenus Luna, so we could just walk in. We never got recognised either because most of the folk who went there were from Spire 12. Though there was one random guy who came up to me like 'Hey, do I know you from somewhere?' - when I said I didn't he asked me what school I went to and then answered 'Hey, me too!' You know, blatantly trying it on, not even bothering to hide his Twelver accent..."

    Kelly grinned, and laid her cards carefully face down on the table so she could gesticulate with her hands. She was an angular faced woman, with brown eyes and dark, shoulder-length hair.

    "I'd have buckled laughing if this guy wasn't six foot and looming over me, but the best part is when he says 'Small hive isn't it?' and Marc turns up with our drinks, squares up to the guy without missing a beat and answers 'No pal, it's a very big one with one billion other women in it - frak off'. Bearing in mind that this guy is twice our size and maybe three times as wide..."

    "He hit me first." her brother Marc put in defensively. He and Kelly shared the same angular features, with straight noses and arched eyebrows. Marc sat with the elbows of his rolled-up shirt sleeves resting on the table, his ever present PDA tucked into the inside pocket of the suit jacket thrown over the back of his chair.

    "Need to pick your fights better, kid." Vincent grunted, scowling as he sat back in his chair and tapped ash off his lho. In spite of the relaxed atmosphere, the grizzled ex-guardsman seemed to be in one of his dour moods. 'Kid' was his nickname for Marc, which he had stubbornly retained ever since their first meeting nearly a year ago. Although Marc was hardly a juvie, anyone looked young compared to the scarred, weather-beaten Vincent Nyl. "And while all this is very interesting, you still haven't told us if you're in or not."

    Marc peeled his face-down cards off the table, just far enough to see the numbers in their top corners. "Well...I'm pretty sure you can't make the full house you're aiming for, because I was handed the last 7 two hands ago. I think Kally's got something, because she's been quietly calling every bet. And I know Kelly's got something impressive, because she never raises unless she's got an absolute premium hand. Knowing all that, there's only one thing stopping me from taking this one."

    "What's that?" Kelly asked, looking sidelong at her brother.

    "My cards are shit." Marc admitted, and pushed his hand into the centre of the table.

    Kelly grinned. "You know what your problem is, Marc? Sometimes you focus too much on the worst case scenario."

    She leaned to one side to show him the cards in her hand, and whatever they were caused Marc to lean back in his chair with a good-natured "Oh, for frak sake..."

    "You know," Vincent said irritably, fixing the Blacks with his mismatched stare. One eye was storm grey, the other milk white from an ancient war-wound. "You two covering each other's asses shouldn't apply during card games. Some of us are trying to take this seriously."

    He looked at Kally Sonder, the fourth member of their group, for support. The blonde haired ex-bounty huntress had just been smirking quietly throughout the exchange.

    "Oh, I agree completely." Kally grinned. "But what you haven't noticed is that Marc has a tell. His eyebrows do this little up and down thing when he sees his cards for the first time. And I'm betting Kelly has the same one."

    She put her cards face down, then threw a blue chip into the pile.

    "I'm in, and I raise twenty. Because this time I'm sure Kelly's hand is grox shit as well."

    "Vince," Kelly grimaced as Vincent reached out across the bottle-strewn table with his augmetic arm, sweeping Marc's cards into the discard pile with an awful grinding of servos. "You ever thought about getting that arm upgraded?"

    "I love this arm." Vincent replied stubbornly. "The middle finger works perfectly."

    At that moment, Marc's PDA chimed. He turned in his chair to fish it out of his suit pocket, and frowned when he read the contents of the message.

    "What is it?" Kelly asked.

    "A summons." Marc replied. "From interrogator Machairi."

    Alongside Javid Schafer, Alia Machairi was one of lord Sidonis' highest-ranking acolytes on the True Bane. The inquisitor lord's staff was monolithic, and Marc had never met Machairi in person; having been assigned instead to interrogator Schafer after that hideous business with Kally, Sapphira and explicator Strelilov had been resolved. He did know that Frank Priest - his group's one-time leader - had trained under Machairi briefly before being posted off to the Malfian sub with agent Van Der Mir. Of the interrogator herself he knew very little, other than Schafer's occasional assertions that she was a manipulative, two-faced bitch.

    "What's the script?" Kelly asked, raising her eyebrows.

    "All it says is she needs us to assist a mission team that she's putting together."

    Vincent growled. "It's the middle of shift 3. Doesn't she know we're off duty?"

    "Truth never sleeps, apparently." muttered Kally, sighing. "Lets go see what she wants."

    + + + + + +

    With the exception of lord Sidonis' own offices, none of the True Bane's conference cabins could be called luxurious. This one was no exception; well lit, but made cramped by the long blackwood table that dominated the floor space with seats for fifteen people, most of them unfilled. Claustrophobia was allleviated by a trio of pict screens along the rear wall that served as windows, projecting the slowly-turning star field captured by the Bane's hull sensors. A tall glass-fronted chronometer hung on one wall, its brass innards ticking softly.

    Interrogator Machairi sat at the head of the blackwood table in a plain, high-backed armchair, the lumoglobes studded around the rim of the table illuminating her long oval face. Around her were gathered her six closest agents. Ex-arbitrator Glabrio Hybrida lounged on one side of her; the Tallarn infiltrator Abdur Salah sat quiet and unobtrusive on the other. Aleksandr and Malpais sat apart, both psyker swordsmen, but of different callings - the one a young and strong willed Carthaen of the Esw Sadyr clan, the other a quiet but volatile pyromancer. Both exemplified speaking softly while carrying a big gun, which was why Machairi favoured them. Solvan Balannor, her personal confessor, had pride of place on her right hand side. Standing while the others sat was her personal bodyguard Tomas Prinzel, as always never far from the interrogator's side.

    Machairi's eyes flickered to the chronometer and then to the door, one elbow resting on the table with her fingernails rubbing thoughtfully against the ball of her thumb.

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."
    Last edited by Azazeal849; 03-10-2014 at 07:10 PM.
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    Abdur Salah bowed slightly. "Asalyamu Alayakum, comrades." He waited a moment, and from the stares that came at him, he adds, "In the tongue of my people, it means 'Peace be upon you', it is a greeting." His speech was muffled and distorted from the mask and rebreather he wore, which he never seems to take off, except when he eats, but then he puts it back on after he puts food in his mouth, and takes it off again when he takes another bite. "My specialty is infiltration and demolition. My people are noted for bursting from the shadows, striking a crippling blow, and disappearing once more. In this manner they are different from other regiments. I am an expert with explosives, and hope I can prove to be a useful asset. Imperator Akbar!" He said, using his people's version of 'Ave Imperator' to end his speech. He then became quiet and still once more, and only the slight hissing of his breathing was heard from him.
    Last edited by Cfavano; 03-10-2014 at 04:44 PM.

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    ++2 Hours before de meeting++

    Keeping to his daily routine while on the True Bane Solvan Belannor had been praying in the small chapel close to his cell for almost an hour now. As he knelt in front of the altar his green eyes gazed at the gorgeous mosaic that filled the ceiling depicting the God-Emperor smiting the enemies of humanity, leading the faithful to victory. To a bystander he looked like one of the marble statues of the saints, with his angular well-proportioned face, the grey hair and beard closely trimmed and the expression of exaltation with glistening green eyes. His deep voice broke the silence as he intoned his usual final prayer.

    “Oh Emperor, my soul thirsts for You, though undeserving as it may be she seeks You in the darkness.

    My soul thirsts for You, glorious God-Emperor, because I am weak as You are strong.

    I am corrupt as You are Holy. I am lost and only You can show me the light.

    God-Emperor help me accept Your divine inspiration so that I may follow the path You intended.

    Do not allow my path to be perturbed by neither man, daemon or xeno, and may the holy fires consume whoever tries to stand between your servants and their duty.

    For only you know all things past and future, only You see the souls and hearts of men.

    And should I ever be lost to heresy, Oh Sublime Emperor! Let my soul burn for eternity and weep in unfathomable agony knowing that it shall never know the bliss of your presence.

    Amen.”


    Solvan stood slowly, his knees protesting heavily to the time spent on the cold marble floor. His 6 feet of height were lost to his usual hunched figure, as if he carried a physical burden as well as a spiritual one. The former bishop went back to his cell and had a hearty breakfast ending 48 hours of fasting as he usually did before a mission. “After all” Ballanor thought, “the Emperor has no use for someone half starved to death.” Fasting was a tool to sharpen the soul and train the body, if overdone the body and mind withered and with them your duty to serve the Emperor.

    He glanced through his wardrobe and was tempted for a moment to wear his ceremonial robe, richly embroidered with gold and silver. But decided against it since it would only show arrogance and a need to awe his fellow teammates on the first meeting. Instead he went for a plain white robe with a few sober gold details. Nevertheless the bishop’s ring of solid gold and a large amethyst at the center stayed, he never parted with it.

    ++Meeting Room++

    Solvan arrived right after Machairi and Tomas, he gave them a respectful nod and beatifical smile and said. “May the Emperor blessings go with you both, so that He may guide you in today’s endeavors.” Then he walked to his seat and said in a more intimate tone to the interrogator. “My Lady, I know you have been terribly busy with the Beraspine case and now this mess falling out of nowhere. But it has been some time since I saw you in the chapel or for confession. I understand that to fulfill the Emperor’s duty the tending of the soul sometimes must be put to wait. But when you have the chance my old soul would greatly rejoice in seeing you look after your spiritual wellbeing.” He ended with a humble bow. He said old soul despite looking only 45 standard terran years because his body carried 143 years of life artificially prolonged by rejuvenation drugs. It was almost 15 years since he decided not to continue using them, and his body was quickly catching up with the years as his still throbbing knees told him.

    He clasped his bony hands in prayer and silently whispered a psalm for Saint Ezra as the rest of the team shuffled in.

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."

    “For to judge in your eyes and not the Emperor’s is a most terrible sin. This I tell you; those who let their brothers be scorned by the weakness of men shall be punished by the law of the Almighty Emperor.” Solvan quoted in a whisper, almost without thought, from the book of Saint Ariette.
    Last edited by Thrannix; 07-28-2014 at 02:00 AM.

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    ++ 3 hours before the meeting ++
    Tiny brightly coloured creatures of paper sit atop the small rooms only shelf, with the few well worn books, looking down at the young silver haired man sitting naked on the floor. Light psykic frost covered the floor nearest to Aleksandr, his lips moved silently repeating the mantras taught to him in his youth, focusing his mind in a meditative trance. The layer of frost thickened and expanded as the young manís mind gathered its strength, the mantras repeated faster and faster, only to stop suddenly. Frost dissipated quickly leaving beads of condensation behind, as he stood to his full height of 6í11. Pale grey eyes open slowly, taking in the small spartan room that he lived in, coming to rest on the small brass chronometer.

    Time to get to work Aleksandr thought to himself, as he dressed in nondescript grey fatigue pants and plain black t-shirt, pausing momentarily to gaze at the glossy black carapace of the bionic that replaced his left arm. He slipped on a leather shoulder rig, the holstered scipio pattern naval pistol resting under his left arm, with two spare clips under his right, a combat knife was sheath horizontally across the back of his waist. The chances of having to need weapons aboard ship were negligible but he was taught to always be prepared. Almost as an afterthought before leaving , he grabbed the long tanned leather coat on his way out the door.

    ++ meeting room ++
    Having arrived only a few moments after Confessor Slovan, Aleksandr greeted Interrogator Machairi, Tomas, and the priest with a polite nod and smile, before finding his seat at the table. He tried his best to hide an amused smile when Slovan spoke to the Interrogator about her absence from the chapel, and did his best to remember the last time he said his devotions to the emperor, but not being able to recall he shrugged to himself. A few words and nods of greeting were passed as the rest of the team filed into the meeting room.

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."

    Aleksandr had never met Interrogator Schafer, but from what he has been told the man was impatient and a bit of a rude arsehole. With arms crossed over his chest he leaned back in the chair, and waited for the members of Schafers team to come in.

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    --A few hours before the meeting--

    Malpais sat in meditative silence, the lights in his quarters turned low. His masters at the temple had infused in him in meditative routines, especially early in his day. The point of the exercises were to help him have a better handle on his rather volatile temper. But at the same time, that temper had proven to help push his pyromancy to more effective heights. Being in control of his temper turned him into a better warrior and made interacting with teammates easier.

    His dark green eyes opened at the end of his mental exercises and he pushed himself up, stretching his lithe body. He dressed in his dark garb, minus the matte black flak armor, and belted his force sword about his waist. The weapon had been expertly crafted for him, the hilt molded for his hand, and while he did not expect to have need of the weapon, he found its presence a familiar comfort. A reminder of the only place in his life he had ever truly called home.

    --The Meeting--

    Malpais arrived a few minutes after his fellow psychic swordsman. He greeted the Interrogator with a respectful bow before taking his place at the table. He had left the hood of his garb down and his normal mask off. Sanctioning scars stood out on his shaved scalp and down the back of his neck while his face was dominated by a tattoo of the Imperial aquilla. He listened to the exchanges, the confessors words prompting him to make a mental note to attend his daily prayers in the chapel.

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."

    Malpais had never met Schafer, but had heard as much about him as anyone else on staff. He sat quietly at his place at the table, awaiting the arrival of the members of Schafer's staff along with the rest of the room.
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    Lia wandered into the spartan conference room as early as she felt comfortable arriving, as she really did not want to cause a repeat of her previous late arrival. She had remembered to bring her hellpistol with her to the meeting, and it rested in a shoulder holster on her right side which she had attached over her vest. Being slightly too long for her, the hems of her trousers brushed against the floor as she walked into the room barefoot.

    At the head of the long table sat the woman that Lia remembered being reassigned to, who had a name that most of the other people seemed to have trouble saying. On her last mission, she remembered hearing the grumpy Interrogator saying some quite unkind things about her but he was grumpy about everybody so she thought that wouldn't be a problem. Still, meeting your new boss was supposed to be worrying, so she waved tentatively towards the Interrogator as she made her way towards a seat about halfway down the length of the table.

    Her gaze tracked over the other members of her new team and she repressed a slight shiver as she noted that not one, but two of them had the Eyes.

    A masked man addressed the room and she started slightly, but then she broke into a smile as she made a short return bow. "Motasharefon bema'refatek!*" she responded in a similar though slightly rusty dialect.

    Suddenly becoming re-aware of the other people in the room, she ducked her head and took her seat. "Ummm.... hi. I'm Lia." she said in a small voice, to no one in particular.


    *Pleased to meet you.

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    The Hive-world of Dux, a world plunged in eternal darkness. A world structured on the roots of mineral and manufacturing sectors, a world which its resources were stretched to the limit, and had fallen into chaos. Where numerous political factions attempted to rise to power, Imperial peacekeeping forces held the populace in check, maintaining a symbolism of order. But where there is chaos, there will always be those to seek fiscal gain and an escalated position.

    Even the lower stores and warehouses held a certain awe to them, carrying the guise and looks of Imperial infrastructure. One could feel the oppression from the very stone-works, the obscene, absolute scale made ordinary men feel dwarfed and helpless. Grey upon grey, black upon black, with golden skulls and eagles on every face, always staring, always watching; and often-or-not, they were. The lower stores were plagued with gangs, of hiding spots and holdouts. Each of them backing a certain power, each of them profiting from the chaos above them.

    The gantries hovered over crates of mineral hoppers, and catwalks ran along the upper floors, snaking and following the ground levels, or made their way to numerous alcoves housing the crane controls. High above them were the rafters, girders supported the weight of the roof, and above that, continued the rest of the hive proper. All connected and arrange in a fashion that could have mirrored an arachnids web.

    A lone figure made way across the heavy gauge plasteel, footsteps feathered despite the equipment he wore. Below him, he could hear the conversations of patrolling hooligans. His task was to neutralize political threats, and install new gang leaders which maintained pro-imperial values. These new leaders selected by a committee of Arbiters, mediated by Imperial governance, and approved by an Arbiter Judge.

    A task Hybrida wasn't unaccustomed to. He hovered over a pair of gangers, both of them armed with military grade auto-rifles. He reached into his webbing, retrieved a length of high-tension repel line, and looped it around the girder below him. He let out a heavy breath, lowered himself over the side of the support rafter and made his way down.

    He remained quiet, the sound of the repel line drowned out by the numerous conversations shared below. Hybrida made his way in between the two gang members, unfastened himself from the line and unsheathed his blade from the scabbard on his shoulder. He lunged forward, wrapping his hand around the first gangers face, and held his mouth shut. The blade tasted the mans flesh, licked at his neck, and spilled his blood across the catwalk.

    The other turned, curiously, his friend suddenly quiet. His eyes went wide, a fist landed hard into his neck, and a knee swiftly followed into his chest. The man let out a ragged exhale, gasped for air, and felt his hands go limp, his gun falling away from him. Hybrida hushed him, wrapped a hand around his chin, rose his head back, and let his blade slide home. It was brutal but efficient, time was of the essence, patrols were numerous, and radio contact at constant intervals.

    He kept moving, sprinted across the catwalk, his eyes shifted to his corners and over the sides down to the lower levels as he moved with earnest. He reached into his webbing, pulled out another length of repel cord, and clasped it to the catwalks guide-rails. Hybrida dove over the side, grasped the rope, and slowed himself with a squeeze of his hands.

    His feet felt rockcrete, and he unclasped the line once again. His hands fell to his holsters, and drew out his matched pair of side arms. A light flickered in his against his visor, before trailing down to centre mass, another soon followed, then another, and another again. Beads of crimson hovered across his form, dulled but visible thanks to his helmet optics. He counted a dozen.

    The facility lights flashed on, the darkness cascaded into illumination in a mere instant.

    "Well. This is hardly fair." Hybrida nodded, and said with a click of the tongue. Even with everything against him, he still managed to sound almost, bored.

    "I mean, a dozen gangers against a lone regulator. The odds are against you. I mean, well, fucking ay, I took on a rowdy lot of ya' three times your size before breakfast. This'll be easy-" He was cutoff as a lone auto-round caught one of the pockets of his webbing, sending a shower of jelly beans across the floor.

    "Oh, you don't know what you've just provoked my friend. Right... You have the right to be ventilated. I have the right to burn your home and destroy every vestige of your existence. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?" He declared as he ejected the magazines from his matched auto-pistols.

    Hybrida brought himself to one knee, began to move his hands behind his head. A thumb surreptitiously caught the ring of a smoke grenade hanging on his left shoulder. Before it erupted and consumed the area in a dense cloud of white-grey smoke. He dove to the floor, auto-rounds discharged and flew above him. Hybrida reached for his magazines, slid them back home, and pulled the sliders. His optics had shifted into the infrared, both of his hands snapped to potential targets and he squeezed the trigger.

    Two rounds fired, and two men dropped a second later. Again, his sights fell to another two gangers, where they fell in a ringing of lead and the smell of powder.


    Then he awoke.

    * * * * *

    "I got a reply from my sisters, did I ever tell you that?" Remus stated, matter-o-factually.

    He walked down the halls of the True Bane with one of his fellow company-men from Task Force Carbon, they'd just finished their latest bout of PT and were headed back to their barracks. The troops of the TFC weren't privileged with individual dorms, they worked as a team, slept as a team, ate and showered as a team. They were schooled in a certain professionalism, but no amount of physical or parade drills could stop them from being themselves. They joked, laughed, played games, reminisced, and some of the more daring, forged relationships.

    People were people, and not even the great Inquisition could change that. No amount of oppression, no amount of fear could hold back what was inside, humanity. Emotion was something Remus often held back, suppressed and attempted to ignore. He tried to distance himself from those he worked with, to avoid the feelings of loss, the rage, the need for revenge. This was the Imperium, loss was to be expected. But, that would be denying who he was, and his peers were often right, he was a family man.

    "No, you haven't. I assume you will though, if I like it or not." Tavus joked. He leaned over, and gave Remus a small nudge.

    “Don't be a smart arse, we're professionals, I'm just trying to converse with you.” Remus returned.

    “Always the cynical one, Remus. I'm just playing with you, man, that's all. Tell me.” Tavus insisted.

    "Roxanna's tour on Gravio II has come to an end, the outbreak that had plagued the planet is now at an end. The populace has taken a hit, but, forever onwards, as the Imperator puts it. She's been redeployed, sent back to her sanctuary, she'll be safer there. I'm thankful for that at least." Remus said, with the hint of a smile.

    "Lady Chrysanta, it's business as usual for my beloved eldest. Her Inquisitorial runs do not allow her much freedom, her duty is one ongoing. But, she is well. She has another staff now, a ragtag bunch, as you would expect. I doubt I won't be seeing her for a time, she no longer needs me." He continued, an uncertainty in his voice.

    "You're getting soft old man. I may need to drag your ass down to the training room floor, clearly you need some kind of tough love. Wouldn't want the Interrogators finding out your a softy." Tavus accused, as he gave Remus a playful jab on the shoulder.

    "My martial prowess is lacking, I'll give you that, but, I have years on you, and they don't teach you everything in the Progenium." He returned.

    * * * * *

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."

    "Hey. I take offense to that. I'll have you know, I'm a sparking semblance of Imperial citizenry." Hybrida spoke up, a feigned disgust in his voice.
    Last edited by Jarms48; 03-11-2014 at 10:58 PM.

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    +++ Tomas Prinzel, Several Hours Ago +++
    Tomas flopped onto a bench, sweating profusely. His bastard sword dangled from his right hand and his shield was dropped unceremoniously on the floor. He looked up at the practice cage, and smiled. At least the servitor was in worse condition, hacked apart by his sword blows. He groaned as he reached down to his kit bag an grabbed a water bottle, before drenching his face and swallowing gulps of it.

    He felt like he was slowing down in his old age. He didn't like that. He forced himself back up and started to do his cool down exercises. This particular training area was a bit out of the way, and relatively unknown, with older equipment. Only himself, Khadath and a few of the older officers from Task Force Carbon still used the place. It had become informally known as the 'old mans club' because everyone who used it these days seemed to have one too many grey hairs, and the occasional trick knee or bum joint.

    Which was why he was surprised when a short, athletic woman with blonde hair strode in as if she owned the place. She slung her kit bag in the corner without a glance in his direction, and walked over to the weapon rack. He watched, suddenly wary, as the woman took a single sabre and a short dagger with guard from the wall and walked over to the nearest practice cage.

    "You don't want that one." He shouted as she reached to activate the controls. She turned, and his wariness multiplied to unease as she fixed him the kind of gaze that angered country wives saved for their drunk husbands and Queens saved for recalcitrant subjects. "The servitor doesn't listen to the emergency shut down commands. The damn cogboys should have been in weeks ago to fix it."

    "Thanks." she responded, smiling. The uneasy feeling faded somewhat. "Maybe you'd like to spar instead?"

    Tomas couldn't help but smile at that. "Very well, though I warn you, I'm, not as spry as I used to be."
    "And I prefer shooting and punching things to using a sword. I promise I'll go easy on you anyway."
    Tomas chuckled, and headed over to the practice ring, recovering his bastard sword and shield. He watched as she put on a padded duelling jacket and kicked of her boots. She had the kind of tightness, the raw physicality, that normally sent men like him head over heels in desire. But there was something about her that put him constantly on edge. Like he expected her to turn and have the face of a daemon.

    They squared off in the arena set aside for duels. Tomas rolled his shoulders and put his shield up.

    "First to three?"

    She nodded fiercely. "Age before beauty, old man. En Garde."

    Tomas snarled at that, roaring a challenge as he charged down the piste. She stepped back and raised her weapons in defensive stance, but Tomas easily bashed the sword and dagger aside before laying his shoulder into her. The woman crashed to the floor, as much surprised as winded.

    "Age and Cunning over Youth and Skill." He responded. He sheathed his sword and offered his hand.

    "I see that." She took the hand, and Tomas helped haul her to her feet. "First to three, right?" She grinned wolfishly. "Lets see what else you got."

    +++Tomas Prinzel, The conference Room+++

    “May the Emperor blessings go with you both, so that He may guide you in today’s endeavors.”

    "And to you, Solvan." He smiled. He liked the old priest, he was one of the only members of Machairis retinue he really trusted. The old priest reminded him of home, somehow. Maybe it was his resemblance to the priests back on Casteria, or maybe all old priests looked kind of the same. "Its been a while since we saw you down in the practice cages, you old coot. Hope you're not letting old age catch up with you."

    "Try to be nice to them." she told her team as she sat back in her chair. "They might have trained under Schafer but I don't think they've been with him long enough to turn into his yes-men."

    “For to judge in your eyes and not the Emperor’s is a most terrible sin. This I tell you; those who let their brothers be scorned by the weakness of men shall be punished by the law of the Almighty Emperor.”

    Tomas shrugged at that. It wasn't his place to judge. Just his job to keep people safe.

    "Imperator Akbar!"

    Tomas shot a look at Abdur as he introduced himself. "Keep your sand language to yourself Abdur, on this team we speak Gothic and with good reason."

    He resisted the urge to sigh and pinch his nose. Abdur was probably a good soldier, but he still hadn't been broken of his worst practices from his homeworld, and that included his obnoxious dialect of Gothic.

    He waited quietly as Schafer's team filed in in dribs and drabs. First Lia, the scary little witch girl who put people through bulkheads. That would mean they had three psychics on the team.

    Then the blonde woman from the training deck stepped through the door, wearing an armoured bodyglove, her blonde hair tied back in a pony tail.

    "Agent Sonder reporting as requested, Interrogator Machairi." She nodded to the room and immediately took a seat. For just a second, their eyes met across the room and she smiled that same wolfish grin.

    "By the Kings Balls." He muttered in Casterian, under his breath. "This is going to be interesting."

    +++Kally Sonder, the conference room+++

    "Agent Sonder reporting as requested, Interrogator Machairi."

    Kally looked over the room once as she sat down, offering Lia a rare smile. She hadn't had much chance to work with the pint-sized terror on Venatora, but Kelly had been kind enough to share some stories over a drink. She didn't really know anyone else, except for the swordsman. She hadn't guessed he was one of Machairi's minions. That was. . .kind of interesting. Did she detect a sudden flush of colour on his cheeks? She placed her hands on the conference table and waited for the others, who had been trailing just behind. She also suppressed a chuckle.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 03-23-2014 at 12:07 PM.
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  9. #9
    Sanity's Eclipse
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    --Sanctum Mechanicum--

    Vizkop had holed himself up in his provided quarters shortly after receiving an overhaul to his external cybernetics. The overhaul was a maintenance concern as some of the internal components of his arms and legs had started to degrade from prolonged use. Replacements was a simple, if not mildly prolonged, process that Vizkop had grown used to in his service to the Omnissiah. He had sought solitude quickly after the procedure to be among his own thoughts and devices.

    The name “Dragonslayer” had come up a few times in reference to him since the incident. He cared little for nicknames, especially one so ostentatious. He escaped from such things by concerning himself with his teammates during the incident on Venatora. For a time, he observed a select number of them, watching closely for any questionably deviant behavior. He found nothing out of the ordinary and soon grew content to cease his observations.

    On the day that he and the rest of that team were to report to Interrogator Machairi, Vizkop's eyes drifted over the code-locked weapon cabinet in his quarters. The contents were varied, tools for many situations should he need to arm himself accordingly. He knew two of the weapons within very well as they had once belonged to a fallen Archmagos named Mikera, a woman who had come to believe that it was the destiny of all “true children of the Omnissiah” to rule the galaxy. Taking her on had been his first solo assignment in service to his faceless masters and the fight atop her massive land crawler had nearly cost him his life. But, he had triumphed and after recovery teams went through the remains her twinned blades had been recovered. Elegant power weapons, they had been reconsecrated and gifted to him as a reward for his work. They had yet to see use in his hands.

    --The Meeting Room--

    “Techpriest Vizkop reporting as requested.”

    Vizkop trailed in behind Sondar, eyes flitting from person to person as he walked around the table to a vacant place. He had chosen not to wear his helmet for the meeting, thinking it best to show his face rather than seem like he was hiding. Among those in the room, he only really knew Kally and Lia and even then he did not know those two that well beyond working with them on Venatora.
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    "Its been a while since we saw you down in the practice cages, you old coot. Hope you're not letting old age catch up with you."

    “Ah, yes. You are quite right Tomas, I have been too lenient on physical exercise as of late. The Emperor needs servants fit in body and soul after all. Perhaps after the meeting you may find the time to give me a thorough beating?” He answered cheerfully. Solvan was very fond of Agent Prinzel, he was not only a devote believer, but also shared many of the priest's interests and was an excellent training coach. “Which reminds me; I’m expecting a delivery from one of my contacts that deals in rare books. He assures me he has found a true jewel this time. I’m still half through The Life and Legacy of Solar Macharius, perhaps you would like a first look at this new acquisition when it arrives?” He added with a knowing look to the bodyguard.

    Lia wandered into the spartan conference room as early as she felt comfortable arriving, as she really did not want to cause a repeat of her previous late arrival.

    Solvan regarded the young girl entering the room with a pang in his heart. “How old is she?” He thought. “Surely she isn’t an adult yet.” He repressed a sigh as he reminded himself that such was the way of the Inquisition, no one was too young or too old to be called to carry out the Emperor’s work. Yet he also was certain that such calls only became necessary due to the weakness of other men which had no qualms in letting kids fight while they enjoy a life free of worries. After all Solvan used to be one of them. It didn’t matter to him that she was able of great feats of psychic prowess, she was still a child. He kept a warm smile on his lips, nothing of his thoughts got to his face since hiding his emotions was something that he learned early in his formation as a priest.

    The word witch fluttered in his mind for a moment. Decades of calling psykers witches and other derogatory names had stuck with him. But in the service to lady Alia he had come to accept that sometimes they could be committed servants of the Emperor worthy of trust and respect, as Aleksandr and Malpais had shown in every occasion. He blinked and muttered a prayer of forgiveness for his unworthy thoughts.

    "Motasharefon bema'refatek!*" she responded in a similar though slightly rusty dialect.
    Suddenly becoming re-aware of the other people in the room, she ducked her head and took her seat."Ummm.... hi. I'm Lia." she said in a small voice, to no one in particular.


    The girl spoke Tallarn, despite clearly not having the appearance of being born there. Solvan eyed Salah to see his reaction, but he couldn’t tell behind his mask. The girl looked shy. Solvan didn’t blame her; after all she was alone in a room full of strangers.

    He let the reprimand of Tomas to Salah go unhindered. They needed to work their differences by themselves. A priest cannot try to fix every division within the team.

    "Agent Sonder reporting as requested, Interrogator Machairi."

    Solvan had enough years of tending to the troubles of the soul to sense that something was afoot between the stunning blonde (he was a young man once) and Tomas. He made a mental note to probe this suspicion in a more intimate setting with agent Prinzel. Perhaps it was nothing and he was just getting old as everyone kept saying, but he was usually right.

    “Techpriest Vizkop reporting as requested.”

    An almost imperceptible frown formed on Solvan’s forehead as he saw the tech-priest walk in. He wasn’t too fond of the cult to the machine god. It was his belief that it deviated too far and operated in a way far more independent than most of the Ecclesiarchy would like. But he couldn’t deny that when needed they were valuable assets in the fight against the enemies of mankind. A necessary evil as many would put it.

    “Welcome Lia, agent Sonder and Tech-Priest Vizkop. I am father Solvan.” He said in a friendly tone while opening his palms to the ceiling in a gesture that signified to seek the Emperor’s Will. “Here with me are agent Prinzel, agent Hybrida, agent Salah, which has already introduced himself, and swordsmen Malzel and Esw Sadyr.” He went through his teammates with slight movements of his head or hands, and last he gestured towards the Interrogator as he stood up to portray the importance that was needed when introducing your superior in Ecclesiarchy protocol, the bishop's ring shining with the motion. “And may I present to you, Interrogator Alia Machairi whom we all serve in the name of the God-Emperor.” He ended with another slight bow before being seated once more. He decided not to go into more details, further explanations would be shared in due time.
    Last edited by Thrannix; 03-12-2014 at 05:59 AM.

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