The ship left the warp. He knew it, feeling as if a great burden had been lifted from his mind. The Geller-Field protected the crew from the warp, but there was always this... Feeling that something was watching, judging, or weakly trying to pry into your mind. Zhevon grabbed his effects and strapped them on. Armor, rucksack, trusty sword, null-rod, and he attached the brand new wrist mounted meltapistol. It was an unfamiliar weight to his left arm, but he would get used to it. He stepped out of his cabin and walked to the briefing room, seeing several crew, they only nodded to him, some said a brief hello. He made sure that everyone who served under him greeted him just as they would greet a friend, he felt that all of the 'Lord Inquisitor' and saluting was too formal. It made things too stiff, he felt.

He opened the door to the briefing room, walking into the room he noticed that one was already there. Trooper Gregor Mekel, a conscript Guardsman that he had picked up almost ten years ago. The trooper had served him well ever since.
Gregor, wearing his kitbashed armor and his meltagun propped up against the chair next to him, stood up and made an over-exaggerated bow. "My Lord! You humble me with your grand presence! What Daemons and Heretics may we smite this day, in His name!" He said loudly,
Zhevon sighed and rubbed his faceplate as he walked up to the front of the briefing hall, "Gregor, please." The Inquisitor replied, "Can we do this normally?"
The Guardsman sat back down and crossed his legs, "Come on Zhevon, I can't have a bit of fun? You owe me that much since I saved you a couple weeks ago on Nennra VI."
"If I recall that was you paying me back for the time I pulled you out of that burning Land Raider."
The two continued their banter, as a way of passing the time, waiting for the rest of the team to fill up the briefing hall. Some had served with the Inquisitor before, others however, had never fought alongside the young Inquisitor before.

"Welcome to the steel legion!"

Ben was riding on top of a Chimera, that hatch open, as a mechanized column poured out of the city. The man yelling at him was in the gunner's seat, arm resting on the pintle mounted stubber. "Don't worry! The greenskins will be dead within a week, rookie!" His eyes were a shining blue, behind the goggles.

The sound of rain on the steel hull woke Ben up. But it didn't rain on Armageddon. He looked around in the hull, a dim red light shining. The gunner's legs spasmed and kicked, and he fell in, his chest a gaping wound from a shoota. The man was already dead as two men scrambled to try and save his life. A private climbed up and closed the hatch.

The backdoor of the Chimera opened, and once Sergeant, now lieutenant Benjamin Duren stepped out. He held a shotgun, and had little care for his safety anymore, it had been two years of hell. He stepped away from the safety of cover, firing the shotgun from the hip, walking towards the Ork's, screaming obscenities. Two privates grabbed him, and pulled him back to the Chimera.

Lieutenant Duren dropped into the trench that the orks had held. He raised his plasma pistol and shot an ork. He turned and pointed down the trench, and several men went with Grenades to clear it. He turned and saw a Warboss charging him. His jaw was ripped off, his intestines torn from his body, a gaping wound in his chest. The ork was lying on the ground laughing as it bled to death, surprised by the human's tenacity and fight. Ben was lying on the ground screaming, his legs gone, his arm gone, his spine a mess.

Ben woke up, for real this time, as the ship left the warp and entered real space. He was sleeping in a wheelchair, his legs and arm not attached to his body. He put his hand on the joystick and wheeled himself forward to a servitor, who helped attach his legs and arm. Ben stood up, and stretched what he could and settled the aches that he couldn't. The same dream as usual. Ben dressed himself, choosing to wear his Steel legion uniform. He put on his coat, and buttoned it, and holstered his pistol. He slid the power fist onto his hand. The energy field inactive, it was just a giant gauntlet. Ben attached the rebreather to his chest, and hung it loosely around his neck. He put on his helmet, and pushed his goggles up so they rested on his forehead, allowing his face to be seen.

Ben made his way through the ship and into the briefing room, entering. Ben nodded to them. "Inquisitor. Trooper." He said pointblank. He was tired, as he usually was. The bags under his organic eye were deep and dark today, and he hadn't shaved in two or three days giving him a haggard appearance. Ben took off his power fist, and placed it on the ground under his chair. He placed an order of recaf with a servitor, and sat down. When the recaf arrived, Ben sipped the drink.

Facing out across the endless, vast and open expanse of space through the windows of the room was the ashen haired woman, Adrianne.

She sat on her legs in complete quiet, with her arms formed in a cross across her chest. In front of her, lying on the cold, brown and gray metal plates that made out the floor was her long and curved power sword, still in its sheath which looked reminiscent of a staff in appearance. Next to her sword was her gothic styled winged helmet, facing out towards the darkness of space as well.

The psyker was already wearing her space battle trappings, a dark brown jumpsuit beneath a series of plates, gloves and heavy boots adorned with imperial symbolic runes and patterns, and a refractor field generator that ran down her back, shaped like a human skeletal spine made out of black metal.

Her mind was empty, and her pulse was low. She was in a meditative trance, a habit she had taken up while traveling the warp.

Through draining herself of all thought, and almost even her own consciousness, she did no longer hear the seething and hateful whispers that otherwise were so loud when close to the warp. Her pulse was barely still going, and her breath soundless. It was a method she had picked up from another psyker on her travels, and had made warp travel; a usually very uncomfortable experience for someone of her arcane sensitivity; to a much more bearable, albeit perhaps boring experience. In fact, it now provided her with a peace of mind that she rarely ever found when on a mission or duty, making warp travels a somewhat relaxing experience, a complete opposite of what it had been for her before. In her medition, all her worries, fears and anxiety were absolved by a stoic discipline, making her medition almost feel like a comfortable, lucid sleep.

A low series of pings suddenly became audible in the room. Hovering in the air next to her, lurking in the darkness of the corner was a floating servo skull, a red light flashing ever so weakly next to its dark eye sockets.

"Notification: warp travel complete. Mission briefing scheduled to start in minus two minutes." A mechanical voice was emitted from the skull's vox box as it gazed emptily at Adrianna.

The psyker's eyes finally opened, revealing two purple irises. A faint wave of psychic energies passed over them, before she made her first facial motion; as if she had just recovered from a deep slumber.

Standing back up onto her feet without a word, she would hold out her arm in front of her. Her sword, lying on the ground in front of her, would suddenly begin to levitate and hover up into her hand, before she gripped around it and rotated it around to hold the sword's large sheath as a staff, planting the bottom of it into the ground.
Her helmet would also move, floating up to her waist before attaching itself to her belt behind her hip.

The part of the inquisitorial ship that she found herself in was remarkably quiet and abandoned, its elaborate rooms and hallways poorly lit and usually desolate of other people. That, alongside the windows looking out into the vastness of space was the reason she had chosen that part of the ship.
Aside from the ever so persistent low hum of the engines, there was no other sounds in that section of the ship, short of the occasional lone servitor that trundled along to do its work in silence. It was almost reminiscent of a ghost ship.

Walking through the hallways that were littered with tubes and cables along the walls and floors, some of which were hard to see in the poor lighting, she would head towards the briefing room.

The inquisitor's ship was by no means a small vessel. Was there ever a stereotype that seemed to persist through the millenniums about imperial officials and high servants, then it was their love for big ships.

Arriving at the briefing room, Adrianna eyes would immediately move to the Inquisitor, Zhevon, and his favorite lackey, trooper Gregor, as well as Ben standing somewhere in the back. The former stood together, their joyous banter which could be heard before she had even entered the room, let alone foresee them. Zhevon's jovial demeanor was quite different from that she had come to expect from an inquisitor, with what little interference she had had with other inquisitors suggesting a cold, calculative, arrogant and almost power-crazy behavior. Indeed, inquisitors were viewed with both fear and distrust by most, while being more than happy to view the masses with distrust and suspicion in turn. The fact that some inquisitors even possessed the imperial authority to call down the extermination of entire planets was enough to make someone cautious in their presence at best! Zhevon's apparent cheerful attitude did not do much to comfort Adrianne either. When a powerful, possible megalomaniac with a power complex seemed particularly happy, it could either be nothing, or a really, really bad thing!

Meeting any gaze from either Gregor and Zhevon with a stoical, empty expression, Adrianna would give them a subtle nod to acknowledge their attention.

"You summoned me, Inquisitor?" She would say with a disaffected voice, her gaze trailing between Gregor and Zhevon.

"Again! If I can't be here baby sitting you lot, then you must understand the appropriate response and standard to everything that could go wrong as a Naval Armsman. Now, AGAIN!"

Senior Armsman Alexei Stukov was standing on the walkways above a converted cargo space, now used for the intent of training new and rusty combat personnel aboard the vessel. And this included each and every armed member beneath Stukov's command, so he was seeing to it that each and every one of his senior members was drilled to perfection. Before long he would not be available to lead and command them on a regular basis, if ever, so he was making sure they could do their jobs without him, regardless of who ended up taking over or not. That was not his decision to make. So as the senior men and women beneath his command started the drill again, he walked down the catwalk, every other step resounding with metal upon metal as his replacement lower leg and foot came down upon the catwalk. He was observing their every movement and decision, as each time he reran the drill, he changed something, it was never the same problem twice. He would not let them become complacent that easily. He had gotten this far thanks to luck, and probably some help from the Emperor on occasion. He did not want them to have to hope and pray for that sort of salvation without a damn good reason.

Stukov was in his usual attire, which meant his carapace breastplate was on over a off white top, rolled sleeves revealing two intact organic arms, although the gloves he wore mostly obscured his hands, they were cut off so the fingers were exposed. He wasn't fond of the loss of dexterity that came from gloves, but they had purposes in providing extra grip, so he tolerated the variant he wore currently. Dark green trousers, with obvious modification for his injured right leg of course, and tightly secured boot on his left foot. On his back was his weapon of choice, a Lucius pattern Mk 22c Shotgun. Normally, the biggest users of those were the Death Korp, but one could not deny their effectiveness. Even if their most famous users were suicidal, fatalistic men and women in some hellscape of a homeworld. Beyond that, he carried a Foehammer as his backup, which was sitting on his hip right now, and loaded with slug. It wasn't the most flexible choice, considering the range limitations, but an Armsman rarely needed to hit out hundreds of meters. And slug could still reach a fair ways to rectify that.

And beyond his combat knife, sheathed for easy access on his thigh, a set of grenades and ammo pouches made up his utility belt. A pair of flash, pair of concussion, and as much ammo as he could carry for his weapons. Not a very subtle or complicated load out, but it did its job. A lot of armsman down drilling seemed to like to vary and complicate their set ups and tactics. Stukov, not so much. Keeping it as simple and effective as possible was the goal, complicated schemes invited unforeseen problems and backfires. And no one liked unforeseen problems and backfires, not in their plans and goals. So as the current drill finished, and they managed to get through it with no 'causalities', the general announcement for the Inquisitor's retinue to finally stop wasting time and go meet up with their new boss. Well, new for some. Stukov had never personally worked with the man, so it was a new experience for him. But he wasn't going to go in their fawning and tripping over himself for bowing so low to the deckplate. That might be why he never advanced very far beyond Senior Armsman. Stukov refused to kiss enough ass to get there.

"That's my cue, you lot. We've shifted out of warp space, doesn't mean relax. Get some water and food into you, and keep working on improving. Barely getting by without losses won't cut it in the real deal. Good luck you sorry bastards."

Stukov got his fair share of shit talking sent back his way as he turned and walked out, it was only fair really. They were his troops, and he was very informal about rank and command, so it was natural to see an organic chain of command and respect form in that kind of situation. They talked shit, bullied each other, but if someone outside the family made moves, the wrath of every one of em came down on that sorry bastard. No one outside that kind of family screwed with them. It was a sad thing to see go, but it was inevitable once Stukov had been told the new orders and arrangement. Inquisitor's don't get told no, though, so here he was marching off to see someone far too above his paygrade. Suppose he should probably at least be respectful, didn't need to get shot so soon after all. With that rather morbid thought, he arrived outside the briefing room and sighed, pulling off his face piece and pocketing it before walking in.

Inquisitor stood out rather obviously, armor and weapons kind of did that. Mask didn't help him decide the kind of man he was by expression or amount of scarring. More unknowns, great. Next, trooper of some sort or another, ex Guard maybe? Looked like his sole purpose was to make enemy tank crews regret their choice in careers. Either smart, lucky, or borderline suicidal to take on tanks on foot. Not Stukov's cup of tanna, really. And a pysker, God Emperor help him. He didn't dislike the psyker as a person, the powers freaked him the hell out though. Daemons were one thing, they were wrong by nature, invaders of real space. And nothing buckshot blessed by the local priest couldn't usually handle. Psykers used that very same wrong space to fuel powers, risk possession, and do a hell of a lot of damage. Didn't mean that it didn't unnerve the hell out of him though, which was probably obvious. But he swallowed that unnerved paranoia and nodded to the assembled group so far, damn him if he would let himself act out of his usual for superiors.

"Senior Naval Armsman Alexei Stukov, reporting as ordered, boss."

Osilus wrenched his cold billhook from the hanging carcass in front of him, he panted and wiped the small beads of sweat from his brow. He turned his attention to the floating servo-skull in front of him. With a struggling flicker the engraved skull projected a holo-pad in front of it's masters face. The pad showed where Osilus had landed his hook and what damage was done to the surrounding tissue of the wound. With a flourish of his tattooed hand Osilus dismissed the drone and placed his billhook on a slab held by a nearby servitor. He pulled the damp towel from his belt and wiped his face dry, slinging the towel over his shoulder he made his way to the deck elevator. He punched the code in to his quarters and waited a short two minutes to reach his deck at the bottom of the ship. Upon exiting the elevator he turned off of the path towards the mess hall and instead entered through a service door, reserved for engineers or servitors on a job and not Inquisitorial staff. The young acolyte shifted through the cramped passage and came to a larger opening with a maintenance room door on every of it's four walls. Osilus punched in his personal pin on the door nearest him and in a clicking and a short series of hisses the door slid away into the wall smoothly. Inside was a cramped room, composing of a thin mattress, lounge pillows and blue mood lights with the odd obscure tapestry here and there. Osilus' room was no bigger than the interior of a chimera tank and it was dim like the tunnels he spent so many years digging in that curse civil war on Birmea. With a smile to himself he lay on the floor removing his holo-lenses from the pits of his aching skull, it had been a long trip in space for him, of course all journeys through the stars were for him.

His room was covered in old pictures of his tunnel team, plasma-lanterns, broken digging tools and his medals of service. Nothing was kept in any specific order or way, but just littered across the floor and small shelves that held his worldly possessions. His mind buzzed and burned from the self-experimentation of combat stims and truth serums mixed by his own hand. He took on the role of interrogator all to seriously after reading about the ways of their trade. Perhaps it was months of thinking about his life in the dark and wanting to try something new should he ever get the chance, serving the Inquisition was that something new. He first joined the Inquisition after being recommended by one agent he saved in Birmea's civil war, giving a good word on those that need the service of subterfuge and fighting. After a few muscle jobs here and there Osilus was finally picked up by Inqusitor Zhevon to fulfil basic guard duties, but eventually the young man's interest turned to the ability to extract information from the fell and the damned. HE had spent two ears acquiring information on human psychology, anatomy and philosophy, purchasing exotic plants and liquids said to make a man spill his darkest secrets with a single droplet. But of course, his favourite would always be learning the ways to harm another with precision and efficiency, hence the requisition of xenos specimens to test more than his serums.

Hearing his summons to the briefing room via digital transmission within the vox implant in his skull, Osilus wiped away the rest of the sweat and cleaned himself. He dressed in his Birmean armour, slinging his antique rifle over his shoulders and securing his weapons and satchel full of tools. He fixed fresh lenses to the integrated frames around the pits that lead inward to his eye sockets, they helped him see in the light, see the beating heart of those guilty of Heresy through walls and scan a specimen of structural weaknesses be they construct or organic. Osilus shifted back through the tunnel of steam and pipes and journeyed to the briefing room.

Upon arrival, Osilus blinked his lenses into a different opticla setting, to ease his eyes to the light of this new room. He made a firendly smile towards Ben, a veteran of Armageddon and a true man of strength. Gregor, a man who tested Osilus' patience from time to time but still he served as a fine rival to the acolyte. The Armsman, a solider at heart and a suited mentor to the young and eager. The Psyker... the one he distrusted. Finally there was the Inquisitor the man he aspired to be above all else.

"Sorry if I'm late everybody, I have no true sense of time nor eagerness in the void of space."

"Inquisitor. Trooper." Benjamin Duren greeted the two, he sat down and ordered a mug of recaf.
"Good to have you Sarge." Gregor looked over to him, giving him a salute with two fingers. Zhevon bowed his head slightly in respect to the veteran.
He recalled some of Benjamin's exploits. He was a Veteran of Armageddon, making him already very battle hardened against Orks. And he wasn't too shabby at commanding armored divisions either, a good thing too. Inquisitor Zhevon wasn't that good at commanding large groups of people. It was a good mix, Gregor an skilled at destroying armor, and Benjamin skilled at commanding it.

Moments later, the Psyker, Adrianne Valenthin. Slightly taller than Inquisitor Zhevon himself. "You summoned me, Inquisitor?" She plainly asked.
"Yes! A pleasure to have you, Psyker Valenthin. Please take a seat. If you wish, a Sevitor could get you a cup of tea, or recaf." He replied. The Psyker was an obvious choice for his retinue, her abilities in Divination alone made her a valuable ally. He noticed that Gregor slouched in his chair, in a childish effort to make himself unnoticed to the Psyker.

"Senior Naval Armsman Alexei Stukov, reporting as ordered, boss."
"It is good to have you Armsman Stukov, take a seat. Have a cup of recaf if you need it." Zhevon replied. Alexi Stukov had one of the best track records he had ever seen for a Naval Armsman. After a few seconds, he ended up tapping his foot and looking at his watch. A good portion of his team was still missing, it was then that Interrogator Osilus Ramba entered the room.
"Sorry if I'm late everybody, I have no true sense of time nor eagerness in the void of space." He apologized.
Zhevon personally didn't like to employ such interrogation tactics, but he knew that they would be required sooner or later. "No, not at all, we were just starting." Zhevon replied. After waiting for everyone to take their seats, Zhevon began the briefing.

"Now, we're not all here. But do not despair, I came prepared." He assured his retinue, he held up a small stack of papers. "Some educational organizations on some planets call these papers 'greensheets', for some odd reason. Nevertheless, they are useful. The 'greensheet' contains everything I'm about to go over, so if any of us need a reminder, all you have to do is look at the paper." He set the stack down and cleared his throat. He then walked over to the side of the room and dimmed the lights, walking back to the front, he tapped his dataslate and an image came up.


"This is Freire II, a pleasure world, or as others would call it, a garden world, or a paradise world. As you can tell this planet is mostly ocean, with several island-continents. Each island-continent specializes in a different kind of recreation, for example this island-continent specializes in gambling and very flamboyant shows. There are also 'cruise lines' going from island to island, large water borne ships made for pleasure transporting people.
The primary reason why we are going to this world is this; I got a message that a page from some very important book had been stolen, and a number of Inquisitors and their retinues have been deployed to various worlds to investigate and find this page. To be brutally honest, I was half asleep when I received the call, so I'm not entirely sure what kind of page we are looking for.
Anyways, another peculiar thing about this world is that there are numerous feral Ork tribes on this planet that constantly harass the outskirts of the cities here. For some Imperial Guard Regiments, particularly those who are recruited from nobles, they go to planets like these to help their troops gain combat experience. During the day they go and fight feral Orks, during the night, they go to the casinos and shows to have fun. I did some of my own research and noticed that the number of MIA Guardsman from the numerous Guard Regiments currently stationed there is too high and too sporadic.
I cross referenced those numbers with the numbers from other pleasure worlds with feral Ork issues and found that their numbers were much more consistent. Which leads to my belief that there is a cult, or number of cults that are going out to recruit guardsmen to bolster their numbers. Something along the lines of that.
Unfortunately this mission requires a bit of discretion, while our usual mission is to just kick the door down and start blasting Daemons and Heretics, this time we have to take a couple of moves from the Spymasters.
So, I will be posing as a rich Noble, and you will be posing as my bodyguards and friends. We don't want to spook the Heretics away by flashing our giant ]['s around.

Any questions so far?"

Osilus sat in a chair furthest away from the Psyker woman, the very thought of them cast fear into his heart. From the terrible skirmishes with rogue psykers in past crusades on his homeworld's moon St. Dynames, Osilus had learned to distrust those with such convincing psychic presence. He shrugged the weight off of his shoulders and waved for a servitor with refreshments. The servitor buzzed forward on small wheels on a rather intricately wired platform, upon the tray it held were cups and saucers with tea and other warm herbal drinks of different colours and smells. Osilus poured himself a simple cup of "Rosey-Lee" as they called it on his home planet of Birmea. He sipped the tea slowly savouring the rich and milky taste that filled him with a loving sense of nostalgia.

The 'greensheet' contains everything I'm about to go over, so if any of us need a reminder, all you have to do is look at the paper."

Osilus took the sheet off of the Inquisitor with a nod, the lights then dimmed and once more the Interrogator's lenses adjusted themselves to the light of the room. He listened to the briefing paying attention do every detail and forming opinion, strategy and anything else that could help with the preparation for this mission. He measured the first thing that struck a chord in his thinkings, "Pleasure World". From what he had read Pleasure Worlds or Garden Worlds as his mother would tell him. After the briefing Osilus immediately shot his attention towards Zhevon.

"My Lord Inqusitor, can we hear the name of the island we are going to specifically? Also I assume we aren't going down to this planet dark are we? You do have someone on the inside who can serve as the foundations for this mission?"

Adrianne had chosen to stand during the brief presentation of the mission, leaning back against the doorway as she watched the pictures intently; appearing not to even blink at all.

Apparently they were to travel to a pleasure world, yet for some reason, Adrianne had a lingering suspicion that their visit was not going to be quite so pleasant.

She had been on a pleasure world two times before. Once as the personal scryer of a rich noble, and relegated to merely sit and watch as he ventured out on the most extravagant and sometimes bizarre fancies. She had experienced that when men of great power and wealth chose to live out their deepest desires and fantasies, things had a tendency to become rather weird. The second time she had visit a pleasure world on her own, she could not remember much of her stay whatsoever; which was perhaps for the best.

But this was the first time she had ever heard of the world Frieri II.

"Any questions so far?"

She remained quiet as Osilus asked the first series of question, watching the interrogator with an uninterrupted gaze. She was not fond of interrogators, nor their crude and primitive ways of extracting information. In her eyes, they were more like butchers, turning their victims into slabs of meat and content if they only got as much as a glimmer of truth or information from them.

They had no finesse, no eloquence; their brute methods befitting little more than the primitive greenskin race.

The mind was to them an enigma, they failed to appreciate the subtle details of the human mind. Sometimes, the best interrogation was the one the subject didn't even realize was happening at all. The mind was such a susceptible and vulnerable thing, and if touched in the right spot, the individual might belch out all he ever knew without much effort.

As Osilius finished his questions, Adrianne was quick to take the moment to speak.

"I can scry the planet's sphere for an abnormalities, tensions or arcane influences. If this missing page is of any major importance or significance, it is bound to leave ripples in the psychic weave of the planet's population." Adrianne explained while looking between Osilus and Zhevon with her usual stoic expression, before focusing her gaze on the latter.

"If I may ask, Inquisitor. What was the median age of the missing guardsmen?"

Ben sat in his corner, appraising each member as they were. The Inquisitor was kind enough, he gave Ben a wide berth, respected his old rank. Truth be told, he wasn't a sergeant anymore, he wasn't guard anymore, just like Gregor wasn't a trooper, and the Armsman wasn't navy anymore. Most surrendered their official ranks when they entered the clandestine Organization that was the inquisition.

Ben could have stopped wearing his uniform, he could have stopped using the Inquisitor's connections to keep himself supplied with Yellow greatcoats, and Armageddon pattern battle uniforms. But he would honor those that died for him and with him by wearing the uniform. Because the Inquisitor allowed it, he would have Ben's respect, and commitment.

Trooper Gregor was fine, if not always serious. But to each their own. He behaved like a career trooper. Gregor hadn't spent enough time to the guard to have it beaten out of him, by an uncaring universe or a commissar, whichever came first.

Next to come was the Psyker. Ben didn't trust them inherently, but that was dogma that he had learned. He didn't know this girl well, but if the Inquisitor trusted her, then that was enough to sooth his worries.

Ben finished his recaf, and looked down at the cup, a bit upset, but feeling more awake. He massaged his face, and appraised the last two to come in. The interrogator, and the Naval Armsman. Hard chargers, the both of them, it seemed. Did what they had to do. Career soldiers. Didn't ask many questions. The armsman had taken to preparing the crew for void combat, which was commendable. He'd do the same if he had to drill them for armored warfare.

Once this group had arrived, the Inquisitor moved on to brief. He discussed the planet, in some detail as to what it did for the Imperium. When Ben heard the word "Orks", the sound of tightening leather was audible in the room, as his mechanical fist clenched. A loud pop cut the room as the stitches in the glove gave way to the fist, and tore at the knuckles. Ben looked down, and released his grip, the glove coming somewhat apart. Ben looked around the room, before tucking his hand into his coat. It wasn't common knowledge to everyone on the ship that Ben wasn't all human. Especially the newcomers.

Ben listened to the questions that the Interrogator and Psyker asked before raising his hand. "Posing as bodyguards? No uniforms for us troopers?" He asked

Stukov made note of the one who had come in after him, citing a lack of time sense as the key to the reason of his tardiness. Interrogation was above his pay grade, he wasn't kept aboard to try to torture or extract information out of daemons, xenos, heretics, or whatever might come through the next hull breech, or he would run into boarding a hostile vessel. No, that particular skill set did not have a purpose in his line of work. But if it would serve well for the Inquisition and its purposes, Stukov didn't really like the idea of torture, although he would not say so. It wasn't his place to decide ethics and morals in this kind of universe, not after seeing what the Dark Eldar had wrought by their own hands against the innocents many years ago. He could still remember clearly what he had seen that day, so he did realize that torture would not sit well with him then, and now was just another reminder. Not after those dark days years before he ever would have even realized he would be serving on an Inquisitorial vessel, let alone directly under an Inquisitor.

Stukov quietly poured himself a cup of recaff, since it didn't have tanna. Shame, he had gotten his hands on that once and had always hoped to come across it again. Who knows, perhaps this Paradise planet would have some he could appropriate for Inquisitorial purposes. But that was neither here nor there as he drank from the cup, bitter tasting recaff all too familiar as it burned down his throat. Probably should have let it cool off, but no sense trying to regret that sort of thing. But as he drank he took one of the Greensheets, as they were referred to, and read over it while glancing at the holo of the Paradise planet. Well and truly above his pay grade. He didn't even own any attire that wasn't spare combat fatigues, he never had the need for it. Some void gear that was in the emergency lockers, but that wasn't really his, it was just part of the kit one might need to repel boarders. So acquiring new, appropriate attire for the bodyguards of some rich visitor and friends would be necessary. But he hardly got his question in first, as others threw their own two cents in.

Interrogator fellow asked about assets on the ground, name of the island they were going to, and seemed rather unhappy with the idea of going in blind. Dropping into a situation blind was almost part of his job requirement, so it didn't bother him one bit. Going into a compromised part of a ship, friendly or hostile, you couldn't really know what to expect. One lance battery might have heretic gun crews, next cargo deck might have the walls literally lined with daemons waiting to feast. So going into a paradise planet without information was not nearly as disconcerting as others might find it to be. "Can't know everything in advance, Interrogator. Plan for the worse, pray for the best, and expect to enact the worse case plans."

The psyker promptly deflated that little statement with her offer to, what had she said, scry the planet's sphere or some such witchcraft? And a page leaving ripples in the warp made more sense than he would have liked to initially admit. Something powerful would usually rip through Gellar fields anyways, so something resonating in the wrong space that the woman could detect made sense in his mind. Better that than channeling some greater daemon and ripping three fourths of the crew, directly and indirectly, to shreds again. He really didn't need to relive that either. Not with the mission they were being presented with right now. Asking after the age of the guardsmen being taken could match up to a pattern, he supposed. Again, he was no detective nor spymaster, he was an Armsman, give him a tangible threat and he could handle it. This was going to be a learning experience, to say the least. "Forgive the ignorance, psyker, but what would the strain of sweeping an entire planet be like? I don't want to see another daemon come crawling out of your poor head and rip the ship a new ass, most certainly not something I want to see happen again. No offense intended, just a security consideration."

The pop attracted Stukov's attention over to the soldier. Armageddon veteran, if his memory of attire was accurate, he had heard talk about the massive war between Imperials and Orks. Considering the reaction to the word Orks, and his destruction of the glove from the glance he got, probably bionics of some sort. Hell, he had lost the lower half of his leg to daemons, had it replaced with a sturdy yet simple bionic, so that kind of response was more than understandable. He had never dealt with orks, but the stories were grim. His question was right in line with what Stukov had been thinking initially, which was a relief to be sure, so he finally got in his question after having listened to the man finish his question in full. "Along that line of thinking, I don't own anything outside of spare combat fatigues. I won't speak for the others, but if we are going to blend in as visitors and said visitor's bodyguards, we'll need disguises since uniforms are not terribly concealing."

"My Lord Inqusitor, can we hear the name of the island we are going to specifically? Also I assume we aren't going down to this planet dark are we? You do have someone on the inside who can serve as the foundations for this mission?" Osilus asked,
"Yes, I will be detailing our plan in a moment. As for my man on the inside... He... May not be as reliable as many would like, but his skill is impeccable. He is a very busy man, and I imagine that he may not value the matters of the Inquisition as much as his own." Inquisitor Zhevon shrugged, "If he is not present, we will have to... Mingle." He finished, his voice full of discomfort at the mention of mingling with nobles.

"I can scry the planet's sphere for an abnormalities, tensions or arcane influences. If this missing page is of any major importance or significance, it is bound to leave ripples in the psychic weave of the planet's population." Adrianne spoke up, "If I may ask, Inquisitor. What was the median age of the missing guardsmen?"
"Good, I will have to ask you to scry for such things soon, perhaps right before we leave for the planet." He replied to her comment about scrying. Although he wasn't sure what kind of page it was, there was a good chance that her scrying may turn something up. "The median age of the missing guardsmen is 18, for all of the Guardsmen regiments currently stationed there. These Regiments are young and untested, they're here to earn a little bit of fighting experience before they go into the real battles." He explained.

"Posing as bodyguards? No uniforms for us troopers?" Ben asked,
"No need for any uniforms. You could catch any sort of armor or weapon on the black markets throughout the Imperium, for a sum of Thrones. Don't be surprised if you see other bodyguards wearing well known Imperial Guard equipment, despite having never served." Zhevon explained, he paused, "Sergeant Duren, I apologize for bringing you to such a place, full of imitators and Orks, but if there are cults here, we will have to face them, and I will have to call upon your skill."

Then, Stukov spoke up. Inquisitor Zhevon was interested to see what the Armsman would have to say.
First, he spoke to the Interrogator.
"Can't know everything in advance, Interrogator. Plan for the worse, pray for the best, and expect to enact the worse case plans." Stukov said. A smart thing to know on the battlefield. However, Zhevon usually didn't have a plan beyond 'go here and do this', now though, he would have to formulate some more in depth plans now that his mission required a bit of intrigue.
He then replied to the Psyker. "Forgive the ignorance, psyker, but what would the strain of sweeping an entire planet be like? I don't want to see another daemon come crawling out of your poor head and rip the ship a new ass, most certainly not something I want to see happen again. No offense intended, just a security consideration."
Stukov then voiced his own concerns about the uniforms, "Along that line of thinking, I don't own anything outside of spare combat fatigues. I won't speak for the others, but if we are going to blend in as visitors and said visitor's bodyguards, we'll need disguises since uniforms are not terribly concealing."

"If it troubles any of you, I'll allow you to use my personal wardrobe, there should be something there to your liking." Inquisitor Zhevon offered, his wardrobe was a rather large room full of various clothing and armors, of many styles and of both gender. Some were gifts, others were purchases. He was a bit of a hoarder.
He then grabbed his Null Rod and held it up, "If there are any issues regarding Psykers, an activated Null Rod will shut down any warp related powers in a 3 meter radius, much like how a Blank is unaffected by the warp, the Null-Rod nullifies any warp presence." He explained, wiggling the obsidian rod a little, "They are exceedingly rare. I'll see about trying to get you one. They do come with their own dangers though." He warned, holstering the inactive rod.
"Now then, let's continue."



"We will be going to the biggest island first, called Iaj. This is where biggest spaceport is, and thus where all offworlders arrive first. The island specializes in markets of all sorts and leisurely staying, while featuring little bits of all the other islands. The place is full of advertisement, trying to convince visitors to come to the smaller islands. I expect that page we are looking for will not be on this particular island, but people who know where it is, will be. If my spy has decided to work with us today, we will be given a direction. If not, we'll have to try and make a lucky guess."
"Since we are going to a location with mostly a civilian population, if you have an overly large weapon," Zhevon glared at Gregor, "You'll have to hide it in a rucksack of some sorts. As to not alert anyone.
Gregor replied with a simple, "Right."

Thrallindor looked at the bare, grey ceiling in his room. He knew he was late to the meeting but he wanted to contemplate the roads of life. "I could've just grabbed the maiden and went" grumbled the squat "I could've left all a this behind me but noo, you had to be off yer rockers Thrallindor and join a bloody Inquisitorial team. Or I could've gotten that bloody Administarum desk job, that would've been fun instead of facing bloody daemons. Frak me, Throne forgive me for being a stupid idiot." Our local sour, ginger bearded squat muttered more obscenities under his breath as he put his combat gear on, kissing his Aquila as he walked out the door.

Thrallindor was a certain type of squat. Oh he was a lazy one. Lounging around, never one to be on time but on the battlefield.... He was furious. He speeds around, firing his shotgun at everything, stabbing and slicing with his over spiky armour. He had a love for fire as well. He took out an Iho stick and shoved in his mouth, lighting it up. He took a long drag and blew the smoke in the air, making sure he made rings while doing it.

The squat hated going on these ships. He couldn't control what was going on, what was happening on the ship. He had no control. And if some bigwig captain decided to close the Geller Fields (which he doubted any sane Imperial man would do), he would have to clean it all up. Chaos is an ugly thing.

He reached the door, and looked lazily into the eyes of the others and began his throne forsaken list of excuses he has accumulated over the year. "Sorry, I got lost on the road of life, then there was a orgryn grandmother who I had to help go into the elevator and then there was this ork who wouldn't shut up so I had to shoot him and then there was a girl in bar that I had to buy a drink for but then she declined and poured water down me face. Sorry for being late."

"I don't want to see another daemon come crawling out of your poor head and rip the ship a new ass, most certainly not something I want to see happen again. No offense intended, just a security consideration."

Adrianne's eyes had already fallen on Stukov before he had even began to speak, as if she had sensed the question before it ever came.

Feeling the clear discomfort of the armsman, presumably because he now had the full attention of a psyker, Adrianne choose to ignore it instead and answered his question in a disaffected voice, her expression looking more bored than anything.

"The chance of any daemon to come crawling out of my head is equal to the chance of daemon coming out my own ass." She answered, as if she had heard the question a thousand times before.
"Scrying is one of the safest things I can do related to the warp. It requires minimal interference on my part; only that I listen. Even now, in this very room, I can already sense the eldritch energies passing through it."

She would explain to the concerned armsman, before doing him a favor and looking another way. But as Inquisitor Zhevon began talking about his null-rod, Adrianne would suddenly send him a subtle glare for a moment; as if the inquisitor had just said something that had gravely insulted the psyker!

But she said nothing, and the sudden expression of emotion would be brief for Adrianne, before her face returned to its neutral, disaffected expression.

"My armor is neutral, representing no affiliation beyond imperial. A change will not be necessary." Adrianne explained in her calm, almost monotonous voice as she gazed out across the rest of the room. Her armor, although fancy and not very subtle, did not link her in any way or form to the inquisition, except for a badge at the side of her ornate chestplate which she could easily remove at will. At best, people would realize she was a psyker, and the natural reactions would follow.

"As for not scaring any of the local peasantry, I'm afraid I won't be able to help with that. It's sort of a specialty, a natural talent of mine. Comes with the profession."

Adrianne would speak at Zhevon's mention of weapon concealment. The psyker, who originally been leaning against the doorway, would suddenly step forward as she looked at the inquisitor.

"The scrying ritual will take me some time if I am to get any good results. I will therefore start immediately." She said, gently holding out her hand; causing her staff which was leaning against one of the tubes to float into her hand.
"As for leaving the rest of this briefing, do not worry. With so many impressionable, open minds in this room, I might pay you a mental visit during the ritual."

As she said so, an almost unnoticeable, near-invisible little grin appeared at her otherwise stoic lips as she gazed out across the rest of the people in the room, before Adrianne would then turn around and walk out of the briefing room.

But as she did so, with her focus still being on the rest of the crew members; she had failed to notice Thrallindor just as the short squat was entering the room at the same time!

Due to his small stature, Adrianne would fail to notice the small creature, causing her to crash into him with her knee and stumble forward; barely managing to regain her balance by clinging onto a wall!

"Aaahhhh!!" She screamed out loud with a surprisingly sharp, high pitched voice; spinning around to look at the creature she had just kicked over! The psyker's face was twisted in a furious grimace, her eyes were shooting out small sparks of seething warp energies, and her left was hand burning was with a menacing, purple flame as she turned to face him!

But when she recognized Thrallindor, the flame immediately died out as soon as it had appeared, and Adrianne threw him a furious stare.

"Cursed midgets, may they all burn in the warp!" She muttered below her voice, before turning around and stomping angrily away from the briefing room; to head towards her own, quiet little compartment of the ship to begin her scrying ritual.

Preferably without running into any additional midgets on the way!

Stukov snorted in amusement, partially to hide his surprise at the plain speak that the psyker offered him. Psyker powers or no, at least she wasn't one of those type that saw themselves as some heralds of a new age of Man, where those without powers were beneath them in some manner beyond a usual command structure. Not that he had noticed so far at any rate. But he digressed as she stood up to leave, to start on whatever scrying, spying, or whatever she was going to do in specific with the warp. He got in a side comment in her direction, in direct response to her own comment on the likelihood of a daemon spawning through her and causing the ship all sorts of grief, to put it mildly. "Daemon's coming out of your ass is even further beyond my jurisdiction than if they were coming out of your head. And I'm not sure the on board medical staff could help with a warphole replacing your asshole, ma'am. So I'll try to not to tell you whether you dare or dare not do or use your job, powers, whatever they are. Just keep the daemons out of your ass, head, whatever other orifices you might see them spawning from, yea?"

The offer of use of the Inquisitor's personal wardrobe was a surprising thought, to the Armsman at least, indeed. He would not even begin to know what would be appropriate wear for a bodyguard in such a position, let alone on some pleasure planet. He would guess, long as he could find something that fit and wasn't some officer or royalty's garb he would work with that. He didn't trust his luck in that regard though, so he might end up having to deal with being dressed up far more than he would have ever imagined possible. The null rod was something he wished existed in his possession far sooner, as its effects were described, although he had not even the foggiest clue as to what or how the thing would be used or operated. "Wouldn't know how to operate a null road even if you gave me one, boss. Probably safer I handle chaos the old fashioned way, blessed buckshot."

As the Inquisitor resumed his brief, Stukov looked over the situation that was presented. Spy that may or may not cooperate, leaving them with either a direction of dubious authenticity, or a complete guess of luck and providence, and having to hide larger weapons. His shotgun probably would need to be concealed, leaving only his pistol for fast access. Not a comforting thought, to put it mildly. But he didn't betray that little bit of discomfort, that kind of a lack of knowledge and blind drop was something he was very much used to. So he had no real other questions, leaning back in the chair and finishing his recaff as he crossed his arms, waiting for the brief to finish now. He did need to change and pack what gear he needed this time, a far different load out than he was used to. That might make things interesting down the line, but it was what it was. One last question did come to mind though, and he asked it with little hesitation. He would not want to be unknowingly hanging with his ass in the air, metaphorically speaking. "Got any backup if things go south in a hurry?"

"My armor is neutral, representing no affiliation beyond imperial. A change will not be necessary." Adrianne explained, having shot him a brief glare. Zhevon detected some of it, the hair on the back of his neck standing. He grit his teeth and inhaled sharply, keeping it at a low volume once he realized what he had done.
"As for not scaring any of the local peasantry, I'm afraid I won't be able to help with that. It's sort of a specialty, a natural talent of mine. Comes with the profession." She spoke up, stepping forwards, "The scrying ritual will take me some time if I am to get any good results. I will therefore start immediately." She used some sort of telekinesis to grab her staff, "As for leaving the rest of this briefing, do not worry. With so many impressionable, open minds in this room, I might pay you a mental visit during the ritual."
"Of course." Zhevon replied, he looked down and tapped a few buttons on his dataslate and the projection shut off. Looking up, he saw Thrallindor coming in saying his list of excuses, when Adrianne walked into the Squat. She cursed and nearly blasted the man, but once she realized who it was, she stopped and stormed off.

Zhevon looked at the others, with the blank face on his helmet, but they could see that his shoulders were raised, as if he was tense. He sighed softly in relief then let his shoulders down.
"We uh, are actually done with the briefing. I never was good with these sort of things." He said, walking over to Thrallindor, "Here, the briefing is on this sheet as well." handing the Squat the greensheet. It was essentially a condensed version of the briefing he had just done.

He remembered Stukov's question about backup just then, and turned to him, "Aside from the PDF and various Guard Regiments stationed there, no. However, they should be sufficient if we run into some trouble." He replied, "Now, I've got something to do. Gregor." The young trooper woke up from his short nap and scrambled up.
"My personal wardrobe is just down the hall, should be labelled with a large 'Inquisitor Property' sign on it. The first Inquisitor Property sign, the second one is the armory. Don't go into the armory." He warned. With that, Gregor and Zhevon left the room and talked as they were walking down the hall.

"Take the Unseen Zephyr and investigate the Guard regiments fighting the Orks. Fight alongside them if you have to. Bring your team, and the second Stormtrooper squad. If anyone asks, you're Ordo Xenos, operating here under the orders of Inquisitor Cattleya, here's her rosette. Go now." Zhevon said, handing him the blue colored badge. Gregor rose an eyebrow.
"Don't ask how I have it."
"Right." Gregor replied teasingly, before jogging down the hall to gather his teams.

Zhevon then turned around and walked to his wardrobe. If someone were particularly perceptive, and looking out a window, they might have been able to spot the black painted Valkyrie with its navigation lights on. Float out of the hanger with engines off, before it disappeared into the black backdrop of space, turning out its navigation lights.

The wardrobe room was fairly large, entire sets of carapace armor of every origin were mounted on mannequins. Coats, pants, and other clothing lined the walls, hanging on coathangers. A small section of the wardrobe had shoes and boots, and an assortment of hats. At the center of the room, benches. Inquisitor Zhevon smiled at his little collection, most of the clothes here were gifts from friends, some enemies.
But he nearly had a heart attack when he spotted the black lingerie laying on one of the benches. He cursed loudly and quickly grabbed them, hastily looking for a place to hide the undergarments before his acolytes entered the room. He settled on emptying a shoebox and placing them in that for the time being.
He searched his memory of who last entered his wardrobe. Personally Zhevon didn't go in here often, usually only to store a piece, and nobody dared to enter a room with 'Inquisitor Property' slapped on it. Unless it was another Inquisitor. He just sat down, placed his face into his palms, and groaned.

Ben turned to see the Squat enter, a fellow veteran of Armageddon, but not one he had ever seen on the battlefield. Fate had kept them apart. He only knew of him vaguely, and had never actually sat down to talk to him. Some veterans like to talk about where they had been, and Ben did not. He did not know for sure, but it was better to be safe, he figured. He accepted the inquisitors apology with a nod, and when the briefing was done, he excused himself to change. He reached under his chair, and put on his power fist.

With his shredded glove covered, he walked to his room, and took off his great coat, and donned an under arm holster for his plasma pistol. The black service pants, and his brown knee high boots wouldn't detract from his appearance as a body guard as he left them. He took off his helmet and left it, along with his rebreather and goggles, leaving his scarred and augmented face visible to the world. Oh well, facial scars weren't uncommon in their line of work. Ben put on a leather jacket, and a new leather glove for his bionic hand, and got ready to leave. He kneeled down and reached under his bed, pulling out a sword, wrapped in cloth. He removed the cloth, revealing a 3 foot long machete, a gift from a catachan unit who he had served with during a stint in the equatorial jungles. He unsheathed it, it was a Devil's Claw, and even Ork's respected the power of the weapon. He strapped the weapon on his back, it wasn't entirely uncommon for bounty hunters and body guards to display some weapons, and the weapon was absolutely vicious in close combat, and completely silent, unlike power weapons with their humsor chainswords with their screams.

Ready to go, Ben started to make his way out of the room, and stopped at one of the only decorations in the room, a photo of him and his platoon, the day before they set out. He looked at it, and felt a great pain in his chest. He had mourned them all, and had no time to do it again now. Benjamin Duren headed towards wherever the Warband was meeting to depart.

Stukov nodded curtly, not having really expected anything more than that. The Inquisitor walked out with his assistant, after having instructed them as to where the stashed clothing was, and to NOT enter the armory. Once the Inquisitor and his acolyte had left, the Armsman crossed his arms, looking over the few people remaining as the one fellow from Armageddon left to change. The midget dwarf didn't really sit well with the Armsman, reminded him of some mutant strains of humanity that were not so friendly to the Imperium and its cause. Stukov also excused himself to leave and gather some different clothing to sneak about in, without being noticed as obvious Imperial military personnel. That would defeat the purpose of the warband being tasked with going and gathering information and finding the page they were looking for. The lack of information on what they were specifically looking for struck him too much of typical operating procedure for the Imperium, but he could do little about it right now. All he could do is change and get ready to leave.

Stukov let himself into the personal wardrobe, careful to heed the Inquisitor's warning and not walk into the armory. Still didn't set well with him that there could be unknown amount of trouble in that armory, and no one knew about it, but he could do little about it yet. First off, Stukov's entire attire had to be changed out, or at the very least altered. The carapace chest piece was hidden under a plain looking vest, with a trench coat thrown over it. The green slacks, normally part of his uniform and rolled to expose his simple mechanical leg replacement, was dropped down to conceal it better, while any imperial insignia was removed. The inside of the trench coat was lined with pockets, so he loaded his ammo there vice its usual carry method. Everything else, his pistol, knife, and various explosives, all were hidden beneath the coat. Looking at his new attire in the mirror, he wasn't sure whether he looked more like an undercover Arbites, from the stories, or a freelance merc. The latter was far better than the former, but he decided the attire would suit his purposes. One last item caught his attention, a pair of goggles that appeared to be flash resistant. They also looked completely handmade, lacking any sort of formal or mass manufactured appearance. Leaving them to hang around his neck, he walked out of the wardrobe and had what few things he was not taking with him dropped off at his quarters.

Walking back, Stukov paused outside the forbidden armory, as the Armsman was going to call it from here on out, and sighed. That nagging feeling that something was in there that was not just idle and disabled, but was an active threat to the ship he was sworn to defend, would not go away. But he knew full well that, should he try to go in, odds were some sort of defensive mechanisms would kick in and, knowing the reputation the Inquisition had, he wouldn't live long enough to be chastised or executed for his invasion of the space. He spent several moments in the silence, filtering out the ambient noise of the operation of the ship, listening for anything unusual. Not overtly, but leaning against the wall, shotgun slung over his shoulder while he readjusted his attire quietly. He would eventually move on to where the Warband was preparing to head down to the surface, but until then he would do one last quiet round of the ship, where he could within reasonable time. It wasn't easy letting go of the job he had been doing his whole life, but one should not complain about where the Emperor sent them, or so the priest would tell him. Well, he was, but it wasn't changing anything.

Having left behind the briefing room in the trail and maze that was the confusing corridors of the inquisitorial ship, Adrianne would finally return to her own, more quiet compartment of the ship.

The ship was as large as it was ancient, and understaffed enough to leave a number of its areas mostly devoid of people. Something that suited her taste.

Entering a larger hallroom with large windows facing out into the empty space outside, surrounded by blastshields that would close in case of an attack; Adrianna would step across the metal floor to stand in the center of the room.

She would stand still for a moment, gazing out of the window and at the planet below, stretching out across the lower right corner of the window.

Friere II...

"What secrets do you hold from me?" Adrianne would mutter to herself as she gazed down across the blue planet, eyeing the expanding body of water only filled by the occasional continent. Even from up in orbit, it already looked beautiful.

Holding her staff out horizontally in front of her; she let go. As her fingers loosened from the shaft, the staff would not fall, but remained floating in the air in front of her, as if suspended by invisible threads. Sitting down on her knees, she would close her eyes, and take a deep breathe, before slowly exhaling.

Peace and tranquility filled her mind, pushing any thought of worry or mission away. Instead, she left her mind bare, open to any outside stimuli.

Minutes passed of complete serenity, until she could feel it; the tendrils of warp energy that emanated from the planet below, unveiling the communal, beating heart of the planet that was kept alive and powered by all its inhabitants, human or otherwise. The emotions that began to fill her mind were diverse. Most of them were that of delight, of satisfaction, of strong desires and jealousy that seemed to emanate from every populated part of the planet. But in a different point, she could also feel an unrestrained rage, anger and a strong sense of anticipation, as if a gathering of wild, unruly and feral warriors were making ready for war!

But on the planet, amidst all the sensual delights and occasional thought of primal fury, it was one beating impulse that stood out among all the other emotions.

As she focused her mind and went deeper, she could see incomplete fragments of what seemed to be a hive city of some sort. But rather than seeing the massive castle monasteries and gothic spires covered in ash and sot that were so common of the other hive cities she had seen, this one seemed pristine. Clean. Beyond the majestic and grand lights of the city below was a clear night sky, not covered by any industrial cloud or smoke. The buildings were in pristine condition, lavishly decorated by cleanly polished imperial symbolism, and the citizens; either daringly or flamboyantly dressed in luxurious garbs and exquisite raiments. Though she could only see glimpses of it, she soon realized that this was no ordinary hive city. It was reserved to the higher classes and richer tradesmen, unsullied by the poverty, overcrowding and industry that haunted so many other, larger imperial hive worlds.

And she felt the special pulse coming from somewhere on the planet, located on a particular island.

"It's a start."

Suddenly her eyes opened in an instant, her purple irises moving about as she looked at the darkened, metallic hall around her.

She had no idea for how long she had remained in her meditation. Whenever she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the vast tendrils of warp energy that seeped through the universe, time moved at an erratic pace. However long it may have taken her, it was time to inform the others.

Turning to her servo-skull which was lying on the ground next to her; in power saving mode; having followed her all the way, she would finally speak.

"Contact Inquisitor Zhevon. Inform him that I need to talk to him." Adrianne instructed the servo-skull, which suddenly sprang to life, with lights flickering on and off around the circuits in the skull and eye sockets. A light double beep indicated that the message had been sent, which traveled directly to Zhevon's communicator.

(( if zhevon has any communication equipment on him, imagine he just got the grim, dark, Warhammer 40K equivalent of an SMS xD ))

Zhevon heard a beep, and he looked to his forearm communicator. He opened the message and read it, apparently Adrianna the Psyker had found something interesting and had requested his presence at one of the empty halls. Usually Inquisitors lavished the halls of their Blackships with trophies or statues, reminders of what deeds they had done. Some Inquisitors had massive cathedrals in the halls, filled with tomes and hymns for The Emperor. Zhevon had kept his halls empty, mostly. One hall had a wine rack, full of wine, mostly just to confuse people.

He picked up his box and left the wardrobe quickly, making at his personal quarters first. He threw the box onto his bed and headed out towards the hall, leaving before making sure if it was actually his box. After navigating the corridors for a short moment, he arrived at the hall. He opened the door and walked towards the sole figure in the massive empty space. "You rang?" He announced his presence, although he doubted he needed to. "So... How bad is it down there?"

Adrianne would wait patiently in the hall for the arrival of the inquisitor, standing in the center of the dimply lit hall with her staff at her side.

The fact that the inquisitor choose to come alone, rather than bring someone with him or call her to one of his briefing or command rooms did leave an impression on Adrianne. The fact that he agreed to be alone with a psyker in the empty halls of the ship without any kind of additional security detail meant either he had a lot of trust for her, or that he simply didn't care much about his own safety.

"So... How bad is it down there?"

"Subtract the great level of lavishness, shameless debauchery, extravagant vanity and large collection of colossal egos and self-centrism of the population, it would actually make a decent holiday vacation; with only a minor chance of warp storms." Adrianne would remark as the Inquisior approached her.

"Aside from the quite obvious traces of Slaaneshi worship, whether intentionally or inadvertently created by the population, I also detected the Orkish footprints on the planet. Judging by the strong pulses, I would say that the greenskin are mustering for something big. But if the reports are to be believed and these are indeed just mere, primitive feral Orks, I doubt they would be able to overcome the garrison."

Adrianne would report, before she would step by Zhevon and motion for the inquisitor to follow her as she began to journey towards the bridge, where she had last seen a holodock that could be used to analyse the planet.

"But there was one part of the planet that did take my interest, a lesser, more luxurious hive city of some kind." She would continue as they walked through the empty corridors of the ship.
"I am not familiar with the planet, and so was unable to recognize it from the few fragments that I saw. Do you know how many Hive Cities there are on Friere II?"

She would ask, turning her attentive gaze over to Zhevon walking besides her.