The mechanical doors glided apart, opening up to the alleyway which lay beyond. After some time stumbling around in the dark, Nisvillia was greeted by a the sharp glare of Outpost 57's overhead lights.

She took a few waddle-like steps out into the open, covered in sweat and splattered with dried blood, before making her way over to the back entrance of the Loft, and venturing inside.

It was a small, quaint little establishment; with both roulette and drinks tables. The club was designed to have a laid back, relaxed atmosphere which was accomplished by the lush furnishings and dim lighting. The Loft smelt of booze and synthetic air fresheners, but not to an intrusive or overwhelming capacity, and the central heating kept the club at a warm, welcoming temperature.

She made her way over to the counter, ordering a glass of Amasec and a Snow-Ox burger, before whizzing upstairs to her room to get changed, exchanging a curt nod with one of the card dealers on her way up.

Her rented quarters were stylish yet practical, mimicking the overall tone of the Loft, and it did not take her long to strip down to her underwear and toss her stained clothes in a heap on the floor. She plodded over to her wardrobe, gigantic stomach spilling out over the waistband of her undergarments, and fished out a classy yet low-cut black and white dress, which she had some difficulty squeezing into.

Fixing her hair into an elegant bun, and applying the odd smattering of makeup here and there, it wasn't long before Nisvillia slipped back downstairs, presenting a far more presentable appearance.

Her meal was ready now, and she tucked into it ravenously whilst seated at a small table in a darkened corner of the Loft. She chugged the Amasec down in a several mighty swigs, stifling a throaty belch, before attacking her burger with furious gusto, her lips stained with thick grease and sauce.

Shortly after, a plain dark-haired gentleman in a red blazer slipped out of the delicate cluster of customers, pulling up a chair as Nis gobbled down the last few mouthfuls of Snow-Ox.

"I got your transmission," He informed her calmly "Smart move setting up camp here. Seems like the safest bet."

"My worry," Nisvillia replied, licking up some sauce "is that the Fist are operating on the exact same line of thinking."

The figure cocked and eyebrow "You think they'd try something here?"

"Just as much as they'd try it anywhere else. Almano isn't known for respecting other's personal space." Her voice was cool and smooth, with the entrepreneurial grace of a seasoned merchant.

"So...what does the Codex Blissponis advise in this sort of situation?" He asked dryly.

"We have the terrain advantage," she explained "lock this place down tighter than a sister's cunt, set some big guns up in the windows, and we may have a fighting chance."

"You're not hopeful?" He frowned.

"I'd be stupid to bring hope into this. Hope has no place in the war room. All it does is get soldiers killed."

The gentleman smirked "I never knew you to get compassionate about troops."

"I don't give a squig's arse about the troops." She stated bluntly "but if the Fist , or any of those other gutter-runners, make it in here then I'll be breathing out of several new holes in my head, so I'd say that warrants some careful planning."

Her slender eyes darted about the room, settling on a group playing cards at one of the tables. She heaved herself out of her seat, grunting as the dress squeezed at her enormous body, before making her way over to the gamblers.

"Excuse me, my darlings..." She said calmly "Sorry for interrupting whatever you've got going here, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in some mercenary work."

Gravius was surprised at the Lord captains willingness to hear the tarot, most humans at his station thought the tarot was am unreliable superstition. Well, at least some humans were smart enough to trust the portents of the Emperor himself. "The first card is really all you need to know the tone of the reading. I drew the emperor of mankind, inversed, I assume you know what that means. I drew also the knight inversed, the galaxy and the Daemon, the cards speak ill of future journeys, the malign influence of the warp, lies deceit and dishonor, great journeys and great violence and the presence of chaos. By my reading it most likely regards our journey into the unknown Lord Captain, I suggest we read lightly and take as few chances as possible in our venture beyond Imperium space."

His piece said, Gravius closed his eyes, trying to meditate in the tiny shuttle. Trying to concentrate, Gravius moved his thoughts to the station below, it wouldn't be long now before they landed... but something was wrong. Although he could not gleam anything specific, he felt a massive sense of tension pulsing through the immaterium, originating from the station. He could feel suppressed violence ready to burst free, fear kept in check with hate, scatterings of other emotions reached him, it all pointed to one thing. The small group on the shuttle were flying into a real dangerous situation.

Gravius opened his eyes, listening to anything the Lord captain had to say about his report of the tarot. Once the captain finished Gravius spoke again, "One more thing Lord captain, I fear the station may be... unstable at the moment. Emotion stirs deeply in the warp, and many ripples are radiating from the very station we are descending to... we may want to be ready for a fight." Gravius frowned deeply, he had no intention of dying on some abandoned backwater outpost. He felt the ship beginning to slow, they were almost arrived at outpost 57.

"Excuse me, my darlings..." She said calmly "Sorry for interrupting whatever you've got going here, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in some mercenary work."

"Right on time," said Lex with a smile to the young, plump crime lord who had waddled over to the table. He did not deign to explain himself.

The hitman asked her what she had in mind, and how much, and Typho the ruined nobleman began hemming and hawing and excusing himself.

"My friend Typho here," said Lex to Nisvillia with a chuckle, "Can't fight for shit. His full name, however- and this may interest you- is Typho Almano. Older brother, less successful."

"How do you-" began Typho.

"Oh please," said Lex, "You think I'm sitting here losing at Chances to you for the fun of it?"

He turned back to Nisvillia with an apologetic smile, "Aryon Lex, at your service."

"Typho Almano. Older brother, less successful.""

Well, she thought that IS interesting .

"A pleasure to meet you, Aryon Lex." She cooed, rolling the world pleasssuuuuure on her tongue.

"I feel like you and I will get along like shells in a bolter mag, should you continue to supply me with such utterly scandalous little secrets." She flashed him a quick wink, before turning her attention to the recently ousted Almano brother.

"I was planning on hauling myself up here and waiting out the storm, but it seems the Emperor has gifted us with a most scrumptious bargaining chip." She grinned broadly, smile lines creasing her fat face "I'd like to bring to your attention the fact that a good three quarters of the staff who've been serving you this evening are my people. They are well-armed, well-trained, and each and everyone of then has a major bone to pick with your brother and his ridiculous gang of up-jumped thugs.If you try and resist, them I'll be more than happy to have them illustrate the unfortunate consequences of being related to one of the most hated men on this space station. Am I making myself nice and clear, sweetheart?"

@agentmanateeThe transport shuttle had taken well over an hour to reach the Outpost, the utter disgrace of a pilot not even deigning to inform his superior – in every way – of this fact! Even as Drake listened to the Navigator's portents and predictions, emotions and warnings, he could not help but feel the corner of his mouth begin to slowly twitch as his mind went to the fool sitting in the cockpit.

“My dear Gravius,” soothed the Trader, his mocking tone all but gone, replaced with one oddly adult for a man like Drake, “take a look around you, and you shall see that I have come well prepared for conflict if it should arise.”

Nor was he boasting, the dozen or so Armsmen he had bought along were not merely for show; each one was a veteran of either the Imperial Navy or Guard, equipped with carapace armour and anything from a standard-issue las-gun to a Hellfire gun commonly found among the elite Stormtrooper squads of the Imperium - here and there the nozzle of a melta might give off a hiss of pent-up heat, or the luminous glow of the unstable plasma variety might be seen in a corner of the shuttle. Oh yes, if anyone sought to block their passage and their Terra given mission then they would find themselves very sorry and very dead.

“Ill fortune and future events...” letting his teeth chew into the flesh inside of his mouth, Horatio Drake massaged the haft of his chain-axe somewhat anxiously as he spoke more to himself than to anyone in particular.

“My lord, we have arrived.”

Slowly but surely the shuttle could be felt by those within to be descending for a landing, the fizzle of vertical thrusters and hum of engines making sure that it was only reinforced; a slight bump, a creaking of folding wings, and within a matter of moments the back ramp slammed down with a loud clang onto a wharf of the Outpost Fifty-Seven space port.

Rising from his chair with a speed that went against his former lackadaisical state, Drake proceeded down the central isle of the shuttle and was followed hastily by his cortège of versed killers; not once did he look back to check that Gravius had followed, too intent on his task and assuming that the Navigator would either follow or, more likely, remain in the shuttle with the pilot, co-pilot and two crewmen of the transport.

After gathering his bearings and taking a quick glance at their surroundings – seeing a number of varied smaller craft, and at least three bigger cargo vessels for carrying the Emperor knew what – one gloved hand went to the auto-stubber, plucking it up and checking the safety in a smooth and rehearsed motion.

Everything about the man known as Horatio Drake had changed, as soon as he stepped foot outside his ship, his entire pose and the way he held himself changing to someone far more confident, more capable in their abilities, and someone who would not leave without getting what he came for.

“Now then,” he mused openly, looking back to where he expected Gravius to be, “what say you, Mister Pemelton? Shall we proceed deeper into this cesspit, or shall we remain here for a moment?”

---

@PripovednikThere would be no help coming for The Dagger, not this time, not when he had essentially taken the law – a law that was written and executed by the most powerful on the station – into his own hands. He had shed the blood of those loyal to Jigandi, of one of his prime slum-lords, and had now whipped up the Blue Virus members into a frenzy that would surely see them dead within the next few hours; whatever help he had expected from Mathias would never arrive, no squad of reinforcements to make his end less of a possibility.

Mathias, as much as his connection to Dagmar forced him into some sort of obligation, was nevertheless an aristocrat and a politician. Who did the Feral World assassin think paid for his campaigns? Helped him 'get around' his rivals? Allow him to continue living his life, the life he was so accustomed to? Well, the reach of the Bloodied Fist was longer and its squeeze much tighter than even he could have known.

Yet...yet there was still a light at the end of a particular tunnel, a tunnel running beneath the city as a matter of fact.

From his current position at a crossroads of slums - slums with holes for toilets, but still holes that connected to a sewer full of shit below them – there was also a crossroads of waste pipes and gutters to choose from, if he so wished; he could make his way to almost anywhere, as long as there was a toilet.

One pipe might take him to the Loft, another to the stations space dock, another to the slum opposite...

Although his scans showed him passageways, they did not tell him where each one went, and so it was up to Dagmar and his honed senses to decide for himself which passage he might take.

Would it lead to his freedom and safety, or to his demise?

---

@Kingfisher@FlaggTypho Almano Jigandi was an inherent gambler, it was known! He had taken much of his families money, both legal and illegal, and often came to the Loft to either win some extra Thrones, or at least to feel the thrill of losing them. Sad to say, but it actually made him feel alive. Typho was nothing like his younger brother, the current Bloodied Fist, and could not take a life without vomiting down his finest suit of fashionable clothing – Almano on the other hand was a true animal, a man who's mantra may as well have been 'survival of the fittest'; he was always willing to kill those both above him and below him, or to get another to do it for him, some even saying he did it by...supernatural means.

Now after all this time of trying to go incognito the game was finally up, he had been cornered by one who could very literally read his mind, and from such power there was no escape.

Half-dumb and somewhat deaf, or so he may have seemed by his current nervous state, Typho listened to his erstwhile friend at the table and the paunchy girl – the last remaining member of the Blissponis Syndicate if he was not mistaken – as they conversed, only really paying attention once she began wobbling her fat jowls in his direction. Truth be told, she reminded him of a walking and talking pig, much like one he had read in a data slate novella once upon a time.

“Madame,” he began, the greasiest smile he could muster plastering itself to his face, his arms opening wide into a gesture of meekness, “you will find me to be of very little help in this, I am truly afraid. My brother would gladly kill me himself, or worse, just to dispatch the last of the Blissponii from this mortal coil.”

He gave a sigh and a shrug of his slender shoulders, but bobbed his head in acquiescence of her demands.

“Lead on, young – eeerrm...lady.”

This would either end in his death or his torture at the hands of his sibling, and he certainly hoped it would be the latter.

---

@Peik@HankOOC: You guys are doing fine, feel free to carry on as you are for the moment. I'll shake things up if/when the time becomes right.

The Trade Market

New brooch now donned, the day had become that much brighter for Armadeus. However, it didn't take a savant to notice something had changed. Something in the air... Fear perhaps? No, anticipation. Glancing around himself, he noticed he now stood alone in the now empty market, only the backs of individuals turning corners or closing their doors told him that he hadn't imagined them being there in the first place. One back stood out in particular, a white robed and hooded figure departing with an almost mechanical movement.
"You ther-" The wind was pushed out of him as a solid-slug buried itself into his left shoulder, mere inches away from the bronze brooch, which would have glinted in the sunlight had a fleck of blood not covered its surface. The impact sending the Seneschal into the well trodden dirt of the trade market.

He lay there for a second, expecting more pain to follow and perhaps, the sweet embrace of death as a sticky warmth spread out across his shoulder. It was not to arrive, the unmistakable rattle of an Autogun firing with reckless abandon brought him back to his senses. However, the solid projectiles were not for him. Senses slighted, coat muddied and brooch bloodied Armadeus quickly rose to his feet, scrambling despite the harrowing protests from his wounded shoulder towards the closest storefront and throwing himself over and behind it.

Grunting at the pain in his shoulder, one hand found itself sliding within the folds of his coat, grasping the hilt of the Bolt pistol hidden within and drawing it free as he slowly peered over the top of the wooden stall. The scent of blood was in the air, the four gangers he'd seen previously, just barely adults now lay in a pool of their own life's blood, cut apart by rounds from an autogun. Nearby a grinning man stood, a red fist donned the flak armour covering the man's chest, which looked to have been put together by scraps of two separate breastplates. An autogun hung over his shoulder, a string of smoke escaping from it's barrel.

"The bastard that must have shot me." Armadeus muttered to himself, as he rose slowly, the Bolt pistol raised before him and towards the Red Fist. The grinning man felt the impact shatter through his side, ribs and all as a self-propelled kinetic round tor it's way through his homemade armour and then body sending him sprawling into the dirt and gurgling, before he heard it.

Ducking back down behind the improvised cover. Armadeus with his honour repaired, the sticky pain in his shoulder however was still present, as he looked to taking in his surroundings, bolt pistol held against his rising and falling chest.

‘’Omnisiah? Was he the guy that these wire-brains pray to?’’ Safi thought to himself as he walked towards the Hub that contained the Station Port, some high-up shops, and most importantly, his room. It was a nice room – it was a damn expensive room, and Safi was actually somewhat heartbroken about the fact that he would have to leave it so soon. And he had paid for the month, yet this was almost his second week here. But he knew how bad shit could get in the Hives, so he was not going to risk getting killed or robbed for a simple view. He could find that on any planet – his life, however, was unique, at least to him. He knew from experience that those walking chop shops, like the one following him, didn’t care at all about ‘mere humans’ like him. Safi knew that, and made a note for himself to not risk himself too much for it. Damn thing had a keen eye, though. But then again, if Safi had that sort of gear embedded into his body, he would be too.

And now it offered (it didn’t come off as an offer, but Safi thought that at least he could refuse if necessary) a job. ‘’Be a bodyguard in a Rogue Trader’s retinue? Sounds just like my sort of thing.’’ As… mechanic as its speech was, Safi appreciated the fact that mister Heavy Machinery was punctual about the information it gave. He admired that in a man, or xeno, or whatever the fuck this thing passed as. And it promised money. ‘’A ticket off this planet, a job, and coin. Nice.’’ He entered through the main entrance of the Hub, and after walking up some stairs, turned to the Enginseer in front of a metallic door. ‘’Give me two minutes. I need to pack up. Or keep going, I think I can catch up.’’ Safi did not wait for an answer, and unlocked the door with some sort of transparent card and quickly hurried inside. Light coming in through the window panes annoyed his eyes in a good way.

His clothing was already packed, since his ironing, folding and packing skills were also well-trained in his time in the Imperial Guard, and the constant training had eventually turned into an obsession with Safi. He quickly slipped into his armor which was somewhat similar to a Vostroyan Heavy Cavalryman’s, wrapped a sash around his waist, slung his lasrifle on his shoulder, opened his visor and got out of the room, holding a traveling bag in one hand. He was now definitely ready to leave.

“Madame, you will find me to be of very little help in this, I am truly afraid. My brother would gladly kill me himself, or worse, just to dispatch the last of the Blissponii from this mortal coil.”

“Lead on, young – eeerrm...lady.”

Not QUITE what I was hoping for Nisvillia frowned inwardly, whilst keeping her slick smile very much present outwardly. A mewling little noble with strong family ties I could use...but this? This will take a greater effort on my part.

"If you two darlings would be so kind as join me." She gestured to Typho and Aryon with one fat hand.

Nisvillia led the duo upstairs, to where the recently installed board room was situated. A great glass table stretched across the room, and a drinks cabinet sat vigilantly in the corner. Four staff members dressed in smart attire, with laspistols holstered discretely in their dinner jackets, stood watch on either side of the room.

She poured three glasses of Amasecc, offering them to the gentlemen, whilst keeping one back for herself.

"So, we appear to be in a slight predicament, my loves." Nisvillia took a delicate swig of her drink, savouring the scorching taste as it burned and crackled at the back of her throat. "We have a gang war that needs defusing, and I believe it to be in our mutual interest that we don't all end up dead."

She sat down heavily in one of the slick metal chairs, which let out a moan of wailing protest beneath her ginormous weight, her ample rear-end spilling over the edges.

"I hear you like games of chance, Typho" she cooed with a sharp smirk "Well, I have the Emperor of all gambles right here for you."

She surveyed the pair, her narrow eyes sparkling with dark delight.

"I need you two to help me disrupt the Fist's Intel. I need your help shifting the blame off of the Blue Virus... and on to the Wicked Mob."

Dry.

Dry was how Dagmar liked his terrain, dry open fields of long red grass or sloping tundra mountains with vast expanses of scratching undergrowth. The tunnels Dagmar drudged through currently were wet and unpleasant, the dark he could deal with however. He had been walking for some time when he realized he'd lost his orientation, he knew if he turned back he would be doubly lost, so he kept his right foot in front of his left and the vice versa.

Upon arrival on the station, he had noted how the grain of most streets ran into the city center, they must have been put down from the outside in. He could tell by touching the slimy ceiling that he was heading to the outer rims, but he needed to get above ground, he couldn't take this shit anymore - literally, the shit was unbearable.

The first ladder his strained eyes came across on his next turn, he would take, he decided. On his next turn he took a left, and was instantly confronted by the steel bars of a metal ladder. It would seem fate was easing up on him, but he had been at the eye of many storms, and this felt a lot like those.

Gripping the cold but secure ladder, Dagmar climbed slowly, taking the time to keep his feet steady. When he reached the top of the ladder he pushed his forearm up above his head and drove his legs up. The latch clicked, and the top receded.

@Lone Wanderer
Scamp and Sister scurried through the cramped alley-ways of Outpost 57. Refuse littered the floor, hiding grime and rust with even more putrid filth. Over-sized rats and uncountable insects inhabited this rotten world, denizens of the outpost since its completion. The orphan boy was accustomed to the setting, having lived among the garbage all of his short life. But the Sister was not. If not for the filters installed on the breathing apparatus of her helmet, she was certain that the stench would have caused her to wretch. Perhaps the contents of her stomach would smell better than the alleys.

Whenever the pair would come upon a vagrant or inhabitant of Outpost 57 they would take shelter as best they could. The Sister was a prudent woman, not wont to encounter potential enemies unnecessarily. Several times this would happen, each repetition causing her hidden mouth to curl slightly as the holy armor which she wore was defiled by the byproducts of human activity. At least it wasn't the sewers, or the equivalent of which existed on this Emperor-forsaken station.

Twice they would hear distant shouting, accompanied by the familiar crack of las weaponry and the bang of auto weapons. Having no desire to step into a battle, the Sister would command the boy to lead them far around the area, increasing their travel time but helping to ensure their safety.

Her mind was only half-trained on the journey, the rest reminiscing on the events earlier this "night." Death was nothing new to her, nor was preventing its cold grasp from extinguishing a man's soul. Time spent among the Orders Hospitaller had seen to that. Nothing could have been done to save the priest even if he had deserved the gift of life. Perhaps in death he would find the redemption which could not be seen in living. Yet it was not that but the burning of the temple which troubled her. The priest was a sinner, true, yet the temple of the God-Emperor itself had not been defamed in any manner apart from hosting the illicit dealings which she had intruded upon. In her haste to purge the men she may have committed her own heresy against the Emperor. Better to burn than let such a place of corruption stand. Acceptance bloomed in her mind and she tucked the memory away, no longer troubled.

Trundling out of an alleyway behind the orphan boy, she caught sight of a man hunkered down behind a wall of a nearby storefront. Further along the intersection lay five dead men, one with a significant chunk of his body torn to pieces. Unholstering her bolt pistol, she indicated to the orphan to halt before examining the man further. He was garbed in rather fine clothing yet signs of wear were apparent, especially weapon marks from near-misses. A warrior noble, perhaps? Blood leaked from his shoulder, trickling out from under a dented brooch. Replacing her weapon on her hip, she strode towards the injured man. "Explain to me the scene I see and perhaps I shall provide you with medical aid should I deem it satisfactory as an explanation, noble."

The Outpost

Solasier stepped gingerly through the "streets" of the space station. The tension of the place filled his head like a fly had buzzed into his ear. He needed to get to the docks and get out of here, damned quickly. The streets were rapidly draining of humans as they hurried back into their establishments and enclosures. Whatever was going on, they were obviously just as aware of it, despite lacking psychic sensitivity. Even so, there were still armed men roving the pathways, most heading in a particular directions quite singlemindedly. Solasier did his best to keep his head down, nearly hunching over, and continued along discreetly.

He needed something to keep attention off of himself. He didn't want to have to start the bloodbath early by needing to defend himself from the agitated Mon-keigh. The streets were designed to keep the populated contained and surveyed, which made things difficult for the Eldar, as he lacked knowledge of the side-streets that those more familiar with the station would likely be using. Even so, he spotted the next best thing: a diversion. A human cyborg of some type stalked loudly and brazenly through the streets, accompanied by an armed human of some type. The creature was quite vile to look at (humans were always coming up with creative ways to disfigure and dismember themselves), but it was such a unique presence that Solasier immediately knew that his disguised form paled in comparison to it.

He closed in on the cybernetic monstrosity, putting himself in the same field of vision of anyone that would stop to stare at it. He kept a fair distance behind and his footsteps silent, so that the creature would not notice being tailed. Solasier hoped that with this sort of stalking pattern, anyone that would be looking for something out of the ordinary would notice the cyborg instead of himself. They seemed to be heading in the general direction of the port, which suited the Eldar just fine, and so he kept in his subtle tailing of the robotic human.

Gaelor elected to wait until Safi returned. Fortunately, no ill fortune befell him until his guardian returned. Gaelor inspected Safi's new look and decided he liked what he saw -- the man, now dressed in full battle-armor, looked like he meant business.

The Hub would normally have been bustling with activity, but the streets were almost deserted right now. Gaelor eyed the few people he saw suspiciously; a group of thugs whispering among themselves, a woman and a young child hurrying inside a building and securely locking the door, a tall, cloaked man, and various other people. Their luck seemed to hold, however, and Gaelor and Safi reached the station port without any incidents.

It was a large space with many open landing pads and enclosed hangars. Several large landing craft of varying designs were scattered around the place. Gaelor took a few seconds to gaze at them with interest before forcing himself to stay focused. Checking his data slate, he noted that the Rogue Trader had been granted permission to touch down on pad 12. Looking around, Gaelor eventually found a sign with directions. "THIS WAY, SKITARIUS," Gaelor said and stomped away. The Enginseer wanted to be there when the Rogue Trader arrived -- the sooner he'd be able to speak to the man, the better.

She surveyed the pair, her narrow eyes sparkling with dark delight.

"I need you two to help me disrupt the Fist's Intel. I need your help shifting the blame off of the Blue Virus... and on to the Wicked Mob."

Aryon downed his amasec in a single gulp and gestured for another.

"Plans, plans, Nisvillia," he said with a lazy wave of his hand, "Wheels within wheels. I have a counter offer. We give them Typho here, use him to buy our way off this Emperor-forsaken station. I need your connections, and I am an ace at deal making, very persuasive. We can get each other out of this scrap- and off this scrap-heap....or would you rather spend your life scrabbling to stay afloat in the middle of nowhere?"

He accompanied his suggestion with a wink and subtle subconscious nudge.

Lex turned to Typho and shrugged, "Sorry, old man. I really was just planning on taking your creds to buy my way off this hole. Didn't expect a gangwar to interrupt! But I do try to keep prepared."

Gravius had never been happier to be off a space ship. Although Gravius was surprised with the Lord captains interest in the tarot he was still an insufferable pompous ass. Gravius hoped he would not have to be contained on such a small space with him for any longer than the half hour he had just spent in that damn drop ship. As he exited the craft via the main ramp behind Horatio and his honour guard, Gravius was completely overwhelmed by the horrendous condition of what this station considered a port. Rats and roaches scurried behind and under every box, the ground was stained with more unknown substances than Gravius cared to guess and virtually everything smelled like shit.

As Gravius tried to adjust to the frankly insulting condition, Horatio posed the question of where they should go. Gravius sighed, of course Drake wouldn't let him remain by the ship, he couldn't bear to let his Navigator have any the slightest hint of comfort. Gravius turned and walked to join the Lord captains entourage as he spoke, "Well, I believe anyone who is marginally more intelligent than a grox is currently indoors, probably boarded up. However, as I assume the men you search for are either intensely brave or just marginally less intelligent than a grox I suggest we press forward into this... station. Though, now that I am here I must say the whole thing feels like I'm inside of a grenade with its pen pulled... it's about to explode... we should be cautious." His piece said, Gravius would attempt to join the group near the middle, so that he was amply protected.

As they surely set off, Gravius decided to search the station with his mind for anything of note. As he did, the tension only grew thicker, slowly clouding his thoughts. But, as he was about to give up, he found something (or more accurately someone).worth finding. Though whoever it was hid it well, Gravius was far to Adept to miss the presence of another psyker, no Navigator obviously... but interesting nonetheless. Gravius decided NOT to share this with his captain, for now at least, and was content to know he had found something of note... whether or not the other knew he had been found was another story.

"We give them Typho here, use him to buy our way off this Emperor-forsaken station. I need your connections, and I am an ace at deal making, very persuasive. We can get each other out of this scrap- and off this scrap-heap....or would you rather spend your life scrabbling to stay afloat in the middle of nowhere?"

Nisvillia paused, considering Aryon's words.

"There's certainly merit to that suggestion, my love." She gave a subtle nod to the mercenaries who stood about the room, an unspoken command for them to keep their eyes on Typho.

"Assuming Almano really does want to be reunited with his brother."

The muffled hum of machinery drifted in through the boardroom's windows, a soft murmur of mechanical whirring against the backdrop of the vast city-scape. Nisvillia had called the outpost home for far too long, and a change of scenery was certainly appealing.

"I could have my people try and arrange a meeting, but there's no guarantee that the fist wont just shoot them in the face."

@Peik@agentmanatee@Hank@Dead Cruiser@Pripovednik Truth be told, Drake was not really listening to the Navigator, nor did he need the mutant to tell him that something was not quite right with the outpost and its inhabitants; even though he was, without a doubt, the spoilt child of a rich family of aristocrats, he nevertheless appeared to possess a predators intuition when it came to dangerous situations. This was also likely to have been honed by his time spent among the Terran upper-classes, avoiding multiple assassination attempts from his family and close friends throughout his life.

Taking a moment to make sure that his honour guard kept close, but not so close as to surround him, he ignored the three-eyed Navigators clear cowardice - not that he expected much from one who's duty it was to guide ships through the warp - and advanced forward.

One pace..two paces...three paces toward the nearest corridor-like street and...

"By the Emperor's shrivelled scrotum, what the Eye is this?!"

He had very nearly placed one well-booted foot straight down into a manhole, one that had quite suddenly opened below his feet, and would have probably had his body follow shortly after, the mohawk of hair emerging from the subterranean depths to be followed swiftly enough by the scarred features of a bronze-skinned man in leather clothing.

"You...you bloody barstard!" Growled the nobleman, his chainaxe already in his hand and poised to deliver a decapitating blow as soon as he pressed the activation stud of the weapon, "who the Horus do you think you are?" It was a serious question, and he expected a serious answer, otherwise 'the Dagger' would be meeting an end that he had very nearly escaped from.

Now standing quite visibly in the centre of the port, it would be quite easy for the situation to draw attention to them all, for anyone watching at least.

Meanwhile the pressure on the station was about to reach boiling point, bloodshed heralded by multiple explosions - random and not particularly powerful perhaps, but easily able to be seen from an elevated point - black smoke billowing into the air, followed near instantly by the crack and ricochet of assorted gunfire. It was not long before the confederation of gangs under the banner of the Bloodied Fist, as well as those both neutral and adamantly opposed, spilled out onto the streets of the Outpost and proceeded to escalate the entire thing into a vicious urban conflict.

People fought everywhere, from the highest spire to the basements of stores and dives and brothels, men hacking at others simply due to their allegiance, and those women and children caught up in this suffering an equal fate to their menfolk.

With an armament that included RPG's, grenades, various forms of gas, and heavy weapons, it was only a matter of time before the entirety of Outpost Fifty-Seven went up in a conflagration of death and an orgy of bloodshed.

---

@Kingfisher@Flagg Typho looked from one face to another, the disgusting blob of Blisspontis and the greasy expression of man he may have even considered to be an acquaintance, and decided that he truly had had enough.

Uncaring of his own fate, and refusing to be used as a pawn in anyones game - as well as knowing full well what his brother would do to him, should he fall into his almost daemonic clutches, he launched himself out of his seat and, with a speed certainly belied by his venerable visage, threw himself toward the doorway of the office.

Unsuspecting, the mercenary guards moved somewhat slower than they should have, and Typho had very nearly reached the doorway...

[OOC: You've got a number of options, so it's up to you both whether you want to shoot him, re-capture him, or anything else. I would advise, however, that you don't hold him in that room for much longer.]

---

@Durandal@Lone Wanderer You're good, so feel free to advance yourselves in whatever direction you choose. I would say that you may want to leave the market before it gets overrun though.

Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the mercenaries who stopped Typho in his tracks, but Nisvillia herself.

A crackling blast of laser, fired from her pistol, hissed through the air, scorching the ground infront of the gambler's feet. He stopped in his tracks, mere-inches from the blast radius.

"Next time, honey, I won't miss." She assured him darkly, cracking a wicked grin.

Nisvillia heaved her massive bulk out of her chair, wadding across the room. "If he tries to run again, break his knee caps." She told the mercenaries. "And what am I even paying you all for, if you can't catch some stuck-up ponce?! By the Emperor, the help nowadays is shocking."

She sighed heavily, her massive stomach oozing out even further, pushing against her already tight dress.

"I have a contact; a man named Thermatus." Nisvillia addressed Aryon in her usual honeyed-tone "He'll be sure to pay us well for Typho."

She waddled over to the window, her immense frame blocking out the light which was poking in through its clear glass panels. "I'd have my people cover me, but I need someone here to oversee the Loft. Just because I'm hopping ship dosen't mean I can't keep raking in profits from this place."

Nisvillia turned back to face Aryon "If you can cover my back, then I'll make sure we both get paid enough to get off of this tin can."

Once she was sure that Typho was well-guarded, Nisvillia sent one of her people off into the Catwalk, in search of Thermatus.

"I'll make the trade, but it'll be your job to guard my gorgeously proportioned arse." She told Aryon with a wink.

Dagmar had expected a blinding light when he escaped from the stinking depths of the sewers. Alas, it was not to be, instead he was greeted by a seemingly endless stream of foul language that one particular man decided to hurl against him. Quickly he heaved himself out of the filthy hole and straightened himself out, brushing the dust and less pleasant dirtiness away. He would have simply gone on his way if it wasn't for the all too familiar sound of an angry nobleman and his threats; admittedly the chain axe was a bit of a tide turner too.

“Who the Horus do you think you are?”

Dagmar wasn't sure how to respond, he knew who he was, and he was definite of that. He didn't think he knew who he was; he knew that he knew who he was. The whole concept of this strange question left Dagmar a bit puzzled. Struggling past the riddle and pushing the confused face he was pulling aside, Dagmar spoke hurriedly.

“My name is Dagmar, and we need to leave.”

It probably wasn't the right thing to say, but Dagmar had no time to ponder on the subject any longer. A small group of gangers had just passed the corner that was in plain sight over the Noblemen’s right shoulder. They hadn't noticed the small group yet, and yet was the important adverb there.

Dagmar could take them on if he had the jump on them, but it seemed that this chain axe wielding, big mouth shouting, bodyguard having nobleman could take care of it. Dagmar pointed over to the approaching group, and took a quick peek behind him. He wished he hadn't, another four were coming up that way too.

“It would seem we are surrounded.” He said calmly.

Taking his curved sword slowly from his back, Dagmar activated his cloaking device with the push of his thumb, and after promptly being thrown into a transparent fuzzy mess of ‘best quality invisibility’ ran toward the four approaching from the west.

“Be with you in a moment, just deal with the others!” He screamed back as he ran between the shadows, arms pumping and legs driving him forward. He reached behind him to his crossbow that was tight against his back, pulling it out of its safe holster and into his empty left hand.

150 metres away.

Jumping over various rubbish, broken furniture and abandoned clothing, Dagmar skipped from cover to cover with both weapons in hand. His sword was tight in his right hand and disappointingly the cloaking field was hiding its distinctive sinister shine. He enjoyed the fear in his enemies eyes as they saw they're death flash and glint before them.

100 metres from target.

Aiming forward as he ran, timing the drop of his padded feet and the shifting of his wide shoulders as his whole body moved, Dagmar flipped the rope link off and fired a single precise bolt forward and into the unfortunately weak armour then sternum of the leading ganger.

50 metres.

The poor bastard was sent flying back a few feet and onto his back, the solid floor knocked what was left of the air out of him and a red puddle began to expand around him, like a sun before super nova.

30 metres.

The others jumped into cover themselves and waited for whatever foe it was that had killed their fellow scumbag, guns ready and pulses racing. Two of them had dived behind a very large and obviously disused tram like vehicle and one was simply crouched behind a nook in the alley wall, Dagmar spotted a way over.

15 metres.

Jumping over a small metal gate, Dagmar ran up a few steps leading to a doorway and leapt up into the air. Pushing his right leg off the wall, Dagmar threw his crossbow back into its holster and reached for two throwing knifes, he rolled over the top of the vehicle and off the edge. He landed a few feet behind the two men crouched beside the vehicle; they turned at the sound of his unsteady landing. Throwing the first knife at the man on the right, it struck his armoured vest but only barely went through. Laughing at the attempt on his life, he rose his stubber up. His laughter was cut short as the second knife sliced through his throat and embedded itself into his neck.

He fell to the ground gurgling and reaching up to his face. His friend beside him began to blindly fire into the slightly blurred alley before him. Rolling forward, Dagmar pushed off his heels as he came back up and landed beside the dead vest guy. He pulled a curved blade from his shoulder and tore a gash across the man firing crazily into nothing, blood dripped from his chest and Dagmar sliced again behind the legs, cutting the thug down to size.

As he thumped down onto his knees Dagmar ended his screams of pain, driving his blade up into the man’s jaw with a snapping back strike from his tricep. Retrieving his blade hastily, he climbed quickly but awkwardly in through the vehicles window, just in time to evade the las pistol fire that came from the man behind the nook. It would seem he was not fast enough though, as looking down at his leather clad body, Dagmar saw a singed hole on the side of his leg and grimaced slightly.

Clambering over the interior and out through its broken front, Dagmar left the vehicle behind as he walked straight for the las pistol wielder, who was still firing around his previous position. Raising his sword above his head he deactivated his cloak and swung it down in an S shaped strike, driving its edge through the ganger’s collarbone and down to his chest. The ganger fell limb upon his blade staring into his eyes and Dagmar spat on him, no one ruined his clothes, they were a home world gift.

Pulling his sword back out of the body, his blood began to cool and he quickly took back his knifes. Dagmar ran back up the now bloodied street to see if the angry noblemen was managing things, he was sure that chain axe would tear some outpost thugs apart.

By the time Nisvillia made her way down into the Catwalk, the air of Outpost 57 was thick with black smoke and crackling fire.

“Whatever your brother has set in motion, the people of this station are about to pay the price.” The obese redhead scowled, giving Typho a sharp prod forwards.

“I can be accused of a great many things,” the lean figure spluttered in a sour tone “but I cannot be expected to accept responsibility for my brother’s actions!”

“Perhaps not,” Nisvillia cracked a wicked grin “but you’re about to pay the price for them.”

The twin mechanical doors slid open, and soon the huge ginger was puffing and panting and squeezing her way back through the all-too-familiar narrow tunnels, this time guiding a pompous gamble with her.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you back here so soon.” Thermatus said when the pair came stumbling into the cramped little chamber he called home, raising one eyebrow. “Who’s your friend?”

“Typho Almano,” Nisvillia smirked by way of introduction “lesser-known older brother.”

“The amount you back-alley scum have been throwing my name about the place, I’m not even sure if that’s true anymore.” Typho grumbled. She thudded him in the back of the neck with her las pistol, causing him to let out a little yelp and then fall silent.

“Well, well, well,” Thermatus grinned “It does appear you’ve outdone yourself, Blissponis.”

“And maybe handed us a way to keep out of this Emperor-dammed gang war…” he added after a brief pause.

“Please! You can’t do this!” Typho squawked frantically “It’s completely immoral!”

“One man’s life to save several?” Nisvillia chuckled “I’m sure I’ll live.”

“You aren’t doing this to save anyone other than yourself, you great greasy ball!” The gambler bellowed, going red in the face.

“True, true,” she gave her broad shoulders a shrug “Still, there’s always the chance your dear sweet brother will keep you as his personal pin-cushion instead of actually killing you.”

He tried to push back past her, but her heavy fist went barrelling into his mouth, knocking him to the floor.

Typho lay in a heap on the ground, sobbing bitter tears whilst he clasped one hand over his jaw. Blood was pooling out of his mouth and splattering on the floor, landing with a wet pitter-patter.

“What are you wanting in return, Blissponis?” Thermatus, ever the entrepreneur, asked astutely, ignoring Typho as he blubbered and bled and wailed.

“Enough Thrones to buy my way off of this station,” She said firmly “and maybe a little something on the side to help with future endeavours.”

“Done.”

Gravius cracked a grin at the fact Horatio had very nearly fallen into a manhole, and was about to make a remark when the man Drake had nearly stepped on pointed out the fact the little group was now surrounded. Gravius rather quickly moved directly behind two of the arms men at the back of the group, so that he was basically next to Horatio in the ring of guards. As combat opened and Las blasts and bullets started firing Gravius tried to make sure there was no way a stray shot could get to him, but without crouching on the disgusting street of the station. As he did something caught his eye.

Down the street from where the group had come from, a small group of thugs emerged from an ally to join their already embattled comrades, but they were led by what Gravius could only call a beast. The man had to be at least seven feet tall, and even through his armor you could tell he was rather heavily muscled, cutting quite the intimidating figure. He wore what looked like heavily modified guard armor, and carried a horrendously large snub pistol in one hand and a chainsword, which Gravius was a bit surprised to see, in the other. Over the armor was some sort of... mesh, and to Gravius it was rather clearly Xeno made, of course only in a shit hole like this could xeno tech be so openly displayed. The beas of a man roared as he emerged from the alley very clearly hopped up on combat stims, and charged the small group of soldiers.

The man fired wildly with his snub pistol, emptying the chamber in a matter of seconds. The bullets that found purchase in the carapace armor of Drake's men did little more than stagger them, not even denting the thick armor. Two of the armsman returned fire with their hellguns, calmly firing several shots at the charging mega thug. Several missed their mark by only a few inches, but most of them hit... but had little effect. The mesh seemed to absorb the thick Las blasts, dissipating their energy into the air. The two men didn't have time to go for a shot at the thug's head as he was now upon them.

With one titanic sweep the giant man took one of the men'men's heads of at the neck, blood flying into the air as the head fell to the ground. He then brought the flat back of his chainsword into the second guards head, stunning him and driving him into the ground. The massive man quickly glanced around for his next victim, and spotted the small robed man about a foot in front of him. The thug laughed loudly as he brought the chainsword above his head for a downward swing, it was one of the last things he ever did. Just before he could bring the wiring blade down, the robed figure looked straight into his face, and snapped open the third eye in the middle of his forehead. For a moment, the titanic man locked eyes with that third orb of cloudy black, and then he started screaming.

Anyone nearby could see the mans face and hands suddenly become covered with huge, bulbous blisters. He dropped his blade as the giant bumps began to obscure his vision and pop out all over the rest of his body. Just as he thought the pain couldn't get any worse, the blisters started popping. However, neither blood nor puss flowed from the blisters, instead than began exploding with fire. In what was about the span of four or five seconds the huge thug had gone from murderous psychopath, to screaming conflagration. His entire body burst into flame and he screamed, backing up trying desperately to put out the flames he dropped on the ground and rolled enthusiastically, but it was no use. The fire had been born from the mind of a psyker, and could not be quenched so easily. The man's screams shortly turned to whimpers, and then ceased altogether. He lay there, hid corpse being consumed by the flames. Several thugs who had charged alongside him and survived the guard's guns turned and ran, screaming, "WITCH!" at the top of their lungs. Several others fled with them, but enough held their ground that the guards once again returned fire, attempting to drive them off as well.

None of this mattered to Gravius as he watched the poor bastard burn, his third eye now closed. He sighed, as he had hoped not to have to expend any of his energy on the station, not that it had taken much. Gravius simply couldn't understand why human thought you needed a weapon to be dangerous, maybe if that thug had been just a bit smarter, and not charged then he'd still be alive... oh well, he was filthy backwater scum anyways. Gravius smiled again, and believed he would be safe among the guards, so he continued watching the corpse as it burned.