@CaptainBritton@DJAtomika@Asura@Lonewolf685@Laduguer@BurningDaisies

Failure. To some it is the end of all things, with no way back and no impetus to even try once more, to some it is a catalyst to strive even harder and others – those such as Interrogator Dimitrije Elek – it was a well-hidden and secret shame that gnawed at the very integrity of their psyche and daily life.

Something to be restrained and concealed no matter what...

The assigned dispatch of an eight-man task force to Yansala, an agri-world on the fringes of Imperial space, had started well enough; Inquisitor Gaetano – a secretive figure that not even he had ever met in person – gave orders as was customary and Elek, a mere Throne Agent at that moment decades ago, headed up the squad as they made landfall in the capital city of Ansal.

Here they were told of crops being blighted and withering away, cattle keeling over from an unknown pathogen, and even more disturbing communications of entire hamlets found deserted of all life. It was not an odd thing on such an open planet, one made up mostly of sweeping fields and deep glens and valleys, for settlements to be out of contact with one another for weeks at a time, the difference being that when someone did arrive there they would find people and a warm welcome.

Primary investigations found that the planet had been touched by none other than Nurgle, ruinous power of pestilence and disease, and that further action would need to be taken to save the souls of Ansal and the greater planet at large. Elek believed that he could track down and destroy the source of the plagues, but he could not have been more wrong, so he would find out in a matter of days.

What they found was a central nest of daemonic activity, fighting their way through to the heart of it with the help of the Yansala 12th, the so-called 'Tigers', and engaging with a foe that the Agent had been utterly unprepared for.

Only in the early stages of mastering his psychic abilities, far away from the user of warp-based might he would become, he sought to pursue the plague daemon who was causing it all; what he got was blow after blow of psychic lashings, helpless even as Trooper Keels face was torn from his body, or Agent Elisal was struck down by multiple grotesque Plague Bearers, incapacitated and unable to assist.

He had failed, saved only by the timely intervention of his unseen master and patron, but he was never the same again. Second chances, he had been told through a vox message, was given to those who had faith in the God-Emperor, and this was truly his.

---

---

Dimitrije rose heavily from his cot, throwing off the sheets and making his way over to the sink of his sparse chamber, weaving slightly and groping about for his half-empty bottle of Rahzvod – this particular bottle of the clear liquid coming from a little known distillery on Vostroya itself – finally gripping it and raising the already open beverage to his lips.

Smiling through thin lips as the liquid burnt its way down his gullet, the Interrogator looked into the illuminated mirror before him and spat a gobbet of phlegm out at what he saw; an angular and rather gaunt face, blue eyes looking out from under dark brown brows, his hair cut short and a widows peak penetrating the pale flesh of his head, skin that appeared as if it had not seen sunlight for some time but had the overall appearance of a man in his early thirties. Elek was nearly eighty-three, rejuvenat treatments keeping him healthy and young in body if not in mind or experience.

With his black body-glove clinging to him it was easy to see that the six-foot two-inches tall daemon hunter kept himself in a constant state of psychical readiness, no part of his body given over to laxity of the flesh, barely man ounce of fat on his body anywhere. 'Wiry' was the way many may have described him, able to move with whip-like speed and in possession of surprisingly high strength.

There was a small buzzing within his ear as he took another swig, lifting a slender finger to his ear and activating the vox-bead, his eyes never leaving the mirror even as his lips moved.

“This is Elek, what is it Captain?” The tone was to-the-point, a hint of an accent marring the words, possibly Valhallan, and the gruff voice of Captain Lamar – a no nonsense soldier of some repute – echoed the tone nicely, “the arrivals should be here soon, lord. It may be a good idea to meet them personally.”

The link was cut and Elek gave out a long sigh, flinging the bottle into a nearby refuse unit and heading toward his wardrobe – it would not do to keep potential allies waiting.

---

---

You would not find Arden VII on any maps of Imperial space, because as far as anyone was concerned the moon of the destroyed primary planet – the rocky remains of which still floated nearby, forming a protective shell even – did not even exist!

Upon and below the surface of the quite ordinary satellite rock was an Inquisitorial base of the Ordo Malleus, taken from the Imperial Guard and repurposed as many other locations had been, the former frontier outpost making a fine prison, staging point and research centre for the most covert of the Holy Inquisitions branches.

While only fortified entrances showed on the surface, below the grey rock surface was an entire labyrinth of chambers, training grounds, libraries and much more; those that were arriving had been given specific co-ordinates by Inquisitor Gaetano who, whether they knew it or not, they now worked for through Elek.

A small landing pad was where they would be arriving, a connected lift bringing them down into a subterranean hangar, and it was there – with a coterie of black and red clad Stormtroopers in attendance – that the Interrogator would 'welcome' them. These arrivals had been plucked from all over, bought together here for their skills and faith in the God-Emperor, some even with previous records of service to the Inquisition, and now they would be put to some use in His service for the first time or perhaps the last.

Elek looked over at Captain Lamar, the grey-haired veterans bodysuit and carapace armour contrasting well with his own long leather coat and 'puritan' hat, a clothing style favoured by members of the Ordo Hereticus and from whom he had become enamoured with it, the Captain as stern and straight-backed in his advanced years as he had been as a new recruit.

All around them were vessels of the Inquisition, from gun-cutters to Valkyries, surrounded by the cold grey walls of the hangar and their eyes fixed on the elevator shaft.

“Now we play the vaiting game, I suppose.”

“Yes lord, yes we do.”

---

There was comfort in the familiar, a sentiment that none from the lowliest of peasant to the High Lords of Terra could deny. For Mathias, being seated in the cargohold of an unmarked Imperial vessel destined for coordinates unknown upon orders unseen except by those at the highest level, this was familiar. He sat midway between the ramp and the cockpit with his body propped up by two clawed mechandrite pressed to the floor, having long since found his augmentations get cramped when pressed to the bulkhead, though he remained close enough to grab for the crash webbing if needs must.

Head bowed, his flesh and blood hand grasped was occupied grasping the bone of his servo skull and turning the automaton over.

"Thrusters are operating within acceptable parameters." His voice was a terse burst of static, spoken purely for his own benefit then that of the other occupants. Along his cogitator gauntlet came rolling lines of runic script conveying the intricacies of his inert Servo Skull's diagnostic. It was unnecessary to do so, Mathias' ocular implants being serviceable for such simple acts of maintenance, yet he drew comfort from gazing at every integer. Such a tool held not even a glimmer of the glory found in the Boltor, nor was it such a wide spread arm as the lasrifle, but it's beauty remained as stark as the Cadian Gate carved into the bone's brow.

"I deem it worthy of operation!" Mathias' vox caster rose to a dramatic flair and he raised it overhead, whereupon a mechandrite claimed it in a reverent embrace of mechanical cilia. There it remained inactive to conserve power and assuage the concerns of those who would rather not have a known observation device in a secret facility before introductions are even underway.

That, and for reasons beyond his comprehension, female guardsman find the tentacle-sporting man with a floating camera to be a might disconcerting, and he'd heard hushed beeps of Binary from Enginseers that the Sororitas were known to react rather violently when surprised by a wandering mechandrite overcome by curiosity for their power armor. Regretfully, both Enginseer and Augmentation were typically left in a state ill-fit for recovery.

Mathias released a sigh which vocalized itself as a wave of static as he looked up from hi musings and surveyed the cargo hold, thoughts drifting from one tangent to another. Barring the flight crew it seemed fair to assume those present not working to keep the void craft operable were those who'd received invitations much the same as he did. An absence of servos grinding and the shifting of ceramite plates was all one needed to declare the lack thereof of power armor- Astarates or Sororitas- which spoke as much to the roles of those present as it did to the desires of the Inquisitor.

Much like the Servo Skull, they bore the hallmarks of an unassuming instrument ready to be plunged into the heart of Chaos. Had he lips to curl there would have been a smile on Mathias' face, but he'd have to settle for a synthesized cackle for the moment.

Actus was a naked eye, a simple entity of vision floating in a dark and smothered cosmos, comfortable in its closeness. He could see little in the gloom, but felt somehow glad of it; like a child hiding under their blanket, he was master in this hidden realm and the beyond could not harm him. However, slowly but relentlessly, the veil of this place was being stripped away. The first rays of a terrible sunrise were beginning to shine on the blanket and invade, rendering it no longer secure but rather transparent and pathetic. Through this now transparent veil, Actus could begin to make out the shadows of shapes moving on the other side. These shapes moved like a monstrous pantomine, nauseating in their outlines and in motions suggesting some horrific, cyclopean dance. A terrible fear set in as Actus realized that the illusion of his private cosmos was lost forever, and that he would never be able to hide from the knowledge of those monstrous shapes that danced above him.

Then, moist heat. Slight nausea. A ferrous taste in his dry mouth. He had fallen asleep in his cot-seat inside the small unmarked transport bearing him on the last leg of his journey. He felt relieved that his nightmare was not a reality, but not as relieved as he would have liked. It had been a recurring feature of his sleep recently, and whilst he was not taken to the primitive belief that dreams somehow held cosmic significance, the regularity of this one was beginning to upset some superstitious animal part of his mind.

This fear was perhaps was being exasperated by the already highly unusual nature of the last few weeks. Actus had lived a regimented and very routine life for decades, and he was still reeling from such a dramatic break to that routine. Suddenly, he was thrown into this dark and clandestine world that smelled strongly of incense. He still did not truly know what he was being recruited for, or how his fledgling algorithm would be put to use. He knew the Ordo Malleus was real - a mere myth would not be so heavily censored across so many Imperial records - and that they were somehow involved with monitoring classified and dangerous warp phenomena, but beyond that he had very little idea about what their actual function was. All of this created a strange aire of fantasy and mystery that made everything that happened to him seem ominous.

That was not to say he was not excited or honoured by this opportunity. This was undoubtedly the greatest career opportunity he had ever been presented, and it would mean taking on a range of new data processing tasks under the supervision of new directors with exciting new operating protocols. He would be eager to begin this work, and get this disturbing interim period over with... if it weren't for the terrible suspicion that this strange lifestyle was only a taste of what was to come.

The intercom seamlessly announced in servitor-tones that arrival was imminent.

Hot. The burning heat of the underbelly, this Black Ship, it choked him, yet all the same, caressed him with its warmth. He laid upon the bunk, eyes wide, the idle settling of the grated floor and the dull hum of the dim red lighting serenading him, casting shadows on the wall which danced as the lighting pulsed. The bunks, stretched endlessly in each direction, housed stormtroopers, all nearly identical, heads shaved to the scalp in buzzcuts, their dull red jumpsuits hugging their bodies as they all lay the same fashion, rigid even in sleep.

But Nathanael could not sleep. It was near, the time to depart upon him. It was only a matter of minutes until the crackle of the intercom would call him to board the shuttle to Arden VII. He'd not heard of it, the barren grey rock, which he told was his new post, to report to one Interrogator Elek. He had not questioned it, following to the letter his route of transport, some sort of robotic impulse to drive him forward. And on the journey, it had been again the mundane routine of each other post. He had awakened, eaten, reported to his superiors, and undertaken constant physical upkeep and attending to roles of patrolling from one hall to the next, a constant circle of meaningless duties.

It mulled in his brain, but he had known why, for it always lingered that he had some higher purpose, some service to the Emperor, and so it pushed him, as it always had, from the very day he came to the Schola Progenium. The dull crackle broke his thoughts, and the hoarse voice roared, the intercom screaming some unintelligible chatter, but he knew the content without hearing, and in a robotic movement, had kicked his legs to one side, and struck the floor, trekking along the grated path between the rows of bunks still holding his comrades. The lift at the end of the corridor elevated him another deck, where his own gear had been waiting, the armory and upper barracks. His stop by the canteen found his appetite not particularly present, however he took that which was known as 'marching food', two flavorless slabs of hardtack compressing an over-seasoned tough cut of some synthetic meat, packed with calories.

He found his way to the armory, and distributed his service number, his gear being dispersed through the chute, courtesy of the quartermaster. Deliberate, quick movements in a habit of swiftness, and his carapace armor now hugged his figure, his hellgun at the right shoulder arms, habitual, and the rest of his armaments secured tightly to his person. With the closing of his rucksack, he started to the lift again, and was brought to the hangar, where the shuttle awaited, swarming with deck crew. He clambered aboard, stowing his hellgun into the aboard racks, his rucksack into his seat's storage compartment, and was buckled. He stared forward as the shuttle rocked, completing its long taxi across the flight deck before the roar of the engines now replaced all noise, the rattle of the shuttle deck muffling any chatter within the cabin, and the shuttle now set off with a shock of g-force before it exited into the free darkness of space, banking to Arden VII.

---

He had not moved beyond the slightest twitch since he had been seated, and as the shuttle now descended, only then did he stir, now retrieving his rucksack and hellgun, the latter of which he returned to the right shoulder arms. The cabin of the shuttle rocked violently as the gear touched the landing pad, the ramp slamming into the metallic floor and allowing Nathanael and a slew of miscellaneous personnel passage. However, where the other personnel dispersed to their posts, Nathanael had his orders, and banked to the lift. He greeted the attendant with a remark of the rank, before heading unto the lift, which started downwards.

And after a journey downwards, the cage stopped with a cacophony of clanging. Nathanael headed out, his robotic marching motions taking him through whatever corridors might meet him until he met the gaze of Elek and the Captain, and now marched out for review, to report to post, he halted two metres before them, and snapped to a port arms, and then a left order arms, stock of the hellgun now level with his foot, stretching the length of his left leg. His right hand snapped to a crisp salute, and he recited, "Tempestor Corporal Nathanael Cotant, service number 451093, reporting to post, my Lord."

As the shuttle drew ever closer to the Adran VII landing bay, Kyntus adjusted her posture in her boots. Nervousness like this was uncharacteristic of her, especially since she bore the sigils, armour and weapons of the Adeptus Arbites, one of the most fearless forms of the Emperor's justice in the galaxy. But it had only been days, no weeks since she'd been given the news that she had been handpicked to be part of an Inquisitor's retinue. An Inquisitor of the Malleus, no less. The thrill was present in her mind, but it was overridden by anxiety. How had she been picked? Why her? And with her mastiff, no less. Somehow the Inquisition had seen it fit that both her and her cyber-mastiff were worthy to be part of this retinue. Speaking of the pooch, Patches had to be shut down for the trip. Organic dogs didn't take well to warp travel, especially with how far the Hive world was from their destination.

The arbitrator sighed and adjusted her armour one last time. Her Arbites livery, mostly undamaged, bore several scars and marks of her time spent orchestrating the Emperor's justice in her homeworld. But no matter how much she and her team worked, crime always persisted, sometimes triumphed against what she knew was right and true. A sad truth, one that made her tighten her grip on her power maul's hilt. Kyntus cleared her head of thought as the servitor announced their arrival, shortly followed by the thump of the shuttle's landing gear hitting plas-steel. With a stretch of her shoulders, Kyntus stood and adjusted her armour for the last time. With her weapons stowed, she reached behind her mastiff's armour-plated head and tapped a control switch that reenabled its motor functions.

One bark later and she was out of the shuttle. Her dog at her heel, she strode forward, past the throng of personnel within the landing area and down towards the coordinates she'd been given. A few minutes walk and she approached what she assumed was the motley crew that made up the retinue. One of the men, of the Imperial Guard by the looks of it, gave a crisp, neat salute to another pair of men. As she emerged from the elevator, she strode forward and presented arms; her maul clipped neatly to her belt, hand snapped to a salute, shotgun with its stock to the floor and her mastiff at her leg, seated on its haunches.

"Arbites Cyber-Mastiff Handler Kyntus Arvele and mastiff, reporting for duty, sirs."

@Lonewolf685@DJAtomika@CaptainBritton@Asura@Laduguer

Introductions were made and greetings were given, Elek quite happy with what he had been sent, they seemed like a rugged bunch of – as far as he could tell – professionals.

Corpus Ertelt clearly had somewhat of a sense of humour, and the Interrogator couldn't help but notice the way he took in everything either, a most useful skill to have. Meanwhile Corporal Cotant was every inch the soldier, everything from the way he stood to the look in his eye showing him to be so, even without his uniform it was obvious. Likewise Arbitrator Arvele gave off the overall air of someone who had 'seen some shit', her uniform and armour roughened up and left in its current state for personal reasons, he had no doubt.

Mathias Montag and Actus Luft were both noticeably absent from the initial greetings, a note made of that from the very beginning, both individuals escorted from their relative transports by a pair of faceless Stormtroopers and bought into the presence of the Inquisitor-in-training just in time to see the look of annoyance on his features.

“Excellent,” he proclaimed when all had been bought to or made their way before him, ignoring Ertelt's attempt at humour even as much as he appreciated it, “if you will all follow me.”

As he made his way down the winding corridors of the subterranean compound, Captain Lamar bringing up the rear with a coterie of red-and-black clad killers, he opened at least a dozen doors and turned at least twice that number of corners. To him the outpost on Arden had become second nature in terms of layout and infrastructure, his command over the place absolute under the limitless jurisdiction of the Ordo Malleus, and it did not take long to reach a small and simple room.

With a wave of his hand, and a curt order to Lamar to wait outside with his men, the room was illuminated to reveal exactly enough desks and chairs for each member of the trailing band to seat themselves comfortably, a holo-projector tasking up the centre of the room around which every desk and chair were placed. On top of each desk was a clean dataslate and a rune-stylus, each slate blank and untraceable by any means known to the Imperium - though used only for taking briefing notes, it never paid to be that extra bit careful.

“Everyone please take a seat, and I shall begin.”

Once everyone was sitting the Interrogator began his pre-determined speech, taking a rudimentary pointer from beside the holo-projector and dimming the lights somewhat with another wave of his hand. Slowly but surely a sickly green light emerged from the projector, a three-dimensional image emerging straight above it, and it took the form of a dataslate not unlike those present in the room.

“You are probably wondering vhy I am showing you a dataslate, yes? Ve all know what they look like, how they are used, yes?” Elek removed his tall hat as he spoke, running a gloved hand through his short hair and looking at each of them in turn, his own mind gently probing their own even as he went on, “this one is special, but vhy is it special?” At this he took a seat on the edge of large circular construct, poking the holo image with his pointer, “it is special because it belongs to us, the Ordo, and when something like that goes missing...vell...ve want it back, of course.”

Another mind-blink switched the image, this time the obvious shape of a rotating planet taking up the space above the projector. The planet was as large as Terra itself, magnified images branching off from the still rotating orb, images showing foundries, hab-centres, street layouts and more.

“This is Coarus, and is what the Imperium determines as a 'Civilised World', there are about one-and-a-half billion souls spread across its mostly temperate face in various city-states. They are advanced enough to use rudimentary space vessels, and are well informed of the Imperium at large – in short, there vill be no culture shock once we get there. It is also somewhere on this planet that our dataslate went missing, taken we assume from our agent stationed there to watch over the planet and the several other inhabited worlds in the wider system. It is also the homeworld of a number of Militarum regiments, the Twentieth Coarian 'Straight Steels' among them, large veteran communities well established in several of the city-states.”

Pausing a moment to gauge reactions, he dove back into his briefing.

“We shall all be travelling initially to the largest of these cities, Coarus City – they are not an imaginative lot – and it will be up to Kyntus Arvele and Corporal Cotant here to ask around in the veteran quarter. In the meantime Actus Luft, Mathias Montag, Corpus Ertelt and I shall be heading toward the Hall of Archives, actually the base of operations and cover for whichever operative we place on the planet at the time.”

Only now did he retract the pointer and will the lights of the chamber back into existence, placing one leg over the other as he faced them, leaning forward and opening his arms wide.

“Any questions, ask them now.”