"So, when do we start boss? I'm not against ye paying me to sit around, but..."

Edmund could only give another lingering smile, this time toward the Squat - fixing him with his cerulean gaze to linger a little longer than was comfortable (though probably not that uncomfortable to the bearish smoker) - before his eyes travelled over those that would be both his companions and, in many ways, his bodyguard for whatever constituted the future of this near-suicidal endeavour.

"Oh Master Haldengard," he replied in a lowered voice, his tone genial but softened from earlier, "are you really so eager to die?"

Moments ground slowly onward following his half-whispered words, the youngest Andamar seemingly turned to stone during that time, before bringing his hands together with a loud CLAP. Accompanying this movement was a thorough blinking of his eyes, as if awoken from some form of waking dream, and a sheepish half-smile followed by a clearing of his throat.

"We shall begin once our two religious representatives here," a lone digit pointed leisurely toward Sister Agathe and Biologist Dahti, "and any others that wish to join them, or believe their presence would help, have conducted the blessings over this vessel and her latest - and possibly final - voyage."

With a hushed word the projector, and the plinth into which it was embedded, descended back into the floor of the dais; seconds later it appeared as if it had never been there at all, replaced as it was by the seamless metal of a floor once more.

"As for myself, I think some lunch is in order, and as such I shall be heading to the cafeterium for some refreshment. You are of course welcome to join me," this was not directed at anyone in particular, but he knew there were those that would be happier to hear it than others, "once Mister Kurg has informed me of our arrival at the nearest Mandeville Point, I shall return to the bridge and from there the true peregrination begins - good day, companions."

A last smile stretched the corners of his mouth as he withdrew himself from the dais, boots heels tapping lightly as he moved with habitual composure back toward the ships vascular system of corridors, chambers and places that none went without the aid of a weapon and ones wits.

---

He would not refute feeling some form of returned serenity as the heavy doors of Dome Hex-19/25-K grinded to a close behind him, a breath he had not known he was holding finally escaping from between his slender lips and into the ships filtration system. Indeed, things had gone about as well as could be expected, with the inner-circle of individuals he now held in his hand so-to-speak apparently rather buoyant about the prospect of heading through the Rift and into possible destruction - all except Magos Arbusculus Formidatus... Dahti... but then again what had he expected from a veteran of the Primarch's Indomitus Crusade? Yes, the tech-priests attendance on this journey was far outweighed in the positive than by the negative, and so he was pleased.

"Mister Kurg," spoke the Trader into the air itself, knowing that somehow his Ships Master would hear him, he always did.

"Milord?" Came the gruff voice from a vox-grille only inches away from Edmund's head, the former Naval Commander still uncertain how his subordinate did it.

"I shall be grabbing a bite to eat before we depart, with the proles today, once we have reached our assigned Mandeville please have Navigator Andrafall set course for the Arpedina System."

"As you will, lord."

Yes... yes... as I will it thought Edmund jovially, beginning to whistle the tune of a bawdy sailors song while his stomach emitted a low growl that echoed off the walls of the corridor.

The Grand Liturgy - Magos Dahti & Sister Agathe
@Jb@POOHEAD189@BangoSkank@ClocktowerEchos

"...And remember: with the eyes of not only the people of the Imperium, but His living son, and thus the Emperor himself, we cannot afford not beget idleness. For it is as the Prime Edicts of the Holy Synod say: duty to the Emperor and the Imperium is what makes us human, and to forget this duty, especially in a time of such great importance, is tantamount to betrayal of what makes one human. The one who shirks his duty, then, is no longer human, but has become a beast with no place in His heart nor in the arms of His comrades, and should thus be destroyed. We must all do our part as is asked of us. We must help our fellow man, and we must certainly stay vigilant for those who seek to sabotage our great work or, worse, to turn us against each other."

Agathe breathed, letting the scent of billowing incense and the faint smell of smoke fill her lungs - she found it calming, reminding her of home, and of her time training with her fellow Sisters...

And to a relatively novice Battle Sister, with so little experience leading her fellow man, any way to bring calm was valuable.

"...Now, of course," she continued, smiling. "Despite the hardship that will surely face us, we must also remember that it is a time of great joy in which we can serve His Son, and that is something certainly worth celebrating. That, more than anything, is why we are gathered here today. Few people are granted such opportunities, and we should absolutely be glad for them."

On the lower decks, amidst the steam and machinery of His Divine Purpose, the vox-casters carried the solemnly ordained voice of the Sororitas echoed through the chambers, landing on the audio-receptors of hundreds of menials, servitors, artisans, logi, lexmechanics, enginseers, electro-priests, and rune priests.

Arrayed before the Genetor were the varying members of the Mechanicus, each orderly and organized according to rank and file. ‘Twas a beautiful thing to behold, the regiments of the machine brought together to anoint such a grand vessel. As Agathe ordered the opening of the celebration, magnificent vats of sacred oils were carried upon the backs of servitors, upon platters made of platinum and palladium, the vessels themselves made of non-reactive ferrous metals which absorbed the heaviest of the ointments. Vaporizing coils emitted a fine, holy mist which wafted through the whole bowels of the ship, removing the ill-gotten spirits of isolation and rest, replacing them with the spirits of ignition and lucidity.

In return to Agathe’s words, Dahti spoke over the vox-casters as she finished her part, “And so too an opportunity for Mars to fulfill her promise, to the Omnissiah, the Most Holy Spirit of the Enthroned Emperor. This journey is most blessed by the Machine Spirit…for though it may seem that we enter into a shrouded night, surrounded by the Void on all sides - this is not so! No, brethren, both man and machine, WE ARE A BEACON! Our vessel is a flagship of the might of the Imperium, a glorious symbol of our Emperor’s Divine Will! Indeed, this beautiful machine is HIS DIVINE PURPOSE.”

The invigorated, zealous fervor of the stout Magos Biologis thrummed through the halls of the cruiser, “We are on the precipice of legend, of sanctity, and His Most Righteous Favor. Let us embark on the most ancient of all callings of the Imperium: THE GREAT CRUSADE FOR THE GALAXY!”

Upon the conclusion of the speech, a clanging bell and hymnal chorus sang out, carrying its signal through the laud-hailers on His Divine Purpose. As the Ministorum chanted praises of the Emperor in High Gothic, summoning the prayers and souls of the flesh; in counterpoint arose a binary dirge in Cant Mechanicus from the tech-priests, summoning the Machine Spirit to christen the journey ahead of them. A dual-procession began, one beginning in the heights of the ship, the other beginning the depths. Over approximately twelve hours, Sister Agathe and Magos Dahti christened, anointed, blessed, and sanctified every corner of the Ambition-class cruiser.

And throughout it all, the voice of a blessed choir - led by the Sister herself - was carried through the ship by vox-casters and laud hailers, filling the vessel's public spaces with the chorus of thousands of marching feet, thousands of voices chanting out prayers, and a song that sounded so angelic it was almost supernatural, carrying with it the notes of hymnals of hard pilgrimage in the God-Emperor's name. Others spoke of glorious heroes of the Imperium's past, of the tragic-yet-noble tale of the Cadians who fought in His name despite the annihilation of their homeworld, of the dashing and daring people who plied the stars to claim new worlds for the Imperium...

And, most of all, of the heroes of the present - the lord Roboute Guilliman, and the people who fought in his Indomitus Crusade.

They were on the precipice of engaging in a most sanctimonious ecclesiastical Imperial embarkation. The righteous right hand of Him, ensuring that his will be done on each and every of the trillion billion planets in the billion million galaxies of this, his glori....oooooooh.

"Roast Beef" with "Gravy Sauce"

That was Roald's favorite. Whatever it actually was. Grimri had gone and got him hungry with all that talk of pies. It was hard to focus on the triumvirate manifestation of the transubstantiation of Him when only moments ago you were thinking about pie and at this very moment you're staring at some sort of "meat" dripping with some sort of "gravy". Willpower will only take you so far, you understand. After all Roald was only (ab)Human.

"Oi," he said sliding into a seat across from Grimri after carefully placing his plate on the table. His eyes fixed with a silent steely determination he deftly scooched the plate further and further across the table until it rested directly between the Squat and himself. It was delicate work. The "meat" was piled, offset ever so slightly and topped with copious amounts of "gravy," the rolls were set just far off enough to the side to not get any of the sauce on them. Truly a marvel of Ratling engineering.

Roald glanced at the silent Squat as he began the work of orchestrating his meal. Roll torn in half. Saucy Meat shoved inside. Roll squished down. Entire assembly pushed into mouth. Complicated business.

"Ye know," he said with an open mouth, gravy dribbling out one corner of his mouth and down his chin, "since you was talkin' about pies, ye know da best pie is Sauerabfel. Proper Ratlin' Sauerabfel pie. Wit' real Sauerabfels too not da canned shit you might find in commissary one day if ye get real lucky."

"But," he continued without looking up, eyes still peeled on his mountain of food and hands busy at the readying and distributing of the food into his waiting mouth. It was remarkable really, like an assembly line only more impressive, a true demonstration of coordination and agility and all that.

"If you gonna have a Proper Ratlin' Sauerabfel Pie well then youse gotta eat it the right way. Just like I'm doing here ya know. There's a proper way. You use real Sauerabfels, that's Abfels that are a little sour ya know, and bake 'em in a pie."

His count was off. He had eaten all the roast beef sandwiches now, or at least he had shoved them all in his mouth and was slowly working away at them, but he had one roll left. Snatching victory from the claws of defeat he finished working the meat around in his mouth, swallowed with some effort, and found a most fortunate purpose for that final roll. There was gravy yet to be collected and enjoyed. Most economical, nothing left to waste. The Logistics department folk would be proud of ol' Roald today.

"All that's obvious enough ye? But da secret, da secret is you eat it wit' plain ol' vanilla ice cream and a slice of cheddar cheese. A nice big thick slice of cheddar, weird as it sounds, it just brings it all together it does."

"Best pie you ever had, I guarantee." Roald finished after swallowing that last roll, wiping the gravy from his face with a napkin, and looking up for the first time since his grand adventure of eliminating every last bit of "beef" and "gravy from his plate had begun.

Grimri wasn't posh or prim. He had been fighting on the front lines for most of his life, and even before he went out to face the galaxy as a mercenary. But religious ceremonies he had a certain respect for, particularly when it came to machinery. He wasn't a mechanicus bastard, but he appreciated their ideals and their ingenuity. Grimri stood up from his seat next to the diminutive and annoying ratling, placing a hand on his broad chest and inclining his head. Unfortunately, he was so short it looked as if he was still sitting, so it likely went unnoticed.

Of course, the Sororitas got a bit preachy, and he wasn't overly fond of screaming platitudes, so he sat back down and kept quiet, looking like an angry and particularly ugly bulldog. A bulldog with forearms seven inches thick and bigger at the biceps. He looked over at the ratling, who seemed to be using his mouth for both speaking and eating, when his windpipe was stuff with beef, bread, and gravy. He half-listened, hearing some talk of specialized ratling pies.

"Ok," Grimri said without showing enthusiasm. He enjoy a good meal as much as the next bloke, but right now he wanted the money that could get him some grub. As Roald had placed the food between them and then inhaled the entirety of it, Grimri raised his big hand and ordered another from whatever servitor or servant was on this blasted ship to get him some of the same. Once it was placed before him, he guarded it like a jealous dog and ate it greedily, knowing he'll need all the energy for when they land sometime soon. Once finished, he dabbed his mouth and gave a clap at the finished liturgy.

"Oi! Good show!" He called to the make-shift procession of the crew, still chewing the last bits of the beef. He spoke more quietly now, louder than a whisper but still respectfully low in volume, bumping the ratling with his strong elbow. "Mercifully shorter than I'm used to, thank the ancestors."

Now all they had to do was point him to what he needed to shoot or bludgeon to death and he would be golden.

Several weeks later...

The translation from realspace into the Immaterium was just as one might expect - klaxons blared on every deck, usually illuminating light now constricting into sharp colours of red and casting everything in a hellish glow, and every view from porthole to bridge window blocked by thick armoured panels slipping into place - over it all the announcement from the bridge for all hands to remain calm, and beneath it all the soft tremor of a vessel thrusting itself into the guts of literal Armageddon itself.

For his own part Edmund barely registered any of this, focused as he had been on his bland meal and then, once his belly was full and his mind focused on other matters, the duties of the ship had been taking up his time quite succinctly. All he had to know was that a Mandeville Point had been reached, and that his precious sky-chariot was on its way to the next region of space... or at least that is how it should have been.

"Lord-Commander?" Cheeped a voice in his comm-piece as he strode back toward his cabin, "there is a problem."

Edmund recognised the voice of his First Officer and came to a full stop in the narrow passage, placing one hand to his wrist and upping the volume.

"What is it, Mister Kurg? Are we all going to die?"

There was a short pause, then a nervous chuckle, "eh, no, Lord... but you may want to turn out the House Troops."

The expression on Edmund's face was unreadable in the dim light of the passage, but it was undeniably not one of glee.

---

Down in the depths...

It had been a matter of zero-point-eight seconds, a mere fluctuation in the makeup of the all-encompassing Gellar Field which protects all warp-borne Imperial ships from the dangers of the Immaterium, and as such it registered as less than nothing on the admittedly advanced systems of the Purpose. What it had not supposed to have been was some sort of trigger, and yet tha was precisely what it was.

Zola Demir has slaved aboard His Divine Purpose for nigh-on twenty years of his life, his once muscle-bound and striking physique reduced in almost every way from what it had once been. All because of his service. It had twisted him in body, and also in mind, yet what it had never managed to beat out of him was the demagogic quality of his voice and the speeches he gave to the downtrodden of the ship.

That Sister had come aboard the ship and started preaching, as was their way, telling them the lies and fallacies of the Imperial Creed. Her words even more hollow and full of poison than those of the machine-men that worked them until they dropped dead. So he had been forced to heighten his speech, to form his words into weapons that pierced and infested the mind, to use the gifts he had been given by his true patron deity.

No-one had, but if they had been bothered to check, they may have found the tattoo that marked him as one of the chosen, concealed as it was beneath the flesh of his forearm. It burned him even as he tore off the sleeve of his work overalls and glared down at the marking, the shape of a lidless eye surrounded by multiple sets of angelic wings looking right back at him, the fraction of a second through the Gellar Field being all that his patron had needed to contact he and his flock - the Cult of the Beaked Wayfarer.

All those years had come to this final moment, his hand sliding about the nearby piping as if he were in a trance, lifting the heavy metal implement and advancing on the sections overseer with eyes full of fanaticism.

"What the Warp are you doing, Demir?" Grunted the larger man as he noticed Zola had ceased working, his piggish brow creasing as he saw the pipe awkwardly concealed at the workers side, one meaty hand going toward the snub-nosed pistol at his hip but he was slow... oh, far too slow...

Once, twice, thrice the pipe impacted upon the mans thick skull, the overseer crashing to the decking like a poleaxed ox, the last blow shattering his cranium into mush as Zola hunched down to take the pistol for his own.

"Now, my children," he crowed as he lifted himself back to his full height, his purple eyes roving over the faces of those about him - some filled with an ecstasy equal to his own, others locked in a rictus of fear or uncertainty as to what would happen next - "now we faithful of the Wayfarer shall rise! Follow the plan and kill all those who resist. Come the Wayfarer and Come the Change!"

Those who were not marked cold not have known what would happen, but then again they hardly had time to think about it before they too went to join the overseer.

---

"It would appear they're heading for the enginarium and the Gellar Shield generator, as well as another large contingent coming straight toward us here, milord. A goodly number of the lower deckhands have turned on their officers and overseers, though none of your own troops from what we can gather. Their progress is currently slow, but i forsee it shall quicken once they've cleared the bottommost passages."

Edmund stood rigid on the bridge, one hand tapping rapidly on the hilt of his sabre, eyes lit up by the rapidly moving specks on the internal blueprint of his vessel.

"They shall not have her, by the God-Emperor they shall not," he whispered before switching his gaze to his Master-of-Vox, "tell my retinue to prepare themselves as best they can, and have petty officer Nesam empty the barracks. We shall need House Guard at every chokepoint, as well as a large force to make safe the enginarium. I trust the Martians to hold onto it, but help is always welcome I should think."

Well, at least Genetor Dahti will have plenty of subjects for dissection.

Milord, this is Sister Agathe. I am gathering a militia of the faithful. We will strike the enemy formation from the lower decks and attempt to cut off their advance toward the Gellar Field generators. The Emperor Protects.

"A spiritu dominatus,

Domine, libra nos,

From the lighting and the tempest," Agathe intoned, testing her chainsword with a quick rev of its powerful motors.

"Our Emperor, deliver us." Came the chorus of assembled crewmen before her - they, likewise, were preparing themselves, gathering up improvised weaponry from massive utility room around them. A handful were lucky to get their hands on auto-weapons, but most simply wielded hastily repurposed tools - bulkhead cutters, salvaging saws, maintenance torches repurposed into flamers...

"From plague, temptation and war,"

"Our Emperor, deliver us."

Satisfied with her chainsword, she clipped it into place at her waist, priming her power maul with a click of the angry red switch on its handle, a sharp crackle filling the air.

"From the scourge of the Kraken,

Our Emperor, deliver us."

Most of the assembled were young, fit men and women - those assigned to manual labor duties - but only a few, much like the heretics, knew how to fight any better than the common man.

"From the blasphemy of the Fallen,

Our Emperor, deliver us,"

Those were equipped with the heaviest, most powerful implements they could find; illegal boarding shotguns and flamers intended for use in exterminating vermin and dangerous mutants.

"From the begetting of daemons,

Our Emperor, deliver us,"

They, too, were equipped with commbeads, the only ones capable of coordinating their fellows.

"From the curse of the mutant,

Our Emperor, deliver us,"

The most lucky, perhaps, was the first Ogryn in Agathe's motley crew, wielding a blast door bent into the shape of a shield and a massive power hammer. His fellows, equally massive, were just as gigantic - but power hammers were a rare tool, many of which, she imagined, were held in the upper decks.

"A morte perpetua,

Domine, libra nos.

That thou wouldst bring them only death,

That thou shouldst spare none,

That thou shouldst pardon none,"

This time, they all spoke together - Agathe and her militia, marshalled behind her - as the utility room's doors slowly began to roll open.

"Sister Agathe to the bridge. We are engaging the enemy. May the Emperor protect."

"We beseech thee, destroy them."

"For the Emperor!" They cried out as one, spilling out from the utility room and into the halls, almost immediately meeting the scattered number of the enemy. Agathe, of course, was at their head, her face beneath her helmet etched into a snarl of zealous rage as she marched forward, knocking one heretic down as her revving chainsword cleaved through another, sawing him in two on a diagonal running from his shoulder to his waist. He barely had the chance to scream before his guts spilled across the floor, one of his comrades unloading a hail of lead into Agathe's chest.

To her, the assault broke over her plate like water, bullets smashing themselves into pieces to no effect. The cultist was unlucky enough to receive a bolter round to his ribcage for his efforts, blowing open his chest cavity like a gory piñata.

"If I must slay you, lost children of the Emperor, then I will!" She shouted, her voice artificially amplified into a bellowing howl by her helmet. Her pronouncement was punctuated by another swing of her chainsword, casually decapitating another cultist as it tore through flesh and bone.

"-but I will take no joy in this work! Lay down your arms, and you can yet be redeemed!"

None did, though perhaps, Agathe thought, she was partly to blame, carving bloody ruin through the cultists with every word. Or perhaps the Ogryn bore some of that weight - she could see the enormous man from the utility room angrily crush the skull of one of the cultists in his meaty palm as the noise of stomping feet nearby alerted her to the activity of more of the labor-Ogryn, ever-dim, but unambitious and ever-loyal. She was thankful for their presence more than anything aside the Emperor's grace, perhaps, though even they couldn't stop their allies from bleeding and dying as they aggressively pushed away from one of many utility rooms, up through the lower decks... And, if He bid it, toward the Gellar Field generators. Ogryn or not, the Gellars, Agathe guessed, were the most important target. Unless they summoned a horde of daemons, the cultists would melt into ash before the onslaught of fire and rad-weapons the Mechanicus possessed. If the heretics took the Enginarium, they could stop the vessel, destroy it, or perhaps redirect it... Unpleasant options, to be sure, but if they reached the Gellars deeper within, mere death would be a mercy.

Agathe to Bridge. We have momentum, and are continuing to push out of the lower decks and toward the Enginarium to aid the Mechanicus in securing the Gellars. Sustaining acceptably minor casualties as of present - I've rallied several of the labor Ogryn and a great number of the crew - no time for a headcount but will attempt to rally more when Any possibility of emergency translation into realspace? Expect that cultists are attempting to disrupt Gellar Field generators to affect a daemonic incursion. The Emperor Protects.

"The Emperor is very proud of you all, for refusing to bow to heresy!" Agathe shouted, waiting as the Ogryn proudly puffed out his chest, clubbing down a pair of cultists with casual ease.

Genetor Dahti - Fight for the Enginarium

"Of course." A deep, guttural sigh of disappointment uttered from the respiratory unit in Genetor Dahti.

The Genetor had been busy distilling an improved solution for the preservation of organ tissue, now on his 52nd run of the product. The blare of klaxons and sudden emergency calls over his communications array were not unexpected. No, the Genetor had already seen too much of the Void to have hoped for an idyllic and picturesque journey of safety in the Immaterium. The distillation would have to wait.

After carefully and calmly storing the experiment in a refrigerated container, the Magos unslung his Lathe-pattern lightning gun and barked orders in Binary to his medical staff. They were about thirty, altogether, which wasn't too bad, but it wasn't the best. It was likely only about half of those present actually knew anything of live combat, however, so it was better to put them to use in what they knew best - medicine and surgery.

Through his communications array, Dahti sent a message out to his whole staff, the Commander Andamar, and the local Mechanicus command staff.

Genetor Dahti and Medicae Staff, reporting to Commander Andamar, establishing order of operations. We are moving out.

Objective 1: Establish a field station in the middeck, near the cargo lifts, to evacuate and convalesce as many casualties as possible. 17 personnel dedicated. Designation Bravo Team. Led by First Caretaker Victus, accompanied by Mariner CL1-25.

Objective 2: Secure the Enginarium and deploy Organic Reduction Response equipment. Designation Gamma Team. 10 personnel dedicated. Led by Genetor Formidatus, accompanied by Mariners CL1-88 and CL3-14

Objective 3: Secure Genetorium from external threats. Total lockdown permitted. Designation Echo Team. 3 personnel dedicated. Led by Second Caretaker Lucia, accompanied by Mariner CL2-20

As the communication ended, Dahti shouted in his sonorous, grinding voice: "Martians! Get to your positions!"

As the majority of Dahti's Mechanicus marched out from the Genetorium, the echoes of combat already began clattering through the halls. The calculations began forming in the Magos' mind. Bravo and Echo teams should be alright, but his team faced the steep challenge of clambering down to the Enginarium. Luckily, the Genetor was no slouch in close-quarters confrontations and his personal Skitarii would prove their use onboard the vessel.

The first obstacle was a barricade erected by the cultists, made from pieces of the bulkhead and scrap metal. Coming up behind a contingent of House Troops, Dahti's caretakers were quick to aid the wounded. Dahti and his Mariners, however, charged directly towards the barricade. Slugs and small-arms fire neatly ricocheted off of the Skitarii war plate and the Magos' own Dragon Scale armor. CL1-88 and CL3-14 began returning fire with their assault cannons.

A cultist with an improvised flamer stood within the barricade, hoping to cover any incoming enemies with promethium. The righteous thunder-clap and blinding photons of Dahti's lightning gun turned the poor cultist into an improvised explosive, as the lightning arcing from Dahti's rifle ignited the promethium barrel strapped to the cultist's back. In the blink of an eye, the barricade was engulfed in green flames, the stench of burning flesh, and the screams of dying cultists.

Dahti stepped first into the wreckage, his power-maul crashing down on a bewildered cultist's head, her skull cracking and popping like a walnut, blood and viscera flying off in all directions, spattering across the Magos' chestplate. Pressing a trigger on his broad, bronze chestplate, three toxin grenades flew out into the crowd of cultists recovering from the initial blast. The initial blast blinded and deafened some, but the indigo gas which poured out from the grenades made the skin boil, flake, and eventually slough off the person affected. Dahti's toxin worked as planned: cultists screamed in agony as their eyes became puddles of liquid which fell out of their ever-widening orbits.

Of course, Dahti and his Mariners were safe from this, but undoubtedly a number of the cultists would survive. Thus, the Mariners' assault cannons opened fire as the two Skitarii entered behind their lord, the cacophony of screams united with a thunderstorm slug-fire. Pools of blood and flesh quickly accumulated before the Genetor and his Skitarii, who gathered good specimens in hermetic containers as they moved along. Altogether, 2 captured, 22 dead.

After the smoke cleared, the House Troops quickly formed up with the Genetor and, together, cut a scarlet swathe into the lower decks to support the Enginarium.

After about 10 minutes, Bravo and Echo established their posts and confirmed security in location.

Dahti to Bridge: I've sent you my teams' locations. Bravo and Echo are secured. Moving into the Enginarium now.

Dahti to Hishiryn 08-MN Kappa: What's your status? We are moving in to support you. My medical squad can aid any fallen.

Dahti to Sister Agathe: What's your status? I am moving to the Enginarium and I plan to deploy countermeasures. I do not recommend anyone enters the Enginarium in 20 minutes unless you can survive the gas.

Dahti to Grimri and Roald: Give a sitrep when available. Enginarium needs support. Cultists trying to do something stupid.

@Jb@ClocktowerEchos@Jeddaven@POOHEAD189@BangoSkank

Roald's thoughts were little more than a string of expletives more often than not not making any particular grammatical sense in relation to one another. The Ratling was operating mostly on instinct. Having skulked about most of this ship at one time or another and having stashed small cachets, mostly consisting of rotgut but occasionally homebrewed or small amounts of legitimate Amasec, he motored along on his rather small legs trying his best to avoid being caught out and slaughtered or eaten or whatever this lot would do to one his size.

These were not ideal circumstances for him. He could, and did, duck back into his hiding places and he was able to fit in places others would not be able to follow, but there were only so many alternate routes and ducting was generally not bullet proof. What was more, judging by the sounds of explosions, shouts of shock, and incoherent agonized screaming, there was no shortage of explosives creating plenty of shrapnel, fire, and quite likely some rather unpleasant chemical weapons.

It wouldn't be wise to wait anywhere for too long. Might lead to him ending up far far from friendlies, stuck behind enemy lines. Might catch friendly fire from someone not particularly keen on waiting for the imp to stick his head out of one hidey hole or another and identify himself as still normal(ish) human(oid). Might crawl into a cloud of invisible chemicals that would sear his skin and flash fry his insides, or some sort of electrical weapon that would barbecue him instantaneously. These were not ideal circumstances for him.

Scary, but invigorating.

He heard a mob of them skulking down a hall. Couldn't really make out words. Had to double check that they were Cultists and not just perhaps terrified men still on the side of sanity. Got a decent look at them from above and figured it out fairly quick. Blood on their heads and shoulders. Not their own blood. In deliberate signs and sigils. Fairly sure he spotted bits of flesh as well. Not particularly sane these ones.

He took a few deep breaths to prepare himself. Would need to move quick. Prepped a few grenades, gripped them in his left hand, then fired off a few rounds from his las pistol to melt the ducting behind him and slid the three grenades across the ducting and down into the mob. Rushed ahead immediately, feeling the ducting sway slightly from his hurried clambering. They'd figure it out pretty quick. Maybe should have moved slower. Hard to do that considering. Blasts started coming up from below. It had been smart to run.

Roald had been waiting for some shout of confusion, or fear, or shock. Had expected some sort of realization from the mob that their goose was cooked. It didn't come. Blast was still close enough he couldn't really discern if there had been one explosion or if they'd all gone off one right after another. His memory would be of crawling frantically, hoping that no stray round would gut him on the way, a heat, a deafening noise, and then a persistent ringing.

He clutched his las pistol tight, checked to see that his Long Las was still strapped to his back, and continued on deeper into the hidden places of the ship. Best to put some distance between himself and the ugly aftermath of those explosions. Hadn't seen any other Ratlings aboard but it wouldn't do to find out when a tiny little Cultist started slashing away at his legs with a knife. Also would not do to get a surprise colonoscopy from a random las pistol or rifle or really any weapon at all. Sudden surprise colonoscopies of any design would really mess up his plans for the immediate future. Very inconvenient.

The cultist screamed in horror and pain, one hand toying with the idea of clutching at the stump of his leg as the other waved about frantically, reaching for something, anything, to keep him up as he fell over like a tree. Grimri watched the blood spurt and trickle out of the leg, fascinated as always at how well the human body was able to be cut up. The screaming was annoying, however. Grimri flipped his shotgun, its butt the bloodied axehead that bisected the man's leg, now sent down in a terrible arc to behead the man, silencing his cries forever.

"Bloody Chaos Scum" Grimri spat, a healthy ball of pghlem hitting the dead man's forehead. "Waking me up from me nap!" He pumped his shotgun, pressed the barrel into the chest of the headless corpse, and blew a hole as wide as Grimri's arm into it. One could never be too careful with the powers of the warp. Lose the head, lose the heart.

The squat raced off up the corridor, barreling past a scared crewman hiding in the corner, a yellow puddle of piss under his trousers. He received the communications from that Genetor Dahti, thankful for the help in what direction to go to. The enginarium was as good a place as any, and so he moved like a cannon ball, knocking aside fearful crewmen and gunning down anyone who looked at him like he was a threat. It wasn't until he smelled the sour smell of gas did he skid to a stop outside of the sanctum.

His skin crawled, Grimri recognizing the agent as indigo gas. Most men couldn't take it, and even a squat had a hard time tanking the deadly biological weapon, but by the time he had arrived, the agent had thinned somewhat. As long as he did not breath the substance, he would only have some superficial burns and scars across his leather-like skin.

He reached inside his satchel and retrieved a rebreather mask, hiding his grim features behind dark plasteel, the sound of the purifying air filtering into the mouthpiece was a low thrum of mechanical ingenuity. Squats could take poisons most men couldn't, but it paid to be careful, and these contraptions were standard issue for miners on the asteroids. One never knew what sort of pockets of unknowable substances and gas lay within veins of minerals.

He didn't wait, stepping into the fog and squinting his eyes, using his low-visiblity vision to see shadows normally undetectable, imperfections in the steel impossible to see without specialized goggles, ears picking up any sounds of movement. From the door, one would hear the explosive discharge of his firearm and flashes of light as he found chaos-zealots donning rebreathers of their own, and air-tight suits for void-repairs, armed with laspistols and crowbars. They had wild eyes and enraged faces of zealous warp-infused indoctrination.

It served them very little against the veteran warrior.

A raised pipe of steel whipped at Grimri with the speed of a striking snake. Grimri ducked flung the end of his gun's butt into the man's groin, the axeblade biting into his body with the force of a terran bull. He squealed and froze in shock, Grimri pulling the trigger of his shotgun, the barrel pointing behind the squat. The slug ripped into a cultist that had attempted to backstab him, ending the man's life by making an exit would twice the size of a man's fist through where his liver used to reside. Laughing uproariously, Grimri punched into the knee of another cultist as he tried to round his comrade, cracking the bone. It took only a minute for him to finish the small group off before delving lower, looking for more prey.

Agathe to Bridge. We have momentum, and are continuing to push out of the lower decks and toward the Enginarium to aid the Mechanicus in securing the Gellars. Sustaining acceptably minor casualties as of present - I've rallied several of the labor Ogryn and a great number of the crew - no time for a headcount but will attempt to rally more when Any possibility of emergency translation into realspace? Expect that cultists are attempting to disrupt Gellar Field generators to affect a daemonic incursion. The Emperor Protects.

Edmund allowed himself a somewhat sardonic smile, as well as a nod of his head, because of course Sister Agathe would be making her way into the thick of it. To even consider that she would be anywhere else, well, that was quite ridiculous. As to her suggestion...

"Well, Mister Kurg? Do you think our resident Navigator would he happy about such a manoeuvre?"

Tyg Kurg gave a grimace of his own, his wrinkles wrinkling up on their own wrinkles as he shifted his facial expression, "blow me if I know, milord! She's got the right idea though. Either we fight in the Warp and give 'em a chance to summon Emperor-knows-what, or we take the risk of bailing out while we can."

A cutting gesture toward Vox-Master Arsune was quickly followed by a crackling of vox - the screeches of the damned and the whispers of daemons excluded - before a weary voice answered.

"My lord Andamar, what is it you require?"

"Apologies for the breach of focus, but-"

"Yes, it is possible. I shall need time, vox-silence, and a clear path... but I can guide us back into realspace."

The Trader did not even question the response, answering in the affirmative and cutting the link.

"Hmmmm..." He hunched over the interior blueprint of the vessel, dots shifting and swarming like a good game of regicide, when Dahti's efficient voice came over the bridge vox.

Dahti to Bridge: I've sent you my teams' locations. Bravo and Echo are secured. Moving into the Enginarium now.

This was good, and the further along time went, the less Edmund feared the loss of the enginarium - apart from numbers, he did not truly believe that these accursed cultists had anything that could match his trained soldiers and those of his retinue. Nevertheless, numbers had a quality all their own.

"Bridge to retinue, continue on your course of action. Yet please be prepared for translation back into realspace as soon as possible."

I cannot wait here, thought Edmund to himself, a fist now closing about the grip of his sabre, time to put my regimen to use.

Cold eyes found their equal across the bridge, those of a human looking momentarily into those of the alien, Ak Te'un not even needing a prompt from his employer to heft his bladed Kroot rifle into a position of readiness. Together he and Edmund stepped to the bridge door, a nod to Ship's Master Kurg opening the portal with a hiss, and Kroot and human stepping out as one.

Let the hunt begin.

---

Demir watched as more infidels were dragged kicking and screaming into the vacant storage room (which had since become an abattoir of flesh and faeces), overseers, Martians, or marine it mattered not. All and any would serve.

Allowing the noise all around him to slip into the back of his mind, the former Imperial slave gently shut his eyes and began to hum a tune; allowing himself to half fall to the floor, his legs folding up beneath him until he sat on his own heals, the tune contracted and expanded with the motions of a living heartbeat, colours of all hues coming alive and flashing behind his eyelids.

Breath knowledge into me Wayfarer, allow your servant to see with the true sight.

Yes... yes... the assault upon the enginarium was going as planned, wave after wave of true believers giving away their lives for a deity and cause worth dying for. It appeared the Imperials were moving as expected, that blundering, mannish, Sister of Battle and her bull-like bellows as futile as her past. The half-robots... well... what were they anyway? Nothing, so much scrap metal and desiccated flesh. Hmmmm, and Abhumans, now that was curious.

I hear you, my feathered master. Your will be done.

All was going according to plan.

"Louder!" Agathe bellowed, crushing the skull of a cultist beneath her armoured boot with a wet, sickening crunch. "Let them hear your prayer! Let them hear your cries of adulation for the God-Emperor. From the heart, my brothers and sisters in arms, for He is the salvation of mankind!" In such times, after all, more important than perhaps even the skill with which she and her militia fought was the strength of their face, for anything less than absolute obedience and zeal would leave them vulnerable to corruption. One's prayer wad to be an iron veil with which to guard their mind.

Keep the fire in your heart hot, and you hatred cold and disdainful. Despise the foe, but let not rage overcome you, lest you trade one evil for another. Her Canoness once said to her, words that stuck with her to this very day. Take these words to heart, and never forget the power of your faith, and against the Great Enemy you will always be well-armed.

Pausing a moment to asses her situation, Agathe briefly noted the gore dripped from her chainsword, the ravaged organs dripping from its snarling teeth - and all about her, the scene was much the same. Corpses left and right, a handful of cultists still standing to fight... Most, at a glance, were not faces she recognized. Cultists then, mostly, meaning they'd come out on top, but by precisely how much she didn't quite know. What she did know, however, was that they had barely made a dent... And that they needed to dig deeper, to find the head of the snake and sever it.

Agathe to Bridge. We have nearly secured our present position, and will proceed deeper into the lower decks. If the cult has any witches among their number, I do not intend to give them the chance to act, as I fear the cultists attempting to take the Enginarium are not the primary threat. are the vessel's auspex feeds sanctified? I could use intelligence, but I will not risk you unnecessary exposure to memetic corruption. She spoke into her helmet in High Gothic, hoping that those listening in would be unfamiliar. Holding up her hand to indicate pause, she gazed down at her chainsword, aggressively revving the blade to free it of the guts and blood coating its gears.

"Is anyone incapable of fighting? Sound off now! There is no shame in it. You will be brought to the medicae!"

Nothing. Tragically, there was scarcely little time to check the militia fallen for injuries, and her heart did truly weep for them... But if they paused too long, then everyone aboard the ship was worse than dead.

"Good. With me! Ogryn in front, shields up. You're our toughest. Flamers, at the ready to fill corridors if they step aside. We head deeper into the lower decks, and it is vital that we stay together as much as possible!"

She did not lie, of course, but Agathe knew as well as anyone else that to find what she hoped to in a vessel like this would be incredibly difficult, even with the aid of unfortunately unreliable pict-feeds.

Perhaps, she hoped, He would guide her.

I tread the path of Righteousness.
Though it be paved with broken glass, I will walk it barefoot
Though it cross rivers of fire, I will pass over them
Though it wanders wide, the light of the Emperor guides my step
And with his guidance, I know that I will always step true.

---

Every step after that was one punctuated by shouted prayer, each one etched into Agathe's mind from years of harsh schooling; she needed no time to stop to read her tomes, though she always kept them with her. Every so often, she'd see another line of zealous militiapeople advancing through an adjoining hallway, always within a few moments of sighting each other - yet the vessel, like any Imperial type, was labyrinthine, and just as frequently as they could get the drop on groups of cultists, they, too, would manage to ambush the militia. With the Enginarium blocked off, though, the greatest utility they had way in stabbing deep into the heart of the cult, with guidance from the bridge, the Emperor Himself or nothing but Agathe's own instinct; whatever the case would turn out to be, she knew in her heart that this was her best hope of ending the uprising, just as she'd been trained. The chaff was just that.

(WIP)

It was true that Edmund was not a soldier, no, his brothers had always been the ones destined for the vast battlefields of the Imperium, on the other hand Edmund had joined the Imperial Navy and served his people with distinction. On a personal level he had always been 'the duellist' over 'the warrior', a one-to-one combatant who studied the science behind combat as well as the methods to dispatch an adversary, it was this know-how that he now employed against the treacherous mutineers.

“Parry, step...”

The face of the Chaos-marked rating was one of utmost confusion as the Trader stepped aside, speaking to himself all the while, his sabre (the power field unengaged at this point) deftly slapping aside a sharpened steel lever recently wrenched from a door further down the hall.

“And... there.”

In a motion so fluid that even he barely saw it the blade had slid between the cultists ribs and pierced his heart, blood gushed over the hilt as it was withdrawn and Edmund wrinkled his nose as a small pattering marked his pristine gloves.

“Emperor damn it Te'un,” he half-whined to the Kroot fighting beside him, the avian predator barely paying any attention to his employer, “how am I to fight with all this unpleasantness?!”

[i]”Navigator Andrafall to Lord Andamar, please respond.”[/b]

A free hand went up to his wrist as the commander slammed his swords shell-hilt into the nose of another enemy, a sharp riposte cutting the woman from sternum to groin.

“This is he, what is it honoured navigator?”

“Milord, we shall be translating into real space within the next few minutes, it will be... rough, to say the least.”

Edmund acknowledged this with a return signal through his wrist console, a few more taps opening vox channels to all those he now considered his closest crew members.

“This is the Commander. You have all done well, and your efforts are not without recognition. I must report that he shall be making an emergency translation back into real space in a matter of moments, so please secure yourselves as best you an. Andamar out.”

---

Reality bent and buckled in on itself as the Purpose tumbled from the immaterium, tendrils of warp essence flailing about as they tried to keep the cruiser isolated in the guts of Hell but slackened as actuality reasserted itself. On thrusters alone the Ambition-class vessel slewed to somewhat of a halt, facing off course and back the way it had come, gliding to a full stop in a burst of engine power and a flickering of a deactivating Gellar Field.

Aboard the ship itself things were returning to normality at a rate of knots; in the bowels of the ship, at key points all around the innards of the Purpose, and leading off from the enginarium, bridge and other central resources, the bodies of half-naked and marked traitors made a rather macabre carpet of the slain.

Zola Demir may have been expected to panic at these developments, his flock having achieved none of the goals that he had set them toward... but no... far from it. On the contrary he seemed in a position of near bliss, his eyes having become milky white and the movements of his mind working rapidly, before he at last returned to the present with a wide-mouthed grin.

“All according to plan,” was all he whispered, moving back as if he could force his material body through the bulkhead of the ship, shadow wrapping about him and a stray wind picking up from absolutely nowhere... and then he was just gone.

In the meantime Edmund ordered the putting down of the last vestiges of rebellion, as well as flamer teams joined by attached members of the Mechanicus and Adeptus Ministorum to cleanse the ship both psychically and spiritually, a vox message recalling him to the command bridge with the utmost haste.

“Edmund to retinue members,” he would never get used to calling them that, it sounded far to Inquisitorial for his taste, “please report to the bridge for debriefing and... something else that I think we may need to discuss.”

Clicking the ship-wide vox off, he peered again out of the viewing port as the ship swung slowly round to face into the general direction of the expansive abyss once more, eyes narrowing at the scene he looked upon and the button flashing red at the command console of his vox-master.

Well, things just kept getting more interesting.

"Die, Heretic! Your dark gos have no place on this blessed vessel!" Agathe howled, lifting her power maul high above her head. Bringing it down in a single, short chopping stroke, it struck the knee of a towering, bloodsoaked Ogryn, flashing bright blue as molecular disruption fields carved a path through his skin and bone. The abhuman giant barely had a chance to realize what was happening before he toppled over to his right side, still howling and swinging as if the pain had yet to reach his thick skull...

And then, Agathe was on top of him, bringing the maul down against his skull, smashing into a charred, reddish paste, almost like an overcooked tomato sauce.

Panting, she paused to look up at the carnage around her, the steaming corpses, the ash and scent of acrid burning flesh wafting into her nostrils. More cultists dead, more of her militia gone. Dozens of her own by now. Those in her immediate sight, at least. Hundreds of them? More, certainly, with a vessel of this size...

But none of the witches. None of the targets of value. No, she thought, waiting for something ti happen. For an idea to strike her. Until every last witch was ash, dead and scattered to the void, there was more work to be done. So, so much more work...

Edmund's voice in her ear. Her eyes widened.

"Everyone! Brace, brace, brace! Immediate translation into realspace!" She screamed, straining her armor's vox-emitters to their maximum as she found something heavy to grab onto.

---

Agathe, despite her distance, was the first to arrive at the bridge - and she was a sight to behold.

Although she wasn't literally dripping blood or gore (much, anyways) the evidence of battle, as it were, was evident. From head to toe, Agathe's armor was caked in blood, some half-dried, some burned into a cakey brown mess - while a bit more did still run in rivulets down her plate. Her power maul was perhaps the worst offender, stinking of acrid, burning flesh, still completely covered in the results of its use, and while it was clear that Agathe had made some effort to clean her armor, it was equally evident that, in her haste to reach the bridge, the time she had was not enough.

"Milord," she said, bowing deeply on entry. "I will humbly ask that you forgive my... Uncleanliness," she said, her voice punctuated by an awkward, tinny cough. "The cultists were fierce, yet I was unable to catch any of their... Sorcerors. We must remain vigilant. Examine whoever we can for hints of taint. I have more suggestions, but I-" she paused, chewing her lip in thought.

Indeed,, she thought. A heretix I have not verified slain is one I cannot be certain is dead. Worse yet, their number could have melted back into the crew. Examining all of them would take weeks, but... What options do we have?

"Ah, yes - we encountered a handful of groups of cultists, my militia and I - but we were able to wipe each out. My comrades performed extremely well, especially in the face of former friends and crewmen, though, as I said, I am deeply concerned that we were unable to pick out and kill their leader, nor their witches - hence my reasons for continued concern. Furthermore, ah..." She paused again, chewing her lip beneath her helmet yet again.

"I believe I also remember promising a pair of Ogryn brothers - Gav and Lun - a shiny thing or two - for their valour."

A crewman was on his knees, hammering away at a traitor with the butt end of a lasgun. The power pack had been yanked off mid-fight, Grimri having seen the struggle out of the corner of his eye. The lad couldn't shoot the gun anymore, so the lad did what he could and laid into the cultist with abandon, bludgeoning him into oblivion. That was twenty minutes ago. Grimi had killed six bastards in the time it took for him to turn around and see the same traumatized crew member still wailing on the pulped corpse of the enemy.

Grimri grabbed the rifle when it was next pulled back, and when the entranced crewman struggled, the squat slapped him and sent him to the ground. Not gently, but not too hard either. He had to knock a bit of sense into the boy while he still could. Idly, he tossed the lasgun to the side and retrieved his shotgun, reloading casually as he looked around. Something in the atmosphere had changed... he could tell they were no longer in the warp. He felt dizzy and disoriented, like a bad hangover with a light buzz. He could only imagine how it felt to normal men.

Minutes later, Grimri stepped onto the bridge. He had done little to clean himself, still covered in grime and blood and some other liquid he didn't want to guess. His beard was wild but his eyes were hard set. The lass Agathe was there, though her retainers weren't floating around her anymore.

"Nice scrap." Grimri remarked once she was done speaking. He had arrived just a few seconds behind her, not looking much better in the aspect of cleanliness. To be fair, he was less clean than she before they had engaged in battle and dismembered screaming men, so that was something. "The fact ye want me here and not helping yer team sweep the ship with the flamers shows me ye got something important on yer mind, sir."

Grimri wasn't stupid or blind, even if, at the end of the day, he was just specialized muscle and the garbageman. The squat looked around, wondering where the rest of the team was. Were they all dead?

"Where's the ratling fuck?"

@Jb@Jeddaven

Dahti stood victoriously in front of the gellar field generators. It was a bloody, butt well-fought engagement. The Magos smiled at the end of it, breathing a worthy sigh of relief.

He accessed the secure channel on his communication array and called out to his retinue: "Martians, the enemy is fallen for the moment. Congratulations. Assist in recovery and repair, where possible. Eliminate any and all sympathies - the enemy is among us. Destroy all heretek. Omnissiah go with you." The commander then cut communications. He had to report to the bridge. He found himself following up just behind Sr. Agathe, but remained silent as he performed a strategic assessment in his logi cogitators as they ascended to the meeting area.

--------------------------------------------

He and his Mariners had a provided something that any rebellion requires - crowd control. The Magos' personally constructed weapons of mass destruction, the Organic Reduction Response Unit, were quickly deployed at the front of the field when he had reached the enginarium.

The Mariners took out long, fuse-like containers which magnetically attached to nearby surfaces. Remotely-released, the ceramite canisters were effectively massive fume-dispensers. On one hand, they had their ritualistic purpose - to sanctify an area; then they had their tactical purpose - to "sanctify an area."

Indeed, when the first wave of maniacal fanatics burst through the enginarium doors, the first wave of defenders moved back, to allow as many of the opponent into a controlled area. Then, when at a calculated, critical mass - FOOM - caustic toxin spilled out onto the foe. The initial horror of the moment nearly caused a route, but the enemy pushed on. This was an interesting fact, Dahti thought. Something pushed them further, something forced them on...it was nothing less than chaotic force of will, of some being greater than any that came into the enginarium...

...it was concerning.

More concerning was the fact that he had not heard yet of any captured leaders or commanders. Killing the infection requires taking out its source...

...Andamar should worry for his safety. Mutiny is bound to happen again unless there is a quick resolution.

The quick transition into realspace was smart. Any longer in the Immaterium, the carnage itself would have attracted some...unsavory attention. The Mechanicus would have no issues in the transition department - they were quite literally built to hold their position in the transition from the Void into realspace.

But now they were here, in the middle of nowhere. Trying to find what they ought to do. This is not good.

-------------------------------------------

"Commander Andamar, Magos Dahti reporting." The Magos entered the meeting with a salute to Lord Andamar and another to Sr. Agathe. "Great work out there, Sister. And to the both of you, apologies for the stench."

The Magos would brightly smell of burning flesh, engine fumes, sulfur, ammonia, and all kinds of foul scents.

"We've confirmed that there is a cell of heretics aboard the vessel, sir. Unfortunately, as Agathe has expressed, there has been no word of leaders being captured or executed. This leads me to conclude that the cult may reach into even higher-ranking members of the retinue you've gained, over time. The bowels of a ship rot quickly, if left unchecked - and this by no means could be your fault, as my Lord has only just obtained his vessel...

...no, someone has set you up to fail, I believe. Mutiny is undoubtedly the conclusion of this infection should it not be cleansed. I am at your service, my Lord. You have my sympathies."

The modulated voice carried a bold honesty found rarely in the Imperium, let alone among Mechanicus. But, in reality, the situation couldn't be more blunt: they'd been shoved up shit creek without a paddle, by the sponsor of the vessel.

A trio of his retinue had appeared not long after the conclusion of the heretical scrap, Edmund having already given out strict orders for every body to be burned and every inch of the ship to be once more cleansed by blessing or flame - this would no doubt mean the loss of further life, teams getting turned around in the depths, hidden enemy units conducting opportunistic attacks on isolated teams and the like - but the Rogue Trader doubted they would be in any more serious trouble... at least from within.

"The Ogyrns will get some shiny awards," he confirmed with a half-smile, glancing only briefly away from the viewscreen as Grimri and Dahti made themselves known, as well as their own opinions on recent events. Each was listened to, even if it appeared that Edmund was mentally far away, but he had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Please, since you are the only ones here, what do you make of this?"

A nod to his helmsman bought a crystal-clear image up at the place where a plasteel viewing window should have been but, this being an armoured command bridge and with no windows to speak of, images relayed from exterior pict and data recorders were the source of information from the void without.

Four vessels leapt into perfect clarity in the relative darkness of the bridge, each with data-tags showing their class, known names, and varying assortments of data; the ship in the centre was identified as a Jericho-class Pilgrim Vessel, hundreds of Imperial devotees doubtlessly trapped aboard as the three aggressors circled her. A Soulcage-class Slaveship hovered nearby, while an Infidel-class Raider and Idolator-class stripped away its shields in colourful blooms of impacting weapons fire.

"I do not doubt that it is to one of these ships that our heretical mole has escaped, nor do I doubt they wish to abduct every pilgrim aboard that transport. I wish to know your opinions on lending assistance to it. Our own escorts are not yet out of the Immaterium, and we are recovering internally from a mutiny, our loss of effective workers surely a handicap against these raiders. Nevertheless, we remain within Imperial borders, and I am loath to allow an enemy to get away when they are right there."

Edmund held his own council, but would listen to those around him, even if he chose to disregard any advice given him, such was his fancy as captain and commander.

The Ratling had arrived late.

Making your way through corridors scattered with the bloody and battered remains of several of your shipmates was tough work when you were his size. Sometimes folks who seemed very much dead were actually still very much alive and desperate to escape the piles of bodies they were trapped in. Sometimes they were just buried, those could be helped. Sometimes they were dead and just didn't know it yet. Bleeding out too rapidly and too far from help. Burned up beyond any hope of return but still stubbornly clinging onto last vestiges of life. This one poor bastard had been gutted.

Roald had tripped over a loop of the unlucky son of a bitches' intestines. Now that's a bad day.

He considered informing them of what had kept him, but decided against it. They were contemplating coming to the aid of that other ship. Hard to say whether it was smart or not. On one hand there was all that happy shiny bullshit about not just leaving a ship full of Imperials to be torn to pieces and consumed or worse. Probably worse. On the other hand they might just end up eaten or fucked or fucked and eaten, who knew what order things might happen in. Maybe he would get turned into a little tiny halfdemon or something. None of those possibilities particularly interested Roald.

Contemplating the position Roald stroked his face where his full manly beard would be were he not a Ratling. As a Ratling there was little there other than full rosy cheeks and, oh what was this, a bit of congealed blood with hairs sticking out of it. Gross.

Flicking those flesh bits of indeterminate origin on the floor Roald added his two cents to the conversation.

"If'n we're going on in dere I'm gonna need a better weapon. Pistol and Long-Las ain't exactly suited to close quarters."

Grimri chewed on his mustache, glancing to the others around him. His stomach growled, and then low and behold, the ratling had appeared. Grimri felt his hunger pangs were from some contagious disease the short fellow had spread to him. Or maybe he just hadn't eaten since the fighting had started, and anyone who has ever been in combat to the death knew killing brought quite the appetite. Maybe after this he could grab a bite.

But as for his employer here...

"I'm no' much fer ship combat or space maneuvering..." He said, skeptical on why they would want to hear his opinion. He supposed he would rather be consulted than not, but it wasn't really his purview. Even his engineering and crafting skills were more for ground-based vehicles and machines. Other than boarding actions, he was out of his element in space other than in the most strange and dire of circumstances.

"If we can get close enough t' board, I'm yer man. Otherwise, cannae help ye."

Crossing his burly armed, he looked to the assembled crew. No doubt the ecclesiastical members would cry to attack. As long as they didn't blow up in space, he wasn't against the notion. As he waited, he double checked his gun, making sure it was fully loaded and ready to be used.

Roald leaned in to the Squat.

"I'd know dat look anywhere big feller. Yer t'inkin' bout dat Sauerabfel Pie I was tellin ye about afore this all kicked off, aintcha?"

Seeing the Squat check his weapons the Ratling mimed doing the same. Pretending to look down the barrel of his las-pistol while, of course, ensuring he didn't actually. No sense in lasering yourself.

"Us wee folk oughta stick together, is what I always say. Somes a us is more wee-er than others but still. We keep each other's alive and I'll help make sure'n you get dat Sauerabfel Pie ye wan so damn much. I'll even remind 'em ta hook ye up with dat biiiig ol' slice a cheese."

Roald nodded to himself, assuming an offer so generous must surely be appreciated and agreed to, and visually scanned the room for a weapon he might use. Perhaps a fallen troopers Las Rifle he could strap to himself and use like one a them big humies used a Gatling gun. Maybe a shotgun if he didn't mind knocking himself out every time he fired it. He did kinda mind that though. Probably better to stick with the Las Rifle.

@Jb@Jeddaven@BangoSkank@POOHEAD189

Edmund held his own council, but would listen to those around him, even if he chose to disregard any advice given him, such was his fancy as captain and commander.

Dahti peered out at the vessels that had come into view of His Divine Purpose for a long time.

As the Ratling and Squat had gone on, the Magos calculated in his cogitators as to what the preferable option would be. It was a difficult statement to make, but it was true: the elimination of as many variables as possible was far preferable to a lengthy boarding and search procedure. The only way to be sure of total destruction of the enemy was...well...

"Total Destruction is my recommendation, Commander." The surly voice of the Magos firmly stated, "That's the only way to be sure that the mole cannot possibly survive."

Tha Magos sighed and bowed to his Commander and the rest.