-Inquisitor Tilda Chastain, Ordo Hereticus

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The heavy trod of arbites boots echoed down the stone stairwell, a half a dozen armed and armored men reaching the first checkpoint after the length of the first corridor below ground. The security team bolted up from their cafe and holovids, incredulity wiping across their faces at the sudden presence of a handful of enforcers at the door. Out of the group, a fellow with a visored helm and a square jaw that could shatter cement stepped forward, offering alpha-level clearance from the Lord Governor himself. After a brief minute checking the credentials, security marked it as green. The doors slid open, and the contingent moved on without another word.

The prison below Chateau Auclair was carefully guarded knowledge, with only the closest aids and allies of the Auclair family even aware of its existence, much less its inhabitants. It was an exclusive club, used for political prisoners and business rivals, or men the family wished to torment at their leisure. More rarely, it was used for subjects that has been caught so recently and at such short notice, to hold them until the local arbites could show up and shuttle them to a more deserved location. That, however, had not happened for some years.

Square-jaw, a sergeant better known as Moab, had been contacted for just such an assignment. The authority came from the top, giving him leave to handpick the escort. He chose his five best men, each having served over fifteen years in the arbites, and two of them having been inducted into the cult of the changer of ways for nearly ten, like him. He was unaware of why this prisoner was so significant to his lord, but all would be revealed when the time was right. Regardless of their beliefs, his men would follow his orders to the letter.

Passing through another checkpoint, he was stopped just before entering the prison by the lone security staff, a skinny man in fatigues and a helmet that was too big for his cracium. He held up a hand to halt Moab and his arbites. "Wait, whoever you're here for, these are electronically sealed. I have to open the cell myself, and I can't allow you to use the bypass. I must escort you."

"Very well." Moab agreed with reluctance. His voice was a barely suppressed growl at the best of times. "We're here for prisoner 04A325."

The sentry did not seem intimidated by the inflection in Moab's voice. He opened his datapad and idly thumbed the screen, pursing his lips until he gave a snort. "Oh, that one. He's a handful, just came in two days ago. He should be in cell A24, near the front. Follow me."

The troupe of seven men stepped into the grid of the prison, turning left, passing doors of reinforced steel with slits one could open to view at eye level. The lighting was low, and while various prisons would have jeers or angry yelling, each cell here was locked tight, the walls between them a meter thick. The best they could hear was scratching, or a faint echo that could just be a trick of the mind. Moab noticed the lack of decorum, all white walls of rockcrete with no sigil as to indicate their location. He briefly wondered if they brought in the prisoners blind and only removed the cloth when they passed the last checkpoint to give a psychological aspect to their imprisonment. There could be hundreds of people in here who did not know their own gaolers.

The sentry stopped at a nondescript door, a small console at the right side of the steel door. He removed a card from his belt, placed it on the indicator, and began to type down the code to open it. One of the arbites opened the steel slit to peer in, but the sentry shook his head. "You won't be able to see in there. We keep it dark most of the time."

"Valdor, get a light." Moab ordered. One of the arbites took up a lumen, flipping it on, unholstering his laspistol in the process just as the bolts popped open on the door. The sentry and Moab exchanged a look, before the sentryman pressed a button, allowing the door to swing open. Arbites Valdor turned the lumen into the dark of the cell, stepping in gingerly as he moved the light back and forth, up and down, pistol trained where the light traveled. It took a good ten seconds for him to turn around, his eyes showing his bemusement.

"Sir, there's no one in here." Valdor reported.

"What!?" Moab barked, and the Sentry looked incredulous. He took out his datapad and searched the database, before shaking his head. Moab looked at him expectantly, grinding his bovine teeth.

"This is the correct cell. He should be in here." The Sentry proclaimed.

"We he isn't," Moab growled angrily, ready to commit some act of violence. His masters were unforgiving, a trait he shared.

"I know where he is!" A wild new voice croaked. The group whirred, lasguns and lumen turning to the left, but the hallway was empty. Seconds later, they realized the slit on the next door over was open. Moab saw the sentry's look of complete surprise. He could gather that was supposed to be impossible from the inside. Moab approached the steel door, keeping his men back.

"Where is he?" Moab asked simply. Out of the darkness, a pair of eyes set on a wrinkled, aged face appeared inches from the opening. The eyes spoke of insanity, endless years kept in the dark ravaging this one's mind. There was a small cackle, as if the question was the funniest thing you could hear this side of Holy Terra.

"He said he'd be on the third floor! He'd be waitin' for ya! Haha!" The voice said, and the laughter echoed in the cell until Moab closed the slit, turning to his men, who looked at him to make some sense of this unexpected development.

"What floor is the party?" Sergeant Moab asked the sentry, already knowing the tzeentch-cursed answer.

---

20 minutes before...

The wind was soft and warm, which was good news. Neil felt it would be unlucky if he had to change into his suit in a downpour. Of course, infiltrating the party through being captured and escaping, letting his men into the walls from within being the only way they could gain access was definitely touch and go. The Emperor had a funny way of showing his favor sometimes. Orm folded his former garb up, stashing it in a satchel to be carried to their ship in the escape. The ex-bounty hunter was a good shot, but his bedside manner and housekeeping was impeccable. No wonder he didn't make it as a hunter.

To the left of Orm, Skit triple checked his longrifle in preparation for their escape. The diminutive former guardsman was obsessed with the thing, carrying it everywhere like a nervous dog with a stress toy. Granted, ratlings were obsessed with a lot of things, particularly food and thieving. Neil could relate, the thought causing the small-time rogue trader to grin.

Grantz snapped for Neil to pay attention. The captain turned back to his second. "Stay still, I need to fix your tie."

"You worry too much," Neil remarked.

"If you're going to fit in and get to the orb, we need you to look like you belong there." Grantz reminded him. He was a good seneschal, able to curb Neil's worst impulses, which worked well with Neil improvising where Gantz would be stuck in the mud. They had partnered up just a few years ago, but it had been a solid working relationship thus far.

"C'mon, it's a party of rich traders. It's pretty likely they'll be a bunch'a hairy short stacks with ugly, drooping faces." Neil said, glancing at Skit to see if he agreed, though the ratling's lip quivered. Neil waved his way, shaking his head. "Hey, your face is not droopy." He assured him. Skit visibly brightened.

"Syntax, Neil." Grantz said.

"We're about to do a job, I can take a sleeping pill later." Neil said. Grantz opened his mouth, then closed it. Neil winked to assure his second he was messing with him. "Don't worry, this thing is called the Edwardian Vigil. If there's something I'm supposed to succeed in nabbing, it's this. Plus it'll look good on the dashboard. I'm thinking with a Sebastian Thor bobble-head."

Gantz finished typing up his tie, and retrieved Neil's sidearm. An autogun with 9x19mm bullets in the magazine. It wasn't Neil's usual, but the privateer captain had used it enough to guess something was off when he took it in his hand. It was a bit light. "Gantz you're slacking, there's no bullets in the mag."

The senechal blinked, then shook his head. "You're right, sorry. Forgot to load it," he confessed, and handed him a magazine. Neil slid it in with a satisfying click, turned the safety on and placed it in his jacket. It was at that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness across the roof. It was a lithe, atheltic figure who moved like a catachan lurking in the gloom. When he reached the light, his red eyes were visible, almost glowing from the distant lights of the wall. His pale, bald head shined like a beacon under the planet's moon. It was lucky they were on the rooftop, or Zale would have been spotted.

"Bombs planted," the Tenebrian remarked, laconic as ever. An abhuman hailing from the planet of Tenebrae, it was a jungle world, not quite dangerous enough to be labeled as a death world, but close enough for most people's reckoning. The vast, endless tracks of wilderness there were in perpetual darkness save for two terran months of the year, when twilight marred the sky. The Tenebrians were a pallid people and experts of survival and scouting.

"Horus's jockstrap!" Neil exclaimed when he appeared, having thought Zale was going to go back to the ship before the fun began. Zale looked at him with his neutral expression, but after awhile Neil could catch the small inflections of his personality. This one was incredulity. "I hate saying this to a friend, but you really need to shower when we get back to the Firestorm, Zale. You're about fragrant as avain poop, and twice as pale."

"Aye Captain," He said, saluting.

The window pane open, Gantz slid a rope around Neil's waist to lower him into an empty wing of the estate, Orm grabbing it too to help in the task. Once inside, Neil would locate the item and stay out of attention, mostly. Once the arbites reached the party, they would cause enough commotion looking for him that he would slip out the back, and then when they entered the undercity, they would collapse the tunnel behind them, allowing the group to escape. Gantz tightened the rope. "Don't bring too much attention to yourself."

"You can go down instead, if you like," Neil offered with a smirk. When Gantz gave him a look, Neil grinned, and was subsequently lowered into the manor, the sounds of high gothic chatter down the corridor audible even from his position.

I was working solo back then. Twenty five years old. Two years out of the tutelage of Eruzet Charbernau, Old Fuss and Flamers. Tall blond and slender. Green eyed, literally as well as metaphorically, and possesed of that sense of invincibility that comes with being young and successful. I suppose in our bussiness success is relative. To be alive and (mostly) sane is success by almost any metric. Well, sanity is valued among at least SOME of our bretheren. I had at this time, successful prosecuted the Emerald Sky Cartel and the Sorority of the Mirrored Wheel on Mindinaw. I was a woman on the make, particularly as Old Fuss and Flamers was well disposed to me and would continue to live and scheme, despite taking on the nastiest heretics of the galaxy, not to mention her ten pack a day lho habit, for another two hundred years.

Of my Faction and political leanings I will say little save that it is a good rule of thumb to never trust any Inquisitor. Except me of course. I had come to Rüstringen following a pipeline of chaotic artifacts. The Wyrdsmith on Tuteonburg had been smashed a generation before but his works continued to circulate among depraved artits and dangerous dillitantes, changing hands as they spread their poison across half the subsector. I spent patient months following the trails of individual items, meeting and where necessary terminating the poor fools faciliting the trade. The more I dug however, the more I came to believe that the trade wasn't organized per se, but rather the result of a single powerful individual whose wealth and esoteric tastes were functioning like a whirlpool, sucking tainted material towards it's hungry maw. It was the rarest of things, a case of shit actuallyf flowing up hill.

My cover was easy to establish. The University of Porcelain granted me credentials as a Xenoarchaology with a gratifyingly minimal amount of pissing themselves after I flashed my rosette, and it was a topic I could speak intelligently on. You would think that specialist covers like this would be hard to maintain, but you would be surprised. The average cultist is dumber than a lobotomized ogryn, even those that shower and wear silk. It must drive the Runious Powers completely to distraction, they learn one little binding and suddenly they are Magnus the Red. Make a few cryptic comments, remember a few names and they will sit at your feet for hours. I drafted up a couple of papers on the Wyrdsmith, you can read them if you have access to the Ordo Sector archives. They are actually quite good, though so wrapped up in technical mumbo jumbo as to drive one mad. Why call it a knife when an elongaged poinard with characteristic channeling and and athemic properties will do. This twaddle quite established my reputation and after a few months of tromping around the outworlds I recieved an invitation to a discrete do at Chateau Auclair where, it was to be supposed, I could add my erudition to the affair.

What a bunch of amasec soaked, potato eating, cologne drenched, misbegotten whore sons they were. I stood beside a pillar in an emerald green evening dress which I had tailored from academic shiek, which was to say it covered my cleavage with a net of lace rather than letting it flop around like the other ladies, and incoperated long white opera gloves for reasons which you presumabley need to be an academic to comprehend. There wasn't a great place to hide a gun, and they had scanners, but I had managed to bring in a few weapons. One was a pair of curved khukri knives that I had crossed in the small of my back, one was my mind, and the third was The Stone. Yes, you knew I'd get to it. More on that anon. I wore the Stone around my neck on a long gold chain, each link of which was micro engraved with a paper I had supposedly published. God Emperor protect me from Academia.

The hall itself was beautiful enough. Rüstringen was, and is, known for its stone masons, and the Dancing Room as it was called was carved out of a blue white fozzilized resin, somewhat similar to amber. It gave the impression that the whole chamber might be made of glacial ice, though it was warm and comfortable as plaster would have been The most incredible detail had been lavished on it, every pillar packed to the brim with cavorting nymphs, humanoid spiders, sporting fauns and every other metaphor the artists could ejaculate to score a few more credits from the rich idiots who paid them. Religious iconography was at a minimum, although the entire domed roof was carved into the face of the Emperor, cunningly wrought so as to appear almost three dimensional and gazing down at the gathering. I have to say I didn't care for it, no doubt from directly beneath it was a marvel, but from the sides the Master of Mankind did appear a trifle constipated.

One by one I made the aquaintice of the 'great and the good' of Rüstringen. Mostly these were boozy attempts at flirting, easily defeated by the application of enough academic buzzwords. Once their eyes glazed I dropped in a few actual occult references to see if it snapped them out of it. Eventual each vicitim would make some excuse and stumble away in search of easier prey with less syllables and bigger breasts and I crossed them off my list. I was starting to lose hope of finding my man when the Stone alerted me to a slight stir at the door. A young man with a slightly crooked tie had entered the room. He made breezy small talk while heading towards the collection of artifacts which was the nights primary attraction. I had inspected them of course, been compelled to by several of my gentleman callers in fact. They were old and some where undoubtely Xenos in origin but even brushing them with my mind I was unable to detect any taint of Chaos. I made a few comments about pre-killocretian astetic traces and moved on. This young man seemed interested though, and though he accepted drinks and flirted with women, it didn't deter him for more than a few minutes. He stopped casually infront of a case containing a strange orb and I drifted unobtrusively closer. Something about him tugged at me and the Stone got warmer against me. It almost seemed as though we might have met before but that couldn't be the case. I never forget a face, I AM an Inquisitor afterall.

Truth be told, manor itself felt more like a palace to Neil's generally pedestrian experiences. Despite his Warrant of Trade, he had never been very prosperous in his dealings in the admittedly short time he had been a Rogue Trader of the God Emperor of mankind. Men often mistakenly believed such a privilege gave one unlimited authority, when it did no such thing. That was an inquisitor's purview. What the Warrant did was allow the trader to travel and do business with who he or she wished, and it was only in their capacity to succeed that gave them their power. Oftentimes Rogue Traders inherited an empire from a sire or more distant relative, but Neil was not so lucky. He had made most of his wealth by smuggling and pirating, though he only did that when he had to. He legitimately wanted to be a tradesman or a privateer for hire, if not for himself than for his men. He had lost a dozen aides over the course of four years, and felt he needed a success if he was going to continue pursuing this life.

That was when he heard of the Edwardian Vigil.

The Orb was apparently priceless, which tended to mean 'extremely pricey, we just want to exaggerate.' The fact it bore his namesake seemed fitting, and he fancied even if he could not sell it, he could fashion it as the Sigil of a new house. Granted, that would require kids, and maybe he would have a few when he was two hundred. As for now, life was a bit too exciting, and he had a long way to go before he could call himself a dynastic power. It seemed implausible he would be able to own a home such as this, much less entire worlds.

The walls were painted in gentle winter colors, contrasting the exquisite paintings that hung in perpetuity to allow the pompous and the snooty to fawn over them. He would stop and look at them thoughtfully, and when a man or woman stood beside him, he would make up some nonsense as if he knew what he was speaking about.

"Commissioned by the governor, you know." Neil pointed out to a plump woman and her husband with an unfortunate eye placement. "Painted by the brilliant François Mansart, though I think his work on Chateau Le Petite is far more delectable." He would laugh and play at drinking red amasec, though he only sipped. When men brought forth food, he would sniff it and make a face of disgust like they had presented him with a dead felid. He played the part well, almost too well. He had a weakness for men he could bullshit and women he could flirt with, though thankfully none he bumped into really interested him. Most here were decades older than him, the rejuvenat treatment plain on their faces, at least to his eyes in any fashion. He even stumbled upon the owner of the estate who called for his arrest not two days ago, but he did not recognize Neil. He had barely looked at when he had called the guards to send him below to the darkness.

Who said classism did not help the common man, every now and then?

Inch by inch, he drifted closer to the collection of artifacts he had subtly eyed when he could. Only a master could have seen his 'accidental' glances, and when he eyed the orb, the holovids had not done it justice. It was a glorious piece of jewelry, catching the light in a thousand facets, and though it sat unmoving, it almost seemed to spin like a celestial satellite. He stopped one last time before another gathering of couples, who glanced his way to politely acknowledge him before they continued on with their talk of local news, politics, and the betting on Cruorian War Beast blood-fights. Neil added in a vague comment here or there, giving a smile to the women and a lively grin to the men. He could never be considered an effete man, but Neil was not unhandsome, and good at going with the flow of a conversation. Soon he had them laughing.

"Why did the Rüstringen chef kill himself?" He asked them, swirling his goblet of amasec. "Because he lost the huile d’olive."

The men and women chortled, their finery shimmering. He gave a soft 'excuse me' and backed away, only to turn around and face a woman he had not seen before. For a moment he believed she would pass him by on the way to speak to some lady friend, but instead she locked eyes with him. She was tall, blonde, with an elegant albeit conservative dress, a full bosom, and emerald eyes he would never forget. But the woman's most striking feature, was she did not seem idly bored or aristocratically amused. She seemed far too aware of everything.

"I know the pun is a bit much, but I don't have many local jokes." Neil said with a handsome grin.

"Why did the Rüstringen noble follow his chef's example?" I asked, then paused to allow a dramatic beat. "Peer pressure." The newcomer fround for a moment and then groaned. He was a handsome enough man, with a swagger and selfconfidence that would have been to gauche for any noble. Nobility as a breed believed they were superior to the common folk, but it isn't my experience that they know it deep down.

"Rasa Blanc," I introduced myself, thrusting out a hand. The newcomer took it and shook it firmly. He had a good grip but didn't try to crush my hand or any such foolishness. The callouses on his palms confirmed my initial impression that he wasn't some limp wristed nobles by blow. Or at least he wasn't only that.

"Nelson Beauford," he lied, so smoothly that I couldn't tell at the time. I released his hand and turned to look at the orb he had been pondering. It was a gaudy thing among a room of gaudy things and I wondered what his interest was in it. A waiter passed and I took a flute of wine and sipped at it. The anti-ethanol drugs I had taken before coming made it taste like mud, but then you couldn't be sure the natural flavor was much better than that. I suppressed a wince with practiced ease.

"Does it remind you a bit of the Illium Coteric form?" I asked. The Illium Coterie had been a wide spread cult in these parts during the Wyrdsmiths time, although the common name was the tragically unimaginative 'Circle of Bones'. Any adept beyond a street corner cultist would recognise the term though.

"Oh yeah, totally," Beauford lied, nodding his head. So much for a break through. Still I couldn't help but feel there was something familiar about the man. He glanced over his shoulder and I thought he was looking for an excuse to make his escape but when I followed his glance I saw he was looking at the main door where a pair of livered guards with force poles stood as motionless as statues. It occured to me that he was waiting for something to happen. As though on que the doors flew open and a phalanx of local law enforcement, or noble's toughs with the badges and kit of law enforcement. The music came to a screeching halt and all eyes turned towards the door, the haughty nobles looking at the armed intruders very much as one might look a turd found floating in the punch bowl. The leader of the group was silent for a second, obviously a little stunned. I watched him consider his options for a moment.

"We have intruders!" he shouted and he and his men shoved their way forward into the crowd.

"What do you suppose is happening there?" Neil asked with feigned, aghast interest. He felt it was lucky that it was quite unlikely the arbites knew what he looked like. As usual they were making a mess of things, and as long as he made sure to remain cool and collected, he would get what he came for. Plus, once he escaped, he doubted they would look for him down below again. His hand, carefully placed against his breast in shock, placed a small amount of pressure on a button he had sequestered into the jacket.

White flashes and gunfire-like clattering pops erupted in various places throughout the room, Neil having slipped a few stun-grenade cores in a multitude of places throughout the party, ranging from underneath food trays, atop busts, and in men's jackets. It looked like a rogue militant had burst into the room and opened fire with a submachine gun, and whilst some likely believed that had to be the case, others thought the arbites had opened fire in anger. The toughs themselves, as Neil predicted, did in fact open fire wildly a moment later, lasbolts striking men who looked their way funny, singeing exquisite paintings, and crashing into glass panes. An extremely fortunate lasbolt struck a mirror placed on the opposite wall of the arbites, and the projectile actually bounced off of it, to Neil's amazement. Neil had heard that was possible, but he had never seen that in all of his life. He owed Skit a few gelts, in fact. What's more, the lasbolt that pinged off the mirror redirected and slammed into the glass that covered the Edwardian Vigil, shattering it and sending the orb careening to the ground.

Only instead, it fell in Neil's hand.

He had thought Rasa Blanc would be too busy cowering like the rest, but instead she made herself a small target and kept her feet, and her eyes met Neil's just as he caught the gemstone. Neil gave her a subtle wink, and pocketed the artifact. He grinned when he saw her eyes widen in recognition of some sort. To his credit, he gave her a bow, aggrandizing his accent. "I would love to trade more puns with you, madam. But it seems I have overstayed my welcome, do have a lovely evening. Please tell the host I apologize, but an Edwards belongs with an Edwards."

At that, Neil ducked and dove through the chaos of the crowd, sliding past rotund bellies and screaming damsels. It was a work of art, the way he dodged like he had foresight on when to swivel and when to slip. He had nearly made it to the edge of the room when an arbites stumbled into his way, likely accidentally, but saw Neil as a prime target once he was there. He had dropped his lasgun, wielding a stun baton like a cudgel. He raised the weapon up, igniting the weapon as he did so. Neil slid to the left, but the arbites' downward chop was redirected to his right, only for Neil to duck, slip past him, and kick his leg from behind. The armored man fell from his own weight, and Neil grabbed his arm, elbowed his wrist, and took his baton for himself, before striking the arbites on the head.

He fell like a sack of potatoes, but not before a square-jawed sergeant cast his gaze Neil's way from across the room. Their eyes met, and Neil gave a lewd gesture before he turned and bolted down the door they had burst out of just a minute before, heading downstairs in a mad dash.

The glib remark stunned me for a moment. The Emerald Sky divinations pulsed in my memory like a toothake and I was suddenly sure that this was the being to which they refered. I had sensed no taint of Chaos on him, but I supposed our conversation had been brief enough that I might have missed it. The ballroom was degenerating into pandemonium. At least three sets of guards were shouting and firing at each other. To make matters worse several of the nobles had returned fire with digital weapons or other augmetic concealments. A plump countess in an inadvisabley tight white body glove burst like a melon as she stopped what I took to be a minaturized plasma bolt, flying into a pillar and dropping onto the entree table that she had loved so much in life. I saw a panicky courtier slapping ineffectually at one of the arbites as though he were a pet cat, an act that was comic up until the point the arbite fired his shotgun into the man at point blank range and sprayed half his torso across dancefloor. The smell of cordite, urine, and burst entrails filled the room, somewhat degrading the sophisticated atmopshere of the affair.

The large sapphire inlaid doors at the side of the room flew open and a giant of a man, easily seven feet, with an armspan like a great bird of prey stormed in. He was cadaverously slender and dressed in an immaculately tailored suit of fine Lakian spider silk. A cloud of cigar smoke followed him and I could make out other figures in a private drawing room beyond. Even from here I could tell that this was my cult leader.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he bellowed and his voice had enough latent psy in it that it froze everyone in the room. One of the statuettes exploded into dust which rained down onto a waiter who sneezed violently in the near silence. Every eye was focused on the tall man, even a household guard who had previously been busy trying to staunch the blood pouring from a wound to his throat. He watched with rapt attention for a few seconds then slumped to the floor. The figure's eyes swept the room and fell on shattered case and the missing gemstone.

"Find the intruder and bring him to me. Alive," the man commanded and, as though on queue alarms began to whoop. The sound seemed to break the spell and armed men, guards and arbites alike, were spreading out. A man in a maroon doublet was pointing in the direction that this 'Edwards' had departed, guesiculating wildly. I stood indecisive for a moment, the heretic I was looking for wasn't thirty feet away, already turning and closing the door to his drawing room and yet... The heretic had seemed uninterested in the gem, he was interested in the thief. Why? The question bounced around at the back of my mind for a moment. If there is one thing that an Inquisitor cant resist, other than a leather storm coat, it is a mystery.

"Frak it," I said and started picking my way across the floor towards the door that Edwards had escaped through. Men were already streaming after him, to my surprise this included a number of the nobles and some of the servants, none of whom seemed to have any bussiness doing so. As I reached the door an arbite with a leg wound stepped into my way, grabbing me by the arm.

"Stay here ma'am, for your saftey," he commanded. He staggered back as I punched him in the throat, feeling the crunch of soft cartilage beneath my fist. I caught the auto pistol that he dropped as he staggered back cluthing a throat no longer capable of drawing breath.

"Don't touch me, for yours," I told him, then hiked up my skirts and ran down towards the first floor, trying to find this thief that everyone was so interested in.

Despite the danger he was in, the nervousness that could grip a man and make one frozen on the spot, Neil had to admit he really, really liked a good chase. For one, his legs were quite long. Not as a nice as green-eye's upstairs, but they were good for sprinting. That, and it was his general experience that most people simply did not take care of themselves. Running a mile was a day's work and leaping over a balustrade was a fever dream, and even the ones that did make good time still had to keep on him.

Neil knew where he needed to go, at least with relative confidence. And even if he was cut off, there was a secondary entrance below, in cell A24 where he had escaped from not an hour ago. The problem with that was he would need to bluff his way past two checkpoints of security, so that was for last resort. Instead, Neil careened down a long gallery, wind whipping his hair and tie as he ran. In fact, frak the tie. The color clashed with his belt anyway, and he tossed it into an adjacent room on the left to confuse them, right at the feet of an adeptus sororitas saint of some name before he sprinted right down a corridor. The manor opened up, it's light colors turning warmer, red banners framing a great hall where a few of the more elderly and ambitious guests, unaware of the commotion upstairs, had met for more quiet conversation.

Neil stopped sprinting just at the cusp of the great hall, fixing his hair, but everyone had noticed him by that point. The guests in their suits and the servants in their livery and silver trays of porcelain. Neil stood there awkwardly for a moment, before clapping his hands together once.

"Attention everyone! There is a fire!... The arbites are coming here to escort you out, but there's only a few shuttles leaving the gate. Best petition them when they arrive." He said, before picking up speed again and sprinting out of the room. That ought to buy him a moment or two of time, he thought. Unfortunately, as he passed the great hall and made it to the lobby, he saw armed men in unmarked flaks and visored helms already rushing up the flagstones out of the baroque window framing the door. If he stepped one foot out of the mansion, he would be detained or shot. He spun around, only to be confronted by a household guardsman.

It was surreal. Neil saw him notice the small-time Rogue Trader, and as if the world slowed down, he saw the barrel of his submachine rose. Neil could pull his sidearm like zephyr, but he had the shock baton in his hand. He knew he couldn't fire on him, and so he thumbed the shock baton and slung it at the man's head. It spun end over end and struck him in the face with the force-charge. There was a loud, disgustingly wet squelch as his faced literally popped in a pile of blood. Neil grit his teeth like he noticed a coagulation of roadkill, and then ran past him. Another security guard rounded the corner, but he was stunned at the sight of his bloodied companion, and due to his crouch and his pause, the next sight he got was Neil's boot in his face, launching the rogue trader over him to reach the marble floor.

He sprinted past the way he had come, only passing the entryway to the great hall and rushing up a sweeping central stairway decked with a red carpet. Above, a crystal chandelier shimmered, casting the vast portrait of Auclair's distant ancestor above in a flecked storm of light and shadow. Two smaller steps went left and right, Neil turned right and then pivoted into a library. Behind him, he could hear a number of boots thundering up the stairs. He raised an eyebrow, was the gemstone bugged? Did someone bug his suit? He whipped his head left and right, the room full of towering bookcases and tall casement windows, handsomely furnished with desks and wooden chairs decked with soft cushions. The tables were decks with tablecloths and candles, likely only used for show.

"Oh, solves everything," Neil remarked sardonically, pulling his autogun and firing four times at the closest window, cracking the glass. He then grabbed a chair by it's back, spun and tossed it at the window, shattering it. As the shouting grew louder, Neil had to grin. Granted, he was not supposed to be up there, by why follow if Neil would have to go down again anyway? He ripped the red velvet tablecloth out, the candles wobbling but staying up. He grinned. "Nice." Wrapping the cloth up to a smaller, thicker cloth just as the arbites and guardsmen hustled in, some getting on their knees and raising their firearms and others standing tall behind their comrades, all happening right when Neil stepped up to the pane.

"Freeze Edwards!" One of them bellowed. Neil blinked. Unless Rasa spoke to everyone, he doubted they would know his real name. Maybe they were talking about the Orb. He didn't have the time to consider it, though.

"Sorry fellas, gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat." Neil declared, before he stepped backwards and dropped like an anvil. Even the hardened guardsmen gasped, and they sprinted to the edge of the window. They saw Neil sliding off the verdant bushes just below the three story drop, the carpet hanging from a pipe he used to slow his fall. He left his jacket there as well, in case it was bugged like he suspected. The last they saw of Neil, he was rushing to the eastwall.

Neil himself ran into the car tunnel beneath the wall, where the underground gateway was located. That was suicide, of course. However, he opened up a door forty meters in that led into the sewers, that would feed into the abandoned Undercity beneath Chateau Aclair and the greater city surrounding the manor. Unfortunately (and fortunately), there were eyes that watched him.

I lost Edwards in the confusion of the chase. I had committed they layout to memory at the start of the night, but this wasn't the way I had come in. I paused in a gate house of some kind and cursed my luck. Then, as though in answer to that very curse. Edwards fell into some bushes not thirty feet away. I blinked, unable to believe my luck. I would later come to reassess these kind of strokes of serendipity but for the moment I was blissfully ignorant. Unfortunately I was momentarily at a loss for what to do, I didn't want to kill Edwards, at least not until I had interogated him, and the only weapons I had were my kukri and the stolen autopistol. I could always use my will, but if that worked then what, I would have to try and drag a fugitive out of the hornets nest that this place was rapidly degenerating into. As though to underscore this point, men began to drop from the same window Edwards had used, landing in the garden and then pelting off in pursuit. Whatever else Edwards was doing to night he was going to cost the Baron a fortune in landscaping fees.

Well if Edwards had an escape plan I supposed I might as well use it. Throwing caution to the wind I sprinted across the court yard after the guards. I had imagined that Edwards was taking the car tunnel but instead I found the guards leaping into an open circular tunnel that must drop down to some kind of underground passageway. I admit I was equally impressed and aghast at the scheme. As far as smash and grabs went it combined intricately planned with ridiculously simple, a welcome change from the months of subtle labor I had been undertaking in the prosecution of my own case. There was a slight bunch up as the guards jockied for position and I pulled my kukri's as I went at them at a dead run. They were beautiful weapons those knives, a present from Old Fuss and Flamers after I fought of a heretic hit squad with a kitchen knife when I was an Interogator. They were ebony black and ten inches long and razor sharp, vicious things for close in work and perfect for situations like this where a blaze of gunfire would attrack too much attention. Only three of the pursuers had not yet made the jump and the first one died before he knew he was under attack. The second one turned as he was sprayed by the arterial bood of the first. Eyes wide he swung his riot gun towards me but too slow, much too slow. My second blade went in under his armpit and I used a rip twist to jerk it free before it bound. The gun fell from the destroyed nerves and blood bubbled at his lips as he sank to his knees. The third man shouted and swung the butt of his rifle at my head I ducked under the blow. I aimed an upward cut at his face and he skipped back to avoid it, forgetting that there was an open man hole behind him. He plummeted down and I leaped after him, landing atop him with both blades pointed down like a preying mantis. He gurgled briefly then died and I climbed back up the iron staples and grabbed the manhole cover. More men were rushing towards me and I heard them curse as I inverted the manhole cover and dropped it back into place, flush against its metal combing with no handles for them to grab. Welding it would have been better, but if I couldn't pull this off with the five minute head start I would gain while they found a prybar to get it up then I didn't deserve to get away at all.

People really underplay the stink of a sewer. Everyone is like: the life of an Inquisitor is so glamerous. Well let me tell you slogging through even an old sewer in a party dress and heels is no picnic, but after you meet your first few plauge cults you build up a bit of a tolerance. Fortunately the arbites who had made it down here were already in pursuit of Edwards and there shouts made them easy to follow. No one ever thinks of chasing someone silently you will find. I pelted down the tunnel after them, twisting and turning down ancient aqueducts fringed with mould and mushrooms that I didn't want to think about. I came around the corner at a sprint and crashed right into eight men all arbites in body armor. They had been trying to raise some kind of grate which Edwards had evidently dropped during his escape.



I had to reach Edwards before he escaped.

Neil touched down quietly, his feet barely a whisper after the dozen foot drop. He had left the arbites behind him, feeling the rush one got when they made a successful escape. The only illumination for dozens of meters was the light above him, but he had good eyes, and he had been here before, days ago. He rose from his crouch and rushed down the decline into the dank corridor. He looked over his shoulder and let out the softest of chuckles, before he ran into something solid that should not have been there. It wasn't a wall, though it was so thick Neil's momentum practically made him bounce back.

He kept his feet and turned back, gazing up at a wide, smiling face and eyes that glimmered. The figure's arms, neck, even his face was etched in symbols that flared, but not with light. He did not know how they were burned into his retina, but somehow they were. Neil was not one to take anything serious, but he did feel a flicker of fear in his breast. If it had been anyone else, they would have been frozen, and then dead. However, even with all his skill, he wouldn't be alive without a bit of luck.

The figure, clad in rags, raised a makeshift axe that looked as rudimentary as an ork choppa. As it pivoted to strike, its foot slipped on the puddle they stood on. It was only a small stumble, but it was all Neil needed. He gave a short kick to his foreleg, sending it skidding back, which caused the large figure to topple forward. Neil grabbed his head and brought it to his knee, shattering bone and cartilage, blood spraying. To his surprise and disgust, the thing was not unconscious, even as it hit the ground. It wriggled and tried to rise, but Neil stepped on its back and sprinted forward. As he did so, he saw shadows move amongst the soft light against the wall, and footsteps clapping on the stone as numerous pursuers gave chase. Soon their whoops echoed across the baroque sewers as they followed his fleeing form.

His greatest advantage was he knew where he was going, and he was nimble as a squirrel. He left the maze of corridors and found a sloshing brown river flowing underneath him, concave ledges and alcoves with angelic busts standing vigil. He was impressed by the artistry in something no one other than daemon-men and thieves would be able to appreciate. He did not stop, leaping over with the desperation of a man fleeing from a Carnodon. He wasn't sure if he would make the five meters, and as he launched himself over the drink, he noticed a dozen stepping stones to his left he could have taken.

"Aw, Saint Celestes ti-!" He cursed before he crashed, torso first, into the wall. He flailed his arms to grab the inlet at the edge, the air driving from his lungs with his eyes wide. Neil finally grabbed a handhold, and pulled himself up right when his pursuers arrived behind him. He rolled over and looked at them. There were five crazed cultists with what looked to be butcher knives and blasphemous sigils, three men and two women, at least he thought. They were too covered in dust and shit and all of them had manes that had not been washed in years.

Neil cleared his throat and brushed himself off, holding a hand out as if to say 'time out' before he straightened his button up. "Sorry, gemstone's mine?" He asked, raising his voice into a question.

For a long moment, they stood there silently. He could see in their eyes they could not see him. They did not look at him, not really. There was something else there. It was creepy, but he was not expecting them to speak in unison: "Edwards. Give it to us. You cannot escape, Edwards. The void calls to you. It drinks of your essence."

It would have made a normal man shudder or freeze in horror. Neil scratched his nose, pursed his lips, and then shot all five of them. Heads, necks, heart. The echoes of the autogun crashed across the stone, flashes lighting up the shadows, and all five toppled into the muck below. Neil blew the smoke from the gun barrel and turned to leave. He stopped midstep when he heard light splashing below, and groans.

"Goddamn, these guys are hard to kill." He deadpanned, and kept going.

Five minutes later, he jogged into a spacious chamber, octagonal, with a small sewer stream through the middle. Past it, there was a rise where his men waited, along with a civilian model OSV transport, and behind them was a dark opening that led into a runway that ran two miles until it reached just beneath the space port. They had set up lights days ago, and Neil slowed his running down as he stepped into the lumen's glare. He heard Orm sigh and Gantz laugh as he came into view, and Zale stood there as unemotional as ever, his pupil-less eyes seemingly taking in everything. Neil waved at them nonchalantly, catching his breath.

"Knew you'd make it," Orm declared, though Neil could tell it was bullshit.

There was a loud crack, and a flash of smoke from underneath the OSV. It was too fast for the captain to see, but he felt the slug fly past him. He spun just as the cultist that had lurched out of the shadows from behind lost his head, blood, brains, and bone flying. Neil flinched from the viscera, then turned to see Skit reveal himself with his long rifle. Neil yelled at him. "Little to the left, you missed my jugular!"

"You're welcome boss!" The ratling said, not catching the sarcasm.