Penny

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I sat in the cell, disliking the greasy feel of the borrowed cloak. I opened it and rubbed at the glyph on my right breast, the paint remained stubbornly in place. I scratched more enthusiastically but the pigment was bound tight. I would need solvent to remove it, or perhaps to literally scrape my skin away to disrupt them. I looked around the room for something that might do the job but nothing jumped to mind. Perhaps I could break the flakboard desk and use a fragment of it. I cut my eyes to the door and saw two gangers watching me through the bars.

"Priest told you to read," one of the gangers said, though he seemed as intereted in trying to get a look under my cloak.

"So did my scholam marm but here I am," I responded acidly. I picked up the scroll and tapped it on the tabletop.

"Read," the ganger growled. I glanced at the scroll, wondering why they were so interested in it. Whatever it was I wasn't eager to follow the script.

"You going to come in here and make me?" I demanded.

"I'm going to come in there and do something to you," he threatened. I lifted the scroll as though I was going to open it, then ripped it in half. The ganger shouted and ripped the door open, lifting a truncheon as he stalked into the room. I kicked the desk at him as he came. Sneering he dogdged aside, baring his teeth in a snarl. I dived under the table, rolling between the legs and out the door. The second ganger grabbed at me and seized a handful of my cloak. I let go of the cloak and bolted, running naked down the gangway and deeper into the guts of the giant machine. Shouts of alarm rang behind me. I was gambling that they wouldn't shoot me, which was a hell of a thing, but it beat waiting in a cell for whatever they had in store for me. I skidded around a girder and ran into a slender ganger with an autogun, he bounced back then swept the butt of his weapon at me. I twisted sideways and plunged off the edge of the gangway with a scream. I tumbled through empty air for a heatstopping second the crashed into a network of cables. I made a desperate grab and got hold of a handful of greasy cords arresting my fall into a palm burning slide. I crashed onto a lower level and scrambled to my feet, bolting away along a line of pylons. A moment later I reached an open hatch big enough to admit a rhino. I ducked through into a large cathedral like vault that had been filed with machinery. Dozens of gangers with flamers were down on the main floor, each of them had a flamers and were in the process of hosing down some kind of machinary with gouts of prometheum. The whole place stank of burning petrochemicals and hot metal. As I watched a ganger with a mallet came forth and struck one of the burned machines with his weapon. It shattered into shards of hot metal.

"What the frak?" I asked, then ducked into an alcove as I heard shouting gangers rushing down metal access stairs.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

I sat up in shock, pulling the sheets up around my breasts as my eyes widened in shock. Had Kian just incinerated a man? The room stank of burning flesh and fingernails. I could hear distant shouts and cries and what I thought might be the clash of arms. My eyes widened as my sleep addled mind ran through a number of unpleasant scenarios. Before I could respond a man in a leather jerkin appeared in the doorway. He hefted a crossbow in both hands, lifting it to aim at me and, less importantly, Kian. I rolled sideways knocking Kian off the bed as a crossbow bolt whistled overhead and buried itself into the headboard with a crack of splitting timber. I landed on top of Kian and rolled off, scooping up the sword of the fallen assailant. The crossbowman saw me and abandoned his effort to reload his clumsy weapon. I lunged across the room, completely naked, and thrust the bloody point of the weapon into the crossbowman's chest. He screamed and reeled back, the leather vest absorbing all but an inch of steel. Gritting his teeth, the assassin slashed at me with a heavy knife. I skipped back out of range and kicked the hilt hard, driving the weapon deep into his body. Bloody fountained from his mouth as he staggered back clutching the sword feebly before toppling to the ground.

"Something has people in a tizzy this fine morning," I answered, though I privately doubted it was anything to do with Kian. I stuck my head out into the hallway and saw two men in mercenary leather kicking at the door of ambassador's room. The wood was already begining to splinter. I ducked back into the room, my eyes wide. Whatever was going on here it wasn't a private affair, something was seriously wrong. I ducked back into the room and grabbed the sword, tugging at it with all my strength. It was stuck fast in the suction of his chest and I had to give it up as a bad bargin. I could hear feet pounding up the steps.

"We probably have about a minute before they break down your ambassador's door, and maybe about as long before they come in here and try to kill us," I reported, my voice surprisingly steady.

"I hope your Sigmar is fond of you," I added.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

It is difficult to keep track of time when you are hanging by your wrists in a cell. There are techniques, counting heartbeats and the like, which can accomplish the task, but I have never mastered them. It seemed that I hung there for several hours at least. Once, a man in a welding mask and a gangers jacket came in and lowered me to the ground, enough that I could use what might laughably be considered, the facilities, before stringing me up. He reached out to grab my breast but a voice from beyond the lumen barked a short negative command and welding mask grunted and departed, restringing the network of razor wire as he went. I tried every trick I could think of to access my powers but it was useless. Whatever sigils they had used were more than effective at keeping me blunted.

After an indeterminant time the lumen dimmed and the wire was unbound with a rustle. A man in the robe of a Ministorum preacher, complete with a clerical tonsure entered the room. He was clean shaven and his face was harshly ascetic. He held a book of hours clasped before him and and wore a golden pomander around his neck, emitting a sweet and citrusy scent which I found unpleasant.

"I am Father Bertrand, do you have a name Child?" he asked in a gravely voice. I wont say an yImperial Priest was the last thing I expected to find here, but it was certainly way down on the list. If my nakedness or the sigils bothered him he was doing an excellent job of concealing the fact.

"Lara," I lied, "Lara Sternberg-Hauser." The Sternbergs and the Hausers were two middle ranking merchant combines who had recently made some marital alliances. The sort of people who could afford to pay ransoms but not the sort of people who could get a gen-flexed kill team dropped on you for messing with them. The priest compressed his sour mouth into a flat line, clearly not taking the information at face value.

"Can I have some clothes, please Father, these men have been staring at me and I'm scared," I blurted, partially because I knew that humanizing yourself in the eyes of a captor was always a good idea and partly because that was the sort of thing a scared Guilded Girl might blurt out. Truthfully a scared Guilded Girl would probably be bawling her eyes out but that seemed like a low reward play. The priest opened his mouth, clearly irritated at being interrupted, then closed it and made a curt gesture. The man in the welding mask entered a moment later and lowered me to the ground then wrapped a cloak around me, giving my bottom a squeeze as he did so. I yelped in pretended terror, earning the fellow a disapproving glance from the priest as he departed.

"And what were you doing so deep in the underhive child?" the priest asked sternly.

"I... I came to listen to the Pound, real twist music you know?" I blurted out, for all the world sounding like a juve caught with her hand in the joylik cabinet.

"And you dressed as a Charm Woman to do this?" the priest asked, his skepticism clear.

"It was the only way to get passed the gangers," I whined. The priest nodded, tapped his lip and then slapped me across the face hard enough to make stars flash before my eyes.

"And your psykanna gifts?" he asked, his tone hardly changed.

"What...what gifts," I asked, tears running down my face in a completely believable and authentic display of pain.

"Do not be tedious Lara, there are ways for us to tell these things," the priest continued. I shrank in on myself, pretending to be cowed.

"My mother, when she found out, she didn't want me to go on the Black Ships, thought it might be useful to have a... have a..." I stumbled.

"Have a witch in the family?" the priest asked. I nodded my head.

"You aren't going to... turn me over to the Inquisition are you?" I asked, my voice quavering with simulated terror. The priest tutted disapprovingly, though there was a slight flinch he didn't quite manage to conceal. He didn't like talk of the Inquisition, though that hardly made him unique among even loyal servants of the Imperium.

"Perhaps that is what I should do, but you needn't fear child, the Holy Work of the Emperor can find use even for one so wretched as you. The priest turned and nodded at the man in the welding mask.

"Let her down, we will take her," he told them with a curt nod.

"You ain't paid for 'er yet!" the man in the welding mask complained. The priest gave a tired sigh.

"You will be paid, as per our agreement," he replied "Or rather, the agreement of my superiors and yours, whom I doubt very much would appreciate your money grubbing." This was sufficient to end the argument and I was lead out of the cell and through a network of filthy tunnels. We entered a small room in which a half dozen tough looking gangers hulked. Four of them were obviously with the priest and were well equipped with what looked to be millitarum las rifles and an assortment of knives and autopistols. The other gangers were clearly with my captors and they quivered like dogs beset by larger rivals. The priest produced a black bag and pulled it over my head before leading me through the far door.

I tried to keep track of where we went, but it was no good. At times we walked, at other times we seemed to be in a vehicle. I think there was even a short stretch of what might have been rail travel, though I highly doubted any such system were working this deep in the bowels of Gravemire. As we reached the end of the journey it grew quiter and the air grew colder, taking on a taste of rust and old metal. The blindfold was removed with a tug and I found myself in a metal room with an ancient flak board desk on which sat an ordinary looking scroll. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a massive hollow tube. Girders and gangways projected from the side like cillia and I realized we must be inside one of the massive ancient machines. I could see equipment being loaded into crates, though from this far away I couldn't tell its purpose.

"Sit and read child," the priest directed. I shall return slightly.

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

"I wonder if it is a coincidence that all this crime is happening right where our guy is supposed to be?" Jocasta pondered as they made their way through the usual assortment of dockside dives, ship chandleries, strip clubs, and brothels towards the central lifts. Each lift was a massive tube that ran the length of the spire. Most of the lengths anyway, the very top and very bottom levels were not so easily accessed, requiring passage to private lifts and passing the local security, be it up spire guards in gleaming battledress or battle hardened street thugs who made their living taxing passage through stinking access shafts.

"Unlikely," Dirk grunted as the stepped past the spaceport security and into the large lift car. It rumbled down, stopping several times to take on and offload supplies and people. For the most part it seemed to be food going down from the dock levels above, or perhaps hydroponic farms and manufacturing plants above.

"Now reaching Fallorn Sector," a crackly voice announced as the lift stopped and the doors opened. The blast of noise was immediate and intense. Cheering voices and blaring music crashed in so hard that the dragonfly drones who had been peeking from Jocasta's jacket ducked back in momentary auditory shock. The wide boulevard before them was thronged with people in bright garments, singing and dancing. Street vendors were crammed against the boulevard walls hawking food and drink of all kinds. Performers danced and capered for the crowds, in some cases with accompanying pickpockets working their marks, though whether this was a plan or just a happy side effect Jocasta couldn't tell. Fireworks crashed off the walls and ricocheted off the high ceilings bursting close enough above the crowd to singe people.

"Some party," Jocasta remarked as her drones once again stuck their sensor encrusted heads from concealment. Dozens of carrots lit up marking weapons in various stages of concealment.

"I wonder what is going on..."

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I followed Hadrian down into the gyrating mass of dancers. The smell of unswashed bodies and obscura was intense but I was able to keep a mental lock on the increasingly agitated minds of our targets. Lights flashed overhead in jarring asycrony with the Pound music blaring. A woman nearby followed my progess with huge golden eyes. A man wrapped from head to toe in chains cursed at me as I bumped into him, but Ortega shoved past him on the other side, deliberately clipping him with a hip to take his attention away. Our targets were approaching the end of a bar, behind which hundreds of bottles were racked up, lit by bright blue lights that gave the whole scene an underwater feel.

At the end of the bar was an open area where a cloaked figure sat in lonely splendor. Tough looking gangers covered from crown to toe in tatoos preserved their boss' sanctuary. They had las weaponary, modern but heavily used, nothing like the guilded show pieces we had seen on Havernos.

Hadrian and Ortega closed in, Hadrian sliding up to the bar close enough that he might be able to hear what was being said, Ortega taking a shot of what smelled like pure alcohol from a tray proffered by a mostly naked waitress. I slipped a little closer, probing gently with my mind to ascertain if there were any mental protections or wards on the conversation.

"Hey there," a voice said from behind me. I turned to see the golden eyed woman. She was wearing a diaphanous dress which seemed to hint at her figure without actually revealing anything. I wondered if it was an expensive synthetic, or merely an ingenious low hive expidient.

"Hello yourself," I replied as she reached out a hand and patted me on the hip. I opened my mouth to make some excuse that would end the interaction when I felt a slight itch at my hip. I looked down and saw a drop of blood on the fabric of my robes. I looked up and saw her twiddling a ring on her middle finger. I noticed there was a tiny needle protruding from it a second before I slumped into her arms and darkness closed over me.

Wakefulness came slowly. I was immediately aware of a cottony taste in my mouth and a buzzing in my head. I opened my eyes to find myself tied at the wrists with some kind of electrical cord. My arms ached from the way they had been tied over my head, secured to a beam. I was in a shallow alcove that had been closed off with a woven net of rusted razor wire. The improvised cell was coated with grime, but clear of any item larger than a pebble. Beyond the wire was a large dark space, obscured by the glare of a lumen hanging just beyond the cell. Rather belatedly I realized I was naked and glanced down. To my shock I discovered that arcane sigils had been painted onto my body with some kind of industrial paint.

"Runes of Warding," a feminine voice said from beyond the wire, I could just make out the gleam of golden eyes.

"Keeps you from using that beautiful brain of yours to do anything unfortunate," she expanded. I reached out for my gifts to ensnare her mind, but my grip on the Immaterium slid away like water on a pane of glass. The lumen flickered ever so slightly.

"Oh don't worry, we've sold brain jobs before. The Under Council pays good slate for 'em, believe you me."

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

Cygi blinked into holographic existence beside Jocasta. The AI was standing in an old fashioned bath tub scrubbing herself with a wooden handled brush that artfuly avoided dislodging the strategically placed bubbles. Jocasta glanced at the main terminal read out to observe that Cygi was in the process of a system defrag.

“Oh look at that Shark Gunboat, isn’t it handsome?! I bet he has a huge di…”

“Cygi,” Jocasta chastened, following the AI’s outstretched arm to a squat powerful ship that rested on one of the cracked concrete pads. It looked weathered and was best by the trade mark rocket magazines which extended above a long ventral fin like giant eyes.

“A huge director control computer,” Cygi finished before flickering into the uniform a Union admiral complete with swagger stick. Apparently this was for the purpose of performing an inspection of the other ship because data began to flow into Jocasta’s implants, as a courtesy she projected it holographically on one of the screens. Records logged it as the X-21, owner unknown, home port unknown, which was far from helpful. Jocasta mentally shrugged whoever the ship belonged to was welcome to their business as far as she was concerned.

“The port authority is attempting to enter my systems!” Cygi gasped, suddenly wearing the overly innocent garb of a pin up girl, complete with rogued cheeks which she was fanning furiously.

“Let them into one of the fakes, just to make them feel superior,” Jocasta directed. Cygi snapped a salute, now wearing a leather flying cap dating to the time before space flight.

“Yes Ma’am!” she barked and then vanished to her own amusements. Dirk made an articulate grunt. The Dragonfly had been designed for a crew of a dozen and was far too much for Jocasta to handle alone. The solution had been to turn the signals intelligence AI loose. Partially because a decryption module was not supposed to run a ship, and partially because the only model it had was Jocasta, Cygi was a little erratic.

“Anything to worry about?” Dirk asked without much interest.

“All good in the fume hood,” Jocasta replied. She picked up her jacket, a white synthetic leather piece with cheerful green and gold checkered panels and pulled it on. Now that she was reasonably certain Dirk wasn’t going to try to kill her, she left her capacitor pistol behind, tucking an elegant little beamer into a holster sewn into the inside. Several little dragonfly drones zipped from various perches around the bridge, disappearing up sleeves, into pockets and in one case, settling into her hair to pretend to be jewelry.

“Shall we take a walk?” she asked sweetly.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The boundary between hive and underhive was a fluid one. The deeper one moved into the bowels of Gravemire the greater the dilapidation became. Ortega believed that the underhive began where the Magistratum no longer maintained order, but an arbiter of his rank was far beyond such day to day concerns. As we moved lower we passed beyond places a patrolman could safely walk the streets. In these liminal spaces Sanctioners lurked in fortified bastions, making deals with local gangers to maintain the peace and striking out only to maintain the balance of power in their favor. These areas were marked with burned out ground cars and improvised barricades. Below this area, the true underhive began.

I had elected to dress in the dark cloak of a charm woman. Part prostitute, part herbalist, part soothsayer, it was one of the few roles that allowed a woman to move in the underhive with relative safety, as well as explaining the presence of two physically imposing men. I had agreed to wear a prosthetic belly which simulated the late stages of pregnancy which gave us a place to stash equipment and a reason to turn away prospective johns. My right arm was the only flesh bare to the eye, and it had been covered with a temporary tattoo that gave the impression of scales.

As we stepped out of the elevator I tossed a few low denomination slates and a carb bar to the gangers who longued by the portal. The extracted similar tribute from others passing down from the higher levels on whatever business they had. My pose as a charm woman made this kind of transit believable as the profession was tolerated, at least unofficially, for several levels above the underhive proper. One of the gangers, a bald man whose scalp was entirely covered with overlapping gaudy tattoos, tried to reach out and touch my belly. Ortega swatted his arm away, to the laughter of his companions.

It took us nearly an hour to reach out first goal. The Wheel Market had once been a section of raised roadway. Now the burned out ground cars formed the basis of market stalls, their rusted metal caked with flaking paint in a variety of gaudy colors. Ribbons of grubby fabric linked stalls in makeshift awnings that fluttered in the intermittent breeze created by the air reclaimers. The ancient pilings that supported the place had also been painted with surprisingly artful designs, the the areas low enough to be easily reached were defaced by gang tags, and bullet holes marred the ferrocrete columns where paint cants couldn’t reach. A miasma of greasy smoke hung over the place from the cooking of unidentifiable meat over fires of what might have been hexamite but might also have been trash. Hawkers cried the merits of their wares, fried carb string, sauteed sump rat, and joylik whose diversion from poison would probably take a Magos Chemistrae to find.

I frequently glanced at Hadrian. Like Selenica, I had grave reservations about him being on this mission so soon after his surgery. He had pointed out that Clara, while a formidable fighter, didn’t have the experience in subterfuge that he did, and that Lazarus was too obviously augmented to blend into such a tech poor environment as the underhive. Odds were very good he would have wound up sacrificed to the Machines within minutes of entering. Ortega had been good enough to spread the word that Hadrian had died during his surgery, hopefully giving our unseen opponents the notion that they were safe for the moment.

We wandered among the stalls for some hours, letting ourselves be seen and making such small purchases as were appropriate to a charm woman. I kept my psychic senses open, but it was impossible to pick up clear thoughts amidst the bustle of stinking, ragged, humanity. After an hour or so, we made our play. I approached they stall of a man selling what passed for electronics. The vendor was a skeletal man, worn looking and completely hairless. The malformation of his face and body, the legacy of stripped augmetics, declared louder than his filthy red robe that he had once been a Priest of Mars.

“What can I do for you sister?” he asked in a voice that rasped with years of lho smoke.

“I have tech to sell,” I told him, and then reached into my pocket to produce a small black box. His eyes widened briefly as he saw it, before narrowing with shrewd avarice. It a vox thief that Hadrian had been carrying when he had been shot. The unit was high grade, unmistakably ordo equipment to anyone who knew what they were looking at.

“Ten slate,” the vendor said dismissively. I scoffed and made to tuck the vox thief away.

“A hundred!” he whispered with sudden desperation. His eyes cut around, fearful that the other vendors, mostly selling machine parts and minor tech, might catch wind of what was going on.

“A thousand,” I replied, and held up a finger to forestall a counter offer, “if you haggle further it will be ten thousand.” His malformed mouth worked for a moment and then he reached into his robe, rummaging around for several seconds before clandestinely slipping a pouch of slate chips across to me. I opened it slightly with one finger, then nodded to Hadrian, who scooped it up and tucked it away in some hidden pocket. I slid the vox thief across to the vendor who all but ripped it out of my hands.

“A pleasure doing business with you.”

It took less time than I had imagined. We rented rooms on the top story of a cheap flop house which catered to transients. The proprietress, a sour faced woman with a lazy eye, warned me against practicing my business, making allusions to this and that gang which needed to be cut in to anything that made slate. I nodded my agreement and we retired to our rooms.

The gangers probably thought they were being stealthy as they crept down the hall towards the room we had rented. There were six of them, each carrying heavy powder and shot pistols and a variety of knives and clubs. The reached our door and one of them produced a small hand drill with a large circular cutting bit. It cut through the cheap flak-board like gelatin, emitting a stream of dust as it did so. The ganger behind him had produced a small drink can, packed with phosphorus and other combustibles, which he shoved through the hole, a sparking fuse sputtering as it did so. There was a crash and flash of light and then the gangers kicked the door from its hinges and rushed into the room after their improvised flash bang. The room was empty, just three filthy palettes with no sign of habitation beyond a few empty food pails and cups of recaf. It took them a surprisingly long time to accept this, a process that involved considerable shouting. No one came to investigate the shouting or the explosion. It was that kind of place.

“You are sure you can follow them?” Ortega asked when the gangers finally agreed we weren’t there and headed out. I nodded. I had plenty of time to identify their minds. We were watching from the empty room across the hall, using data slates and some simple but effective picters strategically pressed into the walls. The fiber optic transmission lines were passive so even a sophisticated sweep might have missed them, not that there was much chance of that in a place where the ambient level of tech rose above 'sharp stick' only by degrees.

“Yes,” I told him, “now we just have to hope they lead us back to whoever hired them.” That was a pretty good bet, the vox thief, in addition to the audio of the assassination attempt on Hadrian, had been cunningly updated by Lazarus to contain snippets of other conversations that hinted at what we knew of the conspiracy. The Under Council was the logical market for the information the tech priest had no doubt gathered, and they would certainly want to know how a charm woman came to possess it.

“Let’s go,” Hadrian said, adjusting the hang of his weapon beneath his clothing.

“We don’t want them getting too far ahead.”

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

Phyraelon Deadstar. Jocasta was sckeptial that such a person even existed. It was common enough for urban ledgends to be bandied about to give weight and meanance to the actions of other men. Still if there were half a million credits to be had, she supposed she didn't mind who she was allegedly working for.

"Alright, I think I can probably keep my eyes open for this Vol, and if I happen to see him, make sure he has an appropriate accident."

Bohemond cleared his throat, casting a look between the two bounty hunters.

"It should not be subtle, my employer requires that his displeasure be obvious," the agent explained. Jocasta reached out and wrapped a fist on Dirks armor, the blow ringing musically from the augmented steel.

"Well you have come to the right place," Jocasta snickered.

_____

"It makes a girl whistful for the radioactive wastelands," Jocasta observed as the Dragonfly coasted in towards the Prime Spire of Tarsus. The land beyond the spire was dull, brown, and apparently lifeless. In fact a single celled algae grew over nearly every exposed surface, rendering it slimy and slick. The wealth of Tarsus, such as it was, was in mineral seams and geothermal vents which extended far below the surface of the spires. As these seams were empied out they were converted into part of the spire, spreading below the surface like the mycellia of great fungus.

"Why can't you ever take me anywhere nice?" she complained.

"I took you to a resort paradise and, according to you, you single handledly shot your way out of it," Dirk replied. Jocasta shrugged demonstratively.

"Well, I didn't even get a chance to wear a bathing suit," she complained.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"You are appologising to me?" Ortega asked. We were sitting across from each other in the Administratum annex. Ortega had been returned his weapons and equipment though he hadn't yet been permitted to leave. Two Caledonians stood by the door, leaning on heavy power glaives. I wondered, if it came down to it, if they would be able to defeat an armed and armored Ortega. Not that it would matter, a mental intrustion was like a chink in a suit of armor. As strong as the Arbites mental training was, now I had gotten in once, I could do it again. I sensed that Ortega knew it too and it wasn't disposing him well towards me.

"I have been directed to do so," I admitted. Ortega snorted.

"You will forgive me for feeling that is less than sincere," the Arbite responded.

"I will," I agreed. Our eyes locked over the table for long moments, then Ortega nodded, his posture softening ever so slightly. I suspect that Arbites were rendered constituionally unable to relax as mere mortals understood it.

"We are taught to trust not to trust, I suppose I shouldn't complain too much when you don't trust me," he admitted.

"I followed up on your suspcions," he said after a moment. "One of our tech priests has gone missing."

"How did you know about those suspicions?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders, the slightest tick at the corner of his mouth betraying the fact that he was pleased to have gotten ahead of me.

"I had the advantage of knowing that I wasn't a traitor, that assassin had to come from somewhere," Ortega responded with a touch of acid. I nodded and touched my vox bead but before I could speak the door opened. Lazarus and Hadrian entered, the Skitarii pushing the wheel chair. I turned and offered a slight bow and Ortega stiffened to something approaching a millitary brace.

"My Lord," I said formally. Hadrian nodded to me.

"Be seated," Hadrian directed and Ortega and I took seats at oppisite sides of the long table. Clara entered from another entrance dressed in an armored body glove. She glanced between Hadrian and I, looking uncomfortable. It was a shame that she had to watch what I had done, I wondered if I had irreperabley damaged our relationship. I had needed a chevalier to carry a weapon.

"The time has come to to put our cards on the table. Emmaline?" Hadrian directed. I stood up.

"We came here in pursuit of a heretical cult operating on the feral world of Havenos," I explained, ommiting to mention the Inquisitorial connection. If Hadrian wanted to drop that bomb, I would leave it to him.

"We determined they were sourcing materials from here and... well you saw what happened when we followed up that lead. They sent an assassin to close the loop so we know they are aware of us. We have since learned that his name was Jogar Carden, working for a group called the Under Council."

Ortega sat forward, his investigative insticts banishing his discomfort with the situation.

"How did you learn this," Ortega asked, frowning at the sudden tense silence which fell over the assembled group.

"We have means," I said after a moment, causing Ortega to blink in confusion. He glanced around the room of closed faces then shrugged, a tectonic motion in his armor.

"I have heard of Carden, he is... was, a pro with dozens of confirmed kills," Ortega admitted, "I suspect that if he wasn't working on the fly you wouldn't have taken him down, pskyer tricks or no."

"And the Under Council?" Hadrian pressed.

"I've heard rumors," Ortega admitted, "they operate deep in the underhive, far beyond the reach of local enforcers. Control of the lower areas of the hive is almost entirely in hands of gangers and worse. You would need an Astartes squad to shoot your way in."

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I've had a great deal of practice at concealing my emotions but even so I only marginally managed to keep the cocktail of anger, hurt, and shame. I was tired and worn out, I'd felt the terror of seeing Hadrian laying in his own blood, I'd worked psykannanic forces stronger and darker than anything I had ever touched, it was fair to say I didn't have a whole lot left in me.

"Fine," I aquieased unable to keep the fires of anger kindled.

"I need more than that," Hadrian pressed. I threw my hands up in defeat. It seemed bitterly unfair but there was no way out so I did the only thing I could. I straightened my back and stepped back from Hadrian.

"My Lord Inquisitor," I said formally, "I accept your censure, and I will not repeat my actions." Despite my best efforts, each word had a slight bite to the back end of it. I knew this made me seem petulant but I couldn't help myself.

"I was able to extract some information from the witness," I continued my voice clinicaly detached. Hadrian hadn't asked for it, being more concerned with how it was obtained but I had paid the price to obtain it and I couldn't let it go unused because of its source.

"Can it even be trusted?" Hadrian asked, sounding weary. I nodded my head. The ritual I had used compelled the shade to speak truly, though they could force an querant burn up time asking the question three times. A practitioner could only hold the shade while the salt burned. If the flames reached the center of the circle before the ritual was terminated, the practitioner would be 'opened to the beyond', a vauge section of the text which filled me with dread. I wondered if Jogar Carden had been hoping for that result with his talk of salvation.

"The assassin's name was Jogar Carden," I told him. "I don't know how helpful that will be, he may not have used his true name while he was working."

"He was working for something he called the Under Council."