Penny

Wealth and Warpstorms

“We should begin the installation ceremony at once,” Yvraine said, her voice firm and unyielding. Camilla paused in her step and cast an eye at her soon-to-be-seneshal. Yvraine looked determined, arms folded and face set.

“Surely we can wait till after this investigation is concluded?” Camilla suggested. Yvraine shook her head emphatically.

“Leaving aside the fact that it is an insult to the God Emperor and the Family to leave the Navarre without a master, the most powerful cogitator routines are locked unless the Rogue Trader enables them, not to mention the Old Man’s personal files might have clues that would be helpful. That isn’t even considering what might happen if an hostile vessel were to attack and there was no acknowledged Master aboard…” Camilla held up her hands in surrender to block the stream of reasoning.

“Fine, fine,” Camilla agreed, “Let us see to it.”

“If you don’t mind boss, I’ll take the arbitey down and get started, odds are pretty good we will be finished by the time you get to the third page of thees and forasmuches,” Jocasta put in. Alcander mouthed ‘arbitey’ with a look of outrage but Camilla nodded and waved her hand.

“Good good, I’ll see you up on the command deck then,” she replied. Yvraine opened her mouth to raise an objection but then closed it and nodded.

“Come then Rogue Trader,” Yvraine said, “Your destiny awaits.”

The command deck of the Navarre was a place of wonder and glory. It was a raised wedge of steel over a hundred meters long and buttressed with splendid cathedral columns which curved overhead like tree branches meeting over a river. Rather than stained glass though, the vast windows looked out into the void, the Xtachi crystal which comprised them was a priceless xenos import, stronger than durasteel but clear as fresh spring air. The glory of the stars burned beyond, somewhat spoiled on the port side by the view of the orbital station and its tawdry collection of in system tramps. Banks of cogitators lined the length of the bridge in a series of interlocking curves. Each station had a servitor sheathed in polished gold casings which made them look like statues of ancient armsmen in plate and tabard. The bridge officers sat on their own control thrones, each one an elaborate work of art and gazed down over their little fiefdoms. The command throne itself sat in the center, wrought from polished wood that, it was said, came from ancient Terra itself. The chair back had been worked into the scene of a battle in which two forces of men clashed with archaic weapons, a desperate rearguard being overrun by an advancing horde. The arms were of sculpted oozlite,laid out with delicate traceries of what looked like natural veins but in fact were the circuits that enabled the captain to interface with the ship itself. The throne could be rotated on its diaz to face the forward view port and the steps down to a small rotunda which held the glittering actuality sphere. The sphere was taller than a man, and wrought from gold and electrum intricately worked to resemble ancient devices of astrological navigation.

And that was only the usual display. The ascension of a new Rogue Trader might only occur once in five hundred years and there was much pomp and circumstance to be squeezed into such an occasion. Great banners in the red and white colours of the Dukes of Navarre hung from the distant ceiling, fluttering slightly in the artificial wind generated by the heating and cooling of thousands of cogitators. Ranks of men and women stood flanking a vast crimson carpet, the bridge officers resplendent at their head but by tradition one member from every crew on the ship was present. This ranged from scribes and tech priests all the way down to the lowliest deckhands, some of whom would never have seen the bridge much less the captain. This would be a tale they would bring back to their families, to be cherished for generations to come. The effect of so many costumes, from polished battle armor to grease soaked smocks was disorienting, as was the melange of odors which polluted the bridges normal miasma of warm electronics and the cold almost spiced scent of the Xtachi glass against the void.

Camilla strode down the center of the bridge towards the chair, flanked by an honor guard of six men in polished chrome battle dress with long force poles held vertically. The pennants of the last six Rogue Traders to command the Navarre fluttered from the onyx staves. She was dressed in formal regalia a tunic of gold embroidered with dark buff, a long scarlet cape, epaulets of pale purple woven with gold and silver thread, long trousers of a pale cream that tucked into black riding boots that clinked with the presence of actual spurs. Though her arms had to be bear for the ceremony, to keep her inlaid circuitry clear for the bonding, a pair of white gloves was thrust jauntily through her epaulet. Yvraine followed behind, the ceremonial gown and staff of the seneschal in hand. The navigator, a distinguished if somewhat stocky man flanked her, an elaborate turban of pristine white cloth wrapped around his head and a heavy sashmir at his side. Only the Astropaths were not present in the flesh, though a psychic song reverberated through the ship, rendering the March of the Primarchs in glorious orchestral splendor.

Camilla paused before the throne remembering the very first time she had stood before it. She had been a girl of fifteen then, abducted by her uncle from the very cathedral where she was to speak her vows. It had been terrifying at the time,Orthelio Belchite had been a name her own father had used only as a curse. She had been half convinced that the ogre from her bedtime stories was about to devour her for some sin or transgression. It had taken days for her to realise that the Old Man had actually come, at considerable expense and risk, to rescue her from the dreary life of the cloister. She had been grateful and thrown herself into learning anything she could. They had grown closer, by slow steps, Orthelio had seemed interested in her, even proud of her at times. The ship’s people had seen that, and opened up to her in a way they never otherwise would. Over time she had become a valued member of the crew. Now this. She felt a stab of loss to see the throne without the Old Man and and a flush of embarrassment that she had allowed herself to be pushed into this before his killer had been brought to justice.

Yvraine cleared her throat softly and Camilla realised that she had drifted into something of a reverie. Flushing with further embarrassment she mounted the diaz and spread the crimson cloak behind her before settling herself into the chair. Yvraine smiled though she must have been thinking of the Old Man also because her face soured slightly before she turned to drive her staff three times onto the deck plating in slow deliberate cadence.

“Bring forth the Warrant of Trade!”

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

"Seldon! Seldon!" a voice boomed through the makeshift encampment which had been set up in the cloister and outbuildngs of the Imperial Temple. As billets went it wasnt bad, a network of rooms and corridors that probably doubled as a market place during the High Holidays. They had parked several chimera's at each entrance and troops from D company were piling sandbags between the vehicles and setting up autocannons to improvise strong points. More urgent was the work of troopers who were rolling barrels filled with sand into the makeshift barracks. These were doused with prometheum and then set on fire at which point they would blaze cheerfully for hours, allowing cold men to warm themselves.

"What in the name of Terra is it now...." Sel groaned standing up and shugging deeper into the inadequate coat she had been issued. As usual she should have no duties, but also as usual it seemed that wasn't going to be the case for long. Lieutenant Campion, one of the headquaters flunkies was pushing his way through thickets of shivering men, bawling her name. Perplexed Sel gave him a half hearted salute, then stuck her hands back into her pockets.

"Sir," she said in the neutral tone of voice she always adpoted when she knew she might be in trouble but wasn't exactly sure for what. Campion looked over her disheveled state, the bruises on her face and black eye having turned interesting shades of green and yellow in th past week.

"Emperor's teeth, well there is nothing for it, get into your dress uniform and get yourself over to the palace, your commander has tripped over his silver spoon again and has been invited to dine at the palace. He will need transport back. Do you have that? Any questions? Chaampion demanded, very much in the tone of a man who had been given an unpleasant task and was determined to complete it as quickly as possible. Sel spat her unlit lho stick into a nearby fuel barrel, eliciting a wince from the officer.

"One question sir," she said in a level voice which made Campion cringe a little.

"Yes Corpral?" he asked.

"What dress uniform?"

_______________________________

The dress uniform of the 2nd Gendarmes was as chaotic as its mix of constituant units. No doubt, in another few years a standard variat would be agreed on. A century after that, that knowledge would reach the Administratum and if they were very lucky, another century after THAT, the unit would be shipped new uniforms. As it was Sergeant Major Brannigan haad outfited Sel with a uniform that consited of a single breasted field jacket in a royal blue with gold piping at the seams and bright gold buttons. This was place over baggy white half trouers which tucked into the top of tall cavalry style boots. It was accentuated with golden buttons, a white lanyard that ran from right epualet to pocket, and some arcane insignia which, for all Sel knew, might mean she as from the scouts. It also had a royal blue garrison cap with a swatch of white that ran digaonally down from the midpoint. The final piece of ornamentation was a white leathehr holster into which Sel had crammed a las pistol. The gun belt was meant for more ornemental weapons, and the result was as slightly off putting as every element conspird to be. Sell pulled up the cargo four, a battred millitary model with improvised flags to make it look official. She hopped out and headed up to the guards on duty, they looked half bug eyed at her approach and gripped the ceremonial carbines which Sel would have bet hadn't been fired since Horus was in diapers. She tugged out the white gauntlets she had been given and pulled them on.

"I'm here to speak with Lieutenant Lord Kaladwarden," Sel said to the nervous looking men, noting the way their green gowns seemed proof against the biting cold.

"I'm his driver and I need to tell him I've arrived," she explained. There was an awkward silene for a few moments.

"We will tell him..." the first guard began but Sel held up her hand to forestall him.

"I need to tell him I have arrived," she repeated, stressing the personal pronoun. The guards hovered for a moment in indecsion, then caved.

"Very well, but you will have to leave your weapon at the...

"Nope," Sel cut him off, heading up the stairs to the palace at a quick saunter.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The stink of necromantic magic was still heavy on the air as they climbed the shoulder of the valley. Below them a mist was rolling in like a gray tide, obscuring the vale. Every now and then there was a faint glow, like witchlight just beyond sight that made Emmaline's heart race. She became convinced that at any moment more undead horrors would lurch from the mist to rip them appart and she tasted coppery bile in her throat. It wasn't until they reached the lip of the valley and and the scent of horses made her nose twitch that she finally allowed herself to believe they might escape. Of course escape meant a hundred miles across bad roads at night through beastman infested forests, which was something to keep in mind.

"Take his hor...oh for Sigmar's sake really?" Kasimir demanded as Emmaline began going through the late knights saddle bag and lifted out a pouch of coins. "What you didn't have time to loot the body?"

"I can't help it," Emmaline replied with a little more waspishness than might have been strictly necessary. The death of the Knight had pricked her worse than she let on. She hadn't known him, and Ranald knew there were more than enough bone headed men willing to jump onto a blade in the world, but he had died to defend her, or what he thought was her. It was far from certain that he would have been so keen to join this quest if she had just been Emmaline from Morganstern which added another complicated layer to her feelings on the matter. As a rule her scams were victimless crimes, rich idiots who lost what they could easily afford and though she had to admit she would have traded Reynards life for hers if she had to, it still made her feel badly. The gold that clinked in his pouch soothed her somewhat and she thrust it back into his saddlebag.

"Your welcome by the way," Kasimir said as he swung up into his saddle. Emmaline did the same, though the powerful destrier showed no signs of being a comfortable ride.

"Now just wait a minute," Emmaline began, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the fact that you couldn't mind your own bussiness."

"Well maybe if you worked a bit harder on that abominable accent..."

"There is nothing wrong with my accent, Ill have you know that..."

They road off into the beast haunted woods, bickering all the while.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

I would have lost him if it had not been for the shoots, first a volley then a single shot. I wondered what that might mean, an ambush followed by an execution? With the confusing way shots echoed in these close confines I couldn't tell. The tunnels were growing older, more dilapidated as the city above pressed down more firmly. It was evident from the increase in inspouts that we were passing beneath the more populated areas and away from the exclusive playground of the rich and powerful. I had been a deperssing number of such places, even so early in my career. The Inquisition really should consider adding a course in Imperial Sanitation to the Adept curriculum, it would be very useful and have the added benefit of humbling those who get above themselves.

I was in rough shape. The fight with the arbites had taken a lot out of me, more than physically there was a spiritual tiredness that made my head hang and my footsteps drag. I was certain that Edwards had given me the slip until passed the bodies of a half dozen slain men, cultists I judged them, having run afoul of Edwards in his flight. That gave me some pause, I had considered him a thief but this clear evidence of violence made me second guess that assumption. Before my still groggy mind could think on this I heard voices ahead and slowed to a stealthy creep. Reaching an archway I peered out to see Edwards climbing down to converse with an abhuman that carried quite the largest rifle I had ever seen. I ducked back, trying to force my mind to consider next steps, when a new voice sounded below.

"Evening gents," it called and I peered through to see an older man stepping from the darkness. He was wearing a coat of vitrian glass and held a heavy Hecutor Tundra Falcon in his left hand. It was a seriously hardcore pistol, capable of punching holes in even light armored vehicles. Some gun slingers favored them for the flashiness of a high calibre but the recoil was ruinous if you had to fire more than a single shot.Edwards seemed to recognise him and lowered his weapon.

“Did you get it?” the newcomer asked. Edwards flashed a smile that lit the gloom and pulled the gemstone from his pocket.

“We got it Gantz,” he confirmed with a note of triumph in his voice. Gantz and the Halfling took a step forward to gaze at the shining jewel but as the drew near Gantz pulled a short punch dagger from his belt and drove it into the Halfling’s side. The abhuman let out a gurgling scream and fell to the ground, clutching at a red stain spreading over his tunic. Edwards blinked in confusion for a moment then went for his gun. He was fast but the momentary hesitation cost him and he found himself staring down the Hecutor’s yawning muzzle.

“Gantz! What the frak are…” the chamber lit with the roar of the hand cannon, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to preserve my night vision. Edwards clutched at his face but Gantz had twitched the barrel aside at the last minute and it was just hot propellant which had spattered the thief.

“Shut the frak up!,” Gantz snarled his voice tiny in the cordite scented sewer air.

“Toss your gun into the shit, then throw me the jewel, do anything else and I plug you for real,” Gantz ordered. Edwards hesitated and Gantz sneered.

“Do it quickly enough and you might have time to save your little abhuman buddy,” he cajoled. Edwards’ eyes flicked to the Ratling who was laying on the ground writhing in pain. Id seen my share of wounds and I judged there was still time, though not much. Edwards came to the same decision and tossed his gun. It clattered over the flagstones then tumbled into the sewer flow with a plop.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded of Gantz.

“You are a loser Edwards, you have a ship, a warrant of trade and what have you done with it?” The voice was thick with contempt. I could taste the sneer Gantz up into his words. The pieces fell into place as I realized Edwards must be a Rogue Trader, though not, apparently, a very successful one.

“Joy rides around the sector for insignificant little heists. It is pathetic. All that potential wasted, well no longer, things are going to be different when I am in command of the ship, now be a good boy and toss me the stone before the runt bleeds out. Even from this range I could see Edwards was measuring the distance and calculating his odds but he must have realized it was hopeless and tossed the gem underhanded to Gantz. The latter caught it with his right hand, the barrel of the pistol never wavering.

“Thank you, unfortunately I can’t let you live. New day and all…” Gantz drawled. There was a sharp crack and a red dot appeared on Gantz forehead. He looked perplexed for a moment before the blood ran down his face in a crimson sheet and he collapsed to his knees. The autopistol smoked in my hand and I was hardly conscious I had even fired. Gantz toppled over, his body sprawling as the jewel spilled from his twitching fingers, clattering across the stones towards the river of filth. Edwards dived after it, snatching it up a heart beat before it tumbled into the sewage flow. His momentum might have carried him into the sump but he managed to flip himself up right, plant his feet on the edge and leap over in a graceful bound.

“I’m coming out,” I called, Edwards had tossed his gun but he might very well have a back up piece, or even something exotic like a digi weapon if he really was a rogue trader. I stepped out into the open and crossed to the ratling. It was reaching feebly for the stock of its rifle which was just out of reach. Kneeling down I opened one of his webbing pouches and pulled out the guard issue aid kit within.

“This will sting,” I advised, then yanked the punch dagger free, pouring the sulfa powder over the wound before shoving a handful of gauze against it. It stained crimson immediately but the flow slowed from a gush to a trickle.

“You might live if you quit squirming,” I admonished.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

The cheering of the crowds was somehow more disconcerting than gunfire might have been. Sel watched the word through the chimera’s driving slit, which continually occluded with condensation. She reached into her back and withdrew a tube of tooth cream and smeared the white paste on the armorcrys, then began buffing it off with the cuff of her fatigues.

“Preventing cavities Sel?” Elara asked with amusement.

“Old sentinel pilots trick,” Sel responded and she felt just a bit smug when the window ceased to fog up.

The regiment came to a halt in a broad plaza flanked on two sides by impressively porticos carved into the likeness of heroic laborers and miners supporting a two story tall mosaic which depicted priests, nobles, and soldiers all reaching up to shield the populace from some threat beyond the stars. Judging by the relative lack of soot deposition this was relatively new construction. That was common on worlds undergoing internal troubles like this, the local authorities being keen to demonstrate their loyalty and piety in case anyone might ask how discontent was allowed to grow to open rebellion. Of course the same expenditures on the actual war effort might have been a better use of resources but such concerns tended to escape a nervous aristocracy. Something about the mosaics bothered Sel, perhaps a distortion of proportions of the towering figures of the nobility, or perhaps it was a juvenile desire to find some reason to rake the thing with multilaser fire.

Despite the cold, the crowd was raucous. They thronged the streets on both sides shouting and cheering, their breath steaming like so many dragons. The more well to do wore long coats that seemed heated by portable lumen packs while the poor simply wrapped themselves in thick coats and multiple layers. Priests paraded back and forth with portable braisers, literally bringing heat as they called the prayer of benediction on the offworlders. Servo skulls, picters and sensor units floated above the crowd above the clouds of hurdle confetti and sanctified prayer rice.

Sel pulled the chimera into the position indicated by a local magistratum officer with a pair of light wands and shut down the engine with a grumble. The lack of background noise allowed them to hear the cacophony of the crowd competing with the rumble of following engines and the shouted commands of officers.

“Squad, dis….mount!” A voice yelled from outside and the troopers dutifully filed out. Second platoons carriers formed the points of a square within which the platoon was being formed into four ranks in something resembling drill. Sel ignored them, not officially being part of the platoon, and headed forward. She could see Kayden astride his ridiculous horse. The Lieutenant was heading towards the rest of the officers who had just arrived in open topped command cars or disgorged from their own chimeras. Before he could reach them however, there was a brassy blair of trumpets. Sel realised, with a combination of amusement and horror, that Kayden was exactly in the center of a large set of stairs that ran up towards the city hall, a vast edifice of soaring spires and crumbling gargoyles. Worse yet, Kayden instinctively wheeled his horse to face the hall, seeking the source and cause of the sound. The beast even reared to the roared approval of the crowd. Before anyone could say anything two files of ceremonial guards strode forward and between them a delegation of local nobles. They had mistaken Kayden, the sole mounted man and also the one in the apparent position of honor, for the guard commander and they were coming down to greet him. The eyes of his fellow officers were murderous but hurrying as they were they weren’t going to make it before the locals greeted the second platoon commander as though he were the Lord Solar himself.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

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 fought my way through them

CLASSIFICATION: *Pirmary Level Redaction*
CLEARANCE: *Obsidian*
ENCRYPTION: *Cryptox v 2.6*
CODED: -=Vermillion Theta Gold =- Interdict #Ordo Xenos - 2663-25-261

I was dead. They weren't expecting attack exactly but they had heard me coming and they were jumpy enough that the second they clocked I wasn't an arbite or a cultist or whatever the hell they were I was going to get a face full of flechettes. I did the only thing I could. I reached out to the Stone. She didn't want to help me of course but the knowledge that these were servants of the ruinous powers gave her little choice. Knowledge and skill flowed into me. My senses grew sharper, colors gained nuainse they hadn't had before. I went to the right, using the least prepared man to foul the aim of the quickest. His barrel bounced off his comrades armor even as the blast that would have killed me gouted down the tunnel. I came across with my right foot, cracking his left knee as I spun him to shield me. He screamed in agony as I placed my weight perfectly and pitched him over my shoulder into two of his fellows. They both went down under his weight, no threat for the moment. I parried a pistol with my left hand, slapping the saftey on so that when the man releveled it the piece didn't fire. I thrust my right handed kukri up into his soft palette then, using it as a hand grip twisted his body to interpose it between myself and another gunman. The arbites shotgun went of, shreding the unarmored portion of his comrade and scooping away his left arm. Blood and tissue spattered me but I was already moving towards the endgame. I caught hold of the shooter's webbing belt and came away with the pin of the fragmentation grenade he kept clipped to his belt at the same time as I swept my kukri in a single ark which slashed the tendons of both knees. His body folded down atop me and I curled myself up behid the armor of his torso. The grenade went off with a noise like the end of the world and my heightened senses screamed as they tried to track every piece of ricocheting shrapnel that filled the tunnel. All eight men were dead or dying in the space of a second and a half of frenzied violence. The link broke and I fell to the floor, vomiting up what little I had eaten that day. The sense of wrongness was every bit as palpable as the first time and my body felt too short, too slow, too grotesque. My head was swimming with thoughts too complex for my biochemistry to follow and I tasted burning cinnamon at the back of my throat.

"Frak," I whispered as I tried to push myself to my feet.

I had to reach Edwards before he escaped.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Prometheum fumes made the sky above Landing Field Bravo shimmer in the pale light of Balor's distant star. The upper atmosphere was filled with scudding cloud and a light snow would have been falling had it not been for the constant jet wash of Imperial Landing craft as they ferried the 2nd Gendarmes and the 91st Langeroth down from orbit. The lift engines created an almost constant background rumble which made conversation difficult without raising ones voice. The landing field itself was better than many the guard employed. It wasn't unusual for combat deployments to take place on empty fields, but that always ran the risk of accident and delay, particularly for heavy equipment and armore. On Balor however the problem was obviated by the need for the mines to lift out their product to orbit or to the hungry factory hives that ran along geothermic faultlines like pearls on a string. Landing Field Bravo lay beside a vast open cut mine which sank dizzyingly in a series of concentric ovals cut into the rock. The pit was so deep that the only way Sel could establish scale was to compare the tiny toy like vehicles she saw at the bottom to the hulking two story monsters that lined the north end of the field. Towers of girders and wire netting rose from the pit forming vast lifts which could haul tens of thousands of tons of vehicles and ore up to the pads where bridges of reinforced metal and rockcrete linked them to the landing field and outbuildings. The scale of the thing gave Sel the creeps. An open sightline that stretched over a kilometer wasn't something any scout felt too happy about.

Not that the view beyond the landing field made her feel better. At all lattitudes Balor was cold, but at this lattitude it was cold and dry for the vast majority of the time. The landscape rolled away in a series of low hillocks cut with gulches and ravines. A faint greyish powder that was a combination of snow and permafrost dusted it though it didn't seem to impede the growth of tough looking grasses and large patches of moss and lichen. Skeletal looking trees with long dagger shaped leaves grew in groves dictated by a logic that would take a Magos Biologos to explain. Sel sat behind the wheel of the cargo four she had been assigned to, slouched into her jacket against the constant enervating wind. It wasn't cold exactly, though it certainly would be once anyone went out beyond the thermal washed ferocrete of the pad. Sel considered their meagre cold weather gear and scowled.

"Corpral Seldon!" Sel hunched down lower into her jacket, hoping against hope to avoid notice, but the call was repeated a second time and she was forced to look up to see Sparks and Elara hurring across the ferocrete, breath steaming in the chill air. Both women were smoking lho sticks and the lit tips bobbed like will o whisp as the approached.

"Ladies," Sel greeted them as noncomittaly as possible.

"We were wondering..." Sparks began but Sel held up a hand to cut her off.

"That sounds like a question for Seargent Crispin," she retorted and Sparks blinked in confusion.

"You don't know what I was going to ask!" she objected. Sel plucked the lho stick from between Sparks' lips and took a drag, grinning around it in a way that suggested that this was entirely her point. Despite the fact that she was only attached as a driver, and that as a punishment, the entire platoon seemed hell bent on making everything her problem, as though the only way they could relate to a non-com was to force her into the chain of command as quickly as possible. In private moments Sel had to admit she was slowly losing the battle but she was no quitter.

"Anyway we can't ask Seargent Asprin because he has been yelling at Vane and Kelkin for the last twenty minutes about not having their boots laced up properly," Elara put in with a frustrated shake of her head. Sel took another long drag of the lho stick then passed it back to sparks as she breathed out a long, thin, trail of smoke.

"You know, using an offensive nickname for a Seargent might be a bad idea if you were talking to an officer," she suggested.

"Fortunately, as I have already mentioned, I'm merely an assigned driver with no command authority what so ever," Sel pressed, attempting to beat the hint into the two women.

"We just need to know where you want the chimeras parked until we get orders to move out," Sparks added with a nasty grin. Sel lay a chilled hand across her alread wind chapped face.

"Fine, fine, get them up by those prometheum tanks and top them up before anyone thinks to put a guard on them, then get lagered up on the northen approach there. Ill try to find out from the LT..." Sel trailed off as Kayden came striding out of the command tent.

"Sorry, duty calls," she told the other two women and waved at Kayden as he tapped his way across the ferocrete with his cane.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

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.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

"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.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

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.