40K Dark Heresy: The Recondite War

[NecronLord]

Prologue:
House of the Grey Lord

Sergar Regis’s apartments at the very tip of the Manilan Spire of Malfi were beyond fine. High windows rotated hour by hour to keep the system’s sun shining upon the great office hall’s centre; around the edges of the chamber, a seven tiered library rose higher and higher supported by a hundred carpeted staircases upon the backs of vast marble arches. Liveried servants moved this way and that, carrying on their master’s business within this great agglomeration of knowledge.

Once, after the Angevin Crusade, this tower had been the habitation of a senior fellow of the Adeptus Terra, now, it was a private dwelling of the Count-Palatine Sergar Regis, a powerful noble of, it was said, unimpeachable descent from space farers of that same crusade over a millennium ago.

To look upon him was to look upon what seemed, at first, to be a faded monochrome pict, for he still bore the looks of those ancestors, enhanced, it was said, by the days he had spent travelling beyond the sector in the retinue of a rogue trader. Despite the grey-blue look of his skin, and the darkness of his hair, and his officially accounted age of over three hundred and seventy nine, he seemed to be young, in his thirties, the result, it was said, of warp travel and possibly valuable juveant treatments.

Often, he entertained here. He was known for learning, which this great chamber showed off, and popular amongst the local nobility despite his strange, space faring looks, for he had chosen to, despite having a smaller estate on distant Scintilla, dwell here, which played to their prejudices greatly.

Often, he entertained here, but rarely did he entertain such groups of persons as he was about to, for they would not be recognised by the nobility of this world as the… appropriate… type of persons for a man of his standing to speak unto. But then, they would not know that each of these persons served, as Lord Regis himself did, the Inquisition.

With a languid wave of an elegant, manicured hand, in a wide sleeve of russet and cream, he summoned one of the senior household attendants, a blonde woman, whom, like most of his staff, had been elevated from the youth of the lower hive almost at random simply to avoid a pre-existing connection to some enemy, “Clear the room and the hallways,” he said.

She bowed deeply, “As you wish, my lord,” and, with a few whispers into a vox bead as she drew away, the other servants and occasional servitor filed out of the vast library office, leaving it bare, letting its great central doors swing open, a slight draft from some part of the hive blowing open books near the doors slowly through page after page on the devotional purity of the Imperial Creed.

Now, to wait, and see how many of the prospective agents of his master arrived, for to come to any destination on Malfi was a small challenge. Its vast hives, the greatest in the sector, greater even than those of Scintilla (or so its rulers claimed, often and loudly to any who would listen) were like mazes, even the palaces of the powerful and noble were near impossible to find without a guide.

Count Regis would see how many of the agents whom he had sent for, would arrive. None of them would have met their ultimate master, the Inquisitor, but rather, intermediaries like himself; and perhaps they would entertain notions that he was such a person; or perhaps, they would not have come at all, when receiving messages of activation. He turned his black eyes to a great ciphered ledger, and looking at a desk chronometer among the gilded finery set out before his seat, He turned a great hourglass, in which the strained ashes of a devout scribe ran, and waited…

[Zablorg]

Crom had arrived at the Spire. His neck and chest rippled with nervousness and excitement as he was escorted by two servants up the winding staircase to the peak. Once he passed a goblet made of what looked like gold, and he attempted to reach his hands out to snatch it without anyone noticing, but the servent was too quick for him, and slapped his hand away. He hoped the incident would go unreported.

Finally they reached the top, where the two servents turned around and began to trot down the stairs again. He was quickly picked up by two more servants, and he was led throughout the enormous and well decorated halls. Clearly, this man lived well.

They arrived at a large door, and the servents wasted no time in turning swiftly around and gaining as much distance from him as possible.

He stood at the door for maybe two minutes, trying to keep his legs loyal to the stance of his body. After he had collected himself as much as possible, he exhaled, pondered whether he would be re-embursed for his travel fees and pushed the doors open.

[NecronLord]

The grey man looked up, his disingenuously colourful robes rustling a little in his high backed seat, as the servants conducted a shifty looking personage into the chamber, evidently somewhat ill at ease; Doubtless, the Lord thought, the Guide’s Guild has just shown him the bill. He took a long quill from some exotic species of avian, and twitched it in Crom’s direction, “Come Down, be at ease,” he said, waving the quill at a set of ten chairs built around the far side of the semicircular, redwood desk, his hand hovering over an ebony, steel and gold casket.

Without waiting to see if the man came, he looked back down to the ledger and made a notation, “Oh, and close the door behind you,” his suasive and perhaps amplified voice echoed around the chamber.

It came as no surprise that the servants had conducted him to one of the side doors; of course, this being Malfi, it might have taken half an hour to get to the main ones anyway. The walk down was a short one, but one that showed a thousand valuables, golden leaved books and real groxhide tomes, genuine wooden (valuable on this world) shelves, and jugs of water that would be a ganger’s ransom in the underhive, for their purity alone.

[Zablorg]

Crom closed the door slowly, careful not to make any noise. As silently and calmly as he could, he make his way to and sat down before the priceless casket. He had never seen such luxury in his life. In fact he felt so out of place that he was really wondering if it was wise for the Inquisition to send him here in the first place. He quickly banished the thoughts from his mind. Fungus of the underhive he may be, but he was a loyal servant of the Emperor no less, and the Inquisition was his sword, his will incarnate. To doubt the Inquisition was to doubt the Throne-cast himself.

[NecronLord]

The Lord didn’t look up for a moment longer, “Welcome. We still have a while to wait before your companions arrive, feel free to help yourself to some amasec, wine, or whatever you prefer,” he said, nodding to a side table, laden with opulent fruits, snacks and drinks, “a perk of being first,” he shot Crom a disarming, friendly, smile, and went back to his book.

[Done a slight edit in your post there, the casket's about a foot square, on the desk. He's sitting in chairs beyond that, not in it. No one's being buried alive... yet.]

[White Haven]

The popular image of a fast freighter is of a ship devoted to carrying luxuries or critical supplies from place to place faster than bulk transport could make the trip. In general terms, that image is correct, but as he disembarked from the grounded shuttle the brown-robed figure reflected that it wouldn't have been his first choice. Not that it wasn't fast; it was an even tossup whether the Kestrel had even left its last port of call when it emerged from the Immaterium above Malfi. The trouble, mused the figure as he strode from the tarmac and into the hive proper, was the cargo...too much livestock in too small a space was never the post pleasant scent, and that's leaving aside the palpable aura of terror polluting the ship from the grox's simple minds.

Stopping for a few moments in the shadow of a street pulpit to cradle his headache-shot forehead, he runs over the terse message that sent him here, orienting himself with a quick glance at the map that came enclosed with his passage here. Pushing back out into the foot traffic, he makes his way through the streets, using the steel-shod wood shaft held in his black-gloved right hand to ease a path for himself until he arrives at his destination and knocks the head of his staff on the portal.

"Ajax Voidson. By invitation."

[NecronLord]

Ajax was given a leery look from a door warden. Such was his lot in life, for even as a sanctioned psyker, he was different, and the people of the Imperium only tolerated difference if it was exalted. Nonetheless, he was conveyed, as all those who would follow him, were, to the presence of the Palatine-Count, and ushered into the room.

This time, there was no acknowledgement beyond a simple glance, a gesture to the seats, and a note in the ledger.

[White Haven]

The robe figure settles into a seat two down the row from the other visitor, presumably...a comrade? Or perhaps not, time will have to tell. After a short while fidgetting uncomfortably with something under the worn brown fabric, he stands up again and lifts the hem of the robe upwards, unbuckling a weapon belt that houses the few possessions he carries with him. Hefting it in his hands, he hooks it over the back of his chair so that the sheathed rapier's hilt protrudes upwards over his shoulder when he seats himself again.

"Much better," he comments to himself, before turning his attention to his protocomrade and speaking in a hushed tone out of respect for the working host, "Ajax. I believe it's somewhere in the regulations that I'm supposed to inform you that, as a sanctioned Imperial psyker, I'm as likely to wrap your soul into a moebius strip as say hello. Oh, hello." His voice is a perfect deadpan, no hint of a smile crossing his exposed face.

[The Yosemite Bear]

Eli presented his papers to the guards, he looked more like he was casing the place than he had legitamate business there. His slender frame was not used to the weight of the world, and his all purpose spacer's coveralls had seen much better days, a major section of his left leg was patched with tape, curtesy of a grazing wound from boarding action against those damned Eldar* a few months ago. (the leg still itched considerably from where the hail of splinters had just grated against it)

Yes, this was quite a place, the spacer began making gross miscalculations in his head of the sorts of flash and thunder he could aquire from some of the knick knacks, of course the guards seemed to keep a close eye on him. closer than anyone else attending so far.

with a bit of a nervousness he approched the bronzer**, and presented his "papers" after all, he had been told that they spelled out the terms of his "pardon" and "letter of Marquis and Reprisal" but being unable to read Eli was not quire sure at all what they said.

*note: Eli will not discuss what happened during the boarding of the Eldar pirate vessel at the behest of the inquisition, but be assured that he does fear/hate them and is somewhat traumatized by the condition of the "cargo" on board the pirate vessel, not to mention seeing his ship mates getting sliced into chunks of meat by mono edged weapons.

** Jon Bronze, always be on the lookout for a Jon Bronze, they will roust an honest rogue trader just smuggling enough to keep the ship alive faster than blinking, after all a cop is the natural enemy of a decent underclass type.

[Jaevric]

Darien pauses a moment on the threshold of the apartment, taking a look around at the evident wealth of his surroundings, his expression impassive. The trip had taken longer than he had expected; he was fairly newly arrived on the hive world, and had chosen to show up for this meeting in civilian clothes.

Understandably, travelling through crowds while wearing the uniform of a member of the Adeptus Arbites was a much faster process. Even on these higher levels of the hive, an Arbitrator commanded a degree of respect. Darien is slightly above average height, broad-shouldered, and wearing his reddish-brown hair unfashionably short. The left side of his face is creased along the jawline by a bullet wound, and his movements are brisk and disciplined. The militaristic impression is furthered by the fact that his civilian clothes have obviously spent more time in a trunk than being worn, judging by the creases.

Upon being greeted and presenting his "invitation," Darien strides briskly down the hall to find out the purpose of this summons. Hiding a grimace at the odd assortment of people preceding him, Darien makes the sign of the aquila to the Lord, bowing his head slightly. Taking a seat in the corner, the big man makes sure he can keep an eye on the door and windows as well as the others in the room.

[Lancer]

Garbed in a flak vest and fresh scarlet robes, Tech Adept Mercurius Haxtes descended from the Mechanicus shuttle, clutching a staff topped with the cogwheel insignia of his office in in one hand, a data-slate in the other. Taking in the sights and sounds of this world, he stopped for a moment to silently offer thanks to the machine spirts which had conveyed him thus far. A servitor-driven rickshaw from the local Cult Mechanicus temple awaited him at the end of the disembarkation deck to ferry him for the final leg of his journey, and as he rode to the Spire, he ruminated upon the considerable effort undertaken to see to his arrival.

Upon his arrival, he was promptly shown to the chamber, where he found a seat apart from the others and began to busy himself with his data-slate, for all the world appearing unimpressed by the ostentious displays of wealth.

[Zablorg]

WHEN THE GODDAMN HELL did all these people arrive?

Crom jumped out of his seat with a start after realizing that he was surrounded by people he had not noticed while he was pondering the virtues of keeping aware of ones surroundings (+10 awareness ftw). The best way to make strangers not so was to find out their character. And in most cases, the best way to find out their character, was to provoke them.

He slowly got up from his chair and approched the man in scarlet robes. He noticed the various trinkets and tattoos on him that were easily associated with the Adeptus Mechanicus. He began to make that odd chewing gesture people made when trying to look casual, although he never did find out it's purpous.

"So" he said, in a relaxed tone, "don't see many folks round these parts into that kind'o stuff, eh?" he motioned to his various Mechanicus accessories. "So, is it true the adeptus like to, ehrm, "augment" themselves in the ah, more refined pleasures of flesh and blood?" he said, which a slight grin.

[Lancer]

Mercurius looked up and set down the data-slate, deciding to take the bait and pass the frak. He leaned forward, and in a low whisper spoke: "We are supposed to set aside pleasures of the flesh. Truth be told though, we do it because the priestesses like 'augmented' partners. Helps them 'commune with the Machine Spirits,' they say."

Satisfied with his response, he reclined again and picked up his data-slate, carrying on as if nothing had happened.

[White Haven]

The dry-voiced psyker chimes in with a wry, thin smile, "You should see the telekines along those same lines."

His smile turns into a lopsided grin, his head tilting aside as he observes the reactions.

[Zablorg]

Psykers??

Crom's body siezed up again as he skuttled away from the conversation as fast as decency would allow him and to the neatly arranged table of food, where he began to gorge himself on wine and other calming beverages.

Psykers.

On the planet of his youth, Crom had heard many a story of the various deeds commited by psykers. It was said they had the power to destroy everyone in the sector with but a thought, that they could defy gravity, and required a continual supply of virgin blood to retain their power. What the gorram hell is one doing here???

[The Yosemite Bear]

The privateer looked over at what would probably be the closest to himself, a dirt bound ganger. truely what were rogue traders, even ones such as Red Erik's band (may he on terra hold him to his bosum in death, now that he was lost to the void), other than a gang with a eons old ship, and a bastard daughter of a Navis. Well purhaps too scoundrels could work together and make means of mutual gain.

Eli walked over to Ajax, I see a Bronze watching us, along with most of the guards and servants, and you seem to have made your self the center of the spotlight.

then he wispered, "oh, and when I was growing up they said that those witch borne are what happened if the Eldar got ahold of you before you made it to your first temple gathering."*

*faries stealing babies before their baptism

[NecronLord]

“Gentlemen…” Regis said, allowing a few initial sorties to be made in the conversation before glancing at the great hourglass upon the desk, “pray be seated. First, welcome,” he said, making a mental note in their favour that they had not yet spoken of forbidden things, he looked down, there were other marks upon the ledger that suggested that everyone wasn’t here yet. He pushed a button on the control panel, that caused a shimmering globe of darkness and distortion to pop into existence around them, “and thank you for answering the Emperor’s call. Few people get as far in the process of recruitment of agents of his Will as you all have, you have been observed, knowingly or unknowingly, and tested, also, likely without knowing that you have. You are now in the direct service of the Most Holy Orders of the God Emperor’s Inquisition. You shall be given tasks, from this time forward, that shall serve the noble ends of the organisation.

“But I’m sure you know this already. So instead, I will tell you of your immediate mission. In orbit is a fast transport ship; this is going to the planet of Askelphion Secundus, with a cargo of victuals and people, both paying passengers and hopefuls wishing to take part in games or join the many service industries there.

“Once on board, you will arrive at Askelphion within a few days of warp time at most, and likely as not, less than a day,” he did not see fit to mention that it was likely up to a week would pass in real space, “for the ship has a good navigator, and is reputed highly.

“When there, you are to investigate and report upon the causes of the confounding disappearance of psykers from the Keep of Sighs, the fortress run by the local enforces upon Askelphion where the planet’s occasional psyker is kept prior to the occasional visits of a sub-collector of the league of black ships.

“We believe that the local Proctor of the Keep may be covering up the extent of his failings in this matter, but nonetheless, you are not to travel as agents of the inquisition, or replace him yourselves. Rather, you will present credentials as hired witch finders, whom the Proctor has hired to try and make amends for his believed ineptitude.

“Your mission is to find out precisely how many of the witches have gone missing, what’s been done with them, and then either report back on the matter, or bring wrongdoers to justice; one caution; even untrained psykers are a valuable resource, and those from Askelphion are noted for being biddable, rather than violent.”

Sergar Regis opened a small drawer on his desk, and took a number of inquisitorial rosettes from it, “Take these, as badges of your new office; remember that to use them is to use the Emperor’s name, invoke neither frivolously,” he laid them atop the locked casket, “And take this, also, it is sealed, for a time, and contains instructions on contacting me, and further encoded instructions that may be decrypted when it becomes convenient for you to have more information.

“But before you leave, do any of you have any questions about your task, or requests for specific boons?” he added, with another friendly smile.

[Aaron]

Eli crossed the threshold into the apartment just catching the end of the speech. Swearing under his breath as he realised that once again he was late he moved to stand near the chap in the spacers coveralls and wiped the sweat of his hands on the front of his flak armour.

He figured if he was lucky, no one would notice or at least mention his tardiness.

[White Haven]

As their as-yet-unknown host begins to speak, Ajax hurries back to his chosen seat and settles into it, arms folded across his chest in a contemplative pose. The manifestation of the shield around the group draws a raised eyebrow from him, nothing more, but twice during the briefing his detatched expression falters; he grimaces both at the mention of the Black Ships and, more curiously, the mention of a fast transport waiting in orbit.

Oh Throne, please let it not be the Kestrel again...

He reaches out and accepts the rosette as it's proffered to him, quickly vanishing it into a compartment on the inner surface of his belt before seating himself once more.

As the briefing reaches the 'what didn't you tell us?' phase, Ajax raises a hand, then speaks after a few seconds, "If I might ask...does the Proctor know anything about the witch finders he was attempting to hire, and should actual witch finders know anything more about the local situation?"

[Jaevric]

Glancing briefly at the new arrival, Darien accepts the rosette and slips it into his jacket pocket along with his Arbites badge, murmuring a quick thank you to the Lord.

He opens his mouth to ask a question, then closes it ruefully as he is beaten to it by the sanctioned psyker. No matter; the information was important, and it was good to know that the psycher was at least passably sane.

Though, he thought to himself, I'd imagine the Inquisition wouldn't draft one of the more deluded sanctioned psykers into the cause unless the situation was very desperate indeed.

[NecronLord]

“To be honest, he’s not arbities,” Lord Regis looked at Darien and nodded, “Best to at least make a show of being retired or on some kind of leave,” he said, “ He’s only some local enforcer, and isn’t terribly accustomed to doing the hunting himself; they only get one or two troublemakers a generation on Askelphion, the population is decadant, and what rogue psykers there are typically turn out to be unwilling ‘entertainers’ of some of the more disreputable nobility. That’s probably what’s happened here, I would imagine; some young fool has decided to make light of Imperial Law. There’s papers for your supposed accreditation with the ecclesiarchy – that’s real, by the way, I took the liberty of preparing a number of cover stories you may use at times - in the chest. Anyway, no, he knows nothing much about the kind of persons he’s looking for; he merely sent a request through the planetary arbiter’s office for an agent of one of the local houses to round up some… supplementary staff. Act like you hate psykers; except of course, your own, and like nothing more than to break impious faces all day, and you should seem quite convincing.”

[Xenophobe3691]

Magnus thanked his guide and gave him a small coin as his tip. He hoped he wasn't too late, it was all he could do to avoid a small riot in the underhive when one of the hive scum called him a witch. Fortunately, his guide was of higher caliber than normal, and guided him through the mazes in a deft manner, leaving the crowd behind. He walks in just in time to see the void shield close, muttering curses under his breath to the whole business.

The psyker's was a damn shitty path to take, no doubt about it...

[White Haven]

A wry smile bends Ajax's lips as the details of the team's cover are revealed. "A psyker working, in theory, for the Ecclesiarchy...this should be entertaining, even if things turn out innocuously." He winces as he realizes he spoke aloud, hurriedly seating himself and falling silent after a quick, "Thank you, Lord."

[Lancer]

Having heard the others speak and be addressed in turn, Mercurius raised his own question. "What of supplies, my lord? Is there any place where we may procure additional equipment before we depart? I know little of how a witchhunter and retinue should go about equipped, but I do not believe that they would go about so..." he nodded towards the ganger and the pirate "...ill-equipped as some of our number appear to be."

[Jaevric]

Smiling wryly, Darien nods at the Lord and says "Acting like I enjoy nothing more than breaking faces all day shouldn't take much work for me, at least." He adds, with a nod to Mercurius, "And we do need to make an effort to get better-armed and armored. My gun and uniform are in lockup at the space port for the time being, but we should get cleaned up and dressed up to look the part. For that matter, we need to come up with a reason for a Techpriest to be working for the Ecclesiarchy on a witch hunt--there's no disguising a member of the Mechanicus as anything else, I'm afraid."

With a thoughtful frown, he continues, "At least we should have a day or so aboard ship to disguise our gear and get to know one another's names and enough information so that it isn't obvious we were thrown together at the last minute."