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Magnus was already inside the shuttle, barely holding his excitement at going offworld. He longed to hear the quiet hum of the engines, the sigh of air being recycled, and the magnificent view. Suddenly, he was snapped out of his daydreaming by Scar's question, "What's that mean?"

He looked quickly at the book, recognized the word, and spoke it aloud. "Forlorn. It means sad, hopeless, trudging." At the thought of despair, his face pinched and he reached into his robes. He fidgeted with something, and the look on his face relaxed.

He reached down toward his bag, and looked through his equipment. Sword (He was still bemused that he had been offered a sword after being shown the Emperor's Light), staff, compact las-pistol with an extra charge pack, his Psykana Mercy Blade (he hoped to never have to use it, the Sanctioning Brand, and a pair of dice.

The Tech-Priest started chanting, and he gave a perplexed look to priest...

"No, not forlorn. I can read, some. I meant the longer one. The one with 15 letters."

After claiming a seat near the aft hatch by the simple expedient of laying his laden belt across it, Ajax crosses over to the chest and immediately begins to peruse the clothing folded up in the chest, finally coming up with a dusty-black grox-leather trenchcoat, the tail to the waist for easy movement. He quickly shucks the ragged, threadbare robe he'd been waring for all too many months and light-years, donning the trenchcoat in its place and then belting on his rapier and pistol underneath it. He straightens it with a critical expression, then swirls about a few times. "So, how does it look?"

Left with little else to do while the shuttle underwent the prescribed pre-flight checks, Mercurius inspected his baggage, noting with displeasure how the addition of restraints and mind-numbing drugs had simply been placed on top of his existing gear.

He removed some items from the main compartment, revealing a cogwheel-embellished laspistol which was promptly holstered on his thigh, a short-pattern las carbine likewise adorned with Mechanicus iconography, charge packs for both which he set aside for now, and a sheathed knife which was relocated to one of several external pockets on the pack, already containing a vial of Sacred Machine Oil and a glow-globe. Left in the main compartment was a small assortment (10 units) of spare parts and the witch-hunting gear, but Mercurius silently cursed at himself for forgetting to request a combi-tool or auspex alongside the restraints. Still, he had his staff (really more of a well-balanced, blunt-headed ceremonial axe, given the size of the cogwheel head) and dataslate.

While he repacked his inventory, he wondered how he could remedy the situation. Perhaps he could requisition the former from the stores of the Kestrel, but the latter he would likely have to do without for the time being.

In the background, he hears one of the Guardsmen ask about a 15-letter word, and one of the psykers, the one not posing as the astropath, ask about his newfound outfit. He turns his attention to the latter and chuckles. "You look like you stepped straight out of a Rogue Trader holovid."

Ajax barks a laugh, running a thin, long-fingered hand through his military-cropped black hair, "Perfect. Everyone knows that rogue traders are dangerous pistoleros and scoundrels. And since everyone knows that, everyone will know I'm not an abomination against mankind and so forth. Oh, er, I warned one of you earlier, but now that we're all together I believe I'm supposed to mention that as a sanctioned psyker, I'm as likely to replace your soul with a turnip as say hello." He pauses for a few seconds, letting the silence draw out, and the shouts, "Boo!"

Darien looks up at Ajax, flashes his teeth in what might be construed as a grin, and says "Fair enough. By the way, my name is Darien Roderick. Of the Adeptus Arbites. Which means I'm as likely to shoot you or beat you to a pulp as look at you. Or beat you to a pulp then shoot you; I could try it the other way around, but it seems pointless."

Though his tone is completely serious, the gleam in his eyes suggests at least some degree of humor in the statement.

the machine was remarkably well feed and well cared for, the lights had shined green at first then seconds later they all shined even greener, no yellows of fear in the machine, no reds of taint that would need a machine preist to exorcise. Reilly watched as the warning lights showed strapped in and the pressure door closed. That should be all of them, the vigil of warming had taken much less time then he had expected, it was alsmost as if someone had preformed the rituals of chastizement and machine spirit breaking. with a final prayer to the god on terra, he pressed the two runes marked "Start" the change in the liter was obvious a low hum began to fill the whole frame pushing the lever forward 1/4 of the way the lighter left the port on her own power, theough not yet to full power.

Pulling back on the stick he slid the throttle forward. a rattling and tooth lostening vibraration began to fill the shuttle. She was becomming airborn...

Noticing the introductions, Crom decided to chime in.

"My name's Crom. I'm the scum of the galaxy. I'd steal all your things but I'm not the most agile person alive." (+5 agility. I'm all spent)

"Mercurius Haxtes, Techpriest. I suppose it would be my job to tell you to attend to your wargear."

calling over the vox.

it seems that bad vapours from the hive has caused some troublelancers to form in the aether...

*a sudden shudder ran through the craft*
...however I do believe that this machine is most confident in it's ability transport us safely. oh and I'm Eli Reilly formerly of the Rogue Trader Wolfmother, and scum of the universe...

"Whaaa? Scum of the universe? That's cheating! How come he gets to be scum of the universe and I have to settle with scum of the galaxy?"

Crom turned around and raised his fist into the air dramatically, shaking it at the com.

"I swear upon the Emperor himself Eli, that your reign shall not go untested! I-"

Observing the odd looks he was recieving, he quickly sat down and started to experiment with reflections upon his knife.

as the lighter shuddered and fought through the fires of atmospheres and the pull trying to bring it down, the ship finally broke free. the great lifting of the weight of sins, the controls were now dead to Eli's touch as the machine's soul knew where it wanted to go, and did not trust the flesh to commence a docking manuver.

wieghtless freedom, truely one of the finer things that our lord on Terra had devined.

"Seeing as introductions are being made, I'm Eli as well. I guess we'll have to come up with another name to avoid confusion." Unslinging his lasgun and placing it on his lap, he speaks again "this is Faith". Gesturing at his weapon.

"And I'm Magnus." He held out his elegant hands; a small blue, brown, green, and white globe in his hands, "Here's Old Terra. Reminds me of Who's protecting us. Other than that, I don't name my gear; an old superstition says that giving something a name gives it a secret power."

Eli looks at Magnus and shrugs. "It's a sign of the trust I place in it not to fail". He pats the lasgun affectionatly. Then glances over at Crom, taking in his obvious less reputable qualities.

"So do I have to secure my boot laces then?"

"That shouldn't require speaking. Even if our ganger friend doesn't steal them, you'd likely end up constantly tripping yourself. Amusing, yes, but I would rather not spend my time constantly ministering to the hardy little machine spirit of 'Faith.'"

Eli chuckles, "you got me there Haxtes. You keep cranking out the jokes and we'll get along fine."

Eli then pulls a starch ration out of a pouch on his armour and looks at it with disdain. "I don't suppose anyones got something to make this taste better?"

Darien reaches into his duffel and pulls out a flask, smiling faintly.

"Amasec. Not the best quality, but good enough to get on with. I carry some around for, ah, medicinal purposes," he says, tossing the flask to Eli. "Try not to drink all of it, no telling when I'll get a chance to restock, but if anything will make those rations palatable it's this."

The Kestrel was a great slab of engines and closely compacted compartments about a mile long. Eli’s first gimpse of it outside the cockpit was as a shining light, a trail, even, for the ship was already leaving orbit and heading out of the system to make the warp jump; fortunately, the lighter’s engines were capable of greater acceleration, and soon they were drawing near to the many-engine’d slab of metal, marked out by a vast, multi-pointed silver star, and prominent orange devotional writings upon the surfaces of its cargo containers. The ship’s warp keel jutted down like a dagger blade from its aft, and a messy tangle of portholes could be seen on its top side, terminating in a prominent spire for its prized navigator.

The route they were instructed to take, after properly matching velocities, was to simply settle in front of one part of this tower, and accelerate a few metres per second slower than the ship; this took the diminutive down a short armoured tunnel; one that scraped against the wing messily, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness and extinguishing a few running lights on both the lighter and the tunnel. A moment later, the Arvus bumped and thumped to a stop in a sudden shift to full gravity, its landing pads smoking slightly as clamps settled on the Lighter’s wings and lifted it from the landing deck to the hangar deck, placing it down next to a number of similar looking Skaelen-Har made boats.

Sometime in transit, Ajax has appropriated a pair of black combat boots to complete his image, and as the light's ramp clangs to the Kestrel's decking, the wire-thin man in the black trenchcoat clumps heavily downwards with an artificially-heavy tread. The glimmer of a self-deprecating smile lurks in his expression as he steps away from the grounded lighter; the lightweight psyker masquerading as the dashing bully-boy bruiser, with the footsteps to match.

Darien hefts his duffel bag over one shoulder and follows the psyker down the ramp, glancing at the damaged wing and wincing slightly. "I'm not sure I want to be here when the Techpriest sees that," he mutters to himself, looking around for someone to guide them to their quarters.

Standing and shaking his limbs out Scar grabbed his gear and started down the ramp. It hadn't been a particularly long flight, or a rough one, except for the bump. He stowed the book in his bag with particular care, and came to a stop next to Darien.
"So if you haven't figured it out, I'm from the Guard. Originally with the Tygran 3rd. One of the last ones. We... lets just say I have a bone to pick with the Ruinous Powers. I don't mind posing as either a witch hunter or a body guard. Just let me know and I'll back the play," the towering man said softly.

Grinning wryly at Scar, Darien says, "I'd figured you for Guard. The warpaint isn't exactly normal dress among the civilians. Neither are the scars, for that matter. And while I appreciate your offer, I'm not in charge on this venture. I just keep forgetting that. We'll probably both end up playing at bodyguard or thug as the situation requires it."

Letting a slight smile play across his face Scar responded, "The warpaint and scarring predate the Guard, by about 5 years. It's a rite of passage, to honor the ancestors and the One Who Judges, the Emperor as he's called in the rest of the galaxy. The scars... each scar signifies a victory."

Eli looked around, catching up to the ship was always something of the worst cases... He remembered a run on a feral world where a bat thing and gone into an intake and the whole lighter wasspread out accross the landscape... This still didn't look good, and Eli realized that this vehicle must be their patrons property and it would greatly disappointed.

he would have to impress and plead with the tech priest for help with the repairs, and she was such a magnificent machine bird....

with a sudden thought Eli recalled hearing about metal birds on some far off hive world. now one of those would be shelling to have as a pet/assistant...