Ignoring Ishmael (He has until landfall), "Well, that does explain what happened to our escort." If given clearance, I will start the undocking precedures to start leaving the ship.
"Thul, just stand there and look stupid; least your good at that...if you need lessons; look to the psycher and let this creature speak for itself; I doubt it needs your dribble."
"so; where was that message recorded Servitor?"
using my converstation skills.
/ooc I await the things response keeping an eye on the others; check my pistol and ensure round is chambered.
"Thul, just stand there and look stupid; least your good at that...if you need lessons; look to the psycher and let this creature speak for itself; I doubt it needs your dribble."
I lift my head, and raise an eyebrow to Ishmael's retort. Seeing that I was sitting down and already buckled in for departure. "I only see one fool, and he sits across from me." I really wonder where in the Imperium they breed idiots like him. "Talk to her all you like." I am silent for a moment. "Remember this Ishmael. If you want respect amongest equals then you have to give it."
The jumble of distorted vox transmission piques Johnnie's interest as he hears a reference to the arbites. He looks more closely at the the child-like familiar.
Johnnie stands up and interposes himself between Savalos and Ishmael.
"Cut the chatter, Savalos. We have more pressing matters to attend to."
Johnnie chambers a round into the naval pump action shotgun.
"And Ishmael, would it be against the command of the Emperor, blessed be His Name, if you could be less abrasive?"
"So; where was that message recorded Servitor?"
The servitor turns a blank stare toward the cleric and then looks meaningfully down toward his feet. Following the thing's gaze, Ishmael and the others notice for the first time that the carpet is matted with dried blood. Kalaziel looks directly at Ishmael and its face creases with something akin to a smile when he checks his pistol. The smile could be described beautiful, like something depicted on a religious icon, if it were not simultaneously so disquieting.
"Alright Johnnie." I keep my hands in my pockets returning my stare toward Kalaziel.
Albrek catches Uriah's glance and nods grimly.
Turning toward the control console, Uriah allows Johnnie to settle the tensions brewing in the passenger compartment, and proceeds to begin the pre-flight protocols. Activating the communications array, which still happens to be set to contact the Void Needle's bridge, his buzzing voice calls out the necessary requests. An anonymous voice from the bulk hauler's command staff answers with a staccato response containing the necessary course/heading data and clearances. Acknowledging the information, Uriah begins powering up the shuttle's maneuvering thrusters, taking the flight yoke in hand. He is momentarily distracted by a fluttering of wings, and watches with unease as Kalaziel settles upon the head of his chair.
The servitor says nothing, merely watching the various viewscreens light up and listening as the cogitators clack their computations.
"so; where was that message recorded Servitor?"
Another foolish question. Without looking back. "Where else would the preflight checks been done, but in this shuttle?"
As the shuttle powers up, Uriah is impressed with the fluidity and responsiveness of the craft's controls. The maneuvering thrusters fire with precision, their machine spirits contented, and the Churraptus class slowly rotates one hundred and eighty degrees, hovering a meter off of the flight-deck. Uriah re-orients her toward the left-most hangar door, a gargantuan portal of iron, plas-steel, and duracrete, battered from thousands of years of abuse, that is even now slowly descending into the bowels of the Void Needle's aft superstructure. After the years spent in training, the months spent in transit, and the dire events of this day, as the black tapestry is revealed, with its winking motes of light hinting at the vastness of the Calixis sector, it appears almost inviting.
Nudging the throttle forward, Uriah smiles slightly in spite of himself. It feels good to fly again. The shuttle responds admirably. The psyker recalls something from his extensive research of Oremor and its history. If he remembers correctly, the world's technological base has been blessed with a surplus of notable STC's, many recovered as archeotech from the shattered starship-hulks and discarded technological materiel that has been dumped at the planet's equator since time immemorial. The Churraptus is likely part of this bounty of technological finds. This fact would further explain another fact: why the Omnissiah's servants are so drawn to the world.
"Abrasive, Johnnie, perhaps motivational; both cowardice, disrespect of clergy; and willfull stupidity that those two have constantly offered is certainly heretical and against the will of the Emperor. If I do not chastize them here; while they are amonst we who give greater latitude; when we reach a place of civilization where the clergy is much less tolerant, they will both probably be excommunicated, given prison sentence or outright burned alive. So what would you choose, it is not that I like speaking abrassivly; but really; words are much less painful than correction by fire. I pity them really, it is my hope and prayer that they will turn into the Emperor's light of humanity and stop such idle prattle and show more heart in battle than hiding and allowing such things as <pull out the grenade> this to be thrown to a hiding group. Direct intercession and hand to hand was required to prevent more; how many times do you think we can get lucky by a foe dropping such an item? in my experience; there is no luck; only the watchful eye and intercession of our beloved Emperor. Thus, I encourage them to consider their actions and purge themselves of fear and thus; close their wicked mouths and consider how better they can defend all humanity against the plethora of foes; alien; psycher; choas and more that abound against us.
Thus; they disgorge their wickedness from their mouths upon myself, the chaplain of this group bound to hear their excesses; sigh"
I am too busy enjoying flying the shuttle, to answer Ishmael. He is throwing around insults like they do not mean anything. When is it cowardice to use guns in a gunfight? It is recklessness to do otherwise. The grenade was noticed and the person about to throw was taken care of because we back each other as we were trained. Where is his training in working as a unit? Obviously, he is too oblivous to realize I am religious and believe in the God-Emperor with all my heart. If it was not for the will of The Emperor, I would not be here, sanctified and a acolyte of the Inquisition.
so I guess we can all talk without quotes so nobody knows who is saying or talking to who and still insult others. blah blah blah
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so I guess we can all talk without quotes so nobody knows who is saying or talking to who and still insult others. blah blah blah
Please see OOC post.
A hush settles over the interior of the shuttle as it nears the slowly descending hangar door, the vast size of the Void Needle's landing bay becoming apparent with the amount of time it takes the craft to reach the opening, even moving at flank speed. As the black gulf beyond grows larger and larger in your field of view, the enormity of what you are about to undertake settles over each of you. A final crackling vox transmission from the bulk hauler, almost indecipherable with the static on the line, acknowledges that the bay door is now fully open and you are clear to depart.
As the Churraptus crosses the threshold, Uriah cuts the power to the maneuvering thrusters and engages the small shuttle's engines, while the sounds of the Void Needle's communications are finally lost to the interference created by the powerful plasma drives ringing the aft of the huge transport. The thrumming vibrations from the shuttle's engines and the clacking of the cogitators break the silence somewhat, and Albrek, Johnnie, and Savalos begin moving toward the archway leading into the pilot's compartment to get a better view. At this end of the Void Needle, the star filled nothingness of space consumes the range of your vision, dully illuminated by the shuttle's running lights and the pale blue glow of the hauler's too-near drive-wash. Uriah pulls back on the yoke and rotates the shuttle away from them, repositioning it in line with the metallic horizon-hull of the huge ship. As the shuttle moves forward, another faint glow, this time from the unseen nimbus of what can only be a large planetary body shines over the cylindrical edge of the Void Needle and with it a growing sense of anticipation fills you as you near the edge of this artificial ecliptic. For many of you, a view of home is just moments away.
Briefly forgetting heated tempers, and what transpired on the shuttle. I quietly wonder if I will recognize those I left behind; or if they will even recognize me when I finally stand before them. What twist of fate has brought me back to the planet of my birth?
The joy of flying a shuttle that is this responsive is hard to keep off my face. Space is home. The rest of them are comfortable dirtside, but this is my home. It is almost a shame to have to land on a crowded planet, but that is my Master's orders, so that is where we go.
Johnnie takes another swig from his flask.
For the GM
"Do we know how much time has passed since the last you were home?" I say this without turning, as I am paying attention to my piloting. "The Warp does some odd things to the passage of time."
Albrek leans silently inside the archway connecting the rest of the shuttle to the pilot's compartment, his eyes wide in anticipation as the burgeoning glow of the world beyond the bulk-hauler's edge hoves into view, illuminating the dim interior of the Churraptus. He grits his teeth in spite of himself as a wash of emotion passes over him. Never, not once in his many years away, did he ever dream he would one day return to this, his birthworld. The smells of the fungoid molts being harvested on the claustrum plantations, the feel of the humid, tropical monsoon rains as they lashed the southern islands, the adversity-born camaraderie felt amongst his fellow guardsman of the close-knit penal legions. Whatever this homecoming held, weal or woe, Albrek cared not. He was home.
Ishmael seethes in his seat, the anger whipping through him like a firestorm. The visions came more frequently now. Sometimes even during his waking hours, they fueled his rage, filling him with a fury beyond reckoning. He was certain the others had noticed his madness, but their attacker reeked of the corruption that the fire sought to cleanse. Even as the hammer rained down upon his broken form, he knew that it was the only way he could appease the urges within.
Still. He had angered the voidborn freak. Defied his temporal master's authority. It would not sit well with them. Reason was returning, this was good, at least for a time. The epiphanies were so vivid now, he almost welcomed them. Burning. Everything aflame with His divine fire. Not yet. Not yet, but soon. He only needed to bide his time and the deeper understanding would come. As much as he was loathe to admit it, the psyker was correct about one thing. The prayer. In his fit of fury he had sought to defy the buzzing buffoon in any way possible. But he had been wrong. Sinned. He must atone for this. Immediately.
Standing, Ishmael makes his way to the archway leading to the shuttle's bridge and re-tethers his hammer to his belt. He puts an arm around both Albrek and Johnnie, and bowing his head, intones in a deep stentorian voice, a prayer to his one and only true master.
"May the light that shines forth from His fiery heart bathe us all in the pure radiance of His absolution. May He Who is His Own Prisoner illuminate the path of our travails, shine His Molten Purity upon the Corruption that lurks in the darkness between, and purge with His Divine Inferno the evil that is revealed to us, his servants, upon this crusade we now embark upon. Throne Save Us All."
Smiling genuinely, calming now, Ishmael comforts himself with the knowledge that although the fire dims, the ember still smolders, and the firestorm can always rekindle itself from the tiniest of sparks.
Always.
"The Throne save us all." He still has not sworn the oaths, but I feel better about the journey begun with the words of Ishmael. It does not release him from the oaths, but it is a start. I do not know about the wholeness of his mind. I have seen what the darkness can do to a person. Even a redemptionist is not immune. In some ways he might be more vulnerable, seeing enemies everywhere, can he tell his friends or teammates from the enemy? He still has until landfall...
The shuttle finally clears the edge of the Void Needle's curving hull, and the world of Oremor slowly rises into view, a vast orb of mottled green and cerulean blue, shrouded in wispy banks of swirling cloud cover. The planet's three moons, Yphanus, Sefulus, and Cacius, successively larger and more barren-looking the further out they orbit the world seem like mute and lifeless witnesses to the planet's verdant majesty. Great orbital docks and space stations, teeming with the traffic of Chartist starships surround the world, but they appear tiny and insignificant in comparison to the gigantic planet.
From your lofty vantage, the system's Sol-class sun illuminates much of the western hemisphere, shining brightly upon the endless spires and sprawl of the twin hive cities of Orcut VII and Fulcus Prime which encompass almost the entirety of the northern continent. It is simultaneously awe-inspiring and disturbing that mankind's ant-like obsession to building in metal and ceramite can render a world partially in his image, even from orbit.
Even so, Oremor has not been fully conquered by the hand of man, and the great equatorial band remains swathed in emerald vegetation from the tropical fungoid jungles. A discernible ribbon of metal, appearing almost like the horizontally-oriented segmented vertebrae of some great metallic beast bisects the equator, marking the disposal zones used for millennia to dump the junk of whole star systems. A tangled morass of rain forest, rusting hulks, and long abandoned archeotech left to boil and rot in an almost incomprehensibly harsh tropical clime.
Below this band begin the vast southern oceans and the enormous islands of the southern archipelago. Here the subtropical band begins, and the more hospitable temperatures allow for the cultivation of the great Unduz continent-plantations, tended to by the prisoners and penal colony guardsman of the claustrums.
Few worlds in the Calixis Sector are so evenly divided between classifications as Oremor, both hive-world and agri-world. There are even those who would argue that the horrific radioactive pollutants, deadly wildlife, and life-ending climate of the equatorial band could add a third categorization, that of death-world. For the five awestruck occupants of the shuttle, the planet before them represents many things; duty, mission, home, and perhaps for some, destiny.
"Kalaziel. Did your Master Decius Krade give you instructions for where he wanted to meet us?" Being distracted at the vision of my home, and the heated discusson from earlier. I can't remember if she already told us. So figured it wouldn't hurt to ask.
"According to the dataslate, we are suppose to land on Orcut VII. I will ask permission to land at their spaceport. From there, we are to rendezvous with Delsius Krade. Kalaziel are you suppose to escort us to meet your master?" I will start the protocols for permission and landing coordinates.
"True enough Uriah, but its a big hive. There is more than one place to land a shuttle. We might want to consider not landing in the view of prying eyes." I look back over toward Kalaziel and the stained blood on the floor.
"I will admit I am not the best in dealing with large cities, or any cities at all, to be honest. You three are from here, so I will listen to your advice. Where should we land, and who do we contact to set it up?
"Kalaziel. Did your Master Decius Krade give you instructions for where he wanted to meet us?"
Kalaziel turns toward Savalos, still perched atop Uriah's flight-chair and answers in her child-like voice,
"In the event of unforeseen complications transpiring and rendering the primary mission protocol obsolete, my master, Desius Krade, orders the return of designated mission craft Churraptus callsign: Judicium ob Omnis to point of origin, Adeptus Arbites Judicial Stack Spire #17, auxiliary flight platform #334-L. Failure; pattern repeats."
I stare at Kalaziel with searching eyes. Knowing there is something about her. Her manner and her voice. I hold my frustration inside being unable to pin what is nagging at me. I turn away to answer Uriah's question.
"Well Uriah I am thinking we either have a leak, or were sold out. Alot of eyes are going to be watching where we are suppose to land. Including those who sent our welcoming committee. I would feel better we land someplace else. The established landing zone isn't safe or the orginal crew wouldn't have been killed and replaced before take off."
"They thought we would be easy prey. Why would they think that? Do you think that they still think we are alive? If they do not, we can use that to our advantage. If we land and move fast, could we out maneover them? Like I said it is your world, but if we do not go where we were told, how will connect with Master Krade and find out what our mission actually is?
"What troubles me most, is that they were guardsmen from the 6th Oremor Penal Legion. These are not common mercs or hired muscle. I once served in the 7th at a claustrum on Unduz II. These men were well-trained and committed to their objective. Whether or not they were mustered out, deserters, or active duty, they would have sacrificed anything to kill the five of us, of that I am sure, based on their behavior."
"Whatever we decide, we should proceed with caution, assuming nothing."
Ishmael smirks, and looks to Savalos.
"The destination is an Adeptus Arbites spire, perhaps Savalos is just fearful that they may have an open warrant in his docket and take him into custody for some past indiscretion."
"Hrmphh, I am of a mind to go where the winged-freak suggests. If our contact is there, we should have nothing to fear. Well, most of us, anyway."
Common Lore Arbites Check (Routine +20) 1d100=11
Johnnie looks off into the distance thinking....
Adeptus Arbites Judicial Stack Spire #17 predominantly contains the personal offices of the senior officials of Oremor's Imperial High Judiciary. Desius Krade is one of several highly respected High Arbiters that rule on the most important cases of Imperium/Oremor law. In his early career he began as an Arbitrator Detective on Scintilla before ascending the ranks and becoming a powerful prosecutor for Imperial Law in the sector. He is known to have served the Inquisition as a prosecutor of suspected heretics, particularly in cases where a trial and imprisonment of the accused would be more beneficial to the Holy Ordos than an execution. He is rumored to have served the Inquisition in other capacities as well, with most whispers placing him as a one-time interrogator for Inquisitor Ahmazzi of the Ordo Malleus.
Johnnie has a contact within the Stack Spire #17, a junior clerk of High Arbiter Ruvos Halleon named Quincus Dauln. It is possible that he could contact Dauln to arrange landing on Halleon's landing platform on the Spire, circumventing the need to land at Krades, should it be watched by your adversaries.
I am about to comment to Ishmael when I think better of it and say nothing. Don't want to give him the satisfaction. Besides in his own little mind he is probably already dreaming there will be a shrine world named after him.
A playful smile appears on Johnnie's face, "We are headed for the Arbites Spire, yes? I think I know who we need to talk to. Just leave it to me."
"Go ahead, I will wait for the landing coordinates before starting landing protocols."
After coming to a consensus on your destination, Uriah calmly adjusts the shuttles heading. The voidborn reorients the craft toward Oremor's civilization covered northern continent, home to the twin hive cities of Orcut VII and Fulcus Prime. As the Churraptus moves away from the seven kilometer long, spindle-shaped bulk hauler, the Void Needle fires its own massive maneuvering thrusters, adjusting it's course for one of the dozens of stations that comprise the orbital docking ring. Apparently Captain Kleed is not above taking on some additional cargo to make the mandatory inquisitorial detour worthwhile.
As the shuttle nears the planet, the viewport soon becomes filled with the white-gray cloud cover of the upper atmosphere, tainted with the pollutants that circle above the twin cities. The scope and scale of the hives is overwhelming, with some of the tallest spires faintly visible in relief against the endless sprawl, even from space. A final course correction points the Churraptus toward Orcut VII, and as you breach the upper atmosphere the shuttle begins to buck and shake with the transition. The nose of the craft gradually takes on a diffuse, reddish glow just as the cogitator's machine spirits begin to blindly compensate, re-routing power to the heat shield's coolant systems. The craft seems to be handling well, but Uriah grits his teeth and purses his lips just the same, focusing his concentration. Now the hard part...
As Uriah starts his landing protocols I go back to my seat and buckle in, Having no desire to becoming an Oremor Field Fly on the windshield.
If Savalos quickly fastening himself into a chair in the passenger compartment wasn't enough to encourage everyone else to take their seats, the first pronounced thump sound from the rattling fuselage is. Albrek quickly drops into the co-pilot's chair adjacent to Uriah and fastens himself in, monitoring the ghostly green lights of the console displays in an attempt to aid the psyker. Johnnie shrugs himself out from under Ishmael's arm and settles into the seat to the right of Savalos, securing his belt as a precaution. By the time the cleric is following suit, a third jolt shakes the craft, nearly throwing Ishmael to the carpeted floor. When he pulls himself up into the nearest seat he is conspicuously red-faced with impotent rage and embarrassment. He gives a meaningful glare toward Savalos as if daring him to say something, but says nothing himself, fastening his harness hastily.
After the third thump, Uriah looks over the displays and taps in a few quick calculations into the altitude control cogitator. Seeing the results he hisses through his vox, and then pulls back on the flight yoke, hard. In his attempt at cautious flying, he had not taken into account the precise aerodynamics of the Churraptus whose frame is far lighter and more agile than the bulkier personnel carriers he is accustomed to flying. Hoping he did not make too grave an error, he adjusts the nose upward for the craft's more fragile design. There is a final clunk sound followed by a persistent rattling from somewhere in the rear of the passenger compartment, and one of the green head's-up holo displays goes bright red, flashing the ominous message of a fluid leak in the right-rear aft engines hydraulic system. Someone yells an oath or a prayer from behind Uriah's chair, unintelligible in the din, and then, just as suddenly as the rough descent began, it is over.
It's engines wailing with the strain, the shuttle levels off, impossibly high over a swirling bank of white-grey clouds, sweeping outward and below for hundreds of miles in every direction. Before the psyker can adjust the Churraptus' velocity on the steep descent, it enters a thick bank of iron-colored cloudstuff that parts like wisps of filthy cotton before the plasteel viewport. The vast cityscape that appears so suddenly below cloud-level stretches away as far as the eye can see, curving ever so gradually toward the horizon where the dull glow of the lambent, purple-red sunset fades in and out of the overhanging, pollutant-filled sky which lends itself to even more colorful displays through the tainted water vapor in the lower atmosphere.
A harsh din sounds as the proximity alarms go haywire, and to your port side, the flash of something huge and gleamingly metallic screams by, a mere fifty meters away. Before anyone can even pray to the Emperor for their lives, the huge civilian ferry-jet has passed, the wake of its dangerously close passage tossing the shuttle about like a child's plaything. After a long, soundless moment to collect your wits, Uriah exhales loudly, and spins one of the near side auspex air-traffic minder displays to face him. Finding it clear, he levels off the shuttle and finds the proper bearing. The psyker is about to speak when the vox crackles to life, and a staccato voice, possessing the peculiar admixture of calm and authoritarian coldness that only an air traffic controller seems to possess, speaks.
"Orcut VII Airspace Control Custode #117 to unidentified Churraptus class craft with bearing 145, please identify yourselves! You have entered an interdicted fly zone for domestic shipping and civilian passenger craft only. Adjust course heading to 167 and maintain present speed or face immediate destruction by air defenses."
As if to emphasize this point, the shuttle's cabin begins to sound with the shrill whine of a lock-on tone.
"Provide your flight plan and destination immediately, and tight-beam your transponder codes to our relay station in Callaspeaux Spire #9. This will be your only warning, comply immediately"
I tight beam the transponder codes as ordered and adjust course heading. "Request landing at Adeptus Arbites Judicial Stack Spire #17 at Auxilliary Flight Platform #334-L.
Watching Ishmael kiss the floor with a jostle of the shuttle. I just smile at him. Again I say nothing. I am certain he can imagine an insult far better than what I am willing to put into at the moment. I go back to watching Kalaziel like a puzzle I just can't quite solve. She is far more interesting than a priest who screams about having faith in the middle of a gun fight. Yet runs to buckle himself in. Hypocrite.