Ahmazzi's page

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.

What is your destination?

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.

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.

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?"

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.

Your departure from the hangar is largely in silence, only the shuffling of the servitors, the whine of their servos as they lift the remains of your attackers, and the drumming of your footfalls on the flight deck accompany you to the shuttle. Kleed and his men stand stolidly, the masks of their faces showing relief tinged with resentment. That, and a healthy, fearful respect for your station.

Albrek and Johnnie ascend the narrow ramp first, sweeping their weapons ahead as they go, but no menace awaits them inside, and the rest of your party quickly follows, entering a wide passenger compartment elegantly appointed in darkly textured Oremite bloodwood paneling that is artfully inscribed with portions of the planetary legal codex. A single large golden candelabra cunningly outfitted with diamantine illuminators sheds a soft, warm light throughout the chamber. The compartment smells of the freshly cleaned upholstery covering the twin rows of deep-green colored seating. A narrow, arched doorway opens into the pilot's cabin, showing instrumentation, cogitator arrays, and the wide rectangular viewing window showing the security teams of the Void Needle slowly dispersing in the hangar beyond as the servitors begin moving the dead to the narrow void-doors lining the starboard side of the flight deck.

After a thorough search of the interior reveals that you are, in fact, alone, Savalos sits in an aisle seat, compulsively fingering his brass knuckles within his pocket.

Ishmael sits as well, across the aisle from Savalos, and begins cleaning the gore-spattered head of his hammer and reloading his revolver. He helps himself to a sealed plastic bottle of water from the seat pocket in front of him.

Johnnie stands at the rear of the compartment, watching the ramp and reloading his handcannon, one round at a time. Upon finishing, he hefts the shotgun retrieved from the dead guardsman and reloads it as well.

The weapon you have obtained is a naval pump-action shotgun.

Albrek walks to the front of the craft, gives a cursory examination of the pilot's cabin, and then takes his seat in the co-pilot's chair at the console.

Uriah heads to the front of the craft as well, but stops short of the entry into the pilot's cabin and turns to face the seated Ishmael.

The psyker pointedly looks at the cleric before sighing quietly and intoning a quiet prayer to the God Emperor of Man. When he is finished, he berates the chagrined-looking Redpemptionist in a scathing dressing-down. Ishmael responds in kind, a half-mocking tone to his rebuttal. Uriah finally turns away and enters the pilot's compartment, seating himself before the baroque amalgamation of wood paneling, glass fixtures, metallic knobs, and cogitator displays. Ishmael's parting remark causes the voidborn to turn in a fury, and his previous tirade is sparked anew. Albrek stands quickly, trying to interpose himself between his feuding brother acolytes,

"Enough, ENOUGH of this, we must..."

He is interrupted by the quiet tinkling of the diamantine shards of the chandelier as a foot-wide circular aperture opens in the roof above it. It is followed by a tittering, child-like laughter that echoes with the hollowness of a vibrating vox-speaker. From within you hear the unmistakable fluttering of feathered wings.

Please specify your actions/precautions while boarding the shuttle if you have decided to depart the Void Needle.

"One more thing captain, would you please send a message to our master, telling him of the incident."

Kleed answers Uriah civilly, but with a hint of flustered irritation. He fidgets with his necklaces as he answers,

"I will not jeopardize my men further on your master's errand. I have done all that I can to assure your safety during our passage to this backwater world, and have perforce completed my duties to the letter according to your master's specifications. You fly the craft then, one amongst you certainly must have the skill to do so...and, if not, the subroutines in its cogitator can reproduce the flight path the craft took to arrive here in reverse with minimal effort on your part. The craft itself originated from Orcut VII, the capital hive of Oremor, from whence beyond that I cannot surmise."

"As far as contact your master, you surprise me. Had I the means to contact him myself, you can be assured that my first missive would have been to protest my course change to this world in the first place. I am no fool, however, and would never presume to refuse the Holy Ordos when called upon to serve their will. I am but a loyal cog in the great machinery of the Imperium, and have turned the gear, as ordered. Your master's great generosity is only rivaled by my great respect and fear of his station. Again, I have done my part. I am unable to comply with your request because I am merely a cog in his great works. My presumption was that you yourselves had a channel to his ear, but, perhaps I assume too much of your station in his hierarchy."

You are blameless Captain; go in peace and remain vigilant; your fine crew is not to blame. Thus, I see this as our great and holy emperor ensuring that his chosen in this task are on their toes and as one hand in doing the Emperors will.

Let the area be cleanzed and have cheer for the forces of destruction were bested this day.

We seek only to go on about our task in the Emperor's name; please have your pilot of the shuttles and your techs take extra care and inspect our shuttle lest it be perhaps sabotaged, if you will.

Kleed responds curtly, but honestly to your estimation,

"I thank you for your understanding, and am humbled by my small part in aiding your master in carrying out the Holy Emperor's divine will. Our auspex have scanned the craft thoroughly, both on its inbound flight, and after your ambushers made themselves known. To the best of our knowledge it is without danger to you or your mission."

Johnnie gives the shuttle a once-over, wanting to make sure that there are no signs of damage upon it.

The shuttle appears to be in very good condition, certainly in much better shape than the rusting cargo landers in the Void Needle's hangar. You easily identify the craft as a Churraptus pattern lander, an ubiquitous design named after the three-winged bat-like avians native to Oremor that roost on the underside of the largest of the towering fungoid tree-stalks. The Churraptus have a broad spectrum of use, from transporting civilians between the northern hive settlements, to carrying prisoners between the claustrum plantations of the southern continent. This particular shuttle-lander appears to be in pristine shape compared to most, and has been outfitted with ornamental trim and extras to befit the transport of dignitaries or nobility. The markings on the tail wing designate it as belonging to the Adeptus Arbites Judicial Quorum of Hive Orcut VII.

The Void Needle's captain hears Uriah out, but it is hard to be sure he comprehends all of his words, as the man's nervous gaze never leaves the dead men. He licks his thin lips, and finally comes out of his reverie to look across the scene at the psyker. He is about to reply when one of his men clears his throat and holds up the steward's lifeless, limp hand.

"Cap'n Kleed, I think this is Oskar...he's, emm, he's dead sir..."

Captain Kleed looks back at the crouching crewman, his relief that someone has broken the uncomfortable silence obvious. When he glances backward it seems to clear his head somewhat. Remembering his command presence, he hides his unsettled state quite well from his men, sharply and dismissively answering the interruption with a harsh, chiding retort:

"Well, if he is, in fact, dead, bosun, it is not a pressing concern at the moment, is it? Will this fact likely change before I finish my conversation with these representatives of the Holy Ordos?

The captain purses his lips and turns back to Uriah. Although his tone seems to be sarcastic, his facial expression betrays the true weight of his next question,

"He will remain dead, will he not?"

This elicits some nervous laughter from the rest of the crew, and the tension is further lessened with the arrival of the other two security teams to the scene of the carnage. As they say however, timing is everything, and Ishmael seizes upon this moment to exhort the captain with his dire warning. The superstitious crewmen, including the ones who just arrived, step a few paces back, waiting for direction.

"Our auspex showed only five men aboard, and they identified themselves as your escort planet-side. Yet here they lie, dead. Assure me there are no more. I would never question the actions or reasons of the Holy Ordos, its agents, or those of your master, whose remuneration of my efforts on his behalf are always considerable. I pray that you would not consider myself or my crew in any way responsible for this attack, by negligence or otherwise, should the need to report it to your master be necessary. I will follow your wise counsel and dispose of these men through a void-hatch, as nothing good can come of them, I think we all can sense this. You have my leave to disembark."

The captain then mutters something to a crewman, and he directs the lumbering servitors to begin collecting the dead. The captain glances at the shuttle, and says,

"I fear your pilot is among the dead, however. I hope you have one amongst you, for I will not subject a solitary crewman to whatever ill-starred venture you are setting out upon to that fungus-covered rock below."

The security teams part to allow you an unhindered path to the shuttle, but they never holster their weapons, and look on nervously as the servitors begin their grisly work.

The captain seems to be eager to be rid of you. What do you want to do?

Some bookkeeping notes are up on the OOC thread

A creeping sensation of reality itself faltering seems to cling to the bodies of the dead men, as if the profound wrongness you all feel is a tangible thing. You all react differently. Uriah steps back and massages his brow with his hand, holstering his pistol. Johnnie stares intently at the man, his detective's mind struggling to accept that he does not know him even though every bit of his intuition insists it. Savalos, unable to cope with what he is feeling, stalks off in the direction of the shuttle wanting to be well clear of it all. Albrek watches from a distance, conspicuously silent, perhaps in a state of shock that he has been party to the death of fellow guardsmen from Oremor. Ishmael's reaction is perhaps the most extreme of all. A few silent moments after the man's final words, he raises the hammer again and begins slamming it into the dead guardsmen's shattered flak vest and head, screaming and roaring some unintelligible prayer and saying the dead man is an "abomination in the Eyes of the Emperor", as he pulps his remains.

Johnnie snatches up the pump-action shotgun from the deck-plates and turns away from the horrible tableau, moving toward Savalos. Albrek stalks away behind him, after a final, lingering pause to look at the men.

It is hard to say whether Uriah's impassioned plea or just sheer exhaustion makes the cleric regain his senses, but fortunately for everyone, stop he does. He staggers off, an unnerving look of bewilderment tinged with hate marring his visage.

Fortunate you all are, for it renders an explanation of his bizarre behavior moot, because almost thirty seconds pass from when he stops to the point when the security teams of the Void Needle arrive in the hangar.

The squad of ten men, a security detachment of crew members dressed in a chaotic motley of flak armor, void suit pieces, and reinforced engineering coveralls stride purposefully into the vast hangar. Some carry shotguns, others revolvers, but of most concern are the pair of lurching, seven foot tall load-lifter servitors flanking the group. Each hefts an enormous two-handed, double-headed iron hammer with arms made absurdly powerful from the wonders of vat-grown slab muscle.

The crew, despite their numbers, seem dangerously insecure with the situation, some glancing apprehensively at you, others snorting and spitting phlegm upon the deck-plates, while a few point weapons in unsteady hands in your direction. Were it not for the servitors and the two similar squads that just emerged from the other entrances to the hangar, you think you might have had a realistic chance of fleeing toward the waiting shuttle if you so chose. Just the same, they don't seem to want a fight.

After an awkward few seconds spent by most of the crew staring at the bodies surround you, a tall, thin man with haggard features, pale, ship-born skin, and a malevolent-looking lazy eye strides forward, his blue robes open in front, showing a corset-tight mesh-weave armored vest draped with a collection of exotic gold-beaded jewelry. He holds a compact laspistol in his hands almost effeminately, waving it as he speaks.

"What is the meaning of...of...this?! I was assured by your master, as I have been on many uneventful occasions before this, that my ship and crew would not be disrupted by our transport of his agents despite our mandated course change! Now I have the very retinue dispatched to ferry you and the inconvenience your presence has created on my ship slaughtered like grox in my hangar? Rosette or no, I..."

He stops in mid-tirade, the bizarre and inherent wrongness radiating from the dead men suddenly coming to his attention like a malodorous stench. The hull of the aged void-vessel groans disturbingly, almost sympathetically with the outre circumstances.

Failing a Fear test out of combat invokes a -10 penalty to all skill checks requiring concentration for the remainder of the time that you are in the hangar near the dead man. In addition, those that failed the Fear test by 30 points or more gain 1d5 Insanity points.

Albrek, Fear test = 82, failure.
Insanity points gained, 1d5 = 3.

Ishmael, Fear test = 96, failure.
Insanity points gained, 1d5 = 2.

Juan, Fear test = 78, failure.
Insanity points gained, 1d5 = 4.

Savalos, Insanity points gained, 1d5 = 4.

As his roll was within 2 of his Willpower attribute, Uriah does not gain Insanity points.

To somewhat balance the poor Fear test rolls, I have some good news. Everyone gains 100 XP from this encounter, that can spent now or saved for future advances. Please let me know what you intend to do so your character sheet can be updated appropriately. Great job so far, guys!

Please roleplay any reaction you have to the results of the Fear test and plan your next actions. The shipboard security teams are drawing close and will likely enter the hanger in the next minute or so.

I have updated all of the character sheets with recent additions to inventory, XP, and Insanity points gained. They can be downloaded at the Oremor Affliction wiki. We will resume once everyone has decided on their advances and made their next post.

Savalos: Five 8-round shotgun clips and a combat knife were added to your gear.

Ishmael: One autopistol, five 18-round clips, and a frag grenade were added to your gear. You need the Basic: Solid Projectile Weapon Training to be proficient with a shotgun. You would use it untrained at half your BS attribute.

Everyone make a Fear Test (Difficulty: +0/Disturbing) roll under your WP attribute to pass.

Savalos picks over the belongings of the dead men, hastily, yet efficiently, using talents honed long ago in the underhives of Orcut VII. As Tygault used to say in his sing-song voice: 'Dead is dead, take kit and cred, no need now to be their friend.' Tygault was always thorough. He wasn't at all shy about his calling card being completely naked corpses left behind after a street-fight or turf-battle. The scav-bazaars and alley-barters always paid well, and that's what mattered.

As Savalos is retrieving clips from one of the men by the door, he pauses, a frown creasing his face. Rolling back one of the man's wide sleeves, he notices a series of faded green-black markings oriented vertically on his inner arm. They appear to depict something akin to a double-headed scythe on a long pole, easily recognized by those born on Oremor as a chit-sickle (pronounced 'kite-sickle'), an over sized agricultural implement used to reap thick-stemmed fungal food crops. The number six is tattooed just below this icon in Imperial numeral notation. As the hiver considers this, Albrek approaches from behind and glances down.

"He's a guardsman...either honorably mustered out or active. Sixth Oremor Penal Legion...this...it doesn't make sense..."

Uriah lets out a deep breath, and the orange light above the doorway flickers brightly for one last moment before darkening completely. The man's screams immediately transition to low, agonized moans. He continues to mutter and stutter, mixing gibberish with half-heard words. The man is obviously close to death, the handcannon round having ripped sideways through his chest cavity and lungs.

The feeling of dread is palpable for one such as you, Uriah, and you search your own subconscious for the reason but come up with nothing. Despite the spray of blood across his face and the gore from his dead companion strewn across his shaved skull, you detect something familiar about him. You feel with the utmost certainty that you have never met the man before, yet, just the same...

...looking up at Juan, who stands just behind your crouched form, you see the same expression on his face. Recognition. With the confusion of knowing that it is not someone either of you have ever met.

When Juan looks back at the man he scours his almost eidetic detective's memory for any hint that he met this man before. Countless suspects, witnesses, and colleagues flash through his mind, but none seems to be a match. A rising sense of deja vu cascades through him, palpitating his heart like a strong swig of vintage amasec.

The dying man's eyes, lolling and fearful, go in and out of focus. Blood flows in rivulets from his wound, hands clenching on the deck plates as his feet dance like harbingers of his impending demise. Words tumble from his lips like half-forgotten prayers:

'Oremor...affliction...Krade...zero...spreading...everything...time...the the Parted Veil...not enough...betrayed'

By now the others have gathered around him.

As he abruptly goes still, you all fear him dead.

When just moments later his eyes suddenly go wide and a great choking gasp escapes his stilled lungs, Uriah is startled to his feet. The man looks from one to the next of you in turn and speaks, lucidly, but overcome with terrible, whimpering fear, a voice strained with a sense of failure so absolute something inside of you almost breaks with unbidden sympathy,

"By the Throne, I'm so sorry....so sooo sorrrrry....we failed you...we failed...we were so close...our only chance...we could have stopped it all..."

With this last utterance, the man spasms, retching blood, his back arching in a quaking seizure. His last exhalation sings harmony with the steam escaping from the pipes for a moment before stopping entirely.

The klaxons abruptly cease. Encircling him in stunned silence, you hear the sounds of dozens of booted footfalls banging off the deck-plates in the corridor behind you. Either their echoes, or more of the footfalls sound back from the other companionways on the far walls of the hangar.

Holstering his still-warm pistol as quickly as he drew it, Johnnie slings the shotgun from his shoulder and into his hand. A quick glance by the arbitrator shows that the cavernous hangar appears to be deserted now, save for the looming silhouettes of at least three ancient cargo landing craft, dozens of rusted cargo containers covered in flaking metallic paint, several load-lifter forklifts and a towering, tracked, cargo crane.

The well-lit, new-looking, Oremor-built Churraptus pattern shuttle-craft sitting in the center of the landing bay stands out like a pedigreed stallion among naggish draft horses, venting gases from the crew compartment further this allusion, making it seem as if a panting racehorse just completed its circuit of the track. The craft's passenger ramp is extended, the blue-white strobes tracing its length blinking on and off in the dim hangar. There are designation markings on its dorsal stabilizing wing, but they are difficult to make out in the gloom. There can be no doubt that this shuttle recently landed, and all signs point to the men disembarking from it a short while ago.

Ishmael, the hammer still held high overhead with tensed muscles as if he means to finish the man, finally relents and lowers the weapon when his fellow acolyte points the shotgun into the screaming man's face. Without a word, the cleric walks back toward the others, casually scooping up the grenade as he does so.

Savalos, proceeds from one to the next of the four dead men, skirting the messy remnants of the steward as he does so. The weapons arrayed on the deck-plates from the fallen ambushers consist of a trio of pump-action naval shotguns and a long barreled autogun. Each of the men also has a holstered autopistol and combat knife. Between the four of them they possess eight 8-round shotgun clips, and twelve 18-round spare autopistol clips. The man who carried the autogun also has three spare clips of 30 rounds for that weapon. All four are fit, athletic men with shaved heads and the look of those well-versed in violence. Oddly enough, none of them appear to carry any personal effects, identification, thrones, or dataslates. Their olive drab greatcoats and hardened plastic flak vests could all easily have come from some Munitorium surplus warehouse so similar are they to each other.

Savalos, please make a Search and Scrutiny test.

As Uriah moves forward to speak to the wounded man, Albrek keeps his eyes down the corridor from which you arrived at the landing bay. The klaxons still ring, but he positions himself under one of the vox-speakers and can now hear the stentorian voice of some ship's mate saying:

"Security teams Valkamin, Hepshedis and Grillo to the hangar bay by the captain's order. Set up defensive perimeter in accessways 1L, 1M, and 1N. You are NOT to enagage, repeat, NOT to engage, by the captain's order. The captain and team Augre are enroute from the bridge. Do NOT engage until further orders!"

The screaming, blood-plastered man doesn't even acknowledge Uriah's words when he confronts him, his eyes locked blankly on the ceiling as he alternates between screaming and indecipherable muttering. His good hand clenches and opens over and over again, tears trickling down his face in torrents. As you look more closely at the man's face, a sickening sense of dread begins to stir within you.

Uriah, Johnnie, please make Scrutiny test. Uriah please also make a Psyniscience test.

Johnnie halts as soon as he has an open shot, braces both feet, levels the heavy handcannon, and the tremendous 'boom' momentarily overwhelms the sound of the ringing klaxons.

The round strikes the super-reinforced plastic of the attacker's flak vest and crumples it like a shoddy beverage container, ripping away a panel with the force of the impact before the bullet passes through the man's body on his right side, finally exiting out through his upraised left arm. The exit wound breaks the bone easily, and the autopistol flies out of his hand, spinning across the hanger deck-plates like a miniature, out of control gun-cutter caught in an atmospheric storm. His ruined arm falls weakly to his side, and he slumps in agony, screaming with pain against the left-hand bulkhead door.

Ishmael, breathing heavily, raises the hammer high overhead should a death blow be needed, but the Redemptionist cleric shows admirable and surprising restraint, staying his hand when he realizes the man is completely incapacitated, both arms hanging limply at his sides.

An authoritarian, static-filled voice, barely audible over the alarm klaxons still overwhelming the vox-speakers tries to make itself heard. Across the vast width of the hanger bay you can see a pair of engineering techs in their ratty blue jumpsuits scrambling from cover to exit as quickly as possible from the landing bay through a door on its far side now that the shooting has stopped.

What do you want to do?

As the bellowing cleric charges the remaining attacker, Johnnie tries and fails to gain line of sight to the man with his handcannon. Unable to squeeze off a shot without potentially striking the Redemptionist, he curses and instead lopes along behind the Ishmael, incidentally using him for cover.

Nodding to Uriah, Albrek levels his lasgun down the corridor in the direction of the landing bay, and slowly begins crabwalking behind the others in that direction. With the klaxons blaring so loudly, it is almost impossible to hear oneself think, much less communicate in anything less than shouts.

Uriah scans the corridor from whence you came and although it appears to still be empty, it curves away to a vanishing point about twenty meters back from the shape of the ship's hull, and he cannot be certain anything is coming from beyond that point.

Savalos reloads his shotgun in one fluid motion, and then stares incredulously after Ishmael as he charges the man. He does not notice anyone present outside of the sole surviving ambusher. It is entirely possible that the first three to appear were barking orders to the other pair as they came to the door.

Ishmael's heavy hammer, embossed with the beneficent and severe image of the Emperor of Man wreathed in spiky flames descends toward the head of the last attacker as the screaming, bloody-faced man fumbles with the autopistol, barely containing his agony.

Ishmael swings: WS = 37 + 10 (Charging) +10 Prone Foe = 57, Roll = 85, miss.

The swing goes wild as the cleric slips in blood covering the deck-plates, and his hammer slams with a resounding 'BONG' into the heavy bulkhead plating of the door. The man steadies his aim as best he can and tries to shoot Ishmael before he can raise the hammer again.

Johnnie has the opportunity to take a shot before the ambusher can fire, as Ishmael has moved beyond the man slightly. I will await his action.

The others have no chance of hitting the man with Johnnie moving down the center of the corridor for fear of friendly fire.

Stepping out momentarily from cover, Uriah fires his laspistol at the shotgunner who is still frantically trying to reload his weapon with what seems to be one good arm. Each drop of perspiration stands out in stark relief on the man's brow, his haunted eyes pained and desperate in the flickering orange glow of the shattered deck-light.

The las-blast catches him square in the chest and burns through him, the lambent glow of the crackling energy setting fire to the front of his drab colored greatcoat. He drops to the ground, legs kicking feebly before finally expiring.

Uriah's vox-amplified shout echoes with buzzing feedback as he commands the sole surviving ambusher to surrender. His voice carries tremendous weight, causing everyone to have a dizzying feeling of being somewhat outside of themselves. This sensation permeates the corridor for an instant, before fading back into the Immaterium.

The man holding the autopistol screams aloud, his blood covered face wincing in agony as his shaking hands try to retain their grip on the gun.

Willpower = 82, failed.

Johnnie is next, followed by Albrek. Ishmael is charging the man with his hammer, and then Savalos. Please let me know your intentions with the remaining foe, he does not appear to even consider surrender despite his dire situation.

Johnnie leans out from his cover, just as the shotgunner is leveling his weapon at Ishmael and Savalos. The handcannon booms again, and the round takes a sizable piece of the man's left arm with it, causing his weapon to jolt upward as it is fired, blowing out the glowing orange sign above the landing bay doors.

Roll = 74, miss.

Although obviously gravely injured, he persists in attempting to chamber another round into his weapon.

The ambusher at the left-hand door aims carefully and fires his autopistol at the easiest, most obvious target again, centering Ishmael in his sights.

Roll = 89, miss.

Again, amazingly, the round misses the cleric, passing through his vestments just inches from his underarm before embedding itself in the guts of a door control panel.

A loud alarm klaxon begins to blare a noisy, repetitive refrain from the rusted vox-speakers that line the corridor leading to the landing bay. It appears the confrontation has been detected by the Void Needle's crew.

Round #4 will be posted tomorrow. As things stand now, the shotgunner was seriously injured, although not critically so, by Johnnie's last shot. The man with the autopistol by the left-hand door is uninjured, but, by the same token, is just as desperate as his companion given how quickly the firefight has gone the acolytes way.

Savalos' shouted warning comes not a moment too soon. His hoarse cry is barely out of his mouth when Albrek calmly adjusts the aim of his lasgun from the doorway and squeezes off another burst, this time at the mortally wounded man on the floor.

BS= 41 +10 (Aiming) +10 (Prone Target)= 61, Roll = 51, hit!

Damage = 10

The Guardsman's regimented training avails him well and the concentrated burst of las-fire shreds the man as he pulls the grenade from the clasp on his greatcoat. The small, bloodstained explosive drops to the ground with a 'thunk' and rolls a meter or so away from the man...with great relief you realize that the priming ring is still firmly attached.

When the concussive blast never comes, Johnnie peers back around the protection of the hull strut, handcannon at the ready.

Johnnie can still squeeze off a shot if he wishes.

As soon as the man with the autogun presents himself as a target, Savalos rolls from his cover, racks his shotgun and fires full-bore into the middle of the corridor. The weapon's deafening boom is only a counterpoint to the ruin that ensues. The ambusher catches the blast full on in the face and neck, and has both literally ripped away from his torso in sudden, pink mist. The wash of blood and gore sprays into the face of the man crouching below the autogunner, and he frantically rubs at his eyes with his free hand to clear his vision.

Despite Savalos' shouted command for the pair to surrender, they fight on without any semblance of hesitation, uncaring of the fact that they are now outnumbered and outgunned.

Ishmael, still standing fully upright in the middle of the corridor, seemingly oblivious to the danger, takes aim and casually squeezes off another round from his revolver at the remaining attacker with the shotgun.

BS = 41 + 10 (Aiming) = 51, Roll = 59, miss

The round hits the metal frame of the door, glancing away with a metallic pinging sound, just a foot from the ambusher's head.

Two foes now remain, the man with the autopistol crouching by the left-hand door, and the shotgunner shielded by the hole-filled right-hand door. I will hold their attacks until Johnnie can take his remaining half action.

Uriah focuses his will and the air around him begins to ripple for a moment as he raises his laspistol, the steam flowing from the ruptured pipe in front of the doors suddenly begins to shower upward, raining with a pitter-pattering sound on the ceiling. This coincidentally opens the psyker's line of sight to the man clutching the shotgun by the right-hand door. He pulls the trigger, focusing his mind, and the burst from the pistol sears razor straight through the partially open door and through his flak vest. He lets out a cry of pain and ducks back behind the doorway.

Johnnie and Albrek are up next, I'm assuming that Savalos' devastating shot was aimed at the attacker with the autogun (he is toast, description to follow), which will resolve after you guys, so you may want to aim either at the man with the pistol crouched below him, or the fellow that Uriah just singed on the right. I will let Johnnie go first, as I will likely have to ghost Albrek again.

Another explosion sounds out of the arbitrator's handcannon, but the shot goes wild, ricocheting off of the reinforced bulkhead near the door and punching a hole in standpipe that begins venting steam into the corridor.

Savalos, crouching, ducks out of his cover to fire a covering blast from his shotgun into the doorway. Cursing from the recoil and the miss, he realizes he fired too late, as the attacker has already pulled back behind cover following Johnnie's last shot.

Ishmael, still standing near the middle of the hallway takes careful aim and pulls gently back on the trigger as the man just shot through the door by Albrek risks a glance around the corner.

BS= 41+10(Aiming)=51, Roll = 09, hit!

Damage = 11

The bullet catches the man in the bridge of his nose, blowing off most of his face, and dropping his suddenly lifeless body to the deck-plates, the shotgun he had just shouldered still clutched tightly in his lifeless hands.

As soon as Ishmael's target falls, another man takes his place behind the right-hand door, firing a wild blast from his shotgun down the corridor. A third foe, standing, fires a burst from an autogun over the crouched man behind the left-hand door. There seems to be an increased urgency to their actions now that two of their companions have fallen.

The staccato blast from the autogun reverberates in your ears, as the foe fires his burst down the center of the corridor at Ishmael.

87, miss

Amazingly, whether through the Emperor's divine intercession, or just plain dumb luck, the spray goes wild, pinging off of the bulkhead in all directions, none of the rounds actually striking the firebrand cleric.

The foe who just replaced the man that Ishmael killed fires his shotgun at Johnnie.

80, miss. He then quickly pumps the weapon to chamber another round when the burst only finds the thick metal of the strut.

The final opponent, crouches, takes steady aim, and fires at the exposed Ishmael as well.

64, miss.

The shot from the autopistol whistles over the cleric's shoulder, just missing his ear.

OK, each of you please make an Ordinary (+10) Awareness test, and then please post your actions for round #3.

OK, moving forward and ghosting Albrek for now.

The guardsman, making ample use of his cover, snaps a quick glance down the corridor before shouldering his lasgun and sucking in a quick breath, aiming down the sight at the man who was just hit in the vest by Ishmael's last shot. Steadying himself, he fires a burst.

BS=40+10(Semi-Auto Burst)=50, roll = 48, hit (right leg).
Damage = 8

The burst rips into the edge of the thick metal door, punching a trio of holes along its length and eliciting a hoarse cry of pain from the other side as the last blast penetrates at the level of the man's leg. Acrid smoke wells up from the door and the afterglow of the melted metal fades slowly.

Watching as the remaining man peers around the corner of the left-hand blast door, Johnnie wisely ducks back into the cover of one of the support struts, opposite Albrek, on the right-hand side.

The acolytes are now arrayed like the pips on the "five" face of a six-sided die, with Albrek on the lower-right, Johnnie on the lower-left, Ishmael in the center (with no cover readily available or within easy reach), Savalos on the upper right, and Uriah on the upper-left.

About three meters separates each of you from the others, with the available cover of the support struts roughly six meters apart on either side. The four closest struts are currently being used as cover by everyone except for Ishmael. Two more struts, one on each side, can be used as potential cover six meters further down the corridor from Johnnie and Albrek toward the attackers. The fallen attacker is roughly six meters from Albrek and Johnnie in the center of the corridor, and the two using the landing bay doorway for cover are about ten meters away.

Johnnie, you still have a half-action to use if you would like.

The initiative order is as follows:

Uriah: 11
Johnnie: 9
Albrek: 9
Savalos: 6
Ishmael: 6
Foes: 3

I will be giving Johnnie and Albrek one more day to take their turn, otherwise I will ghost them tomorrow night to move things along.

OK, Ghosting Albrek's action to keep things moving.

Albrek sidesteps as your foes advance, taking cover behind the support pillar to left of he and Johnnie. He slips his lasgun from his shoulder, slaps at the charge pack, and risks a peek around the support marveling at the arbiter's fearless audacity, blazing away in the middle of the corridor.

Ishmael, either drawing strength from his boundless faith, or perhaps because his Gunmetallican ego does not allow him to seem less of a man next to Johnnie, stands his ground and opens up with his pistol, the concussive crack of his revolver adding to the din. His round impacts the side of the flak vest worn by the man in the rear rank on the righthand side. Although the ambusher grunts in pain with the impact, he manages to get behind the pillar's cover.

Both of the remaining ambushers take cover, one of them swapping his autopistol for the naval shotgun slung over his shoulder.

Round one ends.

Those who have not already done so, please declare your actions for round #2.

Round #2.

With a hiss of smoldering air, Uriah fires his laspistol at the same man, just missing his head as the blast slags a two-inch hole in the support post he just sheltered behind. A rain of molten sparks cascades down, scoring and burning the deck as they land.

Savalos yells to them, but the eerily silent men either choose not to respond or cannot hear him over the pitched gunbattle. Savalos believes he is correct, however, the shadows playing on the deck plates suggest the presence of two more men, five total including the one already incapacitated.

Savalos, as this attempt at parley was doomed to failure, it will not be considered your action for round #2. You may take another action if you so choose.

There is the briefest moment following the steward's death when time seems to stand still, the single shotgun shell turning end over end in the air as the lead ambusher purposefully strides forward, eyes squinting from the acrid cloud of cordite filling the air around him.

Then, as the shell clatters to the floor, everyone explodes into action simultaneously as if triggered by the expended ammunition coming to rest.

Thanks to Savalos' instincts, Uriah, just behind Johnnie, Savalos, and Albrek, quickly ducks into the reassuring cover provided by the nearest reinforcing strut for the corridor. He draws his pistol, keeping the thick layer of hull plating between him and the attackers.

Johnnie's handcannon is out of the holster and aiming at the lead man in the blink of an eye, his arbiter's cold resolve and steady nerves availing him well as he fires one well-placed round while standing fearlessly in the middle of the corridor.

Rolling a second BS skill check for Johnnie, 72, miss, so damage stands at 14.

The bullet from the handcannon rips through the left leg of the lead ambusher, blowing away a hunk of flesh from his unarmored thigh, he drops to the ground as if poleaxed and a geysering torrent of blood jets up from his shredded femoral artery. His wailing screams begin filling the corridor, a shrill counterpoint to the explosion of gunshots.

Savalos lithely ducks into the cover of the pillar opposite Uriah, slinging his shotgun from his shoulder in one fluid motion. He risks a quick glance at the men as the explosion of Johnnie's handcannon booms through the echoing confines like the voice of an angry god.

From his quick glance, he can tell immediately that these men are no simple ruffians or hive scum. They move with the practiced, drilled precision of Arbiters or Guardsmen.

Ishmael unholsters his pistol effortlessly (Initiative = 6), and standing behind and to the right of Johnnie, takes careful aim and fires.

BS check = 43, BS skill = 51 (41+10 for aiming), hit. Damage is 1d10+3=9.

Albrek, your Initiative count is 9 there is a pillar to your left available for cover, I will await your action for a bit before continuing on, it will resolve simultaneously with Johnnie's.

The three attackers seems surprised by your immediate reaction to their ambush, and the pair behind the shotgunner dive for cover near the metal supports closest to them. Initiative = 3

<uhm; am still trying to figure out how to post my roll, hmm>

am ready to draw my autopistol and cover or snap to attention as required

[*url=http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/2278828/] "result=40"[*/url]

Ishmael:

Val, see the post in the OOC thread, you merely have to drop the asterisks. They were only used for the example.

Your training avails you well. Even the excitable Ishmael takes note of Savalos' subtle gesture that something is amiss in the opening to the landing bay ahead, and without the time to question his observation, you instead instinctively react.

It happens almost quicker than the eye can follow. Your hear the faintly audible scrape of boot-leather on the rust-spotted flooring and suddenly a pale-featured man, his shaved head a canvas of stubble and dripping perspiration, bursts out of the landing bay entry, raising a stockless naval-style shotgun at the waist. His eyes blaze with a fanatical ardor that looks beyond you as if he were staring into the Void itself.

With no hesitation, he pulls the trigger at the very moment that the steward turns his head around to you to offer the punchline of his most recent bawdy joke. The boom of the weapon is positively deafening in the close quarters of the Void Needle's access corridor. The poor steward's head disintegrates from atop his shoulders as if exploded from within, the proximity of the shotgun blast spraying a rain of gore, bone, and flesh in a spattering arc that rains across your clothing and faces as if tossed from a bucket. The jovial steward's smile disappears as if wiped from the face of creation itself, his final jest unfinished.

The man pumps the shotgun effortlessly, moving forward with no hesitation, the shell casing ejected into the air twinkling momentarily from the dull orange arc-sodium lighting before pinging loudly against the gangway. Two more men, similarly attired in flak vests and long, shabby, olive-colored greatcoats drop in behind him and advance down the corridor, firing in your direction with practiced, efficient ease. Their callous visages are almost as blank as servitors, focused on their killing to the exclusion of everything else.

Savalos' vigilance has saved everyone else from being surprised by the ambush. Please roll initiative (1d10 + Agility Bonus) and declare your actions. There is some cover available in the form of narrow, meter-wide metallic support pillars, braced into the corridor wall on either side, evenly spaced every three meters or so down the corridor. The three men are moving forward in a roughly triangular formation, about seven meters away from you with the shotgunner in the lead. They are exhibiting a confidence that they fully expect this to be an easy slaughter of surprised foes. Feel free to ask questions about the tactical situation if anything seems unclear.

Does the steward know I am a psyker? I am not sure if he is unconfortable with me because I am a void-born or a psyker.

He seems uncomfortable with you because you are obviously void-born. He does not seem to be aware that you are a psyker, but many that are superstitious believe that all void-born are touched by the warp, and are inherently tainted in this way.

Having not heard from Albrek or Ishmael, and given Savalos' opportunity to warn everyone, they can forgo their Awareness checks.

Assuming everyone has noticed the warning, what will everyone do?

Awareness Check (1d100=1)

Surviving in the underhives of Orcut VII means always paying close attention, even to things that would otherwise seem insignificant. While trying to make sense of Ishmael's bizarre statement, Savalos manages to keep one ear attuned to the steward's prattling on about the ship's old ductwork, why the captain would never put into port in the Fydae Cluster, and what will be served in the mess this evening.

It is for this reason that he whips his head around to the doors from his unspoken communication to Juan when he hears what follows next:

"...finally 'ere then, I imagine the other guards in your little party will be glad we didn't lollygag overmuch..."

A familiar sensation, that of your stomach bottoming out in your boots, overtakes you. It is the sinking feeling you used to get while listening to a duct-wolf stealthily padding along on its three segmented legs in an adjacent companionway. Hunting.

Looking beyond the blissfully unaware steward, you see the pointed tip of a booted foot barely protruding from the edge the left door.

Your amazing roll yielded a significant success, Savalos. If you so choose you can warn the others about what is ahead moments before the steward crosses the threshold of the doorway. If this is the case, there is no need for the others to make their Awareness tests.

The steward continues his uneven march to the hangar bay with you in tow, jabbering occasionally about this or that, while the corridor gradually widens as it nears a large, recessed, oval-shaped opening ahead. The pair of dented hydraulic doors to either side of the entry are smeared with grease and their separation leaves a gap about five feet wide. Beyond can be seen the dimly lit hangar bay and the shadowy, almost skeletal outlines of launch gantries. Diffuse orange light from the failing warning sign above the door provides weak illumination.

Everyone please make an Awareness skill test, unmodified

"Steward, is not the Captain at the bridge, it looks like we head toward the hangars? Explain yourself."

The steward pauses in his banter to regard the cleric with a look of incredulity that he rarely has the opportunity to express, especially to his perceived 'betters'.

"Eh, forgive me brother, but the landers' is that way, ye know, in the hanger. I may be a trifle addled then, but wudn't the point of the cap'n pulling out o' Warp to get ye planetside quick as a trick? I'm sure the cap'n is happy with the gelt, but he still is a might peeved to have to make this stop, I'm not sure ye would want to speak to 'im now, anyways."

1d100=25

I made it by 20
I rolled by IC, but I was not sure how link it up

Lorm, I posted a brief tutorial on the OOC thread, hope it helps.

Uriah feels the gentle, almost imperceptible change as the Void Needle fires its directional thrusters to better orient itself with the orbital docking ring circling Oremor.

After reading the data-slate passed from Uriah once, and then again to make certain that you comprehend its contents, the three Oremor natives cannot help but look to one another in stunned silence.

Ishmael ceases his hymnal long enough to almost casually peruse the message on the 'slate before handing it back to the psyker and resume his singing.

Uriah's buzzing vox response to Albrek has the additional effect of rousing both Savalos and Juan from their reveries as well, and the group begins to efficiently and wordlessly gather their equipment.

Stepping through the doorway to the stateroom, Uriah hands the wiped data-slate back to the pudgy steward, who slouches his shoulders in a lazy, if well-meaning semblance of a bow that only serves to unbalance the frayed epaulets on his shoulders. Seeing the grim looks on everyone's faces he paradoxically attempts polite conversation,

"I can see tha' no one of ye's too tickled to be makin' this stop, eh? Cap'n just called over the vox that we're nearin' Oremor of all places. Your noble-patron must have got hisself some kind of bargain on agri-produce or some narco-crop to call on the cap'n to pull the 'Needle outa warp like that. Well, chin up, you'll be spendin' your profits on Malfi soon enough, right then?"

Following the steward's lead, you continue to move down the gently curving corridor that runs parallel to the starboard side hull of the Void Needle. You occasionally pass a scruffy-looking crew member, a partially lit sign indicating the ship's aft-most locations, or a vox emitter hissing crackling static now that the klaxons have ceased.

The steward seems affable enough, and rather brave to be trying to lighten the mood given your dour expressions. Anyone trained in the Charm skill can make an Easy (+30) skill test to converse with him if you so choose.

Do we know how to erase the message so it is permantly unreadable?

The message could easily be erased once committed to memory with the knowledge of the encryption cipher that you possess.

Uriah types quickly into the face of the data-slate once the steward makes his exit, and reads in silence for a few moments, before passing it to the others.

The fingerprint smudged data-slate reads as follows:

Code Iota Identifax>>>Encrypted Data Follows>>>A3E44TK633L-#(L43)000#23401K...
+++Initiate Receipt of Astropathic Transmission+++

After reading, feel free to discuss for few moments amongst yourselves the significance of what the data-slate states. The steward awaits outside when you are ready.

The steward pauses at the opening of the hatch, peering in curiously. He quickly looks away when Juan's upraised weapon is centered on the gap in the doorway. Oddly, he seems untroubled by this, as he has become blase over the past month or so about the surly and overly security conscious bodyguards of this particular retinue. When Uriah steps forward, his eyes roll around melodramatically at the sounds of Ishmael's impromptu hymnal.

Passing the chipped and rust-edged data-slate through the gap, the steward nervously eyes Uriah, his unease evident in the way he keeps from touching the other man's hands in the exchange.

Listening to Uriah's buzzing vox, it takes him a moment to get a gist of what the psyker says, when he answers, he avoids eye contact.

"Yeh, the cap'n is indeed in a fit, but summon' must 'ave paid him a hold fulla gelt to come outta the warp early, 'cause he'd sooner kick out the Throne's crooked leg than delay a shipment."

Seeing Uriah's impassive reaction to this, he steps backward, eyes downcast and mutters.

"Read yer message, then. I'll wait outside the door til yer done then take you and yours down to the shuttle hanger. We came outta the void so fast, I'm not even sure where we is."

The moaning threnody of the immaterium reverberates against the hull of the Void Needle, voicing a plaintive counterpoint to the steady hiss and susurrus of the thousand year old air-scrubbers that vent from each corner of the ancient Chartist transport's cramped, shabbily-kept stateroom. Although the pulsing maelstrom of the Warp is invisible to your eyes, residing as it is behind lusterless faux-wood paneling and the centuries battered hull of the ship, it has been your constant companion for months now. It has been as omnipresent as the stale scent of the recirculated air, the dull and flickering overhead lighting, and the starchy aftertaste of the corpse ration provender offered aboard the spacecraft.

When, with a sudden stomach-churning lurch, it is suddenly absent, your ears almost feel violated by the now lonely laboring of the air-handler quartet. It has been months since you debarked from the classified site that served as your proving ground over the last two years. In spite of your collectively listless states from the interminable journey, that very training has honed you to a razor's edge when noticing details, even the most minute. It is too early. Far too early for you to be leaving the Warp. Your journey to Malfi should require another month of travel in the best of circumstances. This sense of unease is communicated on your fellow acolyte's visages as you scan the cramped quarters with a growing sense of trepidation.

After a few tense moments the sound of heavy footfalls drum upon the deck-plates in the corridor outside of the chamber, followed by the hollow banging of a meaty fist being struck against the state-room door. The reedy Fenksworld-accented voice of the overweight steward who has served you these many months calls from without:

"Ullo sirs! The Cap'n has sent me with a 'slate for ye. Important message passed to him just now from the 'paths theyselves. Cannot wait, he says. Most urgent, he says. His mood is poor, it is, wot with us dropping out so early from passage. Too early, if'n you ask me for Malfi docks. Curse this old rustbucket, but she does behave like a finicky old b%&#* from time ta time!"

The muted sound of an angry klaxon sounds from far off down the corridor outside, leading to more mumbling and grumbling from the harried old steward.

A small note: You have been traveling on the Void Needle for three months, seven days, and sixteen hours, incognito under the collective guise of a minor Malfian noble house's trade delegation and attached bodyguards. Will you let the steward in?