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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.