"Journey Into The Vast Expanse..." - WH40K RP IC Thread

[Tim1988]

Gav surveyed the scene infront of him, focusing in on the distant booth and the route to it. It would be possible, definitely, but still fraught with danger. Once again, his reckless side came to the fore as the adrenaline pumped through his veins.

"I'll do it, but if I'm going to risk my life for you in this way, I want my payment sorted out first. If I succeed, I want a ticket off this planet, an aircraft I can fly and call my own, and enough coin to see out my days in comfort. If I fail, I doubt I'll need anything other than the Emperor's mercy."

He looked over to the trader, arms crossed, awaiting his reply before he moved anywhere.

[Ace_General]

Gav surveyed the scene infront of him, focusing in on the distant booth and the route to it. It would be possible, definitely, but still fraught with danger. Once again, his reckless side came to the fore as the adrenaline pumped through his veins.

"I'll do it, but if I'm going to risk my life for you in this way, I want my payment sorted out first. If I succeed, I want a ticket off this planet, an aircraft I can fly and call my own, and enough coin to see out my days in comfort. If I fail, I doubt I'll need anything other than the Emperor's mercy."

He looked over to the trader, arms crossed, awaiting his reply before he moved anywhere.

Buck lays down and adjusts the sight of the lasrifle, and gentle cradles it, sighting in on the head of the proctor and says

Gav, if this goes tits up, I got you covered. Run for the nearest cover, I will put a lasround through the head of that proctor, then lay down suppressing fire on full auto. Ockman, I suggest you do the same, and Durante, make ready with the grenades once Gav gets clear if we have to cover our retreat and break contact.

Also, tie a spare bootlace or a bit of string to a grenade, pull the pin and tie it to the pressure leaver, so even if they break the string, the 'nade still goes off. Bagged two of those dark eldar bastards that way.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Uriel tried to understand what was about to happen. It was not something he would have thought he would be part of.

"These men are just doing their duty," he muttered.

Yet he had his own duty now, didn't he? Service to the Emperor, by way if this Rogue Trader. It would not be glorious, but it would be righteous.

"Whatever happens to You Gav, I will see you out to safety, or at least punish your killer."

[McScottish]

Drake did not have the time to do a verbal dance with this cocky fighter ace, his eyes narrowing into no more than slits and his voice coated in a tone like the coming of an icy breeze, "let me put it another way, Martell. If you do not go out there willingly, I will grant you the Emperor's mercy."

He had truly had enough, and simply wished to get back to his ship, and though he did not agree with killing these men- as the Elysian had stated, they were only doing their duty- they were also impeding him from doing greater works for Him on Terra; now he thought about it however, whose fault was it that they were even in this mess? His mind quickly turned to Logan, a man who had very nearly been torn asunder by ravenous mutants as well, and if they survived this little escapade he certainly hoped the Void born fool would be just a little more grateful.

"We shall cover you," he said with a heavy sigh, looking to the others all piled in behind him, "ready your weapons. If everything goes to the Warp then I want as many of us to come out alive as possible. Once Martell reaches the booth he will give us a signal, then we make a run for the shuttle and the boarding ramp. That is unless we too wish to be sucked out into endless emptiness as well?"

Once more he turned to Gav and furrowed his neatly shaped brow, "you shall get your 'ticket', and enough Thrones to last you til the end of your life. A craft is another matter, one that can be seen to at a later date. Now, the controls, if you please."

Raising a gloved hand to his ear, Drake initiated a barely noticeable device and began to mutter in a low tone, "this is Drake, prepare the shuttle for a swift take off...and make sure the Victrix is ready to leave as soon as I return."

All they could do now was hold onto their weapons, pray to the God-Emperor, and hope that Martell could do his duty without having to also give his life.

[Jokern]

With orders coming in to prepare for take-off, Victrix turned into a giant anthill. Crewmen, engineers, technicians and mechanics, over 10,000 of them, running all over the giant vessel. The massive engines roared into action, warming up and prepared to leave at first signal. The starship started to slowly move, turning itself towards the void of the Koronus Expanse.

Ship's Master Rupert felt excited and content as he stood on the bridge. Soon they would leave the borders of Imperial Authority and journey into the unknown beyond. The one-eyed man wondered what glory, fame and riches awaited the Victrix in the future. He made a small prayer to the Emperor to guide them safely through danger through His infinite will. One thing bothered Rupert though: why had Drake's message been so short and not long after the shuttle left for Port Wander's docks? What had happened on there? There must have been some complications with gathering the crew, but the Ship's Master did not know his Captain as one to take unnecessary risks. By the Emperor, what kind of men would join them on their journey?

Whilst pondering all this, Rupert suddenly felt a chill down his spine. Focusing on his surroundings, he could hear faint footsteps walking, no, marching steadily towards the bridge, growing louder and louder with every passing moment. The Emperor's Mercy, not her, the Ship's Master nervously thought to himself, beads of sweat starting to trickle down his face.

Then she appeared from the shadows, silent as a ghost and ten times as frightening. Clad in her black and red-trimmed Commissar's uniform, the expressionless black skull rebreather mask hiding her facial features, power sabre in her belt and bolt pistol on the other side, Commissar Terrela Fareton looked like the monster even the most hardened Guardsmen feared to have behind their backs. She strode up to Rupert, almost pissing his pants with fear, eyeing him with eyes hidden behind dark glass eye holes.

"Is the Captain returning?" she finally asked him. The Commissar's voice was smooth but cold, stern and emotionless as a stone wall.

Slightly more relaxed, Rupert answered her. "Y-, yes, Commissar. He is, e-, earlier than expected even. Do t-, the Commissar think that something has happened down there?"

Not answering his question, Commissar Terrela looked out over Port Wander from the window for several minutes. It was an unnerving air on the bridge now and most crewmen tried to ignore the expressionless stare from the Commissar's gas mask as they steered the ship into the right position. She turned to Rupert again, holding out a hand.

"The comm link, now." Her orders were almost never ignored, so the Ship's Master picked up the vox castor and handed it over. He told her how Captain Drake's own comm device was mostly short range and that there could be problems with reaching him, Terrela took it and Rupert began tuning in the right frequency. First, only the normal noise was heard until the frquency was correct and it became silent in the speakers.

She spoke into the vox-castor. "Captain, what's your status? Captain, can you hear me?"

[McScottish]

She spoke into the vox-castor. "Captain, what's your status? Captain, can you hear me?"

Drakes eyes were still boring into Gav when the vox message came through, slightly marred with static but nonetheless recognisable. For a moment he failed to make sense of the voice but eventually realised that it must be from the mask-muffled mouth of none other than his very own Commissar Terrela, formerly of the Kregian Grenadiers. Truly he believed there were few more capable women, at least that he had met, and Inquisitors excluded of course.

"Commissar," he replied in a voice equally as smooth, his aristocratic upbringing causing him to be especially polite to women, even those as ferocious as Terrela, "I have had a little trouble courtesy of one of my future crewmen, and now it seems that the law pursues me wheresoever I go in Port Wander. What I am about to do will no doubt shock both you and the intended victims...be prepared to leave as quickly as possible, if we should fail to cross into the Expanse then my life, at least, will not be worth living anymore."

Leaving the micro-bead open, the thumb-nail sized radio buzzing gently in his ear, he eyed their faceless opposition and felt regret well up inside him. He could simply hand Logan over, leave him for the Arbites and continue on his way? No...he was not that dishonourable...but the behaviour of that fool had landed them in this Grok mess. Ach, he certainly hoped his 'agent' was having a better time of it than he was.


Meanwhile, on the surface of Footfall, a stranger makes his way into the Xenosium...


The buildings of the Xenosium stood like jagged teeth all around the hunched figure, a tall man wearing a long black coat and bearing a las-pistol at his belt. Those blocks that he now passed were almost all deserted, many having fallen into disrepair over the last few years, but a few still held occupants that on any other world would have been massacred by Imperial forces yet here were treated as guests- if cursed by even the brigands of Footfall and seen as ill-omens by all.

"This must be it."

After making sure that the crimson uniform of his regiment was concealed beneath his jacket, hence the very reason he wore such a strange and uncomfortable garb in the first place, the ears of former Colour-Sergeant W. Bourne picked up one of the oddest noises he had ever heard; it was like a moan mingled with the musical chattering of wind-chimes, or so it seemed to his only Human conciousness. No, it was far worse, it was a cold and emotionless laugh.

It was only then that Bourne discovered he was standing atop a circular grate, the bars wide enough to peer through but not to climb through, a purple shimmering indicating some form of shield or force-field was being generated. Within the centre of the room was an individual that he could not really see in any detail, but that he knew was the one which he had been dispatched to seek. Only now did he see, after a swift study of his surroundings, that he stood atop what would be considered the 'roof' of this particular block and was looking down at least three or four levels.

"He is neccesary. We need him Bourne, but be careful."

One deep breath, two deep breath...

His footsteps echoed through the reasonably empty alleys, spit-polished boots getting dirtied by any manner of grime, and away he walked at double quick time to free one who could be considered a prisoner in this place. Not just any prisoner, but a witch, one of the enigmatic Eldar.

[Jokern]

"You know me better than to think anything could ever shock me, Captain." Terrela answered, sounding almost like a jest. "Whatever you plan to do, that is your call. Victrix is fired up and ready to leave once you're onboard with our new members. If you die I'll drive this ship into the damned heretic port and kill you again, you hear me?" Her voice was as serious as always, to the horror of Rupert right next to her.

[McScottish]

"You know me better than to think anything could ever shock me, Captain." Terrela answered, sounding almost like a jest. "Whatever you plan to do, that is your call. Victrix is fired up and ready to leave once you're onboard with our new members. If you die I'll drive this ship into the damned heretic port and kill you again, you hear me?" Her voice was as serious as always, to the horror of Rupert right next to her.

Of course, he thought to himself, how could I be so stupid?

The thought made him smile, and he answered with what could have either been the tone of a father to a beloved daughter or, very possibly, one of great affection.

"I hear you, loud and clear," he replied in a half-whisper, probably seeming to the others even more insane than they already thought he was, speaking to himself and pressing a finger into his ear, "listen...do not worry about me. If I die, well, I know you can handle yourself." For a moment he felt like saying something more, but instead he simply let out a whisteful sigh and grimaced, "keep the ship running, I will see you soon."

How could he not have feelings for her? Though they may not be those of a lover, they were surely there. He was one of the few people that had ever seen her without that mask, a mask that more-or-less had become her face, and could still remember her as she recovered from the injuries she had sustained against Tyranid aggressors all those years ago.

Idiot... came the small voice in his mind, you are not her carer. Look to the moment, and keep yourself alive, there will be time to pay penance later.

The minutes were ticking away, the window of opportunity slowly getting smaller and smaller, if Gav did not act soon then the Arbites would likely either board the vessel in their search for him (and more specifically for the young Logan) or simply wait by the shuttle until more arrived to reinforce them. Either way, Drake wanted to be off the Port as soon as possible, and if that meant he would have to blow a way through with his own hands then he would.

[McScottish]

He'd had enough, and he had no more time to bother playing games with the local law enforcement. He had been an Acolyte to one of the greatest Inquisitors of this age, Chaos damn it! No force of Arbites was going to cease the inexorable advance of Horatio Drake and his path to gaining back his family name, his family fortune, and his position in the ranks of the Inquisition.

With a small sigh, something quite common to him, the Rogue Trader holstered his Hellpistol and turned to face the men that had been following him. It was time to tell them all the truth, yes...the truth. So, first to begin with...

"Gav Martell," intoned the Trader as he looked to the man the closest to him, "you will not be required to risk your life," his gaze shifted to take them all in and his voice rose to a half-shout that might even be heard by the Enforcers without, "none of you shall be required to risk your lives here today!" Gesturing to the sky, which was obviously not visible, he nonetheless glanced upward as he proceeded to reveal to them the purpose of all this.

"You are all unique individuals, each a servant of Him in your own ways, and each of you are capable thinkers and combatants with much to be proud of; this entire 'exercise' has been a test, one you have all passed with flying colours painted in the blood of those mutants." He lowered his gaze again and simply moved his eyes between them, "you will all be given a place aboard my vessel, the Victrix, as well as food, shelter and most importantly purpose."

A smile, one rare smile in a thousand, crossed his thin lips and made his otherwise marble-like features glow. With deliberate slowness, he withdrew from within the breast of his deep-green coat a single scroll of parchment. Dangling from the scroll could clearly be seen a wax seal bearing the sign of the Aquila, and it was this that would set them free.

"Lower your weapons, and follow me."

Taking his position before them all, he stepped out into the glaring lights of the launch-pad and raised the scroll before him, those Arbites that hadn't noticed him swiftly doing so and raising their weapons. To his credit, if there was any, Proctor Kinsey did not immediatly order his men to open fire and thus gave Drake a chance.

"I am Horatio Drake, Scion of House Drake, officiated representative of the Imperium and the God-Emperor, Rogue Trader of Him-on-Terra."

"Stop where you are!" Shouted Kinsey, his trigger finger clearly itching, "halt and show me your Warrant of Trade."

The scroll was proudly held aloft, like a beacon of hope in a sea of black-shelled predators.

"Here is my Warrant, signed by the High Lords themselves!" One hand gestured toward the men that Drake assumed were following him, "these men are coming with me. They have each been requisitioned for service in the cause of extending His light and domains into the darkest corners of the galaxy. If you attempt to hinder me then it shall be known to your superiors."

"This...Xenos-lover is wanted by Port Wander authorities," growled the Proctor, glaring straight at Logan.

"He is under my protection, and soon to be a member of my crew. You would not be foolish enough to try and take him now, would you, Proctor?"

Indecision was written plainly across the ugly face of the bare-headed Arbitrator; the authority of a Warrant was almost equal to that of an Inquisitorial seal, and therefore even Logan and Ockham were untouchable and inviolate by Imperial law and the Lex Imperialis. Could he really risk the life of his men, and his own neck, on arresting this Imperial representative?

"Stand down," came the barked command, "all officers stand down...let them pass."

Beyond the line of disgruntled Arbites the ramp of the shuttle was beginning to lower, the servitors on board making ready to leave. No doubt the seats would be prepared, systems already functioning, and very soon they would be leaving this Emperor-forsaken place as well.

"Martell, Hightower, Durante, Logan, and you Elysian, get on board. Now."

Turning away from the Arbites for a moment, though their fists still remained tight around their power-mauls and shotgun barrels, Drake opened one last comm-channel to the Victrix.

"This is Drake, status clear. Prepare the ship for departure and landing bay three for the return of the shuttle...oh, and some chambers for our 'guests'. Terrela, if you are there, I am coming home."

The lack of constrictions of his words made the last phrase awkward, but the message was clear enough, he was going home, and this time he was not alone.

[Dirty Chai]

Meanwhile, on the surface of Footfall, a stranger makes his way into the Xenosium...

The buildings of the Xenosium stood like jagged teeth all around the hunched figure, a tall man wearing a long black coat and bearing a las-pistol at his belt. Those blocks that he now passed were almost all deserted, many having fallen into disrepair over the last few years, but a few still held occupants that on any other world would have been massacred by Imperial forces yet here were treated as guests- if cursed by even the brigands of Footfall and seen as ill-omens by all.

"This must be it."

After making sure that the crimson uniform of his regiment was concealed beneath his jacket, hence the very reason he wore such a strange and uncomfortable garb in the first place, the ears of former Colour-Sergeant W. Bourne picked up one of the oddest noises he had ever heard; it was like a moan mingled with the musical chattering of wind-chimes, or so it seemed to his only Human conciousness. No, it was far worse, it was a cold and emotionless laugh.

It was only then that Bourne discovered he was standing atop a circular grate, the bars wide enough to peer through but not to climb through, a purple shimmering indicating some form of shield or force-field was being generated. Within the centre of the room was an individual that he could not really see in any detail, but that he knew was the one which he had been dispatched to seek. Only now did he see, after a swift study of his surroundings, that he stood atop what would be considered the 'roof' of this particular block and was looking down at least three or four levels.

"He is neccesary. We need him Bourne, but be careful."

One deep breath, two deep breath...

His footsteps echoed through the reasonably empty alleys, spit-polished boots getting dirtied by any manner of grime, and away he walked at double quick time to free one who could be considered a prisoner in this place. Not just any prisoner, but a witch, one of the enigmatic Eldar.

The enigma in question was indeed the source of the mauve, transient light which shifted and weaved like smoke, like a transient spirit in search of the ethereal threads of destiny, growing upwards like a creeping plant...

Abruptly, the aura retracted, shrinking back to its root in a blast that could make any possible onlooker feel a little addled.
A metal clunk sounded in the deep, and the figure stood from his central spot, walking into the darkness, out of view.

[Ace_General]

He'd had enough, and he had no more time to bother playing games with the local law enforcement. He had been an Acolyte to one of the greatest Inquisitors of this age, Chaos damn it! No force of Arbites was going to cease the inexorable advance of Horatio Drake and his path to gaining back his family name, his family fortune, and his position in the ranks of the Inquisition.

With a small sigh, something quite common to him, the Rogue Trader holstered his Hellpistol and turned to face the men that had been following him. It was time to tell them all the truth, yes...the truth. So, first to begin with...

"Gav Martell," intoned the Trader as he looked to the man the closest to him, "you will not be required to risk your life," his gaze shifted to take them all in and his voice rose to a half-shout that might even be heard by the Enforcers without, "none of you shall be required to risk your lives here today!" Gesturing to the sky, which was obviously not visible, he nonetheless glanced upward as he proceeded to reveal to them the purpose of all this.

"You are all unique individuals, each a servant of Him in your own ways, and each of you are capable thinkers and combatants with much to be proud of; this entire 'exercise' has been a test, one you have all passed with flying colours painted in the blood of those mutants." He lowered his gaze again and simply moved his eyes between them, "you will all be given a place aboard my vessel, the Victrix, as well as food, shelter and most importantly purpose."

A smile, one rare smile in a thousand, crossed his thin lips and made his otherwise marble-like features glow. With deliberate slowness, he withdrew from within the breast of his deep-green coat a single scroll of parchment. Dangling from the scroll could clearly be seen a wax seal bearing the sign of the Aquila, and it was this that would set them free.

"Lower your weapons, and follow me."

Taking his position before them all, he stepped out into the glaring lights of the launch-pad and raised the scroll before him, those Arbites that hadn't noticed him swiftly doing so and raising their weapons. To his credit, if there was any, Proctor Kinsey did not immediatly order his men to open fire and thus gave Drake a chance.

"I am Horatio Drake, Scion of House Drake, officiated representative of the Imperium and the God-Emperor, Rogue Trader of Him-on-Terra."

"Stop where you are!" Shouted Kinsey, his trigger finger clearly itching, "halt and show me your Warrant of Trade."

The scroll was proudly held aloft, like a beacon of hope in a sea of black-shelled predators.

"Here is my Warrant, signed by the High Lords themselves!" One hand gestured toward the men that Drake assumed were following him, "these men are coming with me. They have each been requisitioned for service in the cause of extending His light and domains into the darkest corners of the galaxy. If you attempt to hinder me then it shall be known to your superiors."

"This...Xenos-lover is wanted by Port Wander authorities," growled the Proctor, glaring straight at Logan.

"He is under my protection, and soon to be a member of my crew. You would not be foolish enough to try and take him now, would you, Proctor?"

Indecision was written plainly across the ugly face of the bare-headed Arbitrator; the authority of a Warrant was almost equal to that of an Inquisitorial seal, and therefore even Logan and Ockham were untouchable and inviolate by Imperial law and the Lex Imperialis. Could he really risk the life of his men, and his own neck, on arresting this Imperial representative?

"Stand down," came the barked command, "all officers stand down...let them pass."

Beyond the line of disgruntled Arbites the ramp of the shuttle was beginning to lower, the servitors on board making ready to leave. No doubt the seats would be prepared, systems already functioning, and very soon they would be leaving this Emperor-forsaken place as well.

"Martell, Hightower, Durante, Logan, and you Elysian, get on board. Now."

Turning away from the Arbites for a moment, though their fists still remained tight around their power-mauls and shotgun barrels, Drake opened one last comm-channel to the Victrix.

"This is Drake, status clear. Prepare the ship for departure and landing bay three for the return of the shuttle...oh, and some chambers for our 'guests'. Terrela, if you are there, I am coming home."

The lack of constrictions of his words made the last phrase awkward, but the message was clear enough, he was going home, and this time he was not alone.

Buck sighs wondering what kind of crazy women his Captain has gotten mixed up with, remembering how his ex wife nearly put a las bolt through his skull, and follows drake up the shuttlebay

[Jokern]

The comm-link sparked into life again, this time it was Ship's Master Rupert answering. "Understood, my lord. Victrix is ready to leave Port Wander behind it as soon as you have landed. Congratulations in the Emperor's Glory, my lord." As Rupert turned around to give the vox-castor to the Commissar, as he thought she would like to answer, she had already disappeared. Instead, he clicked a number of buttons, linking up to the starship's megaphone speakers, barking out orders and instructions to the crew and servitors.

In the officers' bay close to the bridge, five rooms were invaded by technical servitors. The chambers had not been used in a long time and dust and other junk had been thrown in there. It did not take long until the chambers were sparkling clean again, worthy of any Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy.

Shuttle bay three was bustling with activity, with hundreds of servitors, technicians, mechanics, armsmen and crewmen hurriedly moving around, preparing for Captain Drake's return. Smaller vessels and shuttles were moved out of the way, mechanical equipment put down where they did not get in the way. everything was moved on quicker by the dark presence of Commissar Terrela Fareton in her gas mask. Over her head floated a servitor-skull with a red "G" painted on its forehead. Terrela would personally welcome back Captain Drake and the new recruits. She hoped they would not be spineless heretics or xenos, but one could never be sure with Drake, Terrela had to remind herself. Sighing, the Commissar wondered why she was even here again. Terrela was a Commissar of the Imperium, molded into killing xenos, executing heretics, cowards and mutants on sight. Her entire life had been the opposite of that of a Rogue Trader.

The answer was clear though: she would have rotted in a jail cell on some destitute planet or put into horrific experiments or even executed for her mental instability, hastily brushed off as the taint of the Ruinous Powers to get rid of her, if not for Horatio Drake finding her and offering her a a new home and a new team to fight the enemies of the Emperor where not even Imperial Guardsmen usually were sent: the unexplored regions outside the Imperium. For some reason, she felt happy being here, having a purpose again. Terrela just hoped that the men Drake brought home were not complete greenboys or morons. Then she would put a bolt through his noble head, for the Emperor's Might.

[McScottish]

OOC: Okie dokie, I'm gonna give everyone a chance to get their character on board the shuttle, then we lift off. I'll post the proceedings later today. Think of it as a form of 'roll call', if you will, just to see who is actually still here.


On the surface of Footfall...


Bourne did not like this one bit. He had spent half of his life shooting at pointy-eared bastards like this, blowing holes through them with all manner of weapons, watching as their unique ammunition severed limbs and impaled his comrades in the firing line. It was the reason Drake had chosen him in the first place- who else but a veteran of Imperial-Eldar wars would volunteer to go and glare at one of those effeminate fraks face-to-face? The Rogue Trader only knew that Bourne would not immediatly kill the Xenos because of his unshakable loyalty to Drake and the Emperor.

"Bloody Grok turd," muttered the moustache-twiddling soldier, "why did I volunteer...idiot."

Making his way to the entrance of the prison-building within the Xenosium, watched always by multiple pairs of eyes looking from windows and shadowed doorways, he slid a smooth metallic cylinder from his sleeve and squinted as he looked for the hole into which it would go.

Eventually he located it, slipping the cylinder in and taking a step back as the doorway hissed open; before him was a narrow entranceway, furbished with nothing but a terrible carpet and a couple of scribbles that looked like messages of welcome in the accursed Eldar tongue. He had never liked those symbols, they gave him the heebey-jeebeys.


Swallowing his hatred, or at least trying, he took a step over the threshhold and into the corridor. At the end of the corridor it widened out into an atrium, a small fountain barely trickling, a spiral staircase extending upward to the higher levels where the bedrooms and other chambers must be. Yet it was in the atrium, a room both wide and high, that Bourne decided to stop.

"Solat'suith!" He yelled, a strange sense of nausea coming over him all of a sudden, one hand rising up to clutch at his head for a movement and to keep his balance, "Solat'suith of Ulthwe...show yourself, Eldar!"

He was there, or at least close by, Bourne could feel him.

[Dirty Chai]

Solat'suith, as he had just been called, froze.
He was right at the other end of the atrium, under shadow.

The Mon Keigh knew his name. Why?
He was looking for him. For his head? Likely.
Why else would a human have his name and come tracking him down into a dark corner of the galaxy?

He slipped through a door to the left, leaving his rhythmic words behind him.
"Why should I, Mon-Keigh?"

Sol slid against a wall, looking for a sharp object to pick up.
All he had down here was his old, faded, emerald rags, and his soul stone amulet.

[Zectorman]

Durante blinked a few times, as realized how easy it had been for the Trader to just walk past these men. Shock was quickly subsumed by irritation on why the trader had not pulled out his Warrant before. He felt like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner, he was too used to trying to get around the Warrant of trade than actually using it himself as protection. Things certainly had changed...

The Trader had been talking to what seemed to be an adjutant of sorts, it seemed everything was ready to go as he crossed the hanger towards the small ship. the other Arbitrators eyed him maliciously, some turning away in shame. Was it shame of themselves or on him? Durante never broke stride, his eyes only passing over each of them. Before he passed the last of them the Proctor Kinsey grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. "Do not come back Ockham, for your own sake." It was not a threat, it was a promise. The tone of voice not conveying hate as much as a regular statement. Durante turned his head to face his former comrade in arms, "I never plan on coming back here, comrade. Though if I do, no law or warrant or politician will keep me from my duties. There will be no one holding me back, next time."

With a look of either respect or dismissal Kinsey let go of Durante's arm. He continued behind the trader up into the ship and took a seat near the doors to the cock pit. He finally , for the first time in the last 46 hours, took off his helmet; showing his brown hair, matted down and wet with sweat. He ran his hands through it and let out a long breath, some of the passion fleeing his eyes as he realized that his career as among Adeptus Arbites was over now. He was throwing himself into the wild. From the number of stories he had heard about Rogue traders, even if half of them were made up or embellished, he figured there would be more than he could handle soon enough. It was an awkward situation for him, for the first time in his life, his future was truly in his own hands and out of the hands of the Imperium.

[Ace_General]

Buck continues across the shuttlebay and walks into the shuttle, simply happy to be going back onto a ship to spread death and damnation amongst the Xenos and Heritics and serving the will of his Beloved Imperium of man and his old rank back, instead of sitting at port Wanderer languishing at half pay

[McScottish]

Solat'suith, as he had just been called, froze.
He was right at the other end of the atrium, under shadow.

The Mon Keigh knew his name. Why?
He was looking for him. For his head? Likely.
Why else would a human have his name and come tracking him down into a dark corner of the galaxy?

He slipped through a door to the left, leaving his rhythmic words behind him.
"Why should I, Mon-Keigh?"

Sol slid against a wall, looking for a sharp object to pick up.
All he had down here was his old, faded, emerald rags, and his soul stone amulet.

"My name is William Bourne, formerly of the Fifth Praetorian Guard," called the mutton-chopped NCO, looking into the darkness for the slightest hint of movement and barely breathing, "was sent to find you by my commander, a man named Horatio Drake, a Rogue Trader in Imperial parlance."

Where was he, this Xenos with a voice like the pure essence of music? So far he refused to show himself, and in Guard terms that could only mean he was suffering from a very Human fight-or-flight response. With all the stalling it could only mean one thing...one thing that made him grip the hilt of his pistol tighter yet.

"I mean you no harm. I have a message here from my superior, he commanded I give it to you...I understand you have remained here for some time, but there needn't be any bloodshed between us."

As much as Bourne hated the Eldar he liked living more, and this 'Sol' was said to have been trained in their ways of magick, it wqould do well not to anger the pointy-ear unless first provoked himself.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Uriel just looked straight ahead as he clambered up the ramp. He had forgotten to put on his helmet, and so the arbiters could see his face.
Though, why did it matter? He was leaving, and he wouldn't find himself back here if he tried.

[Dirty Chai]

"My name is William Bourne, formerly of the Fifth Praetorian Guard," called the mutton-chopped NCO, looking into the darkness for the slightest hint of movement and barely breathing, "was sent to find you by my commander, a man named Horatio Drake, a Rogue Trader in Imperial parlance."

Where was he, this Xenos with a voice like the pure essence of music? So far he refused to show himself, and in Guard terms that could only mean he was suffering from a very Human fight-or-flight response. With all the stalling it could only mean one thing...one thing that made him grip the hilt of his pistol tighter yet.

"I mean you no harm. I have a message here from my superior, he commanded I give it to you...I understand you have remained here for some time, but there needn't be any bloodshed between us."

As much as Bourne hated the Eldar he liked living more, and this 'Sol' was said to have been trained in their ways of magick, it wqould do well not to anger the pointy-ear unless first provoked himself.

"And what is this .. 'heretical' message, William Bourne?" he echoed through the hall again with a touch of mockery.

The Eldar stood where he was, listening quietly.
He had been here for what likely seemed an eternity to a human. It was as much a prison as a hiding place, a sanctuary.

His own people had sold him out, either his kin or his comrades, one or the other.
Sol was a corsair for two decades, a Void Dreamer aboard a vessel of the Black Suns until they came into trouble near the Serpent's Cradle.
At home, in Ulthwe, he was a murderer and a criminal. A man who had slain a favorite son of the Craftworld and escaped punishment.

The name of Solat'suith may indeed be on a list of wanted heads somewhere, or in many places. He couldn't be sure.
He was infamous aboard the Black Suns, and he left them on a sour note; They could have turned his name over to the Mon Keighs.
The same could be said for Ulthwe, though Sol could not imagine the noir-clad warriors of Ulthwe turning one of their own over to the hairy vermin, even for punishment.

[Tim1988]

Gav shrugged his shoulders. Why hadn't Drake just shown the warrant straight off? he thought to himself. Why try to make one of us risk our lives? This man truly was a fool, Gav decided.

Yet life would be more interesting following him than it is here. For too many years, he had been without the thrill of battle, the thrill of leaning into the throttle, knowing that one wrong move could be his end. Besides, he figured if he didn't go, the second the ship was off, the arbites would be onto him in a flash.

And so, with another shrug of his shoulders, he followed the trader across the hangar bay and up the rank into the ship.
"Coffee. Did I mention I'd also want coffee when I agreed to follow you?" he called after Drake with a grin.