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Scintilla. From an outsider's point of view, it was the crowning jewel of the Calixis Sector. From the splendor of Lucid Palace, to the divinity of the Cathedral of Illumination, Scintilla is renown as the capital of the entire sector and the seat of too many powerful men to count. Decadent nobles rule over the Hive World from spires so high in the clouds, looking down upon countless billions of less fortunate who toil among layers of decaying temples, manses and monuments of centuries long past. A world covered by the urban sprawl of that holds so much of humanity, Scintilla’s vast hives house more than menial drones and spoiled aristocracy. With suffering or decadence come desperation, for basic needs or for ever richer sensation. With desperation comes the seeds of temptation, to stray from the Emperor's divine rule and embrace heresies so foul few can be trusted to speak them.

Those that can count themselves few among the endless ocean that is humanity. Spread across a million worlds, these men and women root out the enemies of man with conviction unmatched, lest the Imperium collapse into anarchy and be consumed by the Witch, Xeno and Daemon combined. These brave souls who bring down His most righteous of justice are collectively called the Inquisition. From the halls of the Tricorn Palace within Hive Sibellus, the Calixian Conclave controls these secretive operatives throughout the sector. Yet, even under their nose of the Inquisition, defiant heretics unleashes their horrors upon their fellow man. In the underhive of Sibellus, among the squalor and bloodshed of Scintilla’s forgotten, such a heresy brews.

But no crime against the Emperor goes unfound. No crime against His people goes unpunished. Stationed in hab blocks across Sibellus, individuals of every walk of life find missives in their hands by the time the sun rises over smog covered steel and sullied marble. Selected by the Inquisition for the skills, cunning or simple lack of luck, these brave souls are told to gather at one of the many hundred Administratum quarters that dot Sibellus’ millions of twisting and turning alleys and corridors. 

Bustling masses crowd the streets around the vast and imposing building, covered in basreliefs of skulls, half draped urns and other symbols of death, crowned by an immense statue of a weeping saint. The splendor of such a monument is to only be experienced for a short span; for the Inquisition has no place for tardiness among its acolytes, and the service elevator tucked around the back of the outpost is quite the trek around such a huge structure.

Among the humble service shaft stood a singular servitor, old and wizened in appearance as it dutifully stares into space. It waits, unflinching, for the agents to begin collecting among the hatch. 
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