Andreyich — Roleplayer Guild

Horacio was quite naturally pleased about the position he was in, he would be aiding a person of one of the greatest ranks in the Imperium: an Inquisitor. The fact that he was put together with the Sisters of Battle he was previously assigned with was quite the bonus too. As he walked along he used his Blackhammer shotgun as a staff (by holding it at the stock) whilst his other hand was occupied with stroking his sideburn(s). As far as he concerned those around him were the youngits, they weren't quite as faithful as the Canonesses and such that he preferred dealing with, but alas nothing was perfect. Their faith might not be as incandescent as the fire of a burning heretic, but close enough. When he had finally waddled over to the Inquisitor for inspection he took an arthritic pause, saving best for last of course. He pulled up his belt to cover bits of his gut that his carapace chest-piece could not.

To be frank, he was not aware of the names of his comrades, preferring to call them all daughter, so in his mental assessments he usually referred to each as "the shor'un" or "the one what's bloody well louder'n me." He only now realise he looked quite out of place with the Sororitas, his robes being mostly a nearly white grey, with his carapace armour unpainted. Still, being able to distinguish the man who holds the key to one's faith is not always a bad thing. Of course, there were other ways to distinguish Confessor Mazzini, but most of them assumed that he was not wearing some sort of respirator for a world's industrial fumes or otherwise un-breathable air. He cracked his knuckles and then let his chin rest on the stock of his shotgun, propped up by his hands. The sound "Hmmm?" came from him as he straightened out, his back letting out a crack as loud as the grenade of the similar name. "Confessor Horacio Mazzini, at your service Lord." he announced, bowing. 

He gave the Inquisitor a calculating stare, wondering what kind he was. He heard some of the more "radical" ones were not like the radicals of the Eclessiarchy, instead preferring unorthodox means of accomplishing their goal. He hoped this was not one of them, although he knew he would have to keep quiet. Still, it would be awfully unsettling and it could make their relationship strained at best.... 

The Scotsman dismounted his horse, groaning with effort to carry his cuirass. It was certainly annoying to carry around as a civilian, especially in all the heat but he was damned if he was going to let someone stab him in the back or some squirrel-gun toting cowboy trying to take him as easy pickings just because he was too lazy to wear it. He went to the general store to buy some cartridges for his revolver along with some powder, shot and oxidized paper to create the massive cartridges for his howdah pistol. He would go to the cheapest stable but in it give a lot of money with a little extra for the owner to keep quiet. Finally, he went to the old Mary-Ann inn. He didn't get a room, merely getting himself scotch and looking about the place. His face was extremely sunburned because he had not worn his hat, a lesson he would never forget. Sipping his scotch he would place his revolver and sword on the table for instant access should he need it while he happily rolled himself some cartridges for his howdah pistol. This was the Wild West after all.

Satisfied he motioned to the bar-man to come over, the man no doubt certain that a man with a Scottish accent this far west would have some money. "Psst, this place is safe, right? No Mexican bandits nor Indians raiding, right?" he asked, keeping a weary eye out. Pinkerton was one of the places he had invested in when the civil war broke out, and he was hoping old deeds could be at least of some worth. 

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AS THOUGH A THOUSAND MOUTHS CRY OUT IN PAIN

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