[@CaptainBritton][@DJAtomika][@Asura][@Lonewolf685][@Laduguer][@BurningDaisies]


Failure. To some it is the end of all things, with no way back and no impetus to even try once more, to some it is a catalyst to strive even harder and others – those such as Interrogator Dimitrije Elek – it was a well-hidden and secret shame that gnawed at the very integrity of their psyche and daily life. 

Something to be restrained and concealed no matter what...

The assigned dispatch of an eight-man task force to Yansala, an agri-world on the fringes of Imperial space, had started well enough; Inquisitor Gaetano – a secretive figure that not even he had ever met in person – gave orders as was customary and Elek, a mere Throne Agent at that moment decades ago, headed up the squad as they made landfall in the capital city of Ansal.

Here they were told of crops being blighted and withering away, cattle keeling over from an unknown pathogen, and even more disturbing communications of entire hamlets found deserted of all life. It was not an odd thing on such an open planet, one made up mostly of sweeping fields and deep glens and valleys, for settlements to be out of contact with one another for weeks at a time, the difference being that when someone [b]did[/b] arrive there they would find people and a warm welcome.

Primary investigations found that the planet had been touched by none other than Nurgle, ruinous power of pestilence and disease,  and that further action would need to be taken to save the souls of Ansal and the greater planet at large. Elek believed that he could track down and destroy the source of the plagues, but he could not have been more wrong, so he would find out in a matter of days.

What they found was a central nest of daemonic activity, fighting their way through to the heart of it with the help of the Yansala 12th, the so-called 'Tigers', and engaging with a foe that the Agent had been utterly unprepared for.

Only in the early stages of mastering his psychic abilities, far away from the user of warp-based might he would become, he sought to pursue the plague daemon who was causing it all; what he got was blow after blow of psychic lashings, helpless even as Trooper Keels face was torn from his body, or Agent Elisal was struck down by multiple grotesque Plague Bearers, incapacitated and unable to assist.

He had failed, saved only by the timely intervention of his unseen master and patron, but he was never the same again. Second chances, he had been told through a vox message, was given to those who had faith in the God-Emperor, and this was truly his.


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Dimitrije rose heavily from his cot, throwing off the sheets and making his way over to the sink of his sparse chamber, weaving slightly and groping about for his half-empty bottle of Rahzvod – this particular bottle of the clear liquid coming from a little known distillery on Vostroya itself – finally gripping it and raising the already open beverage to his lips.

Smiling through thin lips as the liquid burnt its way down his gullet, the Interrogator looked into the illuminated mirror before him and spat a gobbet of phlegm out at what he saw; an angular and rather gaunt face, blue eyes looking out from under dark brown brows, his hair cut short and a widows peak penetrating the pale flesh of his head, skin that appeared as if it had not seen sunlight for some time but had the overall appearance of a man in his early thirties. Elek was nearly eighty-three, rejuvenat treatments keeping him healthy and young in body if not in mind or experience.

With his black body-glove clinging to him it was easy to see that the six-foot two-inches tall daemon hunter kept himself in a constant state of psychical readiness, no part of his body given over to laxity of the flesh, barely man ounce of fat on his body anywhere. 'Wiry' was the way many may have described him, able to move with whip-like speed and in possession of surprisingly high strength.

There was a small buzzing within his ear as he took another swig, lifting a slender finger to his ear and activating the vox-bead, his eyes never leaving the mirror even as his lips moved.

“This is Elek, what is it Captain?” The tone was to-the-point, a hint of an accent marring the words, possibly Valhallan, and the gruff voice of Captain Lamar – a no nonsense soldier of some repute – echoed the tone nicely, “the arrivals should be here soon, lord. It may be a good idea to meet them personally.”

The link was cut and Elek gave out a long sigh, flinging the bottle into a nearby refuse unit and heading toward his wardrobe – it would not do to keep potential allies waiting.


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You would not find Arden VII on any maps of Imperial space, because as far as anyone was concerned the moon of the destroyed primary planet – the rocky remains of which still floated nearby, forming a protective shell even – did not even exist!

Upon and below the surface of the quite ordinary satellite rock was an Inquisitorial base of the Ordo Malleus, taken from the Imperial Guard and repurposed as many other locations had been, the former frontier outpost making a fine prison, staging point and research centre for the most covert of the Holy Inquisitions branches.

While only fortified entrances showed on the surface, below the grey rock surface was an entire labyrinth of  chambers, training grounds, libraries and much more; those that were arriving had been given specific co-ordinates by Inquisitor Gaetano who, whether they knew it or not, they now worked for through Elek.

A small landing pad was where they would be arriving, a connected lift bringing them down into a subterranean hangar, and it was there – with a coterie of black and red clad Stormtroopers in attendance – that the Interrogator would 'welcome' them. These arrivals had been plucked from all over, bought together here for their skills and faith in the God-Emperor, some even with previous records of service to the Inquisition, and now they would be put to some use in His service for the first time or perhaps the last.

Elek looked over at Captain Lamar, the grey-haired veterans bodysuit and carapace armour contrasting well with his own long leather coat and 'puritan' hat, a clothing style favoured by members of the Ordo Hereticus and from whom he had become enamoured with it, the Captain as stern and straight-backed in his advanced years as he had been as a new recruit.

All around them were vessels of the Inquisition, from gun-cutters to Valkyries, surrounded by the cold grey walls of the hangar and their eyes fixed on the elevator shaft.

“Now we play the vaiting game, I suppose.”

“Yes lord, yes we do.”