[@BangoSkank][@Hank][@Guy0fV4lor][@Bright_Ops][@Jamesyco][@Searat]


They had called it a 'gramophone' on Ancient Terra, thousands of years before the coming of the God-Emperor and his benevolent rule, but the sounds that came from it gave Livingstone cause to wonder why it had ever disappeared - the seemingly unconnected melodies and playful pieces of music, put on something called a 'vinyl record', made him somewhat happier given his current state of affairs and so he could not see the downside these simplistic machines may have had.

Ah, but like almost everything to do with his life it was false - the record and gramohphone were reconstructions taken from millennia old blueprints, the music created to the best of the abilites of the one who had tried to bring it back into being. Like this reinvented artefact he too was merely a new construction of something old and lost, his dear father in this case, seen by many as only playing at being half the Trader his beloved Papa was known throughout the segementum to be.

Such thoughts fled his mind as he turned toward more important matters, the sound of brass instruments (or were they, really?) And drums nevertheless filling his peripheral hearing and the interior of his private quarters.

For over a month now the [i]Pride of Praetoria[/i], Firestorm-class Frigate of the Livingstone Dynasty flotilla, had been at anchor near Bakka; the lion-head prowed vessel was there because it required the twenty-five thousand or so pressed men and women to function correctly, a labourious process Edmund found, but one that needed to be done whether he liked it or not.

Six megatonnes of ship was a lot to handle, granted, but did it have to be so darned [i]boring[/i]? Indeed, being so close back to his smog-ridden homeworld he had expected some variation to his days, fun even, alas it had not been so and instead he had been forced to sit day-in-and-day-out in the [i]Red Lion[/i] tavern while illiterate Praetorians and others from further afield had made their mark, or signed their name if they could. 

Now they were finally nearing the end of the process and Edmund could not be happier!

Absent mindedly he poured himself another steaming hot cup of tea, his gloved hand (pinky out, of course!) Lifting it majestically to his lips and...

"FRAK! Ruddy tea, burn me would you, gah."

His monocled face twisted into an expression of extreme distaste, but not anger, the Trader put his cup down and dabbed at the paperwork on his finely carved desk. He had been told to use dataslates, like a normal person, but couldn't bring himself to do so - he knew it was a nightmare for his manservant-cum-secretary Roderick to keep everything in order, but the truth was that he simply didn't care.

"Now, where was I? Ah yes."

There [b]had[/b] been exceptions during his time here gathering human materials, certain individuals that could well prove useful, and now Edmund looked once more at their sheets with great interest.

Rupert O' Donald... Head of the Janitorial Union aboard the ship no less.

'Goose' Boucher, a Guard veteran from the Bristonian Hellhounds.

Maximillian Nidavel and Apollyon Kaicero, both men of quality by the looks of it, men that would do well to be by his side and not down below decks with the rest of the ragged masses.

Yes, and there were more.

For the moment he had arranged a meeting with these individuals, a briefing if you will, a statement of intent even; once way or another he would see what these persons were made of, and should they pass his test then they would accompany him... Possibly to where no-one had gone before.


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The Windsor Suite aboard one of the several spacestations orbiting Bakka was one usually reserved for Planatary Governors, emissaries of the Imperial Church, Astartes, and any other powerful individuals. It had at this point been hired out by Edmund Livingstone (with some influence from his old man) and it was here that the small group of 'exceptional persons' he had decided to speak with were to meet.

It was a most spacious room, a large spread of foodstuffs and drink laid out over several white-cloth covered tables, and a variety of comfy chairs and seating made available, the whole thing being more like the lounge of a social club or the meeting room of some society or other than a room aboard an Imperial station.

At the rear end of the garishly wallpapered chamber - patterns of flowers, birds and spiral whorls made in gold adorning a field of deep blue - had been placed a holoprojector and a gene-locked case of notes, all in preparation for the moment when Edmund made his grand entrance.

With the tables of food and drink on one side, the other side of the room held a roaring fireplace and heated up the chamber quite nicely, two large armchairs sat before it.

All about the place were pictures of Imperial glory, of far off places, battles won and figures made divine by their actions in life, holobook shelves slotted in between a number of them.

All-in-all the chamber was a mix between a buffet, a personal library, a tavern common room and a well-to-do individuals lounge.

To here had they been invited, each one given a keycard that was to be swiped before entering, matched to their DNA only and valid for the day on which the meeting was taking place. After that they would become as mere material once more.

Twelve O' clock noon was the time for the meeting, and so a clock chimed in the chamber.