[Center][b]Edmund Andamar - Rogue Trader[/b] [@ClocktowerEchos][@Erezrim][@Jeddaven][@POOHEAD189][@BangoSkank][/center] [i]Several weeks later...[/i] The translation from realspace into the Immaterium was just as one might expect - klaxons blared on every deck, usually illuminating light now constricting into sharp colours of red and casting everything in a hellish glow, and every view from porthole to bridge window blocked by thick armoured panels slipping into place - over it all the announcement from the bridge for all hands to remain calm, and beneath it all the soft tremor of a vessel thrusting itself into the guts of literal Armageddon itself. For his own part Edmund barely registered any of this, focused as he had been on his bland meal and then, once his belly was full and his mind focused on other matters, the duties of the ship had been taking up his time quite succinctly. All he had to know was that a Mandeville Point had been reached, and that his precious sky-chariot was on its way to the next region of space... or at least that is how it should have been. "Lord-Commander?" Cheeped a voice in his comm-piece as he strode back toward his cabin, "there is a problem." Edmund recognised the voice of his First Officer and came to a full stop in the narrow passage, placing one hand to his wrist and upping the volume. "What is it, Mister Kurg? Are we all going to die?" There was a short pause, then a nervous chuckle, "eh, no, Lord... but you may want to turn out the House Troops." The expression on Edmund's face was unreadable in the dim light of the passage, but it was undeniably not one of glee. [hr] [i]Down in the depths...[/i] It had been a matter of zero-point-eight seconds, a mere fluctuation in the makeup of the all-encompassing Gellar Field which protects all warp-borne Imperial ships from the dangers of the Immaterium, and as such it registered as less than nothing on the admittedly advanced systems of the [i]Purpose[/i]. What it had not supposed to have been was some sort of trigger, and yet tha was precisely what it was. Zola Demir has slaved aboard [i]His Divine Purpose[/i] for nigh-on twenty years of his life, his once muscle-bound and striking physique reduced in almost every way from what it had once been. All because of his service. It had twisted him in body, and also in mind, yet what it had never managed to beat out of him was the demagogic quality of his voice and the speeches he gave to the downtrodden of the ship. That [i]Sister[/i] had come aboard the ship and started preaching, as was their way, telling them the lies and fallacies of the Imperial Creed. Her words even more hollow and full of poison than those of the machine-men that worked them until they dropped dead. So he had been forced to heighten his speech, to form his words into weapons that pierced and infested the mind, to use the gifts he had been given by his [b]true[/b] patron deity. No-one had, but if they [b]had[/b] been bothered to check, they may have found the tattoo that marked him as one of the chosen, concealed as it was beneath the flesh of his forearm. It burned him even as he tore off the sleeve of his work overalls and glared down at the marking, the shape of a lidless eye surrounded by multiple sets of angelic wings looking right back at him, the fraction of a second through the Gellar Field being all that his patron had needed to contact he and his flock - the Cult of the Beaked Wayfarer. All those years had come to this final moment, his hand sliding about the nearby piping as if he were in a trance, lifting the heavy metal implement and advancing on the sections overseer with eyes full of fanaticism. "What the Warp are you doing, Demir?" Grunted the larger man as he noticed Zola had ceased working, his piggish brow creasing as he saw the pipe awkwardly concealed at the workers side, one meaty hand going toward the snub-nosed pistol at his hip but he was slow... oh, far too slow... Once, twice, thrice the pipe impacted upon the mans thick skull, the overseer crashing to the decking like a poleaxed ox, the last blow shattering his cranium into mush as Zola hunched down to take the pistol for his own. "Now, my children," he crowed as he lifted himself back to his full height, his purple eyes roving over the faces of those about him - some filled with an ecstasy equal to his own, others locked in a rictus of fear or uncertainty as to what would happen next - "now we faithful of the Wayfarer shall rise! Follow the plan and kill all those who resist. Come the Wayfarer and Come the Change!" Those who were not marked cold not have known what would happen, but then again they hardly had time to think about it before they too went to join the overseer. [hr] "It would appear they're heading for the enginarium and the Gellar Shield generator, as well as another large contingent coming straight toward us here, milord. A goodly number of the lower deckhands have turned on their officers and overseers, though none of your own troops from what we can gather. Their progress is currently slow, but i forsee it shall quicken once they've [i]cleared[/i] the bottommost passages." Edmund stood rigid on the bridge, one hand tapping rapidly on the hilt of his sabre, eyes lit up by the rapidly moving specks on the internal blueprint of his vessel. "They shall not have her, by the God-Emperor they shall not," he whispered before switching his gaze to his Master-of-Vox, "tell my retinue to prepare themselves as best they can, and have petty officer Nesam empty the barracks. We shall need House Guard at every chokepoint, as well as a large force to make safe the enginarium. I trust the Martians to hold onto it, but help is always welcome I should think." [i]Well, at least Genetor Dahti will have plenty of subjects for dissection.[/i]