Candy Cane Elf
AdvancedJ3lly@agentmanateeThe transport shuttle had taken well over an hour to reach the Outpost, the utter disgrace of a pilot not even deigning to inform his superior – in every way – of this fact! Even as Drake listened to the Navigator's portents and predictions, emotions and warnings, he could not help but feel the corner of his mouth begin to slowly twitch as his mind went to the fool sitting in the cockpit.
“My dear Gravius,” soothed the Trader, his mocking tone all but gone, replaced with one oddly adult for a man like Drake, “take a look around you, and you shall see that I have come well prepared for conflict if it should arise.”
Nor was he boasting, the dozen or so Armsmen he had bought along were not merely for show; each one was a veteran of either the Imperial Navy or Guard, equipped with carapace armour and anything from a standard-issue las-gun to a Hellfire gun commonly found among the elite Stormtrooper squads of the Imperium - here and there the nozzle of a melta might give off a hiss of pent-up heat, or the luminous glow of the unstable plasma variety might be seen in a corner of the shuttle. Oh yes, if anyone sought to block their passage and their Terra given mission then they would find themselves very sorry and very dead.
“Ill fortune and future events...” letting his teeth chew into the flesh inside of his mouth, Horatio Drake massaged the haft of his chain-axe somewhat anxiously as he spoke more to himself than to anyone in particular.
“My lord, we have arrived.”
Slowly but surely the shuttle could be felt by those within to be descending for a landing, the fizzle of vertical thrusters and hum of engines making sure that it was only reinforced; a slight bump, a creaking of folding wings, and within a matter of moments the back ramp slammed down with a loud clang onto a wharf of the Outpost Fifty-Seven space port.
Rising from his chair with a speed that went against his former lackadaisical state, Drake proceeded down the central isle of the shuttle and was followed hastily by his cortège of versed killers; not once did he look back to check that Gravius had followed, too intent on his task and assuming that the Navigator would either follow or, more likely, remain in the shuttle with the pilot, co-pilot and two crewmen of the transport.
After gathering his bearings and taking a quick glance at their surroundings – seeing a number of varied smaller craft, and at least three bigger cargo vessels for carrying the Emperor knew what – one gloved hand went to the auto-stubber, plucking it up and checking the safety in a smooth and rehearsed motion.
Everything about the man known as Horatio Drake had changed, as soon as he stepped foot outside his ship, his entire pose and the way he held himself changing to someone far more confident, more capable in their abilities, and someone who would not leave without getting what he came for.
“Now then,” he mused openly, looking back to where he expected Gravius to be, “what say you, Mister Pemelton? Shall we proceed deeper into this cesspit, or shall we remain here for a moment?”
@PripovednikThere would be no help coming for The Dagger, not this time, not when he had essentially taken the law – a law that was written and executed by the most powerful on the station – into his own hands. He had shed the blood of those loyal to Jigandi, of one of his prime slum-lords, and had now whipped up the Blue Virus members into a frenzy that would surely see them dead within the next few hours; whatever help he had expected from Mathias would never arrive, no squad of reinforcements to make his end less of a possibility.
Mathias, as much as his connection to Dagmar forced him into some sort of obligation, was nevertheless an aristocrat and a politician. Who did the Feral World assassin think paid for his campaigns? Helped him 'get around' his rivals? Allow him to continue living his life, the life he was so accustomed to? Well, the reach of the Bloodied Fist was longer and its squeeze much tighter than even he could have known.
Yet...yet there was still a light at the end of a particular tunnel, a tunnel running beneath the city as a matter of fact.
From his current position at a crossroads of slums - slums with holes for toilets, but still holes that connected to a sewer full of shit below them – there was also a crossroads of waste pipes and gutters to choose from, if he so wished; he could make his way to almost anywhere, as long as there was a toilet.
One pipe might take him to the Loft, another to the stations space dock, another to the slum opposite...
Although his scans showed him passageways, they did not tell him where each one went, and so it was up to Dagmar and his honed senses to decide for himself which passage he might take.
Would it lead to his freedom and safety, or to his demise?
@Kingfisher@FlaggTypho Almano Jigandi was an inherent gambler, it was known! He had taken much of his families money, both legal and illegal, and often came to the Loft to either win some extra Thrones, or at least to feel the thrill of losing them. Sad to say, but it actually made him feel alive. Typho was nothing like his younger brother, the current Bloodied Fist, and could not take a life without vomiting down his finest suit of fashionable clothing – Almano on the other hand was a true animal, a man who's mantra may as well have been 'survival of the fittest'; he was always willing to kill those both above him and below him, or to get another to do it for him, some even saying he did it by...supernatural means.
Now after all this time of trying to go incognito the game was finally up, he had been cornered by one who could very literally read his mind, and from such power there was no escape.
Half-dumb and somewhat deaf, or so he may have seemed by his current nervous state, Typho listened to his erstwhile friend at the table and the paunchy girl – the last remaining member of the Blissponis Syndicate if he was not mistaken – as they conversed, only really paying attention once she began wobbling her fat jowls in his direction. Truth be told, she reminded him of a walking and talking pig, much like one he had read in a data slate novella once upon a time.
“Madame,” he began, the greasiest smile he could muster plastering itself to his face, his arms opening wide into a gesture of meekness, “you will find me to be of very little help in this, I am truly afraid. My brother would gladly kill me himself, or worse, just to dispatch the last of the Blissponii from this mortal coil.”
He gave a sigh and a shrug of his slender shoulders, but bobbed his head in acquiescence of her demands.
“Lead on, young – eeerrm...lady.”
This would either end in his death or his torture at the hands of his sibling, and he certainly hoped it would be the latter.
@Peik@HankOOC: You guys are doing fine, feel free to carry on as you are for the moment. I'll shake things up if/when the time becomes right.
“My dear Gravius,” soothed the Trader, his mocking tone all but gone, replaced with one oddly adult for a man like Drake, “take a look around you, and you shall see that I have come well prepared for conflict if it should arise.”
Nor was he boasting, the dozen or so Armsmen he had bought along were not merely for show; each one was a veteran of either the Imperial Navy or Guard, equipped with carapace armour and anything from a standard-issue las-gun to a Hellfire gun commonly found among the elite Stormtrooper squads of the Imperium - here and there the nozzle of a melta might give off a hiss of pent-up heat, or the luminous glow of the unstable plasma variety might be seen in a corner of the shuttle. Oh yes, if anyone sought to block their passage and their Terra given mission then they would find themselves very sorry and very dead.
“Ill fortune and future events...” letting his teeth chew into the flesh inside of his mouth, Horatio Drake massaged the haft of his chain-axe somewhat anxiously as he spoke more to himself than to anyone in particular.
“My lord, we have arrived.”
Slowly but surely the shuttle could be felt by those within to be descending for a landing, the fizzle of vertical thrusters and hum of engines making sure that it was only reinforced; a slight bump, a creaking of folding wings, and within a matter of moments the back ramp slammed down with a loud clang onto a wharf of the Outpost Fifty-Seven space port.
Rising from his chair with a speed that went against his former lackadaisical state, Drake proceeded down the central isle of the shuttle and was followed hastily by his cortège of versed killers; not once did he look back to check that Gravius had followed, too intent on his task and assuming that the Navigator would either follow or, more likely, remain in the shuttle with the pilot, co-pilot and two crewmen of the transport.
After gathering his bearings and taking a quick glance at their surroundings – seeing a number of varied smaller craft, and at least three bigger cargo vessels for carrying the Emperor knew what – one gloved hand went to the auto-stubber, plucking it up and checking the safety in a smooth and rehearsed motion.
Everything about the man known as Horatio Drake had changed, as soon as he stepped foot outside his ship, his entire pose and the way he held himself changing to someone far more confident, more capable in their abilities, and someone who would not leave without getting what he came for.
“Now then,” he mused openly, looking back to where he expected Gravius to be, “what say you, Mister Pemelton? Shall we proceed deeper into this cesspit, or shall we remain here for a moment?”
@PripovednikThere would be no help coming for The Dagger, not this time, not when he had essentially taken the law – a law that was written and executed by the most powerful on the station – into his own hands. He had shed the blood of those loyal to Jigandi, of one of his prime slum-lords, and had now whipped up the Blue Virus members into a frenzy that would surely see them dead within the next few hours; whatever help he had expected from Mathias would never arrive, no squad of reinforcements to make his end less of a possibility.
Mathias, as much as his connection to Dagmar forced him into some sort of obligation, was nevertheless an aristocrat and a politician. Who did the Feral World assassin think paid for his campaigns? Helped him 'get around' his rivals? Allow him to continue living his life, the life he was so accustomed to? Well, the reach of the Bloodied Fist was longer and its squeeze much tighter than even he could have known.
Yet...yet there was still a light at the end of a particular tunnel, a tunnel running beneath the city as a matter of fact.
From his current position at a crossroads of slums - slums with holes for toilets, but still holes that connected to a sewer full of shit below them – there was also a crossroads of waste pipes and gutters to choose from, if he so wished; he could make his way to almost anywhere, as long as there was a toilet.
One pipe might take him to the Loft, another to the stations space dock, another to the slum opposite...
Although his scans showed him passageways, they did not tell him where each one went, and so it was up to Dagmar and his honed senses to decide for himself which passage he might take.
Would it lead to his freedom and safety, or to his demise?
@Kingfisher@FlaggTypho Almano Jigandi was an inherent gambler, it was known! He had taken much of his families money, both legal and illegal, and often came to the Loft to either win some extra Thrones, or at least to feel the thrill of losing them. Sad to say, but it actually made him feel alive. Typho was nothing like his younger brother, the current Bloodied Fist, and could not take a life without vomiting down his finest suit of fashionable clothing – Almano on the other hand was a true animal, a man who's mantra may as well have been 'survival of the fittest'; he was always willing to kill those both above him and below him, or to get another to do it for him, some even saying he did it by...supernatural means.
Now after all this time of trying to go incognito the game was finally up, he had been cornered by one who could very literally read his mind, and from such power there was no escape.
Half-dumb and somewhat deaf, or so he may have seemed by his current nervous state, Typho listened to his erstwhile friend at the table and the paunchy girl – the last remaining member of the Blissponis Syndicate if he was not mistaken – as they conversed, only really paying attention once she began wobbling her fat jowls in his direction. Truth be told, she reminded him of a walking and talking pig, much like one he had read in a data slate novella once upon a time.
“Madame,” he began, the greasiest smile he could muster plastering itself to his face, his arms opening wide into a gesture of meekness, “you will find me to be of very little help in this, I am truly afraid. My brother would gladly kill me himself, or worse, just to dispatch the last of the Blissponii from this mortal coil.”
He gave a sigh and a shrug of his slender shoulders, but bobbed his head in acquiescence of her demands.
“Lead on, young – eeerrm...lady.”
This would either end in his death or his torture at the hands of his sibling, and he certainly hoped it would be the latter.
@Peik@HankOOC: You guys are doing fine, feel free to carry on as you are for the moment. I'll shake things up if/when the time becomes right.