POOHEAD189

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Balor was cold as a Drusian.

The 2nd Gendermes had been carried off the troopship by two shuttles, carrying roughly 5 companies, each with their own associate and auxiliary forces, along with what armor we had. The ride down was shaky, but we landed safely and disembarked in relatively good order. However, as soon as the doors open, I knew I was not built for this weather. I felt like I had stepped into the void of space, except it might have been a mercy, because at least amongst the stars I would not have to breathe in the translucent ice they had the temerity to call oxygen on this world.

The Colonel awaited with his aides and top Commissars in a Salamander as each individual captain and lieutenant brought their units forth from the shuttles' gaping maws. The starport was small, and luckily for us, merely gathering out of the shuttles brought us to the precipice of it, just before the short highway that led to the city of Batranle. I had my chainsword out, more to make myself visible than anything else, and had my men and women form up and follow until every unit was neatly tucked into formation, our chimeras rolling up right behind me. The sky was grey, but I could see a small sliver of the local sun through the hole our jet engines had ripped through.

"Reporting for duty, sir!" Sel had announced with a clipped salute after her wave. I had waved back, but quickly sobered up in front of the men. It hurt to look at her, because she was my driver, and I had been bade to present myself in a different fashion. Instead of being allowed to stay in the relative warmth and comfort of the three Chimeras, my injury along with my reputation had given the colonel a fascinating idea. He had suggested that I lead what footsoldiers I had by use of one of the few equines we were granted as a regiment. It was an honor, he had declared to me. Normally I would have quite liked the idea. I was quite a rider from my earlier years, and the warhorse was a beautiful thoroughbred. But the cold and my injury caused half the jerks and clops of the steed to make me ache. And so here I was, the only man in the regiment not on foot or vehicle, directing my men to keep in formation. Private Harmack and Corporal Bickers had been too busy gossiping over some damned thing, but when they saw my gaze they snapped to attention.

"Move out!" The Colonel said over the Loudhauser.

An entire regiment moving was not a simple endeavor. There were hundreds of officers and units and thousands of men working in unison to make the small army into a single, moving beast. Cries in a dozen different accents of low-gothic rose up, and men and women stepped to. It was a two mile march to the city proper, and though it was cold as a spurned lover's heart, it did the men and women good. They had been bored after the whole ordeal with the Langeroths had been settled, and the fresh air tasted sweet. Even I felt my spirits raise as we moved on, Morek and Seldon in the Chimera to my left, the first of the three in a short line. I felt eyes on me all around, and the feeling only grew once we reached the immense archway at the cusp of the city. The streets had been cleared, but the civilians flocked to the towering, thick minarets that reminded me of some odd, industrialized beehives. They watched from every window and orifice, some towering above us hundreds of feet. The horse I rode was a trained stallion, and I decided to show off a bit, maneuvering the horse so it raised its legs with an exaggeration, giving own goose step with the men. I heard laughter and whispers even outside my platoon. To the civilians I waved when I could, but periodically I looked back at the men to make sure they were keeping their steps rhythmic and in line. Their eyes were either forward or on myself, looking at me like a dog would wait on its master. I caught the eye of Private Elara, who gave me a smile I had seen before and a subtle wink. The audacity almost caused me to blanch, but she turned away as if ashamed. It was only later from overhearing the troopers talk that I was told Corporal Seldon was giving her a look from over my shoulder that I had not seen.

The cheers and clatter of the civilians rose, and normally my pride would let me bask in the moment, able to cut through the cold. But my paranoia was rearing its ugly head again, and I felt completely exposed. My reputation, my equine, my incredible looks and fashion sense, I wondered how many of the eyes I felt on my person were looking through the scope of a rifle aimed at my head...

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

Despite the danger he was in, the nervousness that could grip a man and make one frozen on the spot, Neil had to admit he really, really liked a good chase. For one, his legs were quite long. Not as a nice as green-eye's upstairs, but they were good for sprinting. That, and it was his general experience that most people simply did not take care of themselves. Running a mile was a day's work and leaping over a balustrade was a fever dream, and even the ones that did make good time still had to keep on him.

Neil knew where he needed to go, at least with relative confidence. And even if he was cut off, there was a secondary entrance below, in cell A24 where he had escaped from not an hour ago. The problem with that was he would need to bluff his way past two checkpoints of security, so that was for last resort. Instead, Neil careened down a long gallery, wind whipping his hair and tie as he ran. In fact, frak the tie. The color clashed with his belt anyway, and he tossed it into an adjacent room on the left to confuse them, right at the feet of an adeptus sororitas saint of some name before he sprinted right down a corridor. The manor opened up, it's light colors turning warmer, red banners framing a great hall where a few of the more elderly and ambitious guests, unaware of the commotion upstairs, had met for more quiet conversation.

Neil stopped sprinting just at the cusp of the great hall, fixing his hair, but everyone had noticed him by that point. The guests in their suits and the servants in their livery and silver trays of porcelain. Neil stood there awkwardly for a moment, before clapping his hands together once.

"Attention everyone! There is a fire!... The arbites are coming here to escort you out, but there's only a few shuttles leaving the gate. Best petition them when they arrive." He said, before picking up speed again and sprinting out of the room. That ought to buy him a moment or two of time, he thought. Unfortunately, as he passed the great hall and made it to the lobby, he saw armed men in unmarked flaks and visored helms already rushing up the flagstones out of the baroque window framing the door. If he stepped one foot out of the mansion, he would be detained or shot. He spun around, only to be confronted by a household guardsman.

It was surreal. Neil saw him notice the small-time Rogue Trader, and as if the world slowed down, he saw the barrel of his submachine rose. Neil could pull his sidearm like zephyr, but he had the shock baton in his hand. He knew he couldn't fire on him, and so he thumbed the shock baton and slung it at the man's head. It spun end over end and struck him in the face with the force-charge. There was a loud, disgustingly wet squelch as his faced literally popped in a pile of blood. Neil grit his teeth like he noticed a coagulation of roadkill, and then ran past him. Another security guard rounded the corner, but he was stunned at the sight of his bloodied companion, and due to his crouch and his pause, the next sight he got was Neil's boot in his face, launching the rogue trader over him to reach the marble floor.

He sprinted past the way he had come, only passing the entryway to the great hall and rushing up a sweeping central stairway decked with a red carpet. Above, a crystal chandelier shimmered, casting the vast portrait of Auclair's distant ancestor above in a flecked storm of light and shadow. Two smaller steps went left and right, Neil turned right and then pivoted into a library. Behind him, he could hear a number of boots thundering up the stairs. He raised an eyebrow, was the gemstone bugged? Did someone bug his suit? He whipped his head left and right, the room full of towering bookcases and tall casement windows, handsomely furnished with desks and wooden chairs decked with soft cushions. The tables were decks with tablecloths and candles, likely only used for show.

"Oh, solves everything," Neil remarked sardonically, pulling his autogun and firing four times at the closest window, cracking the glass. He then grabbed a chair by it's back, spun and tossed it at the window, shattering it. As the shouting grew louder, Neil had to grin. Granted, he was not supposed to be up there, by why follow if Neil would have to go down again anyway? He ripped the red velvet tablecloth out, the candles wobbling but staying up. He grinned. "Nice." Wrapping the cloth up to a smaller, thicker cloth just as the arbites and guardsmen hustled in, some getting on their knees and raising their firearms and others standing tall behind their comrades, all happening right when Neil stepped up to the pane.

"Freeze Edwards!" One of them bellowed. Neil blinked. Unless Rasa spoke to everyone, he doubted they would know his real name. Maybe they were talking about the Orb. He didn't have the time to consider it, though.

"Sorry fellas, gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat." Neil declared, before he stepped backwards and dropped like an anvil. Even the hardened guardsmen gasped, and they sprinted to the edge of the window. They saw Neil sliding off the verdant bushes just below the three story drop, the carpet hanging from a pipe he used to slow his fall. He left his jacket there as well, in case it was bugged like he suspected. The last they saw of Neil, he was rushing to the eastwall.

Neil himself ran into the car tunnel beneath the wall, where the underground gateway was located. That was suicide, of course. However, he opened up a door forty meters in that led into the sewers, that would feed into the abandoned Undercity beneath Chateau Aclair and the greater city surrounding the manor. Unfortunately (and fortunately), there were eyes that watched him.

Blackguards!

I'm a sucker for Dwarves and Dark Elves, particularly with human-made art, so I adore Skimobile and Proxy's additions

Blackguards!

I shall try to post this weekend as well

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

"What do you suppose is happening there?" Neil asked with feigned, aghast interest. He felt it was lucky that it was quite unlikely the arbites knew what he looked like. As usual they were making a mess of things, and as long as he made sure to remain cool and collected, he would get what he came for. Plus, once he escaped, he doubted they would look for him down below again. His hand, carefully placed against his breast in shock, placed a small amount of pressure on a button he had sequestered into the jacket.

White flashes and gunfire-like clattering pops erupted in various places throughout the room, Neil having slipped a few stun-grenade cores in a multitude of places throughout the party, ranging from underneath food trays, atop busts, and in men's jackets. It looked like a rogue militant had burst into the room and opened fire with a submachine gun, and whilst some likely believed that had to be the case, others thought the arbites had opened fire in anger. The toughs themselves, as Neil predicted, did in fact open fire wildly a moment later, lasbolts striking men who looked their way funny, singeing exquisite paintings, and crashing into glass panes. An extremely fortunate lasbolt struck a mirror placed on the opposite wall of the arbites, and the projectile actually bounced off of it, to Neil's amazement. Neil had heard that was possible, but he had never seen that in all of his life. He owed Skit a few gelts, in fact. What's more, the lasbolt that pinged off the mirror redirected and slammed into the glass that covered the Edwardian Vigil, shattering it and sending the orb careening to the ground.

Only instead, it fell in Neil's hand.

He had thought Rasa Blanc would be too busy cowering like the rest, but instead she made herself a small target and kept her feet, and her eyes met Neil's just as he caught the gemstone. Neil gave her a subtle wink, and pocketed the artifact. He grinned when he saw her eyes widen in recognition of some sort. To his credit, he gave her a bow, aggrandizing his accent. "I would love to trade more puns with you, madam. But it seems I have overstayed my welcome, do have a lovely evening. Please tell the host I apologize, but an Edwards belongs with an Edwards."

At that, Neil ducked and dove through the chaos of the crowd, sliding past rotund bellies and screaming damsels. It was a work of art, the way he dodged like he had foresight on when to swivel and when to slip. He had nearly made it to the edge of the room when an arbites stumbled into his way, likely accidentally, but saw Neil as a prime target once he was there. He had dropped his lasgun, wielding a stun baton like a cudgel. He raised the weapon up, igniting the weapon as he did so. Neil slid to the left, but the arbites' downward chop was redirected to his right, only for Neil to duck, slip past him, and kick his leg from behind. The armored man fell from his own weight, and Neil grabbed his arm, elbowed his wrist, and took his baton for himself, before striking the arbites on the head.

He fell like a sack of potatoes, but not before a square-jawed sergeant cast his gaze Neil's way from across the room. Their eyes met, and Neil gave a lewd gesture before he turned and bolted down the door they had burst out of just a minute before, heading downstairs in a mad dash.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Part 2

I had to act the part of an injured man for the remainder of the journey. Well, a slightly more injured man. However, with the aid of Morek and Sel and two weeks of rest, by the time we entered the Charadon Sector, I felt well enough to walk on my own and even laugh without doubling over. Emperor curse my wit and plans.

Speaking of curses, the more I learned of Balor, the planet we were to make berth at, the less enthused I was. Balor was almost that of a class L planet, which meant nearly all year round it was either chillingly cold or freezing, yet due to the fact that most of the planet is covered in less than 97% water, it fits into the N category according to the administratum. A mining world rich in mineral resources, it's fortunate the cities are situation amongst rocky outcroppings of volcanic activity, keeping the urban zones (relatively) warm and habitable.

I was aware there were a small collection of Valhallans aboard, and after Corporal Seldopn gave me a full report of the trial, I asked Morek to call upon Commissar Petrovska to inquire on how to better equip men for winter conditions and to thank her for presiding over judgement dutifully and without bias. Perhaps I laid it on too thick, for I waited a standard Terran day, only for Morek to return with a carefully sealed letter. I broke the commissariat seal, opened it, and read it aloud.

"Perhaps Later"

-Commissar Petrovska.

Fortunately, we arrived in the material plane with no incident, and began our slow descent to join the Merchant Fleet ships of Carracks, Tarrasks, and Clippers orbiting the planet. By this time, word of my miraculous survival had spread, only further enflaming the rumors of our victory on Kaurava III. This ran through my thoughts as I stood there, joined by Corporal Seldon by the observation window on the portside recreation deck. Morek stood with us, chewing some jerky as always, though today he must have felt festive, for he had a mug of Raenka in his hand. Squats were known for holding their liquor like no other, so I allowed it, at least in the recreation area.

"Another mining world..." I mused aloud. It seemed I was destined to be nothing but a guaruntee of the imperium's corporate interests. Granted, I suppose it was better than getting my head sliced off by a nob's choppa, but it did give much room for the romantic or the glorious.

"Cold, not much to do..." Sel said, and to my surprise she was chewing a bit of jerky too when I glanced at her. Seems she and Morek were friends, or implied ones. He doubted they had spoken more than three sentences to each other.

A faint vibration shook the deckplates beneath our feet, too familiar even to register consciously, and we watched one of the shuttles break off from the troopship and approach the planet. Engines flared brightly and corrected its course, before it disappeared amongst the thousands of other shuttles traveling to and from the starport below. Oddly enough, despite its frigid conditions and industry, it was quite a populous planet. Twelve billion souls lived on its surface, either in the cities or in underground hab-blocks, or more rarely traveling nomads that scratched a brief living amongst the snow and rocks. I was curious on what it looked like landside. Our regiment was second in line to go, in four standard hours from now.

"Better go collect the men," I said, turning and tapping my cane on the ground. I had requisitioned one be made for me, mostly for appearances, but I found I liked it. An imperial eagles head at the top, it was made with durasteel and fashioned with the blue and green of my office, courtesy of the injustice done to someone of my stalwart reputation. Together, we made our way to the barracks to make sure all the men were ready to move out. We were known for being over eager. I was not about to ruin that reputation but us lagging behind.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

Truth be told, manor itself felt more like a palace to Neil's generally pedestrian experiences. Despite his Warrant of Trade, he had never been very prosperous in his dealings in the admittedly short time he had been a Rogue Trader of the God Emperor of mankind. Men often mistakenly believed such a privilege gave one unlimited authority, when it did no such thing. That was an inquisitor's purview. What the Warrant did was allow the trader to travel and do business with who he or she wished, and it was only in their capacity to succeed that gave them their power. Oftentimes Rogue Traders inherited an empire from a sire or more distant relative, but Neil was not so lucky. He had made most of his wealth by smuggling and pirating, though he only did that when he had to. He legitimately wanted to be a tradesman or a privateer for hire, if not for himself than for his men. He had lost a dozen aides over the course of four years, and felt he needed a success if he was going to continue pursuing this life.

That was when he heard of the Edwardian Vigil.

The Orb was apparently priceless, which tended to mean 'extremely pricey, we just want to exaggerate.' The fact it bore his namesake seemed fitting, and he fancied even if he could not sell it, he could fashion it as the Sigil of a new house. Granted, that would require kids, and maybe he would have a few when he was two hundred. As for now, life was a bit too exciting, and he had a long way to go before he could call himself a dynastic power. It seemed implausible he would be able to own a home such as this, much less entire worlds.

The walls were painted in gentle winter colors, contrasting the exquisite paintings that hung in perpetuity to allow the pompous and the snooty to fawn over them. He would stop and look at them thoughtfully, and when a man or woman stood beside him, he would make up some nonsense as if he knew what he was speaking about.

"Commissioned by the governor, you know." Neil pointed out to a plump woman and her husband with an unfortunate eye placement. "Painted by the brilliant François Mansart, though I think his work on Chateau Le Petite is far more delectable." He would laugh and play at drinking red amasec, though he only sipped. When men brought forth food, he would sniff it and make a face of disgust like they had presented him with a dead felid. He played the part well, almost too well. He had a weakness for men he could bullshit and women he could flirt with, though thankfully none he bumped into really interested him. Most here were decades older than him, the rejuvenat treatment plain on their faces, at least to his eyes in any fashion. He even stumbled upon the owner of the estate who called for his arrest not two days ago, but he did not recognize Neil. He had barely looked at when he had called the guards to send him below to the darkness.

Who said classism did not help the common man, every now and then?

Inch by inch, he drifted closer to the collection of artifacts he had subtly eyed when he could. Only a master could have seen his 'accidental' glances, and when he eyed the orb, the holovids had not done it justice. It was a glorious piece of jewelry, catching the light in a thousand facets, and though it sat unmoving, it almost seemed to spin like a celestial satellite. He stopped one last time before another gathering of couples, who glanced his way to politely acknowledge him before they continued on with their talk of local news, politics, and the betting on Cruorian War Beast blood-fights. Neil added in a vague comment here or there, giving a smile to the women and a lively grin to the men. He could never be considered an effete man, but Neil was not unhandsome, and good at going with the flow of a conversation. Soon he had them laughing.

"Why did the Rüstringen chef kill himself?" He asked them, swirling his goblet of amasec. "Because he lost the huile d’olive."

The men and women chortled, their finery shimmering. He gave a soft 'excuse me' and backed away, only to turn around and face a woman he had not seen before. For a moment he believed she would pass him by on the way to speak to some lady friend, but instead she locked eyes with him. She was tall, blonde, with an elegant albeit conservative dress, a full bosom, and emerald eyes he would never forget. But the woman's most striking feature, was she did not seem idly bored or aristocratically amused. She seemed far too aware of everything.

"I know the pun is a bit much, but I don't have many local jokes." Neil said with a handsome grin.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

In response to the overwhelming, not to say: annoying, rude, insane, desperate and pathetic, inquires I have recieved regarding my long running prosecution of the Edwards case. I have decided to make certain portions of my private notes on the subject available for selected readership with the Ordo. Those without Magenta Gold clearence or above should turn away now, those with vermillion or lower should kill themselves immediate for having violated security directive 221-alpha-c, and on general principles. This goes double for certain agents of the Ordo Malleus. You know who you are.

I first became aware of Edwards during the suppression of the Emerald Sky cartel, a group of Xenofiles who had been attempting, with some success, to extract some of the basic tenents of Aldaeri Farseeing techniques extracted from a captured soul stone and combining it with a combination of warp craft and parlor tricks. These were, as such prognostications always are, completely insane and useless. And yes I have read the Mirror of Smoke, dont at me.

The one occurence which convninced me that this was not your run of the mill coven of escaped madmen, bored spire wives and mental degenerates was the scene we found when the arbities assault team I was directing broke down the door to the Sinhala Observatory and stormed their lair. There was a good deal of shooting, though mostly on our side because the would be diviners had not, as the say, seen this one coming but when the smoke cleared, an excuse beside their base incompetence was offered. Every one of their auguries, from evicerated scrub fowl, to micro precipitation mirrors bore exactly the same stigmta. Nor, for once, were these stigmata difficut to read. Each one formed a single word, repeated ad nausem throughought the ruin of the observatory.

Edwards.

-Inquisitor Tilda Chastain, Ordo Hereticus

---

---

The heavy trod of arbites boots echoed down the stone stairwell, a half a dozen armed and armored men reaching the first checkpoint after the length of the first corridor below ground. The security team bolted up from their cafe and holovids, incredulity wiping across their faces at the sudden presence of a handful of enforcers at the door. Out of the group, a fellow with a visored helm and a square jaw that could shatter cement stepped forward, offering alpha-level clearance from the Lord Governor himself. After a brief minute checking the credentials, security marked it as green. The doors slid open, and the contingent moved on without another word.

The prison below Chateau Auclair was carefully guarded knowledge, with only the closest aids and allies of the Auclair family even aware of its existence, much less its inhabitants. It was an exclusive club, used for political prisoners and business rivals, or men the family wished to torment at their leisure. More rarely, it was used for subjects that has been caught so recently and at such short notice, to hold them until the local arbites could show up and shuttle them to a more deserved location. That, however, had not happened for some years.

Square-jaw, a sergeant better known as Moab, had been contacted for just such an assignment. The authority came from the top, giving him leave to handpick the escort. He chose his five best men, each having served over fifteen years in the arbites, and two of them having been inducted into the cult of the changer of ways for nearly ten, like him. He was unaware of why this prisoner was so significant to his lord, but all would be revealed when the time was right. Regardless of their beliefs, his men would follow his orders to the letter.

Passing through another checkpoint, he was stopped just before entering the prison by the lone security staff, a skinny man in fatigues and a helmet that was too big for his cracium. He held up a hand to halt Moab and his arbites. "Wait, whoever you're here for, these are electronically sealed. I have to open the cell myself, and I can't allow you to use the bypass. I must escort you."

"Very well." Moab agreed with reluctance. His voice was a barely suppressed growl at the best of times. "We're here for prisoner 04A325."

The sentry did not seem intimidated by the inflection in Moab's voice. He opened his datapad and idly thumbed the screen, pursing his lips until he gave a snort. "Oh, that one. He's a handful, just came in two days ago. He should be in cell A24, near the front. Follow me."

The troupe of seven men stepped into the grid of the prison, turning left, passing doors of reinforced steel with slits one could open to view at eye level. The lighting was low, and while various prisons would have jeers or angry yelling, each cell here was locked tight, the walls between them a meter thick. The best they could hear was scratching, or a faint echo that could just be a trick of the mind. Moab noticed the lack of decorum, all white walls of rockcrete with no sigil as to indicate their location. He briefly wondered if they brought in the prisoners blind and only removed the cloth when they passed the last checkpoint to give a psychological aspect to their imprisonment. There could be hundreds of people in here who did not know their own gaolers.

The sentry stopped at a nondescript door, a small console at the right side of the steel door. He removed a card from his belt, placed it on the indicator, and began to type down the code to open it. One of the arbites opened the steel slit to peer in, but the sentry shook his head. "You won't be able to see in there. We keep it dark most of the time."

"Valdor, get a light." Moab ordered. One of the arbites took up a lumen, flipping it on, unholstering his laspistol in the process just as the bolts popped open on the door. The sentry and Moab exchanged a look, before the sentryman pressed a button, allowing the door to swing open. Arbites Valdor turned the lumen into the dark of the cell, stepping in gingerly as he moved the light back and forth, up and down, pistol trained where the light traveled. It took a good ten seconds for him to turn around, his eyes showing his bemusement.

"Sir, there's no one in here." Valdor reported.

"What!?" Moab barked, and the Sentry looked incredulous. He took out his datapad and searched the database, before shaking his head. Moab looked at him expectantly, grinding his bovine teeth.

"This is the correct cell. He should be in here." The Sentry proclaimed.

"We he isn't," Moab growled angrily, ready to commit some act of violence. His masters were unforgiving, a trait he shared.

"I know where he is!" A wild new voice croaked. The group whirred, lasguns and lumen turning to the left, but the hallway was empty. Seconds later, they realized the slit on the next door over was open. Moab saw the sentry's look of complete surprise. He could gather that was supposed to be impossible from the inside. Moab approached the steel door, keeping his men back.

"Where is he?" Moab asked simply. Out of the darkness, a pair of eyes set on a wrinkled, aged face appeared inches from the opening. The eyes spoke of insanity, endless years kept in the dark ravaging this one's mind. There was a small cackle, as if the question was the funniest thing you could hear this side of Holy Terra.

"He said he'd be on the third floor! He'd be waitin' for ya! Haha!" The voice said, and the laughter echoed in the cell until Moab closed the slit, turning to his men, who looked at him to make some sense of this unexpected development.

"What floor is the party?" Sergeant Moab asked the sentry, already knowing the tzeentch-cursed answer.

---

20 minutes before...

The wind was soft and warm, which was good news. Neil felt it would be unlucky if he had to change into his suit in a downpour. Of course, infiltrating the party through being captured and escaping, letting his men into the walls from within being the only way they could gain access was definitely touch and go. The Emperor had a funny way of showing his favor sometimes. Orm folded his former garb up, stashing it in a satchel to be carried to their ship in the escape. The ex-bounty hunter was a good shot, but his bedside manner and housekeeping was impeccable. No wonder he didn't make it as a hunter.

To the left of Orm, Skit triple checked his longrifle in preparation for their escape. The diminutive former guardsman was obsessed with the thing, carrying it everywhere like a nervous dog with a stress toy. Granted, ratlings were obsessed with a lot of things, particularly food and thieving. Neil could relate, the thought causing the small-time rogue trader to grin.

Grantz snapped for Neil to pay attention. The captain turned back to his second. "Stay still, I need to fix your tie."

"You worry too much," Neil remarked.

"If you're going to fit in and get to the orb, we need you to look like you belong there." Grantz reminded him. He was a good seneschal, able to curb Neil's worst impulses, which worked well with Neil improvising where Gantz would be stuck in the mud. They had partnered up just a few years ago, but it had been a solid working relationship thus far.

"C'mon, it's a party of rich traders. It's pretty likely they'll be a bunch'a hairy short stacks with ugly, drooping faces." Neil said, glancing at Skit to see if he agreed, though the ratling's lip quivered. Neil waved his way, shaking his head. "Hey, your face is not droopy." He assured him. Skit visibly brightened.

"Syntax, Neil." Grantz said.

"We're about to do a job, I can take a sleeping pill later." Neil said. Grantz opened his mouth, then closed it. Neil winked to assure his second he was messing with him. "Don't worry, this thing is called the Edwardian Vigil. If there's something I'm supposed to succeed in nabbing, it's this. Plus it'll look good on the dashboard. I'm thinking with a Sebastian Thor bobble-head."

Gantz finished typing up his tie, and retrieved Neil's sidearm. An autogun with 9x19mm bullets in the magazine. It wasn't Neil's usual, but the privateer captain had used it enough to guess something was off when he took it in his hand. It was a bit light. "Gantz you're slacking, there's no bullets in the mag."

The senechal blinked, then shook his head. "You're right, sorry. Forgot to load it," he confessed, and handed him a magazine. Neil slid it in with a satisfying click, turned the safety on and placed it in his jacket. It was at that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness across the roof. It was a lithe, atheltic figure who moved like a catachan lurking in the gloom. When he reached the light, his red eyes were visible, almost glowing from the distant lights of the wall. His pale, bald head shined like a beacon under the planet's moon. It was lucky they were on the rooftop, or Zale would have been spotted.

"Bombs planted," the Tenebrian remarked, laconic as ever. An abhuman hailing from the planet of Tenebrae, it was a jungle world, not quite dangerous enough to be labeled as a death world, but close enough for most people's reckoning. The vast, endless tracks of wilderness there were in perpetual darkness save for two terran months of the year, when twilight marred the sky. The Tenebrians were a pallid people and experts of survival and scouting.

"Horus's jockstrap!" Neil exclaimed when he appeared, having thought Zale was going to go back to the ship before the fun began. Zale looked at him with his neutral expression, but after awhile Neil could catch the small inflections of his personality. This one was incredulity. "I hate saying this to a friend, but you really need to shower when we get back to the Firestorm, Zale. You're about fragrant as avain poop, and twice as pale."

"Aye Captain," He said, saluting.

The window pane open, Gantz slid a rope around Neil's waist to lower him into an empty wing of the estate, Orm grabbing it too to help in the task. Once inside, Neil would locate the item and stay out of attention, mostly. Once the arbites reached the party, they would cause enough commotion looking for him that he would slip out the back, and then when they entered the undercity, they would collapse the tunnel behind them, allowing the group to escape. Gantz tightened the rope. "Don't bring too much attention to yourself."

"You can go down instead, if you like," Neil offered with a smirk. When Gantz gave him a look, Neil grinned, and was subsequently lowered into the manor, the sounds of high gothic chatter down the corridor audible even from his position.

Wealth and Warpstorms

Alcander and Camilla knelt down beside the ruin of the servo-skull, more than half-buried from the recent sandstorm. Carefully, Alcander brushed the dirt off with a bit of cloth like some xenoarchaeologist from the schola, and finally when he felt confident it wouldn't break apart from a small tug, he gingerly lifted it up. The mechandetrites weren't yet rusted, those that were left, anyway. Some of the lower jaw was still in the dried ground, and bits and pieces of the skull were missing from some concussive blow.

"Wat eesit?" Camilla asked in her extravagant accent.

"It's bloody damn wrecked," Alcander responded in a breath, turning the servo-skull so the Rogue Trader could get a better view. "Soomething strook th' thing, braken th' parietal bone and the sphenoin, blastin' thrugh the nasal cavity. Pict-recorder's shot tae heel. But..."

He fished in his pocket and produced a combi-tool, flipping out a small invasive piece of metal and slowly tinkering around inside, closing one eye to get a better focus. Alcander had some small amount of experience with servo-skulls and their make, though he wished his old enginseer associate Madrek was here. After a few moments, he cursed and flipped the combi-tool, utilizing a small screw-driver implement, diving back in.

"Samthing I canne do to help?" Camilla asked, tilting her head as she watched. She ended the sentence quietly, however, her keen eyes finding Alcander was on the cusp of something. Biting his tongue gingerly, there was a small, albeit concerning scraping noise from inside the skull, and the probator breathed 'coome onnnnn..." before there was a 'click,' and the dark haired man grinned, giving a deep throated chuckle.

"Data-loom's fried, boot th' back oop synaptics ah think ah ken salvage. We need a good cogitator, a bloody damn good one, an' mehbeh we ken get a small picto-feed o' what transpired." He said, and glanced down at the materials still embedded in the dirt. He handed Camilla the servo-skull, who blinked her big eyes but took it, clearly ordering herself mentally not to drop the thing. Alcander removed the fragments he could find, and placed it softly in his jacket.

"Ah'm sher yer Yvraine is guud at her joob, but somethen's fishy here." He told her, and the experience of his years of investigating showed in his blue eyes.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

I longed for the bars and the elegant company of local women. This trip, which I had hoped would have proved uneventful and even relaxing, had so far been positively murderous in its treatment of my person, not to mention my men. The sheer unbridaled ridiculousness of the tech-priest almost made me question if everyone aboard wanted my head, but I knew that was my overeager paranoia. It was not curbed somewhat by this ploy we were about to play. I felt as if I was about to lose my life over a hunch, though I supposed that was par for course when it came to the guard. I just imagined it would happen to me less than most considering my rank.

The day/night cycle had shifted two terran hours before, the men already having eaten a hearty breakfast and gotten their warm ups done. I inquired to Crispin if I could take over for the day, hoping to showcase my leadership to the men. They were impressed with my skills, as they should be, but I felt I was becoming detatched from them truth be told. I used a convenient truth to create the lie, and before long I found myself in the vast drill gymnasium, huffing it with the men, working up a sweat like I was a common soldier. It felt good, if one considered the spirit of the act. I never did like lording over people, my family's arrogance a larger repellent than the mud and the mire of the average man. It's why I joined the Guard, and refused my father's "offer" of pulling strings to grant me the rank of major. I was smart enough to know he was trying to make himself look more extravagant, and cared little for my sake.

By noon, we had a live fire exercise scheduled. I received the go-ahead from the colonel, cordoned off the space (and made damn bloody sure no servitors were around), and began our drills. Our targets were polycrete mock ups of orks, able to absorb the lesser powered lasbolts without igniting. I lead my men for a quick target practice before I decided to try something more stringent. I reformed us into two teams, and had us perform a skirmish, informing Crispin and Sel to command squads 2 and 4 whilst I command 1 and 3.

Four platforms were raised in dispersed locations across the range to act as 'hills,' and when the buzzer sounded, we began. Sel was in on our 'scheme' obviously, it was her idea. However, Crispin was not privvy, and moved his men in what I correctly surmised was alpha maneuver, attempting to lay down suppressing fire as Sel and her squad spun to envelop. I commanded squad 3 to hold fire as Sel's men approached, laying in wait behind a hill, outside of the traditional cover but keeping hidden from where I believed the enemy was approaching from. I moved with squad 1, using a hill as cover and wheeling left, suddenly harrying Crispin's position. Lasguns firing from over my right shoulder informed me of squad 3 and Sel's squad engaging.

I raised my lasgun, deciding to lead by example, and charged over the hill in what I knew would be a suicidal charge to goad what I knew was to come. Surprisingly enough, the lasbolts flew by, leaving me unscathed as none hit me. I raised my lasgun and fired, the weapon cracking, striking Crispin in the chest. The verdant man cried out, and he fell out of the fight. A handful of his men scattered, but a few kept their positions as we swept in. I wondered exactly what was happening?

But then I felt an immense weight strike me in the back, and my world went dark as I fell onto the floor, the scent of burning cloth emanate as I lay motionless, and all the firing stopped as men shouted and ran to my position, but I was unresponsive. It was out of my hands, I knew. I just hoped I was not truly about to die.