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Interrogator Stanislaus Di Felice
[CLASSIFIED] Site "Gravestone"

"Inquisition, identif-!"
The stormtrooper sergeant's yelling was interrupted by a violent cascade of small arms fire. Munitions slammed against and ricocheted from Crusader Mellem's suppression shield mercilessly. Many of the concentrated shots that missed or bounced from the shield slammed into the three leading team members: Enginseer von Toor was struck mostly harmlessly, the damage being reduced to sparks between excessive augmentation and armour, but the less comprehensive carapace armour of the crusader and the stormtrooper offered less protection. What shots did not find flesh directly bruised and battered through armour, affecting almost exclusively limbs with due thanks to the suppression shield.

But that was only the first volley. The gunfire continued, pounding the crusader back through the doorway. Half of a burst from a boarding shotgun - some ricocheted, some direct hits - struck into Agletdinovas side, prompting cries of pain to seep through his teeth. His cuirass took the force of the blow about as much as his ribcage. Lifting his meltagun to take a snapshot, Agletdinova fired through the gap between the suppression shield and the frame of the door at one of the robed men with a boarding shotgun, which he barely missed. Wisps of smoke even rose from the robes of the shotgunner from the proximity of the blast.

By all accounts, it was a textbook ambush: both well-positioned and well-executed. A quick glance between Stanislaus and Bruna established that quite promptly.

"Fury, zero-two!" yelled Stanislaus, as the stormtrooper and the enginseer both peeled back into cover. Parasha pressed up the column as she snatched a stubpistol into her off-hand, where she swiped a grenade from the air tossed underarm to her from the jogging Sister Hellenboldus. As Parasha lifted a finger from her pistol to grasp the pin of the grenade, Hellenboldus ducked behind the crusader, narrowly avoiding the torrent of gunfire to take up a position on the other side of the doorway.

Only the rattling of the grenade lever betrayed the greater meaning of Stanislaus' theatrics.

The live grenade, nursed to within mere moments of its detonation, flew elegantly live a dove over the suppression shield and through the doorway. Its detonation, which wreaked havoc before it could even hit the ground, was not elegant. With synchronized fury, as the explosion racked the room, Hellenboldus tilted around the corner to present her left forearm, a sliver of her helmet, and the barrel of her combiflamer. From the darkness came holy light: light from the flamer of the firearm and light from the cloaked men in the left half of the room, many of which set ablaze by the sister's judgment. It was almost poetic: for their crimes, they would be used as live, burning torches to illuminate the path for the inquisition.

While gritting his teeth, Agletdinova peered from the doorway to fire a second time at the same shotgunner he missed. The sheer heat of the blast turned the recovering shotgunner from cloth to ash in mere moments.
"Inject!" the Sergeant ordered as he put a hand to the crusader's shoulder and leaned in towards him. With thunderous footsteps and now strobing flashlights, the party pushed into the room.

Crusader Mellem, Sergeant Agletdinova, and Enginseer von Toor stormed the flaming left side of the room like hammers. The suppression shield endured the brunt of scattered gunfire while the trio descended onto their quarries. In their own ways, the power sword and meltagun were elegant. One cut cleanly through flesh and armour alike, scattering blood across the flame-lit walls, while the meltagun simply turned men to ash. The Omnissian power axe, on the other hand, was not nearly so subtle. What men were not simply cleaved in two were splayed open in a churn of blood and gore. One assailant managed to evade a strike from the haftstrike, only to have his robed grasped by the servoarm and crushed like mere fruit. The enginseer didn't even break his stride.

The survivors of the blast on the other side of the room, as well as the assailants still in position in the centre, found little mercy themselves. As the wrecking ball of men swept through the left side of the room, Hellenboldus and Stanislaus both took position on either side of the doorway. Disciplined firing arcs .75 explosive bolter fire did horrible things to men and marines both - but in this case, as the duo rained bolter fire and literal fire both on the robed assailants, it was especially horrible to men.

At the rear of the party, Parasha took her second stubpistol in her main hand as she knelt by the navigator and the autosavant. It was an honoured role to be trusted with the rear of the advance, even if it was not a glamorous one. Meanwhile, Birgitte hammered furiously at her cogitator-tome, document all accounts of the battle that she could perceive while Bruna stood still, steeling her focus. Her duty, much like Parashas, was likewise underappreciated: it was her task to mask Stanislaus' presence from the warp, lest malign beings interrupt their blessed work. Notably, one was absent from the rear guard.

The last shotgunner, who had to fumble to thumb a slug from the shotgun sling to the shotgun, lifted his firearm to level it with the exposed stormtrooper sergeant. Had he not glimpsed a glimmer of movement and a splash of blood from where his two comrades once were, he may have even finished the deed. Instead, he twisted about to present the shotgun at the flurry of movement, where the muzzle flash illuminated open air. It was only the faint breath on the assailants neck that betrayed the Third Thorn, as she plunged a power sword through each arm and forced the voidsman to a kneel with a knee to the back.

The last assailant averted his gaze when faced with harsh strobing light, to only be slammed to the floor next to his crucified comrade with a blast from the suppression shield. The sensory assault that was burning flesh, strobe lights, and the lingering shock of the suppression shield, only added to the horror of what felt like a vice bearing down onto his skull, or a drill being driven through his head. It was no doubt made worse by his own hands taking his firearm before him, acting on their own accord before his very eyes, and lifted towards the crucified robed assailant. Fighting the malign force only made the vice grips on his head clamp tighter. From the corner of his sight, seemingly too controlled by the malign force, a man in witch hunters robes slowly strode into the room, shadowed by three other figures from the hallway, with a hand clamped in a fist while an assembly of men formed a permit around the event.

Mechanic whirring in the hallway prompted the stormtrooper sergeant, who was already mended by Parasha while in the defensive harbor, to yell:
"More activity, Interrogator, presumably hostile!" he called, keeping his aim focused on a doorway. "Make it fast!"
"Very well," sighed Stanislaus, as he stepped up to the two half-live robed assailants. Through his psychic will made manifest, he forced the downed assailant to point his autogun square at the crucified assailant's face. "Redeem yourself now, or you will kill him by your own hand. Who do you work for, and which direction are the engines from here?"

Meanwhile, as the complete Inquisitorial retinue settled into their defensive harbor, von Toor began his pace around the inside of the harbour, scouring through the corpses of men for voxbeads or documents, or any other useful tidbit that he could read or tap into.
Interrogator Stanislaus Di Felice
[CLASSIFIED] Site "Gravestone"

A wise voidsman once said that there was nothing elegant about a boarding torpedo. They were right.

The hull of the boarding torpedo shook violently, casting some aside while launching others off their feet. The steel of the torpedo groaned, the sound distorted into something ominous and sickly by the void of space beyond it. All the more, without even a chance for the retinue to steady themselves back into their oblong formation, the front of the torpedo began to scream. The wails of the space station hull quickly overpowered the groaning of the boarding torpedo, assailing the retinue with the sound of steel on melting steel. As the walls of Site Gravestone thinned, the pitch of the wails soared higher and higher, the whines threatening to bore through the crew's heads at its crescendo.

Then, with relief not unlike popping a sore pimple, the banshee screams and ominous groans dropped away with a final, anti-climactic thud. What little remained of the wall separating the boarding torpedo dropped to the floor and rattled to a standstill. For the Inquisitorial retinue, some still scattered, it was as if they had only breached into empty space. The rattling of the leftover wall echoing throughout the halls of the station was little comfort when all the crew had to face was darkness. Pitch and chilling darkness.

A scratch over the vox heralded a voice:
"Lights on," came Sergeant Agletdinova's voice. A mix of beams of light and gentle whirrs spread across the formation: some shining flashlights from their helmets and weapons into the cold darkness while others enjoyed the low-light vision of their own means. The team's newfound perception did little to comfort them: on the other side of the breach, there was nothing bar an empty hall. If there was, they would surely already be dead, given the delay.
"That was sloppy," chided Stanislaus as he tugged at the mechanism of his Condemnor Boltgun. "Move out."

Beams of light scanned the hallway, combing it in both directions. The stillness was almost suffocating. The team, assembled around the entry point, kneeled in a perimeter around Stanislaus, von Toor, Bruna, and Birgitte.
"Oxygen composition is approximately 20 percent oxygen and 79 percent nitrogen, Interrogator," explained von Toor, one of his metallic arms dancing at a personal cogitator while the other held his symbolic axe. His robotic voice flowed more smoothly over the vox than it did when spoken. "The air is safe to breathe."
"Which is curious, because the lights are out," observed Birgitte as she typed at her cogitator-tome, recording all events as they went. "Short of a systems failure, why would a crew leave the life support running but turn off the lights?"
"Either the station is running at such a power deficit that even red lights aren't safe to run, or the crew doesn't need it," explained Bruna. The navigator had spent countless time aboard the myriad vessels of the Imperial Navy. She had, quite reasonably, become the de facto authority on matters of voidfaring within the team because of it. "Or, at risk of making an assumption, perhaps it's beneficial to the crew to leave unwelcome visitors in the dark?" The team fell silent for a moment; the thought wasn't comfortable, but nobody dared question it, at risk of inviting disaster.

"Keep using your voidsuits for life support," ordered Stanislaus, while Scrutiny rubbed his beak on Stanislaus' shoulder through the eagle's own rather specialized voidsuit. "The Ordo Hereticus is not nearly that trusting. Where are the engines from here?"
"There is no indication, Interrogator." explained von Toor, his gaze already shifting to Bruna expectantly.
"Dare I risk a hypothesis, I would suggest we begin by descending." suggested Bruna, her expression concealed by her voidsuit. "Likewise, it would be prudent to attempt to access a cogitator or cycle an airlock door, to determine exactly what systems are and are not operational. I imagine you're eager to begin your investigation, Interrogator." There were few who could make such assumptions of Stanislaus without repercussion, and Bruna - advisor and teacher to Stanislaus both - was certainly one of them.
"You imagine correctly, Bruna," Stanislaus affirmed as he turned his body to face squarely down one stretch of the hallway. "Form up. Watch for signs of life, cogitators, doors, and maps."

The movements were well-practiced. The perimeter agents who were knelt rose to their feet and returned to their oblong formation, pressed out in two columns with one on either side of the hallway.

"Move out."
Interrogator Stanislaus Di Felice
In orbit above Yunnalin V

Was she being sarcastic or not It was certainly difficult to tell, but undeniably foolish to assume.

Where Hera allowed herself the small luxury of a dry smile, Stanislaus was unmoving strict and stiff in his expression alike. The motley crew of Imperial personnel behind him, almost complete in their assembly, had about as much enthusiasm as he did. They all knew the score, so much so that Birgitte had already begun scouring for information through the cogitator of her tome while Enginseer von Toor, clad in red robes and with his Omnissian Axe stood up in hand, peered over her shoulder expectantly.

Stanislaus bowed his bald head, presenting the ink-clad canvas of saints and scripture that was his bare scalp to the Inquisitor.
"I bid you only name the station so that I might seize it in your name." The affirmation was near-monotonous and certainly direct. Not one man of the retinue mistook the Inquisitor's curt briefing as an act of negligence; it was for that very reason that Birgitte and von Toor had already begun to prepare the briefing for Stanislaus. Stanislaus had much to prove as an interrogator of the Inquisition and that task began with asking the questions himself; or, perhaps, by the extensions that were his retinue.

Behind the party, a cascade of staggered footsteps heralded the hissing of the airlock door. Even before the door slid open, the eyes of the Sergeant Agletdinova and Sister Hellenboldus already bore into it, both pairs to the likeness of meltas in themselves. In the open doorway 'stood' - if you can describe the ungraceful lean as standing - Parasha, with a bag tossed over her shoulder and a yet another fluorescent color spread through her disheveled hair. Perhaps 'talented individuals' referred to only most of the retinue. With an expression that quickly twisted into guilt, Parasha thumbed at the door controls to close the door, where she would - God-Emperor willing - wait patiently outside.

"How many times, Parasha? How many times have we had this conversation?"
The cramped interior of the boarding torpedo, utilitarian and lacking as it was, did little to make its payload feel welcome. Sergeant Agletdinova's chiding did little to help either. Parasha, the very same hungover chirurgeon, rubbed at her eyes with a quiet groan.
"Sarge, man, c'mon, can we just wait until-" she protested, hardly managing to open her eyes partway.
"Stanislaus lets you off with being an oaf when you do it quietly," Agletdinova interrupted, seizing the conversation again. "But really? You had interrupted us with the Inquisitor? You know that you're in her retinue, and that she decides what happens to you? Do you think that-"
"Look, Denis, I know that-"
"-that she decides what happens to you? He values you, but he won't protect you if she gives the word."

These sorts of exchanges were fairly common between Denis and Parasha. Parasha was young and eager, clad with potential but a little wild. Denis, on the other hand, was a man of many campaigns, a veteran Inquisitorial stormtrooper and, if broad suspicions are right, a man with a secret desire to be a father. It's only natural that he would try an guide her. It'd be concerning if he didn't, as that'd probably mean she's lost her value to Hera and Stanislaus by extension. Intentions don't change the throbbing of her hangover, though.

"And what's this, then?" Denis continued, reaching out to brush her lopsided hair aside. A series of bruises lined her neck, none too subtle once exposed past her hanging hair. "On a voidstation requisitioned by the witch hunters? You're not serious?" With a grunt, Parasha lifted an arm to swat his hand away.
"I get it, enough, just leave me be for a minute, okay?" Parasha retorted as she shifted her hair back into place.
"If you're sharp enough to go into operation, you're sharp enough to hear it." he asserted with a quiet huff. Behind him, Sister Allane glared over Denis' shoulder. The very drive of the glare was enough to make her shudder. If Denis was the stern father, Allane had to be the drill abbott mother-from-hell that made it a good-cop-bad-cop dynamic. As if Denis wasn't bad enough.

The crew in the front of the boarding torpedo made an effort to block out the lecture, if it hadn't become a habit already. As the boarding torpedo continued on his course, the trajectory traced out on a cogitator, Birgitte and von Toor both sporadically worked at cogitators of their own. Stanislaus, standing behind the pair with Scrutiny quietly roosting on his shoulder, stood behind the pair with eyes closed and arms crossed.
"There's no records of the station, interrogator, even with Inquisitorial ID." Birgitte explained, her lips pursed with frustration. "This is absurd. What sort of station eludes the Administratum and the Ordo Hereticus both..."
"Likewise, there is little I can determine from afar, interrogator." von Toor concurred, his voice stained with the mechanic hue of his clustered robotics. "Should you will it, I would examine the station personally."
"Let it be so, once the station is seized." Stanislaus announced, his body still bar what little is needed to speak. "Our priority is taking control of what may maintain the station's position in orbit. To that end, I will be placing my faith in your skills, von Toor and Mellem." From behind the trio, a fourth figure stepped into view: an armor-clad man of red, black, and steel, carrying a tall shield adorned with the inquisitorial I.
"I need only know the way, interrogator." Mellem affirmed, with a small nod to von Toor. While his enclosed helm did little to portray his emotions, his reliability is undeniable. The crusader, with his shield and sword alike, will undeniably be in his element in the corridors of a space station.
"And should we meet a foe like the less disciplined our own kind, Bruna, I will be relying on you to aid me. Likewise for you, Third Thorn." Stanislaus continued, drawing more figures from the shadows of the dark boarding torpedo: two women, once concealed betwixt ornate robes, breastplates, and masks, and another concealed betwixt all-encompassing dark clothing and armor. While one carries a stave bearing a symbol of the navigators and a laspistol.
"Like always, interrogator, we shall not be taken by surprise." Bruna confirmed, her emotions likewise concealed by her mask. The Third Thorn, on the other hand, offered no visible reply. Her silence was answer enough.

"Very well." Stanislaus annouced, bringing the collective payload of the boarding torpedo to a hush. "We seize the engines, then should the God-Emperor will it, we seize the station or we seal its fate. Take your positions and make ready."

The movements that followed were well-practiced: familiar and well-drilled, even for the motley crew. At the front stood Crusader Mellem, with his sword and shield at the ready. Behind him, Sergeant Agletdinova, with his meltagun in the fore, with Enginseer von Toor besides him with his Omnissian power axe. Next stood Sister Allane, combi-bolter in hand, who stood guard over the valuable and the inept: Stanislaus, Birgitte, and Bruna. Finally, in the rearguard stood the Third Thorn and Parasha: one with the mobility to guard the rear and the other in position to mend the injured.

So the retinue stood ready for the shudder that would follow: ready to enter the breach and face the unknown.
I'm happy to discuss in either. I've got a core backstory sorted, which is a sorta amalgamation of the ideas I had earlier. I'm just hoping to filter it through you though, to add some specific Slymere flavour and set it up for anything that might help you as a GM.
You've got me hooked on the underdog theme and redemption arc teacher. Interested.
Bugger. No dramas though man, you do what you gotta do. I'll keep an eye out for it in the future.
Can you book the rigger out for me? I'll whip something up as soon as I knock over the posts I owe.
Interested yet again.
I only have a few vague ideas and aspirations right now. I haven't written in a 70's chic setting before, so I want to explore some of the trends of the time at least. Here's I'm kicking around right now:
- An aspiring leather-clad punk/activist to the style of the period, who's tragically watered down and "held back" by the inertia, influence, and lack of nice leather jackets in such a rural and isolated community. Likely has a strong sense of morality and aspires to "stick it to the man" but has struggles that undermines that. Maybe something to do with cowardice or comfort, or being caught between the comfort of "selling out" and fear of "being a poser"?
- An old-school, circuit boards and hobby radios style nerd. Maybe something to the tune of a belated or distorted coming-of-age here? For this character, I was considering the struggle focusing around him wanting to be "cool" and involved but uncomfortable being out of his narrow comfort zone and "moving out of his lane", on top of being overtly a coward, as the mysterious happenings keep happening and they presumably become involved.
- An americano, flannel and boots rural farmers child from a classically conservative household, who struggles with their identity and how others might perceive them if they knew - namely, their sexuality. I'm not sure how I'd link this to the mysterious happenings yet or if it'd really be relevant. It could probably be meshed to some extent with the punk idea.
I adore this concept. Interested.
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