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Initiation The Docklands Port Remonstrance https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYR3zNn9fb0 Force is applied. A tortured screaming fills the air. Seagulls circle and gyre incuriously in the heat of early summer as the warehouse door is wrenched back, rust falling from its hinges. The stink of salt and sewage is thick here, as waterfront houses and businesses alike choose to dump their effluvia into the ever-hungry sea rather than pay their pittance in sewerage rates. It’s a busy enough area of town – close enough to be handy for the main dry-docks that service the great algae dredgers, upscale enough that the buildings have actual metal on their fittings and Enforcers only need to patrol in twos and threes. Far enough from the central palatial districts that it’s actually affordable. Plascrete buildings stand side by side with smaller brown- or red-brick dwellings. Shacks and leantos crop up wherever space allows, although a discerning eye will notice a distinct trend towards plastics in the choice of low-cost building material. Merchants harangue from streetside stalls; dockers recline on mouldering crates, smoking narrow lho rollups in snatched moments away from work. Crowds of tired, gritty agri-workers wend their way to or from assignments; servitors stomp back and forth on inscrutable errands of their own. The warehouse owner leaves, satisfied, keys delivered. The gondolier punts him across the bay as he considers his new tenants. He has not been explicitly told as such, but believes he is renting to a group of Planetary Defence Force specialists. He is pleased both by the security such an arrangement with bring, and because he has greatly overcharged them for the contract. Though he is venal, and greedy, his sins are ultimately petty ones, and he will make no mark on his world. ---  Squatting in the corner of Port Remonstrance, the warehouse acts as a serviceable base. Workbenches and dataports allow for daily maintenance, tinkering, research, contemplation of the swell of the sea and the murmur of the crowds. For a while, the Acolytes maintain a presence as ordered, but mostly come and go as they please. A small cot up in the office allows respite, when lodgings seem too far away or when the heat of the day and the throb of amasec makes travel a burden. Ourybia thrums with anticipation. The watery ocean planet is the breadbasket – perhaps a better term would be krill-basket – of a dozen nearby worlds, trading calories for metal, technology, expertise. A mere ten percent of the surface is land - archipelago chains of large islands ringing the equator for the most part, occasional volcano chains or anomalous blocks of desolate rock dotting the rest of the ocean. The equatorial belt is uniquely suited to huge-scale algae and krill farms, and the majority of the planetary population occupy themselves with tending to the kilometre-scale dredging ships, drudging in vast algae refineries, or toiling to process Ourybia’s characteristic red silt, trawled up from the sea floor as building material. The more fortunate cluster together on the islands, building from rock to beach to out into the shallow sea, until the cities are more canal than land – a great semi-aquatic sprawling, rising from the waves like a cyst. Port Remonstrance is one of the larger of these conurbations, and, possessing of its own meagre spaceport facilities, buzzes with a carnival atmosphere. Soon, after twenty years, the Black Ships will return, scouring the planet’s holding cells of witches, and delivering prosperity and peace once again. --- A message. Just as the heat, the boredom, and the waiting was becoming intolerable, a message. The delivery servitor arrived during the Acolyte’s shift change. A flicker of stuttering red laser light verified its recipient. The note was handed over, a pinprick of blood providing a second layer of assurance. A brief stiffening of realisation, even from the more well-bred members of the cell – this is an Astronomicon message. The despatch cost must have been enormous.  There can be no doubt from whom the message originates. It appears the cell has just been activated. ---- Elsewhere, the cell door slides open. The occupant lunges forwards silently and with startling speed, but the strange, poised servitors are too quick even for them. The interloper shuffles forward, syringe in one hand, the glint of metal in another. Force is applied. A tortured screaming fills the air. ---- welcome to gaem, i hope you liked my clumsy framing device. you guys have been on-planet for a short time. days, weeks, whatever - enough to vaguely acclimatise yourselves, still a short enough time for you to feel uncomfortable and foreign. you all know each other and have been spending as much time as you fancy together over the past few days, weeks, whatever. your orders have so far been "report here, meet these guys, hang around for a bit.", and you have individual lodgings as part of your cover if you like, you can maybe indicate what you've been doing on-planet and for how long, as well as putting a few words on how you got here. or, you can get straight into it - you've just been told to go extract a person you know nothing about, from a family that off the tops of your heads, you know nothing specific about. go get some info!! or some kit, i dunno. or spend some time making your warehouse cool. or go shoot some seagulls going off the date stamp on the telegram, you have about five solar weeks to get your task done, which seems like ages for a "go grab someone" plan. there's probably a catch. i don't want to spunk out a massive loredump in the first post, so if you think there's something you should know about the planet that i've not covered off, post it in the recruitment/OOC thread and check e: have a little music Inexplicable Humblebrag fucked around with this message at 23:00 on Jan 22, 2016 |
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Jan 20, 2016 23:06
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RScZrvTebeA  In the city I was sitting in an always-open noodle shop in the odd hours of the morning when the servitor came to find me, finishing a bowl of prawn and noodle soup. 'Noodle' in this case being a misnomer, seeing as how it was more of a noodle-textured reconstituted kelp mash. They considered it a planetary specialty, which in my experience meant it was the sort of dish you couldn't get a sane thinking person to eat otherwise. It attracted the kind of person who considered dining a fine art and didn't let a thing like tasting bad detract from how a meal made them feel. Not like I gave a crap about that, I've had enough peasant stews in my life that anything seems edible in comparison. Quite frankly I didn't know how it was made and something tells me I didn't want to know. Same could go for the servitor knowing how to find me. Some things you are better off not knowing. Technically it should of been looking for me at the warehouse, seeing as it was my shift on watch the warehouse, but I needed something to keep me awake. Everything valuable was locked away in secret compartments and I could see the warehouse both from here and my residence, it was a quick jog back in any case. When things pick up I'll be more diligent about watching an empty building I pay my tab and leave with the sealed message in hand. I knew better than to open it in a public venue. My hab cube was just down the street in an old brownstone complex close to the docks. The owner was a slumlord who couldn't be relied upon to keep the hot water working (or teeth in his head, for that matter), you wouldn't think a planet with an abundance of both heat and water would have that problem, but there you go. Thankfully he doesn't mind me paying in cash and he doesn't ask questions. The messages had mostly been inane orders to keep our cover intact. Go out, be seen, venerate the Immortal Emperor, the usual spiel. This one stood out immediately after opening it. Short and on point like the tip of a blade. We all kept a messenger skull just in case of something like this. I pull it out of my closet and activate it. I have it snap a picture of the message on it's pict-recorder and add "It's time, you know where to meet" as a voice message to accompany it. I send it on it's pre-determined route, tooling out a window that doubles over as a fire escape to go inform the others. It was time to meet the others. I throw a splash of shockingly cold water on my face, put on my overcoat and head for the door. --- At the dock I was the first at the warehouse seeing as it was still my shift on watch, taking a moment to smoke a lho stick dockside as the morning sun rose on the horizon. The smell didn't bother me as much as it did some of my companions. Growing up in the Quarry camps meant dealing with a lot of open air latrine pits and the sort of foulness you get when you feed an army of laborers nothing but a slurry of calorie dense gruel of questionable origin. At least here the water carries some of the foulness out to sea. I take a final drag of the stick and throw the butt into the inky black water and make my way in. The warehouse was already warming up in the morning sun. I drop the message inside on a flakboard lean-to that doubled over as a workbench. I figure the others will want to look at it to verify it's integrity. I take a minute to check on the footlocker that holds my armor and my shotgun before finding a data slate and seeing what information I can look up in Imperial public records on the Deculion family. If they are important enough to have a family estate, they are important enough to have made it to local news agencies. --- Establishing that it is dawn and I am the first one at the warehouse because I posted it first so nyah.  Going to go ahead and see if I can find anything on the Deculion family using whatever amounts to the 40k version of a google web search if that's allowed. Not sure if you want me rolling anything for that. Assume I'm not toting around a shotgun and riot armor unless I say otherwise. I figure in character it'll spare me unwanted attention. Edit: Since per DJF there was only one originating message, assume I start a message chain with a servo skull to get everyone's attention. DeathSandwich fucked around with this message at 14:04 on Jan 21, 2016 |
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Jan 21, 2016 00:56
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Ignatius Malbau The Docklands Port Remonstrance Across the street from the Warehouse Ignatius watched Barry flick his disgusting groundpounder habit into the water and enter the warehouse. It figured that guy would be late for the shift change. Did he even know there was a shift change? Ignatius wasn't a stickler for schedules, mind you, but their instructions had been explicit, even if it'd been weeks without anything to actually do on their shifts. Made sense to keep the warehouse staffed, at least. The local streetgangs paid attention, wouldn't hesitate to break in to warehouse when nobody was there, try and lift some loot or just smash windows for fun, but for the most part they were too timid to go for an occupied building. Ignatius had let it be known the place was sitting empty, anyway, which wasn't a hard rumor to circulate; nobody'd made any deliveries since the lease was signed, and the local "businessmen" noticed that, too. Ignatius idly thought that maybe they should arrange for a delivery of something. Would that make them seem less suspicious, or just unnecessarily complicate their cover? Anyway. He looked down at the plastifoam cup that still contained a centimeter or so of brownish-green muck with lumps in. "Food." You ate this poo poo and acted like you needed to, if you wanted to blend in around here. He reached out with one long, thin arm, and flicked it off the rusty black steel parking bollard he'd set it down on, and watched as the muck inside, owing to excessive viscosity, totally failed to splatter as the cup hit the ground. It crunched under his well-worn groundpounder boot as he stepped off the curb, hesitated for an instant to let a big growling smoke-belching cargo transport vehicle - a "truck," he reminded himself - crawl past, and then crossed the street. As the autosentry recognized his credentials and clacked the door open, he peered into the half-lit gloom of the warehouse, spotted Barry loitering near the lockers off in the corner peering at a dataslate, and made to join him. "Ayo, Barry," he greeted, adding a half-upward nod. "Servitor found you, huh?" Ignatius didn't lead off with his own impression. He wanted to know what Barry would volunteer of his first thoughts about the mission. Ignatius had been hanging around with these people for weeks now, but he still didn't have a strong sense of how they operated, like, how they'd actually work. They weren't really a team, yet. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 22:34 on Jan 21, 2016 |
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Jan 21, 2016 01:36
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth "It's not like it had to look far." I replied. "My cover identity has me living, eating, sleeping, and making GBS threads in eyesight and jogging distance of this place. Just another day in the life of the first response man." I look at the contents of the murky cup seeping woefully toward a storm drain and added. "There's an always-open place around the corner and up the hill a little bit. Seems better than most, or at least better in the sense that it doesn't taste like it fell out of a diaper." I wait a minute and show him the dataslate, "I'm checking on our soon-to-be new Deculion friends against any public records I can find. News mentions, public statements, trying to get a basic understanding of who we're dealing with."
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Jan 21, 2016 06:29
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Ignatius Malbau The Docklands Port Remonstrance In the Warehouse "Ah, I don't eat that poo poo because I like it, Barry," Ignatius replied with a sour grin. "I eat it because, you know that poor bastard who loiters at the end of the block all the time selling smokes? And the crew at the Ubemar warehouse, two bays over, you've seen the one, they handle empty algae tank cargo? They eat that poo poo, because it's the cheapest thing you can buy around here that'll hold body and soul together. So I eat it too." Ignatius taps his head with a pale index finger. "They can all see I'mma Voidborn. I got the skin, the build, you know. But I eat the same cheap poo poo they do, they notice that. Maybe not consciously, but their brain notices. I must be a poor bastard just like them, eh? Must be some offworlder down on his luck, workin' a poo poo warehouse job in a poo poo neighborhood of this poo poo city on this poo poo planet, just like them." Ignatius was dressed the part, too. Port Remonstrance was located in the equatorial region. It was hot out, humid, but with so little land mass, they got a lot of wind, a lot of storms. So the local garb tended toward thin, easy-breathing plastic mesh that shed moisture, bare arms and legs, lightweight brimmed hats that kept the glare out of the eyes but still breathed. Round the docklands, closer to the water, it was a little cooler, and accommodations had to be made for the work environment, so you saw heavy protective boots and gloves, sometimes light work armour, but always with vents and holes and on the occasion a full ventilation system chugging away on a light backrack with tubes running into an environment suit. So Ignatius had on a pair of baggy, brown, plastimesh shorts that stopped just above the knee, heavy low-topped work boots, a stained used-to-be-white vee-necked sleeveless plastic shirt, and a tough synthetic welding jacket with reinforced patches at the elbows and shoulders, brown, with rows of horizontal vents cut into it under the armpits and down the back. The crew knew he kept his sidearm tucked into that jacket, along with that long sticker of his, one in each breast. He usually had a shoulder bag as well, the type you might use to carry around heavy tools, where he kept his auspex and a few other odds and ends, but just now he didn't have it on him. In the gloom of the warehouse, Ignatius lifted the brim of his hardhat, an ugly plasteel affair with diagonal yellow and black stripes underneath a small constellation of worn, peeling stickers advertising various brands of alcoholic beverage. Most people would have found his face unremarkable, aside from the features typical of the voidborn - pale, bony, long, with high cheekbones and dark hair - but someone as observant as Barry was likely aware of the incongruity of a "docklands worker" who somehow didn't have any scars, tattoos, piercings, or brands. "Be discreet," Ignatius added, nodding at the dataslate. "We don't know yet if the Deculon name is one folks notice if you mention it, or if they're a regular feature of the local gossips. Lemme know what you find. And I wouldn't put Ciznero's name in anywhere, yet. Most likely the Adept has a cover, and we don't want to blow it." That was the sort of thing Barry should already know, but Ignatius wasn't going to take the chance. I've decided the planet's tropics are on the warm side of human-standard climates, wet, and based on that, I've thrown in some basics of Port Remonstrance working-class fashion. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 23:22 on Jan 21, 2016 |
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Jan 21, 2016 23:19
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Eadian Valarius The Docklands drat this bloody Humidity. In all his years as an officer of the Logis Strategos, Eadian had been posted on some worlds with properly awful conditions, Egnixs and it's magnetic storms, the 3 Terran standard years long winters of Lobiats, and the constant flooding of Jiaxen 7. He hated nothing more however than humidity. Even as he walked the streets at night his shirt felt as though it clung to him and a wet stale scent hung on the air. That last detail might have had more to do with where he was though. Eadian had spent most of his adult life on assignment for the Logis under various covers, and his current assignment was nothing that bothered him. He always found that exploring whatever accounted for "nightlife" for the locals would be a good place to find information on the goings on around you. He had spent much of his time assigned to this team exploring the culture of the world, and listening to it's people at various watering holes as well as consuming large amounts of local media. Information in the end, was more important than bullets to victory. This was something his mentors and teachers had drilled into him as a Logis Officer, and the way he saw it that logic would hold true in his new slightly more....esoteric calling. It was very late into the witching hours when he left the local bar, not having had more than one drink, but having gathered a fair bit of information from the drunken musings of local dock workers. As he left the bar, he noticed the Messenger Skull waiting him, and ducked into an alley to take the message in private..... Upon arriving at the docks he noticed Ignatius and Barry waiting and picked up on the end of their conversation. He had met them both but didn't know much yet, one thing he DID know..... Morning Gentleman, Barry spare a light? I seem to be out of lho sticks Eadian caught the end of their conversation as well, He flipped up an old chair and sat on it I can save you the trouble of further research, I have information on the Deculon family. They has come quite often in my research since I got here.... --------------------------------- This is my first real PbP please don’t crucify me. Also I figure I would have information on the Deculon family, owing to my Peer ( Local nobility) Talent. Is their a roll involved for me knowing things? If this is illegal or bad i can edit that last line of dialog, I just figure I can't reply since obviously I really DON'T know anything, but I figure Eadian should AcidRonin fucked around with this message at 03:00 on Jan 22, 2016 |
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Jan 22, 2016 02:42
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'Gamma' The Docklands, Dawn Blending with a crowd of well-crawlers doesn't come easily to the Voidborn, even those without distinctive physical characteristics tend to be uncomfortable when they see the sky without a window in the way or breathe air that hasn't been recycled a few thousand times and their unease makes them noticeable. Gamma is well aware that people will pay even more attention when you have a healthy 'platinum tan' on your skin and are a standard deviation outside average height, and no amount of wearing civilian clothes would change that. So as she makes her way to the warehouse rendezvous, munching on a pressed krill nutrient bar and leaning on a staff to cover her dragging foot, the only concession she has made to disguise is wearing a broad-brimmed native hat made of tanned and stiffened fish-skin. It smells of salt and a little blood, and belonged to a man who was cruel to his daughter but she loved him anyway, enough at least to drag the courage together to ask her eerie new neighbor for help when he collapsed and wasn't breathing. He died and now the daughter is alone but happy but sad and scared. The message to assemble came as no real surprise, tarot readings last night had consistently drawn the Guardsman on Watch (alertness, duty, sacrifice) and the Astropath, Reversed (delivery of an awaited but unpleasant message, sometimes covers encryption or interception of an unfriendly nature). While she is only a Crimson-rated diviner, with messages those clear even a blunt would have anticipated activation. Reaching the warehouse without incident she slips inside. The Bull and Malbau were discussing tactics, Valarius was being insouciant, and Ignavus had been delayed. The Red Priest was probably trying to extricate himself from the countless calls for assistance that had fallen on his synthetic audio receptors since arrival - the brothers of Mars clearly find the salt air here not to their liking and are thin on the (artificial, floating) ground. Personally, Gamma finds the sea relaxing - cool on the head, muffling stray thoughts. But business called at this time. She clears her throat to cut in to the conversation I need to see the message, please. To scan it for, uh, psychic residue or signs of interference. Not that it is likely, but better to be sure. Probably a psyniscience roll? Establishing that there are not enough tech-adepts on the planet to fulfill the domestic needs of the population if that's not inconsistent with anything. Otherwise it's just Gamma being space-racist against people who live on planets.
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Jan 22, 2016 05:29
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth I pass the slightly crumpled pack of lho sticks and my lighter to Eadin and add "If you haven't had one of the local lho sticks, be warned, the planetary custom is to fill them with dried algae and kelp along with the standard Lho narcotics. Like everything else on this planet, it takes a hot minute to get use to." The psyker showed up not too long afterward, finishing off a protein bar and not even saying hello before getting down to brass tax. When she asks for the note, I nod my head toward the flakboard lean-to table that it rested upon. Best just to let her do her thing, not like I understand any of it. I add as she walks to the table "Morning Gams, you didn't happen to see our red robed robot friend on the way in, did you?"
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Jan 22, 2016 14:52
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Preparation The Docklands Port Remonstrance https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTuZMQt6w5c Dawn's rays filter through the grimed glass of the warehouse, glinting off the battered dataslate's screen as Bulworth has a poke around to see what information on the Deculon family is foremost in the public eye. It's a weird quirk of certain mindsets that Arbites specialists the galaxy over have silently thanked again and again - they can secure their databases and lock their vaults with all the ingenuity Mars can provide, but they never realise what someone can pick up simply from taking a wide view and reading between the lines. Of course, sometimes a lhostick is just a lhostick. And too much information is as bad as too little. Ignatius' caution is wise but probably unwarranted - this sort of information must be accessed thousands of times a day the planet over by various adepts performing various tasks, and so long as Bulworth doesn't try to persuade Aperta to edit anything... The Deculons appear to be a fairly standard, established dynasty, by this planet's standards. Countless records of marriages and proclamations of trade agreements blur together into a morass as Bulworth scrolls. Unlike some of the would-be entrepreneurs from the past few millennia - scions of scions of scions of minor families, who received too small a slice of the family legacy and languish in obscurity as plantation owners on distant island chains - the Deculons are securely entrenched in the relatively metropolitan Port Remonstrance. They appear to have fingers in most industries on Ourybia, and outright own several of the colossal algae dredgers that slowly circumnavigate the planet, along with rights to some fairly reliable dredging routes and the corresponding fleets of krill skiffs. This makes them respectably but not ostentatiously wealthy. By noble standards, of course - by the standards of most imperial citizens they naturally live a life of decadent opulence undreamed of in anything but their most lurid and probably illegal fantasies. Most of the more flowery news records revolve around the wondrous public works that the Deculons have been bestowing on the planet's population. Hab-blocks, churches, and the like. It is not a particular stretch to interpret this as the Deculons jockeying for position and status among the other Ourybian noble families - with solid foundations at a premium on this watery planet, it looks like extravagant building work is the way to demonstrate wealth and power. The planetary governor and his staff appear to follow the algae dredging flotilla at a distance, hopping from island chain to island chain throughout the year, residing in palaces on each one. The donation of expertise, building materials and - very occasionally - land to the palace complexes appears to be a way of greasing the wheels of government. Eadian is able to fill in a few more of the blanks in terms of the family's operations. Their sprawling and refined manor lies to the centre of one of the larger islands making up the Port Remonstrance archipelago - plenty of solid rock to build on, plenty of ways to get one up over the neighbours. Like many established dynasties, the actual task of overseeing their many, many concerns is divvied out to various family members. It's nominally a meritocracy, but in reality blood is considerably thicker than brine, and a second-wife son will tend to have a massively advantageous position over a more technically or diplomatically accomplished nephew or cousin. The major players are Lorenzo Deculonius, the family's patriarch; Paola Deculonius, his firstwife and nominal palace administrator; Orsa Deculonius, his thirdwife from a vaguely allied dynasty who actually turned out to be a competent negotiator and tends to hold responsibilities above her expected station; and, naturally, a fleet of sons and daughters to attend to the various social intricacies that life among the nobility appears to demands. Proper representation at a formal ball or a debauched rampage through the slums appears to be just as important as attendance on a judicial or trade committee - it would be fairly trivial for Eadian, along with a smattering of his close friends, to arrange to be at the same social gathering as a Deculon. Of course, the implication of this sprawling family and labyrinthine business concerns is that Adept Cizneros could be working for any one of the scores of Deculons infesting the island chain. The Telepathica despatch is unclear on which one in particular. Gamma takes the opportunity to see whether the message has been psychically tampered with. All she gets is a faint impression of the duty-psyker who received the message - it's presumably gone from his lips to the scribe to the servitor to the Acolytes, it's not had a chance to pick up any other imprints. Still, the fact that she can even detect the remnants of the psyker is surprising - he must be pushing himself, indicating either a lot of messages, or difficulty and unusual perseverance in receiving them. It might be the fact that the Black Ships are on their way and planning their approach - or it could be that this message was prefaced by high-priority codes ---- poo poo i think i'm gonna run out of classical music a lot faster than i will electronica. not as quickly as i run out of synonyms for "lhostick" though there's no Space Google or Space Facebook but there are, of course, official news agencies, publicly available records, etc. have some Space Worldbuilding, courtesy of barry and eadian; you have some context on the noble culture here (shades of Space Venice), but haven't turned up anything along the lines of "the deculons like to kill and eat people with names beginning with C". you do have some context for the family now, as well as some names to maybe investigate or, if you're feeling brave, to go and talk to. for context, going to see the names above would be like trying to get a quick chat with a government minister crossed with a high court judge crossed with a drug fuelled solipsistic psychopath - they have a lot of people wanting to talk to them, and you may need to do some prepwork. gamma gives the message a brainscan but i'm not gonna roll for this - there's nothing plot-relevant that's happened to it so you wouldn't pick anything up anyway, and if i roll and get like a 90 and report "nope, nothing" then you'll all think "ah-ha! it's been tampered with!". i will admit that it'd be really funny to have this be the space equivalent of a wrong number and for you all to go do someone elses' campaign, but no, this is indeed from your inquisitor. ignatius pretty much paces around roleplaying, which i am not complaining about. you guys have come up with really good stuff really quickly on what the planet's like. still waiting on WWN to get unprobated but yeah, you have a family to look into i guess! if you need any kit to help with your plans for said investigation, you can of course go out and do some requisition tests. this is still completely open and i have no set plans for how i want you to find this person, but if you're unsure on what's going on or want some pointers on what your options are, stick it in the OOC thread
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Jan 23, 2016 01:10
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Ignatius Malbau The Docklands Port Remonstrance In the Warehouse Ignatius watched silently as Gamma entered the warehouse. The psyker gave rise to conflicting feelings in him, which he didn't care to discuss. On the one hand, she was, like him, Voidborn; her body type, her skin, the way she minded corridors and corners, it all had a familiarity to him. She was somehow more human; groundpounders were all a little abhuman by comparison. On the other hand, she was a (registered, sanctioned) psyker. Every ship had psykers, of course, you couldn't navigate without them, but the dual nature of the ship's navigator - revered, as the only thing keeping them alive, as they plunged in and out of the Warp, and feared, for the horrifying risk each psyker represented - set them apart from the rest of the crew. A sacred object but also a living person. The ship's most direct connection with the Astronomicon, the Holy Emperor Himself, on his golden throne; otherworldly, beloved, terrifying. Gamma wasn't an astronavigator, though, or at least, not that Ignatius knew of. Maybe she had never reached out and felt the presence of the Emperor? Or perhaps He was always there, his light shining somewhere in the back of her mind. Ignatius shook his head, suddenly, to dispel fuzzy wandering thoughts. Gamma was his co-worker, a fellow Acolyte, and they had a job to do. "Ignavus is off-shift, but due back shortly, I believe" he intoned. "I suggest we wait here for him. It would seem we have ample time to conduct our mission, and I want to hear his first insights before we form a plan of action." I am using internal monologue to create Ignatius' impressions of the other characters, since I never got around to it in the recruitment thread. e. I wrote this before the update just above, so please mentally insert it into the chronology as such. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 01:21 on Jan 23, 2016 |
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Jan 23, 2016 01:13
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Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance Cargoship, "Ocean's Bounty" 12 hours ago Without activating the deep-cogitation implants to access his stored memory banks, Aperta Ignavus, Magos Errant and technical liaison to the Adeptus Munitorum, could identify over 500 alloys that were either highly-resistant or outright immune to oxidation in salinated water, 35 of which could be made on planet. And yet despite this fact, so much of the Munitorum's equipment was not made out of any such materials and so tended to deteriorate exceptionally quickly in the humid, salty air. Take, for instance, the sea-faring vessel he stood within the bowels of that was meant to ferry 200,000 metric tonnes of local sea-life to be processed into protein-rations for the Astra Militarum elsewhere in the galaxy (the Munitorium caring not a whit that the Astra Telepathica's Black Ships were enroute, but that wasn't the Tech-Priest's problem). The captain of the ship had been neglectful of cleaning standing water left everywhere, causing catastrophic corrosion to countless parts of the ships equipment, particularly the sensitive cogitators that controlled the aquatic auspex systems and allowed it to navigate the tight channels and shoals without running aground. And this was but one ship of hundreds of thousands, while the number of Tech-Priests on planet in only in the order several thousand, most of them lowly adepts who had yet to even attain a rank of Engineseer. And so Aperta was left alone to direct the efforts of scores of laborers and servitors, just as he had been every day this week and on similar ships with similar problems since he had landed almost four months ago. None of the Munitorium's overworked clerks on this island had remembered being approved for another Tech-Priest when he had arrived, but none of them had questioned it either. Orders were lost all the time, after all, even if the Munitorium was incapable of officially admitting it. According to the ancient Writ of Compliance drafted during the Great Crusade when the Imperium had rescued their fellow man stranded and alone in the universe, the Imperium was to be given 5% of all edible substances taken from the water to feed it's armies across the stars. They were falling behind, though, because their equipment was falling apart. Billions of tonnes of edible food was rotting in storage, ships were left orbiting empty in the sky with nothing to transport. Which is why they jumped at any skilled aid they could find without questioning. Although directing work crews was his official task, and while it was one he devoted his body and a small portion of partitioned brain power towards, primarily he directed his personal familiar, Cogitatio, to conduct much needed repairs in between the tangled mess of wires, tubes, and piping that no normal human could possibly reach. Using a tight beam vox-link, Aperta turned the buzzing Servo Skull into an extension of his own body, seeing what it saw and directing it's minuscule tools that hung like ganglia beneath the base of it's skull like they were his own fingers. With a series of sharp, tinny cracks of ionized air the skull's laser-projector rapidly pulsed a weak, invisible beam of energy to solder repairs to a cogitator's primary data processing unit. Aperta unconsciously smiled behind his respirator grill at the impeccable handiwork. Gold would last far longer in these conditions than the copper and silver he was replacing. Suddenly a long, low howl of an air horn signaled the end of shift for the unaugmented. Aperta would continue for another shift until another tech-priest would come to relieve him, and the servitors would continue longer still. Still, Aperta was not altogether unhappy with his task. Quite the opposite, in fact. The cargo hauler reminded him of the ship he had been created on, albeit only a tiny fraction of the size, and the tight corridors and unceasing roar and clang of cargo-lifters was a welcome familiarity on this damned planet. And 11 hours wasn't so long. __________________ Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance The Warehouse The Present Aperta curses the idiots who disgraced the priesthood of Mars. One of the Omnissiah's most holy aspects was that of time, and the fool sent to relieve him had been late! It was an affront to the Machine God! Normally this wouldn't bother the Magos Errant, but the messenger-skull he had received while waiting informed him of matters most urgent. And though technically his seconding to the Departmento Muniturom was merely a cover, Aperta still has pride in his work and couldn't have left the site unsupervised. The parts of his brain divorced of emotion also understand that maintaining said cover is also of high importance, but these thoughts are largely overshadowed by the righteous fury at the... the... sheer blasphemy of being delayed! And holy zeal is one of the few emotions Aperta still allows himself to experience unblunted by cyber-surgery or hormone controllers, at least for a time. Even his familiar is affected by his mood, Cogitatio's gravity-plates crackle with pent up energy and the barrel of its las-projector whirrs in and out like a camera trying to focus. This planet's logic-damned climate does nothing to help the machine-cleric's mood. His crimson robes are of a light synthetic weave, hemmed in gold circuitry and cut short to leave his movements unobstructed as he works. His flak-armor, however, is heavy and the matte-finished nickel plating does nothing to battle the heat of the sun. But the armor is both a standard of office, the dull metal plates giving him a greater appearance of a machine, and a necessity in the dangerous environments he works in, be they work areas filled plasma torches, and kinetic hammers or the more clandestine areas his actual assignment take him to. With an almost unconscious effort Aperta slows his body's metabolism and disengages several superfluous augemetics in order to drop his core body temperature, several of them venting tiny clouds of steam as they power down. Everything about being on an actual planet is wrong, but this planet especially. Mankind belongs in the stars, Aperta thought. There the air is cold and scrubbed clean, and the artificial atmosphere and gravity is pleasantly light. Even the light is cleaner. Here the air is thick, oily, and unbearably heavy, pressing in on him and weighing him down, as if trying to trap him forever. Even the light of the planet's star is a sickly yellow-red here on the surface, unlike the pure and brilliant white it truly is in space. Mankind had striven for hundreds of thousands of years to escape the bonds Terra, so Aperta sees no logic in wishing to abandon their destiny in the void to stagnate on miserable balls of water like this one. Finally he rounds the last alleyway to the rear of the warehouse. He usually spent the most time here, he had arrived on planet roughly a month ahead of any of the others to prepare it as a suitable base of operations, but his cover identity hadn't left him time to do more than install crude but discreet surveillance cameras to watch the entrances, as well as installing new, much more sophisticated locks on said entrances. Grabbing the handle of the door Aperta concentrates for a moment, activating the electoos implanted in his epidermis and his gauntlet to emit a particular pattern of 1- and 2-millisecond low voltage electrical pulses; a prayer to the Machine God in electric binary. With a heavy thunk the lock's magnets engage and the doorway opens. Aperta prayed that the others had used their own particular entrances he had set up for them and hadn't just come in the front door like usual. Bulworth almost certainly hadn't. He would check the security footage later to be sure. The petty thought makes the priest realize his emotions are still running high. Activating hormonochemical regulators in his brain stem, the priest increases production of oxytocin by 36% to calm himself, and kicks up production of dopamine for good measure. "Master Malbau. Master Valarius. Bulworth. Miss Gamma." He greets politely, adopting a formal tone of voice and nodding his head to each of them in turn. "I pray that my absence has not caused undue issue. I am to understand that we have finally received dispatch from our masters?" He asks, looking expectantly at Eadin and Ignatius while Cogitatio floats to peer over Gamma's shoulder at the message. He listens intently to Eadin and, surprisingly, Barry as well. "Interesting. I had not expected us to be dealing with the local nobility. I will need to set up my electroplating equipment to silver-plate my augmetics." He muses to himself. "But I must admit that the matters of laypeople is not my area of expertise. However, if I may make a suggestion, I believe we will need to secure dedicated transportation, preferably an aircar or shuttle. I believe the Munitorum has a limited number of smaller, but inoperable, lighters that they used to use to transport dignitaries when they still did that sort of thing. Though I cannot guarantee they will give me access to them." _____________ I took Gamma's idea that there weren't enough Tech-Priests to go around and ran with that to explain my late entrance. I'm also establishing that each of you has your own designated entrance. That this might actually seem more suspicious if anyone was observing is lost on Aperta because like most Tech-Priests he prefers things to be needlessly complicated. I've also established that this planet doesn't just feed the sector, but also supplies rations for the Imperial Guard, and that the Munitorium doesn't give a gently caress about the Black Ships because they are way behind on orders to fill. Aperta wears his armor at all times, but Cogitatio's combat las-emitter has been swapped out with a more standard and much less bulky utility one, so he is unarmed. Both the combat laser and ballistic attachment [hand cannon] are left here in the warehouse.
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Jan 23, 2016 03:04
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'Gamma' The Docklands, Dawn The psyker mumbles incoherently as she focuses on the document for a good few minutes, then relaxes. Good...morning? to you too, Master Bulworth. Master Ignavus is here now, so I will have seen him but not before you asked. I apologize if that was in the wrong order, I have some trouble with tenses. A distant relative of a smile crosses her face at some internal joke, or possibly at being given a nickname so soon by a co-worker. Bulworth's easy familiarity was something she envied, the calm certainty of a man who understood his place in the universe and where others sat in relation. The message is clean, although the duty astropath seems overworked. It may be possible to access traffic relating to our target if the office is understaffed. Common lore: Adeptus Astra Telepathica: what kind of security would be on records of sent/received messages belonging to a noble family? She felt the eyes of Malbau on her as she spoke: her fellow voidborn was troubled by her presence in a way Bulworth was not. It would be simple enough to read him and find out why, but it felt impolite to do so. No doubt he was simply afraid of and curious about her powers, like most imperial citizens. Ignavus had offered a suggestion regarding transport, and Gamma nodded in agreement. A flier, perhaps something amphibious. I anticipate versatility will be required of us in finding Adept Cizerenos
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Jan 23, 2016 14:24
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Eadian Valarius The Docklands Dawn That explains the saltyness, cheers Barry Eadian explains the situation based on what he knows about the family..... ....It wouldn't be a odd thing for me to seek Invitation to dinner or an event with members of the family. I've never met Lorenzo but I served in the Navy before I worked for Intelligence with one of the son's. My family is fairly well known, but my affiliation with the Logis is not. I have worked hard to keep it that way so to most people I am just a noble born former Naval Officer. I completely agree with Aperta and Gamma about a vehicle. Perhaps if we're to be 'schmoozing' with the local lords it should be something that looks the part? I assume something with a bit of visual flash modified to be a getaway vehicle is something you are more than capable of Techpreist? What about the target we are to Exfiltrate, do we have any further info on that?
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Jan 23, 2016 20:06
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inverted commas, people
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Jan 23, 2016 20:44
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth "If I had to guess, Cizneros is not the name he or she would be going by as their cover." I say. "I can try some public records searches but I'm not sure if we'll hit anything. If he or she is like us, there won't exactly be much of a paper trail." --- Lets go ahead and search public records for Cizneros too, while I'm at it. Gives me something to do while the others procure a ride and/or a cover story.
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Jan 23, 2016 21:55
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Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance The Warehouse "Then it is agreed, a transport flier." Aperta says. He strokes his respirator as he ponders how best to go about procuring one. "Cogitatio, please display the current inventory of the Departmento Munitorum vehicle depots." He commands. After a few seconds of soft clicking and tapping noises from inside the floating skull, Cogitatio's left eye-socket projects soft light onto the nearby table, displaying a list of vehicles, their technical designations, and their current status. The vast majority show that they are 'DECOMMISSIONED' in angry red letters. With a satisfied hum, Aperta points to one such entry. "As I thought, a non-functional XIV-pattern Arvus Lighter. Transport capacity of 16, more than enough for our purposes. Unarmed, but the armor is more than thick enough for atmospheric re-entry, and the chassis is robust as well as highly modular, although-" The Tech-Priest stops himself short, realizing that he is beginning to babble about non-vital information. He continues, "I may be able to arrange for it to be delivered here from the Munitorium vehicle pool under the guise of repairing it for use when the Telepathica's Black Ships arrive. It would, after all, be in the Munitorium's best interests to be ready to lend aid should they be called upon to do so. After delivery I may be able to delete all records of the craft's existence from their data-stacks. If they do not have records, they will never admit that there was ever such a ship to have lost in the first place. I may require aid for the... initial negotiation, though." ________________ I hope I'm not overstepping my narrative freedom by choosing the vehicle I'd like us to go get. Fluff says that it's a workhorse transport used by pretty much everybody, so it seemed appropriate. If someone with some face skills would like to accompany me in getting this, that'd be cool, just in case. Otherwise I could try just getting access to the Munitorum's computers, inputting the order, having them follow it, and then delete it out again. Or maybe I'm overthinking this? Who What Now fucked around with this message at 23:59 on Jan 23, 2016 |
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Jan 23, 2016 23:56
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Eadian Valarius The Docklands In the Warehouse "Nothing wrong with that, and I can certainly come with you to lend some legitimacy to the acquisition, but once we have it can you make it look the part? If we're to look like nobles, so should our transportation. Unless you all want to go with another approach? It would be wise to look into any events the Family may be attending as well, I'll see what I can scrounge up ----------------------------- Is my Peer talent enough to know the local social calender's? Or would i need to make a check to research it?
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Jan 24, 2016 00:32
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Ignatius Malbau The Docklands Port Remonstrance In the Warehouse Ignatius shifted uncomfortably. "I can of course pass for a noble," he interjected, "but as a reminder, none of you should speak my surname outside this warehouse. My family... well, it's unlikely anyone in this sector has heard of it, but if they have, and chose to make inquiries, there's a remote chance it could jeopardize our cover. We styled ourselves as nobility - by the Warp, we were nobility - but no longer. On the other hand, my cover as some sort of dockworker will also be inappropriate if we are to mingle at some Deculon party. I suggest we keep things simple, refer to me only as "Ignatius," and if anyone presses for my status, Eadian can refer to me as his concierge." After a moment scrutinizing the scrolling data entries Cogitatio is projecting onto the greasy steel welding table shoved into the corner near the lockers, Ignatius nods. "I can pilot that thing, Aperta. It's probably a six thousand year old rustheap, but I'm confident you can make it flightworthy. In the meantime, I suggest we make use of an air taxi." A thought suddenly occurs to him. "You know, we could probably just buy the drat thing. Maybe several of them. Folks around here are going to see it coming and going, maybe 'aerospace salvage' is a reasonable cover for our currently empty factory here? There's so many junked craft on that list there, they can't be all that expensive. Let me have a chat with those Munitorium chaps, I've worked with their type for years. I'm sure I can talk them into an above-the-board arrangement of some kind or another." Ignatius worked with the Munitorium when he was in the Navy, as a naval liason officer; he is also skilled in Commerce, Charm, Deceive, Inquiry, Tech-Use, and Operate - Aeronautica, any or all of which could apply to 'procure inoperable aeros from the Munitorium under the pretense of a contract for their refurbishing.'
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Jan 24, 2016 08:23
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Incorporation The Docklands Port Remonstrance https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbFly9b-9Dg As the other acolytes begin making plans to cement their cover identities firmly in place, Bulworth and Gamma ponder the task at hand. The Voidborn considers her past dealings with the Adeptus Telepathica, with an eye to working out the difficulty of accessing the messages of other Telepathica clients - although a creature of the void and an altogether different type of specialist than that used by the local offices, she has by necessity had dealings with the network of psykers tenuously linking the Imperium together. In fact, now that she thinks about it, she remembers reading about exactly this issue in another place, and another time. Going by the interrogation logs, a magnate of industry got it into his head that his deep space mining concerns had been funnelling information to a competitor. Being an individual who never got told "no" enough as a child, he did not take well to the local Telepathica chapterhouse's refusal to turn over all messages from his station, heedless of destination. On returning at the head of his private militia, he was surprised at the fierce fight the Telepathica clerks put up, as well as their oddly professional handling of small arms and weapon emplacements. After a few minutes fruitless lascutting, he was even more surprised to emerge from the basement of the chapterhouse to find his militia routed, and Planetary Defence Force armoured cavalry levelling their weapons at him, in uniforms matching those on the corpses of the Telepathica "clerks". The logs actually contained a fair amount of information on the security setup of this distant Telepathica chapterhouse, that nevertheless sound like fairly standard operating procedure. The encrypted original message logs are stored on-site, under lock and key and guard; despatches are considerably less well guarded, for the simple fact that they're sealed in tamper-proof, self-immolating containers like the one currently lying discarded on the bench by Bulworth. Any attempt to access the contents by an unauthorised user results in a fizz, a bang, and the filling out of form a7-87b for re-despatch of a partially-received message. The easiest way to gain access to a third party's message bank would be to engineer a situation where the message database itself has to be moved - it will doubtless still be under guard, but in the uncertainty of transport, the Telepathica would need to balance security through force with security through obscurity. In this instance, a clever and motivated group could easily make the snatch. Of course, actually getting away with such a heist would be a little trickier - the Telepathica, after all, have access to unorthodox expertise. Dawn lengthens to morning as Bulworth continues tapping away at his dataslate. He actually turns up a couple of hits - looks like there is, indeed, a Cisneros mentioned in passing in the announcement logs of some of the larger construction projects performed over the last seven or eight years by the Deculon family. There are, of course, no details - these are only very cursory mentions, in most cases just initials and surnames - but if she's mentioned at all, it indicates that she's not simply a brick-counter or a wages clerk. By inference, the larger construction projects would probably be handled by those closer to the heart of the Deculon family, so she probably isn't hanging around with the seventh cousins twice removed. The Arbites clacks his teeth contemplatively. The Acolytes still have absolutely no idea of anything about the adept - including what she looks like. However, it isn't just her name down on these announcement logs, and some of the other names reoccur a couple of times. It could be worth investigating her former colleagues to see if any of them could offer any information on her. ----- right, so Gamma does a common lore test and smashes it with a roll of 5, for 5DoS. the information gain is commensurate. psykers are pretty expensive and dangerous resources so the Telepathica office normally has at least a couple squads of PDF hanging around on-site, with a speeddial to summon more and bump major issues up the command chain very quickly. i mean, these are guys who could potentially instigate a major daemonic incursion if they gently caress up badly enough, so they will be lucky to ever not have a gun in the same room as them. security is tight. message logs are kept in a safe. despatches themselves are entrusted to delivery servitors because they are tamperproof and will self-immolate if fiddled with. best bet is to get the message log database to move somehow, maybe for comparison against another city's logs - there's like zero or one sanctioned messaging psykers in a major urban area, Port Remonstrance is lucky to have two - and then snatch it en route. bit easier than a protracted siege. regardless, though, stealing the database from the telepathica basically gets the government involved - it's a matter of interplanetary importance. should you pursue the "let's read their mail" plan, you'll also know other pertinent details. dunno what you want to get out of it, though. bulworth continues to space-google. there's a couple of pseudo-press releases for Deculon construction projects, on which the name Cisneros pops up. she's got a couple of other names that pop up with her - this isn't, like, a conspiracy or anything, it's more Space Contractors. you'll get names if you choose to go have a chat with her ex-colleagues, or you can just make them up. the rest of you are just sort of planning at the moment, so nothing from you - inquiry and plane-grabbing directions are in the OOC thread. you have some plans for what to do, so you should probably decide whether you'll do 'em, who's doing 'em, and then, if everything falls into place, go do 'em.
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Jan 24, 2016 21:13
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth I have to admit, I was just as surprised as anyone when Cisneros' name came up in the records. I would of figured just as soon as anything she would be using an assumed name. Hiding in plain sight has its advantages when it comes time for someone to find you, but has it's own problems if you start attracting unsavory attention. Makes it harder to hide for real. I jot down the addresses of the most recent construction projects she appeared at and grab my coat. The nerds didn't need me around to help them scratch out a ride, and judging by the look on Gamma's face, it might not be her speed as well. Regardless, it's going to take some time for them to get something pulled together. May as well be productive while we wait. I approach Gamma: "Hey Gamma, I've pulled together a list of associates and assorted projects Cisneros has been at. Want to come with me to see what the Deculon's have been utilizing her for?" --- I'm not going to be super useful in helping us get a plane, so I'm going to start looking into some of the (admittedly probably now finished) construction projects Cisneros has been seen at. Mostly getting idea of what our noble family feels they need new facilities for. Since I don't have any human interaction skills besides "Scare the poo poo out of them" and "Police
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Jan 25, 2016 19:06
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'Gamma' The Docklands Field reconnaissance is hardly Gamma's specialty, but...waiting in the warehouse all day sounds awfully dull. "I will accompany you, Master Bulworth, and be of assistance if I am able." She recovers her hat and adds: "On reflection, acting to seize information from the Astropath's office is likely to be prohibitively resource intensive. Unless we attempted to access the records in our official capacity, but that would take time we may not have." thatbastardken fucked around with this message at 02:24 on Jan 30, 2016 |
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Jan 29, 2016 13:16
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Ignatius Malbau The Docklands Port Remonstrance In the Warehouse "Hmm." Ignatius looks up at the roof of the warehouse suddenly, and then glances around at the front, the back and back to the group. "You know, It occurs to me we don't actually have a good place to, uh, land. Better hold off on that flyer until we've figured that part out, eh? In the meantime, I think I'll see what sort of dirt I can dig up on these Deculons. You know, the sort of thing doesn't get spread in the reputable media." Unless anyone else has something to add, Ignatius is going to head out on his own, to the local watering holes, pawn shops, underground roller derby rinks, and CCG tournament gambling dens. He'll keep a low profile, casually bring up the Deculon family while making it seem like it was the other person who brought them up, and see what sorts of rumors he can dislodge. Charm, Deceive, and Inquiry, each at Fel: 40, plus any modifiers. Charm to make people think he's a friendly guy to talk to, Deceive to make people not realize he's looking for information about the Deculon family, and Inquiry to find out what there is to be found out among the social scum classes.
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Jan 30, 2016 02:02
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Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance The Warehouse It takes a moment for Aperta to process what Ignatius says, lost in his own train of thought. But after a moment he is forced to agree. "I admit that I... had not considered the logistics of storing a vehicle. I apologize for this oversight." The techpriest taps the side of his respirator as he ponders what sort of vehicle to procure instead. "Regardless, I believe the Munitorum's vehicle pool to be the best source for transportation. I shall make my way to their offices immediately to make the procurement." Before leaving, however, Aperta walks to his workbench at the far end of the warehouse and bleats an order to Cagitatio in holy binaric speech. The skull dutifully lands upon the table and quietly powers down. With the speed and haste of a practiced expert the priest disassembles the familiar's reinforced bone chassis, exposing the delicate innards. With ease he removes the utility-grade laser emitter and in it's place slots in a compact ballistics projector. Recessed in the shadows of the skull's sockets it provides Aperta with adequate personal protection without the gaudy obviousness of the more powerful las-blaster. Equipped and ready to go, Aperta leaves the warehouse to head towards the Munitorum's primary offices near the docks. Equipping my Handcannon before I leave for the Munitorum. If anyone is left without something to do, they're welcome to come with me.
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Feb 1, 2016 00:13
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Dissipation The Docklands Port Remonstrance https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmCnQDUSO4I Possibly still stunned by their cell’s sudden activation after weeks of boredom, the Acolytes each swing into action after their own fashion. Day has properly broken by now, and the Port begins to buzz with activity. Bulworth and Gamma head off into the city to check out Deculon public works, on the assumption that knowing how a target wants to portray itself to the world is never a bad idea. Maybe they’ll be able to infer something about Adept Cizneros’ role in their construction, and who they could approach in terms of contacting her. Ignatius tags along briefly, before ducking off and hailing a gondola to one of the less salubrious nearby neighbourhoods, to try and get a feel for any street-level gossip on the Deculons. While the average stubjack lurking on a street corner is unlikely to know much of the internal goings-on of a noble dynasty, it will still be useful to get a feel for the local politics here. Maybe there’s something he can use; some way to get leverage on a Deculon, some way to get closer to the cell’s target… Aperta strides off inland, returning to a Munitorum suboffice through which he has contracted before. Eadian sort of hangs around the warehouse aimlessly. ----- Coacervation The Slums Port Remonstrance  The makeshift duckboard breaks with a wet “splutch” as Bulworth puts his weight on it, and he sinks to his ankle in brackish, cloudy water with a curse. A section of the narrow pavement between buildings has partially collapsed, and it seems that in this area of the city, timely repairs are not something that can be counted on. An enterprising citizen has bridged the gap with a chunk of waste plastic, which almost, but not completely, fails to do its job. Gamma picks her way over the broken walkway with ease, long, spindly limbs giving her an advantage. Ramshackle buildings are densely-packed here. The technical shore actually lies some distance off to the south - great space-claiming, city-block-size rockcrete foundations have been sunk into the shallow waters just off the island’s coast. Walkways and bridges haphazardly join them together, festooned with sparking cables and leaky pipes, and platforms and pavements circumference the foundations, just above the high-tide mark. Private industry has created a warren of low-slung houses and low-rent shops, generally with some sort of market square in the centre of each artificial island; gulls cry as a knife-sharpener plies his trade in a closet-sized enclosure, wedged between a fishmonger hawking his wares and a seller of carved bone geegaws haranguing passers by. Here and there, constructions sponsored by noble families tower above the rickety mass of semi-temporary shacks – able to sponsor the work required to drill into the rockcrete to lay proper foundations, the noble-funded works have few constraints. A large church, perched incongruously overlooking the waves, abuts a hospital from a rival family; a multi-storey hab-block takes up almost an entire islandlet; an aqueduct wends its way from an offshore refinery. Most surprisingly, there's a school being finished off nearby. All, it turns out, sponsored by the Deculons. In fact, many of the slum-works – many, but not all – are courtesy of the Deculon family. Looks like most of their accessible public works – those not made to the Port’s palace complex as part of thinly-veiled attempts to sway the planetary governor’s opinion – are dotted around the poorer areas of the city. This in itself is notable; why waste money on the rabble? Maybe the family is callously playing the long game, and accepts that a healthy, housed population is essential for future stability; maybe the family’s portraying itself as holier-than-thou; maybe it’s the result of genuine altruism. Bulworth, presumably still distracted by his wet boot and from his noodley breakfast, gives the church, aqueduct and hab-block a quick once-over as he ambles nonchalantly by. The increasing crowds of cityfolk pay him no mind, as he is sensible enough to not stand and gawk, and for an off-worlder he blends in with surprising ease. Insofar as he can judge, they are genuinely quality buildings - local materials, but sturdy and well-finished. Innovatively designed, too - the hab-block in particular eschews the usual four-walls-and-a-roof blocky style, and instead opts for a weird, hexagonal cell system. These places don't look expensive, though - a quick stop off at a recaf stall and a surreptitious browse of the files on his data-slate confirm that construction finished considerably earlier than projected, as well, which must have also driven costs down. Gamma has a little more luck with her observations. Being an obvious off-worlder, she can stop and gawp for a short while without causing much concern from passers-by. Well, not much more concern - she's still a spindly midget with what looks like cyanosis, but most of them recognise the telltale signs of Voidborn and just leave it at that. It's hard to tell from street-level, but she's pretty sure there's some subsidiary lines coming off that aqueduct that shouldn't be there. The number of people going in and out of the control building definitely makes it look like there's something shady going on, too. Probably black- or grey-market water selling to industries who don't want to pay the Administratum by the liter; it's relatively small fry insofar as crime goes, but it could be a stepping-stone to something higher up the food-chain. Almost certainly not enough to blackmail the particular Deculon in charge of the aqueduct concern, but from tiny acorns... Wait, speaking of greenery. There, on the wall - the church contains a colossal frieze, picked out in shell and sea-tooth and baleen and ceramics of all colours of the rainbow, depicting the Conclave of Erinythia. Of when Ecclesiarchy clerics from a thousand worlds were witness to Sister Aella's apotheosis into a Living Saint in the face of the oncoming Ork horde. Up in that corner - that priest hasn't got a name. Other figures are labelled with name and homeworld - this poor guy's got something else haloing his head. He's got a boast - POLLONIA ME FECIT. Either it's a massive coincidence, or Cizneros is the architect. The school's probably still got workmen in, finishing it off. There's no way the architect would be hanging around at this stage, probably delegating the work several links down the chain of command, but maybe there's people on-site who've actually met her. ----- Affiliation The Rookery Port Remonstrance  If the slums are seedy, the shady areas are downright fecund. The spaceport area of Port Remonstrance has to be on firm foundation, which means it has to be on an actual island of the Remonstrance archipelago. However, living near the constant thunder and boom of the rickety planetary fliers - not to mention the occasional explosion as an over-taxed lighter suddenly suffers catastrophic engine failure in mid-air - is not something that the usual Ourybian land-dwellers are willing to put up with. The nobles and merchants seek lodgings elsewhere, and the area around the port has been claimed by the destitute. Unhampered by the restrictions inherent in building on the artificial islands, these tenements are rickety, soaring affairs - the Enforcers only dare enter these narrow alleys with vehicle and what passes for cyberhound support on a salty ocean planet. As population density is higher, and the screams of aerospace transport drown out the screams of the extorted or tortured, this area has attracted the criminal element like flies to rotting meat. All the illegal fun you could possibly want sits a short, ten-minute gondola ride away from the coast, twenty-eight hours a day, seven days a week. Ignatius carouses with strict professionalism, ensuring most of his amasec seeps onto his clothing to add to the persona rather than having to actually drink the stuff they serve here. His story of being a stopover from the krill-fleet holds up to casual scrutiny, and in all honesty, none of the people here seem to give it much thought. It also provides a decent excuse for steering conversations round to what the local nobility is like, but unfortunately it's a pretty rowdy crowd even though it's only thirteen in the morning. The Voidborn spends most of his time explaining that he's from a far-off island away from the equator where everyone's a bit thinner, taller and paler, and fending off the advances of drinkers who've been at it longer than most. Eventually the group's conversation manages to turn to current affairs - Ignatius tries not to appear too attentive as the laughing agri-workers drink away their week's pay and compete to name the most obviously criminal of the upper classes. Individuals from the Hepaticon... Renulon... Deculon... "All about face with those st- uh, Our Patrons", rasps the stocky, sandy-haired deckhand with whom Ignatius shares a doctored lho rollup outside of the bar. He used to act as a boatsman, bringing the youth of the upper-class incognito across the bay, to the Rookery. "No fear o' death, like you or me; biggest dread they got is to look bad, to look lesser. To find 'emselves faced with proof they're beat." He pauses, pointing down the street, up towards the palace complex on the hills at the centre of the island - barely visible through the fug of steam, smoke and pollution that pervades the district. Ignatius patiently waits for him to get to the point. "No, the only way to get 'em to do what you want is, is," as he takes a drag on his lhostick, "is, you gotta, right," as he takes a swig from his rotgut bottle, "you just need to HEY gently caress WAIT" as the tiny urchin slashes his purse from his belt and races off nimbly down the street. The deckhand lurches after her, leaving Ignatius goggling faintly after him. Other street kids edge closer, perhaps sensing an easy mark. ------ Transportation The Munitorum Port Remonstrance  The clerk looks like he's about to burst into tears of gratitude. Aperta has long since grown accustomed to the reaction he causes as he walks the streets. On a planet so desperately in need of maintenance, and so desperately short on materials and expertise, a full-blown Magos is a sight for sore eyes. Not a particularly rare sight - there must be hundreds in the Remonstrance archipelago alone, and it's a skilled watcher who could tell them apart consistently - but still, a sight that makes dockers walk a little taller, and stallholders smile a little wider. Small children goggle at his visible cybernetics - he's not a particularly astute social diagnostician, but one thing that even Aperta's picked up is that metal on display acts as a status symbol. Cogitatio gets less of a fan-following - servo-skulls being durable and modular, with some models relying in part on preserved brain rather than easily-corroded circuitry, there's no particular shortage of them. Munching on a curious sea-grape pressed into his hands by a kowtowing grocer, and borne by a gondolier who refuses all possible hint of payment (but if you saw fit to take a look at the old outboard, y'honor...), Aperta makes his way to the squat, boxy Munitorum sub-depot amid the respectful susurrus of the crowd. Unfortunately, the clerk looks like he's going to desperately press his entire backlog into the tech-priest's hands. He'll have to choose his next words with care. ----- worldbuilding!!! forensic architecturology!!! the slums are on artificial concrete “islands” just off the coast (like, a matter of meters), separated by canals and bridges. Traffic is mostly by foot, although land vehicles can wend through the wider sections. It’s pretty hard to sink proper foundations into these islands so it’s a little shanty-townish and second-storey, with the exception of public works which have been done properly. Bulworth manages to notice precisely gently caress all about the three closest buildings that he checks out, and only gets fairly basic info. Gamma is considerably more perceptive and actually notices stuff!! you have some naughty thieves to manipulate, and you also have a great big secret "i made this!!" label in an area where grafitti would be literally unthinkable. this is indicative that Cizneros is the architect. whatever else you wish to infer about her personality is up to you. rather than lead you down a blind alley i will explicitly state that you are not investigating heretic architecture. the focus on this is simply to stress that Cizneros is exceptionally, almost preternaturally talented. you can go pester the criminals, you can go pester the workmen at the school and be all "have you seen this woman" except you don't know what she looks like (if only you could look inside minds); you can sight-see some more i guess if you want Ignatius is in the rookery area, which is on an outlying island, tied to the main body of the port with a great big bridge. it is, after all, a spaceport; it needs to transport stuff. also the day's a bit longer on this planet, giving more time for algae to grow. yay. i put him into a bar, because stereotypes are sometimes useful. he kind of flubs his inquiry roll; I let him do a Deceive check to try and mitigate any subtlety loss, which he fails. then i remember he's got Clues From The Crowds and gets a reroll on the initial Inquiry roll; he still fails, but not badly enough to impact Subtlety. instead, he only gathers basic information, and has gained the irritating attention of an urchin gang ignatius has the names of two Deculons who the public believe to be dodgy. he also has confirmed that the nobles are overly concerned with face on this planet, and that the deculons basically feud with two other dynasties in particular at the moment. in a world preoccupied with face and basically aggressive altruism, building cool public works is probably a great way to get people to prefer you to your rivals! that's probably why they do it! i can't see anywhere that re-rolls from non-Fate sources cannot, themselves, be re-rolled, so if you want more info you can always spend a Fate point to see if you do any better on the third throw of the dice. or you could chase the urchin, or you could go find something else out now that you have the Deculon names and the fact that they are remarkably susceptible to evidence-based blackmail. or you could chat to the urchins, and set yourself up as Fagin without the upsetting ethnic stereotypes. Aperta heads into town, chats to Eadian jacks off disconsolately in the warehouse. game actions go in the game thread, as spelled out in the recruitment thread. lemme know whether you're hitting up nobles or if you're changing your plan.
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Feb 1, 2016 23:24
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth I guess the psyker could pull her weight after all. Although she's not the most subtle person in the world she did spot the water op in one of the buildings. She's got a good eye for spotting the unusual at least. I nod my head toward her, saying "You ready to make a house visit?" as I begin to make my approach. Keeping my eyes peeled for tell-tale identifiers of what sort of people we're dealing with. --- Going to go ahead and make the approach on the water thieve's den, will roll Common Lore (Underworld) to try and suss out any identifying details about the operation (cartel markings, signs of this being a fairly permanent establishment vs some fly-by-night makeshift deal that'll disappear at a moment's notice, that sort of stuff).
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Feb 3, 2016 18:53
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Ignatius Malbau The Rookery Port Remonstrance Ignatius winces, as the likely payoff for several hours' worth of slumming disappears into the scattered garbage-piles and leaking sewer pipes of what the locals not very affectionately call The Rookery in an utterly futile attempt to catch up with a native-born sib a fifth his size with a head start. She was very obviously letting him keep up, the better to ensure he was led into whatever dead-end trap her compatriots were waiting for him in. If he was lucky, he'd survive the experience. Of course, more of her sibs... no, he reminded himself, these are groundpounder urchins, they're probably only related by social status and proximity of residence... more of her gang were in evidence, sizing him up. Ignatius briefly considered his dirk. But stabbing little kids outside a bar where at least a few of their daddies were probably drinking away their wages right this moment seemed like a poor tactical choice, and that wasn't even accounting for the queasy rush of consciencous objection he felt at the prospect of cold-blooded child murder. He could threaten them with the dagger, but if these kids were robbing grown men in the slums in broad... well, ok, highly filtered, gloomy daylight, then they certainly knew how to deal with a man with a knife. Better to view this as an opportunity. He had some inkling of what those kids' lives were like. His own childhood had been infinitely more privileged than theirs, yes... but still. They were, Ignatius judged, too young to have had the natural-born spirited sense of curiosity and lack of personal caution all free-running children left to roam without adult supervision display, worn down and ground away by the dual crushing weights of poverty and responsibility. "Here," Ignatius addressed the one most blatantly not hiding from him, a medium-sized... girl, probably... in a one-piece orange plastic coverall with the arms and legs cut off and about a dozen different holes patched with the generous application of Impyrial Megacola stickers. "Givya four sticks a lho anna stab a nitrobuzz fer thet man's ID card," he offered, pointing in the vague direction of the fellow her compatriots had just robbed. He had twelve lho sticks and three syringes of "nitrobuzz" in his left breast pocket, actually, but there was no sense opening negotiations with his whole stash. "But nothin' if he don't survive!" Ignatius added hastily. Ignatius attempts to recruit the urchins by bribing them with drugs in exchange for the identification card of the man he just failed to get information from. My plan is to use the ID to check his employment record, figure out what small boating company he used to work for that used to shuttle Deculon scions around in, and then maybe go take up a new line of employment as a Deculon brat boater, for Deculon brat interrogation purposes. Or, failing that, I have another idea.
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Feb 4, 2016 03:25
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Eadian Valarius The Docklands In the Warehouse Eadian had decided that his talents as an officer would be best put to use by attempting to gain the cell an audience with the family. He decided to do some research on any upcoming social events and see what himself and some of the group members might attend for the purpose of gaining introduction. He reasons this may be easy to do by leveraging his families connection to friends of the target family. I'm going to see what I can do to get us ingratiated with the family, it might be a bit easier He said to people 1 post a go oh god i'm the biggest shitlord ---------------------------------- Sorry for sucking at posting on time and well and other poo poo. We had a nuts few weeks and apparently I forgot how to read. Also Chrome really wants to correct Shitlord to Lordship
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Feb 5, 2016 03:29
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'Gamma' The Slums Ahh, slums. Human misery, desperate activity, cramped and toxic living spaces...if one could block off the sky, Gamma muses, it would be almost a civilized environment. As it is, the eye is drawn with desperate intensity to anything that distracts from the yawning, beckoning blue abyss. Perhaps that is why she noticed the detail in the frieze, or the furtive behavior of the water-criminals. Perhaps her discomfort is why she doesn't argue with Bulworth's decision to immediately confront what could be well be an armed and dangerous gang instead of questioning the workers at the school. "I...yes, of course." Her left foot drags slightly - a psycho-somatic injury sustained during the sanctioning process, more noticeable when stressed - and her hand grips her staff a little tighter as she follows her teammate into danger.
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Feb 6, 2016 13:38
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Coacervation The Slums Port Remonstrance https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGD34J5ARaI Bulworth, on hearing of the probable existence of illegal water theft, scratches the vestigial Arbites itch and immediately moves to investigate, with little in the way of preparation or elaboration of his plans to Gamma. She trails behind, perhaps waiting for more than a few cursory words to explain what he's hoping to achieve in bothering this rabble. He's actually mostly operating on autopilot - in a long and storied career, Bulworth's seen this kind of operation hundreds of times. Not, specifically, water theft - more a small gang eking out a living performing petty theft in an area no-one cares about. It's normally a tiny grain in an investigative desert, and barely worth spending headspace on for an Arbite, but it's strange what tends to stick. Margins are tight but the operation runs twenty-eight hours a day, so there's probably three to six malnourished scavvers working at this, with a boss in the back room. Probably got a deal with some of the local beggars or urchins or something, so they're told of anyone weird hanging around the place. And, most importantly, probably an escape route leading straight into the back office. Which probably comes out... there. ---- Affiliation The Rookery Port Remonstrance Ignatius feels a thud from behind as another urchin barrels into him, tearing free the dummy purse in which he stores his smallest, meanest coins. He staggers for balance amid the jeers of the urchin gang, but remains calm and repeats his offer. The pack leader appears to consider it, as she scratches at a short mop of rusty red hair and the shouts of the robbed deckhand recede into the general slum hubbub. She seems to appreciate being approached on a level negotiating field - had Ignatius squatted down or patronised her, there's a good chance he'd be in a fetal ball amid the garbage of the slums, having his ribs broken with lumps of rockcrete or spars of plastic. "Whatcha wan'dat for?", she demands. He does nothing but raise an eyebrow and grin, and it's at this point that things appear to snap into place for the urchin. Clothes reeking of cheap amasec, but no flush and a steady gaze? Bartering with contraband for something of no apparent value? She tenses, as if to flee. "Are youze a cop?" poo poo, thinks Ignatius, mouth opening to try and salvage the situation. "Coz you have to tell me if you're a cop" Ah, thinks Ignatius, mouth shutting. The deal doesn't take much longer to thrash out. Ignatius walks away ten lho sticks and two syringes lighter, but with arrangements for the entire non-fungible contents of the deckhand's wallet to be delivered to a certain drop location the next day, and for a cast-iron promise not to be pickpocketed by the urchins any time he's back in the area. The street gang, in turn, get to try out a nicer blend of lho than they're used to, get a couple of syrettes of something to keep the Enforcers off their backs if necessary, and get a thorough conviction that a right dodgy character has some sort of interesting scam on. ---- Ingratiation Borseote District Port Remonstrance  "And that's when he finally realises where his wife was! Haw haww!" Ha ha ha. Eadian is once again reminded of how irritating the more fringe members of the Ourybian nobility manage to get. Not likely to be frontrunners in their family's operations, the majority of the cousins, nieces, and nephews tend towards the dissolute as a result; self-improvement being an option taken by only a rare few. Plus, socialising is an art - if you can get in on a dynastic asset merger or the cementation of a particularly important contract, and marry a third son or a second daughter from a different family, then at least your kids will be set even if you're likely to be relegated to a lifetime of salons and feasting. So, the swarms of lesser nobles try to practice it as often as possible. Eadian has been chatting up this particular group of bottomfeeders for a few hours now, keeping a white-knuckle grip on his patience. The room is smokey with illicit substances, tolerably large sums of money have been won and lost, and the tables are sticky with strange and wonderful imported beverages. Retainers murmur discreetly with waiting staff in the background, settling tabs and making arrangements for future occasions. It's barely past noon but, as per the rest of Port Remonstrance, the uptown bars tend to cater to a 28-hour-a-day crowd. Uptown itself is quite a pleasant place - running water, regular Enforcer patrols, stable power supplies, bustling businesses, built on actual land... there's various administrative districts, but the natives just tend to refer to the place as "Uptown". There's a surprising amount of greenery, even if the expansive parks and estates of Eadian's youth would be an incredible extravagance in this sort of context. Anyway. None of these cretins are likely to know much of the business goings-on of the Deculon family, and Eadian's really just after a chance to scrabble up the chain a little. He just needs an opening, some sort of gathering, something like... Eadian quirks his head to one side, glass of amasec poised in midair, as he listens. Something like that. ---- bulworth, despite being thick as two short planks, easily nukes his Common Lore test with 3DoS on an easy enough test anyway. both of you failed awareness tests to spot the sentries; assume they're there, but you don't know where. if you're up close and spying you'll probably be spotted; you can either go in fast and surprise the boss in the back room, or hang around and risk getting made. currently you are still on approach. if you somehow had Unnatural Senses you'd be able to reroll awareness on the premise of hearing weird stressed heartbeats, etc; also you'd be able to tell exactly how many people there are and where they are. details of the interior are up to DeathSandwich, within reason; you've got an escape route into the back room that you can fluff appropriately (sewer pipe, hidden door, whatever), you've got two rooms (work/maintenance room and backroom, boss is in the backroom), and you've got thin walls because this is basically a prefab shed full of control valves and maintenance ladders. give me a description of where you're barging into and whether it's the back or the front ignatius instigates the first actual social interaction test of the game. previous DH games have basically kept this as "rol dise to intimidate"; DH2 is significantly more fleshed out in this regard, where NPCs have personalities that react differently to different approaches. i will post on this in the OOC thread but basically you use social skills to make people like you more (i.e. change their Disposition, which typically starts at 50 for the neutral), then roll against how much they like you. in general, i mean - you can still use e.g. Intimidate to directly extort a certain outcome, but different personalities react differently to it. for some of them it makes them increase their Disposition towards you! this isn't really a commerce test because the trading is simply a bonus to roleplay; basically, it's a charm test to get something useless-to-the-urchins from the urchin gang. the urchin is overconfident in her own abilities and fits the Clever archetype. so it's a Fel +20 (charm vs Clever) +20 (good plan, good roleplay) for a target number of 80. ignatius gets a 45 for 4DoS, increasing the urchin gang's disposition by 4 x 5 for a total of 20. disposition is now 70; testing against this to see if the gang will sell, Ignatius gets a 34, so they're happy with the outcome and generally quite like Ignatius now. deckhand's docs will be available next narrative day, this will include photographic ID in the form of a work permit for the specific noble-ferrying watertaxi company Ignatius is interested in. perhaps think about getting that photo changed. also i hate writing dialogue! eadian ingratiates with nobles. i'm sorry, Skids O'Toole. untrained Inquiry versus Fel +20 - success by 3DoS, against the odds! this means he finds a suitable social occasion - details of this occasion are up to AcidRonin, within reason; your constraints are that it's in three days' time, you can bring the whole party if you want, it is an event that contains an element of risk to participants (physical, financial, or reputational), and that it'll give you an opportunity to talk to mid-rank Deculons. you can sort out how you discover this however you like - maybe you overheard a concierge while you were taking a piss, maybe you pumped a drunk until they spilled the beans, maybe it's well known and strictly limited but you won an invite at a game of poker. discuss in OOC thread if confused
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Feb 6, 2016 19:09
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'Gamma' The Slums Something feels off to Gamma - an itch in the hindbrain, hairs raising on the back of her neck. Above and beyond the normal gravity well blues. Without breaking step she closes her eyes and mutters an arcane phrase to focus her mind, opening her senses to the subtle ebb and flow of currents of Warp energy as it reflects the material universe. Using the warp perception power at normal strength (psy rating 2)
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Feb 7, 2016 00:43
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Coacervation The Slums Port Remonstrance Gamma reaches into the warp, and twists. Her goal is to open her third eye, and establish the extrasensory perceptions that she's used scores of times before. Due to some quirk of the Ourybian noosphere, she unfortunately succeeds in opening up her fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth eyes as well. Indescribable sensations flood her mind for a fraction of a second before she is able to sever the link; she stumbles, panting, heart hammering like a drum, but the bustle of the city continues around her. She's severed the link in time; nothing came through after her. The question is, whether she should try again. --- well, Gamma initially fails her Warp Perception test with a roll of 643, then i realise I accidentally added a 0 to the dice to roll. on rerolling, she cocks up with a roll of 90, which doesn't actually have any negative ramifications. you can keep going until you either Phenomena or succeed, or you can just say "gently caress it" and barge on in without bothering to sense the sentries. if you don't want to be seen you could do any number of things - e.g. throw some small change around, cause some confusion - but that might have subtlety impacts
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Feb 7, 2016 01:03
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never give up, never surrender. keep going till success or phenomena or both
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Feb 7, 2016 01:43
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Coacervation The Slums Port Remonstrance Frowning, Gamma tries again. Again, the necessary foothold in the Empyrean is denied to her. She pushes harder, and suddenly... everything changes... ...actually, very little changes. For a couple of seconds, all sounds nearby echo curiously. Footsteps, rustles, clanks; anything that sounds, reverberates. A stallholder nearby eyes his poultry selection with suspicion as, miraculously, the quacks of his captive ducks begin to echo. The unnatural sounds fade within a matter of moments, though, and no-one is able to pin it the weird happenings on Gamma. They chalk it up to the fact that the Black Ships will be here soon; these times of omens and portents must be borne with good grace. Panicking, the psyker focuses harder, eyes screwed tight with the effort. She steps in something unpleasant in the meantime, lame foot dragging it unpleasantly across the street, but this falls into the background as her kinaesthetic sense swells enormously and floods the nearby locale with a powerful feeling of self. It's a deeply unsettling sensation for the unprepared, but Gamma's sanctioning, training, and general experience gives her the edge to function under its influence. Doggedly, she suffers input that would dazzle a less experienced psyker, and in return is able to pick out three heartbeats that skip peculiarly when their owners glance at her and Bulworth. There - the lame beggar, the guy with the sign, and the bored fish-salesman. Knowledge is power, and, revealed, these lookouts aren't worth the pitiful income they draw. Gamma and Bulworth will be able to avoid their suspicion with only the most cursory effort. Brushing past the aqueduct control building, she detects five heartbeats in the front chamber (one with the telltale thud of the young), and one in the back. ---- lol so i did five rolls at once, assuming you'd stop at the first success failure followed by phenomena luckily, the phenomena is just everything echoing, so no-one gives a poo poo. like, it's weird, but no-one can trace it to you. the third roll is a decent success - the second awareness test is, again, single figures so Gamma can successfully pinpoint all three "sentries". assuming you guys communicate in some way, either off-screen or directly in post, you can avoid these sentries with trivial effort. four dudes in front (plus a kid), one in the back
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Feb 7, 2016 02:19
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Ignatius Malbau The Rookery Port Remonstrance Ignatius lingered for a few minutes outside the filthy Rookery bar after the last of the children had scattered off to pursue the next item on their undoubtedly larcenous agenda. He liked to take his time, see if any bystander or patron had taken an interest. Eventually, though, it was time to go, and Ignatius had to admit this angle was a near-bust. OK, maybe the hard-luck boatman thing had some possibilities, but without a solid lead, there wasn't much more to be found out in the Rookery. Well, there were other things one could do here. The morning was waning, but it was far too early to head back to the warehouse in hopes of a rendezvous with the other acolytes... might as well take advantage. It was time to find a pawn shop. Ignatius is going to burn a couple of hours locating the seedy sort of outfit where a man can procure research chemicals, interesting drug precursors, etc.: the sort of contraband he doesn't trivially turn up back at the docks. He's not going to take a big risk - no crime kingpins or whatever - but he's going to see what he can find, with an open mind to the possibilities, and buy some definitely, without a doubt not legal stuff. Commerce (35), Medicae (35), Inquiry (40), Trade: Chymist, and Clues from the Crowds where applicable.
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Feb 8, 2016 06:26
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Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance The Warehouse "-and I would strongly suggest procuring blessed lubricants from the Omni-shrine on the east side of the island for a mere pittance of a donation," Aperta lectures as he applies his own sacred unguents to the gondolier's motor. He continues as he finishes the task, "apply it directly to the motor here and here at least once every three weeks while reciting the Litany of Protection Against Corrosion to ensure you do not have another buildup of oxidization. Such preventative care is well within the bounds of a lay-person to perform and shall ensure the machine spirit remains loyal and cooperative to mankind. And remember what I told you about priming the engine to ensure the machine spirit is roused properly and alert. Trying to start it unprimed awakens the spirit from a cold slumber, and over time causes it to grow resentful of he who mistreats it. I trust you will take this to heart." Aperta does not often take it upon himself to meddle in the affairs of the uninitiated, but the wail of the motor's spirit was too much to ignore, and in truth his impromptu lesson on the proper maintenance of the small motor takes longer than the ritual of repair does. Aperta takes his leave of the man soon after, though his joyful thanks and apologies follow the Magos for a ways, as makes his way to the drab, yet structurally sound, Munitorium sub-depot to which he has recently been reporting. Inside it is dark and some might say claustrophobic. Dust swirls thickly in the few beams of natural sunlight that pierce the gloom, and the filters on the priest's respirator kicks on with a soft hum. The clerk looks up with a scowl on his gaunt, sickly face, no doubt expecting some manner of imbecile of vagrant looking for handouts or shelter. The transforms almost instantly when he sees Aperta's crimson robes into one of equal parts delight and desperation. +++LOWEN BRUNELL, ADEPT CLASS B-THETA, CLEARANCE LEVEL SAME+++ Cogitatio helpfully trills in binaric once it's facial recognition software pulls up a match. Aperta had dealt with him a number of times to receive work orders. Like everyone in the building, he is over stressed and overworked by half. "Good morning, Adept Brunell, and may the Omnisiah bless you and your kin." Aperta begins, making the sign of the sacred cog. "I wish to speak to you of matters pertaining to my involvement with the Departmento Munitorum. As you know I have been liaised with your office to aid in the backlog of work that you have been accruing. And though it is my sacred duty to carry out these orders for the glory of the machine-God, I have come to you today because it is becoming increasingly difficult, nay, impossible, to carry out these duties in a timely and efficient manner. To wit travel times to and from job sites take an average of 36 minutes and 24.873562 seconds, an excess of 21 minutes and 13.4571 seconds over the allotted time for travel and other non-work related tasks. This is due to an inability to procure travel during what the locals call 'rush hour'. I think you will agree that this is wholly unacceptable." Aperta says with a stern look. He doesn't allow the adept to say anything before continuing. "Part of my terms to be seconded to your office was I was to be assured the means to carry out my duties in a way that brings glory to the Omnisiah for the benefit of both our organizations. I simply cannot do that without dedicated transportation. As such, I request to be assigned a vehicle from your motor-pool suitable to the task of transporting myself, necessary supplies, and a contingent of labor-servitors if need be. Because I understand the strain your department is currently under the vehicle need not be in working repair, as I am graciously willing to restore a vehicle to prime operating condition to be returned to the Munitorum after my liaise is finished. And I can assure you that if a vehicle is delivered unto me as requested I will do everything in my power to see that I am not reassigned to the Adeptus Astra Telepathica to help them prepare for the arrival of the Black Ships." __________ Not 100% sure what skill would be best here, so I'll leave that up to the GM. Everything Aperta is saying is technically true, including doing everything in his power not to be reassigned since that's entirely in his power. I'm hoping not to bludgeon or intimidate the poor man with my arguments so much as to not let him get a word in edgewise until he can't argue with my argument or request. Also so he doesn't have time to make requests of me in return. I've marked off one vial of sacred oils from my character sheet to use on the gondolier's motor. Keeping a good relationship with the populace should be handy.
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Feb 8, 2016 20:11
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth Click for mood music Breaking and Entering Normally on the main floor of these hab blocks they bolt in metal bars on all the windows to keep the dregs from breaking and entering, but it looks like that didn't jive with this organization. They replaced the standard bars with a set on a swinging hinge, it keeps up appearances unless you're the sort actively looking for the thing. In my past I had busted a trafficking ring that used the same setup if they needed to make a quick exit. It was just a matter of sliding a trash bin close enough to the window to be able to stand on it and suddenly I had the leverage to reach the switch and pull it open. The window itself led to a bathroom, judging by the overflowing ashtray and the fact the window was unlocked, someone would sneak into here for smoke breaks and forgot to lock the window afterward. Once I got in it was just a matter of pulling Gamma in, her gimp leg would of made entry more difficult for her, and she was still of use here. I open the bathroom door and see the boss of the operation, rooting around frantically in his desk. He must of heard us climbing into the bathroom.  "You know your sentries are kind of poo poo, someone should of tried to stop me by now" I say as I stride confidently into the room, pulling my jacket back to reveal holstered pistols as he continues to root around in his desk. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. How about you keep your hands on the desk where I can see them?" --- Running intimidation on him. target is 25 (or 30 if you let me alternate in willpower like it shows on pg 99 of the core rulebook) + whatever modifiers you want to throw my way. Not sure if Gamma can throw an assist seeing as how she doesn't have intimidate trained. Interrogation doesn't seem appropriate for the circumstance considering Interrogation is specifically more of a thing you do on a captive. Either way, I get a free reroll per my Arbites background and can substitute degrees of success with my willpower bonus (3) if I choose. If the free reroll fails, I'll go ahead and fate point another reroll. Edit: It shows in the rulebook the target being at a disadvantage (like being outnumbered) gives me a +20 modifier, would that apply here since he's without his support? DeathSandwich fucked around with this message at 20:53 on Feb 9, 2016 |
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Feb 9, 2016 18:06
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Affiliation The Rookery Port Remonstrance Ignatius asks around, looking for a guy who knows a guy. Something about his stance, maybe, or his choice of vocab, or his tone... the natives seem to not find anything amiss about an off-worlder looking for chemical supplies. Or maybe, now that he's woken up from the boring trudge of the past few weeks, he's just managing to blend in? In any event, Ignatius is directed through alley, catwalk, and in one memorable case through the back room of what looks like a dogfighting arena, if by "dog" one understands "seal analogue with fangs and claws". The arfs and orts recede into the slum hubbub as Ignatius climbs a rickety and upsettingly unsteady set of stairs up to a hole cut in what looks like the side of a disused grain silo. On fighting his way through the fug of sandflies clustering around the door...  ...the view is magnificent. The proprietor of the shop is significantly less so. Gnarled, wizened, and possessing of a singularly unique funky smell, he loops his arm through Ignatius' and proceeds to walk the unfortunate, gagging noble scion through his wares. A hermit crab clatters its claws from its nest inside the old man's hair, indicating that he should keep his distance. The message does not need to be told twice. Ignatius' natural manipulative abilities soon make things a little less unpleasant, though, and after a little bartering for supplies (greatly to the Paracletus' advantage, although he's careful not to highlight this face), sweet-smelling incense fills the air as the two of them talk shop. Ignatius shares a few techniques that he's picked up for chemical decoctions, and a few previously-unknown chemicals get classified, much to the old man's delight. He's unable to suggest even the most cursory medical applications for them, but the old fellow waves off any apology, citing the fact that there's enough people in the neighbourhood willing to snort anything that he'll know soon enough. As he makes his farewells, some time later, the old fellow presses an unmarked ampoule into Ignatius' hands. "Lagniappe", he says. Looks like some of the aggressive altruism of the nobles filters down to the urban poor - nothing to complain about, though. ----- Transportation The Munitorum Port Remonstrance Adept Brunell wasn't expecting much out of today. Twelve, fifteen hours of forms, maybe a few drunks to chase away, and then he could go make eyes at that bartender who keeps slipping him an extra measure of amasec. Instead, he's got a live Mechanicus buzzing across the counter at him and the boss is out on a long lunch again which means all this responsibility falls on him and he's technically the head clerk for now and- Brunell's eyes gleam beneath his goggles. If he's technically the head clerk now... an eye twitches as the clerk cuts off Aperta mid flow. He's gabbling - the stress of the everyday grind has burst like a diseased appendix. "The vehicle is, ah, not a problem at all, Lord. It, ah, I have several in mind right now - please, please, take your pick. Take two. Take three! You, ah, you are well within your rights to requisition any vehicle under Munitorum command that has no outstanding commitments, just, ah, as I'm sure you're aware that the treaty of mutual coopetition between..." Oh, poo poo, thinks Aperta. He's deploying the paperwork... "...allows the departmental head of any Munitorum detachment to formally request the aid of any qualified Scion of Mars in..." ...and is about to ask for me to be deployed full-time... "..unprecedented volumes of, ah, backlog of, ah, shi- stuff we need doing." Aperta makes a spirited attempt to deflect this assault using the power of the brain. "While I appreciate your request, how am I to attend my duties if I am unable to travel? And how would I travel, if your duties prevent me from arranging transportation?" "Easy! Easy!" crows the increasingly unhinged clerk - he's speaking to a Mechanicus and and and... "We'll lodge you here! You can take my cell, I'll stay on the shop floor! It'll be fantastic, we'll get so far ahead of the backlog that.. that... we... we..." The clerk trails off. "So what do you say!?" --- Coacervation The Slums Port Remonstrance The operation boss squints to see in the gloom. Is the tough, brutal man in front of him holding a gun? Or isn't he? And... is that someone else in the shadows? --- so Ignatius demonstrates a remarkable degree of aptitude for finding headshops, almost equalling the failure of his attempts to pump deckhands for information, and his subsequent escape from the hands of the urchins. Clues from the Crowds has already been used today so can't be re-used, but with a roll of 13 for 4DoS on the inquiry roll, it's not needed. so on the assumption he has time to kill - i have done three tests, in order of commerce, medicae, trade - chymist. results are good - 4DoS on commerce, complete failure on Medicae, 1DoS on Chymist. the acolytes now have a contact who provides +20 to Requisition tests for chems, drugs, and precursor chemicals (not for making explosives). Ignatius also gets a free syrette of DeTox, which counteracts the effect of mundane drugs and poisons at the cost of spending 1d10 minus Toughness Bonus rounds pissing, making GBS threads and puking. bear in mind a round is six seconds, so if you roll weirdly you could fully evacuate in under six seconds and then be ready for combat afterwards. that's pretty fuckin' impressive in anyone's book. aperta's got some real fuckin' bad luck. i assumed the first attempt would be an untrained, but really easy +40 Intimidate test using intelligence - oh look it's 3DoF. maybe aperta could +0 Logic his way out of it - it's me austin, it's 6DoF. basically, as it stands Aperta can either take a Subtlety hit for formally refusing this request, or accept the offer of temporary lodgings and a fairly hefty workload (significantly reducing potential for downtime activities with the possibility of Munitorum contacts and potential Influence gains), or fate-point reroll; Fate can be used to auto-pass the logic test as per Mechanicus background unrelated, Aperta has a really great typo on his charsheet: Clues from the Crowds - 1/day re-roll test made to gather information from large group or crows. Bulworth has walked into a room with a guy with Quick Draw without his gun out; as I've given DeathSandwich narrative control of this bit it is kind of unfair to roll with things as they currently stand, so this is a chance to change things up so you've got a gun in hand. I did sort of explicitly say "you get an intimidation bonus for being at gunpoint" rather than "you get an intimidation bonus for vaguely referring to the presence of guns". at present you are literally only intimidating him into staying silent, which will have commensurate impact on his Disposition and may make him less happy to tell you things - i have gone on about "hey maybe let me know what you're aiming to get out of this", so maybe think about what else you want to get out of this situation. i don't have many more chances left in me before i start maliciously loving you over. also I would like to know whether Gamma is also involved in this scene. she can indeed assist with intimidation; it is a basic skill.
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Feb 11, 2016 00:17
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Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance Munitorum Depot "I think, Adept," Aperta began sharply, "that you know as well as I that changes to my lodgings will need to be submitted through the proper channels. I simply cannot allow myself to be absent from my assigned domicile should Mars recall my services, after all. And your cell is not properly consecrated for the purposes of supplication to the Omnisiah, which would make me derelict in my duties as spiritual as well as physical caretaker of the machine spirits. Both of these things will take time to process and rectify, time in which even more work will be created. More work than I could conceivably work through in my remaining time here and thus a net increase in work that you allowed to pile up." Brunell shrinks down behind his desk like a struck pet at the thought of even more backlog being created because of him. His supervisor would have him whipped harder than ever if he found out. Try as he might his over-stressed and sleep deprived mind can't think of a way around the Magos' argument. "Ah, yes, of course. How... how utterly foolish of me. I beg your forgiveness, Lord. Please, follow me to the docks." The Adept says dejectedly as he stands and leads Aperta back through the depot out onto the waterfront. _______________ Aperta Ignavus Port Remonstrance Munitorum Private Docks, Motorpool, and Landing Pads Out the back gates of the squat building is a fairly sizable, for the planet, vehicle depot, surrounded by high ferrocrete walls. On the north side sit a half dozen fliers on raised landing pads, a pair of Arvus Lighters, several local-made prop-fliers of no standard pattern Aperta recognized, and even a single Aquila Lander. Opposite the pads are perhaps a score of groundcars, primarily large shipment-haulers but a few personnel transports and even a pair of bykes with sidecars. Nearly all of them, both fliers and land vehicles, in obvious and gross disrepair. Tyres are worn smooth, frames pockmarked with rust and corrosion, thrusters missing completely. It sickens and saddens the tech-priest to see once proud and mighty machines laid low and abandoned like this. "Here, sir, the boats. If I may, I would suggest our personnel ferry. The hull is still serviceable, to my knowledge, and the propulsion still operable. Although, not for very long. It overheats horribly, you see, after only a few hours. The High Administrator used to use it as a personal transport when called to social events with the nobility or even the Planetary Governor. He hasn't used it since it stalled in the middle of the ocean and he needed to be rescued. He said to strike the vehicles from the records for its failure, but there's been no time to do so, you see, and..." Brunell explains before giving up mid-sentence as he realizes Aperta is too busy inspecting the ship to listen. The ship is mostly rectangular, wide and low in the water, coming to a fat point at the front with chipped and faded Munitorum emblems painted on either side of the front prow. The entire interior is enclosed, with an entrance to a small upper deck for the pilot, and a primary passenger compartment, available through the front. A pair of massive turbine-powered props are visible in the murky water and seemingly in good repair. "It will do nicely, Adept. The Mechanicum thanks you for your service." Aperta says after he is satisfied with what he sees. "Open the dock gates while I prepare it for launch, if you please." He orders with a dismissive wave. Brunell sighs softly and goes to do as he is told but is stopped short. "Adept Brunell!" Aperta calls before he gets too far. "I am not ignorant or unsympathetic to your plight. You have my word that I will return soon, when I am able, to help you for as long as my other obligations allow. You have done me a great service, and I will see it repaid in kind. You have my word as a Magos." The priest says kindly. It isn't much, but it is a small glimmer of hope to the Adept nonetheless, and he moves with much more confidence and energy to do as the Magos asked. While he does, Aperta gives the interior of the vessel a quick inspection. Climbing into the small pilot's cabin he begins to prime the engines. Massive batteries, miraculously still holding a charge, power up the onboard systems and instruments. 'Not so different from a voidcraft,' he thinks to himself. The engines roar to life, thankfully the fuel tanks hadn't been syphoned for their promethium, as the dock gates grind open, allowing Aperta access to the open sea. It's only a short trip around the island back to the warehouse from there, where the Tech-Priest awaits the return of his associates and begins a closer inspection of the ferry as he does. ____________ I'm spending a Fate Point to auto-succeed my Logic Test to get the boat without the Subtlety hit or the burdensome obligation and to take a small civilian ferry back to the Warehouse to wait for everyone else. If we have significant downtime again sometime in the future I'll go help out that poor guy. While waiting for the others to return to the safe house I'm going to do whatever repairs are required to get the ferry into working order, and also remove any and all iconography and identifiers that would show that the ship is owned by the Departmento Munitorum. Who What Now fucked around with this message at 14:06 on Feb 12, 2016 |
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Feb 11, 2016 20:48
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Barry "The Bull" Bulworth Breaking and Entering I take several steps closet, moving myself into the light of the lamp sitting on his desk. If he couldn't see the shoulder holsters for my pistols before he could now. "I'm not here to hurt you, but the more you root around in your desk, the more nervous you make me. When I get nervous I get shooty. Neither of us want that now, so how about you put your hands on your desk like a good person so we can have a conversation. Don't make me ventilate you for being stupid. If I were the law, you'd already be in a cell, and if I were competition trying to rub you out, you'd already be dead. Think of us as concerned bystanders, if you are reasonable, you get to walk away at the end of this." I stand directly behind one of the chairs opposite his desk, I point to Gamma and say "Now, me and my associate here want to ask you some questions, and you better be telling us the truth, you don't want to find out what happens if she thinks you're lying." "Let's start with your name, what do your business associates know you by?" "Secondly, tell me what you know about this building. It hasn't been here long and you seemed to move in quick. How'd you get established in here so quick?" --- Starting simple on the questioning, feel free to add in any questions of your own TBK. Doubling down on the 'not drawing down on the guy' thing initially. That's escalating things a step too far for a guy I just want to question and otherwise leave alone. I'll save drawing down on someone we intend to snatch/manacle for questioning or is otherwise way out of compliance. It's entirely possible to threaten gun violence on someone who's not being held at gunpoint directly. In a lot of situations even the threat of immediate gun violence is kind of threatening, even if the gun's not already pointed at you. Give me the Intimidation hit if you must for the time being. Justify my Arbites free intimidation reroll as me drawing down on the guy because he's not doing what I say, since if he keeps rooting around in his desk like he doesn't give a gently caress I certainly will draw on him. I was also kind of expecting "medium lighting apartment converted into an office where (albeit shady underhanded) business deals are made by a criminal styling himself to be a businessman" and not "dingy smokey opium den where nobody can see poo poo" for what it's worth. Will fate point a reroll if the first two fail
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Feb 13, 2016 16:49
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Eadian Valarius The Docklands In the Warehouse Now that IS interesting indeed....... He had gone in search of a way the group might seek an audience with the nobility they were targeting, and to Eadian's immense happiness it had payed off. He would have to explain to the rest of the Acolytes when they returned to the warehouse but in the meantime he wanted to see what else he could find out that he didn't know. As his mentor taught him, Information is Ammunition, so he headed to the local Librarium and house of public records to see if any more research could gain them any info on the family. He would also take a look at his own Straigos data bases to see what, if any, information imperial intelligence had on the family. Perhaps a failed career as an officer, or an interesting court Marshall would arise. ------------------------------------------------------ this seems sort of hamfisted, Sorry i am new to PbP. Basically I am going back to the warehouse but I want to use my abilities at research/whatever access to databases i might have to see if theirs any other useful information about the family to be gleaned. if this is stupid or pointless let me know and just bring Eadian back to the warehouse. I'm still working on the 'deets' of our poker game, it'll be done before everyone's business about town get's wrapped up.
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Feb 15, 2016 23:33
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