Inquisitor Carrigan Øravík began her day like any other for the past two years. Wake up, do her usual exercise routines, grab some food, hit the shooting range and then continue her inventory. Bolt pistols were far too expensive to train with, and flamethrowers really didn’t require a lot of training. The Mechanicus Techomancer told her that her plasma pistol was in danger of backfiring… and inferno pistols do too much damage to the range. Laspistols and revolvers were so boring to shoot though! Ms. Øravík wanted some action, badly, but she knew of what dangers such a thought could bring. On the other hand, all this boring travel reminded her of her youth. A warrior in her own right, Carrigan decided she would forgo the shooting range today and instead do some sparring. Her swordsmanship needed some work, and it would help her blow off some stress. She buzzed the ship’s Magos – the highest ranking Tech-Priest and her Quartermaster.

“Bring me my swords!” she called furiously into the voxcaster. She wasn’t really in much of a hurry, but she felt a bit off her game and wanted to remind herself that she was in command.

“Brrrrzzzzztttt. Yes Milady. I have dispatched the servitor. Approximate time until delivery is 4.32 minutes,” came the almost mechanical reply. Every since Magos Dlor had undergone the rite of pure thought he was creepy to contact. Although when you remove the emotional half of your brain and replace it with a cogitator, that tends to happen.

This would be her second trip to Holy Terra. The first was 70 years ago, when she was captured as a rogue psyker and sent to Terra for her psychic sanctioning. Carrigan was born in the void, on a piece of junk ship that barely stayed together. Every day was a new repair, every night a new prayer that it would hold up until morning. Her life changed the day her ship was requisitioned by the Ordo Hereticus for spare parts. Apparently some peril of the warp had boarded their ship and destroyed the better part of their warp buffers. When the Engiseers of the Mechanicus tell an Inquisitor they need more parts – woe be to the nearest civilian (or hell, military) vessel.

Everyone aboard the space hulk except Carrigan Øravík and the ship’s astropath navigator were summarily executed by a merciful chain axe to the back of the skull. The astropath was immediately put to work for the Inquisition, a task that he would keep for a few months until his life force was drained by the demanding navigational needs of the Inquisition, while Carrigan found herself bound, starved and left essentially for dead for days.

Almost a week later the Inquisitorial ship, powered by the salvaged pieces of Carrigan’s former home, rendezvoused with the Adeptus Astra Telepathica – caretakers of the Inquisition’s Black Ships. It was here Carrigan would begin her journey to Holy Terra, where all “rogue” psykers eventually wound up, if they were lucky enough to survive meeting the Inquisition, that is. The Black Ships are truly horrible places to be if you’re an unsanctioned psyker. Clerics hate you, Arbitrators hate you, Tech-Priests hate you, other psykers hate you, even the few members of the Inquisitorial guard on board hate you. Floating prisons, they were. Prisons where all of the inmates knew they had only one very slim chance of survival – and the path would only be after a very “humbling” experience.

Carrigan watched from her void-insulated cell as the bureaucrats of the Adeptus Administratum busily jumped from cell to cell, asking each psyker questions about his or her life. At least they didn’t fume with hatred towards her – but of course Adepts hardly held any emotion at all.

Her cell reeked of death, and there was a permanent scar of misery one could detect. The anguish and grim anticipation was palpable. The entire room was black, with no windows save one small, barred window in her door. The Telepaths and Astropaths that ran the ship constantly toyed with the rogue psykers, speaking of the horros that would come once they reached Terra, of the months long torture, with no rest in between. That was the path of those to become sanctioned Imperial psykers. Of course that was the lucky minority. Most would simply be sacrificed to fuel the Golden Throne so that the Emperor may continue his immortal reign. Already had 100 psykers been selected to join the Astronomicon, the Emperor’s gift manifest that he will guide them through the horrors of the warp. The navigational beacon requires an endless supply of specially trained psykers to project their psychic signatures in coordination throughout the galaxy.

Carrigan wanted so badly to serve – for it was by far the easiest of the three possible fates once she reached Terra, but she was not of that lot. Her power was far too strong. She was destined for sanctioning and service as an Imperial Psyker… if she survived.

When they arrived on Terra, Carrigan was treated to the sights and sounds of mankind’s homeworld, at least as viewed by a psyker being escorted to the sounds of agony from thousands of psykers being slaughtered to fuel the Emperor’s life support system. Funny that some pious individuals are so fanatical in their service to the Emperor they would willingly subject themselves to this experience simply to catch a glance at the Golden Throne before being burned in the perpetual furnaces that provide the Emperor with life. Carrigan did not yet understand at that time, but she was promised that after her sanctioning she would beg for the chance to return to Terra and lay eyes on the glory of the Emperor.

Lucky for her, she would be spared the sight. She knew a psyker growing up who was shown the throne as part of his sanctioning. His body was horribly misshapen since then – to the point he was executed by an Inquisitorial acolyte for suspicion of being a mutant while en route to the ship for which he would serve as astropath. Carrigan, though, would not set eyes on the Golden Throne, or the Astronomicon.
Her future was to be much more grim.

She was escorted down a dank hallway, with the screams of men and woman competing with the buzzing and sparking of electricity. Surely she would suffer under the electric whip as well. Countless days and weeks of torture went by, as promised. Her daily routine became shocks of electric whips, constant restraints, and the live flaying of “heretical” skin so that a new, purified skin could grow. Her body was battered, yes, but the worst part was the mental torture. Telepaths dove into her mind and lent her images and pictures of what would come from toying with daemons in the warp. Biomancers took the shapes of forbidden beasts most members of the Imperium couldn’t fathom. Telekinetiscists battered her body with unseen forces, to unconsciousness. She heard voices of horrible origins.

“Skulls for the skull throne…”
“ Grandfather will protect you from these people…”
“Untold pleasures can be yours.”
“I will show you the Black Library…”

When she awoke and the pain had fully subsided, the first slurred voice she heard was one of a greasy administrator, a meaningless cog in the overall workings of the Emperor. He spoke with an air of pompousness, no doubt bitter that his lot in life is to deal with “witches” all day. “She has failed. Destroy her. Her mind will be useless after sanctioning, and she is not even strong enough to fuel His throne.”

A lone man, tall and imposing, bearing a psyker’s staff and a pyromancy medallion carried her to a completely white room and began to incant the forbidden lores and runes. Carrigan felt her body begin to burn… but there was no fire. She was aflame, her skin burning in the flameless fire, as was the room around her. Even the other psyker showed signs of pain. She had heard rumors on the black ship of pyromancers able to burn people’s souls away… but those were just rumors, right?

Then she felt the fire in her own soul… the warp with which she had communed since her birth was gone. Constantly she had been able to draw upon energy from the immaterium to heal her wounds, or shield her existence from others, and even affect the minds of those who opposed her. It was silent. She no longer felt connected to it. Months had gone by since she was able to manifest any of her psychic powers, under threat of punishment worse than sanctioning. It was strange, she felt empty. What was worse is the fire had stopped. She was still alive? Yes, she could move a bit. What was going on?

The pyromancer lay collapsed on the floor, his skin still burned and even melted in some areas. Had he killed himself? The restraints were light, easy to escape from. It appears most people here are not alive long enough to fight and mount an escape. Carrigan walked towards the fallen psyker. As she approached his skin seemed to become a pale blue. Odd she thought.

The door swung open fiercely and powerfully as two large men wearing the symbol of the Adeptus Arbites slammed her to the floor and with the swift use of a stun baton, knocked her unconscious…

Seven decades ago, Witch-hunter Rykehuss was living on Holy Terra serving a two month term as Inquisitorial representative to the High Lords of Terra. He was a brave and fierce man, noted for being one of the Inquisition’s Strong Arms- someone who descends onto planets and sets up witchcraft trials at which thousands of rogue psykers and cultists are put to death or rounded up on the Black Ships – and at which tens of thousands of innocents are executed for heresy. Not all Inquisitors have this mindset, but the Ordo Hereticus knows that if citizens of the Imperium witness the actions of someone like Witch-hunter Rykehuss – they will remain loyal for as long as the story remains among the stories passed down through the generations.

Rykehuss awoke expecting a normal day – if running one twelfth of the entire Imperium of Man can ever be normal. The Adeptus Terra did take fine care of him, and he quietly gave thanks to the Inquisition that they do rotate their representative. Every other Adeptus in the Imperium simply assigns their highest ranking member to serve on Terra, but the Inquisition lacks the structure of other Adepti. A loose structure of Lord Inquisitors simply rotate qualified Inquisitors for tours of various lengths at the highest office in the galaxy. Rykehuss was enjoying it, and although he was a fighter rather than a talker, it was very empowering to learn the knowledge of the other High Lords. The Fabricator General of Mars, the highest ranking member of the Adeptus Mechanicus was a bit too strange for his taste though – sort of like a regular cogboy, except instead of replacing half of his brain with a computer, this guy simply plugged himself into one of the Martian hives’ central cogitaters. He would definitely miss the Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Guard though. He spent his youth as a commissar only to climb the ranks. Now an old man, he imparted much wisdom to Rykehuss (no young man himself) on the nature of sacrifice and slaughter. There are no “innocents” put to death, for if one is put to death in the name of the Emperor, than he has served his purpose in life.

Today Rykehuss would be given a gift by the Emperor himself. On his way to the High Lords’ chamber, he was stopped by an Adeptus Terra paige, who quickly begged forgiveness for the intrusion. The young lad informed the Inquisitor that there had been a “mishap” during the execution of a failed sanctionite. Mishaps involving psykers were usually dealt with swiftly by the capable hands of the Adepta Terra, so there was doubtfully any danger. Rykehuss figured there was probably some new and dangerous psyker experiment that he would have to sign off on as a member of the Ordo Hereticus – using the title of High Lord would be simply out of place for such a minor occurrence. He would go immediately.

Imperial scientists were busy at work when he arrived. A young woman’s body was strapped nude and battered to a laboratory work bench, with various needles and gauges attached to her flesh. Her hair was long and flowing, a very bright and drawing copper color. The color clashed a bit with her bluish skin tone and completely jet black eyes: an exotice combination unique (without cosmetic procedures of course) to voidborn females. Rykehuss burst through the door and demanded information as to what the nature of this mishap was and why it required his presence. The scientist of the Adeptus Terra was a bit jumpy in his response, but nonetheless he made the sign of the Aquilla, the Imperial double headed eagle - palms facing his chest with interlocking thumbs - and pressed it against his body… the customary Imperial salute.

“Milord… this is incredible. This has not happened in centuries! Certainly not in any of our lifetimes. It appears this void born woman carried a recessive version of the Pariah gene. They are rare and usually show no signs of manifestation, especially in psykers. Typically Pariah’s are either expressed fully as blanks, or simply live as carries and pass the gene on to their progeny…”

Witch-hunter Rykehuss listened with patience seldom found in his temperament. He was a warrior, not a scholar, and even as an Inquisitor he knew what he was hearing was forbidden lore. Hell, if he was a common man he would be executed. Rykehuss had assuredly executed legions of citizens for much less. But not only was he an Inquisitor, he was for the moment a High Lord. The rules no longer applied to him – he WAS the rules. The scholar eagerly continued, noticing he was speaking to honestly open ears.

“This Blank was born as a psyker, but also a carrier of the recessive gene. The proper use of Holocaust , (Holocaust… Rykehuss had heard that name before. Where was it?...) something which only the finest of psykers are able to accomplish, destroys outright (Aha! That Daemonhost he had slaughtered some thirty years prior had claimed to be able to use that. Ha ha! Daemonhosts tolerate heavy bolters the same way anyone does… not well!) the souls of those targeted. (Man she is good looking for a void girl… this guy is a lot less irritating about sharing information than the cogboy leader…)

“Are you listening Milord? When our executioner attempted to affect her soul, it appears to have activated the recessive Pariah gene. This specimen is no longer a psyker, Milord. She is 100% psychically blank. She is an Untouchable now. The odds of this occurring are roughly nine hundred trillion to 1. It has only happened four times before in our records, and never to a void born human. The Emperor has surely smiled and bestowed great fate upon this one… Shall I rouse her and give her the good news? The Culexus Temple is always looking for new Untouchables to train as assassins.”

Witch-hunter Rykehuss thought to himself for a minute. His tour as High Lord was almost complete, and then he would return to rounding up and destroying rogue psykers. A Blank would definitely be of use. All the Inquisitors of legend had Blanks on their team. Yes, he would consider this woman a parting gift from Holy Terra.

Untouchables, or Blanks as they are affectionately known, are humans born with the Pariah gene. This genetic “defect” is highly disputed, but the end result is a negative void signature. Blanks project a psychic dead zone nearby, and some say they are completely soulless. The Culexus branch of the Officio Assassinorum recruits and trains Untouchables from birth as Daemonhunters. The field projected by an Untouchable causes anything from severe discomfort to debilitating pain, depending on the (negative) strength of the Blank’s warp presence. If this woman was any of a fighter, she would be a powerful force against Chaos indeed. Even if she was not, having her around would definitely be of benefit when dealing with unsanctioned psykers.

Inquisitor Rykehuss cleared his throat to sound official. He pointed to a pair of scientists at the other end of the laboratory, and bellowed for them to come and bear as witnesses to his official Inquisitorial requisition and High Lord declaration. “I shall take this Blank with me as an acolyte in the name of the Ordo Hereticus. She shall be a great asset in my duties to the Emperor. Rouse the young lady and inform her of her new duties. I must return to the other High Lords. Assign her a custodian for the remaining week of my term on Holy Terra and allow her to witness Holy Terra’s beauty firsthand. It is likely she will never return here. Let her enjoy it while she is here, and it equally likely Holy Terra will not have the presence of such a fate-touched woman walk upon her ever again. I will not allow the birthplace of Mankind to suffer such a fate.”

He made the sign of the Aquila and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Witch-hunter Rykehuss paused and spoke without turning around, “What is her name?”

“Carrigan Øravík, Milord.”

It had been just over twenty years since Carrigan Øravík left Witch-hunter Rykeshuss’s retinue. He trained her personally, clearly his favorite interrogator. Though a young, fertile and often protective woman, Rykehuss slowly removed any signs of maternal instinct from her. He brought her to every witch trial he conducted. Carrigan could not come within 20 feet of a psyker without torturing them to the point of near madness. Her negative warp presence projected a dead zone, in which the mind of a psyker (a mind vitally connected to the warp, much like hers in the past) was literally torn to pieces. Rykehuss’s methods were simple – if they survived an interrogation with Carrigan without the usual affects of her blankness, they were free. Her every mission for thirty long years involved performing interrogations.

And for thirty long years Carrigan’s tender side died. Year by year, fueled by the torturous screams of her “subjects” and enemies, she became jaded. Rykehuss trained her in every form of combat he was familiar with, as well as in the ways of the Ordo Hereticus. After fifty dedicated years of hardening and service to the Inquisition, and long after she had become an expert at solo and group missions not involving her routine interrogations, Carrigan Øravík was nominated and confirmed for full Inquisitor status. That was twenty years ago.

Seven decades it had been since she last visited Holy Terra. How ironic that this time SHE is the one in charge of the Black Ship…

Inquisitor Carrigan made her way to the sparring yard. Hopefully someone would be there, willing to challenge her. Combat servitors could only go far in her training. But even then, it was impossible to duplicate a real combat scenario, as her blankness affected 90% of her enemies, whereas none of the psykers in her retinue would dare be in the same room with her, much less challenge her to a fight. Her astropath, diviner, psychic physician and the few combat psykers she employed mostly worked on their own. Carrigan’s blankness was far too debilitating to them.

The quartermaster’s servitor met her half-way, as was the usually ritual, to deliver her requested weaponry. Carrigan admired them, as she does every time. The power sword – top quality of course was custom made for her as a gift, along with her equally impressive chain sword. The power sword was fashioned more akin to a rapier, sheathed in an energy beam that allowed it to slash through matter as well as serve as a fencing weapon. Her chain sword, unlike most, featured an exposed backside, so that both edges featured whirling barbs. Custom made as a set specifically for her strength and agility, they weigh exactly the same (and are constantly cleaned to ensure this) and are concealed in matching sheaths.

Sometime later that day, Carrigan began her regular checkup on the psykers on board. They hated her, and more than once an unknowing prisoner attempted to unleash a power of the warp against her, only to find her unaffected and their heads pounding. Any sympathy she might have felt for these wretches due to her experience in their position was dashed by her newfound vision of the Emperor’s plan. These rogues could not exist. They would be sacrificed or put to a life of service, and that was simply the way things were to be.

Inquisitor Øravík had slowly built herself the beginnings of a respectable retinue. Although only fifty or so people, hardly enough to run a ship the size of Rykehuss’s, she was proud of them nonetheless, and proud of herself for assembling forty followers when so far her only duties as an Inquisitor for twenty years have been to take psyker inventory on one of these accursed ships, deal with rogue trader vessels and other Inquisitorial ships (who no doubt have a shipment of witches to transfer), and conduct random loyalty checks whenever her ship comes across a planet the Ordo has not visited in some time. Six acolytes in particular had stood out in her mind. In fact she was considering actually giving them a substantial assignment. It would be her first delegation, but she had to learn to let go. She couldn’t do everything herself once her tour on this Black Ship was completed. A veteran Inquisitor looking to cool down before retirement had been assigned to take over operations on this ship once she reached Holy Terra.

Solanis Daggerfall Handle was sort of a pet project for Carrigan. Ever since she “rescued” him from his home in No Man’s Land, where the Imperium was wrought with civil strife, Carrigan had tried to groom him into a personal assassin of sorts. He was a decent shot, and seemed to have the ferocity required to engage in hand to hand combat as well. Constantly at odds with the Officio Assassinorum (who typically treat non-Officio blanks as outcasts), Carrigan has found herself wanting Solanis to become a better assassin than the Officio could hope to produce. She treats him like she treats the rest of her retinue, like an alpha wolf treats a pup – firm and demanding, but fiercely loyal and protective. Daggerfall seems to have embraced this canine relationship better than she could have expected.

Tazi De’Olio was another premier member of Carrigan’s force. In a strange and very twisted way, the Inquisitor saw herself in Tazi. Both grew up in relative peace among bad situations, be it a trash heap for a home as was Carrigan’s case, or a trash heap for a father, as was Tazi’s. The women also each suffered terrible tortures in their indoctrination to the Emperor’s plan. The Ecclisiarchy was not forgiving of its clerics, a statement doubly true for the militant priestesses of the Adepta Sororitas. The two women met in battle during a police action. While Carrigan noticed Tazi’s potential, she knew from personal experience that Tazi was better fit as a Sister of Battle apart from the main ranks. Carrigan immediately requisitioned the young woman after the police action. Given the jurisdiction of the Ordo Hereticus over the Adepta Sorotias, there was little objection.

Jericus “Jacks” Wollsey and Carrigan had a bit of a love hate relationship. Afterall, the last memory Carrigan has before “joining” the Inquisition was of two arbitrators knocking her unconscious. This, coupled with the awkward relationship shared between the Adeptus Arbites, who fiercely enforce the law, and the Inquisition, who fiercely act outside of the law… things can get uncomfortable at times. Of course any animosity is quickly dispatched once times get serious. Carrigan requisitioned Jacks’s service during a mission to put down a nearly planet-wide riot, after seeing his people skills… both diplomatic and more martially minded. Since then, time has come where more than once Carrigan relied on Jacks for advice when dealing with local law enforcements, and for his combat powers when dealing with heretics.

”Mkoll, Sgt of Scouts, Tanith First and Only,” the man stood with a salute. Those were his first words to her after Carrigan enlisted the assistance of a trained wilderness scout to help her hunt down a few mutants created by a rogue psyker. She wasn’t really a forest girl, afterall. After spending a few weeks in the forest together, the two forged a close professional bond and he never managed to get them lost. As well as being a fine navigator, Mkoll is a great shot and can hold his own in hand-to-hand combat as well. The only member of her retinue that left behind a life to which he was strongly attached and to which he someday hopes to return, his requisition was one of the first honestly difficult decisions Carrigan had to make as an Inquisitor. But until such time as she can find a replacement equal to his abilities, Mkoll was to remain her acolyte. A position he, as a pious man (not to mention there could be far worse fates in the universe) gladly accepted.

Arcturius was the first member of the Adeptus Mechanicus to officially join Carrigan’s retinue. Sure a few of the Tech-Priests aboard the Black Ship would follow her once they reached Terra, but Arcturius knew his destiny was connected to the Inquisitors. When Carrigan became an Inquisitor, Rykehuss commissioned her swords to be specially made on Mars, the original forge world and headquarters of the Adeptus Mechanicus. When time for delivery came, Arcturius’s number was randomly selected. After delivery, Carrigan asked Arcturius to help out and perform some minor repair work on her servitors, as there was a shortage of Tech-Priests on the Black Ship. Noticing how much he enjoyed it, she contacted Mars to make an official request for requisition. The Cult Mechanicus is one of the few orders of the Imperium where the Inquisition respects autonomy. After some paperwork, Carrigan’s astropath informed her that the Mars administration granted the request. Arcturius was officially her acolyte.

Ghustel Bhelel was a simple man, born to a simple world. He was given to the Imperial Guard as part of the Imperial tithe, but never quite fit in. Besides being born to a very primitive planet, Ghustel had a dislike for conformity. While most citizens would be shot for such thoughts, Ghustel kept them to himself, and was a beast in melee combat – a trait which buys one a little leeway. Inquisitor Carrigan snatched him from the ranks of the Imperial Guard after fighting alongside his former regiment during a witch hunt. She noted both his primal instincts, and his uncomfortable nature in the military uniform. Ghustel, though he had no choice in the matter, welcomed the change. Carrigan doesn’t treat him like a pawn, a luxury few Guardsmen can enjoy. All she asks of him besides unyielding loyalty is that he train mercilessly and shave often.
Yes, those were her most capable acolytes, and the first to be trusted to work independently. Unfortunately, there was little to be done. Her time was occupied with inventory, and her Acolytes had little to do but train and socialize. They were only a few days away from Holy Terra now, so no further stops would be made. Carrigan supposed this was as good of a time as any. She queued the loudspeaker. The calm voice of the ship’s computerized voice bellow throughout all halls of the ship. Incoming message from Inquisitor Carrigan. Beginning transmission : “Piscivorus! Get in here!” Carrigan’s awkwardly nasally voice echoed throughout the entirety of the Black Ship.

(OOC: Check your PM boxes before posting. I expect a bit of background in your post, including fleshing out how you and Carri met up. Also I think a little look into life on a Black Ship would be helpful for everyone. Black Ships are essentially flying prisons for psykers. Very bleak places, but not without the essentials of a mess hall, gym, personal quarters for each acolyte, and pretty much anything one could ask for. Also, just for flavor, I imagine Carrigan’s voice as that of Christine Cavanaugh [Google her, I guarantee you’ve heard her voice before]. You have each been on the Black Ship for at least six months now, and none of you have seen any action since you joined the Inquisition.)

Game on!

Her eye stung. It felt heavy and swollen and when she forced it open the world was coloured in a red haze.

‘Was it always that colour?’ her addled mind wondered as her gaze fixed upon the crimson sky that hung heavily above her. There were no clouds there, but just the merciless, burning suns of Ophelia VII.

A sudden flash of pain made her wince, and she swivelled her one functional eye to regard its source. It was a large, ugly reptilian creature who was busily burying its snout in the broken flesh of her right arm. She tried to ward it away, but she could not. Her arms were impaled through the wrists to a large, timber frame, and the useless, flapping motion of her limbs as she tried to move them only caused the scabbed wounds to ooze dark, viscous blood.

“So she’s still alive then?” a voice heavy with age muttered behind her.

“Yes Canoness,” another replied, in a reverent tone.

“How long has it been?”

“Almost four and a half days.”

“And her crime?”

The other voice snorted in disgust. “It’s the usual, with this one. She was found sharing the bed of some hiveborn rat. We tried beating it out of her, but still she would not repent. So Sister Atrea suggested this, more novel punishment.”

“But still you cling to life. …What should I do with you?” the first of the two voices whispered thoughtfully.

“Do you know an Inquisitor has requested this one?” it added after a moment’s thought.

The other could barely contain her surprise. “Really? Her heart is pure, in a fight there are few better among those following Our Martyred Lady, but her mind…”

“It wanders,” the first finished. “Still where better to learn discipline than in the Black Ships? Have her cleaned and fed, but let the wounds scar. Perhaps then there will be men unwilling to let her clamber into their beds.”

“And the man, Canoness? The one she was caught with?”

“Burn him.”
Tazi shook her head, in an attempt to dispel the last cobwebs of the dream that had plagued her. It had been the same dream she always had – the blazing suns, her broken flesh, the voices – only she knew the troubling images were more than just a fantasy her mind had conjured. Her left hand absently rubbed at her right wrist. She could still see the scar, still feel the pain, even though she had purchased skin grafts months before.

“A wound upon my soul,” Tazi muttered darkly, as she stumbled to the mirror and washing basin that adorned her otherwise spartan room.

‘By the Saints, I look terrible,’ she thought. Her eye shadow had smudged in her sleep, leaving a large black stain beneath her emerald eyes, and her short, black hair was an unruly mess. The ordinarily honey tone to her skin was replaced with a greenish tint – a legacy of spending the night before looking at the world through a bottle. If her make-up had been fixed, she had drunk less, and her hair was longer, she knew she would compare favourably to the pampered daughters of high society. But as it was she just looked like a hard-bitten member of the Adepta Sororitas – more commonly known as the Sisters of Battle.

‘Not that it matters much,’ she added glumly. ‘There’s no one to frack on this rust-bucket anyway.’
“Incoming transmission from Inquisitor Carrigan,” a computerized voice suddenly bellowed. “Beginning transmission: “Piscivorus! Get in here!”
A cruel smile formed over her lips, as she filled the basin with water and began to wash her face. ‘I wonder what poor fracker she chose for that job.’

It was several minutes later before she found the hand-written note in her mailbox, stipulating it was she that chosen for that dubious ‘honour’.

The swearing could be heard from as far away as the engine room.

---

Tazi walked or rather clumped down the hallway. She was clad in tightly-fitting plate that was died an ebony black colour, and wore over the top a long tabard of red cloth embroidered with the sayings of a long-forgotten Saint. She had washed quickly, and had made a cursory effort to sweep her hair back from her face to reveal an intricate tattoo of three crystalline tears below her right eye.

She was of the Order of Our Martyred Lady, the oldest of the Orders Militant in the Adepta Sororitas, and in her armour she looked the part. Each step she took down the ship's cavernous corridors were accompanied by the frightened whispers and scurrying footfalls of the ship’s crew as they parted to let her pass.

She came to a sudden stop before a large black door - or more particularly a door that was an even darker shade of black than the rest of the ship - knocked once and entered.

“Apologies Mistress. I only received your communiqué a few moments ago.”

REMEMBERING...

Oan Mkoll was dreaming, having a nightmare, having a vision call it what you like but more then anything as he slept he was remembering Gereon. A planet of corruption, horror and things of Chaos more real then anything the mind could comprehend. Glyf’s, Wirewolves, Foragers to name but a few of the monsters that feed upon the once Imperial world, at the time totally under the auspex of Chaos. Having volunteered to go on the suicide mission with the Colonel/Commissar to kill the traitor Lord General Sturm living through the next year and a half on planet was more curse then blessing, the nightmares very real. With the General dead by his hand, and a way off planet found he lived to remember, though Mkvenner, his best friend had stayed behind to continue the fight. As he slept he remembered those that had returned with him and the Colonel/Commissar.

Major Rawne second in command, once his hatred of the Colonel/Commissar had almost burnt him alive inside but since Gereon was no more.
Lt Murtan Feygor, he of the rasping voice thanks to the augmented larynx in his
corded throat, the legacy of an old war wound.
Hlaine Larkin, team sniper, scout, thought mentally unhinged at the missions start, now seemingly sane after living through the insanity of Gereon.
Eszrah ap Niht, or Eszrah Night as they had all come to know the Untille partisan, the Colonel/Commissar’s self appointed bodyguard.
Sgt Tona Criid one of his scouts beautiful, deadly with any type of blade, but married to another Tanith.
Mach Bonin, the darkly-handsome and preternaturally fortunate scout-trooper. Bonin had saved them all too many times to count psyker no, but close.
Sgt Ceglan Varl, team heavy weapons, his battered augmented shoulder allowing great strength, he of the plasma cannon.
Flame-trooper Aongus Brostin, thuggish and hairy, a god of fire and flames a desire to burn anything Chaotic living inside the huge trooper.
Lastly Young Dughan Beltayn a rookie trooper who had somehow gained the respect of all for volunteering then living through the horrors of the void.

As he slept his mind wondered on returning to the beginning of the mission and his first meeting of their contact, a resistance fighter of the planet’s old PDF… As he slept he remembered…………….

Landerson had been told by the Colonel that the off worlders from the Sabbat Worlds crusade fleet would be here at the factory before him at this time, but he saw no one and no sign that they had successfully reached here. Why were they here on the world of Gereon, a totally uncontested, except by a small resistance force, Chao’s world abandoned long ago by the Imperium. As he watched a Rat scurried past him only a hands space away unafraid of anyone or anything.

Apart from the foragers, there were rats everywhere. Everywhere in the Imperium, Landerson imagined. The starships of Holy Terra had spread many things across the galaxy
– faith, colonists, technology, civilization, war – but nothing so comprehensively or so surely as the indomitable Rattus Rattus. Before the Intercession, he had heard learned men joke that the Imperium was actually forged by rats, and humans were just along for the ride. On some worlds, the accidentally imported rat had overmastered all other life forms. On other worlds, they had interbred and created monsters.

The three men, his two escort PDF and himself, completed a circuit check, and found nothing except some sickening runes daubed on the outer fence that might have been charged to become glyf’s , metal monsters seemingly creating themselves out of any well sized piece of corrupted metal Landerson didn’t want to risk it, so he doused each one he found with the flask of consecrated water that had been issued as part of his kit. As Purchason helped. Lefivre held back Landerson could see he didn’t want to look at the marks. His fellow PDF guardsmen didn’t want his mind to lapse that way again.

They reached the main buildings. It was twenty-two thirty-seven. Pretty much on cue, they heard a boom from the town behind them. A fiery glow slowly rose into the sky. Then a buzzing filled the air. In the valley below them, they saw glyf’s floating like ball lightning, drawn to the commotion.

The colonel’s diversion was underway
.
“Emperor protect you,” Landerson muttered.

Landerson checked the main door. It was unlocked. Weapon braced, he crouched his way in as Lefivre pushed the door open. Purchason stood to his left, rifle raised to cover.
The prefab hallway was dark. There was an intense smell of dry fertilizer. Rats scurried.
Landerson signaled Lefivre to watch the door, then he and Purchason swept up the hallway, covering each other door by door. The place was deserted. Chairs and tables were
overturned, agricultural cogitators smashed, seed incubators and nursery racks destroyed. There was a dim light ahead. Cautiously, they prowled on, signing to each other, weapons set. The light was coming from a central office area. A single candle, guttering on a desk.

Landerson glanced at Purchason. Purchason shook his head. He had no idea what was going on either. They slid inside. The room was empty apart from broken furniture and the desk with the candle. The windows were locked. There was only one door.

“This is the place,” said Landerson as loudly as he dared.

“What the hell’s that candle about? Are they here already?”

Landerson looked around for a second time.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Go check on Lefivre.”

Purchason nodded and slid back out into the hallway. Landerson stood by the desk, his weapon aimed at the doorway.
A minute passed. Two. His hands began to sweat. He heard a faint noise.

“Purchason?” he called quietly.

The candle suddenly went out. An arm locked about his body, pinning his weapon. He felt a blade at his throat.

“Say it now and say it right,” said a voice in his ear.

“T-tanith Magna…”

The grip released. Landerson turned in the darkness, terrified.

“Where are you?” he gasped.

“Still here,” the voice said, behind him again. Landerson
switched round.

“What are you doing?” he breathed. “Show yourself!”

“All in good time. You got a name?” The voice was behind
him yet again. Landerson froze.

“Major Gerome Landerson, Gereon PDF.”

There was a click of tinder sticks and the candle on the desk relit. Landerson swung round to look at it, gun raised. The candle fluttered solitary. There was no sign of whoever had lit it

“Stop it!” Landerson said. “Where are you?”

“Right here.” Landerson froze as he felt the cold muzzle of a weapon rest against the back of his neck.

“Put the gun down.”

Landerson gently placed his silenced rifle on the desk.

“How did you get in?” he whispered.

“I was here all the time.”

“But I searched the room–”

“Not well enough.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Mkoll. Sergeant of scouts, Tanith First-and-
Only.”

“Could you take the gun off my neck?”

A man appeared in the candlelight in front of Landerson.
He was 5‘9“, compact, muscular shrouded in a camouflage cloak that seemed to melt him into the darkness, a thing of shadows.

“I could,’ he said softly, ‘if it was my gun. Ven? Let the poor guy off the leash.”

The pressure of the gun-muzzle went away. Landerson glanced round and saw the second man. Just a shadow in the extremity of the candlelight. Taller than the first, a murmur of a shape.

“W-what are you?’ Landerson stammered. ‘Ghosts?”

By the light of the single candle flame, Landerson saw the eyes of the man calling himself Mkoll crinkle and glint. A smile. That was the most unnerving thing of all, for clearly this was a face unaccustomed to smiles.

“You could say that,” Mkoll said...............

AWAKE.......

His personal communicators insistent ringing finally waking him he grabbed it at once fully alert and clicked it to life to find a message left from her, the Inquisitor.

Incoming message from Inquisitor Carrigan. Beginning transmission : “Piscivorus! Get in here!”
What was this and why the wrong number and what the, Praise the Emperor, was a Piscivorus. Only was it 30 minutes later after a bath and a shave did he check his personal mail slot to find another note.


Henceforth you have been designated as Piscivorus.

Signed,
-][- Carrigan
What the hell was this? What did she mean he would be designated as Piscivorus what crazy s**t was she up to now. Ever since his “temporary” transfer to the Inquisition after having acted as her scout to help her hunt down a few mutants created by the rogue psyker Molotch on the forest world of ElGlal. Though he had met her briefly once before, after the Tanith returned to liberate Gereon, spending a few weeks in the forest together, the two forged a close professional bond and he never managed to get them lost. Though they destroyed all the mutants, Molotch had escaped only to be killed years later by the Inquisitor Ravenor and his team.

A few months later he was ‘requisitioned’ by her from the First and Only to be her acolyte A position he, as a pious man gladly accepted, though he wished yet to return to his Ghosts and Colonel/Commissar Ibram Gaunt one day. From the moment he had first met her she had been strange as if not normal only when he joined her team did he find the cause. She was a blank one with no fear of harm by the physic forces of the warp. Mkoll still did not really understand that but as was his nature he did not ponder it as it posed no threat to him.

Standing once again fully dressed he strapped on his Tanith blade, hilt downward on his chest, holstered his bolt pistol, in a cross draw rig, grabbed the autogun and headed out to find his first meal of the day and then report to Carrigan and get an explanation to his new “designation”..........

(Ad I took a few liberties on his past meetings with Carrigan, hope you like.)

The hunger. It was almost unbearable as the sounds of a stomach depraved of nourishment for so long began to turn on itself, digestive acids eating away at what little fat reservoirs remained. His stomach gurgled and growled so loud in his head it was as if the Tyranid swarms of of the Hivefleets had descended upon the hapless planet torn apart by civil war and strife.

Minutes into hours, and hours into days, the boy no more than twelve summers old fought against the overwhelming odds out here in the war-zone simply to stay alive. To be caught out in the open was to ask for a swift death without honor, and so to the shadows he fled. For months as the sounds of bloodshed and death cries echoed across what had once been a lush landscape—now a decrepit hell hole in the paradise that was the Imperium—and Solanis slowly receded farther and farther into the safety of the night, the shadows, and the quiet of his mind.

Soon, the explosions of frag grenades, and other crude explosives made no sound to the boy, and the blood curdling screams were no longer so distant, as Solanis used guerilla warfare to leap out at those he could get the drop on, beating them mercilessly with an old jagged piece of pipe, all over the last dregs of a canteen or the scraps of a food-ration.

So it continued for weeks, and so too was Solanis once more hidden beneath the wreckage of an old Chimera APC, from a group of Imperial Stormtroopers sent in to quell the uprising some months ago. Solanis waited, and waited some more, slipping farther from the sight of the world around him and deeper into his mind’s eye of the terrain as he had memorized it.

Footsteps were approaching. Perhaps they offered salvation, perhaps death, or perhaps, his next meal. His stomach rumbled like the aftereffects of a plasma resonance burst in his head, and he feared it would alert everyone in a fifty click radius of his position, though in reality the sound was barely audible. Closer and closer the footfalls came, each one like thunder across the sky.

A shadow loomed only a few feet from him, and that was when he struck. Leaping from the cover of the wreckage he tucked into a roll and landed inches from his target, with a great sweep of his arms he took the armored legs out from under his prey, and as the officer fell in surprise, Solanis raised the pipe for the killing blow, but a voice stayed his hand for a split second, a split second that would change his life, his reason for existence.

“Halt!”

Her voice was filled with such strength and conviction, the single word was enough to make the boy’s fingers tremble around his meager implement of death. Maybe it was such strength, or the act that he had not heard a female’s voice in so long a time, but Solanis took a chance to look upon the voice’s owner and would forever be a changed man.

Glancing up, his dark eyes fell across the form of the most imposing, yet alluring figure he had ever bore witness to. She encompassed dignity, strength, willpower and fear all at once, and it took but a chance meeting of their eyes, that he knew she was the alpha, and to her pack he had lost.

Then came the flash of light, the burning pain, and the peaceful darkness of which he had found solace in for so long.

Solanis woke up as he did every morning, perched from the ceiling of his quarters above his bed, legs and arms laced between the pipes which fed the Black Ship it’s sustenance, a simple harness supporting his back. It had been years since the Inquisitor’s Assassin had been able to properly sleep in anything that remotely offered comfort such as a bed. For too long over the past fourteen years had Solanis, designated and more often referred to as “Daggerfall” spent in all manner of hell whilst on assignment. His body as well as his soul had been hardened into a living weapon, a feral beast of the night, and like his Alpha, he had come to know pain unimaginable, until the humanity had been almost completely stripped from him. Emotions were a weakness to be used against one’s prey, and Solanis had become skilled at the hunt. He was a wolf, one of Carrigan’s pack, and in the black confines of space the pack was all he knew, they were the only family he had left.

Dropping from the ceiling without so much as a sound, Solanis quickly dressed for the occasion. Earlier in the night he had received word of his new designation, and as he read over the simple letter left within his mailbox, Solanis without conscious thought licked his lips at the chance to hunt once more.

Henceforth you have been designated as Piscivorus.

Signed,
-][- Carrigan
“Piscivorus” Solanis mouthed in a low whisper as he strapped his fabled sword and knife to his person, donning his traditional black body glove, and with a grin, a set of crude beast furs overtop, more for effect than any real protection; as the first law of defense was a simple one he strived to perfect. –don’t get hit in the first place. Lifting from it’s polished cradle, Solanis then strapped his beloved modified rifle “Howl” to his back. With a final glance in the mirror, Solanis bent down and retrieved a pair of lacquered bone, formed in the shape of teeth, and pushed each one through the holes in his ears. The teeth had been gifted to Solanis after successfully qualifying for a second chance of life under Carrigan’s command, and for over a decade he had worn them with pride, a symbol of his allegiance to the ‘pack.’

Running his fingers through his short crop of black hair, Solanis moved silently down the corridor to the large black door that separated the quiet life aboard the Black Ship, with an assignment that would take him from the liberties and wanton luxuries, sparse as they were above this floating prison ship of death, into the blackness of space where he could stretch his legs, and run anew into the night, where in the name of his Alpha Carrigan and the Emperor behind her he would revel in the hunt once more.

Ghustel sat up in his bed, legs draped over the side of it rubbing his head. He had been up for about an hour already, but had only been thinking of that one week that had changed his life for ever.

Ghustel had lived many years on his home planet of Rhenon, and enjoyed it. As a child the death world he had lived in seemed like a giant play ground. What would kill a man from any other world, he and his friends would toss back and forth, playing catch on their spare time.
The village he lived in consisted of a few dozen houses that had thatched roofs, and mud walls. Thick jungle engulfed the whole world, and within these jungles horrid things happen. Writhing beasts of flesh and claw spawn and it gets easy to look for ways to escape these monsters. As was the case of the rebellion of Rhenon.
The feral tribes of Rhenon that dwelled deep within the jungles were all but cut off from the world, and them and the outer tribes almost never made contact. This was like this for many years, and peace had rained. But one year a freak happening of nature increased the spawning length of the beasts of the jungle and many more of these creatures spilled forth from the depths of the woods, and relenting attacks on the inner tribes made them resort to any way for safety. The dark gods of the chaos found this like a disease would an open wound, and the infection spread. Within a year the rich green jungles of Rhenon burned. The smell of burning wood, petroleum, and flesh blanketed the world as close combat ensued through out the jungles. Leman Russ battle tanks were useless as the jungles blocked the paths, as were chimeras and hell hounds. The only machine remotely able to break the thick wall were the sentinels. But alone, these lightly armoured bipedal machines were no match for ambushes. The heretics would hide in trees, and wait for one to pass so they could spray the cockpit with gun fire, or just fire.
So it would come down to brutal a brutal infantry war, and with the coming of the Imperial guard came the unification of all the outer tribes. All together under one banner they rose to be a mighty army of guard, and their expertise in close quarters fights and the knowledge of the jungle made them invaluable. For months after this was realized, the war swayed to the favor of mankind. The rebels were pushed back through the burning jungles, many falling in their continental retreat. This was all common knowledge for any fellow Rhenon, but what plagued Ghustels mind was what happened during the few weeks that the war peaked at.

It was right when the Rhenion regiments were being sent out into the battle when he met her. Ghustel had been assigned to help the Phoenix guard IVth, some heavy trooper regiment. Him and his half regiment were assigned to help with flanking attacks and movement through the jungle. But along with them came one very out of place Chimera. From this vehicle a few men arrived, heavily armoured. They were most likely body guards for the next one who stepped out. A woman with an aura of authority about her stepped out, clad in jungle type camo and black cloak and boots. She was assigned with them because their mission was to assault the enemy head quarters five miles deep into the jungle. Intel had shown that ever since the new world wide push two weeks ago, the head quarters of the enemy became almost nomadic, moving around so they would not be caught. orbital pictures shown the last location of the HQ, and it was nestled in the crotch of a mountain range. They bombarded the peaks and few mountain passes of this range, and now the only way out would be through this gathered force. The Phoenix soldiers dug in to attack the mobile base if they would pull out, and the Rhenions were made to move in, and attack it; maybe catch it in the middle of moving. Well what happened was something astounding and that could only be found in the books of old.
They started to move out, easily traveling through the thick jungle forest. Ghustel and his squad was made to be personal guards to Inquisitor Carrigan Øravík, and also guides. Well they moved through the forest, and covered the five miles in two days. What they found was something none of them ever believed could happen.
A large portion of the forest was burned to the ground, and in its place an alter jutting twenty or so feet into the sky was in the center. Around it for about two hundred feet, was clear jungle, which was occupied by the enemy. Tents and cahes were about, but all were abandoned. The ones who resided in this camp were all surrounding this alter. Steps in the front led from the ground, wide steps about fifteen feet across. A massive pen full of the beasts of the jungle were at the top, and even now five men poked and prodded one of these beasts up these steps and into the pen. The five hundred or so heretics all were bowing and chanting to the pen full of the beasts they all feared, obviously in awe at what was about to happen.
As the gate shut to the pen, a light shown from below it, and the beasts started to howl and shriek and moan. Soon they started to kill each other, tearing into one anothers flesh, goring eachother to death. The slaughter was bloody, and soon the blood of these beasts ran freely down the intricate designs of the alter, filling in cracks and crevices. Where ever the blood touched, a faint light shown. Soon, one of the tribesmen started to walk up the steps, ignoring the puddles of blood he was stepping through. He approached the cage with his hands out wide, and started to chant. He bent down and picked up one the beasts organs, and drenched himself in its blackish red blood.
Ghustel was in horror, as was everyone else, except Carrigan. She knew what was happening, and quickly pulled out a bolt pistol. Before the man could fully accept the taint of the chaos gods within him, he was blown to pieces with six rounds of a bolt pistol. Battle ensued quickly as the rebels stood, and faced them. Their bodies and faces were scarred from months of self inflicted torture and burning, and the only thing they wore were the weapons they wielded. They had various weapons, some ranging from lasguns, others hammers. Whatever they had they fought like mad men with them.
Ghustel quickly jumped infront of Carrigan as one her body guards heads exploded with a shot to the face, and he cleaved down the attacker with his mighty sword. He cut a bloody swath through the attacking force, along with the rest of his kinsmen. The under nourished rabble that charged them only fought for ten minutes, before breaking like a wave on a rock. Ghustel rallied his squad and charged the fleeing men, cutting down dozens of rebels that were trying to escape.
That was four years ago. Carrigan requested him to be apart of her, to replace the fallen man. Soon he became a trusted acolyte. Now he found himself sitting up in a bed of grey and walls of black, wondering what was just said over the PA. He finally pieced the puzzle together, and someone named Piscivorus had been called down to Carrigans office. Ghustel glanced down to the fallen letter that he had, and realized who was actually being called down.
Ghustel sighed, and groaned as he stood, changing into some more proper clothes. His dark pants, black leather boots, and white beater were good enough for now. He rubbed his chin and realized that he would probably be asked to shave next time before he comes before her. But that's alright with him. If she could rescue him from the sweat and toil of being in an imperial regiment he could at least shave next time.

Inquisitor Carrigan Øravík looked over the rag-tag group of people before her. Rag-tag wasn’t really a good definition. They were among her best, afterall. Only Jacks and Arcturius were missing. It was not that she didn’t deem them worthy, but she excluded them from her communicae for other reasons. Jacks would be briefed later, she needed his law enforcement experience to keep her order on the ship. Arcturius also had a job to do in maintaining the servitors. The four she summoned had no job on this ship, other than to train and answer her demands, of which this was one.

Though you have all met Carrigan before, and seen her in battle, something about her was still mysterious. Her bright copper hair fell almost a meter long, bouncing around as if in a wind tunnel, although the air in her meeting chambers was still. Her skin was tight and dull blue in color, leaving no question that she was born in the void.

Attractive, if you were into the exotic looks of the warp.

The closer one got to Carrigan, the less interested in the usual pleasantries of life one became – her aura seemed to draw others into quiet contemplation about the nature of life and the Emperor, and the nature of the universe and the warp itself. It was a bit difficult to concentrate around her. If you were a psyker, you could imagine the difficulty in concentration would make it impossible to manifest a power. Blanks were not common knowledge in the Imperium, but working for one means a certain insight into their workings.
Everyone on the ship knew about her dead zone to the warp. What everyone didn’t know was what it actually did, or how it actually affected people. When in the same room with Carrigan, you knew something was odd. His blessed ignorance was the only sane explanation. It is what it is – note it and move on…

“Ghustel, Mkoll, Tazi, Daggerfall… I have called the four of you here to inform you that I have placed extremely high standards on your work. You are to be my top team, designated Piscivorus. The name is High Gothic for a breed of snakes found back on Terra. I expect you to move silently, and strike fiercely. When you can’t move silently, then I expect you to move loudly and leave nobody to testify as to your actions. You shall be my hands when I have other issues to which to attend. When we reach Terra, we will be leaving this ship, finally free of this duty.”

She looked at each of the four sitting at the table one by one, judging their response. Her jet black eyes were devoid of any color. Most humans regardless of origins have some combination of white, black and some random colored iris, which aid tremendously in giving onlookers a hint of where their vision is focused. Not Carrigan Øravík. From eyelid to eyelid was nothing but the blackest of shades. One was incapable of “looking her in the eye” due partly to the fear and strangeness of it all, but mostly due to the simple lack of a discernable pupil into which to look. She continued after sizing up each of her new apprentice’s reactions.

“Once we reach Holy Terra, we will be embarking on the traditional duty of the Ordo Hereticus. It will be my job to police the ranks of the Imperium itself and root out traitors, witches, heretics, mutants, and of course aid in the fight against xenos and daemons. I will be sending you on various assignments which will require a good degree of autonomy. Until then, take the little time left in our journey to Terra to enjoy yourselves. It is unlikely you will ever return to this part of the Universe again… “ She seemed a bit visibly pained in saying those words, having heard them over seven decades ago, but no acolyte would risk the consequences of bringing it up.

“Now, get back to your quarters,” she said as she stood up and stretched, her body glove fitting perfectly tight around her body. She reaches into one of her pieces of wooden furniture, pulling open a drawer. It was rare to see wood furniture on a ship, but Inquisitor’s often have the best of the best. After all, what is to become of the forests on a planet after it is virus bombed by order of Inquisitorial Exterminatus? She removes four small beads, and tosses one to each acolyte. It contains the seal of the Inquisition on one side, and Carrigan’s seal on the other.

“These are your badges. Do not lose them or I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you if you are captured. With this seal comes the full authority of the Inquisition. Abuse my power and I will execute you,” she says sheepishly with a wink. Was that a serious statement? “Now get the frak out of my chambers!”

*fade to black as the acolytes leave*

Ten minutes pass, just enough time to make it back to their personal quarters’, if it is so desired.

Again the loud speaker erupts, and the Inquisitor’s voice echoes throughout the halls: “Everyone! Stay where you are and continue doing whatever you were doing! Nobody is to leave their current locations. Complete lockdown!

Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"

Mkoll had reached the Inquisitor’s office last of the four of them due to the lateness of receiving Carrigan’s ‘summoning’. Choosing not to sit he leaned against the door frame entrance to her office and quietly listened to what the meeting was all about.

“Ghustel, Mkoll, Tazi, Daggerfall… I have called the four of you here to inform you that I have placed extremely high standards on your work. You are to be my top team, designated Piscivorus. The name is High Gothic for a breed of snakes found back on Terra. I expect you to move silently, and strike fiercely. When you can’t move silently, then I expect you to move loudly and leave nobody to testify as to your actions. You shall be my hands when I have other issues to which to attend. When we reach Terra, we will be leaving this ship, finally free of this duty.”

As the Inquisitors eyes met his Mkoll could not help but give her one of his sarcastic smiles, after all he had never set foot on Terra, and if not for her he would never have sought to do so. The only world he ever really wanted to set foot on was Tanith once again, but the planet was gone, destroyed.

“Once we reach Holy Terra, we will be embarking on the traditional duty of the Ordo Hereticus. It will be my job to police the ranks of the Imperium itself and root out traitors, witches, heretics, mutants, and of course aid in the fight against xenos and daemons. I will be sending you on various assignments which will require a good degree of autonomy. Until then, take the little time left in our journey to Terra to enjoy yourselves. It is unlikely you will ever return to this part of the Universe again… Now, get back to your quarters”

As she stood up and stretched, her body glove fitting perfectly tight around her body, Mkoll could not help but admire it. Inquisitor, Carrigan might have been, but she was a very good looking fit one and Mkoll was not one to deny his sexual attraction to her.

As he watched her, knowing she knew of his interest, she reached into one of her pieces of wooden furniture, pulled open a drawer and removed four small beads, then tossed one to each of them. Catching it easily Mkoll glanced at it seeing it contained the seal of the Inquisition on one side, and Carrigan’s personal seal on the other.

“These are your badges. Do not lose them or I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you if you are captured. With this seal comes the full authority of the Inquisition. Abuse my power and I will execute you,”

Saying it and giving them a sheepish wink, which Mkoll having spent many days with her alone hunting mutants, knew was meant to relax the others as if her words were a joke. But in truth if such abuse were to happen she would not hesitate one second before killing the offender.

“Now get the frak out of my chambers!”

As the other three turned and left the Tanith scout remained behind until the rest had moved out of hearing.

“So when you’re not around who leads if a leader is needed?”

(Once answered and after any discussion we need to RP he will hand her a list of wanted items depending on character sheet)
“Also, if possible, I need a Bolter with an attached Targeter, four 30 round sickle clips of Stalker Silent and two 30 round sickle clips of Kraken Pattern Penetrators, this Autogun is too loud for what I do and what you want me to do.”

With his two concerns answered he nodded to her and made his way out to walk the halls of the black ship. His many years of having no home and always on a new battlefield with the 1st and Only the Sgt of Scouts was restless and eager to get off this thrice damned ship.

Everyone had heard the same rumors of these ships and the experiments and horrors attributed to them and for all his battle accrued knowledge and the time now spent onboard one Mkoll had to admit he still was very uncomfortable on it. As he walked the halls the intercom suddenly came to life with Carrigan’s voice loud.

“Everyone! Stay where you are and continue doing whatever you were doing! Nobody is to leave their current locations. Complete lockdown!

Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"

The Autogun off his shoulder, safety off and pre prepped for firing the Tanith Sgt of Scouts headed fast for deck 29.............

Arcturius's eyes snapped open in unison just as they had at the same time every day since before he could remember. There was no room in the Imperium for sloppiness, perfection and order must reign supreme. To leave the waking hour up the chance was to invite chaos. He had long since incorporated a chronometer into his person for that express purpose. His life would be ordered, as would his work.

Arcturius rose stiffly. His neural wiring firing up after its brief downtime. He felt power flow through him, and with a mechanised hiss his breathing implants released their first waking "breath" of the day, just as they had at the same time every day since they had been recieved. His silent prayer of thanks to the Omnissiah and machine spirits followed, its timing perfect as always.

Next was the inspection of his equipement and quarters. Perfection was not merely an accident, it required toil and effort. Arcturius inspected each of his guns in turn, disassembling and cleaning them with precision and grace. His attention next turned to his quarters, every object placed just so as to create perfect angles at every glance. There would be no disorganisation here. No chance for chaos to tempt him with its disorder. His room was shaped for maximum efficiency, and he could recite the placements of every item from memory. His inspection done he paused, but only for a moment. He was two seconds early, he would have to compensate for that.

A quick beep alerted Arcturius to the presence of a notice. Malfunctioning Guard Servitor, Deck 29. His task had been decided for the day. He would need to fix whatever imperfection had resulted in this error. There was no place for error.

He travelled there directly, taking the most direct route. His robe graced the floor with his presence as he walked. Others passed him but he gave them no heed. They were not his purpose to be here. He had one order, to obey the Inquisitor Carrigan. She had requisitioned him from Mars, and his life had the express purpose of serving her. Others on the Black Ship had less dedication to him, and he knew this. During the brief periods when he allowed himself to hope he privately wished they could understand the glory of perfection, but they were fleshy, and unworthy of the gifts he had been granted...the gifts he would improve upon.

He arrived on Deck 29 without fanfare, and made his way to the malfunctioning servitor.

"1110110001100101100110011001100101010101" he said, devoid of emotion, his voice twisted and squeeking as it made his way through his implants. The servitor was defective, a rewiring issue affecting its system. Imperfection. For such a thing to happen was common, for such a thing to occur three times at once as it had in this servitor was a possibility to small to even consider.

His electrograft hummed to life, and he set about to the repairs. His skill was formidable, and he quickly fixed two of three errors. He had just begun the third when the vox systems throughout the ship hummed to life.

“Everyone! Stay where you are and continue doing whatever you were doing! Nobody is to leave their current locations. Complete lockdown!

Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"
The summons of some Piscivorous to the deck he now occupied registered within his brain, but the order to continue his work overruled his need to remove himself. He returned to his work on the servitor, and did what could be his best attempt at a smile.

In listening to the announcement he had spent those two seconds.

Tazi rolled the small metal badge in her hand. It was pretty in its own way. One side of it was gilt in gold and displayed the black ‘I’ of the Inquisition, and the other the intricate symbol of the Inquisitor she now served.

“…My new life,” she mumbled, unsure whether she should feel happy or sad at finally being given an assignment by Øravik. On the one hand she knew she would be doing the God-Emperor’s work, and would get to see Holy Terra itself. But on the other she knew she was now bound to the Inquisition and could never return to the life she had led before.

‘Not that that amounted to much,’ she thought bitterly. ‘A cold bunk, hours of prayer and all the beatings I could stomach. And before that….’
An alarm suddenly sounded throughout the ship, and echoed through the small chambers that she had been granted as her private quarters. It reported that a lockdown was about to commence, and finished with the bellowing voice of Inquisitor Øravik. “Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"
Tazi rolled her eyes as she reached for a belt holding a sheathed sword and holstered laspistol, and a bandolier bedecked with an array of grenades.

‘By the Emperor, that woman needs to get laid. Or at least someone to pull that stick from out of her ass,’ she found herself thinking as she ran through the door, and towards the lift that led to Deck 29.

Solanis idly fingered the double sided badge, the coin like trinket that held with it virtually unparalleled authority in the absence of his Alpha, and let his sensitive fingers run over every contour of the etched symbols of the disc. Solanis, whose handle or call-sign was Daggerfall had implicit trust in his Alpha, the great Carrigan Øravik. She had rescued him from a life of inescapable hell, and honed him into the lethal weapon he was now. In essence, Carrigan had given him a purpose in life, and the means by which to succeed at that purpose.

“These are your badges. Do not lose them or I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you if you are captured. With this seal comes the full authority of the Inquisition. Abuse my power and I will execute you,” she says sheepishly with a wink. Was that a serious statement? “Now get the frak out of my chambers!”

Solanis had exited the chambers, and worked his way down to the rec-room, where he would once again look to find anyone on board with which to spar. He had hoped that Carrigan herself might be in the mood for another bout, and in all his years he had never bested his Alpha, but then again, that’s why she was leader, and he her faithful pup. More than one such spars had left marks scars and bruises that would remain on Solanis as reminder of his role in the way of things long after the spar had ended, and as he ached or winced as he brushed against one such ‘memory’ he smiled. How he admired the woman.

That momentary nostalgia however was stolen quickly however as Carrigan’s voice boomed over the vox.

Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"
Solanis’ feet were already moving before the command even registered in his brain.

So this was their new code. Piscivorus. He wondered what that call sign meant and now he knew. He listened to Carrigan speak and he smiled as she mentioned that they were the best of the best and that they would be dealing with secret missions and jobs. He was glad that she took him from those ranks and put him here. He could do things the way he needed to, get the job done any way needed, just as long as the orders were complete.


“These are your badges. Do not lose them or I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you if you are captured. With this seal comes the full authority of the Inquisition. Abuse my power and I will execute you, now get the frak out of my chambers!”

Ghustel turned and walked back to his quarters, getting ready to prepare his weapons and gear. Once he returned his slipped on the rest of his outfit and slung his sword over his shoulder. He strapped his shotgun and other various weapons into their respected areas, and as soon as he clicked his heels together and looked at himself in the mirror the call for them come down to deck rang out. He turned, and looked back into his room. He might not come back into this room ever again, or he might actually survive this next bout of orders. He didn't know. But what he knew was that he had a mission to do and that he was needed to get it done right. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hall.

“So when you’re not around who leads if a leader is needed?”

“Also, if possible, I need a Bolter with an attached Targeter, four 30 round sickle clips of Stalker Silent and two 30 round sickle clips of Kraken Pattern Penetrators, this Autogun is too loud for what I do and what you want me to do.”

Was this guy serious?

“Mkoll. You are no longer a sergeant, and no longer in your old retinue. Your ass is now mine. You’ll work with what I give you, and you’ll use the money I pay you to buy what you need from whatever quartermaster might be around. You may be important to me, but not that important. You of all people should know how many men the Emperor has.”

Carrigan strides forward, knowing he doesn’t fear her. Fine by her, any Emperor-fearing man should listen to an Inquisitor when she speaks, and both the hardened soldiers in the room knew that as their eyes locked.

Her voice lowered to a tone Mkoll had not heard it reach before.

“What I want you to do is follow my orders without question. I’ve killed men for fewer transgressions than your insubordination, and I won’t hesitate to put my bolter to the back of your neck. Such a seasoned vet like you will make a fine example to the greenhorns out there. You are not their leader. You are their equal. You are lucky the others are gone or my bolter might have found its way to your kneecaps as an example to them.”

Carrigan’s eyes squinted as she stared the man down. She seemed to glow slightly as her shapeless and blank eyes twinkled against the lighting in the room.

“In fact it might still happen in the future, depending on your performance. I hold you to higher standards than the others. If you don’t like it, frak off and die for all I care. I’ll be happy to make the arrangements.

“Now, as to the leader: Only, and I repeat Only the Emperor HIMSELF is of enough authority to give a command to any of my men besides me. If anyone in my retinue so much as threatens to pull rank on another and issue an order – I will shoot the whole lot of you.”

The Inquisitor and her acolyte continued to stand off.

Finally, out of nowhere, Carrigan Øravík let loose with a resounding front-handed slap, connecting swiftly with the side of Mkoll’s face.

“I believe I gave you an order to get the FRAK OUT OF MY CHAMBERS!”

Luckily for him, the other acolytes were long gone, and he was able to leave with his pride intact. Carrigan’s gifts were often small and discreet.

Arcturious noticed something odd about this servitor as he ran his multiple and (to normal, inefficient people) exhausting diagnostic tests. (Success Logic) The wiring appeared to be fine after all. In fact, everything seemed to be fine. Everything mechanical, that is. (Success Tech Use) Arcturious removed the top of the servitor’s skull.

Mostly biological beings, the truth was that most servitor problems were not malfunctioning wires or machinery. After all, the priesthood of Mars were the ones responsible for their construction. Arcturious looked over the lobotomized brain of the disabled servitor. Its brain was fried – something beyond the Tech-Priest’s skills to mend. This being was destined to be harvested for parts before the remaining biological entity was “recycled” to produce rations for the coming missions once they set out from Holy Terra.

The Tech-priest noted his surroundings. Completely devoid of other people – how efficiently they follow orders. This was the only servitor assigned to this deck – he would need to secure a replacement. Unfortunately the lockdown prevented his movement off of this deck. Tick tock.

The ship’s lift moved rather quickly, leaving little time for the freshly assembled strike team to… well… assemble. The doors to prison deck 29 opened along with the lifts, exposing a hellish environment. Cells on either side, a dank smell of mold, death and a scent that can only be described as “chaos” was in the air.

It was silent. Strange – this deck should be packed with psykers. The doors were designed for maximum protection – insulated to cut all but the most powerful beings off from the warp. But each door also held a single observation port, into which guards could look. The port was also insulated.

Light was not in abundance, though it came to nobody’s surprise. Deck 29 was thankfully not that big. There are cells to either side of you. This hallway extends about 20 meters before branching off left and right.

Daggerfall notices a sound in the distance, down the hall to the right. It sounded like a faint moaning… Tazi hears it as well, after picking up a cue from Daggerfall’s perked ears.

Arcturious once again found himself disturbed by a strange noise, from just around the corner. The hallway you are in, with your back to the maintenance lift (about 50m back) you see a fork in the hallway right and left, at 45 degree angles. You could take a peek if you only move a few more meters. The sounds are strange… an awkward moaning – as if someone is dying, coming from the left.

But wait… The Tech-Priest’s sensors are also picking up a soft banging coming from the ceiling above the right hallway...

(Ruh Roh... Choose carefully!)

BACKPOST
Mkoll saw the slap coming and could easily have avoided it, to be blunt he could just as easily have blocked it but he chose not to do so. Let the Inquisitor have her fun, let her feed her need to feel dominate it made no difference to him. He was a good scout, one of the best in fact or he would not be here, but in the end all that mattered to him was survival and one day returning to Colonel-Commissar Gaunt and the 1st & Only.

Make no mistake he was as dedicated to service in the God Emperor’s army as any Space Marine, Inquisitor or Imperial guardsmen but deep down his loyalty would always be 100% to the man who had brought them, all but one of them, home from the planet Gereon.
His cheek red from Carrigan’s hand he nodded to her and made his way out to walk the halls of the black ship.

PRESENT
“Everyone! Stay where you are and continue doing whatever you were doing! Nobody is to leave their current locations. Complete lockdown!

Piscivorus get to deck 29, NOW!"

The Autogun off his shoulder, safety off and pre prepped for firing the Tanith Sgt of Scouts headed fast for deck 29.

With the lifts arrival on deck 29 Mkoll headed out first autogun at the ready and moving quickly down the hallway, past Arcturious and his servitor to the corridor spilt.

“Ghustel take the left, I have the right, Battle Sister please cover us, stay close to the wall as you move down the hall”

With his advice given Mkoll moved down towards the moaning at a slow alert pace Autogun ready.............