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Silhar:
Spoiler (click to show/hide)Here it starts. Strap on some gloves before things go dirty.
+Additional players happily accepted.
+Bear in mind that I'm not an experienced GM. I'll happily make use of any tips.
Prologue : Hell beneath.
"I'm not afraid of high. It's just unsettling, a possibility to spit my lungs away before I'll meet the ground."


Planet Thyss.

Until the end of M39 and the beginning of M40, a backwater somewhere rimward from Lathes.
Despite, sometimes pleasant, tropical climate, mostly settled by orks. And malaria.
Today, after a discovery made in M40.002 by some misled expedition, an important corner of the galaxy.
The reason is a deposit.
Rare black marble, so much loved by noblemen from the whole Calixis sector, especially Malfian nobility, is being mined here.
Few trading houses have forseen the potential very quickly. Now, the whole place is worth approximately a small battlefleet.
Its loss would result in global unrest, that is a certain thing.
Perhaps this is why the Inquisition are interested in the place recently. Ordo Hereticus were almost as much expected as a rain in the midday.
But... Ordo Xenos ?


The green-blue globe of the planet is visible perfectly in the light of stars through the large, round-shaped window, the only one in the square hall around a hundred square metres you find yourself in.
Despite "The Madman" trading ship being an ancient work of Mechanicus steelshapers, the room does not look too much rusty or shabby, even if almost unfurnished. Banners of crimson red with a cog-wheel mark and those of white, wearing a golden "I" hang on the wall opposite the fenetre, some oil-painting illuminated by two lamp-packs right between the canvas makes a good impression along with a hulking round table of steel, with an Adeptus Mechanicus symbol carved in the middle. There are around eight not really comfortable chairs around it.
On the other walls massive door of steel can be seen, one on each, being in peaceful symmetry.
This is where you were told you are going to meet your new employer, the Magos Militiant Interrogator Mordecai Van Bohr.
A chronometer above the painting ticks silently, reminding you that the Interrogator is a bit late already.
Minutes pass in silence as you wait for your further fate to be revealed.

Gargulec:
In the corner of the room, slender women sat. She wrapped herself tightly in a drab robe, and kept her head down, so that all you could were moderately long, ashen hair covering her face. Next to her, large backpack laid, almost as big as she was.

Aramilllion:
Dressed in his Adeptus Arbites' uniform and combat armour, Ramirez took a seat opposite to the window, removed his backpack and loosened some of his armour's straps. As soon as he did that, started to examine every individual present in the hall, one by one, presuming about their abilities and advantages. Afterwards Ramirez took his time, relaxed, and coolly contemplated the view of the planed behind the window with his face apparently emoting nothing but patience.
Deep in his soul, Arbitrator was most cheerful, for once again appeared an opportunity to serve his Emperor.

Xander Morhaime:
The doors opened, and a late arrival stomped on in, not trying to be the least bit careful about its heavy footfalls. Though it was wrapped in rags covered with blood and dirt, it had the unmistakeable figure of an Ork - big, broad shoulders, hunched back, stooped posture... The creature also had an impressively thick collar around its likewise thick neck. It stomped over to one of the chairs, jingling with loose metal pieces held somewhere about its person, probably in the large backpack slung over one shoulder.

Eventually it settled in a chair with a grunt, and a creak of protest from the chair. Its beady little red eyes studied those present for a while, as if appraising them for whatever purposes, then rather unceremoniously dumped some of the contents of its pack onto the table - a very peculiar collection of mechanical and electronic parts, among them what looked like a bionic eye and a couple of large batteries. Since the others at the table didn't seem to warrant the Ork's attention, it set to trying to bash the various pieces into something useful.

Ork mechanics in action. A fascinating show, to be sure.

Silhar:
A few minutes passed through on intensive swearing, sounds of metal bashing against metal and iron-glass, scratching heads and other mek-activities, finally resulting in a part of a table turning red-hot for a while, as an open bionic visual sensor cast out a thin burst of red light. Ork's facial expression changed from heavy, teeth-clenching concentration to cheerness in a blink of an eye.

Nothing more could happen, though, as iron gates in the wall of the room opened with a loud hiss, revealing three strange figures in the depth of corresponding room. Dim light oozed through the portal, casting shadows on the floor of iron.

One of three humanoids, one of two clad in long robes, the only one with visible mechadendrites - at least one arm, hanging idle in the air, stepped forward, his steps echoing loudly in the silence that came as strangers appeared.
Around 1,80 metre high, thin, spacious robes of crimson red almost making him drown. A little metal plate flashing with few diodes, visibly straying from the neck.
As he walked to the light, his features became more visible.
Around forty years old, judging from the handsome, long face, suprisingly bearing no filration mask - but emblazoned with a short triangular beard of dark blonde instead, bald head bearing tattoos, those reminding slightly of some tech-scheme. Only the backhead seemed to bear hair, slightly long and pretty much in disorder. The man had his left eye bionic, its red circle shining warmly, as if in opposition to steel-like apple of the right one. Cables and wires coming out from the sensor's body blended with his fluffy mullet. Ironic smile danced on the Magos's thin lips as he looked at you. He raised his right hand in a gesture of greeting, showing it is not of weak flesh anymore. Bolter-mechadendrite waved also with a silent yell.

"Ah, so those are my humble subordinates, no ?", he uttered merrily, smiling. The artifical, cybernetic timbre of his voice sounded awkwardly, its low-frequency waves bouncing from the facets of steel and making weak-stomached feel uneasy. "I beg you forgived me for me being late. Important matters were holding me back.", he added after a while, more seriously.

You can see a servo-skull flying nearby the woman in the room's corner. It gives away a few loud cracks, then starts translating the Tech-Priest's words into some other than Low Gothic language, supposedly its higher, more noble version.

"I am Magos Militiant Interrogator Mordecai Van Bohr, faithful servant of my mistress, name of which you are not meant to know... for now, and of the Omnissiah, Machine-God, Father of All Knowledge. I, and so are you since now, am working for the Holy Ordo Xenos, task of which is to neutralize any threats for the Humanity coming from the outside."

He pulls out a data-slate, grunts, and continues after a while, looking at the device from time to time.

"No time to waste. Let us proceed with the briefing, if you please.
Only a few months ago on a mining colony there, on Thyss...", the Magos pointed at the window with his iron hand, "...authorities started noticing a series of wierd accidents happening to local workers. Accidents, mostly lethal, as our sources say, were irrational events, but happening oftenly enough to cause suspicion. Regulars like to say about a curse over this place... We suppose that it might be linked to recent Ork activity in the region - and a strange building and plant complex uncovered recently on the planet's surface."

Interrogator placed his hands on the table, leaning towards you.

"I must express my deep regret that our information about the site and those happenings is strongly limited, so that you shall have to examine it all by yourselves. Your goal is to identify, and possibly neutralize the reason of those strange phenomena. As you might cogitate, the place, being an important mining site of the black marble, is being watched by agents of noble houses. If we do not accomplish our task as soon as it is possible to accomplish... Well, just imagine."

"You, Arbitrator, are expected to stay here for a little longer. There are a few important matters to discuss before you depart. The rest is dismissed. My assistant shall lead you to the hangar and provide you transport to the site, answering every single question of yours. Come, Inertia, my dear child, do your work and may Omnissiah bless you."

Another figure emerges, the other one following her with loud screeching sounds.
Inertia appears to be young, good-looking and short red-haired woman in her middle twenties. Her flesh shows not many signs of implantation, with an exception for a little plug coming out of her head's side and electoos on her palms. A gun-servitor walks behind her, sweeping the place with its rotten eyes.

"Yes, Magos. Follow me, acolytes.", the young pilot says with a light smile, leaving the place through the other door.

Magos Militiant turns on his heel, starting to walk back and forth through the room, until everyone except the Arbitrator leave the room.

He scratches the back of his head, muttering under his breath : "Where, by the Throne's Omnipotence, are all the missing servitors ?"

* * *
The hangar appears to be a huge yet cramped and shabby hall about half an hour of walking from the briefing room. Entering through the mass of huge steel door (bearing, naturally, a Mechanicus sign carved in the middle), you almost become stunned by the brain-tearing racket of engines roaring, mechanisms grinding and pilots taunting to each other. Bright, warm light out from the lamp packs hanging from the ceiling high above makes your eyes tired, and a vivid scent of smoke scratches your lungs. It is suprising that anyone can actually work here around eight hours a day and remain in good condition. In fact, it is impossible...
Around a dozen spacecrafts of a lander class can be seen, being in various condition - from full functionality (one) through medium damage (five) to complete wreckage (three or four).
All over the walls you can see huge packs, chests, barrels and other containers, perhaps bearing fuel and junk. Loads of servitors bustle around, busy with conveying, repairing or simply wandering around without a purpose. Few tech-priests dressed in robes of crimson entact rites over the machines, blessing them, fixing them or simply ranting and raving at boisterous servitors.
You take a walk through the room, sometimes almost losing sight of your guide. Finally, you reach the destination.

The Aquila-class lander appears to be in good condition, despite being old and mildly worn out by usage. You can see few bullet holes on its wings and hull, luckily scars not deep enough to pierce the steel completely. Painted red (paint is barely visible anyway) and marked with both aquila and cogwheel signs does not look too reliable, but compared to others... well, seems like you are all at luck.
Inside, as you take the stairs and walk through the doorway, you are welcomed by a peaceful silence, indeed a grace collated to the noise outside. Four couches covered with mousy hide on both sides of the hull, a ladder up (perhaps, leading to a gun-tower), the cockpit is not divided from the passenger-room - you can see numerous blank screens and diodes, surrounding a console - a good load of colorful buttons, four levers and a manipulator. The whole contraption seems complicated.
Inertia comes inside and places herself comfortably on a pilot's seat, looking at you.
You notice that servo-skull still follows the woman with a huge backpack, occasionally spitting out a beeping noise or a whirling, silent sound of its engine.

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