Part 1: Shattered Dreams

"Well Darlings, good luck. And don't you dare die on me. Firia, signing off." You can hear the blown kiss.

You could tell from her tone that you were not the ideal choices for this mission. Indeed, she seemed to hesitate as she gave you the rundown on Sepheris Secundus. There were recent uprisings that required force, and so a platoon of Imperial Guard set down in the heart of the rebellion and silenced the mobs. It was a slaughter, to say the least. Once most of the fighting had stopped, they secured the dissident areas, including the Gorgonid Mines, the heart of the rebellion and most productive mine system in the entire sub-sector. The reports are murky, but apparently several squads were lost in the darkness, and the Platoon Commisar ended up sealing off the mines and quarantining the entire region. Under ordinary circumstances, the Inquisition would have looked into the matter at its own pace, but given the damage to the World's, and even the entire sector's economy, it requires a great deal more haste. This is a bit unsettling, since you are all raw recruits, bound for training at Scintilla, but you were the closest retinue, so here you are.

Having disembarked from the lighter, you watch the engines roar, carrying it upwards towards the cruiser that floats in orbit around this wretched world. As it shrinks away and vanishes, you take in your surroundings. You have landed in the middle of an Imperial Guard encampment, filled with scores of grimfaced men, some bloodied and bandaged, all wearing the grey uniforms of the 97th Harosian Battalion. The camp is a sea of tents, positions around smoking craters, steam vents that belch violet clouds of foul-smelling gas into the air, and more humanized wreckage from the recent conflict. A Sentinel walker, mounted multi-laser slowly cycling, screeches as it patrols the perimeter of the camp, deftly manoeuvring past and around smoking debris of vehicles, destroyed buildings, and unburied corpses. At the camp's center there stands a rusty-red hab-block bearing the Imperial Aquila painted in bright red in massive size on one wall. Well beyond it, in the distance, is a low range of mountains covered in ice and what looks like sprawling industrial complexes. Flames belch from smokestacks, massive storage containers, and and great bubbling vats issuing toxic steam combine to make the structures like a vast swarm of insects straddling the mountain range. Many of the Guardsmen have stopped whatever they were doing to stare at you. You realize that the mood is very grim. You also notice one of the Guardsmen is running towards you, his red face huffing. He looks very young, less than 20 years of age by your guess. Tufts of bright red hair poke out from under his helmet. His freckled face slowly returnsto paleness as he places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. After a moment he looks up and smiles at you. "Sirs... Welcome to the Gorgonid Mines. Yer here to help. I knew it. I tole'd 'em all ye'd be coming. Which one of is the Inquisitor?"

Varstras looked around the scene in mild distaste, as the gases and broken ground reminded him of the ratty ship he had come from. He looked down at the boy before him and nods slightly, "The Inquisitor had pressing business elsewhere, and so couldn't tend to this matter personally..." He said in a distant, yet finite voice. "We have been sent instead." He pressed a lithe hand to his chest. "I am Varstras and these are my comrades-in-arms...Lumis, Marcus and Verbal..." He gestured to each of them in turn and then looked behind them breifly, confused. "...And apparently our Tech-Preist has wandered off somewhere. He should be back shortly..." He looked up toward the emblazoned hab-block past the boy for a moment. "Is your CO around? We'd like a breifing ASAP so we can get underway." He looked at the boy, waiting patiently for an answer with his hands resting behind his back.

Marcus’s head faced the imperial as the spoke his piece but his mind and eyes wandered elsewhere. Beneath his plated helm he gazed intently across the ruined camp that made up the home of the 97th Harosian Battalion. The landscape was bitter and torn. Though the 97th’s victory had reportedly been won with little cost–the Gorgonid Mines being the exception- these men looked anything but happy. Considering where they were it didn’t take much to figure out why.

Varstras spoke his voice both distant and finite, “The Inquisitor had pressing business elsewhere, and so couldn't tend to this matter personally. We have been sent instead.”
He pressed his hand into his chest.

"I am Varstras,” he said introducing himself,” And these are my comrades-in-arms, Lumis, Marcus and Verbal..." He gestured to each of them in turn and then looked behind them briefly. He must not have noticed the Tech-Priests departure. "...And apparently our Tech-Priest has wandered off somewhere. He should be back shortly.”

"Is your CO around?” he asked after a moment, “We'd like a briefing ASAP so we can get underway." He looked at the boy, waiting patiently for an answer with his hands resting behind his back.

As Varstras spoke, Marcus took a moment to search out the presences around him. It was unlikely that any enemies were in this camp but one could not be too careful.

Lumis coughed out loud, the fumes had finally gotten to him. He was not used to mines or forge worlds filled with toxins and chemicals, byproducts from equipment and refining. His eyes seemed to water from all the fumes in his face. However hearing the voice of Varstras he quickly stood to attention.

He could hear Varstras voice, "The Inquisitor had pressing business elsewhere, and so couldn't tend to this matter personally. We have been sent instead.”I am Varstras,” he said introducing himself,” And these are my comrades-in-arms, Lumis, Marcus and Verbal..." the instant hearing his own name Lumis bowed before saluting. He could hear Varstras say something else but didn't pay any attention to it.

Imperial guard.... they would help or hinder the operation. Lumis sighed and went back to spining his knife.

.

Lazerus was in heaven. Or close to it at least. Such sublime beauty...the precision with which it swayed and moved. Once he had seen it, he couldn't resist following it, and now, it had all been worth it.

In the distance there were voices, possibly objecting as he lovingly caressed the noble spirit's metallic hide.

The walker stood stock still now, a fact Lazerus was thankful for, chasing it down to examine it had been tiring. Lazerus's eyes swept over the masterful machine, in an attempt to understand it, emphasize with it, that he might have a better communion with it.

That spar would move that way and it would life that. That cylinder probably forced that rod to move like that and then....he sighed. This was beyond him, just so far beyond him that there was no possible way he could ever have the kind of communion, the understanding that he sought.
Still stumbling around like a blind man I suppose he thought to himself.

He spun about, to see what the rest of the group had to say on the subject, and was puzzled to see only a uniformed officer, red in the face, and bawling to someone about something or another, and obstruction and so on and so forth. Had they seen something he had missed? Perhaps something smaller, subtler but even more amazing than the walker? It would be incredible to think so. He could hardly wait.

Scurrying off, with his robes flapping about his ankles, he left the red-faced Imperial Officer behind, and went winding his way back to where they had gotten off of the shuttle.

He seems to visibly shrink at your words. "S..so.. The Inquisitor's not coming?"

Before you can respond, a gruff voice sounds out. "Jurtz! You leave your post again?" The owner of the voice is a compact, square jawed man, his face a criss-cross of scars which utterly destroy any handsomeness he may have once had. His head is shaved, and his scalp is covered over with a dark-blue tattoo, which on closer inspection appears to be an Imperial Eagle, the talons ending just above his brow. He's wearing the grey fatigues of all of the Guardsmen, though his seem particularly ruffled and worn. Stripes on the left arm of his uniform indicate he is a person of rank. Where his right arm below the the elbow used to be, a metal rod emerges, with a disturbing array of attachments blossoming from it. Jurtz stammers, turns all the way red up to his ears, and stares at his feat, mumbling. "No, Sergeant Raynard, Sir, I'm just heading back now."

Raynard fixes the retreating junior guardsmen with a stare before turning to you. As he turns, you can see that one of his eyes is icy blue in color, but the other is a crude false eye, made of wood and wandering off slightly to the left. However, he continues to address Jurtz. "Good, see that you do. Double Time, trooper." He appraises your group, looking you up and down with an eye trained to look for potential. "Now you. You're a sorry lot, ain't ya? Who're you supposed to be? Not the Inquisition, I'll warrant. Well? Speak up! I won't have a commotion in my camp.

Marcus frowned at the sergeant’s words.

“You efforts here on Sepherus Secundus are commendable but do not forget your place. We may be mere Acolytes but we answer directly to the Inquisition and our Inquisitor. You will treat us with every bit of courtesy and confidence you would her,” his voice was mild but threaded with iron that made it clear there was no room for debate. Though relatively thin in comparison to most, the plate armor made up for some of that lacking width and the void born psyker easily topped the guardsmen by a head and a half.

His violet eyes flashed as he pressed on leaving no opening for the guardsmen to speak, “You will show us where we need to go and then leave us to do our task. Lead on.”

He made a passing gesture with his hand indicating that the guardsman was to lead the way immediately. No back talk.

Lumis sighed. Lumis stopped spinning his knife and took two casual steps towards the sergeant.
The imperial guard are going to hinder us.

"Sergeant, my and my colleagues have been trained by the Emperor's personal organisation. Do not doubt the abilities of those who have to face threats that nerve even the strongest believers of the Emperor. Our inquisitor may not be here but we have the Emperor. Do you doubt the Emperor?" Lumis said acidly. Knowing some of the imperial guard they did.

Lumis's brown eyes stared directly at the sergeant. His gaze giving the look of death or help. Lumis gripped his knife tighter.

.

Lazerus followed the usual trail that led towards where his allies were. I.e. the direction nobody was going in. It didn't take long. He came just in time to see Verbal playfully nudge Lumis. Those two just seemed to get along so well. It was all for the good Lazerus supposed, Verbal seemed to have trouble making friends anyway, and Lumis seemed to share the same view of the world, albeit a little more eloquently. Vastrus and Marcus were a bit alike two, and Lazerus thought they would soon become fast friends. He almost sighed in contentment. Serving the Empire, and being part of such a happy, jolly bunch. What more could he ask for?

Well besides the coming of the Omnissiah, a new Golden Age of Technology, true understanding of the lost arts and assorted other things which he thought it best to not even
think of near this many Imperial Guards.

Remembering why he had abandoned that fascinating walker he scurried over and crowded in behind his squad-mates to see what piece of technology had so captured their attention. He saw a scarred tattoed man in a very worn uniform. He blinked owlishly once or twice. His gun seemed fairly standard, fascinating yes, but with so many others around here they could have picked one in better condition to look at. Maybe it was the man himself?

He walked up to the man-thing and prodded him once or twice in the shoulder.

"Is it a construct?" he asked aloud. "It's very well made to look just like a normal human."

At your imperious remarks, the Sergeant seems to grow in size, his face draws up into a grimace and it appears he's going to shut both of you down like a pair of greenies fresh from Boot. But when the tech priest pokes him in the chest, his face turns several shades of red. He visibly shrinks back from Lazerus, before regaining control. He straightens up and slaps the Tech Priest's hand away. "Get off me, Emperor's spit! Don't touch me!" he roars. He turns to Marcus, still slightly shaken "Damnit, Psyker, control your goddamn cogboy!" He turns about on his heel, and begins marching off to the north, down the main road in the camp, towards the building you spotted from the lander with the Aquila painted on it. He mutters something that sounds roughly like 'Foller me ta tha Gommisar." This is shortly followed by more incessant, hushed muttering, though you hear 'Cogboys' several times.

As the Sergeant marches off, you hear hysterical laughter, as though a jest of grand magnitude had just been employed. In addition you notice Private Jurtz poking out from around a tent off to the side.

Varstras sniffed disdainfully at the Sergeant's back, then rolled his eyes. "Oh great, you got him riled like a fresh-chained Demonhost, great job, Psykes, Big Daddy." He said, poking fun at Marcus (Psykes, as Varstras called him, since they were the Psykers in the group) and Lazerus (who he calls Big Daddy after his expectations of the 'mighty chosen of the Omnissiah', which mostly involved them being rather large and menacing, instead of...well...Lazerus). He sighed heavily and made a confusde hand wave. "Maybe I just missed the Brow and Chest beating portions of my Sanctioning somehow...I dunno...but I'll almost put Thrones on it that he's gonna be less helpful than an Adept with Amnesia..." He annoyedly flipped his lasgun up out the holster, spun it about a bit then slapped it back into the holster in one motion. "Well, we better get going before he stews any longer in his hurt pride..." He said and began walking slowly toward the building, shooting the Private a look to follow him. Once the boy was at his side, he continued. "Is it me, or does Sarge have a little issue with Tech-Preists?"

Marcus nodded at Varstras and gave a small amused smile. He said nothing however and move to follow the imperial guardsmen.

The young man seems sullen after learning that none of you are the Inquisitor. However, he still seems eager to help, if a bit intimidated. "W-Well, Sir. The Sarge 'as been the The Sarge fer longer than most o' the boys 'ave been in the servus, ya know? Most of us 'nly rememba the Sarge like this. 'Owever, 'cordin to the stories some o' the vets tell, it was the 'Stealers. Ya ever seen one, sir? Nasty blighters. 'Course, I ain't seen one meself, but some o' the boys have, and the stories they tell! Two and a half meters tall, with meter long claws that take yer 'ead off with one swipe. Well, 'cordin to the stories, one o' the bastards almost took the Sarge's arm right off at the sh'ulder. Sarge if tuff-as-nails, though, and 'e kept fightin'. After the fight, Sarge was bleedin' real bad like. 'Is arm was hangin' by a tendon. So one of the Cogboys..." he pauses and pales a bit here, casting a brief glance at the obviously unintimidating form of Lazerus. "I mean Techpriests, had to operate. The Sarge, 'e passed out, and the Techpriest had to amputate. So the Cogboy comes up with one o' those bonesaws, and is about to cut it, when the Sarge wakes up just then. 'Course, the story goes that the Cogboy was sloppy, and the arm don't work right. I s'pose the Sarge could get a better... what'er those called? Prosthewhatics? Ahhhhny way, Sarge says 'e keeps the ahrm ta remind 'im o' how much he hates Nids and..." He pauses again, glancing at Lazerus. "Techpriests, sir."