this is a campaign i am currently involved in. i decided that i would rewrite our posts into a story of sorts. there is not much at the moment but when i get time i will be adding more to it.
Tranch System, Tranch Primus, 3.304.809.M41 0652 LZ Local
The journey to Tranch was a lonely one. The Inquisitor Fabam had arranged transport for his entire team aboard the Vandire's Bane, a Ministorum cloister-ship travelling between the shrine worlds on a century long pilgrimage. As such it resembled a beautiful, star-spanning cathedral, its vast spires and grand vistas all monuments to the Emperor's divinity and greatness. Beautifully crafted stained glass windows lined the chapels’ walls depicting the Saints that had given their lives and souls for the protection of the Imperium; none were greater than the ship’s name sake Sebastian Thor, whose magnificent image dominated the central spire of the ship. The inspiring sounds of hymns and prayers could be heard throughout the heart of the ship, each voice raised in thanks to the God-Emperor. The joyous sounds echoed through these hallowed halls until all voices became one.
The Inquisitor had a sense of humour it would seem; for the last three weeks each member of his team had been confined to individual meditation cells, completely bare save the single bronzed Aquila stamped onto one wall. These were ascetic berths, where your meals were plain and your fellow travellers were monks and priests from various orders. The Emperor himself seemed to watch over this vessel as the ship continued on its uneventful course through the Warp, even the horrors of the Empyrean reeled from its divine grace.
Splitting the very fabric of reality the Vandire's Bane finally arrived back in the relative safety of normal space; the Gellar Field shining a vivid blue before disappearing completely, as if the ship itself was relieved to be out of the reach of the immaterium. The vessel took up a position in stable orbit around the planet Tranch Primus, once a bustling and productive hive world - now nothing more than a war zone. At this vantage point great palls of smoke could be seen to cover large sections of the planets surface, undoubtedly from the latest incursion or orbital bombardment.
Not everyone it would seem was well suited for the confined spaces of the cells. Murdoch - being a native of the famed Gunmetal City - was accustomed to action and violence in equal measure. It was a place where you learnt your lessons in life fast, and he found himself losing patience with the monotony of the as yet uneventful sojourn. Each passing day he scratched another mark into the wall, each day he lost a little more patience with his situation. He tried to alleviate the never-ending boredom by stripping and cleaning his two remarkable pistols, both of which had been lovingly cared for and maintained over their many years of service. Each of the guns had been heavily customised in their time, but it was the weapon holstered at his right hip that drew the most attention. The polished black body of the pistol only emphasised the antiquity of the weapon. The name Sidewinder could just be picked out in delicate silver filigree etched into the sides of the muzzle. The original wooden grip had now been replaced by the cheap matt plasteel of the Scintilla Manufactorum, a clear sign that the pistol had seen better days.
He tempered this practice however as the urge to use them on anyone or anything that made the mistake to enter his cell got stronger over the course of his confinement. His neighbour who could be heard singing and praying till the small hours of the morning did not help this feeling. Nothing would have made Murdoch feel like his old self more than putting a bullet in the head of the fanatic causing his sleepless nights. By the end of the third week Murdoch had finally had enough of the incessant tirade of dogmatic grox-sh!t. Hammering his fists on the adjoining wall until his hands were numb he bellowed, “Will you shut the frag up, he isn’t listening! If you haven’t noticed we are in the arse end of nowhere; the only thing hearing you out here are the stuff of nightmares.”
The continued hammering from the adjacent room went unheeded by the sole occupant of the cell. Kneeling in the centre of the darkened room was the Redemptionist Thaddius Severus. Born into a wealthy and respected family Thaddius was well known throughout the Hives of his home world of Malfi. Noble turned Redemptionist, there was always rumour and speculation of how it came to be that this young aristocrat followed this mysterious new path. Stories of his venture ran rampant in the upper spire after he returned from one of his many travels into the under-hive a changed man. His current surroundings a far cry from his opulent origins, Thaddius had renounced his birthright, exchanging his finery for a place in the Ecclesiarchy.
His deep and rhythmic breathing causing the candle flames to dance and flicker, casting strange shadows that played across his naked frame. His lips moved silently as he prayed for each of the souls he would undoubtedly have to deliver into the Emperors light. A small carved altar dedicated to the God-Emperor of mankind rested before him; icons and trinkets strewn across its surface. There would be time later to enlighten the impious individual when they finally arrived at their destination.
Relishing those dark thoughts Thaddius smiled as he raised the tapered whip to his face before closing his eyes to begin his daily penance.