Lure of the Expanse (IC Thread)

The Lord Captain was at first confused by the idea of an "old friend" pursuing wealth and glory in the Expanse. She was barely old enough to have old friends at all, and those she did have were in the far-off reaches of Segmentum Solar, where the Scholastica Psykana had inculcated into the young lady the correct procedures and ideas of a Sanctioned Psyker Primaris. She read over the missive again and again in the privacy of her spacious quarters, puzzling out just which of the friends of her dear departed lord uncle - the previous holder of the Sacred Warrant of Trade - had sent the missive and meant it for him.

On approach, she will of course attend the ceremonies in the ship's cathedral and enginarium, to give thanks to the God-Emperor and the Omnissiah for a succesful translation and voyage. Then she will take the mag-tram to the Vestiarium and select a suitably ostentatious outfit to make a good first impression on the important denizens of Footfall. Ah, no, more gold braid. Not quite that much. While this occurs, the Seneschal natters at her about the potential choices for her retinue.

Naturally, she could not leave out such important personages as her esteemed sister, the Lord Navigator, her Arch-Militant, or her master Archivist. The Enginseer Prime will also need to be invited, though she surmises the cog-master will probably want to remain on the ship. It was, after all, venerable beyond memory, its vaults and engines sacred relics of the Machine God by virtue of their antiquity. Twenty guards and three gun-cutters should be sufficient. Naturally, the High Factotum will be handling the routine commerce necessary to keep the Audacious Faith at void.

Arebella walked up and down the Vestiarium, occasionally tossing one outfit or another to the Sartrix Servitors with off-hand comments, "This one needs additional detailing around the epaulets" or "We need a hidden sheath for a knife adding here." by the Emperor and saints she hated warp travel. Couldn't even practice dice or cards because it screwed up probability so much.

As she felt the transition to realspace she finalised the prepared outfits for her dearest sister to peruse, attired upon waxen figures built to her measurements and returned to her book to await her esteemed lord captain's arrival, adopting a practiced air of lazy disinterest in the situation as the Satrixes retreated to their alcoves, needle fingers already making her requested adjustments.

Throughout the journey, Ardanor had been quietly overseeing the ship’s navigation, constantly communing with the Warp through his third eye, using his talents to keep the ship on course through the roiling, dangerous tides of the Immaterium. His duty was not merely mechanical or procedural; it was a battle of wills between himself and the ever-hungry entities lurking within the Warp. His psychic talents and disciplined mind kept them at bay, guiding the ship and its crew through the chaos, ensuring their survival.

But now, as the Gellar Fields powered down and the ship settled into realspace, Ardanor allowed himself a brief moment of respite. He folded his hands in front of him, the dark veins on his pale skin pulsing faintly as he withdrew from the warp, letting the familiar cold emptiness of realspace wash over him. The crew cheered in the background, though their sounds were distant to him, like echoes from another dimension.

For much of the journey, he had remained in solitude, communicating only when necessary with the Lord Captain or the ship's officers. He had counseled the Lord Captain on the need for caution, but he also knew that the allure of the Dread Pearl might cloud her judgment.

Captain Johan relaxed somewhat when the ship exited the Warp. Yet he knew that the danger was far from over. This was the best timing for an Eldar Corsair attack, just when everyone is relieved that the Warp Jump was successful, or when a Warp entity realises the only way to stay alive in material space is to feast on human flesh. Too many variables... he stood up above a navigation screen, his sheer bulk and sculpted muscles, full of scars and tattoos, eclipsing the human that manned the station. The screen showed no signs of abnormalities. The ship's radio was silent too. After some time he let himself relax more and left a sigh. He tossed his archaotech shotgun over his shoulder and left the bridge.

He lit up a lho stick and went to the Mess Hall. The Warp Jump always made him hungry. Crewmen were around him, excited that they were in one piece, some praised the Emperor. Captain Johan scrubbed his beard, he never was a religious man, none of the Catachans are but he had seen a lot of stuff while on tour with the Imperial Guard. Stuff that can shake a man to his core. And had survived a couple fights with Warp Entities, when the Gellar Field failed. He had seen what those things can do to man, but out here, just like in the Catachan jungles, you had only your weapon and your grit.

He reached the Mess Hall doors and entered. "Hmmm, I may shave tomorrow..." he thought as he approached the kitchen.

Elizabeth stands on pomp, if not ceremony, always accompanied by at least four well-dressed guards and two attendants. She learned from her departed uncle that people respect the signs of wealth more than its substance. One of the few lessons she received before her tutelage on Holy Terra. Clothing is an extremely important part of that presentation; she respects Arebella's expertise in that arena. If anything, Elizabeth has to be talked down from being too ostentatious with her choices of primary colors, hats, and cloaks.

Arebella steps to the side of her sister, smirking slightly, "Introducing her excellency Lord-Captain Elizabeth Drake, head of her dynasty and commander of the venerable celestial vessel, Audacious Faith. You would do well to address her with some respect my lord."

Arabella gives a modest bow the heavyset man, though the smirk doesn't leave her face.

Ardanor Barknek stood silently just behind the Lord-Captain, his tall, cloaked form blending into the shadows. His pale, sharp face was partially concealed beneath the heavy hood of his cloak, his unsettling third eye hidden from view, though he could feel its faint pulse beneath his brow, always seeing, always sensing. He remained still, watching the exchange with quiet detachment, his icy blue eyes observing the heavyset man and his retainer with cold curiosity. The man’s mistake was both amusing and predictable, though Ardanor offered no outward reaction. His face remained impassive, betraying no hint of the thoughts that passed through his mind.

As Arabella introduced her sister formally, Ardanor’s shifted his weight slightly, his gloved hands clasped before him as he listened to the heavyset man's response, once again stumbling through his words. Either way, the Navigator would let Elizabeth and Arabella handle the formalities, for now. His time would come soon enough, when silence and observation would give way to action. Until then, he watched and waited, his mind already calculating the next steps of their journey.

The young woman keeps a straight posture, standing six-foot-two in her boots. Her great cloak, trimmed in gold, billows in the exhaust-blown wind around her legs. The crimson-and-blue plume of her artfully canted bicorne flutters. Her hands are clasped behind her back, showing supreme confidence in herself, trust in her retinue, and faith in the House armsmen flanking the bay, lasguns held laterally across their bodies in the ready-at-arms position. She turned her head slowly, left to right, surveying the longshore like a majestic lioness overlooking her domain.

Ceremony. Grandeur. Sheer, unadulerated audacity.

She'd practiced it all a hundred times.

"Lord Ambrosius Caius Drake has passed from the mortal realm," she affirms, to whoever the two men are, echoing her sister but with far fewer words.

She expected a larger reception. The lack of pomposity is disquieting. A Rogue Trader is a powerful person, above the laws of the Administratium and Ecclesiarchy, a Peer of the Imperium. She thought there would be crowds of sycophants and a den of social vipers to navigate.

"Who do I have the honor of meeting?" she asks.

Gregor stands within the group, closely behind Elizabeth and her sister, onlooking carefully at the exchange. Standing there with back straight with hands clasped behind his back, Gregor's own demeanor is one of seriousness and business. Gregor isn't one for pomp, but these meetings were often a window into the nature of their greeter's intentions and he found these little cultural peculiarities fascinating. It's one of the few things that Gregor would willingly leave his Archive for.

Gregor notes that only two people greeting the arrival was a bit out of the ordinary, he had to wonder if this was meant to offend. But he would keep his lips closed for now and let the Captain do her work.

Captain Johan finished his meal and went to his cot. One of the perks working for a Rogue Trader was that he had a bigger budget to spend on weapons, his cot was as spartan as always but boy, the guns, oh the guns. One wall was full of weapons, both melee and ranged ones. Some were working, some others were strange stuff they have encountered on the ship or on the trips so far. The Rogue Trader was eager to find out their inner workings, the Magos of the ship too. But for now he grabbed an unubiquous Las rifle and packed some very basic stuff in his backpack. A couple of Corpse-starch cans, a water canteen, a couple of grenades, some las-magazines, his camo-cloak (tidily folded). He had his trusting shotgun and Catachan knife to accompany his gear.

He head down to the boarding area and met with the retinue of the Rogue Trader giving nods with his steel gaze. The Rogue Trader was pompous, something that he never understood. But the pay was good and life in the ship was a bit better than the life in the Imperial Guard. Less paperwork and red tape to work around.

He stood a step behind Elizabeth and her sister, always ready to spring in action if the need arises. His finger was a millimeter from the trigger of the Lasrifle. "This is all the safety I need..." he thought to himself.

He is wearing thick army boots, khaki cargo pants, his green flak vest over his shirt and a red beret. He also has a red bandana tied on one of his hands, one of the trademarks of Catachans. His archaeotech shotgun is stored on his backpack, there is no need to waste precious ammo at a boarding ceremony, if things go south...

Curses and drat. Naturally, her grand entrance would have to be spoiled. She would need to work twice as hard to make up for it.

"The Astropath's message was meant for my uncle. As his heir, the Choir-Master believed I should receive it. Mister Fioren, Master Beria. A pleasure to make your acquaintances."

By ancient, hallowed tradition, in naval parlance, "mister" is a higher form of address than "master," for complex lexographical reasons.

"Do lead the way. I trust the High Factotum has made arrangement for the shore leave and entertainment of my crew in watch rotation. Just how many Rogue Traders ply the Expanse?"

She parried the functionary's threat with one of her own, similarly couched in passive-aggressive concern: "I would hope the Tutors do not take it upon themselves to enslave my voidsmen. Twenty thousand armed men can make quite a mess of things, and I can hardly keep track of all of them."

Elizabeth stood straight-backed and did not follow the two men just yet. She gestured to Arebella, Ardanor, Gregor, and Johan, introducing them in turn. "Mister Fioren, Master Beria, these are my most esteemed associates: my beloved sister and closest confidant, Arebella Drake, Navigator of the Audacious Faith Adranor von Barknek, House Drake's Archivist Gregor Curel, and Captain Johan Rainsford, lately of the Catachan Guard and Arch-Militant in my employ. I expect they will be treated with the same respect as I am myself."

She waited for her companions to be acknowledged with at least some deference before she moved.

IF this condition is met, then she does, in fact, follow the two merchants. The House Guard keep a cordon on either side, weapons at parade ready, carapace chest pieces, brightly-colored flak coats, and gleaming shakos setting them off as professionals a grade above common naval armsmen.

She answers Fioren's question: "As you say, the message was brief. My uncle mentioned the event a few times, unpredictable auctions of artifacts or information. He believed the Foretelling is the chief source of income for the Seven Witches."

When accosted by xenos, Elizabeth stops and holds up her right hand to signal the House Guard also stop. Forty boots clop to a crisp halt and twenty hands slapped onto lasgun guards.

"Does anyone speak their language?" she asks, looking over her shoulder while just barely turning her head.

The mere sight of xenos on any proper Imperial world would cause immediate mass hysteria. From birth, every Imperial citizen is taught that the presence of the alien is unclean by its very nature, and the only proper reward for xenos is to end the crime of their existence with fire and sword. What a very strange place Footfall must be.

Arebella, eyes the aliens... Kroot?, savages barely better than orcs, but they do sometimes take mercenary work.

"I believe they are Kroot, mistress, while xenos I have known some to employ them as mercenaries - so I while I haven't had personal dealings to learn their tongue I think it's likely they at least know the basics of low gothic. Hard to hire yourselves out otherwise."

Ardanor quietly waits to see what will happen.

Johan is at the ready but takes no hostile action. He doubts the Kroot will do anything stupid, as to attack their team but you never know with those filthy xenos.

As they walk, Gregor doesn't speak up but scribbles away notes on his pad. He does want to inquire more regarding the Foretelling but thinks it better to leave the bosses to chat for now.