>Previous Thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/19367657/You are Tristan Aphesius Scathach, a proud ensign of Battlefleet Victorum. The seventh son of a minor Rogue Trader dynasty, you entered the Imperial Navy to find your own path to fame, wealth and glory. Unfortunately, an incident during your naval academy days has pushed you off the fast track to promotion and seen you assigned to the 38th Enforcer Patrol, a squadron made up of Battlefleet Victorum’s failures, incompetents and political outcasts, manning Cobra destroyers so new they lack a proper name.In the midst of an Ork WAAGH!, you find yourself consigned to escorting garbage scows and scuttled ships out of the warzone and patrolling the barren Rimward stretches of the sector. The patrol hasn’t exactly been boring, however; the massive tusk you carry around is proof of that. Your achievements notwithstanding, there is little opportunity for glory or promotion aboard the CT-381; you command a macrocannon turret aboard a torpedo boat, a position of impotent responsibility. If you ever get the chance to kill a ship, you’ll be lucky to survive let alone boast of your achievement.Seeking some way out, some ladder to climb, you asked an older officer of ways you could attract the attention of the upper ranks, beyond long years of faithful service. As a minor noble, you can speak High Gothic much more fluently than most of the other officer’s you’ve met, one officer in particular. In this unimpressive patrol, two options were presented to you: help the fleet confessor tend to the ministrations of the squadron, or pull a second shift as an astropath transcriber. At the end of your uneventful shift, you find your fellow ensign Elim sitting in the mess, a plate of mushy repaste and grox mash rapidly disappearing into his belly.
>>19373720“What’s the rush?” you ask as you tuck into your own greasy pile of food. “You heard the sub-lieutenant; I’m going to go up to Lieutenant Crade and ask for another shift before someone else takes those spots. Marius and Jowells are probably already up there, weaseling it out of him. Me, I need a full stomach before I run up to the bridge.” His plate cleared, he starts gulping down his glass of water, coughing a little as it goes down the wrong tube.“Hey, take it easy. You don’t want this shit to be your last meal.” The lukewarm repaste tastes like paper, with the texture of uncooked oatmeal, while the grox mash is inexplicably lacking in meaty savoriness. The half-empty saltshaker on the table tells you how most of the mess dealt with the bland slop; you shake it vigorously over your tray as you consider Elim’s plan. [ ] Head on up to the bridge after you finish; you’re feeling hungry for some recognition.[ ] Head over to the medicae deck and check in on Roswald. Maybe he has some ideas on what you should be doing.[ ] You know, this tusk really needs some work. Go see a man about some scrimshaw and gold chain.
>>19373748[X] Head on up to the bridge after you finish; you’re feeling hungry for some recognition.
[ ] Head on up to the bridge after you finish; you’re feeling hungry for some recognition.Also, we should do the astropath transcribing thing, getting to know them is always a good idea.
>[ ] Head on up to the bridge after you finishThis unappetizing drivel gets dumped into the reclamation chute in short order and head on out of the mess, straightening your uniform as you walk towards the lift nest. Nestled in the heart of the ship, the nest is the central boarding point for the various lifts that run through the ship. From there, you can head anywhere you want, so long as your rank permits. With the shift change over, the lift nest is practically empty. Elim’s sandy hair is immediately obvious, un-obscured by the crowds that normally fill the chamber. The bridge lift is obvious from the ostentation around its doorframe, and you see Elim tapping his foot impatiently in front of it. Standing on your tiptoes, you slowly sneak up on him.“These boots have really hard soles, you know?” Sigh…You take your place beside him and look at the gilded deck indicator above the extravagant frame. It looks like the lift is stopping at every single deck between the bridge and the nest. “So…What’re you gonna ask for?”[ ] Ministering to the squadron doesn’t sound too bad. And friends in the Ecclesiarchy always make for good political leverage.[ ] The astropathic choir will give me a lot of chances to get onto the bridge, passing messages to the captain and officers.[ ] Maybe I’ll just ask the officer of the watch where he needs me and show willing.
[ ] The astropathic choir will give me a lot of chances to get onto the bridge, passing messages to the captain and officers.Voting for this
>>19373921>[ ] The astropathic choir will give me a lot of chances to get onto the bridge, passing messages to the captain and officers.Yeah, this sounds really interesting.
>>19373921>[ ] Let’s go work with the psykers“If we go work with the astropaths, we’ll get onto the bridge more often.” Being a transcriber and messenger will give you more exposure to the ranked officers that decide your fate, and you might find yourself getting some welcome attention in your quest for promotion. If it can get you out of the macrobatteries, it’ll be worth putting up with the unsettling psykers. “Yeah, I guess. But I’d rather memorize all the writings of Saint Castor AND their commentaries than hang around listening to warp-mumble.” Elim looks completely unenthused about the prospect of spending long hours listening to the babble of astropaths, and you can’t really blame him. For most of the Imperium, psykers are objects of fear and disgust. Your home, though, always had psykers coming through on business, from Navigators to astropaths to sactioneds to seers. Your parents never seemed to instill the fear of their mutations into you and your siblings, and you grew up thinking they were just another part of the mass of humanity. “Then you’re going to ask to work with the confessor?” With the recent battle, most of the confessor’s workload would probably be ministering to the dead and dying, not something you’re really interested in.“Looks that way, yeah. Think of it this way: the confessor will be sending me to the other ships in the squadron, right? Sure, I’ll be speaking prayers over and over again, but I’ll also get to meet the officers in the rest of the squadron. I’ll be making contacts and networks over there, you know.” You concede that point, but you think to yourself that the grim duty was still not particularly appealing.
>>19374242The lift finally, finally, finally reaches the nest and the two of you step aboard and instantly send the lift back up the shaft to the bridge. The journey up is much shorter than the wait you endured, and you spend the short seconds double-checking each other’s uniform for imperfections. Your ork tusk is causing a slight bulge in your jacket, which you fix by shoving it deeper into the shoulder holster you’re currently holding it in. As the doors open, the scent of promethium and machine oil that fills the rest of the ship is replaced with the slight spiciness of cheap incense. The low rumble of the ship isn’t as evident here; instead, the sounds of cogitators and the low rustle of crew and servitor reports overlays everything like a muslin shroud. The captain’s throne is far above you, hoisted up by a massive brass servo-arm, and you can see the aged form of Captain Belgrano studying dataslates held up by a spider’s web of mechadendrites sprouting from behind the throne. To your left and right are the tiers of the crew pit, two of them, filled with trusted voidsmen and servitors studying the dozens of displays and readouts produced by the destroyer’s myriad sensors. You see the officer of the watch, lieutenant Crade, sitting at a cogitator console and typing up something. As you and Elim walk towards him, he stands up and turns towards you, a surprised expression giving way to tired resignation.
>>19374242"Tell you what - you make your contacts, I'll keep a running list of the more competent minds in the squadron in my head and we'll compare notes. After all, I'll be entrusted with enough fleet correspondence to see who the idiots are. Might as well have an idea of where the brains of this operation're located when we need them."Wish friend well in his attempt, proceed to astropathic comms.
>>19374286Salute him and offer an official greeting in flawless High Gothic. Something like "[Name and rank] requesting permission to report to [the bridge, or whatever], sir."
Incidentally OP, I like how you've related command of language to social status in the military and Imperial society. It's very perceptive of how a Victorian-style social convention could affect one's capacities and career opportunities in a feudalistic society.
>>19374286You snap a sharp salute and report in. “Ensign Tristan Scathach sir, Macrocannon Three.” Elim hastily makes the same salute and greeting, remembering the proper protocols. The lieutenant nods dully in response.“Welcome to the bridge. I supposed you boys are looking to pull a double shift too, are you? Jowells and Kayon have already been by asking for the same thing. Honestly, upsetting the time tables like this…” He shakes his head, a frown on his deeply-lined face. “Well sir, we just want to serve the Battlefleet wherever it needs service. Especially with the patrol coming up on the warzone and the unfortunate losses we took during the battle, I’m sure you can find a place to slot two young and eager ensigns.” Elim is on his best behavior as he speaks, holding back the jokes and japes. Lieutenant Crade isn’t that impressed though.“And I suppose you have your own ideas of where the fleet needs service, do you? Just get it out and I’ll see whether it jibes with my schedules or not.” A small dataslate is pulled out from a holster on his belt, as swiftly and smoothly as you unholster a pistol. “Well, I was thinking of helping the confessor out with his holy rites. I’m sure he has a lot on his plate right now.” “Hm. I can schedule it for Third Shift, but you’ll have to confirm it with the confessor. I’ve just sent Marius along to him, so who knows if he needs the help. And you?” The lieutenant makes a and adjustment on the slate and turns towards you. “Ensign Scathach, sir. I heard that the astropaths need some help transcribing their transmissions, sir, and I speak High Gothic fluently.”
>>19374505“Hm. Scathach…” Crade nods to himself. “That’s a duty that always needs filling. Second watch then, and you start ten minutes ago. Now off with you two, Mr. Scathach and friend, and let me get back to my schedules.”==]+[==
>>19374542Wish your friend the best of luck and go to your assignment.
>>19374574Yeah, pretty much this
>>19374542You wish Elim luck and part ways with him at the lift. He congratulates you on remembering to give your names to the Lieutenant and heads down to the chapel. You, on the other hand, walk out one level beneath the bridge and head for the Astropath Tower sticking out of the command pyramid. It isn’t particularly tall, merely bringing the astropath station in light with the level of the bridge, but the bonded armsmen at the foot of the tower make you think you’re walking up to some feudal stone tower of great height with a princess imprisoned and unreachable at the top.After a security scan and pat-down by the mute, masked guards, you’re allowed through. Your first impression is of a dungeon, cavernous and filled with hanging cages for prisoners to languish in. As you look closer, however, you see that the cages are really console platforms mounted to lifts along the cylindrical walls, each with a servitor recording the chatter of the void. Higher up, you can see the real cages; a trio of psyker cages hang at the top of the tower, cutting the psyker off from the distractions of the world so they can better focus their talents. At ground level, you can see a circle of consoles, recording the servitor-filtered transmissions for the lone officer frantically typing into a cogitator. You can see a thick dictionary sitting atop one of the cogitators, through which the officer frantically flips. “Ensign Scathach, reporting for duty!” You snap a salute as you step behind the man, your booted feet making echoing taps along the cold stone floor. He turns around, and you think, ‘What have I gotten myself into?’
>>19374686Receive instructions, translate like a motherfucker, make mental notes of the authors of any orders that sound brilliant and try to memorize who the big-shots and powerhouses are in fleet command.
>>19374686“Ensign Scathach, reporting for duty!” You snap a salute as you step behind the man, your booted feet making echoing taps along the cold stone floor. He turns around, and you think, ‘What have I gotten myself into?’ The haggard officer smiles broadly, snaps a loose salute and says “I stand relieved. And thank the God-Emperor for you, sir!” He legs it out of the tower without any regard to his appearance and disappears behind the heavy iron hatch, the many bars and locks sealing themselves behind him.Now that you’re alone, you take a closer look at the consoles. They display a mix of High and Low Gothic text, much of it allegorical and archaic. Even for you, this is going to be a struggle. As you start reading and translating, you start to understand why so few volunteer for this duty. The six servitor feeds are constantly feeding you information and text, much of it redundant. They must have two servitors recording each psyker’s reports, and for some arcane reason known only to the red priests of Mars, the servitors are fragmenting the psyker’s speech and sending it to you on two different screens. >roll d20 for your first hour’s work.
rolled 17 = 17>>19374768I'm guessing that trying to improve or alter the system to make it work better would be frowned on by someone.
Tell him that we are here to assist them, we have a good knowledge of high gothic and we are eager to work.Also look for hot psyker chicks in our spare time, if we get any spare time, that is.
>>19374791>Hot psyker chicks>Boy are you going to be surprised
>>19374788I hope that we were looking for a high roll.I also agree with improving the system if we find obvious ways to do so.
>>19374846Cuddles has quite the following here on /tg/.
>>19374846>>19374791>Hot psyker chicks>Boy are you going to be surprisedI would settle for a mildly attractive one.
Psyker porn? In MY quest thread?It's likelier than you think.
>seeking physical relations with a filthy psyker>On a Navy shipWe'll be dead by the fifth thread, and mad by the third.
We should stop in at some kind of skilled crew gathering place soon and see if we can find more people that speak good High Gothic.That way, we can get enough of them doing this work to possibly cross-check with each other and improve reportage across the whole system.
>>19374846So she is going to be blind and slightly frail. I'm sure that she'll be receptive and in need of our brand of care. This totally isn't heresy by the way if we go for an Astropath.
>>19374791>>19374846>>19374892>>19374894>>19374919How about NOT sticking it into witches for a while, there, /tg/?
>Feel free to post some hot psykers.
>>19374939And then every time you touch her, you get horrible screaming sounds and visions from her astropathic sight in your head?Riveting.
>>19374955
>>19374965Horrible screaming sounds of love?
>>19375035Well, you'd mostly be hearing the warp through her. It'd be like putting your ear to a wall separating you from a raging eternity of black noise.The love of warp creatures doesn't sound or look too different from their hate, either.
You slip into the flow of the work quite nicely, piecing the feeds of the different servitors without nearly as much trouble as you expected. A good portion of this is probably due to your command of High Gothic; it’s easy to tell which fragments go together and you translate it easily, even fixing a few mistakes made by the servitors. But as the first hour ends, the oppressive cold of the tower starts to cut through your heavy naval jacket. The susurrating chatter of the servitor feeds is your only companion, for none of the bonded armsman have made to approach you or even acknowledge you. The transcribed script is printed out constantly by a servitor-scribe, the paper feeding out of its once-chest cavity as a quill mounted on a servo-arm attached to its desiccated shoulder. As you wrap up piecing another fragmented feed together, the locks and bars on the hatch behind you open with a clang, making you jump. You turn around and see a junior warrant officer, head held down and shoulders hunched, run in to grab the paper feed and cut it off with a small dagger. He looks at you with haunted eyes and says, “S,sir, instructions from the bridge.” A roll of paper is passed over to you as the officer hurries out, the servitor feeding out a new tongue of paper filled with dense black scribbles. >Fields too short
>>19374955All of the ones on my hard drive are either male humans or eldar, so I screencapped the one from Damnatus.>>19374965I find this acceptable
Cuddles is so cuddly!
>>19374941But that's what we do here. You might as well ask a monastery to stop droning on about God so much.
>>19375095At last, proper instructions. You leave the feeds to build up for a moment as you scroll through your latest orders. Several things become clear; first, you are expected to report to the bridge with the final transcript of your watch. Second, in the event of an emergency, you will be expected bring the report directly to the bridge. In all other cases, a warrant officer will take your report to the bridge on the hour. Third, explicit instructions from the Magos Majoris that the servitor system is not to be tampered with; you’re not really sure how you would do that if you wanted to, but you do feel like giving him a piece of your mind about how convoluted it is. Fourth, interfering with the psykers or bonded armsman is death, as if you couldn’t work that out. And finally…it recommends you put on a heavier outfit when you report for duty. With a shift change period of fifteen minutes, it’s going to be a rush to switch from the lighter uniform you wear in the hot macrocannon turret to the winter wear you’re going to need in here. >roll d20 for the rest of the watch.
rolled 1 = 1>>19375133>>roll d20 for the rest of the watch.rolled 1=1We freeze to death.
rolled 20 = 20>>19375133>Fourth, interfering with the psykers or bonded armsman is deathWhat constitutes interference with a psyker?
rolled 15 = 15Here goes.
rolled 9 = 9>>19375133Rolling.
>>19375158>>19375159
>>19375159>>19375158I really, really hope those two cancel each other out or something.
>>19375182We start freezing to death and get saved by a stupid sexy psyker?
>>19375159>>19375158Well, shit.
>>19375158Your eyelids start feeling heavy as you get on with the watch. Try as you might, you find yourself starting to yawn and slump over your consoles. You’re not going to stand for this, and decide to stand up and take a walk around the tower before you really fall asleep. By the time you do, your fingers and toes are aching something fierce, and you find yourself stumbling with every step. The medicae rush in after the next watchman finds you, curled up in a ball with blackened, wizened fingers and ears. The operation ends up removing all of your left hand, the thumb on your right, your left foot and both your ears. Your testicles are also rendered sterile by the frostbite, and you end up wearing a hook-foot and peg hand for the rest of your life.
>>19375133Remind ourself to just leave a large winter coat here, find a nice place to stash in when we aren't on shift.
>>19375251Well, that was an enjoyable read.
>>19375251Either this was a very short quest or the huehuehue is strong with this one.
I've never been so tempted to tell someone to delete a roll before. Damn.
>>19375251>respond to a roll of 1 next to a roll of 20>ignore all subsequent rolls>do this right as a quest is getting started>maim the characterFuck you, OP.
>>19375385Calm down, I doubt that post is meant to be serious.
>>19375385He's trolling. Otherwise, he wouldn't have said anything about "the rest of your life," because that would mean the quest ends here.
>>19375385It's almost certainly HUEHUEHUE, not an actual canon post.
>>19375251This is exactly what you psyker-fucking, witch-diddling heretics deserve. Chem-geld NOW.
>>19375385He did it in the last thread too, when multiple people encouraged Ensign Tristan to stop fighting the Orks and start a WAAAAGH of his own.
>>19375425We're from a Rogue Trader dynasty. Heresy is practically a requirement.
>>19375428>Ten years later, WAAAGGHH! Humie (your name was hard to pronounce) laid a trail of devastation throughout the Segmentum Tempestus, and your name was reviled throughout the Imperium as the greatest traitor since Horus. Orks throughout the galaxy flocked to your banner, knowing you would be the one to lead them to Da Big Fight At Da End A' Everyfin.I lol'd so hard when I read that one in the archives
>>19375159>>19375164>>19375169The rest of your six-hour watch is long and uneventful, broken only by the clang of the tower door as nameless, unmemorable warrant officers rush in and out. Your fingers start to shiver somewhere around hour three, and you resolve to bring along the thick lambskin gloves your mother gave you when you left for the academy. When your ears start to hurt around hour four, you resolve to put on those earmuffs your mother passed to you at the same time. As hour six rolls around, you hear the two double bells and single bell that signal the end of the second watch and the start of the shift period. As you slice off the paper feed and bundle it up in a roll to carry beneath your arm, the hatch clangs open again. A squad of bonded armsmen walks in, shotguns leveled. One of them points a barrel at you, motioning you over to the stone wall of the tower. As you back up to the wall, a lever is pulled by an armsman on one of the lift platforms. With a harsh metal ratching, one of the psyker cages begins to lower itself. As it reaches the ground, two armsmen stand to either side, one with a pointed barrel, the other with a datalock amulet. The cage hangs off the ground when it stops, but it seems to be how it works. The amulet is pressed to the solid metal door, which opens slowly with a hiss of pressurized air.
>>19375472Inside, you can see a wizened old man dressed in plain white robes. A black oxygen mask is stuck to his pale white face, which the armsmen pull off. His eyes open as his concentration is broken, revealing two pits that seem to hold the very emptiness of the void itself. The armsmen help lever him out of his cage, slippered feet making the inch-high hop to the floor. As they guide him over to the hatch, he suddenly turns towards you, the empty pits staring with an intensity you’d never seen before in living eyes. This close, you can see the starry-eyed symbol of the Adepta Astra Telepathica embroidered on his robe, ringed by an Imperial halo.“You’re not officer Chainer. You’re someone new. Who are ya?” His voice is gruff and wispy, like that of grumpy old Judge Abner from the Arbites serials you watched as a kid. The armsmen make no effort to intervene as he raises a surprisingly healthy-looking finger at you. “Eh, speak up! Shift change in twelve minutes, dontcha know!”
>>19375570I am Ensign Tristan, I just started working here today. It is a pleasure to meet you.
>>19375605That's Ensign Scathach. Tristan is our first name.
Tell him your name and rank, be respectful of his position.
>Balls, I'm getting slow here.
“Dear! Please! Don’t cause trouble for these good boys.” The voice comes from the iron hatchway, interjecting forcefully. The old astropath frowns at you, but backs off as a wheelchair is pushed into the tower. Seated in it is another astropath, a kindly-looking old woman. She looks like she could be anyone’s grandmother, bar your own, if not for the unsettling strip of cloth bound about her head. It is covered in eyes, eyes of all shapes and sizes and types, but all in shades of green. There is a lifelike quality to them that must have been expensive to achieve.
>>19376012“Well then, young man, I do apologize for this old fool’s gruffness. But it seems that astropath seniorus Diao would like to know your name. Would you not mind satisfying his curiousity?” You can feel something brushing against your shoulder as she smiles at you. If you were anyone else, you would probably be too tongue-tied to respond. But you’ve met psykers before, and know how eccentric they can be. You’re not surprised at all, no sir. “Ensign Scathach, ma’am. And I’m sorry, I don’t know…”The smile was about as kindly as any you could remember. “A pleasure to meet you, ensign. I am Astropath Veneratus Shen, Mistress of the Tower for my sins.” The armsmen pushing the wheelchair touches a hand to her shoulder, and she nods at him. “Well, shift change in ten minutes, gentlemen. I’m sure you must bring that to the shipmasters, Ensign. And astropath Diao and I will be having a long talk when we meet again.” Her wheelchair is pushed towards the waiting cage as Diao turns towards you, his expression now somewhat sheepish.“Sorry ‘bout that, lad. Just a bit a curious, bit too vigorous as they said to me back then. Nothing untoward, eh?” He nods at you as the armsmen shackle his hands and lead him away, trailing a strip of green cloth tied about his waist. [ ] Head up to the bridge now, before shift change ends.[ ] Stay awhile and wait for your replacement.
>>19375980I run a quest on a forum, it usually takes me several hours to write an update.That's not exactly an issue on a forum like SB, though.
>>19376025[x] Head up to the bridge now, before shift change ends.
>>19376025[X] Stay awhile and wait for your replacement.Meet our replacement, introduce ourself, talk to him about the plan of leaving a thick coat here to be shared by all us poor sods stuck in this room.
[ ] Stay awhile and wait for your replacement.We can spare ten minutes
>>19376074>>19376069Seconding. Leaving before relief is abandoning your post.Meet the next guy, learn his name, let him know you're looking to be part of the staff more permanently, and THEN report to the bridge.
>>19376025>[ ] Stay awhileYou decide to leave it to five minutes, since the bridge is only one deck up. After spending six hours in the wintery confines of the Astropath tower, you’ve decided to leave one of the heavy winter coats your mother packed for you in the chamber, probably under the console. (She was somewhat obsessed with the cold, your mother.) Plus, you’ll be able to introduce yourself and maybe make a friend.You lean against the wall outside of the tower, paper scroll in hand, until you hear the sounds of running battlefleet boots. Skidding around the corner is…Ensign Jowells. He skids to a stop as he sees you and the armsmen.“Well, well, well, this is a surprise.” You smile as he struggles to regain some of his composure, swiping a handkerchief along his forehead. “Ha, well…I wanted the recognition. Plus, I’m pretty good with High Gothic too. Maybe not as fluent as you or Ensign Medway, but that’s what this is for.” He pulls a dataslate out of his uniform jacket. These things must’ve been designed for hiding anything and everything a navy man needs. “Better plan than the other guy I saw; he was carrying around some massive dictionary.” You describe the duties of the job, as well as your plans for leaving a coat, to Jowells as quick as you can. With a minute to spare, you head off for the lift after accepting his offer to bring hot recaff during the shift change.
>>19376352So, time to report to the bridge now?
>>19376352You walk into the bridge moments before the third shift bells ring. Lieutenant Crade is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Captain Belgrano himself is levering himself out of his throne and walking over to you. The crew’s opinion of the old captain is that he’s a skilled officer worthy of respect, but completely dead politically. His heavily augmented body is a sign of the deadly battles in which he has fought, particularly the fierce red augmetic that takes the place of his right eye. A search into his history turns up his name in the after-action reports of dozens of battles, against Orks, pirates, even Dark Eldar raiders. More telling to you, thanks to your experience growing up in the halls of power, is the lack of any evidence of rejuvenat treatment. Someone with his record and of his age should have had at least some rejuvenat to pad out his natural life, but he seems to have never been able to get it.“Is that the astropath report, Ensign?” He extends a bionic claw from the sleeve of his right arm, pincers open and waiting.“Yes sir.” You snap off a salute and pass it over to him, the claws snapping silently over the roll of paper. He looks at you with a puzzled expression, the bushy white eyebrows knitted together like a pair of caterpillars. “What’s your name, son?”“A-Ensign Tristain Aphesius Scathach, sir!” You find yourself standing straighter and puffing out your chest. The captain actually asked your name! He nods in response. “Thank you, Mr. Scathach.” As he walks back towards his throne, he glances back. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you run a short errand for me?”[ ] Hell yeah![ ] Nah, I’ve just pulled 12 hours of duty.
>>19376432Yep.Go to the bridge, address the officers and so forth formally, give them the printout and so forth.
>>19376544[x] Of course, Sir.We're out of the cold, and now we have a chance to do something for the captain. Score.
[ ] Hell yeah!That's what we're saying on the inside.Act enthusiastic and responsible on the outside.
>>19376564Second.
>>19376544You jump with joy and clap your hands, shouting at the top of your lungs, “HELL YEAH!” Or you would, if you weren’t standing on the bridge of the CT-381, with the captain right in front of you. “Of course, sir!” You’ve gotten a lot of practice saluting in the last few days; it must be the influence of the Trident warzone. The captain nods and walks over to his throne, pulling a dataslate from a proffered mechadendrite. “We’ll be entering the orbit of Vyan’s Wall in thirty minutes. Lord-Captain Raymes, the commander of the orbital garrison, is asking for a direct log transfer, and I’d like you to deliver it to him.” Well, that’s about the oddest errand you’ve ever heard of. Direct data transfers via physical medium are usually only done when the enemy has already penetrated Imperial voxnets. And the chances of that happening in Vyan’s Wall, one of the Fortress Worlds of the Mylas Sanction, are pretty slim. Some of your confusion must have slipped through to your face, because the captain puts his human hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry about, son. It’s just a statement by the Lord-Captain on what he thinks of our security.” In other words, a calculated insult. And you, a lowly ensign, are Captain Belgrano’s response.
>>19376806Give understanding nod. "Thank you, sir. I'll do so immediately, unless there's anything else I can do for you, sir?"
>>19376880seconding
>>19376806“Thank you, sir. I’ll do so at once, unless there’s anything else you require of me?”“Ha, don’t be too eager there, ensign. Respect and brown-nosing are closer than you think.” The captain gives a half-smile as he locks the data-slate into an armored case and hands it over to you.You accept the data-slate gracefully and are directed to Landing Bay 2, one of the Cobra’s tiny hangars. A deputation of armsmen is sent along with you, to “safeguard” the logs. As you step into the Aquila shuttle and the hatch closes behind you, one of them asks if you were the one who killed the Ork nob during the boarding action. The tusk you pull out is all the proof you need, and you spend the flight retelling your harrowing tale of single-combat against a monstrosity that could cleave through ceramite like tissue paper and stank like a reclamation bay. The pilot announces landing approval as you get to the part where you stabbed it’s skull with your chainsword, and you quickly grab the armored attaché case holding the data-slate.
>>19376975Be respectful to the receiving officers and so forth. If we're going to be a calculated insult, our command of high gothic should either imply that an ensign from our fleet is better than any of these fuckers or that the insult isn't all THAT bad.In the meantime we can find out if there are any competent officers or useful politicos around and maybe learn something.
>>19376975As the Aquila lands, two of the armsmen get up and open the hatch, shotguns shouldered. They proceed down the steps first, before giving you the all-clear sign. You follow them down, the remaining two armsmen flanking you. As you exit, you take in the sights of the landing bay. It is truly massive, stretching hundreds of meters off into the distance on either side of you. You aren’t quite sure what sort of ship this is, but it must be a carrier vessel judging from the size of the hangar and the squadrons of Furies and Faustus interceptors lined up along the far wall in hexagonal alcoves. Hundreds of men, women, servitors and enginseers are walking around, opening up fighters or moving massive crates or receiving orders. The men standing at the foot of the ramp, however, are the complete opposite; a picture of serene stillness in the chaos of the hangar. As you approach them, you see that while the armsmen are indiscernible, the officer awaiting you is a woman. She bears the insignia of a sub-lieutenant, a rank just above your own. She looks almost as young as you, her pale blonde hair cut short beneath her battlefleet cap. You salute her as you approach, as protocol dictates. “Ensign Scathach, CT-381. Requesting permission to board.”“Sub-lieutenant Henrietta Arys, welcome aboard. Uh, I mean, permission granted. Welcome aboard the Dominus Nova, ensign.” Her salute is executed hesitantly, and her green eyes are somewhat downcast as she performs it. “Sign code…Maxima janvier…ultima.”‘Blimey,’ you think, ‘I haven’t seen someone this unbalanced since…since two days ago, in fact.’ Still, you guess not all of Battlefleet’s less-skilled officers can be tossed into the patrols. You give the proper counter-response, crisply and clearly. “Ultima Justicia Veneratus.”
>>19377061I am once again seconding
>>19377081“I confirm.” The sub-lieutenant takes a deep breath before continuing. “Um…I suppose I’ll be taking the log report now…”>Roll 1d20
rolled 7 = 7>>19377118rolling
rolled 6 = 6"My apologies, but my orders were to deliver these documents to the Lord-Captain personally. if you would take me to him i would me most obliged."
rolled 17 = 17>>19377118I'm dreadfully sorry sub-lieutenant but I was asked to deliver this into the Lord-Captain's hands.
rolled 20 = 20>>19377165Seconding.
>>19377165>>19377227thirding
>>19377227It’s a good thing you’re not one of the Enforcer Patrol’s incompetents. But the question is how to handle this delicately…“Sub-lieutenant,” you whisper under your breath, “I was wondering if the Officer of the Watch was here to receive the transfer. I believe that is protocol S-282.a, if I’m remembering my Battlefleet R&R correctly. If you could take me and the log report to them, that would be quite satisfactory.” Surprisingly, the sub-lieutenant breaks out a small smile. “I apologize for the misunderstanding; the Officer of the Watch had an urgent matter to attend to. Of course, me and my men will escort you to him.” As she orders her armsmen to form a guard, interlacing with yours, she whispers a thanks back to you. It seems things here are a little more complex than you thought.
>>19377364Looks like someone is trying to set her up somehow.Ask her if we can help her out, off the record.
>>19377408Not while we're surrounded by guards, who have ears.
(I assume OP had more to post, that or he forgot a prompt?)
>>19377518I'd like more consistent prompts. Sometimes it can be hard to tell when the author wants input, if they don't put a "What do you do" or "How do you respond" at the end.
>>19377518>I'm writing it...
>>19373720I hate to interrupt but where did you get that picture, OP?It looks like it came from a video game...
>>19377558>A lot of times, I incorporate what people ask for in the thread as I write. I don't ask for prompts when I don't specifically want a response, but I'm happy to listen to suggestions.
>>19377577>Screenshot from the Battlefleet Gothic Sins of a Solar Empire mod.
>>19377364The bridge of the Dominus Nova is larger than the astropath tower on the CT-381, more cavernous in aspect and taller in height. Where the CT-381 had a crew pit, the Dominus Nova has crew pits; three of them, situated at the fore, port and starboard of the bridge command dais. The dais alone has three tiers of operators, while the pits, as far as you can see, are at least four tiers deep. You can scarcely comprehend why a vessel would need such a massive bridge crew, and even less how a ship can get away with the meter-high glass viewports that encircle the bridge. Where the bridge of your destroyer smelled of cheap and impotent incense, this bridge is perfumed with the fragrance of roses and fresh water. Where the bridge of the Cobra has icons to the Emperor mounted prominently atop the main viewport, each window frame here wouldn’t look out of place in the walls of the Cathedral of Pillar, the grandest in the sector. A great statue of the Emperor Throwing Down the Traitor, in bronze, sits at the very back of the command dais, behind the great marble command throne. On that throne sits the Lord-Captain, and at his side stands the Officer of the Watch, barking out orders to the port-side crew pit. He turns around as he hears your party marching in, a puzzled expression on his face that quickly turns neutral. >What do?
>>19377423>>19377408We can do that on a longer-term basis. Could exchange mail codes or something later, too.
>>19377619Time to give him the report.Introduce ourselves, state our reason for coming here and hand him the case.Be respectful and speak in fancy gothic.
>>19377619Salute, speak in your best high gothic while reporting to the officer, offer logs.
>>19377619“Ensign Scathach, CT-381, requesting permission to board, sir!” You call out in your best High Gothic as you pull off a salute your drill sergeant would’ve been proud of. The Lord-Captain turns to the Officer of the Watch, who stiffens and walks over to you. He salutes as he stands to attention in front of you.“Permission granted, ensign. Welcome aboard the Dominus Nova.” His High Gothic is flawless, bearing a trace of Avalonian accent. “Sub-lieutenant Arys has verified your authority and package?”“Yes sir. I turn possession over to you.” It’s an archaic form, but if they insisted on putting on a charade, you’re sure as hell going to make it worse for them.“I accept possession.” The officer takes hold of the attaché case and turns to walk away.“Sir, I believe Sub-lieutenant Arys must acknowledge the receipt.” “Ah, yes. Of course. Sub-lieutenant, do you acknowledge the transfer of the package?” The officer is nonplussed to be corrected in such a manner, but he can’t ignore the security protocols.“I so acknowledge, sir.” Arys wears a slight smile on her face, her head held high and her arms folded behind her back. You guess you know who put her up to that shabby entrance.“Very good. You are dismissed.” A final exchange of salutes, and you walk off the bridge with the armsmen and sub-lieutenant in tow.
>>19377847>My internet is starting to crap out on me, so I'll end it here for today. Thanks for bearing with my slow posts; it was fun.
>>19377847Offer to exchange contact information with the sub-lieutenant.
>>19377865Ok, good night
