No Mean City Session 1.1 "National Express"

Session 1.1 THE NATIONAL EXPRESS Take the National Express when your life's in a mess
It'll make you smile
All human life is here
From the feeble old dear to the screaming child
From the student who knows that to have one of those
Would be suicide
To the family man
Manhandling the pram with paternal pride
And everybody sings 'ba ba ba da'
We're going where the air is free

On the National Express there's a jolly hostess
Selling crisps and tea
She'll provide you with drinks and theatrical winks
For a sky-high fee
Mini-skirts were in style when she danced down the aisle
Back in '63 (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
But it's hard to get by when her arse is the size
Of a small country
And everybody sings 'ba ba ba da'
We're going where the air is free
Tomorrow belongs to me

When you're sad and feeling blue
With nothing better to do
Don't just sit there feeling stressed
Take a trip on the National Express, the National Express, let's go.

-National Express, The Divine Comedy,

Tia Dafydd

Session 1.1 "National Express"

Late Evening, Sept 3rd 2014. London Victoria Bus Station

Diesel fume stink and the babbling hubbub of six or seven hundred tired, hungry people fill the air of the bus station punctuated only by the rumbling of over-worked bus engines while vehicle after vehicle disgorges it human cargo onto the dirty asphalt of London Victoria Station. A petite goth girl with hulk-green dreads stands at the London to Glasgow stance, dressed in casual looking black joggy bottoms and an Anthrax hoodie. She's got a small overnight bag over one shoulder, a simple canvas number decorated with band patches and a hello-kitty plush keyring. Hello-kitty has had one eye blacked out with a marker pen, to give her a piratical touch.

Standing next to her is a bubbly looking girl, just as pretty but in a “girl next door” sort of way. She's helping the goth looking girl settle a huge, baroque looking clothes trunk onto the asphalt next to the bus stance. Looking at them, most folks wouldn't be surprised to learn that the green dread-locked girl was a Baroque dancer. The same people would no doubt be shocked to learn that the bubbly looking girl in the jeans and blue top was a dancer too.

Tia Ferch Dafydd turns to her black-garbed friend and enfolds her in a war embrace. When she speaks, it's with a beautifully musical Welsh accent.

“Aww. I'm really going to miss you, you know that Becca. It's not often you meet another a dancer whose not, you know, an ego-driven maniacal monster.”

Becca Adams, otherwise known by the stage name “Threnody Noir” embraces the girl fondly, rubbing a hand up and down her back.

“I know, but it wont be for long girl. I know there are plenty of promoters up I Glasgow who'd be really interested in some of your routines” - Becca

“You really think so? I've never been to Glasgow. I'd love to see it.” - Tia

“I'm really going to miss you” - Becca

“Oh, I'll miss you too.” - Tia

“I'll send you a text when I'm on the bus. Thanks for helping me with the trunk.” - Becca

“Probably for the best. I hate long goodbyes. Have a good journey. And good luck tomorrow.” - Tia

The Welsh lass with the vibrant, strawberry hair bounces off. She turns and wagges her fingers as a friendly goodbye, but she's soon lost in the crowd. Alone now, or at least as alone as it's possible to be in the crowded bus station, Becca's thoughts drift to tomorrow. The big day. Referendum day. She already knows how she'll vote.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of eight or nine powerfully built young men, Rugby players going by their looks and the presence of various jerseys, hoodies and sports' bags marked “Glasgow University Rugby Club”. They're a bit rumbunctious and loud: there's a lot of back-slapping going on there. Becca rolls her eyes theatrically and thinks “Oh great, it's gonna be a long trip.”

Becca raises a eyebrow in surprise as one of the lads suddenly gets out of his seat to offer it to an elderly lady in a thin, blue coat and a tartan hat. The old dear smiles gratefully at the lad, who takes a few pelters and a bit of a ribbing from his mates about his new “girlfriend”. The old lady doesn't seem to mind and even seems to find her benefactors embarrassment somewhat amusing.

It's at this point that Alyss arrives, dressed in a 1950's style ¾ length dress and plenty of fake fur. She's pushing a luggage trolly in front of her that's just about creaking under the weight. Clearly, she's had to pay extra for all that luggage. She takes up station close to the plan metal seats at the stance, all of them occupied, and taps her foot noisely. She's clearly wanting one of the rugby lads to get up and give her their seat.

At about the same time a family of four fight their way through the crowd, approaching the stance from the other direction. The two tired looking parents are hefting a good few suitcases with them. The older child, a girl, is dressed up as a strange hybrid of fairy godmother and Disney princess. The youngest, a tired looking little boy of about three, is dragging his TMNT knapsack along the ground behind him. His other hand is grasping an 8 inch tall Leonardo by one leg. If the doll every came with a katana, it's long gone by now.

Almost immediately, two more of the rugby lads (ironically, the two that were ribbing their mate the loudest)get to their feet and offer them to the small family. Gratefully, the two parents plant their weary backsides on the cold steel on the chairs, and settle the kids on their laps. Dad uses the girl's fairy wand to scratch mums back.

Alyss glares and taps her feet.

Sebastian arrives a few moments later, taking note of how much Scottish accents he's hearing in the crowd around him. He arrives in a cluster of other travellers, some of whom look like workers from the City, dressed in power suits. He looks very out of his place in his worn jeans, leather jacket and plain t-shirt.

Sebastian has barely had time to find himself a spot on the wall to lean against when a very tall, handsome older woman swings past him abruptly, speaking very loudly into her phone with a distinctive French accent. She sounds very put out and distinctly unhappy. The look on her face when she lays eyes on her travelling companions speaks volume. Sebastion recognises the power suit she's wearing as being worth more than his high-powered lap-top and tablet combined.

Alyss and Becca notice her arrival as well. Alyss notices that her blonde hair appears to be an expensive dye job and that her fine, chiselled features are far too symmetrical to be entirely natural. Clearly, mother nature has had a bit of a helping hand from the old chisel with this one. The French woman notices the younger, prettier Alyss watching her and glares rudely.

Becca see's the French woman's glower and chuckles at the thought of the poor lady having to experience the joys of the National Express.

Other passengers continue to arrive and within a few minutes there is almost no standing space at all. By now, all of the rugby lads have given up their seats and are now sitting in a circle, using each other as back-rests, their legs stretched out in front of them and their luggage on their laps. One of two of them are sipping from soft drinks bottles that have clearly been refilled with something a little more “interesting” for the journey home.

Becca looks at her watch. They're already running ten minutes late, despite all the extra-services that have been put on tonight to get people home for the referendum. A number of unintelligible announcements have made, apologising for the delay to this service or that service nada nada nada. It's all going over people's heads and the crowd are getting restless. The French lady seems especially irate, glancing at her rollex every few moments and practically growling at any station employee foolish enough to enter her eyeline.

Eventually a very harried looking bus driver arrives, wearing his high visibility vest and carrying a bucket sized thermal flask full of whatever caffeinated hot drink he's chosen to help see him through the night. Not long after that, an off-white, dirty looking bus pulls up to the stance with the other driver already aboard. Spare driver immediately opens up the under-seat storage lockers and the rugby lads, already bored by the delay, start hefting the heavier luggage items into the bays, with the gratitude of their fellow passengers.

The spare drier announces that the bus is fully booked. Ticketed passengers only, and for the sake of everyone's sanity he will requiring all passengers to stick to their allocated seats. The result is a chorus of groans, but the passengers are already so agitated by the delay that they just want to get on the bus and find a seat. Boarding proceeds quickly.

The French lady tries to jump cue, but is immediately send packing to the rear of with some choice words from the driver. He's speaking in French himself, but his tone isn't lost on anyone, even if the words are. The family of four find their seats at the front of the bus. With all the jostling and seat switching going on, it takes about fifteen minutes of “excuse mes”, “nae bother pals” and “you're in my seats” before the last of the passengers are able to settle down. By which point the bus is already half an hour late and tempers are beginning to fray.

The rugby lads are among the last to take their seats. The very last is the French lady, who finds herself sitting beside Alyss. Sebastian is on the other side of the bus and slightly further back. Becca is just a few seats behind Alyss. None of them have really taken any notice of each other yet, but that's hardly surprising considering that none of them have ever met.

Ten or fifteen minutes after leaving the station, a few of the rugby lads are already a little bit the worse for ware. They immediately begin to lead the bus in a surprisingly fine rendition of “National Express” by the divine comedy. There are a few muttered grumbles and complaints, but the jaunty tune soon has much of the bus clapping and tapping their feet, and the atmosphere much improves. Not for Sebastian and Alyss though, both of whom hate the song and find themselves gritting their teeth, wishing it was over.

Becca, on the other hand, doesn't mind in the least and smiles to herself in amusement, even turning her Ipod down a little to listen. It seems like their about to go for an encore until the little girl down at the front starts singing out “Let it Be” in a reedy little girls voice. The rugby lads soon shut up and listen with tolerant respect, while a few of the other kids on the bus join in. At the end, there's a few polite, desultory claps.

Becca, meanwhile, his pulled her hood up, dug herself deep into her chair, and turned the volume back up. All the way back up. It's at this point she's beginning to realise that the stink of stale lager she's smelling isn't coming from the rugby lads but from the rough looking old codger sat next to her. Fortunately, years of pulling pints in the Hard Rock have dulled her senses to such assaults and she manages to avoid gagging.

The parents hastily shush their daughter before she begins her second rendition, and the driver gratefully turns up the volume on the radio for a bit, “so everyone can hear the road and weather news”.

Alyss is calmly listening to her audiobook. It's a 1940's romance novel. She's doing her best not to crease her very expensive dress ad trying even harder to avoid having her very expensive dress come into contact with any of the seat covers. Sebastian, meanwhile, has been working on his laptop, coding a new app and determinedly ignoring the guy sitting next to him who keeps trying to look over his shoulder. Eventually, Sebastian lets the guy see what he's up to. Bored, his neighbour grunts, asking if Sebastian has any films on that thing.

“It's the work's lap-op” - Sebastian

The guy grunts again, rolls over, and tries to get some sleep.

The French lady sat next to Alyss, meanwhile, is making a point of demarcating her territory by placing her purse on the seat between herself and Alyss. She's only just finished when she pulls her phone out of her bag again and resumes her loud, angry conversation. She's either oblivious too or dismissive of all the glares she's receiving from people who are either trying to sleep or reading quietly under the bus night lights.

The very entitled Alyss tries her damnedest to stay calm and keep her mouth shut but it's more than she can take. The privileged librarian flips down the seat-back tray opposite the French woman, places the French woman's bag and purse on it and then snatches the phone out of her hand, smiles her sweetest smile, and then drops the phone into the Frenchwoman's handbag. All to a round of applause from some nearby passengers.

“The battle of the bitches” Becca exclaims happily, “this is amazing”.

The French woman gasps in astonishment, glares angrily at Alyss, and reaches back into her hand-bag. With seconds, she's dialling up again, giving Alyss a look that's just daring her to try that again.

Alyss demurely takes the phone again -and receives a slap for her trouble.

“Excuse me, we don't behave like this in England!” Alyss insists prissily.

“In France, we do not steal other peoples phones” - Frenchwoman, in a fairly reasonable tone of voice.

“I'm not stealing it if I'm placing it in your bag” -Alyss

“Nor do we interrupt one another's conversations.” - Frenchwoman.

“Well, you're interrupting everyone else on the bus. So shut-up.” -Alyss.

“I don't recall being told this was a silent bus”. -Frenchwoman, prissily and complete oblivious to the little red, “no phone calls” signs plastered on every window of the bus.” - Frenchwoman.

“Well I think you'll find that the manners of modern decorum insist that you much be polite and nice to people, especially on an overnight journey”. -Alyss

“Well you could perhaps be polite and nice to me by allowing me to complete my important phone call.” - Frenchwoman.

“Well you could perhaps be polite and nice by going back to your own country and not behaving like this in England. Now I insist you leave me alone. My mama and papa are very important people and they will sue if you continue to behave in this way.” -Alyss, proving that, not only is she every so slightly a bitch, but she's actually just a little bit of a bigot as well.

The Frenchwoman is indignant. Shocked, but indignant. “Did you just tell me to go back to my own country. I believe there are laws against that sort of thing in this country. Perhaps I should be the one suing you?”

“There might well be, but I think you'll find they don't apply to me.” - Alyss.

By this point, just about everyone on the bus who's still awake is paying attention.

“Daddy, what's a bigot?” - Little boy with the TMNT rucksack.

“Sssssh.” - Daddy.

“Well, I think you'll find that if you ludicrously attempt to sue me, I shall in turn sue you for racism.” - Frenchwoman.

“That would sort of imply you're a different race. You're a nationality darling.” -Alyss.

“I think you'll find that the law doesn't make such distinctions.” -Frenchwoman.

“Papa told me that I can say what I want.” -Alyss.

“I think you'll find that “papa” should have disciplined you better with the aid of a little slap every now and then.” - Frenchwoman.

“Your parents should have told you that it's rude to be loud and obnoxious on buses! There are small children trying to sleep. You really should be more considerate.” -Alyss

“I will have you know that the reason I am speaking loudly is because my mother is hard of hearing.” -Frenchwoman.

“Well, that's not my problem. Maybe you should send her a text message.” -Alyss.

The Frenchwoman can't think of an answer to that. After a few moments of bluster, she simply reaches into her handbag, withdraws her phone again and resumes her conversation, albiat a little bit quieter. She's also holding her phone to the other side of her away. Away from Alyss.

Alyss responds by going into her back and withdrawing a large textbook on library filing systems. She opens it out on her seat-back tray, but the pages stretch out well onto the French ladies own tray. The other woman makes an exasperated noise but completely ignores Alyss, and proceeds to tell her mother (in French) all about the exasperating brat she's found herself sat beside on this good awful bus.

A few seats behind, Becca remarks to her neighbour that this is going to feel like a very long eight hours.

After another couple of hours, the bus has passed the Watford Gap. By this point the bus has gone quiet. Even the rugby lads are barely stirring, whispering quietly amongst themselves. Becca's travelling campanion is becoming increasingly obnoxious however. He's quietly drooling in his sleep at the moment however. Sebastion's seating companion is likewise out like a light. Meanwhile, the two privileged ladies from either end of the English channel are glaring at one another.

Eventually, the French lady stands up, rudely squeezes past Alyss and crosses the aisle to have a whispered conversation with a well dressed man on the other side of the aisle. He get out of his seat, takes his briefcase down from the overhead compartment, and crosses over to the other side of the bus, sitting in the French ladies vacated seat. He gives Alyss a disapproving look but says nothing, simply continuing to read his book. Alyss notices it's entitled “The Golden Dawn”, but thinks nothing of it.

She doesn't have any ranks in Occult.

Alyss pointedly puts her book away, with a satisfied smug.

About four and a half hours into the journey, the bus pulls into a service station and a few of the passengers get out to stretch their legs. Sebastion, most of the Rugby guys, the guy from the “Let it Be” family and Becca among them. The dad sighs dramatically as he lights up a blue Superkings. Becca meanwhile smokes a roll-up she prepared earlier. It's just tobacco. Nothing exotic. After a few moments, the French Lady makes her way down the stairs and produces a silver cigarette case from her inside pocket. She taps a beautifully rolled, silver-filtered cigarette again the lid once, twice, then lights up. She's definitely a heavy smoker. Three deep inhalations and the cigarette is gone. Then she's back on the bus before the drivers have even changed over.

Her cigarette complete, she pulls out her phone again and resumes her loud conversation.

Dad meanwhile is drinking a can of Monster, bleary eyed and desperately in need of a few hours sleep.

A few moments later, everyone is back on the bus. Mr Old firm is lying across Becca's seat, but she politely nudges him awake and he rolls back over to his side of the seat.

He mutters, “Sorry Doll. Had a wee it too much ah the ol vino del collapso”. He's soon fast asleep. Meanwhile, Sebastion's companion is awake again. “ Ahright!” he announces in a thick Geordie accent, “Got any decent toons [as in “tunes”] on that thing?”

Sebastion shakes his head, and the man returns to his sleep, profoundly disappointed.

Alyss has nodded off by this point, and awakes to find her companion looking through a number of documents. It's all graphs and pie charts and she assumes it's something to do with economics. Blearily, she sits up and returns to her audio book.

An hour south of Glasgow, the bus slumbers. The "Let it Go" family at the front of the bus have fallen silent, bleary-eyed parents whispering quietly over the somnolent forms of their sleeping children. The rugby-sevens team from Glasgow University, triumphant after their away victory at King's College, London, are snoring loudly. The contents of their re-filled "soft-drinks" bottles long since imbibed by throats parched in the dry heat of the darkened cabin. The bus is lit intermittently by the passing motorway lights, illuminating the cabin every few moments in a rhythm uncannily in tune with the human heart beat. Overhead, a few reading lights remain lit.
Muted, ceiling-mounted televisions display BBC News 24. Tomorrow's referendum on Independence looms large in the hourly newscasts, the sombre faces of the anchors looking ever so slightly troubled at the prospect that tomorrow might witness the death of the United Kingdom. The latest poll figures flash ominously across the bottom of the screen. "Should Scotland be an Independent Country?" 51% Yes, 49% No.

The bus is packed with expatriates returning home, many of them City professionals who work in London through the week, returning to their families mostly at weekends; taking a rare weekday break to cast their ballot. Forced to "slum" it in the bus with the riff-raff by the huge numbers of Scot's clogging the United Kingdoms airways and railways. All desperate to have a say in their country's future. A future in which only the Scots - and a few hundred thousands other EU nationals living in Scotland- will have a right to vote in a matter that affect the future of every man, woman and child in three countries and one province.

Someone coughs a little further down the aisle. It's the off-shift driver, stirring in his sleep. His leg stretched far out into the centre isle. The stilted "patter" of the late night Radio Clyde DJ, is just about audible over the snores, his voice meandering lazily down the aisle. The French woman makes another disgusted tutting noise as -for the third time in as many hours- she's forced to nudge the head of a sleeping drunk away from her shoulder.

From nowhere, an intense flash of orange light fills the crowded interior. There's no time to blink away the after-image before the blast hits-followed shortly thereafter by a wall of sound and humans screams. Floor becomes the ceiling and two dozen passengers fall from their seats onto the roof and luggage racks. A terrible shriek of grinding metal rips through the screams, announcing that the bus is sliding across the motorway embankment on it's roof. With another sudden lurch, the bus rolls. One of the "Let it Go" Children flies down the aisle, her horrified baby-scream lost in the noise and tumult. An acidic smell of bile fills the air, a window smashes, and a man is crushed as the bus rolls again, his upper torso still in the bus while the lower is pulped into paste by the still-rolling vehicle.

After a few moments more, the bus comes to an -almost- rest. It's not moving any more, but it's rocking up and down like a see-saw, as though poised at the edge of something. There are sounds reminiscent of gunfire coming from nearby. Outside, lightning flashes in a clear sky, The bright, white light of rapidly approaching head-lights fill the cabin. There's a screech of brakes then... nothing.

 

No Mean City: Becca Adams/Threnody Noir

Becca Adams "Threnody Noire"


Threnody Noir is a pint sized Gothic Burlesque dancer from Glasgow. Performing routines for bars and clubs on the alternative circuit, she is just starting to get her name known, and has even been to London once or twice to perform at the Torture Garden. Her style is a mash-up of Suicide Girls meets kinky Bram Stoker.

When not performing or creating costumes and routines she balances the books with income from a part-time job pulling pints and dishing out Jack Daniels to drunks at the Hard Rock Cafe. Outside of her stage-life she is Becca Adams, 22 years old and living in a damp and dingy shared flat with her two flat-mates. Life is tedious but she gets her kicks when she can.

Becca Adams grew up in a tenement just off Duke Street with her brother John and her mum. It was nothing exciting and her mum did the best she could as a single-parent, working two jobs to provide for her children. Because of this Becca was able to go to ballet classes from when she was little and showed herself to be a rather exceptional dancer. Her mum found it a terrible and disappointing shock the day Becca decided, aged 13, that she didn’t want to dance anymore and instead joined her brother at the local Aikido dojo. Her mum secretly hoped it was just a phase with her rebellious young daughter.

By 16, Becca and her brother John were on their own as their mum died of cancer, leaving John to bring up his sister. This time left its mark on Becca and her confidence shrank as she found it increasingly difficult to fit in at school. It felt like she was living in a different world from her peers, though try as she might she couldn’t make any real friends. By the time she left school for college she was a very average student who secretly coped with her anxieties by controlling what she ate and purging when her control slipped.

Once at college she discovered a whole new world. Studying an HND in Applied Art was a revelation to her. Trying her hand at glass, ceramics, jewellery and textiles she uncovered a passion for making performance costumes. Suddenly she could be whoever she wanted to be. Suddenly she was cool, people found her funny and attractive, and it was here she discovered Glasgow’s rock scene and alternative culture.

On the eve of the referendum Threnody Noir is slumming it big style on the National Express. Her costumes are packed in a vintage travel case in the hold, while she is with the hot and sweaty human cargo that was scraped up and crammed in at London Victoria. She’s wishing she’d been pushier in the queue to have gotten a window seat and now she’s rubbing shoulders with Mr Old-Firm who’s oozing Tenants from his gills. Closing her eyes and hoping for sleep between here and Buchanan St. Bus Station, her hopes for her country flicker through her mind - tomorrow it’s the ballot box, but for tonight it’s the coach. Burlesque isn’t all nipple tassels and glamour.

CHARACTER SHEET:

Concept: Gothic Burlesque Dancer
Virtue: Charity
Vice: Gluttony

Mental: Physical: Social:
Intelligence ** Strength ** Presence ***
Wits: ** Dexterity *** Manipulation *
Resolve: *** Stamina *** Composure ***

Mental Skills:
Academics *, Crafts *, Occult (Wicca) (Vampire Novels) **

Physical Skills:
Athletics ***, Brawl **, Drive *, Weaponry *

Social Skills:
Empathy ***, Expression (Dance) ***, Socialise ***, Streetwise **

Merits: Fighting Style Akido *, Iron Stomach **, Barfly *, Contacts (Nightclubs) *, Fast Reflexes *, Fleet Footed *

Willpower: 6, Defence 2, Initiative 7, Size 5, Speed 11, Wisdom 7

XP Spent: 15. Saved: 0

No Mean City: Alyss Clarke-Wilson

Alyss Clarke-Wilson

Alyss is a pretty, rich girl with a friendly heart and a slightly spoiled, sheltered life. The only child of two Cambridge barristers, she grew up with everything she wanted without having to work to get it. Her childhood was spent in the company of au pairs while her parents worked. Her best friends were the dogs that mummy bread as a side project and her pony, Arthur, who was a gift from daddy for her eighth birthday. She also developed a fondness for knitting, reading and gardening from her au pairs and the house staff.

Her parents expected their pretty little girl to grow up and become a trophy wife, setting up a trust fund to support her until a suitably rich husband came along -and she was happy to spend it! However, at 19, after an eye opening gap year in Paris, she decided that she'd rather be a librarian than a trophy wife.

Alyss is full aware of how pretty she is and with the life she's had and the money from her parents, she afford the best of everything. A huge fan of 1940's fashion, she uses her slim figure and red hair to pull off the wartime beauty look.

This woman likes to keep people guessing about her.

Unfortunately, she learned at university that the pretty people don't always get to be popular. Bullied by other women and targeted by men as an easy lay, she became a much more introverted and studious person than she was at school. She left the university of Aberystwyth with a 2.1 BSc in Information and Library studies before she moved to London and gained a Masters degree in Library Science. After a long term job and a messy breakup in London, at 27 she's keen for a fresh start and has sworn off men for the foreseeable future. She wouldn't have been on the bus to her new life and job in Glasgow, if it weren't for the fact that she didn't want mummy and daddy to work out where she was headed until she got there.

No Mean City: Sebastian Spencer

Sabastian Spencer:

Sebastian Spencer is a 20 year old student, studying Computing Science at Imperial College, London, and just starting a gap at a small computing company in Glasgow. Sebastian is the only child of Vicky and Tom Spencer, who worked in a bakery before winning a large sum of money on the races just before Sebastian was born. They've spent the time since trying to climb the social ladder and into the upper middle class.

Their attempts to do this mostly involved splashing money on all the gadgets money can buy and trying to mold their son into a Paragon of the middle class. As a result, Sebastian had the finest tutors and any interest he developed, no matter how fleeting, was indulged; including Chemistry and Computers. He also had a range of "extracurricular" activities including shooting, camping an metal working. He would create "practical jokes" that involved covering people in foul smelling liquids. He would go on protest marches about all manner of things, and he would use the computer equipment he had to hack into secure servers and build computer viruses.

Due to the indulgence of his parents, he learned to drive at 15 and as driven on racetracks, on and off-road. Being a spoiled only child, he also developed an ability to lie convincingly, able to avoid most consequences of his rebellious actions. As time went on, Sebastian focused much of his attention on computers, building a network of online friends, while spectacularly failing to make more than one or two friends in the real world.
He even rebelled against his parents religious views- being staunch Anglicans- and began to study and follow a more alternative spirituality. He dabbled in Wicca, Buddhism, Druidry and other varied and eclectic paths while never settling on any one.

At 18, he was accepted into Imperial College London to study Computing, mainly due to a large "donation" and recognition of his existing ability rather than any previous academic achievement. He continued this trend of half heartedly performing the academic work but scraping through assessments because of the quality of his practical work. Towards he end of his second year his tutors, despairing of his academic ability, persuaded him to apply for a gap year placement working for a computer company. He was accepted onto a year long work programme with "North Central Software and Management," a company that designs and maintains software tha runs banking and cctv systems. He caught the coach from London Victoria Station

Mage the Awakening: No Mean City

Way, way back in 2011 I spoke about starting a Werewolf: The Forsaken Game chronicile in Glasgow. It kind of fell through, but I've about to start DMing a Mage chronicle based loosely on the original campaign outline, with a few changes here and there to bring it up to speed with the present day.

Here's a nice piece of foreshadowing I sent my players, along with a portrait of our first character, Becca Adams/Threnody Noire. Mage and Burlesque dancer extraordinaire. I'll put up her full profile and background in a couple of days.

TEASER:

An hour south of Glasgow, the bus slumbers. The "Let it Go" family at the front of the bus have fallen silent, bleary-eyed parents whispering quietly over the somnolent forms of their sleeping children. The rugby-sevens team from Glasgow University, triumphant after their away victory at King's College, London, are snoring loudly. The contents of their re-filled "soft-drinks" bottles long since imbibed by throats parched in the dry heat of the darkened cabin. The bus is lit intermittently by the passing motorway lights, illuminating the cabin every few moments in a rhythm uncannily in tune with the human heart beat. Overhead, a few reading lights remain lit, indicating that you are not the only passenger still awake on the packed London-to-Glasgow Express. Muted, ceiling-mounted televisions display BBC News 24. Tomorrow's referendum on Independence looms large in the hourly newscasts, the sombre faces of the anchors looking ever so slightly troubled at the prospect that tomorrow might witness the death of the United Kingdom. The latest poll figures flash ominously across the bottom of the screen. "Should Scotland be an Independent Country?" 51% Yes, 49% No.

The bus is packed with expatriates returning home, many of them City professionals who work in London through the week, returning to their families mostly at weekends; taking a rare weekday break to cast their ballot. Forced to "slum" it in the bus with the riff-raff by the huge numbers of Scot's clogging the United Kingdoms airways and railways. All desperate to have a say in their country's future. A future in which only the Scots - and a few hundred thousands other EU nationals living in Scotland- will have a right to vote in a matter that affect the future of every man, woman and child in three countries and one province.

Someone coughs a little further down the aisle. It's the off-shift driver, stirring in his sleep. His leg stretched far out into the centre isle. You can just barely hear the stilted "patter" of the late night Radio Clyde DJ, his voice meandering lazily down the aisle to your seat in the middle of the bus. A few rows further down, you can hear the French woman make another disgusted tutting noise as -for the third time in as many hours- she's forced to nudge the head of a sleeping drunk away from her shoulder.

You're just about to -finally- doze off when a intense flash of orange light fights its way past your closed eye-lids. You've no time to blink away the after-image before the blast hits you -followed shortly thereafter by a wall of sound and humans screams. You feel your stomach lurch, grateful you had the sense to leave your seat restraints buckled as floor becomes the ceiling and two dozen passengers fall from their seats onto the roof and luggage racks. A terrible shriek of grinding metal tells you the bus is on it's roof, sliding across the motorway embankment. With another sudden lurch, the bus rolls. One of the "Let it Go" Children flies past you, her horrified baby-scream lost in the noise and tumult. Something wet, acid and smelling of bile soaks your clothes, a window smashes, and a man is crushed as the bus rolls again, his upper torso still in the bus while the lower is pulped into paste by the still-rolling vehicle.

After a few moments more, the bus comes to an -almost- rest. It's not moving any more, but it's rocking up and down like a see-saw, as though poised at the edge of something. You can hear what sounds like gunfire nearby. Outside, you see lightning flash. Was it lightning that did this? But no, the skies were clear. You reach up to a warm sticky spot on your forehead. Some-ones blood is running down your face. That's when you see the rapidly approaching headlights. There's a screech of brakes then... nothing.

It feels like a very, very long time before you wake up.

Edarnia: Gods and Weather

In Edarnia, my home-brew setting, weather doesn't depend on climate patterns in the same way as it does in real-life. Instead, on Edarnia, weather exists at the whim of the Gods. So, the weather experienced in any given geographical area is entirely dependent on which pantheon is worshipped locally, and on that pantheon's relationships with other pantheons that might influence the local weather.

Take the Protectorate of Zama, for example. Here, the Pantheon of the Sun (the Phoenician Pantheon)is worshiped by the vast majority of the inhabitants. As one might expect, this results in warm, sunny days and (because the Pantheon of the Sun also has purview over the moon and stars) warm, clear nights. Because the Pantheon of the Sun has fairly warm relations with the Pantheon of the Earth, the soil is healthy and experiences a long growing seasons. Three to four crops a year are common, but crop growth is also dependent on the Pantheon of the Suns' somewhat difficult relationship with the Pantheon of the Sky (also known as the Pantheon of Storms). Thus, when it does rain, the rain often comes accompanied by high winds and can damage crops as much as nourish them. Thus, the Protectorate of Zama does all it can to keep on good terms with the Pantheon of Rivers, which provides a steady source of clean water to irrigate Zama's crops.

In a similar vein, the lands under the reign of the Pantheon of Storms are dark, cold and often windy. Due to the difficult relationship with the Pantheon of the Sun, the lands see very little direct sunlight through the omnipresent cloud cover. And due to the outright hostility the Pantheon of the Earth bears the Pantheon of Storms (due to the rape of an earth goddess by a god of the skies), the soil is extremely poor. Thus, the population in these lands is dependent on the seas for raiding, fishing and trade - and the violent Storm Gods have assured themselves of the cooperation of the Pantheon of Seas by the simple expedient of having taken one of their number hostage.

Under the Earth, in the lands between the surface and hell, the Pantheon of Darkness alone holds sway. Thus, there is no sun and little breeze, for the one thing the Gods of the Sky and the Sun can always agree upon is that the Pantheon of Darkness is their greatest foe. That being said, the Pantheons of Water and Sea have no quarrel with the Pantheon of Darkness, and so both fresh and salt water can be found in the Underearth. Moreover, the neutrality of the Mycenean Pantheon, the Pantheon of Fire, (who reside under a mountain themselves, after all) ensures the Underearth remains warm. This combination of water and heat allows some plants to grow and fish and other animal life to prosper in small number.

Finally, the lands of the Imperium are bleak and barren. The humans who reside their have turned their backs on the gods to traffic with demons and devils. Thus, the temperature is always either too cold or two warm, the lighting is always dull and grey, water is brackish, there is very little direct sunlight and it almost never rains. Thus the humans of the Imperium ever see to expand their lands by conquest and enslavement and rely entirely on conquest, trade and tribute in order to feed themselves.

L5R Characters

Here's a group photograph of the miniatures I painted for my L5R group. From left to right: Tsuruchi Daiki, Agasha Haruki Naoki-Ro, Chuda Fumiko, Bayushi Midori, Hida Tadakatus and Kuni Kasumi.

Kuni Kasumi

Dark Heresy/Death Knell

Isn't it typical? No sooner do I start recording our adventures on the blog than the game dies. While a few of our players were away over the Holidays, I started up a game of Legend of the Five \rings with my group, using the Heroes of Rokugan III organised play modules.

My group liked it so much, we've moved over to playing L5R instead of Dark Heresy. We're now four module in and all the payers who have been able to make a full session so far love it. One of my players commented that they loved the challenge of navigating the put-falls an constraints of what is, to westerners, an entirely alien society. The other quickly agreed.

And that, I think, is what's central to the appeal of Legend of the Five Rings.

Unfortunately I won't be able to put up any actual play reports here for a good long time (because it's an organised play campaign, anything I put up here would constitute spoilers). But I am keeping a journal. So when the campaign ends I about a year or so, I'll put the journal up for all to see.

Dark Heresy Episode 1.2

I'm a week behind in the write-ups, as we've just finished playing episode 1.3. Just before we started last session, Stuart realised that he had already played the original Call of Cthulu campaign on which this Dark Heresy campaign is based. Before the start of the session, we briefly discussed our options as a group (carry on with the campaign, play a different published campaign with the same characters, or switch to Legend of the Five Rings). For the time being, we decided to continue playing and decide what we would do next week.

The Acolytes:

• Cadence: A Tech Priest CyberHound handler. Played by Ali.
• Grimoire: Potent Void-Born Psyker. Played by John.
• Gunner: Down-Hive Gun-Slinging Scum. Played by Fiona
• Ishtari: Novice Sister of Battle. Played by Caroline. 
• Lemantz: Penumbrae Hive Enforcer. Played by Niall.
• Zane: "Squat" Flamer-wielding Cleric. Played by Stuart.

Outside the door of Chamber 401, the Acolytes begin a hurried discussion, first determining (after a brief word with the ship's captain) that they are standing outside the only exit. The immediately instruct the captain to withdraw to the next bulkhead and seal both it and the one on the other side of the room.

Once "safely" locked in to a very confined space with an unknown foe on the other side of the door, Cadence easily bypasses the lock.

Inside, the once-stateroom is in disarray. Three naked human figures, "clad" only in bloody war-paint stand around a small, metallic letter bin (the sort you might find next to any scribe's work-space) throwing in documents, books and other artifacts. An odourless, colourless steam rises from the bin. Meanwhile, on the bed, lies a headless, mutilated corpse. The three intruders reach for their weapons while the door hisses open: each carries a sharpened human thighbone, carved with strange runes and already stained with (presumed) human blood.

The Acolytes gun them down before they can even move.

Entering the cabin, the Acolytes quickly begin an investigation. Cadence and Ishtari immediately move to rescue what documents they can, particularly those already consigned to the bin. Inside the small metal receptacle, they find not flames, but a strange, purple goog that appears to be slowly dissolving any non-metal objects placed within. 

They rescue a number of documents from the flames, including a hard copy of an astropathic transmission, a formal "chop" of the sort used by Rogue Trader and noble houses in the Crone Sector to announce themselves, a metal jho-stick lighter (on the carpet next to the bin), a trade receipt and (rescued from the bin itself) a partially dissolved, grainy pictograph of a star-ship.

[Handouts 1-5 from the previous post]

Meanwhile, Grimoire reaches out with his less natural senses. The temperature in the room immediately drops slightly, but no-one seems to notice. Grimoire's senses detect a dispersing warp nimbus, with a similar "taste" to the one he experienced in the Surgeon' lair [Episode 0.4] immediately following their quarries escape. It's only similar though. Not identical.

Meanwhile, Zane examines the dead "painted men". He can find no clue as to their identity as individuals, but notes that the war-paint is indeed blood (very fresh blood) that has been painted atop a pattern of swirls and jagged lines carved into their flesh and long since scarred over. He also gets a closer look at each of the three thigh-bone clubs and confirms that they did indeed once come from a human being. He can make out a number of runes carved into each, but they mean nothing to him personally (or, indeed, to any of the Acolytes). Each painted man wears an identical white mask, seemingly carved from a large piece of ivory (a shoulder bone perhaps?). The masks are worked into a rough oval, featureless except for two triangular vision holes and a long "mouth" from which protrudes a long, bloody (and somewhat rotten) animal tongue of some kind. Similar to that of a grox.

Gunner looks around the rest of the room, carefully checking for anything the painted men might have dropped or missed in their search. He finds a hand-written letter on the carpet beneath a dresser [Handout 6] and a small hard-bound book beneath the bed [Handout 7]. 

Meanwhile, Lementz, the most forensically-aware member of the group, examines the corpse on the bed. It's a man, with an appearance anywhere between mid-to-late thirties, although it's hard to be sure for two reasons: the relative availability of rejuv treatments in the Crone Sector and, most significantly, the fact that the body has been horribly mutilated. Lementz can tell that the marks carved into the body were made while the victim was still alive, all the more horrible given the extremity of the mutilation. The head has been severed from the body by a number of down-word strokes from a crude, sharp object, leaving a ragged wounded and a series of puncture wounds to either side of the point of separation. An especially large rune [Hand-Out 8] stands out among the smaller wounds on the body.

The group briefly confers after their sweep. They briefly discuss the various clues they have found. The central issue for the group seems to be whether or not the corpse on the bed is Jeremiah Elias. After all, they have no-way of identifying the body as yet. After a brief discussion, they step out of room 401 and close it behind them. They they summon the captain.

Prudently, the captain returns with a fair-sized Securitor team at his back. The ship-board guards are wearing full flak armour and carrying boarding shotguns. The captain, looking relieved, leaves his escort at the bulkhead and approaches the party alone. The relieved look soon vanishes from his face (replaced with near-panic) when Cadence, who's understanding of Geller fields is somewhat sketchy, instructs the Captain that he will need to have the ones onboard ship checked immediately. The Captain (assuming that the occupant of room 401 was killed by Daemons who boarded the ship while it was at warp) immediately orders a full sanitation sweep of the ship and an inspection of it's Geller Fields.

Although the Captain clearly wishes to return to the bridge to coordinate these efforts, the acolytes use their authority as Throne Agents to keep him where he is. They escort him into the room and ask him to confirm if he recognises any of the corpses. As it transpires, he claims he can't. He never met Jeremiah Elias in person and does not recognise the three painted men as being among his crew. But then, given that there are around 1400 crew onboard, that's not surprising. 

"It's difficult to give an exact figure," the Captain admits, "We regularly conscript fresh bilge-scum from the prisons at every stop we make. In-fighting and disease amidst the lower deck crew insures a high-turnaround. We don't even bother to keep track of who lives and who dies anymore. Haven't for centuries, in fact."

The other acolytes are not pleased (nor especially convinced) by this, but settle down a bit once the void-born acolytes, Grimoire and Zane, confirm that this is fairly common practice among warp-capable vessels of all kinds. Even a luxury transport such as this.

The Captain is them grilled about possible ways for an outsider to come onboard. Grimoire in particular is convinced that warp-craft or teleportation was used but Cadence argues that without the protections of the Blessed Omnisiah and possession of certain powerful machine spirits, the painted men would have been destroyed by the denizens of the warp mid-transport.

At this point the captain is dismissed with instructions not to leave Penumbrae Space Dock until released by Inquisitorial Authority and with even stricter orders to permit no-one save the Inquisitional Forensor teams the Acolytes will be summoning to access this chamber.

Meanwhile, the Acolytes wait for a number of the "Zorias'" to arrive to retrieve the bodies and begin a more in-depth investigation of the scene. In the meantime, they again discuss whether or not the corpse on the bed could be Jeremiah Elias or just some dupe. After a time, they realise that speculation is pointless and instead decide to attend the planned rendezvous at the Irridium Guesthouse. Partly in the hope that they will find Jeremiah there alive and well. Partly to see who else might turn up to the planned meeting.

They thereafter turn back to the other clues and identify some leads that they can pursue without having to leave Penumbrae:

• The Trading House
• The Hand-Bill for the Lecture
• The Librarian
• Lady Eika Coriolanus herself.

They are still debating long after troupe of  stitched-face Zarius serfs arrive to take custody of the bodies and chamber 401.

[In fact, they won't decide which lead to follow up after the Iridium Guest-House until well towards the end of he next session.]

Dark Heresy Hand-Outs Session 1.2

Clues found in the rooms of the deceased Remembrancer, Jeremiah Elias.

Item 1: 

A hard-copy of an astropathic communication. Dates of transmission, rebroadcast and reception have been expunged. 

To: Lord Coriolanus

From: Jamal Nazir

Gracious Lord, I am informed you desire knowledge of our world of Pharos. In my possession are singular curios which I believe to be of interest. These I shall willingly display to you for your edification and gratification. Naturally, they are ancient and priceless beyond compare. I will arrange matters to your satisfaction when your agent calls upon me in the street of Jackelis, Old Quarter.

Item 2: 
A folded piece of hard-copy, embossed  with the chop of a prominent Rogue Trader family, House Penhew. Beneath the chop can be found the name Evard Gavigan along with his title, "Seneschal, Tabula Rosa

Item 3:
A metal jho-stick lighter, made from cheap pressed metal. It is stamped with the words: " Shambling Tigura, Shian City."

Shambling Tigura Lighter

Item 4:
A pictograph -very dark and grainy- depicting a massive merchant vessel of some kind. The ship orbits a generic looking space dock to which it is attached by umbilicals. The star-field is partially obscured by the grainy quality of the image. Three letters are visible on the ships bow. "D-A-R".

Item 5: 
A trade receipt from an establishment calling itself Imassa Imports, located in Penumbrae City close to the shuttle port. The receipt mentions unspecified "services". On the back has been scrawled the words " Silas N'Kwane".

Item 6: 
A handwritten letter addressed to Jeremiah Elias, care of Prospero House. Return address is: Miriam Arrarat, Universitat Penumbrae. The letter seems quite old and travel-stained. It reads:

"Sir, the text of which you enquired is no longer in our catalogue. The information you seek may be located in other volumes within our collection. If you contact me upon your return to Penumbrae, I will able to assist you in locating such volumes."

Item 7:
A small sheet of hard-copy, inserted between the pages of Gideon Ravenors: " A Mind in Darkness". It marks the beginning of chapter 11, "Fetishes in pre Imperial Cults." It is a handbill advertising a lecture on "Pre-Imperial Cults in the Crone Sector" delivered by a Signeur Antonius Kowlis, a fellow at Penumbrae's Eschkatonic Universitat, speaking as a guest lecturer at the Universitate Penumbrae. The lecture was several years ago.

Item 8:
Symmetrical marks have been carved onto the corpses chest, which has also had it's tongue ripped out. The marks resemble two bloody crescents with a round object in the centre.

Symbol carved into Elias' Chest

Dark Heresy Campaign: Episode 1.1a

PCs:

• Cadence: A Tech Priest CyberHound handler. Played by Ali.
• Grimoire: Potent Void-Born Psyker. Played by John.
• Gunner: Down-Hive Gun-Slinging Scum. Played by Fiona
• Ishtari: Novice Sister of Battle. Played by Caroline. 
• Lemantz: Penumbrae Hive Enforcer. Played by Niall.
• Zane: "Squat" Flamer-wielding Cleric. Played by Stuart.

NPC's:

• Explicator Sand: Seneschal of the Sanctum Invigilus. The PC's immediate superior within the Inquisition.

Session 1.1

Within hours of the Surgeon's escape, Coscorla is overwhelmed by a massive Inquisitorial presence. Inquisitional Storm-troopers, Mechanicus Skitarri and Adeptus Arbiters are moving from hab-block to hab-block, rounding up dregs and inhabitants at gun-point. A few of the orange-garbed gangers are stupid enough to resist, and pay dearly for it. Bloody scraps of orange cloth flap pitifully in the gentle breeze of the air recyclers. Boss Luntz is furious, loudly calling out to all who will listen that he is an ally of the Inquisition. He pleads with the acolytes when he is led into an armoured prisoner conveyance, hands bound in electro-shocks cuffs before him. Lilly Arbest is also led away, weeping tears of bewilderment and betrayal. The last the acolytes see of her is her face peering forlornly through the rear window of a prime-mover marked with the ominous words: Adeptus Mechanica Vivisection Node 361.

Inquisitor Sand oversees it all, relishing the cruel scenes before him. He congratulates the acolytes on their successful defeat of probable Logician cell. He expresses disappointment at the “Surgeons” evident escape, and seems surprised at the lack of fatalities among the acolytes. He implies that he had expected that Coscorla “thin the herd” somewhat, but admits that while survival of the fittest is certainly an operational truth within the Inquisition, it is certainly not an inefficient way of managing the Sanctum's wage bill.

The Explicaor carelessly throws each of the acolytes a small ersatz-leather wallet containing their new Acolyte Rosettes and reminds them of a useful procedural loop-hole: while it is a capital offence to impersonate an Inquisitor, there is no requirement to correct anyone who mistakes them for one. Indeed, such mistakes only add to the Inquisitions mystique as an omniprescient force within the Imperium. He scoffs openly though at the notion that any of them might be mistaken for a member of the Ordos' higher echelons, however. At least, not yet. But he does advise them to announce themselves as "Throne Agents" rather than "Inquisitional Acolytes" or the "Inquisition." Purely to take advantage of the ambiguity. 

With a few final, parting barbs, he instructs Cadence and Sister Ishtari to report to him for surgical treatment as soon as he returns to the Sanctum Invigilus. He expects the remaining Acolytes to personally bring their written reports to his Reclusiam at the beginning of first-shift.

Cadence and Ishtari undergo a horrific experience, bound to surgical tables in the same room where Sand conducts his forensic examinations. Surrounded by half-decayed, mutilated corpses, he gleefully explains that he is somewhat short of anaesthetic. The procedures will have to conducted using local anaesthetic only. Thus, both acolytes are wide awake as Sand tears them open and pokes around in their insides with blunt, remarkably filthy, surgical instruments. Fortunately, both somehow manage to pass their toughness tests and avoid contracting nasty infections while under the knife of their somewhat sadistic employer.

While the injured acolytes recover from their ordeal, the others present their reports to the Explicator at first-shift. All fail to mention the initial blunder that led to a succession of fire fights with the local Coscorla crime-lord and his gangers. Luckily, Sister Ishtari has been excused from providing a written report due to her wounds. Sand would be unlikely to forgive the acolytes for submitting selectively edited reports and the naive young battle sister doesn't have a deceptive bone in her body.

At the meeting, Sand informs the acolytes that he has another task for them. One of their master's sometime informants, Jeremiah Elias, has contacted the Sanctum Invigilus via astropath. Sand speaks of this agent as a remembrancer fond of chasing ludicrous conspiracies and clearly thinks little of him. However, he does admit that Elias has occasionally provided useful information amongst all the dross. Clearly, the Remembrancer thinks he has found something big- astropathic communication is not inexpensive and nor, for that matter, is warp-travel. As such, Sand will be sending the acolytes to meet with Sand when his ship docks in six days. When asked, Sand states he does not know what ship the informant will arrive on, only that the acolytes are to contact Elias at his hostelry when he makes land-fall.

Sand provides only three useful pieces of information:

• The informant has information concerning the doomed Coriolanus Expedition.
• The astropathic message originated somewhere in the Shian sub-sector
• The informant is Jeremiah Elias, a Remembrencer who specialises in writing sensationalist non-fiction concerning ancient, pre-Imperial heresies of the Crone sector.

With six days to burn, the acolytes set about finding as much information as they can about Elias and the Coriolanus expedition.

From their recovery cots, Cadence and Sister Ishtari set about finding out as much as they can concerning Jeremiah Elias. However, while they have no trouble accessing Inquisitorial files with their new security clearances, they find that every second word in the man's file has been “<redacted>”. This strikes Cadence as being somewhat odd. Why would information concerning a mere informant -and an unreliable one at that, according to Sand- be above their security clearance?

Gunnar, meanwhile, hits up his old street level contacts in return for information. It seems that Elias' investigations have left very few footprints in the Penumbrae underworld. Only the lowliest -and craziest of Gunnar's various contacts have every heard of him – and these contacts are themselves among the most rabid conspiracy theorists. The sort of rambling, junk-addled lunatics than even the worst of drunks steer clear of. Zane likewise speaks with contacts among the local ecclesiarchy, but none of his scholarly companions have even heard of the man or his theories.

Grimoire has much better luck. As a fellow pysker, he has no qualms about visiting the Sanctum's Telepath, Erazmus Kensin. Kensin is a wasted, emaciated fellow, left paraplegic by the soul-binding process and permanently plugged into the Sanctums astrotelepathica array by dozens of thick cables. Suppurating pink flesh, badly infected, rims each connection where the cable enters his thin body. Starved for company, Kensin is only too happy to share what he knows about Jeremiah Elias. Elias, it seems, is actually one of Inquisitor Schardes most valuable and prised informants. Although not a member of the Inquisiton himself, the remembrencer's research has frequently uncovered high level conspiracies throughout the Crone sector. Elias' tips have resulted in a number of successful prosecutions. At least one corrupt Planetary Governor has been exposed and executed thanks to Elias' research. While the scholarly community largely considers him to be a “hack”, Inquisitor Scharde thinks very highly of him. So highly, in fact, that Sand has standing orders to forward any communiques from Elias to the Inquisitor immediately.

Which, Erazmus muses, is odd considering that the message arrived three days ago and Sand has yet to return to the astropath with clearance for him to re-transmit to the Inquisitor. Erazmus even shares his original transcript of the transmission with Grimoire. It clearly shows that the informant is travelling on a ship called the Silver Majesty. Moreover, the transmission was clearly sent from Shian itself, not merely from somewhere within the Shian sub-sector.

Troubled, Grimoire shares this information with his fellow Acolytes. Clearly Sand has been deceiving them, but that is hardly unusual within the paranoid ranks of the Inquisition. Despite this, their hackles -and their suspicions- are raised. They decide they would prefer to meet Elias at the docks rather than at his hostelry as Sand has requested. Zane openly wonders if there is anything else they need to do in the mean-time. He's clearly tired from a long day of voxing dry, rambling old scholars for information. Ishtari helpfully points out that they have two more leads to chase down: the Coriolanus expedition itself, and the planet Shian.

Shian is easy enough. Gunner explains that the world is the capital of the Shian sub-sector, the last part of the Crone sector to have been conquered by the Imperium. Although Shian itself was absorbed only a few generations ago, it has already earned a reputation as a shady trade hub where anything can be bought or sold for enough credits. The world itself is almost entirely underwater. Most of the actual land-mass is only a few metres above (and in some cases, under) sea-level. It is crowded, dank and musty and overall a very, very dangerous place to do business.

The Coriolanus Expedition is another matter. Cadence spends much of the second day trawling through Inquisiorial data bases on the subject. She quickly determines that it was an exploratory expedition sponsored by the mighty House Coriolanus of Penumbrae in partnership with House Penhew, a Rogue Trader dynasty bound to the Adpetus Mechanicus Explorator fleets by a treaty of indentured servitude. The entire expedition was reported lost some years back

[See the previous  hand-out post for transcript of various hand-outs concerning the expedition. The final entry is the transcript of the astropathic communication sent by Elias.]

The acolytes briefly consider contacting Erika Coriolanus, the sister of expedition leader and socialite Rogal Coriolanus. However, it's clear from Cadence's research (as well as the acolytes own local knowledge) that Erika Coriolanus is a very powerful, very influential individual. It's even commonly believed that she has the Planetary Governor's ear. She may, in fact, be something of a power behind the throne. Although they have Inquisitorial authority to speak to whomever they like, whenever they like, they decide it would be better to speak to Dame Coriolanus after they hear from Elias. While they do not fear making an enemy of her, they realise that contacting her with vague questions concerning her brothers fate would be impolitic. They may need her cooperation later, when they have uncovered some concrete information.

Talk turns to planning their meeting with Elias. Cadence tries to locate a pictograph of the Rememberancer to make approaching him at the Space Dock Terminus more feasible but finds nothing in any Inquisitorial or public data-net. The acolytes spend the new few days planning the Space-port operation, training and requisitioning more gear.

When the Silver Majestic docks at the Penumbrae Terminus five days later, the Acolytes are waiting. Cadence has already interrogated the Terminus' machine spirits and found that the Majestic is due to disembark 173 passengers. She attempts to persuade the Majestic's machine spirits to reveal an image of Elias, but finds that Elias' file has been mysteriously corrupted. The Tech Priest does, however, find Inquisitorial finger-prints all over the seemingly “innocent” data corruption. Incensed at this disrespectful treatment of so ancient and wise a machine spirit, she conveys this information to the rest of the Acolytes via Vox.

The acolytes decide that the Inquisition is doing a magnificent job of covering Elias' tracks. But Zane wonders openly if this is the work of their Inquisitor trying to protect Elias, or if someone else within the Inquisition is trying to kill him. Either way, their plans remain unchanged.

So it transpires that when the Majestic's passengers disembark from their luxury lander at the Terminus, Cadence is waiting for them, complete with a sign bearing the name “Jeremiah Elias.” Not because the acolytes actually expect Elias to approach them, but in the hope of provoking the informant into making some sort of furtive gesture than will give himself away. Lementz and Gunnar are standing nearby, watching the richly-dressed arriving dignitaries for just such a sign. Meanwhile Cadence counts the new arrivals. 172. One short.

Around the corner, Ishtari, Grimoire and Zane are waiting. Heavily armed and fully armoured in their newly acquired gear, they are a truly intimidating presence. The perfumed and effete dignitaries who have left the ship are too intimidated by the rosette badges they openly wear to utter even a gasp of protest. Buxom, somewhat elderly ladies swoon and blush when a dashing young man purporting to be a lord is pulled from the crowd by the acolytes. But it's not Elias. It is instead a somewhat infamous impersonator and thief named Eidipus Flynt whom they drag into the back of the Inquisitorial Chimera brought along for this purpose. Though he is not their real target, his presence does give the Acolytes the pretence they need to board the Majestic.

The ships captain is an ancient and dignified figure whose double-breasted ships-uniform is festooned with medals, ribbons and precious metals. When he acolytes suggest they must interrogate the crew to determine if Flynt has any accomplices among them he blanches and protests that there are almost 14000 indentured crewman aboard the ship. One of the acolytes wryly observes that the interrogations will clearly take some time. The Captain tactfully points out with as much dignity as he can muster that, while the Inquisition has the authority to impound his ship and crew for as long as they like, there are a number of very influential passengers travelling to other destinations who might take umbrage at the inconvenience of an enforced delay. The acolytes acknowledge this but seem unconcerned (they hadn't really been planning any such thing, after all). Instead they require the Captain's assistance in another matter. They observe that 173 passengers were due to disembark, but one remains unaccounted for: Jeremiah Elias.

The captain thinks for a moment, but eventually seems to remember the man. It seems that Elias snubbed invitations to dine with the captain an unprecedented three times during the journey from Shian. Three! The captain is only too happy to lead the acolytes to Elias' cabin door.

When they arrive, they cannot fail to note the blood seeping under the door -or the noxious odour of warp-taint eminating from within.

Dark Heresy Campaign Journal Episode 0.5

As soon as she recovers her wits, Ihstari shoots the poor, ruined piece of humanity on the slab. before her through the head.  Lementz proclaims the vile surgeon to be bound by Imperial Writ and skips a beat when Zane adds "and by the Imperial Inquisition."

If the surgeon hears, it does not react. It slowly, and without any apparent race of concern, flicks the corpse from it's slab and begins sharpening it's tools against a whirring grind stone. It does no turn to face them. It does no acknowledge them in any way. Even when Zane recites the list of it's crimes and explains their authority. It simply cleans it's tools and waits.

[Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the rest of the party, Cadence (via Threnady) risks scrap-code infection to establish a secure link between himself and the Surgeon. Using tight-beamed codes of binary burst codes. Cadence starts to offer the Surgeon a deal. The Surgeon does not reply. But then, it does not sever the connection either]

After a few seconds, the acolytes hear a familiar hum behind them. The swing around and duck just in time to see the Mechanical claw deliver another human torso. A woman's his time. The claw deposits the woman on the slab and the Surgeon slowly, with great patience and dignity, returns to work.

[Cadence continues to praise the Surgeon's work in the meantime and offers to broker a deal with the Inquisition]

This time, it's Gunner who puts the half-dead woman out of her misery. This time, there is a subtle reaction from the surgeon. I leans forward against the slab, it's back seems to heave under a small sigh -and the mechanical spider drops from it's back, scuttling forward to attack the acolytes. At that same moment, two Servitors burst from their cryo-tubes and engage them in combat. The Surgeon itself, meanwhile, simply summons another torso to work on.

Ishtari, still wounded from before, screams out her permission for Grimoire to heal her even as she steps forward, flail in hand, to engage the Spider. Despite her combat training, she's down in seconds, cut to shreds by the flailing surgical limbs.

[Second fate point of the evening]

Zane and Gunner turn upon the Servitors while Ishtari attacks the Spider-Servior with her nightstick and shotgun. Grimoire empties his autopistol into the thing even as he pulls Ishtari clear, but seems to do little damage. His attempts at Psykic healing fail dismally in the noise and terror of combat, frost spreads out in a wide circle around him, coating all the metal objects nearby. Fortunately for him, in all the confusion of the fray, none of his companions  notice this grievous lapse in control. Meanwhile, Threnedy seems to be frozen in place, unable to move.

[Still communicating with the Surgeon]

In a few frantic moments of combat, Gunner goes down again but Grimoire heals him enough that he can continue. From the ground he places his hand guns against one of the Spider-things many green, mechanical eyes and rattles off a burst. The hard rounds finally manage to pierce it's shell and rattle around inside, doing untold damage to it's various circuits. The thing collapses in a tangled heap.

The Surgeon responds by activating a control on it's arm. Still with it's back to the acolytes, the surgeons slab and the platform on which it stands begins to rise. The ceiling above it parts, a hatchway opening up to reveal a machine-room above containing eight, small, technological pillars arranged in a circle.

Threnedy leaps onto the platform. The surgeon ignores it. 

Down below, the acolytes concentrate of fighting off the servitors. Grimoire and Gunner take pot shots at the Surgeon but the rounds simply ping off it's mechanical back. It still has not turned to face them.

As the last of the Servitors fall, the platform disappears into the chamber above.

Cadence perceives a bright flash of blue light and then static. Threnedy -and her connection to it- is gone.

By the time the acolytes reach the chamber above, the Surgeon is long gone. The small chamber has no visible exits, and apart from a great deal of cabling and machinery, is featureless save for the eight small pillars arranged in a circle around them.

Dark Heresy Campaign Journal Episode 0.4

The party turn, expecting to see another Skitarri (or even more Servitors) what they don't expect to find is a skinny, naked man with obvious poor quality augmentations raising his hands in the air and begging them, "Don't shoot".

He has the look of an adept or scriviner about him. A simple data clerk.

Gunner and Zane stalk down the corridors towards him, guns raised, while Grimoire helps the injured, groggy (and unhealed) Ishtari to her feet. Lemantz meanwhile puts a solid round into the head of each fallen Servitor. Cadence meanwhile sets the dog on the skinny adept with the command to "hold". The adept is clearly terrified and does not resist when the cyber-hand clamps it's vice-like jaws around his arm.

The six acolytes push their way (and the adept) further into the room. Inside, they find a bank of cogitators along one wall, a simple desk with another built in cogitator and a simple coat. A foot looker looks like it might contain the adepts meagre possessions. A few motivational posters on the wall proclaims motto's such as "Blessed is the mind too small for doubt" and "From thy Labour: Joy".

They party are tired, hurt and confused. They're in no mood for stalling. They make it clear what will happen if the adept does not cooperate. Threnaday wrenches the man's arm back and forth a bit to reinforce he point.

The Adept spills, in more ways than one. The acolytes take a step back as a foul smelling puddle slowly grows around their feet.

"You don't know what you're doing!"The man wails, "You'll kill us all. You'll kill everyone. She can't know you're hear" Zane is only just making head-way calming the man down when Cadence notices an auspex unit on the nearby wall whirr.

"Oh no!" the Adept says quiely.

When the Acolytes turn to look, the Adept frantically lunges for something beneath his desk. Lementz shoots him, a single shot to the chest and the little Adept collapses with a scream. Cadence meanwhile, lunges for the desk herself, terrified of what she might find....

It's a bomb of some kind. Two arm-length transparent cylinders, linked by a valve at the neck with a metal-plugged nozzle pointed towards the rooms only window. Wide-eyed and terrified, the Adept reaches for it pathetically. The two liquids starts to mix in the valve, giving off a colourless steam. Cadence screams "Get out!"

While the rest of the Acolytes (with the exception of Lemantz) scramble for the door, Cadence reaches under the desk and tears the cables connecting the valve and the two tubes together. As she does so, the vari-coloured liquids drip down onto the wounded adept. In moments, his skin begins to bubble and melt, his mouth opening in a soundless scream.

That's when Cadence notices her hand start to bubble and turn yellow."Out! Out Out!" she creams a game. Meanwhile Lemantz tries to scrape the stuff off of Cadence with a gauntleted hand. "Out" she screams again, pushing Lemantz towards the door and  ordering Threnady to hold the dying adept in place.

With the others scrabbling back downstairs, Lemantz and Cadence run towards the kitchens. Cadence is gambling that the preservatives in the jars combined with her own mechanical augmentations will be enough to keep her alive. Cadence stumbles and runs as fast as her weakening organic form will carry her, leaving pools of dissolving flesh in her wake. Lemantz, trusting in her carapace to protect her from infection, supports the dying Tech Priest as best she can as they race down the stairs. Frantically, Lemantz begins splashing preservative over Cadence as soon as they reach the kitchen., noting as he does so that the gopey liquid on his gauntlets began to steam the very moment he started scooping water.

"It works" she shouts, and Cadence is already lowering her fully body into the jar, pulling it closed behind her. She collapses against the cool glass of the jar, allowing the liquid within to fill her lungs even as the organic part of her brain starts to panic and thrash. She switches off her organic mind, allowing pure logic to take over and feels her organic parts relax.

Dispassionately, over the vox, Cadence has just enough strength left to remind the others that they need to to cover her trail of dissolved body parts with the preservative before the organic part of her brain gives up an slides into blissful unconsciousness. 

[In game terms, Cadence was in negative wounds by the time she reached the kitchen and lowered herself into the jar of preserves. Her character burned a fate point and I allowed her to survive. In fact, it was burning the fate point that led me to decide that the preservative gambit would work. Cadence's logical mind continued to play a part in the rest of the adventure, by taking control of the Threnady unit entirely for the rest of the adventure. Foreverafter, however, Cadence's "organic" flesh retains a plastic, rubbery look. As it were a poor quality synthetic substitute. Which it is. Ali seems pleased as it only serves to make Cadence look even more unnatural and disturbing than she does already]

The acolytes spend the next hour cleaning the kitchen and stair well thoroughly with preservatives to prevent another disaster in the Hive. Zane guards the stairwells and the lobby the hall time. [The party seem convinced that their enemy is just waiting for the perfect moment to strike, but despite my dropping in a few false alarms], nothing happens].

Eventually, the acolytes are confident that they have cleaned up Cadence's trail of decay sufficiently. Afterwords, they make their way to the adepts office again. Cadence orders Threnedy to open the door and he acolytes flood the place with preservatives, causing all the cogitator banks to short out. At this point, Cadence rejoins the adventure while occupying the freshly decontaminated body of Threnedy the cyber-hound.

The Acolytes, sill expecting yet another ambush at any moment, return to the second dead Skitarri, claiming his armour, weapons and key-pass. They then proceed into the room which the Servitors emerged from and find it to be an auditorium complete with a projector unit and huge, off-white blanket acting as a make-shift screen. Zane and Lemantz go looking through the various titles on offer for anything incriminating, but simply find the usual motivational films such as "Work is Worship" and "Together we Serve the Emperor in our Toil". They even hit on the idea of checking the film currently in the projector, but it turns out to be yet another grainy recording of men at toil wearing fixed "don't shoot me, I'm really smiling" grins while they scrub radioactive waste from a plasma turbine.

Grimoire again reaches out with his witch-sight and confirms that the cold, dark void is directly above their present position. If possible, the acolytes become even more wary and alert at this news.

This is when the Acolytes belatedly realize there are no stairs to the third floor. Instead, they make their way back down to the elevators on the ground [first] floor. For the first time, they examine the locks pads on either side of the elevators closely. Cadence quickly determines that both key-cards need to be passed through the locking mechanisms at the same time to access the lifts safely. She communicates this through Threnedy's inbuilt vox-unit. 

The Acolytes (wisely) are somewhat reluctant to use the elevators, recognizing them for the  potential death traps they are. However, after thoroughly examining the lift car for signs of traps (wishing aloud for some explosives to blast their way in through the second floor roof) they take up position in he elevator, which they all decide to ride in the prone position.

This is wise indeed. No sooner does the elevator stop moving at he third floor than a series of blades cut through the car itself from outside (the blades are built into the shaft itself, rather than the car which is why they were not detected during the inspection) at waist height followed thereafter by a visible laser beam, auto-fire and even a blast of flame. [Okay, I laid it on a bit thick for the players here. There was really just autofire but since they'd taken sensible precautions and none of them would be hurt, I added in the blades, the flames and the lasers on the fly. It got a few laughs so I'm glad I did. That being said, in retrospect, it probably defused the tension more than I would have liked. I had to work overtime on my descriptions to build it back up again before the final confrontation].

"The lift doors open to reveal a darkened chamber, pitch-black save for the eerie green glow of display screens, keypads and thin strips of underfloor lighting reflected from cold, dead steel. Hundreds, possibly thousands of organic and machine components -arms, legs, eyes, myomer cables, tendons, nerve bundles and muscles, dangle from hook on the ceiling, dripping slowly congealing blood or greenish-black ichor to pool on the floor with an ominous "drip-drip-drip". Metal runners like mono-rail tracks run across the ceiling, dividing the enormous room. The ceiling seems to extend for some hundred feet in the direction of the cold void Grimoire described but you struggle to see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead through the detritus of human and mechanical waste suspended from the ceiling.

Ahead, in the direction of the void, you can just barely make out a stronger, green illuminance emanating from the other end of the room. A faint mechanical whirring noise comes from direction as well. As you leave the elevator car, a shift in the cloying, moist air of the room alerts you o something approaching from behind. You duck just in time as a mechanical claw travels along an overhead rail at speed, a severed human torso dangling in it's grasp. As it passes, you are just barely close enough to see it's mouth open and close pathetically like that of a landed fish. I seems to reach out to you for assistance as it vanishes into the press of metal and steel viscera before you."

The Acolytes advance further into the room, weapons held at the ready. As they stalk forward, they feel the fluids drip from the ceiling to run down their backs, their necks. Into their eyes. The metal limbs tink quietly against one another as they are pushed aside to allow the Acolytes their passage. The noise made by the severed human limbs, for that matter, is not worth thinking about.

"At last, you push into a cleared space at he end of the vas chamber. Before them they find a surgical table, not that dissimilar from the one operated earlier in the day by Sand himself. Strapped to it is the human torso. It reaches out towards them pitiably, begging for mercy even as it spasms under the surgical attention of the creature which stands before the acolytes, it's back to them. It's long, spindly form (far taller than is natural for an unaugmented human) is dressed in the badly soiled red robes of a Tech Priest. A strange spider-like apparatus adorns it's back, with dozens of thin, spindly arms bearing surgical tools, shears, pliers, wirecutters and spot-wielders orbiting around it's centre mass, occasionally swooping down like a striking snake to perform some function on the twitching mass of once-humanity strapped to the table below. As you watch, a relatively human seeming hand (human save for the twelve sharp, serrated copper blades that serve as fingers) hold up a human liver to the flickering green light above it. It examines it briefly for a moment, a green linear strobe playing over its surface, before casually tossing into a heap of similar organs in a small, rounded bucket to one side. A dozen, similar buckets, each overflowing past full capacity surround it. The creature, the vile, twisted.... surgeon before you does not acknowledge your presence in any way. I does not even seem to care that you are present."