Introductory Encounter

It is the 816th year of the 41st Millennium. The Calixis Sector is under siege by unknown assailants and an unknown power. Heresy and mutation run rampant across worlds, cities burn beneath the iron shod heel of the Imperial War machine, dark shadows exist just outside of normal vision, agents of the Inquisition and of terrible foes to Humanity who would like nothing better than to see the worlds of man burn and crumble. Might as well make some Throne before it all goes to Hell.

You are aboard Station AEX-234, Juniper Station to most, in a stable orbit far above the planet of Malfi. Booming with activity Juniper Station is one of the busiest Orbitals in the entire Sub Sector, due mostly from Malfi’s monopoly on the Lathe World Trade routes. All across the decks servitors, ratings and tech priests load and unload massive cargo containers while sentinel power loaders transfer the loads to other waiting landing craft. Armed sentinels patrol the decks, clad in blue carapace with their signature shock sticks and shotguns, they search through random cargo for contraband or other proscribed goods which often pass through the more corruptible custom officials.

The Upper levels of the station contain numerous Administratum offices and private areas reserved for visiting dignitaries, merchant magnates or others with considerable power, wealth or influence. Private Wardens patrol this area, less corruptible and better paid they take their duties seriously, adamantly patrolling the corridors and decks for unwanted guests.

The Pits, or the Deep Hold of the station contains the majority of this stations attraction. Numerous red-light districts, smoking parlors and brothels exist within the labyrinthine corridors below the loading bays. It is rare to see any Sentinels patrolling this district, leaving those who wish to partake upon the illicit pleasures of the Pits to their own fate, often as victims to one of the numerous gangs that rule different decks.

Also located within the Deep Hold is the main plasma core which powers the station and its’ systems. Manned by servitors and prisoners a handful of Tech Priests oversee the maintenance of the stations systems.

Tonight though you have business at the Kracken’s Grasp, a small drinking establishment just above the Pits. It isn’t the most comfortable bar that you have been to but you have seen much worse. The clientele is a small handful of Technomats and probably Loading crew from the landing bays. You don’t fit in too well with the décor, a fact made apparent by the glances that you are getting from the regulars, however seeing the arsenal that you are carrying they quickly go back to minding their own business. You glance around the room looking for the contact the Seneschal set up for you. Not here yet, looking at your chronometer you see that you are about thirty minutes early so grab a seat at a table affording the best view of the room.

You look around at the others that sit down with you, your new crew and hopefully your new job.
<You may describe yourself at this point, order a beverage (no food) or conduct in any introductions. You are here to meet with a Spice Trader named Raz Kinski, a representative for a source of Turian Spice, a delicacy for the wealthy and decadent and an ingredient for a rare vintage of Amnasec. While not illegal on a number of Imperial Worlds it is within Imperial Space or whenever the local constabulary wishes to make a point or example of a notorious abuser.>

You may remember Leo aka Bubbles. Rangy, 6ft tall with ruddy skin and dark hair. He is a very hairy bastard also. Best quality hardened bodyglove that is all black with red skulls on my forearms. I also have a series of criss-crossed belts around my torso and underneath peaking out here and there are bone fragments of past victims. My mask is currently on and is painted with non-reflective red paint in a skull-face. (basically the red paint looks almost black and can only be seen out of your peripheral vision and disappears when looked at directly). My 2 swords, Patience and Harmony, cross my back. There is a combat knife tucked in a belt on my back and a few throwing knives wrapped around each thigh. Im also wearing a cameleoline cloak, and a stummer on my belt along with a narco-injector(for Stimm).

Every few minutes I laugh to myself or at someone like I am getting a joke they aren't, while carving my name into the table with a throwing knife. I am always within 4 meters of Dave.

Also present, and sticking out like a sore thumb, is "Gaz" (Lupux Gazmati). A fat, sour bastard with a strong aura of unpleasentness. At only 6', yet with a bulk of at least 140+kg, Gaz is as inconspicuous as a planet. Wearing greasy robes that have been worn through, patched, and altered into a strange onesie/mu-mu combo that clearly hasn't left the body in ages, he keeps most people at bay through a vulgar display of labored breathing and profuse sweating. Upon his bloated, bald head and face is a hideously fashioned, leather studded headband wrapped across his forehead with a mangy Groxhair mohawk weave streched from the headband back over the top of his head, and a wrap-around mono eyeshade hanging down over his eyes. The exposed flesh on his face and arms display a subtle oddity, as it is crossed over entirely with thousands of stretch marks, giving it a near tiger patterning.
Lightly armed with only a pistol and a metal staff visible, Gaz opts to sit at a bench against a wall, hopefully near the rest of the party.
After an impatient minute or two, he croaks "Where is this guy?" and looks expectantly from person to person for an answer.

(A group of Guardsman[4] roll through the front door, with what looks to be their commander. They proceed directly to the bar, and the Capt orders a bottle of cheap Skara with some glasses. They all down a round of shots, toasting to some shit-hole of a planet that you've never heard of, and rattle off a couple of names...Fingers, Clynt, and Lady Killer. The commander type leaves the others at the bar and begins to make his way towards the table.)

[His head is clean shaven and he sports a thick mustache that twists up slightly at the ends. He's wearing a light form of mat black Carapace under a heavy weathered storm coat that makes him look like a Commissar. If the fact that he's almost 7' tall and 285lbs of corded muscle is not intimidating enough, he's also got a pair of Bolt Pistols across his chest, and what looks like a Crusade Pattern Chainsword strapped to his hip. He carries himself with the air of a Veteran who's seen a number of fronts and has the scars to prove it.]

(He sets down his shot glass of Skara and grabs a set at the table, then looks at the big man.)

"Well arn't you a Fat Bastard" (chuckles)

"How's it go'n Lads?...where's the Captain?"

The door to the establishment seems to open almost on its own. A silhouette of a great stormcoat is framed in the doorway. Enters a handsome gentleman. His vert coat is edged in gilt stitching, his left hip is holstered a bear of a pistol, his right hip is sheathed an ornate blade. His face is young, but his eyes are old somehow. Dark hair, fair skinned, small beard on the point of his chin; his nose is like a knife bisecting his face. But for a tricorn hat, you'd name him a rogue, indeed.
"I see we all have a bit of the same plan, gents. Make some cozy afore we wheel and."

Captain G.F. Hastings-Myngs slides a chair close to Leo.

Seated at the far end of the table, and the first to arrive, you see what is quite possibly the largest non-gene-enhanced humanoid that you have ever laid eyes on. It's massive body encased in matt black carapace armor trimmed in red, the butt of a hellgun sticking up over its shoulder.

Well worn red robes cover a good portion of its body, and a polished chrome grill covers the lower portion of its face. Its head is covered by the hood of the red robes, but you can see pale blue, almost white eyes shining from underneath, and what looks like tatooes running back over the pale bald head underneath. (Those with Literacy can see they are some sort of Adeptes Mechanicus prayers tatooed all over my head)

A small glass sits in front of him, untouched, as you see his gaze fall over each of you, or to be more exact, over your weapons. You see him particularly linger on the fat greasy man for a moment, and looking up says in a metallic whisper, "The treatment of your weapons is an affront to their Machine Spirits. Please address this issue before boaring the ship, lest I be forced to confiscate them, and punish you for your transgressions."

Turian Spice,the cost of just an ounce of this stuff is enough to feed a large family well for a few years, if this contact proves to be the real deal it could provide some serious return for a limited investment. Of course it could also be a setup, it would be just like the Arbites or Inquisition to pull some stunt like this just to discredit the name of the Hastings-Myngs Dynasty. The fact that the new Seneschal that arranged the meeting is not present adds to the tension a bit. Despite any reservations though, you know that Captain Myngs has some type of influence on this Station. You have been residing within the Onyx Tower, the central most spire at the top of the station, a paradise in comparison to the rest of the orbital. Now you are just above the Pits, a den of vice and villainy, there is one in just about every city, this one is no different. A perfect place to meet for less than legal purposes.

You look down at your chronometer once more. Ten minutes. The stench of grease and sweat wafts from the patrons, the Tech Priest seems to be unmoved, perhaps somehow at ease with this smell, the rest of you however quickly think back to Melina. You think that was her name. She was one of the dancers in the Onyx Tower. She smelled of honeyed powder and saffron, her skin smooth as silk.

Your brief respite is broken as the sound of grinding metal snaps you back. You look towards the door as two figures enter. Clad in black mesh armor and fitted masks and hoods they scan the bar and its occupants. You see the four soldiers that accompanied the Arch Militant tense up as their hands readied to draw their weapons though a quick glance to their commander kept them from any action.

Seemingly content with what they saw or perhaps did not the two figures move to opposite sides of the bar, as they take up their positions another pair enter followed by a tall heavily robed figure. The patrons in the bar look at the newcomers and immediately place distance between themselves and your group. If it wasn’t obvious before it is now, these are not regulars.

The tall figure approaches your group, as it moves across the floor you can scant detect any type of movement, almost as if it is floating across the ground. The two guards accompanying the robed figure take up flanking positions to the rear of their charge.

“Captain Myngs?” a soft whispering voice, heavily accented High Gothic comes from the shadowy figure. The deep shadows of the bar and the heavy hood shroud the features of the speaker but you can sense its gaze resting upon the Captain.

"Master Kinski, I presume. Please have a chair, and let us to business be."
G.F. stands, turns his chair to the newcomer, and gestures to the seat with a bow.

<I will continue posting the intro tomorrow.>

We should all shame Matt into participating on the forums.

(I sent him a facebook message with the link so he has no excuse for not seeing the email. Someone should have nudged him towards a NON interactive class....like the void ass kicker guys)

The large tech-adept does not speak, but appears to be sizing up this newcomer and his entourage, as if mentally calculating the survival odds should a gun-fight occur.

<Should a gun fight occur you feel confident that you would win, mainly because you do not see any obvious weapons on anyone but you and your entourage.>

“Thank you for your offer but I find such simple devices as uncomfortable and I do not wish to take up much of your time. Before we begin allow me to extend the condolences of my master for the loss of your father. They were long time…associates.” You do not detect any sarcasm in the hesitation. “He hopes that our relationship may be as amicable, and profitable.”

“That said, here is the offer that my Lord wishes to extend. It is simple though not without risk. There is a contact located within one of the domed estates on Foot Fall that is in direct contact with the organization I represent. We supply him with our product which is then distributed amongst a small fleet of “free traders”, however there is a problem with the consistency of the ships picking up our product. We want to replace them with a Vessel and a Navigator so that small warp storms or other turbulence won’t affect their delivery. Included with this are the distribution rights which would need to be organized for each world you plan on delivering to.”

He pulls a long tube from one of his sleeves, his fingers are longer and more slender than you would expect from one of his height and are clad beneath what looks to be some type of scale. “If you are interested I will provide your Seneschal the calculations that will be required, I cannot provide you more details than what I have given you without a commitment due to the nature of the cargo.”

“Captain, what say you sir?”

[William leans in and whispers in the Capt.'s ear.]
""Those Free Traders are gonna be none to happy bout losing their connection. We might have to have a bit of a scrap with 'em.""
""Only problem I can see.""

"I would have my man check the calculations. In his absence, I would ask Master Explorator to peruse the equations and advise me on their feasibility."

The robed figure nods, or at least that is how you interpret the slight adjustment of his head as he hands the Data Scroll to the Explorator.

"Everything is in order." He pauses a moment as the door to the bar opens and a figure slips out. "If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask."

I reach a back gloved hand out to accept the datalate, and in doing so expose a small amount of flesh aound the wrist area. You notice that there is computer code tattooed on my skin. I slide the dataslate into a small satchel at my side and nod in acceptance of it.

"Well if you do not need to peruse the data I will take that as an agreement?", the hooded figure asks as he retracts his hand back into his thick robes.

"Captain, it has been a pleasure, I do look forward to future arrangements." The figure "floats" back a meter as two of his guards stand between you and him and then spins gently, moving towards the door which is now flanked by the other two guards. You can't help but be a little impressed at the coordination of his security detail and their confidence in not carrying a visible weapon.

The regulars all seem to let out a collective sigh of relief as they begin speaking to each other above whispers. A few rounds are freshly ordered and the patrons begin to spread out once more.

Curious, everyones gaze falls to the Explorator, as if waiting for him to share some vital information.

G.F. looks at the representative as he "floats" away, looks at the Explorator, scans the bar, looks at Leo, and shrugs.
"I was hoping to negotiate."

You may find it unusual that he did not wish to negotiate, however looking over the terms you see how there is little upfront cost to you, you have a guaranteed price for the duration of the contract (no set limit) in which to buy the product and the freedom to sell it on any other world except for the three required to deliver to at whatever price you see fit. You would probably look foolish to try and get a better deal. The final page is for your signature after you have read and accepted the terms. You have 6:59:12 left to sign it apparently, at least that is what the timer ticking down across the bottom of the screen is telling you.

"Oh my apologies Captain, I did not realize I was playing the role of the Seneschal this evening. I shall include that detail in my monthly stipend meeting, thank you for clarifying." (you aren't quite sure, but I may have been attempting humor)

The Explorator fishes the dataslate from his pocket and begins to peruse the terms of the contract. Upon completion I give my assessment to the Captain and the rest of the assembled team.

Upon completion, I slide it over in front of the Captain. "It appears there is a time limit upon accepting the terms. If they seem acceptable to you, please make your mark in the appropriate designated area, and press the send button."

[Below is the link to the endeavor's details. It is up to the Crew to decide how they are going to go about accomplishing it.]

https://sob420.forumotion.net/endeavors-f5/turian-spice-trade-t177.htm

[Also, try not to get Tunnel Vision with this topic. Occasionally there is information that only a certain character will receive and that would be in your personal section.]

About a half hour passes and you see a red light begin to flash above the door. Most of the clientele let out a groan or a grumble and finish off whatever drinks they had in front of themselves and shuffle out of the bulkhead door. Their stench remains for much longer however as you look above the bar at the rusted air vent, a thick viscous black substance choking the vent, occasional globs spraying out as the recycled air tries to force its way through.

There appears to be some sort of commotion outside from the herd of workers. Their voices are mufled by the door despite the volume at which they are shouting, then the sounds of running and silence. The bartender, a fat greasy man whose skin has the sheen and texture of a bloated maggot looks up for a moment then shrugs and goes back to wiping down glasses with a disgusting soiled piece of fabric.

[Cutting rises from his chair and makes his way to the doorway, and scans around outside.]

"What the fuck? Is it shift change or something?"

The bartender looks up at you and nods, missing teeth add to the whole package and makes you regret ordering a drink from him," Yer, datz da end o duh mid shift and the start of the fird shift."