Whispered Secrets

Ninth Report

by Nache de la Mer Chemical

It has been an eventful weekend. It feels as if it has gone on for months. But the excitement just doesn’t let up here in Sinophia Magna.
Ravia and I left you deep underground, where we had just committed what would be, in the eyes of more scrupulous individuals, the murder of a fairly well placed Adept in the basement of this planets very best supercops. For us, however, it really was just a terrible misunderstanding in the basement of this planet’s best supercops. In either sense, after intense deliberation our best option was concluded as the following:


After a moment’s investigation, and a peak at our older corpse friend’s thoroughly scrubbed Warp shadow, we heard the elevator coming down to our floor. Sensing trouble, I smashed the lights and got ready for a bloody all or nothing fight to the exit, having raised Titus to recruit some hired help from among the local murder enthusiasts. At which point, Ravia stole my thunder by finding an exit. My consolation is that I believe she now wishes she hadn’t.
As the crowd of probably very misguided (cries of “shoot on sight” were heard) Arbites exited the elevator, we took the chance to make our dramatic escape through a centuries old tunnel full of waist deep sewerage. We get all the classy jobs, see. So we’re carefully picking our way along in the dark, when wouldn’t you know, we get jumped.
Now, its not like we were unprepared. We could have handled giant rats, sewer workers or even some sort of highly aggressive fungus, but er… this was something else. One look at this thing (which I can only describe as a shrouded rotting bastard, or SRB for short) and I froze. Ravia had the sense to leg it after it stabbed her, which I admit I didn’t appreciate so much at the time.
But after a moment’s hesitation, I shook of the shock and reached forward into the multitude strands of possibility, looking for the one route that would deliver the two of us from the sewer of death. Ironically, it was my miscalculating the local Warp tides that provided it, creating a minor squall that knocked our SRB face first into the muck. Suffice to say, we did not hang around to see if it would extract itself. We found a door to the surface, vandalised it, and made our escape onto what turned out to be Celestine Wharf.
So there we were, covered in aeon poo, when Titus arrives looking right at home in his pimp mobile with a fair swathe of the criminal fraternity at his beck and call. Not wanting to waste the opportunity this offered, but also not wanting to answer to the angry SRB, we arranged an informal chat with Arbitrator Constantine in the heart of District XIII.
Though I menaced him, very effectively I think, with a tank of promethium and a shotgun, he still seems in the dark as to the source of the creatures, mirrors and murder. We’re going to meet his boss tomorrow at a swanky gala at the Clockwork Court, possibly after a shower. The evening was not wasted though, as Ravia made a startling discovery in one of the windows of the surrounding buildings; a gang of very familiar mooks.

Having a good bead on their position, we launched a coordinated attack. Titus commanded his flock of brigands, Ravia provided sniper support, and I smiled and was charming. After a hilariously brief fire-fight and a near perfect rifle round through the knee, we had captured and interviewed Lira. A lovely lass, in the employ of that noble prick and nerve gas enthusiast who I remember insulting but can’t recall the name of. Ravia remains convinced that Lira tried to shoot her in the face. She KNOWS, she KNOWS. And God Emperor knows I’m not one to question the tooth puller. Anyway, turns out the senile old fool has been having us followed, actually thinking I was a noble (never realised I was so convincing… but what can I say). So we returned his pet mercenary to the terribly obliging butler Amadeus, with the implicit message of “have us followed and we will kill 90% of your goons, and return the other 10% in less than working order”. That’ll learn him, with luck.
So after that, we rather fancied some kip. Ravia asked around, and we found a charming little place under a charming little bar, and the barman offered a last drink to anyone who felt like it. Titus slammed his like a demigod, but I was rather put off by the paint thinner smell. So Ravia and Titus settled in for the night, and I fixed my makeup and pondered exactly why there would be a drain in the corner of a commercial hotel. I was considering this over my shotgun breach when some heavily armed men rounded the corner.
I looked at them. And they looked at me. I looked at them, and said something confrontational, and then they had a lot more trouble looking at me because I’d decided now was a good time not to be seen. I relied on my first shotgun volley to alert my comrades that all was not well.
In a blink, Ravia was on her feet, and we had collectively reduced our assailants from five to one, with the spilling of copious amounts of blood and further ruination of my carefully cultivated appearance. It did explain what the drain was for, admittedly, but I don’t think it was really worth the trouble. On chasing down and interrogating the group’s leader (not giving a thought as to why Titus wasn’t chasing with us, I just figured the old bloke would catch up in his own time), we found that we’d had our first encounter with the Mandato, and sent their remaining envoy, Ishta, back to HQ with the message that we are not their problem.

We then returned to the room, wondering if the alcohol had finally taken effect on Titus, and found him lying very still under the bed trying to avoid his leg falling off. Though I did my best to patch him up, things were pretty bad, and we decided that staying here was perhaps not such a great idea. So we headed out on the town, found a nice little chapel with a very understanding priest with a keen eye for donations. With luck, this time nobody will try to kill us in our beds.

Thoroughly dishevelled, this is Nache de la Mer Chemical signing off.


GM_Tim Quorg

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