[The following is crossposted to , and is part of basically a slowly unfolding story about diverse cahracters and in which multiple people will take part. Basically, for the most part it’ll be post-based RP/fiction-writing/whatever, though some realtime chat-running’ll probably go with it. Right now I’m still setting up the action though, so it’s not in full swing. Felt like sharing this tidbit, partly because there are a couple people considering joining in the endeavor.]
Location: Julius Landing, Ostia, Hesch, K-H system, Ultima Segmentum.
Engines growl and tracks creak as the two boxlike vehicles traverse the cobbled streets. Pedestrians clear out of the way of their armored prows, and a rumbling murmur follows them. The black, ominous vehicles grind on, fearful eyes dwelling on them and in particular on the emblems of the Adeptus Arbites adorning their otherwise spartan exteriors. Inside the lead rhino, Judge Hirren speaks over comm with his counterpart in the Julius Landing precinct.
“…See to it that you have a Patrol Team prepare the way for our arrival. The Marshal wants to meet this Rogue Trader personally, and we require the cooperation of port security…” His voice is firm and grim, strictly business.
Above, in her position at the rhino-class APC’s top hatch, Arbitrator Sharifpour gazes watchfully out at the peaked roofs and narrow side streets of the city, watchful for crimes-in-progress, for possible threats and for signs of unrest. She reflexively double-checks the pintle-mounted storm bolter she is manning, making sure that all of the rites of loading and awakening have been performed properly. Her face is shielded behind her helm’s removable faceplate, her eyes behind its impassive visor. Only her chin and mouth are visible at all. This figure is not human, it is authority at its coldest and least sympathetic, and passersby avert their eyes from the Arbitrator’s searching, judging gaze.
A row of chained mutant slaves is marched past the two APCs. A well-dressed man with an entourage in tow climbs into his roadwheeler while resentful eyes of the urban poor follow him. There is a tension in the air that is almost electric. Those that linger, seem to be waiting for something to go wrong, and those that move do so in earnest haste, as if to escape a coming squall.
The gates of the space-port yawn wide at the official vehicles’ approach, then swallow them up hungrily.
[I left out the pics of rhino APCs from this version]