“…All ships of the Imperium have a particular hum, one that you can feel right through to your bones. A rather pragmatic enginseer I managed to get drunk once told me that it’s an oscillation of the primary plasma baffles. I’ve heard that hum for eighty years now, aboard dozens of vessels, and I know the truth. It’s a hymn, a prayer of loyalty and gratitude from the heart of the ship itself to Him on Earth.
—Fleet-Captain Rodriquez Castellan vi’Ortega, personal correspondence. "
So. My journals were destroyed by the clumsy attempts of my captors on that benighted world and I have little desire to relive what happened out in the desert, so I’ll start anew. As assets of Inquisitor Thallia Jocasta, we’ve stowed away aboard a pilgrim-ship dubbed the Oath Unspoken. I’m told we are headed for the shrine-world Thaur, pursuing the root of the Sable Traders infesting Desoleum.
I led our small party out into the ship’s corridors, following the faint echoes of a hymn I knew as well as my own heartbeat; we emerged from the oppressively-tight corridors into a converted macro-hold, almost completely filled with throngs of the faithful, a withered old man leading the prayers from the top of a shipping container that had been converted into a prayer lectern. Though I had taken care to hide the physical emblem of my soul’s armour beneath my borrowed clothing, its radiance was enough to draw the attention of those around me as we made our way through the room. I hung back behind the others, offering benedictions and words of kindness for the pilgrims until I encountered a junior priest, allowing me to request an interview with his superior in a more private setting.
Stavros (and Velada?) remained outside as the withered priest made his way into the room. We discussed matters for some time, and I don’t doubt that my companions would be offended at my decision to reveal our identities so soon after meeting him, but I felt… safe, around that man. I chose to trust him with knowledge of our purpose, and he promised to aid us as best he and his followers could.
With the priest’s goodwill assured, I joined back up with the party, explained all that I had learned so far and led us towards the Drunnels, the ship’s unofficial marketplace. Vel and Stavros wandered off to do something or other, while I found myself here, in the care of Sisters Hospitaller. Though Velada’s medical knowledge is surprisingly capable for a scrivener, even the cavernous depths of her medkit had come up short of being able to truly re-attach the arm I had lost back in the desert. The nurses tell me I’ll be able to leave in a day or so, while a messenger from Vel assures me we have already acquired suitable lodgings close to the officers decks. For now I can rest, and heal.
I’ve always hated travelling on ships. There’s a hum that gets right into your bones.