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Snippet #2622008

located in Planet Arawath, a part of Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment, one of the many universes on RPG.

Planet Arawath

Planet Arawath is a mining world within the Reike Expanse that has been under Ork assault for three years. Local regiments of the 319th Imperial Legionnaires, 420th Cannabisian Regiment, and 19th Reiker Defense Force are all engaged.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: Belva Clarette
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The good Father Yates was afforded was his own quarters, though he would have been just as comfortable (if not more) sleeping and sharing a living space with the rest of the 501st, or at the very least the squad he would be guiding in the light of the Emperor.
Simon changed quickly, exchanging his robes for the all-terrain clothing and battle armor he would need. He ran brushes of various sizes down the barrel, through the heat-bleeding holes, and all the connecting nozzles and ports of his flamer. His laspistol received less nurturing attention but was similarly quickly cleaned and inspected before being stowed on his hip. He threw a good book, corners well folded and dogeared from multiple reads, as well as clothes and an extra tank for his flamer in his bag, which was thrown over his shoulder opposite the flamer. He left his room holding the strap of his bag in one hand and his staff in the other. Soon the words and symbols of the Imperium of Man would be affixed to her, inspiring courage in his men and fear in the enemy.

The Commissar watched the psyker, cleric, and the cleric wannabe leave while she changed in full view of the rest of the barracks. She didn't care what the grunts thought, half expecting them to gawk at the briefly nude woman (it wasn't the first time she'd been assigned to an all-male regiment, and testosterone-jacked deathworlders like herself tended to have negative reactions to the unexpected) but hoping to make it out of the barracks unaccosted.
Rascal stalked her way down the halls of the ship towards the hangar, running into Simon as he exited his room. "Father," she acknowledged flatly as she passed, not trying to strike any kind of conversation. She scowled when the holy man fell into step beside her. "Commissar Rascal." He offered her a smile. "You look good in your new duds."
She raised a brow. "That's a highly inappropriate observation of a commanding officer."
Simon chuckled. "I'm not making a pass at you. The black fire-retardant material poking past the collar of your uniform and the material of your laces reminds me of a librarian on Theatris. One day her printer caught fire, and ever since she replaced her boot laces with the same Darapat primary blend so she'd have something safe to stomp on it if it ever went up in smoke again. She wore the same shade of motled black a lot. She said she liked the color ever since she read a trilogy by an author named-"
"You really like to talk, don't you?"
"No. It's a ghastly slow and ineffective method of communication. Full of nuances no one really masters, and only ever understood by individuals who spend a life unable to find others with the same proclivity for pontification and poetry."
The Commissar didn't have a response to that (she wasn't entirely sure what the condescending erudite had said), but fortunately she didn't need one; they came to the psyker's door, where she stopped and waited for the nervous woman to shuffle out of. "You should get to the hangar, Deacon. I'm sure your squire boy is bored without you."
Simon opened his mouth to inform her he had no squire, but he understood what she meant. "Right. See you in formation, Commissar." He continued walking; the Commissar crossed her arms and waited for Belva.

Simon walked into the hangar. He stood on a catwalk, hands wrapped around the safety rail, leaning over, inspecting the dissaray of busy troops scrambling to prepare for the drop. Equipment was ferried past him; someone shouted at him to get out of the way until he stood and faced them; a young flight deck attendant nearly tripped over his clipboard and mumbled a quick "Sorry, father" before scurrying away. Membership in the Ecclesiarchy came with the benefit of deferred treatment, something Simon could appreciate (and occasionally take advantage of) but regretted when it caused the discomfort or interruption of someone's work. He turned away from the impressive view of all the aircraft and descended a stair case to the flight deck. He walked quickly, having no difficulty in identifying the Pilgrim's peculiar armor.
Simon quickly adjusted the litanies of his station. He made sure the cloth of his faith hanging over either of his shoulders and down his chest was straight and clean before approaching. As instructed, he fell into line. "...so how do these Emperor-granted grav-chutes work?"