Your Personal Quarters

[cha-kun]

Inquisitor Osbourne had already decided who he was going to choose as his retainers before they even stepped foot through his office door. So, in order to make them feel welcome on his ship he had personl quarters made to suit all of their needs and/or wants for the duration of their trip. This is where you will describe your own personal quarters to everybody. Oh, and feel free to post even if I haven't finished your interview because they should be done soon. Hopefully before wedensday.

[Archereon]

The moment Holt opened the door to his cabin on the Inquisitor's ship, his suspicion that Obsbourne had already decided which of the candidates he was going to recruit was confirmed. Before him was an square room about 5 meters wide and 6 meters long, lit by several incandescent lamps located in arched recesses in the walls. Besides the lighting fixtures however, the room was almost entirely bare of the elaborate ornamentation that characterized private cabins aboard Imperial vessels besides a large imprint of the Machine Cult's coat of arms, and an Aquila motif on the ceiling.

An officer sized naval cot was bolted to the far side of the wall, though from the looks of things, the bedding was of higher quality than what Holt had observed in pics of the majority of cabins he'd seen in pics of Imperial Navy and merchant vessels, and certainly better than the thin slabs of fabric that passed for cots aboard Explorator ships. Across from the bed in the near left corner of the room, there was a plain metal desk, also bolted down, with a surprisingly ornate office chair attached to a pair of rails.

On the other side of the room there was a sliding metal door leading into a compact lavatory, complete with a shower and a cabinet housing a wide variety of toiletries. To the right side of the door was a locker with a dataslate taped to it, and an empty bookshelf. Having been born on a Forge World, Holt had never experienced claustrophobia as far as he could remember, and as such didn't mind the somewhat cramped quarters in the slightest. While he had been taught the value of ornamentation in pleasing a device's machine spirit, a less elaborately decorated room would be far easier to clean.

Not that that particular task would be at all difficult, since, as far as he could tell, the room was completely and utterly spotless; the metallic walls and desk were polished to a shine, the cot and bedding were white enough to be brand new; and probably were. Just to be thorough though, he ordered the servo skull floating above him to sterilize the room with ultra-violet rays before entering it.

At this point, Holt was extremely curious as to whether the Inquisitor was a psyker, and, more importantly, whether Osbourne had been reading his mind during the long wait between his arrival at the space station and his interview with the Inquisitor; at one point he'd spent a good three hours thinking about the chaos that would ensue if the station's gravity failed.* There was also the matter of the careful cleaning, though from experience, Tristan knew he was blindingly obvious about his obssession, and would be surprised if the Inquisitor hadn't seen that mentioned several times in his dossier.

Might as well ask; he'll know I'm thinking about it if he is.

Shrugging, Holt walked up to the footlocker and activated the dataslate.

This locker will open to the password 17724. Do with it, its contents, and this dataslate what you will. Your weapons and armor are in locker 224 in the ship's armor. It opens to the same code.

Holt tapped in the password out on the keypad, and the light switched to green. Opening the locker, he found a box containing a set of varioius hand tools and auspexes, a fully stocked medkit complete with a handheld diagnostic unit. Best of all, resting in the small holster hooked to the wall of the locker was the gelt gun—a rare archeotech pattern of lasgun—that had been confiscated from him after being taken into Inquisition custody.

If the Tech-Priest still had lips he would've smiled. Everything was in order, and more importantly everything was clean.

[Eisenhorn]

After Serdali arrived at his quarters, he could tell the Inquisitor had a handle on how the various team members would want their quarters furnished. The room was a standard size for its kind, slightly smaller at a 5 meter by 5 meter box. It probably got a bit of extra room chopped off due to being near a variety of systems higher priority than a personal quarters location. It was lit by a series of covered lamps, giving it a somewhat dampened appearance, lit but a subtle cozy air to it. That was good, he would be doing a lot of paperwork, if things were anything like the Arbites, so he would like his quarters to be at least comfortable, in an efficient manner.

The bed was fairly standard when it came to Imperial vessels, being about average when compared to other things, was mounted to the wall facing the door. A moderate work desk was facing the wall to the right of the doorway when entering the room, which had a small lamp aimed down at where one would be reading or writing, depending on what the desk was bought for. There was a pedestal next to it, the copy of the Dictates Imperialis, the laws and regulations that the Imperium was run by. It was his personal copy that had been confiscated along with his gear, and such was worn and battered, but in very good condition despite this. The desk had whatever supplies he would need for writing and analyzing whatever would come onto its surface, which he approved of.

Opposite of this desk was a simple door leading to a shower, and the various other necessities one would find necessary. Next to this door was a armor and weapons rack that had all the equipment he had to turn over already in its place. He did a check over all the equipment, to make sure nothing was tampered with, and promptly slid his shoulder holsters back on under the long coat, falling naturally back over. The rest he rearranged for quick access and set up, doing a brief look over everything else. It was clean, well kept, and would fit any purposes he would have of it.

A footlocker sat on the side of the door not taken up by the weapon and armor rack, and that would be for whatever miscellaneous equipment or gear he would find himself in possession of he assumed. It was empty, all ammo for armaments at the bottom of the weapon rack, and he closed the locker again. At this point he sat down at the desk, grabbing his copy of the Dictates Imperialis and starting to read it again. He did this in his spare time, having few other habits and hobbies, and didn't mind one bit. It was a safe, generally mindless habit that, in no way, shape, or form could be frowned upon in a fashion that would halt its practice. The Inquisition may be above the law, but knowing it would be a potent weapon.

[Saxious]

Varn walked through the door and entered his chambers on the inquisitor’s ship. It was a small room, it was decorated as if by a citizen from Fenksworld. The pictures that hung of the wall were of industrial sites, typically in black and white, and the bed could be put into the room, giving space to walk around.
The furniture themselves were simple, easy to make and easy to produce, while the desk was slim and bolted to both the wall and the floor though on it there were various books, including a copy of the Imperial Creed, similar to the one from Fenksworld. Notepads, pens and calculators were all lined up for usage, even one of the books were open on a page discussing industrial toxins.
A few lamps were her and there in case Varn wanted to read elsewhere in the room (such as on the chair or the bed).
The bed was unusual for a Fenksworlder design. It had the mattress itself was soft and almost swallowed him. He remembered that the working class always wanted some kind of comfort after they had worked on Sheol, though with Varn’s experience in prison and the legion he knew that such a bed would only give him back pains.

Who do you think you are? a voice whispered as Varn looked around the room, confused at first though he quickly realized what would happen. He could hear distant voices, cries, yells, beating of flesh and the ever-clanking sound of metal hitting metal.
“A prisoner of Sheol XVI is given everything he deserved. Anything found in your cells will be removed and your punishment will be according to its value.” the announcer sounded through the speakers.
Varn looked around the room and immediately knew that everything was wrong. No prisoner would be given so much, especially a heretic… He had to get rid of it.

With the door wide open he began to throw out everything that wasn’t standard for a prison. The furniture was tossed down the hallway, breaking with the force that he used, he took the mattress and threw it out as well, leaving only a thin blanket for him to stay warm. He even went so far as to take out the light bulbs from the lamps, for he knew that sooner or later his cell would get raided, either by the authorities or gangers.

He then shut the door, locked it and backed away from it. He stood in his naked
All that was truly left in the room was his bed, naked of any sheets or blankets. The books, notepads, pens and calculator were all hidden, as he dearly wanted to read them.

The only thing that he hadn’t touched was the clock clock hung on the wall. Its ticking was almost ghostly in the silence, though in Varn’s mind, the noises of prison raged loudly.

[Hydrall]

Atellus steps into his quarters, looking around suspiciously. A small bed, vaguely comfortable but mostly just serviceable... A writing desk, though the Emperor knew there were easier and better ways than writing to record information. A suitcase of what few clothes he wore. It was a spartan place, with little personal effects, but his workplace was far more important anyways. A large space was cleared in the center of the room, a circular area with a border of mechanical, complex equipment, all of it meant to assist in his processing of the massive network of communications and such that permeated the Imperium.

A small servo-skull lay deactivated on the writing desk. Atellus walked over, scowling at it, then gave it a whack. It flickered to life, floating up a few feet and bobbing in greeting. "Stupid things," Atellus sighed. "Even more blind than blunts."

"SHOULD THIS SERVANT BE RECORDING?"

"No, no, just... Hover about." He headed over towards his suitcase, opening it up. "Aha, thank the Emperor." His card set and tarot set remained, as well as a bag of dice and other tools of chance. He smiled. His one vice, he supposed, seemed to have been allowed.

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS," the Servo-skull intoned blaringly in his ear.

Atellus slapped a hand to the side of his head. "Shut up!"

"SHUTTING DOWN." The skull thunked to the floor heavily, barely missing Atellus's foot. The astropath scowled, picking it up and setting it on the table again.

"Brilliant, those techpriests are getting," he muttered. "Can even fake uselessness."

[Rill]

Stepping into his quarters, Thungrim Thunderfist looked about his new home as the doors slid shut behind him...
Stroking his long beard, the Squat engineer gave a grunt of satisfaction.

The room had been converted into an accurate replica of a Squat Engineer's workshop!
Complete with workbench, tools, forge, Thunder Anvil and racks upon racks of weaponry.

The Engineer's beard twitched as he grinned, stepping forward into the room, the manlings had done a decent job, he could almost be back home... Almost.

"Ah!"
Thunderfist's eyes fixed upon the large barrel of 'Brungam's Ale' sat beside the workbench, stumping over, the Dwarf removed the classical wooden lid and gave an experimental sniff.

"Ach! Tis the real stuff!"
The Engineer exclaimed, bushy eyebrows raising in surprise,
"The Manling really did mean what he said..!"

Sweeping a steel tankard from his belt, the Dwarf dunked it down into the barrel, filling it to the brim before taking a hearty swig!
Smacking his lips contentedly, the Squat set the flagon down upon the workbench, sat down upon the stool, tugged his goggles down over his eyes and pulled a spanner from his tool-belt, drawing an armful of machine parts towards him as he did so.

The small, sparse bed hidden in one corner under the clutter, would remain ignored for many hours...

[cha-kun]

Inquisitor Volsk Osbourne had finally finished giving over one hundred interviews in less than twelve hours. He was exhausted. He shambled into his opulent quarters. The walls were covered in artwork by various artists from a range of styles, from exuisite murals dedicated to the Emperor's might, to stone slabs, covered in cave paintings from the most primitive worlds in the Imperium, and that was only the foyer. He shambled into his study, and the inside of his enormous study was covered wall-to-wall with tomes, scriptures, and, of course, even more paintings and sculptures, the wallpaper itself was black and edged with gilded crown-molding. On one wall of his study he had a bar, full of every liquor known to man. He had a brewer on the bar as well, in case he had a taste for tanna or recaff, which he often did. He went over to the bar and started brewing some nice hot tanna. he took his tanna over to his fireplace and slumped into his plush armchair. He took a glob of honey out of the little jar on the trap table next to his chair and plopped it into his tea, watching it dissolve slowly into his tea. He sipped lightly at his tea, doing his best to relax. He called for a servo-skull to activate his music player, and set it to "Nox Imperator" by Narcene. He sat there for the duration of the piece, silently sipping his tea. once he had inished his tea, and his daily dose of music, he decided he would catch a few minutes of sleep before calling his team for briefing. he stumbled over to his bedroom, removing his clothing along the way, and flopped into his Emperor-sized, four-poster bed. His bed was perfectly made with dark-blue silk sheets, and his blanket and comforter were both dark-blue on one side and black on the other. His silken pillows were stuffed with goosedown imported from Gudrun, and felt cool on his cheeks. He slipped off to sleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.