vanity mirror mirror rough 1

Tabbius Mane was, despite many of the rumors flying around his homeworld, not the last of his line. (Though one could argue that was not a consequence of wasted effort on his part.) It had taken years of effort, billions of thrones, hundreds of lives, and one long series of administratum messages via the Astropath Temples to secure his warrant of trade. So of course he would not be allowed to rest after his great endeavours. Warrants of Trade were useful things, they allowed the holder a great deal of freedom and the ability to collect a frankly terrifying amount of wealth and political influence. But they, it seemed, had an expiration date. Or renewal rituals at least. It seemed straightforward enough, get your shiny new (okay it was old, ancient even) ship, go down to Holy Terra and lick some administratum boot till you got a nice big waxen seal on your Warrant. Which is what brought Tabbius Mane to the bridge of “Misspent Fortune.” It was a good ship, ancient, supposedly as old as the imperium, well maintained by the best Techpriests Mars had to offer. He glanced over to his left, he didn’t like looking at the captain, or at the bridge crew really. Fat bloated things, more machine than man at this point. Quivering balls of flesh locked into life support equipment, babbling machine code and occasionally speaking with seldom used voices. He wasn’t sure what was more disgusting, the mucus encrusted rolls of fat on the bridge captain or the noises that followed when one of the attending servo skulls started spraying him and rubbing him down. To be fair not all of the bridge crew were disgusting blobs of flesh and machinery, there were lower ranking officers who were still human. He could probably be fucked to remember their names and general ranks if he weren’t dulling the pain of freshly installed implants with overpriced liqour. As it was he was just barely aware enough to speak up at the right places in the ceremony that was turning over ownership of the ship over to him. A “Praise the Emperor in his guise as the Omnissiah here” a “Praise the Emperor in his guise as the saviour of all mankind” there. An “I do so swear” a couple times and then he got down on his knees and removed his hat. This was what he’d been drinking for, one of the attending started preparing an odd looking helmet while a pair of the crew offered to hold him down. He thanked them for their concern but waved them off and took a slug of what he assumed was some kind of brandy from his flask. When the time came for the branding he knelt down and accepted it without the aid of his crew. The Techpriests placed the helm on him, it was an uncomfortable process. The helmet buzzed with strange machinery and was hot to the touch. Within moments it had clamped down tightly upon his throat and shoulders and then there were hot needles slamming into his skin and blinding light. The process was fast though, maybe 5 minutes of the needles piercing his skin, injecting Omnissiah only knew what into his body. But when it had finished he had blood pouring down his face and a new votive tattoo, it varied from person to person but they’d always received one upon taking ownership of the vessel. In his case it was golden stripes, similar ones covered his body and on command they could display holograms of scripture or simple pictographs of the emperor’s victories. The techpriests, with much fanfare, removed the helmet from his person. It left with a skittering of metallic limbs and a buzz of machine code. Then he looked down at one of his cufflinks and regarded his reflection as the electoos adjusted to his body, a flicker, a spark, then a garbled line of text... His head had become enshrouded with golden glowing nonsense while the holographic circuitry tried to acclimate his body. He didn’t bother sparing them more attention after that. Instead he drained the last of his flask and pointed at the forward viewscreen. “Captain, I needn’t stand on ceremony anymore. Do your duty, set course for Holy Terra.”

A gurgling behind him, the rolls of flesh quivered and a face hooded with some kind of mechanical implant turned to regard him from behind a dozen glowing lenses. “As you will Lord Mane.” His voice was bizarre, one part mechanical rasp, one part organic. It almost sounded like he was drowning. Tabbius managed to hide his disgust by retrieving his second flask and slugging down what tasted like scotch. There was a jerk as the ship’s engines engaged, and then an odd sensation as the gellar fields materialized around the ship. The viewscreen changed from a field of stars to a visage that resembled a oil sheen. An odd toxic rainbow that was more grotesque than beautiful. Then the ship moved, it felt like it was sinking and sliding into some kind of mud and then the screaming started. You could only really perceive it for a moment, maybe less than a moment. Then the Gellar fields kicked in and you were left with a vague sense of unease. Regardless he didn’t want to be here for this, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a face coming right at them the moment the gellar fields engaged. As per usual when it came to warp phenomena he took another slug of hard liquor, turned and around and made his way towards the sacred elevatus. “If you need me I’ll be in my quarters.” He told no one in particular. Then he engaged the summoning ritual for the (literally) glorified lift and started draining the scotch in earnest.


The warp is a strange dimension where the rules of time and space have no logical application. The Misspent Fortune is a fine vessel, her astropath well trained and competent in his duties. But instances of ships disappearing for centuries to find themselves lost in time upon return have been heard of. This time the journey through the warp takes this vessel not to the other side of the galaxy, but to a different universe. In this universe the God Empress of mankind sleeps undying in a gold and crystal coffin, surrounded by vigilant knights and red roses, rapacious Orks raid the worlds and raze their great works, Eldar languish on their craftworlds yearning for a lost age, the minions of chaos twist all they touch into forms of terrible beauty, and a pall of sorrow hangs over the galaxy.

We find ourselves in deep space in a system of little importance. The Vessel Resplendent in Sorrow finds herself under attack by a small battle group of orkish ships. She’s a pretty vessel by any stretch of the imagination, sleek, golden and silver. Statues of angels hold gun turrets, their wings produce forcefields of one sort or another and their eyes serve as sensors where possible. Her servitors are plated with marble and bronze. Her techpriestesses wear masks made of the finest porcelain and use their sacred rites and rituals to keep her functioning in the Omnissiah’s name and her captain floats womblike in amnion, her body echoing the functions of her ship. Normally the ship hums with activity, her crew living a life of sacrifice and service to their beloved God Empress. That order and peace has been shattered by the intrusion of brutish orks and their horrible hodgepodge battleships. The Light Cruiser darts here and there, lashing out with laser lances and missiles but the ork fighta-bombas and escorts are relentless and behind them comes the smoking, sparking, burning scrapmetal Battleship that the Freeboota Warlord Kazzakar directed with a brutal iron will. The void is awash in fire and explosions and then space twists itself. Instead of the terrible beauty of the warp that the people of this universe have come to know the rip in spacetime is an ugly, twisted thing. Like the flesh of the universe has rotted and burst open oozing iridescent plasma, and out of this strangely fleshy portal a ship, ancient and gothic emerged. It was a thing of harsh lines and dark aesthetics. Rivets, and black steel and gargoyles and naked gun barrels. As suddenly as the warp portal appeared it vanished, leaving the ship behind with echoing screams of damned souls. Our perspective shifts, now we find ourselves on the bridge of the ship a beautiful place by any measure. Inlaid wood, gold filigree, obsidian tiling, lecterns made from silver attended to by men and women in white uniforms and of course the tubes full of amnion and the floating serene forms of the captain and her more important bridge crew members. Inquisitor Svetlana Lyubovkov stood glaring at the ship’s holographic battle plane. The ship that had just arrived was unusually ugly for an imperial vessel but the ship’s adjutant assured her that