Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-1734134-20161215224219/@comment-1734134-20161217210245

As the shuttle ramp lowers, you find that the landing pad is littered with men, women and children holding candles and holy symbols. Even the soldiers, the lightly armed, hooligan in appearance militia, are bowing and praying, making the Emperor’s sign. Missionaries and other holy men are reading out scripture as you descend. One man is stood before you, an Imperial Guardsman, clad in chipped flak armour and wearing robes and bandages. He bows and offers a prayer before standing, a chant rising up all around you,

“My lords, we expected help, but nothing akin to this.”

The ramp of the shuttle closes up, the aircraft slowly lifting into the air as the Imperial chant grows louder and louder, the fanaticism growing stronger and stronger.

You’re lead down into the streets, where more worshipers await. They are dirty and impoverished, almost as much as their surroundings, but the reality of their situation has melted away as they chant and sing. The settlement is squalid and small, most of the buildings boarded up, high walls surrounding it.

The Guardsman, a sergeant, leads you to a small monastery turned armoury, where alongside the pulpits and other ancient places, boxes of ammunition and crates of equipment have been piled up. You are eventually left alone in a large, aging dining room, though it seems it has been stripped clear of any valuables.