This will be a narrative tale of a few sessions between myself and my GM (both of us are new to RT and RPGs in general, but have a long history in the 40k 'verse). There are occasional oddities, a few descents into jokes or references outside 40k, but we've found that its more fun that way.
The Castra Aleria - A modified Lunar Class cruiser (stats and possible plot hooks):
Atton's World Skyhook - The home base of the Vandigrath Dynasty in the Expanse. (repair facilities and possible plot hooks): http://community.fan...ll/#entry815754
I stepped onto the bridge of my ship as the watch bell rang for the First Watch. Armsmen, augur crews, weapon’s officers, and the various administrative staff required to keep watch over a crew of a hundred thousand were already in the process of beginning their day. My bridge, buried in among the upper spires of Castra Aleria was efficient to a fault.
Beneath my feet, I could feel the warm humming of my Lunar class cruiser’s beating heart as it entered low orbit over our destination. Already, my Augur crews were informing me that they had spotted the shipwreck we’d been looking for on the planet below. Striding up the wide steps of my command throne and turning forward to face my crew, I looked out of my gilt-rimmed windows framing BrightWood 7’s only inhabitable planet.
It was Brightwood 7’s only planet, and only true astronomical feature. The drifting and dead sands of the planet were a perfect analog for the drifting wastes of the entire system. If not for the planet below, it is doubtful that the Imperium would even know that the 7th surveyed system of Brightwood’s first expedition even existed.
I could not see the shipwreck through the windows, our orbit still too far up. Even the kilometer-long shape of a doomed frigate was invisible from this distance. I called for the wreck to be imaged, and my crew quickly went to work knitting a hololith of the Fel Hand’s final resting place.
The ship was shorn, scattered across a swath of desert. At some point during the crash, the prow had dug itself into the ground and pulled away from the rest of the vessel. It was a half kilometer behind the bulk of the Hand, and looked mostly intact.
My Augur teams reported that there were several large rents in the upper hull of the Fel Hand, likely from pressure buckling during the descent onto the planet’s surface. There were no active life-signs.
I ordered my ship to alert stations, and had the launch bays begin prepping my gunship.
Here, I must stop the tale for a moment, just before I descend onto that foul world. I have to confess that I am not a rich man, not from one of the ascendant dynasties of the Calixis Sector. The Castra Aleria is a relic of my dynasty, a gift to me from my 2nd Uncle for service in the Insurrections around Keldan’s Worlds. Those foul Chaos Worshipers nearly ruined my family and our holdings.
My ‘procurement’ of a Warrant of Trade is the only thing that kept us afloat, and much rides on my ventures in the Expanse.
It is this reason that I do not have access to some of the more fancy toys of my Rogue Trader brethren (if they can even be called such), and is the reason I am above this hostile desert in the first place.
Covered from nose to stern in the black, gold, and green of my family’s crest, my gunship is a wicked looking creature. Its wide wings bore me down, supported by engines of Lathe-world manufacture, supported by my Seneschal and Arch-Militant. Miguel and Tulio are old friends, loyal companions, forged in the same fire of war that guided me.
They are also insufferable braggarts, and prone to fits of sarcastic wit. None of us three had any idea what the Expanse had in store for us. It was mostly my fault.
Flying fast as I broke through the plasma sheathe of re-entry, I felt good behind the controls of my own ship. The gunship was responsive under my white gauntlets, hand-stitched by the finest artisans still in the employ of my family, and its spirit felt happy to be free of the chains of the Imperium’s border. I took a quick pass over the Fel Hand’s ruined form.
Refusing to succumb to caution, I let pride fill my chest as I looked over the carcass of a downed rival. In the small cargo area in the back of the gunship, my small Armsman team couldn’t see how low I was passing across the Hand’s sensor spires. On either side of me, Miguel and Tulio braced and shifted to looks of pure terror.
I clipped a wing on one of the sensor towers jutting from the main spine of the Fel Hand. In my vision, I caught glimpses of rusted metal, Aquilla charms forged as tall as a man into the metal, and the delicate lenses of various augur eyes.
The rusted metal gave way, and my gunship bucked under the hit, tossing the rest of the occupants around as I fought to regain control. I pulled out and around, swinging back over the wreck at a higher altitude. The wing was still intact, as was all the vital bits that kept us flying.
“See,” I said, “Nothing to worry about.”
Tulio shot me a glance that said, ‘If I open my mouth, I might just puke on you.’
I turned back, smiling. I had seen a landing spot near the bridge on the pass. It was wide enough to set the gunboat down on, and was directly next to one of the great rents that would allow us access inside. I told everyone to secure their void suits. My ship, jostled by the hit, was now telling me that the air on the planet was likely unbreathable.
With a bit more caution now, having had my fun, I set the Vandigrath liveried gunship down on the dead wreck of the Fel Hand.
Edited by CaptainRemiVandigrath, 16 July 2013 - 09:59 PM.