Half a year later Maximilian was back on the streets of Malfi, now working as an Investigator in the Absolom hive-spire, far from his old haunts in Norumo. He'd been doing well. Very well. He'd rooted out several criminal conspiracies and seen to it that they received just sentences; death as it were. The work truly appealed to him. He was making the Emperor proud. Proving that he deserved His attention. A dazzling beam of light caught him as he cross the street; a the silent form of an Arbites gunship suspended above the ground, weapon pods extended. Dark shapes moving in weapons at the ready. What is this?“ Investigator Maximilian Elazar Dante! In the name of the Holy Emperor you are hereby placed under arrest. The charge is heresy and witchcraft. The verdict is the Black Ships. Sentence to be carried out immediately. Resistance is futile and will only further damn your black soul!” Betrayal from within? Then only darkness as a power maul smashes into his skull.

Arbites interrogation room. Placed in an interview chair. Shackled hand and feet. A tall dark-haired woman sitting opposite the steel table, dressed like an Arbites but her bearing more...regal. A dataslate and several print-out spread out before her. A glass of fragrant high-quality amasec in her hand. She dismisses the medicae standing behind you; he quickly packs up his gear and leaves. The woman leans back, flexing her supple body and revealing ample curves beneath the black body-glove – and the Inquisitorial Rosette clinging to her slender neck. “Quite the record you have here Maximilian Elazar Dante. Quite the record. Your parents would have been proud I think.” She finishes her amasec and pours herself another. “Unfortunately your glorious career is over before it could begin. As you may have gleaned from your all-too-dramatic arrest, you've been charged with heresy and witchcraft. Which is where I come into the equation.” She points at the rosette and smiles, a warm and comforting smile of soft red lips and white-white teeth. “It is not as much what you've done, but what you are. The brutality, the lack of intimate social connections, the ego-centrism, those are all indications of a sociopath personality. Not a crime in itself...perhaps even an asset in your line of work? Certainly nothing that concerns the Holy Inquisition!” She pauses a bit, looking like she's considering offering you some amasec, but thinking better of it. “You, however, are a living crime. Every breath you take, every work you speak, every though that passes through your mind – heresies every one.” Seeing that you're completely cofused and dumbfounded she continues: “Maximilian Elazar Dante your crime is being a rogue servitor. You are, by the law of the Imperium, not human. You are a machine. Not a metal machine, but a flesh and blood one. A machine with no rights at all. A machine that now belongs to the Inquisition.” She finishes her amasec, gets up, walks elegantly around the table, sits down on the table's edge to look directly into Maximilian's eyes: “Even though you're a machine, you're a free-willed one – which is an even worse heresy in the eyes of some – so I'll make you an offer. You can either leave this room in a body-bag or you can accept that your life as you know it is over, and that from now on your taskmaster is the Holy Ordos. Inquisitor Tancred. Me.” She leans over and gently kisses your forehead before standing up to look down on you; man is she tall! “Be quick. It's a one-time offer; take it or leave it.”

Unknown to the Headmaster young Maximilian not only survived, but prospered in his new home – the Malfi Central Precinct Arbites Training Facility, a sprawling compound of shared with hundreds of thousands of other Arbites candidates. To Maximilian it was very much like another orphanage, and he knew how to survive in one of those. How to obey the rules as needed, how to make himself useful, and how not to make waves. Some things were new, the many practical and theoretic classes, the intense physical and mental conditioning, and the unwavering discipline and faith in the Emperor's Divine Law. But these new things also suited Maximilian well, and he grew tall and broad, strong and enduring. His intellect and perceptive abilities also placed him at the head of his class when it came to more mentally include topics. And his dedication to the Imperium and the Law – or justice as he used to call it – left nothing to be desired.

His consistent good scores and altogether desirable behavior brought him to the attention of his superiors, marking him for possible advanced training at some later date. His low birth would make reaching a high rank very difficult indeed, but at the very least he was marked as someone who might fulfill a specialist role or even lead a smaller department once he has amassed sufficient experience. In the meantime has was admitted into the Cadet Reserve – a pool of older Cadets used to back up full Arbites as needed, particularly during riot suppression work – and placed upon an extended curriculum aimed at improving his combat and other skills. Over the course of the last two years of his time at the Academy his was commended thrice; twice for exceptional zeal and dedication during two putting down mass-riots in the Norumo hab-ledges, and once for exemplary service to the Imperium of Man. The later commendation came as a result of Maximilian organizing a band of other Cadets to deal with certain other Cadets who had taken to trafficking in various illegal substances; the perps were detained, proof presented. The verdict was not long in coming.

At age eighteen Maximilian graduated in the top one percent of his class, and based upon his previous Cadet experience he was immediately promoted to Enforcer. His assignment request was accepted and he transferred to Norumo Control, the central Precinct for that part of Malif. The Norumo hab-ledges are not an entirely bad place to live; the ledges are fairly well-maintained and well-regulated. The chief problem is the massive unemployment rate; the Norumo ledges doesn't really produce anything worthwhile outside of meeting basic local demands. Out of a total population of more than one billion, as many as forty percent are more or less permanently unemployed, with certain areas having near-total unemployment rates. Those that live there subsist on charity, government vouchers, and odd jobs. Altogether not a bad life, but unfortunately one filled with too much time and nothing to do. And minds without purpose have a tendency to wander into dark places, which in Arbites terms means that pretty crime is rife and that the area is a hotbed of dissent and subversion.

One of the chief tasks of the Norumo Arbites, and the task that Maximilian was assigned, is dealing with possible troublemakers or subversive sentiments before they can erupt into widespread rioting; its much easier to stop a mass-riot before it can gather momentum than to disperse crowds of tens or hundreds of thousands of the idle angry. It also keep down collateral damage from rioting and keeps the habi-prisons from becoming completely overcrowded with rioters (with possible riots within the prisons as a result). Maximilian spent a few years there, using his skills to good effect, identifying and rooting out potential troublemakers before they could become something more. There were more than enough riot to be sure, but the Norumo Arbites are very good at what they do, and during this period there were no truly major riots, which reflected quite well on Maximilian.

Seeing his continued potential Maximilian was promoted to a Regulator rank and tasked with bringing justice to even the most remote parts of the ledges. Bands of Enforcers and Regulators, led by senior Arbitrators would go out into the hive levels, and seize whatever criminals they could find. Sometimes such criminals would be brought back to Precinct, but more often than not they were dealt with on the spot, or in Field Courts erected for the educating of the locals. One again Maximilian shoved true promise; combining courage and ruthlessness with great zeal and a knack for both finding perps and bringing them to justice. One of his more noteworthy successes was the breaking of the small criminal empire centered around the orphanages of sector-level 7A4.5/9, and the public execution of its vile ruler, Headmaster Guilus. His crimes are too numerous to mention, but few where those who lamented his passing.

Promoted again at age twenty-two Maximilian had to make a difficult choice. He could either continue his good world on the streets of Malfi as a full-blown Chastener in charge of his own unit of lawbringers, or he could send in a transfer request and ask to be considered for Investigator duties. The matter was decided when his superior told him he'd write him a sterling recommendation for investigator. Not only that, but he felt quite strongly that Maximilian had a special gift for finding answers and in wringing the truth out of even the most hardened of criminals. Maximilian's application was accepted and he transferred back to Central Precinct for advanced training. That night his old unit held a big party to see him off, and his old boss drank himself into blissful stupor.

From that day on Maximilian had a purpose. To seek out justice, or more importantly its consequence; the punishment of the wicked. He would not merely consign himself to the orphanage, but also wandered the streets and alleys of the local hab-block, and even beyond that when he grew older. He became an expert at observation, deduction, reading people, learning of their hidden secrets and transgressions. Living in the lower part of a Malfian Hive taught him important lessons – there are no innocents, everyone is guilty of something. Being a kid he couldn't do much himself, not directly anyway. Instead he applied other key principles of life; there was always victims, there was always enemies, and there was always a desire to visit vengeance upon your tormentors. Maximilian became, in his own eyes at least, an agent of justice, helping facilitate the punishment of the wicked.

Late, when he was older and his body had grown strong and lean, he would learn another lesson; that sometimes justice could only be done through the application of violence – sometimes even fatal violence. There were times when the victims were dead, or too weak or frightened to rise to the occasion. There were times when the perpetrator was too strong. There were times when Maximilian knew injustice had been done, but when proof of the crime proved hard to find. But when a crime was committed, punishment must naturally follow, lest justice be denied. And so Maximilian became something of a vigilante – or an agent of justice, depends on the eye of the beholder. He'd beat the smaller kids if they did anything wrong. He'd carve the older ones with his shiv in the dark of night if he thought they deserved it. He'd shoot an alley-scum in the face for molesting one of his brothers. Whatever it took to satisfy Maximilian's sense of what justice required. All the while hiding under the wings of Ballack, who had become something of a leader among the boys after the incident with the toy.

Ballack, who had at first been quite please to have the slightly crazy boy loo up to him, eventually began to tire of him. He was trying to build himself a gang out of the elder orphanage boys, meaning to expand into the streets and carve himself a turf. He considered bringing Maximilian into the gang, for he would have made a good enforcer, but the smaller boy had made too many enemies and Ballack wasn't entirely sure he could be trusted. He sensed, correctly as it were, that Maximilian had no true loyalty to him. As far as Ballack could tell the boy was completely self-centered and loyal only to himself. And so he decided that it would be best for Maximilian to go away, directing two of his minions to carry out the deed. The very next morning the two boys were found brutally murdered and gang-raped; foolish boys, to have entered onto the turf of a rival gang in the adjacent hab-block. Ballack must have taken their deaths very hard indeed, for he was found hanging in the shower with a noose around his neck, and a short suicide-note scribed upon the tiled walls of the bathrom.

Shortly thereafter, Maximilian was around twelve at the time, he was taken to the Headmaster of the orphanage, something that but rarely happened to any of the boys (and when it did it was never pleasant). The Headmaster informed Maximilian that he had seen fit to sponsor him into the Adeptus Arbites College. He was to leave that same day. Maximilian was both confused and elated – him as an Arbitrator? It seemed impossible. But yet it was true. To the young boy it was as if the Emperor himself had seen his actions and approved of them. Yes, that's how it was. His quest for justice had been noticed by the Imperial saints, and now they were giving him his just reward. As the boy left the he Headmaster poured himself a very large amasec, drinking it all in a few large gulps before helping himself to another and heaving his great bulk onto his favorite couch. The boy was trouble, no doubt about that. Completely insane most likely. But now he was gone and would never trouble Headmaster Guilus again. He wouldn't last long with the Arbites. He'd break some regulation or law and then he'd spend his day as a mind-scrubbed servitor, endlessly cleaning the flagstone floors of whatever Precinct he was assigned to. Finally some justice for all the trouble he'd caused at the orphanage, the headaches caused, the revenues lost. Ah, the Emperor helps those who help themselves...

Of course, Maximilian had something his peers did not. He had faith. Faith in the God-Emperor of Man and Rule of Law. Maximilian found his faith when he was very little. He was around six or seven years old at the time, a smallish boy with few real friends. On the Day of Ascension that year all the kids got a little present, courtesy of a nearby monastery. Maximilian got an old and wretched Mechanicus-crafted toy, but oh how he loved it. The next day it was gone, presumably stolen by the other boys.

There was naught to be done really. He didn't know who had taken it, nor did he have the strength to deal with his tormentors even had he known. But hate and rage filled him with reckless courage and he heaped blame and abuse upon them all. For his trouble he was laughed at, then beaten into submission. It was repeated the next day, and for many days thereafter. Finally one of the older boys either felt pity for Maximilian or just grew tired of the whole affair – it would not to to cause too much commotion, or the wards would come down hard on them all. So he made Maximilian an offer. If he could prove, beyond a doubt, who had taken the toy, then Ballack would set things straight. If not, then he would let the matter rest. Maximilian agreed.

He threw himself at the task with singular, almost religious, dedication. Using his intellect, his connections, and his knowledge of the boys and the orphanage to good effect, he was able to first track down the toy. It had been sold to a local street vendor. Retrieving the stolen item took some effort, as did convincing the vendor to 'testify', but these tasks were accomplished with unflinching dedication. The identity of the seller was then easily deduced and Maximilian could concentrate on determining what had happened on the night of the theft and who had been involved. After weeks of hard work he had everything he needed. The evidence was presented to Ballack and the perpetrators confronted. They denied everything of course, but after Ballack had beat them bloody – with the stolen toy as his cudgel – their protestations became whimpers of mercy and forgiveness. Ballack announced that the toy belonged to Maximilian and that any who dared lay hand upon it would have to answer to him. As for the thieves they had forfeited the right to their desert for two months, all of it must now be given to Maximilian to do with as he saw fit. Justice had been served.

I'm sure each and every 40k player/reader has his own mental imagery pertaining to how things look and what the world 'feels' like. Most likely those images are heavily influenced by 40k artwork. Artwork has always been one of Warhammer 40k's fortes, supplying high-quality images in a variety of styles. Whatever the personal style of the creator, such images have always been suitably heroic, gothic/baroque, and grandiose.

For this Dark Heresy game I want to tone the worst excesses a bit. Architecture will still be gothic and Imperial high society will still be suitably baroque. What I'm trying to do away with is the monstrously misshaped pieces of personal equipment, the endless array of bulky and steam-punk-looking machines. So I want to tone it down, not remove it altogether. Less is more and all that.

Example: You meet an Adeptus Mechanicus Magos, who is deep in the mysteries of the Deus Mechanicus (the Machine God). He's still going to be suitably robed and covered with techno-arcane symbols. He's still going to be able to speak to the machine spirits (i.e. interface with anything that has a processor of some sort). He's also going to have various cybernetic and/or bionic upgrades and replacements. He is, however, not going to look like some steam-punk monstrosity, with visible gears, cogs - even exhaust pipes showing. If you get a glimpse of his true nature its going to look ultra-tech, but with a suitable gothic appearance - ornamentation, gilded parts etc.

The same applies to how the world works; everything can't be all bad, corrupt, defunct, etc. Its a dark and dismal world, but it is not all pitch black. People get born, most survive after a fashion into adulthood, get work, match up, get children of their own, die of old age. Their lives may be hard and there is precious little freedom to be had (but who would want that anyway), but death does not lurk around the corner ALL the time, nor is life and endless march of pain, degradation, and abuse (for some it is, but not for all).

Once again this has to do with believability...but more importantly it has to do with contrast. If everything is as dark as it can get, then it gets damn hard for me to make an interesting game. If every Imperial citizen is equally downtrodden and corrupt, then they are all the same and without variety the world gets gray and boring.

Example: Orphanages are a common sight throughout the Empire. Some are undoubtedly nice places to grow up, filled with light and hope. And some are without a doubt pits of terror and despair, where the children prey upon each other and their caretakers heap abuse in every form upon them. But the majority are just...not very nice. The management might be skimming the coffers, leaving the children with little to wear or eat. Or the staff is disinterested and leave it to the children to establish their own pecking order, so that only the strong prosper. This allows me to describe various orphanage settings, rather than have every which one a pit of corruption.

The same goes for threats to humanity, and by extension the Acolytes; there is evil and there is Chaos evil. I don't want a game where every thug is a mutant or chaos-possessed (but no doubt you'll meet more than enough of them). I've already hinted at this with the Ordo Malleus post - and this is definitely Old School - the true nature of Chaos, the existence of the Ruinous Powers, daemons and such, will not be common knowledge even within the Inquisition. Inquisitors and others in the know will be knowledgeable to various degrees, but junior servants are not privy to such knowledge - its simply too dangerous. So you'll definitely see evil and heresy, but it won't always be of the pure Chaos evil kind.

“Good. I'm glad you're with us. It will do your immortal soul good. And besides you're just the kind of man I like having around. Young, handsome and well endowed.” That last part directed towards your private parts no doubt. “And a witch. The old witch quite likes young witches, even a lousy Eta grade like yourself.” You get a non-too-gentle kiss as a welcoming present, leaving you with a bleeding lip, before she reluctantly steps away. Your bounds spring open, but this time you manage to catch your balance, and even catch the black synth-weave coverall she tosses you. “You are to stay here Haxtes. And no funny business or I will come for you personally. Trust me, you wouldn't like that. Oh, and welcome to the Inquisition!” With that she steps out of the room through an unseen exit, leaving you to get your genitals in line and put on your new wardrobe.

That face again. Suspended in mid-air before you. No, not suspended. Just poor lighting, masking the rest of her in shadow. A voice, her voice, but different. The sound ringing painfully in your head with every word. “Welcome back dear. Did you sleep well? I am Xerza. Of the Inquisition. You are my prisoner, awaiting transfer to the Black Ships. Do you understand?” Her lips are not moving, but the voice is in my head. “Your life would normally just be forfeit; for you have been found guilty of heresy by association. But you are also a witch, which obliges me to send you forthwith to Holy Terra, where you will dine one final time – at the Emperor's own table no less.”

A witch? I'm not a witch! ”Oh but you are a witch Haxtes Guilliman. Just because you don't know it doesn't make your a non-psychic. Much as with your association with the the blood-cult festering within the Veiled Hand; you didn't know it for what it was, but that does not make you innocent – heresy by association is still heresy.” Of course there is a blood-cult! The Veiled Hand is a death cult, like many others like it within the Imperium. ”Yes, but those death cults operate within the bounds laid down by the Imperium, whereas your cult saw fit to not only deal with xenos, but actually adopt their bloody-handed god as its patron. I know that you are not an initiate, but you would have been made one soon enough, that much is plain from your own memories – flashes of your kills pass through your mind, lingering on the woman – and the pathetic confessions of your former masters, many voices howling in your mind, screaming out their self-incriminating confessions, all the while begging to be put to death – and heresy about to happen is still heresy.”

Xerza rocks back on her very high heels, laughing out loud; her first sound so far. The laughter is contagious and you find yourself laughing hard, enough so that your bonds bite into your naked flesh. Before the self-constricting bonds can do you any serious harm they relax at some unseen signal, sending you slumping forward onto the cold metal floor. You can feel the hum of distant machinery. “You're a fine one Haxtes. That you are. You would have made a fine xenophile heretic; I see you need a bit of blood and pain to become properly aroused.” The laughter is gone now, and you find yourself hauled back to your feet by strong and supple hands. She whispers into your, her breath hot on your skin. “I've a proposition for you Haxtes. You can go to the Black Ships and die screaming as the Master of Mankind devours your heretical soul. For the Holy Ordos. For Inquisitor Tancred. For me. Would you like that? To kill for the Emperor rather than for yourself or some lesser cause? Or is blood all you crave? Tell me now – it's a one-time offer only.”

Haxtes survived the first murderous minutes of the assault, finding himself drawn into an impromptu bodyguard for Lady Ghaela, one of the senior Masters, as she fled towards the null-ship hidden within the spire. Coming face-to-face with the enemy for the first time Haxtes experienced a surge of confusion; before him the darting dark forms of the Astartes and between then...a tall woman clad in black, with the seal of the Inquisition gleaming upon her neck. Try as he might Haxtes found that his conditioning amounted to nothing – he could not bear to raise his hand against this shadowy Imperial angel of vengeance!

Knowing his life was forfeit he could feel his legs giving away and his weapons falling from limp fingers, even as mass-reactive bolt shells and adamantine chainblades tore apart his fellow assassins in a gory display of Astartes might. Lady Ghaela fared no better, for all her vaunted skill with the blade she amounted to nothing, her body seized by some unseen force and hurled repeatedly and with great cruelty into immovable durasteel panels. Inquisitorial troopers, their forms warped by the gloom into the semblance of glistening black beetles, moved in to secure the fallen Master and dispatch the mutilated living left behind by the Marine advance.

One beetle-form, placing the muzzle of its hell-gun upon Haxtes' brown, halted by a silent signal, told to leave the angel's prey alone. A perfectly sculpted pale face descending, lips a rick blood-red, thick dark hair kept in place by diamond firmament and black-gold pins. A smooth and cold voice speaking to the waiting dark; “This one is clearly not one of the xenophiles, but he is witch-touched. I claim him for the Ordo Hereticus. Tag him and bag him. ” The face gone, to be replaced by a high-heeled boot slamming into Haxtes head with considerable force.

They came in the dark of night. Preceded by a concentrated wave of guided warheads carrying plasmatic pulsars that blew out every defensive shield and boiled away every sensor blister, leaving the spire monastery blind and naked. Then came Navy bombers screaming down from low orbit, fat with self-guided hyper-velocity penetrators, targeting the many retractable weapon hard-points and concealed launch bays dotting the spire. A hundred explosions rocked the halls and corridors of the Veiled Hand as kinetic energy translated into thermal energy with explosive force, slaying and destroying indiscriminately.

The first attackers followed only split seconds after the penetrators had done their job, null-black Adeptus Astartes boarding torpedoes screaming in a ten times the speed of sound, their near-heretical power fields and force dampeners acting simultaneously to force an entrance and preserve their occupants from instant annihilation. One hundred battle-brothers of the Deathwatch, the cameleoline skin of their armor a matte black, save for the emerald green and gold heraldry of the Chapter – the Green Knights Chapter – upon their right shoulders. One hundred Angles of Death come to claim the lives of those that fancied themselves bloody-handed slayers of men. One hundred sons of the Emperor leading the assault of the Calixian Ordo Xenos upon the Cult-Monastery of the Veiled Hand.

At their heels Inquisitorial stormtroopers guarding the cloaked figures walking between them; ten Inquisitors, one of them a Lord, and their retinues, come to oversee the ruin of the Veiled Hand and all that it had touched. If the shocked cult members had hoped that their colossal and warren-like fortress would provide some sanctuary they were sadly mistaken; crawling silently up from the main spire along hidden ducts and passageways came the infiltrator-servitors of the Lathes Mechanicus. Their task not to kill or destroy, but to flay open the technological innards of the fortress, stripping away every defense and opening every avenue for the Emperor's scourging fire...

There are many orphanages in the hab-ledges of Norumo, north of the Spelplex Hive-complex that dominates the northern uplands of Malfi. And there are many more orphanages if you were to count all of Spelplex and its dependents, and if an adept were to try and count every one on or below Malfi's surface...a futile task that would take a lifetime and be obsolete by the time it was completed. What goes on in these orphanages can only be guessed at – some are undoubtedly fine institutions run by idealists – but given Malfian culture that would be the exception.

Instead they are crucibles of agony, hate, and violence. Small festering pits into which children are thrown and from which emerges broken men. Years and years of mental and physical abuse, from their fellow orphans and orphanage staff alike, with no escape in sight, save the unimaginable horrors of the Underhive. No child can endure such hardship without hope and emerge unscathed and wholesome.

This is the world Maximilian grew up in. It made him hard. It made him angry. It made him distant. But it did not break him, not the way it broke the countless thousands that shared his fate. No, Maximilian endured the worst of it; he instinctively knew when to fight and when to give in, he knew when to be loyal and when to betray, he knew when to hang in there and when to run like daemons were at his heels. But most of all he knew how to be useful, without being a threat; and so he enjoyed a sort of status with his elders and the staff, but not so much that he needed to be put down. A most fortunate skill to have for a child in his position...

The Calixis sector is located at the very edge of the main galactic disk, but seeing as it is adjacent to Scarus Sector is seems likely the main bulk of Calxis is at the rimward edge of the Perseus Arm. If so then stellar density is probably comparable to that found around Sol, maybe somewhat lower on average. Let us say 0,5 star per cubic parsec (half of Sol's stellar neighborhood). If we assume that Calixis sector is something like 1000x1000x1000 light-years in size (a wild but probably also very low guesstimate) that would give Calixis sector something like 13.5 million stellar objects. If we assume G-class stars to be the most conductive to the formation of life-sustaining worlds there will be around 1 million of those in Calixis. If we allow for some variation (its a strange galaxy after all) for other spectral types (K + F mostly) we get even more potentially world-bearing systems...2-3 million or so. Of course, not all will have naturally habitable systems, but that's not really a limit in the ultra-tech universe of 40k. So what I'm saying is this - the worlds on the map represent just a tiny fraction of the worlds out there; a very tiny fraction...and who knows what is hidden in the deep dark...

Thus began the next phase of Haxtes' life, a phase that would last for six long and grueling years, a phase that would take him away from Protasia to the dark spires of the Absolom Hive-complex on Malfi, home to the cult-monastery of the Veiled Hand, one of the most notorious assassin clans in Calixis Sector. Six years of pain, deprivation and degradation followed. Six years of conditioning of the body, the mind, and the spirit. Six years of honing Haxtes' killer instinct from something crude and base into the finely tuned instrument of death that is a trained Cult Assassin.

That Haxtes was talented cannot be doubted – only the talented survives their training – but he something beyond talent; a true knack for the trade chosen for him. That only led his masters to push him harder and further, but as with his years on Protasia hardship only made him harder and stronger. So after only six years standard he was chosen to become a Death Cult Initiate; a graduate assassin, ready for his first assignment kill.

Three times he was sent out, and three times he returned alive with his target eliminated. The first was a fat banker from a minor Malfian spire, he died silently, but his bodyguards did not – they screamed as they died. Haxtes was censured for excessive use of force, but the contract had been fulfilled. The second was a member of the Arbites who was about to uncover evidence of some crime best forgotten; that ended in a five-minute dance of death as the murderous style of a Cult Assassin clashed with the brutally effective style of the Emperor's lawbringers. Haxtes survived, but the injuries he suffered were severe enough to earn him another censure. The last target was a young female tech-adept that had somehow earned the ire of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She made for hours of good bed-sport before providing equally well as blood-sport. Three kits, three censures. Clearly Haxtes was talking an altogether unwholesome interest in his trade. Which was why the Cult Masters singled him out for induction into the Circle of Shadows, the inner coven of the Veiled Hand...

Humanity is by far the most populous species in the galaxy, as they have been for uncounted years now. Although human population is nowhere near what it was during the golden years of the Dark Age of Technology, it still outstrips any alien population by a large factor. Even the Orks, for all their numbers, would be but a but a drop in the vast pool of humanity. Indeed, some scholars speculate that humanity outnumbers the total alien population of the galaxy, through by how much is pure speculation.

Baseline humans: Humans come in a bewildering array of shapes and sizes, but they are all share a common ancestry and can freely interbreed with one another (one of the Adeptus Terra's hallmarks for defining 'humanity'). The greater variety within the human genome in the 41st Millennium is a result of extensive geneering in the distant past, natural evolution over as many as 2.000 generations, and the relative isolation of human populations. Prior to the advent of the warp-drive human colonies were effectively isolated. Travel was likely much more common during the Dark Age of Technology, which resulted in the human gene-pool being reunited – for a time. In the Age of Strife human worlds (those that survived) were again isolated, and even in the Age of the Imperium this largely holds true; since travel between world is not a readily available option for the masses each planetary gene-pool tends to be relatively self-contained, and the local population tends to take on some common characteristics over the course of millennia (but there is bound to be great variations within the planetary gene-pool, as various regions and hives tend to keep to themselves). Mass migrations take place on occasion, to colonize new worlds or re-populated devastated ones, or as the result of Crusades and other monumental affairs. But within a few thousand years the new once-diverse gene-pools have become as calcified as their forebears.

Ab-humans: Back in the ancient days of the Stone Men genetic engineering was routinely used to adapt the colonists to their new homes (above and beyond the common geneering applied to all humans of that advanced age). Later generations of colonists would frequently receive further alterations to make their lives easier; on a high-gravity world the colonists might be geneered short, stocky, and with heavy musculature (eventually leading to the squat strain of ab-human). The most common ab-human types found in M41 are squats (endomorphs), ratlings (small ectomorphs), feylings (tall ectomorphs), and ogryns (large mesomorphs). Squats are short and powerful, ratlings are short and lean, feylings are tall and thin, while ogryns are tall and very powerfully built. Beyond this generalization great variation exists, as it does within the ranks of 'common' man; ratlings, for example, evolved on many different Hive Worlds during the Age of Strife, with each Hive World producing its own subtle variations. Certain other ab-human strains do exist and are recognized as being fully human, but are generally confined to a single world or small area of Imperial Space.

Beast-men: The term 'beast-men' was coined by the Ordo Xenos as a catchall for ab-human strains considered too far removed from the rest of humanity to be considered fully human. Whatever their shape (some have fur to protect them from cold, others have gills and webbed extremities to allow them to live underwater) they come from human gene-stock (they are not xenos as such), their mutation is stable and they can interbreed with other human strains as well as their own kind. Some beast-man strains are (barely) tolerated as long as they remain useful to the Imperium; some being allowed to serve as auxiliaries to the Imperial Guard for example. Others strains are marked for extinction as soon as the Imperium makes contact with them. Indeed, the worst cases are able to interbreed only with others of their kind and/or bear little resemblance to normal humans. Such degenerate creatures are pushing the boundaries of what it means it be human and must be purged.

Mutants: Humanity is constantly evolving, and the extreme numbers and conditions under which much of humanity lives provides much impetus for evolutionary mutation. The presence and corrupting properties of [classified] also cannot be discounted, and adds to both the rate of mutation and the severity of it. Mutants come from human genetic stock, and the level of mutation decides if they can be classified as human or not. In theory all mutation is persecuted by the Imperium, but in practice the teeming masses as left alone with their mutations unless they pose a risk to society or if their abomination is too plain (in which case they had better hide or suddenly find themselves stalked by the Ordo Hereticus).

Colonel Stone is the aptly named stone-faced commander of the Haegum's security department. He is a tall man, lean and hungry, with alert eyes and impassive face, the very image of what an experienced Guard officer should look like. To those that interact with him he seems a bit odd, not uncivil or threatening (unless you've earned his ire that is), but just subtly wrong.

Stone is a untouchable, one of the very rare mutants that seem immune to psychic powers. In Stone's case his untouchable aura is largely confined to his own mind; he is not one of those untouchables that can null out psychic powers within a large area. Yet even a low-key untouchable like Stone feels subtly wrong to normal people (and even more so to psykers).

The Colonel, like several of his senior security staff, all hail from the same planet (although which planet, and thus by extension which unit/founding, is apparently highly classified). Within the Haegum it is known that their unit was somehow involved in a major anti-heretical campaign that left all the survivors mentally scarred. Those few who survived were deemed too dangerous to live, and were all scheduled for execution. Tancred, however, offered them a second option – rather than receive the Emperor's Mercy, they would submit to a mind-wipe and enter Tancred's service. Those that accepted had their minds scrubbed clean and then partially restored using electrografts, returning to them – or in many cases enhancing – their martial skills, but leaving them without memories or personalities. The process worked very well indeed thanks to the expertise of Master Kush and the medicae personnel, Sand in particular, and it has been reused several time to create more security troopers from mind-wiped subjects.

Security personnel is used primarily to guard the Haegum and external safe-houses, but also represent a pool of combat-trained manpower that can be called upon if there is need of additional fire support; the are the equivalent of veteran Inquisitorial Stormtroopers.

Despite his many great deeds in Calixis sector during the height of his active career, Tancred is an outsider amongst the other members of the Calixian Conclave. He arrived from far-away already a full Inquisitor, and never did try very hard to find his place. Instead he did as he pleased, earning many enemies in the process. He early rash actions may be the true reason why he has never been made a Lord Inquisitor; he is definitely among the most experienced and influential Inquisitors, but he lacks any form (well, he has some, but not as much as he should have had, were he a political animal) of backing in the Conclave.

Tancred is, however, part of the Calixian Conclave and is even nominally counted as part of the Ordo Hereticus. For the most part he relies on his own extensive cadre and his own web of contacts and informant, working with the rest of the Inquisition only when needed. While many senior Inquisitors have extensive cadres, possibly handed down from master to master over the course of centuries, Tancred's cadre is quite unique in Calixian terms – and rare enough even in the larger galaxy. Certain Interrogators in the service of other Inquisitors are even jokingly referring to Tancred's cadre as the 'Ordo Tancredicus'. While that is clearly and exaggeration, it contains a grain of truth – Tancred does as Tancred wills, still to the great frustration of he peers.

For all his resources Tancred cannot be everywhere, at least not all the time. Instead he relies heavily on both mundane intelligence gathering and divinations performed by himself, intending to detect potential threats early enough for him to dispatch a team to deal with it. In this he has been somewhat successful, enabling him to deal with threats emerging far away from his normal haunts, using either resources based in the Haegum or a local sub-sector office.

One final thing deserves mention; secrecy. Tancred seems obsessed with secrecy and security, preferring under-cover work and surgical strikes to more over methods. This hallmark has, couple with the above modus operandi, given many unusual successes in the field.