Holly Terra RPG

After the long flight the voidship that transported you and millions of other piligrims finally reaches its destination - The Holy Terra, humanity's craddle and the most sacred place for any loyal human. From the hold where you've lived for the whole flight you can only imagine how magnificent it should look from above, but you have to keep patience for the finishing line of your way to the destination of your piligrimage. Soon you get into the shuttle and the voice of the pilot coming through the vox modulator of a servitor imbedded into the shuttle's wall instructs you on how to secure yourself on the way down and how to act when on the holy land. When you exit the shuttle, you're met with the loud noice that probably never really goes down - sound of quadrillions of people inhabiting the planet and thousands of them right now in the space port. High walls and stained windows are decorated with ornaments, the giant statue of The God-Emperor is overlooking the crowd beneath its feet - the port is one of the most gorgeous places you've been to, but there's no time for sightseeing yet, as you have to get in line to the customs, where one of hundreds Administraum workers of this port will check your documents. Soon you get there, now you stand in front of the high desk, two stern guardsmen looking at you suspiciously from both sides of it, an old bearded man looks at you from behind the desk and checks your documents. "And who are you exactly?" He asks with a tired voice.

As the elevator's doors open, you're welcomed into the noice of countless voices, clicking of the machinery, footsteps - a cacophony of the usual day in the Fortress of the Inquisition. The polluted sky of Holly Terra is high above you, separated by the rock and ice of the south pole ice caps, just as you are now separated from the regular citizens of The Imperium. You are greeted with a large metal disk engraved with a symbol of Inquisitorial Seal, the symbol that was once wielded by Malcador the Hero himself. You feel desire to wince as the headache from being close to the psyker dampening device above the ground still hasn't gone away, but right now you have to keep yourself from making sudden moves even with your face muscles, as the servitor operated weapons are pointed at you and the Fortress guard waits for you to approach her. "Your name and Ordos. And prepare your Seal for inspection." She knows and remembers you, so it feels slightly weird to go through this each time, but the procedure must be followed, so you get ready to introduce yourself.

You wake up before dawn to the screeching klaxons that serve as your alarm. As a mid-level adept of the Adeptus Administratum, you rank merits slightly better quarters than the hive city average - meaning you have a small cell to yourself with a cot and built-in toilet and sink. Most hivers share cramped barracks housing fifty or more.

You splash a bit of recycled water on your face to shake off the exhaustion. You managed three hours of sleep last night, better than most nights. The workload has increased again, as it does every quarter. The dataloads increase but the deadline remains the same. It is always dark here in the lower levels of the hive, the glow globes providing only dim, flickering light. You choke down the usual breakfast of rehydrated protein cubes and recaff before donning your drab robes. You say a quick prayer to the Emperor for strength to get through another day before heading out into the hallways. You join the press of bodies moving through the corridors towards the central shaft that will take you up to the Administratum offices.

The corridor bustles with activity even at this early hour. Servitors trundle by on their pre-programmed routes while occasional robed scribes hurry past you, likely just coming off their overnight shift. The decor is gothic grandeur on a budget - arched ceilings of plasteel painted to look like stone, luminator strips giving off a pale glow in lieu of windows. Pipes and cables line the walls and ceilings, carrying promethium, nutrients, waste, and data throughout the complex.

The Administratum section is always busy, even at this early hour. You pass endless rows of cubicles where faceless clerks shuffle papers, transcribe documents from ancient terminals, or catalogue tithes of resources from across the sector. The air is stale and heavy with the scent of parchment, ink and unwashed bodies. Those who have been here longest move with a shuffling gait, their eyes glassy from staring at datascreens for eighteen hours a day. Not for the first time, you wonder if this will be your fate as well.

You reach your assigned cubicle and assume your standard position, back straight and fingers poised above the keys of your work station. For a moment all is still, until the exact second when your shift begins. Then, with no fanfare or warning, the first documents flash across the screen demanding your attention. And so your day begins

You wake up in your cramped hab unit in the depths of Hive Secundus. As you rub the sleep from your eyes, you mutter a prayer to the God-Emperor for allowing you to see another day. Though your life is hard, you know the suffering you endure is nothing compared to His, as He sits eternally vigilant upon the Golden Throne.

Food and recaf are your first order of business. You choke down a bowl of lukewarm nutri-gruel and sip the bitter recaf, feeling the caffeine start to wake you up. The gruel sticks in your throat but years in the hive gangs have taught you to eat whatever swill is available. Still, you dream of the legends you've heard of the fine foods and drinks enjoyed by the nobles in their spire palaces high above. If the God-Emperor hadn't decreed the class system you might be living such a life.

You finish your meager meal and start preparing for the day's work, donning piecemeal armor and checking your weapons. As a mid-level lieutenant in the Cold Trade syndicate, day to day operations keeping the hive's black markets and gambling dens running fall to you. It's not the most glamorous work but you make do. Better to be the wolf than the sheep in the hives of Terra.

You step out into the rust-red lit corridors of Hive Secundus, the never ending chanting of prayers and hymns audible even here in the lawless lower levels. The Ecclesiarchy claims this entire world as their holy ground, though down here the only sermons are delivered at the edge of a knife. Still, you cross the Aquila at your neck out of habit before making your way into the maze of corridors that is your domain. Just another day trying to claim your share of the Emperor's bounty in the hallowed halls of Mankind's cradle.