The Black Bar (Classic Bar Thread)

In the bowels of a distant, long forgotten Hive, at the fringes of known space, lies a small plasteel building. Along its walls are suits of old power armour, and looted relics of all kinds in glass cases along its walls. Lamps dimly light up the bar in spectral, always shifting light. Servitors crawl its floor, hastily refitted with trays of drinks and drugs, wearing makeshift french-maid outfits. In the back, is a bar fully stocked with drinks shipping container full of narcotics, and a Revolver with only three shots in.

Good enough for us.

Gazing longingly upon an ancient display of lightning-streaked warplate, looted centuries ago, an Apothecary stands in grey (once white) robes, wreathed with golden thread frayed at the edges.

*an Inquisitor steps into the light from a shadowed corner, her blade glowing faintly in ethereal light, she nods to the Apothecary and sits down*

"Evening." Meros replies, stepping away, and sitting down opposite her. Beneath his abyss of his hood, fanged teeth form a crude smile flanked by strands of dark hair.

A commissar, face wrinkled with scars, stumbles through the door, spilling out onto the floor. He pulls himself, wipes his hand down his face and pulls out a chair, sitting down. He notices the apothecary and smiles at him, his red eye glowing in the dim light.

"Ah, evening Meros."

He turns and sees the Inquisitor in the back, and gives them a tip of the hat.

*she looks up, and lowers her hood, you see some resemblance to her great grandmother, but the cat-ears throw you off a little*
*With a slight hiss, just enough for you to notice that her mouth is not shaped normally* Ah, I love time travel. How are you, Meross?

To reveal the cracked remains of his angelic visage, Meros peels back his hood and sweeps the free streaks of hair away. "I have lacked any particular entertainment for a long time, however, life is good." He rests his hands upon the table, and clears his throat. "And yourself?"

Falco walks over to the bar and pours himself a strong whiskey, and downs it all at once.
"Phew... Good stuff... Meros, you want something?"

A yellow armoured boot kicks the door, evidently attempting to open it but unfortunately going straight through.
"That's the third time this week dammit."
The got withdraws and the door opens revealing an astartes in the livery of the Lamenters.

"I'll take a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, mister Falco." Meros replies, pointing to the shelf behind the bar upon which the bottle sits. He glances back at Norabder's entrance with a humoured expression; he decides not to offer the Astartes a seat while in a full set of armour.

"Perilss of the warp my friend. Gave me my current appearance." She cocks her head. "Do you even know who I am?"

"I'm under the impression that you are an agent of the Inquisition. The rest of us in this room aren't dead yet, so you're clearly not a very good one." Grinning, he lowers his head by the slightest of margins. "You seem familiar."

bows, and you can see a tail flickering at the Hem of her robe. "Lord Inquisitor Runa, at your service." she winks.

He speaks softly, expressing the same unstable smile. "A pleasure to see you again, though the circumstances aren't preferable - they won't be for a while mind you, with the entire wrath of the Imperium upon us."

Falco comes back over to Meros, Cabernet Sauvignon in hand, and hands it to Meros. "True enough, Meros. True enough. This place is pretty... out of the way as it were, but I still don't feel safe here. It probably won't be long until Arbites start knocking at our door. After that I guess we'll fuck off to somewhere else... I wonder if there were any worlds out there on the fringes... Unclaimed, so to speak. Places were we could set up on without anybody snooping about, eh?"

"Maybe we can take our chances on One-Forty-Twenty." Meros grins, sipping his wine. "No Imperial has dared even touch it in ten millennia."

"And for good reason. You are pretty much the last person I'd expect to make a joke about that..."
Falco takes a sip of his whiskey, a look of concern on his face. "Don't know why they haven't enacted exterminatus on that damned place... But there's probably some long forgotten sector or sub sector out their. Then again, what do we have to conquer it? A few Lamenters, Inquisitorial Guard and an Armoured Imperial Guard Company. Maybe we could scrounge a few Hive Gangs from here if we promised them weapons and riches... but they're pretty fickle I'd imagine. Hmm... I'll look into it."

"It will need to be very forgotten - dropping tanks and conquering a planet is a good way to draw attention, and not just from the Imperium." Meros places his glass down carefully, and rises. Excusing himself, the Astartes makes his way into the back room, through a doorway behind the bar. "I should have something to give us some guidance."

Falco sets his glass down and follows Meros, intrigued.

A figure 5ft 7in tall, with broad shoulders, wearing a black hazmat suit covered by his carapace Armor, Black Leather Cloak, a pair of black knee high boots, and his face covered by a gas mask enters the bar and takes a look around.
His armory consists of a Chainsword painted in the Black Templar Chapter Colours, Laspistol(w/ silencer), Shock Maul, Combat Knife, a pair of auto pistols, and an assortment of grenades, various other paraphernalia necessary for basic survival, and a pouch he's carrying on his hip with unknown contents.

He then says to himself as he sees the old armor and looted relics, "Wonderful. Nice place you choose for a meetup buddy. Senera's going to flip several shits when he sees this. Though...." Notre lets out a small chuckle. "Arenes you asshole bastard. I guess I should take my pick."

Notre then moves towards the relics to choose one that catches his eye. In the process, he spots the servitors dressed as French maids and starts laughing. "French maid servitors... the glorious bastard who came up with that idea deserves a goddamn prize. What the fuck passes for France in 40k anyway?"

He then turns and checks the people present in the bar and even manages to grab a look at the figures going to the back room. "A possibly heretical apothecary, a furry, wannabe Yarrick, and... a Lamenter. At least the wait won't be boring", He says to himself.

"Good day! fine citizens of the glorious Imperium! Notre Amicus by the way. Now, who in the name of the throne are you? " Notre says out loud as he moves to the bar counter.

Meros begins to root around in a few different boxes: removing several items, looking deeper, grunting in dissatisfaction, then moving on. Once the floor is littered with enough junk to make a Necromundan millionaire, a small stick is presented proudly into the dim light. "Here, this ought to be it." The small device is passed to the Commissar. "Plug that into a dataslate for me - it's a map of the entire galaxy, should be relatively up to date too."

Falco obediently plugs the small stick in, and grumbles as the data slate loads up the grand map and the various sector maps.

"Phew... Pretty detailed..."

Meros nods, and heads back to the main room. Upon sight of the dark clothed figure, the Astartes slows his pace dramatically. "Good day, Notre Amicus." A low voice rumbles through the air. "What part of my appearance gives me the impression of a heretic?"

"Here we are... Up north by the Halo Stars... Hmm... Meros, what's this planet called?"

"I believe that's Ornsworld, home of the Ratl- oh, unless you mean that planet; that's 'Restless', at least, that's the approximate translation. The lettering here is in Nostraman."