Quoted By:
>Wait by sitting and pretending to pray in the chapel dedicated to the Emperor, should probably be safe from whatever "danger" is after you there.
>But instead of pretending to pray, we actually pray. Emperor guide us through this darkness that shroud our path.
The central building loomed before you once more, its imposing facade a stark contrast to the neon chaos of the streets. With a deep breath, you pushed open the heavy doors and entered the Emperor's chapel. A cool, incense-laden air washed over you, a welcome respite from the city's relentless heat.
On the inner wall, a gleaming gold plaque greeted you. Its message, writ in a tapestry of Low Gothic dialects, left no room for ambiguity: "FOR VISITORS: OTHER VERSIONS OF WORSHIP TO THE EMPEROR ARE NOT ALLOWED. COMPLY." A lengthy scroll unfurled beneath the stark warning, detailing permitted prayers, litanies, and postures – all etched in agonizingly small script. Some rituals were familiar, whispers of your Tarass upbringing, while others were entirely alien. Instructions on kneeling, donating, and proper Mass conduct filled the remaining space.
While the rituals differed little from your Hive World customs, a handful of off-world tourists gawked at the plaque, their faces contorted in confusion.
You slid onto a long bench, its coolness a comfort against your clammy skin. As you knelt, fists clenched, a silent prayer rose to the God-Emperor. The Emperor's Tarot. Its bleak pronouncements gnawed at your spirit. Was there a way to outmaneuver the dark fate you have been dealt? Had you journeyed all the way to the Glitterglobe for nothing? Dreams, a brimming well within you, seemed destined to be crushed by some unseen hand. Your silently prayed, begging the Emperor for the inspiration to best make him proud. You craved success, achievement burned in your gut, but where to invest your sweat and ambition? If only there were a path, a whisper of guidance, you'd leap right to it.
The thought of another day as a wage-slave, toiling away for scraps just to fuel a churning hunger, filled you with a bitter rage. You weren't some mindless drone content with a life of misery! You craved a chance to claw your way up from the bottom! A tear went down your cheek even if you didn't want it to.
Wiping at the unwelcome moisture, you glanced up as a passing deacon offered a fleeting, understanding smile.
"Excuse me, Father?" you ventured, your voice barely a whisper. You rose cautiously from the pew.
The deacon turned, his gaze kind. "Yes, son?"
"I... I'm worried about something," you stammered. "I've heard something about... Navigators. They're witches, right?" Your voice dipped to a conspirational murmur. "I have more information, if it might be of service."
The deacon chuckled. "No need for alarm, son. Navigators are sanctioned psykers, blessed by the Emperor himself."
"But... isn't the Emperor the only guy allowed to be a 'psyker'?" you blurted. That's what your catechesis had taught you!
