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You decide to go to the Imperial Chapel and try to meet up with the Deacon that you met before.
The imposing silhouette of the government building loomed before you once more, and unsure if you should bring the barrels in with you, you leave Aleta to guard them outside.
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Inside the chapel, the air hung heavy with incense and murmured prayers. Artifical sunlight filtering through stained glass windows cast an ethereal glow on the worn pews. You scanned the room, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. There, in the soft light of a flickering candle, sat the Deacon from your earlier encounter.
"Deacon!" you called out, your voice a touch too loud in the hushed reverence of the chapel. He turned, a gentle smile softening his weathered features.
"Ah, it's you again," he chuckled softly. "What brings you back to the house of the God-Emperor today?"
Guilt gnawed at you. You shuffled your feet and ran a hand through your already messy hair, the ingrained fear of witchcraft warring with your newfound determination. "I, uh," you stammered, "it's not easy to say."
He studied you with kind eyes, sensing your struggle. "Take your time, son," he encouraged.
You took another deep breath, the words catching in your throat. "I'm a witch," you finally blurted, the word tasting like ash on your tongue. "A psyker. And I..." you hesitated, then continued in a rush, "I want to put my abilities to the service of the Emperor!"
The Deacon raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, quickly replaced by a look of quiet admiration. "That's a brave decision, coming forward like this," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "Tell me, young man, what is your name?"
"Anon," you mumbled sheepishly.
"Well, Anon," he replied, a warm smile gracing his lips, "you can call me Benedict." He gestured to a nearby bench, inviting you to sit. "Now, tell me more about this idea of yours. What makes you think you are a psyker?"
You reached into your pocket, pulling out the deck of Emperor's Tarot. Its sleek, psycho-reactive wafers gleamed in the dim light. "This," you declared, "The Emperor's Tarot. I can use it. It answers my questions, and it's... well, it's never wrong."
Benedict's eyes widened. "The Emperor's Tarot?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "And where, precisely, did you acquire this thing?"
You avoided his gaze, a wave of heat creeping up your neck. "It, uh, it was in the prize display at an arcade," you mumbled, hoping he wouldn't pry further.
The Deacon's demeanor shifted abruptly. He made a sharp whistle, like the shriek of a startled bird, pierced the reverent hush of the chapel. "Sister Diamond!" he called, his voice urgent. "We have a G-12 here, possibly a H-34 and T-2 as well."
