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++Sometime during transit to the Seleucis sector++
"Forgive me for this cowardice, lord Emperor. I'm out."
"The Omnissiah fails to grant me the courage to proceed. I submit."
They both lean up from the table: one with irritation present at the epicentre of hazel eyes, and the other cool headed and blank behind a pair of bionic lenses.
"Happy birthday to me! I've got enough here for a happy ending on Deck 9." The third Erupted in drunken laughter, patted his subordinates on their backs and letting his cards flop down onto the table. Greedily, he scooped up the colourful chips into his thick, bulbous arms and continued to chuckle, much to the discontent of the other players. "Come on guys, be happy for your ol' pal! I've milked enough cash off you fools to get me some fancy metal legs like Jarosh the cogboy here."
Spluttering a binary curse, the priest slowly began to rise from the steel chair and stomped away, with his crimson robe trailing at his feet. The other figure pulled a black jacket from off the back of his seat and hastily adorned it, fitting a black hat that had previously sat lazily on the table onto his balding scalp.
"Apologies Mikhal, but I can't stick around to chat. I need to meet the other Commissars and Colonel Jakobe, and determine our landing strategies before we get into the thick of this war, or else we'll be about as effective as an Ogryn with a sniper rifle." He stood up in a much more casual manner. "You should come too, I expect to see you there in five."
The lieutenant nodded and waved his right hand. "Sure, yeah, I'll get right to it 'trenko. I just need one quick..."
***
"Wake up!" Snarled a mysterious female. "You've slept long enough to miss vital orders, I'd recommend moving before you're repremanded for incompetence."
Jerking out of his seat, Mikhal painfully met the floor with a loud crack from the shot glass in his hand. Warm alcohol splashed against his cheek, yet the distinct aroma of freshly brewed Tanna grabbed his senses by the scruff of the neck, and stood him up. Glazed, his vision could only pick out the oblong shapes of three men in his line of sight. Instinctively, he saluted, although the gesture came out sloppy and the sudden change in weight distribution sent him careering into the table, swiping away the mountain of chips he had so elegantly stacked earlier. How much earlier was still a mystery, to which the answer was unlikely to be good.
"Colour Sergeant, please, there's no need for raised voices." A wrinkled hand took Mikhal's shoulder with surprising strength and lifted him up. "There's nothing a bowl of Tanna can't do to fix up our Platoon Commander."
"M-Mister Jakobe, sir, I'm s-sorry." Mikhal blubbered, wiping his eyes with his pale fingers. "Mikhal Le Noir, reporting for duty."
"Are you this drunk in battle, lieutenant?" Vlad's raspy voice inquired, with an unsettling degree of distortion in the augmented tone. The fibres of his drab greatcoat rubbed static onto Mikhal's crisp white fatigues.
"Never, sir."
"And tell me, how many times have you lost a battle?" His lips curled in a smirk around a thick cigar, which puffed smoke around the thick head of silver hear he wore, within which hid a bulky earpiece.
"Never... sir."
"I see a patten forming, mister Le Noir. Now get yourself sober before I see you again, and we can forget that you almost spent our first battle here face down in a bar five decks below." He passed a bowl of seductively warm broth into Mikhal's welcoming hands, wiping a few drops of spillage from the carapace plates on his chest.
"Wait, my lord, did I miss the briefing?" He panics, almost spilling the tea. "How long was I out?"
"Barely 5 minutes, lieutenant." Commissar Grigori smirks in the doorway, tipping his hat in greeting. "You were out before I left the room."
Hobbling past, with Jakobe and the Colour Sergeant in tow, Mikhal has just enough time to utter a string of curses to the commissar before turning the corner and pushing deeper into the vessel's murky interior, as the metal hulk joins an assembly of Navy vessels in preparation for the first strike on the heretics of the Seleucis sector.
"Forgive me for this cowardice, lord Emperor. I'm out."
"The Omnissiah fails to grant me the courage to proceed. I submit."
They both lean up from the table: one with irritation present at the epicentre of hazel eyes, and the other cool headed and blank behind a pair of bionic lenses.
"Happy birthday to me! I've got enough here for a happy ending on Deck 9." The third Erupted in drunken laughter, patted his subordinates on their backs and letting his cards flop down onto the table. Greedily, he scooped up the colourful chips into his thick, bulbous arms and continued to chuckle, much to the discontent of the other players. "Come on guys, be happy for your ol' pal! I've milked enough cash off you fools to get me some fancy metal legs like Jarosh the cogboy here."
Spluttering a binary curse, the priest slowly began to rise from the steel chair and stomped away, with his crimson robe trailing at his feet. The other figure pulled a black jacket from off the back of his seat and hastily adorned it, fitting a black hat that had previously sat lazily on the table onto his balding scalp.
"Apologies Mikhal, but I can't stick around to chat. I need to meet the other Commissars and Colonel Jakobe, and determine our landing strategies before we get into the thick of this war, or else we'll be about as effective as an Ogryn with a sniper rifle." He stood up in a much more casual manner. "You should come too, I expect to see you there in five."
The lieutenant nodded and waved his right hand. "Sure, yeah, I'll get right to it 'trenko. I just need one quick..."
***
"Wake up!" Snarled a mysterious female. "You've slept long enough to miss vital orders, I'd recommend moving before you're repremanded for incompetence."
Jerking out of his seat, Mikhal painfully met the floor with a loud crack from the shot glass in his hand. Warm alcohol splashed against his cheek, yet the distinct aroma of freshly brewed Tanna grabbed his senses by the scruff of the neck, and stood him up. Glazed, his vision could only pick out the oblong shapes of three men in his line of sight. Instinctively, he saluted, although the gesture came out sloppy and the sudden change in weight distribution sent him careering into the table, swiping away the mountain of chips he had so elegantly stacked earlier. How much earlier was still a mystery, to which the answer was unlikely to be good.
"Colour Sergeant, please, there's no need for raised voices." A wrinkled hand took Mikhal's shoulder with surprising strength and lifted him up. "There's nothing a bowl of Tanna can't do to fix up our Platoon Commander."
"M-Mister Jakobe, sir, I'm s-sorry." Mikhal blubbered, wiping his eyes with his pale fingers. "Mikhal Le Noir, reporting for duty."
"Are you this drunk in battle, lieutenant?" Vlad's raspy voice inquired, with an unsettling degree of distortion in the augmented tone. The fibres of his drab greatcoat rubbed static onto Mikhal's crisp white fatigues.
"Never, sir."
"And tell me, how many times have you lost a battle?" His lips curled in a smirk around a thick cigar, which puffed smoke around the thick head of silver hear he wore, within which hid a bulky earpiece.
"Never... sir."
"I see a patten forming, mister Le Noir. Now get yourself sober before I see you again, and we can forget that you almost spent our first battle here face down in a bar five decks below." He passed a bowl of seductively warm broth into Mikhal's welcoming hands, wiping a few drops of spillage from the carapace plates on his chest.
"Wait, my lord, did I miss the briefing?" He panics, almost spilling the tea. "How long was I out?"
"Barely 5 minutes, lieutenant." Commissar Grigori smirks in the doorway, tipping his hat in greeting. "You were out before I left the room."
Hobbling past, with Jakobe and the Colour Sergeant in tow, Mikhal has just enough time to utter a string of curses to the commissar before turning the corner and pushing deeper into the vessel's murky interior, as the metal hulk joins an assembly of Navy vessels in preparation for the first strike on the heretics of the Seleucis sector.