POOHEAD189

[M for F] The weird sort of butt stuff!

Please change the title to something less suggestive, and make sure to only post in the 1x1 section. And put anything explicit in hiders, of course.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The distraction worked like a charm, and I along with my retinue made across the small open space in haste. Emmaline tripped on the way across, but she managed to scramble on her knees and hands into the small building before anyone saw her. Inside, it looked like a small armory refitted into an office. Racks for guns had been replaced with plasteel shelves covered in old books, inquisitorial equipment, and a few stacks of ammo. There was a door front facing the servitors, and a door to the back where we had slunk in. I saw a few works on the shelf I recognized, one even being a text I had Emmaline read in her induction training. It disgusted me this man was so familiar in his tastes as I.

"This doesn't appear like the den of a heretic," Selencia commented as I sifted through a stack of papers on his desk. My heartbeat thudded rapidly in my head as I pushed aside planetary transportation logs and old land grants, before finding a small folder which held, I believe, a sampling of the transcripts that was being written even now outside of the small structure. A shout went up, and we all stopped to listen to a cultured voice berating someone. He sounded like he was used to giving orders. Clara knelt beside the window and peered out the small window. A few, deafening gunshots sounded. It was the telltale crack of a bolt-pistol.

"Well, that's the end of our distraction. But I have some bad news, Hadrian," She said, and I whipped my head to regard her. "They have a few more guys rolling in from our origin point, and they're shouting something."

"Damn," I said, correctly reasoning they were being warned of the two bodies out front. I didn't know if we could leave alive, but I placed the folder under my arm and reached to my lower back, retrieving a small item from my belt. "Clara, grenades. We can't leave without stopping this fiends plans."

"Frag?" She asked as I joined her opposite the door.

"Krak," I said, the oval device already in my hands. It was one of the most basic pieces of equipment to a man in the astra militarum, but it could ruin a fortified position with its intense concussive force. I counted on my hand from 3, and then I made it to one, Clara punched the button and the door to the front slid open, we pulled our pins, and tossed them the dozen meters to the tower. Even as they rolled, a servo-skull floated over to them and began to scan one, and the 'inquisitor' had the chance to curse and dive to the side as the two grenades detonated. The force blew apart six of the servitors and half the servo-skulls, pulsating a concussive wave across the small open space. I pulled my autogun, and my team followed behind me as we open fired on the dazed thugs.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

We left our carts of goods and the majority of our men within the 'bailey,' if one could conceivable call such a spacious and lavish courtyard that, within the Palace of the People. Many often applauded my oratory, but it was here where I was at my best, simultaneously treating with the high condotiarii of the palace, convincing my chamberlain on our next move, and allaying the fears of the captain while switching between Tilean and Imperial like a verbal gymnast.

To this day I couldn't tell you all that was said, it happened so quickly, but within minutes we were swiftly greeted and lead to the great hall by Duca Moretti, the oldest member of the council, and the man who had presided over the seats of the triumvirate twelve times in his forty odd years of service. It was actually quite an honor to be greeted by him, as he was quite well known across Tilea from his heroic exploits in his younger years and his achievements of state in his golden years. I wished to speak to him personally, but I would have time for that later. The Chamberlain and myself followed him through the corridors, flanked by two imperial greatswords I had known for a few years, Hans and Werner. We had gotten drunk together on more than one occasion, and I was fond of them.

I was glad they were by my side when the great doors made of cypress opened to the large hall beyond. I hadn't exactly expected a private affair, but there must have been three hundred court officials, courtiers, courtesans, and nobles in a rough crowd lining both sides, populating the pillars that held up the ceiling, adorned by an intricate mosaic of unrivaled beauty. It depicted Omilio Mondo, the last prince of Remas, defending the city before the hordes of araby. The fact the crusades launched against the men of the south were centuries apart from Mondo's rule was of little consequence. Before us, upon the dias, were the three triumverates watching with varying degrees of patience. On the left was Marco Telli, a short, slim man with dangerous eyes and a look of interest. On the right sat Imelda Mondo, a handsome woman with her dark hair tied high and full lips, who gazed between I and the chamberlain as if deciding which was better to use. In the center was Alfeo Romeo, a famed romantic but not without intelligence, if my quick scan revealed anything accurate about the colorfully dressed fellow.

"Vi presento il ciambellano Hortiman Schulz del grande impero del nord, mio ​​onorato triumverato." The Duca Moretti said with a bow, stepping aside so that we may step forward. It was a simple introduction, one anyone could recognize even if they did not speak tilean. A few seconds went by, and I bumped the chamberlain with my staff, eliciting a surprised 'oh!' from the dwarf-like man. A small ripple of chuckles flowed around the room, and I willed myself not to sigh. Reaching into his coat, he produced the scroll Karl Franz himself had granted him, breaking the seal. He sneezed and dropped the scroll, but managed to snatch it back up from the ground and unroll it before him.

"Greetings, honored friends of Remas. Your achievements are a marvel, known across the old world from mountain to coast. It is our hope we remain allies in these times of doubt and war, and we seek your assistance in keeping the Stretto Pass free of greenskins, and even worse, brettonians. We come here bearing gifts from the breadth of the Empire, to solidify the unity of our great states, and to ease the ailments of your people after a most horrible plague. One hundred thousand golden krowns, one hundred thousand pieces of silver, spices from caravans of far cathay, medicine for your sick, and three daggers forged of gromril, wrought by our staunch allies in the World's Edge Mountains to wear as badges of office and honor."

The chamberlain spoke the words to the best degree he could, but I translated in tilean before the crowd and admittedly spoke over him, using the smoothest cadence I had, which is quite something I am told. (I also admit to adding that bit about the brettonians) As the small speech turned to a close, I produced the daggers myself, opening a ornate wooden case interlaced with velvet. Some in the crowd gasped and many peered around to see the three long knives on display. Of course, they were sheathed, but their hilts were carved from wutroth, and the rare wood alone cost nearly as much as the gromril in the blades. In my studies I am told the dwarfs prize that tree above all others, and small groves of the endangered trees are tended by dwarfen gardeners with the utmost care.

"So, your emperor seeks to buy our favor?" Marco Telli asked as Alfeo Romeo bade me come closer so they might gaze at the daggers more closely. As I moved forward, their honored pikemen lowered their weapons at me. I understood, it was mere protocol. I eyed the gleaming spear-points for but a moment, unconcerned as a man could be. "Does he think we the people of Remas are so cheap?" His courtiers lifted their heads to peer down at me past their noses in assistance to their princely meal-ticket.

Alfeo laughed, though to my relief he was laughing at his fellow and not at myself. "You would not trust a dog if you trained it yourself, my illustrious Prince Marco. Emperor Franz has given us a great gift, and only to guard a pass that we already wish to keep safe! Is that not right, erm... are you an official, honored sir? You are not of us, but your accent is wonderful."

"He is a priest, and my, the rumors are true. If young men in the Empire look like you, I might move north when the year is up." Imelda added with a gleam in her eyes. "We thank you for the gifts. Prince Marco merely feels great grief for the suffering of our people. If I might ask, where did you learn to speak our tongue so well?"

I could not get a word in edgewise, my eyes rapidly moving between the three sovereigns as I became the object of discussion and not the very expensive daggers I held before them. I opened my mouth to speak, but on the last flick of my eyes I saw someone I really did not expect again. There, just beside the throne of Imelda Mondo, standing in a lovely dress that was enticingly low-cut, was the woman from the streets.

Why are you testing me? I asked Sigmar. This is important for your empire, after all. Am I not doing what you wish!?

"I spent some time at the University of Verezzo, my lords and lady. I am but a humble priest of my patron, Sigmar Heldenhammer, at your service for whatever you so desire." As I gave a bow, my eyes met the woman's, casting her a knowing look with the utterance of 'whatever you so desire.' I raised my head back up and smiled at the triumverate. " And if rumors have spread in the hour of my being here, what they say of Tilean tongues must be true." A chorus of giggles accompanied my statement, though I could tell Marco and his pets were not amused. I went back to business, scolding myself silently. "Would you allow our caravan to remain in your care for a short while to restock and rest from the long and weary road? My liege, the good chamberlain-" I gesticulated elaborately to Schulz behind me, who waved "-would wish to speak to your further on our ties of friendship, no doubt."

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

I gazed up at the great walls, but luck was not with me at that particular moment. The sun was in my eyes, and I missed a sight I would come to appreciate later on. It was a burden I had gotten used to. I had immeasurable skills, but the most dreadful luck. Well, perhaps not in games of chance, but often in life. Sigmar help me, it's true. A prime example is forthcoming.

At Chamberlain Schulz's insistence and my gentle reminding, we set off through the open gates. The crowd parted around us, our soldiers elbowing any that got too close or could not flee quickly enough. It somewhat soured my attempts at looking congenial, though Hortiman paid little attention. He was positively gleeful at all the colorful people and the distinct architecture. The shops and homes were lovely, built with travertine and covered with stucco, and men and women of olive complexion and dark features waved and sashayed this way and that. A couple of duelists with swept mustaches watched us with a mild disdain, pipes in their mouths and long rapiers at their hips.

We got quite the view of a few of the larger villas, and to my surprise and interest, I spotted various works of art adorning archways and sprinkled amongst larger columns, and I believe I even spied rescued and refurbished works of old Khemri, a conceit many of the more wealthy merchants were keen to own. As we crested a hill, making our way towards the bridge, I felt the spray of the sea on the air. I missed it, I realized with sudden clarity. It somehow reminded me of a home I never knew.

I was at the head of the caravan, treating it more like a procession. The Cult of Sigmar admires strong leadership, and though I was in an advisory role, my current official was busying himself with saying hello to the crowd and asking our captain when he theorized dinner was, and so I marched ahead. I was swathed in a surcoat of black and warm red, wearing dark breeches and shoes fit for the road. In my hand was a staff with an iron, eight pointed star at its apex adorned in bronze to grant it a fiery quality.

As we passed a street adorned with the trappings of a festival, with spearmen in the livery of the triumerate, I saw a woman poking her head out from behind a column, one of the soldiers chatting her up. No, it looked like one of the many mercenaries or a condotiarii off-duty. She seemed to be paying him a mild, bemused amount of her attention, and she looked my way curiously. She was a woman I would grow quite familiar with soon, but at the moment I did not know her name.

I am embarrassed to say my jaw hit the floor.

Oh yes, I had seen many pretty women before, and truth be told her features were not too dissimilar to many of the ladies eyeing us with interest, though she was a tad more blessed than most in terms of proportions and her face was fit for a painting. But I had never seen a girl who mastered both beauty and grace the way she had. Don't ask me how I knew; perhaps it was the way she stood, or the lithe, subtle movements she made as she peered past the pillar at me. Maybe it was the intelligence that glittered in her eyes. I still wonder to this day.

I gave her a handsome smile, and a subtle wink. I was very good at regaining my dignity and playing it cool in public, despite being flummoxed. I had thought not only had I saved face, but I had caught her interest as she had caught mine.

Of course, that was when Hortiman Schulz bumbled into me from behind. He was a short man but his form was as round as an ale barrel. He had been too busy waving, and he rammed right into me from behind and sent my legs buckling, and I felt my soul leave my body as I hit the stone street in front of hundreds of eyes and that particularly lovely woman.

"Gracious me, herr priest. Are you quite alright?" The fat man asked, laying atop me as if I were a couch he had deigned to lay upon.

"Yes," I croaked. "Are you?" I didn't have the heart to yell at him, and truth be told, it took a lot to stoke my wrath. I just looked past the fringe of hair in my eyes and saw the woman chortling, and so I sighed, and once the good chamberlain had decided to roll off me, I got to my feet, dusted myself off, and walked forward as if nothing unbecoming had occurred, though I made certain not to look that woman's way again. Unfortunately for me, I would learn going to the meeting chamber and presenting myself before the ambitious Marco Telli was not an escape from her.

It was only the beginning.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Emmaline clutched my sleeve, but it was as if her touch was a transient sensation to my dulled senses. I was far away, shocked at what I was seeing before my very eyes. It simply did not make sense. I felt it must be some chaos induced dream, or some facsimile fraud having stripped the regalia of an Inquisitor to mock our most sacred traditions. But I knew that was impossible as soon as I thought it. I recognized the armor he wore. It was Malleus Power armor, one of the Ordos' most sacred armaments. Gilded ceramite, inscribed with pentagrammatic wards upon its forging deep within the Tricorn Palace on saturn. Every strike from the armor could banish a daemon, every attack upon its form would licit a conflagration upon an entity of the warp and perhaps expatriate it from this very plane. Only our most trusted Inquisitors could gain access to such a consecrated piece of equipment, much less wield it. It would take me two centuries of peerless effort for me to even be considered to hold such an armor, and only in dire need. No heretic could get its hands on one, and an Inquisitor wielding one would have to be rent asunder to be killed, destroying the armor with it.

The armor meant trust. I could put my faith in a man who wore it, beyond any shadow of a doubt. And yet here he was, in this obscenity of a courtyard at the crux of an unholy city half buried in the accursed warp. It made no sense to my young mind, and it was only Emmaline's grip tightening on my sleeve that brought me back from a state of numbness.

"That's a Medicae Servitor," Selencia said softly, gesturing with her head at the third one down. She hadn't deigned to look too closely at the man or the tech adept yet. Her eyes had always been sharp, but this place was having its effect on her. She wanted to speak on what she knew, clinging to the familiar. "Remidium Pattern, I think. But it's been tampered with. I saw many in my time at the Officio Medicae."

"Do you recognize him?" Emmaline asked in a hoarse whisper, feeling my distraughtness in her close proximity.

Had I, I would have likely been far too gone to be duly reasoned with. His features were fine and well formed, with a strong nose and a look of purpose in his striking green eyes. His chocolate hair was combed back to keep out of his hawkish eyes. He looked only a little older than I, but with rejuvenat technology he could be over eighty, perhaps a hundred years old. Even as I studied his features, he unholstered a bolt pistol and began to prowl the basterdized thing one might call a tower, eyeing the servitors as the servo-skulls buzzed around him in their dutiful work.

"Orders, boss?" Clara asked, nervously fingering her carbine. She seemed ready to spring, but I was hesitant to attack the man. Not out of any sense of camraderie, though the wrongness of firing upon a fellow inquisitor was painfully evident. His armor was the problem, and the distance it would take to close the gap on him. No bullet or lasbolt would be able to penetrate its hull. Only my power sword could, and even then it would be a near thing. Perhaps Emmaline could hold him steady, but that left the handful of guards and the servo-skulls, which might be armed themselves. We could also fire from here and if we were lucky, take the man, the traitor, in the head. But I couldn't.

I needed to know who he was.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Beyond the sensation of intense wrongness upon my psychic senses, the structures connected to the spires were fashioned with an intense meaninglessness that gave it the appearance of the place being made in a mad child’s dream. The only right angles we saw were happenstance, and even the lithe towers that loomed above us swayed and curved like undulating dancers, initially simply just being too large for us to easily notice at first glance.

The deeper we moved, the fouler the feeling. A rank smell of putrid rot was in the air, and the ground began to grow more…organic as we walked. It was still hard and made of some weird stone-like substance, but it had the feel of striding upon a great carpet of some hairless, bestial skin. Odd mushrooms bloomed along orifices along the walls, and soon I stopped us from continuing further in, certain we were merely walking into a pocket dimension in the warp.

I knew that to be impossible, but humans were not safe to traverse further, even with our psychic powers, and whatever was happening here, the guards outside knew we were to meet with someone and survive the tale. We backtracked, moving past the almost living architecture and turning into one of the larger ‘archways’ if one was generous enough to call such a blasted hole that particular term.

Luck was with us, as no sooner had we entered that we heard voices. I don’t know if I was relieved or not that they sounded like locals, and around a ‘hall’ in the bend of the first warped chamber, two men appeared, speaking to one another in their bastard tongue. Immediately I recognized them. They were the men we saw on the first boat, before Garm’s village found us in the murk.
“Cha skota,” one of them said, indicating me with a wave of his hand. He waved it over to another opening in the melted stone, and I gave a few quick words to acknowledge him. I stepped forward, Clara following suit closely. I moved past the two degenerates, but the one who spoke eyed me. I knew he could not recognize me, as he had not spotted me within the reeds. However, he placed a hand on my shoulder and peered deeply into my face. “Ey, wah co fo bata?”

Lazarus had timed me before on my quick draw. My fasted on the gun range was firing three shots accurately at 1.37 seconds. I wish he were here now, because in my desperation I believed I beat my previous high score. In the same movement I drew my sidearm, I batted his hand away and fired three shots. The first two burst through the first dreg’s chest, and the last shot went clean through the head of the second man before his eyes could widen. The rapport of the shots was loud, but the stones seemed to absorb the noise rather than multiplying the echo as one might have feared from the spacious curves. I had observed the phenomena when we first entered, and I had counted on that here.

“Why did you do that?” Selencia asked breathily, too cautious to scream at me.

“He saw through me.” I remarked simply. “It wasn’t what he said. I saw it in his eyes.”

“Hadrian is right. I could feel it…I think.” Emmaline remarked without extreme confidence.

“So now where do we go? Not where he pointed us to enter, surely.” Clara said.

“I think we should. We’re here in the belly of the beast. If we aren’t here to cut the head off the snake, we might as well leave.” I said. I also had the sinking suspicion that it wasn’t necessarily a trap, but boatman would have exposed us when we entered. However, it was just a hunch. We would have to see if I was right in my assumption.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

It would be remiss of me to begin this account without asserting my innocence. You no doubt know that my part of this expedition was not merely because of my fluency in the Tilean language or my short time at the university of Verezzo, but my alleged hand in the debacle concerning Father Bierschenk and his sham of a scheme. I would never be so callous as to be complicit in such a low-brow scheme as selling a faux artifact in the Altdorf Auction and finding a mark to perform the so-called Estalian-Prisoner’s Scam. ‘Sigmar’s Girdle’ does not even sound real.

But alas, I was suspected with absolutely no evidence. In fact, I am accused of having relations with the Countess Droessler the very same day, another alleged malfeasance of which there is no evidence, save my comment I apparently uttered before the arch-lector. The esteemed elder can barely hear, I simply do not see how he could have overheard my wishes to ‘ride her like a brettonian destrier’ but, it seems with two crimes at the same moment with, again, no evidence for either, saved my proverbial hide.

But enough of my past, needless to say I am quite happy with how things turned out, despite the perils on the road and what mayhem transpired in the ostentatiously palladian city-state of Remas. I recalled it as vividly as if it were yesterday.

The yawning gates of the Republic of Remas were as welcome a sight as a breath of air to a drowning man. Its three great walls enclosing the docks, the city, and even the lagoon were monuments to the genius of Leonardo De Miragliano. The gate, now bustling with rural tileans from Ciarascura to Catrazza, almost leaned over the expansive moat. Its ornate towers were made with an ingenious seven pointed star design, granting virtually no weak points in its defense, allowing interwoven fire from all angles and granting little purchase to any cannons attempting to topple the lofty spires.

“Magnificent,” The fat chamberlain breathed in gathered awe. Hortiman Schulz was a simple man blessed with good fortune. He wore a cap of the finest doeskin to hide his bald head, his impressive white beard covering all his lower face save his rosy cheeks, and his paunch was resplendently adorned with the finest satin coat and breeches. Upon his thick neck and the swell of his chest was a livery collar made of gilded steel, emblazoned at the end with a griffon that represented the greatest house in all the empire. Yes, Hortiman Schulz was an esteemed courtier to Orcbane, the Prince of Reikland, the illustrious ruler of our great empire, Karl Franz. How that occurred I still do not know, but evidently our sovereign trusted him a great deal. I found I trusted his earnestness, I suppose, but he was a bit slow on the uptake and a little bumbling in countenance. He practically bounced as he looked to myself and the grim captain Muller. “Isn’t it so?”

“I never tire of Tilean architecture,” I told him with a smile. Despite my lack of confidence in his abilities, he was a jovial man and hard to dislike. Muller merely grunted, eyeing the commonfolk passing through the gate with suspicion, almost scorn. I found Chamberlain Schulz was easy to sway, but Harold Muller was the living embodiment of the term “stubborn as a mule.” He did not trust easily, and I found he liked my company not at all. The twenty four reikland state troops under his command were fine men, now spread out as sentries overlooking our baggage train. They and I were on fine terms. I drank with them, joked with them, even prayed with them when asked, but their commander was a bit too conservative with his ideas of priesthood. He had heard of my alleged crimes and made certain I was under no pretenses on what he thought of the validity of my innocence.

“You have been here before, haven’t you herr Cran’Darrack?” He asked, and then realigned his phrasing. “I mean herr Priest.”
“No, but I was in a city much like this before my induction into the priesthood of our blessed lord Sigmar. Luckily I was able to procure a map when we passed through Monte Negro a week prior.”

“By gambling,” Muller growled disapprovingly.

I hide my grin heroically, providing a solemn, pious look upon my visage. “I simply made a deal with my brothers from the Fellowship of the Shroud. If holy men of different faiths cannot break bread and deal with one another on their terms, then I fear chaos truly has won.”

“Now don’t fight you two. Let us go in and meet with the princes!” The good chamberlain suggested, his simplicity sometimes perilously close to wisdom.

“Remember, they are the triumvirate of Remas.” I said guardedly, leaning down to give sincerity to my caution. “There are three of them, and we should gather our gifts to the front to be presented immediately. Do you have the scroll?”

“The scroll? Oh yes, yes.” Schulz said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a roll of parchment with the imperial seal unbroken upon it. If I could have held it for him, I would have. But by Imperial law it was his burden to carry. No doubt I would still provide the brunt of the dialogue with whichever of the three rulers we happened to meet, whether by way of translation or by means of elucidation.

I was often given such tasks by my peers, it was almost second nature now. I had a smooth cadence to my voice that people enjoyed listening to, and my education provided me with a vocabulary most cannot match on the fly.

Ah yes, and I will add without shame that I am extremely attractive. It’s not a boast, merely a fact. I am tall and lean, fit but not bulky. My face is finely featured, and my dark tousled hair fashionably tied at the nape of my neck. I was blessed with dark eyes of blue and a sculpted nose of perfect proportion. Despite my fair skin, I look much unlike most of the heavily bearded stoutly built men of the empire. I don’t remember my childhood very well, but evidently I was taken into an orphanage in Marienburg after being found on the beach by a sailor. Upon my neck was a torque with a script of my name in crude riekspeil upon it. My colleagues believe I am from Albion, and I concur out of habit, but I could not tell you.

And now, a supposed son of Albion found himself standing at the breadth of the great city-state of Remas to broker a deal between the triumvirate and the Empire. I suppose if I thought about it, I could turn that into a joke. But it had been a long road and honestly, I just wanted a fucking drink.
@Penny

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

He did not know what to say.

Well, of course he was elated. He knew in his heart she was making the right decision and he felt she knew it too, despite her fears or misgivings. But contrary to what he would have seen her act when she accepted, she was almost mechanical in her acceptance. It was underwhelming, even if it did not deter him. Galt wasn't disappointed, however. He merely felt sympathy for her. What could have her feel thus, after he knew she was as fond of him as he was with her? It worried him, really, for her sake.

And yet her acceptance made his smile bloom, even as she said it breathlessly and with only slight animation. He supposed she needed time, and at the moment, he felt anything in the world was possible. Her blush was all the encouragement he needed, though he made sure not to bounce for joy. He gave her a nod, smiling. "Purple it is. I'll see to it."

With that, he gave a half turn and offered her his hand. "We do have a ride to go on. Shall I help you on your horse, my lady?" He inquired. With or without her acceptance of the help, he would have a slightly rougher time getting on his own steed. She was a much better rider than he, truth be told. If it wasn't for his acrobatic skill set, he would make a complete fool of himself, but he could vault over pretty much anything, including a horse's back. Once mounted, he awaited her signal.

"This is your estate, I'll follow your lead. Though don't go too fast," He laughed, trying to hide his embarrassment. He would refrain from speaking of the engagement for as long as he felt it necessary. He didn't wish to overwhelm her, or make her feel trodden by the decision anymore than she might feel now.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The fatigues were rancid and wet with sweat, and I wasn't entirely certain they had not soiled themselves at one point out of sheer laziness. Gritting my teeth, I donned the garb without complaint as Clara did, leaving our folded clothing with Emmaline to place inside her pack. Clara kept her carbine, but I took a fallen lasgun and kept my power sword slung across my back, donning a small, stained tarp over it as a makeshift cloak.

I lead us out of the docks, moving with a laziness and looking around with disdain smeared across my face. I found the dregs of society had a way of walking. Men who would gut you as soon as greet you moved with a subtle loathing and a bowling gait, as if gravity itself annoyed them. Clara was not a field agent, used more for security detail on Pacitus and the Caledonian when I needed her presence there, but she did well in copying my movements. The two in the back were partially cloaked by our presence at the fore, and the upended ground and constant puddles of fetid water only deepened how tired they were of this whole expedition, which was good for our cover at the current moment.

"Ska, id got the hagk!" One of the guard called, asking what I had brought them today, curiously not posing it as a question in the traditional sense.

"Jama, jis fen wobs fo boz," I remarked derisively. Hopefully if he thought the two trailing Clara and I were meant to meet their leader, they wouldn't be stopped on the way to the city.

Three of the guards glanced over at the group, but only in passing. One of the guards was squatting like a particularly ugly ape, and he peered at them suspiciously, but a slave suddenly dropping a bucket of water drew his attention back to his work. I kept myself from breathing a sigh of relief as we sauntered past the guards and made our way into the mouth of the first towers wrought of eerie looking basalt. As we stepped under the first blanket of shade, the coolness was contrasted by the feeling of anxiety that shot up my back and prickled my psychic senses. I felt very much I had stepped out of the cook pot and into the fire.