POOHEAD189

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

They crouched in the brush at the base of the treeline, watching the stately manor from down a small decline. Their swords drawn, the middenlander and the brettonian had noticed a patrolling watchman minutes ago, but he had yet to return. Otherwise, they could see no one providing sentry around the perimeter. The manor stood eerily silent, erected before the overcast sky like a grand mausoleum of an ancient king from Sigmar's day. Somehow, Kasimir was more unnerved now than if he saw the walls being overrun with armed men.

"Zshall ve adwance?" Reynard asked in a conspiratorial whisper. He was eager before, but now he seemed more confused than anything. Kasimir did not blame the cavalryman.

"Now seems as good a time as any," Kasimir temporized, and the two began to move, making their way round the shrubs before stepping onto the open ground, keeping low as they moved up the hill, making their way to one of the many archways along the walls. A quick peek, and Kasimir saw no guardsmen within. Shockingly, to the left was a fallen spear, and what looked like a small pool of blood on the cobblestones of the walkway through the small, well-tended garden.

"Sacre bleu!" The Knight exclaimed.

"Sssshhh," Kasimir urged him.

"Wot happoned?" Reynard asked, this time more softly. The two knelt by the fallen spear, but could find no trace of anything pertaining to what could have occurred.

"Damned if I know," the imperial cursed, shaking his head at this further complication. The woman had brought him nothing but trouble since he had met her, and now he was walking into some sort of chaos or violence he could not guess. "Our mission is still the same. Let's move."

"Oui," agreed Reynard, and the two hurried on to the closest doorway, an open portal into a darkened manor. It's door stretched out, apparently whoever had opened it had been in too much of a hurry to bother with closing. Kasimir felt a pang of trepidation, but his armor and sword were some of the best money could buy, and Reynard's armaments were castle-forged. Glancing at one another with grim determination, they stepped into the door, their forms engulfed by darkness.

"ULRIC'S POXMARKED NUTTSACK!"

Kasimir leaped out of the gloom as Reynard scrambled back, making for the light as the mottled corpse of some scullery maid reached out for a cold embrace, gnarled fingers grasping for their throats. Reynard gave a ungentlemanly scream, long and highpitched like the keening of a banshee as Kasimir beheaded the zombie with an instinctual backhanded swing of his backsword. The body stumbled forward even as the head hit the ground, but a kick from Kasimir sent the corpse to the floor as well. He placed a hand on Reynard to halt the squeal. The knight blinked, embarrassed and petrified at the entire situation.

"Les morts-vivants immondes!" He exclaimed, before stammering: "Z-Ze foul undead, monsieur!"

"I know, I killed it!" Kasimir retorted.

"Yieou did noot tell me whe weyer fightin ze undead!" The errant knight snapped at Kasimir.

"You think I hid this from you!? I'm surprised too!" He riposted, both eyeing one another and then the corpse. Kasimir sighed, running a hand through his mane of hair. "Okay, now that we know, we will not be taken by surprise again, no?"

"No," Reynard acknowledged.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

I might have been a highborn, but I was no fool. I knew enemy maneuvers when I saw it, even on a relatively small scale. Morek's constant mumbles were also a telltale sign. If I learned anything from the old squat (considering they could live as long as an astartes, this was quite notable), it was that he had a sixth sense I should pay attention to. And so he and I decided to make a temporary headquarters a few doors down from my main office in a requisitioned broom closet, where I kept a few communique items and a small desk. My vanity was not so great that I could not trade it for a tactical advantage, even though the smell could have been better, admittedly. I held meetings in my assigned office, of course, but otherwise busied myself in my diminutive headquarters. Redirection was a useful tool, after all.

It was from there I was able to step out into the corridor, to find three men of Langeroth platoon skulking through the corridor past my position. A quick look over betrayed their intentions. One of them held a syringe, held behind his hand so as to be concealed in the front. Another had a small shock baton slipped up his sleeve, and the third seemed to be walking openly, but judging by the small bulge in the back of his pants, he was likely concealing a sidearm. All three items were prohibited to men of the line, except perhaps the sidearm, though that was generally marked for officers. It took me the matter of a single second before I nodded Morek to accompany me, and I saw the squat grab his ripper gun and step out with me as I casually cocked my hip and rested my hands on the hilt of my chainsword.

"Aten-SHUN!" I roared.

The men, so focused on keeping a low profile as they walked, yelped at the sudden sound behind them. Yanked out of their mission of ill-repute, they stumbled as they spun in alarm. The syringe clattered to the floor, and I spied it was filled with a strange red liquid. The baton had inadvertently slid out of the man's sleeve, hopelessly exposing itself before he could recover it. I felt as if the three of them had either come for me, or multiple members of my platoon. Their faces were white, their bodies frozen once their implements were revealed. Morek hefted his weapon, not aiming at them particularly, but ready nonetheless.

"L-Lord Kayden, sir." The one that held the baton said, having slipped it back into his coat.

"Interesting choice of recreational items, men. Anything you wish to tell me?"

"No suh," the 'unarmed' one replied, keeping his hands to his sides. If there was the three of them surrounding me, he might have went for his gun, but with Morek and his ripper gun in his hands, he was not that suicidal. Their body language screamed wild indecision. One might break while the others begged or merely stood there, and the possibility of them attacking was not completely gone. I hid my thoughts and tension well, however.

"That's too bad, because I'm quite curious on a number of things. I know you're not planning on using any of those weapons on this ship. We're all Emperor fearing men here, aren't we? You seem to be lost, if nothing else." I remarked casually, looking past my nose at them. I caught the faintest flicker of the eyes of the man that held the syringe going to the fallen instrument. I knew what he was considering before he could move. My fingers tightened on the hilt of my chainsword.

"Trooper, if you even entertain the notion of breaking that syringe, my aide will blow a hole in you wide enough to stick an Ogryn's arm through." I warned, so deathly calm, they knew I was serious. He stepped back, wisely. My eyes whipped to the other two. "You will drop your weapons on the floor. All of them. The pistol too. If you comply, you might just get off with a contraband charge and a dereliction of duties."

"With all due respect sir," the baton wielder said, though I noticed he did as I said and placed his weapon on the ground in front of him. "you can't reprima-"

"I can and I will!" I snapped, eyes baleful. "Oh, at the end of the day you answer to your own CO, but I have leave to kill you where you stand. I don't believe incarceration is out of the question. Now do as I say!"

Lastly, the seemingly unarmed corporal, if his uniform was any indication, withdrew his sidearm (which was a bolt pistol, to my surprise) slowly and placed it on the floor. I noticed one was shaking, but the others just looked guilty as if I had already sentenced them to the firing squad. I made a 'tsk' and motioned for Morek, who stepped forward, his ripper gun trained on them. The squat was chewing something, as usual. I also noticed he needed a bath quite badly. I made a mental note to put that on the schedule for tomorrow.

"Face the wall." Morek ordered them. "On yer knees. Hands behind yer back."

It was while the men were being cuffed that, of all people, corporal Seldon came upon us. I had the syringe in my hand, appraising the instrument curiously, before noticing her standing there. I raised an eyebrow. "Ah, corporal. I was just about to send for you. I feel as if we should check on your squad while Morek runs these men to the brig. I hope you aren't too busy, are you?"

Blackguards!

That two faced son of a jackal!

Amal was not unused to working dangerous jobs for the right price. He had killed men for coin and stolen for his own desire. But to be requisitioned like this with no true reward was not something he was used to! Not out of some sense of pride, but lack of care and worth. If he was not doing something he found enjoyable nor profitable, he simply did not do it. But alas, it seemed as if he had little choice. He would rather keep his soul, or whatever it was this entity was threatening him with. If it meant he could slit a throat tomorrow, he would do this task, but would likely attempt to find this woman when he had the time and make her pay for enslaving him to this task.

Yet all the sudden his world went dark, and he found himself slowly coming to on the hard ground. Oddly enough, he felt a strange tickle on his skin, and finally registered it was grass. He was unused to grass, or any of the verdant landscape he saw now that his eyes were open. He was a bandit of the desolate regions, but he supposed he could get used to this. Amal hopped to his feet with the flexibility of a monkey and the agility of a panther, crouched and glancing left and right, his knife in his hand as if he had plucked it out of thin air.

It was then he noticed he even had his knife, and idly he felt for the sword at his hip and the sack of belongings at his waist. He wore his usual attire too. How did all of this come about?

"Sorcery..." he hissed in frustration, but otherwise he kept quiet to hear the others speak. They did not seem hostile, and after a moment or two, he realized they too were as confused and lost as he was. They must have experienced the same dream-like state, which meant it had truly happened. Wonderful, it had not been some warped dream. Even as the strange humanoid sang and the blue woman sent her hawk into the distance, another one declared himself loudly and began to walk.

Amal merely watched him for a moment as he strode down the sloping incline, before turning to the others. "I say await the bird. A city means food and gold."

Though one was a man and the other an animal, in Amal's experience, it was men who lied, not beasts. He should know, he lied for most of his life.

Blackguards!

@Red Wizard Yep, will post in a day or so!

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

فر النمر والمامبا السوداء من المدينة بالدم والفوضى في أعقابهما. سافروا غربًا في الليل، لكن المماليك كانوا في أعقابهم، وقبلهم، انفتحت الصحراء نفسها لتبتلع الزوجين.

The tiger and the black mamba fled the city with blood and chaos in their wake. They traveled west into the night, but the mamluks were on their heels, and before them, the very desert opened up to swallow the pair up.

From Volume II of 'Thieves and Devils'
(_{Translated by Austerwitz Schäfer})

---

"Hurry, it's almost here!" Calliope hissed.

The wind howled, a thousand thousand grains of sand flying as their doom approached from above. The sun had disappeared behind a shape as immense as a falling hill, and a shriek that drowned out Calliope's scream of anger and fear erupted from its beaked maw. Bahadir roared, slamming a large rock onto the portal's ornate visage with the strength of a bull, but it merely gave it a tiny crack down its center, their hopes dashed. Calliope unsheathed her scimitar, stolen from a slain mamluk in their escape, and she turned to face the monster approaching, though it was akin to brandishing a splinter against a rampaging ogre. Bahadir, undeterred, lifted the rock one last time, his muscles bulging as he lifted the stone high above his head, and with a cry to the Old Gods, he struck the barrier with such force, the crack echoed across the dunes as the material gave way, crumbling before his eyes. As Calliope raised her sword, her stance lowered to allow herself to ready a spring, she was grabbed by her belt from behind. The pirate captain gave an unlady-like yelp of surprise as she was thrown into the darkness of the broken threshold.

"Mannan's balls!" Bahadir cursed, stealing one of his companion's usual remarks as he dove in after her. Even as he flew through the hole, freefalling into the darkness, he felt just as much as heard a second scream from the primordial beast, the very dunes around them reverberating to send waves of sand tumbling.

Both Bahadir and Calliope landed on a sand-covered floor of some sort of soft stone, rolling to help ease their momentum as there was a huge crash, and a beak the size of a donkeycart stabbed into the hole after them, snapping greedily. Bahadir and Calliope scrambled back together, staring up at the apex predator that desperately tried to break through the entrance, the thing pecking and shrieking, before it pulled its sharpened beak away and screamed into the air, every movement of its feet like the stomp of a lustrian thunderlizard. A minute passed, and finally with a great beat of wings that dwarfed the sails of an imperial galley, it lifted back into the sky and disappeared. The silence that followed was pregnant with suspense until the pirate broke it.

"Typical," The dark woman sighed, brushing the sand out of her black locks. Bahadir checked their water skins, making sure they were not compromised or broken. Unfortunately, the majority of their meager supplies had been consumed along with their one camel. Both the slave-fighter and the pirate had heard legends of the mighty Roc, but neither had expected to meet one in broad daylight, merely two days from Copher. It had appeared to be a mere vulture or raven at first, something Bahadir had spotted as he gazed at the sky, appreciating his freedom. That was, until it drew closer, and ballooned into the ravenous, monumental beast it was.

After their camel had been snatched, they had raced up the closest dune, and the beating of the massive bird's wings has sent the sand careening into the air, uncovering the Door of The Moon, or so the inscription on the front had said. At the time, Bahadir had not the inclination to think on it, but now that he had a moment to dwell on the image, the moon had looked much like the accursed Morrsleib. Now they were in a cavernous cavity under the ground, hollowed out roughly, feeding into a strange tunnel. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but a few meters within the tunnel, there was a sizeable stream of sand that poured like a waterfall into the floor, though the floor itself grew no bigger. If one was careful, they could squeeze passed it, but the physics alone boggled the mind.

"Your timing could have been better, but not bad up there," Calliope said, as good of a compliment as she would give.

"Thanks," Bahadir said, and then shrugged. "You could have done better."

She raised an eyebrow at him, and the failure to hide his grin betrayed him, uncovering the joke. She snorted. "I've killed men for saying less," she threatened back, albeit facetiously as well.

The barbarian watched the sailor walk under the light of the sun that beamed from above, thrice the height of a man. She placed her hands on her hips, as if daring the portal to remain so far from her grasp. But then she turned and marched away, towards the only other way to go: Past Bahadir and into the tunnel of moving sand.

"Come on, sailor," She said, slapping his thigh like he was a horse as she passed by.

"Koffa!" He exclaimed, Calliope having learned it was the arabyan 'whoa.' She gave a pantherish grin back at him, and then stepped into the tunnel. He moved his unkempt mane out of his face, unsheathed his own scimitar, and followed.

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

"No, but good guess." Amal remarked casually, one long arm resting on the back cushion as his hand swilled the bottle gently in a small circle. "I left after a few months, and sailed up the sword coast. I had the idea to be a pirate, or a knife for hire. I took a few jobs, and then my memory fades after that..."

Amal briefly tried to force back the memories, but as usual they would not come. His mind then switched to Charynrae's other words, two things have piqued his interest. Underdark bookworms were something he was unsure of. The Underdark itself was a mystery to him, he had been genuinely curious as they trekked through the snow and moors, but had little time to ponder when they weren't merely trying to survive.

Truth be told, his eyes had glanced at her more than a few times, particularly as she undressed. But there was something about her fixing her hair that was nice to watch. Something simple, but she made it seem so elegant. It had been her first words, before he began his tale, that were on his mind. "I have never met a dark elf before you. I am not used to your skills, but if you are someone's lover, are you able to read their mind or spy lies?" He felt that would be hopelessly boring. Not because lying was something warranted in a relationship, but even playful jests could be seen through immediately.

Generally Amal spoke with stilted common, his mouth less used to languages not calishite. It made his smirking, teasing remarks that much stranger. However, here he sounded genuine.

"And what might I do to hear of these bookworms?"

Gold & Glory: AU thread

"Elngraz deb!" Sketti muttured, if one could call it that. Every word he said was close to a shout so the men could hear his dissatisfaction. Even yelling khazalid, they could feel his pleasure or his anger at the inflection. "Put yer back into it, Robert! Krunk Umgi!"

Out of the surf came Markus and those men that had been handpicked to push the ship out of the deep, rising like the spirit of Luthor Harkon himself. Water trickled down his matted black hair and his nose, but his eyes never wavered, ever forward as his men shoved with him. It wasn't until he felt sand without the splash of water did he glance to his left, seeing Emmaline gaping at the sight of the ship rolling over the ground. A handful of men heaved the last log, running it to the fore of the line as the others kept The Hammer moving inexorably forward. Morgan oversaw the movement of supplies, patting them men on the backs and giving them encouraging words as they set the barrels and crates on the hastily made sleds.

"Mister Jones!" Markus called, and one of the younger fellows helping categorize the stores ran over to take over Markus's labors, tossing him his drucchi sword and his brace of pistols. The captain caught them with ease, strapping them to his soaked leathers and belts with a few quick tugs, before unsheathing his sword. He had begun to sport a light goatee, but even with his drenched clothing and his lack of grooming, he still looked a far sight less philistine than his men; a longsword amongst hammers.

"Steady now!" He cried, lifting his sword. The men groaned in unison as the ship made its way past the undulating sand. Even with Sketti's technical genius and Markus's leadership, it was a precarious thing. The plains were a much better prospect than dense jungle, but even with the dotted copses of trees and shrubs, they were hopelessly exposed. Above them, the sun peeked through the clouds like a jealous lover, the storm having made the sky a smattering of intermingling grey and blue. Markus bellowed: "Steady all! Push!"

He thrust his sword high in the air, the gleaming black metal a sign of his deadly reputation. The men heaved, grunting with exertion. Markus was not sure if they could make it seven sigmar-damned miles, but he was not going to voice that concern. He moved forward, stalking past Emmaline just a few short meters away. The blonde hurried to meet him, still eyeing the ship every now and again. "You were right." She admitted. "I can't believe it's working."

"Keep away from it in case it falls," he whispered to her. She blinked incredulously, opening her mouth to speak before realizing he had not stopped. She stumbled over a shrub and did her best to catch up. Markus began pointing to various men who were finishing their loading tasks, telling them to grab cutlasses and axes to help clear the way. Markus took his blade, and with his men began to move aside any stone or cut a swathe through whatever vegetation might pause The Hammer's slow advance.

Halfdan was at the bow of the ship; a morale booster for the men behind, huge muscles bulging as he pushed with all his might. The two elves, Idrin and Sulandar, were with Markus. Their eyes and grace helped them clear the way like a pair of flowing scythes. Sketti was too short to help push, but he pulled a heavy cart of supplies like a harnessed bulldog over the barren terrain, keeping an eye on the ship as he moved. Every now and then he would drop it and move a log to give the haulers a break. The men were taller, with longer legs, but a dwarf had thrice the stamina of most men. He moved like the organic machine he was.

After an hour, perhaps two, Markus wiped the sweat from his brow. If he had to guess, they seemed about halfway. He noticed there was naught but the wind and grunting around them, and men began to complain loudly. He cleared his throat. "Calder!"

An old salt from Hochland, who pulled a cart with a few other men, looked up at him. Markus jerked his head to the ship, Clader knowing the sign well. The gnarled man cleared his throat, and raised his head as he pulled.

"Now we are ready to sail for the horn! Weigh! Hey! Roll, and go! Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn! To be rollickin' randy, dandy, oh!" He sang, his voice rising to tenor, leaving behind the gravel and piercing into the gifted voice of a man far younger.

"Heave a' ho! Heave a'way! Weigh! Hey! Roll and Go!" The men answered in unison, their voices rising. Markus nodded, satisfied in the complaints being drowned out. It was a hard day, but at the pace they were going, it was very possible they were going to make it. At his side, Emmaline had kept pace with him, though 'keeping pace' was tantamount to her walking leisurely and pointing out small saplings and stones for Markus to remove, shielding her eyes from the sun with her fair hand when it decided to show itself. It was only when Markus smacked her backside with the flat of his blade that she started to help, albeit reluctantly.

It was just a half a mile forward, as they passed a large boulder embedded in the soft earth, when Emmaline sighed with exaggerated frustration. As she batted her fringe out of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement to the south. She blinked, the figure disappearing behind a small collection of trees, if something had been there at all. Pursing her lips, she went back to cutting up dried shrubs with a keen knife, before she felt a strange tingle in her sense. The faint, residual feeling of a distant wind of magic. It was devoid of life, smelling almost like ash, though it was not her nose that felt the sensation. She peered up again, and that time she knew she saw something slink away into the gently rolling landscape.

"Markus?" She said, and he turned from his work to look to her. She pointed southward, and when he gave her a confused look, she pointed more emphatically. Concern spread in her face, and the captain rose up with pantherish grace. He strode over to her, eyes on the southern undergrowth, not blinking. For a moment, he saw nothing. But then he felt what she felt, his arcane skill lesser than hers but still present, and then moments later, he saw it. His eyes widened.

"Steady men!" He yelled, hefting his sword and taking a pistol out of his baldric, cocking the blackpowder weapon. He barked at the men with him. "Indrin, Sulandar, Hoch, Fernando! All o' you!" Eight heads lifted up. "Look alive!"

"Ghouls!" Frankfurt wailed from the ship-line, his usually gruff demeanor giving way to superstitious horror as the enemy that stalked them finally chose to show themselves. Out of the trees and shrubbery, mottled and grey things loped into view on long limbs, making terrible gains of distance in the span of a few short seconds. Their faces shorn of skin, with gaping mouths of sharp, broken teeth, two dozen of the abominations sprinted at them on all fours like skinned wolves. Bones protruding from their backs, they were a grisly sight, even for the rough men of The Hammer. Markus had read of them in Dolmann's Studies of the Occult. Though tainted by dark magic and cursed by cannibalism, they were technically alive, still. They were men, twisted into corrupt forms after eating their own until it formed them into loathesome things valued by necromancers as attack dogs. What they were doing here was a question he would ask himself once he had given them a permanent death.

Markus glanced at the men rolling the ship, seeing them with wide eyes and fear on their faces. If the ghouls reached them, the ship would not only halt, but fall onto the plains and moor it permanently. Morgan and Sketti came to that conclusion just as Markus did, Morgan crying for them men to keep going as Sketti dropped his reigns and hooked a spear-hook onto his brass arm, before lifting a scattergun in his true hand.

It would have been smarter to remain where they were, set themselves up and fire in a roughly constructed line of pistoliers, riflemen, and crossbowmen. But that would give an easy opening for those ghouls that did survive to reach the ship and the exposed crew. So Markus decided a different plan, one Emmaline saw without him having to explain. He brandished his blade and screamed, drawing the attention of the charging crypt ghouls. "Come on, you bastards!" Before glancing at his men. "For Gold and golden women!"

"Gold and golden women!" His men cried as Markus charged forward, and at the sight, they followed their captain quickly. The elves did not give a battle cry, instead gliding forward silently with their keen blades as the pack of ghouls wheeled like a flock of birds towards Markus, garnering their ravenous attention. There was a horrible screech and a warble of inhuman sounds before the squad of pirates opened fire, and blackpowder smoke plumed just before the two groups collided in a maelstrom of steel and claws on the plains of the isthmus.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir was also stuck with someone who he could do without, though rather than being mired in self pity, he was wading through the bog of self righteousness that was Reynald of Montfort, a veritable Grail Knight in the making if he was to be believed. As he prattled on about his miraculous slaying of various beastmen and greenskins, and one particularly smelly ogre, Kasimir kept his ears closed and his eyes open. Soon, he found himself in a wood he recognized all too well. The trees were gnarled and bloated at their bases, but not from some evil. It was the near constant rain and the strange soil from the waters that flowed down from Nordland, no doubt festooned with rotted wood and poisoned norscan flesh.

"We need to dismount soon, hide our horses in the brush. There are no beastmen this close to the manor, and we cannot ride up to the archway lest we get molested." Kasimir remarked, already readying himself to step off his horse.

"Deesmunt!? Do yeu tink vwe zshall zsneak in like some...some...zsneakthief!?" Reynald warbled, aghast at the very notion of not charging at anything with his lance coached. As much as Kasimir would have liked to have seen that, it would get them nowhere. He also did not want to see the knight charge as a distraction. He might not think the man too bright, but he did not want his death on his conscience, even if it would be a grand display.

"Monsiuer, our goal is to rescue the damsel, no? When we have her, we shall embark upon a grand sortee and sally forth through the masses of enemies, I assure you."

The Brettonian chewed his mustache as he considered the proposition, and for a moment Kasimir believed he was going to deny him. But eventually he acquiesced with a nod and a grunt, muttering in his native language under his breath. He almost wished he had Emmaline to deal with. At least she was fine to look at, with a better voice than this one. But he supposed he could be going it alone, so he should thank Ulric for the assistance of another warrior.

As the two swordsmen tethered their horses to the trees, there was a commotion up the road. Hooves and flapping cloaks reached Kasimirs ears, and he kept his mouth shut, clinging to his horse a dozen meters away from the road to keep the beast from nickering. To his amazement and relief, Reynald kept quiet as well. Unfortunately, the swordsman only got a glimpse of the small troupe of three that galloped past, but Ulric watched over them, as no one looked their way, too intent on the road.

He realized they were heading toward Kasimir's and Reynald's destination. But why?

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Lieutenant Marcone scribbled a handwritten note silently, the ink pen eliciting soft scratching noises as I waited impatiently. We rendezvoused five minutes ago, by my reckoning, but I had been under the impression he would have been ready to receive Morek and I immediately considering the blatant disorder of the troops and the near death of a handful of them. Whatever he was doing, I found it strange he did not have an aide to do it for him, or that he had not requisitioned a datapad, which might have made the task more expedient.

Finally, with a flourish of his pen, he set the quill down and aired the parchments, before rolling it up and planting his seal on it. Very old fashioned, my father would appreciate a man of his tastes. Perhaps I could too, if he had not kept me waiting.

"Now, as to the matter at hand." Marcone said, handing the parchment to his second, who had approached at just the right time to take it before leaving, as if they had been waiting, watching a picscreen just outside the door. "My apologies on the wait."

"That's quite alright," I temporized, granting an amicable smile as Morek stood behind me, chewing on something as usual. After giving a small glance the squat's way, he looked squarely at me. "As you called the meeting, I assume you would like to speak first."

"That would be acceptable," I said, clearing my throat. It was clear this Marcone was more of a desk officer, and so I appropriated a similar persona, holding myself with an air of professionalism. "At around 0618, there was an altercation in the barracks cordoned off to my platoon. I arrived at 0626, along with the Commissar, and halted the melee before it truly got out of hand. I am here to discuss how justice should be meted, and how we can avoid such conflict in the future, as we are all children of the emperor. We will be arriving to our destination in the matter of a month, and we must be unified before we land." I felt I had laid it out in plain terms, my words only partially dismantled by a soft belch from Morek.

"I agree completely," Marcone responded crisply. "We need to be united before we reach landfall."

A smile bloomed on my face. "That is good to hear. It would not require much harsh punishment for your men, of course. I can provide lip service to my unit to make it seem less congenial."

"My good man, it is your troopers that should be punished." Marcone said without a hint of irony. That stopped me in my tracks, and it took all of my willpower not to give a snort of derision or burst out laughing from the ridiculousness of the statement. I held myself well, leveling my gaze to meet his.

"Lieutenant," I began, emphasizing every syllable. "It was my men that were asleep, when yours attacked. It was my barracks that was assailed. I fail to see how, in any way, shape, or form, my troopers are to blame in this specific scenario. I severely doubt a colonel would disagree with me, either."

"On the surface, you are correct. However, in order to keep further conflict from arising, we must inquire upon the 'why.'" He responded, and cleared his throat. "Are you aware your men have taken more than their fair share of medpacks, equipment, munitions, and ammo?"

"I am aware that we were at the forefront of the engagement with the xenos, and therefore acquired more wounded and lost more munitions, therefore we were more desperate need for resupply. I am also aware it was my deductions that saved the regiment from being blindsided by a waaagh of Orkoids." I reminded him, and Marcone took that as the proverbial nail in the coffin. He gestured, as if it was as plain as day.

"That is precisely my point! It is your...reputation-" As he spoke, I could almost hear the word 'undeserved' during his brief pause. "-that has garnered your men to act so arrogantly. I hear you also disobeyed our Colonel in order to advance upon an enemy without proper reconnaissance."

"We were the reconnaissance," I assured him.

"And now your platoon has taken it upon themselves to requisition almost double what my platoon has received, bragging loudly whilst they do so. I have also received reports of your platoon's nickname."

I glanced at Morek, who looked as neutral as ever, before turning my gaze back to eye Marcone. "So...because my men were wounded and had some bluster for saving the regiment and perhaps the planet, the answer to that is violently attacking them in their beds?"

"The answer is discipline, Lieutenant."

"I'd prefer you call me, 'my lord.'" I said, admittedly with more than a bit of petulance. Truth be told, I did not prefer that even in the best of moods, unless it helped me bed a woman or gain some advantage. However, I felt this man had a massive inferiority complex, and I thought it satisfying to make it worse. I saw Marcone's jaw tighten, and his nostrils flared gingerly. I made sure not to smile.

"Discipline, my lord." He responded.

"I completely agree," I assured him, taking my leave of my seat and clearing my throat, mirroring a number of his mannerisms from earlier. "I shall endeavor to make certain my men do not brag too loudly for their deeds of heroism, and I will do my best to make certain they conserve ammo and bleed less. And in return, I expect you to enact a new standard to your platoon, most notably to keep your men from acting like ravenous dogs. If not, I will put them down. Good day, Lieutenant." Without another word, though I could feel him glowering at my back, Morek and I walked out into the hall and made our way back to my office so I could ponder at this strange conversation.

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