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There is little to be done right now aboard the Firstforged. The ship's hull was battered and dented in the throes of the warp storm that swept them up in between Janus and Kiava Gamma, and needs repairs. The Emperor, in His infinite wisdom, made it so that the task can be easily accomplished with the resources they have in the cargo hold (diligently stocked by the Lord Captain after each of her missions, with what Jae Heydari so crudely refers to as "loot"). So all the Lord Captain and her retinue can possibly do is while away the hours, exploring the forgotten ocean world where they made their pit stop.
There are some exceptions. Sister Argenta is still on the ship, overseeing the prayer service to thank the Protector of Mankind for delivering the Firstforged and her crew safely from the Immaterium. Idira Tlass has been most insistently advised by the Lord Captain to remain in bed, after the chorus of whispers in her mind nearly overwhelmed her. And Master van Calox is too preoccupied by obsessively checking and re-checking that he is perfectly ready for his upcoming mission. Most of the rest, however, make planetfall by the Lord Captain's side.
So far, the small watery orb has offered little of note, save for the tall pale cliffs where they landed the shuttle, overgrown with short, prickly blades of grass and foamy patches of some purple-tinted wild shrubs... And the endless, heaving waves, dark as lead near the horizon, and turning into a strip of greyish-green near the sunlit shore.
"Remarkable," says Proctor Anthar, after a few prods at his data slate, while his faithful mastiff sits beside him, completely unperturbed by a large insect that had landed on his nose and spread out a pair of lacy wings (his protocols must have determined that the little thing has committed no crimes, and therefore does not need to be chased). "Tithe grade undetermined. This place is completely pristine."
Yrliet clasps her hands behind her back and curls her lips. Her disdainful remark is nearly lost upon the hearty breeze that has swept up her crimson hair.
"But will it remain so for long, now that your kind have found it?"
One of Master Hannemann’s mechadendrites hovers in the face of a rock slab, swaying slightly back and forth like a snake searching for prey. In a flash, it lunges, and the metal claws dig into the white mineral with the ease of a fleshy hand tearing up a loaf of white bread.
"Limestone," the Magos declares, after a brief scan. "A soft, non-durable composition, but of some utilitarian application nonetheless. This unit proposes draining the ocean for unobstructed mining operations."
Lady Cassia sighs. Emboldened by her little excursion down to the beach on Janus, where the Lord Captain encouraged her to wade through the shallows, she wanders into the water without hesitation. The brine licks at her bony ankles and makes the hem of her robe blow up into heavy water balloons — which she seems to find quietly amusing.
"I think this would make for a beautiful pleasure world," she half-whispers in between deep, languid draughts of the sea air. "Perhaps a spa retreat for the highborn? I read of those many times, and always wondered what it would be like, to visit one... And now I can see how, at the mere breath of this planet's atmosphere, everyone's colors have grown so much clearer, so much more vibrant! Even yours, Kibellah!"
The young Spinner shrinks back into the shadow of an overhanging cliff, pressing her lanky limbs into the safety of a confined space... Like a cat, another wonder from the Navigator's and the Lord Captain's vast book collection, would pack herself into a box to escape the loud, wide-open world.
The Lord Captain gives her Shadow a soft, encouraging smile.
"I am going to climb one of those cliffs now, I think. You need not follow, if that makes you uneasy."
"Thank you, Domin," Kibellah inclines her head. "A blade is to be unsheathed at any time, in any place, whether in the comfort of the void or amid the tortures of the sun and wind. The Domin is not to coddle the blade's weakness... But I thank you nonetheless. I ask only that you take someone else, to guard you against any treachery that might lurk in that grass. Amic'Abelard, perhaps."
The Lord Captain makes an odd, spluttering noise. Perhaps one of those insects has finally committed a crime by flying into her nose.
"I am certain that if I chance upon a snake, I will dispose of it myself," she finally says, resting her hand on the pistol she has holstered over her high-waisted overcoat (in an austere shade of grey, same as the bonnet she has carefully fastened underneath her augmented jaw).
"But I would very much like to have a conversation with the Seneschal."
And thus, they scatter over the shore, agreeing to reconvene in an hour and a half.
The Magos and the Proctor are still surveying the rock composition, talking among themselves about the value the world might bring to the Imperium, once properly settled.
The Lady Navigator has taken to wandering along the tideline, leaning down daintily to collect tiny colorful pebbles that have been polished to a glassy smoothness by the relentless waves — and occasionally blushing furiously at Jae, who is sauntering in her wake, hands in her pockets, exalting the joys of something called "skinny dipping".
The assassin and the xenos have plunged into meditation, one in a hidden crevice, the other in the windswept grass. Each would have slit the throat of anyone who'd ever dared to suggest that their poses and countenances look even remotely similar.
And the Lord Captain has set her sights on the summit of a jagged grassy climb, which she braves easily in her trusty travel boots. Her overcoat and the white gown underneath flap and swirl, clinging to her legs; a wind-bitten flush spreads over her normally sallow face; and her eyes — the shade of the sunny patches of water far below, notes her Seneschal for no reason in particular — shine with the same quiet determination as when she made her way through the yawning pitfalls of half-collapsed hive levels on Rykad Minoris.
The Seneschal, of course, follows closely after her. His hand, as ever, grips his chainsword, and his optical implant clicks softly now and again as it zooms in on suspicious dark mounds among the grass... Those always turn out to be innocent soil. The orbital scans did detect that the planet might have some primitive, non-human life, but if any frolics on this shore, aside from the insects, it has not decided to stalk the two-legged intruders just yet.
Thus, soon enough, the Seneschal relaxes — as far as he is capable of relaxing — and both his eyes turn instead to the Lord Captain. To the black curls that have escaped from under her bonnet; to the inquisitive arch of her thick eyebrows; to the upward curve of her lips.
Absorbed by the view that the planet slowly unfolds before her, like a welcoming canvas of white and green and glittering silver, she has forgotten to hold her neck at a stiff angle, deliberately obscuring the half of her face that is more heavily scarred... By the blaze that claimed her family, she has always insisted. The old officer, however, has seen enough good voidsmen thrash on the ground, as some xenos monstrosity or bloodthirsty warp spawn devoured their face, to suspect that those jagged markings, which spread from underneath the metal plating of her reconstructed jawbone, might be something else entirely. What manner of fire would shatter one's jaw so violently, anyway? But, whatever his heightened awareness might have told him, that is not a story his Lord Captain is ready to disclose... And he is left to marvel with baited breath at how her smile blossoms when she does not care to hide it.
Which will, of course, never go into any official reports on planetary exploration.
"If we do make this into a pleasure world, I think we will need a footpath right here," she calls to him breathlessly once their hike leads them to the peak — right into the embrace of the sky and the sea.
"Perhaps leading up to some manner of picnic grounds... With protective railing all around, of course. Once set loose and left to their own devices, highborn revelers have scarcely more caution than children."
The Seneschal cannot help but snort into his beard at that remark, struck vividly by visions of Dargonus Governor Urbend Drivestem and his numerous kinfolk, unleashed upon a buffet table.
But the apparition puffs abruptly out of existence when the Lord Captain asks him her next question. She takes her time phrasing it, apparently distracted by the sight of his... sword hand, of all things? After a few quick, furtive glances at his fingers, she swallows back a lump — and startles him by saying,
"What do you think, Master Werserian — would you ever come here at your leisure? Would it not be a delightful place to clear your head?"
He raises his eyebrows and blinks, as he fears, most stupidly.
"Me... specifically, Lord Captain?"
"Yes."
She turns away, falling back into the habit of concealing her face. Her eyes catch one final glimpse of her Seneschal's hand, and her own gloved hands tug slightly at her overcoat's fabric.
"This is what I have been... meaning to inquire. I — you know I held a position similar to yours on my homeworld, albeit with no official title attached."
There is a twitch in the tiny outer corner of her mouth that the Seneschal can still see, with the bonnet in the way.
"I do not think I would ever have earned the honor. But I worked hard for it regardless."
She inhales deeply.
"Whenever my poor half-sister, or her mother, or our father the Duke, was in need of me, I had to present myself before them at once... no matter what I was doing when I was summoned. I was expected listen to their concerns, and provide a quick, eloquent solution to their satisfaction. Whenever the serfs began to murmur about mistreatment, I was the negotiator; whenever something broke down at the palace, I was the supervisor for the repairmen and the designated layperson intermediary for the tech priests. Whenever the Duke's extravagant spending habits threatened our tithe, I was the accountant. Whenever his heiress was beset by woes of the heart, I was the confessor. That... afforded me precious few moments of leisure."
Suddenly, her eyes seek out his once more. On their entire journey up the cliff, he has never felt the steepness of the drop so keenly.
"I have... long wished to know whether you are resting properly in my service. Whether you have some favored pastime that puts your mind at ease. Master van Calox has his regicide; Mistress Tlass has her fanciful stories over amasec; Master Anthar has training with Glaito; Master Haneumann, I believe, can simply wind himself down into standby mode like a cogitator... And you — "
"I do my duty, and that is enough!" the Seneschal declares, instinctively standing at attention.
The Lord Captain frowns.
"This is exactly what has been troubling me. You are always preoccupied with disciplining the voidsmen, with mentoring me — always ready to report for duty. Does that not get exhausting?"
Her questioning gaze draws him in, like the hypnotic rise and fall of the waves below. There is something about it, about her entire being — here, now, in the embrace of the wind — that compels him to confess to something unforgivably frivolous.
"I am, ahem, quite partial to assembling model voidships. There is an... utter beauty of a frigate still sitting unfinished in my quarters; with a few tweaks here and there, one could make it look passably like the Heartless! Perhaps I might —"
He bites his tongue, mortified by the (woefully) belated realization that he has burdened the Lord Captain with so much unnecessary nonsense. Yet her response is more gracious than he could ever have expected, or deserved. She gives him one of her fleeting, half-hesitant smiles.
"Oh, that sounds wonderful! You did so enjoy boarding that ship with the Proctor! If you ever require assistance with painting, I would be delighted to —"
Just like himself moments ago, she snaps her mouth shut, having said too much. And for a snail-paced eternity, nothing breaks the silence on the summit but the whistling of the wind.
"Should we... go back down, Lord Captain?" the Seneschal speaks up, when the tension begins to feel like an inflamed pustule, ready to rupture.
"We must," she murmurs, eyes downcast, hand half-raised with fingers weakly feeling the air that separates her from her Seneschal.
He is ready to offer her his arm, even if the notion of her accepting the gesture quickens his blood in a way that would have surely prompted the esteemed Magos to diagnose him with "obsolete" and "malfunctioning". But before he can do anything of the sort, she is off, following the unseen thread of the footpath-to-be.
And all he can do is follow her lead.