"I can help you, Rico, with your wounds when we are in private. Let us get under way, so we do not have kill more of them. Albrek, when we get to the Gearbox, will please work out payment with our driver."
Albrek nods to both Uriah and Iacton, the crisp nod of a guardsman accustomed to and reassured by following orders. He then turns toward the driver. When he slips into the parlance of an Orcut VII born Oremite lowhiver, it is with an ease and comfort that speaks volumes as to his origins.
"Fren, motorin' six to the Gear Box, onna Grey Way, ye have a knowin' of it?"
The twist frowns slightly and nods, his relief to be leaving the scene of the gun battle palpable.
Albrek allows the others to step up into the rickshaw carriage ahead of him, last of all assisting Rico in climbing in.
He turns, looks around at the carnage, and is overtaken by a coughing fit. Clearing his throat again, he spits once on the ground and clambers in with the others.
"I once had a sergeant-at-arms tell me that no guardsman who left his homeworld should ever return. Said it was the worst kind of bad luck...I didn't understand just why until now."
Albrek looks at Iacton, his quiet diplomacy belies the single-mindedness in his gaze and his resolve.
"The Gear Box. Then the hospice if Savalos doesn't show. Johnnie's wound will need tending regardless, and we should find medicae help there according to what Sav inferred. I'd just prefer we follow the decided upon protocol before improvising."
"Are we in agreement?"
Rico just now limps into the conversation.
"I am fine. Dove needs me... us to save her. Come on."
"I can help you, Rico, with your wounds when we are in private. Let us get under way, so we do not have kill more of them. Albrek, when we get to the Gearbox, will please work out payment with our driver."
"Thank you, Uriah. But I'd rather you save your strength to help Dove."
"It does cost me any strength, I do not want you to be less than the strength I can give you, in case there is more trouble."
As I continue walking down the streets that will lead me down to the Gearbox. I keep my vigilance interpeting street scawl on the walls, and keeping an eye on those who seem to take an interest in me. Once I get to the Grey Way I look for any symbology of the Duct Wolves, including street soldiers. I know they will approach me soon enough. I am family.
Just outside the Gearbox I touch my Microbead. "Hey, not sure if you all will be hearing me. Entering the Gearbox. Another thing have Kalaziel not come in with you. I have my reasons." It would start an incidient we don't need. That and I'm not sure how well Aebena would handle seeing her sister like that. Then again she could be a stimm junkie now, and won't notice anyone from her past. Only one way to find out.
I go inside.
The further Savalos walks inward from St. Trobriund’s, he finds that arbitrator patrols are more evident, and foot traffic more variegated across the class divisions of the Imperial citizenry. Scarcely a kilometer separates him from the Grey Way itself, but having already walked a great distance today in sub-basement maintenance accessway #232, it is tiring just the same. At a point just bordering the great oval promenade, the sparse wall-scrawl and graffiti abruptly disappears altogether, making an invisible dividing line between Yellobouros turf and the neutral-ground sanctity beyond. A sense of relief fills him as he crosses this border and he tries his microbead in an attempt to reach the others before arriving at the Gear Box rendezvous. Nothing but static returns on his end, so he presses on, negotiating crowded foot traffic that would suggest to an outsider that some extravagant festival must be the order of the day, but for the Grey Way, this pageantry of color and celebration is the norm.
When Savalos arrives at the Gear Box, he quietly thanks the powers that be that at least one thing in the hive has not changed since he departed. The eccentric structure itself looks like nothing less than a titanic rusting gear, turned on its side, patched and painted over in places with white ferrocrete to fill the seams and cracks in the metal. It towers over three stories above the Grey Way, old pennants and multicolored streamers hanging down from the roofline depicting the many emblems of the hive gangs, Oremite Imperial Guard divisions, and arbitrator precinct houses whose patronage the watering hole has enjoyed over the centuries. If the Grey Way is neutral territory, given its diverse clientele, the Gear Box is perhaps the most iconic representation of that particular conceit. The main entrance is a miniature version of the building itself, a small gear rendered in poured ferrocrete and painted to resemble the metallic sheen of the larger structure. Known as the ‘Armistice Annex’, or the ‘Annie’ for short, this adjunct structure serves as the point of entry and the place where the often well-armed patrons surrender their weaponry. The owner has prided himself that no blood has been spilled inside in over a century. As you step through the darkened archway leading into the Annie, you wonder if the proprietor, Dunkan Danicos, will still be able to make that claim after your meeting today.
As the other acolytes make their respective journeys toward the Grey Way, situated as it is in the central core of Vaxus District Level -119, it is impossible for them not to individually reflect on the similarities that the district shares with not only the other levels of Orcut VII hive, or other hive cities in the Imperium in general, but Imperial society as a whole. Vaxus, in a sense, is a microcosm of mankind's civilization, with power and privilege increasing as one moves inward to the center of the circle, inversely proportioned to the size of the population that holds it; the horizontal parallel to the vertical axis of the hive's feudal power structure. As agents of the Inquisition who are exceptionally removed from the rigid order of caste and class, it is all the more jarring to witness, and all the more obvious.
Comprised of ever shrinking concentric rings, the district's outer margins are dominated by the Vaxus Ductside slums, by far the largest section of Level -119, home to fully half of its area and the majority of its population. This is then followed, moving ever inward, by a low-to-mid rent hab-block division known as the Vaxus Hab-Stacks, or more colloquially, 'the Stacks' in common parlance. Encircled by 'the Stacks' is a still smaller region, referred to as 'Geltdown', dedicated to the tenacious mercantile interests struggling to survive by catering to the impoverished rings they are surrounded by. Although the requisite outposts of Imperial governance, the Administratum municipal structures, and the Arbites precinct houses, hold their respective positions of prominence at the center of the circle, it is the circumference of this central hub, hard by the interior edge of Geltdown that gives Vaxus District its notoriety. For here, in close proximity to the hive's central lifts and transport elevators, is the circular thoroughfare known as the Grey Way.
For centuries the Grey Way has served as the center of Orcut VII's illicit trade and activities. The blind eye the Imperial authorities give it more a matter of longstanding agreement among Oremor's governing powers that one centralized den of iniquity is far preferable to countless nests of sin riddling their hives. Here, almost any vice or desire can be satisfied in the bordellos and casinos. The most luxurious of goods or proscribed contraband can be found in the Grey Bazaar or its multitude of hidden black markets. Along the Grey Way, the wealthiest elite of the Uphive spires can rub shoulders with the most disreputable of the Lowhive crime barons, and the myriad gangers of Orcut VII can walk in the open without fear of reprisal given the Grey Way’s traditional status as neutral ground.
With every kilometer the acolytes draw closer to the Grey Way, the gang scrawls diminish upon the walls, the crumbling hab-tenements give way to scarred, and then polished facades, the dregs and gangers are replaced by hive prols and merchant factors, even the quality of the air you breathe takes on a fresher quality, here, closer to the hive’s massive central shaft and its gigantic oxygen recirculators. As the swerving velocipede snakes its course through thick traffic along one of the main feeder spoke-ways, the acolytes notice the towering hab-blocks giving way to the factoriums and warehouse sectors of Geltdown. As the last of these mercantile enclaves are left behind, the rickshaw ascends a steepening rise created from a cluster of massive conduit-pipes containing the processed water lifeblood of the district. Upon reaching the apex of this pseudo-hill, the horizon brightens with the illumination cast by thousands of multicolored lights adorning the buildings and signs of the Grey Way. The broad oval of the thoroughfare sits in a bowl-like depression circumscribing the vast central pillar of Orcut VII hive, the opulence and intricate architecture of the various casinos, domiciles, and mercantile blocks beggaring the structures you have seen thus far in the rest of Vaxus District. A crackle of static passes over everyone’s microbeads for an instant as Stroinigli accelerates the velocipede, descending into the Grey Way, and soon enough your senses are assaulted by a riot of sound and activity that drowns out much of what can be heard in the rickshaw.
As I enter the Annie, I make my hands into fists and relax them a few times. I am more alert than ever. I have no idea how Aebena will react to me. I don't know which old friends, and old enemies will be waiting inside. People I haven't seen in over three years. Anxiety getting the better of me for a minute. I get irritated with myself and shake the feeling off. I go inside. Home sweet fragging home.
The velocipede-powered rickshaw sputters to a halt in front of a massive, rust-colored, gear-shaped building from which countless pennants and banners fly. After applying the braking mechanism, Stroinigli stands, straddling his conveyance, turning his head around almost owl-like to speak to his passengers in the carriage, his chin tendrils waggling.
"Stranjur-frens, 'ere we are, 'rived at last, saif as can be, Grey Way side, no more Yellowbacks to bother ye...just the matter o' the gelt fer settlin."
You watch as the cherubim flutters from the roof of the rickshaw carriage and flies up to perch atop one of the streaming pennant posts high overhead. A downy cascade of synth-feathers follows in her wake. Johnnie looks up and a sense of profound unease passes through him as he realizes that the sigil for Arbites precinct 77 is emblazoned upon the green and gold flag.
"Albrek, will you take care of that."
While he is taking care of payment, I am keeping watch.
Over the microbead, "Savalos, are you here at the Gearbox?"
Savalos steps from the Grey Way into the threshold of the "Annie" and finds himself dwarfed by the dome-shaped chamber beyond. Little has changed in the Armistice Annex, the adjunct building that serves as the antechamber to the Gear box. To room is a spartan hemisphere in design, with a metallic, level floor and every surface of the curving wall honeycombed with hundreds of small, round, hatch-like doors. At the very center of the ceiling hang a trio rust-speckled, segmented, mechadendrite arms equipped with cruel-looking clasping talons and pincers. Their attached hydraulic hoses and extensor armatures disappear into a darkened gulf above, while the only light in the chamber is the dim glow of amber-colored luminen strips that encircle the half-sphere every meter or so.
Standing under the mechadendrite armatures in the center of the floor is "Gaelum", a towering combat servitor engineered from blood-red Oremite haeminum metal, reinforced alabaster ceramite, and it's only organic components; a pair of absurdly muscular forearms and two eyes, wet, blank, and staring emerald green from within a cowl-like helmet of blood-metal. At three meters tall, the slab-grown muscle of one forearm supporting a heavy bolter, and the other a monolithic sledgehammer, Gaelum is the perhaps the paragon of bouncers in the known universe of mankind.
Behind and to the right of the imposing sentry is another tall archway, similar to the one you have just entered that leads into the hollowed-out interior of the gigantic gear. From within comes the gentle swells of Orcutian classical music and the heady smells of expensive, scented tobaccos.
For the uninitiated, the scene before you would hardly suggest the inviting foyer of one of the most legendary drinking establishments in the Malfian subsector, but you know better.
Stepping forward, Gaelum pronounces in a vox-articulated voice that sounds as if it could belong to a cultured Scintillan nobleman a sentence curiously weighted both with hospitality and implied threat.
+++"Greetings fellow warrior! Salutations! Welcome to the Gear Box. Please present all weapons and other devices of violence to the designated mechadendrite. Do not forget to take your reclamation token. Remember, the Gear Box is, has been, and always will be neutral ground. Violations of this dictate will result in dire consequences. Enjoy your stay, and remember, in the Gear Box, there is no need to watch your back, we will be watching it for you.+++"
One of the segmented armatures begins to snake its way down to you from the ceiling, an array of grasping hands and claws extended out from its foremost portions of the limb.
Following tradition, I hand over my weapons to the Servitor and take my reclaimation ticket. Its not that hard to break a table leg off and use it if I need to defend myself. I won't break the peace. Yet... Once I get the nod I will go into the Gearbox proper.
All the while I will be scanning the room. Never know who I might run into.
"Albrek, will you take care of that."
While he is taking care of payment, I am keeping watch.
Over the microbead, "Savalos, are you here at the Gearbox?"
Albrek steps down from the rickshaw carriage and withdraws a large handful of throne gelt from within one of his bandolier pouches. He counts out a half-dozen, looks up at Stroinigli's wide, plaintive eyes, and instead dumps the entire pile into the grateful twist's cupped hands. He slips into the lowhive parlance once again.
"Sidder this a down'pay. Us 'frens may need furtha motorin' within the 'strict. Shoulda be anuff to keep you within a whistle's call, should it not?"
Stroinigli nods vigorously, his neck tendrils squirming with delight as the coins cascade into his hands. After everyone has disembarked, the rickshaw driver maneuvers his vehicle across the Grey Way, under the vibrant blue canopy of an expensive clothiers.
Standing before the entrance to the Gear Box, Uriah activates his microbead as the others gather around him.
Just as Savalos takes the reclamation ticket in hand, a familiar voice intones over his microbead:
<<<"Savalos, are you here at the Gearbox?">>>
Ishmael looks up at the streaming pennants and flags, his head turning to take them all of those visible on this edge of the gear-shaped building's roofline.
"What is the significance of this tattered heraldry?"
The cleric sounds genuinely curious.
Not sure if there are sensitive ears nearby when I hear the message over the microbead. So I reply to myself in the microbead. "Sweet old Gearbox, been awhile since I have tasted your sweet liquors."
I make my way inside and look for good seating preferrably in a corner.
I enter The Gearbox. I will surrender my weapons (after all I can call the laspistol to me).
Iacton follows Uriah and willingly surrenders his weapons. First he hands over his familiar sword and knife. Second, he reaches for an oddly shaped lump under his cloak, revealing it to be a naval shotgun, the words Stern Hope etched onto the stock. Last, he hands the servitor a small laspistol, clean in the way only something rarely used can be.
"So, where is your friend?"
Using my microbead: "I am looking for him now."
Just minutes after Savalos takes his reclamation token and proceeds into the Gear Box proper, the other acolytes step into the Armistice Annex. Only Juan and Albrek are familiar with what they see within; Johnnie from firsthand experience, Albrek from the hearsay spoken by many of the other guardsmen who have visited whom he has known throughout the years.
As the Gaelum strides toward them with thudding footfalls, Johnnie steps forward to meet the specialized servitor, and begins to pile his considerable personal arsenal at his feet. The writhing mechadendrite arms spiral in from overhead, their sudden appearance making even the unflappable Ishmael flinch back in surprise. The armatures seize the weaponry in their pincer grips and withdraw as quickly as they appeared, retracting toward the ceiling before turning and deftly opening one of the hundreds of lockers ensconced in the dome overhead. The armaments are deposited, the door sealed, and a gelt-sized, numbered, gear slides out of a slot in the Gaelum's chest, landing on the metallic floor with a dull clink.
Rico picks it up, nodding toward the others to follow suit.
Ishmael eyes the mechadendrites suspiciously as they collect his ornate firearm and other weapons.
"That had best be returned to me in the condition in which it was found, machine."
The machine doesn't acknowledge the cleric's implied threat, but it seems to make Ishmael feel better about relinquishing his heirloom revolver.
Ivaanov looks on wondrously as the process repeats itself, marveling at the efficiency of the machine spirits housed within the mechadendrites and the imposing servitor. His vox-grill covered mouth lets out a low hum of appreciation as he watches Iacton's arms whisked away to their own repository.
"What an extraordinary mechanism this is! I would be most intrigued to make the acquaintance of the servant of the Omnissiah responsible for implementing this design. Is he an associate of the proprietor, or perhaps the proprietor himself?"
Savalos can't help but let out a low whistle when he strides into the Gear Box itself. If walking into the Annie was like entering a huge vault, crossing the threshold into the 'Box is like entering a titanic, hollowed gear larger than many civic arenas or Imperial cathedrals. An elaborately stitched, Fulcusian dwianleaf rug leads to a tall, solitary, podium of pitch black wood shaped like a tall, inverted triangle. Behind it stands a slender hostess dressed in a sophisticated gown of midnight blue fabric that sparkles slightly by the light of the subdued, neon-blue standing lamps adjacent to the post. Her actual features are difficult to make out at this distance, but you can see the wide lips in her pale face are painted the same hue as her apparel. She smiles as you approach.
Looking beyond her, you observe the expansive, oval-shaped Unduz shellwood bar that dominates the center of the Gear Box. Over twenty meters in diameter, its intricately carved, nicked, and scored surface has enough layers of applied lacquers to shine more brightly than even the hostesses glam-weave dress, even at this distance. Dozens of bartenders serve an endless variety of drinks to the hundred or so patrons surrounding it, while legions of waitstaff wind and wend their way through the milling throng to those seated around the bar at the dozens of small, round freestanding tables ringed with tall stools. All of this is just on the broad dais at the center of the Gear Box.
Above you, a trio of wide balconies ascend toward the ceiling, each ringing the edge of the great gear's entirety, each appointed more exclusively than the one below it. Reached by wrought-iron spiral stairs and the occasional archaic lift, countless servers and clientele mill about above you, some entering and exiting private booths, while still others drink and lounge at the edge of the balcony, taking in the myriad sights below. Scores of colored, cut-glass chandeliers, no two alike, some old and sagging, others so ornate they would not be out of place in the finest nobleman's abode in the hive spires, hang from the ceiling of the 'Box, shedding their varied light, gamely fighting the expansive darkness that such a vast open space presents. For this reason, dim, "tavern-quality" light sheds spotty illumination throughout.
The awe you feel is no less than the first time you visited this place.
When your microbead crackles with static again, you hear Uriah's voice. This time it emanates from two places, from the vox-feed, and tbe doorway leading into the Annie behind you.
Turning, you see your fellow acolytes stepping into the Gear Box behind you, all are accounted for, Johnnie limping ahead of the group, a grin that is not quite pleasant, rather pained and somewhat forced is on his face.
I look for a place or all of us to sit. Preferrably in corner. As we need a place to talk privately, and by first looks of things Johnn needs to rest his leg. I continue to scan the bar for familiar faces, as I signal Uriah, and the others where I am.
I take a brief moment to smile. This is the first time its felt good to be home. May as well enjoy the moment while it lasts.
I will follow Savalos to where his sits, as I signal the rest to go with us.
Johnnie seats himself at the table. He waits for the preliminaries to pass.
Iacton silently follows the others to the table.
The hostess waits patiently for the acolytes to approach. When they draw close to her podium, she nods deferentially, raising her hands, replete with long, azure painted nails incorporating tiny gear designs, in an expansive gesture meant to encompass the Gear Box around her. Her features are impeccably beautiful, and her bright, almond-shaped eyes regard each of you with genuine hospitality.
"I bid you all welcome to the Gear Box! Your party is quite large, may I recommend a private booth to accommodate everyone?"
After a nod of agreement from Savalos and Uriah, she gestures with her elaborately manicured hand toward one of the many waiting ushers nearby. A smiling, soberly attired man with a prominent silver gear pinned to his black suit-vest like a metallic corsage escorts you to one side of the vast chamber. He prepares to mount one of the wrought-iron spiral stairwells, but upon noticing Rico's pronounced limp, instead gestures for you to follow him to one of the lifts.
After stepping off of the lift on the first tier of the three balcony levels, he leads you to a small, private salon chamber, one of dozens that line the westernmost curve of the wall. After verifying with you that the moderately sized room, complete with a gear-shaped Unduz shellwood dining table is adequate, he nods respectfully and informs you that a server will be along in a few moments to inquire about refreshments. He then quietly shuts the sliding glass doors, which audibly clack together when their cog-decorated metallic frames magnetically connect.
I wait for the doors to shut before I speak. I take a seat and sink in. "Well I am almost out of coin, so I hope one of you gents is footing the bill. Cause I am thirsty, and hungry. Its been a long day." I eye the new faces carefully while I make ideal conversation. "So who are you fraggers? Names I mean, I already know who your boss is. Like a description of him though. For my minds eye as they say."
I give a look to Johnnie. "Suns still shining for now."
I give a sigh of relief that Kalaziel is not with them for Aebena's sake. "Brek have you seen Kalaziel since I left you guys?"
"Iacton. You will see Master Krade soon enough, once we're sure it's safe to show you what we've found." He then takes a seat.
"Kalaziel is the one who lead us here. She is probably outside."
"Well I am almost out of coin, so I hope one of you gents is footing the bill. Cause I am thirsty, and hungry. Its been a long day."
I give a sigh of relief that Kalaziel is not with them for Aebena's sake. "Brek have you seen Kalaziel since I left you guys?"
Albrek scoops a handful of nutty tourains from a wicker bowl left in the middle of the table, crunching them slowly in his mouth before speaking.
"The rest of my coin is holding down the pockets of the rickshaw jockey that brought us here, so I will be owing whoever happens to be our gracious meal-ticket as well, Sav."
He gives a sidelong look at Iacton before continuing.
"Krade's man tells it true, Kalaziel roosts outside upon one of the old standards above our heads. Were it not for her, we may not have made it here."
The tech-priest folds open his tattered robes, pulling forth a musty-looking copy of the Corpus Presidium Calixis from within and placing it flat upon the table.
"I am Ivaanov Drivanovich, agent of Magos Biologicos Triskaedestes and retainer of Desius Krade. You are Savalos Thul, we are now, as it were, acquainted with one another."
Ivaanov continues to look out at the interior of the Gear Box through the glass panes of the door, marveling at the uniformity of its geometry and timeless, metallic sheen.
"Well met Iacton and Ivannov."
"These rooms are secure enough for our means. Privacy is a commodity here. Best to wait til food and drinks are served and done so we don't have untimely interruptions. Then we can get to business."
"These rooms are secure enough for our means. Privacy is a commodity here. Best to wait til food and drinks are served and done so we don't have untimely interruptions. Then we can get to business."
"I agree, we do not want to be interrupted. I can contribute 40 thrones to this. I do not know the cost of things here."
" 40 thrones... I need to talk to the old man. Think I am being short changed."
"Iacton, Ivanoov, you guys known each other long? Kalaziel been with you all for awhile? Any others in your happy family we should know about who are not present?"
I continue to make idle conversation until after we get our meals and drinks. Even though my idle chatter is anything but.
Johnnie keeps his cool. He knows making a scene would be counterproductive. Johnnie then checks his bandage to see if he still leaking blood.
"If you will allow me, Rico, I can heal some of your injury as soon as we are uninterrupted."
Johnnie nods his appreciation. He then scans the room for anyone paying them any interest.
Then in a voice barely audible, Johnnie whispers to Uriah, "You do know that the masses do not take kindly to that kind of talk, Uriah? Tis best we keep such beyond their hearing lest they mistake it for something else and mention it to someone we do not wish to see."
"Iacton, Ivanoov, you guys known each other long? Kalaziel been with you all for awhile? Any others in your happy family we should know about who are not present?"I continue to make idle conversation until after we get our meals and drinks. Even though my idle chatter is anything but.
There is no question that Ivaanov is perceptive, but his logical thought processes deny him the very human proficiency at picking up subtext from more emotional cues. He takes Savalos quite literally, and answers glibly enough, oblivious to Iacton's measured stare.
"I came into employ as High Arbiter Krade's retainer following my own master's authorization of said employment through a technographer's standardized advisory contract agreement rendered valid seven standard months, four days, and twenty-one hours ago. My role is in an advisory capacity regarding matters related to biological, botanical, and pathological analysis. I have conferred on many of the High Arbiter's judicial proceedings."
He pauses to take a hissing breath through the vox grill.
"My recollection is that I have known Iacton, High Arbiter Krade's aide de camp for the majority of this duration, plus or minus a few standard hours. It is my understanding that Iacton has served Master Krade for a considerably lengthier duration, exceeding a number of standard years."
Ivaanov cocks his head slightly to one side as if considering his estimation again.
"The cherubim Kalaziel has functioned as a servitor for the entirety of my employ, although I cannot speak to Iacton's knowledge of this duration of service beyond my own."
He looks at Savalos again, perfectly level in speech and cadence. Perfectly oblivious to what he really said.
"Contrary to what you imply in your final question, Iacton and I are not related by familial ties, nor am I aware of anyone in the service to Master Krade who has a biological relation to him, or, for that matter, the two of us...although, now that I reconsider the tonal quality of your query, I believe you may have been speaking figuratively when you referred to 'our happy family'. If so, my apologies for the misunderstanding."
Johnnie keeps his cool. He knows making a scene would be counterproductive. Instead, he busies himself reloading his arm with what meager ammo he still has. He nods at Albrek to indicate that he should see to his weapons to. He mutters, "Company will drop by at the most inconvenient time."
Johnnie then checks his bandage to see if he still leaking blood.
Johnnie keeps his cool. He knows making a scene would be counterproductive. Instead, he busies himself reloading his arm with what meager ammo he still has. He nods at Albrek to indicate that he should see to his weapons to. He mutters, "Company will drop by at the most inconvenient time."
Johnnie then checks his bandage to see if he still leaking blood.
"We can be private as soon as we receive our food and drinks. I am what I am. They will not like me just because I am void born, and some will think I am a psyker whether I am or not."
" 40 thrones... I need to talk to the old man. Think I am being short changed."
"Iacton, Ivanoov, you guys known each other long? Kalaziel been with you all for awhile? Any others in your happy family we should know about who are not present?"
I continue to make idle conversation until after we get our meals and drinks. Even though my idle chatter is anything but.
"Kalaziel has been with Krade at least as long as I have. As for any others that worked directly for Master Krade, he used to employ a pilot and a scribe. They were the ones who were supposed to brief you. You already know what happened to them."
"We can be private as soon as we receive our food and drinks. I am what I am. They will not like me just because I am void born, and some will think I am a psyker whether I am or not."
"Yes they will make that assumption very easily."
"Kalaziel has been with Krade at least as long as I have. As for any others that worked directly for Master Krade, he used to employ a pilot and a scribe. They were the ones who were supposed to brief you. You already know what happened to them."
"And how long have you been in his service?"
Johnnie listens as Thul conducts an interview.
"Kalaziel has been with Krade at least as long as I have. As for any others that worked directly for Master Krade, he used to employ a pilot and a scribe. They were the ones who were supposed to brief you. You already know what happened to them.""And how long have you been in his service?"
"Roughly two and a half years, at this point."
"Kalaziel has been with Krade at least as long as I have. As for any others that worked directly for Master Krade, he used to employ a pilot and a scribe. They were the ones who were supposed to brief you. You already know what happened to them.""And how long have you been in his service?""Roughly two and a half years, at this point."
** spoiler omitted **