The room was a vast office of sorts; ancient stone desks, whirring cogitators, mountainous stacks of vellum, and the corpses of numerous administratum workers and PDF security forces littered the floor.
Five men were stacked up on the immense stone and steel door that was the main focus of the room, a massive, tasteless monolith littered with Gothic excess, skull patterns, and gaudy gold lining. Two were on either side of the door, armed with three human-scale bolters, a plasma pistol each, and two meltaguns. The gear they carried was all black, devoid of markings. They wore environmentally-sealed carapace armor upgraded with advanced powered servos and grav-chutes.
The fifth was standing a few meters back from the door with the muzzle of his bolter pressed against the back of a young Administratum officer’s head. “What’s the code?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with a cold lethality.
The young man merely sputtered and whimpered, choking on his words. The gunman pulled the trigger, and the bureaucrat’s body fell, thudding quietly as it hit the ground. He stepped over the body as he removed a melta charge from the tactical webbing on his thigh. He placed the charge against the door. The five then retreated back to the far end of the room, and crouched behind desks.
The lead insurgent pressed the button on his remote detonator, and the charge went off, a dull, bassy THUMP followed by a wave of heat. The intruders stormed out from cover, sprinting alongside the walls of the room, and restacked on either side of the gaping, smoldering, ten foot tall hole in the bottom of the door.
The leader made a hand signal and all five rushed through, their footsteps crackling across the black, glassy texture of the scorched trench that the melta charge had cut into the exquisite stone floor, the smell of smoke wafting through the air as tiny fires burned along the sides. An automated fire-response system activated, and water fell from the roof like rain.
There had been a barricade set up about five meters back from the door, a prefabricated metal shield of sorts sturdy enough to mount a heavy bolter on, and wide enough to provide cover for not just the two man bolter team, but also a rifleman on either side of them.
This barricade had been almost bisected by the heat of the meltacharge, destroying the gun and it’s operators, leaving nothing but a glassy, molten sheen where they’d once stood. The two riflemen on either side had been cooked as well, their bodies still smoldering.
Further down the room, there was a series of couches littered with debris, a frosted glasscrete divider flecked with the tiny, ineffectual impacts of discarded shrapnel, and behind that sat the desk of this world’s Imperial Governor. The five men pushed forward, cautiously watching the silent shadowy movements playing out behind the huge, opaque partition.
They had just cleared the couches when two squads of PDF troopers carrying lasguns swung around either side of the barricade. Bolters roared to life, annihilating the chest cavities of three troopers, and the tight-choke lances of the meltaguns flashed-boiled another two. A storm of las bolts filled the air, cutting down one of the insurgents.
With over a third of their security team slaughtered before they could even fully deploy, the remainder of the PDF tried to retreat behind the partition. Three more were slain by rebel weapons-fire before they could escape. The rebels started to advance further when a pair of metal canisters flew into the room through the destroyed door. Each one detonated in the air before they could fully react.
The shock grenade triggered first, the deafening shout and blinding light it gave off stunning the opposing force; then, the blind grenade activated, emitting a dense, chalky cloud of grey smoke. These men were professionals; each one knew where the other was at all times, even within the darkest of obfuscations.
The man who sprinted into the cloud, hotshot volley gun in hand, was not a professional.
War, for him, was not a trade.
It was not a hobby.
It was not even a passion.
For this man, warfighting was a purpose, as innate and intuitive for him as breeding was for any other animal. A purpose he had trained for his entire life.
The red glare of his lasgun lit the entire cloud a bloody red as its overclocked, point-blank automatic fire chewed through the first insurgent’s armor and flesh. Three simultaneous bursts of bolt shells ripped through the smoke; of the dozen or so rounds that were fired, none hit their assailant.
The lead insurgent felt the crushing blow of a rifle butt to the head, his brain rattling around inside his skull even as his helmet protected him from the majority of the damage. He stumbled backwards out of the smoke, disoriented by the attack.
A burst of lasgun fire originating from the PDF troopers hiding behind the partition tore up his armor, but did not kill him, as most of the lasbolts flashed ineffectually against his helmet and breastplate. He returned fire with his bolter, killing one of the troopers and pushing the rest back.
A quick rip of bolter fire lit up the smoke cloud, about half of the shells shooting out of it with trails of smoke clinging to them, with the other half detonating within flesh, the thump of their detonation muffled by the body that surrounded them. In response, a melta lance cut a hole through the smoke, its beam terminating against the glasscrete partition, baking its surface a dark black and melting a shallow crater into its surface. The sounds of a melee, grunting, clattering of armor against armor, slipped out of the cloud. Then, the room fell silent for a few seconds.
The sounds of a plasma pistol firing and a body dropping startled the lead insurgent.
He turned back towards the rapidly dissipating cloud of smoke, watching the partition out of the corner of his eye. He saw the cloud glow blue as he heard a plasma pistol overcharging and he opened fire, his bolt shells leaving little holes in the smoke.
The charging handle of his bolter locked back on an empty mag as the plasma pistol discharged, and a good portion of his chest disappeared in a flash of ionic wrath. A Scion Tempestus, unmistakable in his steely-blue wargear, left the almost veil-like remnants of the smoke cloud. The insurgent could not speak, for his lungs had been vaporized, but in his dying moments, he didn’t know if he would have spoken at all, given the chance. What would he have said? He had long ago learned to suppress his fear, but in this moment, that training faltered.
I suppose I’d like to scream, he thought.
The Stormtrooper shouldered his lasgun and fired. The stream of light spraying out from his volleygun’s barrel concluded the encounter. Lowering his weapon, he declared, “I have eliminated the opposing force, Governor Nustrom.” A pair of PDF troopers ran out from behind the partition to meet the Stormtrooper, who was making his way towards them. The pair tried to treat some of the wounds he had collected on his journey up the tower, but he waved them off.
There was a sputtering, and then a slap. “Governor Nustrom seems to be a bit invalid at the moment,” came the response; the voice was warm and pleasant. It was a voice the Stormtrooper was all too familiar with.
Rounding the corner, the Stormtrooper saw a female Water Caste Tau diplomat and a grizzled PDF General standing abreast of Nustrom. Assessing the situation, the Stormtrooper saw that the Governor’s skin was soaked with sweat. Nustrom’s hands were shaking, and his gaze slowly drifted up to the Scion. When the Governor had taken in the rather alarming visage of the Stormtrooper’s helmet, his chest began rising and falling faster.
The Scion sighed and shook his head. He disengaged the environmental seals and retaining locks on his helmet, then removed it. Holding it under his left arm, the Scion extended his right hand to the Governor, smiled politely, and said, “Governor Nustrom, I am Tempestor Sharaf. I work with the Inquisition. You are safe now.”
The Governor's wide eyes glanced back and forth between Sharaf’s hand and face, before returning the shake with both hands. He mouthed the words, “thank you” over and over, but his voice seemed lost to him, with only hoarse croaking noises coming out. Sharaf set his helmet down on the desk, placed his left hand on top of the Governor’s hands, and repeated, “You are safe now.” Tears rolled down the Governor’s face, and he released Sharaf’s hand before slumping forward onto his desk, sobbing quietly.
Sharaf turned to the PDF General as several squads of PDF troopers poured in through the demolished doorway to secure the room. Sharaf smiled and said, “Your boys did good today. I know you lost some excellent men and women, but without their valiant sacrifices, none of us, myself included, would be standing here. I am proud to have shared this operation with you.” He reached out his hand, but the General merely stared at it.
After an awkward silence that felt longer than it was, the General began yelling. “Son, what was just an ‘operation’ to you cost me almost a hundred men in one fucking day due to the actions of fifteen rebels! I am in no mood for handshakes and cock tugging! One of those bastards escaped our security net and is still at large!” His voice was ignited with hurt and rage, his eyes glowing with barely contained animalistic savagery.
The General harshly poked Sharaf’s chest as he continued, roaring, “Escort Ambassador Mi’shara back to the safe house! Do not let her leave your sight! Do not let her leave the safe house! Do not let anyone else in the safe house! Do not let her retrieve anything from her quarters before going to the safe house! Do not let her get more than a single fucking meter away from you! If she’s showering, you’re showering! I want you on her ass every hour of the day and every hour of the night until we find the last fucking insurgent, is that clear?”
The General was now clutching Sharaf’s collar with both hands, his grip so tight that his knuckles had turned white. “She doesn’t get privacy until we can get her off-world, and that’s not happening until we verify whether any more of these black-masked freaks are lurking here! Do not tell anyone where you two are going.”
Sharaf opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the General shouting, “If she dies, this whole damnable treaty will fall apart, and I swear on the fucking golden thrones that if I just lost four dozen good fucking men for nothing, I will beat you so hard that your soul won’t ever reach the golden light of the Emperor because I’ll pull it out of your ass and use it as latrine paper! Do you understand me!?” Sharaf didn’t reply, instead electing to maintain eye contact and nod solemnly.
The General moved his face so that it was mere centimeters from Sharaf’s and his voice fell to a psychotic whisper as he continued, “I do not give a single shit about ‘rights’ or ‘diplomatic freedoms’. I don’t want this goddamn fish roaming around just waiting for her smug face to get blown off, and I’ll keep her under lock and key if I have to. It’s a fucking miracle that she was here with the Governor and I when those fuckers struck. If you fuck this up, I promise you that all the fancy Inquisitorial training in the world will not protect you from my sheer, unmitigated fury. Get the fuck out of here now.” The General shoved Sharaf away, releasing his grip on the Scion’s armor as he did so. Sharaf nodded and swallowed a retort that was building in his throat.
Instead, he said, “I understand sir. She and I will remain in the safe house until given your personal order to leave.” The General was no longer paying attention, however, as he was already carrying off the hysterical Governor with the help of another PDF officer.
Sharaf cleared his throat, nodded twice to himself, and took Mi’shara by the arm. “I think it would be best if we left now,” he said softly. Mi’shara put on a strained smile and nodded in agreement.
=====
The passenger compartment of the luxury (and subtly armored) ground-transit car that Mi’shara and Sharaf were seated in was large enough to seat ten comfortably. Regardless of that fact, Mi’shara had elected to sit on Sharaf’s lap once they’d closed the door. Sharaf blushed a little, the tips of his ears and the top of his cheeks glowing with warmth. He leaned towards her and quietly said, “Isn’t this a bit presumptuous of you, Ambassador? For all you know, I could be a married man.”
Mi’shara laughed and replied, “Tempestor, I have no idea what you could possibly mean by such a statement. Are you implying that I am hiding lewd intentions? How crass…” She kissed his neck, jaw, and cheeks as she spoke, using her affection as punctuations in her sentences.
Sharaf met her lips with his, and they kissed for some time. After pulling away, Sharaf said, “Ambassador, you’re throwing some very mixed signals my way. This is just like Queron IV, and we both know that you left that assignment as sore as a lippy conscript.” He slid his hand down her thigh, then back up again, stopping where her leg met her hip. He grabbed her thigh, revelling in the way her firm, muscular legs felt on his fingertips.
Mi’shara took in a sharp breath, and said, “Of course you’re bringing up Queron.” She had leaned back against him so that her back was pressed against his chest and stomach. Her legs were spread apart, and her head was leaning against his shoulder.
Sharaf slipped his hand through the long slit in the side of her dress and he reached up between her thighs as he said, “To be fair, I have some very fond memories of that assignment. All of which happened to include you…” He slipped two of his fingers inside her, just as she was beginning to reply.
Mi’shara moaned, swore in Tau, put her lips to his ear, and whispered, “You are so easy to rile up, Gue’vesa, always playing right into my hands. Do you know why they call us ‘water caste’, my love? I’ll give you a hint; your cock will not be dry until I am cleared to leave this planet.” Sharaf felt as though he’d forgotten how to breathe, and his cheeks were a dark crimson. Mi’shara giggled and began rolling her hips, rubbing her thick, muscular ass against the adamantium rod that was currently stuffed down Sharaf’s left pant leg.
=====
Upon arriving at the safe house, a beautiful apartment block in the southern reaches of the hive spires, Sharaf stumbled out of the car. He was now dressed in civilian attire, duffle bag in hand. He rubbed his neck, fruitlessly attempting to cover the hickeys Mi’shara had given him.
Mi’shara stepped out next, dressed head to hoof in the formal full-body covering habit of a Sister of Battle. She wore a dark veil over her face and long white gloves to cover her hands, concealing her true nature from anyone who was more than a few meters away. Sharaf held out his hand to help her exit the vehicle.
Taking his hand, Mi’shara stood, smoothing her disguise out with her free hand as she did. Sharaf shut the door behind her and they swiftly entered the ivy covered marble building. Sharaf noticed Mi’shara wasn’t walking quite as fast as he was, so he cheekily placed his hand upon her rear and gave her a gentle but powerful push from behind. “Well, aren’t you eager to get to the bedroom?” She asked, her voice hushed but warm.
Sharaf retained a stoney demeanor as he replied, “Just trying to keep you safe, ma’am. Very, very safe.” Mi’shara glanced up at Sharaf and noticed his lips bent into a subtle smile.
“Then I suppose you won’t mind showering with me, Gue’vesa? I just feel so much safer when you’re within arm’s reach,” she replied.
Sharaf did not respond, instead opening the door to the hab-block for his charge.
Mi’shara ran her palm across the entire length of his cock as she passed by him, feeling the girth he had pressed down his left pant leg. Sharaf’s spine straightened involuntarily, as though a commissar had shouted for him to stand at attention.
The two rushed through the empty lobby and took the lift up to their floor. Sharaf quickly checked the interior for obvious augurs before opening a hidden panel and using a key he pulled from his pocket to activate the elevator’s express mode. The doors slammed shut as the lift shot upwards. Sharaf turned about, gently dropping the luggage bag down to the floor as he rushed towards Mi’shara.
His hands slipped under her veil, lifting it above her mouth and allowing him to kiss her passionately. Mi’shara took a handful of his ample, muscular posterior in each hand as she was shoved up against the transparent back wall of the elevator. She kissed him for some time, before he pulled away and said, “Turn around and hike up your dress. I want to see if I can finish before we arrive.”
Before Sharaf could finish his sentence, Mi’shara was already rolling her dress up over her hips, turning around, and bending over, her stubby vestigial tail wagging fiercly. By the time Sharaf had unbuckled his pants, she was already fingering herself. “What if I finish first,” she asked, giving Sharaf an absolutely undeniable glare over her shoulder, “will you punish me?”
Sharaf, cock in hand, stood still, his mind racing as pre-cum dripped from his erect, pulsating probe. After a few seconds of silence, Mi’shara rolled her eyes and said, “Just cum inside of me before we get there, or I’ll… be angry at you!” Sharaf laughed and shook his head, apparently roused from his state of surprise. “Don’t laugh at me!” Mi’shara demanded, “I am a powerful woman. If I were upset with you, I could do awful things to you…”
The filling sensation of Sharaf’s thick Gue’vsa cock interrupted her train of thought, replacing her half-hearted threats with lewd, lustful moans. Sharaf had gripped her by both hips, placed his feet alongside her hooves, and begun visciously fucking her. Mi’shara’s hefty, taut, voluptuously round ass bounced and jiggled with each thrust as Sharaf captured her womanhood for the Imperium, his unprotected penetrations making her doubt the validity of the propaganda she’d been shown regarding humans more and more after every single deep, furious, unstoppable interjection.
The elevator’s floor counter ticked away, floor after floor, as they brought themselves closer to climax. Sharaf’s hands slid up her hips as he hooked his thumbs under the improvised, rolled-up hem of Mi’shara’s habit, lifting it up her chest, past her artfully crafted breasts, which fell free from the restraints of the Sororitas cloth. Mi’shara’s fingers and Sharaf’s cock were slick with organic lubricants when the elevator dinged one last time; Mi’shara’s legs shook at the knee as Sharaf hilted himself, shoving her torso up against the cold glasscrete, pressing her breasts flat against it as he shot string after string of cum inside her, his cock unable to resist the pulsing contractions of her thunderous orgasm.
After a few seconds of soaking himself inside the love of his life, Sharaf pulled out, his half-hard cock dripping with both their fluids as his cum slipped out of her. He tugged her habit down over her shivering form and grabbed the duffle bag, taking her by the arm as they exited the elevator. Sharaf made eye-contact with a foggy-eyed little old lady wearing a purity seal on her left cheek as they left the elevator. “Nothing wrong with bolstering resolve among the Guardsman, Sister,” she said, smiling and winking at the lovers as the elevator doors shut between them.
Mi'shara turned to Sharaf and said, "I am now thankful for the veil, though, I am struggling to see. Could you carry me? My knees are weak from your primal lust, after all." She was theatrically leaning against him, feigning a faint heart. Sharaf rolled his eyes and picked her up in bridal style.
Sharaf looked down at Mi’shara’s hooves, clearly visible beneath her habit, and mumbled, “Ma’am, please, cover yourself more thoroughly.” Mi’shara chuckled and pulled her legs up further into her habit, allowing the cloth to fall over her feet.
Sharaf walked to their apartment, waving his temporary ID bracelet in front of the door’s sensor, which slid open in response. Passing through the threshold, the soldier marched to their bed and laid lover down upon the covers. He dropped the duffel bag to the floor and walked back to the door, which he locked. Upon returning, he found Mi’shara lounging stark nude on her side, her fingers running across her blushing labia.
“Care to go again, love?” she asked, a devilish grin spread across her face. Sharaf sighed heavily, then removed his shirt and pants. As he walked towards her, Mi’shara rolled onto her back, her legs spread apart and a greedy expression slathered on her face.
However, much to her shock, Sharaf simply laid atop her, wrapping his arms around her and muttering, “Later babe, I’m tired,” before pulling the sheets over top both of them.
Mi’shara’s smile softened into a warmer sort of visage, and she whispered, “I love you, dear,” in his ear.
It was not long before both had fallen asleep.
=====
Upon waking up, Sharaf found himself alone in the bed, and the first fingers of morning sunlight creeping in through the blinds. The smell of smoke filled his nose. FUCK! He thought to himself, and he threw the sheets off. He took his laspistol off the nightstand and stumbled quickly towards the source of the smell. He found himself standing naked in the kitchen, glaring furiously at a very confused Mi’shara.
“Oh, good morning dear, I didn’t realize you’d be up so early,” the xenos said cheerily, turning back to the sizzling pan.
Sharaf paused for a moment to collect himself before replying, “Mi’shara, you ought not scare me like that. You should have waited for me to rouse before getting up. What if there were an assailant hiding in the kitchen?”
Mi’shara laughed and shot back, “Darling, if there were an assassin hiding in the kitchen, surely he would have simply slain us both in our sleep, unless he is looking to murder some kroot-style hash. Do me a favor and retrieve some dishes, breakfast is almost done.”
Sharaf tried to retort, but found himself lacking in responses. Instead, he walked to the cupboard and fulfilled her request, setting a pair of plates, two sets of silverware, and two glasses on the kitchen island. Mi’shara plated up the food, doing so in a rather haphazard manner, though Sharaf could think of no way to set out the contents of the skillet that would not have been messy.
“Babe, is there any recaff?” Sharaf asked sheepishly as Mi’shara sat down and began to eat.
“Over there,” Mi’shara said, pointing at a glass pot filled with the steamy black stuff sitting beside the sink. Sharaf thanked her, then poured himself a mug.
Sitting down, he groaned in pain as a bruise on his back from the prior day’s engagement pressed against the back of the chair. Mi’shara placed her hand on his thigh and asked, “Are you okay? Would you like a painkiller?”
Sharaf shook his head and replied, “No, I’d rather stay sharp.”
The two ate their food for a few minutes before Sharaf asked, “So, what’s your plan for today?”
“Well,” Mi’shara replied, wiping her mouth, “I was planning on finishing breakfast, cleaning up the kitchen, seducing you into violating me from behind while I washed the dishes. To follow up, I suggest we take a shower together so I can fellate you until your brain dribbles out your ears. Then I was thinking we could dry off, perform our dental hygiene routine, and fuck in front of the mirror so I can watch myself cum. After that, I just pencilled in an entire day of riding your cock until I break your hips. How does that sound?”
Sharaf’s eyes had glazed over, his cheeks had been seared a bright red, and his cock was so firmly erect that it was pressing up against the underside of the island. “Y-yeah,” he replied, “I like the sound of that.” He then hastily finished his food and recaff.
Mi’shara chuckled as she watched him, though she took her time finishing her food.
“What’s the matter darling? You seem antsy,” she teased, her free-hand drifting down to wrap around his throbbing member. Sharaf cleared his throat and nodded.
Having finished her food, Mi’shara took both their plates to the sink and turned to look over her shoulder. “Be a dear and bring the glasses over-” she began to say, but her request was cut off by a sudden kiss from her lover. She felt him hike up her morning robe and grab her tail in one hand and her hip in her other. She loudly moaned when he thrusted deep inside her.
“Don’t be s-so rough,” she stammered, trying to do the dishes as he railed away at her nethers, “I don’t want to break any of the dishes.” He slowed his pace down, settling into a slow, steady, full-stroke pattern that saw the entire length of his meat pass through her entrance, from tip to stem.
After a few minutes of patient fucking, Mi’shara put the last dish into the drying rack and began to say, “All done!” but found herself cut off as Sharaf clamped his right hand over her mouth, roughly groped her plentiful right tit with his left hand, and began fucking her with the force of an entire regiment on shore leave.
He felt her cum quickly after he picked up the pace, and her pulsating pleasure brought him to orgasm as well. He growled and hilted himself as tears of pleasure ran down her face. After a moment, he pulled out, his cock flopping down and bringing with it a glob of his love, which splattered on the floor. “Oh, damn it,” he muttered before grabbing a towel and wiping his mess up off the ground.
“I-I’m gonna g-go get the shower started, dear,” Mi’shara mumbled as she stumbled off to the bathroom. Sharaf was still trying to wipe the mess away, finding that he was smearing it more than cleaning it, when he heard Mi’shara yelp loudly, a displeasing sound accompanied by the crashes and scuffling of an equally displeasing struggle. Sharaf leapt to his feet, snatched his pistol off the counter, and sprinted off to the bathroom.
He found the door ever-so slightly ajar, and he kicked it open, whereupon it slammed into the wall beside it. His pistol came to bear on an assassin in a black bodysuit with an armored tactical vest and balaclava on. He was pressing a mean looking, unmarked, jet-black bolt pistol to Mi’shara’s temple.
“PUT THE GUN DOWN, NOW!” Sharaf barked, unable to get a clean shot lined up on the ducking and weaving gunman hiding behind Mi’shara’s wriggling body.
“NOT A CHANCE, ASSHOLE! I NEED SAFE PASSAGE OFF THIS PLANET, AND SHE’S MY TICKET OUT! NOW PUT YOUR PIECE DOWN AND STEP ASIDE!” The insurgent hollered back. Sharaf struggled for a few more seconds to line up a shot, before opting to set his gun down and put his hands up.
“Good! Now kick it over,” the insurgent ordered, still squirming to maintain his grip on Mi’shara. As the gun skittered across the floor, and the gunman’s eyes were drawn to the pistol, Mi’shara bit her captor’s forearm, causing him to roar with pain and loosen his grip slightly. Mi’shara let her body fall completely limp, and the assassin fumbled to hold onto her, his bolt pistol no longer an immediate threat to Mi’shara.
Seeing an opening, Sharaf lunged, his fist striking solidly against the assailant’s face, giving Mi’shara the opportunity to slip away and clamber for the door. Sharaf followed up with a second punch to the throat before trying to wrestle the bolt pistol away from the assassin. The insurgent headbutted Sharaf, and the gun went off, sending a trio bolt shells roaring past them and punching hard into the bedroom window, causing a decompression event as the pressurized hive tower’s internal atmosphere was sucked out by the negative pressure differential.
Security shutters clattered down fast and hard over the destroyed window, and the room went dark as Sharaf slammed the assailant through the glass shower door. The pair fell down through the cloud of round-edged safety-shards, and the gun was flung free from the assailant’s grip. Sharaf raised his fist and struck the assassin twice in the face before being flung off by a powerful two-foot kick from his opponent. The assailant drew a combat knife and brought it down in a swift arc.
Sharaf caught his foe’s arms, slowing their descent to a standstill, the knife’s point a few centimeters above his ribs. Sharaf struggled to push back against the towering brute, who brought his off-hand away from the knife, only to slam it back down into the hilt, sending it through the exposed flesh of Sharaf’s torso.
Sharaf grunted in pain and tried to push the assailant away, but was unable to stop his attacker from pushing the knife back into his chest. Nearly unconscious from a severed aorta and a punctured lung, Sharaf coughed up blood into his attacker’s face. The insurgent stabbed him again before saying, “Really!? You are the Inquisition’s finest? No wonder the Imperium is losing their grip on this system! Hydra Dominatus-”
The man’s head exploded, splattering the bathroom, and Sharaf, with chunks of viscera and brain matter. Sharaf coughed and sputtered, having lost too much blood to form coherent thoughts. Then, he felt Mi’shara’s hands on his skin, and the distant sound of her voice. He lifted his hand up to her face, touching her cheek and leaving a bloody mark behind.
So beautiful… he thought as he slipped away into that chilly abyss.
=====
“Tempestor? Tempestor Sharaf, can you hear me?”
Sharaf’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself looking up into the frigid blue eyes of a white-haired Hospitaller.
“Tempestor, it is good to see you have returned to us! I didn’t think you’d make such a speedy recovery.” Her voice was deep, but not overly so, and there was a mature knowingness about her that put him at ease.
“Is there anything we can get for you?” Her voice had taken on a slight edge that Sharaf couldn’t place.
“How long was I under for? Where is Mi’shara? Is she safe?” Sharaf asked hoarsely, his voice seemingly composed entirely of nails and gravel, but even the strain of speaking could not disguise the panic creeping into his voice.
“Just under three days. Ambassador Mi’shara is well. She was taken back to T’au space two days ago by their Fire Warriors. The Lord-Inquisitor’s ship arrived last night. He wishes to debrief you. I am going to retrieve him now.” With that, she stood and swiftly left the hospital room.
Right. That can’t be good, Sharaf thought to himself.
A few minutes passed before the Hospitaller returned, this time with Lord-Inquisitor Tentryth in tow. She bowed politely and then retreated once more, locking the door behind her. Lord-Inquisitor Tentrim was a stout, round-bellied man with a bushy beard and shaved head. A servo-skull plugged into the base of his neck hovered about, recording data about his surroundings. A bolt pistol was holstered at the aging man’s hip.
“So, Tempestor, I hear you had a particularly rowdy weekend. I trust you didn’t get up to too much trouble?” There was a genuine warmth to Tentryth’s voice that put Sharaf at ease.
“I… yes, milord, I had quite the time. The locals are quite lively here.” Sharaf replied, his voice quiet and strained.
“Mhm, so I’ve been informed.” The inquisitor paused for a moment, staring up at the flickering, harsh-white tube-lights hanging above them. “However, I should ask about why we found your genetic material all over Ambassador Mi’shara, the sheets, and the kitchen floor. Do be honest with me, Tempestor, because I loathe liars.” The fatherly warmth in the inquisitor’s voice hadn’t faded, but it was now accompanied by a paternal disappointment that made Sharaf shrink back into the mattress.
“I… uhh… well, Mi’shara and I were… we slept in the same bed, so we had um… there was… con… tact?” Sharaf stammered out, averting his gaze from the Lord-Inquisitor. The older man’s hard expression broke out into a smile, and he burst with laughter.
“Oh, Sharaf,” Tentryth said in between belts of heavy belly laughs, “don’t be so ashamed, we’ve all consorted with a few sanctioned xenos in our time. Worry not, your secret is safe with me. I doctored the reports to show the material was simply blood from the scuffle. That said, we will be relocating you.” His tone became less jovial.
Sharaf sighed heavily, “I understand, milord. I apologize for my transgression-”
“No, no, Sharaf, don’t be sorry,” Tentryth replied, cutting him off, “you did well! Without your steady hand, this entire situation would have gone tits up. Consider it more of a promotion, and less of a reassignment.”
Sharaf raised an eyebrow and asked, “Promotion? What do you mean?”
“Well, Ambassador Mi’shara is a high value target, and the Imperium is very interested in keeping her alive. As such, I’ve managed to finagle you into a position amongst her Auxilia. You are going from Tempestor to bodyguard, my good man.” The inquisitor smiled down at Sharaf and patted his leg.
Sharaf grinned and sat up. “Really?” he asked.
“Truly!” replied the Inquisitor, “Your things are packed, and you will be travelling with a rogue trader flotilla that has stopped in the system to refuel, resupply, and allow for some shore leave. As soon as you recover, you will be boarding the ship to await transit. You should see her again in the next month or so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have paperwork to finalize.”
As the Lord-Inquisitor stood up and left, Sharaf laid back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling with a stupid grin on his face. Tentryth paused at the door, looked back, and said, “Oh, by the way, I do have a gift for you, sitting on the bedside table. Safe travels, Tempestor.”
“Safe travels,” Sharaf replied, and with that the Lord-Inquisitor was off. Sharaf revelled in his joy for a moment, before sitting back up and looking over at the bed stand. A simple wooden box with the Inquisitorial mark burned into it was tied up with a blue silk ribbon and sitting beside a glass of water.
Sharaf downed the water, his throat somewhat dry, before grabbing the box, untying the ribbon, lifting the clasp, and looking inside.
A bolt pistol, jet-black and unmarked, was accompanied by three loaded magazines and a note reading, Dearest Sharaf, the original owner doesn’t need this anymore, but I’m sure you’ll put it to good use. Kindest regards, Lord-Inquisitor Tentryth.
Sharaf smiled softly and closed the box.
