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Upon the Alcheringa, the rhythmic beeping of the green bells and whistles chimed together in an
awkward tune, alerting the crew and the captain above that- within minutes- landing would be possible and
all this motion-sickness would finally be at an end. Lucin’s Breath, as the colloquially-signed directions had
stated, was in the far-off corner of the Koronus Expanse, where Winterscale would privately host his
escapades away from the scrutinizing gaze of the Imperium. Except, in Winterscale’s lucky absence, the
colony was now under the liege of Kassard of the Reaper’s Light, a neighboring Rogue Trader that had
contacted Amanar in prompt haste for something written as “a gathering, a soiree, and perhaps a hunt or
two.” Thus, von Valancius was suggested (strongly) by old man Abelard that this was none other than a
chance to present her superiority in economic trade- a jest that seemed all too unnecessary to her, and her alone.
Alas, she knew deep-down the importance of a good banter. Such a communication was priceless
in the eyes of nobles. Within hours of the invitation, the Alcheringa had changed course to the provided
coordinates that lead them straight to Kassard.
What was odd, however, was the total silence the Lord Captain would receive upon attempting to
contact anyone the closer they got. Honestly, it was the worst form of a surprise party waiting to happen.
It had remained like this for too long.
Swiping through her vox tablet, the gloved fingers of the now Rogue Trader Amanar “Stubbs”
Valancius pored over the address, staring vacantly and questioning why she, above all else, must entertain
more nobles. She sank in her golden throne, sighing, before eventually switching it off and staring off into
the distance.
To her right, Abel hummed, waiting for the signal of arrival. His large overcoat hugged the ground
as it dragged alongside the both of them. He appeared like a statue, yet at times would twist his head to
check on her, perhaps engaging in the solidarity that this location was in-fact a long drive and way too far.
Amanar blew a raspberry in boredom.
“Coordinates set upon speed, raising shields and entering ripple,” Helmsman Ravor echoed, his
raspy voice complimenting the hallow stomach that was the voidship. Amanar always thought the walls too
high and thin, trapping her and the rest of the crew in an everlasting freezer. She adjusted her posture,
turning over to watch those behind her scramble to their stations in preparation for the jump. She frowned.
“They’re always so worried I’ll do something to them,” said the Rogue Trader, exhaling dramatically,
returning to her seat. “I’ve never once punished them- let alone throw something in their direction.”
Abel nodded. “Fear from power. Fear of failure. A whip with no holder.”
“A floating whip? Don’t tell me Idira summoned another one of those big-breasted daemon-
thingies onboard. I’ve had enough random headaches for the day.” The ginger rubbed her temples in
imagination of another incursion, already preparing herself for vomiting the moment they arrived. She
could feel the air begin to still, a sign that the stars were fading and the galaxy had become more distant.
Abel simply listened along. “Besides,” she heaved, looking to her left at Einrich, who saluted her with a
jolly chuckle. “I can’t imagine that Kassard would be too happy if we showed up covered in chaos guts.”
Abel’s mechandrites extended in a subtle stretch, “A terrible impression-”
“Lord Captain! Something is wrong!”
Before either could catch another word, Alcheringa had begun shaking, vibrating intensely as crew-
members, void-mechanics, inferni and others were thrashed around like screws-in-a-box, landing violently
to the floor, unable to pull themselves back to standing. The gravity surrounding the hull had squeezed the
life of the voidship. The voidship felt as though it was shrinking. Amanar struggled to breathe. Stuck in
motion, her neck craned and ached as she tried to look toward Abel- whose red coat had abandoned her
side. Panic rose through her chest.
“Ravor! Abel! Pasqal!” Her choking voice rang to no-one, tears forming under her eyes and stinging
her cheeks. “Anyone!” She felt tied to her throne, unable to move. Her eyes trailed upward to their sight
above- a large, gaping hole had ripped through the ceiling- allowing sparkling darkness and hazy
apparitions to break into the chambers. Laughter surrounding the halls as the creeping feeling grew, grew,
and grew; a cold, shivering touch to the edges of her skin and fingernails.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Amanar tried to block out any influence that these invaders could feast on,
the sounds of blood sloshing against the floor and screams pinching her eardrums with full strength.
“What-” She coughed, her sight failing her, “What is going on! Help-”
And then, silence.
----
At first, her eyes seemed to struggle to decide from the constant blinking or squeezing shut, her
face contorting at multiple tensions that echoed anger, confusion, and overall annoyance. Amanar’s head
screamed as if she was drunk, yet no alcohol was present. When the Rogue Trader finally felt lucid enough,
having returned to her isolated state, her staunch form relentlessly forced her to observe her surroundings, her cage, and unfortunate evening.
The smell of burnt recaf wafted in the air like a foul poison had stained her nostrils. A cloud of
smoke lifted from the steel mug, stirring its way to the redheaded woman, who stared at the messy desk
covered in papers that had strewn about to the floor, her feet, and eventually, the entrance. In the distance,
the master of ceremonies laid on the red carpet trailing behind her, heaving with a weak sigh, his large
stomach lifting him off the ground after each breath. Amanar sighed a breath of relief. The Inquisitor was
gone, leaving the Rogue Trader standing, a twinged discomfort settling within her stature.
Attempting to steady her feet, Amanar released a stern exhale, pressing into the wooden
architecture of the desk that crunched under her hands. She curled her fingers with a grated frustration
that grew at every murmur heard from the courtroom. The previous conversation, despite every attempt of
evasion, avoidance, and fear, had been met inevitably in the face of sly whispers and clever
commandments. Typical. She hated boastful authoritarians with every fiber of her being.
Frowning, she could still hear Xavier’s laughter in the depths of her mind. It gave her the chills.
A few seconds hung in the air with contemplative silence, a twisting feeling gnawing at the apex of
her chest, rising and falling, slowly- or quickly? She waited for a sense of calm to kick in, yet never seemed
to arrive. She had felt stuck in time, unable to move or conquer her sensations in a way that would scream
confidence once more. Her eyes trailed to the floor.
Perhaps, she never had such confidence.
With a final click of the tongue, the Rogue Trader found herself questioning how to move forward,
if at all possible. From the outside, the sound of clanking glasses and stifled giggles had become less
familiar- less homely- less welcoming.
Suddenly, there was a quiet tap of the ground, tapping, to be precise, growing louder, closer to the
woman. Her breath hitched in anticipation of a final slap, a clasp to the wrist- or-
“Fear, anger, sadness. A sorrow grows deep.”
Then, at last, a silent breath of relief.
When she turned to greet her visitor, her shoulders were jagged, refusing to cooperate with the rest
of her body. She turned like a cogwheel- facing her companion with an air of confusion and sadness. Her
widened, yet down-turned eyes soon captured the imagery of a red cloak and a binharic mask supporting
the gentle countenance of a surveyor- a witness. It... he attempted a smile, squinting ever so slightly that
gave way to a melting of the woman’s heart.
Abel, a former hostage of the hands of heretics, thieves, and cultists, quickly scanned the woman,
looking from the bottom of her boots to the top of her head, where dulled-orange hair had escaped its
saintly appearance, frizzling out and breaking from the roots. The tech-priest’s glare locked onto the sight,
tilting his head before speaking. “A great unknown sweeps over you,” he hummed, several colored lights
flickering over his face as he recited. “A blanket of darkness, dwindling, dwindling…” His voice echoed
softly as Amanar watched, her feet tucking closer to the desk as if she were being observed at the hands of
the administratum. Slowly, Abel began to walk the perimeter of his superior’s office with surprising ease.
Of course his hands soon found their way to wrap around each other frequently, rubbing an imaginary
dust off the remains of what little flesh he had, and the clicks of his heels gave the impression of a rusty
servitor, but something tugged at the Rogue Trader that this was not fully Abel’s anxiety at play, but
something lighter.
A smile soon tugged at the edge’s of Amanar’s lips, her eyebrows furrowing into a curious
expression. “Quoting my emotions, are we?” she announced, taking a final glance at the mess around her.
Freeing herself from the chains of her own paranoia, she followed the priest, keeping a small distance as to
not alarm him. His minute twitches would give her pause, to which she allowed him space, watching as he
continued to survey, occasionally stopping to absorb the scenery.
Eventually, the tech-priest had lead his companion to a corner of the room where no papers had
made their trail with the exception of a stronger scent that had hugged the wall for dear life. Amanar
choked, taking a step further from the empty scene, staring at her friend that kept near, studying the
ground below. One of his mechandrites grazed the wall with a subtle cut, dragging itself upon the fine
paint in an almost excruciating manner, where Amanar could not help but feel worried. Her eyes traced the
movements with a nervous gaze, hoping that he, above all else, was not a future obstacle in her sudden
noble upbringing. She could not bear to imagine a future where Abel would assist the likes of Calcazar and
his minions, breathing down her neck in an icy-cold wave of authoritative misery.
Yet, the next sentence Abel would speak gave cause to Amanar to contemplate that perhaps,
escaping the office without any further witnesses would be a better move than this one. An aura of
confidence surrounded the priest, a jutted clink sounding off as Abel turned his head toward her, nodding
at the supposed sensual air that still remained in the room. “Red coat. Worry. His mortal flesh to yours,
finger to cheek. your hands at his side. Is it the scent of genus coffea, or amasec and cheese?” His eyes
squinted once more. Amanar blushed at the audacity. Abel was teasing her.
“Oh for the love of…” She could say: of the Omnissiah, of the Emperor, of Terra, but nothing
holy would powerfully compare to letting the words slip out in an embarrassed silence that hung between
the two of them. Amanar clasped a shaking hand to her face, unable to condense another word without
either vomiting or making a run for it. Needless to say, her body decided on neither, hopelessly standing
still in the moment, under fire by none other than her dearest friend.
“This tech-priest’s statement is humorous in nature,” teased the red-cloaked being, who had finally
backed away from the corner of the room where knowingly, as Abel had quickly derived, was none other
than the place that Amanar and Heinrix had kissed. The Rogue Trader gagged at the memory.
Eventually, Abel continued moving, his technical chittering ringing against the gold-plated columns
of the office. His shadow complemented the lit candles that swayed along with him, his appearance giving
the flushed Rogue Trader a final reminder that she was no longer in danger, and rather, in the presence of
someone whom she was close. She observed as Abel found his way to the desk, glancing upward at the
sight of the master of ceremonies, soon recoiling and digging his hands through a myriad of drawers
Amanar could not believe Theodora fixed within the enormous, yet compact desk.
“What are you searching for?” Amanar asked, sauntering over to the hooded one and raising an
eyebrow. “Calca-zoid already took everything with him.” She waved a hand in annoyed reverence, flicking
her fingers to the exit door and ignoring the fat man in front of it.
Abel merely hummed.
A couple minutes of silence had took forth, leaving Amanar kicking random bits of torn papers
and festival decorations, whistling alone and waiting for the time to pass, where voices of muffled stewards
and disturbed countesses infested the halls outside. Amanar flicked her attention between the overly-
pristine clocks and the melted candles, to the rippled carpets and the glass windows that captured the night
sky of the Koronus Expanse. The darkness seemed to pull her in, enveloping itself within her eyes as she
blinked, waiting for the immense impatience to wake her and admit this entire evening was a dream. The
trickle in her chest twinged with an anxious melody.
She needed something to relax. Without a second thought, Amanar poked her head around the
tech-priest’s shoulder and examined the contents of what he had found. Abel traced folded leather-bound
notes in his hands, flipping through the pages of fragmented texts with slashed words and bleeding marker.
It looked like a collection of personal musings, although the covers were severely faded and destroyed, no
title to be found amongst them. The fact that Aunt Theodora would hold onto such a fragile thing
bewildered her; it made her predecessor seem even more magnificent.
Amanar clicked her tongue, chuckling, “What-”
“I was thinking, God has abandoned me.” Abel began to read, albeit softly, his quiet tone
dissipating in to the rays of the moons that scattered above. Amanar quickly closed her mouth, tilting to
listen. She waited as he grabbed more of the papers, revealing a set of tools that left Amanar enlightened.
The robed prophet then trailed across the floor, continuing, “So, what of it- he is a priceless ray of light, or
a thin needle in the haystack of Man. And… cruel.”
The words echoed to Amanar, reverberating with a sensation that clasped itself around her. Cruel?
She could think of one thing that was truly Cruel. A nonexistent tyrant that lie on a Golden Throne, allowing strung
puppets to claim the title of Inquisitor and rule over her feeble life. Despite this, a curious feeling arose that brought
calm. Abel, who was curtly following the walls of the gilded enclosure, glanced back at her, nodding,
directing his graze to the open drawer that nonetheless held the key to their salvation.
A lighter, two sticks of parchment, and entire gold-laced bag of the galaxy’s finest obscura. It lie
there, waiting, as if it was prepared just for them. Amanar smirked, grinning at the thought that perhaps
the Emperor granted her this one miracle, perfectly, just for the two of them. Her hands dug into the
treasury of the sweet-smelling nonsense, her nose and hands coordinating the picture of a better evening,
alike to a child following the window to a bakery. Her ears, soul, tuned back to the melody of Abel’s
marching, his gentle voice ringing with each word of sincerity. “I have turned away from Him- torment me
no more. But which one of us is more cruel? More to be feared?”
Amanar began by tearing open the bag, revealing the sparkling contents of mixed narcotics and
sweet fragrances, torturing her senses in anticipation. She dispersed it onto the parchment, decorating the
desk in a messy embrace of glowing green and purple, reflecting the lights around them. Wrapping the first
one, she brought it to her mouth, grinning at the tech priest. At last, this felt like a better night already, with
no duties disguising this very moment. She waited, watching as Abel sauntered toward her, revealing a
lighter to his side and bringing it to her lips. The parchment glowed with a fiery snap, rising to each other’s
faces, creating a bright-red flush.
“Got another one,” she said, blowing another plume before wrapping the second. She held the
piece with her index and middle fingers, bringing it close to her companion’s gated-airway, which hummed
in satisfaction. The lack of lips did not stop him from inhaling, taking the obscura from her, joining the
new sensations and colors exchanged between them. The blunt hung softly in his grate, whistling with each
breath, each puff of air, producing a smile from Amanar. “God…” She exhaled, faltering to the leather
seat, crashing in its comfort, spinning. Amanar felt good. She took another drag, eyes landing back on Abel.
“Is that poetry you’re reading, Abel? It sounds like a commoner’s writing.”
A flick of the papers. “A memoir, a lost song. A dim after-light of existence.” Abel leaned against
the desk, continuing, “The one who has no body, of course-”
“Like the Emperor. God.” Amanar’s eyes grazed over the room, the ceiling becoming a haze of
different neon colors, swirling into a sea of laughter, or humming, sweetly kissing her cheeks while she
drew another breath. Anything she would say now was pure feeling, no restrictions, no clever talk. “No
body- I mean, nobody has seen the guy and lived to tell the tale. Kibellah talks about those tarot all the
time, but… I find it hard to believe in such a thing.”
“Faith balances on the precipice. Bleeding, bleeding… He exposes himself, naked, bringing to you a
desperate echo of disorder.”
“Heinrix? Sure, he… helped out in a sense, but...” Amanar’s shoulders dropped. “That Calca-
freak…” Her lips started to tremor, turning into a blueish hue. “He thinks he is all that just because he can
wield a pretty necklace that says he’s the Emperor’s favorite good boy.” She coughed. “… More like his
fucking dog.” Growing into a wheeze, her hands covered her mouth to catch any stray air she could breathe
in, with her feet guiding herself to the spinning chair, crashing into the leathery surface, her vision
dissipating any comprehensive imagery.
Abel continued, joining her side, closer. “A great risk, a fallen hope. Was it full in truth? Or another
lie?” He leaned ever so-slightly onto the desk, giving way to the looseness of the obscura. It tugged him
into a wobble, peering over the Rogue Trader.
Looking up at the priest, Amanar’s hazy focus failed to settle. “I mean…” She paused. Heinrix’s
actions felt sincere, yet worrisome overall. The way his brows curled in anticipation of being found, it
surprised her that he would attempt such a thing without exploding into a million ice fractures. “He...
warned me about the inquisition. It was unlike him.”
“Love makes one do strange things for that sickly feeling.”
“...Right. Love.”
The word hung at the tip of her tongue, refusing to let go. She wanted to forget anything before
this evening; the commands, the sly commentary, the stinking nobility that played with each other’s hearts
and minds. A Rogue Trader’s position was terrifyingly large, producing hateful gazes or jealousy, reminding
her of a time that crept into the depths of her memory. Disgrace, shame, and sorrow. “His Emperor never
cared about me. Back home, nobody bothered with the Imperium until…” Her words faded into
nothingness. Another plume of analogous smoke.
Abel brought the papers closer to his face, giving away that his sight, too, was growing blurry and
colorful, mixing confusion with giggles. Amanar felt like he could understand, deep down; that perhaps his
allegiance to the Emperor was less bound by blind faith, and rather a connection with Pasqal, an inerrant
operator of the Omnissiah’s word, twisted to fit their dogma. The two were alike in many ways, yet
completely opposite, making Amanar wonder how the two remained so close. Abel’s respirator stifled as he
forced a laugh, reading the last lines of the poem. “He has made us endless, vast- so that our grief will
know no bounds.”
The Rogue Trader hummed in agreement. “Which one was that?”
“I was thinking.”
“Ah. Thinking- now that’s a worrisome title.” Such a concern meant nothing to her in this office.
She brought the roll to her lips, letting the sweet succor hug her skin until her lungs could not fill more. A
stillness in her chest loosened with every exhale. Her pupils dragged along the ridge’s of Abel’s many wires
and pipes. She never realized how many sat among his body, holding his posture hostage like an aged house
steward. Her home had plenty of those, once, she was pretty sure.
This obscura was strange. Images of different faces muddled in her head as Amanar blinked over
and over, unable to feel whole as her eyelids ripped apart, sticking together for longer than usual until
eventually putting back to the puzzling visions around her. “Are there any more?” she heard herself ask,
guiding her fingers along the papers in Abel’s hands. She flicked through them, bending the corner of a
random choice. Her fingers shook with an electric tingling.
Leaning back, she slouched into the sinking chair. With another drag, Abel’s inhibitor hummed;
whistling ever-so-slightly, waiting for Amanar’s gaze to rest in complete focus. Her attention was enlisted,
fixed upon his presence despite the extreme difficulty to stay awake. It sounded like a chuckle when Abel
continued to read.
“As the night thickens, the Man slackens. So, as it thickens, I slacken.”
Amanar burst out laughing. “Slacken!” she shouted, raising her arms above her head, eyes closed.
“My, these writings are insanely filled with weak thoughts.” The Rogue Trader could imagine it now,
Calcazar and a, perhaps, scared Heinrix would break down the door, screaming betrayal at the top of their
lungs until surrender, going back to his master’s will. Something in her would click, a queasy motivation to
then appear before them, preventing their violent interference. She would save Abel above all else. Rising
with a quick spark, Amanar shouted, “Halt! The inquisition hears your words of heresy!” She stepped
upon the top of the desk and struck a pose, releasing her force-sword from her belt and swiping it in the
air. In this moment, Amanar felt more relieved than ever, safe within the confines of the golden cage- or
was it now silver?
Her soul felt light, fleeting, as though she could jump and find herself in bed, hitting a cushion
beneath her and hiding from the rest of the world. Abel broke out in laughter himself, a softer chuckle
than her own, clapping at her heroic deed. “The cloaked one shudders at your words. His gaze confused.
Your lips- his duty- slackening.”
Amanar’s hands swooped to her sides. Her eyebrows furrowed. “You know what’s funny about
that? Duty. What a fucking joke.” The husk in her voice cut the change in tune, her feet landing with a
sharp ache as she hopped off the desk, pirouetting back to the leather chair. “All those sweet nothings, the
kiss... The one time I’m supposed to have some sort of break and his boss decides to come ruin the fun.”
Amanar forced another inhale of obscura, coughing until it escaped. Wiping her mouth, she looked back at
Abel, whose skin appeared with a sickly hue, green, then purple, then green again. She shook her head.
“He worries about you. Lips twitching, hands tied.”
“Yuck.” Amanar’s face twisted in discomfort. Her headache started to reform. Stars, swirling above,
twinkled with the candles in the room, appearing like she could fall inside the flames. She recalled how
Heinrix hurried her to the wall, closing in on their gaze, grabbing her hand without hesitation. He spoke in
riddles- struggling to find eye contact or sense at all, needlessly glancing back to the door, ready to escape
the moment a whisper would reach through. Their lips met, perhaps blame on her part, but returned
steadily, desperately, each aching for respite. He then left without further explanation, leaving the Lord
Captain in a fit of sadness. And then…
Amanar stared at the floor. “It was nice… to have that moment.” She didn’t know what to think,
more than that.
Abel could tell the air had shifted. His focus returned to the poetry, taking in a breath, releasing the
obscura from his grate. Tapping it, it extinguished, dropping to the floor, flake by flake. Amanar’s head
remained hung, quiet.
“The most August- thickest night,” sung the tech-priest.
August. If you had asked her, Amanar could not tell you what time it was, or day, or week. It all
seemed like a blur. The floor’s bloodied colors danced along her feet, covered in dirtied leather from the
spilled wine of the party. Heinrix almost stepped on them as they rushed to the balcony.
“Shacks’ night, shacks’ night, shacks’ anew,”
Amanar leaned into the colors. Her hands felt warm, sweaty. She could almost kiss the ground,
exhausted. She begun to lift from the chair, or fall forward. Time slowed. A night anew. She felt saddened,
betrayed. The obscura faded into a slight hunger for solitude.
“Let me take a breath, yes to breathe, more,”
More. What more did she have to do? Why would Aunt Theodora do this- have this- for what
purpose would Amanar continue to rise, creating anger among the nobles and fear among the rabble. Her
heart grew heavy once more. As she sighed, the smell was no longer sweet. It grew sour. A poison in her
nostrils, almost as if it wanted her to choke. Her chest pulled forward.
“To hold- to hold-”
With an emptied soul, Amanar slammed into the cold marble. Her skin hugged the floor in a tight
embrace, her arms stuck to her side. The colors stopped moving. She felt sick. Her eyes closed, unable to
push herself out of the marble arms that wrapped around her. A shiver leaving her cadaver to the isolated
office. Her vision slowed into a nothingness, fading into black. “But, at least, to take a breath, and that’s
enough.”
She could no longer feel Abel beside her.
----
Amanar’s face lifted from the ground- no, desk. Desk? The familiar sight of glass-pane windows
shook behind her, disguised by the maximally-decorated architecture of Theodora’s amusement. Amanar
blinked, and blinked again. “Abel?” she whispered, looking around the room for any sign of life. Her
fingers felt cold, stuck to the desk she found herself in. Her head rang and rang. Where was she?
With a sudden snap, a hand had reached her shoulder. Kibellah, who had never once left the Rogue
Trader’s side, leaned down, eyes meeting the other. “Are you alright, Domin’Amanar? What is on your
mind?” Her eyes gleamed with worry for her partner.
Amanar’s lips trembled. “Poetry.” Poetry?
Kibellah could only nod. “… Poetry.” The smell of recaf wafted in the air.
“I… have been thinking about poetry.”
And with a breath of relief, a final blink once more, the Rogue Trader could not help but smile.