The dredges of the Underhive, a place where the foulness of man runs rampant. Where the cesspool of sin cumilates and profilerates itself in a variety of forms, within all that are cursed with the unfortunate circumstance of living there. From those that domineer their fellow less-fortunate man to those taken advantage of, each find their own way to cope with their dreadful existence.

Ishmael Consanin was one of the unfortunate multitude to into existence within the slums of the Underhive. A child born of a gang enforcer forcing themselves onto his mother while working within a labor-camp under the local gang's control to earn scraps to live by, the beginnings of Ishmael were already marked with the disgusting taint of sin.

And forced to toil away to live by during his earlier years to live by the same scraps his mother did, the ideal of having control something, anything would come to his wretched life.

First as a child, it began when he had his spare moments of free-time. His hand caught a squirming insect within his hand, one of the many that infested the squalor he lived in. It writhed and stayed within it's grasp, just he did in the labor-camp, but unlike the labor-camp, Ishmael held every aspect of control over the little vermin.

Those sunken eyes of his would stare at his catch, watching it move helpessly about. Until he got bored of it's writhing, and began pulling it's limbs off one by one. Boredom alleviated by watching how much dominance he held over such a miniscule and insignificant creature, and how it reacted to whatever torture was inflicted onto it.

But insects could only express so much with their body and instincts, and so a growing Ishmael would turn to larger vermin in time, the ilk of rats and their sort. The agonies he inflicted onto those creatures were given reactions in ways a mere bug never could. Blood, crying squeaks and the fervent attempts to gnaw and claw at his malnourished hands made it all the more engaging for the teenage youth.

And by process of evolution of his wicked desires again, did that gaze of his rise from mere animals which responded off of instinct, to his fellow man. It was by this time he reached adulthood his mother had already died, and by cursed miracle, had he found himself within the very same gang that oppressed him and his mother when he was younger, and still did as the bottom grunt of their operations.

But what did he care if they once worked him to the bone? Control... self-gratification from seeing those creatures beneath him be manipulated by him to his whim was the perverse obession that held within his mind now. The gang was now only seen as a way to finally reach the next level of that craving, one that would be the indulgence to send him spiralling over the edge.

Ishmael Consanin, one of many enforcers of the labor-camp walked through the lines of the down-trodden souls that worked for their next scrap of sustenance, his eye falling on one woman evidently too 'slow' in her work.

One out of the many slaving away wouldn't be missed, not that Ishmael would take take too long anyway...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Went the tip of Krevda's inkpen against her desk, marking out tiny little dots everywhere it landed. It was, of course, a feathered inkpen, and every tap brought the fragile tipe closer to being smashed into uselessness, but...

Maybe that wouldn't be a concern if that blundering idiot in charge gave me decent utensils, she thought, resisting the urge to scream. Ah, yes! But of course! How could she have forgotten!

"You have to maintain decorum, dear. We keep the Imperium running, after all, and must be its best representatives. Colgrieve always said. Decorum. Decorum!

She struggled to stifle the urge to laugh. They were struggling to supply soldiers with rations, the natives were dying, and they could barely get a singular fucking moment of attention, with all eyes on the Indomitus, and Colgrieve was worried about motherfucking decorum?!?!

Krevda snapped the fragile "pen" in her fingers, watching one end drop while the other, covered in feathers, gently floated toward the ground.

Oh, decorum, she thought. "Decorum!" She barked, jumping up from her seat with such force that her chair scraped and groaned as it was shoved back against the lacquered and wallpapered wall. Ah, and of course, now the fragile, prissy, flower-design flooring was all scuffed up! Another smug scolding was in order then. Just perfect! Absolutely perfect!

"Decorum, decorum, decorum!" Krevda barked, reaching up to run a hand through her gussied-up raven-black hair, tied into an uncomfortably tight bun. "Why, I certainly do love when my drooling imbecile of a boss insists on fiddlefucking themselves with a golden goddamn dildo over their taste in interior decorating! Isn't it just wonderful when they do that?" She groaned nosily, halfway tempted to bash her forehead against the wall until her brains leaked out, if only so she didn't have to deal with that bitch-whore anymore.

"They don't know the first thing about logistics! They're more concerned about pretty little groundcars than they are reliable transport lines! They cum themselves at the mere thought of getting to drive a guest along in one of their collectible metal shitbuckets, but actually getting people where they need to be? Oh, nonono, Krevda! I only got this job because I sucked the governor's cock so hard my stupid face caved in on itself!" She ranted, mockingly wagging their finger in imitation of the Idiot Supreme that called herself a governor. She'd only met the vile bitch a handful of times, but every time she did, she felt like tearing her hair out by the roots, staring across her office at a portrait of the woman she wished she could tear down. Narrowing her eyes, she caught sight of something strange, which she'd never noticed before in all her hours of infuriated staring.

A single, small blue feather, shimmering as it fell across the canvas like still-drying ink.

You're right, you know. You'd be a much better governor than her.