Member
Iracebeth
Fallenreaper
Numbers
xVampire3go
Blair
D3AD ST4R
tadcfnaf
Morgana
Antlers
Ziotea heard the soldier start to welcome them before suddenly falling silent. The prickle between her shoulderblades made her think he was looking at her, but she wasn't even doing anything. He'd had plenty of time to stare at her on the train. Maybe he just had enough sense not to be impolite to an Inquisitor where she'd notice? Except he'd failed at that. Her frown deepened for a moment before she gave a mental shrug. Whatever. Let him stare if it made him happy. It was hardly worth bothering about. But damned if she would turn around and acknowledge it. If he wanted to stay out in the cold then he was the only one suffering for it.
Eventually Semenov remembered himself, and kept moving. She stayed put a few moments more, tempted to just leap off the edge instead of worrying about finding a better way down. It would be easy enough to catch herself at the bottom, and she gave the idea serious consideration. Only briefly, however. Father Oren would have difficulty following, and no doubt he or Semenov would complain. And then Stina will find some reason to lecture for "straying" when he hears about it, as if taking the stairs was somehow our holy duty. The Inquisitor snorted under her breath and turned to follow the others.
She'd caught up by the time Semenov had managed to get the hatch open, condensation pluming out as the warm air inside hit the wind's cold. She let Father Oren precede her down the ladder and waited until he reached the bottom to follow. Instead of climbing she tucked her spear under her arm, put her gauntleted hands around the sides of the ladder, and half-jumped, half-slid the handful of steps to the bottom. Her landing came with a brief flicker of ether, though her heavy boots still rang against the uncarpeted floor. She was just in time to hear the bearded man below cut himself off.
She took in the little outpost as she turned around, shifting her spear back to her hand. Poorly cleaned, poorly groomed -- she couldn't even tell if the pair of sergents were supposed to be off duty, and the sharp stench of alcohol made her wrinkle her nose.
Semenov himself was a surprise. He seemed too young to have a posting, almost too young to be enlisting. Though not too young to have mastered the soldierly art of crude humor, Ziotea noted. She didn't respond to his joke at all, and he tried to dispell the awkwardness by moving them along. She turned to follow but paused in the doorway. "Don't make excuses," she told them over her shoulder. "If you truly regret being caught in such a state, skip the excuses and fix the problem yourselves. If you're not...well, not my problem, I suppose. But inspectors general don't always send advanced notice. Something to consider."
There was no warmth in her tone. She half-hoped the unfortunate pair would be caught with their pants down -- perhaps literally -- at the next inspection. She doubted she'd hear about it, but if she did she would shed no tears.
Eventually Semenov remembered himself, and kept moving. She stayed put a few moments more, tempted to just leap off the edge instead of worrying about finding a better way down. It would be easy enough to catch herself at the bottom, and she gave the idea serious consideration. Only briefly, however. Father Oren would have difficulty following, and no doubt he or Semenov would complain. And then Stina will find some reason to lecture for "straying" when he hears about it, as if taking the stairs was somehow our holy duty. The Inquisitor snorted under her breath and turned to follow the others.
She'd caught up by the time Semenov had managed to get the hatch open, condensation pluming out as the warm air inside hit the wind's cold. She let Father Oren precede her down the ladder and waited until he reached the bottom to follow. Instead of climbing she tucked her spear under her arm, put her gauntleted hands around the sides of the ladder, and half-jumped, half-slid the handful of steps to the bottom. Her landing came with a brief flicker of ether, though her heavy boots still rang against the uncarpeted floor. She was just in time to hear the bearded man below cut himself off.
She took in the little outpost as she turned around, shifting her spear back to her hand. Poorly cleaned, poorly groomed -- she couldn't even tell if the pair of sergents were supposed to be off duty, and the sharp stench of alcohol made her wrinkle her nose.
Semenov himself was a surprise. He seemed too young to have a posting, almost too young to be enlisting. Though not too young to have mastered the soldierly art of crude humor, Ziotea noted. She didn't respond to his joke at all, and he tried to dispell the awkwardness by moving them along. She turned to follow but paused in the doorway. "Don't make excuses," she told them over her shoulder. "If you truly regret being caught in such a state, skip the excuses and fix the problem yourselves. If you're not...well, not my problem, I suppose. But inspectors general don't always send advanced notice. Something to consider."
There was no warmth in her tone. She half-hoped the unfortunate pair would be caught with their pants down -- perhaps literally -- at the next inspection. She doubted she'd hear about it, but if she did she would shed no tears.