Terrans

Empire of the Clouds

Private Aden Robertson

Healing magic had always been the thing of fiction to Aden. Tales relegated to history and the occasional play or novel the private indulged in occasionally. Rumors abounded about some squirreled away within the higher echelons of some societies but that was the standard gossip along the like of those vile cure all drinks they peddled in the seedier districts.

Yet for all the stories; none had actually captured how it went. Mitunbaal looked drained in the glimpses he caught of her. Not withered but more akin to the aftermath of a long march. Or how his wound felt as if he had simply overexerted the limb and not suffered a near debilitating gunshot. The scar almost faint instead of the angry red and upraised skin it should have been.

Though the still stained greatcoat hanging in his locker a stark reminder of how close he came. Physically at least.

Mentally he could still remember the panic and the pain as Zoe flittered about. The deck rumbling around him as he felt his eyes grow heavy; the fear that this was it. The cold spreading in his chest. Thoughts of his family; abandoned in a moment of youthful rebellion. His first squad, their corpses splayed across the Calarian border, eyes bulging from gas. His first kill, the young mortar spotter, killed by Aden so the marksman could die on a airship. Poor trade-

Then Aden woke up in his bunk. Fresh clothes and scar too small for the wound he remembered. It had taken a day for him to gather what had happened; a miraculous save by all accounts.

"Poor trade." He muttered aloud as he worked at a side table within the bridge. A manual for ariel gunnery laid beside his sketchbook. The private making notations within the sketchbook and scratching out ballistic calculations; trying to figure out how to adapt his sniper rifle for the airship.

The book was made with machine guns in mind but the rounds were similar enough to-

'Once again you cheat death. How many others more deserving didn't?'

The thought was intrusive; his pencil scratching harder then necessary and breaking off the slightest bit of lead. Aden gave a grunt of frustration, closing the sketchbook and reaching into his borrowed airman uniform pulling out a cigar; half squished and partially smoked. A flick as his lighter followed the cigar; stubbornly remaining unlit for just long enough to remain annoying.

Finally, the familiar taste of the cheap tobacco and those other flavors he and the others had associated with their "trench smokes" filled his corner of the bridge.

"Thank the Dawnbringer for helium."

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

The group around him never responded to his question; so John turned back to "his" drink. A sip this time instead of his earlier attempts at draining the whiskey.

How had it come to this?

In some rundown space station bar, slugging whiskey straight from the bottle, still covered in the blood of......of his crew.

That last thought drew a shuddering breath.

' Amanda's words cutting out with a pained gasp. Dmitri's pleas before he toppled over. The ramp closing as the blasterfire and screeches of Metacer's drew closer.

She drained the rest of her whiskey setting the glass down on the counter before turning to the pilot, "bring the bottle with us," she said as she stood up, not wanting to waste the alcohol. She turned to address the rag-tag group of hangers on she and Fihlyn had acquired, keeping her tone calk and conversational, "Okay, I am going to need help to set up in preparation for launch, including, but definitely not restricted to crowd control."

"At this point, unless you have some loved one you can't not tell, let's keep what we're doing between ourselves. We don't want an angry mob trying to storm the ship."

@Dyelli Beybi

Call it adrenaline dump. The pleasant buzz of alcohol. The lingering warmth of where she had touched him. Or maybe the general lack of care he had at this present time.

He nodded without question. Closing the bottle and tucking it into the vacuum proof survival pouch dangling from his left web gear. His helmet tucked into under his shoulder.

"Man...." He took a shuddering breath through his nerves and the alcohol. "Manual."

He held out his left wrist towards the dark haired woman; the flight crew TacPad chiming awake with a dull blue glow. Awaiting the information transfer.

******

Last minute cram sessions had been far and few between in John's upbringing. Relegated to a few times in flight school for the most part.

But even John could admit that glossing over a colony ship's six thousand page manual while walking through a colony station in the tow of an ensemble of characters was a first. His TacPad scrolling through diagrams and procedures as he followed vaguely in the cluster en-route to the ship.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

Perhaps it was his liver finally regaining functionality. The touch of the dark haired woman giving him a physical sensation beyond the insulation of the suit. Or maybe the increasing crowd of individuals coalescing in his corner of the bar.

Either way the result was John’s surroundings snapped into clearer focus. Understanding dawning on him. The crew of the only ship capable of escaping was missing.

He fought back the rising dread with another slug of whiskey before he turned his attention back to the group’s conversation.

“Isn’t there some kind of back-up crew for that thing. A Bravo and Charlie crew?”

The arrival of a slim figure in an environment suit followed as if in answer.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

@Bentus

“Well looks like we have our pilot.” John lifted the bottle in salute before taking back a healthier swig then his last. His vision starting to muddle at the edges again. “You have need of a next generation assault shuttle with provisions and armaments already onloaded?”

He tried to keep his voice calm. Hoping no one would ask where his crew or passengers were; the thought of them twisting his guts. His gaze shifted back to the bottle in his grip.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

Motion in the corner of his eye causes him to turn his head slightly. Hand inching towards his blaster….

"Looks like you had a close shave on the surface... Pilot?"

Mutely she motioned at the bottle of whiskey, encouraging him to help himself.

@Dyelli Beybi

Pre-Metacers the dark haired woman focusing on him while offering a bottle of whiskey would have been a preamble to a weekend adventure in a hotel.

Now, he simply took the bottle with singleminded fixation. The first slug went down burning. The urge to cough prickled. He bit it back in favor of a second swig. It went down easier. The panic at the back of his head dying down by the third gulp.

"I don't suppose you're here to fly that Colony ship are you?" the question was really more of a suggestion.

@Dyelli Beybi

John realized she was addressing him again. He paused from taking his fourth ship in favor of examining the dark haired woman in the leather jacket.

“I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

He went to take another swig before he realized the amount he had put down. The empty splashes sloshing very noticeably.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

John wasn't sure how long he sat in the station's docking bay. Pressed against a wall with his helmet off. The docking crew bustled around refueling and prepping the bird; not from any order but because it was the normal thing to do and no one had countermanded them.

Not that John noticed. The sounds around him muted as he stared at his flight suit's gloves. Stained.

Blood. There had been so much blood.

Back at the base splattered over the walls, the inert forms of the marines and militia. Firefights and screams of terror coming closer as they prepped the bird.

Then Amanda and Dmitri. They hadn't donned their helmets yet; their eyes on full display full of horror and fear forever. Their blood stained the lowered ramp of the shuttle; a reminder John had tried to ignore as he disembarked.

Sounds. Muffled. John ignored them until a light kick hit his boots. He jerked; hand flying to his holstered blaster as the offender, a weapons tech, took a step back with hands raised. Sound came back slowly till the bay's clamor, and the man's words, were back in full audio.

"You hurt sir?" John blinked for a second before he realized the still drying gore across his suit's front.

"Not mine." The words were graveled. Adrenaline having stolen his energy and his hydration apparently. A few seconds of awkward silence before John's tongue touched his dry lips and basic needs came to mind. "Place to get something to drink around here?"

The weapons tech regarded him wearily. The line's of John's face and the exhaustion evident in the pilot's eyes'.

"The Drink. Head that way and follow the signs. Can't miss it." John didn't say anything say hauling himself to his feet and staggering down the hall with the gait of someone trying to find their feet. His helmet swinging limply in his grasp.

The weapon's tech gave a shake of his head and turned back to the shuttle. At least there was no need to replace the bird's ammo; an easy refit. Probably the last one in the days head for his crew.
******

John barely registered the bar's occupants as he staggered in. Collapsing into a stool and tossing his helmet onto the bar.

"Give me a bottle. Strong stuff." A handful of hard credit chits pulled from his thigh pouch and shoved towards the tender. He was a sight; perspiration from his recent brush with death still coated his features. Blood sprayed a pattern across his chest armor, suit sleeves and gloves. His survival knife was missing and a gash adorned the back of his armor. The only part of him with any color was his squadron patch; a field of blue with six stars in a semi circle surrounding a green one.

Paradise Lost

John Lockman

Character Description

Name: John Lockman
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Role/Job: New Eden Military Assault Shuttle Pilot/Test Pilot
Appearance: Possessing the a lean framed body at a decent 1.9 meters. His dark red air kept in a crew cut that so carefully done no military barber would ever perform. Light grey eyes blend in with a complexion that speaks to a lot of time indoors or in flight rigs. Captain John Lockman looks the part of a stereotypical pilot.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Test Pilot: Thanks to personal connections, Lockman more or less was fast tracked into the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron near the start of his career. Most of the frames and equipment he used therefor were near new or unproven; while this allowed him to play with all the latest toys it also meant he had to be adaptable throughout his career. Keeping constant vigil and learning the mechanics of new systems and airframes even as he piloted them.

Zero-Gee: While just a pilot, all flight crews of the 98th SASS all had to qualify in Zero Gravity Rescue, Repairs and Operations in the event of massive failures of equipment. While not the best claim to fame; Lockman holds the current record for most spins before vomiting in the Disorientation trials. Meaning he possess an excellent "Space Ear" as it was called.

Improvisor: Whether its cobbling together a connection or calculating an orbital slingshot; Lockman excels at thinking on his feet and making something from nothing no matter the situation.

Weaknesses:

Unproven: Thanks to his familial connections getting him into the 98th SASS; Lockman never did a tour of duty in a combat zone. While he has qualified with personal and ship weapons per doctrine; he has yet to fire shots in anger or even take hostile fire outside of training.

Legacy: While he took the position offered by his family; Lockman feels overshadowed by his name. While he is proud of the accomplishments of his family he does wish he could move past them and make a name for himself separate from them.

Cynic: Doesn't believe in other people and thinks all people look out for themselves first. Everyone has an angle and Lockman won't help until he believes that angle will benefit himself; or at the very least not impede him.

Background:

Backstory:

Born second eldest of Harold Lockman, of Lockman Aeronautics and Aerospace , and Elizabeth Lockman-Halley of Halley Pharmaceuticals; John Lockman was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A physical kid from a young age; John could often be found swimming through the lakes or climbing the trees of the Lockman estate. Playing or rough housing with his seven siblings between bouts of homeschooling and tutoring by a succession of teachers and experts.

The Lockman family's destinies were all planned in advanced; with each child's upbringing cultivated for their chosen path in life. John eventual goal was to climb the ranks of the New Eden military and attain a flag officer's position; opening doors for even more lucrative contracts for Lockman Aeronautics. Excursions to space stations, simulators, military etiquette and customs; all some of things a young John underwent along with traditional schoolings.

His commission and training with the New Eden military were uneventful; with his initial tour slated for the 3rd marines as an assault shuttle pilot for anti-piracy patrols. The day of his deployment; his father changed his orders and instead John found himself assigned to the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron; the test bed for the newest craft, tech and equipment on their way to the Fleet. John arrived at the perfect time to test the three new assault shuttle designs being reviewed for the navy; the next five years of testing being an arduous task of crosschecking frames with existing and upcoming gear along with stress testing.

But by the end; John Lockman signed off on only one prototype. Lockman Aerospace's LG-54 "Kestrel" Assault Shuttle; with him getting a transfer to a another top tier unit. The 1st Special Detail Squadron "New Eden's Own"; the squadron responsible for ferrying around the top tier of New Eden's political elite. Life was good.

Then the Metacer's came. In the chaos Lockman's shuttle took off; a cargo hold of provisions and armaments, no passengers and his flight crew missing. Unable to contact command or anyone for that matter; he set course for the one station in reach still transmitting. Low on fuel, Lockman's shuttle barely made it to the station.

Paradise Lost

John Lockman

Character Description

Name: John Lockman
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Role/Job: New Eden Military Assault Shuttle Pilot/Test Pilot
Appearance: Possessing the a lean framed body at a decent 1.9 meters. His dark red air kept in a crew cut that so carefully done no military barber would ever perform. Light grey eyes blend in with a complexion that speaks to a lot of time indoors or in flight rigs. Captain John Lockman looks the part of a stereotypical pilot.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Test Pilot: Thanks to personal connections, Lockman more or less was fast tracked into the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron near the start of his career. Most of the frames and equipment he used therefor were near new or unproven; while this allowed him to play with all the latest toys it also meant he had to be adaptable throughout his career. Keeping constant vigil and learning the mechanics of new systems and airframes even as he piloted them.

Zero-Gee: While just a pilot, all flight crews of the 98th SASS all had to qualify in Zero Gravity Rescue, Repairs and Operations in the event of massive failures of equipment. While not the best claim to fame; Lockman holds the current record for most spins before vomiting in the Disorientation trials. Meaning he possess an excellent "Space Ear" as it was called.

Improvisor: Whether its cobbling together a connection or calculating an orbital slingshot; Lockman excels at thinking on his feet and making something from nothing no matter the situation.

Weaknesses:

Unproven: Thanks to his familial connections getting him into the 98th SASS; Lockman never did a tour of duty in a combat zone. While he has qualified with personal and ship weapons per doctrine; he has yet to fire shots in anger or even take hostile fire outside of training.

Legacy: While he took the position offered by his family; Lockman feels overshadowed by his name. While he is proud of the accomplishments of his family he does wish he could move past them and make a name for himself separate from them.

Cynic: Doesn't believe in other people and thinks all people look out for themselves first. Everyone has an angle and Lockman won't help until he believes that angle will benefit himself; or at the very least not impede him.

Background:

Backstory:

Born second eldest of Harold Lockman, of Lockman Aeronautics and Aerospace , and Elizabeth Lockman-Halley of Halley Pharmaceuticals; John Lockman was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A physical kid from a young age; John could often be found swimming through the lakes or climbing the trees of the Lockman estate. Playing or rough housing with his seven siblings between bouts of homeschooling and tutoring by a succession of teachers and experts.

The Lockman family's destinies were all planned in advanced; with each child's upbringing cultivated for their chosen path in life. John eventual goal was to climb the ranks of the New Eden military and attain a flag officer's position; opening doors for even more lucrative contracts for Lockman Aeronautics. Excursions to space stations, simulators, military etiquette and customs; all some of things a young John underwent along with traditional schoolings.

His commission and training with the New Eden military were uneventful; with his initial tour slated for the 3rd marines as an assault shuttle pilot for anti-piracy patrols. The day of his deployment; his father changed his orders and instead John found himself assigned to the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron; the test bed for the newest craft, tech and equipment on their way to the Fleet. John arrived at the perfect time to test the three new assault shuttle designs being reviewed for the navy; the next five years of testing being an arduous task of crosschecking frames with existing and upcoming gear along with stress testing.

But by the end; John Lockman signed off on only one prototype. Lockman Aerospace's LG-54 "Kestrel" Assault Shuttle; with him getting a transfer to a another top tier unit. The 1st Special Detail Squadron "New Eden's Own"; the squadron responsible for ferrying around the top tier of New Eden's political elite. Life was good.

Then the Metacer's came. In the chaos Lockman's shuttle took off; a cargo hold of provisions and armaments, no passengers and his flight crew missing. Unable to contact command or anyone for that matter; he set course for the one station in reach still transmitting. Low on fuel, Lockman's shuttle barely made it to the station.

Empire of the Clouds

Pvt. Aden Robertson

Somewhere between the pain of being shot and the following shock; Aden was aware that he was being dragged back into the airship.

Well drag being a generous term for the awkward supported stumbling that ended with him more or less collapsing against a nearby bulkhead as his rescuer took a breath.

"There's blood on my dress," she sounded thoughtful more than anything else, which probably wasn't the reaction anyone would have expected, "Hmm... that might actually work for me. Okay, I'm going to get you to a bunk, then you, or someone else, needs to tell me what I'm doing."

@Dyelli Beybi

Aden's hands, which had already been instinctively clutching his wound, tightened to renewed pain and resulted in a hiss of pain. His aid pack on his webbing was empty; expended days ago on someone else. Not that it had more then a few different types of bandages and-

"Bandages....." He ground out. "...rags, something...."

He tried not to let his panic show through. His pain addled mind trying to remember if they had a doctor onboard.

Empire of the Clouds

Pvt. Aden Robertson

Aden was desperately scratching his brain for ballistic tables as the muzzle flashes below twinkled and the guns of their dirigible chattered in response. Mainly because gunnery from a elevated position shifting steadily at moving targets below was not a common practice; nor was making use of a machine gun.

Large, cumbersome, hefty machines that Aden took a disliking too as a cartridge jammed for the third time since he started firing.

"Damn Inburian piece of sh-" His curse cut off as he extracted the mangled casing. Another jerk of the charging handle and he was back to firing. It was hard to gauge where he was hitting given the distance and the scarcity of tracers in the belt. But Aden kept laying into the-

Ping

A round whizzed off the railing in a brief moment of sparks. The resulting ricochet coming so close to Aden's face he felt the sting of the copper jacket shedding.

"Gods!!!" Aden ducked instinctively; knowing in the back of his mind that it was too late a reaction. A few beats to collect himself before he hauled himself back to his gun. Finger's tightening within their gloves to continue their fire. The rest of the box went without incident and Aden ducked to loosen a fresh box from its mounted container. Flipping latches to prep the new ammo.

He wondered how long the ship would remain within range. And if that would be lucky enough for them to get a lucky shot as Aden had almost suffer-

Blinding hot fire trailed down his left arm as he collapsed with the force imparted. He was vaguely aware of warm liquid spreading down his left sleeve and the sudden stiffness of the limb. Instinct took over as tried to prop himself up; honed and reinforced by his brutal introduction to modern warfare weeks ago.

"MEDIC!!! MEDIC!!!!!"

Smoke and Steel

Andronika and Kreznik
Co-Written with @Dyelli Beybi

Kreznik had rapidly come to the conclusion they were overstretched. And by “they” he meant the spy’s and scouts that made up his little domain of Andronika’s camp.

He had no one to spare for her latest foray out. Which meant Kreznik would probably accompany her.

A prospect he found both frustrating and in an odd sensation, eager. It was in this state of mind when he passed through her cordon of menacing guards and even more menacing secretaries, courtiers and aides to speak to her.

“Good evening your hig- Andronika.” The near slip of the tongue even odds nowadays.

Andronika had been lounging in one of the plush armchairs by the fire, one leg slung lazily across the arm. It wasn't ladylike, scandalous some might say, she held a goblet of wine in one hand and for once neither of her 'ladies in waiting' were with her, "Kreznik," she greeted him without getting up, "Anything exciting going on in the wider world... apart from the fact we're about to cross the border?"

"Nothing I can confirm for you yet." He strode closer before coming to a stiff halt a few steps from the fire. " I'm mainly here to inform you my.... your agents are rather scattered at the moment. We have no one available to ride ahead of your march."

Like most times where he admitted his faults he practically was spitting the words. As if rushing them would make someone less likely to understand his failings.

"So I came to inform you I'll be heading out to Ebengrenzstadt tomorrow."

"What are you hoping to achieve by doing that?" Andronika asked. She placed the goblet on a side table, stretching languidly, "Our forces will have scouts deployed."

“Gauging the populace. Making sure there’s no one conspiring openly. Spy hunting.” The last part had a bite of regret to it. “Besides it’s not as if I’m crucial here. Seamus can run the agents as easily as me.”

The spymaster made it a point not to linger on the slight shift of Andronika's dress to a temporarily lower position. A distraction he could ill afford at what he assumed would be resistance to his wishes. As well as her, rather terrifying, ability to turn any conversation her way.

"Spy hunting... to be honest, I'm more worried about spies here," she declared, nodding towards another chair, "Take a seat, have some wine," she paused for a long moment before asking, "Do you know why I'm particularly happy about this 'Ebengren-whatsit' development?"

Kreznik took the proffered seat though he made no moves for the wine. Instead, regarding Andronika as he gave what was probably wrong answers. “Change of scenery and a power base away from a king trying to get you to marry?”

"Half way there, I am now honour-bound to play my hand before accepting a marriage offer," Andronika gave a small shrug, "It's still in the King's interest to support me, but it means it's harder for him to make support contingent on the marriage. This, however, makes this moment interesting... I can't say what moves are afoot or even who the players are," she leaned forward slightly, "I won't tell you what to do, but I'd suggest that if you want to go to that unpronounceable town, talk to the Garrison Commander and make sure nobody makes a move against him before we can get there. That would involve moving openly... at least until you get there." She paused a moment before adding, "A worst-case scenario would be to arrive and find the doors barred because some Empire-loving underling had hanged our friend."

“ I’ll try to make sure the loyalists keep their head down… at least until you can win them over.” The assassin leaned forward, matching the heir’s movement. “Probably in some foolhardy display of bravado that we will fall over ourselves trying to get ahead of.”

He tried not to notice the faint scarring on her neck. Or how her eyes seemed slightly more guarded then when he had first met her in the aftermath of the slave caravan. A seeming lifetime ago.

"It's all a risk," Andronika replied, with a playfulness that hadn't changed, "Roll the dice. Maybe we win, maybe I end up dead... or needing to dye my hair and sneak away. Any thoughts on colour?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Blondes the easiest to dye.” Kreznik offered. Though the thought of Andronika without her dark curls was a contrast he couldn’t really imagine.

He waited a beat; unease prickling at him before he did something unusual for him. He blurted what was on his mind.

" How do you do it? How do you get used to it?"

Andronika looked a little surprised at the question. She paused momentarily before giving a small sigh and a wry smile, "I'm not, but I don't have much of a choice in all of this. I feel like a ship being steered by a crew... so I pretend I'm in control, put on a smile, make a joke and try not to stop and think too much; because, if I do, I'll either scream, or cry, or end up in a stuporous ball in the corner."

Kreznik's face shifted a bit at her confession. Crestfallen, the most apt description, to those who knew the man.

" I see....." His gaze shifted to the wine bottle.

Andronika seemed to read the gesture, straightening up in her chair before leaning over to pour a second goblet, filling it almost to the brim, more than the vessel was really designed to hold, before passing it across to Kreznik, "So tell me, what in that answer makes you look so glum?"

The assassin took the glass and seemed to regard its contents. A habitual sniff before an experimental swig of the alcohol.

“The Hounds. The scouts. We keep losing some…… not every time I send someone out. But….. the ones we do lose.”

His expression became visibly pained.

“The last one was so young. She was so eager…. I thought she would do fine.”

He took a gulp of the wine. The slightest of sheens in his eyes.

“I’m sending others to do their deaths and I don’t know how to keep it up. Killing or being killed…. I have no problem. But sending others…. it’s not… I don’t…..”

Andronika set her goblet aside, leaning forward to rest her fingers on Kreznik's wrist, "Can I suggest you refocus their energy on protecting our own high value people. We can decide the rest in embassies and on battlefields, so long as our key people stay alive to do so."

Kreznik took a breath, glancing at Andronika's touch.

" If that is your wishes.... I will relay it...I just thought..... Offense over defense..."

The impulse to take another gulp stilled momentarily by the slight grip on his wrist.

"The problem for our Court is that its centred around a small number of charismatic people," Andronika replied, "If a significant person is taken off the board then the enterprise will fail. Vestele, for instance, if someone gets to her then our ability to treat with Orrian is compromised. If we cannot form an agreement with Orrian then we become a small dog nipping at the heels of two fighting giants.

"What we want to see happen is for Orrian to allow us to suppress Mitteland. Even if that involves paying him tribute or swearing fealty. We assist him in driving his brother East, if necessary and we build up our power base amongst the Mittelvolk before we move to secure the allegiance of my sister and my... well I think she's probably my cousin. The pirate anyway.

"There's nothing wrong with an offensive strategy, but imagine winning dozens of battles but with everything collapsing because one link in the chain disappeared."

“I apologize…. I’m not… I was never trained for this.” The admittance seeming a great confession in his mind even if his delivery was rather anticlimactic.

"I'm a farmer's daughter will dellusions of grandeur," Andronika gave a winning smile, letting her fingers linger on Kreznik's wrist for a few moments before drawing them away, "We're all working out how to play our roles as we go along. For now take the security of the court and our embassies as the top priority of the Hounds."

He tried not to notice the lack of warmth her now absent grasp had left. His uncertain resolution prior to the battle seeming more pointless now.

“I will do as my lady commands.”

"Only if that's what you want," Andronika gave a small laugh, "Don't forget Kreznik that you're a free man. I exchanged a steel cage for a gilded one, but it's a cage nonetheless."

Kreznik paused for a second. Regarding Andronika as he pondered.

Why did he stay?

With his Order abolished and the Empire collapsing no one would notice one assassin fleeing. It wasn’t as if the rest of escapees turned Andronika’s council welcomed him. The only one who didn’t appear to despise him in sight currently lounged no more then an arms length away.

Which was odd given that he had almost succeeded in killing her once.

“What would you do then if I left tomorrow?”

"Pay you out, give you a kiss on the cheek and wish you the best," Andronika replied, with a raised eyebrow that seemed to ask what else he thought she'd do, "I'd rather you didn't though."

“Pay me?” He seemed rather shocked at that concept. The faint heat on his neck at her second action he left unsaid.

“Can’t see why you want me around. Osonia can replace my duties. There are far more experienced killers than me in your employ…. and none have attempted your death.”

Kreznik looked slightly sheepish as he admitted the last.

“Honestly, I expected Vassos would have had me fitted for a noose by now.

"That would be dishonourable. When a debt is forgiven you can't go and claim it back later," Andronika smirked slightly, "And you really can't think of why I'd want you around?" she let the question hang for a moment before adding, "Like it or not, we've been through a lot together, you and I."

“We have… the escape, the dungeon, your attempted murder….” He tried a smirk with the last one, finding it rather foreign, but pressing in anyways. “…this town…”

The assassin trailed off at that. A moment of silence before leaning forward in his chair.

“I can guess why. But I thought you and the prince.”

"The Quinians see me as their chance to put their own house on the Imperial throne," Andronika said before adding, "He hasn't even tried to seduce me which I find quite odd."

“So what you are saying is you are not besotted with the Quinian heir at this very moment?” Kreznik said the last part with what he hoped concealed a small amount of relief.

Andronika gave a guffaw of laughter, "I've barely met the man. This is political machinations, nothing more, nothing less. Though I'll admit I'm loathe to commit to a marriage," she paused, before adding, leaning forward and lowering her voice conspiratorially, "Seduction is a weapon as . Why would I trade that away if I don't need to?"

“So if we picked up where I left us? Before the battle…” He was on the edge of the chair as he leaned forward; the slight tingle of the wine on his lips and down his spine.

This was such a bad idea. Vassos would definitely fit him for a noose.

The comment drew a throaty laugh from Andronika, "Before you told me I needed to focus on the task of claiming the kingdom?" she asked, before adding, teasingly, "Why don't you test your luck and find out?"

“Your chambers or mine? Or is that too …presumptuous?” He reached a hand out to cup her cheek. Waiting, hesitant.

This was such a bad idea. He knew it and yet it felt natural…. or at least easy.

Andronika smirked slightly, leaning forward, "That depends, can you be very, very quiet?"

His only answer was a cocky smirk and a slight lean forward. “Where are we going?”

Andronika leaned back in her chair, setting her goblet to one side, "Well in that case," she said, her dark eyes twinkling, her tone teasing and heavy with promise, "I don't see any reason to move rooms at all."

“Bold move my lady.” Kreznik set his goblet aside as well as he rose and put his hands on either side of her shoulders.

His personal misgivings and doubts shoved away for the moment. He could lose himself in here if but for a minute.