Thirty seven thousand, nine hundred forty-two million stars. Approximately eight hundred ninety-two trillion souls. Twelve days at tachyon speed to fully cross. Almost entirely self-sufficient. The galaxy’s most stable economy. The only standing military across the galactic map. The oldest culture and longest standing government in recorded history. The leading voice in every major academic, philosophic, and scientific field. A titan of industry. A wellspring of raw materials. A paradise of opportunity. The Imperia Machina. The Phoenix’s Ward. The Realm of the Loft. The Queen’s Starfield. The Machine. The Empire. A festering quagmire of ambition for ambition’s sake that tarnishes otherwise beautiful souls with the raw power of its image. An ivory tower built on so many lies and baseless hierarchies the pressure has compressed them into a sickly diamond of infinite temptation. Misery, fear, hopelessness, and resignation bisected by ignorance, greed, excess, and contempt. This is the dichotomy of the Empire, the Machine. And it was into this maelstrom of stifled goodness and permeating evil that I, Axis Moritmer, was invited to be their final judge.
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“We’re touching down now, Sir. Lot of activity out here for an operation that’s supposed to be over already.” The Helephant’s intercom crackled and turned the pilot’s tone tinny in the metal confines of the deployment compartment.
“Duly noted,” Duke Samuel Rothbard answered, unbuckling himself from his seat and stretching his wings. Even from within the roaring confines of the landing transport, he could make out the muffled shouts of loudspeaker commands and the higher pitched whines of other Helephants lifting off from the surface. The ship shuddered and bucked as it’s landing arms deployed and took on the vessel’s full weight, the familiar bass hum of its power systems fading to nothing as auxiliary power took over and the rear hatch slowly eased itself onto blue sand. The cacophony of a military camp in the heat of a mobilization bled into Rothbard’s ears more and more until he exited his transport into the middle of the apparent chaos. The base was little more than an ordered collection of pre-fabricated structures opposite the motor pool zone he now stood in with a simple constriction fence encompassing the perimeter of both. The image was one Rothbard knew well; the arrangement of a FOB from an orbiting Ridley-class combat frigate. The ICS Yvette Wilson to be exact, which Rothbard also knew had her guns aimed squarely at the small mountain city several kilometers in the distance.
A cloud of blue dust swirled through the motor yard as yet another Helephant pushed off the ground straight toward the city. Rothward winced as sharp sand grains found their way beneath his deep ruby scales, but he didn’t avert his eyes from the camp. And a good thing too, as the departing Helephant revealed a dragon in full combat gear and active cannon harness rushing through the collection of vehicles to greet him. “Commander Vauhn!” Rothbard half-yelled over the jumbled mess of noise surrounding them both.
“Duke Rothbard!” the commander acknowledged in an equally strained voice, “Captain told us you were coming down here!” Vauhn’s eyes scanned over Rothbard’s formal attire before adding, “I’m afraid you’re a bit underdressed my Lord! We’re in the middle of inserting into the insurgent’s warehouse!”
“Your captain wasn’t very clear then!” Rothbard shouted back. “I’m not here to assist!”
“Follow me inside then!” the Commander replied. He made a motion with his head which Rothbard acknowledged as they began their trek back across the makeshift compound. Rothbard had been involved in enough military actions and missions to know a well trained and maintained assault team. To the uninitiated eye it could have easily been mistaken for a flashpan of mounting disaster; but the movements of each marine, the state of their weapons and gear, the efficiency of each pilot’s takeoff, and the cleanliness of the pre-fab buildings against the intrusive sand… It told Rothbard a simple story of an orderly and well-disciplined unit whose Captain had full confidence in its ability to execute orders. His only qualm were their faces. Few appeared enthusiastic, but he scant knew any soldier except the truly broken ones who would smile at the prospect of death and destruction, no matter the necessity. But these dragons wore grimaces and the strain of anxiety. Hardly warranted for a simple anti-insurgency strike, especially as Duchery intelligence said the action was against an isolated and unconnected group. No, something with this operation had not gone according to plan. It was being handled, and handled well, but something had been botched. Badly.
“Well, at least the psych-eval wasn’t completely biased,” Rothbard muttered under his breath as Commander Vauhn ushered him into one of the pre-fabs. It was clearly the operation command center, what with all the comm equipment, strewn cables, and mando drakes coordinating the units advance with solid repeat backs and acknowledgements. The tumultuous sounds muted against the thick walls of the structure as the door clanged shut behind him, and Rothbard’s feathers twitched, dislodging the sand caught in them.
“You’ll have to forgive my bluntness, my Lord,” Vauhn said, more calmly, “but I’ve got an operation to finish here and if the Loft didn’t send a Duke to assist, you need to tell me what you need so I can get you out of the way.”
“I take no offense, Commander,” Rothbard answered evenly. “This is Duchery business. I need to see one of your ride-alongs. Spec-ops away drake. A reconnaissance sniper. Grand Knight Axis Mortimer. My dossier on your operation said he was assigned to the Yvette as advanced recon and target acquisition.”
“Mortimer?” Vauhn repeated with no attempt to hide his incredulity.
“Grand Knight Mortimer, Commander Vauhn,” Rothbard cut him off before he could continue. “I didn’t need to read his entire record to know the larger impression, but he is still a Machinery Navy officer and I expect that respect be extended to him at least.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Vauhn apologized with a restrained growl. “Grand Knight Mortimer is just down the way in debrief. He…” the commander paused, now choosing his words a mite bit more carefully than he otherwise might have. “He advanced the operation timeline significantly and unexpectedly. We had to get this FoB on the ground and running in less than half the time we had planned for because of him.”
“That much I had surmised,” Rothbard said stiffly but he refrained from any further comments half formed as they were in his head. “I need to see him immediately.”
“Saki!” Vauhn blared after a nod to Rothbard and quick scan of the room. A mando drake shot up from where he had been studiously analyzing a layout of the city.
“Sir!” he said promptly.
“This is Duke Rothbard,” Vauhn explained. “Bring him over to debrief and tell Knight Dwyer to pull Grand Knight Mortimer out of eval immediately.”
“Lead the way,” Rothbard said, and with a wordless nod, Saki exposed them once again to the harshness of the environment outside. The debriefing pre-fab was luckily only two structures down from the Ground Control Hub and Rothbard was spared being too long in the irritating blue sand. Where the Hub building had been an array of digital displays and coordinating chatter, the debriefing building was merely a single long hallway cordoned off by simple rooms each with only the most basic of seating cushions around equally basic metal tables. The mando drake Saki led Rothbard a bit less than halfway down the hall before sliding open the door to one of the rooms.
“Knight Dwyer?” he inquired simply and stood back as the elder officer exited.
“That’ll be all, Saki,” Dwyer said with barely a half glance of recognition of Rothbard’s station. “My Lord,” he continued with a respectful incline of his head once Saki was out of earshot. “I’ve been in the Machinery Navy long enough to know what you’re here for,” Dwyer said. “And I’ll just say, have fun with this one, my Lord.”
“If you have something to add aside from pithy remarks, I’ll hear them, but otherwise, you are dismissed, Knight Dwyer,” Rothbard said with a stern crispness.
“Off the record, m’Lord?” Dwyer asked with a sigh only years of experience could pull out of an officer so easily.
“Granted,” Rothbard allowed.
“This git is a right fuckin’ bastard,” Dwyer hissed. “To hell with procedure. Someone oughtta give him a damn good tail kickin’ for any casualties today. ‘Cause if we lose anyone, it’ll be on his talons. And you can’t get a straight answer out of the little shitter I swear to the Loft.”
Rothbard’s eyes narrowed. He was a Duke. Had been for more years than he cared to admit. And he had a deep seated respect for the royal decorum and expectations that came with the title outside the battlefield. And he was none too patient with those who ignored those traditions. They were like the supporting beams of the grand palace that was the Empire and the respect for which had allowed it to withstand the test of time. Nevertheless, it was without question that Dukes were warriors first and royals second. “Is he a killer?” Rothbard asked simply.
“He blew this whole operation by taking a shot at a moving roader a mile out in the middle of a sandstorm,” Dwyer acknowledged with a disgruntled snarl. “In my entire time in the Navy, I’ve only ever known two other dragons who could make a shot like that. So, yes, the little shit is a lethal son of a bitch.”
“Your opinion is noted and in line with Grand Knight Mortimer’s history. Dismissed,” Rothbard ordered. Dwyer nodded and wordlessly exited just as Saki had moments before. Samuel Rothbard breathed in deeply and slid open the door to the debriefing room.
Only two dragons were present. Both sat at the steel table opposite each other and between them was lying a sniper bolt cannon, presumably the very weapon which had made the kill Dwyer had described. It was half in pieces, one of the dragons meticulously dismantling and cleaning it while the other observed with a cold, fixed gaze. The first dragon’s eyes flickered for less than a second upon Rothbard stepping into the room before returning to his work. He was dressed in the usual blood red garb of the Navy and his uniform’s metal identified him as a field technician. Despite this he had a number of enamel pins marking him as highly decorated in multiple actions. Combined with scales of a lighter red than Rothbard’s own and brilliantly pearl white eyes, he could only be Aaron Michaels, Axis Mortimer’s support operator. Thus the second dragon was Axis himself, scales black as night and feathers deep green like a jungle canopy and eyes to match. As described in his file, he was lean to a point of appearing almost unhealthy. But what Rothbard could only learn by seeing the young dragon in person, was the focus. The precision. “Drakes!” he boomed when they did not immediately acknowledge his entrance in proper military fashion.
Nothing. Not even a flinch or glance. Rothbard restrained the twitch in his eye. Mortimer he had been prepared for being insubordinate, not his operator. “Drakes, stand at attention when a superior enters and addresses you!” he barked. This elicited a response from Michaels at least, who only hesitated a moment more with a searching glance at Mortimer before bolting up from his cushion and standing with perfect military stiffness and thousand meter stare. Rothbard glared daggers into Michaels, making no effort to hide his displeasure, but to the younger dragon’s credit, Rothbard could find no fault to his tidy uniform nor his military posture. “Stop acting like a wooden board, Ron,” Axis’s voice penetrated the silent tension of the room, accompanied only by the tap of his talon’s scales on the metal table. “He’s not here for you.” He turned his head at last, and met Rothbard’s incensed gaze with steeled eyes.
His voice was raspy, pitched oddly, like he had a perpetually inflamed throat and his drael was impressively poor. He stood to his feet and clicked his talons into a textbook attention stance. “Grand Knight Axis Mortimer, at your service, m’Lord,” he said, the mockery of the gesture evident in every syllable.
“Sit,” Rothbard sniped to both of them, which both obeyed, albeit too casually on Axis’s part for Rothbard’s taste. “You seem to be not just a disrespectful child yourself, but a corrupting influence to your drake here, Grand Knight Mortimer.”
“You can lose the formality,” Axis said flatly with a wave of a talon. “My name is Axis, not Grand Knight. And if there’s a problem with my man, that can be taken up with our success record.”
“You may be able to intimidate and bully your superior officers with your record,” Rothbard evened out his tone, “but my own dwarfs yours by several orders of magnitude. In my presence you and yours do not have the monopoly in the language of violence.”
“Apologies, my Lord,” Michaels interjected. “Cleaning the gear is a ritual for us after every engagement that isn’t usually interrupted.” The formality of his speech was certainly forced, but there was also a mote of honesty in what he said, even if he was only trying to diffuse the knife’s edge tension clouding the small compartment.
“Ron, you don’t have to - ” Axis began to say with a half-amused drawl reminiscent of human speech before Rothbard cut him off.
“Petty Officer Michaels, I admire your attempted defense of your officer’s behavior, but my presence here is of his own making. You are dismissed. Report to Knight Dwyer to continue your debrief.”
“My Lord,” Michaels said hesitantly and rendered the obligatory bow of his head before leaving Rothbard and Mortimer alone. Axis watched him go with a tisk and a barely perceptible shake of the head.
For his part, Rothbard allowed a few seconds after the door had slid shut behind Michaels before removing a small holojector from his saddlebag and ensuring the contents were still where he had last left them. “You are a true force of will to have him place loyalty to you over loyalty to the Empire,” Rothbard noted without looking up. Axis said nothing. “My colleague, Duke Tenet, mentioned in his report Petty Officer Michaels’s unorthodox behavior relative to your own when he visited you eight months ago. I see what he meant now.”
“Duke Tenet arrested me and held me in the Loft for interrogation for five weeks,” Axis glowered. “‘Vist’ my ass.”
“Indeed,” Rothbard answered cooly. “Was it warranted, you think? You were part of a team and a drake was killed by your negligence while in a hot zone.”
“Was the mission successful?” Axis shot back.
“Is a neutralized target the only metric of success?” Rothbard replied, meeting Axis’ hard gaze again. “You see, Axis Mortimer, I may respect the Empire but as I said before, you do not hold the monopoly on violence when speaking with a Duke. I can and have stepped into your ways too many times to count.”
“And it must burn you to have to,” Axis sneered and offered up his front talons on the table. “Just do it. Haul me off. I’m not into wasting time.”
“As much as I personally feel that is the correct course of action, no,” Rothbard sighed, resting himself back on a cushion. “You are an unrelentingly effective killer, Axis Mortimer. And while I do not have all the details that led to the decision, I am hear to offer you the chance at selection into the ranks of the Duchery. And as I understand it, you’ve been seeking that offer ever since you entered Machinery Navy service.”
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“What?” If Rothbard were a younger Duke, he would have said all of Axis’s veneer fell away in that instant. Some of it did. But there was still an impenetrable web of complexity in the drake’s stunned face. “This isn’t some sick joke?”
“No,” Rothbard said simply. “Do you accept?”
The glare Axis had leveled at him remained, but where before Rothbard had seen a raw disdain, dismissal and impatience, there was now an investigative stare. A discerning look seeking some lie or trick. “You should know,” Rothbard added for good measure, “that if you accept selection, the Duchery and I, as its representative, will not tolerate your history of insubordination and disregard of due deference. I can acknowledge talent when I see it, but talent without respect will lead you nowhere but an early grave. I speak from experience.”
“The second I set foot in this cess pit you call an Empire, I have only ever wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps,” Axis said, his words slow and careful, malice tinging each one. “The Duchery is that path. I accept, Duke.”
“Very well. Rise,” Rothbard recited as he did the same. Axis stood and his posture carried with it none of the fire of passion that still burned in his steeled eyes. “By the power of my forebearers,” Rothbard continued, extending one wing then another over Axis’s shoulders, “by the order of the Empress, and in the name of the Immortal Machine, I name you Duke Esquire. You accept with full understanding that only one Duke Esquire of your soon company shall come to carry the title Duke of the Loft and that should you fail this selection, you shall be erased in name, body, and soul from the Empire in totality.”
“I accept.”
“You accept that your duty as a Duke of the Loft will be to carry the Empress’s will to the far corners of her domain, that her word is your law, and that her good health is your first priority.”
“I accept.”
“And you accept that until such a time as you are rendered unable by age or injury or taken by the enemy, that you will carry these burdens without falter.”
“I accept.”
Rothbard concluded with a bow of his head, which Axis returned in kind even if it was clearly an unnatural gesture for him. “Very well,” he proclaimed, “As witness of the Duchery of the Empire, I, Duke Samuel Rothbard hereby acknowledge your acceptance of these terms. Now, follow me.” Rothbard opened the door to the debriefing room and Axis filed out after him. He made no indication he had seen, but as he had turned, Rothbard had caught the shift in Axis’ demeanor and expression. He was confidence overflowing, a dragon watching as his entire sense of purpose manifested. Rothbard knew the look. He had worn it himself when he had accepted selection. Only with Axis, he was leery of the fuel that drove it. Leery of why the Duchery had allowed his selection. Leery of what future he had unleashed upon the Empire the love of which had been what motivated him.
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Triumphant roaring horns, billowing winds, and resonating strings blasted forth across the infinite flat expanse of the Loft from the singular city and dominating, hovering palace which bore its name. Arrayed about the city’s edges, the full compliment of the palace’s sixty-four Imperial war cruisers stood in solemn guard as their fighters zipped to and fro escorting the cargo ships and transports that could not delay even for so momentous an occasion as the Empress Cellini’s birthday. The city’s streets wore their finest regalia of sapphire and onyx banners and ribbons whilst the digital billboards more animatedly declared the cause for Empire-wide celebration. Even the public transit systems, from rail car to aircab, had exchanged their more mundane livery for that of the Machine standard. Royal House colors could be seen equally mixed among the Imperial blue through the haze of a rainbow of flower petals whipped into the breeze from where they had come to rest from the parades earlier in the morning. Dragon and slave alike milled about in their respective city quarters, drinking in the grandeur and spectacle of it all while basking in the day of rest the celebration called for. In certain pockets, more boisterous groups gathered, drinking to the Empress’s continued health and feasting to their own. Outside the occasional buzzing roar of a Mongoose fighter shooting overhead, the air was filled with the joyous cacophony of jubilance.
Miles above the surface where the Palace of the Loft loomed ever-present, while the traditional music could still be heard, a very different atmosphere permeated about those distinguished enough to have the Empress’ audience. Around the Palace’s outer ring were docked seventy-three warships, many of them the Ridley-class standard of the Imperial Navy, but interspersed with more unusual or outright unique vessels of just as varied sizes. Even said Ridley’s were only recognizable as such by silhouette, as all sported vastly differentiated colors and sigils, nevermind the few that bore so distinct a compliment of arms as to be bordering on custom built cruisers. Standing before their homes away from home were the crews of each ship, their officers adorned in their polished to an eye-watering gleam suits of ceremonial plate armor. They were the Phoenix Dukes, members of the Duchery chosen each year on the Empress’ birthday by the Matriarchs and Crown Princess to represent the elite of the elite of the Imperia Machina’s defense. They and their crews stood at rapt attention, awaiting the Empress to pass them and acknowledge them as her most valuable assets.
Further down the line, but steadily within greater view of the Empress, the Matriarchs, and their retinues; two Dukes in particular began to feel steadily more discomforted. Between them, there ought to have been a third Duke and his ship, yet a gaping hole in the impressive array of warriors and steel was all that could be found. An unfathomable slice of evidence that a drake somewhere had spurned the greatest honor a Duke could receive in rejecting the invitation of a Matriarch to the Empress’ birthday. Duke Blithely, the first in line before the embarrassment of a gap to his right, struggled to restrain the aggravated twitch in his eye and concerned ruffling of his feathers as the Empress finished with his colleague to the left. He did what he could to focus himself, concentrating on the elegant music from the dragon eras of yore as one of the Matriarchs and her slaves and ladies-in-waiting detached themselves from the Empress’s entourage and made their way toward him with significant purpose. “Pull yourself together,” Matriarch Maria Celeste Aiza hissed at him when she was close enough to speak more privately. “Do not concern yourself with…” she glowered to his right, “... that. You are a warrior of the highest caliber and you will not shame me or our House over the problems of one of my Sisters. Do I make myself clear, Duke Blithely?”
“Transparently, Pillar Aiza,” Blithely replied sternly and with all the decorum a Duke of his station was expected to live and breathe.
“Good,” Matriarch Aiza said with a distinct sniff of disapproval that her intervention had been necessary at all. Blithely was appreciative of it nevertheless. In his experience, it was next to impossible to ignore the ire of a Matriarch no matter what other pressing matter was staring a drake in the face. Matriarch Aiza approached the Empress as she and the other Sisters came level with Blithely and his crew, her dazzling clothes seeming all but commonplace among the gaggle of bright colors, intricate embroidery, and bold designs adorning the rest of the Imperial royalty. “Your Majesty!” Matriarch Aiza boomed. “May I present as my champion of your service, Duke Addison Blithely of Garth’s Gem!”
She deeply lowered her neck and stepped to the side, allowing the Empress’ wisened eyes to lock with Blithely’s. He had of course met her in person at his christening to the title of Duke, but this was different. Then, she had been performing a rite she had no doubt performed hundreds of times during her reign. Sure Blithely had felt small in comparison to her power, but now, she was truly seeing him. Examining. Dissecting. She extracted herself from her court and approached him silently, never once breaking eye contact, the weight of her presence and grace magnified in every step. Blithely bowed more deeply than his sponsor had once the Empress had chosen to sit before him and held his neck prone as he said, “Your Majesty, you honor me. You honor my drakes.”
“Rise, Duke Blithely,” the Empress answered. It was a command, not a request. He raised himself upright and her eyes held the same icy examiner’s look as before. It was a piercing stare, and Blithely would have believed she was seeing past his armor and scales and into his very soul if he believed in such superstitious things. In truth, her demeanor complimented her black and blue trimmed gown perfectly, as if she had not been chosen to be Empress, but born for it. She remained silent for many moments more before saying, “Your reputation for absolute resolve in the face of great odds precedes you, Duke Blithely. You have most certainly earned the right to stand here before me today. Pillar Aiza truly has an excellent judge of character.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Blithely said, bowing his head again. “I am proud to have served such that you would see it.”
“And I would hope you continue to do so,” the Empress replied. She made to turn to depart and Blithely nearly let out a massive sigh of relief but she rounded back with a more natural look to her otherwise demure presence. “You are an honest dragon, Duke Blithely. I commend your sense of decorum on this day, but I have not ruled this great Machine for over fifty years without being able to see when something is bothering one of my subjects.”
“Your Majesty?” Blithely asked, eyes briefly darting to see Matriarch Aiza glaring at him with furious, flaming daggers.
“Something troubles you, does it not, Duke?” the Empress reiterated more plainly. “Speak openly. I will take no offense.”
“Ah… Your Majesty,” Blithely hesitated, having not prepared himself for so colloquially conversational an Empress. “You see…” he paused again, taking time to choose his words quite carefully, “On this day, those Dukes of us given this honor see it as the greatest accolade one of our number can receive. And it is obvious that one of us, if you will pardon my language, doesn’t give a damn about Your Majesty.”
“Son…” Empress Cellini began, but was stopped as a monstrous crack of what seemed to be thunder echoed out over the flats of the Loft. It drowned out every note of the music that had been playing, a singular raw note not unlike the firing of a planetary defense canon. Every dragon present from Royal to shiphand and even the slaves turned to look out over the city to the sky beyond, searching for the source of the tone, some Dukes even shouting orders in preparation for an attack. Their anticipation was met as shorter, smaller crackles, like a multitude of gargantuan firecrackers rang against the ears of all present, followed by a massive distortion of light and space on the horizon. The rays of the sun seemed to bend inward until they parted like ripples in a disturbed lake and a final thundercrash louder even that the first drowned out the blast of two Ridleys firing their drives as they broke formation to investigate.
Where the physics of the world had seemed to collapse in on themselves appeared a small cruiser, its exit from a tachyon jump inside an atmosphere having been the source of all the calamitous noise. How it had survived such a dangerous maneuver barely entered the minds of those watching, as it hurtled past the city perimeter at alarming illegal speed. And yet for all its unorthodoxy, it must not have presented a threat as the defenses around the Palace allowed it to angle itself for the very space next to Duke Blithely’s Garth’s Gem. The ship was of definite foreign design, earth tone metals comprising an angled wedge shape atop which surveyed a cluster of cathedral-like towers. It slowed only nominally before shuddering to a halt at the docking space immediately before the Empress and her court, the cacophony of its drives obliterating all attempts at thought and the blast of wind yanking and tearing at every banner and piece of clothing within range, well beyond the ability of the palace’s weather regulators to control. The hydraulic hiss and whine of the docking clamps only served to make more obnoxious the vessel’s entrance and the whirring cry of its drives had barely ceded back the stunned silence of all the observers before its belly groaned to open a hangar door. A boarding ramp extended with lightning speed from the metal beast, certainly scraping and gouging the gleaming surface of the docking area with its aggression and then… nothing.
Someone among those gathered coughed but it barely registered to those whose attention was rapt to the newly arrived vessel. “TERRORS OF INFLUENCE!” roared out from the ship’s loud speakers in Common, inciting unexpected winces from many. “MARCH!” And with that singular command, the unified boom of shifting metal impacting metal resonated from deep within the bowels of the ship. No question needed to be asked as the source soon became clear as the vessel’s crew slowly emerged from her, marching in perfect synchronicity, six across. Each one of them, a mix of humans, dragons, mystics, and simulans, were adorned in gleaming black armor trimmed in an acid green enamel. Standard bearers at the edges of the descending column carried equally dark banners with the heraldry of a vampiric butterfly within a burning sun in the same sickly verdant hue. Upon the entire column disembarking from the ship’s ramp, the loudspeakers hissed again before screaming once again in Common, “TERRORS! HALT!” The ship’s crew immediately came to a standstill with a final metallic stomp, and the observant saw each of the members bearing a stoic thousand meter stare, completely disinterested in the place they had, for all practical purposes, invaded. “TERRORS! PRESENT! ARMS!” At the command, the column split in two, half turning to face each other and forming a tunnel of their weapons and standards.
No more booming commands echoed from the ship, but a quartet of characters appeared at the top of the boarding ramp. A dragon, human, mystic, and simulan, all wearing the same onyx armor. They allowed the dragon among them to take the lead and began their descent to the crew assembled at the base of the ramp. But, before said dragon could make himself known, one of the Matriarchs maneuvered herself before the grand display, wings proudly splayed wide. “Your Majesty!” she addressed the Empress in hacking, difficult rasps, drawing the attention of all who had until that point been unable to take their eyes from the new arrivals. The sneering haughtiness in her voice was unmistakable as she continued, “May I present to you the greatest of your servants among the Dukes! Captain Axis Mortimer of the Sphere of Influence!” With this grand proclamation, she bowed her neck low and moved to the side, the self same Axis Mortimer and his officers making their way through the salute of arms of their crew.
“Good morning Empress Cellini,” Axis said, his poor Drael only highlighting the smirk in his eyes and the casual nature of the greeting. “Good to see you again. And happy birthday.”
“Likewise, Axis Mortimer,” the Empress replied, unperturbed and unable to hide her smile. “You certainly know how to make an entrance that would make a Royal procession proud.”
“Credit where credit is due, Your Majesty,” Axis said. “Maal, if you would.”
“TERRORS! AT EASE!” Axis’s human lieutenant thundered, and without missing a single step, Axis’s crew came back to ranks.
“Well, in that case,” Empress Cellini said, “My compliments to the discipline and loyalty of your crew. I should have expected your sponsor would ensure you were invited here today, provided your schedule permitted. After everything you have done to ensure the sanctity of my domain, I can think of few others who so deserve a place in my presence than you. And you and Pillar Nieves certainly do make quite the pair.”
“Flattery will only get you so far, Hope, but we take it anyhow,” Axis replied, and the audible gasp that rippled through those within earshot was almost as deafening as Axis’s arrival. “Naturally, you’re welcome aboard for a tour if you’d like.”
“You know, Duke Mortimer, I think I will take you up on that offer,” the Empress answered with a lightness and genuity bewildering for the first name insult that just been leveled at her. “Chloe, Charlie, join me.”
“Your Majesty,” Matriarch Nieves conceded whilst the Crown Princess Charlie merely nodded and extricated herself from her handlers to follow. A simple hand gesture from Maal parted the Influence’s crew for the Empress.
“Your Majesty!” one of her servants protested when she made it clear she intended to board the ship without them.
“Oh hush, Sullivan,” the Empress chided him. “I will be brief I assure you. And is a Duke not dedicated to my health and safety first and foremost? I will likely be safer inside this vessel than my own bed.”
Axis visibly restrained a chuckle and inclined his head for her to take the lead before following beside her shortly after. Upon reaching the ramp, Matriarch Chloe Nieves shifted ever so slyly to Axis’s other side and came just short of being level with him. He arched a brow, glancing back to Crown Princess DelRose still following the three of them and was met with nothing short of a firm, unimpressed scowl and dead eyes he imagined had been transposed onto her by his sister. The Matriarch’s intent was shortly made clear, as she was in the perfect position to hiss angrily in his ear without the Empress being able to hear her vitriol.
“I hope you are proud of yourself. You may think it’s amusing to make a scene and embarrass every other Duke around you along with me and all my Sisters, but let us not forget you only have the opportunity to do so thanks to my invitation. Just like every other opportunity you have had.” Axis felt the muscles in his neck and face stiffen as they often did when Chloe ran her mouth to flex her authority, and he was regrettably in no position to offer a well placed biting retort. It was a sensation he was well accustomed to, having experienced the exact same from the very first day he met the dragoness.