The mortal trembles before me, kneeling in the gore-soaked rushes that coat the tavern floor. He is frail and, I believe, old, though I find it hard to tell the age of mortals. He is draped in robes of thick furs and silks, and carries the stink of power about him. A ruler from one of the local worlds, perhaps?

His trio of gene-bulked bodyguards look expensive; clad in golden carapace armour etched with scripture and carrying power weapons, they stand motionless at the mortal's back. They watch me with a disciplined disinterest that speaks of merciless training.

"Rise," I say. He shudders at the sibilant rasp of my voice echoing from my armour's speakers. After a moment, he stands, keeping his gaze on the ground.

"My lord," he stammers. He clears his throat. "My lord. I have come to seek your assistance."

I sneer. Pitiful. Old, weak and cowardly. Is this the kind of man who rules the False Emperor's realms these days?

"My master, Thule Varcas, is the planetary governor of Avernum." I was right about him being of the local sector, though not about his rank. A diplomat then. My mouth twists in revulsion. "He wishes to hire your company to help settle an, erm... inheritance dispute."

I sense the lie. "You think we concern ourselves with family disputes?"

He squeaks like a kettle on a fireplace. "My apologies, my lord. I was attempting to be diplomatic."

I growl. Mortals are so tiresome. "I am no diplomat." The word even tastes foul coming from my mouth. "Speak freely."

He swallows hard. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. He is trying to speak but can only gasp ragged sobs.

His desperate display of vulnerability triggers my predatory instincts. Acid floods my mouth as my saliva glands sense my hunger.

Kill him, whispers the hollowed voice from the recesses of my mind. Tear his heart from his chest and feast on his lifeblood. Rip apart his guts and devour his intestines. Snap his bones and suckle the sweet marrow.

"Quiet!" I bark out loud without intending to. The diplomat cowers, weeping. Even his bodyguard flinch, albeit so fractionally only my hyper-aware senses catch the motion. I am impressed; if I don't have some cause to kill them in the next few minutes, I may consider taking them into my warband.

"Quiet," I say again, more quietly this time. "What do you want of the Company?"

I wait while the man takes a moment to muster his words. The sharp tang of urine reaches my nose; he is terrified. Behind my helm, I smile.

Snap his spine. Shred his flesh. Kill, kill, kill.

I breathe. Slowly. Steadily. My breath rattles like bone throughout my armour. My hearts slow their rapid tattoo. The voice recedes, its poison ebbing from my blood.

"My master has enemies who wish to depose him." The diplomat has finally found his voice. "We wish for you to help us suppress the traitors."

The word brings with it a surge of pleasure. Ah, sweet irony. So often has that term been applied to me and my brethren. I cannot help but be amused by the notion that some backwater warlord wishes us to join his band of loyalists.

"Suppress?"

His skin deepens to an unhealthy shade of red. I can count every burst capillary on his nose. "Murder. He wishes you to murder his enemies."

Now that is more to my brethren's tastes. "The price will be high."

"We can pay," he babbles, flapping his hands with sudden enthusiasm. His terror is forgotten as he speaks of coin. "Avernum is one of the wealthiest worlds in the sector. Why, our forges alone-"

I growl again, low and dangerous. The weakling's torrent of hubris stops immediately.

I reach up and unfasten the clasps at my gorget, remove my helm with a hiss of escaping gases. The diplomat shrieks, wavers in a near faint, unable to tear his gaze away from my face.

I smile, revealing my many teeth. "Flesh," I intone. "The price will be paid in flesh."