Hello there! I've been writing this over on Ao3 for a while now. This is my first real big writing project, and I've been tweaking and fixing it bit by bit. I was encouraged to post my story over here, so I'm giving it a shot. If things look off or confusing, I apologize, it took it a while to figure out how to post things here bit by bit. I want to thank Boyo99, whose story The Fate and The Destiny I highly recommend, and Un Bot Ruso, who has been following my story since the start. They both said people over here would like my work, so I'm giving it a shot.
While there are some more dark elements in some parts, I wish to say that this is more light-hearted than most "lore-friendly" stuff. If you're expecting Helsreach or something similar to the official stuff, you will probably be disappointed. Some parts of the story may not be consistent in tone, or even a few in story inconsistencies. I apologize for any mistakes I missed.
I normally post a new chapter every Tuesday over on Ao3, but I'll do it over here from now on. I hope you enjoy.
Having barely escaped execution, Serjeant Roger Wessyng, a simple Guardsman in the ongoing Haikk crusade, finds himself unwillingly thrown into the conspiracies and plots of his noble superiors and commander, the Lord Prince Edmund. Even worse, he is given a role as intermediary between his Imperial Guard and their mysterious alien allies, the Eldar. Clueless to their culture, customs, and language, he is hardly a good choice for the role, but facing certain death if he returns to his human comrades, he doesn't have much of a choice.
Will he survive? Will he find success in his role? More importantly, can he avoid a disturbingly close Ranger that has, for some reason, become interested in him?
There was something tragic in the whole situation. Respect for the rule of law, following the words of the Imperial Creeds priests, following orders in the Imperial Guard. Even being the son of a county bailiff, learning all the ins and outs of Imperial and Anglois law.
And yet, despite all this, Roger Wessyng, Serjeant of the Fourth Anglerre Regiment, stood in front of seven of his former comrades, tied to a pole, ready to receive the judgment of a commissar. He had refused the minor mercy of being blindfolded, wanting to stare his killers in the face. None of them were from his homeworld of course, for morale reasons. At least, that's what Commissar Dimitry Lucan said. Truth was, despite all the rivalries of Anglerre, from the baronies, duchies, counties, and manors that divided its lands, when their backs were to the walls, the soldiers who fought under the leopard banner would cut anyone, even their own allies, to save one of their own. Rogers kin stood at the back of the crowd, angrily watching the pathetic spectacle. Loyalty to a brother was guaranteed, but Roger had been a good man, saving the skin of his squad countless times since he first took command. And his boys were maddest of all. In the corner of his eye, he saw the scarred face of his corporal, Davie Camp, in disguise, slowly moving towards the firing squad.
Daft bastard. Smart, loyal, but he's going to die for nothing, Roger thought.
Even if Davie got close enough, even if he brought the whole squad along, what difference would it make? He was a condemned man, declared a traitor deserving only death by the order of the Commissariat, a sentence few would be able to argue with. If he survived this somehow, he would be an outlaw, hunted not only for breaking the Imperial Law his forefathers enforced, but a heretic for breaking said laws. On the other hand, Roger hoped that his lads would get a chance to hit his to-be killers. Especially the two Kriegers in the line. He hated them as much as the enemy, their silent and fanatical temperament, their almost mechanical obedience, it drove him and the rest of the Anglois in Army Group Seven mad. Roger was snapped out of his thoughts by the grating voice of Commissar Lucan.
"Guardsmen! Today, by my God-Emperor given authority, we have gathered here to execute a traitor, a man who has betrayed everything we stand for, what we believe in, what we are fighting for! Normally I would simply have given justice on the spot, but this needs to be seen by all of you, to remind you of your duty, and what faces those who refuse it, or go against it!"
The crowd of Guardsmen, Anglois, Kriegers, Cadians, and other assorted regiments was silent, watching with grim acceptance. Men died in the millions every day in the Guard. What was one more?
"Serjeant Wessyng today faces the Emperor's Justice, which I will enforce with prejudice, as is befitting my role and orders as a Commissar!I understand that some in this crowd... disagree with this judgment. I know this man is fondly thought of in the Anglerre regiments. But this is a warning! Even the finest of us, the bravest, those who seem most loyal, can be the snake in the grass, waiting to strike and poison our glorious cause!"
Always had a way for words. Too bad that gift is wasted on the dimmest, most stubborn prick Roger ever met.
Davie was now only a few men behind the firing line, with Roger now noticing more familiar faces in Cadian pattern gear, unlike the simple feudal world uniforms of the Anglois. Davie did bring the squad into this! Now instead of their serjeant dying, Davie and eight other good men would die in a fools errand. His mind turned from his imminent death to figuring out a way to stop them from dying on his doomed behalf. All while the commissar continued.
"My judgment was not made easily, and its enforcement is a burden that I must bear! It pains me to kill good men, but the laws we follow mean that we do not fall to forces that would destroy the Imperium we all hold dear!"
The commissar turned to the Cadian officer in charge of the firing squad and nodded. Pulling his sword, the lieutenant turned sharply on his heel and faced the seven. Rogers' squad was now only a man or two behind them, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Taking a deep breath, he decided to finally shout the alarm and warn the commissar before it was too late. If his lads were stopped, maybe they would be spared. He was on the way out, what did he care? He just wanted his men, good men, some of the best the lucky Fourth had, to survive and fight on without him.
"Attention!"
The seven snapped to attention.
"Present...arms!"
Seven lasguns were held out in front of their owners.
"Ready...arms!"
Lowered in front of Roger. All pointing at his chest. The gravity of it all finally hit him, but he fought to stay composed. He saw the squad now right behind the firing line, reaching for concealed daggers, maces, even a laspistol or two. He also could see the commissar smirking with satisfaction, not noticing the threat right under his nose. The lieutenant's sword was now horizontal, raising to prepare the men to fire.
"Aim!"
"Most powerful and glorious Emperor, who commands the winds and eddies of the galaxy, we miserable men are adrift in peril, we cry unto thee for help, save us, or we will perish. We see how great and terrible thou art, we fear you and offer our awe, we fear naught but your wrath , and beg a chance to prove ourselves, so let us not die in the tumultuous of the warp."
Not the best prayer, but it was the first one Roger thought of. He closed his eyes and awaited Oblivion. At first, he thought he heard thunder, maybe the sound of the Lasguns firing, he wasn't sure. But he sure as the saints heard the voice.
"STOP THIS FARCE, DAMN YOU!"
It was a voice that few could match, like a crack of thunder mixed with the roar of an animal. Roger opened his eyes, and gaped. Ten horses now approached, massive white haired beasts, their riders wearing great helms and bearing red armor with the golden leopard of the Anglerre governors. One rider was bare-headed, but even if his face was hidden, no one could confuse his identity.
Tall and stocky, with short dark-brown hair, it was none other than Prince Edmund, fourth son of Anglerre's governor and king, nominal commander of the Anglois regiments in the sector, and more importantly, commander of Third Corps, Army Group Seven of the Haikk Crusade. With fifteen regiments answering to him, he was one of the leaders of the Imperial Guard on the planet. The Anglois guardsmen got on one knee, even Davie and the lads by habit. The rest of the guardsmen stared in shock and amazement. The Leopard of Falcy, victor of three campaigns by the time he was twenty-five, winner of two battles in a day, had come to this small execution. Roger was just as shocked, possibly from still being alive. He was ready to believe he was dreaming after death, a prince coming to save him from a certain end. He quickly came to his senses as Edmund spoke.
"Good day commissar. I'm here to stop you from executing this man."
The Cadian officer nearly dropped his sword, quickly ordering the firing squad back to attention, their lasguns pulled away from Rogers chest. Commissar Lucan's face twisted in sheer outrage and contempt.
"Lord Marshal Edmund. I am honored by your presence, but I must remind you that you have no authority over a commissariat ruling. By all rights, this man is to be killed by the authority of the Emperor himself, and I will not-"
"Do not tell me of authority and what the Emperor has given!" Edmund snarled.
Already a fierce critic of any authority not his own, he was similar to many of his men in that he despised Lucan. Too many good men in Edmunds' service had been killed by what he considered a jumped up Schola brat who deserved to be beaten to death by the friends of those he had executed. Commissars had a place and a reason to exist, but Lucan was the epitome of the worst sort: bullies who had been given the power of life and death over men who deserved better. Commissars had to be harsh, but they didn't have to be like Lucan, killing for minor infractions all too frequently.
Edmund turned scarlet as his armor. His teeth were clenched and he was shuddering so much, his shoulder plates were clanking. He suddenly lifted his hand and clenched his fist.
"Men of Anglerre! To me! To your Prince!" he bellowed in his deep voice.
The Anglois guardsmen snapped from their knees and surged to be at their beloved prince's side. Davie and the lads followed suit. Lucans' smirk vanished as he watched hundreds of men stand against him, the Cadians and others staying still, unsure what to do. At least the Kriegers came to his side, but there were fewer of them than Anglois. He couldn't execute Edmund either, that power was only given when proof of treachery or incompetence was indisputable. It also didn't help that he was the only reason any progress had been made on this mostly failed campaign to retake the Haikk system from the rebellious governors that had tried to make their own little empires.
"In the interest of our campaign, and our relationship, I will release this man to your custody. I trust that you would threaten good order and the chain of command and Commissarial authority to-"
"Fuck off, you sniveling cunt." Edmund growled.
The statement shook Lucan to his core. Worse still, the prince's bodyguard and the Anglois guardsmen cheered when Edmund said it. For all his high-born blood, he had the brain, mouth, and feet of a guardsman.
"Yo-you-you will hear from the Lord Commissar! You will not get away with this!" Lucan nearly screamed as he turned away with his small entourage of Kriegers. Edmund spat in his direction before turning to the crowd.
"Return to your posts and tents guardsmen! We have much to do in the coming days! Get rest, get food, get ready for the fight of our lives!" he cried, to the cheers of every guardsman, regardless of regiment. As the crowd thinned, Edmund looked at Davie and the others.
"You boys are mine, but you're wearing the wrong uniform. Explain yourself."
Davie bowed and averted his gaze in respect.
"My lord, we were... preparing to save Rog over there."
"How so?"
"M-my lord. I don't think I have to explain what we were about to do."
Edmund nodded slowly. The nine men were admitting to treason and prepared to kill their own comrades. By all rights, he should have killed them all on the spot. But between having a soft spot for his foot sloggers and admiring loyalty, he ignored it. Turning back to Roger, who also tried to avert his gaze and be as respectful as one could be when tied to an execution post, Edmund laughed.
"If you can get good men to commit treason trying to save you for little gain, you must be the kind of man I'm looking for, Serjeant. You'll report to my quarters in the old cathedral down the road. You know the one? Tallest building around here? Can't miss it. One of my men will come back with a horse in an hour or two. Seeing how you are still officially off the record to the Astra Militarum, or whatever it calls itself now, you are now a member of my court. You will bring all your essential belongings and say goodbye to your men. If you don't report, me or one of my guards will find and kill you. And I'll be damned if I let Lucan get to you first. Understood?"
Roger spoke for the first time in two days, a strained croak.
"Yes my lord."
"Good. Cut down your serjeant boys, get him ready. Don't make him late."
"Aye, your highness," Davie and the others responded.
Edmund and his retinue turned and rode off as Roger was finally cut from the post.
"What the hell were you all thinking? It was bad enough that I was gonna get finished off, but you all had to go and-"
"We weren't gonna let you die like that sarge." one of the younger squad members said, like a child who was explaining to his parents why he didn't get rid of his pet when told to.
"Well if Red-Ned hadn't come in, you all were gonna die worse than I would!"
"Well now Red-Ned's your boss Sarge." Davie muttered while severing the ropes tying Roger. Finally freed, he stretched his arms and rubbed his face.
"Well lads, looks like this is the end of the line for me. I'm gonna grab my things and head off. No point wasting it on a sad farewell. Davie will be in charge. He's as good as I am, maybe better. You listen to him, you'll live longer than me, that's for bloody sure. Too bad we can't even have a party."
"We didn't bring any snacks. Shame." One of the older vets chuckled. "Maybe we might have brought some of that cake. Well, if those Cadian bastards would share."
"Well, we got a few hours sarge, we'll find some way to send you off." Davie said with a bit of disappointment. Suddenly, one of the younger lads spoke up.
"Wait a minute, sarge! Remember when you lent me to that guard duty for the Sisters of Battle?"
Roger thought for a second.
"Aye, we volunteered you as part of the honor guard for that palatine or something like that. Mostly because she asked for you. I take it she liked the younger men. Especially the younger looking ones."
A few chuckles and laughs went through the squad as the younger one blushed.
"Er, yeah. Well, as thanks for some help I-uh- offered to her, she did… give me a gift of some… unused communion wine that I may or may not have been hiding for a while."
Roger and the rest of the lads beamed.
"Well now," Davie said. "We got ourselves a farewell party boys."
XXXXXX
Sir Tristan Argenc, a knight of the Royal Guard that protected Prince Edmund, had been sitting on a large rock on the outskirts of the Imperial Guards encampment, having been ordered to wait for a Serjeant Wissing, or something of that sort. The prince had ordered him to ride to the camp with another horse, collect the serjeant, and return as soon as possible. If he didn't show before sundown, find and kill him. There wasn't much to argue, or much to interpret. So for the last hour or so, as the sun slowly approached the horizon, he had waited. And waited. And waited. He was nearly hoping for darkness, just to kill the damned peasant who kept him from getting back to the prince, or at least his comfortable quarters. Down the road, a raucous group of Anglois guardsmen in their feudal style armor, cheering, whistling, and singing along the way, came from the camp and moved towards Tristan. The guardsmen were carrying one of their number on their shoulders, carrying him out of the camp. Halfway there, they let him down, the nine or so other members of the party hugging or shaking the lucky man's hand. Given the fact that he was getting such treatment, and that he was carrying a filled rucksack, Tristan grunted in something of approval that his waiting hadn't been in vain. Moving away from the group with a wave, the single man jogged towards Tristan. Standing up and brushing non-existent dirt from his armor and leopard badged surcoat, he approached the now lone guardsman.
"Serjeant Rod Wisting?"
"Roger Wessyng, my lord."
"Apologies serjeant. I've been waiting a while for you."
"Forgive me my lord, my friends wanted to give me a good sendoff before I left them and joined the royal service. There may have been a bit of drinking involved."
Sir Tristan nodded. "I understand. This one's for you," gesturing at the gray horse next to his.
"Her name is Belle, but I call her Sharky. She is the most ill-mannered, dangerous, and finger-hungry mount we have. Be careful with her. For your sake, not hers. If you somehow kill her, it would be a shame, but not a lamentable one."
Roger laughed as he leapt up on her saddle, following Sir Tristan.
"By the way my lord-" Roger reached into his rucksack, pulling out a wine skin and offering it to the knight. "As my apologies for being so late."
Sir Tristan smiled for the first time all afternoon and gladly accepted, taking a sip of the much-appreciated gift.
"I know this taste," he said, trying to figure out what it was. "I've had it before but I can't put my finger on it. Definitely tastes better than anything you low-born should have. No offense."
"None taken my lord. Take another sip and think of incense, the singing of monks, and the prayers of thanks that the holy father has finally stopped his sermon."
"Bloody hell, this is communion wine! How in the emperor's name did you get this?"
"Good leaders never tell their secrets, especially when it involves one of their men."
Sir Tristan laughed and took another gulp as they both started down the road.
"Forgive me serjeant, but I underestimated you. Are you lower noble? You definitely aren't like the rest of the stock you find in the guard."
"Yeomanry, my lord. My father was the bailiff of Moressley Manor in Susich county."
"Susich?" Sir Tristan suddenly cried out. "What part? Near the lake or by the sea?
"The lake, why, my lord?"
"My father is the lord of Thialay castle!" he said, stretching out his armored hand. "What a small galaxy we live in!"
For the next hour as they rode, the two spoke of old tales of their home planet, of acquaintances and life tales. He didn't show it, but had the knight been unfamiliar or not as genial, Roger would have been a nervous wreck, having realized that everything he knew and lived, being a guardsman, had been cruelly taken away from him.
And now, as they approached the ruined cathedral where the son of his home-planets master convened his headquarters, Roger wondered how much his life was going to change.
XXXXXX
The Cathedral of the Martyred Lady had once been a bastion of the Ecclesiarchy on Haikk Four, the beating heart of faith for the hundred or so rural communities on the continent. All that changed when the system rebelled. The clergy who lived and worked there became early targets of the rebellious forces, not because they had turned their backs on their holy God-Emperor, but as part of the Ecclesiarchy, they were a visible and powerful force of the Imperium. What priests and members of the faith survived the first purges fled in the months after, leaving what was once a mighty symbol of the Holy force of the Imperium an empty shell of what it had been. As the rebellions turned more and more heretical, the Cathedral would soon see defilement and dark rituals committed in its great halls.
When Lord Edmunds Third Corps moved into the area, the Cathedral became a prime objective, not only being the crossroad to a huge area occupied by the enemy, but as a symbol that the true government of the God-Emperor had returned. The hours-long battle for it, led by Edmunds personal confessor and religious advisor, the Bishop of Chelmster and his guard of Adeptus Soriritas, had been vicious and bloody. Within a day, the Cathedral was retaken, the Bishop reconsecrated its altar and purified the defilement. It was now not only a fully functioning place of worship, it had been turned into Lord Edmunds personal headquarters while his forces waited to move again. And in the basement, Roger Wessyng took what amounted to a job interview. There was still blood in the little alcove he sat in, staining the floor with a dark, red-wine pallor. But that was not near as disturbing as the man who sat across from him.
"You were at the battle of Sanctuary?" the grim noble asked, looking down at some files and making small notes.
"Yes my lord, I was involved in the capture of the town."
"How?"
"I have an interest in architecture, my lord. Have you noticed that this planet is reliant on aqueducts for even a little bit of water? Sanctuary had some unused ones, so I went to investigate. One of my men realized that it cut through the city walls, and no one inside remembered it. So I told my commander, Sir Reynaud, that I had a way in, proved it, and when all was said and done, we took it."
"I see why Ned took an interest in you." the noble said with little emotion.
Lord Robert D'Uxford was known as one of the most humorless and serious men in the Army Group, possibly the whole crusade. Son of the current and very powerful Justicar of the Western Islands, answering only to the King of Anglerre himself, he had made a name for himself as a close friend and ally of Lord Edmund, being at his side for almost fifteen years now. While he was a good friend, Edmund kept him as long as he did thanks to his brilliance at intelligence work, the art of spying, and the ability to see plans, make plans within them, and keep Edmund safe from enemies outside and within.
"Your father was a bailiff?"
"Yes my lord. He had taken me into his service to learn the trade before I was conscripted."
"I trust it didn't ruin any of your plans?"
Roger paused to think about his answer. He remembered his sister almost catatonic when the news came, his older brother offering himself instead, and his father silencing him by saying that he had three sons, and he was willing to risk his youngest to save the others. He knew his father wept that night despite his best efforts to hide it and accept the sacrifice, and Roger himself knew what had to be done. After all, he would not inherit any lands, would be lucky to find service in other trades, and would always live in his siblings' shadows. Frankly, he dreamed of adventure.
"No, my lord."
"Your records are spotless. Mentioned in dispatches. You commander, Sir Reynaud, himself wrote to me that saving your life would pay dividends to Lord Edmund. So tell me, Serjeant. What did you do that would make you worthy of execution?"
"It's a bit of a long story, my lord, do you want a shorter version or the full-"
Roger was interrupted by the sound of screams coming from down the hall. D'Uxford stopped reading and looked up at Roger with a bit of irritation.
"Our Bishop is in a poor mood after seeing what happened to the Cathedral. He captured some of the heretics that surrendered. I thought he tortured them all to death by now. Or turned them into Arco-Flagellants. Can't think what's worse, facing him and that mace of his, or being racked to death." D'Uxford shook his head and went back to his files. "The whole story serjeant."
Roger swallowed and nodded.
"Well my lord, I… consorted with Xenos. That's what the commissar said anyway."
D'Uxford stopped his reading and looked up at Roger again.
"Consorting with xenos? Are you referring to the Eldar?"
"Yes, my lord."
"What did you do? Tell them secrets? Admit you worshiped their gods?" D'Uxford tapped his fingers on his desk. "Did you lay with one of them?"
Roger blanched and shook his head.
"I gave one of them some water."
"That…that's it?"
"We had been on the march with some of their scouts, and one of them looked like she was about to pass out. So I pulled my canteen and offered it to her. She took it, and I think she thanked me, I can't tell. If you ask me, I bet it was one of those Kriegers with us. Probably reported me."
"Kriegers are very useful in sieges and in attrition battles, but their fanaticism flies in the face of realism. I think they are in the Army Group because someone up the chain of command doesn't trust Edmund. Or wants a way to knock him down a peg. What better way than to get a regiment of men who are fanatics that look for any sign of unorthodoxy? I knew Lucan was a damned idiot, but if he had to kill anyone, not someone as useful as you."
"Is that a compliment, my lord?"
"It's irritating that of all people to make an example of, he would use someone like you. I doubt he wanted you dead out of anything personal, he was just looking for someone to remind the men who is in charge. Damned waste it would have been. Well you're here now, and you have my approval, so I think it's time to tell you what you're here for."
D'Uxford looked up from the files and ran a hand through his raven black hair.
"How do you think our crusade is going? From your perspective?"
Roger scratched the brown stubble on his cheek as he thought how to respond.
"My lord, we've reached this cathedral. We seized many towns and a few cities. Our supply lines haven't broken down. We still have plenty of food, promethium and water, so we aren't reaching desperate levels to survive. We have reinforcements available, but we've only taken a few casualties so far. I'd say we're doing pretty well."
"And you'd be right serjeant. We've achieved all our goals. We have a firm line of supply, and we have taken minimal losses. But we're two weeks behind schedule because we've been waiting to link up to Army Group Six. And that reveals a bigger problem, the fact that this crusade has been a bloody disaster. We are the only Army Group achieving anything close to our goals, not just on time, but at all. Army Group Two is at fifty percent casualties at Hive Golgotha. Fifty percent. Half the army group is gone. Army Group Three is still waiting on the Navy to get them to Haikk Three. And our brother group, Six? Their commander, General Volkster, is an incompetent moron who could barely lead a platoon, let alone an Army Group, and is more interested in building his clout with Segmentum command than actually winning a campaign. In short, we, Group Seven, are the only success. And there are a few reasons for this. First, Lord Edmund is a good leader, and an excellent tactician, who, if I may say so, has a good circle of advisors and lieutenants. Second, our guardsmen, like yourself, have the drive to fight this through. I can't say the same for the regiments in the other Army Groups. And third, and most importantly, we have allies that no other group does."
"The Eldar," Roger quickly responded. D'Uxford nodded.
"They have been a boon to us, and we have helped them in return. The alliance between Edmund and Farseer Alwyn has borne much fruit for our two species. They see things we can't, give advice that we heed, and we have assisted them in their mysterious aims. At least I think so. Eldar don't help humanity unless they have a reason."
D'Uxford stood up and walked over to the door, leaning against the wall next to it.
"Point is, serjeant, we need someone to act as an intermediary between our two forces. If we had a direct line of communication with Alwyn and her forces, we could be even more effective. And as a legally dead guardsman who has attracted their notice, you are exactly the man for that job. Congratulations," D'Uxford pulled out a sealed document from beneath his chainmail. "Plenipotentiary Roger Wessyng."
Roger had spun around in his chair to follow D'Uxford, and now stared at him in barely disguised shock.
"But-I-My Lord, I don't know anything about them, their language, customs, anything! I don't even know how I would have attracted their attention, and I doubt they would care about a guardsman, let alone me!"
"You'd be surprised. And I don't think you have much room to argue. You'll be reporting directly to me, but you will be attached to their forces. You have Vox training, correct? We're also giving you a servo skull just in case. Helps us keep in contact with you. Do you accept this assignment?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No, but it makes it official."
Roger rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was being asked to do something that would be seen as heretical by more than a few of his comrades, and impossible by anyone else. He had no idea how to communicate with him, how they lived, if he could keep up with their pace, or anything else involving their race. But it was true, if he said no, he was as good as dead. He shrugged and looked at D'Uxford.
"I'm in. That's why you probably saved my life, wasn't it? To get me roped into this?"
"It was convenient, but neither I nor Lord Edmund knew about you, or the fact you were going to be used as Lucan's example. We were given a tip before you got executed."
"Who told you about me then?"
"I did," a new voice responded.
Rogers blood turned to ice, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. The voice was female, but there was something otherworldly, inhuman, about it. And that's because it was inhuman. Farseer Alwyn, scion of the Craftworld Ducaish, commander of the Eldar forces fighting alongside the Imperium on Haikk Four, had appeared in the shadows next to the door, parallel to D'Uxford. Roger didn't know how to respond, if he should bow, or even what he should call her.
"M-my apologies, er, my l-lady. I wasn't aware of your presence," he stammered as he kneeled down and looked at the floor in respect. Therefore, he didn't see her cover her mouth and stifle a laugh.
"Please, serjeant, I am not some human noble to fawn over. Please don't call me "my lady", it makes me feel as old as I am. And you are allowed to look at me."
Still on his knee, Roger looked up at the farseer. If she was old as she made out to be, it certainly didn't look like it. Her face reminded him very much of the Eldar that nearly got him killed by showing kindness, the face admittedly very eye-catching, but the more you looked at it, the more off it seemed, almost a human face, but perfect to the point of being uncanny. In fact, with that red, crimson hair, she was almost a spitting image of that scout he gave water to. Maybe they all looked the same, or were similar? He stood up and at least bowed.
"Will you accept me as your plepe-plener-p-what was the word my lord?"
"Plenipotentiary, serjeant," D'Uxford said with the first sign of amusement Roger had ever seen him reveal. Roger looked uncomfortable at flubbing the word, especially in the presence of his new commanders.
Farseer Alwyn took an uncomfortably long pause before she nodded.
"As Lord D'Uxford said, you don't have much of a choice, and this was already decided. You will be given further details on your assignment from me in the coming days. Until then, you will stay here and await orders. Farewell, Roger."
She moved to open the door and leave, but Roger had one question that he needed an answer to.
"Farseer!" he almost shouted, surprising even himself with how loud he was. Alwyn turned and faced him.
"Why did you save me?"
Alwyn blinked at him and gave him a stony look.
"That ranger you gave water to informed me of your fate. It is hardly a crime to help your allies, even if they are not of your species. One good deed should be repaid with another, I believe you humans say?"
Satisfied with this surprisingly simple answer, he bowed his head in farewell.
"Additionally, I couldn't ignore that particular ranger. Ignoring the pleas of your daughter is very poor form in my people's culture. Once again, farewell."
And then, using the frightening and strange eldritch magic so endemic to her kind, she vanished. D'Uxford frowned at her sudden departure, probably hoping to trade more information that her forces had gathered. He turned and looked at Roger.
"I didn't know she had a daughter," he said with little interest. "Lucky you."
Roger had gone from being tied to a post, facing certain death, to being in favor with his liege lord, a xenos leader, and, it seemed, her daughter.
"Luckiest man on Haikk Four, my lord," Roger said with a blank stare, trying to process what he had been told.