Deamons And Divin-i-tea
It was an average day for The Lord Liberator Ciaphas Cain. One that was filled with paperwork and politics more so then the other average days of accidentally changing the world just by finding a bathroom or some other such nonsense. It was the sort of day the made him want to step out on to the highest balcony and whatch the sun set, highlighting its multihued reds, oranges and pinks overtaking the blues of the sky. A day were he looks out over the city and actually takes pride in what he has built (even while plotting how to best ruin it).
It is these days, were his trip to the cellers is one of leisure instead of his last gasping grasp to retain sanity. When he can properly peruse the fine vintages that are stored in the cold, dank depths, instead of finding the one just a hair away from being an antiseptic to strong for even the BORGs to try and figure something out a use for, and making it dissapear faster then anything thought possible. It is a day that invites proper relaxation, instead of some scrambling choice for another decision that had been thrust upon him.
Many didn't realize, he hardly had himself for many a year, but Cain enjoyed architecture. How well crafted the columns were, and how opulent the buttresses with the gilded edges, how the trims were masterworks of genuine wood whose colors accented the walls and brightened up the dark corners. And the wonderful, not-artificial, hundred percent genuine MAHOGANY doors with a gentle stain upon the carvering of his exegerated feats. Triumphs over orks, inquisitors, astartes, even a particularly fanciful one of him wrestling Nurgle. Some philosophical representation of how he wrestles influence away from him with the masterful plan to spread the Panacea and the other leaps and advances in medicine to spite the Grandfather. Frankly, he things the team of carpenters, sculptur and artists had much to much time to wax and wane over a door. Much less one only he regularly sees, seeing as how it leads to his private wine cellar.
Well no point pondering the disbelief of yet another thing. Booze awaits him.
His gloved hand reaches forward to grip the brass ring and pulls the door. It doesn't budge. Confused, he trys again. The door doesn't move. "Dammit" He breathily grumbles "Just got this put on, and it's already stuck?"
Grabbing the small vox that the council insisted he wears he calls up the man currently in charge of renovations. It still wasn't Cains choice to renovate, but it's another one of the boundless gifts people bestow upon him in some misguided way of rewarding their Liberator. It takes a minute for the foreman to respond, "Lord Liberator, how may I help you?"
"Did you install the door on my celler?"
"Door...? Sir we haven't started on the caller yet, did you have some wishes for a door?"
Cains mouth opens, then closes. "Nevermind then, keep up the good work."
Thank you Lord Liberator, we shan't let you down!"
After such a loud reply the channel cuts. And Cains eyes are once more drawn to the impeccable door. It was here yesterday, because he had opened it yesterday, and it was the best damn door he'd ever had the joy to open. So if the foreman didn't know who installed it, who did?
An idea pops into his head momentarily, he always walks into the cellar. Into, being the key word. It can't be...
Cains hand finds the door again, and pushes.
It's well oiled hinges give underneath the light touch, the tips barely caressing his own carved face before it slides. His next choice is simple, in walking inside. His eyes barely skim the room as a small jingle sounds above him before he quickly grabs the handle and shuts the door. He has turned around and halfway up the stairs before he even lets himself register what was in that room. Cain, the greatest man this side of the Eye Of Terror, is not going in there.
He lasts a weak. The will that could sunder the warp, and had no equal lasted a week before he succumbed to needing his escape.
It was on this day, Ciaphas Cain stared at a door in dread. Minutes, perhaps even hours, pass by. His hawkish gaze tracing every edge of the carved door. Everything that meets his gaze falls underneath a scrutiny taught and learned over many years of training. And was found wanting. The edges were to straight. Each detail to perfect. There were no mars in the woord from a weak grip, or misjudged strength. No mistakes brought by exhaustion or some unseen knot in the wood. No persistent shavings that hang on the edge, or any dents from moving it. It was immaculate, and that confirms his fears. That the scene he saw was truth, and not some misguided lie brought about to prevent his comfort on an uneventful day. Some hallucination brought about by an unknown gas leak, or BORG experiment.
Breathing becomes sharper, shorter. Liquor resides beyond this door, but he doesn't know if he has the will left to claim it.
His resolve steadies in some small amount. Hardly enough to make it easier, but enough to let him lift the Grim countenance of his Visage and replace it with something closer to neutrality. He places his hand on the door, and pushes.
Once again, a small bell rings. A clear note spreading though the fragrant air. Inside it is bright, a soft light nearly omnipresent, yet a spotlight highlights a figure in the center of the room. It is most certainly female, an hourglass figure with no proportions looking unhealthy thin or preposterously thicc, clad in a black long sleeved shirt accentuated by white frills and a rather modest dress with the hem being a few inches above the ground and also having a frill. To top off the outfit was a pearly white arpon tied to the front and a small ascot neatly tucked away at the top of it. It is when she lifts her head and smiles that Cains fears are firmly rooted in reality.
"Welcome my Beloved Master" Emili croons sweetly, "To the Deamons And Divinity Café. Now instead of drinking alone, I can serve you any time you desire."
She mistakes his tears for joy.