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"Indexing vocabulary for appropriate response. Response found: Bruh."

Ixqueya watched the chainsword depart his grasp and felt her estimation of him contract further. Like a pupil collapsing in sudden glare. Once he had been merely inconsequential. Now he resolved into something more contemptible. A homuncular pageant of bluster. A simulacrum of authority lacquered over an exiguous core. His florid orations about relic armor and quasi invincibility revealed themselves as logorrheic compensation. Fustian varnish laid upon a hollow armature. He trafficked in beheading as idle spectacle. Then retreated the moment genuine consequence brushed his ankle. Such a creature belonged not among conquerors. But among discarded footnotes.

His prattle about stains and ichor. About the purported expense of purifying the flooring. Completed the portrait. Here stood a being for whom blood signified chiefly an inconvenience to upholstery. Not covenant. Not sacrament. A petty custodian of surfaces masquerading as strategist. He adorned his cowardice with sardonic quips and imagined this passed for wit. It was otiose ornamentation. A palimpsest of borrowed bravado scrawled upon mercantile anxiety.

She turned her attention back to the wine with deliberate finality. The cup rimed in fragile filigree possessed more gravitas than the entire exchange he had engineered. The surface trembled beneath her cold. Then stilled. Accepting its fate with greater dignity than the man who had poured it. In that stillness he diminished to the scale of a drifting mote suspended in tavern light. Epiphenomenal. Momentary. A speck revealed only when pinioned upon a stray beam before dissolving back into obscurity. An ephemeral amusement. Nothing more.

She raised the glass. The wine unfurled its muted complexities across her tongue. Tannin. Sepulchral fruit. Ghosts of vineyards that had outlived their celebrants. These nuances merited contemplation. The general did not. In the quiet tribunal of her mind he became a negligible datum in an overcrowded ledger. A transient irritant. An itinerant fleck of animated dust whose intersection with her orbit warranted no further notation.

"It sounds like everyone just needs Saluzzo wine." She popped the cork right off a bottle, dated from before whatever Terran year before Lappland was ever born, and just chugged it all. "Ahahaha~ Mio padre wouldn't like this at all, but I don't care. So many expensive bottles to just...pluck. All because they're mine~"

" Give me a break Harkoth, it's been a night. I've earned the enmity of a Voluminous Aeldari on top of an ill-construed stratagem to source a weapon.

By the Emperor, what a poetic rage, you would think if the Aeldari's penchant for prose matched their capacity for combat then they would not be on the verge of extinction, I suppose the prevailing assumption is that I am impressionable to well construed and verbose mockery and that it whittles the morale of the imperial guard. "

"As good as it sounds, I'm gonna have to respectfully decline. I've had some issues with alcohol in the past, so I avoid it."

"No, you're probably more of a vodka type. Ah, but that would attract donne indesiderate con cannoni navali, wouldn't it?"

What an odd canticle... is that Old High Gothic that you're speaking ?

Theo seems slightly sheepish. "Y-yeah. How did you guess?"

Aleksandr issued a subtle grin

Deductive tact, my iron clad friend.

Theo laughs. "You really think that I have tact? Me? Dear god, that is without a doubt the worst take I've ever heard from anyone."

"Lucky guess." Lappland raised an eyebrow at the Lord General. "Old High Gothic- Sei un folle degenerato! It's Siracusan."

No... not you... I presumed you had meant how I had derived it to be a dialect of Old High Gothic.

"Oh. Well I might be able to create an arc reactor the size of a CD, but I don't know spit about languages."

I shall pass that information onto Harkoth.

Is that what you call it in your abhuman gobbledygook?... well your colleague seems to have confirmed otherwise, and between you and him, he can build an arc reactor the size of a CD, Emperor knows whatever that is... so I think he knows just a little more than you do. Hrmph, Siracusan, next thing you know they'll be calling Low Gothic, Hive Jive.

"Thanks…I think."

Having heard Alexander (purposefully spelt wrong)'s speech of "reusing her head", the girl started to dislike him again.

She got off the stool, and glared at the general, the latter starting to see a galaxy in her eyes.

"Nope. You should probably shut up at this point, I'm fine and all, except that the slash has inconvenienced me from major stuff."

With this, she covered her wound, and strided to a random sofa. After she sat down, her right hand started to glow a somehow celestial cyan light, and she rested it on the gash.

She's slowly recovering.

Well I am glad to have expedited your recovery... albeit... under unfavorable circumstances, my apologies, I had severely underestimated the value you placed on your head and my course of action. It was a regrettable instance.

But just for the record... should there be any agents of the inquisition about.

Aleksandr added seeming to speak to the walls

It would have been an entirely voluntary approval, subject to the approval of this... this...

Aleksandr paused

Human... I think.

Aleksandr turned back to her and shrugged

Can't be too sure in a place like this afterall, well, that's all from me, I've a cask that Mathius so generously donated awaiting me.

((I hate nokia latency.))

"Let's... not talk about heads. Your sentences about it was like someone holding a shotgun to my head." The girl shook her head, still pressing her right hand against the wound. It was closing.

"And why 'what'?" The next moment she was confused by the general's question of "what is her". "A blue giant starling who is a hollow agent, with some talents, ...that's all."

...

Did she just mentioned she's of blue giant star kin?

The girl proceeded to focus on her own magic. While doing this, she took out a small purple bag from her pocket. ...It almost seemed ethereal, as if there was a pocket dimension in it... and it indeed had one.

"Sounds as if he can barely keep his own head on his shoulders."