"What clan?"
Enkidu was genuinely curious. In an environnt where most clans lived in mortal terror of being associated with the Star Children—lest they be caught in a Slaaneshi purge—who were these "players" brave enough to risk the heat?
"The Bronze Cog Clan. We sotis call them House Aum."
Paul provided a brief overview of this particular slave caste. The clan claid to originate from a minor industrial world, composed mostly of skilled factory technicians. During a Chaos raid, they had been selectively pillaged and brought aboard the ship to serve as generational maintenance labor.
Because they possessed specialized skills, they weren't treated as "disposable" entertainnt for the Astartes. Instead, the female Director had assigned them to various posts involving the upkeep of chanical systems. Their lives seed much like the other clans, though they carried themselves with a notable streak of arrogance. After all, they believed themselves under the protection of the Omnissiah; even in a hellhole like this, they functioned with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
In terms of faith, they were no different from the lay-worshippers of a Forge World. They worshipped the Machine God and the Omnissiah, a devotion that left them with little interest in any labor that didn't involve communing with iron and oil.
"As for why they deal with the Star Children... it seems to be a matter of dogma. They despise the Star Children's sect; there have been several violent skirmishes between them. If you wish to see them, I can summon the Elder of the Bronze Cog to the upper decks."
"No need. I'd rather see them in their own elent. Take down."
A flicker of surprise crossed Paul's eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. He gave a quick bow and scurried off to prepare the necessary travel gear for Enkidu's "excursion."
For the slaves of the lower decks, today was a standard, perhaps even comfortable, day.
The overseers' whips cracked with their usual rhythm, the "Angels" of the upper decks hadn't descended for a spontaneous slaughter, and a few lucky souls had even been hand-picked by the seneschals to be sent "upstairs."
While such a summons usually ant a grizzly end, there were always stories of the "Chosen" who survived and returned with rewards. More practically, every soul that left the lower decks—dead or alive—ant slightly fewer mouths to feed. It ant another 0.1 grams of nutrient paste for everyone else.
But when Paul reappeared, dressed in fine livery and trailing an Angel in his wake, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Paul? Hand-picked by an Angel? It seems House Knott is moving up in the world...
"My Lord, we are nearly there."
Enkidu nodded, looking down from the industrial elevator as it descended into the heart of the lower decks. Architecturally, it was indistinguishable from the Imperial vessels he knew from the lore: massive, sweating conduits, billowing steam, and a chaotic sprawl of makeshift hovels clinging to the bulkheads. It was the quintessential aesthetic of the 41st Millennium.
A damp, corrosive breeze gusted past. He tasted the air—high concentrations of sulfur and halogens.
It was like Industrial Revolution London, but with significantly more lasers and misery.
The elevator hit the bottom with a jarring thud. Enkidu followed Paul out, strolling through the dregs with a casual, almost relaxed air.
Compared to the upper decks, the roads here were narrow, choked with stagnant runoff and crowded with slaves. Enkidu moved with the fluid grace of his kind, stepping lightly around a slave who had collapsed under the weight of a heavy plasteel component.
"Scum! You're less than a Grox! Get up!"
An overseer delivered a brutal kick to the fallen man's ribs. When he realized an "Angel" was standing right beside him, his face paled into a mask of pure despair.
"My Lord! I... I did not an to offend your sight..." the overseer babbled, lashing the slave a dozen more tis in a frantic panic. "It's him! It's all his fault!"
Enkidu felt a twinge of pity, but his expression remained a mask of stone. He pointed a finger at the slave, then at the overseer.
"Him: thirty lashes. You: fifteen strikes with a rod for your lack of composure. Beyond that, return to your duties. I expect no drop in efficiency due to this incident."
In this place, a mont of pure rcy would be seen as weakness. Doing nothing would leave the slaves in a state of unpredictable terror. A clear, asured punishnt provided a stable, albeit harsh, resolution.
"Thank you, my Lord! Deepest thanks!"
The overseer let out a long breath of relief. Overwheld with gratitude, he and the slave threw themselves into the gri, reaching out to kiss the tips of Enkidu's boots.
Enkidu stepped back smoothly before they could touch him, gesturing for Paul to continue.
Word of the Angel's arrival spread like a virus. A path opened automatically. Whether it was the lowest sump-worker or a mid-tier overseer, everyone prostrated themselves as he passed. A local foreman ca running, offering a tray of ager "tribute" items.
"Keep your trinkets. I have no need of them." Enkidu ignored the smug look Paul gave the foreman. He stopped in front of the wiry man. "Perhaps one day I will allow you to offer tribute. For now, return to your post."
The man bowed with fervent devotion and lted back into the shadows.
The Bronze Cog Clan's territory lay in the south-central region of the lower decks, situated near the plasma fuel cells and the cooling towers. Unlike the flimsy, unorganized shacks of the other clans, the Bronze Cog dwellings were fortified, built almost entirely from salvaged industrial plating.
Their main gate was imposing—a massive section of decommissioned ceramite piping painted a shimring brass. Two flagpoles stood flanking the entrance, flying the heraldry of the Bronze Cog.
Before Enkidu could speak, Paul stepped into his role as the "Angel's Herald" with practiced ease. He strutted up to the gate, shouting at the guards who stood ard with crude scrap-guns.
"Hey! Summon your Elder! An Angel of the Host demands an audience!"
Upon seeing the silver-haired giant standing behind the serf, the guards didn't hesitate. They offered a frantic salute and sprinted into the heart of the clan's compound.
"My Lord, please wait a mont," Paul said, basking in his reflected glory. "These clans rarely see anyone of your stature. Their etiquette is... lacking. Please, do not take offense."
Enkidu didn't answer. He was staring at the flag hanging from the pole, lost in thought.
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