In the newly decorated saloon, the Nerve-render cracked against Angar's bare back with a snap, a blaze of torment that ignited nerves in a bonfire of anguish.

The pain was a Holy scourge, truly terrible, but it paled against the agonies he had endured before.

"Forty!" the assembled crew bellowed in unison, their voices rising in a merry cheer that echoed off the riveted bulkheads and partitions like the clamor of distant artillery.

Harc, clad in a finely tailored tunic of deep indigo silk embroidered with trefoil eagles, lowered the Nerve-render with a precise flick, his angular face impassive, his oil-dark eyes betraying no emotion.

Angar pushed off the marred wall and shrugged his shirt back on with deliberate care, mindful of the precious item nestled in its breast pocket.

The welts on his back throbbed in protest as the fabric settled, but he schooled his features into stoic indifference.

With his punishment concluded, the Victory Day revelry could commence in full, a rare concession to mortal joys amid the endless grind of duty and Holy War.

He didn't begrudge the crew their cheers during the lashing. All save the reclusive Heith had borne witness to his triumph the previous day, when he had defied the Hyperalgesicator's infernal embrace for an eternity of torment that would have shattered a lesser man.

Comments had been traded earlier as the crew gathered, whispers of his supernatural endurance, his unyielding will forged in mighty battles, all in the name of the Lord. Not in those exact words, but close enough.

Many had jested that the Nerve-render's bite would be a mere tickle to him, which transformed his flogging into a spectacle, the auspicious ignition of the evening's festivities.

They'd all but proclaimed his superiority over all others, and he savored hearing it, but the Nerve-render was a terrible device, an excruciating ordeal. Each lash had seared into him with unholy fervor, a tsunami of pain that tested the limits of his tolerance, nearly impossible to endure stoically.

But it was certainly a shadow compared to the Hyperalgesicator's abyss, and he would commit the same transgression again, dispatching that large missive to Fella without a second's hesitation.

The acclaim for his deeds, the murmurs of awe at his tolerance and superiority, were also pleasing, and balm enough on their own, sweeter than any unguent.

He stepped toward the saloon's threshold to retrieve his maul, propped just beyond like a loyal sentinel, its graviton core humming softly as he hefted it.

Upon reentering the chamber, Anarat approached with a grin splitting his grizzled features, his bulky frame squeezed into a pressed engineer's tunic of dark gray wool, accented with brass fastenings that shone like stars.

He thrust a tumbler of amber liquid toward Angar, the sharp whiff of fermented grains cutting through his sinuses.

"Come, Sir, partake of one drink," Anarat pressed with convivial insistence. "It's Victory Day. Unclench tonight. Indulge in some merriment, for the Three's sake."

Angar raised a hand in polite refusal, his gloved digits splayed. "No thank you."

Anarat deflated with an exaggerated, "Aw," pivoting to offer the glass to Heith instead. The bald helmsman, lounging in a rare departure from his bridge-throne-pretense feigning command, accepted it with a curt nod.

Heith wore a high-collared shirt of crisp linen in navy, paired with trousers of matching hue, his shining scalp reflecting the saloon's glittering streamers like polished steel.

Angar scanned the saloon for a shadowed corner, a vantage from which to observe without entanglement, when Slavo and Iyita drew near.

Slavo, a slighter man unarmored, was clad in a tailored vest of heavy brocade over a white shirt, trousers of dark wool completing the ensemble.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

But it was Iyita who commanded the eye, her presence itself like a celebration set against the grim utility of shipboard life.

She wore a velvet wrap dress in deep merlot, the fabric clinging to her olive curves with a slight daring that skirted the edges of propriety without breaching them.

The deeper V-neckline dipped just enough to expose collarbone and a hint of cleavage, framing a simple Trey-pendant in gold, while the A-line skirt fell below the knee in soft drapes, rustling with each step.

Short, puffed sleeves accented with subtle ruching added a touch of whimsy, and the ensemble was cinched at the waist with a slender belt of matching velvet.

Her makeup enhanced her natural alluring warmth with bold red lipstick on full lips, winged eyeliner defining her emerald eyes with mascara-thickened lashes, cheeks lightly rouged for a flushed glow.

Her nails were manicured short and practical, but painted a vibrant crimson that caught the light like freshly spilled blood. A delightful floral scent trailed her, with notes of jasmine and musk, intoxicating in the confined space.

She smiled warmly, dimples creasing her cheeks as she tilted her head. Slavo, his face red with drink, blurted, "Iyita was noting your…interesting outfit."

Angar nodded, glancing down at his garb. He wore a plain shirt of rough-spun cotton in faded green, paired with mechanic's trousers of utilitarian orange that fit poorly, especially in his digitigrade stance.

Others had already noted the colors clashing like warring factions, the discord of styles, as well as the poor fit.

"My two quality outfits are suited for Sunday Mass or a formal ball," replied Angar, "neither appropriate for tonight. I need some tailored when I get the chance. Veerta procured what I have, but her options were limited given my size and shape."

He had no grasp of fashion, its seemingly arcane rituals and esoteric principles. Pants and shirt that somewhat fit had seemed sufficient enough.

He highly favored the Cloisteranage's regimen of an informal uniform donned daily, excising the folly of allowing choice.

Why the Holy Empire permitted such frivolity, fashion's waste of resources and time, eluded him.

He still studied its components, taking note of dress, hoping it'd all click at some point.

"I can take your measurements," Iyita offered, her silken voice filled with genuine warmth, "and procure some attire for you while you Crusade on Abyssalhome."

Angar nodded again. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that and shall supply a stipend for the task. You are looking quite radiant this evening. Your husband is a very lucky man."

Iyita's smile widened, her dimples deepening as she inclined her head gracefully. "Thank you kindly," she replied, her tone both demure and pleased.

"Later, if you're willing," Angar added, "and it's not too much of an imposition, may I request your instructions on the finer points of astronautics?"

Iyita beamed, her green eyes sparkling like verdant stars. "Definitely! I'd love to. Just let me know when you're ready to enter the aerospace-mechanicum."

Angar offered a smile to the couple as Slavo drew his wife away, steering her toward the scarred table where Harc and a knot of crewmen rolled dice amid laughter.

Deli, his lean frame in a sharp jacket of teal leather over a collared shirt, slammed his fist down with a triumphant "Senio!" before gulping from his tumbler, the liquid sloshing like a rough tide.

Angar drew a deep breath, taking in the saloon's mingled scents of incense from the chapel, the sharp bite of spirits, the complex blend of smorgasbord aromas, and the whiff of perfume from the letter in his breast pocket.

He claimed a seat on a reinforced bench bolted to the bulkhead, the metal groaning under his mass, and observed the revelry unfold.

On the table, a champagne tower had been shoved aside to make room for games and gambling, its crystal tiers catching the glow of dull holo-lights projected like ethereal wisps.

Twisted streamers in imperial gold and white, a Trey emblazed on all, draped from the ceiling, fluttering like triumphal laurels. A few twinkling fairy lights and candles in crystal holders adorned the table and furnishings, alongside two freshly fabricated floral arrangements.

Deli, Kong, Slavo, Anarat, and Doc already bore the flush of inebriation, their laughter booming like thunder, likely having begun their libations earlier, while still on duty, in defiance of regulation.

Kong's cybernetic bulk was crammed into an oversized shirt of sturdy canvas embroidered with Treys, and black pants.

Doc sported a tunic of slick elegance with rolled sleeves revealing oil-stained forearms, his wiry form animated with gestures as he regaled the group with a bawdy tale from his Pinaculum Ordinis days, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Simo, in a simple and neat vest of black wool over starched linen, reveled at the table, his gruff and bearded face alight as he tossed bones with practiced flair, barking a laugh as he ribbed Deli over a lost wager. "That's the third in a row, operator. Your luck's as reliable as cheap armor!"

Stek, the slim gubernator in a modest tunic of gray wool with a Trey-brooch at the collar, stood apart, murmuring quietly over clasped hands before joining Heith in a subdued discussion, his too-white teeth showing through his smile.

Garioch, his braided pate so out of place, his bulk clad in a damask jacket with a pomegranate motif in noble cuts with brass Trey-sigil buttons, caught Angar's eye and seemed poised to approach, then Anarat thrust a drink into his hand, drawing him into animated discourse with a clap on the shoulder, the pair debating the merits of United Front engineering.

The saloon thrummed with celebration, marking the anniversary of the First Crusade's victory, and Angar watched this carnival with detachment, his thoughts already marching ahead to the hours of cleaning, training, and prayer that awaited, and the maintenance of the new hammer that would soon drink of unholy blood.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.