2025-04-12 8:19:09 ¶ ●

# petty functionaries & pious fools

Calix saw the Customs Adept’s eyes upon him as they approached the checkpoint archway, its tarnished aquila sigil judging them from above. A measured anxiety tightened in his gut; avoiding scrutiny here would be impossible. The Adept’s attentive look, the dutiful grip upon the flickering data-slate displaying Calix’s landing credentials—it conveyed bureaucratic suspicion clear enough.
The official’s eyes snagged, inevitably, on the Grave-Pelt.

“Identify that garment, off-worlder,” the Adept—an Ensign judging by the worn insignia on his drab uniform collar—demanded, voice flat with practiced authority. “Record designation: Xeno-hide, suspected mutant origin?”

Just as he predicted. Calix stiffened, almost imperceptibly. He opened his mouth to offer the carefully rehearsed explanation…

“A hunting trophy, Ensign.” Saren von Aurastor’s voice, smooth as polished void-steel, interjected. The Rogue Trader leaned fractionally into Calix’s personal space, close enough to make the hair on his nape rise.

“From my associate’s homeworld, Margard,” Saren continued with effortless charm. “A ‘Ghoulfang’ pelt—formidable beasts indigenous to those harsh climes. Testimony to the resilience the God-Emperor requires of Mankind in His domains, wouldn’t you agree?”

Calix listened, stunned by the man’s fluency in pious deception. What other falsehoods, he wondered darkly, has von Aurastor orchestrated with such ease? Nevertheless, he instantly saw what was required. He fixed the Ensign with his most convincing look of dignified, aristocratic boredom.

“They roam the High Fells,” Calix stated, his own voice level. “Their hides require… extensive curing.” He rolled his neck slightly, a deliberately languid motion drawing attention towards the imposing bone spines that jutted from the treated hide and fur. “This one signifies a particularly arduous hunt.”

The Ensign’s brows had remained knitted in a subtle frown as Calix spoke, clearly weighing procedure against the imposing presence beside the Margardian. With one final, nervous glance up at the Rogue Trader, he grunted, tapping dismissively at his slate.

“Hmph. Mutant or native predator, it warrants attention. See that it’s logged for Mandatory Decontamination Protocol Seven. Proceed.”

As they passed the clanking auto-barricades without further impediment, Calix heard the persistent, theatrical click of Saren’s heels just behind him. Still too close. He had the grim instinct, honed by Dominus-Law, to anticipate the Rogue Trader leaning near his shoulder, could almost picture the wry curl of lips before the voice came again, low and pitched for his ear alone.

“Lesson one, Lord Fellner: In the Imperium, the truth is often less useful than a plausible truth. Especially when dealing with petty functionaries… or pious fools.”