Horizon's Edge Captain's Log 1

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Captain's Log - 398.819.M41
Designation: Personal
Security Level: Locked

It's amazing how quickly one gets used to this sort of thing. I woke up today in a bed the size of a small skiff, having been rocked to sleep by the thrum of engines driving a kilometre-long ship through the chill darkness of the empty void, with nary a sense of disquiet. I suppose what they told us in school has turned out to be right after all: once you've slept on cold hard planks at St Ciaphas' Boarding School for Boys, waking up anywhere else promises a good start to the day.

It is with some embarrassment that I must confess that since I last recorded this, I have desisted in my attempts to wear pyjamas under the covers. Mother would disapprove, but she's dead and the covers are stuffed with the down of some exotic creature that apparently thrives on an ice-planet, since anything but bare skin beneath the covers is stifling. So I rise with some sense of disturbed propriety, and I still blush as my maid dresses me.

I asked for a valet when I was first installed, I remember, but Lady Zhaleel of House Goshawk, a minor offshoot of the dynasty I'm supposed to be the head of but which seems to have taken an unseemly interest in my lifestyle, insisted that I do her the honour of accepting one of her 'nieces', as she calls them -- to be perfectly honest, the likeness is a bit too exact for young Adele to be anything but her daughter, but I allow her the little ruse, if it keeps her happy -- as my maidservant. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, I have few complaints: Adele is capable, discreet, and intelligent, managing my quarters like the queen of her own fief. If only she weren't so damn distracting.

Breakfast was lukewarm today -- a definite improvement. I believe that with a little bit more tweaking, the message tubes can be satisfactorily reconfigured to deliver all manner of items around the ship, to everyone's convenience. Since the vox systems came back online, only the bilge deck still relies on the pneumatic message tubes for dispatches, and that's because their voxcaster keeps growing an alarming electricity-eating fungus. i was so taken today by the quality of my repast that I must have bolted it, to Adele's alarm; despite her protests that I was early, I was out the door long before my mahout could bring the dragonnel around, and I am quite grateful for the experience. Sometimes the corridors pass by in a blur, so quickly that I barely have time to admire the murals and vaulted ceilings that some predecessor had thoughtfully installed.

Today, I managed to lose myself for some long minutes in contemplation of a bust of St Mhairi Drusina, fending off chaos-spawn after having been surprised in the process of servicing her powered armour. Or at least, that's what I assume she was doing, since her attire seems otherwise woefully inadequate for the business of battling chaos-spawn.

And then the boy came around, clapping his heels rhythmically against the dragonnel's side-mounted spiracles, and it was time to head off to the bridge, where I now transcribe this account while watching the shift change. Any minute now Orthesion is going to start bawling those cants of his over the voxcaster. I'm an Emperor-fearing man, no mistake, but sometimes I wonder if Him on Earth wouldn't also appreciate a few minutes' quiet without the prayers of trillions squalling in His ears all the time.

Ho hum. Orelius is here with another report. Good man. I haven't got used to him just appearing at my elbow all the time, but he assures me it is a mark of some professionalism in his trade, and I suppose I approve of professionalism. The tidings he bears are anything but professional, however: apparently Magos Ori has been trying to organise another fighting foetus circuit, and Kryellos has already been down there and shots have been fired.

Let the record show that the bridge has been passed to Commander Luitpold, with senior Navigator Yaleene in attendance. I'm going to go down there and bang some heads together. Let's see whether my mahout or my mulled wine gets here first.

All in all, it's not a bad life, this.