I R O N M A I D E N
L O C A T I O N | The Ark
G E A R | Gjallerhorn | Celestial Crown
The main office of the Church aboard The Ark was a cathedral of war turned into a bureaucratic nightmare. Columns of dark metal rose like ribs around the chamber, and banners of House Prime swayed with the hum of engines far below. The centerpiece was a massive desk carved from the hull of a slain dreadnought, its surface buried under datapads, scrolls, sealed manifest crates, maps, and parchment that seemed to multiply by the hour.
Prime sat hunched over the mess like a very irritated goddess of administration.
Four arms at work. Five eyes in a slow, exhausted squint. Two claws massaging her temples as if trying to crush her headache into submission.
"By the forge...why does leading a religion feel like clerical punishment?" she muttered, flicking through war college applications, docking manifests, treasury reports, vault inventories, foundling assessments, and at least three separate petitions complaining about overly enthusiastic hound-training drills.
She reached for a parchment, stamped it with House Prime's sigil. Heavy, final, authoritative~
Only for a fresh avalanche of documents to be dumped onto her desk.
The xeno froze.
Her eyes twitched.
Then rolled so far back she very nearly saw her tail swish.
"Oh wonderful. Just what I need. More kriffing everything."
She reached over blindly for her horn, found a scrap of something that wasn't the horn, cursed, then finally wrapped her claws around her beloved Gjallerhorn and tipped it back for a long pull. Only then...only then...did she notice one of the new documents bore a bright red emergency seal.
Dima sighed like a condemned woman.
"Probably nothing...just some foundlings who poked a rancor nest again..." she grumbled, slicing the seal open with a claw and pulling the letter free.
She took another drink.
Her eyes scanned the page.
Her expression froze.
Then~
CHOKE.
A mist of ale exploded from her mouth, splattering across her desk, the paperwork, the wall, at least two priceless star charts, and a carved figure of Ha'rangir that stared unimpressed.
"PFFFFFT, WHAT!? THERE AIN'T NO KARKIN' WAY!"
She shot to her feet so fast her chair toppled.
Five eyes went wild, bouncing across the page as she began pacing, muttering, cursing, growling.
"Ohhhhh of course. Because why wouldn't this happen today? SCRIBE!"
A robed clergyman practically materialized at her side. Dima shoved the page into his hands.
"Run this up the chain. Now."
He looked at the document.
He blinked once. Twice...thrice.
A pale, worried "Oh...I see" left his lips before he bowed. "Right away, Prime."
He vanished like a man fleeing incoming artillery.
Dima dragged her claws down her face. A slow, dramatic scrape that conveyed existential exhaustion more clearly than any words ever could. She turned toward her assistant, who stiffened like prey caught in a spotlight.
"You! Make some calls," she snapped, throwing her hat aside and raking her claws back through her hair in a motion halfway between grooming and barely restrained violence. "We're gonna need outside help. Someone with a gun and a deeply questionable moral compass."
The assistant blinked. "Anyone in particular?"
"Mercs, hunters, morally bankrupt scoundrels! Whoever you can dig up. I need confirmation before I even think about committing Mandalorian units."
She exhaled, long and low, shoulders sinking as she surveyed the catastrophe that was her desk.
"It's gonna be a long day..." she growled.
A very long day indeed.
