Warhammer 40,000: Take As PrizeChapter 5 free porn video

Kar’Toba was, of course, welcomed aboard the bridge in the same way that a visiting god or the physical reincarnation of the Emperor, or a prize agent might be welcomed aboard. With bows and doffed caps and murmured snatches of High Gothic that may have been complimentary but tended to be so half-recalled that the officers in question may have been telling him about his finely shined shoes or the way that he looked like green vomitus. Kar’Toba took this all as his due, while Jon and Vynn stood on the command plinth, Jon looking better rested than he had in nearly a month and a day. Vynn remarked on this in her normal tactful way with a booming: “Good Emperor, Jon, you don’t look like a corpse anymore. See his coloration, Lord Kar’Toba, does he not look like he’s rejoined the land of the living? Ha ha!”

Jon pursed his lips. “Let us say that some nightmares have stopped. What’s this all about?” He nodded to the plumes of smoke that rose from the dorsal guns – visible through the forward vista plates.

“Well, Lieutenant Tripp, you know him, our sensor officer, has gotten his step, and Ensign Desna, well, I should not speak overly much, but let us say that I have something in my breast pocket for her once she’s done with her arithmancy,” Vynn said, nodding – and thus, informing every single bridge officer that Desna was to be promoted forthwith.

“His step?” Jon asked, sipping from a cup of rekaff. He frowned, noting a faint mineral taste that hadn’t been there in the weeks past. A slow creeping inefficiency contained within the life sustaining systems of the voidship. He wondered how long it would take before the whole Hegemony was drinking more particulates than water. He supposed that before such an eventuality, Vynn would go comet hunting. Vynn sipped from her cup and seemed to take the taste utterly in stride.

“Yes, his step. He’s going to be Captain Tripp once he takes that bloated hulk home. If it’s not stripped for parts that is, ha ha!” She threw her head back, her good cheer contained within the estimated figures – at a Captain’s share, even if the Admiralty and her prize agent only bought the Duty’s Reward for scrap iron and junked the rest, she would still be wealthier than she had been for some time. Wealthy enough to think about sinking funds into an estate – or, more likely, into the stocks and the Trust Galactica.

“They what?” Kar’Toba asked, all joviality gone.

But the Duty’s Reward fired off its own salute, every functioning macrocannon along its dorsal ridge sending up plumes of flame and smoke as a signal of respect to the Hegemony. And with that, the warp drives opened a vortex of swirling purple light. Kar’Toba watched the Duty’s Respect sweep into the warp with a wide eyed gape as if he had never seen such a thing before. Vynn slapped his shoulder before she remembered his august personage, and recoiled as he sent her a look of utter fury and total contempt. She quickly stepped back and bowed low.

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she mumbled.

But when she stood, Kar’Toba looked peaceful as an inland lake. “No, no, it’s fine, I just...” he shook his head. “I am glad to see your Lieutenant has his step.”

Vynn smiled, relieved at the reprieve, then turned to speak to Jon of the planned second step of the cruise. But inside, Kar’Toba – who was in fact Jelkos and not a member of the Salamander Space Marine chapter in the slightest – was seething with barely contained fury. Decades of carefully laid plans, bringing him slowly closer and closer to the once nascent and now active Severin Dominate, and now it was scuttled in a single warp jump. And how? Not by the cunning wits of an Inquisitor who even now tumbled through space as a desiccated corpse, nor by the piercing gaze of his enemy’s psyker talents. No, he now stood on a ship full of Imperial dogs while his powered armor and beloved bolter sailed away from him at a dozen Stelovs a second, to a shipyard where the Tech-Priests of Mars would strip away every bulkhead, searching for secrets. Secrets like the curved horns of his armor, the sigils of his true masters, the twisted beating heart of his daemonic weapon. His mind ranged through the eventuality – whilest he was a veteran of a thousand wars, he was unarmed and unarmored and would be fighting every Vedic, Cadic offshoot and mongrel Imperial on the ship.

It looked grim.

“And best of all, our good pipsqueak has sent word. The augries are fine for sailing for the next leg of the journey,” Vynn’s voice broke into Jelkos’ musings. “Is that not gay, good Sir Space Marine?”

“Quite,” Kar’Toba said – the mask resumed so completely that even a psyker would not be able to see anything but a jovial Salamander in that larger than life coal black figure. And so, he watched as the vista-plates were sealed and the ship plunged into the warp. He was invited to the dinner table of Vynn for the four day voyage into the warp that followed, but refused politely each time. Instead, Vynn’s table played host to her newly rearranged bridge crew – with Desna in a place of prominence, and a lack of one of the passengers. Saffron, it seemed, had died quietly in her cabin of a choleric fever, which had led Jon to quarantine the area and Vynn to gladly see guards posted there to ensure no unseemly looting. The death of a passenger was a sad thing, but as she had paid in advance, not too sad. Damion did seem a mite nervous, but Jon spent his time at warp checking studiously and found only a few expected cases of scurvy in the bilge crew, treated with vitamet tablets.

Four days and the ship emerged from the warp. The chronometric checks and astromantic readings placed them on the standard temporal deviation, with those four days becoming nearly two months with days to spare in realspace. This system was far more desolate than the last, but not unexpectedly, as it had been charted in centuries past. Here, a week was spent in cruising, testing the waters so to speak. But no Severin Dominate ships were sighted, nor did any neutrals or xenos ships come calling. Instead, the crew spent their time testing their mettle at voidsmanship as they wove the Hegemony through the rings of the local gas giant and several sections of the crew were selected by Vynn and Janus to go into the bumboats and go ice hunting. Spearing an ice comet, then melting it down and transferring it to the cisterns was not an easy task, but the crew managed without losing a man, for which Vynn celebrated by giving over a whole tot of grog.

In this time, Vynn found herself in an unexpected orbit. While she still thought of Jon’s piercing eyes and lean, muscular form – and his much improved coloration and the lack of bags sagging on his face from lack of sleep – she also found her heart thundering when she thought of none other than her head Enginseer. Turantawix had been coming to her offices every third day for the past three weeks to report on his tiny tweaks and changes to the Hegemony’s engines, and she had been able to follow him for the most part. Unlike most Tech Priests, Turantawix had a way of explaining techno-lingua into common Low Gothic that any layperson could follow.

On hearing her speak of that during one of their Regicide games, Jon had said: “Oh, so he can turn a tehcno-lingua into a techno-franca?” and laughed for several minutes and never managed to explain exactly what the jape was, leaving Vynn very annoyed. Still, the conversations had refreshed her with the unique construction of Turantawix mechanicus implants. Rather than most Tech Priests, who were more interest in the function of their implants, caring not if they demolished a perfect jawline to replace it with mechanical grille for breathing toxic fumes with ease, Turantawix had worked hard to maintain his facial structure. And so, his lower jaw looked as if it had been painted in delicate gold, but still bore his knife-sharp chin, and his nose remained in its rightful place, below and between a pair of warm eyes. Warm, despite their glowing red irises and the whirring camera lenses that made up their main mass. His hair remained mostly intact, though it was laced through with silvery fibers, giving him a distinguished edge despite his youthful appearance and mien.

On the fifth visit, when Vynn was charting out a hypothetical course for Severin Dominate and chartist shipping to determine where best to protect the latter and scourge the former and Turantawix came to speak of his newest adjustments to the power flow in the fore-ventral thrust arrays, Vynn did finally feel at ease enough to ask: “Mr. Turantawix, my good fellow, may I ask about your implants?”

Turantawix had, perforce, turned as red as his robes and stammered something between an affirmation and a high squeal. Vynn, amused, sat at her desk and waited. Seeming to realize he could not merely stand like a cervine in the autolamps of a groundcar, Turantawix stammered: “Well, that is, all Tech Priests make their own mantle, and such, they design it, but they also, uh, well, there are many castes on the Forge Worlds of Lathe! There are the cogitation specialists and, ah, the biotheurges, and, um, the cartho-artifex labyrinthinets, and the optis, and all sorts. All sorts! Takes all kind, ha ha!” His laugh, rather than being the booming laugh of Vynn or a naval voidsman seemed to be more for form. His hands interlaced and his mechadendrite whirred in a slow circle above his head, reflections of his nerve almost as much, if not more, than his voice. “Well, there are those, Factorum Vox Populat, they’re called. That’s High Gothic! Techno-Lingua has them as Genus 98 dash 261, but in the vernacular, in the Low Gothic, that is, they are called the Factors.”

Vynn raised her eyebrows. “They breed you like hunting canids down there?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no no no! No!” Turantawix shook his head swift enough that it was near fair to detatch. “Breeding isn’t involved, it’s almost entirely artisem impregnation and theowombs.”

Vynn nodded and said ‘ahhh’ as if that explained a great deal, then said: “So, um, how is this not like to hunting candis?”

“T-There’s no penetration?” Turantawix suggested after a few minutes of chewing his lower lip.

“How tragic,” Vynn said, dry as space.

Turantawix barreled ahead. “So, as a Factor, I was bred for ease of communing with sub-er, uh, baseline humanity and mainform six through one Imperial citizens, ranging from nobilis to the lowest ranks of the hive hierarchies!” He beamed. “I was rated to speak of matters from trade to logistics to even marriage proposals. B-But...” His face fell. “T-There was a disappointment.” Vynn nodded, fully expecting him to travel on. She was used to men and women fleeing disappointment in their landed lives by joining the navy. But to her shock and great joy – for while she was used to not knowing the full details, she always had the innate spacer’s urge to learn every last juicy bite of gossip she could – Turantawix continued. “You see, I was rated in the, ah, holodyne simulspaces and the theotechnical demonstrations. W-When the time came, I, ah, ended up, um, giving over a thousand Baneblades to one general, rather than the three he was rated and ... um...”

He looked chagrined. “I was demoted to the theurgic analysis of circuitry on Mortressa.”

Vynn immediately knew the system and startled Turantawix by exclaiming. “Good Emperor, there’s nothing more on Mortessa than a half-baked iron sword and maybe a castle!”

“I know,” Turantawix said, looking miserable. “And so, I worked from there to studying the engines of voidships and from there, became a novitiate in plasmetrodynamic magnetospheric construction. I found that communing with the machine spirits of mag-arrays quite a natural fit, and after three decades, I finally came to be the protege of Magos Su’Chen, and so, she saw fit to place me here once you accepted me and then, I came to your cabins and told you this narrative.” He bowed to her.

Vynn nodded, slowly. “Well, I think you are quite good at handling the Hegemony.” She stood, then put her palm on Turantawix’s shoulder. She smirked at him. “Though, it saddens me, to hear that the Tech Priests are without the physical expressions of ... well, the ... delights that the Emperor has seen fit to bestow on all of us.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Turantawix said, his brow furrowing. His eyes whirred. “Tech Priests are quite functional when it comes to such things. We just do not allow such a messy, illogical method to be the primary way to continue the genetic lines of our most effective sub-categories!” He nodded. “Why, I am in fact, well, that is, I was rated in holodyne simulation at least, to be a mark five on the Kepler-Hozz Humanoid Eroticism Scale!” He puffed up his chest and did not even seem to make much of a blush for such a frank statement. Vynn wondered if this was because it was related to a technical field of study, rather than the slick heat of a human passion, or if maybe because he had simply forgotten to be embarrassed. She had seen such things from time to time, on men and women who could be utterly tongue tied when at a dinner or speaking engagement, but later, might be seen to converse as if they had a laud-hailer in their throat, all by simply forgetting that they ought to be flustered.

“Interesting,” Vynn said, grinning. Her hand slipped along his shoulder.

Now, the memory of his flush returned and Turantawix looked at her. “W-Well, I mean, it was just a simulation.”

“Ever tested it?” Vynn murmured, leaning forward. Her own delight and curiosity had been sparked by the mention of a ‘mark five.’ She wondered how many marks this Kepler-Hozz scale had. Turantawix flushed silver and stammered out a quiet ‘oh, no, never, not even once.’

Vynn leaned forward and touched lips to her tech-priests. She had little paperwork left, and as the Hegemony was ticking through the dog-watches, she had little duties to worry about. And so, she let her tongue probe Turantawix’s mouth as his hands went to her hips. He tasted of gold and metal – and yet, also, she could taste the familiar flavor of a human mouth and tongue. His hands gripped her with a fierce strength and when she pressed him to the wall back, he was kissing her as deeply and eagerly as any she had sampled. Vynn drew her mouth back as Turantawix panted and whispered.

“I, ah, am not taking advantage, as, well, I am ... the Treaty of Mars...” he stammered – and Vynn’s lips drew back in a feral grin as she saw him try to square their bodies meshing against one another in the realm of galactic politics. She leaned forward and her voice became a husky purr.

“Wix, I’m practically ravishing you.”

And she pressed mouth to mouth again, and his hands clearly remembered their indoctrinated training. They cupped her rump, squeezing her through her uniform. As their tongues danced together, Vynn closed her eyes and could wallow in the satisfaction of another touch. But then those hands withdrew and Turantawix pushed her away with gentle firmness. She blinked slightly – pouting a bit. He grinned nervously.

“I, ah, Captain ... I have duties...” he gulped.

Vynn pouted. “Alas...” She knuckled his cheek gently, turning his head aside as she grinned at him. “Maybe next time, rather than spending an hour reporting, you can merely sweep the desk clear, tear my clothes apart with your mechadendrite, and fuck my brains out.” She used crudity with the brutal strength of a sledge hammer, aiming at the chains of modesty and shyness that she could see wrapped about Turantawix’s heart. And with delight, she saw those chains breaking. His eyes whirred, his mouth opened.

Then...

Then he flashed her a grin.

“It does seem most ... efficient...” he purred the word like the most heart felt endearment, then turned to go. His mechadendrite moved smoothly down and for just a moment, the pronged tips at the manipulator end caught and tweaked Vynn’s nipple through her shirt. She arched her back to prolong the contact, gasped, and then sagged back against the wall as the door opened then shut. She bit her lower lip.

“There must not be a mark six,” she whispered. “If there were, then they’d have affixed every nobleman with a cuckold’s horns by the 35th!”

Another system and six subjective days later and the Hegemony was in a high orbit around an immense, slowly bleeding gas giant. Captured close by a blazing blue sun, the gas giant was losing its atmosphere as boiling heat overcame the crush of gravity. This made an easy place for a lonely outpost of barely Imperial gas miners to set up position in Lagrange points, where they could scoop and drag up immense amounts of gas to be refined and sold to passing Rogue Traders, chartist captains, xenos, and who knows else. Translating their pidgin had taken Jon nothing more than a few winks and exchanged phrases, and he had turned the impressively attired headwoman of the gas station’s chittering, clicking tongue into Low Gothic.

“It’s a mixture of humanic tongues and some Kroot, if you can believe,” Jon said, not turning from their interlocutor so that he might not miss a single movement of her lips. “But she says that a Severin ship docked here four days hence and set sail for ... Sisk?”

“Sisk!” Vynn stuck the pencil she used to take notes between her teeth, opening up a chart she had brought of this region of space. Unfurling it, she crooked her head, tugged her pencil free, then started to scratch out notes. “Four days hence, for Sisk. Did she say the size?”

The headwoman spread her arms wide.

“Nay, she has no exact size, but she did count every gun,” Jon said. “She said six ... no, no, that’s not right. Chaka-ko?” He tapped his forearm thrice. The headwoman showed gums and spat on the rusted grating of the station’s floors. She shook her head and waved her hands down and Jon sighed. “I cannot get an exact number, but I think it’s betwixt six hundred and six thousand. Her mastery of that part of the Krootish tongue is entirely missing, and the humanic derivative is based on transabrahamic...”

“So, it’s between a sloop and a destroyer,” Vynn said, cutting him off. “The Severin Dominate doesn’t have much in the way of big gun ships, it’s likely an upgunned frigate pressed to serve as a light cruiser, does she have the name for it?”

“Dee Liberatee,” the headwoman said, then laughed as if telling the grandest joke.

“The Freedom,” Jon translated.

Vynn scowled. “Blasted Dominate, sullying a name like freedom with their treason. Can one be free to worship the Emperor when under the yoke of a traitor? Pfah!” She shook her head. “Jon, be a dear and pay the woman. Janus! Janus!” She looked around, and then saw her first officer was standing right beside her and from the dour look on his face had been standing there for some time waiting for orders. Vynn nodded at him. “Janus, make sure the crew don’t stay here long, we must be away as soon as the navigator has some shut-eye.”

“Ma’am, half the gun crews have already hit the red light district,” Janus said.

Vynn scoffed. “Then dig them out, get the bearded Vedics to do it.”

“The Shook?” Janus asked.

“Aye, the Shook, they’re the ones who forswore having a good time, they’ll be jolly good at stopping others at it,” Vynn said, beaming and utterly without feelings of guilt at stealing from the crew the pleasures she often indulged in – though only with mechanical aid these past few weeks. “Jon, do tell me that there’s nothing on this station you wish to poke or prod.”

“Welllll,” Jon admitted. “There are some xenofauna in the upper atmosphere of the gas giant that are thriving on photosynthetic energies, and that is deeply fascinating, but-” he quickly amended at Vynn’s glower. “But they can wait. After all, they lack voidflight.”

“Good man!”

The minor battle between the crew of the Hegemony was later enshrined in the gas miner’s memories. It was quite fun, for those who served as joygirls and happyboys for visiting voidships – a protected, nearly religious class among the miners. They watched from their cushions and pillows and drank sacramental wines as the half-naked Vedics and Cadics that made up their clientele were dragged from the cloth and silk bedecked chambers that made up the red light district. The Shook, a religious sect among the religiously pluralistic Vedics, were quite happy to use their clubs and shock-prods to get the less pious crew away from welcoming arms and legs. Meanwhile, the crew who were there to have a good time fought back, often with makeshift weapons. Chair-legs, chairs themselves, mugs of ceramoplast, bottles of beer, and in one case, an improbably long sexual aide swung with more vigor and accuracy than a chainsword wielded by a Space Marine. But despite their valiant efforts, every last void dog was at their work station with nothing more than a few bruises, a lingering hangover, and memories of pleasant, soft skinned companions. The Shook were given, by a somewhat poorly educated boatswain, an extra tot of grog for their hard work and spent the afternoon seriously contemplating the casks delivered them before deciding to sell them on to the very crew members they had so violently clashed with. They then spent their extra thrones on incense and devotional beads, while the surly crew comforted themselves in grog.

And thus, all was well as ended well and the Hegemony plunged once more into the warp.

Emerging from it a scant week later in the Sisk system, the Hegemony was hailed via direct laser traffic from an orbiting station bearing the aquilla and skull markings of an Imperial station. Vynn, irritable by a string of minor disasters in the engineering bay that prevented Wix from visiting her stateroom for more than a few minutes and by Jon’s continual obliviousness to her interest and her own personal recalcitrance to risk a friendship. Turantawix, despite his good looks and amusing shyness, was still kept at arms length by their difference in class and duties. A fling with him might not damage something Vynn found had become, over this cruise, as dear as the breath in her lungs and the treasure to her name.

And so, she glared with waspish irritation at the greenish, grainy video coming from the Imperial station in orbit about Sisk. A feudal world whose most advanced techno-sorcery was the ability to smelt iron into steel, Sisk was observed by and tithed with a system of orbiting stations. Their warriors were trained to use modern mono-blades and chainswords and sent into thick and deadly street fighting – a reason why the planet was kept at its feudal level, and why quiet Imperial whispers often set one feudal lord to war with another. A blade had to be honed and all that. But if the fat, balding face that filled the screen had been honed, Vynn thought, it’d have to have been by cloth and not a whetstone.

“Where the bloody hells were you! We were attacked four days ago!”

Vynn pursed her lips.

The story was told over a series of messages that flickered back and forth over the course of two days as the Hegemony made her way through realspace from the edge of the system to the orbit of Sisk itself. The light-lag delay between signals became shorter and shorter, and so Vynn had less and less time to calm down before responding to Imperial Sub-Governor Thurias Sprunt as he barraged her with endless quibbling questions. Where was the Navy, if the Spinward Front was supposed to be vital, oh didn’t he know that they were siphoning funds from his defense fleet, he just knew that resupply was being deliberately delayed, did she knew he had Enemies within the Administratum and that they were just waiting, and oh, oh, how he loved to enumerate to any who would listen just what torments he would unleash once he was no longer assigned to this dreary backwoods post.

Between the vox messages and the crawling delay of light lag, it took Vynn coming to the station and practicing the great guns on a few pieces of orbital detritus before she was allowed into the Sub-Governor’s office. He was quite polite – having watched the honed skill and accuracy of the ship’s guns as they had pulverized a junked SDF ship waiting for towing to the local star for disposal. Witnessing a heavily armored monitor curmpling into so much burbling slag had that impact on most people, and Vynn only wished she could do similar things to other people. It would spare her many a vexing headache.

The office of the Sub-Governor was as finely appointed as her own, but rather than using a scratch piece of paper and some condiments, he had a fully functioning holodisplay, which he used to show the Sisken sphere and his stations and two SDF monitors. Here, now, the truth of the headwoman’s claims were made manifest and Vynn whistled between her teeth. The Severin Dominate ship was not quite a frigate and not quite a cruiser. It bore the hallmarks of an Ambition. Not a true class by any means, an Ambition – or a Folly, as it often turned out – was what happened when a corporate interest or a Rogue Trader with more thrones than sense decided that they might have the skill of a shipwight.

Often, they were wrong.

From the gleaming green hololith that Vynn paced about, she could see that the Freedom was every bit a warship designed by those who sat behind a desk and imaged themselves as geniuses. It had two heavy long lances, a dorsal spine bristling with long forty-ho-hos that would fling armor piercing shells nearly a full astronomic unit’s distance before losing in accuracy. And slung along the belly was a preposterous pair of torpedo railings that jutted out underneath the prow like teeth. The torpedoes were shielded by twin shield emitters but not a single shred of armor. Vynn shook her head and then looked at Janus.

“Dear God, it’s a flying powder keg !” he exclaimed.

“It destroyed both of my monitors without losing a single inch of shielding!” Sprunt spluttered.

Vynn did her best to not roll her eyes. Any ship designed had to take a beating and dish a beating out. But this was a ship for a bully – a man who would throw the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth punch without ever once imagining that one might punch back.

“Surviving until their shields pop, that’s the trick,” she said, quietly. “You think we can, Nestor?”

Nestor smirked at her. “Can an Imperial glass a planet?”

“Good man!” Vynn exclaimed. “Do you know the way it sailed?”

“Do I look like a witch or a mutant?” Sprunt scoffed.

“Find a ship?” Mary brightened. “Oh of course I can find a ship!”

“Are you sure that it’s safe to go after this thing?” Reggie asked, causing her young ward’s hair to almost burst into flames of pique and rage and frustration. “Monitors are heavily armored and armed, more so than a sloop, aren’t they?”

“Not quite,” Vynn said, her hands on her hips as Mary grabbed onto Reggie’s sleeve and tried to bend her tutor’s ear with her own thoughts on the subject. Reggie ignored her with years of long practice, something that Vynn rather admired her for, as she would have a hard time ignoring Mary after seeing even a tiny fraction of the navigator’s powers. “You see, a monitor lacks a warp drive, like a xebec. Unlike a xebec, they’re built entirely for defense and thus, have no engine to speak of. The Freedom would dance about them and blow them to kingdom come. We’re a touch more sprightly. And we’re Imperial Navy, not some SDF scrapings.”

“Need I remind you of the Darius Incident, the Battle of Freehold, the Treaxian Siege, the Vantoosh Uprising, or the Adumbrial Campaign?” Reggie said, pursing her lips. As each battle had been a victory on the ground it was as far removed from Vynn’s mind as proper rearing and breeding of pastel colored show equines. She looked on blankly and Reggie sighed. “Each was a notable battle where, beset by enemies, the PDF on said prospective planet fought back the enemy and was victorious without the Imperial Guard saving their behinds.” She paused. “W-Well, the Valhallans assisted in the last, but still.”

Entrenched prejudice assisted Vynn in ignoring the tyranids on Freehold, the orks on Darius, and the forces of Chaos on Adumbrial, and she dismissed them all with: “Yes, well, against a real enemy, you want the proper Imperial Navy. Or, I suppose, the Guards, if you must.”

Reggie seemed less than sanguine – but as the needs of the service demanded it, she relented as Mary began to cast about with her mind. Vynn beat a hasty retreat ... but she need not have bothered. The Navigator did not open her warps eye, nor did she incant or cast down strange magicks. All she did was close her eye and feel the impressions that the warp left on the material plane. Those perturbations were quite clear, as the Freedom lacked any navigator of their own, and so it left a juddering pattern of vortex portals, like a stone skipping through space. She laughed, clapped her hands, and almost ran to the bridge itself, before being forced to send a properly written letter for Reggie had decided she need practice her calligraphy.

Vynn squinted at the High Gothic, cocked her head, mumbled a few words, then finally, called Jon onto the bridge on the pretext of discussing their dinner that night, then quietly made sure he stood with line of sight on the letter. After a few minutes, he saw it and became aware that it had words, and shortly after, he had read them. With a sly innocence, Vynn remarked: “Quite a flair for High Gothic, our little pipsqueak.”