The interior of the Essence of Purity was every bit as dark, empty, and ultimately sterile as the depths of interstellar space through which it quietly slipped. Her exterior hull was painted a matte black, and she was running without the lights which usually illuminated ships of her size. Lights would have made her visible to other ships, which defeats the purpose: not that the Essence was expected to see any other ships in her line of work, but there was still a matter of principle to be observed. The Ordo Excorium was rarely seen, preferring to allow their work to speak for itself, and its Inquisitors were expected to hold to that notion. 

“Lydia,” a deep voice growled in the dark, somewhere deep in the bowels of the Essence “bring the lights up to ten per cent.”

The prisoner's eyes, by now used to the darkness which had for some time been her only companion, darted about the room. Cubical, modestly sized, bare brushed metal surfaces and exposed pipes and wiring across the ceiling: a cargo storage room. The chains around her neck, wrists, and ankles which restrained her low to the deck told the prisoner exactly what the “cargo” was in this case.

The prisoner's eyes finally fell upon her captor. The rather imposing figure who had spoken before sat in a plain chair, the only other things in the room aside from herself and her bindings. His mantle fell about his hunched shoulders as he stared back at the prisoner's visored face.

“You're a mess,” he observed calmly. “Hardly befitting of your position.”

The prisoner closed her eyes, breaking the impromptu staring contest. “I'll not hear that from you. To me you mon'keigh only ever look bedraggled. This is merely the result of a series of what your species would call “bad days”.”

“So arrogant for someone defeated so thoroughly,” the man chuckled, looking over her rent and stained armor. “I almost admire your delusions of superiority, xeno witch, though it does please me to know you speak Gothic.” 

“Who exactly are you, mon'keigh?” the prisoner demanded. “On what grounds are you holding me in such conditions?”

The man sat up straighter. “You wear the armor of a Farseer, xeno. No such thing as being “too careful” in my position. That's why the soul-net is there.”

“So this is indeed modified soul-net? Your paranoia paints the perfect image of an Inquisitor,” the Farseer sneered. “Am I wrong, mon'keigh?”

“I don't know,” the man countered. “Why don't you tell me? You Farseers are supposed to be clairvoyants... though you DID manage to get yourself captured in spite of it. Perhaps you're a defective Farseer?”

The Farseer thrashed once against the chains, pulling them taut against their mounting points on the floor. They only allowed her as far as her knees before stopping her progress. 

“I would have your head for such mockery, mon'keigh,” she hissed angrily. 

The human merely shrugged. “If you threaten me again, I'll put a bolt in your head, dump your corpse out the nearest airlock, and go right along my merry fucking way.”

A tense silence returned for several minutes as the two glared at each other. Finally, the Inquisitor stood. “Now that we know where we stand...”

The Farseer struggled briefly as the human removed her ghost-helm, revealing a pale and angular face framed by long, vivid red hair. A faded yellow bruise under her left eye, along with some dried blood around her mouth made it obvious that she'd been on the losing end of a major battle not too long ago. Two piercing green eyes greeted the Inquisitor, glaring up at him angrily. Her eyes betrayed some confusion, though, as the Inquisitor continued with her armor. 

“What are you doing, mon'keigh? How.. how DARE you?!” the Farseer demanded as the Inquisitor roughly pried one of her pauldrons loose.

“You reek of sweat and blood,” the Inquisitor replied. “If you're going to live aboard my ship, you'll do so on my terms. Or I could have you tossed back out in the void where I found you, if you would prefer it?”

Receiving no reply but a silent scowl, he nodded in satisfaction. 

“Lydia!” the man ordered loudly. “Bring the equipment.”

The Farseer tried in vain to squirm away from her captor, even though the thin chains around her neck, wrists, and ankles sapped her inborn abilities. They left her helpless, and she hated the feeling. It made it simple for the Inquisitor to lay her bare in a matter of minutes, exposing her pale flesh to the chilly air of the storage room. Each piece of armor coming off revealed new wounds that marred her beauty, or else traces of them: the Farseer was obviously running more on pride than anything else at this point. For good measure the Inquisitor also tightened the bonds about her to ensure that she couldn't wriggle out of them, before folding her tabard carefully over the back of his chair. 

Then, palming a bright, red stone, the Inquisitor returned to tower over his captive. She made no effort to hide herself, and the Inquisitor found his eyes lingering on silky smooth thighs and perky breasts that would be the envy of most human women. He briefly pondered her delicate chin and nose, and only barely winced at the sight of her elongated ears. Far from restrained, his response struck the prisoner as being oddly appreciative given the situation. 

“What “equipment” do you plan to use?” the Farseer demanded, eying the stone warily as the Inquisitor turned it gently in his fingers. “If you plan to break my spirit by breaking my body...”

“Shut it,” the Inquisitor growled, waving the stone at her. “You want this back, don't you?”

The Farseer bit her lip, but finally nodded. “I do.”

“Behave yourself and I'll give it back to you,” the Inquisitor explained. “Sit still, do not speak unless I ask you a question. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly,” she snarled.

A few moments later an assistant arrived, drawing a bemused look from the Eldar. She looked the newcomer over: petite, with a plain and dark uniform, but not quite human. In addition to her sleek, tawny hair, the young woman who could only have been “Lydia” sported two feline ears and a long, fluffy tail. It swished back and forth as if it had a mind of its own as she handed the Inquisitor a bucket.

“I hope you don't mind if I don't stick around, sir,” the Felinid greeted with a small bow. 

The Inquisitor nodded. “That's fine, Lydia,” he replied. “You may see to your other duties.”

“Thank you,” the Felinid bowed again, before turning and leaving the room. She did, however, spare a glance at the bare-skinned Eldar on the floor before excusing herself.

“Good girl,” the Inquisitor granted congenially. “Good help, never complains. Very loyal. Never asks for a raise, though really I suppose I don't pay her anyway.”

“I'm truly happy for the two of you,” the Eldar snapped back. “What is in the bucket?”

In response, the Inquisitor tipped the bucket over her head, spilling cold water onto her hair and shoulders. The Farseer gave a little yelp of surprise, clearly having suspected something far more sinister and not something quite so cold. 

“It could at least have been warm water,” she growled. 

Her captor dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You spoke out of turn. Shut your eyes, your hair is first.”

“I could do this myself if you took off these chains,” she said simply, raising her wrists. 

“Not happening. Now shut up or I walk off with your precious little stone.”

After rolling her eyes, the Farseer wisely closed them. Fingers covered in some strong-smelling goo massaged her scalp firmly, allowing waves of suds to roll down her length of red hair and along the length of her body. Tired muscles yielded under carefully controlled pressure, and dried blood flaked off her pale skin. The Inquisitor's hands found a washrag, and he continued to scrub and wash all the way down past her hips and thighs, finally ending at her ankles and feet. Bruises were treated almost tenderly, cuts were washed out with notable care despite the initial sting of the cleansing agent. It was almost enough for her to forget the chains that dug ever so persistently into her skin. 

Then, the rest of the bucket of cold water snapped her mind back into focus. The dim room greeted her eyes once more, though now she felt clean... if a little vulnerable. 

“That was almost pleasant for a moment, mon'keigh,” she commented before suddenly realizing her mistake.

The Inquisitor merely dropped the red stone, her own spirit-stone, into the Farseer's lap. 

“As promised,” he told her, turning to leave. “For all your bluster you behaved reasonably well, so you may keep your spirit-stone for now. My adjutant will return when she has time to dispose of your armor.”

“You plan to leave me here? Wet and shivering like a gyrinx caught in the rain?” she asked incredulously. 

“There are limits to my hospitality, xeno,” he replied crossly. “I will see to your basic needs: food, water, hygiene. Comfort comes after you do something to earn it.”

“And you plan to give me such an opportunity?” she shot back. “Somehow I doubt you mon'keigh could possibly be that reasonable. You're uncultured. You're arrogant. You're irrational. You're...”

“Virtanen,” the Inquisitor replied.

“Excuse you?”

“Inquisitor Virtanen, Ordo Excorium of the Inquisition,” he repeated. “You wanted to know, and now I've told you. Expect me tomorrow after I rest, xeno.”

“Macha,” the Eldar replied, apparently surprising even herself. After a moment, she regained full control and as much poise as she could muster. “I am Farseer Macha of Craftworld Biel-Tan.”

Inquisitor Virtanen paused in the doorway, looking his captive over one more time. His glare softened, just a little. “Get some sleep if you can, Farseer. Lydia, decrease lighting to zero.”

The low, red lighting of the hall outside Macha's sparse quarters abruptly disappeared, leaving her to shiver alone in the center of the puddle surrounding her. With nothing else to do she retrieved her spirit-stone from between her legs and curled up against the cold metal floor, an odd feeling of frustration nagging her as she drifted into sleep.