Perturabo: *Is in a loud and vicious argument with both Crucius and Edon on whether or not grox-dogs can be classified as a sandwich, and it's threatening to turn violent*
Nehetari: *is standing beside Perturabo and listening thoughtfully*
The Silent King (through interstitial message): "This is the being you've taken for your mate. Your Mahkotokh no less..."
Nehetari: *mildly confused by her father's obvious remark* Yes?
(Trying out some different outfit designs for Nehetari. This one is formal attire for meeting foreign dynasties. A formal deathmask, cowl to cover her neck, and long robes ensure every inch of her is covered [except her ears at the moment], as seeing a [sort of] flesh and blood Necrontyr can sometimes cause... ...psychological problems... ...in dynasties outside of the Szarekhan social spheres. Especially if the aforementioned Dynasty is susceptible to the Flayer curse)
During her time (badly) disguised as a techpriest in the retinue of an inquisitor, Nehetari got the chance to meet with a squad of Catachan Jungle Fighters.
While listening to their stories of home, she asked them what a Catachan Devil was.
Then she asked them if they were edible....
Then she asked them what best way to prepare them was...
...She made friends with five Catachan Jungle Fighters that night.
"I recovered some of my old formal attire from Trazyn the Archivist.
I am unsure of how he 'happened upon it' within Father's inner vaults, but I pardoned him as gratitude for his 'diligent maintenence' and the 'voluntary forfeiture' of any other possessions of mine."
Perturabo took in a deep breath. The comforting scent of parchment, ink, freshly cut grass, and warm earth hung heavily in the evening air. His well-used drafting desk was one of his favorite places to be, and as a fresh breeze wafted lazily in through the open balcony window, he paused his sketching to look at the dappled evening sunlight filtering in. Birds were tittering outside, likely at their feeder, and their calls came accompanied by the soft swish-swish of ornamental grasses accenting the front flower bed.
This. This was what real luxury was like.
A slightly more insistent breeze slipped into the room, ruffling the drafting papers strewn about the worn desk surface. A misplaced fountain pen began to roll, and halfway through it's journey the primarch gently caught it, placing it back into its tattered old vase alongside the others.
Adjusting the pen in his left hand, Perturabo turned back to the sheaf of papers in front of him. The construction of the Mirror Palace's new wing was moving along apace, but it needed something to fill the half-courtyard formed where the new addition intersected with the east wing and palace proper. A natural pond sat just outside the area so, rather than waste time destroying a perfectly good water feature, a courtyard garden seemed to make the most sense. The Empress agreed.
The pen made a soft scratching sound as he put it to paper, and the plans for an elegant pavillion began to take shape in the ink.
He could have hardly asked for a more perfect time for this project. Crucius was currently away with Edon and the rest of the veteran Iron Guard. No doubt they were running drills, wrangling the new recruits into line, or getting harried by government officials in the capital right now. Empress Shatterspeare had been trapped in too many meetings to come invent more work for him to do, and the Psykers Guild hadn't had a catastrophe since the Necrons installed the empiric stabilizer. Or if there had been a catastrophe, it was either too insignificant to matter, or it wasn't worth risking the Lanky One's displeasure over.
And speaking of The Lanky One...
...Perturabo settled deeper into the large mahogany chair, lowering his head until his chin rested heavily on a crown of soft white hair.
Nehetari was just the right height for a chin-rest, and if she was just going to sit in his lap and take up space, she should at least make herself useful.
Not that it was difficult to work around her. She'd been there for a couple hours now. She wasn't sleeping, or even meditating (the depth and rate of her breathing told him this). She was just... ...watching him as he worked.
It had become... ...a sort of ritual for them on peaceful days like this. She would just appear, occasionally speak, sometimes offer skinship, but mostly just exist in a space near him. Sometimes he would be sitting in his large leather chair beside the bookcase reading, look up, and find her curled up on his bed asleep. Or scrolling through a dataslate. Or browsing one of his shelves for a new knickknack or gadget to inspect. Occasionally she would even sit down and make use of his easel. Though, despite her many talents, she was all thumbs the moment she picked up a brush or pencil. Conversation was never expected or missed, and Perturabo found himself deeply relishing the sound of soft footsteps approaching on carpet, or the gentle creak of a door being shut carefully as she entered.
Or in this case, it was the soft "thurrr thurrr thurrr" sound emanating from her at that moment. Of the various strange noises that her alien biology made, this was definitely one of his favorites. It always started with a soft "thurruk thuruk thuurruk," like someone was turning the ignition of a crate hauler covered in thick cloth. Eventually, the more staccato sounds would even out into long, low vibrations that would echo in her chest cavity, causing her whole body to vibrate ever so slightly. He learned that this was one of her "happy" noises.
The feel of the vibration against the muscles of his upper body was an utterly fascinating sensation, and the sound sent pleasant, tingling waves across his scalp and down his spine. Just as he started to relax, another swift breeze came barreling in from the open door, and Nehetari silently retreated from the cool air into the shelter of the primarch's body.
"Shall I close the doors?"
It was the first word either of them had spoken in hours, and the sound felt strange in the cozy evening ambience.
"Unecessary." Nehetari shifted, settling into her new position. "The wind is sparse, and the fresh air is pleasing. Are you growing uncomfortable with me sitting like this?"
Perturabo snorted, "Hardly."
She barely weighted anything at all (at least to his standards anyway), nor was she as skeletal she used to be. He'd carried her boney, squirming ass across a three hour trek of minefields, trenches, and halfway up the side of a cliff in the past. THAT was uncomfortable. This was nothing.
He was rewarded for his answer with a swift, affectionate lick from her spade-like tongue. It was warm and rough, like the tongue of one of the empress' large felines. The primarch grumbled half-heartedly and planted his chin atop her head again.
Time passed and the cozy quiet reigned once more. Evening faded into night, and eventually Perturabo did get up and close the balcony doors, but only after he made sure the poor fried goat wouldn't freeze without her post-human internal furnace. The primarch watched her with no small amount of amusement as she waddled towards the washroom in a cocoon of blankets, looking like an even stranger xenos than she already was.
The rest was like clockwork. She would sleep here tonight, just like she always did. Maybe they would wake up together to another calm day. Maybe she would wake up first and drag him out of the house on some fool's errand. Maybe he'd wake up to Crucius hurling shoes and expletives at him, Lanky up and swatting them aside like training projectiles. Hell, maybe they'd wake up to every single Iron Guard librarian storming the house, begging them to come fix some hole the Psyker Guild exploded in reality. Maybe even some strange combination of the four; he'd given up on trying to predict chaos a long time ago.
Perturabo only had a few moments to settle himself before the body-heat snatcher returned, invading the sheets and his personal space. He wrapped his arms around the princess and squeezed, feeling her slowly calm and then slip into that meditative state she called sleep, but was more like a waking dream state. Even as her breathing evened out, the primarch could still feel her consciousness being... ...aware. Still slightly unsettling, but that was part of what helped him sleep soundly - it kept the paranoia at bay.
Satisfied, Perturabo closed his eyes... ...and sank into a warm, dreamless slumber.
*Massaging the bridge of his nose, Perurabo prepares to explain to the flesh-and-blood crown princess of the Necrons that, while it may be summer in the Athenian capital, and it may be hot, and public nudity may have been perfectly acceptable for her people (especially on their home planet), she's still not allowed to wander the city streets wearing only her cartouche and crown*
Nehetari: *aggressively walking her Seraptek Heavy Construct across the battlefield on a leash, drunk on WAAAGH energy, using a synaptic disintegrator to take wild pot-shots at orks*
1st Captain Crucius: "OK. Now she's just meming"
Perturabo: *slowly lowering his view-finder, watching a carefully laid plan go to shambles* Ok... ...on this day I have decided.... ...Lanky is BANNED FROM ALL THINGS GREENSKIN.
Perturabo is passed out on a bean bag in the grand library of the palace on Terra. There's a book over his face and spiced wine on a nearby table. Nehetari lays curled up in a very cat-like ball in his lap. Meanwhile, thousands of scarabs float lazily through the endless halls of shelves, casually scanning (stealing) the countless texts and annals of human history.
