As the hours passed, Arkhah's rigid blank-minded horror had gradually dissolved into ordinary sleep, though sleep twisted and wracked by unpleasant dreams. He usually dreamed of hunting, chasing down an unseen prey through forests or caverns or one of the myraid environments he had explored since leaving Pech. Occasionally, though, like tonight, he had his equivalent of a night mare - instead, he was the hunted, fleeing through those same environments from an unseen, undefeatable enemy that would undoubtedly kill and consume him if he was caught...it was right around the corner, he was trapped at a dead end and could only sell his life at cost...<br/><br/><em>"Skreaaack!"</em><br/><br/>He woke suddenly, flailing a few times with talons and claws before reality reasserted itself and he calmed. He was no longer on the bridge of the ship, staring full-faced into something he couldn't completely remember, and didn't want to. He was somewhere else, on a couch in what looked like human living quarters in front of a window devoid of warp rifts. He had never been here before, but the scent permeating the room was unmistakable. These must be the sleeping chambers of the Void Mistress Sarah, the Rogue Trader Cortez's best pilot. Arkhah did not know how he had ended up in her rooms - presumably, someone had helped the Void Mistress Sarah carry him, she was small and unlikely to have done it herself.<br/><br/>He was grateful, though - the couch was much more comfortable than the cold floor of the bridge, though not as much as his own nest. climbing to his feet, he surveyed the empty room with a few sniffs, confirming that the Void Mistress Sarah had been here very recently, but was not here now. That made it likely that they were not in combat anymore, if she had found time to rest, so Arkhah would need to find the Rogue Trader Cortez for instructions. First, though...he surveyed his loaned bed with a whistle of distaste. While he had no way to judge its craftsmanship, it had several deep gashes from where he had lashed out in his dreams, and the length of the surface was deeply permeated with the Kroot pheremone-sweat that other races only identified as particularly pungent. It would be of no use to her now, and a replacement would be necessary - in the meantime, he would dispose of this one for her.<br/><br/>Whipcord muscles tensing, he lifted the small, lightweight couch and slung it across his shoulders, shifting to balance its bulk as a few springs popped in protest. The door was open, and Arkhah bustled off down towards the half-abandoned supply room that he had repurposed into his own sleeping chambers, his skin habitually blurring and recoloring itself back into the dull greys of the corridors, resulting in what looked like a battered leather couch levitating itself down the hallways accompanied by the occasional chirp of effort.