Krayzikk

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

shall we begin?

Name: Marchesa Arabella Fortunado
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Job: Operator of Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Appearance: Tall, toned, and possession of pale blonde hair. The Marchesa once dressed fitting with the nobility of her position, but instead works to balance between that view and the practical necessity of her new role. Arabella stands tall and straight, seemingly aloof and confident.
Personality: Friendly, enthusiastic, compassionate, and appears to be completely the opposite of all three. By appearances the Marchesa is reserved, aloof, and does not deign to speak with those outside of her Damocles' crew. The reality, more simply, is that she is a little self conscious about her ability to speak the English of most of her compatriots. Marchesa Fortunado takes the historical purview of the marchese very seriously; hers is the duty to defend her empire's borders, though her protectorate has since expanded to the whole of the planet upon which she stands.
History: Born to Italian nobility, during the period of reunification, Marchesa Fortunado was raised in a comfortable environment and educated to the highest standards of her family. Her only problems may have been political were it not for the invasion of demons from the Red Planet. Instead she championed her country's efforts to build a titan of their own, personally entreated her distant cousins in the capital for support, and made it painfully clear that she would permit no one else to be her Empire's sword. The Damocles was built to her specification and she ventured to the war's front by the English Channel upon its completion.
Equipment: Sidearm, both firearm and the bladed, courtly symbol of her authority. Various other odds and ends.
Fighting Machine: Damocles



Designation: Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Crew: Variable, but minimally an operator and a munitions handler for each high caliber weapon.
Description: In the vicinity of 9 meters tall, the Damocles is built to maximize the mobility and speed of the Martian-derived magnetic-mechano limbs integrated into its frame. Its limbs, thus, are armored fairly sparsely; its protection is centered around the cockpit of its operator. The loaders of its pair of capital armaments, by necessity and occupational hazard, are much less protected. The two ten inch guns, originally stripped from an Ammiraglio di Saint Bon-class battleship, have had half the barrel chopped off for reasons of size. At thirty four feet long they would have more than doubled the Damocles' height and rendered it impractically top heavy. Instead, integrated into its back and rising over either shoulder, it gives the Damocles a battleship punch at much closer ranges. In comparison to most Colossi the Damocles has been painted in riveting gold, emblazoned with an Italian coat of arms, and a gleaming crown upon its head.

Weapons: A gleaming, 4 meter broadsword secured to Damocles' right forearm. Though it can be folded flush with the forearm for storage, pneumatics will deploy and lock it into a position analogous to that of a handheld, human-scale blade. Mounted to its back and loaded by a crewman each are two ten inch guns, and its left forearm contains a motor-driven Bailey machine gun and ends in a bayonet that can deploy the same way as its sword.
Traits: Demons from Mars require a God from the Earth, and Damocles was built to scale. Fast, powerful, brazen, and built to fight like the human being at its core. But a grace like that cannot be managed by a machine. To enable such feats the Damocles is controlled by a state of the art force-feedback man machine interface; strapped into place with tethers attached to its operators limbs the Damocles will, in broad strokes, ape its pilot's motions. The principle, and mechanics, have been compared to that of an enormous string puppet; the trouble being that hyper extension of Damocles' joints has the potential to be mirrored on its operator.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

shall we begin?

Name: Marchesa Arabella Fortunado
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Job: Operator of Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Appearance: Tall, toned, and possession of pale blonde hair. The Marchesa once dressed fitting with the nobility of her position, but instead works to balance between that view and the practical necessity of her new role. Arabella stands tall and straight, seemingly aloof and confident.
Personality: Friendly, enthusiastic, compassionate, and appears to be completely the opposite of all three. By appearances the Marchesa is reserved, aloof, and does not deign to speak with those outside of her Damocles' crew. The reality, more simply, is that she is a little self conscious about her ability to speak the English of most of her compatriots. Marchesa Fortunado takes the historical purview of the marchese very seriously; hers is the duty to defend her empire's borders, though her protectorate has since expanded to the whole of the planet upon which she stands.
History: Born to Italian nobility, during the period of reunification, Marchesa Fortunado was raised in a comfortable environment and educated to the highest standards of her family. Her only problems may have been political were it not for the invasion of demons from the Red Planet. Instead she championed her country's efforts to build a titan of their own, personally entreated her distant cousins in the capital for support, and made it painfully clear that she would permit no one else to be her Empire's sword. The Damocles was built to her specification and she ventured to the war's front by the English Channel upon its completion.
Equipment: Sidearm, both firearm and the bladed, courtly symbol of her authority. Various other odds and ends.
Fighting Machine: Damocles



Designation: Damocles
Country of Origin: Italy
Crew: Variable, but minimally an operator and a munitions handler for each high caliber weapon.
Description: In the vicinity of 9 meters tall, the Damocles is built to maximize the mobility and speed of the Martian-derived magnetic-mechano limbs integrated into its frame. Its limbs, thus, are armored fairly sparsely; its protection is centered around the cockpit of its operator. The loaders of its pair of capital armaments, by necessity and occupational hazard, are much less protected. The two ten inch guns, originally stripped from an Ammiraglio di Saint Bon-class battleship, have had half the barrel chopped off for reasons of size. At thirty four feet long they would have more than doubled the Damocles' height and rendered it impractically top heavy. Instead, integrated into its back and rising over either shoulder, it gives the Damocles a battleship punch at much closer ranges. In comparison to most Colossi the Damocles has been painted in riveting gold, emblazoned with an Italian coat of arms, and a gleaming crown upon its head.

Weapons: A gleaming, 4 meter broadsword secured to Damocles' right forearm. Though it can be folded flush with the forearm for storage, pneumatics will deploy and lock it into a position analogous to that of a handheld, human-scale blade. Mounted to its back and loaded by a crewman each are two ten inch guns, and its left forearm contains a motor-driven Bailey machine gun and ends in a bayonet that can deploy the same way as its sword.
Traits: Demons from Mars require a God from the Earth, and Damocles was built to scale. Fast, powerful, brazen, and built to fight like the human being at its core. But a grace like that cannot be managed by a machine. To enable such feats the Damocles is controlled by a state of the art force-feedback man machine interface; strapped into place with tethers attached to its operators limbs the Damocles will, in broad strokes, ape its pilot's motions. The principle, and mechanics, have been compared to that of an enormous string puppet; the trouble being that hyper extension of Damocles' joints has the potential to be mirrored on its operator.

Clad in Iron, War of the Worlds and Mecha

Secundi Lux

---

"Privet, dorogiye!"

These machines sought with their own senses, and in their thermals a single point glowed vibrant red. Some of their spotlights settled upon it, light piercing the gloom to illuminate the threat to their searching sensors. The threat wasn't hiding; the harsh lights refracted on the steam issuing forth every time a drop of rain struck her skin, reflected off of the lenses over her eyes and the opalescent inlay on her spinning Gladius. Where they started dull by the end of its twirl they again glowed crimson, sharing Rivka's changing definition of 'reloading'. After all, there were no bullets. It was her power harnessed into a form she understood in and out; it was not an instrument itself but a conductor's baton. She was herself the symphony.

The Baeterran laughed, clear and musical, and bowed deeply to her robotic foes.

"An encore, then? Akh, tol'ko dlya vas." Her baton snapped up, sight flipped open and aligned with her eye. The spotlights impeded her own vision, even through her shades, but they also gave her unmistakable locations for her targets. She drew a breath, in slow and steady, and watched the bob of the loose formation of lights. As fast as their brains were they were simple, without creativity or genius. A tune generated by algorithm in the face of her artistry. Which was why she saw the shot they didn't account for, the moment that two targets overlapped and became one.

Her Gladius answered with both barrels, spewing white hot bursts of her Elementum at the same instant. If one of lesser power was enough to pierce one, then what these miniature suns would do scarcely bore thinking on. If it weren't fun. Who knows, they might have clustered closely enough that she could get some collateral damage out of those darling little novas. She'd need a moment to 'recharge', though, and the axes of threat were multiplying quickly. She jerked the bayonet off of her rifle with her other hand and held it loosely. A quick pivot and a few steps back put most of the enemies within her sight— if peripherally— and a wall at her back.

"How are we looking, girls?"

Secundi Lux

---

Selma had— she admitted perhaps reluctantly— a point.

Here she was upon a stage, with an expecting audience and a performance to give. Did she revel in the chance? No. She had been pouting beneath the rain. It was Godless and unpleasant, that went without saying; but she was wrong to simply accept it. More than that she was wrong to wish her own performance over quickly, however much she might prefer the warmth and dry.

Then again, she could make her own.

The devushka's scarf barely qualified for the term so large it was, but it had been draped around her neck for warmth. She gathered the ends and drew them taut about her throat to keep it safe. Much of her team— of Kheper— was already in motion, but they had things easily in hand thus far. One was down for the count, its disgraceful flailing indicative of an artificial mind that knew not when it was beaten. If there was a single quality for which she praised them— since it certainly wasn't aesthetics— it was drive. Single minded, unthinking, unquestioning drive. They would act in pursuit of their directive so long as there was power to their circuits. Such determination would have been laudable in a living being. In a machine, an imitation of human imperfection, it was simply... Sad. A facsimile of true will that it could never begin to understand, let alone truly emulate. It had no choice, no agency in its actions beyond that granted to it by a few lines of code. It strove without knowing for something that not only lay beyond its reach but beyond even the scope of its comprehension.

Enough was enough.

Her Parma appeared about her, garnished in addition by a single white scarf, and in an instant she was as warm and dry as she had been in her own bed. The ground for a few feet around her was dry, the water upon it lifting off in a cloud of steam as the artisan brandished her Gladius.

"Bang."

The four missiles streaking towards Selma had been launched from the same box, and though capable of seeking were locked upon the same target. They were clustered, a fact that increased their capacity of simultaneous destruction as much as their potential for unintended fratricide. If one went up, so too likely would the others. For example, if a brilliant flame detonated in their midst and took the magically charged warheads with it. That would clear Selma for the moment, next up was the importance of helping her pinned comrade.

With a melodic war cry, announcement as much as challenge, she sent a blast straight at the second drone's sensitive looking 'head' seeking to draw its attention.

Secundi Lux

---

Water was, under the right circumstances, peaceful and serene. Graceful and artistic. Endlessly kind and endlessly gentle and just as implacable, as merciless as Poseidon's wounded pride if its tides were not respected. But most of all, and most relevant at this moment, water was wet.

Haaa-choo.

In Baeterra water was valued, prized even. And it was respected. Without it the land would have been unlivable, its use as carefully considered and measured as any other critical resource. It had never been, in Rivka's life, something so carefree as she had heard in other cities. It wasn't scarce, so large a city could never be supported if it was, but a downpour so torrential was a rare occurrence and one that any sensible Baeterran was inside for. Not standing outside, pitting little more than a thin layer of hydrophobic garment against God's tears. And it was cold. And she had to use fire in the rain.

That they were 'Team 5' and not something much more graceful, a name like that which Crystal had labored upon for so long with such devotion, would normally be an affront but in the face of this misery she could manage little more than a sullen look on the subject. Her own magical affinity, at least, was enough to keep her warm; much of her team, too, if she stood closely enough. But it wasn't making her much happier.

"I want to scrap these quickly." The musician stated, quiet, subdued, and unhappy. "I want something hot to drink. With caffeine. Or marshmallows."

Secundi Lux

---

The night, all told, had been perfectly acceptable.

That was the conclusion of her own internal after action report. She sang her way through the thought process, every detail of the evening from front to back— but quietly. Ish. Crystal had asked very diplomatically if she could keep it down and in light of such a reasonable request Rivka was doing her best. 'Quiet' was something of a foreign concept; with so many musicians under one roof she was accustomed to the air being filled with sound, whether she added to it or not. But it was a simple request on the face of it.

If only obliging it was proving so easy.

Nevertheless she gave the evening due consideration as she removed from herself the uniform that she had come, with some reluctance, to at least accept. It needed a wash, then an iron, but more importantly she needed a shower. It would help to muffle her singing, too. Dancing with the cadet— Amalee— had been nice. To chat, to discuss her feelings on music, perhaps to encourage someone to pick their instrument up anew— worthwhile indeed. Ahhhh and the tsarina.

A smile that a lesser mortal might have called smug rather than satisfied crossed her lips and unbidden her tune climbed a few decibels while the Baeterran washed her hair under the water. That had been a victory, a coup-de-grace even. She was allowed to be smug about that. Progress was progress, a few steps further towards her proper success. Ah, but that seemed— more sensed than heard— to be a grumble from Crystal. She was getting a little loud. Think on that more quietly, at least for now.

Who knew what new triumph the morning would bring?

"Crystal?" She asked, turning off the water and swaddling herself in a towel. "Did you want the shower before bed?"

All in all, things were shaping up well.

Secundi Lux

---

"A perfectly laudable goal." The musician said with an easy smile. "I think those with the potential to better the world have an obligation to do so, in whatever form that is. Not all that different from why I elected to become an Ars Magi."

"Have you kept in practice?" Rivka tilted her head inquiringly. "With the piano. To do a simple thing well is better than a difficult thing poorly, and it's always a shame if a skill is allowed to rust. Perhaps you can let me know how it has gone if you go to another show. I intend to perform at the same venue as often as they'll let me, schedule permitting."

Secundi Lux

---

“Music is its own magic I think.” A part of her initially bristled at the question— the suggestion that it might not be her own skill— but she understood and let no trace color her words. To witness such a performance was to question every other, to wonder what precisely was the unknown element, that secret variable, that elevated it so highly. To think of the supernatural was a compliment, an admission that her performance seemed to deny reality itself. The cadet— Amalee she said— knew the steps to Rivka's tremendous relief. She might not much enjoy the waltz but she would certainly do it justice and Amalee's own skill would be a significant help. The lazy smile that crossed her face spoke of a pleasant surprise. “But no it doesn't involve my magic.”

“I learned a long time before I came here. My parents taught me some, my babushka more. It was our preeminent occupation before the Void.” The Ars Magi shrugged, a motion that sent ripples through her long purple hair that she had studiously ignored (had any occurred, she hadn't heard them now had she?) any hints that perhaps her usual style was not proper for her uniform. She kept track of the timing without seeming to pay any true attention, matching any changes to the tempo within a beat or two and leaving her mind free to pay attention to the finer points of her conversation. “We still practice it all but it isn't our means of income anymore. Not really. A little money on the side but the true purpose is artistry itself. Art is the most human thing of all, Amalee Kraus, for nothing save life itself encompasses the breadth of human experience so vividly. Words can be twisted, speakers can fail to convey with true fidelity the feelings of their heart. Art can never fail to make you feel exactly what it is meant to if you are willing to learn to express it.”

“Magic is its own art that way. There has never been, nor can there ever be, an Ars Magi the same as myself. Even with the same Elementum they will never have my Armagus, my Gladius, my Parma, none of the vital essence that makes me my own self. An imitator could, perhaps, come close. Could learn to echo the things that I have learned to do. But never be precisely the same.” As if to illustrate her point a small, blue-hot will o' wisp of flame appeared stark against one red eye and moved to the other between blinks before disappearing entirely when Rivka winked. “Not that they could hope to match me, anyway.”

“What brings you to Palmyra, Amalee Kraus? The devushka— Miss Rosemarie, over there— is from Hasta too. Why become a cadet?”

Secundi Lux

---

Before acts of nature mere mortals freeze. They stare in awe, or else avert their gaze and seek shelter from the very elements. Such was Rivka Sokolov's lot seeking a partner for the waltz. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. But how was she to solve it? How was she to modulate the force of her gaze, her very presence, to accommodate another?

The problem, fortunately, was solved for her.

"The Victoria?" She said in a lilting tone, turning the name over in her mind. It was familiar. Yes, she had played a set at the Victoria only a few nights past. Not a bad one, if she said so herself, but it wasn't quite her best work. Only a few songs was not nearly time enough to warm up properly, to find the wavelength that most resonated with her audience. Still she had clearly done well, as this officer-to-be's praise proved. "Yes, I did. This past Wednesday, I think it was."

For her musing she had already made a decision; rather than answer she took the proffered hand with her own and drew the cadet in, left arm extended to the side and her right at the small of the brunette's back. The waltz's timing was easy, nor were the steps especially intricate; but she would have patience while she waited to see how well her partner knew the steps. Should she not know, or should she need a reminder, that was fine; she could learn. And there was no better teacher than herself.

"I'm pleased to be recognized. What's your name?"