Flagg Member
Strange. This outcome I did not foresee.
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Months Previous...
The bridge was bathed in a smoldering crimson gloom, lit only by the glow of Semiramis' distant, dying star. The Almalexia was running silent, power levels just barely adequate to keep the oxygen circulating and the AI online.
The crew did not speak as they waited and watched, their vessel hidden in the tangled circle of hulks and debris ringing the pirate-world. Their prey was not far away, the wreck of the heavy cruiser Tartarus, turned by the planet-side regime into an orbital fortress bristling with fire power, its huge engines re-purposed to power a crude- but effective- plasma canon. A ship killer likely to make the UNSF's planned invasion of this planet too costly to bother with.
Naval command had shelved the taking of Semiramis indefinitely. Naval Intelligence had noted the pre-war data banks on the pirate-world, and decided to lend their colleagues in the admiralty a hand.
"Commander," said Lieutenant Uled, "Unscheduled patrol, closing on our position. At current speed and trajectory, they'll be in sensor range in 15."
Athanasius Love was standing to the left of the unoccupied captain's chair, hands clasped behind his back, cigarra smoldering in the center of his mouth. One of the few sources of light on the bridge.
"All power to stealth generators. Boarding torpedo status?"
"In the tube sir, marines and bots are locked and loaded."
"Give us a boost to coordinates A209B33. Get us in the shadow of that smelting station."
"Sir, that will take us directly across the Tartarus' gun line."
Commander Love gave the lieutenant a chilly glance, "Let us hope the stealth capabilities of this frigate are as good as the engineers say they are, Lieutenant. Now fire the engines."
There was a muted flash across the bridge view-ports as the stealth generators came online, and a slight vibration along the decks as the engines fired once, hurtling the Almalexia through the void, away from the approaching pirate patrol and free from its cover in the debris field.
It took only twenty minutes to cross the open space between the ship's previous hiding place and its destination. Twenty minutes in the open, in full view of the enormous, twisted metal hull of the Tartarus, bristling with heavy batteries.
No one spoke. At a signal from Love, the lieutenant launched the single boarding torpedo, a tiny speck hurtling through space towards the monstrous cruiser-turned-battle station, protected only by its own stealth emitters.
The mission hinged on a single piece of intelligence, leaked by a slaver-captain to a Naval Intelligence operative in a bar light-years away. The Tartarus was barely crewed. The day to day operations left to the AI.
A surprise strike by a handful of marine platoons could take the whole station. The slaver captain had planned to do just that, in fact, and force the dictator of Semiramis to ransom back his own defensive station at enormous cost.
The Directorate of Naval Intelligence had killed the slaver captain, but his plan to seize the Tartarus with a surprise boarding action was very much alive.
The Almalexia reached the smelting station, forward thrusters firing to halt her further progress.
Sensors from the Tartarus picked up the stealth-ship. It began to swivel, alarmingly fast, to bring its ship-killer to bear.
Comms crackled to life "Declare yourselves! In the name of Otho Katolicus III, Dictator and Master of Semiramis. You are in a restricted zone, declare yourself!"
Alarms pinged across the bridge. "They're locking on," said the lieutenant.
Commander Love snuffed his smoke out, his face expressionless. His eyes narrowed as he stared down the immense, weaponized engines of the Tartarus, cycling up to obliterate him.
"When they fire," he said, as though he were discussing the weather, "the plasma-bloom will take 1.5 seconds to reach us. Lieutenant, in that 1.5 seconds you will make a micro-jump to their blind spot."
The lieutenant paled, "Yes sir."
"You will wait until they fire."
"Yes sir."
Then, the Tartarus' ship-killer exploded. A blinding azure bloom filled the view ports of the bridge, blotting out everything else.
"This is boarding team Lupine," came a voice over the comms, "Mission accomplished, Lexia. Come get us the hell off this thing before the rest of it blows."
Present Day...
In his dream, he is twenty-eight and sitting outside his family's house, on the pale stone balcony far above the azure waters of Lake Augustine. Mountains thick with dark blue pines rise all around, capped with white. The sky is a swirl of pinks and reds and greens as the sun sets behind the jagged horizon. The view is spectacular, but he is looking only at her.
She stands at the balustrade, taking in the glorious evening. She's in the uniform of a naval lieutenant. He thinks that's a shame. He has old fashioned, if weakly held, views about women in the military... and he knows what she looks like in a dress.
He lights a cigarette.
"Those'll kill you," she says for the ten thousandth time. She doesn't bother turning around.
"Probably not," he replies, for the ten thousandth time, taking a long drag. He exhales with relish and ice tinkles in his glass as he sips his whiskey.
A bell tolls somberly somewhere on the grounds. Evensong in the chapel.
"I hate to leave this place," she says.
"I hate for you to leave it," he replies, "Navy's no kind of life, Alexa. Stay here with me."
"Hunting, drinking, politics, ordering the servants around," she says, "In ten years you'll be bored, begging to join me in a life of dash and adventure. By then I'd so far outrank you, though, it would be embarrassing- to have to serve on your wife's vessel, under her command."
"All the more reason for you to give it up," he says, "You can teach flying to cadets at the Academy. Or not. We can just be a pair of epicures, indolent and sated."
She turns to him, her smile slightly sad. They both know it's all banter. He needs her in the Navy if he ever wants a shot at Planetary Governor. And she loves him, but she loved the Navy first and maybe still loves it more.
He looks at her, standing there in the mountain twilight looking like something out of a dream... and remembers he's dreaming. Remembers that this is the last night they'd ever spend together.
It's like having something torn out of him, the realization.
He blinks open his eyes to the darkness of his quarters, just as a chime dings signalling translation to realspace. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and sits up. The lights in the room brighten automatically, revealing carefully hung artwork and rather non-military polished wooden furniture and appurtenances. A book- bound with real paper- lay on his bedside table. The leather cover reads Paradise Lost in archaic script.
He is lighting a cigarette as Friendly comes in to pour his coffee.
"Pleasant dreams, sir?" asked the automatron in its clipped, Albion accent.
He lets out a short laugh, only a little bitter. "Sort of, Friendly, sort of. How far out are we?"
"We'll be docking with the Apollyon in less than two hours, sir."
"You'd better get my uniform ready then. I'll have raptor eggs for breakfast I think."
"Very good sir."
The bridge was bathed in a smoldering crimson gloom, lit only by the glow of Semiramis' distant, dying star. The Almalexia was running silent, power levels just barely adequate to keep the oxygen circulating and the AI online.
The crew did not speak as they waited and watched, their vessel hidden in the tangled circle of hulks and debris ringing the pirate-world. Their prey was not far away, the wreck of the heavy cruiser Tartarus, turned by the planet-side regime into an orbital fortress bristling with fire power, its huge engines re-purposed to power a crude- but effective- plasma canon. A ship killer likely to make the UNSF's planned invasion of this planet too costly to bother with.
Naval command had shelved the taking of Semiramis indefinitely. Naval Intelligence had noted the pre-war data banks on the pirate-world, and decided to lend their colleagues in the admiralty a hand.
"Commander," said Lieutenant Uled, "Unscheduled patrol, closing on our position. At current speed and trajectory, they'll be in sensor range in 15."
Athanasius Love was standing to the left of the unoccupied captain's chair, hands clasped behind his back, cigarra smoldering in the center of his mouth. One of the few sources of light on the bridge.
"All power to stealth generators. Boarding torpedo status?"
"In the tube sir, marines and bots are locked and loaded."
"Give us a boost to coordinates A209B33. Get us in the shadow of that smelting station."
"Sir, that will take us directly across the Tartarus' gun line."
Commander Love gave the lieutenant a chilly glance, "Let us hope the stealth capabilities of this frigate are as good as the engineers say they are, Lieutenant. Now fire the engines."
There was a muted flash across the bridge view-ports as the stealth generators came online, and a slight vibration along the decks as the engines fired once, hurtling the Almalexia through the void, away from the approaching pirate patrol and free from its cover in the debris field.
It took only twenty minutes to cross the open space between the ship's previous hiding place and its destination. Twenty minutes in the open, in full view of the enormous, twisted metal hull of the Tartarus, bristling with heavy batteries.
No one spoke. At a signal from Love, the lieutenant launched the single boarding torpedo, a tiny speck hurtling through space towards the monstrous cruiser-turned-battle station, protected only by its own stealth emitters.
The mission hinged on a single piece of intelligence, leaked by a slaver-captain to a Naval Intelligence operative in a bar light-years away. The Tartarus was barely crewed. The day to day operations left to the AI.
A surprise strike by a handful of marine platoons could take the whole station. The slaver captain had planned to do just that, in fact, and force the dictator of Semiramis to ransom back his own defensive station at enormous cost.
The Directorate of Naval Intelligence had killed the slaver captain, but his plan to seize the Tartarus with a surprise boarding action was very much alive.
The Almalexia reached the smelting station, forward thrusters firing to halt her further progress.
Sensors from the Tartarus picked up the stealth-ship. It began to swivel, alarmingly fast, to bring its ship-killer to bear.
Comms crackled to life "Declare yourselves! In the name of Otho Katolicus III, Dictator and Master of Semiramis. You are in a restricted zone, declare yourself!"
Alarms pinged across the bridge. "They're locking on," said the lieutenant.
Commander Love snuffed his smoke out, his face expressionless. His eyes narrowed as he stared down the immense, weaponized engines of the Tartarus, cycling up to obliterate him.
"When they fire," he said, as though he were discussing the weather, "the plasma-bloom will take 1.5 seconds to reach us. Lieutenant, in that 1.5 seconds you will make a micro-jump to their blind spot."
The lieutenant paled, "Yes sir."
"You will wait until they fire."
"Yes sir."
Then, the Tartarus' ship-killer exploded. A blinding azure bloom filled the view ports of the bridge, blotting out everything else.
"This is boarding team Lupine," came a voice over the comms, "Mission accomplished, Lexia. Come get us the hell off this thing before the rest of it blows."
Present Day...
In his dream, he is twenty-eight and sitting outside his family's house, on the pale stone balcony far above the azure waters of Lake Augustine. Mountains thick with dark blue pines rise all around, capped with white. The sky is a swirl of pinks and reds and greens as the sun sets behind the jagged horizon. The view is spectacular, but he is looking only at her.
She stands at the balustrade, taking in the glorious evening. She's in the uniform of a naval lieutenant. He thinks that's a shame. He has old fashioned, if weakly held, views about women in the military... and he knows what she looks like in a dress.
He lights a cigarette.
"Those'll kill you," she says for the ten thousandth time. She doesn't bother turning around.
"Probably not," he replies, for the ten thousandth time, taking a long drag. He exhales with relish and ice tinkles in his glass as he sips his whiskey.
A bell tolls somberly somewhere on the grounds. Evensong in the chapel.
"I hate to leave this place," she says.
"I hate for you to leave it," he replies, "Navy's no kind of life, Alexa. Stay here with me."
"Hunting, drinking, politics, ordering the servants around," she says, "In ten years you'll be bored, begging to join me in a life of dash and adventure. By then I'd so far outrank you, though, it would be embarrassing- to have to serve on your wife's vessel, under her command."
"All the more reason for you to give it up," he says, "You can teach flying to cadets at the Academy. Or not. We can just be a pair of epicures, indolent and sated."
She turns to him, her smile slightly sad. They both know it's all banter. He needs her in the Navy if he ever wants a shot at Planetary Governor. And she loves him, but she loved the Navy first and maybe still loves it more.
He looks at her, standing there in the mountain twilight looking like something out of a dream... and remembers he's dreaming. Remembers that this is the last night they'd ever spend together.
It's like having something torn out of him, the realization.
He blinks open his eyes to the darkness of his quarters, just as a chime dings signalling translation to realspace. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and sits up. The lights in the room brighten automatically, revealing carefully hung artwork and rather non-military polished wooden furniture and appurtenances. A book- bound with real paper- lay on his bedside table. The leather cover reads Paradise Lost in archaic script.
He is lighting a cigarette as Friendly comes in to pour his coffee.
"Pleasant dreams, sir?" asked the automatron in its clipped, Albion accent.
He lets out a short laugh, only a little bitter. "Sort of, Friendly, sort of. How far out are we?"
"We'll be docking with the Apollyon in less than two hours, sir."
"You'd better get my uniform ready then. I'll have raptor eggs for breakfast I think."
"Very good sir."
<Snipped quote by Flagg>
I am sorry it took me awhile to reply. I'll check my schedule, though I admit I am terrible at RPing evil characters!
Then be a good one in an evil land!
<Snipped quote>
Down with the Tribunal!
Do you have a search feature for whenever I slip a reference to Morrowind into anything? :)
We used to rule, you know. Many centuries ago, in times the memory of which has been carefully blotted out.
Not here, not in this wasteland, but in the West. We were masters of the great cities of men, who were Our slaves and Our cattle. That was before Justinian came and threw Us down from our hidden thrones. He was mighty. Is mighty. The source of his power remains obscure to Us...and We have done much, have done terrible things and great, to uncover his secrets. Still they elude Us.
The godling's rise forced Us to flee east, to the lands ruled by his foe. The one they now call the Dark Lord and speak of only in whispers. Some of Our kind submitted to him and served him. Not Clan Stryge.
We do not serve.
So We bid our time, hidden in the great tombs of the north from God King and Dark Lord alike, feeding in secret on the norsemen who served Daigon. And when he was thrown down, and the norsemen grew desperate, we became rulers of men once more.
The Cursed Sea, North of the Broken Arm
Water exploded over the prow, a huge bloom of white foam showering the foredeck, drenching the already drenched clanswords. Jago grinned as the freezing sea washed over him. His left hand tightened around the grip of his short sword, his right around the handle of his axe. He lived for this.
The Almalexia lurched beneath his feet as the ship climbed the oncoming wave. As it crested, their quarry came into view. The Ushtobal was listing badly, the choppy sea around it churning and red. Their prey was a chariot-ship, sleek and fast but poorly armed, pulled through the sea by a harnessed zama whale. A masterful shot from one of the Lexia's ballistae had wounded the monster in an earlier skirmish, and now the sharks had set in on it...leaving the Ushtobal adrift.
"Axes!" shouted Blackteeth, Jarl Valen Vymar's favored thane and right hand, "Axes out!"
A clatter ran up and down the deck as the clansmen armed themselves. Jago bashed his sword and axe and let loose a warcry so loud it left blood in his mouth. The men around him took it up.
Another plunge, another plume of water washing the warriors. Another rise...and they were on them. The Almalexia crashed into the Ushtobal with a splintering crunch.
"Get the child!" shouted Blackteeth, "Everyone else is sharkfood!"
Jago had leapt the gap and was on the other boat before the thane finished shouting. A deckhand rushed at him with a harpoon. He swatted the rusted tip away easily with the flat of his sword and beheaded the man with an axeswing. The head skidded across the planks, blinking in shock, before it tumbled into the waves.
The Ushtobal crewmen fought like demons- knowing that capture meant thralldom or worse. It was well known that the men of Nagath's northern shores consorted with ghouls and monsters, that even their kings and chieftains answered to decrepit things that supped on the flesh of men. The Ushtobal's captain had taken a real risk sailing so close to the shores of the Broken Arm, depending on his vessel's speed to outrun reavers on his dash to Port Nailbite in Northmarch.
The gambit might have worked, had the northmen not been ready for them. Perhaps the circling shadows in the overcast skies following the Ushtobal since Ozgad's Folly had not been seabirds, after all.
Jago cut down three more deckhands. More northmen were aboard now, and the slaughter was general, the sleek ship's deck slick with blood.
"One more step and she's dead!" screamed a shrill voice. Jago glanced up. The Ushtobal's captain stood beside the wheel, a bug-eyed dandy, his cutlass drawn across the neck of a girl of nine or ten. Dirty blond, dressed in a colorless shift, skinny. Her eyes were closed, her expression resigned.
The child they had come for. The one the Stryge wanted, gods and devils help her.
"I know you're here for her," said the captain, shaky but calmer now. A half dozen clan warriors formed a semi-circle around him, bloody weapons in hand, "I'll make a dea-"
There was a crack like thunder and the captain collapsed, his sword clattering to the deck.
Jarl Vymar stepped around the cluster of clanwarriors, a smoking flintlock in his hand. He was a tall man, grave, dressed in a salt-stained black cloak, with black hair going gray at the sides.
He grabbed the girl by the arm. She opened her eyes.
"You're safe now," said Vymar, then to the clan-warriors, "Get her on the ship, then cut this hulk loose."
Not here, not in this wasteland, but in the West. We were masters of the great cities of men, who were Our slaves and Our cattle. That was before Justinian came and threw Us down from our hidden thrones. He was mighty. Is mighty. The source of his power remains obscure to Us...and We have done much, have done terrible things and great, to uncover his secrets. Still they elude Us.
The godling's rise forced Us to flee east, to the lands ruled by his foe. The one they now call the Dark Lord and speak of only in whispers. Some of Our kind submitted to him and served him. Not Clan Stryge.
We do not serve.
So We bid our time, hidden in the great tombs of the north from God King and Dark Lord alike, feeding in secret on the norsemen who served Daigon. And when he was thrown down, and the norsemen grew desperate, we became rulers of men once more.
The Cursed Sea, North of the Broken Arm
Water exploded over the prow, a huge bloom of white foam showering the foredeck, drenching the already drenched clanswords. Jago grinned as the freezing sea washed over him. His left hand tightened around the grip of his short sword, his right around the handle of his axe. He lived for this.
The Almalexia lurched beneath his feet as the ship climbed the oncoming wave. As it crested, their quarry came into view. The Ushtobal was listing badly, the choppy sea around it churning and red. Their prey was a chariot-ship, sleek and fast but poorly armed, pulled through the sea by a harnessed zama whale. A masterful shot from one of the Lexia's ballistae had wounded the monster in an earlier skirmish, and now the sharks had set in on it...leaving the Ushtobal adrift.
"Axes!" shouted Blackteeth, Jarl Valen Vymar's favored thane and right hand, "Axes out!"
A clatter ran up and down the deck as the clansmen armed themselves. Jago bashed his sword and axe and let loose a warcry so loud it left blood in his mouth. The men around him took it up.
Another plunge, another plume of water washing the warriors. Another rise...and they were on them. The Almalexia crashed into the Ushtobal with a splintering crunch.
"Get the child!" shouted Blackteeth, "Everyone else is sharkfood!"
Jago had leapt the gap and was on the other boat before the thane finished shouting. A deckhand rushed at him with a harpoon. He swatted the rusted tip away easily with the flat of his sword and beheaded the man with an axeswing. The head skidded across the planks, blinking in shock, before it tumbled into the waves.
The Ushtobal crewmen fought like demons- knowing that capture meant thralldom or worse. It was well known that the men of Nagath's northern shores consorted with ghouls and monsters, that even their kings and chieftains answered to decrepit things that supped on the flesh of men. The Ushtobal's captain had taken a real risk sailing so close to the shores of the Broken Arm, depending on his vessel's speed to outrun reavers on his dash to Port Nailbite in Northmarch.
The gambit might have worked, had the northmen not been ready for them. Perhaps the circling shadows in the overcast skies following the Ushtobal since Ozgad's Folly had not been seabirds, after all.
Jago cut down three more deckhands. More northmen were aboard now, and the slaughter was general, the sleek ship's deck slick with blood.
"One more step and she's dead!" screamed a shrill voice. Jago glanced up. The Ushtobal's captain stood beside the wheel, a bug-eyed dandy, his cutlass drawn across the neck of a girl of nine or ten. Dirty blond, dressed in a colorless shift, skinny. Her eyes were closed, her expression resigned.
The child they had come for. The one the Stryge wanted, gods and devils help her.
"I know you're here for her," said the captain, shaky but calmer now. A half dozen clan warriors formed a semi-circle around him, bloody weapons in hand, "I'll make a dea-"
There was a crack like thunder and the captain collapsed, his sword clattering to the deck.
Jarl Vymar stepped around the cluster of clanwarriors, a smoking flintlock in his hand. He was a tall man, grave, dressed in a salt-stained black cloak, with black hair going gray at the sides.
He grabbed the girl by the arm. She opened her eyes.
"You're safe now," said Vymar, then to the clan-warriors, "Get her on the ship, then cut this hulk loose."
@Bright_Ops@Genni
Alright, glad you guys are cool. Look forward to seeing what you both work out in this budding conflict between the brides and Vasha.
Alright, glad you guys are cool. Look forward to seeing what you both work out in this budding conflict between the brides and Vasha.
I decided to send the actual letter that Vasha sent via a Pm. Maybe we should link a GM to such messages in the future?
Not needed. PM interactions are fine if they will eventually be revealed ICly. I dont need to be in on everything. Players just need to coordinate their conflicts OOCly so all parties are comfortable with what's being done to their factions. It goes without saying that players need to be comfortable with their factions losing for this to work.
@Genni@Bright_Ops
Not entirely sure what's up here. Let's keep IC interactions in the IC tab, and if there is conflict, both players ought to agree with how any conflict is playing out. @Genni, Vasha's note is provocative but certainly allowable. Pretty normal NRP stuff. A threat, but not a declaration of war.
I think we need to rethink the response- there's a cool story to be told here, but we can't jump to murdering huge swaths of another factions citizens in a single sentence. Perhaps this is an opportunity? Vasha's threat provoking a terror-insurgency/assassination campaign in Tushiena...is a cool plotline, but we can only do this if both players are willing to cooperate.
Conflict in this RP can't proceed by IC one-upsmanship plus OOC hostility. The opposite please. IC viciousness needs OOC friendliness and cooperation.
Please note as GM I won't allow anyone's faction, however weak, to be conquered wholesale w/o that players consent.
Not entirely sure what's up here. Let's keep IC interactions in the IC tab, and if there is conflict, both players ought to agree with how any conflict is playing out. @Genni, Vasha's note is provocative but certainly allowable. Pretty normal NRP stuff. A threat, but not a declaration of war.
I think we need to rethink the response- there's a cool story to be told here, but we can't jump to murdering huge swaths of another factions citizens in a single sentence. Perhaps this is an opportunity? Vasha's threat provoking a terror-insurgency/assassination campaign in Tushiena...is a cool plotline, but we can only do this if both players are willing to cooperate.
Conflict in this RP can't proceed by IC one-upsmanship plus OOC hostility. The opposite please. IC viciousness needs OOC friendliness and cooperation.
Please note as GM I won't allow anyone's faction, however weak, to be conquered wholesale w/o that players consent.
@Genni@Senor Herp
May I suggest a potentially elegant solution to @Senor Herp's location question? How about your faction controls the area around the Bride's island fortress, with the Brides having a certain status in the Indo-Empire's social structure? This would give the cult a base nation to operate out of/protection, and the indo-empire desirable land that fits its requirements.
May I suggest a potentially elegant solution to @Senor Herp's location question? How about your faction controls the area around the Bride's island fortress, with the Brides having a certain status in the Indo-Empire's social structure? This would give the cult a base nation to operate out of/protection, and the indo-empire desirable land that fits its requirements.
I am reckless what I do
To spite the world.
- The Murderer, Macbeth
To spite the world.
- The Murderer, Macbeth
A new day was breaking behind the city, its jagged skyline shadowed by the rising sun. Ozgad's Folly the place was called now, after the pirate king Ozgad One-Hand, who had made an ill considered last stand here six score years ago against the marauding orcs and beastkin of the Gorelord. The Folly was not this place's original name, nor was serving as a port to desperate pirates and lowlifes its original purpose, but few things in the vast desolation of Nagath were called now by the same titles they wore in the days of their glory, or served the same uses.
He sat back in the saddle and fixed a battered pipe in the corner of his mouth, lighting it as he surveyed the mudplains and marshland around the city. A few small villages- if that word could be used for collections of huts on stilts- could be made out in the faint dawn light, home no doubt to toadfolk and crab-farmers, eeking out an existence in the salt swamps, under the dubious protection of the pirates they helped to feed.
His gaan-lizard shuddered beneath him, letting out a cantankerous snort, signaling its displeasure at the fetid atmosphere, so different from the dry heat of the ashlands they had spent weeks traversing.
His hand absently clutched at the small leather pouch hanging around his neck. Something within squelched wetly as he grasped it. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear Them now, a barely-audible whisper just below the surface of things.
He gave his mount a sharp kick and it plodded forward more briskly, towards the silhouetted skyline. His eyes fluttered open again. It was ironic, he supposed, that years of toil and planning would come to fruition in
this squalid backwater. But it mattered little.
From humble beginnings could come great things. Even gods.
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