Hank

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

YEET

YEET

YEET

What do you want out of the PW?

<Snipped quote by Inkarnate>

For a persistent world roleplay I would like to see that any story I create has some impact or is perhaps referenced by another group of players, possibly for their own use. For example, and using Rogue One as an example, if I was to have a story where my character was to obtain the blueprints to the Deathstar, that information is now readily available for another group of players. They don't need to know the entire roleplay persay, but a short summary for what was achieved would help. If the GMs think that what was achieved was too much, then they could alter it by saying the data was corrupted or something, but that's where their expertise in balancing the game comes in.

To sum up, perhaps a thread listing an index of the outcomes/summary of each RP would be a good option.

@NuttsnBolts

This is a very good idea. I know it's a very good idea because it occurred to me as well after reading @Ruby's post. I was pleased to see someone else had beaten me to the punch.

The only other successful Persistent World that I have ever been a part of was coincidentally also the first RP I ever participated in. It was called Live the Legend and it was a Jurassic Park PW. We all played dinosaurs. Realistically, too. No talking. Just growling. Someone made a wiki for that, which still exists: jpl-live-the-legend.wikia.com/wiki/JP… The PW and the site it was hosted in (Jurassic Park Legacy) are gone, sadly.

A community-created wiki that chronicles pivotal characters and plotlines should be feasible as long as we have people on top of that task from the very beginning. Everybody likes to be important so I think you'll find plenty of players who like creating wiki pages for their characters and their storylines.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

An unsent letter to Razlinc Rourken.

Governor,

First of all, I would like to congratulate you on the spectacular defense you put up in my attempt on your life. Never before have I seen a sorcereress of such skill and power and I don't think I ever will again. I will readily admit that I severely underestimated you. Thinking back on it, I should have known: the Dwemer hail from a time in which kings and warlords were the most powerful warriors that walked Tamriel. Dumac, Nerevar, Ysgramor... the list goes on and on. In today's political climate, after many centuries of Pax Imperialis provided by the Empire, rulers have become bureaucrats and delegated the role of general and champion to their subjects. You mentioned that you had trained in various styles of weaponry during your exile when we visited the palace and had our audience with you. I took this to mean something ceremonial, a hobby of yours, and certainly did not expect your destructive power to rival that of the Dragonborn. You were wise to prepare yourself this way. Tamriel will never accept your presence -- you will have to fight to carve out a space for your people. Forever.

That said, it is a shame that your people are not as well-prepared as their matriarch was for their arrival in my realm. All it took to come face-to-face with you was taking advantage of a coordinated attack by the resistance on the palace and following in their shadow. None of the guards I encountered were capable of stopping me. You saw what happened to them. Now you know what is necessary to keep your people safe: you are. And you cannot do this from the confines of your palace. You cannot be everywhere at once. Hell, you could not even keep your lover safe. That's what he was, wasn't he? The clean-shaven officer? I saw it in your eyes when you destroyed him.

You defeated me in single combat. Yet, when I consider the balance of the scales, it seems that I have come out on top. The Khajiit you sent after my lover did not succeed in his task. I made a promise to Raelynn that I would have my revenge for the crimes committed against her. First I sought out Zaveed, your instrument, and broke him. But that was not enough. You gave the orders and you were still unscathed. Zaveed means nothing to you. In order to complete my promise, I had to go after you. The ideal outcome was that I would have taken your soul and sent it beyond, to the maw-beyond-the-stars, the ever-hungry pit of the Soul Cairn. Instead, I stumbled upon the bloody and battered form of your lover, nearer to death than to life. I saw that he was important and that his spirit was strong. The hatred in his eyes was potent. I can still feel it when I hold his soul in the palm of my hand. He will serve me well in my quest.

What quest, you might ask? All you saw was a ghoul and a charlatan. This is because you know nothing about me. My family suffers from a degenerative disease that destroys our brains when we reach middle age, taking our memories before killing us slowly and painfully. For us humans, this is as soon as between our fiftieth and sixtieth year of life. A pitifully short time. You, as an elf, must understand. To avoid such a fate for myself, my brother and my sister, I seek the immortality of undeath and for that I need souls.

The realm your people built for themselves in Oblivion is crumbling. You told me as much. That is why you have come to Tamriel with fire and fury. You fear for your own extinction. Through despicable methods, you seek to avoid the inevitable. Tell me then, Governor, how we are different? I cannot see it. You trade the lives of your people for power and security for the survivors. I, too, trade the lives of your people for my own survival. That I raise the corpses of your slain subjects to achieve my goals is of little consequence. The Dwemer create machines fueled by the souls of my people and utilize them for the war effort. Once again, I see no difference between us.

My lover still lives. Yours is dead and you will never see him again. No afterlife can ever reuinte the two of you. You can scour the realms forever but no matter where you look -- no heavens, no hells -- will you find him.

Fear not. I have the power to bring you together. Supplicate yourself at my feet and I will gladly send your soul to spend an eternity together in the Cairn. Remember that I am out there, getting stronger with every soul I gather. I will become immortal soon enough. No matter how long you live, how long you wait, I will always be there. You will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Every shadow could be me.

Is it not easier to just give up now?

Yours faithfully,
Gregor Sibassius

Mass Effect: Sinless

Kyo Zhang

Name: Kyo Zhang.
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
Age: 32.

Homeworld: Shanxi.

Appearance:

Picture

A very typical human of Asian descent, Kyo stands at 5’8” and has an athletic build that seems to be made specifically for speed and dexterity. His skin is light and almost Caucasian in complexion but its slight hue makes his race unmistakable when combined with the rest of his features. His body appears to be in good shape for a mercenary; he has only a few scars, none major, and Kyo’s smooth skin, trimmed nails and immaculately groomed body hair indicate his vanity and the pride he takes in his appearance.

Kyo’s face has an almost permanently austere look to it, even when he is amused or delighted, owing to the raptorian arch of his brow, the lines beneath his eyes and the way his lips naturally purse together. His eyes are narrow, sharp and as black as his hair, giving them an inscrutable and keen quality at all times. Speaking of his hair, Kyo wears it in a simple style, longer on top of his head and trimmed shorter on the sides, that he sweeps back out of his face. It has a healthy sheen and lustre to it and appears to be just as well cared for as the rest of his body. There are no visible scars or blemishes on his face, leaving the overall impression of Kyo that of a meticulous and capable professional that does not take unnecessary risks or put himself in harm’s way all that often.

His movement and speech would support that notion. Kyo is inherently graceful and agile, carrying himself with the deliberation and restraint of a gymnast -- or a killer. He speaks in short, clipped tones and with as few words as possible to get his point across, but that does not mean he is averse to talking. His flexibility and core strength allow him to sit in strange, seemingly uncomfortable positions that are perfectly manageable for him and Kyo likes to seat himself on top of something, be it a table, a closet or a support beam, to gain the high ground in conversation.

His casual clothes are simple and comfortable, mostly harem pants and plain t-shirts, making them equally suitable for relaxation and exercise. Kyo’s battledress, however, is a stylish ensemble of black leather trimmed with yellow that he wears over the ceramic plating of his combat hardsuit. The inside of the popped collar of his jacket and the embroidered sash he wears diagonally across his chest are decorated in gold thread over a soft yellow background. His helmet is matte black and features a single narrow and horizontal yellow visor that is reminiscent of the helmets worn by the participants of Earth’s Urban Combat Championship League. Unlike the bulky suits of armor worn by Soldiers, Kyo’s gear is lightweight and flexible enough for him to wear it practically every time he leaves his quarters or has to be seen in public. This is by design; the look is part of his trademark.

Biography: Born on Shanxi five years before the First Contact War with the turians, Kyo was the only child of a very typical pair of colonists; his father Yaoru and his mother Sakura. Yaoru worked in construction and Sakura as a nurse in one of the colony’s health clinics. They were already in their late thirties when they finally managed to conceive a child and Kyo was hailed as a blessing and a miracle. He was doted upon by his entire family and never wanted for anything. The colony was prosperous and it looked like humanity’s dreams amongst the stars were going to be realized without much trouble.

Until the turians arrived, of course. Shanxi was besieged and the Zhang family found themselves having to seek refuge in the bomb shelters amidst the turian fleet leveling entire city blocks just to kill single squads of Marines. Kyo’s uncle, Shinto, took up arms against the turian invaders and participated in the guerilla war against the turians on the ground. He was not an Alliance Marine and operated as a rogue element. He was the older brother of Yaoru and carried a legacy with him that could be traced back to the family’s distant origins in Asia on Earth. The discovery of the Prothean technology on Mars and the Mass Relay inside Chaurus suddenly propelled humanity into the stars but it also prompted a wave of retrospection among colonists, learning about and identifying with their Earthly heritage before departing for worlds unknown. Simply put Shinto had become a trained warrior in the ancient Oriental style, his skills with the blade enhanced with modern technology that rendered him invisible and gave his swords tremendous killing power. He stalked the battlefields of Shanxi as a lone wolf, anathema to the disciplined and organized way that the turians waged warfare, striking from the shadows at officers and snipers before slipping away and living to fight another day. He continued this practice even when General Williams surrendered and despite the turians’ best efforts, Shinto was never caught. His distinctive appearance, characterized by an ochre sash around his torso, was passed on to turian command by the few witnesses that Shinto left behind and he became known as the Yellow Death among the occupying force -- a much hated and reviled foe.

In the final days of the turian occupation an orbital strike destroyed the shelter where Kyo’s grandparents sought refuge and they were among the dead. Enraged, Shinto visited Yaoru, Sakura and Kyo and told them that he intended to fight the turians until his death and that he would likely never see them again. Yaoru, unwilling to lose another family member to the aliens, managed to talk him out of it -- but only barely. Shinto stayed with them, buried his gear to hide all incriminating evidence of his activity as the Yellow Death, and quietly fumed.

Life went back to normal as well as it possibly could once the Council intervened and brokered peace between the humans and the turians. Shinto was never able to let go of his anger, something that Yaoru saw, and as Kyo grew older his father told him not to listen too closely to his uncle. Yaoru thought that Shinto’s ideas and emotions were dangerous and he did not want his son to get mixed up in that. Kyo, however, grew up to see Shinto as a war hero and he was swiftly imprinted with an undying fascination for his uncle’s exploits. Yaoru tried to hide them from Kyo, but he learned the truth from others -- among them his mother, Sakura, who secretly admired Shinto for his actions and his ferocity and resented the turians deeply for the death of Kyo’s grandparents.

Inevitably, as Kyo grew older, he found himself seeking out his uncle despite his father’s warnings and asked to be told about Shinto’s experience in the First Contact War… and, while his heart raced with the audacity of his request, to be taught the same skills. Shinto rebuked him, hot anger flashing in his eyes, saying that the boy had no business asking such questions and should focus on his academic education instead to become a doctor like Yaoru wanted. Kyo insisted, emboldened by the refusal, saying that Shinto had no right to withhold the skills inspired by their heritage -- his heritage, too. Shinto remained silent for a minute before he began to laugh. Kyo was right.

And so it was to be. Yaoru was kept in the dark with Sakura’s aid while Kyo and Shinto retrieved his hidden blades from their underground stash and found a place to practice in a disused storage hangar. Kyo’s studies were to be equal parts martial and technological in nature, as the modern shinobi of the 22nd century had to incorporate bleeding edge developments into their arsenal to be successful. But Shinto introduced an unexpected third element into the curriculum: philosophy. His wrath against the turians had almost made him forget the most important parts of his teachings, Shinto told Kyo, and he had been close to losing his way. It was essential that Kyo was never to make the same mistake, or the combat skills that Shinto was to teach him would surely only lead him to death and ruin. Kyo struggled with this part. He failed to see the importance of long and boring hours of meditation and he did not grasp the meaning behind Shinto’s insistence on the strength of balance and tranquility. Was violence and combat not the domain of the incensed and the furious, Kyo thought? Discipline was important, yes, but as a tool to focus such emotions, not to negate them. No, Shinto said, time and time again. A killer was at his most dangerous when he felt nothing at all.

Yaoru was disappointed that his son did not pursue the opportunity to become a doctor and instead wasted his time studying hydroponics and horticulture. It was an easy enough education for Kyo to be able to dedicate several hours every week to training with Shinto. Many years passed this way. His busy schedule left Kyo little time for friends or romance and he was always considered a bit of an outsider by his peers, and aloof too, as if he knew something that they didn’t and it made him better. Shinto tried to get rid of this slight arrogant streak but he failed and was eventually forced to accept that that was how Kyo was. The boy was simply determined to be devoid of humility.

Kyo became a man, graduated from his class (with mediocre grades, but Sakura was swayed to forge a diploma with distinction) and when he was 20 years old, Shinto abruptly said that he was ready. Kyo naturally and easily gave himself over to meditation, voluntarily spending an hour each day before bed perched on the roof of his family’s hab, looking out over Shanxi and thinking about nothing at all. His skills with the monomolecular blades were such that he could consistently beat his uncle in a duel. And last but not least, he became capable enough with the omni-tool that his tinkering had resulted in an even stronger Tech Shield than the ability Shinto possessed. But a student does not become a real shinobi until his skills are put to the test.

At the end of a serious ritual that involved a lot of incense and meditation, Shinto handed over all of his gear to Kyo and informed him of a “job opening” with a local real estate development corporation that sought to increase its influence over Shanxi. Evidently, Kyo’s uncle was well-connected. Shinto guided Kyo remotely as he entered the world of corporate espionage, breaking into dark offices after hours to hack server farms and virtual private networks to scour them for dirt on the corporation’s competitors. The turf war of Shanxi, hitherto unknown to Kyo, was a fierce competition waged out of the public eye as multiple entities had sought to capitalize on the rebuilding efforts that were necessary after the First Contact War and still continued into the year of 2172. Shinto seemed unduly interested in this corporate kerfuffle, Kyo thought, but he could not deny the sizable paychecks he received for each successful operation. His swords remained sheathed as Shinto reminded him that lethal force was inelegant when it was unnecessary and Kyo avoided the security guards and the local police forces instead. They were innocent bystanders.

Matters escalated quickly and suddenly when Shinto gave Kyo a small device with instructions to place it within the walls of his client corporation’s head office. Kyo had gained the trust of the director with his exemplary results and was free to come and go as he pleased -- which he did often enough for briefing and debriefing. Shinto explained that he had discovered a pattern in the information Kyo retrieved but refused to explain the details until he had received confirmation from the corporation’s own data bank. Kyo, trusting his uncle, complied. Shinto called him a day later, clearly furious, and relayed a series of discoveries to Kyo -- the corporation’s director had been acting as a proxy for turian interests that sought to undermine the human rebuilding effort on Shanxi, seemingly out of spite. Shinto demanded that Kyo wet his blades for the first time and ordered the director’s death. Simmering resentment against the turians for what they had done to Shanxi drove Kyo to obey without question and he struck against the unsuspecting director the very next night in his own office. Kyo stabbed him through the heart from behind before quickly wiping the security camera footage and vanishing in thin air, only to disappear without a trace.

The murder made headlines and the corporation’s various competitors were accused, as news of the data breaches they had suffered leaked to the press and a motive for a retaliatory strike seemed evident. Kyo followed the news closely, dismayed to see that the assassination of the director had essentially achieved the alleged goal of the turians and created discord within Shanxi’s communities. The cogs in his head began to turn and Kyo set his sights on Shinto himself, convinced that there was something his uncle wasn’t telling him. The student turned his master’s own skills against him by tracking down his uncle’s hideout when Kyo knew that Shinto was meeting friends at the bar. He broke into his personal computer and discovered a very ugly truth: there had never been any turian interests. The assassination of the director had simply been another contract and Shinto had reaped the rewards in Kyo’s name without ever putting himself in danger. Clearly, Shinto lied about having almost lost his way and Kyo struggled to keep his fury from overcoming him. Every emotion that raged in his heart told him to kill his uncle in the name of revenge, and paradoxically everything that Shinto had taught him told Kyo to keep his cool and deal with this matter calmly and professionally. Kyo settled for downloading all the evidence to his omni-tool for the time being and after two days filled with meditation and reflection, Kyo knew what he wanted to do.

Using the information he had recovered from Shinto’s computer, he outed him as the mastermind behind the director’s assassination while keeping himself anonymous by sending carefully curated versions of the files to the colony’s security forces via dead drop courier delivery. He almost threw away the armor and its distinctive yellow sash that Shinto had given him, but Kyo had to admit that, once his anger had subsided, he admired Shinto’s audacity and he decided to keep it as a reminder to respect the threat that others could pose. In a way, he felt that he had earned the right to take up the mantle of the Yellow Death after outwitting his uncle and seeing him sentenced to life in prison. But he was definitely determined never to be controlled like that again. Kyo kissed his family farewell, claiming that he was leaving to pursue a career in horticulture on the colonies of the Attican Traverse, and set off for the stars of the Terminus Systems instead. He knew he had the skills and the guts to carve out a niche for himself as a freelancing thief, assassin and stealth warrior. And so he did.

Amidst a long career of odd jobs and missions completed comfortably on the fringe of galactic society and out of the public eye, the first most notable event was Kyo’s involvement in the Skyllian Blitz and its aftermath. He was still not an Alliance soldier and certainly had no intentions of signing up, but human colonists paid well for ragtag teams of mercenaries to act as their defense force against rogue pirates and slavers while the Alliance Navy was focused on fighting the bulk of the batarian forces elsewhere. This was Kyo’s first taste of real combat instead of corporate espionage. The initial shock of the brutality and sensory overload (war was loud) wore off as Kyo learned to put his specific set of skills to use on the battlefield. He was, more so than any other member of his team, uniquely suited to hunting down and taking out important threats like snipers and combat engineers that operated at the fringes of the combat zone or just behind the heat of the firefight itself. He had no qualms with killing batarians, vorcha and other alien species and found a grim satisfaction in knowing that he was now truly following in Shinto’s footsteps as the Yellow Death. It was during this time that Kyo modified his twinned pair of monomolecular swords to carry a potent electrical current to replicate the effects of Disruptor ammunition, allowing him to slice through personal shields while the singularly sharp edge of the blades themselves sank deep within the weak points of his enemy’s armor. It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, however; Kyo was wounded during his fourth proper firefight when he unexpectedly found himself bested in melee combat by a batarian with an overcharged omni-blade and Kyo had to be rescued by his allies. Where Shinto had consistently failed, Kyo now finally learned a lesson in humility and his cockiness was taken down a notch.

After the Blitz was well and truly over and the Alliance Navy had finished its retribution against the batarians, Kyo continued to operate in relative obscurity, avoiding allegiance with any of the major criminal syndicates while working for them and many other clients. If he had a reputation, it was one of true neutrality, discretion and effectiveness. He mostly took jobs that allowed him to work alone, from the shadows, but he found himself as part of a fireteam every so often -- there was no escaping that part of the job. Truthfully, he didn’t mind. Life was good and Kyo picked up the habit of sending a portion of his earned credits back home to his parents on Shanxi, who had adopted an orphan after Kyo left the nest and could definitely use the extra money. Like so many other freelance mercs, his base of operations became Omega but Kyo ranged widely throughout the galaxy, even dipping into Citadel space for clandestine operations on occasion. However, it seemed his luck was not meant to last forever...

Psychological Profile: While Kyo is stubborn and hot-blooded by nature, he has learned to overcome these traits through the power of meditation and philosophy, tempering the flare of his personality with an innering ability to keep his cool in stressful situations and his mind clear when it would otherwise be plagued by anger or doubt. Despite the betrayal Kyo suffered at his hands later in life, his uncle Shinto was a defining part of his formative years and the lessons he taught Kyo have become an integral part of who he is today. He seeks comfort and wisdom within the ancient teachings of eastern philosophers from Earth and lives his life according their tenets, just like his uncle taught him. However, Shinto also affected him negatively. Kyo is slow to trust and values his freedom and personal agency so highly that he has never stuck with a single employer, benefactor or romantic interest since leaving Shanxi, nor does he have many friends. He finds solace and satisfaction in his work and continues to hone his skills -- there is not much else he knows how to do.

In interpersonal relations, Kyo is both polite and reserved. He is quick to judge others for displays of excess and lack of restraint but he appreciates people who know what they’re about and can keep their head in the game when it matters. He has a soft spot for asari after a few flings, whereas his deep-seated racism against turians, and more recently batarians, has a habit of slipping through his mask of etiquette and good manners. If and when Kyo does warm up to someone, he is a dependable ally but it remains very difficult to get him to open up about himself. He loves having long, deep and meaningful conversations with the people that he likes about their beliefs, motivations and inner struggles, and he is very good at listening or giving sage advice, but he carefully avoids conversations about his own past with practically everybody -- it takes a lot of trust for him to delve into that. Kyo believes that telling people about his homeworld, his family or the way Shinto manipulated him gives them power over him and that thought is too frightening to entertain.

He shows affection or interest with small, attentive gestures and non-verbal communication since he is not much of a smooth talker. In fact, when he has to speak quickly due to circumstances or is involved in a group conversation, Kyo is quietly flustered and uncomfortable. This forces him to be curt and direct and he becomes oblivous to the subtleties of what other people are saying or the immediate impact of his words. When he has time to think about what to say and he feels relaxed, Kyo often speaks in metaphors and riddles that are open to interpretation and are designed to help his conversational partner with their own problems. He is perceptive and empathic, but not at a moment's notice.

He believes strongly in the virtues of inner balance and tranquility and will, whenever necessary, retreat within himself to straighten out that which is crooked before re-emerging, steadfast and whole. Kyo is not strongly affected by trauma or feelings of pain and regret for this reason, moving on quickly from losses, though he does sometimes cringe at himself (hours after the fact) when he realizes that he said the wrong thing. It could be argued that he does not properly process the things that happen to him and instead buries them so deep that they effectively disappear, which could be tied to his extreme reluctance to talk about his past. An asari psychologist that Kyo briefly dated suggested that he might be on the autistic spectrum and that he is compensating for his emotionally stunted development with wisdom from the philosophers of ages past. The truth could be somewhere in the middle, but who knows?

Class: Infiltrator.

Abilities:

• Tactical Cloak
• Tech Armor
• Incinerate
• Electric Slash

Equipment:

• Two monomolecular blades, matte black and slightly curved, fitted with power-cells that generate a strong electrical current along the edge and the tip of the blades that replicates the effect of Disruptor ammunition.
• M-6 Carnifex fitted with a pistol scope.
• Modified suit of Light Mercenary Armor with a custom helmet worn beneath a leather ensemble, with the emphasis on mobility and shields.

Strengths:

• Focus and stability are the name of the game for Kyo and it is borderline impossible to get him to flinch. When he has set his sights on something (or someone), he does not waver until the task is done.
• His skills in the martial and blade-dancing arts make him a dextrous and agile fighter, even in a suit of light armor, and Kyo is a vicious nightmare in melee combat.
• Years of corporate espionage, theft and assassinations have made him a skilled hacker of security systems, locks, computers and everything in-between.

Weaknesses:

• Kyo’s personality does not lend itself well for diplomacy or charm and he should not be relied on to squeeze information out of someone gently or to haggle for a better price -- unless he has hours of time at his disposal.
• While perceptive and intelligent, the above weakness comes back to bite him in the ass in another way sometimes, as Kyo can be blindsided by people that are socially conniving and elegant with words. Kyo has to concentrate and think hard about what he's being told to avoid oblivously missing the point or saying the wrong thing. This is why he prefers to say as little as possible when he isn't in a comfortable situation.
• He does not get along with turians, batarians or vorcha. Bad blood. It is beyond his own skill at detachment from earthly woes to let that go and it can affect his decision-making in the field.
• Kyo considers ranged combat to be unsightly, inelegant and ultimately unreliable, and is significantly less useful in a fight if he cannot get in range to use his swords. He’s a decent shot with his Carnifex but that’s about it. The man lives and dies by the sword. Literally.

Misc:

• Unlike most other mercenaries, Kyo lives a frugal lifestyle and instead invests his extra credits (after regular expenses and sending money back home) in a diversified stock portfolio. He can be regularly found musing over the extranet stock market during any downtime.

Attack of the Gif

GUILD NEWS // Issue #1, June 2018

hows my fam doin?

nadie asks how mahz is doin, just where mahz is :(

@Mahz

I'll do you one better: why is Mahz?

Mass Effect: Sinless

Kyo Zhang

Name: Kyo Zhang.
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
Age: 32.

Homeworld: Shanxi.

Appearance:

Picture

A very typical human of Asian descent, Kyo stands at 5’8” and has an athletic build that seems to be made specifically for speed and dexterity. His skin is light and almost Caucasian in complexion but its slight hue makes his race unmistakable when combined with the rest of his features. His body appears to be in good shape for a mercenary; he has only a few scars, none major, and Kyo’s smooth skin, trimmed nails and immaculately groomed body hair indicate his vanity and the pride he takes in his appearance.

Kyo’s face has an almost permanently austere look to it, even when he is amused or delighted, owing to the raptorian arch of his brow, the lines beneath his eyes and the way his lips naturally purse together. His eyes are narrow, sharp and as black as his hair, giving them an inscrutable and keen quality at all times. Speaking of his hair, Kyo wears it in a simple style, longer on top of his head and trimmed shorter on the sides, that he sweeps back out of his face. It has a healthy sheen and lustre to it and appears to be just as well cared for as the rest of his body. There are no visible scars or blemishes on his face, leaving the overall impression of Kyo that of a meticulous and capable professional that does not take unnecessary risks or put himself in harm’s way all that often.

His movement and speech would support that notion. Kyo is inherently graceful and agile, carrying himself with the deliberation and restraint of a gymnast -- or a killer. He speaks in short, clipped tones and with as few words as possible to get his point across, but that does not mean he is averse to talking. His flexibility and core strength allow him to sit in strange, seemingly uncomfortable positions that are perfectly manageable for him and Kyo likes to seat himself on top of something, be it a table, a closet or a support beam, to gain the high ground in conversation.

His casual clothes are simple and comfortable, mostly harem pants and plain t-shirts, making them equally suitable for relaxation and exercise. Kyo’s battledress, however, is a stylish ensemble of black leather trimmed with yellow that he wears over the ceramic plating of his combat hardsuit. The inside of the popped collar of his jacket and the embroidered sash he wears diagonally across his chest are decorated in gold thread over a soft yellow background. His helmet is matte black and features a single narrow and horizontal yellow visor that is reminiscent of the helmets worn by the participants of Earth’s Urban Combat Championship League. Unlike the bulky suits of armor worn by Soldiers, Kyo’s gear is lightweight and flexible enough for him to wear it practically every time he leaves his quarters or has to be seen in public. This is by design; the look is part of his trademark.

Biography: Born on Shanxi five years before the First Contact War with the turians, Kyo was the only child of a very typical pair of colonists; his father Yaoru and his mother Sakura. Yaoru worked in construction and Sakura as a nurse in one of the colony’s health clinics. They were already in their late thirties when they finally managed to conceive a child and Kyo was hailed as a blessing and a miracle. He was doted upon by his entire family and never wanted for anything. The colony was prosperous and it looked like humanity’s dreams amongst the stars were going to be realized without much trouble.

Until the turians arrived, of course. Shanxi was besieged and the Zhang family found themselves having to seek refuge in the bomb shelters amidst the turian fleet leveling entire city blocks just to kill single squads of Marines. Kyo’s uncle, Shinto, took up arms against the turian invaders and participated in the guerilla war against the turians on the ground. He was not an Alliance Marine and operated as a rogue element. He was the older brother of Yaoru and carried a legacy with him that could be traced back to the family’s distant origins in Asia on Earth. The discovery of the Prothean technology on Mars and the Mass Relay inside Chaurus suddenly propelled humanity into the stars but it also prompted a wave of retrospection among colonists, learning about and identifying with their Earthly heritage before departing for worlds unknown. Simply put Shinto had become a trained warrior in the ancient Oriental style, his skills with the blade enhanced with modern technology that rendered him invisible and gave his swords tremendous killing power. He stalked the battlefields of Shanxi as a lone wolf, anathema to the disciplined and organized way that the turians waged warfare, striking from the shadows at officers and snipers before slipping away and living to fight another day. He continued this practice even when General Williams surrendered and despite the turians’ best efforts, Shinto was never caught. His distinctive appearance, characterized by an ochre sash around his torso, was passed on to turian command by the few witnesses that Shinto left behind and he became known as the Yellow Death among the occupying force -- a much hated and reviled foe.

In the final days of the turian occupation an orbital strike destroyed the shelter where Kyo’s grandparents sought refuge and they were among the dead. Enraged, Shinto visited Yaoru, Sakura and Kyo and told them that he intended to fight the turians until his death and that he would likely never see them again. Yaoru, unwilling to lose another family member to the aliens, managed to talk him out of it -- but only barely. Shinto stayed with them, buried his gear to hide all incriminating evidence of his activity as the Yellow Death, and quietly fumed.

Life went back to normal as well as it possibly could once the Council intervened and brokered peace between the humans and the turians. Shinto was never able to let go of his anger, something that Yaoru saw, and as Kyo grew older his father told him not to listen too closely to his uncle. Yaoru thought that Shinto’s ideas and emotions were dangerous and he did not want his son to get mixed up in that. Kyo, however, grew up to see Shinto as a war hero and he was swiftly imprinted with an undying fascination for his uncle’s exploits. Yaoru tried to hide them from Kyo, but he learned the truth from others -- among them his mother, Sakura, who secretly admired Shinto for his actions and his ferocity and resented the turians deeply for the death of Kyo’s grandparents.

Inevitably, as Kyo grew older, he found himself seeking out his uncle despite his father’s warnings and asked to be told about Shinto’s experience in the First Contact War… and, while his heart raced with the audacity of his request, to be taught the same skills. Shinto rebuked him, hot anger flashing in his eyes, saying that the boy had no business asking such questions and should focus on his academic education instead to become a doctor like Yaoru wanted. Kyo insisted, emboldened by the refusal, saying that Shinto had no right to withhold the skills inspired by their heritage -- his heritage, too. Shinto remained silent for a minute before he began to laugh. Kyo was right.

And so it was to be. Yaoru was kept in the dark with Sakura’s aid while Kyo and Shinto retrieved his hidden blades from their underground stash and found a place to practice in a disused storage hangar. Kyo’s studies were to be equal parts martial and technological in nature, as the modern shinobi of the 22nd century had to incorporate bleeding edge developments into their arsenal to be successful. But Shinto introduced an unexpected third element into the curriculum: philosophy. His wrath against the turians had almost made him forget the most important parts of his teachings, Shinto told Kyo, and he had been close to losing his way. It was essential that Kyo was never to make the same mistake, or the combat skills that Shinto was to teach him would surely only lead him to death and ruin. Kyo struggled with this part. He failed to see the importance of long and boring hours of meditation and he did not grasp the meaning behind Shinto’s insistence on the strength of balance and tranquility. Was violence and combat not the domain of the incensed and the furious, Kyo thought? Discipline was important, yes, but as a tool to focus such emotions, not to negate them. No, Shinto said, time and time again. A killer was at his most dangerous when he felt nothing at all.

Yaoru was disappointed that his son did not pursue the opportunity to become a doctor and instead wasted his time studying hydroponics and horticulture. It was an easy enough education for Kyo to be able to dedicate several hours every week to training with Shinto. Many years passed this way. His busy schedule left Kyo little time for friends or romance and he was always considered a bit of an outsider by his peers, and aloof too, as if he knew something that they didn’t and it made him better. Shinto tried to get rid of this slight arrogant streak but he failed and was eventually forced to accept that that was how Kyo was. The boy was simply determined to be devoid of humility.

Kyo became a man, graduated from his class (with mediocre grades, but Sakura was swayed to forge a diploma with distinction) and when he was 20 years old, Shinto abruptly said that he was ready. Kyo naturally and easily gave himself over to meditation, voluntarily spending an hour each day before bed perched on the roof of his family’s hab, looking out over Shanxi and thinking about nothing at all. His skills with the monomolecular blades were such that he could consistently beat his uncle in a duel. And last but not least, he became capable enough with the omni-tool that his tinkering had resulted in an even stronger Tech Shield than the ability Shinto possessed. But a student does not become a real shinobi until his skills are put to the test.

At the end of a serious ritual that involved a lot of incense and meditation, Shinto handed over all of his gear to Kyo and informed him of a “job opening” with a local real estate development corporation that sought to increase its influence over Shanxi. Evidently, Kyo’s uncle was well-connected. Shinto guided Kyo remotely as he entered the world of corporate espionage, breaking into dark offices after hours to hack server farms and virtual private networks to scour them for dirt on the corporation’s competitors. The turf war of Shanxi, hitherto unknown to Kyo, was a fierce competition waged out of the public eye as multiple entities had sought to capitalize on the rebuilding efforts that were necessary after the First Contact War and still continued into the year of 2172. Shinto seemed unduly interested in this corporate kerfuffle, Kyo thought, but he could not deny the sizable paychecks he received for each successful operation. His swords remained sheathed as Shinto reminded him that lethal force was inelegant when it was unnecessary and Kyo avoided the security guards and the local police forces instead. They were innocent bystanders.

Matters escalated quickly and suddenly when Shinto gave Kyo a small device with instructions to place it within the walls of his client corporation’s head office. Kyo had gained the trust of the director with his exemplary results and was free to come and go as he pleased -- which he did often enough for briefing and debriefing. Shinto explained that he had discovered a pattern in the information Kyo retrieved but refused to explain the details until he had received confirmation from the corporation’s own data bank. Kyo, trusting his uncle, complied. Shinto called him a day later, clearly furious, and relayed a series of discoveries to Kyo -- the corporation’s director had been acting as a proxy for turian interests that sought to undermine the human rebuilding effort on Shanxi, seemingly out of spite. Shinto demanded that Kyo wet his blades for the first time and ordered the director’s death. Simmering resentment against the turians for what they had done to Shanxi drove Kyo to obey without question and he struck against the unsuspecting director the very next night in his own office. Kyo stabbed him through the heart from behind before quickly wiping the security camera footage and vanishing in thin air, only to disappear without a trace.

The murder made headlines and the corporation’s various competitors were accused, as news of the data breaches they had suffered leaked to the press and a motive for a retaliatory strike seemed evident. Kyo followed the news closely, dismayed to see that the assassination of the director had essentially achieved the alleged goal of the turians and created discord within Shanxi’s communities. The cogs in his head began to turn and Kyo set his sights on Shinto himself, convinced that there was something his uncle wasn’t telling him. The student turned his master’s own skills against him by tracking down his uncle’s hideout when Kyo knew that Shinto was meeting friends at the bar. He broke into his personal computer and discovered a very ugly truth: there had never been any turian interests. The assassination of the director had simply been another contract and Shinto had reaped the rewards in Kyo’s name without ever putting himself in danger. Clearly, Shinto lied about having almost lost his way and Kyo struggled to keep his fury from overcoming him. Every emotion that raged in his heart told him to kill his uncle in the name of revenge, and paradoxically everything that Shinto had taught him told Kyo to keep his cool and deal with this matter calmly and professionally. Kyo settled for downloading all the evidence to his omni-tool for the time being and after two days filled with meditation and reflection, Kyo knew what he wanted to do.

Using the information he had recovered from Shinto’s computer, he outed him as the mastermind behind the director’s assassination while keeping himself anonymous by sending carefully curated versions of the files to the colony’s security forces via dead drop courier delivery. He almost threw away the armor and its distinctive yellow sash that Shinto had given him, but Kyo had to admit that, once his anger had subsided, he admired Shinto’s audacity and he decided to keep it as a reminder to respect the threat that others could pose. In a way, he felt that he had earned the right to take up the mantle of the Yellow Death after outwitting his uncle and seeing him sentenced to life in prison. But he was definitely determined never to be controlled like that again. Kyo kissed his family farewell, claiming that he was leaving to pursue a career in horticulture on the colonies of the Attican Traverse, and set off for the stars of the Terminus Systems instead. He knew he had the skills and the guts to carve out a niche for himself as a freelancing thief, assassin and stealth warrior. And so he did.

Amidst a long career of odd jobs and missions completed comfortably on the fringe of galactic society and out of the public eye, the first most notable event was Kyo’s involvement in the Skyllian Blitz and its aftermath. He was still not an Alliance soldier and certainly had no intentions of signing up, but human colonists paid well for ragtag teams of mercenaries to act as their defense force against rogue pirates and slavers while the Alliance Navy was focused on fighting the bulk of the batarian forces elsewhere. This was Kyo’s first taste of real combat instead of corporate espionage. The initial shock of the brutality and sensory overload (war was loud) wore off as Kyo learned to put his specific set of skills to use on the battlefield. He was, more so than any other member of his team, uniquely suited to hunting down and taking out important threats like snipers and combat engineers that operated at the fringes of the combat zone or just behind the heat of the firefight itself. He had no qualms with killing batarians, vorcha and other alien species and found a grim satisfaction in knowing that he was now truly following in Shinto’s footsteps as the Yellow Death. It was during this time that Kyo modified his twinned pair of monomolecular swords to carry a potent electrical current to replicate the effects of Disruptor ammunition, allowing him to slice through personal shields while the singularly sharp edge of the blades themselves sank deep within the weak points of his enemy’s armor. It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, however; Kyo was wounded during his fourth proper firefight when he unexpectedly found himself bested in melee combat by a batarian with an overcharged omni-blade and Kyo had to be rescued by his allies. Where Shinto had consistently failed, Kyo now finally learned a lesson in humility and his cockiness was taken down a notch.

After the Blitz was well and truly over and the Alliance Navy had finished its retribution against the batarians, Kyo continued to operate in relative obscurity, avoiding allegiance with any of the major criminal syndicates while working for them and many other clients. If he had a reputation, it was one of true neutrality, discretion and effectiveness. He mostly took jobs that allowed him to work alone, from the shadows, but he found himself as part of a fireteam every so often -- there was no escaping that part of the job. Truthfully, he didn’t mind. Life was good and Kyo picked up the habit of sending a portion of his earned credits back home to his parents on Shanxi, who had adopted an orphan after Kyo left the nest and could definitely use the extra money. Like so many other freelance mercs, his base of operations became Omega but Kyo ranged widely throughout the galaxy, even dipping into Citadel space for clandestine operations on occasion. However, it seemed his luck was not meant to last forever...

Psychological Profile: While Kyo is stubborn and hot-blooded by nature, he has learned to overcome these traits through the power of meditation and philosophy, tempering the flare of his personality with an innering ability to keep his cool in stressful situations and his mind clear when it would otherwise be plagued by anger or doubt. Despite the betrayal Kyo suffered at his hands later in life, his uncle Shinto was a defining part of his formative years and the lessons he taught Kyo have become an integral part of who he is today. He seeks comfort and wisdom within the ancient teachings of eastern philosophers from Earth and lives his life according their tenets, just like his uncle taught him. However, Shinto also affected him negatively. Kyo is slow to trust and values his freedom and personal agency so highly that he has never stuck with a single employer, benefactor or romantic interest since leaving Shanxi, nor does he have many friends. He finds solace and satisfaction in his work and continues to hone his skills -- there is not much else he knows how to do.

In interpersonal relations, Kyo is both polite and reserved. He is quick to judge others for displays of excess and lack of restraint but he appreciates people who know what they’re about and can keep their head in the game when it matters. He has a soft spot for asari after a few flings, whereas his deep-seated racism against turians, and more recently batarians, has a habit of slipping through his mask of etiquette and good manners. If and when Kyo does warm up to someone, he is a dependable ally but it remains very difficult to get him to open up about himself. He loves having long, deep and meaningful conversations with the people that he likes about their beliefs, motivations and inner struggles, and he is very good at listening or giving sage advice, but he carefully avoids conversations about his own past with practically everybody -- it takes a lot of trust for him to delve into that. Kyo believes that telling people about his homeworld, his family or the way Shinto manipulated him gives them power over him and that thought is too frightening to entertain.

He shows affection or interest with small, attentive gestures and non-verbal communication since he is not much of a smooth talker. In fact, when he has to speak quickly due to circumstances or is involved in a group conversation, Kyo is quietly flustered and uncomfortable. This forces him to be curt and direct and he becomes oblivous to the subtleties of what other people are saying or the immediate impact of his words. When he has time to think about what to say and he feels relaxed, Kyo often speaks in metaphors and riddles that are open to interpretation and are designed to help his conversational partner with their own problems. He is perceptive and empathic, but not at a moment's notice.

He believes strongly in the virtues of inner balance and tranquility and will, whenever necessary, retreat within himself to straighten out that which is crooked before re-emerging, steadfast and whole. Kyo is not strongly affected by trauma or feelings of pain and regret for this reason, moving on quickly from losses, though he does sometimes cringe at himself (hours after the fact) when he realizes that he said the wrong thing. It could be argued that he does not properly process the things that happen to him and instead buries them so deep that they effectively disappear, which could be tied to his extreme reluctance to talk about his past. An asari psychologist that Kyo briefly dated suggested that he might be on the autistic spectrum and that he is compensating for his emotionally stunted development with wisdom from the philosophers of ages past. The truth could be somewhere in the middle, but who knows?

Class: Infiltrator.

Abilities:

• Tactical Cloak
• Tech Armor
• Incinerate
• Electric Slash

Equipment:

• Two monomolecular blades, matte black and slightly curved, fitted with power-cells that generate a strong electrical current along the edge and the tip of the blades that replicates the effect of Disruptor ammunition.
• M-6 Carnifex fitted with a pistol scope.
• Modified suit of Light Mercenary Armor with a custom helmet worn beneath a leather ensemble, with the emphasis on mobility and shields.

Strengths:

• Focus and stability are the name of the game for Kyo and it is borderline impossible to get him to flinch. When he has set his sights on something (or someone), he does not waver until the task is done.
• His skills in the martial and blade-dancing arts make him a dextrous and agile fighter, even in a suit of light armor, and Kyo is a vicious nightmare in melee combat.
• Years of corporate espionage, theft and assassinations have made him a skilled hacker of security systems, locks, computers and everything in-between.

Weaknesses:

• Kyo’s personality does not lend itself well for diplomacy or charm and he should not be relied on to squeeze information out of someone gently or to haggle for a better price -- unless he has hours of time at his disposal.
• While perceptive and intelligent, the above weakness comes back to bite him in the ass in another way sometimes, as Kyo can be blindsided by people that are socially conniving and elegant with words. Kyo has to concentrate and think hard about what he's being told to avoid oblivously missing the point or saying the wrong thing. This is why he prefers to say as little as possible when he isn't in a comfortable situation.
• He does not get along with turians, batarians or vorcha. Bad blood. It is beyond his own skill at detachment from earthly woes to let that go and it can affect his decision-making in the field.
• Kyo considers ranged combat to be unsightly, inelegant and ultimately unreliable, and is significantly less useful in a fight if he cannot get in range to use his swords. He’s a decent shot with his Carnifex but that’s about it. The man lives and dies by the sword. Literally.

Misc:

• Unlike most other mercenaries, Kyo lives a frugal lifestyle and instead invests his extra credits (after regular expenses and sending money back home) in a diversified stock portfolio. He can be regularly found musing over the extranet stock market during any downtime.

Mass Effect: Sinless

I've got a turian soldier demolitions expert who has a grenade launcher, heavy pistol, and a shotgun with explosive rounds plus a bunch of explosive-based powers. He also is horribly prejudiced against humans, quarians, batarians, and krogan.

Kyo carefully picks locks. Ardan negates the entire door.

@Dervish

They clash in basically every way possible and I love it already.

Mass Effect: Sinless

My CS is currently under construction and will be delivered ASAP. For people currently mulling over their character's traits, here's mine: Kyo Zhang, human Infiltrator, wields monomolecular blades instead of a sniper rifle. Emphasis on Tactical Cloak, Tech Armor and heavy melee damage. Proficient hacker of security systems, computers, door locks, etc. Essentially Kai Leng if he wasn't obnoxious.

(I was unaware of Kai Leng's existence when I came up with Kyo because I never got around to playing through ME3. I should really fix that...)

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A SHADOW FALLS

14th of Midyear, 4E208
Governor’s Palace, Gilane, Hammerfell
_{One of @Father Hank and @Dervish’s finest creations}

The palace was under attack.

Kzindhra had hastily slipped into his armor and grabbed his rifle as soon as the news and the call to arms had come, but he had the misfortune of having been relieving himself when it did. As such, the young Dwemer guard was the last out the door and found himself alone in the spacious corridors of the palace, following the noise of the marching ahead of him, just out of sight around the next corner. He thought he could hear sounds of combat too, from further away -- it sounded like magic, or Daedra. Kzindhra muttered a curse under his breath. Perhaps it was just his imagination. They had all been nervous ever since the terrorists had ramped up their activity and he had been privately anxious about a counter-attack on the palace ever since their leader, the Khajiit, had been arrested and contained within. Now it seemed that the time had come.

It worried him, gnawing away at his confidence. Kzindhra had to admit to himself that he had never been very courageous. Brave enough to be a guard in what was supposed to be a peaceful occupation… but this? He had friends out there; now, by the gate, but also previously on the streets. Some of them were already dead. He remembered when he got the news that Mzalk had died when a prison transport had been attacked. Stabbed right through the neck with a spear, apparently. He never stood a chance. He cursed again, purposefully this time -- cursing the insurgents and the terrorists who simply couldn’t accept that the Dwemer had returned and who refused to learn how to co-exist. It didn’t have to be like this. It simply didn’t have to be like this.

Behind him, something appeared to materialize out of thin air.

Everything went white as his head was grabbed from behind and smashed against the wall. Kzindhra instinctively reached for the sword at his belt, his eyes screwed up and his jaw hanging slack, trying to speak, to yell, to raise the alarm. “Wha--” he managed before his legs gave away beneath him and he slid down against the wall. Or he would have, if it weren’t for something, someone, holding him in place, pinning him against the bronze surface with great strength.

“No, no--”

Blinding pain rang through his skull again, and again, and he tried to regain his footing but his polished boots slipped uselessly on the floor. He felt something hot and wet running down the back of his neck and his hands reached out to defend himself, grasping at his assailant, feeling only leather and steel. His eyes finally cooperated and he saw a swimming vision through the pain, the silhouette of the enemy: a man, cloaked and armored.

Dressed entirely in black.

The man’s mailed fist rammed into Kzindhra’s face. He felt and heard his nose break and his lips split and he immediately tasted blood. He was reeling, everything was spinning, and his arms spasmed with the concussion of the blow. “Pleath, no,” he whimpered through broken teeth, gagging on the blood, eyes screwed up.

He couldn’t see but through the ringing in his hears he heard the familiar metal rasp of a weapon being slid out of its sheath. It was over. They were already inside. Rourken had to--

The dagger slit his throat. The agony was overwhelming. Kzindhra’s mind seized up as he felt the blood gushing out of him, cascading over his chest and his arms. He tried to speak, to breathe, raw instinct fighting against the inevitable, but he couldn’t. Everything was spinning so fast, coming from so far away, and he felt so cold…

Kzindhra slid down against the wall, leaving a trail of blood, and collapsed onto his side. His limbs twitched with his dying throes but after a few seconds he went still, the only sound that remained being the blood dripping on the floor.

Gregor Sibassius towered over him and looked down on him with nothing but contempt. His eyes were two black pits of coal, his baleful gaze being the only visible part of his features; the rest of his face was hidden behind his scarf, the hood of his cloak was up and every other inch of him was covered in armor and clothing. He sheathed his dagger and slowly reached up with his right hand to pull his claymore from his back and prepared a spell in his left hand. Gregor let the cerulean magic swirl between his fingers for a second, admiring its intensity, before it reached out like a chain and hooked itself in Kzindhra’s chest, lifting the dead Dwemer to his feet, a puppet on its strings. The strength of death animated his limbs and he pulled the sword from its sheath without difficulty now, looking ahead with vacant, glowing eyes. His slit throat did not seem to bother him anymore.

“One,” Gregor said.

The two of them set off down the empty corridor together with purposeful strides. Gregor remembered the general direction of the throne room from his last visit with Raelynn and Daro’Vasora, but the specifics escaped him now. He glanced at Kzindhra’s walking corpse and briefly lamented the fact that he could not ask him the way; zombies retained the skills and abilities they had possessed in life and they took mental orders without hesitation, but there was no way to communicate a question like that to him, or for him to answer. However, he did remember the balcony that looked out over Gilane, which meant that the throne room wasn’t on the ground floor. Finding one of the machine-operated lifts was a priority.

Gregor’s path led him away from the outer walls of the palace and towards its core. The party’s plan was clearly working; he did not encounter another living soul for minutes, the only sounds being the heavy footfalls of Gregor’s and Kzindhra’s boots and the distant noise of battle. It was impossible to tell where exactly it was coming from or to divine how the battle was going. The palace was large and many of its wings had purposes unto themselves. Casting glances at the half-open doors he passed as he walked Gregor figured that he was moving through an administrative section, judging by the desks with inkwells and quills apparently abandoned in all haste. Perhaps the scribes had been evacuated when the attack began. As the minutes passed he began to feel unease and the diffuse lighting of the blue lamps with their indeterminate power source that were so typical of Dwemeri architecture took on an ominous quality. He had expected more resistance. The lack of foes made his path easier so far but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only going to make things harder for him later on. Life had a way of equalizing such things, he found.

However, when he rounded another corner Gregor rather abruptly came face to face with three Dwemer and, absurdly, he was almost relieved. Whether they had been guarding something or were on their way elsewhere Gregor couldn’t tell in the split second before they reached for their weapons but they were clearly more surprised to see him than he was to see them, and he reacted faster. Two of the Dwemer raised their rifles at him but Gregor had already mentally directed Kzindhra to block their line of sight with his body. The painfully loud discharge of the weapons being fired echoed through the hallway and Kzindhra convulsed with the impacts of the bullets. Knowing that their mysterious ranged weapons could not fire in rapid succession, Gregor, safe and sound after being shielded by his zombie, drew upon his magicka and a shimmering purple oval appeared in the midst of the three Dwemer guards before he dashed out from behind his elven meat-shield.

The Wrathman, its immense strength further fortified by the conjuration potion that Raelynn had made for Gregor, struck down one of the very alarmed Dwemer with a single swing of its massive battleaxe, caving in her chestplate and sending a guttural spray arcing through the hallway. Her rifle clattered to the floor and she was thrown back by the force of the blow, smacking against the wall with a sickening crunch. The other two Dwemer backed away, fear poisoning their minds and slowing their reactions, and Gregor fell upon them, giving them no time to recover. One of them only managed to tear his eyes off the hulking Wrathman just in time to see the flash of Gregor’s claymore before it buried itself in his neck. Lightning sizzled and sparked and the spasming Dwemer fell backwards almost comically after Gregor pulled his sword free, the current of electricity coursing through his body keeping his limbs as stiff as a board. Blood gushed out of the grievous wound at alarming speed and he stared up at the ceiling wide-eyed and uncomprehending as he died.

That only left one Dwemer standing. His eyes flitted furtively from Gregor, to the Wrathman, to his dead comrades and back again, fury and terror writ upon his face in equal measure. “Monster!” he yelled, voice close to breaking, echoing the word that the Redguard woman who poisoned Gregor had thrown in his face a week before. The Pale Reaper did not mind. He was a monster, he knew that, and he relished in the fact. He wanted the Dwemer to fear him and revile him. He was their reaper now The Dwemer dropped his rifle and drew his sword from its scabbard. It seemed that he had found his courage and wanted a worthy death. Gregor laughed as the Wrathman bore down on the last Dwemer and necromantic magic sprang to life in his palm again, two tendrils of pale blue light raising the slain guards back up. They drew their melee weapons too and the Dwemer cursed bitterly in his native tongue. He tried to make a mad dash for Gregor but the Wrathman intervened, forcing him back with a wide swing of its axe, and that is when his erstwhile companions tore into him with their blades, their faces devoid of any expression of sympathy or regret -- there was only compliance. He screamed as he died. It was unimaginably cruel but Gregor’s wrath was implacable and he felt his blood sing in his veins at the sight. Another flash of magic brought the third Dwemer to Gregor’s side as well and he looked behind him to see Kzindhra climbing back to his feet, two fresh bullet holes in his cuirass but otherwise seemingly unfazed. He was more resilient in undeath than he had ever been in life.

“Four.”

He came upon a lift soon enough, not far beyond the site of his little skirmish, and stared at the handle that operated the machinery. He remembered seeing it before and he nodded to himself when he remembered that the lift would travel to a specific floor depending on how far the lever was cranked. He waited until his grotesque entourage had joined him on the platform before he grabbed the handle and pulled, trying out a floor at random. The lift went up smoothly, the sound of the machinery drowning out the constant din of fighting coming from elsewhere inside the palace, and Gregor used the time to take a deep breath and calibrate. It would do him no good to get ahead of himself. His magicka reserves were still sufficient, also enhanced by Raelynn’s potions, and he hadn’t been injured yet. He was sharp, focused, and ruthless and looked down at his free hand to see what his fingers were perfectly still. Behind his scarf, Gregor allowed himself a small smile. Rourken had no idea what was coming for her.

The lift slowed to a halt when it reached the desired floor. Three Redguard servants had been waiting for it, apparently, anxiety on their faces. Gregor watched their mouths fall open in horror as the lamp on the wall sprang to life, casting its glow on him, the undead elves with him, and the hulking shape of the Wrathman. They were young, barely adults, and screamed while they turned around to run back the way they came, down the long and straight corridor. They would undoubtedly raise the alarm and inform the guards, or the Ministry of Order, that he was already inside the palace. Gregor could not allow that to happen.

Three of the Dwemer next to him raised their rifles.

The report was deafening. Gregor winced and cast a sidelong glance at the long weapons, annoyed. He stepped out of the lift and into the corridor, his cloak billowing behind him. The zombies followed suit, marching lock-step with their master, and reloaded their rifles simultaneously. Gregor stepped over the corpses of the three slain servants, making sure to avoid the blood pooling around them, and it was almost an afterthought when he flicked his hand in their direction, illuminating the corridor with the ghostly glow of black magic. The resurrected servants, the bright blue light in their eyes contrasting starkly with their dark skin, hurried to catch up with Gregor and his soldiers and the Imperial directed them to walk in front of him. They had no weapons with them; even in death, they were expendable.

“Seven.”

A few more empty twists and turns brought him to a wider, open space where two rows of desks were neatly arranged in order. It reminded him of the rooms he had seen earlier in the administrative wing. Far more important than the interior design of the room, however, was the fact that there were about a dozen people there, clustered together beyond the desks. There were Dwemer but also foreigners; not servants, though. Ministry agents. Gregor saw that some of them were already wounded. Someone had been here before him or they had taken refuge here after being attacked elsewhere. Some of the people looked up and yelled in alarm. Too late. Too slow.

More bodies were cut down by another salvo of gunfire. The three servants dashed forwards, their faces rabid, and the undead Dwemer shouldered their rifles, unsheathed their blades and followed in their footsteps, bearing down on the survivors with deadly intent. They pushed aside the desks in their path; inkwells fell and shattered on the floor, spilling their black contents like pools of blood. Gregor ordered the Wrathman ahead as well and only then did he follow. Now was not the time for unnecessary risks. The servants practically leapt at the Ministry agents that took up weapons to defend the wounded and tore at them with tooth and nail, gouging out eyes and digging deep into exposed throats. A chaotic melee ensued, the Dwemer yelling in gut-wrenching disbelief as their own kin laid into them with their swords and other people screaming in pain and horror as the servants forced them to the ground, attacking like a pack of dogs.

“Retreat! Run!” one of them bellowed and made for the exit on the far end of the offices after the Wrathman joined the fray -- they realised it was hopeless. The others, those that were still alive and that could still run, joined him and they quickly disappeared from sight, slamming the door behind them. Gregor bit his lip and cursed. There was no stopping them now. The fact that he had found wounded people this deep into the palace suggested that the party’s assault was well and truly underway now, however, and if he was fast it wouldn’t make a difference that they escaped. Gregor assessed the damage; four of the twelve people he had found here had died, their causes of death a mixture of gunshots, stab wounds and far more gruesome injuries inflicted by the servants. Even without weapons, his zombies were dangerous. Two of them had been defeated, now nothing more than piles of dust on the floor, and Kzindhra appeared to have finally expired as well. No matter. Gregor was about to replenish their numbers by raising the dead scattered about the room before he noticed another person, propped up against a door that led to a private office. It was a Dwemer, a man, but not armored like the guards. He was very seriously injured but not by the hands of Gregor’s minions and, remarkably, still alive.

Kerztar looked at Gregor with an indeterminate expression, his face too bruised and bloodied to move or speak, but the Imperial could see hatred in the Dwemer’s eyes. He approached and knelt down next to him, who lifted a weak hand to do… what, exactly? Defend himself? Attack Gregor? The major’s strength was gone and Gregor batted the hand aside, almost amused.

“You look important,” Gregor said softly, cupping Kerztar’s face in his hand. “That is bad news for you. Well, you know what they say, tall trees catch a lot of wind…” His voice trailed off as he reached for his dagger. Kerztar shivered at Gregor’s touch. The elf had already suffered. Gregor would make it swift.

A fell wind passed through the room as he stabbed Kerztar in the heart and trapped his soul.

The Ministry office was a hub of sorts, with multiple corridors leading away from it, and Gregor found a map of the palace pinned to the wall after a quick look around. An X was painted on it with ink to indicate where he was and the rest of the palace’s wings and rooms were helpfully labeled. The palace was a winding, almost labyrinthine structure; it did not surprise Gregor that the Ministry agents got lost often enough to warrant such a map. His index finger traced along the map as he read, searching for the words ‘Governor’ or ‘Rourken’, and Gregor caught himself mouthing along in all his urgency. He was reminded of that fateful night in Falkreath, years ago, that he had spent pouring over the tomes and volumes of the dark arts he had betrayed Hannibal for, searching for anything useful, anything to justify the murder of a man who had considered Gregor his friend and ally. Gregor blinked and pushed the memory aside.

His heart skipped a beat. “There you are,” he whispered when he found the words at last. Governor’s office. All around him corpses climbed to their feet, the air thick with magic and Gregor’s eyes flashed crimson with hunger. He was close.

“Ready or not, here I come…”

---

Razlinc Rourken’s office was subjected to an influx of officers and staff bringing information on the attack on the palace, the insurgents making a bold move against the stronghold where an infiltration team had unlocked the Eastern gate, allowing a sizable strike force within after a distraction team had drawn the attention of the palace guards from the West, splitting the attention of her forces and resulting in considerable loss. She grit her teeth as the latest reports came in; enemies were within the palace itself, the second lines of defense had fallen.

It was such poor timing, it couldn’t have been a coincidence that she had sent a Ministry of Order team to strike at the Three Crowns Hotel the same day the insurgents had opted to strike at the palace; she had long known about the Hotel as a staging area for the enemy, but she had not considered that it was deliberately being used as a sacrifice to draw her forces out so they could have a shot at taking the main prize of the city. It also did not help that a sizable insurgent cell had struck an arms depot before the attack on the palace and had armed themselves with her people’s weapons and armour. Even the Centurions that guarded the palace grounds were being dispatched at an alarming rate, their presence as a force multiplier being negated by a prepared and determined foe.

Razlinc would have to see to matters personally, before the day was through, she was sure of it.

A sudden thunder of blows against the office’s doors shook the concentration of the governor and her two officers, who drew their swords and shared a look. No reports had suggested that the enemy had breached this far into the palace, and they should have heard something approaching. An unsettling mood filled the air, and they prepared for what came next.

The door burst open and a ghastly wave of Dwemeri troops and servants poured through the door, their bodies marred with wounds and their faces contorted in the permanent throes of death. Razlinc scowled; necromancy. The depths the insurgents would comb for their twisted and cruel mission never ceased to amaze her, but this was an abomination even by the standards she’d grown far too accustomed to. The undead filled out a formation, and her officers charged at the ranks to cut them down, believing themselves to be superior to shambling corpses.

“Stop!” she shouted, and her words fell on deaf ears as the creatures who used to be people she knew by name, their hopes and dreams, everything they were perverted into some cruel cause. Her fists clenched in anger, and her fury seemed to radiate across her person as she watched her officers cut down by bodies that still retained most of their skill in life.

An unshaven face appeared in the crowd that made her heart falter; Kerztar stood amongst the undead, staring at her with a blank expression, the Mer he was ripped from him and his corpse puppeted for someone’s sick and twisted amusement. Tears welled in her eyes as she clenched her fist, a cold hatred gripping her heart and she scanned the familiar faces for one she did not recognize.

“Show yourself, creature. You desecrate the bodies and souls of good Mer, how do you manage to stand with the weight of your blasphemy? Have you no damned sense of decency within your rotten heart?” she challenged, stepping forward defiantly. The undead made no movement towards her; their master willed it so.

The formation of undead parted and two figures emerged from within; first the Wrathman, its horrible bone battleaxe, splattered with gore, in its hands, and then Gregor, the widowmaker in black. Blood dripped from his weapon too, running along the rippled edges of his claymore down to the tip of the blade, suspended an inch above the floor. His dark eyes studied Rourken intently from beneath the shade of his hood but due to the dim lighting in the room and the black scarf that covered the rest of his face he might as well have been a faceless wraith, as far as Rourken could see.

“I stand in good company,” Gregor said and his outstretched arms gestured towards the army of the dead behind him. “You stand alone.” He lowered his arms and gripped the hilt of his claymore tightly, feeling the reassuring weight of his beloved weapon. He would kill Rourken with it. “Do you wish to trade more petty insults or are you ready to be harvested? If you do not struggle I shall make it painless.”

“This shall not go as you desire, creature.” Razlinc cautioned, ushering her attendant behind her. “You stand before the matriarch of Clan Rourken; you already were dead when you entered my domain.” she challenged, approaching defiantly. “You do not scare me. I pity you. A man so weak he cannot do the job without puppeting corpses who belonged to those who were better than him in every metric. I see a ghoul, a charlatan, and a fool who dedicated his life to dark masters that control his every step. I will send you to them.”

Gregor laughed. “If that is all you see... then I have nothing to worry about.” Magic was in his hand in a flash and he flung a soultrap spell at Rourken while he simultaneously gave the command to his minions to attack. They ran forward, passing Gregor on either side, aiming to swarm the governor and overwhelm her before she had a chance to react. The Imperial raised his claymore into an upright position and widened his pose. The time had come. He dashed after his zombies, ready to slash his blade downward into a killing blow once he got in range.

Suddenly, a build up of electrical energy surged around the Dwemer Governor’s hands and shot out at the undead swarming her, the chain lightning unleashing in a deafening boom that filled the amphitheatre-like room; the bodies closest to her all but incinerated from the conducted electricity, amplified by their armour and the weapons in their hands and from hardened alloy shells a blizzard of dust and ash bellowed out across the room; her eyes locked with Kerztar and with a snarl, Razlinc bellowed out defiantly as she sought to free her former lover from his brief foray as Gregor’s plaything. The intensity of the lighting was as such that when Kerztar was engulfed by the blue electrical arcs, nothing remained where he had once stood. There would be time to mourn, but it was not now. This was about revenge.

In all his days, never had Gregor seen such a display. If he had not been so intent on his desire to bisect Rourken from shoulder to hip he surely would have stopped in his tracks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the sight of the Dwemer governess’ overwhelmingly powerful Destruction magic. But he was, so he didn’t. He couldn’t afford to. The second she used to destroy Kerztar was the opening Gregor needed and he swung his claymore down with all the strength he could muster, further propelled forward by the momentum of his dash. The force of the blow was such that the blade’s enchantment crackled to life even before the steel of his blade tasted Rourken’s flesh and a second flash of lightning illuminated the chamber. The claymore arced down in a wicked slash and slammed into Rourken’s shoulder.

A deep, ringing sound reverberated through the room. Gregor’s sword was brought to a sudden halt by a luminescent barrier around Rourken’s skin, reducing what should have been a killing strike so savage that she would have been split in twain to nothing more than a shallow cut. Electricity spiderwebbed uselessly across Rourken’s upper torso, seeking purchase on her skin and finding nothing but magical defenses. The kinetic energy dispersed into Gregor’s arms and he was almost forced to let go of his blade, gritting his teeth in pain. How could this be? For the first time since he had set foot in the palace, his confidence left him. He knew what was coming next. In the split second he had before Rourken would undoubtedly disintegrate him, he raised his hand and summoned a hasty ward spell.

An electrically shrouded fist shot forward, smashing into the ward, and like a storm manifesting in the body of the elf, a thunderous volley of discharge was released from both of Razlinc’s hands, the exertion causing her to scream out, whether in pain or anger was less clear than the blinding flashes of destruction magic that flung Gregor back into a pillar, slumping him against it. The legion of his undead servants were eradicated, and nothing stood between him and the governor, who bore down upon him with a cold fury. “You took him from me. It’s a shame that you only have your life to give, as worthless and withered as it is.” She raised her hand towards him. There was no expression on her face except for a simmering resolve. “Die alone and forgotten.”

“But he’s not alone.”

A sharp and resonant voice rang out amongst the quieting chaos as the battle was seemingly reaching it’s brutal climax. As the flashes of magical energy withered down and the last crumbs of rubble hit the floor with the smouldering clouds of ethereal ash - there was one woman who stood in the eye of the storm.

A single long, thick braid of ash blonde hair was hanging from the crown of her head, so bleached from the Hammerfell sun that it appeared almost silver in the otherworldly luminescence of the room. Her eyes were hardened - the colour somewhere between the steel of a sword and the blue of oceans and outlined with dramatic charcoal. There was a dewy glow on her skin as the magicka contained within her potion wore off and left her dead centre between her fallen paramour, and Governor Razlinc Rourken.

Dressed in white, she wore a light chain armour fashioned into scales across her shoulders in a bronze shade - so delicate it was that it would barely be functional against anything the Dwemer had in her arsenal against them if what Raelynn Hawkford had witnessed from the shadows under the guise of her invisibility, was to tell her. Rourken was perhaps a Master Sorceress and she and Gregor were outmatched physically, and still she was not about to let another finger be laid against him.

Rourken was shielded, but that would not stop Raelynn from making sure she had her full attention. He needs time she thought to herself, as she unrolled a scroll that had been gripped in one hand and read out the phrasing with such an unwavering intensity that she surprised even herself. She did not aim for Rourken, no. The single bolt of lightning was fired up to the ceiling - to a chandelier that was central in the room - made up of Dwemeri alloys and crystalline glass shards. How beautiful it must be illuminated. She imagined how painstaking and agonising it would be for a servant to light each candle. Agony that would immediately be erased at the scintillating beauty that would come from it.

The bolt tore through the alloy with such a ringing ferocity and a cacophonous blare of vibration that shattered every piece of crystal. Glass rained down over the room like a spray of diamonds.

“He has me.”

All eyes were on her now, and she had but one card left to save them both.

“You.” Razlinc observed, her posture unyielding to the display of power that caused glass flakes to rain down like a mist. The young Breton woman she’d tried to bring into the fold, much like Daro'Vasora, stood proudly and defiantly before her, the burnt embers of a used magical scroll scattering before her. “You could have helped me change this world into something better for all people, to free it from this war and the suffering it has inflicted. Your insights could have saved thousands.”

Her outstretched hand still remained fixed on where Gregor was; Raelynn's abdomen was in the way. “Your infatuation with this creature will only lead you down a road of darkness there is no return from. Step aside.”

Raelynn's nostrils flared in the face of Rourken, she was terrified to her very core and yet she knew that she needed to be in this spot. If she moved even an inch Rourken would take Gregor from her. She was spewing words like bile and the Breton's lips curled in response, through gritted teeth she uttered towards the Dwemer before her. “I will not move.”

Raelynn had watched the whole thing from the shadows. Every death and reanimation was seared into her brain now and etched over her very soul, they were proving to be an unexpected weight on her conscience. The image of the Wrathman tearing down the inhabitants of the palace would haunt her for a long time... But that Wrathman was on her side. Gregor was on her side. He was a walking nightmare and yet he was all that had kept her safe in Gilane, he was her Knight, and now she had to be his if they were to escape with their lives from this formidable opponent - a nightmare in her own right.

The Governor's eyes met Raelynn's, her gaze not unkindly. “What could a necromancer possibly offer you? You are someone born to wealth, status, privilege; your father spoke highly of you, your potential, your intellect.” she paused, letting the words hang for a moment. “You, Raelynn Hawkford, have everything to offer the world whereas Gregor only knows how to take and consume, corrupting all he touches and destroying countless lives in his wake.” her face hardened as she stared towards the Imperial, electricity still arcing between her fingers. “We are surrounded by the ashes of people who were just like you.” the emphasis of the last word might as well have been a guillotine slamming down onto the block.

The Governor was as masterful in her speech as she was in battle technique, and she was so elegantly squeezing and pinching at a nerve inside Raelynn that it prompted an uncharacteristic rebuke, “shut up! Shut up!” She spat as her lips trembled and her fingers twitched.

She began to take slow steps back, to close the gap between herself and Gregor. A hand emerging from behind her back with another scroll balled tightly between her shaking fingers. “You sanctimonious bitch...” Her eyes darted to view Rourken’s fingers and the tiny tendrils of electricity that danced over her knuckles and twisted around each finger delicately. A complete contrast of what that power was able to do. She had such a control over it and had discipline in spades. “You have no idea what it feels like to be corrupted… Believe me, it wasn’t Gregor who forced me to the shadows that you speak of.”

Hearing his name being spoken brought him back to reality after Rourken’s lightning bolt had temporarily thrown him out of it. Gregor got to his feet, his breathing hard and ragged, and blinked ferociously while shaking his head. The last vestiges of his ward spell and the magic resistance that his ring was enchanted with had protected him from the worst of it, otherwise there would not have been much left of him. The shock magic had seized up his muscles and prevented his claymore from flying out of his hands. He grabbed the hilt of the weapon tightly but the same comfort it had given him before was gone. It could not help him against Rourken. The only thing that could save him now was the woman standing between him and the Dwemer arch-sorceress.

It was time to play the last card, instinct told her the conversation with the Governor was over now, she would not hold her attack any longer. Raelynn tore open the scroll and once again spoke with such a crisp clarity - summoning forth the spell from the parchment.

“This world has no place for you…” she said, as cold as the Ice Storm that formed around her, cold wisps of frost magicka swirled around her hands and blew a frigid wind into the air before forming into a tornado of ice around her entire body, drawing the heat from the atmosphere and leaving only a bitter chill in the room.

She took two more steps back, and with a flourish of her hands she set the Ice Storm on it’s way towards Rourken. “Time to go my love,” she said to Gregor, her eyes locked onto the Storm - hypnotised by the twisting force of nature she had unleashed as it danced through the room to its target.

Razlinc’s hands engulfed in flames as the ice spell began to coalesce around Raelynn, and when the spell was unleashed, she managed to stand her ground and hold off the frigid blast in the nick of time; a pillar of flame emitted from her palms, greeting the ice in a violent interaction. Immediately, steam filled the room as the fire evaporated the ice, making visibility near impossible. When the scroll’s effects had ended, Razlinc felt exhausted; she’d burnt through a not inconsiderable amount of her reserve, but she still had enough to finish the job.

Electricity began to crackle around her hand again and she shot it out towards where she thought Gregor still remained, a deadly bolt of lightning to remove a great evil from this world once and for all.

It hit naught but stone. Gregor had only nodded when Raelynn told him it was time to go and the pair of them had made for the exit as soon as the thick blanket of steam shrouded them from sight. Gregor took point, sidestepping the wooden debris from when his undead minions had burst through the door, a hard expression on his face that did not betray the hurricane of emotions that raged in his heart -- fury, disappointment, fear, shame, gratitude. He grit his teeth, trying to ignore his feelings and to focus on the here and now. Keeping his sword at the ready in one hand as they ran, Gregor’s other hand reached for the potions at his waist, trembling fingers fumbling briefly before finding purchase. He uncorked and threw back two potions; one for his magicka and the other for his health. After that, he resummoned the Wrathman. It had been useless against Rourken but it would help protect them against any other resistance that they might encounter on their way out. The storm of magic in the governor’s office had been so loud that Gregor did not doubt that reinforcements were on the way.

He looked behind him briefly to lock eyes with Raelynn. “Thank you,” he said with a pained voice.

If it were not for soaring levels of adrenaline, Raelynn would have found it hard to keep up with him. She was not the athletic type, but now - something had taken over her and as they ran through the empty halls, she didn't register anything other than the need to get out of there. If she stopped for even a second, the adrenaline would run dry and she would feel her legs give way under her and the realisation of what she had just done, what they had done would hit her.

Rourken's words ran through her head on a spiteful loop - and as she looked at Gregor she felt them. She had seen everything now, all of his power. It was real.

They couldn't stop moving, but she knew that if they could she would show him in so many ways how appreciative she was of him, of what he'd done, of the power he'd displayed. Of everything. There was so much longing in her now for him, a deliberate defiance of the Governor's words, of her father's words, of everyone. She settled for taking his hand in her own, and running at his side, a smirk briefly tugging at her lips.

---

Fresh guards had taken up position in the study, some were trying to figure out the best way to handle respectful handling of the ash piles that had once been friends and colleagues that had had their lives destroyed in an instant from the necromancer. Razlinc knelt before the pile of ash that had once been Kerztar, tears streaming down her face. She had wanted to give chase, to finish off Gregor before he could inflict more horrors upon her people and the world at large, but she had no strength left; she was out of practice and left weakened from the exertion and the capacity of her skill with her spells. Her fingers traced along the edges of the ash, gently pushing it into a pile, trying to imagine her lover’s face but being unable to see more than the ghoul that had been forced against her, a monster with the face of someone she loved.

Gregor must pay for his crimes, and if Raelynn wasn’t willing to see the danger he posed to her and everyone, she could join him in whatever pit of Oblivion called for his name.

A blanket was placed around her shoulders, her attendant having survived the skirmish, doubtless grateful for the governor risking her life for him. He did not speak; nothing he could say would make anything right or better, he knew. Instead he waited, a reassuring presence amongst the destruction and death.

“I need you to find me whatever officer has seniority that has survived so far.” Razlinc replied calmly, mustering what authority was still afforded to her. “It is time to accelerate our Assassin Centurion program’s timeline. They are to be deployed immediately; there must be no survivors.”