HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

As their guide chauffeured the quartet through the impossibly green depths of the old wood and he felt the change in the air, Gerard fell largely silent, measuring his breath save for the odd grunt of discovery, maybe wonder. The deeper they delved, the thicker the forest grew with a sense of primordial life— like his Sunlit Lady’s warm rays on the morning, building into a strong summer’s day. His eyes, gliding over the canopy, began to notice more and more of an ordained pattern emerging in the fold of the leaves, the split of each branch, and the slow rise of the trunks.

He reached down to his belt, with that hand still free of his helm, and quietly released the latch on the sheath affixing it to his hip, electing to carry it as the trees melted from a forest to an oaken hall, pillars on either side stretching into a full archway high overhead.

And like shadows against the pillars of marble wood, they were too flanked by countless lines of black-armored warriors, a royal guard each as prodigiously sized as the fae ahead of him, wielding spears of pitch. He imagined being stabbed by them to in many ways be so very like those his old furor always tore into his heart with. Lucky they had come here on peaceful, amiable terms. Even without making considerations for keeping those behind him less suited for the task alive, the gritty and determined knight, stubborn in the face of death by anyone’s measure, still scarcely liked his prospective chances against even a third of the number that encompassed them as they walked—

He took in a deep breath, and expelled even the idlest of such musings. At the head of the hall he could see the great throne, grown from the earth like any one of these grand trees, and the hunter’s Lady upon it. She was pale, striking, statuesque to the point of perhaps being carved from marble more than flesh. Her face was fine and her figure full, the way such statues were. Her curtains of black hair seemed to ripple as she shifted, her dark stag’s horns like lacquered wood. Her eyes were deep sapphires, deeper even than the blues of the robes she wore, flanked by forest green trim. They met his for a moment as they approached, and he found himself glad he had cleared his mind such. Windows to the soul being what they were, in that instant he believed she had found much of the measure in his gold before he could scratch the surface of the blue.

An enchanting beauty as any he’d seen in his meager twenty one years. A silhouette that burned herself into his mind as an eternal memory— and yet, his heart could not bring itself to leap. She was no doubt fae… and no doubt, the master of this territory. She was too almost the size of her kin, and the throne itself already towered over them.

Yet, as she spoke her first words of address, naming their guide as “Faolan” in that clear and strong voice, the knight couldn’t help but feel an echo of Thrinax in the way her presence seemed to swallow the room, even beyond their differences in scale. He was a man before a storm.

And he, taking the front, had signed up to make their entreaties to the hurricane of the old wood. No pressure, big guy….

Slow and deliberate, he set his sword down to one side and his helmet to the other, before he, last of their number in it, dropped to a knee, steeled his nerve once more for surety’s sake, and spoke.

“I trust that will be for you to know and us to find out. For now, we are contented with the honor of meeting you, fair Lady— and we wish not to waste your time.” he began, speaking clear enough for the hall at large to hear his low and even tone. His hands, freed of the steel they had carried, rested clasped upon his knee. The finer flowering on his words was thanks to his time in the dream, but he could not yet readily embody Cyrus’s lessons on loosening up and being friendlier here. Not before he had properly shown respect, for what that may have mattered to these famously capricious folk. ”We sought audience so we may be enlightened as to the nature of the madness that has struck the sitting lord of Brennan Keep, Duke Thedric, at the foot of these woods. Our order was called here to aid in that pursuit— and when we arrived, his ramblings were incoherent save for the repeated mention of a figure called the ‘Moonlit Queen’. In investigating the trail out of the keep, we heard and answered Aithne’s call for aid. That lead us to the Gannek, which lead Faolan to us, and now he has kindly lead us to you.”

He inclined his head, humbly as he could. Reon, Mayon, Dame Serenity, anyone who had taught him how to choose his words with care in his life… he begged they guide his tongue.

”Be there any guidance, or insight, you might be able to grant us regarding this matter, my fellows and I would be most grateful. This affliction appears something beyond the ken of us Children of Men.”

He tried to fight the urge to look her in the eyes once more.

He really did, yet…

Up two golden disks came, hiding no intent.

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

A flash, high above the orbital plane, barely visible out the corner of Kilmer's perception while he was busy defending against the next salvo of sledgehammers. Maybe a second to react at most— more likely a mere fraction of that, but time seemed to stretch and shorten in even if unpredictable measure in the heat of battle, once blood raced. He threw the Shrike into a tight bank off to the left, verniers burning furiously, and scrambled for the comms line.

<<Sorrels, break righ—>>

Not enough time. Never enough time, as the lance of frigid blue burned through miles to impale the one-armed Sparrow before his eyes. The ensign had been dead from the moment the glimmer from on high had shown... no. From the moment he'd even hailed the reinforcements their trio of Sentries had gotten in he and Rook.

"Shit." he clicked his tongue after striking through the line for a brief second, whirling his bird away from incoming fire on two angles as the newly-arrived Fafnir loosed more shots to carve through the lead destroyer, and the three remaining Fenrirs tried to capitalize on the sudden confusion from behind the hulk of the carcass, still harassing Braide even as he counted down the missiles they sent downrange at the Shrike. This was bad, and it would sure as hell get worse if he lost tempo. When he restrung the comms feed, he all but punched the switch as he came out of the spiral a short distance from the Venator.

<<Alright Rook, change in plans. We've got big game to hunt. Can't leave him to cut up the destroyers on this flank or he'll punch a hole in the whole fleet— but these guys come first. Slender, Denim!>> he called, patching in the remaining Sentries and cutting through whatever chatter the sudden loss of their third might have spooled up with a sharp, authoritative tone. He didn't know these boys well, but he'd seen sudden, unheralded death like that shellshock dozens of pilots in his Naginata and Sparrow days— the best thing to maintain course was feeding an immediate plan of action before panic could set in.

Not lost on him was how the same might be able to be said for Rookie, who he knew damn well had just logged his first kill moments ago. This might have been his first death, too. As much as he wanted to redline it right onto the new arrival, he needed to know if his ward for the day was going to be up to the task of diving headlong into what had to be an enemy ace. After the stunt that had gotten them here, he couldn't leave him to his own devices if he wanted him alive— so when he got the taste of the Fafnir he wanted, he'd have to drag the kid along for the ride.

None of these concerns, however, could be fielded until they dealt with the threat that was focused on punching holes through them directly.

<<We're lobster clawing these three and getting the hell out of here! Braide and I'll flush them out of position from up top, you two dip below the hull and get ready to nail them with your Claymores!>>

The Lobster Claw was an old standby in the UEE playbook, as memorable a name as any for a vertical pincer. Similar to a Thach weave in certain principles, it made good use of misdirection in that same classic trick; one element baiting the enemy and the second hooking them. All three of the pilots he'd just asserted impromptu command over ought to have drilled it incessantly over the course of MAS curriculum— and referring back to old training would allow it that much quicker a takeover. This way, they could use the cover the Fenrirs had chosen against them, concealing the two Sentries' approach while behind the radar curtain of an entire destroyer's hull.

<<Let's mosey, people. Engaging!>>

A burst of white-hot thruster burn, and the Shrike rocketed forward, lifting an arm and loosing multiple 50mm rounds at what hints of the Fenrirs poked out of cover to send autocannon fire towards it and the Venator, crushing the gap even as its pilot threw himself into the controls to sway and weave past their rounds while maintaining course.

All the while, he kept the radar picture of what lied ahead at the back of his mind. The rest of the 7th were all pretty tied up in their own ordeals at the moment— Sab especially seemed to delight in keeping Hex busy with all the Garmr on her tail. Not ideal. They needed to figure out a way to scramble that Fafnir's targetting systems, radar picture, something to keep its heavy beam cannon out of the picture until they could make a proper intercept. He had the speed. He had the maneuverability. He had high, high hopes for the fact that fate had thrown this thing on the flank he'd needed to be at—

His brow knit, and his icy eyes darted between each of his three least favorite coalies at the minute as the beam saber in the Shrike's right hand roared to life again. All the more reason the four of them that were left on this flank needed to get rid of this Fenrir trio now.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

He closed his eyes for a moment, and let a slow breath out through the nose. He’d not meant to hold it in, of course, but he was nonetheless forced to reckon with how much the scope of their “forward scouting investigation” had crept out and expanded. In many circumstances, the knight would have gladly lifted his hands in defeat, made some assertion that being a forward arm of the Iron Rose in endeavors of diplomacy “still far beyond his pay grade”, and slunk away to the aft of their number while the better-schooled talking heads worked what magic they could. Perhaps literally, given who they’d be dealing with.

A moment later, he opened them again, to glance back at his peers as they steadily reassembled behind, the reunited Enfys and Aithne in tow. Then green was met with gold once more.

”Agreed. We would be remiss to spurn the invitation, especially when we seek wisdom beyond our means. Lead on, friend.”

But there was nobody to really hide behind now— and it was high time he stepped up to the plate, if he really was serious about embodying the old stories.There were as many legends of knights as courtly envoys, making overtures for guidance and hospitality from afar, as there were slain dragons.

As they began to walk, he finally returned his sword to its’ sheath. This was a battle he would not win with it anywhere else.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"As he says." Gerard affirmed, tone even, measured. A big step in the right direction that this newcomer appeared before them openly, hiding neither his weapons nor his intent, as far as he could read— all points worth noting. Feeling how the air shifted and the trees sang when this gangly newcomer spoke, there was little doubt in Gerard's mind that, had this figure the intent, one or more of their number would be dead before they'd known their first battle had lured another to their midst. "We were met with a plea for help from one who was in need, and as Knights of the Iron Rose have a duty to answer."

He inclined his head and shoulders, sure to nod a little lower, if only just. He did not want to compromise his stance yet, nor was he in the presence of royalty or the Knight-Captain fully invoking Command— but there was the overwhelming sense that he was within another's territory, and, with nothing by way of food left to offer as he had Aithne... this was the respect he could show.

"I do apologize for the intrusion upon your Hunt, regardless."

Taking a few slow steps to his right, he slowly reached up to remove his helmet, revealing his wild coal locks, scarred face, and golden eyes most importantly to the new fae entity's view. Windows to the soul, mirrors to one's intent, the lupine knight would do what he could to return the courtesy of "showing himself".

By no accident, though, did he also end up between the tall, ethereally refined, antlered hunter and the rest of his peers. He couldn't simply say his goodbyes to all the fae present and have the knights be on their merry way, no matter how much he wanted to— and he really, really did. As glad as he was that everything so far had been a positive interaction, and that they had saved the second Aessyr, he still had little desire to involve himself with the dealings of the Fae of these woods any more than he needed to...

"You were hunting that beast. Might you hold wardenship over these woods, stranger?"

They were still here for a reason in the first place. The grey man bore himself with import in more than stature alone— his address of them, his stated desire, his resonance with the woods, all pointed to him being a key figure in the area. Not quite his image of a "Moonlit Queen", but even so...

"Our purpose in coming here was in response to a similar call for aid, before we were met with little Aithne," he explained, resting the helm in the crook of his elbow. "It is one of our kin who needs it, as it happens. The Duke Thedric of the keep at the Wood's feet, stricken by madness and mentioning a 'Moonlit Queen' repeatedly. If you've any insight on such matters, I thank you for sharing it."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@VitaVitaAR@vietmyke

"Did you think it was by accident that he was so effective at teaching you how to kill a man?"

A voice like splitting granite, firm well beyond its years and dripping with a bitter disdain cut through the silence before it could even begin to brew, filling the air after Robin's impassioned, desperate rebuke of the claims laid before her. Its owner had taken to leaning against the wall behind him, trio of confiscated swords still well in hand and tucked under his now-folded arms. The gloom seemed to lengthen the shadows cast over his sharp features more than it should have, but even then...

"A soft man wouldn't find throats so easily. Ask the Valheimr."

Rudolf pinned the scene before him with a dull glare, not quite focused on friend or enemy specifically— rather, looking down on all of it. In truth, the question was a pretty even split between rhetorical framing and genuine query as to what went on in her head, but he spared no time waiting for an answer.

"Really, the only thing that's surprising is that he settled down so close to home. Not two days' ride from the barracks. An old soldier of the kings' armies wouldn't have such a fondness for the swashbuckling. It breaks down in formation. You can't utilize your mobility the same way if you adhere to structure the way you need to. But if you encircle the unsuspecting and unprepared, the angles open up."

"Lord Istvan". "Ardor Fey." There they were, unprompted and freely spoken despite nothing on their persons save Robin's own swordplay priming the scumbags for it. It was ridiculous. An acrid taste on the edge of his tongue— just how often would they be haunted by ghosts of their collected pasts? Valon had been bad enough, and Rudi had only met him in passing. His and her pasts entangling like this was practically a cosmic joke.

His eyes narrowed. His voice curled around him like smoke.

"The initial fighting mass of the Raiders weren't proper recruits— the conscription pool ran across the bulk of western Edren and its countryside. The holdings of Earl Edric Demet were hard to police in previous decades— so Shilage, currying favor, rounded up any band of thieves, highwaymen, or bandits that he could crack the skulls of after tracking down. The choice was to fight under the banner, or deny yourself a second shot at life." though he droned through the history lesson dispassionately enough, he couldn't hide the scoff in his tone. That man offering second chances seemed like such a paradox to him now, even if he had little argument for his stake in claiming one. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, a wry smirk on his face. "'Redemption' was a personal matter, beyond the reclamation of dignity through service and the standards upheld therein. It stands to reason that when these guys split, they'd go back to what they were doing beforehand. Without the Raiders' banner protecting them, the past was likely to follow one way or another. May as well get out ahead of it, right?"

One detail was nagging at his head. He drew one of the blades and held it aloft, as though presenting arms, before eyeing the length, shifting his grip on the hilt, bringing the point up into a tight fencer's guard near the brow as though trying to envision the stance and feel the form for himself. As though checking it against an old lesson. His gaze flickered down to the man being interrogated, then to the last one that had spoken.

"Seventeen or eighteen years, was it? The Lord's second son would have caught something nasty on the wind around that time, barely a year after he was born. Probably nearly met Danube early. It's little wonder you all picked then to sneak off— with Shilage's attention split, he probably put plenty of distance between himself and the barracks before any action could be taken. Timeline fits. I'll give you this much— it was a wise move to follow his lead and make yourselves scarce."

For a moment, it seemed he was about to toss the blade he was fiddling with to the ground, with little more than a disdainful flick of the wrist.

"There's nothing that man tolerates less than betrayal within the ranks. You may have not even made it to see the front."

He instead returned the blade to the crook of his arm, casting the thought away in its place.

"Too much of this works to be a lie." he bluntly stated, gaze now shifting to stare into the stricken Songbird. "And with no reason to be brought up save for recognizing how you fight, in a way that needs them to be intimately familiar with the why of everything being done therein. With how it feels. Not something these types could haphazardly guess at, Robin."

A hard truth. But one that clearly needed saying. She was brittle and inflexible as it was, to deny all the evidence that had been laid out. If she built up any more dissonance, it would shatter her. They had lost too many people as it was.

"Fighting styles change hands like secrets and money. With intent, and as tools to be put to use. Ascribe to them nothing more. After the turncoat dragoon and Izayoi's master rising from the grave she put him in and nearly returning the favor, I'd call this being the checkered past he avoided telling you about 'getting off light'."

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

<<Commie.>>

Two birds of prey stood vigil, as a near-miss of abject disaster was fortunately scoured down to a comedy of errors on the catapults before them, letting the ensuing radio chatter between the two actors wash over them for a time before the tight, clipped voice of the Commander bridged the gap between Vulture and Shrike. Roy was dead certain he could hear the exasperated sigh in the cockpit opposite, in the three seconds before the comms channel went live— pilots of the same stripe as they were, he just about shared the opinion. The order that followed came as little surprise, even as they approached the catapult:

<<You're on babysitting duty.>>

<<Solid copy, Commander.>>

The personal line winked shut. Orders given. Kilmer took a breath through the nose, leaning back into the seat as the magnetic clamps secured his MAS's feet onto the launch platform. There was no plush cushioning to sink into— the prototype'd come out of the box already stripped down and light on "creature comforts" as far as any military hardware had them. After he and the mechanics' mad dash to strip all nonessential weight, it was far easier to simply say that he was relying on his suit's compressive gel and his body's own resilience whenever the high Gs hit————

<<Tower. 101-5 Heading out.>>

The brake system released, and the back of his skull fought to sink into the last bit of shock absorption the Boeing rep had fought him (almost literally) to keep as the platform rocketed forth towards the void. His last thought of the ground was that had they more time than this, he'd ideally be launching from the Naginata bay in fighter mode. Greater exit speed, greater combat readiness, nice and familiar feel...

A moment later, and he cleared the bay doors, the mere man from the ground with such petty concerns gone, replaced. Someone else was in the driver's seat— fundamentally the same, yet undeniably changed.

He hitched his breath, and pushed the throttle forward, solid-fuel afterburners silently roaring to life in the vacuum like a newborn star. Yanking back on the controls drew an impossibly tight arc out of the blue-white blaze as the Shrike swept itself high, heedless of those aforementioned G forces stamping themselves into the frame. The pilot within bore them without complaint, and pushed things a step further even as his HUD blossomed to life with the IFF Feed as the situation at hand caught up with him. His radar picture, fed via uplink from Tower, the location of his peers within the 101st— Hex providing overwatch fire for Rabbit as the latter began to peel an element of Garmrs off the flank, Rhino setting himself up as a one-man blockade point... Yeah, good. He could leave them to this, now that they were actually out of the gate.

Braide and his Venator, though?

He checked bearing, coming out of the roll and slamming a button on the side of his cockpit, nearly eye-level. supposed to be impossible to do by accident, to utilize at an "inopportune time", as deemed by the manufacturers.

Barely a breath after its momentum had rolled back to "forward" with the hard work of his thrust vectoring, verniers, and retros in concert, the Shrike folded in on itself, replacing the warrior made in man's image with the sleek profile of an aerospace fighter.

—And as quickly as the situation had "caught up" with Kilmer, he was gone, the comet's tail roaring to life anew behind him.

<<Belay that, Hex.>> he spoke, cutting into the channel as he painted a duo of Fenrirs that had spotted the new kid and his shiny, expensive production model a little too far from home, moving to encircle him even as their autocannons (and potshots from other, less directly engaged units) harried him through his defensive flowchart towards the other end of a nearby destroyer. Even as his speed indicator surged past the endpoint of triple digits, looking at the kid's piloting... it was textbook. <<I'll chaperone him. Just keep your eye on Rabbit.>>

Very textbook, very crisp, very well-ingrained in the way only consistent practice could grant. Long hours in the sim on the kid were about what Roy had heard since he'd first shown up. They showed. He had a lot of potential between that and the Venator he brought to the party... if they lived long enough to get any seasoning.

<<Rookie, smoke in the air.>>

As one, the Fenrirs let their Sledgehammer Racks rise and begin to track, two trios of heavy missiles suddenly about to begin bearing in on the Venator. Somewhat slow for MAS-caliber, but more than punchy enough to rip through anything short of Rhino's Secutor in one shot.

They then raised their rifles. Commie clicked his tongue, seeing the gambit as he closed into autocannon range. The thing about Coalition pilots was that they were, in most engagement, the older hands at MAS operations. Sly, wily, and experienced. Everything the newly-written textbooks their rookie had pored over wasn't— by comparison, the ink had barely dried before it made it onto the Academy desks. With the destroyer still at Braide's back, the missiles would force him into another evasive pattern over it, the obstruction limiting his movement before it could limit their firing patterns. They'd cover his exits. Riddle him full of holes.

<<Commie, defending.>>

He opened fire, the steady chug of 50mm fire forcing the Fenrirs to break off after launching the missiles and about-face, getting their ballistic shields between them and the rounds headed downrange. They raised their rifles again, trying to track the streaking newcomer—

But their vision was filled with light, as a billowing curtain of flares spread in the Shrike's wake as it soared past. The infrared targeting of the Sledgehammers that had previously keyed into the Venator's drive signature was now thoroughly confused, and unable to recalibrate after the Fenrirs had jettisoned their racks.

<<Braide.>> the more experienced pilot hailed, tone unchanging even as he brought his craft around in a hard bank, brow knit beneath the visor of his suit as the strain of flying tried to remove his senses from him. As the six missiles detonated prematurely, the blue of his afterburners was brilliant against the blooming orange glow. <<We're forming an element. I suggest you fly your ass off if you're this far out— Take it from me. Once we get back to the boat, you're not gonna have much of one left.>>

And screaming out of the turn through the curtain of flame the missiles and flares had left, the Shrike unfolded anew, bearing down on the first Fenrir behind the length of his beam saber the moment he appeared. Unable to react in time to the appearance of an MAS where he expected an aerospace fighter, the pilot loosed a couple rounds on pure panicked reflex—

But they sailed wide, and the saber struck home through the midsection. The Shrike barely lost momentum as the mighty thrusters shoved the plasma edge through, and it was all the second pilot could do to rip free his broadsword before the Shrike was upon him. Alone in the box, an indulgence only he was privy to, the Lieutenant Junior Grade couldn't stop a pleased grin from playing across his face.

Ionized blades clashed, and sparks flew, painting their section of the frozen black with a brilliant, shattered prism.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"Sound off, people. All up?"

In the wake of the deluge of black ichor and smoke that poured out of the Gannek's dissolving corpse, Gerard's voice rang clear as his unmarred blade cut through the fog, revealing his armored frame standing tall, marching forth. The pit in his stomach, thankfully, was fading fast as the beast, and light was returning to the field once more. He eyed the severed head as it faded from a sickly gray to an ephemeral white gold searching through the empty sockets. Very dead. No mistaking things. They'd timed eachother well. On his shoulder, the feather-light force of his passenger pushing up from the pelt atop his sea green tabard peeled his eyes back to the center.

"There. Sir Rolan has her— go to them. See what help she might need." he gently urged, jerking his head in the direction of his comrades as they retrieved Enfys from the grime the Gannek had left. Caulder was coming to, Rolan cleaning their VIP, Yael there to keep an eye on the scene... Good. Nobody truly out of sorts. Keeping one ear open for the big man's reply to his and Rolan's health checks, he kept his blade drawn as he began to take a circuit around the small clearing, and tree that the fetid beast had torn through.

"Perimeter check," he called to the rest of the knights, eyes scanning the further treeline as he made the round. Given the immediate need to about-face from investigation to monster hunting, this had gone fairly cleanly— but even so, you didn't scuffle with a gluttonous demon like one of those things without making a whole lot of noise. They had doubtless pulled eyes onto themselves with the commotion— these next moments would illuminate to him whether or not they would belong to innocuous, skittish, wholly mundane woodland creatures—

Or something altogether more sinister.

"We should be ready to pull back to the Keep, especially if Enfys needs further treatment." he advised. If Caulder ended up concussed, he didn't want him out here either, to be fair. "How's she look?"

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

Beneath his visor, Gerard's breath came from behind bared fangs as the meaty squelch sounded from above, flecks of black blood dashed across the crest and tabard as he felt resistance give way at the other end of his impromptu boar spear. That empty head was pasted, no question, and the scream that came in the wake of his assault heralded filaments of daylight forcing their way through the gloom— almost. Almost!

Even assuming that there was barely a brain up there to have crushed, it had to know now that it was close to death. Its' thrashing was growing ever more desperate, his sharpened gaze picking up the tiny serpents of sinew trying to re-knit around the wound he'd imparted, around the weapon itself. They couldn't. Not completely. It would have to live with this... however long it had left. Like any beast knocking on the door to the next world, it lashed out with redoubled fervor— cornered at the end of the line, killing or dying. He knew that mind well.

Let's put it out of our misery, then.

As if a swirl of blackened vines blossoming forth, the shadowy arms from its split maw rushed down the length of the branch by scores, entombing the branch, trying to rip it from his grasp. Anything, to deprive the knight of that implement that he was attacking it with. Killing it with. It had to get it out of this unyielding force driving its head away from the rest of it's body—

And yet it found none of the resistance it expected, as with a wrench of the shoulder the surging knight cast the branch, finally, down into the earth, wedging the base into the soil even as the Gannek's many arms all but entombed it within their crushing grip. When they splayed out to try and find the man that had done this to them next...

"AS ONE!" he howled.

He, and his thoroughly protected passenger, were gone.

A blurring arc of steel caught both torchlight and a lone ray of Reon's Grace, brilliant against the dissipating black mists it ripped through.

"INVENTORI LUCIS! SOLI INVICTA AUGUSTO!"

And with those twinned lights well in hand, he brought his balde down onto the gluttonous, exposed neck of this beast of darkness.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@VitaVitaAR@vietmyke

Three blades clattered to the ground, the percussion kick of surrender echoing off the walls on either side of the melee. In time with the hastily rising hands, the blur of black and white that had suddenly accosted them from the rear restrained himself, fading back into Rudolf's low-hunched form, his wings mere inches away from the next throat that would have stained them yet redder. In the gloom between Brightlam's domiciles, that crimson essence had of course looked closer to spilt ink than anything else.

"Lucky you saw sense."

Fitting that they invoked Himstus the way they did— blood was red because it carried his fire through the body. That was why you went cold when you had lost too much, so the legends went. Why when blood was spilled, fight too left the heart.

They weren't smart enough to leave the three of you alone to begin with. They couldn't recognize Galahad as a dragoon until he kicked one of them through a wall. They argue among themselves like they're not on the wrong end of swordpoint from every angle. Do you think they're smart enough to honor their surrender, once our two friends here take them at their word? Smart enough to remember this happened, the next time they've swords in their hands and somebody takes a wrong turn?

Red stained black... unfortunately familiar idea. The fight had nearly left him more than once— and the last time, it hadn't even needed a drop of his blood to start seeing itself out. His brow furrowed as he sheathed one blade, and kept the other interposed between him and the throats of their would-be muggers.

There's one way to be sure, kid. They considered your life forfeit. The only thing that saved you was that you're stronger than they are. Suppose they're even half as good as the 'boy in the stupid uniform' that they fight like. How many people are still on the wrong end of the equation? Most of the same ones your questing to save, I'd wager.

He held his gaze, drawing closer, closer...

And without taking his eyes off them, plucked the first of the three swords from the ground in his free hand, pinching the ricasso between his first two fingers.

You know how easy swords are to buy.

"'Captain', huh? This sure as hell didn't seem like such an organized setup as needing a chain of command." he mentioned, cutting into their squabbling and taking the second sword between his middle and ring finger. He moved quickly between them, always keeping that bloodied sword at the ready, and in short order the third had joined its peers between ring and pinky, all three held in that odd, reversed grip and pulled well out of reach.

"'Left Edren behind', too." he noted, as though spying a worm crawling at the bottom of his barrel of apples. "What's the story here? You conscripts that deserted during the war or something? You fight too much like duelists for that to be the start and end of it."

He knew Robin wasn't going to let that lie unaddressed, and he admittedly had his own curiosity regarding the elephant in the room of how their 'Captain' and her adoptive old man might have been related— but if her previous tendency not to think things through told him anything, the thought that dear old dad may have had a more checkered past than she knew could well have thrown her off course and compromised her ability to ask the right questions.

Hell, if she immediately assumed this school of swordsmanship was strictly limited to her father's tutelage, then it wasn't at all hard to imagine where a hasty mind could take this setup. She could have the lion's share of the interrogation once they'd established these key points, but he didn't have the inherent biases that'd color how they broke the ice.

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands to battle stations. I repeat: General Quarters. General Quarters..."

BOEING PHANTOM WORKS
_{RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT}

STARTING SHRIKE MAINFRAME...

PILOT PROFILE CONFIRMED: LTJG ROY KILMER (WHITELISTED)

LOADING PLUG-INS...

INITIALIZING...

DATA FOUND...

VERIFYING UPLINK...

SYSTEM ONLINE

Elsewhere in the hangar bay, live video feed that had once been projected onto the hangar bay doors had been abandoned in the tumult that came with the call to arms overhead. Playoff season back on Earth. It had made for a fitting background noise to the "sports bar" atmosphere von Brandt's poker games always took, and a welcome distraction after his first three hands claimed their first victim— the man exiled from the table the very same whose beloved bomber jacket and aviators rested atop the abandoned phone, muffling the video feed as much as the commotion of the scrambling pilots and ground crew alike had drowned out the audio.

The owner in question of all that abandoned property rolled his neck, a snug fit within the cockpit of the 7th squadron's "Christmas gift" from Boeing. It was a good thing that he'd really broken the new bird in with their training exercises the preceding couple months— while he was a damn good pilot, getting used to the space and peripherals he had to work with was paramount. Even he made no bones about how little he cared for the idea of leaving the boat for a furball before he knew how movement felt, let alone maneuvering. Even as one hand slicked back straight blonde hair to pull down the helmet of his flight suit, the other danced along the controls, calibrating, flipping circuit breakers, rotating his control surfaces while the comms uplink took that extra second it always did to reconcile the training data his testbed was collecting in the background with the 5th fleet's encrypted channels.

> Reactor: Online_
> Life Support: Online_
> Flight Response Systems: Online_
> Weapon Systems: Online_

His ground team and he had done a good bit of work on the verniers this go around— he was excited to see how well he could handle a wider thrust correction cone. He had half a mind for shelving the analytics while he was at it, if only to spare him those extra seconds it demanded on startup before he was ready to launch— but even then, four years serving under Commander Kodos had instilled a pretty accurate shot clock in his noggin for cockpit warmup. By his count, 54 seconds since the announcement had come over the P.A. Kind of slow, given how close he had been already. He opened comms—

"Hah! Fuck you Hex!"

"DAMMIT!"

And immediate feed spilled into his helmet, filling his ears with a surround-sound experience of the two squadmates he'd spotted scrambling into the hangar while his optics had roared to life, casting the mechanics of his ground crew and their finishing touches in a brassy orange glow. For their part, they were as used to the bickering as the pilot some 27 feet up, and took no pause before waving him the all clear. Among their number was the unmistakable all-white of their recent addition to the ranks from Boeing, a package deal with the new ride that had a heart attack any time he learned what exactly went on in here after-hours. Roy had long stopped telling him fro that reason. The man raised a hand to his ear—

<<Kilmer, I swear to God Above, if you're leering at me like that because you're getting ideas—>>

> All Calibrations Complete
> All Systems Nominal
> Standby for Launch

With an electronic snap, the radio feed switched to ATC as the sleek MAS's head moved along, eyeing its heavier peers. response was good across the board, and time was short— their sudden shift in vector would only have the Coalies caught with their pants down for so long. His hands took a mere fraction of a second to rest on the controls, feeling the power of the reactor at his heart flowing through the wiring, through the hull itself. This was the moment he always made sure to share with his chariot— just them, and whatever god or demon of war smiled upon the battlefield they would wade into that day. A shared prayer for good hunting, good fortune, and good understanding between them. Look alive, sweetheart. This one's for real.

<<Tower, 101-5. Systems green, Commie ready for launch.>>

As pilots went, he was fittingly old-school over the radio— clear-voiced, frosty as it came, smooth and swaggeringly calm even as the doors opened up to reveal the bedlam awaiting them. A cultural holdover anyone from aerospace could recognize, going as far back as radio and aircraft themselves. Any military pilot you could name made a point of sounding as crisp and professional as a man or woman could once the mic was hot. As he flicked over to the 101st's channel, he smirked to himself as he caught the tail end of the Commander's speech. Poor old boy had to have been sweating the new kid getting thrown straight into this mess— to say nothing of how much faith Rabbit and Hex must have inspired. It was a good thing they'd each gotten their pounds of flesh early, really.

Of course, there was an elephant in the room a hair under six feet tall and with his own track record for stacking up maintenance hours that was probably being spoken to that he was ignoring, but...

Y'know.

One problem to worry about at a time.

He opened transmission, finally presented with the lull he'd been waiting on.

<<Commie, up and ready. Sorry to worry you, Boss, I figured I'd just let everyone get it out of their systems while I ran preflight.>>