HereComesTheSnow

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@Psyker Landshark

Silence...

And then pandemonium.

The sinking feeling in his gut, wrenching and cold, had proven itself right— and with the moment's passing, Rudolf felt some small part of him die. By the time Eliane's bullets were loosed, and Isolde ordered their capture... he couldn't even let out the frustrated snarl that had been building at the back of his throat. He had to bring his blades to bear and step past the crumpled remains of that vain hope that they could avoid this. One it seemed not even Robin had been willing to hold. Normally, he'd have blamed that on her boiling everything down to easy and thoughtless trope instead of muddy reality. But time after time, that same simple way of looking at it all seemed to keep her eyes clearer.

His vision was getting hazy.

Sparks flew, as steel edges collided and his exhausted frame screamed in protest as he wrenched the hasted thrust of a longsword to the side, and he put all his might into a one-handed swing of the greatsword. On the wrong end of the speed dynamic he had just minutes ago enjoyed like this, he was dismayed but far from shocked to watch the white-robed Templar fade back behind the line of his peers, two men bearing spear and shield that barely felt the impact upon the barriers surrounding their frames, let alone any mar upon their iron curtain.

It was probably always inevitable, anyway. He had been careless... and he had already seen the lesson he learned in action only a few days before, when they thought that Isolde was at least one Grovemaster still on their side. He knew how any negotiation involving Drana Asnaeu and Skael on opposite ends of the board went— they'd done a dry run already in Brightlam and made a complete mess of it. He didn't know where the hell Eliane had gotten it into her big empty head that a glorified guard had any authority to declare war, but they'd foolishly gone and given her the biggest gun they could find and a majority vote in favor of using it.

"Ngh." His eyes flashed as he saw the instant their torsos shifted, throwing himself back as a pair of spears blinked into existence in the space that had been his kneecap a second ago. Behind's no good— a familiar voice called, almost soon enough to prepare him for the jarring shield bash to the back of his skull from a knight he'd not seen get around his guard—

Hell with it. The gun, the beam of light, the threats preceding, they'd all just happened. Didn't matter. Here they were. Maybe he had no leg to stand on.

That they were in this situation at all was every bit as much proof that he was no sterling judge of character, or the hand he was trying to play at the table. Irresponsible gambler, shocked that he'd burned a hole through his pocket once again, tale old as time. It was all fucked. They just needed to push their way through it now. No time or energy for anything else. Just focus on twenty four Galahad-level problems in front of you, twice as fast as probably still faster than you. Wield my armaments. Make openings. Get us out. That's already more than I'm ready for. Focus goes there. Burn what it takes.¹

Blood flew from his mouth, the inside of his cheek or tongue bitten open by the sudden jarring collision. The sharp pain and taste of copper was a small blessing in that it kept his head from swimming— enough to plant his boot onto the sturdy point where the two hafts hafts crossed, push off, and leap clear overhead of the two knights, in the direction of Izayoi. Twisting through the air to try and game a couple extra feet out of the momentum, he swung down with the greatsword as his body rose higher, willing a curtain of black flame through the arc to screen their vision that extra second—

You're on your own there. I'm not risking it.

And instead was treated to the horrifying silence of a good five feet of blade bouncing harmlessly off of a top-class magical barrier. He landed and surged ahead, mind racing, into the space where she had managed to force a gap in their tight group. He was lucky, in a small respect, that he already was really familiar with how damned useless the thing was. It meant he could plan around it much more quickly, leverage what little strengths it had. Even a rubber Montante still took up space, and this one at least looked like steel. He could dissuade approach.

He swung wide, forcing a few helmeted men back, holding the gap she'd made— but hasted as they were, the Templars were quick to adjust after a few words between them all blurred together. That was another problem. They communicated well. While he had a hard time making out the words, especially in the rush of desperate combat, he had caught the directionality— the two behind.

The templars forced back in almost immediately, redoubled confidence behind the nearest one's mace. They had to have told eachother that it couldn't get through the barrier, he realized, barely catching the ringing blow on the flat, braced against his shoulder— strong as his body was, he still felt the ground crack beneath his heels with that one, and his joint nearly dislocate. He shoved the larger man away, filling the space in his wake with another forceful, vicious-looking swing—

Sure enough, a second and third came in behind his arc, practically on top of him an instant later and finding the point of his knife rammed into his eye as the faux-sagramori spun through fully, and his sturdy sabertooth dagger proved far better at piercing their bestowed defenses (at least when they unexpectingly ran into it). Wrenching it free, his right side blossomed in pain as he registered impact— the hammer end of a pollaxe had slipped past his guard. His teeth grit, and he ripped another line of long steel through the space around him, desperate to rebuild momentum and initiative—

"THESHORTBLADEISTHETRUEDANGERBROTHERSHEWILLWEARHIMSELFDOWNIFWEKEEPLETTINGHIMSWING"

And his ears just about made out the words of the man he had relieved of an optic nerve not even a second ago, Regen and Reraise leaving him no worse for wear in the slightest. This was impossible against opponents of this number and caliber. They were too fast, too unkillable, too observant and coordinated to even have a hope of dealing with fresh. The numbers alone had been against them— this wasn't stacking the deck so much as holding a crossbow to the brow demanding all the chips outright. He'd hold this opening as well as he could, but they needed to be decisive if they wanted to pull a win or even escape out of this.

His heart hammered. His muscles screamed. His bones creaked. His head swam. His vision dimmed. His sword barely scratched anything on a good day. He was certain he was two steps from falling apart. How many bones had he already given up? How much blood?

His knife, that too-often relied upon last resort, punched through, at least. But...

The next Templar it bit into grinned, and grabbed Rudolf by the wrist for a mere instant, as he saw the wound it gave begin to close around the blade before his eyes. He bought himself a moment with a headbutt to the nose, and wrenched the handle while bumping a shoulder to the breastplate and kicking the man's leg out from under him—

... It wouldn't be enough to get anything more done, and they were already wise to needing to take it from him. He was not a siege engine to punch through the gate, so much as a lone soldier trying to wedge his back into a gap in the portcullis.

Hopefully, at least, the others would fare better and be able to use that gap to get out of here before they were all overrun. He was done even pretending he ever liked his odds on anything. Let alone this. I may as well be in Hell already.

He struggled on, buying what time and space he could.

---

---

• _{1. Not. Happening. After that dispel, I'm taking no chances. She still wants you alive. She may get what's going on in here, but when one of these upjumped zealots catches even a whiff of what I do they're going to claim we were an "incidental casualty" at the very best. They do not play about blasphemy. They aren't here because they believe in people like you pulling yourself out of a hole the way she does. I'm an accessory to murder, not to suicide.}

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Friday it is then boys

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

There we go. See? Let the guy who's trained for this do the talki—¹

A wave of holy energy passed over him as Isolde released her Dispelja, and while he himself felt little more than a light buzz at the ends of his hair, the same couldn't be said for the presence written atop his soul.² For the first time since he had forged that contract, he felt something recoil and writhe, as though the blackened flame itself had been stabbed³ without warning. Around him, the assembled Eidolons faded, as well as Esben's fairies— banished. From what little he understood of White magic, it was similar in principle to the way magically-sourced ice wouldn't have done them much good in the desert, that conversation seeming an eternity ago now— it weakened the aether structures that tethered the eidolons to the waking world. Seeing how it had left Eve, and her erstwhile Bahamut-aspected state, in such disarray...

His eyes narrowed, as he focused on getting his breath back under control. With the sounds of Cid's hurried exit ringing from behind him, the Kirins were now, truly, alone against these two dozen elite warriors of the Church, Isolde at the fore and stacking them high with every enhancement magic in her repertoire. He was pretty sure that even though he hadn't fully donned the aspects of whatever his shady passenger was... there would be at least a little bit before it had calmed down enough to manifest again.

And even then, he was very aware of what he'd burned up already. He'd be shocked if he won even a single coin toss for the next six months. If not worse. He'd been completely dumping it after guarding everything zealously for five years— there was no telling how it scaled at this point. He had no pool of reference beyond the general downturn that had come of the initial signing.

"...He's not lying." the young man spoke at length, still too rattled to really rebut anything the Grovemaster had said further than Esben had already managed. In a way, he wasn't sure he could— for all he took umbrage with the shade's implication that he hadn't had his share of schooling in how to handle his speech... it wasn't as though he couldn't, in part, see her point of view. They were the only ones fighting the oncoming storm openly— the only representatives mustered from each of the four nations in plain view. Even when you acknowledged that the Kirins had righteous cause... he knew better than many what staring down long odds looked like. It was a fool's errand to totally ignore that kind of practical calculus in her position. And then there was the matter of Cid...

"We don't have any way of knowing where he went. It could be anywhere a church lies on the continent. That's a demand we can't meet, even if the man is the liar you say he is."

His teeth ground. Before them, twenty-four men of fine training, armored in quality half-plate bolstered by protection, arcane barriers, their wounds sure to regenerate before his eyes even if this came to blows, to the point where they could even stave off death. And before even that... he had just earned himself a firsthand experience with what Haste meant for a well-trained warrior. Outnumbered nearly three to one atop that, and a skirmish had the makings of a disaster by his count. Even if he darted straight back, trying to get ahold of the Crane's Wings (presuming they were where he'd left them instead of washed away by all the rushing water of the battle), the nearmost church militant would probably have gotten to him quicker. With Leviathan dispelled, he now realized, there was nothing that Valon's spear would be stuck in—

Save for the bottom of the sea, far below the cliff. Even if he was of only middling skill in its use, it was sobering to realize that it was off the board entirely.

His grip on the Sagramore Rondel shook. The odds were long, long, long indeed. And their only hope against facing them down, at least from where he stood... was banking on talking Isolde off the ledge. On playing to that small, sad smile she wore, so long as it wasn't a mask.

"You have to know how unreasonable that is. And even then, he did save us from certain death. You're asking us to hand you someone who risked his life against one of Valheim's reanimated monsters to save ours. Betrayal, Isolde. If you can't at least see that, then... we're all just doubling down, I guess. And I want to trust everything you had told me, regarding that."

Had it been the same, then, back at camp? When talking over irresponsible gambles... and committing to the harder path after thinking things through?

Had this been what she meant? Was that wan expression from his answer affirming this path, or was it from knowing this was coming regardless?

Or was it just nothing? Artifice, and another layer of manipulation, then and now?

...That was cruel. Far, far too cruel. Any of those were. He felt sick even considering the possibilities, and squeezed the bone hilt in his off hand until he could drive them out of his wild nerves. They told him to flee, flee now, dive over the cliffside and disappear from all this. He stilled himself.

And tried to pierce the glowing discs set upon her face one last time.

"... Is this really how it has to go?"

---

---

• _{1. AAAAAAGH FUCK}
• _{2. OW, FUCKING CHURCH BROADS, EVERY TIME! JUST TRY AND ERASE YOU WITH NO WARNING! THIS IS WHY I SHUT UP AROUND CID! I KNEW I'D STILL FEEL THE BURN!}
• <sub>3. UPTIGHT LITTLE CUN— Okay, alright, allow me to "reclaim some dignity". Imagine for a moment, dear reader, you're minding your own business inside a willing, contracted, supposedly robust corporeal vessel and then somebody comes along and finds a way to make your very essence turn into a collection of white hot knives, all trying to stab eachother at the same time. It's a, "comforting", sensation— and the reason why I think White Mages have pulled the finest hustle of the past thousand years, if not more. Don't let their ability to heal injury fool you. They're sadistic, volatile pieces of shit the moment they see anything that looks less human than most Mystrel or the rare civilised Viera— and hating them like any other mage is totally, completely, morally justified. I will not be taking arguments at this time, if you do try to convince me otherwise, let me hit you with some timely slang from my host's generation: "Consider the Rope".
  
  Now then, I have a cold-burning sensation to purge. I'll be back.</sub>

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

The shift in atmosphere when traversing between each realm was as palpable as it had ever been. On one hand, there was a comforting return to normalcy after they had been farewell by the fair lady of the woods and lead back out of her grove to Brennan, the full breath of sun upon his skin once the four had returned to the clearing a welcome reprieve from the cage of old oak.

They had made swift tracks to the rest of the Order with key in hand, a quick rundown on their present goal hot on its heels. For his money, Gerard had to agree that Fionn and the Captain were the two primary choices to lead negotiation— as much as he had overperformed even his own expectations of the meeting with the moonlit queen's aforementioned younger sister, that was luck a wise man didn't push. Doubly so, when they were about to run into a mind much less inclined to be immediately sympathetic to a mission or grateful for any incidental services rendered.

Best to at the very least cede the opening to she who held rank and he who held experience and poise. Admittedly, he had almost trapped himself into contributing to their key gambit somehow once the ball really got rolling— having personally made that promise, his sense of responsibility was likely to flare before he sat idly by the whole time and rode upon their coattails.

He couldn't help it. Even if part of him didn't think the powerful fae he had somehow won over would be able to simply pierce through him with those sapphire eyes and read the sloth upon his soul if he returned having done nothing, he would know that he'd talked a big game, and not tried to back it up.

So as they strode through the snow and came upon a paradoxically tiny elder sister, his resolute intent served to buffer him against the mental unsettlement that came from traversing the Moonlit Queen's realm. He could still feel the quiet discord at the end of his perception, his senses grappling with each obscured stimulus in the background as they marched— but when the tall beaked figure appeared behind, his mind was as alert as ever. While the Moonlit Queen dominated the spotlight, fitting with the way her sister described her personality, the wolf-pelted knight eyed the other actor on the stage as he listened in.

Raven head. About the same height as Faolan and the other knights in the Lady's court. Height concealed beneath a deep black cloak... no telling what was exactly beneath. Not moving much, letting her talk, loyal enough that he wouldn't be a problem before she was.

A moot point by then, being totally honest.

"A shame we missed that," he noted conversationally, turning his eyes to take a gander at the newly inlaid and newly marred runes upon the blade in Fionn's grasp. "All I got was a Gannek."

At this point, he didn't have a lot more substance to bring to the table. He'd reinforce Fionn's "good work" bit with that and then let him work.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

roughly four thousand years ago when men of the northern steppe first domesticated the horse i think

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

I let the boss do the talking while I run a bit as background commentary for my horse (he likes me because I pick out the good apples at the market)

EDIT: The horse. Not Aubri. Aubri likes me because I can kill if he needs me to, these are different likings

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Arrowfell Vice about to go so fucking insane

Secundi Lux

---

The big girl bore the words flying about like the mountainside did the wind, drinking them as rainfall on her slopes while her eyes remained pinned upon their newfound Priority Target, ready to leap ahead of them all if their hushed tones had a fifth set of ears playing audience where they'd only run the program for four, and one of those lasers turned upon their number prematurely.

But luck, however nominally in a situation like this, was on their side tonight— their brief exchange of deliberations went off uninterrupted, information clearly relayed and decisions rattled off on as quick a tempo as they needed. It was as though the choices all fell into place on their own, once all the cards had been laid onto the table. Ten people trapped further within the compound. One enemy at the fore, at the very least equivalent to any one of them in raw destructive capability. The generators and structure themselves, already so damaged by the attack. She weighed odds, concerns, and ability—

And with an encouraging clap between the shoulder blades, nodded sharply and sent their lovely maestro out onto the stage with no other well wishes than the timeless, ceaselessly faithful "Knock 'er dead." That was one task delegated out as a matter of course— the tip of Kheper's spear. Behind it came the weighty oaken haft, driving that brilliant point home— nothing better than a tree like her to play that role.

"Alright, ladies, I have a plan."

Swiftly, in the instants where Rivka revealed herself, Selma circled 'round to the fore and wrapped her burly arms round the shoulders of her remaining two teammmates, favoring each with that classic cocksure grin as her furs and frame shielded their eyes from the premature sunrise that was the opening salvo. Her mossy locks were tossed by wind and flame, but her back was straight and solid as ever even as she leaned forward, keeping her voice low even as she tapped one sabaton of arcane steel to the stone beneath.

"You two are better suited for rounding the survivors up, ja? Smaller, faster than me, probably much more quiet. Between the both of you, coordinating and protecting people should be plenty doable. The two of you can definitely kick the ass any problem that comes knocking. Given the disarray this place is in already, I might get more in the way than anything— Better I stay here." she jerked her head back, to the fireworks over her shoulder building their opening stanzas note by note. "Keep an eye on die komponist. If things get hairy for her while you run exfil, I can jump in right away. Not to mention..."

Another tap, the pulse running pointedly through their boots as a clear image of the space around them drew itself upon the mind's eye of the big girl. Following that up, she raised one gauntleted finger to brush away a lock of green that covered her earpiece. Part of her wanted to be miffed that she didn't indulge her instincts to brawl, to venture forth, to be at the front either saving lives or shielding them—

But it was the strong and mighty branches that bore leaves, fruit, and flowers. The stalwart wood of the trunk that rooted these beautiful things to the stable earth, lest the careless wind and rain rip them away. Her teachers had been thorough in this idea that she should foster her strength in support—

One in particular, needing no introduction, had been exacting.

"I can still keep an eye on you girls from this position, too. Once I've got your heartbeats and footfalls to work with on-site, I can warn you if I'm imaging any destructive interference near you or any of our hostages you're running into. That should buy you a little more room to focus on finding and transporting the people. Quickly now, while we still have time to move and I have time to get dug in where that thing won't see me— this makes sense?"

Her trust was resolute. The four of them had been through hell together and hell apart— they could more than handle themselves without her needing to rush and clear the front. Even with Rivka already being spoken for, Crystal and Chie had both, in their own ways, told their brasher counterparts as much. She and Rivka had been selfish about that, in some respect.

So long as she held them high and gave them space by spreading her branches wide, they could surely blossom all their own.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

Pulling the knife free from the ground once more, Rudolf stood—

And staggered again to his knees.

The blessings went, as the blaze made contact with Leviathan's soft underbelly, burning a heavy gash through where the steel itself had only left the barest nick upon even those scales. At once, he was abruptly thrust back into the normal world— his only buffer from slamming full-force into the brick wall of single time the brief seconds between one haste falling and the next. Just enough of a window for him to realize what was happening as it came...

And then it was upon him like quicksand. Just as the sudden swiftness had rendered each limb and breath feather-light, now it was as though his will was spilling out of him. Like drowning. Almost, it seemed like loosing his next breath would be a mistake, like there was a momentum within it he wouldn't get back once it was gone. It wasn't that his strength had faded, but...

Pain¹. Dull, burning pain, blossoming through his chest like paint on canvas. If you had flipped the cliffside on its head and drove all the weight into his sternum, or maybe locked their opponent's massive jaws around him and told them to chew, that sensation was probably close. His breath was shallow, too shallow to keep itself within him as Galahad's tackle collided with his torso, carrying him clear of an unexpected fireball.

His head swam.

He heard the older man's voice in his ears, and Leviathan's high above them both— but even where his ears now existed on the same tempo as normal speech, the voices were muddled, dulled, underwater. Drowning too, beneath the low roar that had subsumed him, with each pulsing wave of exhaustion that traveled up through the veins in his neck. They were tight, like stones forced through the bottom of the jaw. ²

He wanted to whimper, but didn't have the voice for a groan. He bore the pain silently, save for a hollow wind atop his tight gasps for air.

Bloodshot eyes tried to focus, to regain their bearings on the world, to little avail. The world spun, each attempt as fruitful as those to command his body to move, or his mind to forge a thought. His gaze was listless, half lidded, unfocused, as a symphony of light and sound erupted around them nearby. Color, heat, light, sound, fresh figures appearing, the vertigo of the man leaping to pull him clear of it all.

He didn't know what was happening.

Something of this seemed familiar. He recognized that there was a lot that he should, but he had to try and breathe.

There was a burning tar where his heart should be. He wanted to claw at it, tear it out of him, but the impulse died at the shoulder.

A point of green light in the mix grew close, buzzing furiously with a grimace on its face.

Wait... Light didn't have faces, that was—

—AZERWQXYRTKBYUH—³

As Eos's palms finally reached him, her flight extended without warning by the sudden relocation by way of dragoon, the verdant healing energy was, for better or worse, like grabbing a live wire. The pain in his chest lingered, but began to hollow— the pain of his muscles that he'd had the dull shield of exhaustion to ignore was now sharpened as he felt a few re-knit where his thrust with the lance had seen them pulled, beneath his notice till now thanks to the adrenaline.

Speaking of that, the dump through his system was still very much real, and while his heartbeat and breath were now finally once again under control, he was still every bit as ragged and worn as he felt— but now lucid enough to know it, thanks to the fact that he could manage a lungful or two of air.

And know the last of the many voices that had joined them, all too well.

"...Why?" came the stricken, confused rasp. He hadn't screamed the name of the strike revealed to him the way he had tghe shield, but his throat was still every bit as desert dry. A gnawing lump in his gut took hold as his eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the glare that had caught Isolde's glasses and catch a glimpse of the green he'd seen beneath, only one night before. "'Heresy', he..."

...He couldn't.

Uh oh, boss. a familiar voice chimed in, dripping with wry satisfaction at getting to rhyme a stanza Rudolf had never expected. Maybe she did like me.

His eyes drifted between the two holy figures. The headache from having his wings ripped and crashing to earth had reached a skull-cracking peak, nausea settling in beneath the ball of ice it felt like he'd just swallowed. As unpleasant as any sensation got.

"Cid saved our lives. Why set us against Leviathan? Lure him out? Hand him over? He— You—"

You really shouldn't be talking. I don't think you're able to even think out to the end of the sentence before you're saying it. This is how you get yourself into trouble.

The words certainly spilled out that way, hardly wearing the guise of structure. But blindsided as he was, he couldn't help himself. It didn't matter how little he was thinking straightforwardly, or whether or not he could get it all out in one clear shot. She surely hadn't just conned them. This couldn't be another time. Not again. Not again.⁴

"We all stand against Valheim here! Why are you selling the idea— It's your country! What possible reason, Master Isolde?!"

A desperate plea. Despite how wrapped up it was in exhaustion, frustration, confusion...

It was not so different at all from the one he had approached her with, just hours before. That he might appeal to her reason, no matter what blasphemy he may have harbored.

"What about responsibility? The greater good?"

---

---

• _{1. Arrythmia. Specifically, ventricular tachycardia. If he could think clearly at all, he'd have known he was, probably, a few minutes out from an episode of cardiac arrest, as his nerves took longer to adjust to the new speed everything was working at than the heart chambers they were telling to maintain at double-hasted full ahead. But of course, that's the rub when those chambers don't have any time to get enough blood in the pump— thinking clearly tends to stop. It's even gotten to me a little, like sulfur on the winds from who knows what.}
• _{2. Cannon A Waves. High amplitude bloodflow from the atrium trying to force open a valve that shouldn't be closed, since the aforementioned tachychardia has the ventricle below contracting off-beat and too fast. In brief, jugular veins should not have that kind of pressure launching through them. It's quite painful, and to use a medical term, "very bad for you".}
• _{3. No artistic license used here. That's a quote.}
• _{4. Just because you don't like the deal, doesn't mean I lied about it.}

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

By the time he had gotten there, even at what he called a "spirited burn" and what Boeing called "beyond recommended thrust, what's your goddamn problem", the radar picture had cleaned up save for a few shavings off of the Secutor and the wreck of his erstwhile Big Game— ceded to Rhino by little more than necessity. It stung the Minnesotan a little, sure, but sometimes things didn't shake out perfectly. He was the first to admit that, because if he had his way, all he'd ever be doing was going after the Coalition's newest high-spec toys. It'd certainly prove the superiority of UEE Piloting... and probably be a wasted effort, long-term. Wars were won in the bigger picture in the real world.

Really, it was a win enough that everyone from the 7th was coming home from Phase 1, more or less unscathed atop that— save maybe Hex, but she was the sniper here. Vision from one end of the board to the other was her thing. He'd have to find out once they were all back on the Roanoke.<<Rhino, Commie: Copy kill on Priority Target. We'll form an element and handle escort. Maintaining corner speed.>>

As the heat of combat left his blood, the inversely clinical tone of his calls began to fade with it, replaced by something a touch more languid— but only just. He wouldn't slip all the way back into the upper midwestern until he was out of the coffin, even if he'd tried. As the three mechs changed bearing, the lightest of them glanced back at the Venator.

<<I hear the sentiment, Rookie, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass.>>

After that, it was largely back to whatever necessary chatter the ride back demanded from him, be it verifying contacts or working with Rhino to gut intercept attempts before they could start. In any event, their course wouldn't stray, no matter how much even Commie loved getting into close-in brawls. His beam saber had been a real workhorse already, anyway.