Penny

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

I know Ithanka has left the building so she is out. I'm thinking we will have a shipwreck of the coast of Dakar where we get separated.

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

The Future?!

Bullets bored into the fuselage like railroad spikes being driven through ancient sleepers, the sound so loud that the shattering of the cockpit glass seemed like an afterthought. The rush of air and the roar of the engine crashed over them now that the dam was broken. Glass and timber rattled around the interior of the cockpit or was swept out into the warm tropical sky by the onrushing air. Opportunity threw the aircraft into a steep side slip, dropping the nose and sacrificing precious altitude for more speed. Her pursuers roared passed, the nondescript grey biplanes still spitting gunfire, though their pilots had, for the moment, lost their chance at a kill.

Below them the green profusion of the Belgian Congo spread as far as the eye could see, broken only by the tapering muddy strip of the mighty river itself as it wound its way to the horizon. Though they were only a few hundred miles from Kinshasa, it wouldn’t be long before the trees closed over the tanin laden waters, concealing it from the air. Steam rose from the jungle in long rivulets stretching towards the brilliantly blue january sky like the tendrils of some great unseen beast was questing for their aircraft.

“Ms Knox,” came Alcander’s disapproving voice from the rearward passenger seat.

“If you get any closer to the treetops we are going to wish we had hired a boat!” the archaeologist shouted over the roar of the slipstream. His tone was deliberately light but his stress was apparent from the way he bit off his words, and from the way the back of her seat creaked under his grip. Opportunity pulled her goggles down to shield her eyes from the wind rush, her auburn hair flew backwards like a snapping pennant as she craned her head to watch the enemy scouts curling around for another pass.

“Can’t you outrun them or something?!” someone shouted from the passenger compartment. The treetops were nearly close enough to touch, streaking past in a green tide.

“That’s really not how engines work!” Opportunity shouted. Their aircraft was a DH.50, an old mail plane that Jack Buchannan had scared up from God alone knew where. The enemy was, she thought, a pair of aging Avros, a great war surplus scout that the Belgian’s, the Dutch, the British and damn near everyone else still had in service. Though they bore the markings of the Belgian air force it was a fair bet that they were in the pay of the mysterious Germans. They curved around in a long arc and began to close to firing range. Unladen, the DH.50 might have been slightly faster, but weighed down with the expedition, its gear, extra fuel, and floats to allow it to land on water, it wasn't close. The Arvo’s seemed to leap forward, orange flashes stabbing as their lewis guns spewed lines of tracer fire. Opportunity hauled back to the stick to lift them out of the hail of death. The heavy machine wallowed sickeningly as it shed airspeed and maneuverability. With a curse the young pilot slammed the mixture to full rich, averting a stall for a few heartbeats before she shoved the stick forward, yo-yoing the passengers with a chorus of shouted curses.

Both enemy scouts howled past, their guns falling silent as the shot was spoiled once again, though the DH’s airspeed was now dangerously low and the trick wouldn’t work a second time. A treetop slapped the undercarriage and Opportunity yelped, climbing as quickly as she dared but resisting the urge to haul back on the stick and send them into a lethal stall. Behind her rifles cracked as Lucien or perhaps Jack opened fire, the rapid click click of the bolt actions lost in the howl of the now open cockpit. Even the reports, normally painfully sharp, were washed out by the rushing air. It was a valiant effort, but the odds of a man in a bucking cockpit, moving at over a hundred miles an hour, scoring a hit at some critical point on another target moving away at the same rate were vanishingly slim.

The Arvos curved around in long graceful arcs lining up for the kill. Without speed or altitude the DH.50 was out of tricks and an easy target. The scouts closed quickly, holding their fire this time as they must be growing near to the end of their ammunition. Lucien and Jack continued their metronomic fusillade, the angle of attack made the shot a little easier when the enemy was closing, but not much.

“There has got to be some bloody thing you can do!” Alcander shouted into her ear, but Opportunity wasn’t listening, her attention completely focused on the incoming Arvos. They were close enough now that she could make out the helmeted head of the pilots, their glasses catching the mid morning sun in erratic flashes.

“For what we are about to receive,” she muttered inaudible and both enemy machines opened up within a heartbeat of each other. Bullets chewed into the fuselage like horde of angry woodpeckers and rounds spanged of the engine cowling like hail on a tin roof. Smoke fountained from the manifold, oily black, and reeking of burning castor oil, choking the passengers and pilot before being whipped away by the slip stream. The DH.50 staggered like a whipped horse and just when it seemed they must be torn apart by the bombardment, Opportunity threw the aircraft on its side and the slipped below the level of the trees, the tip of the left wing touching the muddy brown Congo river for a instant before she leveled off, sliding into the few feet of clearance the vast flow carved through the jungle. One of the enemy machines, in an effort to keep its guns aligned, dipped too low. It’s undercarriage caught the canopy and, like an origami puppet, the machine vanished into the jungle with a booming crash of shattering timbers and rending metal. The second Arvo, realizing its peril, pulled up but too eagerly. The machine wallowed for a critical half second, offering an almost zero deflection shot to the rifle men in the rear of the compartment. Lucien shouted in triumph as the figure in the gunner’s seat of the second machine slumped sideways and tumbled from his cockpit, the body performing a slow half rotation before vanishing among the trees. The surviving fighter was gone in an eyeblink streaking away over the treetops, toothless and impotent.

“We made it!” Alcander crowed in jubilant relief.

“No we didn’t,” Opportunity shouted back, wiping a the oil that coated her face and goggles. Bright orange flames stuttered to life around the engine which had developed a jarring thumping note. Instinctively she cut the fuel line and dropped the nose, smothering the flames better to risk a crash than to burn. For a moment there was silence save for the whistling wind before a sheet of brown muddy spray obliterated the world.

Sound off if you are interested in continuing with a bit of a time skip. Also introducing a new character, fearless aviatrix, Opportunity Knox. Also I apologize to those whose characters I hijacked (Except @POOHEAD189) , this is just conceptual.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla made an elegant curtsey to the Duke and his entourage. Not for the first time, she wished she had some idea what Dietricha was playing it. It had occurred to her that perhaps the wizard was simply insane, but Yantz’s steadfast, if somewhat reluctant, faith in the woman seemed at odds with that interpretation.

“Ah this is the Herr Richter I have heard so much about,” Enrik said, with a slight sardonic humor to his voice. Camilla had the feeling that the Duke knew exactly who his guests were.

“And the lovely Gabriella,” he said, taking Camilla’s hand in his own and kissing it in appropriate Imperial fashion.

“We are honored to have such guests with us tonight. May I introduce, Gilvinus, Coriliene and Indendre, not their real names Im sure but as close as we poor humans might hope to come,” the Duke went on guesturing to the immaculate elves with a wave of his hand. Once again Camilla got the sense that the Duke was mocking, though this time it was the haughty elves who were the target of his subtle humor. The elves all offered graceful bows though they were very slight, perhaps the minimum courtesy dictated. Indendre’s eyes widened slightly as he drew close to Camila, a tiny gesture, noticeable only because of the flawless calm it disturbed. To the surprise of everyone, including, apparently, his companions, the elf leaned forward and kissed her hand as the Duke had done. He pulled back eyes thoughtful and calculating.

“YOu have the look of a military man Herr Richter,” the Duke was saying, apparently oblivious to the byplay, “what is your assessment of the military threat. Need we merely wait of General Winter to win this battle for us?”
@POOHEAD189

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The Highlander plunged downwards with only the occasional feathering of the maneuvering jets to keep it level. Wind howled through the open landing bay doors as the cityscape rushed up to meet them. The Highlander wasn’t an assault ship with proper hatches for this kind of work but she was sturdy enough and had enough power to weight ratio that flying with an open bay wasn’t a huge problem. Sayeed’s expression was hidden behind the opaque visor of her helmet, but her lips were pressed into a disapproving frown, her usual expression when circumstances were beyond her control. It wasn’t exactly that she didn’t trust Taya’s piloting, although she wouldn’t have agreed to it without Neil's pre programing the course and Lonny’s assistance, it was just she would much rather have had Neil at the controls for such a maneuver. The altimeter on her holographic display spun downwards in a blur. Their exit vector had been computed to look as though they were fleeing the system but suffered some catastrophic failure, a ruse designed to conceal their landing, but simulating a systems failure was a dangerous bussiness.

“Brace for a jolt!” she yelled by instinct and tightened her grip on the bulkhead stanchion. The Highlander’s plasma thrusters kicked on, driving the deck up through her boots as the sudden plummet was arrested. Neil was already moving, the mech stomping down the ramp before jumping the few meters to the ground. On que the ship rose and pivoted in a slow circle. Junebug leaped from the hatch as her HUD threw up her deployment point, she tucked and rolled into place, curling up into a ball as the plasma thrusters swept overhead, the rotation carrying Saxon and Sven to their position on the opposite roof. Rising she ran to the edge of her position overlooking the wrecked alley. There was a low concrete wall that rose to her waist providing good cover for an overwatching sniper. She rested the heavy plasma rifle on the wall, unsnapping a bipod with a flexible rotator mount to give her optimum stability.

Below her, Neil’s mech was already tearing through the crushed concrete and construction girders, digging for the box that was, hopefully, still buried somewhere beneath. A gaggle of people gawked and pointed at the sudden commotion. Sayeeda unslung her rifle though her helmet was yet to identify any prospective targets. If this went well, they would have the aesteimobium and be on their way before anyone could react. As though summoned by the thought a red carrot flashed on her HUD, she swung her weapon to the threat, lifting her weapon till a scarred human filled the holographic sight picture. He was drawing a heavy calibre pistol which he pointed at Neil’s mech. Junebug squeezed the trigger and the man was flung back as a bolt of blue plasma converted his chest to a gaseous explosion, the pistol sailed off to the right still gripped in the man's severed arm. The crowd of spectators surged backwards in a panic.

“Neil if you could hurry this up, it won't be long till Gnorlac or one of his criminal buddies figures out what we are doing here,” she said, sweeping the expanse of cityscape with her weapon, eyes keen for any further sign of trouble.

Firebase Whitenoise (Inspiration from Oats Studios short film and SCP Fiction|Open/Applicable)

Delta Green remembers, and drinks to forget.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene smiled wanly before putting his hand to his heart and bowing in courtly fashion. Relationships among the hyperstatus sensitive nobility often had power differentials which seemed arcane to the outsider but the language of the court was nothing if not nuanced. The gesture conveyed both affection an aquience to authority.

“As you command your excellency,” Rene said, his grin broadening. Just as being the only surviving member of the garrison on New Concordia technically made him the acting Captain-General, Solae’s diplomatic rank made her the ambassador plenipotentiary to Panopontus. Most worlds this insignificant lacked any formal representation in the diplomatic corp with duties handled either by local officials or even merchants with connections to the core systems who were breveted authority in lieu of paid professional diplomats.

“As for what I wanted to show you…” Rene led Solae back to the boarding ramp. It was still open and the howling wind whipped rain droplets inside in a steady spray. Rivulets of water were beginning to run back towards the cargo bay as the heavier rear of the ship was slightly lower than the bow as sediment had given way. Even so, the storm driven air smelled so fresh and alive after the recycled stink of the Bonaventure’s atmosphere that Rene would have been unwilling to close the hatch for anything short of actual flooding.

The rain whipped water glowed and sparkled even more intensely than it had when Rene had exited the ship a few minutes prior. The reflected wake of the Bonaventure’s landing had faded but the wind still drove the shallow pool westward, particularly intense streaks of phosphorescence blossomed where the current rippled in broad V’s around the landing struts. The driving rain dappled the water in an ever shifting pattern that looked oddly ethereal due to the highlights of color.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Rene admitted, half shouting to be heard over the tumult of the wind and the hiss of rain on water. Biology was a part of education of course and though an interest in natural history and xenobiology weren appropriate eccentricities for a gentleman, it had never been a particular interest of Rene’s. Indigenous life forms at the microscopic level were rarely dangerous to humans save through ingestion, the biology too different to make infection a particular danger and though xenologic infections were not unheard of, they almost never occured on planets which had undergone even basic terraforming.

Rene squeezed Solae’s hand, it seemed even more dreamlike to be taking in the sight with his love by his side. For a moment he was able to put the rebellion and the dangerous tasks ahead out of his mind, simply enjoying the rippling play of light with Solae by his side.

Priest & Hawthorne Investigations - A Modern Fantasy Adventure!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FGSbgeuwhU

Priest & Hawthorne Investigations - A Modern Fantasy Adventure!

@Naril Come back to us!

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The hangar floor still trailed smoke even after the plasma thrusters had been cut off. Though the concrete itself was immune to the fury of the ionized jets, dirt and impurities had been burned away by the sustained blast filling the air with a pungent reek. Stray ions prickled at the skin and tickled at the sinuses as Sayeeda came down the ramp to join the gathering. She had traded the ruined leather bodysuit for her customary fatigues and her full battle rig. It The ceramic chestplate was latched closed and her helmet was visor down and opaque as the crystalline heart of a star. Her webbing was hung with a variety of grenades and magazines for the heavy plasma rifle that she cradled in the crook of her arm. A quick spray of combat sealant, a mix of antiseptic, healing factors and artificial skin had salved the burns on her palms although they still felt tacky. Saxon stiffened when he saw her, clearly realizing that his armor wouldn’t protect him against her new found hardware, even if he was willing to chance it against Neil and Sven.

“Gnarloc has to think we still have the aestimobium,” she declared, cutting into the the silence with a clear authoritative tone.

“That is the reason we only had to deal with his goons, rather than the whole city.” The kingpin couldn’t put out a planet wide bounty on them if he were worried about the hunters realizing the potential fortune they had in their hands.

“But that's done now, if he dosen’t crush us fast and hard every other second rate ganger is going to smell blood in the water.” It made intuitive sense to Junebug, the basic strategy of an Armored unit was to hit hard and fast and keep hitting until the enemy collapsed, their actions had made Gnarloc look weak and he couldn’t tolerate that and hope to survive. Everyone spoke at once, voices gabbeling over each other in a confused mass of plans and objections.

“We need to retake my ship!” Saxon hissed, winning over Taya’s assertion that they should leave and Sven objecting that this wasn’t part of his deal by virtue of the bass his reptilian lungs gave his words. Junebug considered shooting the alien. It really did make alot of sense just to end the threat now with a hail of plasma bolts but if they were going to recover their prize they needed as many bodies as they could get.

“Unless you had some serious security Gnarloc’s men have already captured it,” Junebug said in a neutral ton.

“Even if he hasn’t moved it I doubt we will be able to recover it,” she went on, well aware that if the roles had been reversed she would have attempted to retake the Highlander against nearly any odds. Saxon hissed and cast a baleful glance at Neil, adding one more injustice to his already extensive list.

“Is your ship worth more than 10 million credits?” Sayeeda asked pointedly. Saxon bared his fangs but his posture relaxed slightly.

“There is 40 million worth of aestimobium and we weren’t negotiating very hard. Ten million each,” she said, making a broad gesture to incorporate the three men.

“I should get more of a share seeing my ship has been lost,” Saxon interjected angrily. Sayeeda swung the heavy plasma rifle to her shoulder, the 2cm bore pointed right at the lizards chest.

“What you should get are three million joules to the chest for fucking up our deal in the first place, but I’m feeling all generous like,” Junebug replied icily.

“I’m a bad enemy to have woman,” the lizard snapped, gums drawing up around his impressive fangs.

“No one is any kind of enemy when they are splattered across half a hangar bay,” Junebug observed in a reasonable tone. Sven laughed, a dry corpse like sound that made Sayeeda’s skin crawl.

“I’ll settle for a larger share if you want to kill him Captain, but we will all be settling for no shares at all if we stand around here for too much longer.” Saxon’s posture relaxed slightly in sullen acquiescence and Junebug lowered the gun to a patrol carry.

“Alright, get the mech into the cargo bay, does it have jump jets?” she asked, casting her eyes over the metal behemoth. Sven shook his head sadly.

“Afraid not,” he said with a bloodless grin, “maybe next upgrade?” Sayeeda nodded, assimilating the information.

“OK, Taya think you can handle a combat drop? We are going to need Neil in the mech. We will go in hard and fast, the Highlander will pull back to orbit and extract us when we have the goods.” Lifting the debris free with the mech wasn’t the best possible solution, particularly because the second they returned to the ruins of the night club it would be immediately obvious what they were doing, but the longer they delayed the more they risked that some random clean up crew would recover the priceless ore.

The Sunday Group

@ihinka Goodbye! It has been a pleasure writing with you.