Penny

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

“Please,” Junebug said with a week laugh, “WIthout me you would be scattered across a city block.” She didn’t quite remember the specifics but it seemed like the thing to say. Her memory seemed to be clearing and a cool sensation was spreading down her right arm there was a quiet whir as a pneumatic pump delivered medication. There was a confused jumble of memories that seemed to seperate out into a half dozen battlefieds.

“It was nearly you who were scattered all over the pavement,” Neil pointed out. Sayeeda made a dismissive gesture down at her medicomp encased body.

“Everything still on the inside, mostly at any rate,” she said, “beside if I bitched every time I got a little blown up I’d never shut up.”

York, still hovering put on a patronizing smile.

“Well I’ll leave you to your reunion,” the spy said, fluffing his mustache with his hand in a way that was meant to convey comradely bonhomie. Junebug fixed him with a steady stare. She had seen men and women like him before. In what Andor’s armored euphemistically called ‘the field police’. They looked human enough at first but their work turned them into something else. He reached the med bay door and looked back over his shoulder.

“I’m sure Mr Edwards will be happy to fill you in on the details of our arrangement,” and with that he was gone. Junebug opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about when a calm female voice sounded over the public alert system. It sounded like a real voice rather than a synthesized computer simulation.

“All hands prepare for insertion.” All around them the medics grabbed hold of whatever solid surface was to hand. The medicomp tightened around Junebug’s body. A tone sounded followed rapidly by two more sequentials and then there was a sudden shuddering sensation and Junebug felt like she was about to vomit up her internal organs. Then the universe seemed to relax. They were in the RIP. Junebug arched her eyebrow at Neil.

“I’m sure Mr Edwards will be happy to fill me in on the details of this arrangement…”

Damned to the Depths

The wave reflected off the stone wall of the harbor shoving the Weather Witch out into the harbor channel. Bits of debris pattered into the water like rain, hissing as they were quenced in the murky water. Calliope had to admit that she was secretly impressed having always had a soft spot for the violent and the dramatic. She jumped up the three steps to the slightly raised poop deck and flung the wheel over. There was only just enough way on to allow the ship to answer the helm but the bow sprit began to ponderously turn towards the Sea Gate.

The Sea Gate had once been the natural cleft where the Caldrea that formed the Great Harbor had shattered, over the centuries however it had been smoothed with construction. Now, two great white towers stood, each bearing a large luminous spell which provided constant light to draw ships into harbor without the expense of fuel. The Gate could not be closed per se, although there were great iron chains that could be run from one tower to the other to prevent entry. Using them however would take hours of work and was not something that could be improved. Both of the Tower fortresses sported powerful guns but those batteries were high in order to give them range to fling heated shot at would be attackers, a small ship with shallow draught could hug the coast line without ever presenting a target.

Unfortunately the Sea Gate wasn’t the only problem across the harbor one of the guard ships was moving towards the explosion. Unlike the Weather Witch the guard ships were equipped with banks of long oars that pushed them across the bay smoothly. The Guardships were squat looking vessels, their masts removed to mount oarsman and to make place for the large carronades which they mounted fore and aft on reinforced platformed which could be swiveled to make aiming them easier. The purpose of the ships was to enforce customs duties, but at close range the guns were a deadly threat. Worse still each ship carried a core of marines, or at least did in theory, it wasn't unusual for a captain to claim he had twenty men when he had five and pocket the extra pay.

Even with her mizens loosed, the Weather Witch was barely underway, her stained sail flapping in the listless wind. At dawn when the sea began to warm a brisk wind flowed down the cooling rock of the city, making it the customary time to set sail, just as nightfall was the best time to approach the port. Unfortunately dawn was still several hours away.

“Marduke or whatever your name is, we are about to have company!” Calliope shouted to the swordsman.

“You need to keep them occupied for a few minutes,” she declared and reached into the small bag of treasures she had been able to rescue before fleeing. Nestled in its bed of jewels and worked gold was a small book. The Trentian Codex was one of the great treasures of Calaverde and one that Sebastian was going to be furious when he realised it was gone. The book was bound in strange leather and the pages were made of an oddly golden parchment, with a consistency more like that of silk than paper. Black writing in the arcane script marked pages that were covered with fantastic illustrations and strange sigils. Even scholars who had examined the book could only make sense of a tiny part of the coded writings. Where it had come from was obscure, though Triantan, the great palace city it had been recovered from was a real enough place. Legend held that it had been scoured from the sea till nothing remained but a reef and a single pillar of stone, atop which rested the bok. Calliope didn’t know how much of that was true but she had studied as much of the book as her court scholars could translate and could at least guess at the shape of some of the more basic spells it contained.

Opening the book to a remembered page, she sat cross legged next to the wheel and began to chant in slow sonorous syllables, weaving intricate gestures with both hands in disturbing asymmetry.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla pirouetted through the nightmarish attackers, thrusting and parrying with a grace that surprised even her. A strange feeling of waste came over her and she found herself disappointed when she used six inches of steel where three should have done the job. The sensation was both alien and familiar, it reminded her of how her tutor in the art of dance and seduction had scolded her for being too forward, to extravagant. She flicked aside a rusted axe and sliced a beastman across the belly spilling in intestines onto the wall. A great chaos warrior clambered over the wall and drew a great broadsword from his back. There was a thickening thrill that this might be a worthy opponent at last but as the giant locked his baleful red eyes on her he seemed to freeze, for a moment a great statue of wrought iron and brass.

“You,” the Chaos warrior spoke. His vice was like skulls grinding each other to powder, almost unintelligable as human speech.

“Mia!” Camilla declared covering her confusion with bravado and raising her blade to a duelists en garde. She had no idea why a Chaos Worshipper should recognise her and she certainly didn’t know him. They had fought enough of the Northerners that she knew some could be distinctive but most just seemed like hellish suits of armor. Without warning the warrior turned and stepped off the wall, his cape of unidentified fur fluttering behind him. Camilla stood stunned, she had known chaos warriors to do many strange things, but to retreat? Before she could ponder the matter further Skaldi strode along the wall carring a vast cauldron of smoking oil. It must have been unbearabley hot but if so, the dwarf showed no sign of it. He put one vast foot up on the parapet and pitched the sizzling contents over the side.

“Have some soup! Its bloody spoiled anyhow,” the Dwarf called cheerfully. There was a sound like frying bacon and a scream that shook loose rooftiles streets away as the sheet of boiling oil struck the fleshy tentacular monster that had been the attackers seige tower. Vast appendages thrashed and swept about madly snatching chaos worhipers from the walls as the thing went beserk with agony.

“Sorry? Not hot enough far ya!” the capering dwarf called as he siezed a torch from a ring sconce and hurled it down. With a great whooosh a sheet of flame shot skyward. The already soaked spawn screamed even louder but its tentacles whipped back like a child that has touched a hot pot. Still mewling with a sound louder than a cavalry charge it lurched away across the icy landscape, uneven footfalls making the ground shake and Camilla wonder how it had ever gotten so close unnoticed. Skaldi turned cackling madly, both his eyebrows were signed away and his beard was smouldering, but if it discomforted him he wasn’t letting on. Camilla absently thrust her blade to the right catching a lunging beast man in the throat without taking her eyes from the dwarf.

For a moment there as silence as the last of the attackers fell to the blades of the mercenaries. Then Konrad began to laugh, the Yantz, within moments the whole force was roaring with laughter, even Camilla found herself doubled over with tears running from her eyes. It was a moment of perfect mania and their laughter shook the walls. It was only when she turned to find Cydric that Camilla felt her chest tighten. Laying in the starirwell with a pool of blood dribbling from one ear. She shrieked and leaped down to him feeling at his throat. For a moment there was nothing, then a slight thready pulse.

“We need to get him to a … medico… umm a physician!” she shouted, her heart in her throat.

Damned to the Depths

Calliope made no effort to contain her disdain for her companions opinion. Imagine a rum soaked sea bum presuming to know the first thing about retaking a city. There was a reason why some people rotted in the gutter and others rose to the heights of power. Calliope had grown up as the daughter of a Praelin currant merchant but through cunning, ruthlessness and exercise of will, she had made herself all but a queen. Given that Sebastian had missed capturing her it might well be possible to retake the city. The passion of the mob was a fickle thing and she could might be able rally enough guardsmen to restore order with generous bribes and promises of power. If she did that however she would have to crack down on those who had supported Sebastian as well as reward her new constituents. In short order she would find every assassin from here to Tak Duran trying to put a knife between her ribs, if only to save their employer from her justice. No it was better to leave. Sebastian would have little joy of the city, the treasury was empty and the trading season would be coming to an end soon. Within months it would become clear to the populace that he couldn’t deliver on his promises. They would remember the better days they had enjoyed under her gentle rule. It might only be a year or so before a mob arose demanding their exiled leader return. Of course all that was predicated on getting out of here alive in the first place.

The Weather Witch swung at her moorings, snugging up against first the bow cable then the stern. A long jetty of salt scoured timber ran out into the gently lapping waters of the darkened bay. The Old Grave as this part of the harbour was known, had been a graving dock a hundred years ago. As Calaverde had grown as a center of trade the needs of the city had expanded and New Harbor, now almost fifty years old had been built. New Harbor boasted better facilities and docks as well as easier access to the roads which lead to Market Square and the warehouse road which ringed most of the island.

Ships came to the Old Grave for repairs only if they couldn’t aford the more expensive rates over in New Harbour, or if, like the Weather Witch, they were being held for disposal ‘at the tyrants pleasure’. That usually meant an auction that would generate prize money for the captain and ‘tax income’ for her. Calliope smiled, her white teeth flashing in the moonlight. As commandeering the Weather Witch WAS her pleasure she supposed she could consider this a final act of her administration.

The Witch was old and her hull was dark solid teak from Mandari or Calica. She was long and had a stately elegance to her, like a swordsman that had only slightly let himself go to fat. She had only two masts and was sloop rigged to make fighting the seasonal winds easier for a small crew, dark weather stained canvas hung bundled to the yard arms hardly stirring in the listless breeze. Empty gunports let the starlight shine through, like missing teeth in an age blackened skull.

Calliope sauntered down the dock ignoring the bloody corpses of the former guardians. No one gave out any cry of alarm as she vaulted gracefully over the bulwark and landed on the deck. The ship was not untidy, clearly some efforts had been made to pretty her up for sail. The deck had been scrubbed clean and the cables were for the most part coiled neatly. Anything portable and valuable had already vanished into the clutches of those able to carry them away and the cargo had already been offloaded and sold. Four guns, eight or ten pounders were snugged up on the deck, two of them indifferently covered with canvas sheets. One of them even had most of a set of loading tools though any powder remaining would be below decks in the magazine.

“Normally we would have boats tow her into the channel,” Calli told Markus as he joined her on the deck, having apparently cleaned the blood from his blade. Some ships had sweeps for such a task but normally teams of seamen plied the oars of small cutters to maneuver larger ships.

“Did you have a plan for that or were you just hoping for a wind to come up?” she asked tartly.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

Workshoping:

Ok so lets get started! Part of the idea for this RP is that we workshop the world and, to an extent, the plot together.

Our city is going to be Detroit Michigan. Each of our characters has come here and plans on remaining here for the foreseeable future. You might have been here decades or days but for whatever reason Detroit is your home for the foreseeable future.

Locations. Other than your own home I would like everyone to put together an interesting location. It doesn't need to be super detailed, just something interesting and flavorful. It dosen't need to personally impact your character, although it certainly can. My example below:

Ambassador Bridge

The Ambassador Bridge connects Detroit to Windsor Canada. While it is an extremely busy route for normal humans in supernatural circles it is beginning to develop a rather sinister reputation. In the past twelve months magical beings which have attempted to cross the bridge have found themselves unable to do so as if blocked by some unfathomable compulsion. Wizards and other mortals who are aware of the supernatural world have attempted to investigate, some of them also felt strange compulsions not to cross, others have vanished entirely. The bar to passage does not seem to apply in the Canada to Detroit direction, but few in the community are willing to push their luck….

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Junebug had been in class one triage facilities on three prior occasions. Once on Temlek where artillery fire had gotten through the net of anti-ordance plasma guns and blasted the gun pits that she and her troops had been sheltering in whilst waiting for the reliving column to break through. A nearby vehicle had been hit and she had been sprayed with burning petroleum. Another time on Chadon’s World, a directional mine had gone off beneath her combat car. She had been riding in the left wing gun and had been tossed clear before the secondary explosions had slagged the vehicle. A third time on Chalcedon she had been shot in a rear area when a bar fight escalated unexpectedly.

Just because a sensation was familiar didn’t make it pleasant. The Terrans, like the Armored, used direct nerual impulse generators rather than anaglgesics once a soldier was safely in a med center. There were fewer side effects and they were more reliable. They also tened to scramble the mind of the patient when they were turned off. Light was suddely very bright on her eyes and she tried to cry out. Neraby a male voice said something and the light dimmed. After a moment she realised she was laying in a medicomp. Several nurses or doctors stood around looking at holographic read outs.

“Easy there Captain how are you feeling?” A man in a surgical mask asked. His right eye was covered with some sort of imager the clicked and whired. There was a powerful taste of antisceptic in the back of her throat.

“Just aces,” she tried to say but her mouth felt gummy and the words came out garbled and unintelligble. Frowning she tried again.

“Just aces,” she responded, clearer this time.

“Can I have some water?” she asked. Her mind knew she should be concerned with where she was, the last thing she remembered was shooting someone on a ship, though she couldn’t quite remember why or who exactly. SHe had shot alot of people afterall her mind rationalized.

“Not just yet,” the doctor replied, “we need to see how the resynths hold up.” As he spoke he glanced over at one of the techs who was cycling through a series of read outs.

“You were in quite a state, very lucky that the overpressure didn’t flat out smash any organs,” the doctor went on. He sounded proud, pleased that nature hadn’t been allowed to take its course.

“Sir I’m ready to return to my unit,” she mumbled. Judging from the confusion that clouded the physician’s eyes that wasn’t quite the right response either. He exchanged looks with someone too far out of her field of view for her to see. Junebug tried to turn her head but the medicomp wouldn’t allow it.

“Where am I?” she asked looking around. It was high tech for certain, probably better than most of the field surgical centers the Armored had used. State of the art without a doubt.

“You are aboard the Terran Vessel November Sky,” a voice said from behind her, a moment later a mustachioed man strode into view. He had a wirey dangerous look and his eyes glinted with intelligence. A Terran warship? She had a confused recollection of the Terran’s having captured the highlander. Adrenaline surged through her system and several alarms began to beep.

“Not to worry, you and your friends are our guests, your employers you might say,” the man went on. He clearly intended to say more but Taya pushed past him and hugged Junebug, even though most of her body was still within the medicomp.

“It is good to have you back Junebug!” the girl all but wept.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

The sealant fizzed and spawled as it expanded to fill the rent in the hull. The wind and rain whisked away the worst of the chemical stink but there as enough that Rene could still feel it burning at the back of his throat. The polymers in the paste straightened and expanded into something fairly close to steel in its tensile strength, it was designed to patch leaks in starship hulls long enough for them to touch down for more permanent refit. It had come as a mild surprise that it wasn’t in as sad a shape as the rest of the Bonaventure seemed to be but he supposed that given the complete lack of anything else, one had to have sealant or to have voided ones atmosphere.

“Alright, I think I’m ready,” Rene said into the communicator Solae had given him. Getting the barge into something vaguely like seaworthy condition had taken nearly two hours. He was soaked to the bone but had stripped down to his trousers and boots after it became clear that the we weather gear was both inadequate to keeping him dry and too hot to work in. Rene tossed the sealant can into the boat with a clang. He supposed he could have just as easily tossed it to the sand but he was instinctively reluctant to litter for no better reason than his own laziness. The universe should have an order, Rene had always been taught, and it was a lesson that life in the Marines had done little to contradict.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t bring out the engine?” Solae’s voice spoke in his ear. Rene smiled and shook his head even though she couldn’t see the expression.

“We need to keep the weight down,” he told her as he trudged down the wet sand and collected a spool of cabling. The cable was a boron mono crystal weave, lightweight but insanely strong, he fixed it to the davot at the stern of the ship and then turned to face the sea. It was still churning but the fury of a few hours ago seemed to be subsiding.

“I’m going to be off the radio for a minute,” Rene told his lover, “I need to get a little wet for this next part.” He carefully took the radio out of his ear and slipped it into a waterproof plastic bag which he secured beneath a metal waste bucket he had salvaged from the barge. This next bit would be dangerous but he hadn’t explained that to Solae. There was no point in her worrying and the tide was rising quickly. It was already filling the long trench in the sand Rene had dug with an entrenching tool, creating a makeshift slipway. High tide would be in twenty more minutes and he didn’t want to waste this chance. Kicking off his boots he strode into the water, shouldering the coil of cable. When it reached his breast he dove into the water kicking powerfully against the incoming tide, his athletic body driving him through the water with long powerful strokes.

It only took about two minutes to reach the edge of the shallows where the water surged and churned around large rocks or reefs hidden beneath the waves. White water surged around as the wind and surf crashed on the unseen obstacle. Rene dived beneath the water as a large wave swept over him. The salt content on Panopontus was lower than that of Capella and although the water was milky with kicked up silt it didn’t sting his eyes the way a more saline ocean would have. Kicking down he drove himself underwater down towards the large rock outcropping. A sudden wave drove him against the rock and he only just managed to pivot and take the impact with bent knees rather than with his neck. As quickly as he could he pulled himself around the rock, looping the cable around. The next wave drove him hard against the rock and he felt the impact of the jagged semi porous limestone like a hammer, palish red fluid diffused from where the impact had torn his shoulder in a superficial pressure cup. His lungs burned and his muscles ached but he finally made it all the way around the submerged rock face. The next wave drove him away from it, back towards the beach and he caught the line and snapped the attachment end to the portion he had already laid out, then kicked hard to get above the water. A wave smashed him in the face as he broke the surface and he sucked down a lungful of water. Coughing an spluttering he turned and gasped for air, pulling himself back to shore along the now secure line.

The whole operation had taken about ten minutes but his body burned with exertion as he pulled himself onto the beach and flopped over onto his back, letting the rain patter down over his face. His right shoulder was bruised and bloodied but that was a small price to pay. Pressing himself to his feet he half walked half staggered down the beach to where the barge waited, tethered to the submerged rock. Retriving his radio he pressed it back into his ear.

“...alright?” came Solae’s concerned voice at once.

“Rog… I mean yes I’m alright,” he told her rubbing at his shoulder before climbing over the bulwark and into the dilapidated barge. At the bow was a large hydraulic winch into which he fed the line.

“Alright wish us luck,” he said and tumbled the activation stud. It sputtered for a moment as the flywheel spun up and then began a slow clunking turn, drawing in the line like an angler bringing in a particularly large fish. As the slack ran out the cable lifted from the sea until it reached the rock where it suddenly snugged. The winch growled and protested, straining against the line, but it had been built to drag up pieces of coral that weighed several tons. With a grind of sand beneath the hull the barge slipped into the spillway and slid six feet, then ten, then was completely afloat. Rene let the barge drift out to a point where it would still be afloat at low tied and then snugged up the cable he had attached to a large tree on shore. The barge came to a stop between its two anchor points. Rene let out a sigh of relief. It was one thing to say a thing was possible, another thing to accomplish it. They still needed to load the simple engine Solae and Mia were putting together, but one thing at a time.

“Alright we are afloat,” he declared in a tired but triumphant voice.

“I’m on my way back now.”

Damned to the Depths

“The Weather Witch,” Calli prompted as she unstoppered one of the rum bottles with her teeth and took a fortifying slug. It was rotgut compared to what she had been enjoying in the palace only a few hours before. Still it was better than nothing.

“She’s down by The Old Grave.” The Weather Witch was a twelve gun sloop of war, or at least theoretically. It had been captured trying to slip past customs with a load of cacao. The captain had officially being arrested for not paying his taxes, though the truth was that the man had foolishly tried to short a port official on his bribe. It was extremely dangerous to deny an official his hard earned kick back, especially when he had already paid her for the honor of an appointment to the customs dock. It was amazing what some people would to to try to save a few florins. Though the Witch could carry twelve guns, the captain had long ago sold most of the artillery, a fact Calliope hadn’t felt necessary to list on the bill of auction she had signed. As of two days ago the Witch had only four guns and almost no shot and powder. Still a ship was a ship.

“Well anyone wearing a uniform will be laying low for a while,” Calliope reasoned, glancing unconsciously towards the palace at the top. Revolutions were easy to point in a direction but once they went off they were a little unreliable. The mob might have started out filled with righteous anger, but that would be dissipating in an orgy of drunken looting that might last days. Sebastian might be able to get a few of the more hardcore revolutionaries to listen, but she doubted he could control the port for days yet.

“Working the Witch with just two people will be a bitch and no mistake,” she went on. Calliopie had been on ships of course, before she had become Tyrant but she didn’t pretend to be a real sailor. She noticed that Markus had fallen silent as though expecting something and she realized she hadn’t told him her name. It might perhaps have been wiser to make up some sob story about being a low level courtier, or some such nonsense but this was still her city. Instead she tossed her hair definitely.

“My name is Calliopie,” she said airily.

“You may have heard of me,” she added with dry understatement.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

“Interesting,” York said, examining Neil’s hand as though he thought he ought to have it amputated. After a moment of uncomfortable silence he let the pilot’s hand drop and returned to his desk. The holographic display flickered into high resolution shots of Neil’s hand, clearly taken by recorders hidden in the walls or ceiling. Patterns of light, clearly a computer imposition flashed over the tattoo, but they seemed to lose resolution and fade out before every quite completing.

“There are some people, quite a body of experts actually, who would suggest we toss you in a lab for the rest of your life,” York said with a touch of dry amusement to his voice.

“If all you too are going to do reminisce about old times I dont see why we need to be here,” Saxon hissed, folding his muscular arms infront of his body. York nodded as though Saxon had made a good point. The intelligence operative raised his hand in a languid guesture. Two Terran marines in full battle gear stepped towards Saxon. The Hex hissed and shoved at the nearest guard, his companion drew a thick black rod from his belt. Snarling, Saxon shoved the first guard into the second, smashing the armored marine to the ground like a bowling pin. Taya screamed and ducked behind a chair as the Hex swung around and leaped at York, clawed fingers outstretched. The spy moved like a snake, he seemed to twist out from his chair like vapour, catching hold of Saxon’s body armor while he was in mid air and pivoting with his body, hurling the airborne lizard through the hologram and into the wall beyond. The bulkhead dented inward as several hundred kilos of Hex crashed into it. York was on him in an instant he drew his hand back and delivered a single sharp blow to the back of Saxon’s neck. The Hex spasmed and went limp. York stood up as though he was stepping out of a limo and resumed his seat. There was a dry alien sound that it took a moment for the occupants of the room to recognise as Sven’s laughter.

The shame faced marines grabbed the unconscious Hex and dragged him from the room. A moment later they reemerged and escorted the still laughing Sven from the room. There was a moment of silence broken only by the click of keys at the Terminal. York, not even sweating, paused in his typing and looked up at Taya. The girl met his eyes, though she looked terrified. After a moment of eye contact York nodded and killed the display.

“Fortunately there will be plenty of time for that if things don’t go well,” York continued as though the interruption had never happened. He tented his fingers before him and leaned forward.

“Terran Intelligence has a project for you Mr Edwards,” York stated pleasantly.

“If this project goes well, we can probably find it in our heart to forget about a few convient archaeologists.”
@POOHEAD189

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

No problem, just wanted to be sure before I start the next step.