Penny

Scum and Villainy [Firefly/Cowboy Bebop/Star Wars Inspired, Forged in the Dark]

Cerberus and Stardancer both appeal to me.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

I know what it sounds like. To be completely honest at the time I never even questioned it, it was only later when I dicovered exactly what Neil Edwards was that I looked back and wondered if I hadn't been kicked in the head during the earlier fight. His crew members looked stupified, too stunned by the turn of events to do more than gawp like landed afrotrout.

"You can't just offer some random a job like that!" the one called Orm demanded, not quite pointing his gun at me.

"Why because my exhaustive search worked out so well?" Neil asked putting a boot on his former seneshals head and turning the unseeing gaze to face Orm. He thrust out both hands in a 'ta-da' motion, like a carnvival magician announcing a trick. The bounty hunter scracthed his forhead with the barrel of his gun.

"NO, no, he has a point," he admited to the wounded halfling. The ratling could only scream as I yanked the strap on the dressing tight by placing her knee on his stomach and hauling with all my might.

"Ah my frakin' ribs you bloody blond bint!" the ratling yowled.

"Yeah, yeah thank me later," I retorted, though to be completely honest I maybe had heard something crack. Sue me its not a prosecutorial court. I stood up, my mind belatedly processing the fact that Neil was a Rogue Trader, a number of pieces of information fell into place, though the picture was far from complete. A sudden clatter of automatic fire echoed out from a nearby tunnel, proof that the arbites, or cultists or indeed both hadn't yet given up.

"Well I accept, and as my first action as seneshal suggest we get the Holy Throne out of here."

Scum and Villainy [Firefly/Cowboy Bebop/Star Wars Inspired, Forged in the Dark]

Im interested too

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Jocasta felt her professional interest stir and in truth was happy enough to have something to take her mind off Buri, who presumably had been left alone in the underground. Perhaps that was not such a worry for a dwarf but she didn't like to think that he was standing by that lake thinking the two humans were dead. With a whispered spell she conjured a flame in the form of a dancing naked pixie. Beren cocked his eye at her.

"Really?" he enquired.

"Some spells you pick up on the cheap aren't exactly designed by arch-mages," she informed him tartly, then leaned forward to study the writing.

"Oh, it is old Pharonic," she said, tracing her finger along the script. The ancient tongue was much studied back at the University because it was argued that many old and powerful magics had begun in that tongue and been transmitted to the younger races who peopled the North. Jocasta had never been particularly convinced of that, but courses in it had been very expensive and access had been limited. That hadn't stopped her doing a certain amount of clandestine investigation of course and she could read and speak some of the tongue.

"Kessirai Kessirai, salamani da-ai, zuska Narturn ta-daei t'nakalya praseo, gamara taladis signum hrave" she read. There was a sudden rush of wind and ancient dust stirred around their ankles. It seemed to flow like water, making disturbing suggestions of skulls and scorpions. Beren cursed and stepped back, sanding on some raised stones to avoid the mist.

"What did it say?" Beren demanded.

"A warning traveler that they who speak the name of the accursed Narturn release him from this binding and he shall visit plauges upon the earth. Or maybe, he was bound to end up a plague to his mother? The syntax is a little unclear, its possible its also a dirty joke about..." Beren reached down and scooped her out of the mist as it flowed past heading down a passageway with a slightly upward angle.

"I'm pretty sure the first translation was right, why would you read that?!" he demanded. Jocasta crossed her arms and nearly fell back into the mist but was saved by Beren's grip on the back of her tunic.

"Well you told me to!" she snipped defensively, "plus why would they write that, if I had words that could unleash some ancient evil, I'd maybe shut the hell up about them!"

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Sel blinked to suddenly be the focus of attention. To the eyes of the Great and the Good she no doubt looked like an orc in a tuxeodo, the fine new uniform clashing with her battered and bruised face and the clunky las pistol protruding from her holster. In other circumstances it would have made her look grotesque and shambolic but thanks to Kayden's apparent introducton the noble company had apparently decided to look upon her as a dashing martial warrior, the plain faced woman of the Imperium whose heroism they secretly both envied and sneered at.

"I was only doing my duty ma'am, as do we all," Sel replied trying to keep the slight touch of her gutter-hive accent out of her voice. They swooned appropriately, flattered to be included and condesending to smile at a dog who had been trained to do a particularly entertaining tick. Sel hoped that might have been it, but a blonde piece who tits were all but hanging out of a satin dress waved an orderve fork in a cultured wave to attact the attention of her fellow diners without taking it from Sel.

"And tell us corpral what great deed did you do to be assigned to our young lord's service?" she asked, her voice honeyed and with the cadance of a cat playing with a wounded mouse.

I shot a grox with a las-cannon so my squad could barbeque and got put on the shit list for life, an insane part of her mind almost said but she managed to clamp her mouth shut before the words escaped. The palace was warm and dry, and beat the assembly area all to hell. Plus there were a great many small and valuable items that might find their way into an enterprising guardswoman's pockets. She wracked her brain for a good lie and hit on one as soon as her eyes fell on Kayden.

"I was merely fortunate to be placed under Prince Kayden's command your ladyship," she replied, "We also serve, who only drive trucks." For a moment she thought she might have laid on the humble Jane a bit to thick but the heavy set aristocrat with the impressive mustaches convulsively swolled a mouthful of port and thumped a hamlike fist on the table hard enough to make the cuttlery jump with a musical clatter. Everyone else flinched slightly but judging by the ruddy complection of the man in question this wasnt the first, or even the fifth, bumper of port for the evening.

"Jolly good!" he boomed in a basso before trailing off in apparent perplexity at his now empty glass.

"Sir," Sel cut in, making deliberate eye contact with Kayden so that there would be no question as to whom was being addressed. Every bloody person at the table probably had a rank in some local dog and pony show that they dusted of twice in their lifetimes to look good a at a ball.

"The Colonel's compliment's sir, Captain Colditz is indisposed and he would like you to take over the establishment of pickets," she said, producing a completely blank piece of folded paper from her pocket and flourishing it offially. It was complete nonsense of course. What Lieutenant Campion had said was closer to, "Get Caradwalden off his ass and have him throw out a proper sentry screen before the locals scrag us all in our sleep," but she thought that her more offical sounding delivery was probably better given the circumstances.

Wealth and Warpstorms

“We should begin the installation ceremony at once,” Yvraine said, her voice firm and unyielding. Camilla paused in her step and cast an eye at her soon-to-be-seneshal. Yvraine looked determined, arms folded and face set.

“Surely we can wait till after this investigation is concluded?” Camilla suggested. Yvraine shook her head emphatically.

“Leaving aside the fact that it is an insult to the God Emperor and the Family to leave the Navarre without a master, the most powerful cogitator routines are locked unless the Rogue Trader enables them, not to mention the Old Man’s personal files might have clues that would be helpful. That isn’t even considering what might happen if an hostile vessel were to attack and there was no acknowledged Master aboard…” Camilla held up her hands in surrender to block the stream of reasoning.

“Fine, fine,” Camilla agreed, “Let us see to it.”

“If you don’t mind boss, I’ll take the arbitey down and get started, odds are pretty good we will be finished by the time you get to the third page of thees and forasmuches,” Jocasta put in. Alcander mouthed ‘arbitey’ with a look of outrage but Camilla nodded and waved her hand.

“Good good, I’ll see you up on the command deck then,” she replied. Yvraine opened her mouth to raise an objection but then closed it and nodded.

“Come then Rogue Trader,” Yvraine said, “Your destiny awaits.”

The command deck of the Navarre was a place of wonder and glory. It was a raised wedge of steel over a hundred meters long and buttressed with splendid cathedral columns which curved overhead like tree branches meeting over a river. Rather than stained glass though, the vast windows looked out into the void, the Xtachi crystal which comprised them was a priceless xenos import, stronger than durasteel but clear as fresh spring air. The glory of the stars burned beyond, somewhat spoiled on the port side by the view of the orbital station and its tawdry collection of in system tramps. Banks of cogitators lined the length of the bridge in a series of interlocking curves. Each station had a servitor sheathed in polished gold casings which made them look like statues of ancient armsmen in plate and tabard. The bridge officers sat on their own control thrones, each one an elaborate work of art and gazed down over their little fiefdoms. The command throne itself sat in the center, wrought from polished wood that, it was said, came from ancient Terra itself. The chair back had been worked into the scene of a battle in which two forces of men clashed with archaic weapons, a desperate rearguard being overrun by an advancing horde. The arms were of sculpted oozlite,laid out with delicate traceries of what looked like natural veins but in fact were the circuits that enabled the captain to interface with the ship itself. The throne could be rotated on its diaz to face the forward view port and the steps down to a small rotunda which held the glittering actuality sphere. The sphere was taller than a man, and wrought from gold and electrum intricately worked to resemble ancient devices of astrological navigation.

And that was only the usual display. The ascension of a new Rogue Trader might only occur once in five hundred years and there was much pomp and circumstance to be squeezed into such an occasion. Great banners in the red and white colours of the Dukes of Navarre hung from the distant ceiling, fluttering slightly in the artificial wind generated by the heating and cooling of thousands of cogitators. Ranks of men and women stood flanking a vast crimson carpet, the bridge officers resplendent at their head but by tradition one member from every crew on the ship was present. This ranged from scribes and tech priests all the way down to the lowliest deckhands, some of whom would never have seen the bridge much less the captain. This would be a tale they would bring back to their families, to be cherished for generations to come. The effect of so many costumes, from polished battle armor to grease soaked smocks was disorienting, as was the melange of odors which polluted the bridges normal miasma of warm electronics and the cold almost spiced scent of the Xtachi glass against the void.

Camilla strode down the center of the bridge towards the chair, flanked by an honor guard of six men in polished chrome battle dress with long force poles held vertically. The pennants of the last six Rogue Traders to command the Navarre fluttered from the onyx staves. She was dressed in formal regalia a tunic of gold embroidered with dark buff, a long scarlet cape, epaulets of pale purple woven with gold and silver thread, long trousers of a pale cream that tucked into black riding boots that clinked with the presence of actual spurs. Though her arms had to be bear for the ceremony, to keep her inlaid circuitry clear for the bonding, a pair of white gloves was thrust jauntily through her epaulet. Yvraine followed behind, the ceremonial gown and staff of the seneschal in hand. The navigator, a distinguished if somewhat stocky man flanked her, an elaborate turban of pristine white cloth wrapped around his head and a heavy sashmir at his side. Only the Astropaths were not present in the flesh, though a psychic song reverberated through the ship, rendering the March of the Primarchs in glorious orchestral splendor.

Camilla paused before the throne remembering the very first time she had stood before it. She had been a girl of fifteen then, abducted by her uncle from the very cathedral where she was to speak her vows. It had been terrifying at the time,Orthelio Belchite had been a name her own father had used only as a curse. She had been half convinced that the ogre from her bedtime stories was about to devour her for some sin or transgression. It had taken days for her to realise that the Old Man had actually come, at considerable expense and risk, to rescue her from the dreary life of the cloister. She had been grateful and thrown herself into learning anything she could. They had grown closer, by slow steps, Orthelio had seemed interested in her, even proud of her at times. The ship’s people had seen that, and opened up to her in a way they never otherwise would. Over time she had become a valued member of the crew. Now this. She felt a stab of loss to see the throne without the Old Man and and a flush of embarrassment that she had allowed herself to be pushed into this before his killer had been brought to justice.

Yvraine cleared her throat softly and Camilla realised that she had drifted into something of a reverie. Flushing with further embarrassment she mounted the diaz and spread the crimson cloak behind her before settling herself into the chair. Yvraine smiled though she must have been thinking of the Old Man also because her face soured slightly before she turned to drive her staff three times onto the deck plating in slow deliberate cadence.

“Bring forth the Warrant of Trade!”

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

"Seldon! Seldon!" a voice boomed through the makeshift encampment which had been set up in the cloister and outbuildngs of the Imperial Temple. As billets went it wasnt bad, a network of rooms and corridors that probably doubled as a market place during the High Holidays. They had parked several chimera's at each entrance and troops from D company were piling sandbags between the vehicles and setting up autocannons to improvise strong points. More urgent was the work of troopers who were rolling barrels filled with sand into the makeshift barracks. These were doused with prometheum and then set on fire at which point they would blaze cheerfully for hours, allowing cold men to warm themselves.

"What in the name of Terra is it now...." Sel groaned standing up and shugging deeper into the inadequate coat she had been issued. As usual she should have no duties, but also as usual it seemed that wasn't going to be the case for long. Lieutenant Campion, one of the headquaters flunkies was pushing his way through thickets of shivering men, bawling her name. Perplexed Sel gave him a half hearted salute, then stuck her hands back into her pockets.

"Sir," she said in the neutral tone of voice she always adpoted when she knew she might be in trouble but wasn't exactly sure for what. Campion looked over her disheveled state, the bruises on her face and black eye having turned interesting shades of green and yellow in th past week.

"Emperor's teeth, well there is nothing for it, get into your dress uniform and get yourself over to the palace, your commander has tripped over his silver spoon again and has been invited to dine at the palace. He will need transport back. Do you have that? Any questions? Chaampion demanded, very much in the tone of a man who had been given an unpleasant task and was determined to complete it as quickly as possible. Sel spat her unlit lho stick into a nearby fuel barrel, eliciting a wince from the officer.

"One question sir," she said in a level voice which made Campion cringe a little.

"Yes Corpral?" he asked.

"What dress uniform?"

_______________________________

The dress uniform of the 2nd Gendarmes was as chaotic as its mix of constituant units. No doubt, in another few years a standard variat would be agreed on. A century after that, that knowledge would reach the Administratum and if they were very lucky, another century after THAT, the unit would be shipped new uniforms. As it was Sergeant Major Brannigan haad outfited Sel with a uniform that consited of a single breasted field jacket in a royal blue with gold piping at the seams and bright gold buttons. This was place over baggy white half trouers which tucked into the top of tall cavalry style boots. It was accentuated with golden buttons, a white lanyard that ran from right epualet to pocket, and some arcane insignia which, for all Sel knew, might mean she as from the scouts. It also had a royal blue garrison cap with a swatch of white that ran digaonally down from the midpoint. The final piece of ornamentation was a white leathehr holster into which Sel had crammed a las pistol. The gun belt was meant for more ornemental weapons, and the result was as slightly off putting as every element conspird to be. Sell pulled up the cargo four, a battred millitary model with improvised flags to make it look official. She hopped out and headed up to the guards on duty, they looked half bug eyed at her approach and gripped the ceremonial carbines which Sel would have bet hadn't been fired since Horus was in diapers. She tugged out the white gauntlets she had been given and pulled them on.

"I'm here to speak with Lieutenant Lord Kaladwarden," Sel said to the nervous looking men, noting the way their green gowns seemed proof against the biting cold.

"I'm his driver and I need to tell him I've arrived," she explained. There was an awkward silene for a few moments.

"We will tell him..." the first guard began but Sel held up her hand to forestall him.

"I need to tell him I have arrived," she repeated, stressing the personal pronoun. The guards hovered for a moment in indecsion, then caved.

"Very well, but you will have to leave your weapon at the...

"Nope," Sel cut him off, heading up the stairs to the palace at a quick saunter.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The stink of necromantic magic was still heavy on the air as they climbed the shoulder of the valley. Below them a mist was rolling in like a gray tide, obscuring the vale. Every now and then there was a faint glow, like witchlight just beyond sight that made Emmaline's heart race. She became convinced that at any moment more undead horrors would lurch from the mist to rip them appart and she tasted coppery bile in her throat. It wasn't until they reached the lip of the valley and and the scent of horses made her nose twitch that she finally allowed herself to believe they might escape. Of course escape meant a hundred miles across bad roads at night through beastman infested forests, which was something to keep in mind.

"Take his hor...oh for Sigmar's sake really?" Kasimir demanded as Emmaline began going through the late knights saddle bag and lifted out a pouch of coins. "What you didn't have time to loot the body?"

"I can't help it," Emmaline replied with a little more waspishness than might have been strictly necessary. The death of the Knight had pricked her worse than she let on. She hadn't known him, and Ranald knew there were more than enough bone headed men willing to jump onto a blade in the world, but he had died to defend her, or what he thought was her. It was far from certain that he would have been so keen to join this quest if she had just been Emmaline from Morganstern which added another complicated layer to her feelings on the matter. As a rule her scams were victimless crimes, rich idiots who lost what they could easily afford and though she had to admit she would have traded Reynards life for hers if she had to, it still made her feel badly. The gold that clinked in his pouch soothed her somewhat and she thrust it back into his saddlebag.

"Your welcome by the way," Kasimir said as he swung up into his saddle. Emmaline did the same, though the powerful destrier showed no signs of being a comfortable ride.

"Now just wait a minute," Emmaline began, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the fact that you couldn't mind your own bussiness."

"Well maybe if you worked a bit harder on that abominable accent..."

"There is nothing wrong with my accent, Ill have you know that..."

They road off into the beast haunted woods, bickering all the while.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

I would have lost him if it had not been for the shoots, first a volley then a single shot. I wondered what that might mean, an ambush followed by an execution? With the confusing way shots echoed in these close confines I couldn't tell. The tunnels were growing older, more dilapidated as the city above pressed down more firmly. It was evident from the increase in inspouts that we were passing beneath the more populated areas and away from the exclusive playground of the rich and powerful. I had been a deperssing number of such places, even so early in my career. The Inquisition really should consider adding a course in Imperial Sanitation to the Adept curriculum, it would be very useful and have the added benefit of humbling those who get above themselves.

I was in rough shape. The fight with the arbites had taken a lot out of me, more than physically there was a spiritual tiredness that made my head hang and my footsteps drag. I was certain that Edwards had given me the slip until passed the bodies of a half dozen slain men, cultists I judged them, having run afoul of Edwards in his flight. That gave me some pause, I had considered him a thief but this clear evidence of violence made me second guess that assumption. Before my still groggy mind could think on this I heard voices ahead and slowed to a stealthy creep. Reaching an archway I peered out to see Edwards climbing down to converse with an abhuman that carried quite the largest rifle I had ever seen. I ducked back, trying to force my mind to consider next steps, when a new voice sounded below.

"Evening gents," it called and I peered through to see an older man stepping from the darkness. He was wearing a coat of vitrian glass and held a heavy Hecutor Tundra Falcon in his left hand. It was a seriously hardcore pistol, capable of punching holes in even light armored vehicles. Some gun slingers favored them for the flashiness of a high calibre but the recoil was ruinous if you had to fire more than a single shot.Edwards seemed to recognise him and lowered his weapon.

“Did you get it?” the newcomer asked. Edwards flashed a smile that lit the gloom and pulled the gemstone from his pocket.

“We got it Gantz,” he confirmed with a note of triumph in his voice. Gantz and the Halfling took a step forward to gaze at the shining jewel but as the drew near Gantz pulled a short punch dagger from his belt and drove it into the Halfling’s side. The abhuman let out a gurgling scream and fell to the ground, clutching at a red stain spreading over his tunic. Edwards blinked in confusion for a moment then went for his gun. He was fast but the momentary hesitation cost him and he found himself staring down the Hecutor’s yawning muzzle.

“Gantz! What the frak are…” the chamber lit with the roar of the hand cannon, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to preserve my night vision. Edwards clutched at his face but Gantz had twitched the barrel aside at the last minute and it was just hot propellant which had spattered the thief.

“Shut the frak up!,” Gantz snarled his voice tiny in the cordite scented sewer air.

“Toss your gun into the shit, then throw me the jewel, do anything else and I plug you for real,” Gantz ordered. Edwards hesitated and Gantz sneered.

“Do it quickly enough and you might have time to save your little abhuman buddy,” he cajoled. Edwards’ eyes flicked to the Ratling who was laying on the ground writhing in pain. Id seen my share of wounds and I judged there was still time, though not much. Edwards came to the same decision and tossed his gun. It clattered over the flagstones then tumbled into the sewer flow with a plop.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded of Gantz.

“You are a loser Edwards, you have a ship, a warrant of trade and what have you done with it?” The voice was thick with contempt. I could taste the sneer Gantz up into his words. The pieces fell into place as I realized Edwards must be a Rogue Trader, though not, apparently, a very successful one.

“Joy rides around the sector for insignificant little heists. It is pathetic. All that potential wasted, well no longer, things are going to be different when I am in command of the ship, now be a good boy and toss me the stone before the runt bleeds out. Even from this range I could see Edwards was measuring the distance and calculating his odds but he must have realized it was hopeless and tossed the gem underhanded to Gantz. The latter caught it with his right hand, the barrel of the pistol never wavering.

“Thank you, unfortunately I can’t let you live. New day and all…” Gantz drawled. There was a sharp crack and a red dot appeared on Gantz forehead. He looked perplexed for a moment before the blood ran down his face in a crimson sheet and he collapsed to his knees. The autopistol smoked in my hand and I was hardly conscious I had even fired. Gantz toppled over, his body sprawling as the jewel spilled from his twitching fingers, clattering across the stones towards the river of filth. Edwards dived after it, snatching it up a heart beat before it tumbled into the sewage flow. His momentum might have carried him into the sump but he managed to flip himself up right, plant his feet on the edge and leap over in a graceful bound.

“I’m coming out,” I called, Edwards had tossed his gun but he might very well have a back up piece, or even something exotic like a digi weapon if he really was a rogue trader. I stepped out into the open and crossed to the ratling. It was reaching feebly for the stock of its rifle which was just out of reach. Kneeling down I opened one of his webbing pouches and pulled out the guard issue aid kit within.

“This will sting,” I advised, then yanked the punch dagger free, pouring the sulfa powder over the wound before shoving a handful of gauze against it. It stained crimson immediately but the flow slowed from a gush to a trickle.

“You might live if you quit squirming,” I admonished.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

The cheering of the crowds was somehow more disconcerting than gunfire might have been. Sel watched the word through the chimera’s driving slit, which continually occluded with condensation. She reached into her back and withdrew a tube of tooth cream and smeared the white paste on the armorcrys, then began buffing it off with the cuff of her fatigues.

“Preventing cavities Sel?” Elara asked with amusement.

“Old sentinel pilots trick,” Sel responded and she felt just a bit smug when the window ceased to fog up.

The regiment came to a halt in a broad plaza flanked on two sides by impressively porticos carved into the likeness of heroic laborers and miners supporting a two story tall mosaic which depicted priests, nobles, and soldiers all reaching up to shield the populace from some threat beyond the stars. Judging by the relative lack of soot deposition this was relatively new construction. That was common on worlds undergoing internal troubles like this, the local authorities being keen to demonstrate their loyalty and piety in case anyone might ask how discontent was allowed to grow to open rebellion. Of course the same expenditures on the actual war effort might have been a better use of resources but such concerns tended to escape a nervous aristocracy. Something about the mosaics bothered Sel, perhaps a distortion of proportions of the towering figures of the nobility, or perhaps it was a juvenile desire to find some reason to rake the thing with multilaser fire.

Despite the cold, the crowd was raucous. They thronged the streets on both sides shouting and cheering, their breath steaming like so many dragons. The more well to do wore long coats that seemed heated by portable lumen packs while the poor simply wrapped themselves in thick coats and multiple layers. Priests paraded back and forth with portable braisers, literally bringing heat as they called the prayer of benediction on the offworlders. Servo skulls, picters and sensor units floated above the crowd above the clouds of hurdle confetti and sanctified prayer rice.

Sel pulled the chimera into the position indicated by a local magistratum officer with a pair of light wands and shut down the engine with a grumble. The lack of background noise allowed them to hear the cacophony of the crowd competing with the rumble of following engines and the shouted commands of officers.

“Squad, dis….mount!” A voice yelled from outside and the troopers dutifully filed out. Second platoons carriers formed the points of a square within which the platoon was being formed into four ranks in something resembling drill. Sel ignored them, not officially being part of the platoon, and headed forward. She could see Kayden astride his ridiculous horse. The Lieutenant was heading towards the rest of the officers who had just arrived in open topped command cars or disgorged from their own chimeras. Before he could reach them however, there was a brassy blair of trumpets. Sel realised, with a combination of amusement and horror, that Kayden was exactly in the center of a large set of stairs that ran up towards the city hall, a vast edifice of soaring spires and crumbling gargoyles. Worse yet, Kayden instinctively wheeled his horse to face the hall, seeking the source and cause of the sound. The beast even reared to the roared approval of the crowd. Before anyone could say anything two files of ceremonial guards strode forward and between them a delegation of local nobles. They had mistaken Kayden, the sole mounted man and also the one in the apparent position of honor, for the guard commander and they were coming down to greet him. The eyes of his fellow officers were murderous but hurrying as they were they weren’t going to make it before the locals greeted the second platoon commander as though he were the Lord Solar himself.