Thanqol

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Sayanastia!

It is dark and quiet in the bag. Dark and quiet and full of treasures.

And. Not too many treasures.

It takes her a while but she can count them all. Her claws touch every angle of each of her things (for they are her things now. Her half things - broken or incomplete - reminiscent of the ruined castles she would nest in, the desolate landscapes and broken stone. They do not stretch on and on forever, more than she can fit in her claws, more world than she can destroy, a to-do list that continues as far as her eyes can see.)

She is asleep before she realizes it. It's embarrassing how easily it happens, how small her horizons are, how close it was all this time.

Injimo!

She is going somewhere. She has a sword.

No words are needed. No explanation is needed. There is a place to go, and violence at the end. Every trap and obstacle and door is just part of the process of going; she moves through them. She is one with the going as she will be one with the future violence. Her feet are bare and feel the stone, her hands are bare and feel like knuckles, her eyes see only the moving parts of the world and filter out all of its beauty and complexities. Her mind is empty. She has a sword. There is somewhere to go. It was enough for Heron.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Touching that armour is a mistake. You can feel data-geists crawling over every inch of that connection, frozen cyberwarfare spikes draw themselves up from the earth, the chill of ash and long night - and then your microbead sparks and dies. You fear what might have been if you had used your own cybernetics to make that connection.

It has turned its cyclopean visor to face you. Beneath the line of crimson light a network of multispectral visors peel away stone and secrets. In swift silence two serfs affix a jump pack attachment to the outside of its armour, and the angel spreads wings of dark fire. Every eye turns towards it for a moment but it does not address the crowd. Instead it ascends above you like a pagan god, illuminated by the crimson crack of las-light and the terrible fire of its sword.

This thing is not human. It is not knowable. It cannot be bargained with, manipulated or directed. This is the engine that marched into the pit of Old Night and dragged the sun screaming back into the sky. If He wanted His Angels to be reasonable He would have given them fear.

[Namespace] of the Rose

The impossible - lightning slowed. The great arc of immanent violence rising within ZRK-333 bent away from the copper laid out for it. In the space between steel and spark stands humanity, the soul and the heart that brings the realms into harmony. As November-Black drops in besides you and Skitarii forces reach the exits you can feel the glory and synchronicity of the Machine God all around you, the Priesthood functioning as a single unit - and you, standing astride the arena's gallery, an Archmagos again.

"Look! More traitors!" yells a guardsman and opens fire.

Motherfuckers.

Tactical analysis:
- Imperial Guard Platoon of the Paradisio Aquatic Intervention Force; 60 veterans, officers, various specialists. No heavy weapons but an abundance of plasma and melta. They are opening fire on the Skitarii, spreading out and taking cover. Can't blame them too much, their unit waged a counterinsurgency against Genestealer cultists.
- Rogue Trader emissaries, various nobility, attendants and weirdoes; 180 souls, 120 serious combatants. Wide variety of equipment and ability, including powered armour, exotics, and some grenades you really hope nobody throws indoors.
- One (1) Astartes martial specialist, accompanied by five chapter serfs who are veterans in their own right. Combat demonstration and armour craftsmanship indicates it is a veteran or elite of some kind. Likely able to fight the entire Ranger Corps in close quarters single-handed unless they get very lucky or bring up heavy weapons.
- One (1) Sister of Battle. Possibly God's chosen emissary.
- Skitarii Ranger Teams: 30 immediately available, more on the way. No heavy weapons on hand, some arc rifles. Disciplined enough not to immediately return fire without orders but they are requesting those orders very intensely. They are not specialized for peacekeeping work or holding ground and will fold to a dedicated push.
- Skitarii Vanguard Response Team: 30 within two minutes response, armed but unactivated. Typically it is not considered a good idea to send the radioactive assault troops into riot control.

Assessment: Balance of power lies with Imperial forces, decisively so if the Astartes joins the fray as it seems likely to.

Breathless Dead

You have seen castles in the sky before.

It would be a mistake for this world to imagine it could impress eyes that had seen the Endless Azure Skies with beauty alone. There is no trick of masonry that can make this place stand above an empire that has built Olympus itself.

And yet, not one of those magnificent structures of the Endless Azure Skies was the Sky Castle. It is arguable that they were even a sky castle. They were mansions, or resorts, or garrisons, or art projects that happened to be in the sky. The Sky Castle of Princess Jessic exists on the frontier of possibility that nothing in the Endless Azure Skies ever has.

Firstly, it is not kept in place with the flawless and frictionless antigravity of the Rail. It is, instead, held aloft by the power of a Sunshard - right on the limit of its endurance. You feel it as you land - this enormous, haphazard structure drops a few inches from your body weight. A creak runs through stone and timber, windmills whirl and groan, enormous turbine engines beat, clusters of sandbags dangle on easily cuttable ropes in case ballast needs to be dropped. This place is a contraption, more kin to an oversized hot air balloon than a spaceship. It runs on the limit of its endurance and compromise is woven all throughout the design.

Ceilings are short. Corridors are narrow. Sandstone has been used in place of granite and wood has been used in place of sandstone. Decorations are not made in gold and sculpture but in paper and fabric. Fish-kites fill the air in red and gold, bare walls are covered by sails and carpets. Some buildings have been stolen entire from the ground, some with their occupants still inside. Rope ladders and bridges criss-cross the castle like the rigging of a ship. And for all that, it flies. It should not fly, and it flies. There are no artfully hidden rings or spheres acting as levitation anchor point; its brutal right angle towers shiver in the wind in defiance of gravity and aerodynamics both.[1]

A single rope ladder dangles down from the bottom, brushing against the tops of trees and hills as the wind carries the castle across the landscape. Entrance is free, for the brave.

From above comes the flash of painted fabric and painted wings. A dragon is the natural conclusion of the concept of the Knight, and the greatest glory of the knight is the banner they hold aloft. Jessic descends in a whirl of heraldry, scales checked black and yellow with fleur-de-lis, ribbons in white with red stripes for strength, and a long and silver lance couched against the shoulder. You all have shields now - a little extra strain on the Sky Castle has made it so, and the altitude drops another inch - emblazoned with heraldry you never knew you had. You know without words that these shields will catch any blow that comes your way, and that when they shatter so too do your hopes of victory.

Princess Jessic has been very restrained for a very long time. She is a good dragon, after all - she has resisted the urge to burninate the countryside in order to draw out vengeful questing knights. Asking her to further restrain herself from pouncing on and vanquishing interlopers into her domain is simply too much to expect from any dragon or Princess.

[1] The Sky Castle is also noticeably bigger than the last time Chen or Yue have visited. Princess Jessic is the only Princess who believes in giving her Sunshard workouts - and somehow she seems to be building up its carrying capacity over time.

[Namespace] of the Rose

"Counterargument: Passivity is Draupnir.
Full ident: Passivity-48-Skitarii/Extractive/Autocephalous.
Draupnir has developed a cloning process for elite Skitarii agents capable of acting independently. Three other Passivity-template agents have been positively identified in the surrounding regions performing Draupnir black ops.
Passivity presented herself to Mars as a convert. Renounced her former allegiances in order to train as a datasmith. It is clear now that this was a deception. This is an organized coup and she is the catspaw.
But what she does not know is that I am prepared for this conflict. Contingencies are in place to ensure that this is not a fight but an execution. I will seize her assets at a stroke. The bluecoats will be forced to back down. Balance will be restored, but speed must be maintained, lest the Motive Force ground.

Join us - your assistance would legitimize this action - and I missed you too."

This is news. Draupnir has a reputation for being home to especially charismatic preachers and receiving more than their share of pilgrims, converts and defectors. It isn't often that one hears of converts going in the other direction - but is that because there aren't any or they just aren't especially publicized?

[Bullshit Detector] But that's what makes this such a powerful information trap. What makes a Magi of the Adeptus Mechanicus more certain than holding secret knowledge? She knew something you did not, that means that she outranks you. She knows something that Passivity does not, which means she can beat her. You would bet your skull that these contingencies are going to fall through the moment that battle is joined, but you have instinct and she is operating from a base of compromised facts.

One positive: You get a green light response from Marshal November, and an immediate noospheric ripple as Skitarii forces start redeploying throughout the facility. At least one thing here isn't interested in falling into chaos.

Return to Thellamie

Sayanastia, The Dark Hatchling!

Biting you! Biting you biting you biting you! Biting you biting you bapping you bapping you bapping you - other paw - bapping you bapping you biting you! Void breath into biiiiig yawn into biiiig stretch bapping you running running running hiding beneath Eclair's dress curling up power nap POUNCE BITING YOU! BITING YOU! BAPPING YOU! running running hiding beneath Eclair's dress biiiiig yawn biiiig stretch curling up chewing her sabaton power nap. Wake up! Can't sleep here, can't sleep anywhere, overtired and angry and filled with zoomies and biting you but everything hurts and even BITING YOU isn't helping any more. Augh!!

Dragons are cats, as it is known, and this little dragon-kitten is stressed and tired out of its mind. This is everybody's promblem.

[Namespace] of the Rose

A flight of servo-skulls take to the air, blaring combat hymns in the physical realm and filling the noosphere with targeting data. Linked systems automatically stabilize, fire control systems adjust targets before their bearers fully understand what is happening, information floods down prepared channels like stormwater filling desert ravines. The battlefield resolves.

A picture snaps into place from a dozen angles. The sniper's gallery - a corpse lies thrown against the wall, flesh melted beyond all recognition, body still twitching with the flickering sparks of electricity where Magos ZRK-333 landed a hit and kill with her electromancy. Immediately the gunfire on the gallery stops - except from the enthusiastic attempts of the Imperials in the stands who are slower on the uptake.

[Notice] That body is not a Skitarii, not a tech thrall, and certainly not a power armoured ork servitor. You can see the tattered scraps of synthskin on the burned out flesh, and the Ecclesiastical decoration on the weapon. It looks like an Imperial Assassin.
[High Society] An Inquisitorial Assassin.
[Bullshit Detector] This is a fucking setup. I don't know how, but you don't need me to tell you that this doesn't add up. You need to get up there and investigate - need a moment to go through the data. It's all there but this is happening too fast.

But there is another front. The Dark Angel stands in the center of a column of fire. With a thoughtfulness that would make any servant of the Machine God nod in appreciation it throws aside its bolt pistol and ammo and grenade pouch before they cook off. And then it leaps into the arena to land on the back of the Tyranid servitor, shattering its carapace with a heavy kick that it parlays into a double-handed haymaker that undoes a second. Then it grabs both corpses and breaks into a sprint, still on fire, throwing both down into the disposal pit at the side of the arena.

No sooner has it done so than two previously unnoticed det-packs attached to the servitors ignite, cracking the ferrocrete next to the arena. The shockwave of the explosion actually clears most of the burning ignitium from the Dark Angel - though its attention was already turned towards the arena doors, and it does not even look around as two chapter serfs leap down next to it, hosing it with extinguishers and putting sword and shield in its hand.

None of the other Tyranid servitors are moving from their perfectly organized lines. There is a moment of quiet. This was an assassination strike, not the beginning of a battle - but even as you start to process that you hear Spark's voice ring out.

"I denounce the Magos Passivity-SEA as a traitor and a disciple of Ludd!" cries ZRK-333 to the shell-shocked Imperials. "She has sinned against the Omnissiah and the Quest for Knowledge! She has aligned with the forces of ignorance and seeks to destroy our understanding! Come with me and we shall bring her to justice!"

There is a moment of hesitation - Imperials are generally not fans of getting involved in internal Mechanicus disputes, and ZRK-333 is not the greatest public speaker - but some of them are busy trying to extinguish their burning comrades still, and some heard the word 'traitor' and reflexively drew their swords. Give them a few moments to get worked up, swear some oaths of vengeance, and let herd instinct kick in and this crowd will form a lynch mob. And then it will be war.

[Namespace] of the Rose

She is a mirage before your eyes, the glittering shine of motive force that reaches beyond her body. She is shrine and priestess both and an electrical storm ignites from her skin. And then the aetheric bubble collapses; the whisper of unreality brushing through the space she had been standing, revealing the crimson gleam of a laser sight cutting through where she had been -

- the laser sight and the whirling ignitium grenade.

The grenade is the immediate concern - curious and mundane all at once. It hits you with significant force directly in the solar plexus before detonating, throwing clinging chemical flames in all directions. The painful force of the impact [2 health damage] said that it had been launched by a grenade launcher rather than thrown. A strange weapon to use for an assassination, but also a profoundly Imperial one. Still, you can't help but think it was a hell of a shot. Direct to center mass, penetrating right through an intervening subject, not having taken it easy despite the indiscriminate nature of the shot. And the laser sight. Weird feature for a weapon with a ballistic arc -

There is a clap of lightning. Celestial lightning rips from Spark's fingers before she's even finished rematerializing, scorching the gallery in the direction of the shot. Through the flesh melting cascade a second grenade launches - you catch a glimpse of it crushing the jawbone of an Adept in the arena stands before drenching half a dozen nearby spectators in flame. Then the twin roars of bolters open up - Sister Kota firing wildly in the same direction as the Magi's lightning, and the Dark Angel firing its pistol - down into the Tyranid in the arena. You catch a glimpse of a third grenade cracking against its helm before reality catches back up to you.

Before anything else, you are on fire. The bruise you got from the impact is going to be the least of your concerns if you do not do something about that.

[Namespace] of the Rose

'Clothes Horse' is one of the trickier vices for an Electromancer to possess. For a monastic order whose style points are 'topless' and 'insulating rubber' the options for customization would seem at first to be limited, but dear Spark has found space for an entire little fashion vocabulary in the minimal canvas she possesses.

Her hair is the centerpiece; the thick dark dreadlocks hang heavy with archaeotech plastics. Stylized illustrations graven on shards of plastek, more eyes than face are woven through in colour matching lines. She wears heavy bracers on wrists and ankles, glittering with chromium chain ribbons that automatically align into complex patterns due to magnetic sorcery. Electroos wrap her bare chest, eternally rotating like the storms across the surface of Holy Jupiter. Her dark skin lights up with glittering golden stardust, and her burned-out eyes are concealed behind the large facial mask that displays the unsettling overlarge eyes of her trinkets.

She is a walking weapon. Her potentia coils burn with terrible energy. She wears two displacer fields on her neck, somehow managing their complex overlapping aetheric fields in real time. You would favour her against any of the arena's visitors - including the Astartes.

You have never seen her scared before.

"Toros. It is a set up. This whole thing is a setup. It wasn't about you at all, it's about me. It's all about me. Everything is about me."

[Sense Trouble] G'day mate. Not to be a bother. Know you're busy. When you get time, give me a roll?

Return to Thellamie

"I have never been a character," spits Sayanastia. "I am a birth defect. Every time Heron tried to grow I was there to poison her bones and sand her tongue and rip the joy from her heart. I have tried time after time to make this world silent and she was my only success. How she blooms now - that is always who she was always seeking to become, the moment I ceased preventing it."

As big as a dragon. Not bigger. Even like this you cannot imagine bigger.

For all of her magnificence, the wicked star has plucked the wrong heartstring. It is depression that animates the Dark Dragon, but hers is not the glittering sadness of a broken heart. She is not in love. She does not mourn for love. Look to love, always - but one cannot look upon the darkness.

A missed note. A moment of silence. Space for nothing, and nothing comes, filled with stars. There are stars for ribbons. Stars for braids. Stars for scales and stars for swords. Stars for eating, because the void is ravenous. If you are only afraid of the story ending wrong then you are bold, bold - too bold.

Sayanastia severs Inara's vast and gentle paw entire.

"Fighting you will not bring her back," said the Dark Dragon, licking the blood of stars off her talons. "But it will make you stop touching what's mine. Do I have your attention now, little fox? Are you listening to me rather than the sound of your own voice?"

[Fight: 8
Inflicting a Condition and taking an object from my opponent.]