Thayr

Pokémon: Professor's Academy

Got room for more prospective profs?

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

<sup>Heat, and the sun beating against her brow.

She doesn’t feel the ache of the bones, no leather in the skin, no tremor in the hands, and she sees. She does not question why she sees, and there it is all the same. An old, sick pack to the oasis, manged and broken and led by a lioness. Who are they? The answer does not come immediately to her mind. She knows that the water is good, though, calming, peaceful.

The perspective shifts; a male wanders off into the grasses, and a whoop of laughter comes up against her. Blood, red, hot, and the smell of flesh into the air. Her eyes follow to the ground, to shadows shifting here and there without any meaning, red lines in the sand tracing rivers down, down into the oasis waters. Lines spread out into the water, spiderwebs of veins before muddling into into a red mist. It stays.

Laughter grows. It sounds like they’re inside her ears, they’re so loud. Red eyes watch from the grasses, between the shadows cast in the tall yellow, as she hears the whines of the pack, fearful, clamoring together. Then the pair emerge, mottled tortoiseshell-brown and tarnished-gold, snouts still red, eyes still hungry. They circle about, and the pack treads back, and back, and back…

Then the sights stop pounding against her skull, and Martha woke up.

Her head hurt, all the way in the back of it, and she could feel hot breath against her face. Someone close by. The smell of cheap cigarettes and an old surplus jacket that still smelled a tint of mothballs. Arnold? The shuffle of feet was nearby, too. She must have fallen…yes, yes, must have fallen…and that did somewhat explain why her head hurt, why her arms ached more than normal, why her legs felt as though she’d been running. When was the last time the old woman could remember running? She felt tired.

A pause, the smell and shuffling fabric of the jacket moving away.

“She’s awake!”

“Are you a-a-alright, Martha?”

“Hell was that?”

Was there a point in that long breath out? That exhale that meant absolutely nothing because Martha hadn’t breathed for a decade? She wasn’t certain, if any time had ever been given to the activity of thinking about all the different things one that didn’t ultimately matter. If for her own sake or for the sake of those who watched, whichever which, Martha gave out a long exhale. She was alright. She knew what it had meant. She was alright and the universe had just knocked in against her skull, like it did every now and again. Taking a moment, Martha creaked out her own words. “I’m alright, I’m alright. Just a fit. Where’s my cane?”

A pause, another shuffle of feet. Coldness touched against the palm of her hand, one that she grasped onto tight and sure. There was the cane. “Here ya go. Jay, grab her other…yeah, yeah, you won’t break her, man. O-Kay, Martha, you ready? Up on three?”

Hands grabbed either of her arms, up from the elbow, fingers bony, palms clammy. “Up on three.”

“A-one, A-two, A-three.”

A perspective shift. Up from the horizon to the vertical, along with the inhale and holding of one throat on either side of her. Feet scrambled for a moment before they found the ground, the old woman leaning down on her cane. She could feel eyes still against her, the others still waiting and watching to make sure that ol Martha wouldn’t keel over the moment they turned away. There were other signs of that too, though, like hands fidgeting in pockets to scratch against the fabric, or the playing with of buttons, or the pursed-lips whistle exhales of Clyde. He spoke, too, lower while the wind played between the missing teeth.

“You’re facing the main tent. Do you need a doctor or…or…?”

“I’ll be fine, just need to make myself some tea and…go pet some cats or something. Calm my nerves. You all get to sleep.”

Another pause. Feet didn’t move. Another exhale as Martha shook her head. They wanted to see if she actually would make it to the tent…and yet, there was some other idea in mind, along with the tea. She needed to sit down first. Cane tapped against concrete as she hobbled over, still feeling the eyes against her, step after step after step…then cloth caught on the tip of the cane. There was the door. Her free hand reached out for a moment, finding the flap of cloth. Step up high…joints groaned with the effort of moving feet up higher than she was used to…and there she was.

A few steps to the right…there was the chair. It was cheap, the kind of white plastic one might expect to be left outside for years for a patio, and felt flimsy even under her little weight as Martha settled down. She could even feel the legs splay out a little bit, setting the cane to lean against one armrest.

The pack. The pack was hers. When she thought of the male, she felt sad…he had been one of the camp, but had been killed and eaten by predators…by other, new kindred. They were still hungry, they would still hunt, and none of hers were necessarily safe as long as they roved free. There would be more deaths, more murders, and even if Martha didn’t want some form of justice…whatever authority would exist looked down on such familiarity, such sentimentality…in a sense, it was best that the pair were caught before they did something immensely stupid. That they were hunting and killing so freely, so often from the last to the next, that meant they had no self control. That meant someone would have to get talked to in order to find them.

Who would be best? The answer was fairly simple in her eyes. There weren’t too many enforcers of law, not as far as the kindred in Las Vegas. Of course, that assumed that the killing had been done by a vampire, but if it wasn’t…then it indicated some other killing force. Something else that could do with investigation and, if it was something simpler, something smaller, then maybe it was something that could serve as payment in flesh for those enforcers. A pair were already in mind; Beauclerc, García. They’d been by the camp, too, which gave some good enough benefits.

Of course, neither of them were especially ideal. Martha knew that. Beauclerc wasn’t a kind man, nor an amazingly compassionate man, but he was a man of business and on that at least the two found a degree of trust. García always seemed like she came from the trades of death, but…had always been respectful, to one degree or another. They’d come by before, asking questions about this person or that person, tracking down the various members of the city’s less glamorous citizens. They’d never stayed especially long. She almost wished they did. Almost.

A hand reached out to the nearby table, a bell that was…well, Martha had been told it was never-shined silver, a tinny little sound that probably meant it wasn’t even silver. Dinner bell for the little ones, that’s what it was, for the cats and fluffy friends and all the rest. They wouldn’t be happy about the idea of coming forth to get food, at an unscheduled time no less, and not receiving it, but that would be a placation for when they arrived, not a worry beforehand. Besides, Martha needed them and she needed them yesterday. She rang it.

“Mau, mau, mau, mau, mau, mau…” came one, constant in the volume as he came closer. It wasn’t especially loud, though, close-in to the ground as he padded through the camp before arriving at the little door. The whish of thin, clear plastic as he jumped through. The meowing continued even as he drew about the chair’s legs, weaving back and forth to pass between outstretched fingers. She could feel his fur like bristles on a brush.

Another, an irregular little purr that sounded like a lawnmower. She weaved here and there on the route before following him in, then stopping where the bowls normally would be filled. The lawnmower revved, quiet, then revved again. Another, and another, and another. She waited patiently for each to file in, swallowing at the prospect that they would find who she needed. It was a shot, sure, but not a particularly good one. At least, there wasn’t anything that was shifting the scales to Martha’s favor. She waited still. It was, at the very least, better than nothing…especially when nothing entailed another loss with no great progress. No, she needed someone to fix the problem and that pair would likely do just fine.

A breath in, tapping into that power in the blood, before she spoke to them. “Two have come here before, a man and a woman smelling of death. Beauclerc. García. I need them here again. Find them, and lead them back. The winner will be given twice the normal amount. Go. Go, find them, and bring them back.”

Feet padded out of the room, leaving Martha alone to her thoughts.</sup>

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

@Thayr I may have Caroline end up in the area on her second hunt. She’s conflated the Kiss with relief from hunger, and has gotten rather attached, so she often double-dips. But I guess that depends on what you’re meaning by “run to”

@enmuni

Run to as in fleeing your current place of residence to go to ground (really try to go to ground, that is) with the homeless folks.

Though I imagine there will be a similar effect if she appears at the camp at night trying to score a meal. Might even kinda stick around a little bit, long enough for Martha to find a body or so.

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

O @enmuni o @KittenLord, do y'all want to try and run to the homeless people once either your money runs dry, the cards get frozen, or either character realizes that they aren't actually washing the money?

For details on the camp itself...

• Located at 36.193603, -115.060752
• Around eight tents of various sizes, most smaller camping tents, lean-to tarps, centered around one larger, walk-in tent
• A trench latrine behind 1825 N Ringe Ln (36.193297, -115.060502), accessed through a hole in the fence
• At least three are awake at any one time, separated on either side, though these are normally distracted
• A small pack of stray dogs is present in the camp, nominally tamed / adopted by various members of the camp
• Several stray cats are likewise present

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

<sup>╔══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══ 🃏︎ 🃏︎ 🃏︎ ═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩══╗

╚══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══ 🃏︎ 🃏︎ 🃏︎ ═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩══╝</sup>

^{[Art: Miklós Ligeti.]}

Character Sheet 23/Jun/2025

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

Old Martha

Warhammer 30K: The Returning Son

Primarch XIII, Yerleg Khan

Yerleg Khan

Titles

Whispering Lord, Thirteen

Gender

Male

Homeworld

Udan

Personality

Calculating, mercurial, and suspicious, Yerleg finds there to be no action by another which is not predicated upon gaining something in return. All things have a motive built upon self-interest and the more charitable an act is, the more beloved one emphasizes upon the action, the more insidious that self-feeding motive is. He believes that the Imperium, as a whole, is a flawed creation built by a flawed master - the Emperor of Man, after all, cannot be a perfect being because were he so his sons would not have been scattered, his Imperium would not be so misshapen, his politics would not be so teetering. As such, all things therein must be questioned, never accepted without pause, and though all things should be worked to be improved upon it is never a guarantee. His preference to do so, of course, is by replacement, by cleansing the upper cadres, by reeducation of those expected to step into the empty shoes.

Skills

Assassination, Saboteur, Torture, Puppeteer

Equipment

Mortis - Transonic Blade of Udan origin
Hymn - Archaeotech Pistol
Panoply of the Shadow - Mark IV power armor with cameleoline painted plates, conversion field,

Background

Born, kept, and dispersed the same as his brothers, Yerleg Khan would hurtle along until he found the distant world of Udan. A hive world of immense proportions, covering the vast majority of the planetary surface save for the terrariums and factory-farms, he would fall past most of it to the lower levels of the hives. The gestation pod would be pried open by a group of the least afraid gangers hoping for some bit of tech or another to sell. What they found instead was a child, albeit a strangely healthy one for such a place, and the enticing thought of meat grew on the ganger’s minds. A life of strange sludge, fungi, and other packaged substances amplified the urge, as well as the mantra that one grew by what one ate.

It came as a surprise to all onlookers when the one onlooker drew forth, dispersing those jackals with a look and taking the child enclosed within. That was one of the underhive warlords with gangs arrayed beneath him, a man of great age, cruelty, and cunning, a man of foresight and who knew that such a thing did not come often or without reason. He took Yerleg in as his son and pupil, naming him such and teaching him the ways of rule in the underhives while the nobility above sought to find where the strange object had landed. It became apparent enough to the warlord that the child was gifted not only mentally but in the arts of assassination too, a strange enough thing as time passed and it grew obvious that the boy would outgrow any who were once his equal in size. He learned quickly from the assassins that the warlord played host to, becoming an instrument of silent death on Udan.

A creeping realization came on Yerleg as time passed, though, that the warlord did not intend to grant any more than had been given. A cold logic fell over the child, that the warlord gained much by his hand but mismanaged all of it, failed to appreciate it, and a hunger had implanted itself firmly in Yerleg. He knew he could do more and was determined to make it so. A few years of preparation passed, deaths and whispers delivered wherever needed, and the underhives exploded in the most planned manner they ever had before or since. The warlord and his rivals fell, either by one-another’s works or by Yerleg’s own hands, and by the end of it he had seized the reins of power there all for himself. Of course, another sat on that throne who knew his role, but the result was all the same.

The following works came like a bloody tide over the world, an occurrence even the nobility in their high towers could not miss and yet were helpless to halt or influence. His rivals fell like chaff, one after another after another. Some became embroiled in fierce infighting, their forces along one avenue suddenly weak from a lack of reliable munitions or clean water, while others fell victim to the infrastructure itself. Three districts drowned in toxic sludge removed several opponents in the grand scheme, and similar events claimed even more. By the end of the year, the underworld had largely been cleansed of its biggest players and those who remained swore fealty to another.

Yerleg emerged to the nobility, then, and gave an accounting of himself. The underhives were his, the vast majority of the world, and by their failure to being those same districts to heel they had declared themselves unfit. As such, he would be best for the world and he alone. They refused, though, unwilling to give power to the upstart, the nobody, the nothing, and Yerleg smiled. He left the high spires and bore himself to work delivering the good news to those nobility. For months, nothing occurred in their eyes. The trade ships to their close colonies came and went, delivering foodstuffs and leaving with manufactured goods. Nothing else came, nothing else went. The underhives were gnawingly quiet, save for as much violence as they always had bore. It ate at the nobles such that they sent spies down again and again, though no message returned from these nor did any of them ever return themselves.

When the moment came, those same close colonies delivered news of their rebellion. They had learned of how weak Udan had become, so weak that they could not even give control over their own planet, and wished better deals than they had ever fought for before. Shipments from those worlds ceased just as the transport lines from the terrariums and factory-farms failed, food to the upper spires ceasing. The few planetary defense vessels could not be spared to send, and even then it wasn’t even known if they could make the journey to those colonial holdings. The nobles were paralyzed, save for those few who felt that they knew what had to be done.

House guards and levies from the highest spires, citizen-soldiers who had grown in hatred of those below who thought they could rise above, attempted an invasion and cleansing of the underhives the likes of which Udan had never seen. The districts erupted in destruction and vicious house-to-house fighting became the standard of the day. Among it all, Yerleg was seldom to be fought, his captains down below following the master scheme out of the realization for how desperate their situation truly was. Few locations grew safe for the nobles who had spearheaded this attempt though, from fuel tank detonations to fires to floods, and by the end of the first day most were dead. By the end of the first week, they were all dead. Their lines of retreat cut away, the invaders were defeated one by one in their pockets, surrounded by filth and flooded districts, and Yerleg went once again to the nobility to appear among them amid one desperate meeting.

He gave a chance, yet again, and the nobles in that senate house begged for a mercy they were sure would not come. Yerleg killed each and every one, allowing the infantile heirs to survive under his own tutilage, and called forward that meeting with the colonies. Yerleg’s approach to these was simple, that if they did come together they would die alone and he would seize what remained of their worlds, that their rebellion was not solely of their own making, that those who called him master were already within their ranks. The colonial governments, fearful of the new unknown and wary that such a person could rise from the underhives to become ruler of such in so short a time, relented.

For a decade, it was good. The underhives knew an age of iron peace enforced by anonymous eyes everywhere, of a monolith known as Justice whose hand fell as need be, and the high spires knew an age of bridled progress and competence, of waste-not hierarchies and fools disappearing from the edge of the earth. Fear abided most all. There was construction, true, but Yerleg’s bloody revolution had done so much damage that it was difficult to restore what had been forever lost. Then a golden ship came, a stranger from the stars. They spoke and, when all was said and done, Yerleg left Udan for the stars. He still did not fully trust this man who claimed to be a father, yet had not reached out a hand ever in his youth as a father might, but did know that such extraordinary stories would provide an explanation for his skill, his capability, his biology.

He left Udan for his Legion, finding them as nothing more than violence and blood, savage killers who took worlds again and again and again with not a thought for what the worlds would be after. He found them lacking and it enraged him. The Legion Master and his Captains were flayed for their failures to become something more, to be satisfied with the lot in life of death and death and death again, flayed and displayed for their successors to see. He withdrew his Legion, known then as the Kings of Slaughter, and began to retrain them in his eyes. Yerleg soon enough separated the wheat from the chaff, the teachable from the mindless, and the latter he dispatched to the Imperium’s bloodiest campaigns. The former he taught for the shadows, for the discrete strike, for the kill another would take and the blood would never even reach their hands.

When his teachings were done, the Kings of Slaughter were dead and gone, the Death Masks rising from that grave. They soon embarked on pacification campaigns against the enemies of the Imperium, against the enemies of the Legion, against the enemies of Yerleg, and those three were never entirely the same. Upon learning of the Assassin Cults controlled by Terra, the Officio Assassinorum, the Primarch decided that no order controlled by such would have a card above he. He garnered a number of requests to the Officio, subtle enough that the few would ever know, to secure a limited amount of the substance. The finest chemists who could be sourced away were secreted into disappearance as well, their genius replicating the substance, providing the Legion its own source of shifting agents after decades of work.

Of Yerleg himself, though, he has rarely been seen among either his brothers or among the Legion’s front lines - were the Death Masks ever to truly have a front line. No Legionary there claims knowledge of his whereabouts, nor would they often reveal their own names to another outside the Legion.

Legion XIII, Death Masks

Death Masks
“Thrice-Born”

Number

XIII

Domains

Udan and associated colonies (Tamag, Ulukayın)

Legion Appearance

With their armor painted deep teal with black shoulders and helmets, Death Mask Legionaries rarely bear obvious outward signs of their formations or identifications. Markings of veteran status on the armor is restricted, such as campaigns fought or kills, and removal of the helmet by a Death Mask among those not of the Legion is forbidden. For identification to others within the Legion, such things as discrete signs and countersigns, pronouncement of certain words, and rhythmic tics such as tapping against the armor in a certain stattaco are all used when the helmet-aided notifications fail.

Combat Doctrine

Infiltration, Covert Operations, Independent Operatives

Legion Organization

Total: 80,000 Astartes
Primarch
40 Grand Companies (2,000 Astartes) - Lord Captain

4 Battalions (500 Astartes) - Lieutenant Commander

5 Companies (100 Astartes) - Company Captain

Legion Special Units

Operatives

Mortal agents utilized by the Thirteenth, these vary wildly in skills, methods, and intents. At times willing tools, at other times unwilling servants through hypno-induction, operatives of the Death Masks can be in place for decades as informants, info-cants, assassins, or saboteurs until the moment is directly right. They may be recruited directly or hereditary on the oldest worlds, believing themselves to be acting in accordance to the will of Terra itself. The most deadly of these are assassins reserved by the Legion for specific operations, specifically trained in the use of re-engineered Polymorphene and under near religious dogma.

Saboteur Consuls

Astartes dedicated to the act of destruction by the indirect means, the Saboteur Consuls of the Thirteenth work to know the enemy plan, the friendly plan, and to have contingencies forever in place to turn both into a self-defeating nightmare. Often deployed separately from even the Legion’s forces, and often deployed ahead, they provide key intelligence across all facets of the battlefield as well as numerous additional options for victory.

Kormos

Developed in response to the ravenous killing tendencies of the underhives, the Kormos are a direct antithesis to the doctrines of the Death Masks. Where a Saboteur Consul kills such that none knows who kills and moves on to the next, the Kormos achieve infiltration before massacring all within their range. Often armed with large numbers of melta charges and volkite pistols, it is only through a number of hypo-inducted signals that such Astartes grow conscious again from their blood frenzies. Casualties among the Kormos are expectedly high.

Legion Equipment

Roughly standard for the Legiones Astartes, the Thirteenth does stock inordinate numbers of Cameleoline cloaks and nets, as well as Vox signals intercept gear, jamming equipment, and a large number of Servo Skulls for the purposes of situational awareness and reconnaissance. Their Power Armor is often altered and improved for stealth purposes, despite the seeming age of these. Bolters among the Death Masks are often loaded with heavy armor-piercing bolts intended to slice through enemy armor and shells, destroying vital parts simply by their travel, or loaded with delayed detonation bolts.

Legion Vehicles

Standard for the Legiones Astartes, the Thirteenth Legion employs its armor often in an independent role to other forces as an applicator of pressure against the enemy command scheme, forcing them to react to such while other Legion assets move into place. They are often employed piecemeal, with electronic systems generating the signature a far greater bulk of forces than otherwise. Deployments into combat itself, however, do often occur alongside the drop-pods of the Legion.

Legion Fleet

Notable Vessels:

Stalker of the Gulfs - Gloriana class Battleship
Traitor’s Ruin - Ramilles Class Star-fort, modified for Legion logistics, fleet maintenance, astropathic signals interception, location unknown

The Thirteenth operates a number of independently operating cruisers and heavy Battle Barges, often forming these into sudden concentrations against vulnerable targets before dispersing along several vectors. Their smallest vessels, however, are known to act as deployment methods for Saboteur Consuls on worlds further within enemy space, rapidly entering and exiting the system on often minimal power to avoid detection.

Legion Relics

Oblique Seat

A high-backed seat with several syringes and patches along the arms, the seat applies a potent mixture of chemicals through the skin and blood in order to ensure the seated speaks the truth and only the truth. While it is said to be archaeotech, others within the Legion believe it to be Udani manufacture.

Starlit Key

A simple steel key of human manufacture, found in the void of a xenos world, its mere existence is puzzling to say the least.

Background

Originally the Kings of Slaughter, a Legion that held little in comparison to their gene-father, the Thirteenth embraced the violent rush, the charge, the bloody cleansing of worlds that would eventually go to the Imperium. Under that moniker they won many victories for the Imperium, but their name was never among those celebrated by Terra, nor did they give parades and examples for the people to gawk at upon the edges of the Imperium. The Imperial Army were loathe to work alongside the Thirteenth, so concerned were they for their own safety in the midst of the battle.

Then, one year, it all stopped. The Kings of Slaughter seemed suddenly diminished in number yet they rushed to the most vile campaigns the Imperium could offer them. They fought again and again until there were so few of them left that it seemed the Legion might die out in a mess of its own making. Then, without warning as well, the Death Masks arose in their place and a great noise was made among the highest of Terra’s nobility that the Thirteenth Son had been found.

Since then, the Death Masks have been engaged along the peripheral line of the Imperium on many campaigns, though rarely is it in one place for long.

Warhammer 30K: The Returning Son

Primarch XIII, Yerleg Khan

Yerleg Khan

Titles

Whispering Lord, Thirteen

Gender

Male

Homeworld

Udan

Personality

Calculating, mercurial, and suspicious, Yerleg finds there to be no action by another which is not predicated upon gaining something in return. All things have a motive built upon self-interest and the more charitable an act is, the more beloved one emphasizes upon the action, the more insidious that self-feeding motive is. He believes that the Imperium, as a whole, is a flawed creation built by a flawed master - the Emperor of Man, after all, cannot be a perfect being because were he so his sons would not have been scattered, his Imperium would not be so misshapen, his politics would not be so teetering. As such, all things therein must be questioned, never accepted without pause, and though all things should be worked to be improved upon it is never a guarantee. His preference to do so, of course, is by replacement, by cleansing the upper cadres, by reeducation of those expected to step into the empty shoes.

Skills

Assassination, Saboteur, Torture, Puppeteer

Equipment

Mortis - Transonic Blade of Udan origin
Hymn - Archaeotech Pistol
Panoply of the Shadow - Mark IV power armor with cameleoline painted plates, conversion field,

Background

Born, kept, and dispersed the same as his brothers, Yerleg Khan would hurtle along until he found the distant world of Udan. A hive world of immense proportions, covering the vast majority of the planetary surface save for the terrariums and factory-farms, he would fall past most of it to the lower levels of the hives. The gestation pod would be pried open by a group of the least afraid gangers hoping for some bit of tech or another to sell. What they found instead was a child, albeit a strangely healthy one for such a place, and the enticing thought of meat grew on the ganger’s minds. A life of strange sludge, fungi, and other packaged substances amplified the urge, as well as the mantra that one grew by what one ate.

It came as a surprise to all onlookers when the one onlooker drew forth, dispersing those jackals with a look and taking the child enclosed within. That was one of the underhive warlords with gangs arrayed beneath him, a man of great age, cruelty, and cunning, a man of foresight and who knew that such a thing did not come often or without reason. He took Yerleg in as his son and pupil, naming him such and teaching him the ways of rule in the underhives while the nobility above sought to find where the strange object had landed. It became apparent enough to the warlord that the child was gifted not only mentally but in the arts of assassination too, a strange enough thing as time passed and it grew obvious that the boy would outgrow any who were once his equal in size. He learned quickly from the assassins that the warlord played host to, becoming an instrument of silent death on Udan.

A creeping realization came on Yerleg as time passed, though, that the warlord did not intend to grant any more than had been given. A cold logic fell over the child, that the warlord gained much by his hand but mismanaged all of it, failed to appreciate it, and a hunger had implanted itself firmly in Yerleg. He knew he could do more and was determined to make it so. A few years of preparation passed, deaths and whispers delivered wherever needed, and the underhives exploded in the most planned manner they ever had before or since. The warlord and his rivals fell, either by one-another’s works or by Yerleg’s own hands, and by the end of it he had seized the reins of power there all for himself. Of course, another sat on that throne who knew his role, but the result was all the same.

The following works came like a bloody tide over the world, an occurrence even the nobility in their high towers could not miss and yet were helpless to halt or influence. His rivals fell like chaff, one after another after another. Some became embroiled in fierce infighting, their forces along one avenue suddenly weak from a lack of reliable munitions or clean water, while others fell victim to the infrastructure itself. Three districts drowned in toxic sludge removed several opponents in the grand scheme, and similar events claimed even more. By the end of the year, the underworld had largely been cleansed of its biggest players and those who remained swore fealty to another.

Yerleg emerged to the nobility, then, and gave an accounting of himself. The underhives were his, the vast majority of the world, and by their failure to being those same districts to heel they had declared themselves unfit. As such, he would be best for the world and he alone. They refused, though, unwilling to give power to the upstart, the nobody, the nothing, and Yerleg smiled. He left the high spires and bore himself to work delivering the good news to those nobility. For months, nothing occurred in their eyes. The trade ships to their close colonies came and went, delivering foodstuffs and leaving with manufactured goods. Nothing else came, nothing else went. The underhives were gnawingly quiet, save for as much violence as they always had bore. It ate at the nobles such that they sent spies down again and again, though no message returned from these nor did any of them ever return themselves.

When the moment came, those same close colonies delivered news of their rebellion. They had learned of how weak Udan had become, so weak that they could not even give control over their own planet, and wished better deals than they had ever fought for before. Shipments from those worlds ceased just as the transport lines from the terrariums and factory-farms failed, food to the upper spires ceasing. The few planetary defense vessels could not be spared to send, and even then it wasn’t even known if they could make the journey to those colonial holdings. The nobles were paralyzed, save for those few who felt that they knew what had to be done.

House guards and levies from the highest spires, citizen-soldiers who had grown in hatred of those below who thought they could rise above, attempted an invasion and cleansing of the underhives the likes of which Udan had never seen. The districts erupted in destruction and vicious house-to-house fighting became the standard of the day. Among it all, Yerleg was seldom to be fought, his captains down below following the master scheme out of the realization for how desperate their situation truly was. Few locations grew safe for the nobles who had spearheaded this attempt though, from fuel tank detonations to fires to floods, and by the end of the first day most were dead. By the end of the first week, they were all dead. Their lines of retreat cut away, the invaders were defeated one by one in their pockets, surrounded by filth and flooded districts, and Yerleg went once again to the nobility to appear among them amid one desperate meeting.

He gave a chance, yet again, and the nobles in that senate house begged for a mercy they were sure would not come. Yerleg killed each and every one, allowing the infantile heirs to survive under his own tutilage, and called forward that meeting with the colonies. Yerleg’s approach to these was simple, that if they did come together they would die alone and he would seize what remained of their worlds, that their rebellion was not solely of their own making, that those who called him master were already within their ranks. The colonial governments, fearful of the new unknown and wary that such a person could rise from the underhives to become ruler of such in so short a time, relented.

For a decade, it was good. The underhives knew an age of iron peace enforced by anonymous eyes everywhere, of a monolith known as Justice whose hand fell as need be, and the high spires knew an age of bridled progress and competence, of waste-not hierarchies and fools disappearing from the edge of the earth. Fear abided most all. There was construction, true, but Yerleg’s bloody revolution had done so much damage that it was difficult to restore what had been forever lost. Then a golden ship came, a stranger from the stars. They spoke and, when all was said and done, Yerleg left Udan for the stars. He still did not fully trust this man who claimed to be a father, yet had not reached out a hand ever in his youth as a father might, but did know that such extraordinary stories would provide an explanation for his skill, his capability, his biology.

He left Udan for his Legion, finding them as nothing more than violence and blood, savage killers who took worlds again and again and again with not a thought for what the worlds would be after. He found them lacking and it enraged him. The Legion Master and his Captains were flayed for their failures to become something more, to be satisfied with the lot in life of death and death and death again, flayed and displayed for their successors to see. He withdrew his Legion, known then as the Kings of Slaughter, and began to retrain them in his eyes. Yerleg soon enough separated the wheat from the chaff, the teachable from the mindless, and the latter he dispatched to the Imperium’s bloodiest campaigns. The former he taught for the shadows, for the discrete strike, for the kill another would take and the blood would never even reach their hands.

When his teachings were done, the Kings of Slaughter were dead and gone, the Death Masks rising from that grave. They soon embarked on pacification campaigns against the enemies of the Imperium, against the enemies of the Legion, against the enemies of Yerleg, and those three were never entirely the same. Upon learning of the Assassin Cults controlled by Terra, the Officio Assassinorum, the Primarch decided that no order controlled by such would have a card above he. He garnered a number of requests to the Officio, subtle enough that the few would ever know, to secure a limited amount of the substance. The finest chemists who could be sourced away were secreted into disappearance as well, their genius replicating the substance, providing the Legion its own source of shifting agents after decades of work.

Of Yerleg himself, though, he has rarely been seen among either his brothers or among the Legion’s front lines - were the Death Masks ever to truly have a front line. No Legionary there claims knowledge of his whereabouts, nor would they often reveal their own names to another outside the Legion.

Legion XIII, Death Masks

Death Masks
“Thrice-Born”

Number

XIII

Domains

Udan and associated colonies (Tamag, Ulukayın)

Legion Appearance

With their armor painted deep teal with black shoulders and helmets, Death Mask Legionaries rarely bear obvious outward signs of their formations or identifications. Markings of veteran status on the armor is restricted, such as campaigns fought or kills, and removal of the helmet by a Death Mask among those not of the Legion is forbidden. For identification to others within the Legion, such things as discrete signs and countersigns, pronouncement of certain words, and rhythmic tics such as tapping against the armor in a certain stattaco are all used when the helmet-aided notifications fail.

Combat Doctrine

Infiltration, Covert Operations, Independent Operatives

Legion Organization

Total: 80,000 Astartes
Primarch
40 Grand Companies (2,000 Astartes) - Lord Captain

4 Battalions (500 Astartes) - Lieutenant Commander

5 Companies (100 Astartes) - Company Captain

Legion Special Units

Operatives

Mortal agents utilized by the Thirteenth, these vary wildly in skills, methods, and intents. At times willing tools, at other times unwilling servants through hypno-induction, operatives of the Death Masks can be in place for decades as informants, info-cants, assassins, or saboteurs until the moment is directly right. They may be recruited directly or hereditary on the oldest worlds, believing themselves to be acting in accordance to the will of Terra itself. The most deadly of these are assassins reserved by the Legion for specific operations, specifically trained in the use of re-engineered Polymorphene and under near religious dogma.

Saboteur Consuls

Astartes dedicated to the act of destruction by the indirect means, the Saboteur Consuls of the Thirteenth work to know the enemy plan, the friendly plan, and to have contingencies forever in place to turn both into a self-defeating nightmare. Often deployed separately from even the Legion’s forces, and often deployed ahead, they provide key intelligence across all facets of the battlefield as well as numerous additional options for victory.

Kormos

Developed in response to the ravenous killing tendencies of the underhives, the Kormos are a direct antithesis to the doctrines of the Death Masks. Where a Saboteur Consul kills such that none knows who kills and moves on to the next, the Kormos achieve infiltration before massacring all within their range. Often armed with large numbers of melta charges and volkite pistols, it is only through a number of hypo-inducted signals that such Astartes grow conscious again from their blood frenzies. Casualties among the Kormos are expectedly high.

Legion Equipment

Roughly standard for the Legiones Astartes, the Thirteenth does stock inordinate numbers of Cameleoline cloaks and nets, as well as Vox signals intercept gear, jamming equipment, and a large number of Servo Skulls for the purposes of situational awareness and reconnaissance. Their Power Armor is often altered and improved for stealth purposes, despite the seeming age of these. Bolters among the Death Masks are often loaded with heavy armor-piercing bolts intended to slice through enemy armor and shells, destroying vital parts simply by their travel, or loaded with delayed detonation bolts.

Legion Vehicles

Standard for the Legiones Astartes, the Thirteenth Legion employs its armor often in an independent role to other forces as an applicator of pressure against the enemy command scheme, forcing them to react to such while other Legion assets move into place. They are often employed piecemeal, with electronic systems generating the signature a far greater bulk of forces than otherwise. Deployments into combat itself, however, do often occur alongside the drop-pods of the Legion.

Legion Fleet

Notable Vessels:

Stalker of the Gulfs - Gloriana class Battleship
Traitor’s Ruin - Ramilles Class Star-fort, modified for Legion logistics, fleet maintenance, astropathic signals interception, location unknown

The Thirteenth operates a number of independently operating cruisers and heavy Battle Barges, often forming these into sudden concentrations against vulnerable targets before dispersing along several vectors. Their smallest vessels, however, are known to act as deployment methods for Saboteur Consuls on worlds further within enemy space, rapidly entering and exiting the system on often minimal power to avoid detection.

Legion Relics

Oblique Seat

A high-backed seat with several syringes and patches along the arms, the seat applies a potent mixture of chemicals through the skin and blood in order to ensure the seated speaks the truth and only the truth. While it is said to be archaeotech, others within the Legion believe it to be Udani manufacture.

Starlit Key

A simple steel key of human manufacture, found in the void of a xenos world, its mere existence is puzzling to say the least.

Background

Originally the Kings of Slaughter, a Legion that held little in comparison to their gene-father, the Thirteenth embraced the violent rush, the charge, the bloody cleansing of worlds that would eventually go to the Imperium. Under that moniker they won many victories for the Imperium, but their name was never among those celebrated by Terra, nor did they give parades and examples for the people to gawk at upon the edges of the Imperium. The Imperial Army were loathe to work alongside the Thirteenth, so concerned were they for their own safety in the midst of the battle.

Then, one year, it all stopped. The Kings of Slaughter seemed suddenly diminished in number yet they rushed to the most vile campaigns the Imperium could offer them. They fought again and again until there were so few of them left that it seemed the Legion might die out in a mess of its own making. Then, without warning as well, the Death Masks arose in their place and a great noise was made among the highest of Terra’s nobility that the Thirteenth Son had been found.

Since then, the Death Masks have been engaged along the peripheral line of the Imperium on many campaigns, though rarely is it in one place for long.

My Hero Academia: Just Another Hero, Act 2

M A W A T A R I
M A W A T A R I

Jun stared, listening as they all talked here. Yeah, the homeroom teacher was still listening to the whole ordeal and really wasn’t too pleased because of course Kyoya was being a fool and a half…seriously whoever just jumped onto another person’s desk...threatened detention just like before. Then they mentioned the joint training to ‘toughen up’ the class. So, a test it was. She inwardly sighed at it all…yeah, homeroom teachers did love bashing their heads into walls.

Is that why they didn’t stay around for long?

“As your homeroom professor just said, it is exactly as it sounds. We're here to help you get stronger… and for that, you lot are going to fight us, the Furious Five, the top five students of this college. I'm not one to brag, but… well, the numbers don't lie. The matchups are going to be revealed when the joint training begins, but before it does, you're free to formulate your contingencies against us. We'll be doing the same against you, though. So… be prepared.”

The bird, Izanagi, spoke next, serving to only confirm it. They were eager to test the class, she could tell it, and altogether it wasn’t surprising. For the most part though, as far as Jun was aware, the quirks that the ‘Furious Five’ had didn’t quite nullify hers. She’d simply have to act as normal, almost, though then again they would be expecting that. At least, she was expecting they would know her normal methods. The wins at sports festival hadn’t really been all that quiet. No, making a plan before knowing the matchups would merely serve to walk into traps of assumptions. It would be better to wait.

"A few questions actually. First, while you said that this is an 'eduvacation,' will heroes not classified as four stars will receive temporary four star status to work abroad? Will those already classified as four stars be allowed to do hero work in Otheon? Also, in regards to sparring, are you giving us permission to go all out?"

"Precisely, Ms. Belic. Those with three-star ranking will be evaluated during the Fieldtrip and promoted along the way or right after. Those with four-star cards are allowed to operate overseas and yes, feel free to go all out, the common sense of restrain will be not to kill anyone of course."

"Mawatari, Takari, it's overdue but here are your four star licenses."

Getting up from her seat and taking the license in hand, Jun stared down at it for a moment before looking up at the rankings. It’d been a good enough assumption that she’d be getting it soon, sure, but just getting handed the thing alongside them of all people was almost sad. They were ahead of her in the rankings, too. A deep breath out. Yeah, Kyoya was strong but they just didn’t act like a hero should as far as she was concerned. Then again, as far as she was concerned, there was a lot that could be improved all around. Can’t forget yourself, she said inwardly. It wouldn’t do to get your own head up there. Hisora’s comment on ‘one-upping’ her was pointedly ignored.

Then she saw the matchups, Akai Jace versus Mawatari Jun, Mischa Belic, heard the one hour to prepare. Jace was the shifter, fox-looking boy with the strange little features. What was the creature? Kitsune-looking type. She could guess he was the same as those, the sorts of illusionary types where reality became blended away just a bit. As for Belic, she wasn’t altogether certain what her quirk was though…if they had been paired against Jace, surely it’d be somewhat useful. Turning to the Dutch girl, she smiled just a bit. ”No sweat, huh?”

---

Jun watched as Spiderman made his way through them after swinging-in out of near-nowhere. It was impressive how the hero just sort of appeared like he did, no warning at all in the motion save for the whistling of the wind. The feeling of impressiveness soon wore off as she watched him go through the line. Spiderman just sounded…almost like a kid, almost like them.

She stretched while standing, aware that while the gym uniform did absolutely nothing for modesty it also was absolutely flexible and unimpeding as a thing could be without just not having clothing at all. It wouldn’t help to be nervous about how she looked, after all. Of course Jun also was aware that she looked pretty good, all things considered. She’d worked hard to get there.

Then Spiderman got to Jun and Mischa.

"I see a pattern here, the admins must love tomboys!

She stared at him, completing the pose to go back to standing lax, waiting, watching. Turning just a bit to Mischa, she smiled again. Sure, they’d agreed that flattening the whole practice grounds wasn’t ideal, especially considering the type of person Jace was and how their quirk was like, but it was still an entertaining thought. It was also a good way of confusing the other people. ”You think they’re attached to these buildings?”

My Hero Academia: Just Another Hero, Act 2

M A W A T A R I
M A W A T A R I

Well, wasn’t that interesting. Jun had been busy enough during the fight, evacuating buildings and the like before they were demolished by Nomus and the others trying to fight back, but had gotten filled in on what the heck had gone on in the days after. The mayor being a villains…well, it was bad enough, but not the absolute end of the world.

They were getting a “joint training exercise” with 2A, though…that could really mean anything as far as Jun thought. It could be a competition, to try and bring out the competitive spirit between the classes. It could be a tournament, to try and test their skills so far. It could be a simple pairing-up, to have 2A teach them what they’d learned before and so test how well they actually understood the information. Whatever it was, though, Jun was pretty well sure it would be tiring, testing. There was a field trip, too, to Otheon. She’d never been there, but it’d be interesting to see the differences in how they did Hero work, how they organized it, how effective their methods were. Fingers tapped against the desk in contemplation.

New students, too, that was the other thing. The Todoroki Siblings and Mischa Belic. Jun’s eyes scanned over the pair, Endeavor’s relatives who didn’t seem to carry the same sort of absolute fire nonsense as him, sucking her lip briefly. Naito would be interesting to train against, the sort of bare-knuckle fight that’d let her test her own training regimens, while Hinata would maybe be alright to talk to. Maybe. They’d both been to America, so doubtless they’d be sorta loud. As for Belic…well, she wasn’t Japanese, that much was obvious. What did that name sound like it was from? Jun wasn’t really too sure. She’d be different, though.

Oh, and Amaya had been elected as class president. Thank god. She’d had to have to try and wrangle together the idiots, no matter how effective they were at fighting Nomu.

Speaking of idiots, then one came over. Jun stared at Kyoya as they approached, stared as he smacked her desk with his hand, stared as he got onto her desk. What sort of nonsense…

"Everyone, I'm sure we can take our Senpais in a fight. Don't try to stop me Akira! I will fight them right now! No...that's boring."

"Oh I didn't know you went from blackhaired to whatever shade of brown dye that is? That's a good look, but you... me, here, now, FIGHT ME!”

“Get your butt off my desk, Kyoya. If I wanted to fight children I’d go to the elementary school,” Jun replied, mouth wry at the undercut joke. Another came up, Akira, apologizing and such as a little smile appeared on her face. She could feel that other quirk come up between them, a small little wall that’d likely interfere with her own talents if ever there felt a need to use them.

"What did I say about getting into fights? That's right proper venue."

"Don't worry much about him, he loves picking fights with everyone."

“Sometimes, I think he's Mirko’s secret love child because of how much of a fight magnet he is!”

She nodded in thanks, smile still on her face, before Haru piped-in. Jun turned to him, the comment making her chuckle aloud.

Izanagi replied to one question on the training session, though. Chains and cages. Well, that answered her initial contemplation, seemed like it would be something aimed more at a competition or a test. Darn.