Voltus_Ventus

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

309

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

As the lift descended bringing them closer to imminent danger, the music pumping through her sound system changed. From the other side of the tinny speakers, the sound of whirring and clicking echoed into her head, as the microphone in her cabin picked up the sound of the tape player swapping cassettes. There was a snap as a new tape was clicked into place and its guard shut over it, and a high-pitched drilling noise as the machine wound the magnetic strip to its starting position. Before a servo pressed down on the play button of the device with a hearty krrchnk. The moments following were filled with static silence, occasionally hissing and popping before a song played.

Behind her M almost choked, before bursting out in laughter. The way the communication system worked was a series of open channels for quick communication during combat, which meant you could tap into anyone's feed at any one moment. Skyldig was aware of this, so placed her music system on a closed channel only she could tap into. But it seemed her music was loud enough to be picked up by her microphone, and thus, M could listen to it. To her horror.

"Oh this is rich!" He cried out, his gloved hand on the front of his helmet as if holding a nonexistent face, "I didn't take you for a Carpenters kind of girl!" He gestured for the others to gather around, with his fingers holding up the number 3, Skyldig's channel.

Under her mask she seethed, as in the background the soft strumming of the Carpenters filled her helmet. Slipping her fingers between a gap in the segmented plates of his armor, she lifted him up and pinned him to the wall of the lift, with a deep and rumbling growl. The suit was light, after all, it only needed to contain a gas, and none of the other extraneous things needed to keep a supple, fleshy body alive. Pressing a knife under the lip of the helmet, she poked at the rubberized gasket of the container.

"I'll fucking space you right now you cretin!" She barked, threatening to evacuate him out of his suit "I-I'll turn you into Green- Green Kibble!" Referring to one of the three kibbles they fed slaves on Pargalon-3. Green kibble, Beige kibble and Grey kibble. The sudden and jostling motion shocked him, but more so he was worried that she might actually do it. He raised his hands up in submission.

"Alright, alright! No one tune in to her band!" He said, hoping to appease her. Ross chortled, not following his advice as the music played in her cochlear implants.

"This is precious!" She cried out, not at all ready to hear the smooth, mellowing music. Almost in disbelief that the Carpenters were in Skyldig's personal collection of music. Before she could turn to confront the doctor, the elevator began to make its short and abrupt slow down. As the door slid open she heaved the giant suit in front of the cabin, shielding them from the small arms fire that was no doubt about to ensue. When the doors fell open, nothing, until a metallic object came skittering and clanking into the cabin. Skyldig looked down at it, her sharp eyes catching the words written on the side of it.




Catching it with her foot, she kicked the concussion grenade back out of the lift, a bright flash of light accompanied by a loud bang splattered the cabin with metal spalling. Pushing M aside, Skyldig drew her rifle in one hand and fired around him, hoping to keep their heads down while she thought. Reaching for a grenade on her belt, letting her rifle dangle by its strap at her shoulder. She groped at thin air, the doctor must have taken the utility belt off of her when they were up on the roof, leaving Skyldig explosiveless. She released a groan in frustration. This was going to take a little more effort than she thought it would, she admitted to herself with some level of irritation, before storming out into the hallway.

The Twenty-Fifth Hour

Up was the cardinal direction when drowning, to distinguish it from all other directs was life saving. "I had a body now, senses that extended to the tips of my limbs. I craned my neck backwards, to what I hoped was upwards, in hopes of seeing what there was to be seen." Life was preferable to whatever else awaited me in the dark.

The Twenty-Fifth Hour

Maybe instead of a death race to be the first to post we can set up a rotation? Or all reach a consensus about what we went the character to do before one of us posts it? Or just have a death race?

The Twenty-Fifth Hour

I can certainly imagine this being very split-esque, intentionally or otherwise. Regardless, I'm interested!

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

The pair squirmed, she wasn't good at this and to an extent it hurt, but she kept her mind off it by scanning her eyes about. The Castery was where the molten metal from the smelters was transported in vast, bucket-like crucibles, suspended from impossibly high gantries by Ghargashian sized chains. The heat was almost excruciating, and they both glistened with sweat. Skyldig grunted, looking away and scrunching up her face, half wincing and half scowling while the Slavedriver bit his tongue. A rumbling sound came from his chest, eyes clenched shut, his massive fists gripping down hard on her wrists, threatening to break them. When iron grip loosened she yanked her hands out of his, standing up, her eyes darting around as she fiddled with the rope at waist, tying her baggy pants up tightly.

"We-ll?" She asked, hunched over, the burns on her face peeling from the heat of the metalworks above them. She expanded a claw like hand, and the man grunted, buckling his belt as he began to walk away. "We had a fucking deal!" She barked, standing up straight, coming to just under his height before returning to a stoop "We had a deal." Sky repeated, in forced respect. He looked over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at her before dropping a black plastic bag on the ground at his feet, continuing on his way. The moment he turned away, Skyldig scrambled forwards, falling to her knees as she grabbed the little sachet in her shaking hands.

Pulling the seal open and looking into the bag, she was greeted by the dull luster of a finely granulated, crystalline substance. With haste, making sure her eyes were not deceiving her, she turned the package over so that the front was facing her. In big, bold letters, white against the black wrapper, beneath the chemical diagram of the drug, the words were printed:




She groaned in pleasure, stuffing mouth and nose into the pouch, huffing hard and inhaling the fine powder. Relaxing into her knees, she pulled her face away and closed her eyes, wiping the dust off her face and rubbing it into her gums with her fingers.

Nearby, the sound of metal clattering against metal echoed against the struts. Skyldig dropped the pouch, reaching for her drilling-hammer and growled.

------------------------------------------

"Shut the fuck up..." She muttered, coming out of her drug fueled dream, the cool air rolling against her face. Her helmet lay nearby, hands wandering around under her armor, needles pricking into her skin and drawing threads through gashes and applying painkillers to bruised and cracked ribs. Sky clenched her left fist, feeling the missing finger, "I was just resting my eyes." Her eyes still closed.

The doctor snorted, a single chuckle of mirth escaping her as her robotic fingers explored the soldier's sore body. They had detached in pairs, scurrying about under Skyldig's armor like two legged spiders as they attended to the field fixable wounds. "You're a candle burning at all three ends." Ross mumbled, her eyes darting back and forth in the space between them, watching the various perspectives of the little medic bots on the holographic HUD shimmering in front of her face. She hesitated, her eyes momentarily lingering on the red lines of one of Sky's mastectomy scars before continuing. "Want me to set your ribs, or want to wait until this is all over." She gestured to the to the destruction on the roof with her free hand, pointing around with Skyldig's forcefully amputated finger.

Skyldig opened her eyes, light grey sky greeting her, black plumes of smoke rising up from the peripheries of her vision. She turned to face Ross and saw her finger in her hand, "Aren't you going to put that back on?" She asked, looking down at her now bandaged hand before sitting up. A spike of pain went through her, driving through her ribs and out her back. Skyldig maintained a placid face. The doctor shrugged, tossing it up into the air and catching it.

"It's a bit fucked." She said, inspecting it. The nail had come clean off the front, and the end that was once attached to her hand was incredibly unsightly. She felt around. "Plus it's broken." She was about to ask if Skyldig wanted a prosthetic, but thought better of it, she was a body purist despite her normally crippling narcotic consumption. She turned it over once more in her hand before pocketing it, she could salvage the tissue and regrow a new one, though her supply of Sky's stem cells was running low, so she would have to harvest more soon. "I put some wounding gel on the stub, keep it open and fresh, we'll deal with it once we're ship side." Ross mused, ordering her fingers back to her with an eye gesture.

When the last finger returned to its socket, Skyldig sat up and was relieved she was behind a box. She wasn't as strict about her face as most were back home, but it still irked her, so she kept it covered for the most time despite the crew having all seen it. "Yes, you can fondle me later." She said, in her imperious tone, as her mind wrestled back the mild anesthetic. The dose Ross had given her could probably sedate a large Megasloth, but years of substance abuse and a naturally rapid metabolism meant it didn't last long. Ross went an augmented blue, her blood surrogate rushing to her skin in embarrassment. She stammered, uncharacteristically, as Skyldig stood up and reengaged her helmet, the respirator hanging open exposing her chin, mouth and nose. Swaggering over to where the group had assembled, by the door of the now working elevator, Sky brought the bottle of seltzer to her lips and stuffed the nozzle into the back of her mouth, dousing her throat with the drug-concoction. "She's right." She said in M's direction, gesturing to Malkan with a nod of the head, as she rocked up ahead of them. "You're getting fat."

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

Lancers and sterling brocades,
The Blood rushed down with the wind,
Upon the vanguard of Menn,
Whom rac'd down path that did wind,
T'wards certain doom.

For a moment the air was still, as jump ships and corporate yachts began to lift off landing pads, the two opposing sides assessing each other in that briefest instant. Before anyone else could move, Skyldig rained a hail of bullets down on an unfortunate guard at the toe of her platform, literally blowing him away, sending the limp body streaking across the ground. As the rag doll came to a stop, holes pumping sterling blood, the guards simultaneously opened fire at Skyldig. She fell backwards, purposefully lying as flat as she could against the platform, hiding in the middle of the flat plane where bullets couldn't find her. To her left feet were rattling up the metal steps to the top of the platform, perhaps one or two security guards making their way up with their guns drawn. Scrambling towards the opposite lip of the landing pad, she dragged herself off, falling through a haze of bullets and behind a metal container she had spied on her way down.

As the security guards crested the steps to find her gone, they crossed the platform with speed, reaching the end that Sky rolled off of just in time for a metallic yellow orb to rise up to meet them. One of them had an instant to look down to the ground, where Skyldig was lying in the fetal position, back pointing to the air as the grenade's fuse ran its course and detonated in mid air. The pair of guess were blown off the landing pad, across its surface and off the side of the skyscraper. A sudden and violent shower of shrapnel slammed into Skyldig, plinking against her armor and stinging as all the metal segments rattlers against one another. Certainly her back would be horribly bruised. There was no time to worry about future Skyldig's pain however. Like a terrible arachnid, She scurried across the metal asphalt rooftop, rapidly taking cover by a crate closer to the center of the roof.

Popping her head over the top of the crate, bracing her body against it, she fired off a burst at a small group of guards crossing the roof, not hitting any of them but causing them to drop for cover. Leaping over the metal container, she advanced on an autonomous rocket battery, slaloming through cover. The Mz-677 was an X-Ray guided middle system, comprised of two batteries of rocket pods, each containing a dozen hollow charge missiles.

Taking cover behind the armored installment, Skyldig extracted a rocket from the back of the turret, lying back against it as it took fire from quick approaching soldiers. Producing a combat knife, she pried the warhead's cap off of the top of the rocket and reached in, fiddling with the timer on the explosive device to delay the detonation. Rescrewing the fuse housing, she stood up, picking up the rocket in both hands and raising it over her shoulder. She slammed it against it's nose, hearing the timer beginning to start before returning it to the rocket pod.

Slipping her fingers through the rings of three grenades, she extracted them from her belt, yanking them free by the pins. There's a common myth abound, that it takes little force to pry the safety pin out of a hand grenade, that would be incorrect, it could take up to 30 pounds of force to dislodge a ring from its captive slot. Leaning to the left, exposing herself from behind the battery, she swung her arm ferociously, painfully whipping it, had it not been for the painkillers flooding her system. Against the friction of springs and the capture hole, the grenades slipped off of their pins from the sheer force of the swing, flying out in all directions and causing a lull in shooting as the guards swarmed for cover.

Skyldig ran in the direction of the thrown grenades, away from the battery and towards the ducking soldiers. Her weight carried her forwards as she hopped momentarily onto a crate, her forward momentum pulling her off the box and into the air as the grenades exploded behind her. The flame radiated behind her, heat licking at the back of her armor, as the explosive force carried her forwards. Aiming down as she tumbled through the air, she emptied her magazine into the helmet of a crouched soldier, drilling through it with ease. The moment her bolt locked back, the magazine empty, the rocket detonated behind her, exploding violently and chain detonating the rest of the battery around it.

A second shockwave, much more powerful than the first flung Skydig forwards, sending the armored figure cascading against the doors of an elevator. The metal peeled away around her, she she slammed into the back wall of the lift, her body crashing into the buttons of the cabin. Lurching hard, the machinery in the elevator spluttered and shuddered as metal ground on metal. The elevator plunged downwards, screaming towards the ground as the brake pads failed. Quickly, with clarity and focus, the bloods still crackling through her system, Skyldig punched through a grate in the ceiling, and clambered out, reaching for a flailing cable that wasn't plummeting down with the cabin. She gripped on to it, the elevator descending down away from it, gravity and her residual speed pulling her down for a few more cubits, whiplash rattling her brain in her skull. Had it not been for the narcotics she would have passed out. Sky swung there for a few moments, her heart pounding in her ears so hard it felt like she was vibrating. Cool air rushed up the elevator shaft as the cabin crashed to the bottom, providing a moment of respite before she started to climb back up, arduously. As she reached the top, the remaining SAM turrets, which were few following the explosion, continued to fire at the circling Molotov, though with no where near enough range to actually reach it.

A large chunk of the building had broken off and rained down on to the street, the sheer strength of the explosion gouging a scar that ran a few stories down. The roof was ribbed with cracks, and from where she stood at the entrance to the elevator shaft, it seemed like the explosion had either killed or maimed everyone on the roof. No one picked through the wounded, ran to their aid, they would no doubt die there lying under a dying star. She dropped her magazine and began going around, loading a fresh one and blasting the straggling soldiers clinging on to dear life. Perhaps it was more merciful, or perhaps it was the drugs in her system driving her. Or maybe it was just her. She began to shut down the SAMs, one by one, limping about in a painless haze as each one fell silent. As she approached the last one shots rang out. The first one slammed into the back of her armor, square in the middle, the next few ricocheting off of her plates.

The wounded straggler clung on to her side with one hand, feebly retaining her insides, the other hand firing wildly at Skyldig with an automatic pistol. She rushed the guard, closing the distance as the builds spiked against her armor, slamming into her ribs with only the ballistic weave between her and certain death. Swinging the stock of her rifle, she knocked the guard down and let the momentum of the swing bring her down on to the woman. They squirmed and wrestled on the ground, the woman firing blindly into Skyldig's abdomen, breaching through the painkillers. Sky grabbed the gun by the muzzle pulling it from between them, ramming her head against the damaged guard's with fervor. Suddenly, the gun fired its last round, ripping through flesh and bone of the finger over the muzzle. Her finger second from her pinkie sailed through the air, but Skyldig was too engrossed killing the guard to worry about it.

An ache slowly start to set in, as Skyldig clutched her side, holding on to her mangled finger in the same hand. She brought the mouth piece of the radio set to her lips, the helmet's rebreather hanging over.

"Did.. I.. Break my record?" She said breathlessly as her vision began to recede around the edges. There was silence for a few moments before Computer replied.

"Previous Record: four minutes, 22 seconds. Current Time: five minutes, 56 seconds. Record not beaten." She contemplated for a few moments, her finger off the communication button, before holding it down to speak.

"Take away the time it took to climb up the elevator shaft."

"New Time: four minutes, three seconds. New Record Set."

"Tell the Molotov this approach is safe, and have Ross waiting to receive me." As she finished her sentence she began to slump to the ground, first sitting, propping herself up with her free arm, before slipping and lying down. She took a few shallow breaths, before falling unconscious.

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

The Hen swallows the Worm

She eyed herself in the mirror, only occasionally, glancing up to meet her reflection's gaze and quickly darting her eyes away, as if she had locked stares with a stranger, briefly, scandalously. In one hand she rigorously inverted a cocktail shaker, the other inspecting the scars across her face and clavicle. That day was a good day, the flesh was an ugly pink and the blisters were at a minimum, better than worse days, when her face burned and cracked like splitting, spitting coals. No scar that extensive ever really healed.

Skyldig placed the shaker down on the synthetic wood of the cabinetry, producing a small sieve from a drawer and placing it over the awaiting maw of a seltzer bottle. Emptying out the shaker, the fluid trickled freely through the tightly woven metal mesh, meanwhile, powdery detritus and the undissolved shells of various pills found themselves separated. She tossed the sieve aside, the cleaning bot would retrieve it, clean it, replace it in its designated shelf. Capping the seltzer dispenser, Skyldig fitted into it a shiny ampule of CO2, discharging a sliver of it into an awaiting tumbler to prove to herself it functioned.

Picking up the glass, she gestured it towards herself in the mirror.

"Your drink, Miss."

Before sipping on the narcotic concoction.

The Fox kills the Hen

The single light that hung in the center of her modest cabin burned like the filaments of an oven, bearing down on her as she stripped down her fighting rifle. With the rim of a 6.5mm case she pried up the lip of a pin and pulled it out, retaining it in hand as she worked the bolt handle back, tilting the gun so that the other side of the receiver faced her. Using the pin as a punch she let out another pin below the ejection port, sliding off the bolt handle and placing it aside.

Skyldig worked quickly, methodically, spider-like hands crawling over the gun as she extracted pins and pried on screws, dropping everything in a bucket of acetone that sat on the ground beside her cot. On which she sat cross-legged, pulling off the fore-stock and placing it down on the blanket. From the whole assembly she produced the gas system, fiddling with internal components, all the while lining them up to make the bolt extraction easier. Within a few short moments all the small pieces were being stripped of their gunk in the bucket, as Skyldig rammed a patch down the barrel and polished essential baring surfaces. The disassembled firearm lustered, gleaming as she brushed the parts liberally with oil. As much as the rifle was a glutton for pain she didn't like to be fired dry.

Skydig put the parts back together in a matter of a minute, drawing the charging handle back a few times to ensure proper cycling before leaving the gun aside to load magazines. Which lay stacked and strewn around the room, like some kind of sheet metal confetti.

The Man shoots the Fox

Her armor was not too dissimilar from the set she wore for the clans, though then her armor had been emblazoned with crests and awards, and was painted a deep... Grey. The idea of color was still alien to her, everything was a tone of black, except when in the woods or standing over a body of water, only then would she experience the faintest hint of this strange phenomenon. Color. The lightest twinge of some foreign sensation, that for all she knew could have been an optical illusion, or a parasite living in her eye. She drew the buckles and fasteners, wearing them tight enough to be uncomfortable, something that she could power through nonetheless.

Over her underwear was a one-suit of ballistic weave, to catch any kinetic projectiles that might breach through the upper layers of armor. Over which she would wear a tight lattice of mail, tightly packed rings of bi-metal looped together, to catch spalling and shrapnel that might come loose from the inside of the armor plates. Though this only covered her upper body. And finally the plates, shoulder and neck guards, fore-guards, thigh plates and greaves, gauntlets and gigantic segmented boots. These performed well against some energy based weapons, despite getting very warm upon impact. Less so against ballistic weapons, that had a tendency to dent painfully inwards.

All of this made the armor almost unbearably hot, it would have, had it not been for her body modifications, systems to cool her vital organs and major blood ways.

In the mirror Skyldig polished the plates on her shoulders, rubbing a rag in round rapid motions across the metallic surface. Her waist was dangling with ammunition pouches and hand grenades, like a violent belly-dancer's veil. On her left hip was the seltzer bottle, primed and ready for dispensing, on her right a high-gain communicator, for contacting the ship from planet side. She glanced at herself one more time before pulling on her helmet, and storming through the door, the various articles hanging off her body knocking against each other metallically.

The Devil hunts the Man

The sound of air tattering through the open maw of the cargo hold's rear door reminded Skydlig of the sound of a blowtorch, burning close to her ear. Though of course she knew that from experience. The sky turned, almost suddenly from black to an off white as the Molotov broke through the atmosphere, and the sound of planet wide alarm reached them even from such a height. Meanwhile, she stood there perfectly still despite the juddering of the ship as it slammed through turbulence, threatening to shake apart.

Behind her, FIDO tended to the cables, though she did not approve of the plan, Skyldig admired how the robot would take orders and shut the fuck up.

As the Molotov closed with the building, and flack and rockets rained inwards from roof mounted batteries, explosions rang out in a distance. No doubt the Yokai softening something that didn't require his attention. First thing was first though, in order to capture the vault the ship would need a window of opportunity, away from the fire of the Home Office building. That meant taking out the batteries.

Skyldig began to move towards the exit, as the rear of the ship swung around, facing the roof of the building. The lights in the hold blazed brightly, the thumbs up to make planet fall, a mile above the actual surface. Her brisk walk turned into a trot, the trot speeding up to a jog and then a run as she approached the edge of the platform.

"Good luck!" FIDO called out after her, as her feet become free of the platform, weightlessly careening forwards into the open air.

"Fuck off!" She called in response, not turning to look at the robotic laborer, one hand moving to disengage the safety on her rifle as she approached the asphalt surface of the roof. Her feet crashed into the ground first, left before right, cracks sprawling out from the point of impact as asphalt flaked off the ground. The world seemed to slow down at that instant, as the guards on the roof came to the quick realization that she had landed. Skyldig's forward momentum carried her forwards, as she jumped off the ground the moment she landed, rolling before coming to an abrupt, upright halt.

"Computer, play that good shit." She commanded, as she opened the mouthpiece of her helmet and jammed the nozzle of the seltzer bottle into her lips. Pressing down on the lever a sudsy jet emptied a quarter of the narcotic solution down her throat, her heart and brain responding almost instantly. She went through a series of sensations, ranging from elation to pain to calm to pain to anger to numbness, in the span of time it took to shoulder her rifle and kill the first man she saw.

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

Skyldig Ritaynursbaarn

Name: Skyldig Ritaynursbaarn

Age: 2A (34 Base-10)

Gender: She's got Female Bits.

Race: Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"

Racial Features:

Hider

"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds, a region called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.

Culture:

Hider

The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia, Sigasmarand. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.

However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.

Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.

Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.

With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.

Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.

Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.

But that was before the Era of the Return of Jornwuld Ritaynur, an Aeterwuldor who after decades of being cast out of exile from Sigasmaranda returned, wielding her dark power as a tool of retribution. Many, who practised the dark-art in the shadows rallied by her side, waging war against the Hunter Clans that once chased them across the length of breadth of the Sigasmarandi Rim. The conflict was short, intensely bloody, and indecisive, as the vast majority of people raised their arms on the side of Clans such as the Ritaynurs and the Borgphrysts. The resulting peace lead to the abolition of laws that attacked Aeyterwuldors, in exchange that they used their power sparingly, and in the defence of Sigasmaranda. The truce, dubbed the Accord of Long Peace, named after a monastery at the edge of darkness, has been held to this day. However, the number of Aeterwuldors has not increased significantly since then, as the effects of the use of Aeyterwuldoree are still not well understood. And as of yet, the mutative, corrupting effects of Aeterwuldoree are incurable. So those who handle the dark-art remain in the distant, dark places of the realm, training and studying for when the time comes that they will be needed.

Appearance:

Skyldig's hard life is reflected on her face, not a picture of beauty by any stretch of the imagination. She stands at 4 Qbits tall, and is enmeshed in dense, lean muscles, though not enough as to be grotesquely muscular. The telling feature of her femininity are her hips, which rise away from her body slightly before rolling back in, though only slightly visible through her layers of clothes. Her chest is flat, not in the sense that she was unendowed, but due to a voluntary double mastectomy she underwent; to detract herself from easy identification, and to give her more manoeuvrability.

Her round face also tells of a life "well" lived life, originally her nose' tip extended a few inches past her face, and her ears pricked upwards just the same. The tip of her nose she lost in a fight, where her opponent held on to it and refused to let go; suffice to say they did not survive that encounter, and Skyldig had her nose treated by a surgeon, hence the lack of apparent damage. Though her nature was that of constant action, and she broke the bridge of her nose a few weeks later, and healed crooked. She lost her ears when she was captured by a rival group of marauders, cut down to human size by her captors, leaving the edges angry, red and poorly rounded. Her full lips are smudged a sooty black, positing that it's due to stains from her Bako (a roughly chopped, dried root, from the nightshade family of plants) chewing. And the scar on the left side of her face? The deep, angry channels of flesh, and the missing lower eyelid? The result of her time as a slave, fighting in the pits of Pargalon-3, wherein during a duel with a pyromaniac she got a large portion of her face, neck and chest burned.

As far as apparel goes, on ship when not on duty Skyldig gravitates towards a white tank top and olive cargo-shirts, tucked into a pair of well work combat boots. The pair she goes out on duty in, resulting in a trail of dusty footprints behind her, unless she keeps them clean which she almost always done. On her hip she wears a dense, fibre belt, a sidearm dangling in its holster on her hip. During operations and combat, Skyldig wears a rather medieval set of segmented plate, though it's made of a Magnesium and allot and is highly durable, it speaks of the type of combat she initiates in, head on and without uncertainty.

Occupation/Concept: Formerly Captain of the Battery of Slaig/Currently Shipside Weapons Expert

Training:
- Heavy & Medium Weapons Proficiency: Trained and specialized in the use of heavy weapons such as artillery, cannons and rocket systems, as well as in lighter auto-cannons, medium and heavy machine guns, and man-portable explosive projection systems.
- Ordnance Expert: Familiar with explosives and explosive devices, Skyldig has trained and used many of them throughout her work, from hand grenades and dynamite to warheads and C4. Such training was necessary to disable rival weapons platforms, as well as for tactical or engineering reasons.
- Military Tactics and Planning: Part of her training with the guild involved strategy and coordination, having studied the classical arts of war and practising modern techniques of defence and offence. She is adept at many doctrines.
- Field Medicine: Though she may not be able to perform neural surgery or understand stem-cell boosts, she is well equipped to at least stabilize most combat injuries, as well as treat various kinds of poisoning and infections. Assuming she has all of the relevant materials, as she is not skilled enough to fabricate medicines at chemistry stations. More so the mixing table.

Powers/Abilities:

- Terrifying Presence: Skyldig watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, as a pair of interrogators tried to threaten, coerce and cajole information out of a black market dealer, who captured and sold Sigasmarandi mutated wildlife to buyers in the inner worlds. They were deep in the bowels of a Clan Castle, much deeper than where the actual interrogation cells were. The Dealer, a stiff-lipped, Dapreedian, wasn't budging. The interrogation dragged on for hours, and Skyldig's limited patience began to wear thin. Finally she snapped, groaning out loudly in frustration, catching the attention of those on the other side of the glass. The door to the little cell was thrown open, and she stormed in like a freight train, rushing the man in the chair and picking it up. She raised the man and chair almost above her head, before throwing it back down against the floor. The wooden chair shattered under his weight and the force of their throw, shocking him against the ground. Skyldig almost dropped herself against him, straddling his torso and grabbing the tentacles on his face in her fists, slamming him once more against the floor. "Tell us what we want to know!" She barked, her scarf slipping off her face, spittle splattering the Dapreedian's face.

- Wrought Physique: Pargalon-3 was a slave world, existing as part of a network of slaving guilds that dotted the borders of Sigasmaranda, which itself was a major supplier and purchaser of slaves. When the exodus occurred, after the onslaught of the undead, many refugees were taken as slaves of which military personnel were highly prized, as slave-soldiers or long-lasting-labour. As the slaves marched back to their barracks, their shackles clacking against one another as they shuffled towards the gaping tunnels out of the steel mills. The Slavewarden stopped Skyldig in her tracks, stopping the whole line behind her before taking her aside. "Go bring another pack." The Zandani growled, pushing the sack against her chest, and pointing back towards the steel mill. He stood a two heads taller than she did, and was armed and armored unlike she was. She gripped on to the bag and trudged back. This happened for days, weeks, the week's turned into months and toilers came and went but she maintained, carrying bundles of iron rods back and forth. Every time the expectations growing higher, until the brass decided her strength was wasted hauling iron and instead put her into the fight-pits.

- Wuld: The mining schooner, a JcZ-09 of an older make, bounced and shuddered against the ground as it began to slowly lift off of the Lithium flats of Pargalon-3, kicking up lilac clouds and sparks behind it. Wind rushed into the open, rear bay door, as it slowly and rustily brought its maw shut. Behind a crate of packaged alkali metals, oil filled ampules tinkling against one another, Skyldig cradled a scrawny Weedonian, pink blood oozing out of massive gashes where he took an excavator's drone blades to the gut. He shook, as the schooner rocked side to side, drawing too close to anti-ship mines. "Sing to me again?" He croaked, his arms coiled in her's, his hands pressed against the wounds. Skyldig gulped, patting her cracked lips before humming a note and lulling to him. Her Wuld was like fluorescent light, clunky, mechanical, but fit for purpose and ever reliable. She sang to him until he stopped shaking, causing her voice to break, looking off at the ceiling, she brought the back of her hand to her eye and wiped away a stray tear. "Skyldig!" A voice called from down the hall, "They're boarding we need you here!" She gulped, relieving bee dry throat, before picking up her auto-hammer and leaving the Weedonian in the cargo hold.

Equipment:

- Massen Company Automatisk Slåssgevær (Automatic Fighting Rifle): Similar to the one she was issued when she underwent her training with the Clan, this kinetic weapon fires .32 caliber rounds at high speed, with enough power to punch through walls and most conventional armors. Though with proper shot placement it could disable a personal shield. Fit with a 25 round detachable box magazine, and a Kutts Compensator, this rifle is fit to lay down loud and overwhelming bursts of fire.

- AquaSeltzer Dispenser: The metal caged, Quartzglass dispenser acts as a quick deploy administration device for a cocktail of drugs that Skyldig uses during combat. Or occasionally for recreation. The ingredients consist of the following, among other things she doesn't take kindly to exposing. Beta-Nico'ffine (Stimulating Agent); Epinephrine (Adrenaline Booster); Benzedrine (Anti-Sleep Agent); Cocaine (Awareness Enhancer); Dextroamphetamine (Calming Agent); Morphine (Pain Killer); Palcohol (Calming Agent); Citric Acid (Buffering Agent Component); Sodium Citrate (Buffering Agent Component); Ascorbic Acid (Preservative); Octyl-Methanoate (Grape Fruit Flavoring); Lemonine (Lemon Flavoring); Sorbitol (Sweetener); Aspartame (Sweetener); Seltzer Water (Medium); Vitamin B and C (Health Benefits). She calls it SitronKruse.

- E-1 "Sitrongranater": Containing a 60g charge of dynamite, this fragmentation Grenade has a cookable 5 second cookable fuze, and a striated bi-metal case that fragments into deadly shrapnel upon explosion. This type of grenade is devastating against unarmored targets, and less effective against fully armored ones at more than close range. The shrapnel has a deadly range of 80 cubits on unarmored opponents, and a 300 cubit harming capacity. On armored targets it can wound within the 80 cubits, and on metallically encased targets it would require effectively a point blank detonation to cause damage.

- Bako Tin: Bako is the dried and finely milled root of the Arbako plant, native to inner-Sigasmaranda. It is not suitable for smoking, and so is usually administered nasally or rubbed into gums and areas under the tongue. Afrikander, the specific brand she chews, comes with grains of fiberglass or asbestos, to cut up the gums and tongue and aid in the absorption of the Nico'ffine from them. Skyldig usually takes it between shots of SitroKruse, or when not in active combat recreationally. The container is a small, thin, sheet bi-metal box, hinged on one side and covered with an embossed lid.

Airship: N/A

Motivation: More Money for More SitronKruse, the thrill of combat, the nihilistic pursuit of pleasure (despite her believing in the faith of the Sigasmarandis) and less overtly, a way around the undead to see what is become of her homeland.

Personality: Perhaps the most startling of her qualities is that she never used to always be like this. Not at first, but those times are long past, except for the little bits of them that yet survive within her somewhere. Her face is locked in a perpetual expression of anger or disapproval, an angry scowl or an annoyed, pursed lip, matching how she always feels. She sways from neutral to wrathful, an exhibit of rage in combat or more frighteningly; complete calm, where she feels most at home. This is reflected in her charted hours on the simulator, and her high scores and times on the scenarios. Ever the disapprover, she holds contempt for those who are not up to scratch in her eyes, especially when it comes to her own performance, in her judgments she never neglects to cast shame on herself. Maybe an outcome of her training, or a life of soldiering for fortune, she has become highly competitive and usually prioritizes numero uno. Despite her tendencies towards violence, Skyldig puts significant effort into suppressing it while shipside, the last needed is a whole crew she's antagonized. Get a beer in her hand though, the story is prone to changing.

Flaws:
- Suspicious/Suspicious:
- Drug Addict:
- Fixing for a Fight:

Bio: "My father was a regrettable creature, but I suppose that means I didn't fall too far from the stalk." From her place in the common room, Skyldig commanded the attention of the assembled Marauders. "I killed my mother upon decanting, so he stuck me with 'It's your fault' as a name, and proceeded to remarried. He was the kind of man who thought his spermatozoa to valuable to waste in handkerchief." Pulling her scarf open from the bottom, she spat out a black melange of fibre and saliva, a chewed up lump of Bako. "Oh and he spread that spermatozoa around, I probably have brothers and sisters that I don not know about. Nor do I care to know about them, I couldn't even get to know my step-siblings. Father was too busy making my life miserable." From a very young age, Skyldig was put through the ringer of preparation for courtly life, and her Father made sure to find her the most cruel of teachers. Her elocution teacher would beat her for every stutter, her literature teacher would tear her books apart and reassemble them in the wrong order, her gymnastics teacher, looking back at it now, had done many an obscene thing to her.

Suffice to say, when the Hunter Guilds came to the family to demand their rightful conscript, she was delighted when her Father forced her to go, instead of one of his many sons. "At least in the Guilds they beat everyone." She said, thinking back to when her father savaged her for having a lover. Despite he himself, and his offspring from the other woman, having mistresses in copious amounts. "I would say I wasn't prepared for it, but looking back now I don't think they were prepared for me." Skyldig attacked every challenge and expectation handed to her with vigor, whether it meant sleepless nights in the Scrollatorium or beating the largest cadet to within an inch of his life in training. "When I graduated, I was the only one to get an officer post, because the others 'paled in comparison'." She said, imitating the strong accent of her division's Drill Sergeant. "It was a shitty post, I mean, I didn't know Slaig was a place before they put me on the first Eel there." Sometimes she thought they put her there because they were scared of her.

The day she assumed her command, she threw a private off a barracks roof to show her superiority. It was safe to say that she would not be a popular commander, but that was none of her concern. Slaig was a hamlet-town, that held the distinction of being one of the farthest inhabited rocks of Elysia, it was also home to the College of Karadzic, a convent/monastery where Aeterwuldors practiced their dark arts, far from the civilized inner world's of Sigasmaranda. As such, the concentration of void fog in the area was high, and life there was grim and medieval, and the mutants and creatures that crawled out of the Void were likewise terrifying and gargantuan compared to what would normally emerge. Hence the requirement of such a large military installation nearby, not only did it serve to stop these creatures rampaging deeper into Sigasmaranda, it allowed the guilds to keep a watchful eye on the College and its mystic inhabitants.

The first few months of Skyldig's deployment were uneventful, no more than a few dozen Sultedyr, their man-sized talons and giant leathery wings were no match for the barrage of rockets, shells and 13.2mm rounds from the battery. Despite that, had they gotten through the chaos would have been unfathomable. Uneventful. Until that is the night of the 9th month of her deployment. Zapatov Zapatinski was a private, the twin brother of the girl Slyldig had thrown off the roof all those days ago, a scrawny man with rat like features, but with a mettle to him that betrayed his looks. It was he who was assigned, though he infact volunteered, to do the supply runs between the village and the College. As part of the arrangements, the College would provide technical assistance to the people of Slaig in exchange for rations and supplies. So it was Zapatov's responsibility to drive into the College every other day in the truck to do the deliveries. It seemed, however, that the extended exposure to the even more intense Vapour on the inside had severely effected him. As on the night of the ninth month, without warning, he sat bolt upright in barracks J and began to scream uncontrollably. Zapatov pointed around, jerking his body about as he fingered people across the room and nearby, telling them in a horrified voice that they were going to do. Suffice to say, before anyone could hold him down and administer a sedative, he stuffed the muzzle of his service pistol into his mouth and emptied the chamber.

And as if by some divine decree, the siren went off hours later, sounding the alarm and rousing the troops that hadn't been woken up by Zapatov's suicide. They manned their stations, waited, the radar operators peering into their green displays as oscilloscope swung a wave of electrons around the circular monitor. For a moment there was nothing. Then suddenly the screens went bright and the batteries opened fire. The first shell to sail through the darkness impacted something, seeming to explode in midair, the rockets that followed illuminated the darkness around it, exposing the assailants. Giant beasts of other dimensional frightfulness, surrounded by flocks of rotting, ragged creatures. The entire battery opened fire, as the sea of evil approached them like a tidal wave, every gun firing as fast as possible, rockets like burning lances across the darkness. Ears and fingers bled from the frantic fire. Skyldig alone manned a heavy machine gun, standing at the head of a buttress that extended out into the void, wielding it from the hip, one hand holding the belt while the other pushed on the paddle, and aimed the thundering machine gun around.

Around her she watched as people fell, the plague descending on them despite the full power of the battery bearing down against it. Perhaps one of the most dense collections of conventional firepower in Sigasmaranda, if not Elysia, could not stop the tide. For the split second she glanced to the side, she watched the Black Wall spill into the country side all around. They were going to be encircled. She dashed back, behind the thunderous canons that blasted at the ever approaching wall, behind the rocket batteries, launching incendiary missiles into the mass of rotting reek, behind the heavy machine guns chugging lead into the invading force. Zapatov was right, and perhaps wiser than the rest of them. From the College she heard a resounding shriek, followed by many more, as the front tower that faced into the void exploded, shadowy bolts and giant trailing beasts bursting towards the oncoming invasion. The Aeterwuldors honoring their end of the deal, cartwheeling into almost certain devastation. The truck door slammed shut, as some of the troops who decided to run clambered into the canvas covered bed behind the cab, stamping her foot on the accelerator, the automobile rushed forwards and away from the tidal wave of doom.

"And that's how I got out." She said, looking down into a tin of crushed up Bako root, before taking a pinch of the fibrous material and putting those fingers into the folds of her scarf. "Call it cowardly.. I lived." She spoke around the slowly reconstituting plant matter, before leaning back to silently ruminate, the assembled crowd looking about at each other before slowly dispersing.

Tales in Elysia: The Marauders (Western Sci - Fantasy)

Skyldig Ritaynursbaarn

Name: Skyldig Ritaynursbaarn

Age: 2A (34 Base-10)

Gender: She's got Female Bits.

Race: Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"

Racial Features:

Hider

"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds, a region called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.

Culture:

Hider

The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia, Sigasmarand. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.

However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.

Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.

Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.

With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.

Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.

Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.

But that was before the Era of the Return of Jornwuld Ritaynur, an Aeterwuldor who after decades of being cast out of exile from Sigasmaranda returned, wielding her dark power as a tool of retribution. Many, who practised the dark-art in the shadows rallied by her side, waging war against the Hunter Clans that once chased them across the length of breadth of the Sigasmarandi Rim. The conflict was short, intensely bloody, and indecisive, as the vast majority of people raised their arms on the side of Clans such as the Ritaynurs and the Borgphrysts. The resulting peace lead to the abolition of laws that attacked Aeyterwuldors, in exchange that they used their power sparingly, and in the defence of Sigasmaranda. The truce, dubbed the Accord of Long Peace, named after a monastery at the edge of darkness, has been held to this day. However, the number of Aeterwuldors has not increased significantly since then, as the effects of the use of Aeyterwuldoree are still not well understood. And as of yet, the mutative, corrupting effects of Aeterwuldoree are incurable. So those who handle the dark-art remain in the distant, dark places of the realm, training and studying for when the time comes that they will be needed.

Appearance:

Skyldig's hard life is reflected on her face, not a picture of beauty by any stretch of the imagination. She stands at 4 Qbits tall, and is enmeshed in dense, lean muscles, though not enough as to be grotesquely muscular. The telling feature of her femininity are her hips, which rise away from her body slightly before rolling back in, though only slightly visible through her layers of clothes. Her chest is flat, not in the sense that she was unendowed, but due to a voluntary double mastectomy she underwent; to detract herself from easy identification, and to give her more manoeuvrability.

Her round face also tells of a life "well" lived life, originally her nose' tip extended a few inches past her face, and her ears pricked upwards just the same. The tip of her nose she lost in a fight, where her opponent held on to it and refused to let go; suffice to say they did not survive that encounter, and Skyldig had her nose treated by a surgeon, hence the lack of apparent damage. Though her nature was that of constant action, and she broke the bridge of her nose a few weeks later, and healed crooked. She lost her ears when she was captured by a rival group of marauders, cut down to human size by her captors, leaving the edges angry, red and poorly rounded. Her full lips are smudged a sooty black, positing that it's due to stains from her Bako (a roughly chopped, dried root, from the nightshade family of plants) chewing. And the scar on the left side of her face? The deep, angry channels of flesh, and the missing lower eyelid? The result of her time as a slave, fighting in the pits of Pargalon-3, wherein during a duel with a pyromaniac she got a large portion of her face, neck and chest burned.

As far as apparel goes, on ship when not on duty Skyldig gravitates towards a white tank top and olive cargo-shirts, tucked into a pair of well work combat boots. The pair she goes out on duty in, resulting in a trail of dusty footprints behind her, unless she keeps them clean which she almost always done. On her hip she wears a dense, fibre belt, a sidearm dangling in its holster on her hip. During operations and combat, Skyldig wears a rather medieval set of segmented plate, though it's made of a Magnesium and allot and is highly durable, it speaks of the type of combat she initiates in, head on and without uncertainty.

Occupation/Concept: Formerly Captain of the Battery of Slaig/Currently Shipside Weapons Expert

Training:
- Heavy & Medium Weapons Proficiency: Trained and specialized in the use of heavy weapons such as artillery, cannons and rocket systems, as well as in lighter auto-cannons, medium and heavy machine guns, and man-portable explosive projection systems.
- Ordnance Expert: Familiar with explosives and explosive devices, Skyldig has trained and used many of them throughout her work, from hand grenades and dynamite to warheads and C4. Such training was necessary to disable rival weapons platforms, as well as for tactical or engineering reasons.
- Military Tactics and Planning: Part of her training with the guild involved strategy and coordination, having studied the classical arts of war and practising modern techniques of defence and offence. She is adept at many doctrines.
- Field Medicine: Though she may not be able to perform neural surgery or understand stem-cell boosts, she is well equipped to at least stabilize most combat injuries, as well as treat various kinds of poisoning and infections. Assuming she has all of the relevant materials, as she is not skilled enough to fabricate medicines at chemistry stations. More so the mixing table.

Powers/Abilities:

- Terrifying Presence: Skyldig watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, as a pair of interrogators tried to threaten, coerce and cajole information out of a black market dealer, who captured and sold Sigasmarandi mutated wildlife to buyers in the inner worlds. They were deep in the bowels of a Clan Castle, much deeper than where the actual interrogation cells were. The Dealer, a stiff-lipped, Dapreedian, wasn't budging. The interrogation dragged on for hours, and Skyldig's limited patience began to wear thin. Finally she snapped, groaning out loudly in frustration, catching the attention of those on the other side of the glass. The door to the little cell was thrown open, and she stormed in like a freight train, rushing the man in the chair and picking it up. She raised the man and chair almost above her head, before throwing it back down against the floor. The wooden chair shattered under his weight and the force of their throw, shocking him against the ground. Skyldig almost dropped herself against him, straddling his torso and grabbing the tentacles on his face in her fists, slamming him once more against the floor. "Tell us what we want to know!" She barked, her scarf slipping off her face, spittle splattering the Dapreedian's face.

- Wrought Physique: Pargalon-3 was a slave world, existing as part of a network of slaving guilds that dotted the borders of Sigasmaranda, which itself was a major supplier and purchaser of slaves. When the exodus occurred, after the onslaught of the undead, many refugees were taken as slaves of which military personnel were highly prized, as slave-soldiers or long-lasting-labour. As the slaves marched back to their barracks, their shackles clacking against one another as they shuffled towards the gaping tunnels out of the steel mills. The Slavewarden stopped Skyldig in her tracks, stopping the whole line behind her before taking her aside. "Go bring another pack." The Zandani growled, pushing the sack against her chest, and pointing back towards the steel mill. He stood a two heads taller than she did, and was armed and armored unlike she was. She gripped on to the bag and trudged back. This happened for days, weeks, the week's turned into months and toilers came and went but she maintained, carrying bundles of iron rods back and forth. Every time the expectations growing higher, until the brass decided her strength was wasted hauling iron and instead put her into the fight-pits.

- Wuld: The mining schooner, a JcZ-09 of an older make, bounced and shuddered against the ground as it began to slowly lift off of the Lithium flats of Pargalon-3, kicking up lilac clouds and sparks behind it. Wind rushed into the open, rear bay door, as it slowly and rustily brought its maw shut. Behind a crate of packaged alkali metals, oil filled ampules tinkling against one another, Skyldig cradled a scrawny Weedonian, pink blood oozing out of massive gashes where he took an excavator's drone blades to the gut. He shook, as the schooner rocked side to side, drawing too close to anti-ship mines. "Sing to me again?" He croaked, his arms coiled in her's, his hands pressed against the wounds. Skyldig gulped, patting her cracked lips before humming a note and lulling to him. Her Wuld was like fluorescent light, clunky, mechanical, but fit for purpose and ever reliable. She sang to him until he stopped shaking, causing her voice to break, looking off at the ceiling, she brought the back of her hand to her eye and wiped away a stray tear. "Skyldig!" A voice called from down the hall, "They're boarding we need you here!" She gulped, relieving bee dry throat, before picking up her auto-hammer and leaving the Weedonian in the cargo hold.

Equipment:

- Massen Company Automatisk Slåssgevær (Automatic Fighting Rifle): Similar to the one she was issued when she underwent her training with the Clan, this kinetic weapon fires .32 caliber rounds at high speed, with enough power to punch through walls and most conventional armors. Though with proper shot placement it could disable a personal shield. Fit with a 25 round detachable box magazine, and a Kutts Compensator, this rifle is fit to lay down loud and overwhelming bursts of fire.

- AquaSeltzer Dispenser: The metal caged, Quartzglass dispenser acts as a quick deploy administration device for a cocktail of drugs that Skyldig uses during combat. Or occasionally for recreation. The ingredients consist of the following, among other things she doesn't take kindly to exposing. Beta-Nico'ffine (Stimulating Agent); Epinephrine (Adrenaline Booster); Benzedrine (Anti-Sleep Agent); Cocaine (Awareness Enhancer); Dextroamphetamine (Calming Agent); Morphine (Pain Killer); Palcohol (Calming Agent); Citric Acid (Buffering Agent Component); Sodium Citrate (Buffering Agent Component); Ascorbic Acid (Preservative); Octyl-Methanoate (Grape Fruit Flavoring); Lemonine (Lemon Flavoring); Sorbitol (Sweetener); Aspartame (Sweetener); Seltzer Water (Medium); Vitamin B and C (Health Benefits). She calls it SitronKruse.

- E-1 "Sitrongranater": Containing a 60g charge of dynamite, this fragmentation Grenade has a cookable 5 second cookable fuze, and a striated bi-metal case that fragments into deadly shrapnel upon explosion. This type of grenade is devastating against unarmored targets, and less effective against fully armored ones at more than close range. The shrapnel has a deadly range of 80 cubits on unarmored opponents, and a 300 cubit harming capacity. On armored targets it can wound within the 80 cubits, and on metallically encased targets it would require effectively a point blank detonation to cause damage.

- Bako Tin: Bako is the dried and finely milled root of the Arbako plant, native to inner-Sigasmaranda. It is not suitable for smoking, and so is usually administered nasally or rubbed into gums and areas under the tongue. Afrikander, the specific brand she chews, comes with grains of fiberglass or asbestos, to cut up the gums and tongue and aid in the absorption of the Nico'ffine from them. Skyldig usually takes it between shots of SitroKruse, or when not in active combat recreationally. The container is a small, thin, sheet bi-metal box, hinged on one side and covered with an embossed lid.

Airship: N/A

Motivation: More Money for More SitronKruse, the thrill of combat, the nihilistic pursuit of pleasure (despite her believing in the faith of the Sigasmarandis) and less overtly, a way around the undead to see what is become of her homeland.

Personality: Perhaps the most startling of her qualities is that she never used to always be like this. Not at first, but those times are long past, except for the little bits of them that yet survive within her somewhere. Her face is locked in a perpetual expression of anger or disapproval, an angry scowl or an annoyed, pursed lip, matching how she always feels. She sways from neutral to wrathful, an exhibit of rage in combat or more frighteningly; complete calm, where she feels most at home. This is reflected in her charted hours on the simulator, and her high scores and times on the scenarios. Ever the disapprover, she holds contempt for those who are not up to scratch in her eyes, especially when it comes to her own performance, in her judgments she never neglects to cast shame on herself. Maybe an outcome of her training, or a life of soldiering for fortune, she has become highly competitive and usually prioritizes numero uno. Despite her tendencies towards violence, Skyldig puts significant effort into suppressing it while shipside, the last needed is a whole crew she's antagonized. Get a beer in her hand though, the story is prone to changing.

Flaws:
- Suspicious/Suspicious:
- Drug Addict:
- Fixing for a Fight:

Bio: "My father was a regrettable creature, but I suppose that means I didn't fall too far from the stalk." From her place in the common room, Skyldig commanded the attention of the assembled Marauders. "I killed my mother upon decanting, so he stuck me with 'It's your fault' as a name, and proceeded to remarried. He was the kind of man who thought his spermatozoa to valuable to waste in handkerchief." Pulling her scarf open from the bottom, she spat out a black melange of fibre and saliva, a chewed up lump of Bako. "Oh and he spread that spermatozoa around, I probably have brothers and sisters that I don not know about. Nor do I care to know about them, I couldn't even get to know my step-siblings. Father was too busy making my life miserable." From a very young age, Skyldig was put through the ringer of preparation for courtly life, and her Father made sure to find her the most cruel of teachers. Her elocution teacher would beat her for every stutter, her literature teacher would tear her books apart and reassemble them in the wrong order, her gymnastics teacher, looking back at it now, had done many an obscene thing to her.

Suffice to say, when the Hunter Guilds came to the family to demand their rightful conscript, she was delighted when her Father forced her to go, instead of one of his many sons. "At least in the Guilds they beat everyone." She said, thinking back to when her father savaged her for having a lover. Despite he himself, and his offspring from the other woman, having mistresses in copious amounts. "I would say I wasn't prepared for it, but looking back now I don't think they were prepared for me." Skyldig attacked every challenge and expectation handed to her with vigor, whether it meant sleepless nights in the Scrollatorium or beating the largest cadet to within an inch of his life in training. "When I graduated, I was the only one to get an officer post, because the others 'paled in comparison'." She said, imitating the strong accent of her division's Drill Sergeant. "It was a shitty post, I mean, I didn't know Slaig was a place before they put me on the first Eel there." Sometimes she thought they put her there because they were scared of her.

The day she assumed her command, she threw a private off a barracks roof to show her superiority. It was safe to say that she would not be a popular commander, but that was none of her concern. Slaig was a hamlet-town, that held the distinction of being one of the farthest inhabited rocks of Elysia, it was also home to the College of Karadzic, a convent/monastery where Aeterwuldors practiced their dark arts, far from the civilized inner world's of Sigasmaranda. As such, the concentration of void fog in the area was high, and life there was grim and medieval, and the mutants and creatures that crawled out of the Void were likewise terrifying and gargantuan compared to what would normally emerge. Hence the requirement of such a large military installation nearby, not only did it serve to stop these creatures rampaging deeper into Sigasmaranda, it allowed the guilds to keep a watchful eye on the College and its mystic inhabitants.

The first few months of Skyldig's deployment were uneventful, no more than a few dozen Sultedyr, their man-sized talons and giant leathery wings were no match for the barrage of rockets, shells and 13.2mm rounds from the battery. Despite that, had they gotten through the chaos would have been unfathomable. Uneventful. Until that is the night of the 9th month of her deployment. Zapatov Zapatinski was a private, the twin brother of the girl Slyldig had thrown off the roof all those days ago, a scrawny man with rat like features, but with a mettle to him that betrayed his looks. It was he who was assigned, though he infact volunteered, to do the supply runs between the village and the College. As part of the arrangements, the College would provide technical assistance to the people of Slaig in exchange for rations and supplies. So it was Zapatov's responsibility to drive into the College every other day in the truck to do the deliveries. It seemed, however, that the extended exposure to the even more intense Vapour on the inside had severely effected him. As on the night of the ninth month, without warning, he sat bolt upright in barracks J and began to scream uncontrollably. Zapatov pointed around, jerking his body about as he fingered people across the room and nearby, telling them in a horrified voice that they were going to do. Suffice to say, before anyone could hold him down and administer a sedative, he stuffed the muzzle of his service pistol into his mouth and emptied the chamber.

And as if by some divine decree, the siren went off hours later, sounding the alarm and rousing the troops that hadn't been woken up by Zapatov's suicide. They manned their stations, waited, the radar operators peering into their green displays as oscilloscope swung a wave of electrons around the circular monitor. For a moment there was nothing. Then suddenly the screens went bright and the batteries opened fire. The first shell to sail through the darkness impacted something, seeming to explode in midair, the rockets that followed illuminated the darkness around it, exposing the assailants. Giant beasts of other dimensional frightfulness, surrounded by flocks of rotting, ragged creatures. The entire battery opened fire, as the sea of evil approached them like a tidal wave, every gun firing as fast as possible, rockets like burning lances across the darkness. Ears and fingers bled from the frantic fire. Skyldig alone manned a heavy machine gun, standing at the head of a buttress that extended out into the void, wielding it from the hip, one hand holding the belt while the other pushed on the paddle, and aimed the thundering machine gun around.

Around her she watched as people fell, the plague descending on them despite the full power of the battery bearing down against it. Perhaps one of the most dense collections of conventional firepower in Sigasmaranda, if not Elysia, could not stop the tide. For the split second she glanced to the side, she watched the Black Wall spill into the country side all around. They were going to be encircled. She dashed back, behind the thunderous canons that blasted at the ever approaching wall, behind the rocket batteries, launching incendiary missiles into the mass of rotting reek, behind the heavy machine guns chugging lead into the invading force. Zapatov was right, and perhaps wiser than the rest of them. From the College she heard a resounding shriek, followed by many more, as the front tower that faced into the void exploded, shadowy bolts and giant trailing beasts bursting towards the oncoming invasion. The Aeterwuldors honoring their end of the deal, cartwheeling into almost certain devastation. The truck door slammed shut, as some of the troops who decided to run clambered into the canvas covered bed behind the cab, stamping her foot on the accelerator, the automobile rushed forwards and away from the tidal wave of doom.

"And that's how I got out." She said, looking down into a tin of crushed up Bako root, before taking a pinch of the fibrous material and putting those fingers into the folds of her scarf. "Call it cowardly.. I lived." She spoke around the slowly reconstituting plant matter, before leaning back to silently ruminate, the assembled crowd looking about at each other before slowly dispersing.

There you go guys, a complete (I think) CS, for your approval.