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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Feb 25, 2013 23:11:21 GMT -5
The mystery ship, identified as Emer’s Eyes, was merely two-thirds the length of the Beacon, which was already a small ship by Imperial standards at Just over 1.6 km long. And though the man in charge of the sensorium had informed Rhea that the atmosphere on the derelict was breathable, the first thing she’d done after boarding was don her breathing mask -- the stink of stale decay had been overpowering after the recycled air of the shuttle that she and her boarding party had ridden to the primary landing bay of her new prize. It was also the coldest place she’d ever drawn breath. Shivering against the cold, Rhea helped restore the ship’s crimson emergency lighting to functionality, then she directed the 30 crewmen in her party to split into three groups: one to investigate the enginarium, one to search the holds and find a manifest for crew and supplies, and one to come with her the bridge to make her formal claim of salvage.
Along with her group came Priest Sylvanus, toting a pict-recording device into which he narrated the goings-on. Kalliope had tolerated his presence since the moment she had informed him that she would send a copy of the vid-recording to the Ecclesiarchy, which had put a firm damper on his flirtations. When he was quieter, he was actually likeable and thoughtful, pointing out various trivia he noticed from the ship and the former crew, who were strewn about in a state of advanced decomposition. She actually wished that there had been no atmosphere inside, since that would have preserved the bodies, and would have avoided the unsightly and more than marginally noisome environment. There was no question that the prize was worth a little discomfort, however, and she made no complaints.
Aside from the scant few bodies, the ship seemed empty. There actually weren’t even enough bodies for a skeleton crew, which was a matter of some, but very minimal, concern for her. It did seem to unnerve her boarding party; voidsmen had a well-earned reputation for being a rather superstitious lot, and they were beginning to enter each corridor with weapons raised. The Captain assured them that they were safe, but didn’t stop them from being cautious. There was no point in having guns pointed at the floor if there really was something there. The bodies were slumped up against the bulkheads with some blood occasionally on the walls, which had suggested combat, but there were no obvious wounds. Not that she could tell with the bodies this far gone; she’d need the medicae here if she wanted to know specifics about how they died.
The bridge was by far in worse shape than the rest of the ship she’d seen. It looked like a charnel house had been set ablaze -- bodies, more than the normal complement of bridge crew for a ship this size, had been slaughtered, burned, and strewn about in various pieces. A figure presumed to be the captain was clutching the controls at the command throne with his hands. The matching legs were a meter away from the seat of ship’s power, where a long-dead power sword pinned them to the deck. Consoles and controls had been smashed, rendered useless with more deliberation than necessary. Blood painted most of the surfaces, and the fine layer of rusty powder made everything glow with a darkling shimmer in the red emergency lighting.
Rhea and Sylvanus said a quick prayer for the souls that may have lingered here, then went about the room while the voidsmen tarried at the entrance. “What say you, a mutiny?” Sylvanus nudged two of the dessicated men near the upper torso of the dead captain, their shot pistols aimed up at the throne.
The Beacon’s captain shrugged, unsure what to make of this until she saw the doomed ship’s logs. She kneeled down to take a closer look at the power sword without disturbing it. “Your guess is as good as mine for now. Check the weapons. This sword was fairly nice before the fire ruined it, and I’d hate to think that the captain was run through with his own blade.” She stepped to the throne and brushed the captain's leathery, skeletal hand from the self destruct. “Seems he was desperate.” The priest busied himself with remarks concerning the various weaponry in evidence to the recorder while Rhea plugged her slate into the data port at the command throne.
She made the query to the ship’s machine spirit as to how long the Emer’s Eyes had sat idle, getting an answer of a total of a little over 230 years. Inserting her command wand into the throne, she informed the spirit that Lady Captain Kalliope Rhea was commandeering this ship by the Right of Salvage. It made a dissatisfied noise, but acknowledged her as the new captain. Her grin made her look like some pallid wraith in the bloody light. It turned quickly to a scowl as she found that all the logs and records in the ship’s memory had been deleted.
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Post by Soap on Feb 26, 2013 4:08:46 GMT -5
Truly an enjoyable read! Keep them coming!
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Post by Jackal-0311 on Feb 26, 2013 13:58:07 GMT -5
Damn good read.
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Post by BG. Foster on Feb 26, 2013 14:22:59 GMT -5
I'm loving this, write more now!
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Feb 27, 2013 20:30:39 GMT -5
Something stirred in the darkness that had kept Conor safe for longer than he could remember. It took him several minutes after the disturbance had passed for him just to remember his name, but he managed. The syllables scratched their way off his tongue, and he found it somehow pleasing through the pain of breathing again. Miniature squalls blew dust off his face as he whispered a question to the emergency lights that flashed red, sweetly strobing into his retinas.
“Who comes here?”
Nothing deigned to answer. Conor felt the ship shift underneath him, making him reach out for support. Suddenly, he was standing, walking. His uniform looked as if someone had sandblasted it, but he didn’t care. He would have at one point, but he felt strangely detached from himself. He didn’t care about that either.
The scent of decay was so strong that he almost missed the stink of ozone coming from freshly repaired and operating plasma drives in the enginarium. Peering through the door, he noted around a dozen men and women in a uniform different from his. A voice in the depths of his mind sounded affronted at first, then pleased. It had been so long since he had spoken to people. Since he had showered. Since he had eaten. The hunger gripped him now, but fear also coiled icy fingers around his spine, turning him back. Away from these invaders. They were speaking with odd accents, too. Conor hated them.
He sneaked away slowly at first, then faster. Faster, until he was running so fast that the bulkheads were a blur and he had to run on them when turning corners. Hatred overwhelmed him, making him writhe, which made him fall. He rolled and skidded to a stop after he fetched against an airlock door. He bled from several wounds on his face and hands while he regained his breath. He cursed each of his lacerations in a language he didn’t recognize, yet perfectly understood. They sewed themselves shut as if in fear of his wrath.
Carefully, delicately, with an almost dignified grace, he opened the inner airlock door. Spitting at the defilers of his ship, the unwelcome wakeup call, he slammed the door shut behind him, and he studied each distant speck of light through the porthole. None of them meant anything to him. But together, they all formed a lattice that spelled out what he had forgotten, who he was. His mission.
These intruders had to have come on a ship of their own, and soon it would be his. With a loving caress, Conor said goodbye to the Emer’s Eyes, and he wrenched the outer door open despite the safety locks trying to hold it shut. Air rushed out in a single puff around him, but he held fast in place. He didn’t need to breathe anymore. His skin hardened against the void and his eyes darkened and grew more sensitive in the darkness. Pulling himself along the patinaed hull, he searched for this vector that had brought the usurpers, this foreign ship.
It hung off of starboard and slightly behind, looking like a doorstop with a rod extending from the bottom. Conor studied it as he would an insect crawling up his leg before swatting it. His unnatural vision could discern the label “Beacon” splashed along the bow. There were several access points along the side, but he wanted one lower: ventral aft. He squatted against his ship and eyes rolled backward. Mouthing a curse at the void, he sprang toward the Beacon at speeds that might outpace a macrocannon shot.
Impact was unkind to him, but more curses knitted bones and mended flesh. The scraps left of the ruined uniform were no longer relevant to him -- he looked inhuman at this point, and had no human modesty to spare even if he did. His mouth open wide, he inhaled, not from this reality, but from the immaterial plane. Conor shouted warp energy at the skin of the Beacon until there was an unholy glow from the hatch’s exterior lock, and he punched the portal until it yielded, opening. Again, now incongruous to his daemonic visage, he gingerly operated the airlock. This Beacon and its master would now serve Conor. And by extension, would serve the Conor’s patron, K’Raye - the Great Horned Darkness. And the first thing K’Raye would want is sacrifices.
End of Act 2
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Post by KRIEGEIRK on Feb 27, 2013 23:19:44 GMT -5
Awesome turn of events! More please!
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 1, 2013 20:08:01 GMT -5
Act 3
Aoibhe Dubhain stretched her back as she finished dealing with the normal injuries that tended to occur in the mundane operation of the ship, and the slightly funnier ones that happened during this annexation of whatever that new ship was that Captain Rhea had found. One man had badly electrocuted himself repairing the main drives of the relic; she had gotten his face to stick in a rictus grin while she had repaired the damage to his nervous system, so he’d have a slight smile for a few days until he fully recovered. She had informed him that laughter was the best medicine, along with good drink. He hadn’t found it as hilarious as she had.
She plopped into her chair so that she rolled back into her hidey-hole of a medicine closet so that she was out of sight of any casual observers entering the sick bay. That way, people with unimportant injuries would go away, and she’d be able to nap more. As she closed her eyes to ponder the events of the past few days, she couldn’t help but frown at the behavior of the people around her. Johann, normally focused on trying to get in her pants while around her, had been withdrawn, his mind elsewhere. He’d clearly also noticed something going on with Rhea. The captain had been a little less enthusiastic about claiming an intact ship that she should have been, otherwise, Aoibhe would be drunk at a celebration party right now. Or drunk in Johann’s quarters.
That lecher priest, Sylvanus, had also been subdued. In these past five days he’d been aboard, he’d made more passes at her than Johann had in the past year. Maybe Rhea had said something to him about it. Aoibhe’s mind spun like a warp current as her imagination invented reasons for all this strangeness, even as she knew them all to be extremely unlikely. Maybe they’d found the ship dripping with blood on the inside. Maybe Sylvanus and the captain had shared an intimate moment on the bridge of her new prize. Maybe some strange xeno artefact had altered Sylvanus and, when he’d returned, he’d shared an intimate moment with Johann. She laughed out loud thinking of that. It would serve them both right. No... as much of a hard time as she gave Johann, she wouldn’t wish that on him. He was kind of endearing in his overly-elegant and somehow also awkward way. She was also probably in the minority of the women aboard who didn’t have a problem with his Quelldran heritage. The first of the humans in Morobae to noticeably adapt physically to their environment, Quelldrans had deeper lines on their faces and larger than normal eyes, which were mostly a reflective brown or gold in color. They were still well within the normal range for humanity, whatever normal range meant -- humans had some questionable variations on certain planets. To her Cyclis 5 sensibilities, Johann just looked like he had spent a decade working a little too hard in the fields while the sun had ravaged his skin, making it sag a bit. She actually thought his extra-wide eyes were his best feature. She liked the way they caught the light when she looked over at him in her bunk. Her mother had always told her that she was the weird child of the litter.
The start from the sudden noise of several people rushing into the ward in a panic nearly toppled her from her chair. Poking her head around the hatch, she caught sight of two of the pilgrims helping what had to be a corpse by now into one of the beds. The victim was female, torn apart so that her flesh hung about her skeleton like party streamers, but it somehow held together. She looked as if she had swallowed an inferno grenade from the mauling and the burns. Aoibhe frowned as she made her initial examinations, trying hard to ignore the jabbering of the Ithacans. The burns had definitely come from within. Unless she had swallowed something, which was unlikely, there was no natural way for her to die this way. She shoved the men out of the room and made an emergency call to the captain.
Someone had murdered this girl, and there was no reason to believe that it wouldn’t happen again.
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Post by Rook on Mar 2, 2013 0:37:14 GMT -5
She once again left her suite to visit the gymnasium, the wine-colored, carapace-clad goons of Scarlet’s in tow. Maybe she’d get one of them to try their hands at besting her in a bout of fencing. Probably not; they were the least interesting people with whom she’d ever had business, and she’d carried food sweeteners for planetary nobles: people who were so boring that they needed new and stronger sugars for their deadened palates. She couldn’t even imagine the kind of hedonistic lifestyle that they claimed to enjoy. The only interesting thing about these shock troops was their smell: faint hints of industrial cleansers masked a gentle berry odor. Rhea didn’t want to know. This is probably the most worthwhile paragraph I've read in the last decade!!! Also, May I feel warm in the thought that 'Scarlet' may have a tiny bit to do with me? In either case this is some very good writing. Truth be told I have no idea what/where most of these places you mention are but that only enhances the read.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 2, 2013 10:31:48 GMT -5
Unfortunately, Scarlet the Inquisitor was conceived as a character long before I ever heard of Scarlet the Oven Mitt. I have now idea how that would have altered her personality...
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 3, 2013 20:11:22 GMT -5
She had arrived at the end of first shift - what counted as morning on the Beacon - Inquisitor Scarlet, with her own ship. Supposedly escorting another pilgrim vessel that had taken groups of faithful from as far away as Colbis, Johann had had no doubts that being found by her was no accident. She had confirmed as much when she came aboard, laughing away any pretense. “Did you think I gave you all that ship hardware for free? Of course not. I’m informed of everything that happens aboard the Beacon. This is a very important ship to me,” she had assured Johann. Which was, naturally, completely unfair. Knowing everything that transpired aboard was Johann’s job, and he considered himself an expert. But now he had this failure to notice Scarlet’s method of spying on them. Well, that and the whole murderer thing.
Captain Rhea had ordered the ship out of warp space for precautionary measures while the search was underway. She had given a half explanation about something she had heard once, not really telling Johann anything, just giving the order to hide the ships in the Braddock Strait, a minor stellar debris field adjacent to a near-colorless nebula. The only things of note about it were the clear channel of empty space between the two constricting formations, and that it was used as a navigational aid for warp abacus calibration. Johann had always imagined it as a barely useful hourglass in space.
It had been six days since people had started dying, and each day brought increasing numbers of crewmen and pilgrims into the morgue. Each day, the terror of the mystery killer weighed heavier on the hearts and minds of the living. The Ithacan pilgrims had been confined to their two decks of the ship and instructed not to open their doors until an all clear signal was given. Sylvanus had been placed in charge of them, and he’d done an admirable job so far.
The unpleasant woman - there was something about her Johann found unnerving - his skin itched when she was nearby, was perhaps close to a hundred years of age. Scarlet was not elderly; one could see that time had grasped her with its inescapable claws, but she had used juveants to stay young and fit. Handsome was a good word for how he would describe a picture of her, but in person? It made his eyes hurt if he looked too long at the Inquisitor. Not that he really cared to. She was unpleasant in deed as well, having commandeered the hunt for their culprit while not consulting with either him or the captain.
Now, Scarlet’s stormtroopers roamed the hallways along with the Beacon’s security armsmen, treating them like challenged children, and generally belittling everything about them. Scarlet herself had taken to roaming around with her brutal-looking falchion, which seemed like a good example of Scerran manufacture. A simple, weighted blade attached to magnificent quillions that were decorated with some half-real, milky stones that seemed to swirl as if full of fluid. Johann very much wanted to know what those were, and where he could get some.
Everywhere that Scarlet went, right on her heels was the girl she had introduced as Anastasia Byron. Not even yet a teen, she was a complete contrast of her master: pale skin with raven hair, a lace dress dyed midnight blue, and an adorable expression of uncertainty. She held a pistol in both hands - it was about the size of her forearms - which she had cheerfully informed him was named Holiday. Johann knew that she’d be turning heads in about ten years, and was interested to see what she’d look like, but she’d never make it to adulthood if Scarlet brought her along on manhunts like this. The girl could barely hold her gun, much less aim it. She was polite and seemed friendly, although she hadn’t spoken much. But he wished her well, all the same.
Refocusing on the task at hand, he turned a corner on his search. The four armsmen and single stormtrooper with whom he explored the lower levels of the ship followed close behind, covering each direction with shotguns and a hellgun. Standing before him was a man. Or so he thought at first, but the man was too beautiful to be human. Long straw hair cascaded to the small of his back, glittering blue eyes took Johann’s measure with an aristocratic air that made Johann feel insignificant. The stranger wore the robes of a pilgrim, so, combined with his haughty demeanor, everyone assumed him to be one of the Ithacans. Johann waved his cutlass at the ceiling, where the holds had been converted to dense hab areas. “You’re a deck too far down, friend. Your billet is above.” No one had taken their aim off of him; the murderer could be one of the pilgrims, after all.
But it didn’t matter. The man gently cursed at them.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 5, 2013 19:42:17 GMT -5
All hell had broken loose with Johann’s warning. They were not up against a foe of flesh and blood, but a warp creature. Aoibhe shivered behind the triple-linked autogun that she had braced on her desk in the foyer of the medical bay. Full alert klaxons and strobing yellow lights turned the corridors of the Beacon into a scene somewhat like a party she’d once attended in her youth, when she had visited Cyclis 3’s monolithic hive for her advanced training. The fear she’d felt when the enforcers had crashed that party paled to what she felt now, knowing what was aboard. She had vigorously prayed over and kissed each of the six magazines as she had loaded them into the rotating trio of the projectile rifles. The fact that she could shred any mortal enemy entering the ward did not comfort her, but she had prepared the emplacement out of a sense of duty.
Her intermittent lover sat on a bed, eyes glazed, muttering to himself about the Thing he should not have seen. Scorched blood and organ meat glistened along his right side where one of the armsmen’s remains decorated his uniform. His officer’s cutlass was still gripped in his hand with rigor strength, rendered useless by a fervent heat -- melted to a whip frozen in retraction. He shuddered slightly as she applied a cream to his burns, not responding to her presence at all. Next to him was the only surviving armsman, more thoroughly covered with the gore of former comrades. He was also more silent; his eyes shifted from one shadow to the next with a paranoia that seemed mismatched with his absolute stillness. He kept looking up at the stormtrooper who had entered with them, accusing the man with a glare of pure hate. The Inquisitor’s dog did not have a drop of blood, or any ill-omened mark, on him. He just stood by the door to the next room like an armed statue, waiting for his master and the captain to finish their private conversation. Aoibhe silently cursed the red-shod woman and all her kind. Nothing ever good came of the Inquisition’s presence.
Finishing with the treatment to Johann, she bent to gently kiss him on the forehead and use a cloth to wipe away the macabre paint from his uniform, but he fastened his free hand around her arm. He didn’t otherwise move, nor did he look up at her, but he did seem to calm down and stop muttering. She placed her hand on his, letting it rest there for a moment before peeling herself out of his grasp and attending to the rest of her duties. She hoped he’d be back to his normal, aggravating self soon. Both he and the armsman would probably benefit from sedation for the time being.
As she was preparing the hypo-injectors, Rhea, Scarlet, and the too-young Anastasia exited the operating room, the two adults looking slightly annoyed with each other. Scarlet and the girl hung back, allowing the captain to confer with the medic on the condition of her people. “Dubhain, how are they?”
Aoibhe sighed. “Johann’s going to make it; just a few minor injuries that will heal within a week. The damage to his spirit’s going to take a bit longer, but he always did have a stubborn streak -- I don’t think it’ll take more than a couple months of hard work to help him forget the worst of it.
“Voidsman Katell, on the other hand, had bruising on his lungs, liver, and several burns. His mind’s in much worse shape as well. I’m not sure if he’ll snap out of it. I’ll be better able to tell after he wakes from sedation,” she said, waving the syringes in their direction. A caring captain, Rhea placed her hands on the shoulder of each man. The only response she got was a glare from Katell.
Aoibhe jabbed Johann with the sleeping drug, and had moved to Katell when Scarlet and Anastasia stepped forward to leave the medical bay. The traumatized armsman sprang up with inhuman speed before any of them had time to do anything -- his shotgun was aimed square at the inquisitor, and a faint flash had filled the room with an acid red light and ozone smell. He fell like a marionette with cut strings, a hole burned through his head just right of his nose, the eyeball burst from roasting. She looked back up at the stormtrooper and his hellgun, wondering when he had switched places with Scarlet, placing her protectively behind his bulk. The noise of the now-deceased Katell’s weapon clattering on the deck broke the spell that had held all the room hostage. Johann slumped forward, succoming to the drug, Rhea shot a dangerous look at Scarlet, and Anastasia leaned forward to take the shotgun, having trouble with its weight. She handed it up to the captain with a solemn look of apology. Aoibhe fell in love with the girl; it was impossible to stay upset with that impossibly precious expression of worry and regret aimed at you.
She stumbled as she handed the firearm to Rhea, the ship bucking under everyone’s feet. Rhea said a few words that she probably shouldn’t have around one so young, and challenged the Emperor as to the meaning of the recent trials in a mixture of two local dialects of Low Gothic. Aoibhe could hear the bridge officer’s shouts from the captain’s comm bead.
“Captain, five contacts approaching. You should get up here, sir, augury’s fairly certain they’re pirates.” Rhea visibly blanched, looking up at Scarlet.
The Inquisitor nodded. Slapping the stormtrooper on the shoulder pad, she pointed at the captain, and he moved behind Rhea as an escort. Then she gave Anastasia a look like she expected something. The girl meekly looked up to say, “Tell Captain Joran ‘code 224 delta.’” Scarlet nodded in approval.
Captain Rhea and the hulk of dark red carapace rushed towards the bridge.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 7, 2013 19:37:53 GMT -5
The lighting on the bridge during emergencies was annoyingly uncheerful. Kalliope swiveled around in her command throne, looking out the viewports of the bridge: fore, starboard, and port. Each held more or less the same view of stars on a velvet drape of black void. Her four ships huddled together, the enormous pilgrim transport and Scarlet’s cruiser shielding the smaller Beacon and Emer’s Eyes with their better armored bulks. Her fist thumped on the armrest of the throne, and she issued orders to the two ships under her command: the smaller ship wasn’t made with combat in mind, and it would escape the area to get help from the Navy as quickly as they were able to bring it, while the Beacon would stab into the middle of the enemy formation so that any missed shots on their account would hit the other pirates.
She turned her attention back to the flat display on the pulpit in front of her, Captain Jouran’s reply to Scarlet’s fancy code. Whatever she had relayed had meant that she was in command of this little fleet. Kalliope allowed an exasperated sigh to escape as she looked up at the Rococo aquila she’d bought two weeks ago. Emperor, but it seemed like two months. Scarlet’s ship, the Dawn Imperator, was fast for its size, but still comparatively slow next to a frigate like the Beacon; it would serve as a mobile firebase while her ship closed in for the killing shots. The enemy fleet was made of two raiders a little smaller than a Saber, a massive and ancient cargo hauler that had no business being in the hands of these scum, and a pair of well-armed transports. Kalliope saw the green warpaint splashed across the bow of each ship like ragged wounds, recognizing them as slaver ships.
They had snuck up on them by flying silent through the strait, managing some tricky piloting with the promise of a million unwilling passengers in the form of pilgrims from around the sector. With the magnification present on the tactical display, Rhea noticed that they were firing another volley. Foolish of them -- so few shots would accurately make it this far that they’d just bounce off the void shields without any ill effect. Considering that a moment, she realized that the shaking of the ship as the shields dissipated the impacts would serve exactly the purpose the enemy wanted: to instill fear. She sneered back at them.
In another four minutes and 12 seconds, the Beacon would rocket out from behind the magnificent, seven kilometer long city that was the pilgrim ship towards the slavers just as the Dawn opened up with her broadsides. The Eyes would then head away at a pace that none of the other ships present could match, making the jump to Warp, heading for the forge world of Caex's moon. It was the closest Imperial planet, and centrally located in the Londus Mandate - this subsector of Morobae - there’d be good chance that some Navy ships would be there. She only hoped that the meager crew of 2000 wasn’t too small to handle the vessel.
The stormtrooper that had escorted her to the bridge began to twitch behind her. She looked back at him with sympathy. Perhaps these barely-human killing machines still had some sense of fear after all. But for now, Kalliope had to push all emotion from her own mind as the battle drew near. She led the bridge crew in a quick prayer that she broadcast over the ship’s laud hailers, and blew a kiss to the aquila over the main viewport. The Emperor would have to help them out a little if they were going to survive this.
And the plan began perfectly, the Beacon launching around the pilgrims at full speed, firing the dorsal turret lance. It missed at this distance, but that was expected. The Dawn’s powerful macrocannon broadside filled space with a hundred explosive shells, some finding the other ships with a flash of light on the tactical display as void shields absorbed and redirected the force of explosions. The Dawn even added its lance to the mix, landing right amidships on one of the raiders, its captain deciding to shy away in evasive. The gunnery crew on Scarlet’s ship was good!
Then the cargo hauler showed its true colors, deploying a squadron of bombers that made full speed for the Dawn. Now Captain Rhea was forced to make a choice: continue with the plan, or offer support for the larger ship.
End of Act 3
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 9, 2013 20:43:12 GMT -5
Act 4
Thump. Another thump. Johann sat up suddenly, having the disconcerting feeling of having woken-up without opening his eyes. He was on a diagnostic bed in the medical bay, still in his uniform and flak armor. The room stank of cleanser and roast meat. Aoibhe was beside him, her hand resting on his leg. She was sound asleep. That magnificent hair cascaded over the edge of the bed, swaying in the artificial breeze of the ventilation system. That return vent was still broken, causing the air in the room to circulate instead of refresh with new air from the recycler.
Thump. It was coming from the morgue. He nudged the doctor awake, “Hark. Beauty of my dreams, lovely aurora, should you be sleeping while someone else is doing autopsies?”
“Idiot,” she stirred sleepily, “there’s no more need for autopsies. The door is sealed for now. Go to sleep; you need to rest.”
“Idle flower, I’ve quite had my fill of-” Thump.
Aoibhe was up in an instant, wrenching the front desk of the bay around, aiming the triple rifle at the door to the stygian hotel where the dead slept. “Don’t just sit there, brace the door, you caffler!” Johann wobbled a bit as he stood. His cutlass - his favorite cutlass! - was a ruined mess. He took a moment to mourn it as he unsheathed the shot pistol at his waist. A few good kicks unseated the bed from its flimsy bolts, and he started pushing it over.
“I thought we already had a little talk about hurting others, particularly me, with your words, dear. What’s this all about? What’s behind the door?”
“The dead.” Her face was drawn with what looked like fear and annoyance. He supposed that the latter was permanent, but the first was cause for concern. The bed rested against the door tightly. It opened a crack, allowing a burned and blood-caked arm to grasp at Johann’s face. He jumped back what seemed like two full meters, firing his pistol instinctively. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, and the shots abused the door and jamb with spreads of pellets that ricocheted back in all directions. He shielded his face as he spun around, tripping.
“Idiot!” Aoibhe reached down and scooped him back behind the desk, jabbing him with a hypo. Instantly, Johann felt more awake. “Check the corridor, I can cover the morgue.” He looked over at the door. It had started to come back to him when the stimms had hit his system. That terrible corridor. That beast. That daemon-thing that had attacked from the shadows that had caused men to explode with a tender touch, it was out there, somewhere. Johann didn’t want to go out there.
An callous kick from the prettier person present propelled him in that dreadful direction, and he reloaded the shot pistol’s chamber. “I figured it out, by the way. Just now.” Johann saw nothing outside, so he poked his head back in the medical bay to ask.
“What did you figure out?”
“Well, two things. One was why the dead bodies we found had some peculiar...” She scrunched up her face, trying to figure out how to patronize Johann’s medical knowledge and failing. “They were odd. It was because they weren’t dead yet.”
He tried not to be distracted by her exquisite features. “What, like stasis?”
“Sure.” The bed had started moving away from the door from the force of bodies pushing on it. Aoibhe took aim at the widening open spot. “The other thing was what happened to the rest of the Eyes’s crew, and why we found them in those positions. Remember when we reviewed the recording? It looked like a mutiny.” She had to stop talking now, as revenant pilgrims and crew started pouring forth into the bay. But Johann connected the dots on his own from there.
God-Emperor, but that gun was loud. It didn’t so much shoot bullets as spew a stream of them out. Six magazines fueled several bursts that Aoibhe used to cut down all the shambling foes that had become unquiet. Johann couldn’t tell if they were disappointed or relieved to be shot, and he didn’t care. Seeing that Aoibhe had this under control, he grabbed another stimm hypo off her beltpack, and then he headed for his quarters. He’d be able to get another sword there, and some of the Nymean flechette rounds for his shot pistol. Not that he thought the normal shotgun rounds ineffective, they simply lacked the finesse and class he demanded of his weapons, so he had stockpiled his own private stash. He was forgetting something. It was important, but he was sure it would come to him when all this ruckus was over.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 11, 2013 20:31:15 GMT -5
“It wasn’t this hard last time, was it?” Conor leaned up against a bulkhead as he inquired of the voice that urged him forward. Blood from his wounds sizzled against the steely plates of the deck. No, it hadn’t been this hard. The fleas in this Beacon were much better than the ones on the Emer’s Eyes. He furrowed his brow and brushed the hair away from his face. His hand came back bloody. Those carapace ones were marginally dangerous. But he had made them go away. Just like all the others. It had simply been more of an effort. Whispering loving curses at his wounds, they healed quickly.
The noise of power armor on the deck was unmistakable, and Conor could hear it from several corridors away. That woman was the only thing he feared. All around her was a feeling of unease, of powerlessness. He couldn’t smell her like he could the others. The one with her was also a danger, the silver-clad gom of a priest and his staff with the repulsive aquila on the top. It burned him just to think about it, made him angry to think how he once served a dead god. His True Master wasn’t so powerless. Conor only had to look at the effect his touch had on his enemies to know that he’d been blessed with undeniable power, and it was just a fraction of K'Raye’s boon.
The footfalls were getting close, too close. He licked the blood from his hands, mixing it with spit and warp energy, swallowing it down. He relished the burn tracing itself downwards in his chest. In moments, the tainted bile came back up, out, covering the deck and bulkheads. The hardened alloys washed away like soap suds down a drain. A frown, as he remembered he still hadn’t had time to shower. No time for that still. There was a mission for his master, and he was the only one who could do it. So much pride he felt at being the one that the Darkness relied upon to do it.
He jumped down to the between-decks. Inside was the arcane workings for such things as the fluidics, etherics, electrics, and the gravitics. Few living beings fully comprehended the complete workings of such near-lost technologies, but Conor did. The voice told him. Running and crawling through the maze of conduit and piping, he looked for a box. Light didn’t make it this far into the between-deck, but he didn’t need such a mundane thing. He saw with his hands and ears, and all his skin. The heat of his goal was just ahead, beckoning.
A slash of white threatened to decapitate him as he backpedaled. A shining falchion sliced through the deck with mighty force, opening a hole. At the top of it stood the odorless woman with a predator’s grin on her face. Conor was stunned. The priest with her brandished his staff at him, and waved at people beyond Conor’s line of vision. It was hateful and hurtful to be this close to her - he didn’t care as much about the man, just the staff - and Conor was forced to make an escape. With a curse, he sunk into the shadow cast by the light of the opening. Wherever they brought light to find him, he could escape. They undid themselves.
He was unable to destroy the oxygen recycler for this section of the ship under these conditions, though. He refocused his efforts on controlling his pets after he was far enough away from the pursuit. It had taken a couple hundred tries to get the knack of it back after all the time spent waiting for another ship to come past. But he’d managed. Now he had several of the crew of this ship working for him, just like last time. The failures had been useful as a quick diversion, but they lacked any will of their own, and were hard to puppet all at once. Conor was glad they were dead. He’d be glad when all his pets were dead, too. Everyone should be dead except him. They didn’t deserve K’Raye’s love. The only ones that might stay useful were the ones in carapace that seemed to follow the red woman. It had been much more difficult, but he’d managed to turn a few of them to his cause. Now seemed as good a time as any to start using them.
The one on the bridge could hardly wait to start. With the captain gone, it would only be a matter of time until he overwhelmed the red woman with her own soldiers. Then he could continue with the mission. He had to get to a ship with a navigator.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 13, 2013 18:59:11 GMT -5
The panicked cry came from the crew pit: “Captain, behind you!” Rhea turned just in time to see the stormtrooper behind her taking aim with his hellgun. She quickly ducked around her throne, rolling sideways from him while drawing her sword. His shots burned through the space where she had been. Coming out of the roll, she swung her hand-and-a-half upwards in a controlled strike that, while it hadn’t bisected the gun, did foul his aim as he avoided it. The second trio of shots burned right past her head, washing out the vision in her left eye for a moment. Stretching out with a one-handed remise, Kalliope did manage to nick the tip of the lasing barrel enough to render the weapon dangerous to use.
A shot rang out from the pit; one of the officers had fired her naval pistol at the traitorous escort, but the fragmenting round would have needed a miracle to penetrate the carapace. “To your station,” barked the captain. The crew had more important things to deal with, and she didn’t want to get hit by friendly fire. The man ignored the shot and calmly drew his short power sword. Rhea’s heart rushed -- her armor was as much for aesthetic as for protection, and it would not stand up to a hit from the hazy-blue military disruptor field that cloaked his blade. It was a simple arm-length sword that was clearly mass-produced.
Hers was a one of a kind special order that had cost her her personal savings for a year, and had taken nearly a year to forge. Fashioned from the oldest of T’Garian hickory shod by electrum and steel, the blade was as strong as hardened plasteel armor. The mono-edge on the housing made it capable of slicing through even flak armor with enough force behind a swing. But what made it truly formidable was the shock field that was connected to the metal skin of the blade. It had come from an arbitor’s power maul, a high quality pattern made on Viros, before the Incident. She switched it to the high setting, generating her own peachy haze of a disruptor field around it. She hoped that would be enough to counter the bright blue of the true power weapon that opposed her.
He advanced without delay, forcing Rhea to raise her blade in the reverse grip she imitated from her personal heroine, Valeria. She had no further time to think about it as sparks flew off the swords while she deflected blow after powerful blow, trying desperately to gain the advantage with her footwork. A new klaxon had joined the chorus of alarms ringing through the bridge, but she didn’t spare a thought to it as she saw the opening she’d been waiting for. Hooking her sword around the trooper’s blade and forcing it down with a croisé, she stepped in to jab him in the softer flakweave that armored his neck with her crossguard. It didn’t punch through, but he did stagger backwards a few steps, allowing Rhea to advance with her blade, ready to impale him.
He was suddenly standing inside her guard, his leg hooked around hers, and throwing her down with superhuman force. She caught a strong scent of berries, causing her to flash back to when Scarlet was last aboard a year ago. It must be the smell of some combat drug. She tried to turn the impact into a roll, but didn’t fully evade his downward thrust. Her back burned as the disruptor field cut through the plate and maille and seared her flesh. She kicked out blindly, hoping to at least ward him off as she got back to her feet, but an elbow to the base of her neck forced her back to the deck. The drugs had made him much faster than she was.
She swiped her sword in an arc over her body, deflecting a thrust that would have pinned her to the ground. Springing up to the side, she continued the wild swing, threatening his legs. She had managed to get him away for the moment, but she knew it wouldn’t last. The pain in her side was probably the result of a broken rib, and the sharp blow to her neck was making her dizzy. She noticed that the pressure doors to the bridge were closing. The stormtrooper made use of that momentary distraction to advance again.
Kalliope ducked down in a retreat and brought the tip of her sword up at the last second, using her foe’s speed against him. Her longsword had better reach than his one-handed blade, and buried itself partway through his carapace. Not deep enough. She pushed outward with all her might, a prayer with every step as she rushed forward to the wall. He battered her sword with his, trying to break it. The weaker, orangish power field screamed in protest, but the better woods from the Woodsea were more sturdy than the common metal alloys of a mass-produced blade. She could almost feel righteous anger giving her the extra strength to impale him against the bulkhead, penetrating even into the pressure door that had sealed the bridge from the rest of the ship. In a final gambit, the treasonous scum brought his sword around to attack Rhea one last time, but she saw what he was doing before he started, grabbing his wrist as he swung, pushing the blue-cloaked blade around and into his head. He went limp.
She sank to the floor, exhausted, giving thanks to the Emperor and making the sign of the aquila over her chest. Now the problem was the microfissure in the viewport at the front of the bridge, made when her erstwhile opponent had missed her with his hellgun. “Someone seal that breach; get these bloody pressure doors open, now! Give me a status update on those attack craft.” They were probably too far past them to offer any help to the Dawn at this point. Hopefully, her crew had taken some initiative. She replaced her sword in its scabbard at her hip and fell into her command throne, wincing as her raw and burned back made contact with the leather. She never wanted to fight an Inquisitorial stormtrooper again.
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Post by BG. Foster on Mar 13, 2013 19:26:05 GMT -5
I love your work I have just one issue, the switch between the use of first and last name when referencing a character.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 15, 2013 18:21:47 GMT -5
Captain Rhea loved her ship and her crew. The breach had been quickly sealed, and the pressure doors would be open in minutes. The turret crews had fired explosive shells and flak into their wake, creating a hazardous area for the bombers heading toward the Dawn that would at least slow them down, giving Jouran and his crew a few extra minutes. Rhea commended all of her officers on a job well-done, considering the circumstances. Her yeoman had even disposed of the body of the stormtrooper, stowing the gear somewhere safe for use by the Beacon’s personnel. As it should be. Several people would be getting pay increases if they survived. Kalliope looked out the viewport, now able to see the dull points of light that were the enemy ships with her naked eye. It was going to be a big if.
On the spine of her ship, far out near the prow, she could see the macrocannon turret traverse slightly to lead a target and fire, washing the hull with the flash of the massive gun. So far, the Dawn had kept the enemy formation from splitting up by filling the space around them with macro shells and lance beams. One of the raiders was out of the fight, trying to limp away. The carrier ship had hung back, out of range of reprisal -- its task was already complete. The other three slavers were advancing, firing their weapons at the Beacon. Rhea’s ship bucked and shuddered under the assault, the void shields flickering as capacitors dumped energy into the depleted protection.
At this relative speed, they’d slip through the trio of ships in about another five minutes. She gave orders to adjust the heading so that they’d fly between the two transports; there was no point in closing the distance if the enemy didn’t suffer any friendly fire. Rhea frowned at her tactical readout. The Beacon’s spirit hated naval combat even more than she did, and responded to such unfriendly encounters with below average acceleration as it rerouted power to the shields. She instructed the gunnery crews to focus on the raider - the only other ship that had a chance at matching the Beacon’s speed - while preparing the point defense turrets in case more attack craft were launched.
Kalliope brooded over her additional flak turrets and microlaser defenses that Scarlet had given her. Had she known what would happen? Had she intended for the Beacon to stay nearer the Dawn to render better anti-bomber support? It was far too late for that, now. She shifted her posture to relieve the burns on her back, and her throne stuck to her exposed flesh. That was probably bad. After this first pass, she’d have enough time to quickly get to the medical bay to have that disinfected and bandaged before the Beacon was in direct combat again.
Sparks and smoke flew from consoles in the crew pit as the Beacon took a direct lance hit, sloughing the shields from the skin of the vessel. Damage control teams began work on the affected bridge stations and moved the wounded out of the way. Like scavengers, macro shells impacted along the flanks and spine of the unprotected ship, making craterous wounds in the hull. Even knowing that she was going to take damage, Rhea hated to see her first love so mistreated. The vibration in the deck changed, she knew that the drives had been knocked offline.
Racing through calculations in her head, she made a quick decision. “Helm, use maneuvering thrusters to aim us at the bridge tower on the starboard transport. Gunnery, get that void shield back up and focus all your fire at that ship, I want its shields gone. Defense crews, prepare to fire flak into viewports and damaged areas.” She thumbed the full ship address on her throne. “This is the captain. Evacuate forward sections, secure all loose items, distribute emergency breathing gear, and brace for impact.” She brought the restraints across herself, strapping into her throne.
The Beacon’s lance brutalized the enemy transport’s shield and the flak batteries started pumping explosives and shrapnel at the bare armor. Fortunately - or unfortunately, Rhea couldn’t decide which - they were right on course to impact the transport’s bridge tower. All she had left to do now was pray.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 17, 2013 19:34:46 GMT -5
He was surrounded by inky blackness. Wisps of fire assailed him from unseen corners, and he swung out with his cutlass. He felt his blade hit, and he heard the echo of something breaking in the distance. Johann took a step back, clutching his pistol in his left hand. He had to get out. He must get out. The scent of blood filled his nostrils with an acrid iron stink. Another tongue of flame licked out at him from behind. Turning, he brought his sword up in a defensive stance warding away the assault with a prayer. There was a terrible noise, and he was thrown from his feet to hit hard against a surface. Wailing came from all around, and he felt as if he’d lost consciousness.
For a moment, Johann thought he heard the captain’s voice calling out to him. It was far away and muffled. He stood - he thought he could tell which way was up - and spun in a slow circle, the flames slowly dying away. But the stench of blood remained. He waited, not trusting his first instinct to strike out at the imposter. The voice returned, insistent.
“Johann, where in the name of the God-Emperor are you?” It sounded like the captain. She always became too vulgar with her speech when she was upset. He had constantly reminded her of it. But if she was speaking to him and didn't know where he was, where was she? Bringing his hand to his ear, he discovered his comm bead. Touching it erased the darkness, and he saw his quarters in a state of disarray. “Answer me, Johann.”
"Uh, captain? I'm in my quarters. What's going on?”
“Are you alright? You sound half-dead.” Curses, she noticed. Truth be told, he felt more than half dead. He wanted to crawl under his bed and sleep for a long time. At the least as long as it took for this whole episode to be over, for the daemon to be gone.
“Nonsense, stalwart captain. I’m the senechal supreme and your ever-faithful second-in-command.”
“Good, I’ll be there in a minute to get you. Grab your gear, we’re going hunting.”
Johann felt bad about lying to Captain Rhea, mostly because it now meant he had to leave his quarters. He certainly did not want to do that. But arrive she did, not even a minute later. She were the torso carapace of one of Scarlet’s stormtroopers, although there was a small hole in the chest. She had an overpowering odor of antiseptic, which almost drove away the stink of blood that remained in his nostrils. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she had questions to ask him, but wasn't going to ask yet.
“I take it things on the bridge are under control?”
“Mostly. Plasma drives are barely at half power, we have holes in the hull, and there's a giant gash along the prow where we rammed into one of the enemy ships.” She grinned ferally, showing teeth. “Sheared their bridge tower right off. We’re just sort of limping away from the fight in an evasive pattern while we fire our weapons. The other two ships are no match for the Dawn, and they know it.” Rhea shrugged. "The bridge crew can handle things from here. What we need to do now is to get rid of the warp beast."
“I shall endeavor to follow your lead to my utmost abilities.” Rhea looked him up and down for a moment and nodded. She unlimbered her longsword and began jogging down the corridor. Johann temporarily had the treacherous thought of returning to his quarters and locking the door. But onward he went, following his captain. As he ran, he had the oddest sensation of slipping into a particularly surreal dream.
There were ruined bodies shoved against the edges of the corridors. Each of them look up at Johann, accusing him, mocking him, ordering him. He tried to ignore them. They followed the trail, soon catching the sound of combat. And there she was, Inquisitor Scarlet, Sylvanus at her feet, still alive, crawling away. There were four of her stormtroopers, two of them firing at her party from behind the gorgeous, burning form of the daemon. Rhea didn’t hesitate. She was among them in a split second, hacking away at the traitors with what seemed like a personal grudge. Johann could only stand in awe of the daemon, locked in place with an unnatural stillness. It was an odd sensation he felt as one of the loyal shocktroops suddenly turned towards Scarlet with his rifle raised. The man’s head exploded in slow motion, young Miss Byron’s hand cannon throwing her arms back and over her head with recoil.
He blacked out again. He must have. When he opened his eyes, all the stormtroopers were down, and Scarlet was digging her falchion into the perfect man. Anastasia was limping toward Sylvanus, and Captain Rhea was holding the priest upright, tending to a vicious wound on the side of his head.
“Johann!” His captain’s shout contained a mixture of surprise and anger. He noticed that his shot pistol was up and aimed at her and Sylvanus. He didn’t remember aiming at them. His dream-compulsion to fire was too great to resist. The pistol whispered to him about Sylvanus's advances on Aoibhe, and his finger twitched. The flechettes pierced through the lecherous priest, then through the captain. They both fell to the deck. It was alright, they’d be fine when he woke up. Rhea crawled out from under the holy man’s corpse with the most hurt face he’d ever seen on her. He couldn’t blame her; he was her best friend, after all. They’d been through a lot together.
Just as she sagged, asleep or dead, he was spun around and getting knocked off his feet with another absurdly loud rapport from Anastasia’s oversized gun. He didn’t like this dream. He’d heard the superstition that if you died in a dream, you died in real life, too. “Sorry, Kalliope... I am a master of my craft...” Johann O’Keefe closed his eyes and tried to wake up. He didn’t.
End of Act 4
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 19, 2013 20:47:11 GMT -5
Act 5
Anastasia Byron followed close by her mistress as the battle raged in 314-C corridor of the Beacon. They had found the daemonhost, and had managed to corner him with searchlights taken out of storage. Scarlet had been pleased with Ana’s quick assessment of how he had escaped when they’d found him last time. Now they all had flash grenades and stab lights on their weapons in order to disrupt the shadows along the deck and bulkheads. She had almost been afraid to mention it, considering that the inquisitor would usually hit her if she spoke out of turn. That’s why she hadn’t opened her mouth for more than simple greetings since she’d been aboard.
The sabotaged voidsmen of the Beacon crowded around the man, shielding him as the search teams fired their weapons. Both sides fired a mix of naval shotguns and hellguns, since both the Beacon’s crew and Scarlet’s stormtroopers had fallen prey to subversion by the daemon. Ana couldn’t understand why they would follow such a hideous beast. She thought him too tall, too pale, and too hawkish. His eyes were sunken into his face behind a sharp nose that offended her somehow. He was laughing, taunting them with an older dialect of Low Gothic interspersed with various curses of several languages. Ana thought she recognized an Eldar curse in the mix, which piqued her curiosity, but she didn’t stop firing.
Holiday was a difficult weapon for her to use, but it always fired true and never failed her. Scarlet had had it made just for her. It made her happy to use the enormous revolver, and she had even started to enjoy the shock it sent up her arms when she pulled the trigger, the excessive bang that boxed her ears, to relish the ache in her elbows and shoulders the next day. She carefully lined up each shot, extending her arms so that Holiday wouldn’t punish a poor technique with a bludgeoning to the face. She had only forgotten the first time; never again.
The ancient, possessed man was forced to defend himself with a wave of darkness when Priest Sylvanus punctuated his constant stream of prayer with a lobbed flash grenade. Scarlet’s troopers took the opportunity to scythe through most of the puppets at the other end of the hallway with both precision and prejudice. They seemed to concentrate most of their wrath on the stormtroopers that had gone to defend the daemon, ripping holes and steaming wounds into them. When the flash and whine of the grenade were gone, the remaining enemies all aimed at the priest, and the daemon himself added a sickly fireball to the return fire. The Ithacan holy man hit the deck hard, rolling away, trying to extinguish the flames on his silvery armor.
Suddenly, Captain Rhea was among the enemy troops, hacking away at them with an odd, upside down grip on her sword. The glow of the power field on her blade reminded Ana of the morning light of Sunfall, where Scarlet had taken her just two months ago to see the dedication of the newborn princess of that world. Rhea traced beautiful swirls of golden melon light through the men guarding the daemon, leaving him exposed. They locked in combat as Ana turned to notice the first officer, Mr. Johann, trying to press himself into the bulkhead, seeming to be overcome with fear. As she turned, she saw the stormtrooper to Scarlet’s left begin to track around to her mistress. Holiday gave a noisy disapproval to that, and the man’s head was blown apart, bits and blood falling out of the ruined helmet.
Scarlet jumped forward, bringing her falchion down on the deamonhost as he pressed Rhea to the ground. At his touch, the carapace that Rhea must have taken from one of Scarlet’s troopers boiled and melted, exposing the heat-resistant ceramite plating beneath the lacquered metal shell. The man arched back, wounded by both the sword and by Scarlet’s field of warp repulsion. As a psychic blank, Scarlet naturally produced an area around herself that was anathema to most living beings, and particularly to psykers and daemons. So far, Ana was the only one she knew of that wasn’t much bothered by it. Some people were unable to stay in the same room, others got sick. Some psykers had even cried out in pain when she got too close. Scarlet seemed to enjoy and appreciate the effect she had on people. The Scerran sand pearls that were embedded in her sword arced molten electricity down the blade, discharging the energy they had stored as the blade was swung. The captain took the chance to escape, crawling away to see if she could help Sylvanus.
Rhea suddenly cried out, “Johann!” Ana turned towards him just in time to hear the sound of the man’s shot pistol. Holiday came up in an instant, punching a round straight through the light flak armor of his chest. He mumbled something as he fell, dying before he hit the deck. Ana rushed over to see if Sylvanus and Rhea were still alive. The priest wasn’t, but Rhea still had a pulse. A quick inspection revealed that she hadn’t taken any wounds to vital areas, but she was bleeding excessively. The punctures looked like a tight grouping of cuts, going cleanly through the carapace. Nymean flechettes were often coated with poisons or anti-coagulants. Ana was about to apply a spray-on sealant when Scarlet called her over.
The daemonhost wasn’t dead yet, which confused Ana. Scarlet had planted a boot on his neck and her sword in his chest, and was using blood off the deck to draw circles around him. Once she was there, Scarlet wordlessly drew several things on Ana’s forehead. The man seemed to know what was going on and began to struggle more. After several more drawings and a few scribbles directly on the host, Scarlet started an incantation as she twisted her blade in the host’s body. A terrible light ripped its way out of the man and was pulled, seemingly against its will, into Ana. Terrible lies and more terrible truths were suddenly known to the girl, burning into her consciousness. It felt like her very soul was being scoured and scorched away, beginning to erode even the memory of pain. Anastasia screamed. And screamed.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 21, 2013 18:48:21 GMT -5
He looked dangerous, with his powerful build and sharp eyes. The Navy Captain, Lucien Dufort, had come aboard after the pirates had retreated, intending to speak to Scarlet and Rhea, but Aoibhe had told him that her captain would be unable to speak for several hours. He had an artificial jaw that fascinated the medic; she very much wished she could study its design and integration. It looked like some sort of plastic that was colored to match his skin, although his actual skin was a bit more pale. The modular pieces fit together with visible seams, making no attempt to hide the prosthetic nature of the lower part of his face. She wondered if having a look at it would give her insight about other prosthesis. It would give her something to take her mind off Johann.
She’d been unable to stop thinking about the loss, even as she managed to stabilize Sylvanus in a medical coma. He’d probably never recover, and he’d be sent to the Ithacans to deal with as they saw fit in their custom. He had kind of been endearing, in an obnoxious sort of way. She’d miss him, too. She looked across the room at Anastasia. She didn’t seem wounded, but her vitals were a mess: blood chymistry was jumping all over the place, heartrate was erratic, blood pressure was dangerously low, and her brainwaves were furiously spiking in all directions. No medication that Aoibhe had given the girl to try to stabilize her had had any effect. It was just a matter of waiting for her situation to change one way or the other.
Continuing the sweep of her gaze, Aoibhe’s heart sank as she viewed Captain Rhea. The captain was sleeping while she received blood to replace that which she’d lost, and was a mess of bandages and sutures. It didn’t sit well, seeing Rhea connected to hoses and lying immobile on the outpatient cot, weak. Nearly beaten. She wiped away tears and pounded her fist against the bulkhead. It wasn’t fair. The anger she had felt slowly gave way to despair, and she sunk into her chair.
Now without emotion to fuel her, she reached into her desk for a stimulant, swallowing it. Her work was far from done -- there were dozens more wounded being treated by other medical staff, and it was part of her job to supervise and review all treatments given. This is why she had liked serving on the Beacon: they almost never saw combat. Aoibhe liked saving lives, not having to write cause of death reports. Treating minor injuries and harassing her crewmates with antics was what she liked about her job.
She decided to take a break while the slow-acting stimm pill took effect. Rolling her chair over to the air vent she gave it a good kick to release the panel around it. She’d had to go to too much trouble to fix it so that no one ever got around to repairing it. If they did, she wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop on conversations in the entire bay. Scarlet and Dufort were busy with their conversation in the morgue, where they would be out of reach of prying ears. Or so they thought. Aoibhe smirked to herself as she reached in to turn the baffles so that the sounds of the morgue would be brought to her.
The two foreigners were deep in a conversation about what the aftermath of this battle was going to be. The Beacon needed time in drydock for repairs, not to mention replacement crew. Two of the pirate ships had been recovered, and Scarlet insisted that they belonged to the Inquisition. Dufort’s voice hardened as he offered a difference of opinion, but he didn’t press the issue. Apparently, there had been a second group of pirate ships that retreated when the Naval group arrived. Aoibhe breathed a sigh of relief and a silent prayer of thanks for that. She was interrupted in her thanksgiving at Scarlet’s mention of taking both the bodies of the deamon man and of Johann with her. She missed everything else as she got up to check the report on Johann’s death.
He’d been killed by a large caliber slug to the aorta. No one on the Beacon used solid slug weapons, only shotguns and fragmenting bullets as far as projectiles. Even if one of those failed to break apart on impact, they were smaller than the entry wound in Johann’s armor. Aoibhe looked up at the small girl in the bay, looking like she was having nightmares on the diagnostic bed. She was the only one who had a weapon that would have fired that shot. Aoibhe couldn’t believe that the girl, who had been so gentle and nice, would have shot Johann. She was with the Inquisitor, right? She had training to make non-lethal shots, surely. Scarlet, on the other hand, seemed exactly the type to shoot an ally as a matter of course. And now she wanted to take even his body, to deny him a proper void burial.
Aoibhe’s face went slack as she knew what she had to do. She thought back to the fear she’d felt while the almost dead slabs of meat had attempted to escape the medical bay. She felt none of that. Nothing at all, save the sensation that she had to be in a dream. If she killed Scarlet, she’d wake up. And Johann would be waiting for her. She had to hurry! And hurry she did, all the way to the equipment locker where some of the stormtrooper equipment had been stored after they’d turned traitor and been killed. She grabbed a hellgun and its backpack and the injector rig that held combat stimulants. Slinging the pack over her shoulders, she realized just how heavy it was to wear all the time. No matter. She slid the injector tubes carefully into her left axillary artery so that she didn’t impede shoulder movement. Hefting the hellgun, she began a very purposeful walk back to the medical bay.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 23, 2013 19:35:28 GMT -5
Kalliope opened one eye just enough to make sure that she wasn’t dead. The pain throughout her body was a good indicator of life, but it never hurt to double check. Although it did this time. The light in the medical bay was slightly dimmer than the rest of the ship, but it was still made of glass shards. She screwed her eye shut again, intent on not opening them until she had another dose of painkillers dumped into her system. She did not get to keep that wish, as she heard someone sit next to her and clear his throat.
She was planning on pretending to be asleep, but she felt the man looming over her, and he spoke her name with the faintest air of disappointment. Surprise is what forced her eyes open.
“Good God-Emperor’s bones, it is you...”
The man held up a hand. “Don’t sit up, you’re wounded.”
“Hmph. I wasn’t about to get up for just you. What the hell happened to your face, Lucien?”
The man allowed a chuckle to escape. “I lost part of it fighting orks spinward of Whitefall. It wasn’t too long after that I got my own ship. You could have been there, Rhea. It really was a lot of fun.”
Kalliope scooted up so that she didn’t have to peer at him from the bottom of her eyes. “Not after what happened. Besides, I have more fun staying out of trouble rather than looking for it. And you really do have to be looking for it to find enough orks to bother fighting.”
Dufort smirked. “I don’t remember you not having fun while in trouble. At any rate,” he leaned forward with a conspiratorial air, if such a thing could be attributed to him, “I spoke with Captain Joran and Inquisitor Scarlet about everything that happened. That was a risky strategy you used today. You got lucky when you managed to hit the enemy ship just right.”
“It’s not the sort of idea I’d entertain without a large ship providing broadside support.”
“I hope not. However, it would have worked if you’d had a Navy ship instead of a trading ship. There’s going to be another expansion crusade in the next few years, and I’m in charge of a fleet of it. I need people willing to think outside normal tactics, people who have with experience in the spacelanes of Morobae. People I can trust. I’d like you to captain one of my ships, Kalliope.”
“Trust? How would I, of all people, be in a position of trust on a Navy ship?” Kalliope sagged against the inadequate pillow on the bed, trying not to think about her history with the Navy.
“Because I would make it so. Don’t forget that I stayed, and gained a good deal of authority and respect thanks to what you did for me back then. You’d at be at least a captain by now if our roles had been reversed.” He seemed to lean closer, insistent.
“No. I’m already a captain. I enjoy too much freedom as my own master to go back to taking orders,” she extended a hand to rest on his arm. “Even if it were you.”
“Are you certain? You just barely got by against a small group of slavers, and they’re increasing in number all the time. The Navy is forming a separate task force just to deal with these scum. Things are only going to get worse.”
“You let me worry about keeping my ship out of trouble,” she snorted. Replacing her arm on the bed, she continued, “Speaking of trouble, I just recovered an Adder, if you’re interested. It’s just the sort of thing you could use in an expansion crusade. It’s in good condition, and judging by the fact that you got here so quickly, it’s fast in the Warp. I’ll give you a good deal.”
Lucien burst out with laughter before quieting himself. “That’s so much like you. It’s good to see you haven’t changed. I might take you up on that. Who knows, maybe you’ll even make enough to buy back the place you had on Viros before you enlisted. Or maybe your grandchildren will. I hear that place is becoming a daemon world.”
They shared a grim look before Lucien brightened again. “Well, my offer will continue standing until the day we leave, if you change your mind. Maybe a bit of the old fire will come back to you after you hear people praising you as Captain Braddock, savior of pilgrims.”
“Good God-Emperor, that’s awful.”
“And that’s exactly why it will stick. None of the good names stick.” She snorted again and settled back to a prone position, closing her eyes. “Well, I’ll let you rest. Even if the answer is still no, send a message once in a while.” She opened her eyes to smile at him, and something more than words passed between them.
“I will.”
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 25, 2013 18:33:05 GMT -5
It was cold. And hot. The cold was all around; the heat came from within. Without opening her eyes, Anastasia knew who was in the med bay, where they were, and what they were doing. There were voidsmen to her right that would be dead in hours. Captain Rhea was to her left, falling asleep from painkillers, and would be on her feet again in a matter of days. The Navy man who had been talking to her had just left. Something about him made Ana squirm in her bed.
She forgot about him as she focused inward. The daemon was there, burning brightly. It was waiting, watching, sneering. It whispered things to her every once in a while, taunting her with what it knew about her. Not orphaned of pious parents from Keth, not given to Scarlet as an adept. A lie. A false human, created by a rogue magos of the Biologis who had been raided by a combined task force of Inquisition and Mechanicus factions provoked to anger. She was illegal salvage. Ana worked backwards, figuring out how Scarlet had used her. She’d been made into the perfect vessel for a lesser daemon, her artificial will more absolute than any normal mortal, and Scarlet had used her diviners to determine the perfect way to finish her creation. Strangely, she wasn’t angry. More than any other emotion, she felt a sense of relief that everything had gone more or less smoothly for her mistress.
Scarlet was in the morgue - Ana could tell by the empty area - erasing evidence of her transfer of the daemon from the former host’s body. It took her another minute, and when she was finished, she came into the main lobby of the med bay. She seemed to know that Ana was awake, and was headed toward the girl when Aoibhe Dubhain walked, perhaps floated, into the bay. Her procured hellgun was up and firing at Scarlet before the door had finished opening. Ana had felt her coming. Her small frame would not have blocked the shots without the daemon’s help. It didn’t give up its power willingly; Ana had to force it to make the effort with promises of blood.
Other occupants of the bay were starting to react now, most attempting to find some form of cover or egress from the room. Aoibihe’s second trio of shots were expertly aimed over Ana’s shoulder toward Scarlet’s center of mass, but the daemon-girl brought her hand up to catch them, the energy burning in an oblong shape in her hand for a moment before throwing it back at the attacker. The reaction speed of this woman was inhuman -- the hellgun was already flying out as a shield against the energy blast, and she was rushing forward under it with the power pack as a crude club ready to smash anyone in her path.
With a gesture, Ana sent the pack flying to the ceiling. Two steps brought her within striking distance. Her diminutive fist landed, crushing the medic’s sternum instantly, sending a loud, unnerving crunch through the room, and the woman flew backwards with such force that she bent the bay doors back into the corridor before they came off their tracks. There was no point in checking to see if she was alive. Ana whispered a half-hearted apology, then turned back to Scarlet.
The Inquisitor was wringing her hands with deep thought mixed with just a little bit of anticipation. “Well... everyone here is going to need to forget this.” Ana raised a hand, but the woman stopped her. “No, not like that. I have a better way.” She put a hand to her comm bead, contacting her psyker acolyte on the Dawn. Ana shrugged, and went to check the priest, Sylvanus. He would never recover. The daemon was laughing at her. The promised blood would be delivered in the form of that nice man. Ana was disgusted with herself, and she resolved not to make any more promises as she unplugged his life support.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 27, 2013 18:28:42 GMT -5
The novice senechal, Zander Finley, sauntered up to Captain Rhea’s command throne with the air of someone about to be very pleased with himself. The captain looked at him with a mixture of resignation and despair as she wondered what nonsensical mischief he’d embroiled them all in this time. His smirk told her that she should just give up right now on trying to convince him that she’d rather not take whatever job he’d found.
He’d taken to wearing his facial hair as mutton chops that connected by his mustache, grooming it fastidiously so that it would twitch when he smirked. He’d said it gave him an air of sophistication. Kalliope wasn’t sure if his idea of sophistication was his own, or if it represented all of his native Delana. She hoped that it was the former, because she thought it made him look ridiculous. Even moreso when he got in arguments with the new chief medic, Sister Jhanna. They seemed to have made a ritual of their bickering; they fought at least once every time they crossed paths. Being from Delana, he had a natural dislike for anyone from Scerrus Secundus.
And the Sister Hospitalier was every inch a Scerran. When not in her order’s light carapace, she wore the fashions of her homeworld, an eye-hurting collection of bright colors that seemed to clash and wage war against reason while still somehow working as a cohesive whole. She had altered the environmental controls in the med-bay so that it was at least 30 degrees inside, and every time Kalliope had told her to lower it, she would turn it back up again when the captain was gone. She was an extremely good medic, however, so her personal failings were mostly overlooked. Kalliope wondered if she’d be glad or not when Jhanna’s term of service was up and she went back to wherever she came from.
Finley, on the other hand, was just entering into the life of a spacer. He had a good head for numbers, and seemed to already have a sizable network of connections through his family, but his instincts weren’t yet honed. He was a poor replacement for Johann. Johann had always known how to anticipate her needs, how to force her to maintain good habits and not indulge bad ones. Finley was all too eager to give in to her and try to stay in her good graces. Kalliope wished he’d at least try to argue his point sometimes. She always had to consider what Johann would say if she wanted a second opinion.
She took the offered slate from Finley once he had swaggered up to her throne, and glanced at it while thinking of the friends she’d lost three years ago. Johann and Dubhain were dead; Sylvanus was dead. He probably would have become a good friend after a while. Scarlet and her girl had disappeared without a trace, but Kalliope would not have called them friends. Dufort had just recently left on the crusade and, in his last letter, he mentioned it would be another several years before he was back in contact.
She was interrupted in her thoughts by the proposal set forth in Finley’s slate. “Zander Finley...”
“Yes, Lady Captain?”
“I know you aren’t serious about this.” She gave him a disapproving eyeball.
“I, uh, which part, Milady? I thought myself very thorough.”
“The nonsense part where you suggest taking this game stock to Cessus Station. I was there once, and I swore never to return. I never met such an uncompromisingly arrogant group of people. And they make you spend a week in quarantine, wear their stupid ‘visitor’s robes,’ and most of them spend their time not wearing anything at all.” She thought a moment at the man’s youthful enthusiasm at the notion and shook her head. “Although you know that, I suppose.”
His mustache twitched in response.
“God-Emperor, I’m surrounded by children.” He started to interrupt to tell her his age made him an adult, but she glared at him. “No,” she said, dropping the slate to the deck, “we’re going to Delana to pick up various vehicle parts and servitors. I have my own job in mind this time: delivering high-end vehicle chassis and parts to Pacificus for their enforcers.” She saw him frown at the loss of the Cessus plan, but then smirk again when he thought of time spent on the oceanic pleasure world.
“Milady knows best.” He picked up the slate, turning it into an exaggerated bow. After sketching a quick salute, he walked off the bridge.
“And saints have mercy on my soul...” Kalliope looked up at the aquila over the viewport.
End of Act 5
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 29, 2013 18:43:25 GMT -5
Envoi
Kalliope Rhea wandered through the streets of the mega-hive of Cyclis 3, Morobae’s sector capital. It had been made into a grotesque mockery of the beautiful, almost ethereal Imperial Gothic architectural ideal over time, giving way to uncompromising gloom. Buildings were designed with a trick that made them look as though they leaned out over the walkways, ready to collapse on those with less than acceptable faith, taking out any faithful as tolerable collateral damage. Kalliope felt cowed as she made the frustrating attempt to navigate the streets to her destination.
She had made her wealth equal to that of most planetary nobles in the past 20 years; now she had no need to work. Working as a free captain had become boring. The Beacon had become less of a lover and more of a thing she owned. She hated the passage of time and how it had changed her. It was the fault of having money, of not having to worry about where she’d get her next job -- next meal. Without the struggle of just making ends meet, it all blended together as one long, boring Warp jump. She’d forgotten the mystery and wonder of it all until she’d come to this bully of a capital world for Candlemas.
Originally, she had been planning on visiting Lucien, now an admiral, to accept his offer to join the Navy. But then she saw the special Candlemas service broadcast right from the main cathedral here on the surface. Part of the service had been the awarding of the Obsidian Imperialis - Kalliope didn’t know exactly what it was, but she was aware it had been at least a generation since last it had been given as a decoration - to a young crusader woman named Mina Chevalier.
It was a revelation. One of those sacred moments when a person realizes what her life was for. The Beacon’s captain knew at once when she saw the radiant features, the angelic pinions of pale golden feathers that sprouted from her back through the silvery-golden armor, that she was compelled to pledge herself to the girl’s service. It had taken minimal work to find out where she was staying on Cyclis, and she had headed there.
She stood at the door of the small, but quite luxurious for the world, home. Her heart was pounding with an anxiety she hadn’t felt since she was a young girl, her hand hesitated over the door chime. Her stomach threatened to squeeze itself up into her chest to compete with her lungs for room. She rang the chime, attempting to compose her face with some dignity.
Soon, her life would begin again.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Apr 30, 2013 17:55:15 GMT -5
To tide you lot over until I get around to the next story.
A Ballad to the Lady of Morobae To be sung with somber musical accompaniment.
Brighid, turn away the right side of your face As I sing of my one true love. Let my song bring you tears, Let my love cause them to flow freely.
She who would have been queen without Sand’s fell turn Opens bitter eyes. Nothing she there sees but The stars she reflected. Be the time; moments upon others.
Our jewel of the sky, never she sets for others. I can’t approach her, far away. Here I fall, I am lost. Her light fades As I chase her across this dull void.
More to die with her over life all alone. I want her answer, but I fear her answer. Whom does her mythos serve? I pass each night with this thought, burning.
Mourn I her crystal, unfinished royal crown. Five stones burned to bare, feral waste, two left dim. Delana - whispered name. Love is too shallow to reach from here.
So much, I miss her. My song is bitter, but In spite of that, I hope the sound reaches her. Feath’ry light, waxing pure, Will let me see her smile again.
Her song, filling the Hope I fear deep within, Flies through, peeling back ruined and worthless sky. It echoes, that sound full. Let it be a pow’r that connects us.
- Attributed to the Poet of Camaril
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