apathy

Journal of a Freeman - Serpent's Skull Chronicle

Below is the journal of Olca Sankara, a bonuwat buccaneer and member of the Freemen's Brotherhood.

History

Born to the Tava'Ijo in a small village along the Oubinga River, Bakari lived the simple life of an alchemist's son. He'd spend hours each day with his older siblings and father, venturing into caves to search for pungent minerals or scouring the jungle to harvest essential saps and roots. It was one such day, when he was eight years old, that the trajectory of his life was forever changed. Oubingakiji was attacked by Ombo raiders, and in their carnage his community was ravaged.

Bakari and his siblings were sold for a few pieces of silver at Crown's End, he was kept in shackles with hundreds of other enslaved children. Mornings were spent harvesting pineapples in the field, while evenings were reserved for mining black powder. The burden of grey dawns when his loved ones suffered no longer torture him. Not even the memory of his father's lessons remains. With only the fire of revenge deep in his belly, Bakari endured.

Freedom came a decade after his capture. A group of former slaves led an armed assault on the mining operation and slayed the corrupt foremen and overseers. With his newfound freedom, Bakari was reborn. Changing his name to Olca, he seeks retribution against not just those who enslaved him, but the entire mechanism of imperialism that has exploited and corrupted all it covets.

---

21 Abadius

I am unsure of what the days to come will bring. A fortnight ago I was on Motaku, having a drink at Fat Jessup's after a job when I was approached by a Bonuwat sailor, with a message from Kwame: come to Eleder. A year of running messages for the Freemen, never has one been for me. This should be interesting.

It was noon when I hit the cramped slums that have sprung up along the Diomar Wall. The smell of bodies & pineapples was overwhelming. The indignities the Chelish have visited upon us will be avenged.

Time has not been kind to the wary Ombo. We met in the home of a local fisherman. I found him hunched over a bevy of maps. Beads of sweat pooled in ravines gouged into his brow through decades of concern.

A man of few words, he cut straight to the heart of the matter. A group, fresh from Smuggler's Shiv, had attracted the attention of several important parties across Desperation Bay. Amongst those coming to meet with the strangers was First Mate Xi Four-Eyes.

"Rarely does the eel slither out of its hole," Kwame said to me. He then offered me a chance at serving the Freemen as more than an envoy.

How could I say no?

O

*A few equations are scribbled in a rushed hand, along with a crude drawing of an exploding iron pot.*

24 Abadius

Yesterday was the first time I killed a man.

Spent the last three days hanging around Portside, learning what I can until the meeting. The mgenis arrival dominated every conversation in the district. Rumors swirled they had a map with them that led to untold riches. I wonder how much of this is true.

The day of the meeting came & I put my plan into motion: I scaled the Sargava Club's back wall & snuck in through a second story window. There was too much commotion to bother listening in & I wasn't there for information.

I packed a few doses of black powder into an iron pot & cut enough fuse to buy me time to climb to the rooftop. In position, I readied my musket & prepared to fire at Xi as he escaped the Club. I had not planned for the coward to take one of the mgeni as hostage; a pale woman with crimson hair. I took the shot & missed.

With no other option, I joined the woman's comrades as they gave chase. We drew near to the warehouse district when a panicked mob pushed past us. Nipping at their heels was a pack of rabid dogs we were forced to put down.

We saw black smoke rising above the rooftops some blocks away & moved in that direction only to find some of my own comrades turn & attack us as they burned down several warehouses. Were these Freemen defending Xi or merely taking advantage of the situation to strike at the Chelish? I would not open fire on them; the others had no qualms.

We pushed them back to the gates of the South Arcadian Whaling Company. High above us, atop a warehouse roof, was Umagro Twin-Blades; a champion of the Freemen. He held one of his famed blades to the pale woman's throat & yelled his demands. Umagro & Xi were allies? I could not believe this.

To attack a heavily fortified position held by superior numbers was foolish. They are lucky I was with them, or so I thought.

The details of the battle are a blur of gore & smoke but I will never forget the violent spasm of that young Zenj as my bullet punched a hole through his chest. He died with Umagro's name on his lips.

At some point a decomposing whale exploded & covered every available inch of the courtyard in a grisly layer of charred flesh. The horrors were not yet over.

Another drink.

*His writing begins to slant & cramp together.*

The worst came as we cornered Umagro, hostage still in tow. Recognizing the inevitable, he took his blade, yanked her head back & slit her throat open for us to witness. The golden lizard man rushed forward when an anger I'd long kept dormant took over me.

It was fucking murder. I did what must be done & do not regret my decision.

The mgeni have asked me to join their expedition. They seek the fabled city Saventh-Yhi. With Eleder's purging of Umagro & his fanatics, perhaps it would be in the Brotherhood's best interests to join the expedition. With the treasure from Saventh-Yhi, a thousand revolutions could be funded.

With my new identity I shall bring a storm to this land & sweep it of injustice.

O

26 Abadius

Not much sleep the last two nights.

This morning I convinced some local Mba'ijo to ferry us in their rafts. We sailed along Desperation Bay in search of an old hermit rumored to live in a grotto near the Pallid Bluffs. We arrived at high tide & waded to shore as the fishermen cast their nets.

After a short search we discovered the hermit arguing with himself in his grotto. He calls himself Nkechi the Tempest. I recognize the wild stare of a man long addled by the sun. He was gnarled like flotsam & scrambled around his cave on all fours before thrusting a rusty trident at us & demanding we return with black pearls in order to gain his favor.

Never have I seen such miserable fucking swimmers. What should have been a few minutes worth of diving became an exercise in futility as two of the mgeni turned on one another. I do not know what happened on the Shiv, but it seems animosities run deep between them.

No matter. The pearls were gathered.

O

27 Abadius

Many new faces at the Sargava Club this morning, while some familiar ones failed to arrive. Only the elf witch, halfling druid & pale woman were there that I recognized. We met with a Red Mantis; an elf woman by the name of Chivane.

I am unaware of what associations the Freemen may have the Red Mantis, but allies & resources are needed to fight the Chelish.

With a preliminary budget agreed upon, I left the Club to meet with Nkechi for his second trial. Stole a donkey from a dumpy Chelish merchant and rode to an overgrown trail I discovered after the pearl dive. Spent some time working on my quick draw while waiting for the others to arrive. With a shorter barrel and filing down the stock into a grip, I can wield this musket like a pistol. It needs a name.

Nkechi has requested a feather from the Chirok of Gozreh's Crest. Perhaps the Dutu intends to kill us before we make it inland.

The climb up Gozreh's Crest was formidable. A storm rolled in during our ascent. After some quick thinking & plenty of rope (remember to ask the rat-man how he did that) we were able to reach the stormbird's nest no worse for wear.

Our good fortune did not last. Upon the Chirok's arrival it let loose an awful screech. My ears are still ringing.

Calypso, the witch, subdued the beast with her magic and we left with our prize. Upon reaching the ground, we were surrounded by a group of Mba'ijo who demanded to know why we trespassed on their sacred grounds. Our intrusion was visible from their village & their insulted elders sent a war party to investigate. We explained our situation & though we had not harmed the stormbird, we had trespassed & they demanded justice.

Insults were hurled and a not-so-friendly competition broke out between the vanara monk & half-orc barbarian as to who would wrestle their champion in trial by combat. The barbarian made quick work of the monk and champion.

We spent the night beneath the stars with the Mba'ijo at a small outpost near the bluffs.

O

28 Abadius

This morning we returned to the hermitage. With a gleeful shake of his old bones, Nkechi scuttled away with our tokens. We gathered around his feeble fire as he spoke of wind & waves while drawing on our faces with red paste.

He told us we were to speak with Gozreh & gave us each a portion of dried dromotu root. Familiar with its effects, I happily accepted. This was nothing like that night in the Kaavanyika beneath a tapestry of melting stars.

I felt myself floating, then shrinking as I took to the heavens. I could feel my flesh shift into a coat of fur as I connected to something deep within my soul. I danced through the cosmos with the others, also changed, when we were challenged by a mighty cobra.

I can't make much sense of what happened that night, but we triumphed against the snake & this convinced the old hermit to join the expedition as our field guide. What have I signed up for?

O

29 Abadius

After a short meeting and some silver-tongued diplomacy, I convinced Kwame and Captain Mindarre of the Eagle Knights to assist the expedition.

I'll deliver the news to the party at the Sargava Club then spend the night fashioning a raft sturdy enough to carry us down shore to Port Freedom.

Before departing, Kwame warned me to maintain the Freemen's standing with the Rivermen's Guild. Why the opinion of thugs matters to him is beyond me.

O

*Several lines of scrawled gibberish where only the words FUCKIN' GREAT and MASTERPIECE are legible along with a drawing of a raft fill a page stained with thick drops.*

30 Abadius

Woke up to a splitting headache. Barely had time to relieve myself before the others arrived, having spent their last night in Eleder at the Club. I'll be glad to be back on the water.

Morale's a touch low tonight after some rough sailing. If it hadn't been for a family of giant squid, the raft would have held and we'd be in Port Freedom by now. Guess I'll hold off on drinking until after the planning stage.

No matter; we made it to shore and spent a pleasant night beneath the stars after making great progress along the coast. We'll arrive before next day's end where the promise of drink and shelter will soothe their tempers.

O

31 Abadius

Awoke to Vam screeching in my face. Can’t say it’s the worst way I’ve been woken up. Despite my best efforts the monk seems bereft of chirk; I doubt a life on the sea is meant for my holy acquaintance.

After a short walk we arrived at Port Freedom. The Korir is the lifeblood of this port town and I could hear it pumping from miles away. Quick to separate after a tense night, we made our way along narrow streets to the harbor in search of this "Tristram" to deliver Captain Mindarre's letter.

The Andorans make a fine vessel. A crew of a dozen men would be plenty to work its sails and man its ballistas. But a dozen men we lack; what we do have is a motley band. Tristram was another Andoran, sunburnt redder than a baboon's ass. He asked that we find an able helmsman to lead us upriver to Kalabuto. Other than that, our voyage was assured.

The rat-man, Zigmund, has kept me company since my meeting with Mindarre. His easy-going nature is welcome company. Together, we made our way to the Golden Fang to meet the others.

Upon our arrival we were met with the strangest sight; an enormous cage was erected in the center of the tavern. The mere sight of those bars put me in a foul mood. As two raptors were placed in the cage to fight for our amusement, I made contact with a member of the Rivermen's Guild: a Jabulani Mastour.

I made up some story about escorting a group of mgeni to the Bandu Hills for a mining company. Despite his ridiculous terms, I accepted on the grounds that the voyage should be simple enough. A little over a week and we'd be there.

Not quite sure what happened while the Riverman and I came to terms, but Ned, the barbarian, was at the center of a lethal brawl. Violence comes easy to some in our party. Watching a man writhe in pain as he burns was too fucking much. I had to put him out of his misery.

What's happening to me?

O

①⑨⑥⑧

i have two possible concepts for this setting.

the first is bane serving as a cuban commando returning from mexico following the tlateloco massacre before being sent further into lat-am to train militias.

the second would be a deep-dive 'nam story from the perspective of kgbeast and the nva.

This..Is..SPARTA!!!

i'll throw in my hat as a misthios from the distant land of serica.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

18-8-2039
New Xanathan City (formerly Cape Town, South Africa)

The bend of a subterranean hallway stretched into harsh halogen infinity as Operator Brighton muttered internally, eyes drawn to narrow slits. It’s been two fucking weeks since I put in my request for a tinted visor. Nothing better than standing guard for an asshole egomaniac while these lamps roast my fucking retinas. A gnashed wad of up-gum sank against his cheek and flooded his system with a cocktail of stimulants. He pulled up the time on his HUD and audibly groaned. Another hour til midnight and Edwards showed up to replace him.

<< Howzit, gomgat? All ready to tuck in and skommel in your bunk? >> Van Wyk's brogue rumbled in Brighton's earpiece. The gruff Afrikaaner at the helm of the sector's surveillance hub cast the hallway's feed on the main screen and gave a hearty chuckle as a solitary armored figure gave him the middle finger. The austere grey of the Xanathan Defense Suit complemented the corridor’s aseptic atmosphere. << You’d love that, you cheeky poes. >> With a leaden hand Van Wyk smashed the console’s keys. A white glare filled the surveillance hub’s cramped interior as the hushed roar of static dominated the main screen. Wat die… << Brighton, take a looksie at our guest. His room’s feed is stukkend. >>

The room returned to its previous gloominess as Van Wyk pulled up the corridor camera. He watched as Brighton turned, powering on the stun baton clenched in his fist. The Operator pulled open the cell’s preliminary observation panel then stopped dead in his tracks.

<< Copy. Alright gollum, it’s time to wake up. You know the rou-- >>

Moments earlier…

The withering husk of Bharata Rendenvauld barely made an impression on the mnem-plas mattress. Through a false window in the cell’s far wall trickled in a beam of synthesized moonlight. Each artificial mote was like a fresh lash for light itself had become tortuous in his current state. Bharata laid there, gaze cast towards a darkened corner when a voice unknown to him arose from the void. It slithered through the cell’s honeycombed panels; softer and colder than any synthetic lunarcy.

And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

“Not… fucking… poetry…” Bharata mustered through ragged breaths. His tongue hung slack and swollen from an open mouth. The wall and ceiling closest to him were pulled into one another as a spatial distortion tore through the cell’s defenses. With a shudder, reality stabilized as an amorphous entity stepped into the chamber. Bharata’s head swung sickeningly as sallow grey eyes rolled back into his skull. Death was coming, if not here already.

Not yet, Mr. Rendenvauld.

A ringed digit, long and pale, pressed upon Bharata’s forehead and drew him back from the void. His vision swam with delirium as the entity before him congealed into the mostly humanoid form of a lithe gentleman dressed in a finely tailored suit. The figure leaned forward, nearly driving the jagged bill of their Ibis-mask into Bharata’s chest. He studied the masterful leatherwork of the mask when a twinge of horror gripped the base of his skull: that’s no mask.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye.

“Hey, Bird-Face! Just kill me… if you’re going to... bring me back for poetry.”

Very amusing, Mr. Rendenvauld. Would you like to continue being so particularly amusing?

The finger pressed against Bharata’s forehead withdrew slightly as its bezel rotated along a non-euclidean axis. The ring opened to reveal an abyssal seal; the profane sigil roiled as the object of Bharata’s desires grew closer to material reality.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

Motes of darkness congealed, clinging to Ayanda’s astral form as she traversed the membranous mist at the edge of material reality. A cinnabar effulgence arose from footprints that faded into numinous oblivion. Their fleeting warmth bolstered her fragmenting spirit as she pushed through the tide of psychic trauma that threatened to consume her.

Mind and soul alike nearly drowned in galactic wickedness when the footsteps returned. Dazzling outlines repeat themselves frenetically when through the haze Ayanda is spirit-touched by a pulse. Its beat throbs to life within her sꜥḥ. A tangle of ethereal vines erupted from her spectral form and tore through the corruptive barrier. Unhindered, she entered a realm she’d only seen flashes of during moments of deepest meditation.

An enormous baobab reached towards the heavens and dominated a savanna of prismatic plains, dappled with vitreous lakes. Wide branches sprawled across the fantastic vista. Their feather-laden branches swayed softly above teeming grasslands where chrysanthemum mandalas hummed melodies that conjured nth-dimensional toys. Fractal sprites batted them playfully, laughter like running water. Wavy sheets of aubergine filled a twilight sky, acting as a backdrop for ten suns and moons. The celestial bodies acted as scintillating nodes along a cosmic nexus. Totems stretched across the plenum of space, granting boons to champions across all planes of existence.

Surrounding the savanna, Ayanda witnessed dozens of déblé that dwarfed Kilimanjaro in scale and majesty. Their appearance crossed all the cultures she knew and many she’d never seen; the citrine Nemes of long-lost Pharaohs, wide-brimmed eburnean Fulanis and lofty jacinthe Isicholos dazzled the eye. The primordial glory they exuded was nearly as magnificent as the auroras that enveloped them. Variegated bands of aether erupt with each strike of their ancient staves against the Earth. Their percussion created the pulse that pulled Ayanda through the fog. It was a rhythm she’d danced to since birth.

An impenetrable darkness loomed far to the North, where a déblé’s massive figure was impaled by a sapphire beam from the cosmos that slashed through bands of quintessence. Its final note was a tormented cry, held until nihility. Ayanda recoiled in horror, recalling the vile nature of the beam her mind had momentarily connected to. At that moment, the pygmy appeared before her. No longer obscured by the fog of psychic anguish, she became aware of its peculiar appearance as it noisily beckoned her closer.

The psychopomp’s frame was shrouded in a stramineous cloak of crimson. Sewn to each tattered strand were cowrie shells that clattered with its exaggerated motions while Ayanda drew closer. Its craned neck was adorned in dzilla of burnished brass, with countless rings disappearing into the depths of its raffia mantle. What Ayanda found most intriguing though, was the pygmy’s avian visage. Perched atop its coiled halse was a bleached corvid’s skull. Faintly glowing cosmograms adorned its surface, depicting its allegiance to the Orishas. Deep cracks ran along its beak and interrupted an intricate vèvè of infinitely subdividing triangles. It regarded her for a moment, head moving in sharp, stereotyped saccades, before speaking through its closed beak.

“DOOM!” the pygmy cawed at Ayanda, its voice somewhere between a growl and a hiss.

“I… What?” She began, unsure of what exactly the spirit meant, when a series of omens flooded her thoughtscape.

The curve of a Chthonian gas giant hung still against the brilliant backdrop of its parent star. Megaannums trickled past it like the crystalline Ikralz showers that enrich its exposed molten core, fulminating in aphotic azoth. Swarms of omnivorous Tzijhuan sail through the nimbus sea of Tunara-6. They metastasize through the allophane exterior of the Murzid; within a svident the city is lost. Slurries of translucent protoplasma exude from vents along the K’isti chain, ready to consume verminous stellar worms when an oscillating glome is shunted through the yoke of entropy. A skiv skitters across a gulch of bubbling selenium when silica pyroclasts erupt through Ganaxavori’s mantle and choke the planet.

“The gluttonous Void has awoken. It has consumed. It shall consume. The stars wither in its presence.” The Initiation pummeled her sꜥḥ. Comprehension came at a heavy price as the pygmy imparted its wisdom. Time lost all meaning as causality collapsed upon itself.

Through the void Ayanda followed an extension of the cosmological horror, enemy beyond enemies. Her mind-form pulls the vision into focus. Cocooned in a warped corona of spacetime, the galactic lance ravaged existence with its passing. The lustrous quantum interlinks of the Bahá-cizr surged, rupturing as konul:sankul harmonics desynced with disastrous effect.

"The Betrayer has returned. It has branded. It shall brand.”

In the aftermath of atmospheric entry, the beam’s corrupt nature was disseminated across the planet, with large concentrations blanketing Europe and Asia. The repercussions of this were beyond her ken. Like a moth to the flame, Nuberu marched towards the lance’s wound while a monstrous horde of nightmares stirred deep beneath the ruins of the Sahara, dormant for decades. They shambled across the Glasslands, consuming all in their path with little resistance. Her perception shifted to just beyond Venus as a flotilla flashed into existence. Through the membranous hide of an enormous cetacean Ayanda witnessed a Flood that dwarfed the invasion that changed her planet forever.

“The key is broken.”

Despite her astral form, Ayanda instinctually recognized her return to Marange. Geomantic awareness spread through its comforting honeycomb of well-lit tunnels and vibrant chambers. This place, her home, had been created through years of patience and diligence; swelling as rapidly as the ranks of her extended family. But now, the well-lit tunnels were plunged in darkness and the vibrant chambers were dominated by kenopsic silence. Something dreadful had happened. Ayanda’s sꜥḥ was yanked across the aether to the searing pain of her dearest child, Najwa. The young Lioness crashed through a heavy basalt fortification along the training colosseum’s perimeter. A heavy plume of dust rises from the crater. With a wave of telekinetic might, the smoke is cast away. A howl of pure rage erupted from Mshale’s corrupted form that scoured his surroundings. In its final throes atop the basalt wreckage was a massive, leathery wing that oozed with each spasm.

Perception twisted beyond her mastery and into the realm of cosmic awareness. She tried to close her eyes to shield herself and found she had none. The Pygmy’s ultimate revelations threatened to consume her when she recalled Faizah’s first lesson: Breathe, child. A calm spread through Ayanda’s consciousness. The universe stretched out before her as she passed through fields of galaxies before ultimately transcending the multiverse.

Beyond the comfort of Time and Space she saw a Crown, adrift in a sea of protonic decay. Its dread domain surrounded the lustrous jewel of all Creation. Billowing masses pulsed from one vague shape to another within the encroaching oblivion when waves propagated through the Crown, folding its structure into a tight curl as parallel axes unfolded through the gamut of spatial dimensions until manifesting as an eye, horrendous to behold, that peered directly at Ayanda. Her sꜥḥ reeled and she retreated, through billions of light-years, along a tether of familiarity towards her body.

13-8-2039
Mzinda wa Mitengo
Lake Malawi, Free Territories

She felt the prison of corporeality once more. Sensation trickled in through a dissociative fog; the first being the healing percussion of an odondo. The warm rhythm filled the ritual chamber as Nkosiyabo’s chants came to her next. His voice had gone hoarse days ago but he dared not end the ceremony lest harm befall Ayanda while her spirit roamed astral wilds beyond his ability to comprehend.

A week had passed since he’d last rested, during that horrid night of terrors. Exhaustion surpassed the shaman’s willpower. The odondo fell with a muffled clatter atop the pile of enchanted pelts that littered the cramped hut’s floor. Cool moonlight poured through the thatched roof and danced along the emerald accents of Nkosiyabo’s nganga mask as it shifted during his collapse. Several kola nuts rattled against the opon ifá he’d been using to divine Ayanda’s location as the altar bearing her body rocked gently in the commotion.

Ayanda’s whispered thanks came to Nkosiyabo as he was pulled into a dreamless void. The following morning he awoke with a start. The lanky shaman scrambled to his feet and took Ayanda’s hand in his. Nkosiyabo broke into a croaking laugh when a geologic pulse spread through his body. He looked to the divination board near the altar’s edge and understood what he must do.

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

LSD horror extravaganza

apathy's ENCHIRIDION

MIA

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

18-8-2039
Mathématique, Free State of the Congo

An enormous chandelier bobbed in the lazy, midnight breeze that swept through the caravansary’s open corridors. A tangle of wires kept the light fixture suspended high above Plunderstäd’s central plaza, where the regular slaps of fists against flesh were punctuated by the raucous cheers of a captivated audience. Within a gap in the throng of mercenaries, thieves, and poachers were two of Verdoven’s men. Blow by blow, they’d settle their dispute over divvied loot.

Older mutengesi’s going to feint with his left, then slip the right cross. Flurry to the murume mukuru’s exposed ribs. Oldy’s experienced.

From an overlooking balcony Najwa watched on in detached scrutiny as her prediction came to pass. She took a few solid swigs from the opaque bottle of waragi she gripped tightly. Her gaze traveled beyond the bloodied combatants to the colorful marketplace that catered to the more ruthless and despicable individuals of the Free Territories.

A heavy-handed man in a gore-splattered apron butchered the corpse of a yearling Mbayafisi. The air around him is thick with buzzing utsu. He reached into its exposed innards and removed a massive liver he admired beneath a string of incandescent bulbs.

Nearby, a group of armed youths surrounded a small table as they played a spirited game of bao in a dense cloud of periwinkle. Neon-lined hoses passed between eager lips that greedily inhaled vapor from an ornate hookah. A fat Durbaan grub thrashed violently inside the device’s bubbling glass base.

Directly across from Najwa, on the adjacent balcony, an aged woman dressed in a gaudy post-war plastic dress with canary-dyed fur accents handed a small child over to a younger sex worker (who traded high-end couture for a floral imibhaco and simple silver looped earrings) before breaking off to solicit potential customers.

Through hyper-heightened senses Najwa perceived the entirety of the bustling scene in vivid detail. Another mighty gulp and the bottle was empty. Her nostrils flared and stomach grumbled as somewhere beneath the pungent miasma of body odor, vice, and viscera, came the aroma of cooking meat.

Najwa turned away from the balcony. Her feet carried her mechanically towards the bar. Surrounded by a very confused collection of looted artwork and graffiti-laden walls, Najwa paid for a third bottle and a kudu burger beneath a buzzing sign that read WASHINGTON’S. Under the guise of admiring a stunning, ivory pendant mask of a long-dead queen, she made constant assessments of her surroundings. After exactly two minutes and thirty two seconds of open glances from the guerrillas at the bar, she took her meal over to a row of seats near a separate series of balconies that overlooked the Congo River.

Leaning against the balustrade, she took an uninspired bite of the burger. In the past, she would have savored the moment; the Congo’s steady flow interrupting the vivid rose-gold of Plunderstäd’s neon accents and creating a dazzling effect upon the water while a chill breeze dances along her flesh and whispers in her ear that a storm was raging hundreds of miles to the South. But now, hyper-awareness just made Najwa that much more cognizant of how numb she felt.

Despite mythic feats of strength, Najwa never knew a burden quite like the empty, leather rucksack she carried. The mission was over; the journal was destroyed. And yet, she could not bring herself to release the age-worn straps and set the pack aside. The waragi bottle’s neck exploded with a flick of her thumb and skid along the Congo as she sank under the weight of memory.

Najwa emptied the bottle’s contents, shards of glass scraping minute channels down her throat. Just like the waragi, the discomfort was fleeting. The liquor stung the wounds that healed before she’d taken her final gulp. She could almost hear Assad now, with that disappointed tone she’d often heard him adopt when Naguib or Eshe earned themselves a lecture and extra duties.

You know it won’t do any good.

Tears welled in the bottomless viridescence of her eyes. Najwa’s surroundings dimmed to a dissociative void. Instead, she found herself tormented by the cacophonic smashing of telekinetic rage against stone while the graphic recollection of atrocities threatened to consume her. Flashes of blood-tinged haze coming from luminous stalks caked with entrails. The dying cries of comrades, shattered by the dozen beneath a malice-fueled mind. Semret’s petite frame, anchored to the splintered dolomite floor by Mshale’s spear through her throat.

Just as a hulking, winged frame came into her mind’s eye, Najwa was roused from her despair when an oleander hawk-moth fluttered against the smoked glass of a nearby oil lamp. The flame swelled in the dusty wake of gossamer wings, flashing a brilliant shade of emerald. A wave of calm swept over Najwa, soothing the wound her augmented healing factor could not assuage. She observed traces of moonlight shimmering along the jade fringes of its thorax and expressed her gratitude to Nkosiyabo and his winged herald.

“Wazviita, Nko. Tell Ayanda I’ll be home soon.”

The moth hovered near Najwa for a moment then whizzed into the night. Her eyes tracked it across the river before she became acutely aware of treetops thrashing. Narrowing her focus to a razor’s edge, Najwa’s pupils widened in a predatory manner true to her callsign. Too far removed from the storm. Something’s not right.

The Lioness ran along the ivy-clad balustrade to the confused outbursts of patrons inside. She leapt, graceful as any jungle cat, and landed silently in the middle of the battle-torn intersection dominated by Plunderstäd neon-presence. By the time the crowd had gathered at the balustrade to see where she had landed, Najwa sprinted across the Tshopo Bridge towards the flashing mass of black clouds to the South.

---

Xanathan Security Forces F.O.B Epsilon-16
Free State of the Congo

A slithering colony of carnivorous slime molds oozed along the shadowed edge of the base’s perimeter lights. Half-digested husks of fat grubs slowly rotated within their viscous tomb. The mass was on its way towards the underbrush when it sizzled in the headlights of a rapidly approaching hover-truck. The base’s main gate swung open as the dour-faced commander of XSF 11th Company, affectionately known as Cataclysm Company amongst its soldiers, began to yell as she jumped down from the APC’s bustle rack before the vehicle had come to a warbling stop.

“Listen up! We’re moving out to back up the 12th Hornet Team at 0500. That’s one hour, gentlemen! Make it count!”

Beneath a towering Okoumé tree, the steady stream of Corporal Dlamini’s urine now flowed with urgency at the sudden arrival of First Lieutenant Coetzee and her mobilization orders. He cursed at his misfortune as piss trickled down his boots. Composing himself, the Corporal turned back towards the base. He ignored the distorted facsimile of his voice emanating from bellflowers suspended by sprawling branches; perse petals vibrated in crude mimicry as ichor dripped from curled pistils.

“Units 6 and 7, status report on those crew-serves!”
“Your magazines topped up?”
“Aanjaag, Kataklismes! Get those Bloedhonde operational!
“Verskoon my, Korporaal.”

With an approving nod, Corporal Dlamini stepped out of the way of a mousey Private as he guided a hover-lift loaded with 100mm shells towards the vehicle bay. Epsilon-16 had come to life. Dlamini always marveled at the efficiency the mechanics and technicians operated with at a moment’s notice. This feeling would be quickly replaced with confusion as sporadic gunfire erupted along the base’s perimeter.

The Corporal advanced towards the nearest watchtower, the rifle slung at his side jostling against the composite armor plates of his gear. High above, two gunners were engaged with an unknown force. Blooms of saffron illuminate the gloom in flashes. Crimson tracer rounds scream through the pre-dawn fog. Corporal Dlamini clambered up the watchtower’s ladder. The gunners grew silent as he pulled himself up to the platform. His eyes peeled at the carnage.

What appeared to be a group of emaciated and horribly burnt children had wedged themselves through the tower’s embrasures and into the gunner’s nest. Like nightmarish mantids, they used their crescent forelimbs to eviscerate the decapitated gunners. Dlamini raised his rifle and opened fire on the children as they ravaged his comrades' bodies. In the height of terror, the Corporal forgot he was 40 feet above the ground and stepped backwards, off the platform. Falling, he had just enough time to come to terms with his likely death when the wind was knocked clear from him. A lithe form crashed through the perimeter wall and caught Dlamini a moment before impact. Just before he lost consciousness, the Corporal swore he heard a woman’s voice comfort him and saw the flash of an insignia he did not recognize; a hammer clenched in an upright fist.

“Ek het jou, soldaat.”

***

Like a blur, Najwa moved between the overrun XSF company and the attacking force of aberrations. Vaporous heat trails spiraled down to nothingness before her eyes as The Lioness wove through a barrage of gunfire. She scanned the warzone and noticed a mob of arachno-humanoids crowded around a quonset longhouse. Mechanical pleas of mercy bubbled up twisted vocal chords. Elongated blades protruded from exposed tissue along their forearms and slashed deep channels into the galvanized steel. Beneath the din of the battlefield she could hear the panicked cries of a mechanic team trapped inside as they desperately dragged what they could to bar the doors and windows.

An armored hovercraft hurtled through the base’s revetment when it discharged its 100mm cannon. She observed her warped reflection in hyper-detail along the spent shell’s casing as she slid under the Bloedhond. Tucking in tight, Najwa felt herself enveloped by immense amounts of force that battered her relentlessly while she passed between the vehicle’s dual anti-grav repulsors. Blood trickled from her inner ear. Her exposed forearms swell and fall as bruises healed instantaneously. The Lioness emerged on the other side, no worse for wear, to discover a new terror attacking the quonset.

In the epicenter of the flensed horde loomed a creature unlike any Najwa had crossed paths with. Her thoughts flashed to the monstrous Popobawa she’d slain. This abomination was just as foul, and appeared to be crafted by a perverse mind; an amalgam of several arachno-humanoids fused to what may have once been an elephant's body. A mass of bone-tipped innards writhed along the behemoth’s hunched torso and lashed at the longhouse’s exterior. Malformed skulls from across the animal kingdom protruded from sagging, gray teeth-pocked flesh. Najwa heard the groan of steel with each horrendous blow of its dozen-odd arms beneath the mob’s garbled wailing.

Where are these monsters coming from? How many more lurk in the darkness? Ayanda, we need you... But first, these people need me. Not even these Xanathan dogs deserve to become a monster’s meal.

In eerie similarity to that terrible night at Marange, Najwa charged into the throng. Only now, she would not restrain her ferocity. These were not friends, tainted by the wicked presence of a shetani; she did not know what they were. But their corruption was palpable. As was their stench of decay.

No clear state of mind came to Najwa. She did not feel the usual wave of calm and freedom as she came into melee range. At this moment she felt something else entirely. Slipping between a coordinated attack of diagonal slashes, Najwa spun into a series of roundhouse kicks that turned her attackers into mist. With a savagery she’d unleashed only once before, the Lioness tore through the crowd of arachno-humanoids with ease. Her fists crashed through chitinous skulls, splattering the tarmac. With each strike, a polychromatic sheen spread from the telekill knuckles of her reinforced gloves.

The quonset’s front end collapsed beneath the atrocity’s bulk as it threw itself upon the longhouse. Najwa turned her attention to the isolated colossus, breaking into a powerful sprint. Pavement fractured beneath her feet. With a mighty thrust, the Lioness leapt onto its haunches, shattering the behemoth’s rearmost leg in the process. Its tendrils lashed and whipped at her flesh while its many arms futilely attempted to bend backwards and seize her.

Najwa reared back, throwing all of the force she could muster behind one ultimate blow. Her fist impacted against the goliath’s gnarled spine in an explosion of kaleidoscopic brilliance. The telekill alloy released its potential energy in a devastating psychic onslaught that overpowered their hivemind. The behemoth roared in its final throes; convulsions twisted its malignant form. Paralyzed by shared trauma, the remaining aberrations were easily picked apart by the regrouped XSF operatives.

Najwa raised her arms in a sign of surrender as she stepped away from the downed colossus. Soldiers rushed to surround the woman, weapons trained and ready to fire. Silence gripped the grisly scene until a woman’s voice spoke up from behind the circle of troops.

“That was a ballsy rescue. You know, I like a woman with style. Stand down.” A pair of black-clad operatives in full gear parted as a tall redhead in a basic Xanathan uniform entered the circle. Looking Najwa over with an icy stare, First Lieutenant Coetzee chewed on the end of a thin cigar. Upon seeing the insignia on this strange woman’s fatigues, the company commander began to draw her own conclusions. With a sudden shift in demeanor, her words turned frigid. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The Lioness stood there for a moment, strong and silent, when she felt a familiar vibration against her bosom. Its source was the crystal pendant Ayanda had given her on her 15th birthday. A solace she so desperately sought had finally arrived and directed her response. An awkward grin curled the corners of her mouth as she responded.

“I am known to my enemies as The Lioness, and to my comrades as Najwa.” Oh man oh man I’ve always wanted to say this. “I’m here because I want you to… Take me to your leader.”

To test a Lioness.

@Doc Doctor

The pneumatic hiss of a pedal compressing stirred the strangest recollections in Najwa’s subconscious. She was reminded of the whoosh of automatic doors; a novelty she’d forged negative associations with, given her childhood experience with Xanathan, until her arrival to Tamarin. She’d been so amused at the locals aversion to opening their own doors, instead relying on sensors. There was another sound beneath the hiss she did not recognize; it was like a shrill whisper from miles away that became a discordant chorus as thousands of microfibers cried out before being summarily executed. A shiver traced along her spine at the subsequent frequency of a metal rod being sliced into.

The Lioness assessed everything she’d learned about the assassin in their brief exchange, processing scenario along scenario and reaching her conclusion between the first touch of the pedal and its compression. The level of weaponry she’d gleaned through her enhanced senses, paired with the deadly efficiency the westerner operated with, had Najwa reach the same outcome with each concurrent scenario. Failure was not an option for this one, and retreat seemed unlikely.

Her preternatural strength, dexterity and coordination came together in awesome concert. Before the gear shift began to slide back into reverse, Najwa’s left boot had already created a deep furrow in the narrow thoroughfare’s cobbled surface, exposing the photosynthetic fiber optics housed within. Stress cracks formed along the solar collection panel beneath her rooted right boot.

In tandem, Najwa’s upper body adapted with a celerity no human could hope to attain. The awesome force she’d generated flowed from the Lioness’ hips into her right shoulder as it braced along the luxury coupe’s grille and bumper, before her lift had reached its apex (with negligible loss to her overall output). Her left hand tore through the composite metal foam frame at that same moment, with the shifting of her grip. The gloved expanse of her palm came to a stop against what she presumed to be the coupe’s axle.

The end result of her blink-and-you-miss-it adjustion was the creation of a reinforced bulwark the 420z crashed against. The acute-angled luxury coupe’s trunk crumpled. On her end, the shockwave’s majority traveled through the improvised barricade and into the road as the Nissan immediately bucked backwards through the smoke and into the reversing-sedan with a horrendous bang.

To the Lioness, it was like taking a charging elephant head on. The channel created by her left foot expanded. She fought through the devastating vibrations, muscles aflame. The dull groan of metal grew silent. A soft ocean breeze swept across the thoroughfare, stinging the superficial lacerations Najwa received from vehicular shrapnel along her chin and exposed forearms. With a heavy sigh the Lioness released the now-lodged coupe’s warped frame and stepped back.

Behind the relative safety of the rooted coupe, Najwa went against her evaluation of the assassin and would attempt something unexpected. Negotiations. Given the hitman’s position in the driver’s seat, he would be in extreme distress following the collision. Even the most advanced suspension system would have seen his body ragdoll against the sedan’s interior, therefore making it highly unlikely he would have found an opportunity to discharge his high-caliber weapon.

“Representative Ngele is beyond your reach! Think this through; you’re in the middle of the ocean and we know what you look like! How much longer do you think this fight will stay contained? If you value your life, throw down your weapons and exit the vehicle.”

To test a Lioness.

@Doc Doctor

Through the vaporous heat trail of the return shot, Najwa espied the westerner nearly fold from the impact of her round before ducking into the relative safety of his sedan, by way of the transluminum pole. A pungent amalgam wafted from the vehicle’s open door; new scents came into play with the man’s concealed rummaging and betrayed a portion of what his mobile armory contained. What she did smell informed her course of action. With the realization that lethal force was vital in the prevention of civilian casualties, she adopted a more aggressive attitude. Hopefully she wouldn’t cause too much property damage.

The Lioness holstered her pistol, freeing her to grip the front end of the luxury coupe she took cover behind, while she demanded the assassin’s surrender. The composite metal foam of its frame warped within her grasp as she adopted a stance reminiscent of a deadlift. The faint plink of a grenade’s pin being pulled coincided with a wave of tension washing over her thewed physique.

His response began in conjunction with Najwa pushing down through her heels while her hips were propelled up and forward. Sweat trailed the nape of her neck and soaked into the reinforced fabric of her uniform’s olive drab jacket. The faint hiss of the assassin’s grenade underscored her silent resolve. The rising cloud of billowing smoke became an asset, obscuring her actions from the killer-for-hire. She’d grow to her full height just before his question concluded, driving the inhuman amount of force Najwa generated into the vehicle.

Her arms curled up and out in tandem with the extension of her form. The luxury coupe exploded from its parking spot. Tires spun futilely during its airborne journey as the vehicle was flung in a terrifying feat of strength. In her heightened state of awareness, Najwa marveled at the luxury coupe’s split-second inverted reflection in the chrome accents of the Nissan 420z that remained between Najwa and her attacker. Debris from the shot-out windshield penetrated the mass of smoke; hazy tendrils collapsing to fill minuscule voids. It was beautiful, as far as impromptu car tosses went.

The faint popping of the westerner’s trunk occurred just as the luxury coupe’s front end smashed through the assassin’s rear windshield and trunk, partially crushing the recipient roof in the collision. The vehicle-turned-weapon’s front tires were shorn by the impact against the windshield’s frame. A deadly volley of pistons, connecting rods and a crankshaft tore through the sedan’s interior, caused by the coupe’s engine block being knocked loose.

Shards of glass, metal and carbon fiber showered the area immediately surrounding the carnage she’d just created. Najwa breathed deeply to settle the slight shake in her limbs. She was grateful that in the time following the quarantining of her homeland, auto manufacturers had adopted using lighter, more durable materials. No way she could have done that as easily with the steel behemoths that NYUNDO operated.

“You don’t.”

Najwa’s response was a simple one, spoken with no levity. Weapon up and at the ready, she waited for any signs of movement from within the demolished sedan.