Wasn't the Black Knight "None shall pass," though?
1
like
2 yrs ago
You ever realize that you haven't changed your status in months, go back to change it, and then wonder what the *fuck* your previous status was even talking about?
12
likes
2 yrs ago
No, no, they clearly are referring to Ohio -- which Georgia is geographically south of, so the theory is still sound.
The winds sing between the branches of the great tree. The boundless sky rejoices in its embrace, wrapping all the world below in a canopy of noblest blue. A time to grow, a time to live, a time to thrive, as all the world wakes from the stillness of winter and blossoms once again into life. The bells adorning golden branches ring, reminding all of the memory of those who came before, returning to the roots that they might one day be born anew, and take up the path where their feet left it so long ago.
Flowers bloom atop headstones. The dead become spirit. The spirit becomes life. So the great cycle continues, from the first blossoms of niwlen, until the last leaf has crumbled and fallen.
In such an auspicious season, one would be predisposed to look favorably upon all new beginnings, bearing hope that the year to come would reward every endeavor fruitfully. One might even be inclined to take such a time to celebrate taking that first step, honoring the sacrifices of those who came before while praying for the triumph of those to come after.
Truly, a noble sentiment -- and utterly without merit.
Of course, I had expected nothing, from the very moment I first set out from the by-now distant Viridian Sea. I had always known that the outside world was a rough and graceless place, devoid of the peace and tranquility I had enjoyed in the days of my youth -- such as I was afforded it, anyway. But no amount of cold glances or silent scorn could have prepared me for the indignities of my arrival into human society.
It was a day's walk from my clan's encampment in the Near Woods before I found any signs of the Menfolk or their civilization. It was well that it took me so long, as I spent much of that time cursing my ill-fortune, cursing the elders, and cursing the weight of the armor which they had so generously entrusted to me. It was only in a fit of admittedly justified rage that I first touched the spirits inhabiting it, and so realized its utility -- and after that, the process of acclimating myself to harnessing their power was a difficult one, so much so that I counted myself fortunate not to be seen by anyone until I had thoroughly mastered it.
Wind-walking was not so dissimilar to operating the glider-kites that I had so often used to deliver messages for my master in the past, and as such, came surprisingly naturally to me. Though it was rather difficult to maintain my conception of a nonexistent sail surrounding me, my own instincts better served where reason had failed. Or perhaps I was simply overthinking things to begin with. I am, after all, a prodigy -- once I determined it to be possible, it was only a matter of time before I succeeded in achieving it.
So it was that by the time of my arrival at the menfolk's trading post, I had learned to move so swiftly and subtly that they hardly noticed my presence until I was already at their gates. I gave my introductions, met with the chief among their caravan, handed over the gifts that my master had ordered me to convey, and demanded to be afforded passage along with them on their return journey, that I might seek audience with the supposedly-vaunted "Wardens of the Glade" and earn membership in their order.
This meeting, for the most part, went well -- though not without a few uncouth jokes and jabs regarding my age. Apparently, my manner of speaking gave them the impression that I was a Druid myself, of some hundreds of years -- and although I was admittedly very flattered by this, when I corrected this assumption, they had the temerity to laugh at me.
Just because we do not wither so quickly does not mean we are slow to bloom, yet when I tried to calmly explain this to the man, he clearly did not understand nor appreciate any distinction in such matters. Instead, he merely chided me for "trying too hard to act grown up," and insistently called me "little miss elf" for the rest of our journey. His sickeningly-forced politeness and overly snide, world-wise attitude grated on me far more than I had expected. The elders who had sent me on this fool's errand were fools themselves, but at least they had earned the right to foolish condescension through years of experience. To be lectured by some sapling of a mere 40-some years as though he was a sage himself drove me to such frustration that by the time we arrived at the so-called "Glade" of Atutania, I was quite glad to be rid of him.
Not that my new environs were at all preferable. Clearly, these menfolk knew nothing of the world, to style such an abominable construction a "glade." When I had heard the name of the place to which I was bound, I had held out hope. Even among savages, I might still at least be graced with the company of the spirits, and honored with the noble task of watching over the remains of those who had perished long before in the days of chaos.
Yet what met my eyes was the most sparse, pitiful, debased and desecrated excuse for a forest I had ever seen in all my 18 years. The menfolk's roads of broken stone wound about every which way, choking out what few haggard saplings remained like the coils of an invasive weed. Their towers piled high, blocking out the sun from ever reaching the yellowed grass in their shadows -- where it even still existed. Flabbergasted by this unholy sight, I was forced to conclude that whatever buffoon had contrived this place's nomenclature had never seen a forest in his life, much less a glade.
And as I entered into the stone forest these menfolk called home, I was only further dismayed to see that such ignorance extended even farther than that. Everywhere I went, I found their beady little eyes fixed upon me, always muttering or whispering something, yet retreating the moment I so much as looked at them. One, a mere sprout who might well have been born yesterday for all I knew, even pointed at me and asked his sire what was wrong with my ears!
Unbelievable! Truly unconscionable! Had they ever so much as deigned to venture outside this barbaric cesspool, perhaps they would have known better. To have only just arrived and already finding myself confronted by such unimaginable ignorance, I was forced to conclude that these menfolk must have been a horribly backward people, who knew nothing of the world, if even I, with my meagre upbringing and few years of experience, so vastly excelled them in my understanding.
So much greater my misfortune, then, that I had no choice but to try and ask them for directions. After all, for all my prodigious intellect, I was still a stranger in these lands, and ill-equipped to comprehend the nightmarish and labyrinthine convolutions of their "city." Yet the moment I would try to approach or strike up conversation, the wily humans would simply make some excuse and immediately dart away -- only to resume their staring at me from a safe distance once they thought I had lost sight of them.
And to be fair, sometimes, they did in fact escape my notice. There were simply so many humans all around, lining the streets in every direction I looked, that it became impossible to tell one from another, where one was coming or going, or even at times where I was. They were worse even than the savage monkeys of the great forest, an innumerable troop all staring and circling and hooting and chattering in such a great cacophonous din that it set my ears to curling flat against the sides of my head in a futile attempt to drown out the noise.
It was only by a stroke of luck that the crowd's pushing and shoving happened to carry me close enough to see a man in a familiar uniform, which I recognized from master's teachings. Seeing my opportunity, I swiftly extricated myself from the man-monkeys' midst and approached what it became evident to me was some form of reception desk. Trying my best to ignore the overwhelming smell of meat coming from the red-haired she-monkey in front of me, I at last made my way to the front of the line, and made report of myself.
"I am Sternwyss! Daughter of Adalyr, and apprentice to Sage Ailín. I have come on my master's orders, to participate in your knightly trials! I ask you, where are the entrance rites of the Order of the Glade to be found?"
...As it turned out, the answer to that question was "right over there." An anticlimactic conclusion to an utterly infuriating odyssey -- but by this point I simply welcomed an end to my searching. The sooner I could complete this wretched task and retire myself to any semblance of solitude, the better. This "city" felt fit to soil my very soul, and I desired nothing less than to take part in any sort of community with its uncouth inhabitants.
“Dearest Mother, weep not for your wayward daughter. Though I am cast out from the shadow of the Great Tree, I will not hang my head in sorrow or in shame.”
“Please watch over me for a while longer yet. I shall bring honor to the name you gave me, and to the name you left behind. I swear it.”
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
Sternwyss Adalyrwyn is a representative sent from the Near Woods of the Viridian Sea. Recommended and sponsored by one of the Elder Druids, to whom she was formerly both ward and student, her mission is nominally to serve alongside the Wardens, and in so doing, to show goodwill and foster cooperation between the peoples of the Grand City and the peoples of the Unedig-Dynion. Yet, the curious fact that she alone has arrived to take on this duty suggests that perhaps her role as an emissary is instead meant as a gentle form of exile...
Age: 18 Race: Elf Nationality: Clanfolk Weapon of Choice: Sternwyss' favored armament is a curious magic tool of Elven make -- a Manablade, comprised of a cluster of arcane crystals bound together by and infused with the sap of the World Tree. Rather than a weapon, its primary role is as both amplifier and medium for her Spirit Invocation technique, drawing in the elements of the world around her, condensing, and channeling them according to her will. The most obvious application is bending light and air into the shape and function of a blade, which the young elf can wield with at least a modest degree of proficiency. However, it is hardly bound to this form, and can be transfigured into a variety of shapes to suit its wielder's current need. Elemental Affinity: Unaspected Spiritual Affinity: Dark
C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y
Among the Elves, there are few things that hold higher value than one's own kin. The great clans that traverse the Viridian Sea are each bound together by ties of loyalty, ties of honor, and ties of blood -- ties so deeply ingrained into their culture as to be nigh-unbreakable. Families consist not simply of parent of child, but of countless aunts, uncles, cousins, grandsires, and great grandsires, comprising countless vast and meticulously recorded family trees, as numerous as the trees of the greatwood they call home.
Into such a culture, Sternwyss was cast adrift at a young age. Born to a mother of ailing health and ill repute, whose other children had all perished in the womb, she entered the world not long after her father had already abandoned her mother and returned to his own clan. She never beheld his face, and, to her knowledge, he never even learned her name. And when her mother Adalyr perished when she was only nine years old, Sternwyss thus was left in the peculiar situation of having absolutely no living relatives. Or at least, if they existed, there were none who would claim her.
So it was that she came into the care of her tribe's Druid, Ailín, a stern but wise teacher who offered solace to the grieving orphan of the ill-liked and ill-fated Adalyr, despite protests from the clan elders. He taught the young Sternwyss to honor the trees of the wood, taught her how to find her way even beneath its thickest branches, where the starlight for which she was named could never reach. He taught her the stories of the Dynion's exodus, and of the world of men which they had left behind. And, when one day, she too felt the breath of the forest on the wind, felt its pulsing lifeblood in the roots beneath her feet... Ailín taught her how to become one with the world, and to make the world one with herself.
Ascending from a pariah to a prodigy, Sternwyss became the youngest and most accomplished of Ailín's apprentices, demonstrating a remarkable aptitude for Spirit Invocation within just a few short years of first awakening. She accompanied her master everywhere, walking with him in his rounds of the forest and even accompanying him to meet with delegations from the menfolk who lived beyond the woods. He instructed her in the arts of trade and negotiation... though she took to this pursuit with a great deal less enthusiasm than her study of magic.
These "Humans" were truly reprehensible beings. It was not simply their loud mouths and overly familiar attitudes -- it was that they were entirely too ready to put on a charming face to cover up their ugly thoughts. Although she had few friends among her own people, at least her fellow Elves did not bother to mask their disdain, but expressed it openly. Not so with humans, who would smile and laugh and jest and flatter until they thought they were out of earshot, then just as quickly deride their hosts as primitive fools stuck in their ancient ways. But they had steel and the Elves did not -- and so, to procure the tools that were necessary to maintain their way of life, trade was essential.
Sternwyss did not understand why Ailín bothered teaching her such things. But she soon learned of his intentions when talks arose of sending a delegate to the Menfolk. Trade was growing difficult, as those merchants upon whom they had once relied turned their ventures to seeking greater profits elsewhere. What was more, there had been dark tidings of late -- matters of black magic of which the Druids felt it prudent to be wary.
In ancient days, one of their number had walked alongside the hero. Now, it seemed, a deal had been struck without her knowing -- one that would, now that she had come of age, require her to do the same. After all, who could be better suited for such a task than one with her unique qualifications?
It was a joke. A scandal. A mockery. A farce. Ailín could call it an honor or an opportunity as much as he liked, but the fact of the matter was plain for her to see. Though she was clad in the ceremonial arms and armor of her ancient kindred from the days when the Elves and Menfolk had waged war together against a common foe, though she was supposedly honored as an emissary of not only her tribe, but the whole of the Dynion...
She was being cast out.
C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N
Though she wields a sword, Sternwyss does so with no particular skill, having been trained more in performative arts such as sword dances and traditional kata than in preparation for real combat. Likewise, the armor she wears is more or less purely ceremonial in its design, offering little in the way of actual protection.
But this is not to say that the arms she bears are useless. Set with countless arcane crystals crafted with an ancient Elven technique, her jeweled armor and glimmering Manablade serve as conduits for her own elementally inert lifeforce, and the power she holds therein.
Human Magic is the outward expression of internal spirit, in a form and substance that reflects the balance of the user's own soul. Elven Spirit Invocation, on the other hand, infuses internal spirit into any pre-existing form and substance with which the user makes contact. Harnessing the air itself, she shapes earthen dust, pressurized air and water, and ambient heat into a blade of lambent light. Manipulating its form, she can extend and contract that blade, causing it to strike like a javelin or even coil like a serpent mid-swing. Likewise, the air itself conveys her person, allowing her to dart across the battlefield with uncanny swiftness thanks to the mana-storing crystals adorning her ceremonial armor. In areas close to nature, she's even capable of manipulating the terrain itself, splitting the earth, harnessing the winds, loosing the tides, or sprouting roots and vines to assail her opponents from all quarters -- more than making up for her lack of physical experience with a mix of latent cunning, prodigious talent, and arcane ingenuity.
However, utilizing this technique comes with extreme difficulty, as the user must carefully control their breathing and enter an almost meditative state, taking in free-flowing mana from the world around them to replenish that which they expend from their own vital force. If unable to commune with her surroundings in this way, overuse of her techniques can tax her body well beyond its limits, causing fatigue or internal injuries due to the strain placed upon her soul. As such, both to keep her trump cards hidden from prying human eyes, and for her own safety, she keeps the broader applications of her techniques a closely-guarded secret, relying on them only when she has no other choice.
“Dearest Mother, weep not for your wayward daughter. Though I am cast out from the shadow of the Great Tree, I will not hang my head in sorrow or in shame.”
“Please watch over me for a while longer yet. I shall bring honor to the name you gave me, and to the name you left behind. I swear it.”
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
Sternwyss Adalyrwyn is a representative sent from the Near Woods of the Viridian Sea. Recommended and sponsored by one of the Elder Druids, to whom she was formerly both ward and student, her mission is nominally to serve alongside the Wardens, and in so doing, to show goodwill and foster cooperation between the peoples of the Grand City and the peoples of the Unedig-Dynion. Yet, the curious fact that she alone has arrived to take on this duty suggests that perhaps her role as an emissary is instead meant as a gentle form of exile...
Age: 18 Race: Elf Nationality: Clanfolk Weapon of Choice: Sternwyss' favored armament is a curious magic tool of Elven make -- a Manablade, comprised of a cluster of arcane crystals bound together by and infused with the sap of the World Tree. Rather than a weapon, its primary role is as both amplifier and medium for her Spirit Invocation technique, drawing in the elements of the world around her, condensing, and channeling them according to her will. The most obvious application is bending light and air into the shape and function of a blade, which the young elf can wield with at least a modest degree of proficiency. However, it is hardly bound to this form, and can be transfigured into a variety of shapes to suit its wielder's current need. Elemental Affinity: Unaspected Spiritual Affinity: Dark
C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y
Among the Elves, there are few things that hold higher value than one's own kin. The great clans that traverse the Viridian Sea are each bound together by ties of loyalty, ties of honor, and ties of blood -- ties so deeply ingrained into their culture as to be nigh-unbreakable. Families consist not simply of parent of child, but of countless aunts, uncles, cousins, grandsires, and great grandsires, comprising countless vast and meticulously recorded family trees, as numerous as the trees of the greatwood they call home.
Into such a culture, Sternwyss was cast adrift at a young age. Born to a mother of ailing health and ill repute, whose other children had all perished in the womb, she entered the world not long after her father had already abandoned her mother and returned to his own clan. She never beheld his face, and, to her knowledge, he never even learned her name. And when her mother Adalyr perished when she was only nine years old, Sternwyss thus was left in the peculiar situation of having absolutely no living relatives. Or at least, if they existed, there were none who would claim her.
So it was that she came into the care of her tribe's Druid, Ailín, a stern but wise teacher who offered solace to the grieving orphan of the ill-liked and ill-fated Adalyr, despite protests from the clan elders. He taught the young Sternwyss to honor the trees of the wood, taught her how to find her way even beneath its thickest branches, where the starlight for which she was named could never reach. He taught her the stories of the Dynion's exodus, and of the world of men which they had left behind. And, when one day, she too felt the breath of the forest on the wind, felt its pulsing lifeblood in the roots beneath her feet... Ailín taught her how to become one with the world, and to make the world one with herself.
Ascending from a pariah to a prodigy, Sternwyss became the youngest and most accomplished of Ailín's apprentices, demonstrating a remarkable aptitude for Spirit Invocation within just a few short years of first awakening. She accompanied her master everywhere, walking with him in his rounds of the forest and even accompanying him to meet with delegations from the menfolk who lived beyond the woods. He instructed her in the arts of trade and negotiation... though she took to this pursuit with a great deal less enthusiasm than her study of magic.
These "Humans" were truly reprehensible beings. It was not simply their loud mouths and overly familiar attitudes -- it was that they were entirely too ready to put on a charming face to cover up their ugly thoughts. Although she had few friends among her own people, at least her fellow Elves did not bother to mask their disdain, but expressed it openly. Not so with humans, who would smile and laugh and jest and flatter until they thought they were out of earshot, then just as quickly deride their hosts as primitive fools stuck in their ancient ways. But they had steel and the Elves did not -- and so, to procure the tools that were necessary to maintain their way of life, trade was essential.
Sternwyss did not understand why Ailín bothered teaching her such things. But she soon learned of his intentions when talks arose of sending a delegate to the Menfolk. Trade was growing difficult, as those merchants upon whom they had once relied turned their ventures to seeking greater profits elsewhere. What was more, there had been dark tidings of late -- matters of black magic of which the Druids felt it prudent to be wary.
In ancient days, one of their number had walked alongside the hero. Now, it seemed, a deal had been struck without her knowing -- one that would, now that she had come of age, require her to do the same. After all, who could be better suited for such a task than one with her unique qualifications?
It was a joke. A scandal. A mockery. A farce. Ailín could call it an honor or an opportunity as much as he liked, but the fact of the matter was plain for her to see. Though she was clad in the ceremonial arms and armor of her ancient kindred from the days when the Elves and Menfolk had waged war together against a common foe, though she was supposedly honored as an emissary of not only her tribe, but the whole of the Dynion...
She was being cast out.
C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N
Though she wields a sword, Sternwyss does so with no particular skill, having been trained more in performative arts such as sword dances and traditional kata than in preparation for real combat. Likewise, the armor she wears is more or less purely ceremonial in its design, offering little in the way of actual protection.
But this is not to say that the arms she bears are useless. Set with countless arcane crystals crafted with an ancient Elven technique, her jeweled armor and glimmering Manablade serve as conduits for her own elementally inert lifeforce, and the power she holds therein.
Human Magic is the outward expression of internal spirit, in a form and substance that reflects the balance of the user's own soul. Elven Spirit Invocation, on the other hand, infuses internal spirit into any pre-existing form and substance with which the user makes contact. Harnessing the air itself, she shapes earthen dust, pressurized air and water, and ambient heat into a blade of lambent light. Manipulating its form, she can extend and contract that blade, causing it to strike like a javelin or even coil like a serpent mid-swing. Likewise, the air itself conveys her person, allowing her to dart across the battlefield with uncanny swiftness thanks to the mana-storing crystals adorning her ceremonial armor. In areas close to nature, she's even capable of manipulating the terrain itself, splitting the earth, harnessing the winds, loosing the tides, or sprouting roots and vines to assail her opponents from all quarters -- more than making up for her lack of physical experience with a mix of latent cunning, prodigious talent, and arcane ingenuity.
However, utilizing this technique comes with extreme difficulty, as the user must carefully control their breathing and enter an almost meditative state, taking in free-flowing mana from the world around them to replenish that which they expend from their own vital force. If unable to commune with her surroundings in this way, overuse of her techniques can tax her body well beyond its limits, causing fatigue or internal injuries due to the strain placed upon her soul. As such, both to keep her trump cards hidden from prying human eyes, and for her own safety, she keeps the broader applications of her techniques a closely-guarded secret, relying on them only when she has no other choice.
The viewscreens took a moment to adjust as the storm of plasma erupting from his unit's upraised rifle sputtered and died out. With a snap-hiss of steam, the coolant sinks opened to vent their expended contents, even as the now-empty main canister clattered to the ground. A compartment on the Corvo's right arm unfolded, connecting with the now-extended ammo belt as a second canister slid smoothly into the now open loading port of the VESPER. Power was already cycling back to the magnetic accelerators, but not fast enough. The swarm would be upon him momentarily, and in his present overextended position, there was no way he could withstand its onslaught alone.
Jerking backward on the controls, Alto gritted his teeth as a shimmering lattice of blue light bent the air between him and the approaching pawns, and an unseen force began to yank him backward, sending the ash-caked grey frame of the Corvo sliding backward over the rocky terrain with the effortless glide of an ice skater. Not a moment too soon, as, rather than pursuing him, the pawns... split?
"Warning! Multiple incoming high energy signatures detected. Suggest immediate --"
The tactical support interface didn't have time to complete its suggestion before something tore past them at breakneck speeds, sheering effortlessly through the electromagnetic barrier lattice and only narrowly missing a direct impact. The unit's movement suddenly lurched first one way, then the other as Alto frantically tried to adjust the output to compensate for the sudden loss of repulsion on the left hand side -- an only half-intentional maneuver done more out of habit than conscious awareness that probably saved his life as, a moment later, his sensors finally locked in on the unidentified projectiles -- no, the unidentified entities that had just nearly turned him into a pincushion.
Hostility. Denial. Death. The eye of everything was upon him now, a heavy weight bearing down upon his mind, even as the circling horde darted upward, fanned out, circled, and prepared to descend for another pass.
"That's --"
"Targets identified as Knight-Class, Designation: Sparrow."
"You've gotta be shitting me!"
A living guided missile with the destructive yield of an entire warship behind it, condensed into a sphere of perfect erasure. It didn't matter if you were a Constellation, or piloting a cutting edge war machine -- regardless of your defenses, if one of those hit you, then you died -- simple as.
He'd seen them in the sims. He'd been blindsided by them time and time again when he wasn't paying attention. A lone sparrow could spell the untimely end of an otherwise perfect mission. He knew this. He knew it all too well.
He just never thought there'd be a dozen of the damn things chasing him.
All around him, he sensed pain -- panic -- terror. Damage reports were flashing up from both the veteran's Grizzly and the rookie's unit. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that manic frenzy his own partner had been giving off just fell off the edge of a cliff. The iron taste of fear was clawing its way up his throat, choking his every breath with the pain he couldn't feel and the dread he couldn't turn away -- even as the everything that was nothing pounded in his ears as though to drown out the racing of his own heart.
As the Knights descended, it was less like the circling of vultures, and more like the closure of a giant hand. Each one in its place, fanning out and then circling in at a precise angle, to cut off any avenue of escape. Retreat was impossible -- even at top speed, he'd never outrun them -- and the Craft system was still recovering from the first near miss.
...So then what if he didn't run?
He jerked the throttle to the right, allowing the good side of his propulsive shielding to face backward, even if it meant leaving his entire unit wide open. Thumbing down on a toggle, he brought up the Corvo's left arm, as the beam blade stored in its wrist compartment folded outward and blazed to life. Then, he gritted his teeth, held down the trigger, and jammed forward on the throttle.
The Corvo's retreat suddenly reversed in its tracks, sending the unit not away from the descending swarm, but rather towards it. Trying to adjust to this unexpected maneuver, the Sparrows rapidly decelerated -- which put them right into his sights.
With a rapid series of pop-hisses, the beam emitter let loose a pulsing torrent towards the oncoming swarm. The Sparrows were fast -- but that came at the expense of armor. And when confronted by a weapon they hadn't yet seen, devoid of cover and with their momentum rapidly bleeding out as they tried to slow down, for just a split second, they were easy targets. One lost its wing and went careening off to the side, landing in no man's land and erupting into a destructive conflagration. Another was pierced directly through its chassis and went nova right in the middle of its allies, sending them scattering off course, even as the Corvo skidded through the now-opened gap in their formation.
But it wasn't enough. As he pivoted his unit mid-slide and tried to keep firing, the remaining ten targets quickly righted themselves, and began to nimbly climb back into the air again, all-too-easily escaping the range of his sidearm and preparing for another dive. To make matters worse, the pawns had already moved in behind him now that he'd once again been forced away from his own ranks.
"Shit, shit, shit...!" He cursed to himself, his eyes darting frantically over the HUD. The craft system was almost recovered -- not that it would protect him from one of those monsters. The VESPER had finished reloading, but he couldn't fire it -- not in this close proximity. What did that leave him?
...Nothing that could shoot down 10 Sparrows, that was what. But maybe, at the very least, there was a way out. He'd figure the rest out after he managed to break from the encirclement!
Flicking another switch, he swapped sensors to infrared. As he thought, with those insane payloads and that ridiculous speed, those Sparrows were burning like stars on his scanners. His own smart missiles might not be fast enough to actually catch them if they were running, but they'd be able to get a damn good lock!
Prox fuses enabled. All A-EM fields angled downward. Legs braced. VESPER set to maximum dispersal, low speed. He didn't need to hit, just to get close enough to throw them off again.
"Come on, come on, COME ON!"
Six target locks. He held down the trigger. Bursting from his unit's back, a fan of six missiles scattered into the air between him and the oncoming rush of Sparrows, then immediately erupted in a canopy of flames as the Knight-class Aberrants fanned out to pull clear of the blast radius. At the same moment, the Corvo leaped upward, weightless for a single instant as the Craft system poured every ounce of its repulsive force downward, flinging Alto just clear of the swarming pawns that had surrounded him. Then, with a final twist, he pointed the VESPER down at the ground, and thumbed the trigger.
A momentary roar of energy and a flash of light hammered down onto the swarm below, then dispersed just as quickly as the recoil carried him further into the air. Somewhere beneath him, another Sparrow burst, setting off another in a chain of shockwaves. As all the air around the Aberrant was suddenly erased, the air rushed back in to fill the void, yanking his unit downward as the Craft system reached its limit and gravity once again took hold. With one final burst of force, the Corvo righted itself, its legs carving trenches through the ground as he crashed back to earth and skidded to a stop.
Behind the safety of his own lines?
...No. As Alto toggled his sensors back to radar, nearly blinded by the radiant cloud kicked up by his own all-out counterattack, he realized that for all his efforts to shake the enemy... Between charging into their own ranks to escape the Sparrows' second dive and then launching himself blindly back out, he'd only managed to make it around halfway back to the trenches he had left behind in his initial attempts to buy time.
But he wasn't detecting the Spearman anymore. Did that mean his partner won? Then why couldn't he sense her? No time to think about that. Because despite being thrown off-course by the Sparrows' explosions, there was now a friendly unit near him -- the battered but unbroken Grizzly, digging its way with cannonfire out of a mountain of dead pawns. And while his own armaments might have been poorly suited to the task of shooting down those flyers, they'd be more than adequate to cover for his comrade!
The next wave of pawns approaching the downed machine was met with another quick burst from the VESPER, and the stragglers that managed to avoid the worst of it were swiftly cut down by his Espada as the Corvo skated alongside Teddy's fallen unit. Opening the comms, he hastily made to warn his allies. There was probably some concise way to describe his current situation -- a Code 33-Alpha or some similarly over-specific designation. But if there was such a convenient shorthand, in his current haze of adrenaline and near-panic, Alto sure as hell couldn't remember it right now. So instead, he settled for the significantly less dignified but significantly more direct method of just yelling into the microphone as fast and as loud as he could.
"Sparrows! A whole flock of the damn things! Eyes up!"
Alto was hardly an expert on the subject, but he was pretty sure missions usually took longer to derail than two steps out the hangar door. He hadn't even been able to get Corvo to run a battlefield scan before the ground had started shaking as the large city on the horizon started getting pounded into dust from orbit. The higher-ups had played it cool, almost immediately announcing a change of orders as the entire squad rerouted away from its planned deployment running cleanup... and straight towards the front lines. A diversionary tactic -- still just a supporting act for some unseen primary offensive. Hardly anything more to worry about than their original goals, he was assured -- but the unease that slipped into the stale air of even his own sealed cockpit suggested otherwise. The ones who should have known best -- those veterans of a thousand-thousand battles -- were uncertain of something. That, alone, painted a far more accurate picture of what was to come than any number of calming words.
Yet closer still was a certain intoxicating thrill -- an eager excitement that belied the shyness he had expected from her introduction. He glanced over to the Corvo's shoulder to see the tall redheaded woman perched there, waving her arms and one of her blades almost casually. He was halfway through awkwardly returning the gesture when he realized she couldn't see him anyway -- though the intensity with which her stare focused on him through the Corvo's optics almost made him think otherwise. She might have been a fellow rookie, but it seemed like she was anything but nervous, despite the last-minute switch up.
Of course, Alto wasn't nervous, either. He had never once been nervous. He wasn't just some greenhorn, after all, nor was this just any old machine. He was an elite of Kabral, clad in the finest steel forged by its greatest minds. If they wanted him to take a walk, he'd stomp anything that got in his way. And if they wanted him to fight...
He checked his ammo counts again. One canister in the chamber, five more in the loading rack. More than enough to kill anything that moved, but not if he wasted it. This wasn't some sim where he could just try again if his gun ran dry.
Low output, then. High speed, wide dispersal. He didn't need to level a city block just to kill a few pawns. Missiles first to thin their numbers, then one good sweep to pick off the rest. And if any got through, he could still fall back on his blade. Just like the simulations. A few small fry probably wouldn't even be able to break through the A-EM Field without getting up close and personal anyway.
And yet, that sense of unease in the air only grew as they arrived at their assigned position, and the dust cloud on the horizon started getting closer. Every step his unit took had felt strangely... light. He'd expected gravity on such a big planet to weight him down far more than it actually did... even if its core was probably mostly hollow by now. Just how much had the Aberrant fed to push this world to such a deplorable state? And just how many new troops had they birthed to launch the very attack that his unit was now preparing to receive?
His squad, and only his squad. He'd noticed it as they passed through a forward outpost on their way here -- the way the soldiers he passed by stared up at them, the way their eyes felt set to gouge holes in his unit and its passenger. Again, he thought back to how she'd made her introduction back on the transport, and to the lingering, acrid scent of disgust he could still sense wafting their way from the elite Constellations at the front of the pack. Hell, even without his Anomaly, he probably could have realized it by now. But with it, he'd already long since been able to recognize the familiar weight of their disdain. They were important people -- people with much better things to do than entertain some disappointments who couldn't meet their lofty standards.
It was a pretty low thing to think of one's own supposed allies, but Alto was more or less certain now. If he or his new partner screwed up, there probably wasn't anyone who'd bother trying to help them out. Maybe the old man might at least make a token effort, but even that was a long shot -- his mind was like a frozen lake. It'd be easier to get mercy from an Aberrant than to rouse his sympathy.
No. He wasn't nervous. And he wasn't going to need help, either. Not from that man. Not from anyone. If anything, they'd be the ones thanking him, when all this was said and done.
It was just that the sky ahead was suddenly terribly dark.
It was just that the air he tasted was suddenly terribly cold.
It was just that he had realized that something else was tasting the same air as him, hearing the same way, but thinking different thoughts.
it was silent. IT was deafening.
it was empty. Yet IT filled all emptiness with ITself.
it was reason, cold and pitiless.
And IT was passion, burning and all-consuming.
Was it hunger, or was IT hate? Was IT rage, or was it joy? Was it one taste, one voice -- or was IT many?
There was no simulation in any galaxy that could have prepared him for the enormity of that which he felt staring back at him -- staring through him, upon that horizon. Yet before his resolve could crumble beneath that hideous strength, another sound rejoined the discord, and with it came clarity.
It was the shrill ping of countless radar contacts, and a dozen target locks.
Far too many to be counted. Far too few to be seen. Far too heavy to be endured. Far too fleeting to be known.
No, no. it could never be known. IT could never be understood.
But iT could be destroyed.
Alto's hands clenched around the controls, and his thumb jammed down upon the launch trigger. Upon the Corvo's back, its missile pods unfolded, sending a shower of a dozen missiles scattering into the air, arcing upward, then plunging down into a broad arc of crimson flames. A moment later, a low electric hiss turned to a shrill whine as he dragged his crosshair all along that arc and held down the trigger. Infinity's gaze narrowed upon him, and he answered its provocations in booming thunder and defiant light. The bass thunderclap of the magnetic accelerators joined the thrumming shrill aria of the combusting air and exploding plasma in destructive euphony.
"Eight-Ball, paving the way! How's that for a red carpet?"
It was only for a moment, but a moment was surely all that those elites would need. Amidst the shimmering heat haze and the red-hot rubble, a path had been gouged straight down the middle of the enemy's front line -- a path into which Rigel and Antares vanished a moment later, leaving the rest of the squad to hold their ground, conserve their ammo... and stem the red tide which rapidly closed ranks to fill the gap he had momentarily created.
"I hope you all brought earplugs," Alto said quietly, his gritted teeth slowly remembering the shape of their customary grin. "Because the show's only just begun!"
He laughed -- and somewhere in the back of his ears, someone was laughing with him. Laughing with a mad joy that should have set his soul on edge. And yet, the euphoria beside him proved more familiar than the chaos ahead of him. He could feel it swirling around him, dancing with the adrenaline boiling up in his own veins.
Right. He wasn't nervous. He had never been nervous!
He was just excited!
Another wave. Another shot, thumbing the trigger and sending pulses of searing violet across the tide of red. Carapaces melted, limbs fractured and crumbled, bodies squirmed and writhed, trying to drag themselves clear of the VESPER's scorching rays, only to fall before the firing line. The first canister still had 47% of its fuel left -- another two, maybe three shots if he used it carefully. With five more to go, how many would he fell before the Constellations finished their own bloody work and put this horde to rout?
Yet just as he was beginning to grow complacent, from the glassed wreck of the front lines, a hateful visage burst forth, diving into the defenders' ranks with reckless abandon. Alto scarcely had time to line up his shot before it was already too close to fire, forcing him to pull it again for fear of incinerating his own comrades.
"Warning: Target identified as Bishop-class, designation 'Spearman.' Corvo's voice chimed in, accompanied by the acrid taste of fear from those on the ground in front of the beast -- reminding him of a fact he'd almost forgotten in the heat of the moment.
His weapons would have no effect on that thing. But if he did nothing, then the troops on the ground were about to get slaughtered! Unless --!
A metallic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, echoed within his unit's hull, and a moment later, a blur of red tore across his vision. He scarcely even registered the word his otherwise nonverbal partner had said before her intentions had already made themselves apparent.
He couldn't hurt that thing... but she could. And the horde behind it, which might otherwise have hurt her...
That was a different story.
"Roger! I'll cover for you, Aissi!"
Jamming the throttle forward and yanking the joystick to the left, he felt himself suddenly become lighter as the Corvo's finned wing binders shifted, and the Craft system sparked to life. Repelled by a flickering canopy of azure light, gravity and air gave way, and the grey colossus lurched forward, skating sharply across the ground to circle out away from the enemy that had breached their lines, driving himself outward along the farthest edge of the left flank.
It was a position that, in just a few moments, would be completely cut off from the rest of the squadron, if the Spearman wasn't dealt with soon. But it was also a position where he could fire his shots right down the full length of the enemy's advancing front line!
Just a few seconds. One more shot would decimate the ranks of those trying to follow after the Bishop, then he'd have to fall back to the safety of the trenches. But if it gave that experimental girl the opening she needed to shore up their ranks and keep the line from falling... His Corvo could handle that much, right?
He sighted his shot. He thumbed the switch. The output raised, the aperture narrowed. The accelerators whined as their coils burned brighter -- as every last ounce of gas left in the canister catalyzed into a raging storm.
If anyone was particularly impressed by his assertive introduction, Alto didn't get the chance to taste it before the prevailing mood in the room switched to one of savory respect for the old veteran in charge of the operation, followed by a sweet-and-sour confusion towards the lady who came after him. It wasn't like Alto was unfamiliar with the almost cultish devotion with which old blueblood families cherished their histories, but even by the standards of those he'd had the misfortune to meet during his own high-class upbringing, that lady had way too many names.
There were a few more after that -- some Constellations he'd never heard of, as well as a fellow rookie pilot who seemed even more nervous than the giant girl had been under the gaze of their superiors. He resisted the urge to send her a little sympathy as well, but at least gave her a bright grin as she sat back down.
"Don't let 'em get to you," He said quietly. "That lot doesn't pay attention to anyone who's not a member of their shiny sword club anyhow."
Not sympathy, but on second thought, he allowed himself to share a bit of assurance. She had nothing to worry about, after all -- he'd be watching her back.
Either way, none of the others on the ship made quite as memorable a first impression as the first Constellation had. His curiosity flickered back to how she had introduced herself, and the implications thereof -- but since he didn't like any of the answers he came up with to sate that curiosity, he once again pushed it back for the time being.
There wasn't time for such speculation, anyway. He could feel the rumbling of the floor beneath him as the thrusters intensified, slowing their until-then rapid descent. The growing tension in the air confirmed his suspicions as the veterans among their ranks all felt it too, and set about their preparations.
Well, they didn't need to tell him twice. The moment he got the go-ahead, he hopped up from his seat and rushed to the back of the ship, scampering right up the boarding ladder before his Corvo's cockpit had even finished opening. Tossing himself through the half-open canopy, he tugged it shut behind him and tossed himself down into the pilot's chair, as all around him, projected screens began to flicker to life over the blank metal of the cockpit, as the machine around him seemed to fade and give way to the hangar outside, leaving him suspended at the center of the panoramic display as screens and readouts began to pop into being all around him.
If Alto had his way, he'd have already spent the entire ride in here instead of out in the bay socializing with his supposed betters -- these Connies had no respect for just how long it took to do a full pre-flight check, and do it properly.
...Granted, he'd already done it once before they even loaded his unit onto the transport. And so had the good Doctor before that. But what if they'd missed something? This was his first real action -- if something malfunctioned now it could be a permanent stain on his career!
Wracking his brains, he followed the steps as quickly as he could remember them. Fuel check. Green. Battery check. Green. Power on. Secondary systems check -- all green. Weapons check -- fully loaded and fully operational. Finally, the Craft system. First he'd have to toggle it on, test the stabilizers, and then --
A measured mechanical voice cut through the thread of his concentration like a hot knife through butter, and he almost jumped to hear it.
"Statement: Magni-Craft system is already fully charged and operating within expected parameters. Addendum: You have observed this diagnostic file three times already. Further testing is redundant, Operator."
"Ghh -- I knew that, Corvo! He insisted -- though his supposed knowledge didn't stop him from hastily closing the file the moment his Support Interface began to question him on it. "I was just... checking something."
"Suggestion: Would it not be more pertinent to check who our assigned partner is? Reminder: We are under orders to support the Constellations, and to do so without endangering either this unit or the Operator. Conclusion: Operating in tandem with a Constellation is critical to the success of our mission."
Alto groaned. The last thing he wanted was to have his first mission be to play taxi for some glamorous elite -- but then again, he also wasn't particularly keen on being lectured for insubordination... and just going by the numbers, they only had three mechs and twice as many Constellations. Logically speaking, someone was going to have to carry the precious Connies, and unfortunately, between his unit's mobility and its long range, his Corvo was rather well suited to play that role in a pinch.
"...Fine. Open up comms with the squad. I'll... deal with it, I guess." He sighed, then cleared his throat. The viewscreen in front of him flashed as, in the corner of his vision, a readout appeared displaying a list of signals. Anything beyond short range comms was a tall order, but at least like this he'd be able to see who was talking... assuming he could read such a small window in the heat of battle, anyway.
"This is Eight-Ball, reporting in. I don't have any extra seats, but I can offer the best view in the house if any of our VIPs has a taste for fireworks. Any takers?"
The rapidly-approaching landscape displayed on the viewscreen was by now a quite familiar view.
For almost the last month, Alto had been stuck at the back of the fleet, watching the grey overtake the planet below. All that time spent waiting, watching, and wishing they'd just give the damn order already. How many more tests did they need to run before the techheads would be satisfied? He'd already memorized the operational handbook backwards and forwards, and probably could have piloted the gunmetal gray colossus parked across from him in his sleep. He knew its armaments and their usage by heart -- and so, he knew the difference they might have made at stemming the unstoppable tide into which they were only now descending.
And so really, it wasn't that he was scared.
He wasn't.
He was just angry.
He told himself as much again, shifting in his seat for what felt like the dozenth time in as many seconds. His whole body felt electrified, as though every muscle had suddenly gone taut with nervous energy, and the feelings in the air in the cabin surrounding him told him that at least some of the ship's occupants felt the same. Seriously, how long could atmospheric entry even take? Since they were this close, shouldn't he be mounting up and running preliminary checks? What if the enemy attacked while they were still descending? Not that he was scared, mind you -- he just wanted to be ready to take the first shot if they did.
Must have been nice to have other things to worry about.
He shot a glance across the cabin to the Constellations seated in the opposite row of drop seats. Eorman. Solignus. He'd heard those names all too many times before. Big shots. He'd never much liked being in such esteemed company -- even when the esteemed individuals in question didn't clearly hate each other even more than they resented being stuck babysitting a bunch of newbies.
Though, that didn't quite seem to be the source of "Max"'s almost tangible sense of disgust, given the particular attentions he was directing to somebody seated a couple seats over -- though unfortunately, Alto wasn't tall enough to see past the large man seated between them as to who she was or why he was picking on her specifically. Not that it was any of his business, anyway.
Guess regardless of if you were a pilot or a Connie, the newbies always had it rough. His heart went out to whoever the unfortunate newcomer in question was -- quite literally, as almost without thinking he found himself tasting his own sympathy in the air, warm and bittersweet. He hastily checked himself, diverting his thoughts away from the outside world and centering himself once more to make sure his Anomaly didn't go noticed by the vitriolic Antares.
While he had been testing the waters, so to speak, though, he had noticed a certain... preoccupation with the way Antares had phrased his statement. Though he was fairly certain his Corvo was supposed to be the only machine getting field tested today, there had been something accusatory in the words he didn't much like. Maybe the man had it out for him after all? But then why was he so focused on the girl when he said it? Damn, if only he could see better what was going on -- hearing it, or even hearing it, could only do him so much good without actually seeing who they were talking to.
He scooted a few times in his seat, half-hopping to try and peek over the head of the girl sitting next to him -- with little success. Either way, it wasn't as if the mysterious newcomer was the only interesting thing to look at, so eventually, he cut his losses and moved his focus onto the next object of his attention.
He didn't recognize most of the Constellations on the ship at a glance. They were all very special and shiny and important, to be sure -- their names told him as much. Told him they were too important, in fact, to risk associating with. But one in particular, he knew all too well. That famous martyr whose planet bled to death before he himself did... Just what exactly was a man like that doing here, playing overseer to a ship full of grunts, long after he should have retired?
...Well, it wasn't hard to hazard a guess why someone like that would take up the sword again and find his way to Alora, at least. Alto checked himself before his sympathy could express itself again, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, particularly when it would mean drawing the eye of a man whose very presence made the air taste like lead -- heavy and cold. He knew that feeling all too well, and he'd come much too far to subject himself willingly to it again.
So, since two of his superiors had made themselves in one way or another quite undesirable to talk to -- and since both of them now seemed to be conversing with each other anyway -- that just left one more. The bare-chested Eorman was surrounded with a sense of forceful exuberance that reminded Alto of one of the Warrant Officers helping out as an instructor back at the academy. The guy had always been too fond of his own voice, and of forcing other people to raise theirs -- but he'd also let them get away with a lot on inspection days, so Alto couldn't help but remember him fondly.
Well, speaking of raising voices, it looked like it was time for everyone to sound off. The other newbie was first, thankfully, and with how quiet her voice was, he would have expected someone short and nervous -- not that he was projecting, mind you, that's just the first thing that came to mind. But when she did actually rise from her seat, he found his gaze going up... and up... and up.
Long metallic legs, ending in serrated points that seemed to skate across the ground in an all-too-strangely-familiar manner. Then, as if that wasn't enough, massive blades sprouting from her back that were almost as long as she was tall. Really, it was hard to tell where her cybernetics ended and her flesh began -- so much so that he almost didn't even process the way she introduced herself.
Wait, so the equipment that Antares had mentioned wasn't his Corvo, but rather...
Nah. There was no way. Right? Right. Surely he'd misunderstood something somewhere along the line. I mean, how would that even work? Anyway, there wasn't even time to think about it, since it was already his turn to sound off. Rising up from his own seat, clearing his throat, and, in the wake of the gargantuan Constellation who had gone before him, maybe trying to stand just a little taller than usual, he eagerly, if a bit uneasily, announced himself.
"Ehem. Apprentice Pilot and KHI Pilot-Designate, Alto Valenti, callsign 'Eight-Ball.' Just point me at anything you need gone, and my Corvo'll see it dusted!"
B A S I C I N F O [Name]Alto Valenti [Callsign]Eight-Ball [Gender]Male [Age]19 [Rank and Designation]Apprentice Pilot, Designated Test Pilot for K.H.I. [Place of Birth]Kabral III
[Official Statement]"My reason for fighting? Well, I mean, somebody's got to do it. Might as well be me, right? If I can't be the one wielding the sword, then the least I can do is clear the way for those who can. Haha. So yeah, that's...
Will he see this? No, no, of course not. Right. Right. Forget I asked."
C O M B A T A B I L I T Y [Mech Model]FTF-280x Corvo II-V [Type]Limited-Production Multirole Fighter/Artillery [Size]15.2 Meters/Approx. 50 Feet [Unladen Weight]28.3 Metric Tons [Max Weight]42.7 Metric Tons [Core]Epsilon-Class [Armaments]
KHI-44x-VSHPR "VESPER" ||The Corvo II-V's primary armament is the experimental "VESPER" Variable-Speed Heavy Plasma Rifle, purpose-built for the unit in partnership with Kabral Heavy Industries. With a total length of 16 meters, even exceeding the unit's own height, it is a formidable weapon with a yield comparable to a destroyer's main cannon.
As its designation implies, the weapon's primary feature is its flexibility. Top-loaded with a magazine of compressed gas canisters, it then uses its own internal reactor to charge and superheat this exotic fuel into a form of highly volatile plasma, which it then releases in steady streams for as long as the trigger is held down. In this mode, its most common use case is sweeping the beam across one or more targets to deal damage over a wide range.
Additionally, however, it is also capable of condensing this plasma into a singular mass, feeding extra energy directly from the Corvo II-V's reactor to supercharge and then magnetically accelerate one devastating shot into particularly tough enemies. In this configuration, the bolt it fires not only travels to its target near-instantaneously, but becomes capable of melting through the carapaces of even the most hardy Aberrant foe -- then disintegrating them with a massive explosion.
Unfortunately, firing the VESPER for maximum effect also depletes the currently active gas canister completely, requiring immediate reloading. Furthermore, throughout its testing and development, the weapon has suffered from insufficient cooling, often melting its heat sinks and barrel irreparably over the course of a single sortie. Some models even exploded outright, or caused reactor leaks in the unit that carried them. Due to the costs inherent to their production, and their less-than-stellar long-term performance, neither the VESPER, nor the improved Corvo II variant meant to wield it, ever saw mass production -- but a few models did see service in the frontier regions.
FTF-T28-MM "Tri-Talon" Multi-Missile Rack ||One of several modular back-mounted weapons packs designed for the Corvo-series chassis, the Tri-Talon carries a total of eighteen radar-guided missiles per pod, and can fire up to six of them in a single salvo. These missiles are as fast as they are accurate, and can additionally be armed on a delay, allowing them to be guided around potential obstacles before they begin seeking a target, making them supremely useful for chasing entrenched enemies out of cover and striking from unanticipated angles. However, the warheads' actual destructive power is somewhat lacking, meaning their utility is far greater against small, mobile adversaries that would be tricky to hit with the Corvo II's main gun than it is against larger, more heavily armored targets. These pods, additionally, can be purged from the unit once empty, reducing its weight so as to increase its speed.
FTF-S110-BB "Espada" Beam Blade ||The Corvo II's last resort is a one-handed beam sword stored in a charging rack underneath its left wrist. While not in use, its focusing emitter can be used to fire small-but-rapid laser blasts, serving as a sidearm or CIWS should the unit be pressured. Additionally, it can be released seamlessly from the charging rack into the unit's hand with a quick flick of the wrist, allowing the Corvo II to rapidly respond to threats that enter melee range. The beam blade, though small, concentrates an immense amount of energy into its edge, allowing it to cleave straight through even Aberrant armor in just one or two strikes. However, since the Corvo II lacks any other close-range countermeasures, this weapon is more meant to allow it to go down fighting when cornered than anything else, and it is not advised for pilots to seek to employ it regularly.
"Magni-Craft" A-EM Propulsion System ||Another proprietary technology of Kabral Heavy Industries added to the Corvo II-V to test viability for mass-production, the Magni-Craft system was an unintended breakthrough discovered during a failed project attempting to replicate Aberrant barriers. By drawing anomalous material from the unit's Aberrant core and shaping it with electromagnetic currents, a lattice structure can be formed around the unit equipped with the system. This structure, while unable to replicate the power of a true Aberrant barrier, nevertheless exerts a constant, steady repulsive force which can furthermore be focused or amplified by modulating the current flowing through it.
The most obvious use of this technology is to disrupt incoming energy-based attacks, or to slow physical projectiles and reduce their impact force. However, as researchers on the project soon discovered, the A-EM Fields produced by this system are a means not only of defense, but also propulsion. By projecting an A-EM Field beneath the unit, the Magni-Craft system serves to counteract the force of gravity, allowing the unit it is equipped to skate near-weightlessly atop a frictionless force-field instead of the ground itself. And, should the unit need to enter the air, the field can be momentarily expanded to violently repulse the ground, launching the machine airborne before stabilizing once again to slow its descent to a safe and controllable speed.
This system gives the Corvo II-V a great deal of mobility without sacrificing size or armor in exchange. However, it is also heavily fuel intensive, limiting its operational times compared to more conventional machines. This deficiency has been partially compensated for by attaching an external fuel tank containing a reserve of the exotic materials needed to create an A-EM Field, but this, in turn, increases the unit's weight and reduces its speed -- though it can be purged once emptied.
Additionally, the system is dependent on a network of emitters and stabilizers mounted all along the unit's frame, many of which are affixed to modular hardpoints not specifically designed to accommodate or protect them, as more customized fittings could not be procured due to budgetary constraints during the unit's brief production run. Due to this somewhat sloppy "proof of concept" placement, as the unit sustains damage, these stabilizers may fail, resulting in reduced A-EM Field integrity. The more hits the unit takes, the slower and the more fragile it will become, giving it a somewhat deserved reputation for falling apart all at once when things start going wrong.
[Anomaly]Telempathic Communication [Origin]Limit
[Phenomena] The Valenti family is known for its powerful psionic Anomalies, derived from an unstable union between Symtropantos and Eorman branch family members in their distant Ancestry.
Alto, however, only possesses a very weak offshoot of these abilities -- one which grants the user a form of extrasensory perception. This ESP is tuned specifically to the thoughts and feelings of those around the user -- particularly those directed towards Alto himself. Rather than words, general attitudes and sensations are conveyed with a great degree of fidelity, though some of the context pertaining to them can also be imparted if the person in question focuses on a specific memory, thought, or image while he is reading them. The more willing the subject to open up to him, the easier it is to form a psionic bridge connecting their two minds, increasing the accuracy with which he is able to understand their feelings, experiences, and wishes.
This connection can also work both ways, allowing Alto to exert his own psionic pressure on those around him, conveying his emotions, memories, or short thoughts to others who are nearby. Likewise, this ability works more effectively the more willing his target is to receive him.
Aside from giving him a great deal of natural charisma and a knack for pleasing and comforting others, Alto's ability does have a few, albeit limited uses in combat. For example, he can track the general positions of his allies and their general mental states even in the heat of battle, giving him above-average situational awareness. Sensing a comrade's alarm might tip him off to an imminent danger, while their anger or desperation might draw him to provide support where it's needed without even being asked. In particularly tense situations, an enemy's killing intent can give their attacks away just in time for him to evade them, making the difference between life and death.
[Limitation] While Alto's ability is flexible, and comes at little cost to himself, it isn't without its drawbacks. As it exists outside of the five traditional senses, oftentimes attempting to transmit complex concepts will result in information overflow -- synesthesia bleeding into his other senses, losing some of the information entirely. Rather than peering through someone's memories, for example, he's more likely to just get flashes of specific sights, sounds, tastes, smells, or tactile sensations, disconnected from one another and deprived from the overall context.
And, while he can more or less control when his ability activates rather than just having it on all the time, it sometimes fires off without any conscious input from him -- particularly in moments of great stress, powerful emotion, and high tension. This can make it somewhat unreliable when he's under pressure, as he finds it much more difficult to control his Anomaly well enough to search for or focus on one specific thing in such cases -- and can additionally cause his own distress to be inadvertently shared with those around him.
Finally, due to the alien nature of their senses and thought patterns, his ability is extremely ineffective when employed against the Aberrant. Any successes he might have at sensing their presence or their killing intent are usually more dumb luck than the result of any conscious effort on his part -- and, in fact, attempting to actively focus his perceptions upon them can oftentimes result in a great deal of psychic strain, causing headaches, nausea, confusion, and even running the risk of making him pass out. Whatever thoughts might comprise it, the Aberrant mind is a terrible thing to read.
Notable Contacts
[Name] Ricardo Valenti
[Relation to Subject] Father
[Analysis] You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in the galactic frontier regions who hasn't at least once heard the name Ricardo Valenti. One of few Singularity-Class Constellations in the entire UAS, he's renowned not only for his skill with his AB Lance, but also for his purported oracular ability to see even distant possible futures and chart a path to achieving them with his Anomaly -- though how much of this is truth and how much is his own exaggerated legend is a topic of frequent debate.
Regardless of how much of it is true, his tale has been told time and time again. In a time where humanity was suffering defeat after defeat, heroes were in short supply. Certain liberties were taken, perhaps, and certain responsibilities were piled on the shoulders of a tired man who had known only fighting since the days of his youth. He'd fled one home, found another, and then lost everyone who defended it with him.
Yet still he remained.
Ricardo is not necessarily a cold man, but he's not a friendly man either. His eyes are too sharp, his heart too small. His dark humor and sardonic temperament are rather typical for a Kabralan, and his discipline, devotion to his people, and dedication to his duty are likewise as exemplary as one might expect. He's the kind of man who would shed no tears over a comrade's death, but would spill a sea of blood to avenge them -- cool-headed, proud, and resolute.
He is impartial in his treatment of others, dealing as bluntly with his own kin as he does with his subordinates. Not one to show affection or to openly express his feelings on any matter, it's no wonder his more emotionally sensitive son and he never saw eye to eye.
Presently, he's serving as a representative for the Frontier regions on the UAS council, in particular helping to guide and direct the deployment of defensive forces along the Frontier. His performance in this role has been, at worst, unremarkable -- he's successfully minimized losses while largely maintaining the status quo... for now. However, there are many on the council who dislike him for his rather meteoric rise of prominence, and who are all too eager to see him fall. As such, the position occupied both by him and the defensive forces under his command is precarious, and prone to changing should even the slightest mishap befall him...
[Name] Dr. Nicole Renata
[Relation to Subject] Kabral Heavy Industries Liaison, Attache to V-Type Test Pilot Alto Valenti
[Analysis] When the refugees from Calidar first found Kabral III, the colonial cities upon its surface were abandoned, but not uninhabited.
As part of their efforts to draw tourists and immigrants to their new colony, SEM-Corp had commissioned a rather luxurious custom line of clones from the famed RENATUS Combine, hoping to employ them as concierges, aides, escorts, and domestic servants to VIPs in the luxury residences built atop the colony's hanging sky cities. As such, they were designed not only to be beautiful to look at, but also to possess an abnormally high level of mental acuity for a menial servant model. They would, after all, have been expected to serve as living encyclopedias of everything a guest would need to know -- and yet, they were also meant to be perfectly and unquestioningly obedient to those designated as their masters.
But those masters never arrived. And so, these costly mail-order maidens were left locked away in cryogenic slumber, set aside in one of the many lawsuits surrounding the colony's dissolution until countless appeals could be made to decide whose property, precisely, they now were. Needless to say, when the sector was evacuated on account of the emergent Aberrant menace, these insignificant issues were set aside and, eventually, forgotten.
Until the Calidar exodus came and woke them up.
Most of the RENATUS women ended up living lives of no consequence, and most likewise died in short order. Some were all-too-eagerly taken as concubines of the soldiers protecting the planet. Others were tasked with helping to crew and maintain the orbital defense platforms, and perished during the first wave of the Aberrant attack. A few were tasked with assisting in the manufacture of weapons and armaments as part of a joint initiative with military engineers from the exodus fleet, but by and large also are reported to have perished when a Knight-class Aberrant bombed one of the planet's primary weapons factories.
It is a deeply ironic and unpleasant fact to consider, that they possessed the intellect to be fully aware of themselves -- of their sentience, of the rights and dignity afforded to other such sentient beings, and, of course, of the souls they themselves lacked, which separated them from those "others." And yet, in spite of that awareness, they could not escape their programming -- all they could do was show their brightest smiles, meekly nod, and obey the orders they received, though it cost them their lives, their happiness, and their dignity.
Poor, innocent dolls -- the lot of them.
Of course, none of that has anything to do with the eccentric KHI liaison, Dr. Nicole Renata. A rising star among the corporation's ranks, she's gone from working on a factory line to designing product lines of her own, and is even rumored to have had a hand in the invention of several of the company's proprietary technologies. Needless to say, as one of the minds behind the new V-Type Corvo units, she's taking a direct role in analyzing the operational data from their early-stage deployments.
Her behavior is notoriously inscrutable, with her every waking moment fueled almost entirely by caffeine and other minor stimulants. She displays a flagrant disregard for authority and decorum in almost all forms, addressing everyone with equal familiarity and irreverence -- barging into conversations whenever she feels like, and tuning out the world to lose herself in her studies whenever she doesn't. The only thing she takes seriously is her work -- and if she wasn't so damned good at it, doubtless no one would be willing to put up with her many idiosyncrasies.
She gets along just fine with her unit's test pilot, though, treating Alto -- much to his chagrin -- as something of a kindred spirit, or perhaps a younger brother. She's all too willing to humor his high pride, and take pride in his low humor, teaching him newer, even worse puns to inflict upon his comrades during her free time. She still gets mad at him if he misuses her precious prototype, though.
Although her identification papers were tragically lost during the fall of Calidar and her subsequent flight from it, numerous KHI executives have stepped forward and vouched for her identity -- in no small part thanks to her insightful contributions to some of their most cutting edge designs. A resourceful academic and a living lexicon of scientific data, there have certainly been those detractors citing her resemblance to the now-deceased RENATUS clones, and some disproportionate fuss made over some unsightly burns from a broken cigarette lighter that just so happen to cover the patch of skin on her wrist where such a clone's barcode tattoo would be.
But those theories are, of course, ridiculous, and have long since been debunked. They're nothing more than the vitriolic babbling of those jealous of the young prodigy's many landmark achievements in the field of Aberrant studies, and the repurposing of their biology into technologies which can benefit the war effort. After all, even had one of the RENATUS women survived, she never would have been able to lie about her origins, let alone destroy her own identification number. Her programming would surely prevent it. After all, no matter how clever or strong-willed a menial clone might be, they're still subject to their core precepts.
Obey your betters. Go above and beyond what is asked of you, and always give 110% to your job. The company's prosperity is your prosperity. No matter how hard it gets, don't forget to smile.
...Well, at least one of them was good advice.
The serious ones only die tired and unhappy, so might as well at least pretend you're enjoying yourself, right? All the more so when this fleeting, insignificant life is the only time you have...
[Name] Sabine Dassault-Delacroix
[Relation to Subject] Service Acquaintance and Rival
[Analysis] One of the few actively serving pilots Alto would consider himself acquainted with outside of those who went through basic with him and his drill instructors, Sabine happened to be traveling along with a Dassault supply convoy that Alto was briefly attached to as an escort. Nothing in particular came of the mission, with no hostile contacts sighted anywhere along the convoy's route, but over the course of the journey, the two of them became more or less friends... which is to say, Sabine taunted the rookie Alto relentlessly about his lack of real experience, and Alto channeled his frustration from the experience into doing his darnedest to scrap her in practice simulations when he wasn't out on maneuvers. If you asked him, he'd probably say that he won more than he lost, but if you asked her, she'd probably say that his unit's specs were higher and if it weren't for that, his performance wouldn't have been worth writing home about.
Either way, their spirited competition aside, the two did get along decently well, and he'd be the first to admit she's a good pilot. After all, if she wasn't, she wouldn't be worth viewing as a rival -- now would she?
Profile
[Surface-level Impression] The first thing one is likely to notice about Alto Valenti is his exhuberant, sunny demeanor. Seldom seen without a cocky grin on his face, even when he's desperately trying to hide it while called to stand at attention, he's friendly, excitable, and, while occasionally awkward, generally a rather personable individual... provided you don't mind the occasional groanworthy pun, anyway.
The second thing one is likely to notice, on the other hand, is his reckless ambition. He doesn't exactly try to hide his aspirations of heroism or his at least somewhat justified pride in his skills, sure -- but it's a bit alarming how readily he puts those goals before his own well-being. Perhaps he thinks he's invincible, or perhaps he just doesn't know any better, but either way, while he's not necessarily a hazard to others, the same doesn't really hold true for himself. Constant supervision is advised.
[Personal History] It might seem strange that a young master, raised in luxury, would throw away that life, his pride, and his entire fortune in pursuit of childish dreams. Born the son of a war hero, yet inheriting only a meager fraction of that famous power, Alto was just strong enough to sense the gulf between him and the father he so admired. That disappointment -- no, that *pity* -- was where it all began.
Then, the disgust of his fiance -- a Core-Worlder from a wealthy family he met only once, yet whose disdain might have crushed him at a glance. Was he really to live the rest of his life in the company of a woman who thought him a bumpkin and a useless imbecile, just so that her wealth might pay for the war his father continued to fight even now?
Staring down the barrel of a future in which he would remain just as insignificant as he always had been, Alto blinked. Instead of boarding the shuttle that would have taken him towards that future, he slipped away -- found passage on a different ship, and vanished into the celestial night. He only once looked back as his homeworld slipped away into the darkness of space -- then never looked back again.
It wasn't easy going. He did odd jobs, scrounged and scavenged, even begged just to survive. He questioned himself once or twice, but the pride within him was hurt less by the lowly state to which he had fallen than it was by the thought of returning home in disgrace. And then, at his lowest moment, he met a recruiter who saw that pride for what it was -- saw how to exploit it.
An unspoken agreement was formed. Alto faked his age, and the recruiter turned the other way -- a little lie that would fill his quota just a little sooner. Perhaps the man had been hoping that a boy gifted with an Anomaly would perform well enough to earn him a bonus -- though if he was, these hopes would go unfulfilled.
Alto's performance in training was a mixed bag. He demonstrated a great deal of situational awareness, lightning-quick reflexes, and a tremendous natural knack for piloting -- but also a reckless disregard for protocol, caution, and patience that cost him dearly in mock battles and simulations. Some of these faults were overlooked on account of his talent, others he managed to rein in just well enough to pass muster. But if basic training had taught him humility, it was a lesson swiftly undercut by the offer he received upon first donning the rank of apprentice.
An exclusive offer from Kabral Heavy Industries -- the premier manufacturer of weapons and war machines on his homeworld -- was placed before him, and he signed the waiver without so much as glancing at the fine print. A glamorous, elite position as a test pilot, getting first crack at weapons and tech nobody else had ever used in combat before was bait far too juicy for him to even consider passing up -- without ever even thinking of the risks that might be involved.
Even this status proved insufficient to whet his appetite for adventure, however. Half a year of running basic field tests and mock combat operations in the safety of core space felt hardly any different from the sim-skirmishes back in basic. But when, mid-transit, his unit happened to receive a distress signal from the nearby planet Alora, Alto at long last felt his fortunes changing. As he climbed eagerly into his cockpit, ready to beat the alien menace and save the day, the once-disgraceful young master found new dreams slipping into his mind -- ambitions he had scarcely dared to entertain ever since he had first become aware of his own inadequacy.
He might not have been able to become a Constellation like his father, but he could still become a hero.
Home World
[Planet Description]
Kabral III is a large, barren world around twice the size of Earth, girdled by a thick belt of interstellar detritus and debris, and tidally locked in orbit around a Red Dwarf. Rich in minerals from centuries of constant asteroid impacts upon its surface, it was prospected and claimed shortly after its discovery 162 years ago by the Solari Exoplanet Mining Corporation.
Hoping to jump-start a colonial boom and reap the profits of the planet's lucrative natural resources, a great deal of investments were made and several expansive settlements were established. These ranged from luxurious floating resorts suspended above the day-night line where company managers and employee families could live in comfort to extensive subterranean mining cities on the night-side below. However, far from the influx of eager employees they had hoped for, the Kabral colony saw only a few thousand immigrants in its opening years.
Desperate to earn back their unwise initial investment, SEM-Corp instead turned to cloning and indentured service contracts as a way to populate their failing colonial venture. These attempts, however, ran afoul of a litany of human rights and labor mismanagement lawsuits following leaks revealing the staggering mortality rates among the first batch of disposable workers sent to the colony, leaving many of the planet's underground cities almost entirely unoccupied. "A ghost colony," one contemporary news source called it -- while less favorable outlets called it "a deathtrap." So it was that after numerous settlements, sanctions, and a disastrous government inquest, SEM-Corp was forced to declare bankruptcy and, in the years that followed, began to liquidate their colonial holdings. The Kabral III colony had its funding cut, and those few who still lived there gradually left the planet, seeking their fortunes elsewhere.
Though initially, several other companies expressed interest in purchasing the derelict colony, those efforts were soon abandoned when the Aberrant invaded. Countless frontier worlds fell into ruin, and Kabral III was entirely cut off from humanity for decades, abandoned as a tactically insignificant liability in the face of a vastly superior foe.
Systems were lost. Systems were won. The war waged on, unabated. Lines were drawn to contain the enemy, and subsequently broken through. And, in the disastrous aftermath of one such battle, the tattered remnants of an exodus fleet from the doomed neighboring Calidar colony made a blind jump through an unknown wormhole to escape their pursuers... and found the Kabral system just as it had been, still untouched by the Aberrant scourge.
Its star's light too weak, its planets too sparse and desolate, the horde had not bothered to divert their course to gobble up such a measly and insignificant sector when there were far more bountiful colonies spread out before them, all but defenseless against their wrath. And so it was that the Kabral colony's failure to thrive became its single greatest lucky break, as the fleet now found themselves in possession of an entire planet, fully furnished and developed, as though in preparation for their arrival. And, what was more important, they found that among the many ore veins SEM-corp had found there, there was a certain abundant mineral that they had dismissed as waste, but which was now more valuable than anything else in the galaxy.
The floating pleasure-cities above the equatorial line were converted to defense platforms. Unused worker drones were retrofitted into machines of war. Old foundries were fired once again, and almost a dozen Anti-Barrier swords were produced for use by the Constellations of the Exodus fleet, and those among the refugees who they chose in this time of crisis to study under them.
When the Aberrant finally found them there, they doubtless expected easy prey.
They were wrong.
The swarm's initial scouting force was completely destroyed in orbit over Kabral III. Realizing the extent of the planet's defenses, the Princess leading the attack changed its tactics, embedding itself in the outermost exoplanet of the Kabral system, no doubt attempting to birth a more powerful swarm that could overwhelm the defenders regardless of their entrenchment. However, the creature failed to account for one critical possibility -- that the planet might be defended by a large group of Constellations.
Perhaps it was simple logic, reasoning that with the colony entirely cut off from the rest of humanity, they'd have no logistical means of obtaining such invaluable reinforcements. Or, perhaps, having faced nothing but easy victories for the last several years, the hive mind simply grew complacent. Regardless, once they knew the princess' location, the defenders came up with a bold plan. They broke from their defensive lines and launched an attack on the infested Kabral V, utilizing the main fleet as a distraction while the Constellations snuck into the hive along with an elite strike team, launching a devastating deep strike that succeeded in assassinating the Princess and decapitating her army.
But just when victory seemed assured, a new Aberrant entered the system, responding to the princess' dying screams. After all, it might have been taken by surprise -- but it still had more than enough time to notify its kind of what it had seen.
A dozen AB weapons and their users. Isolated. Undefended. An opportunity to deal a devastating blow to humanity's forces -- losses from which they might never recover.
And so, in the moment of their triumph, the heroes of Kabral were beset by a new enemy, as a Crownsguard descended upon them, and their hopes of an easy and decisive victory were dashed. Made up as they were largely of fresh recruits, and taken almost completely by surprise while they were still exhausted from their battle against the hive, most of the Constellations didn't last more than a few seconds. It was only through the sacrifice of the squad's commander, a seasoned Red Giant, that the Crownsguard's barrier was cracked for a moment -- but, in a break of luck, a moment was all it took.
With the hive's coordination disrupted by the death of their princess, the fleet had been able to regroup and rout the enemy's space forces -- and, in pursuing them, just so happened to be in the perfect position to take the shot when the opportunity arose. Transfixed by an orbital bombardment, the Crownsguard was left crippled and unable to restore its defenses -- and in that moment of weakness, the last survivor of Kabral's valiant defenders struck it down.
Of the noble dozen who ventured forth into battle that day, forever immortalized as the Twelve Knights of Kabral, only one survived -- one who had, perhaps, foreseen that this great sacrifice was the only way victory could be won. But when the dust of battle settled, the impossible had been achieved. The swarm had been broken, its princess slain, and her invincible guardian toppled -- its heart pierced by the spear of of the great Ricardo Valenti.
Kabral III is, in the modern day, known as the bulwark and unofficial capital system of the Frontier regions. With the death of the princess besieging it, the entire swarm collapsed, allowing the neighboring systems to regroup, and drive the Aberrant from their sectors. A new defensive line was established, and, when the news of what had occurred on Kabral came to light, the system was immediately heavily fortified, and operations undertaken to find and extract every last ounce of Anti-Barrier material from the planet's mines.
This alone wouldn't have been enough to turn Kabral into the commercial powerhouse that it is today. However, as news of the miraculous victory of the Twelve Knights spread across the galaxies, it became a rallying cry for patriots everywhere. Support for Kabral became a way of showing one's devotion to the cause of humanity universally, and entrepreneurs rode this wave of good publicity to draw investors to contribute to the development of the "unbreakable fortress" that had so soundly beaten the loathsome invaders.
Propaganda films were made. Monuments were established. Tourist attractions set up. Immigration boomed, and a few very lucky former subsidiaries of SEM-Corp found themselves unexpectedly holding the deed to all of it. These remnants banded together with the brave minds behind the defensive network erected during the first siege and with several other local enterprises merging to form a new industrial giant -- one that would honor the blood spilled to defend Kabral's red soil by harvesting every last scrap of material beneath it, and turning it into weapons fit to slaughter the Aberrants to the last. Thus was born Kabral Heavy Industries, a military-industrial powerhouse whose bold and deadly designs would take the Frontier by storm.
[Culture] The culture of Kabral III is thus, in short, steeped in two things: militarism and patriotism. Hero worship is in the blood of every last man, woman, and child born there, who grow up surrounded by reminders of all that was sacrificed by their forebears to stop the horde in its tracks, and of their own duties to defend humanity from similar threats at any cost. They venerate their Twelve Knights with almost religious fervor, and, ironically for a colony that has spent almost its entire history cut off from the rest of humanity, feel an immense camaraderie with peoples from all other worlds and galaxies. No matter how different the cultures of any visitors to Kabral, a tourist will almost never be shunned, but met with almost fanatical acceptance and curiosity. The Kabralians will bend over backwards to welcome anyone as a brother, honoring them no matter how strange or foreign their customs might be -- just so long as that stranger is willing and able to hold a weapon and tear the bugs limb from limb, they'll fit right in.
[Warrior Family] Tracing their ancestry only distantly back to branches of more distinguished clans, the Valenti family was basically unheard of until Ricardo Valenti's unprecedented rise from complete obscurity to Singularity-class, his creation as Lord of Kabral and Protector of the Frontier, and his appointment in this capacity to the UAS Council. While he is held in high regard as something of a folk hero, among established warrior houses and the blue-blooded oligarchs of the Milky Way, both he and his family are seen as upstarts, undeserving of the high status afforded to him. While he might have a seat on the council, he has yet to earn the dignity and respect afforded a proper master.
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