She swallowed badly, whiskey burning on the way down. She coughed and lit a cigarette.
It was close to closing, only five or so regulars left, the die hard drinkers. Sinatra crooned about time wasted and love turning sour on the bar's tinny speakers. The Copperhead was hot and dank, the ancient AC doing nothing but make noise. Don was wiping down the bar, the dim light gleaming on his pate. Sergeant Bask was talking at him while slurping down his ninth beer.
"... old stations, the ones they closed after the flooding, kids down there like you wouldn't believe, tons of 'em, all strung out on this new shit," he said.
"Yeah, you said," said Don.
"Atlas," said Bask, "It's the whole department these days, all we deal with. Like wildfire, three months ago- nothin', now it's every-fucking-where. Rich kids, ghetto rats, everyone."
"Must be good stuff," said Don, sliding another beer across the bar.
Bask turned from Don and gave her a bleary, appraising look, "What do your people have to say about all this?"
"My people?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and rapping the bar for Don to refill her glass.
"Don't be cute," Bask said, "Oswald, what's he doing about this new shit? I know he ain't selling it. Ain't comin' from him."
"I don't come here to talk work, hon," she said, "and anyway, I work for a casino, not a drug dealer."
"Yeah okay," said Bask, "and my daughter's still a virgin. Peter Oswald runs half the fuckin' city, and you're his what?"
She smiled, "Executive assistant."
"Uh huh," said Bask, "the secretary- 'scuse me, assistant- of the fucking king of the under world knows nothing about this Atlas craziness. Why do you drink in this shit hole, anyway?"
"Shit hole?" said Don, a scowl creasing his impressive jowls.
"The mind is its own place," she said, smiling and snuffing out her smoke, "put the drinks on my tab, Donny boy, see ya soon."
Welcome to Kingston, a city of several millions in the American heartland, bordering Great Lake Oriab.
I'm looking to tell RP a noirish, urban low-fantasy story with a big cast. Emphasis on low fantasy- no elves or vampire covens. We'll be exploring- and building- the creepy, crumbling, neo-gothic/art deco, crime-infested city of Kingston, with a view *maybe* of building our own version of the Batman mythos. The idea here is of a masked vigilante trying to bring order to a crumbling metropolis, and playing on all the themes and tropes that make Batman so intriguing, but without 'batman' himself or any of the usual cast of characters.
Collaborative world building/story telling is a big one here, lets design a memorable setting. For inspiration, think Tim Burton's Gotham meets True Detective, with the lovecraft dial turned up a notch or two. I have a vague idea for a central plot involving a new drug flooding the city, Atlas, that we can pursue or ignore as we like. Atlas is a small purple liquid that comes in glass vials you break in your mouth. It causes ecstatic states, and (of course) the occasional horrifying, mind-breaking trip.
Characters could be pretty much whatever you want- including our as yet unnamed vigilante(s). We can figure out just how 'low' we want the low fantasy to be together.
Advanced writing please. I'm sticking this in 1x1 but am open to a number of players.
Museum of Imperial History, Divayth City Alma Secundus, Calixis Sector
"My lord," said the Curator, "we are nearly finished. The Fyr Tablets are in the final crates- my servitors are bringing them aboard your craft now."
He was a frail man, in a suit of purple velvet with an ascot slightly stained. Watery eyes set deep in his bony face peered from behind a pince-nez at the Inquisitor. Fearful but curious.
"Good," said the Inquisitor. He had a rich voice, the slightly dismissive baritone of an aristo used to being obeyed, "You have been most efficient."
The loading bay was filling with the roar of the gun-cutter's engines as it powered up to leave. Heavy utility-servitors, thrice the size of a man, were clumping up and down the ship's open cargo bay, ferrying wooden boxes marked 'FRAGILE- IMPERIAL RELIC' in their industrial claws.
"A pity they should be taken from you, these treasures," offered the Inquisitor, turning to face the Curator, who took a half-step back. The Inquisitor's face- if he had one- was hidden behind a silver, expressionless mask, decorated by elegant tracery. The Curator was fluent in five tongues, including High Gothic, and familiar with dozens more, but he did not recognize the provenance of those weirdly sinuous runes.
"Well, I am of course sad to lose them from the collection," said the Curator, then hastened to add, "But anything for the Ordos, of course."
"If you only knew, my dear man," replied the Inquisitor. He was a tall man, clad in a black, hooded cassock, his robes edged with shimmering embroidery. One gauntlet-covered hand, silver like the mask, rested on the railing of the platform on which they stood overlooking the loading bay. The other clutched a black metal stave.
Inquisitor Love had about him all the menace and mystery the Curator associated with the dreaded Holy Ordos. His men, however, seemed of the rougher sort. Clad in unpainted metal armor-some of it rusted and stained- they milled impatiently and without apparent discipline about the loading bay, barking orders at the museum servitors and staff in a harsh tongue the Curator had never before heard. Almost all wore rebreathers, their eyes hidden behind glowing red optics.
The Curator's portable vox-unit blared to life- it was the voice of his assistant. She sounded frantic.
"Sir, sir, the Inquisition is here."
Inquisitor Love's cowled head tilted at that. Several of his men turned and looked up at the Curator. Annoyed to be interrupted and unnerved by the staring red optics, the Curator snatched up his vox-unit and snapped back, "Of course woman! I'm with him now in the loadin-"
"No," she replied, cutting him off, "A different Inquisitor is here, Kolens, he says not to let the other-"
Love almost casually plucked the vox-unit from the Curator's hand and crushed it in his mailed fist.
"You'd better run for it, my friend," he said, his voice as calm as though he were commenting on the weather, "My esteemed colleagues will not reward you for cooperating with me."
"I don't understand..." said the Curator. But the Inquisitor wasn't listening- he'd spun on his heel and was striding down the platform to the loading bay floor, black robes billowing out behind him as he issued orders in the harsh, foreign tongue of his minions.
For their part, the minions were suddenly more organized- taking up positions behind crates and spent fuel canisters, weapons unslung.
"By Terra," gasped the Curator, looking around for a place to flee. He found none, for the entryway to the loading bay was now crowded with planetary guardsmen.
The shooting started immediately, from both sides. The Curator cowered behind a lifter-control console as las-bolts and bullets filled the air around him. Curiosity conquered fear on one front, however, for he did not close his eyes. What he saw terrified him. Two figures in power armor, one marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, the other too large and horrible to be anything other than one of the Astartes barreled through the cluster of guardsmen pinned down by the entrance-way, unflinching as small-arms fire pinged off their armor.
"LOVE," this second Inquisitor was bellowing, "IT'S OVER, LOVE."
The Astartes said nothing, just blazed away at Love's men, who melted before his onslaught. Suddenly, both his weapon and that of his companion clicked uselessly as they tried to fire. Both paused, confounded for a moment at their jammed weapons.
It was then that the utility-servitors barreled into them, their heavy claws swinging, lines of corrupted-code blurting from their shriveled mouths. The second Inquisitor was knocked off his feet, but the Astartes took his assailant apart easily, using only his armored hands.
The Curator risked a glance around the corner of his hiding spot at Love's gun-cutter. He caught a glimpse of the black-robed figure with arms and stave extended, before the cargo bay clicked shut and the vessel launched itself from the loading bay in a deafening roar, disappearing quickly into the cloudless sky.
The second inquisitor was now on his feet, having killed the servitor attacking him rather clinically with a humming power-sword.
"SCRAMBLE THE FIGHTERS, I WANTED AIR COVER!" he was bellowing, as guardsmen surged past him to fill the bay.
The Curator felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the vast bulk of the Astartes glowering down at him.
"What," said the Space Marine, "did they take?"
Name: Incurvatus Love, Ordo Xenos
Denomination: Undivided? Possibly Love still considers himself a Xanthite, but suspected by most of his Imperial peers to be a Phaenonite. Love has been declared excommunicate traitoris by Inquisitor Kolans of the Ordo Hereticus. This declaration was neither repudiated nor endorsed by Love's superior in the Ordo Xenos, Inquisitor Lord Gavel von Kesselbrood. To the chaos factions of the Vortex, Love is a known mercenary and his inquisitorial status (which he does not advertise, but is rumored among the chaos forces) is treated generally with indifference, mild curiosity or contempt.
Appearance:
A blend of machine and man, covered in a dark & hooded cassock. His face is an expressionless silver mask. He boasts a pair of clawed mechadendrites, each armed with close range cutting/welding lasers. These ae usually hidden in his robes.
Personality: Calm, cold, calculating, with a fairly business-first, mercenary attitude and a wry sense of humor. He is not particularly religious and affects disinterest in both the chaos gods and the Imperial faith. It is clear he sees the warp and its denizens as a potential source of power (and risk), not as something to be worshiped- which often offends the more zealous worshipers of the Dark Gods who often make use of his services. He is known to be a keen collector of xenos, mechanicus, and chaos tech-relics.
Biography: As an interrogator and young inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Love was always of a Radical disposition, but his true fall came through reading Heretek philosophical works, from which he became obsessed with self-augmentation. While his status as an Inquisitor is murky (he has contacts among his former colleagues of the radical persuasion), he now pursues his own agenda in Chaos territory, usually working as a mercenary and 'fixer' for warlords and power-brokers. He has developed a reputation as a formidable figure among the warlords of the Vortex, with the ability to operate clandestinely in Imperial space.
Skills: Love is an adept of heretek magic, and a fairly potent (probably low to mid Delta-level) psyker, though he does not make use of the more exotic magics of Chaos, being cautious about the risks of madness and mutation. In addition, his heavily augmented and modified body leaves him formidable in hand to hand combat when facing human foes, though in a brawl he could not hold his own against those heavily altered by the Warp, and would stand no chance facing an Astartes.
Museum of Imperial History, Divayth City Alma Secundus, Calixis Sector
"My lord," said the Curator, "we are nearly finished. The Fyr Tablets are in the final crates- my servitors are bringing them aboard your craft now."
He was a frail man, in a suit of purple velvet with an ascot slightly stained. Watery eyes set deep in his bony face peered from behind a pince-nez at the Inquisitor. Fearful but curious.
"Good," said the Inquisitor. He had a rich voice, the slightly dismissive baritone of an aristo used to being obeyed, "You have been most efficient."
The loading bay was filling with the roar of the gun-cutter's engines as it powered up to leave. Heavy utility-servitors, thrice the size of a man, were clumping up and down the ship's open cargo bay, ferrying wooden boxes marked 'FRAGILE- IMPERIAL RELIC' in their industrial claws.
"A pity they should be taken from you, these treasures," offered the Inquisitor, turning to face the Curator, who took a half-step back. The Inquisitor's face- if he had one- was hidden behind a silver, expressionless mask, decorated by elegant tracery. The Curator was fluent in five tongues, including High Gothic, and familiar with dozens more, but he did not recognize the provenance of those weirdly sinuous runes.
"Well, I am of course sad to lose them from the collection," said the Curator, then hastened to add, "But anything for the Ordos, of course."
"If you only knew, my dear man," replied the Inquisitor. He was a tall man, clad in a black, hooded cassock, his robes edged with shimmering embroidery. One gauntlet-covered hand, silver like the mask, rested on the railing of the platform on which they stood overlooking the loading bay. The other clutched a black metal stave.
Inquisitor Love had about him all the menace and mystery the Curator associated with the dreaded Holy Ordos. His men, however, seemed of the rougher sort. Clad in unpainted metal armor-some of it rusted and stained- they milled impatiently and without apparent discipline about the loading bay, barking orders at the museum servitors and staff in a harsh tongue the Curator had never before heard. Almost all wore rebreathers, their eyes hidden behind glowing red optics.
The Curator's portable vox-unit blared to life- it was the voice of his assistant. She sounded frantic.
"Sir, sir, the Inquisition is here."
Inquisitor Love's cowled head tilted at that. Several of his men turned and looked up at the Curator. Annoyed to be interrupted and unnerved by the staring red optics, the Curator snatched up his vox-unit and snapped back, "Of course woman! I'm with him now in the loadin-"
"No," she replied, cutting him off, "A different Inquisitor is here, Kolens, he says not to let the other-"
Love almost casually plucked the vox-unit from the Curator's hand and crushed it in his mailed fist.
"You'd better run for it, my friend," he said, his voice as calm as though he were commenting on the weather, "My esteemed colleagues will not reward you for cooperating with me."
"I don't understand..." said the Curator. But the Inquisitor wasn't listening- he'd spun on his heel and was striding down the platform to the loading bay floor, black robes billowing out behind him as he issued orders in the harsh, foreign tongue of his minions.
For their part, the minions were suddenly more organized- taking up positions behind crates and spent fuel canisters, weapons unslung.
"By Terra," gasped the Curator, looking around for a place to flee. He found none, for the entryway to the loading bay was now crowded with planetary guardsmen.
The shooting started immediately, from both sides. The Curator cowered behind a lifter-control console as las-bolts and bullets filled the air around him. Curiosity conquered fear on one front, however, for he did not close his eyes. What he saw terrified him. Two figures in power armor, one marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, the other too large and horrible to be anything other than one of the Astartes barreled through the cluster of guardsmen pinned down by the entrance-way, unflinching as small-arms fire pinged off their armor.
"LOVE," this second Inquisitor was bellowing, "IT'S OVER, LOVE."
The Astartes said nothing, just blazed away at Love's men, who melted before his onslaught. Suddenly, both his weapon and that of his companion clicked uselessly as they tried to fire. Both paused, confounded for a moment at their jammed weapons.
It was then that the utility-servitors barreled into them, their heavy claws swinging, lines of corrupted-code blurting from their shriveled mouths. The second Inquisitor was knocked off his feet, but the Astartes took his assailant apart easily, using only his armored hands.
The Curator risked a glance around the corner of his hiding spot at Love's gun-cutter. He caught a glimpse of the black-robed figure with arms and stave extended, before the cargo bay clicked shut and the vessel launched itself from the loading bay in a deafening roar, disappearing quickly into the cloudless sky.
The second inquisitor was now on his feet, having killed the servitor attacking him rather clinically with a humming power-sword.
"SCRAMBLE THE FIGHTERS, I WANTED AIR COVER!" he was bellowing, as guardsmen surged past him to fill the bay.
The Curator felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the vast bulk of the Astartes glowering down at him.
"What," said the Space Marine, "did they take?"
Name: Incurvatus Love, Ordo Xenos
Denomination: Undivided? Possibly Love still considers himself a Xanthite, but suspected by most of his Imperial peers to be a Phaenonite. Love has been declared excommunicate traitoris by Inquisitor Kolans of the Ordo Hereticus. This declaration was neither repudiated nor endorsed by Love's superior in the Ordo Xenos, Inquisitor Lord Gavel von Kesselbrood. To the chaos factions of the Vortex, Love is a known mercenary and his inquisitorial status (which he does not advertise, but is rumored among the chaos forces) is treated generally with indifference, mild curiosity or contempt.
Appearance:
A blend of machine and man, covered in a dark & hooded cassock. His face is an expressionless silver mask. He boasts a pair of clawed mechadendrites, each armed with close range cutting/welding lasers. These ae usually hidden in his robes.
Personality: Calm, cold, calculating, with a fairly business-first, mercenary attitude and a wry sense of humor. He is not particularly religious and affects disinterest in both the chaos gods and the Imperial faith. It is clear he sees the warp and its denizens as a potential source of power (and risk), not as something to be worshiped- which often offends the more zealous worshipers of the Dark Gods who often make use of his services. He is known to be a keen collector of xenos, mechanicus, and chaos tech-relics.
Biography: As an interrogator and young inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Love was always of a Radical disposition, but his true fall came through reading Heretek philosophical works, from which he became obsessed with self-augmentation. While his status as an Inquisitor is murky (he has contacts among his former colleagues of the radical persuasion), he now pursues his own agenda in Chaos territory, usually working as a mercenary and 'fixer' for warlords and power-brokers. He has developed a reputation as a formidable figure among the warlords of the Vortex, with the ability to operate clandestinely in Imperial space.
Skills: Love is an adept of heretek magic, and a fairly potent (probably low to mid Delta-level) psyker, though he does not make use of the more exotic magics of Chaos, being cautious about the risks of madness and mutation. In addition, his heavily augmented and modified body leaves him formidable in hand to hand combat when facing human foes, though in a brawl he could not hold his own against those heavily altered by the Warp, and would stand no chance facing an Astartes.
In the spirit of sharing and coordinating, putting this very WIP CS up for folks to see the kind of char I have in mind. Will be updating- and happy to coordinate with anyone on backstory. I wrote this rly fast just to give a sense of what I'm thinking.
Name: Incurvatus Love
Denomination: Undivided, formerly of the Ordo Hereticus
Appearance:
A blend of machine and man, covered in a dark & hooded cassock. His face is an expressionless silver mask.
Personality: Calm, cold, calculating, with a fairly business-first, mercenary attitude. Which is fitting, given his profession: a mercenary. He is not particularly religious, as chaos fanatics go, and the sees the warp and its denizens as a potential source of power (and risk), not as something to be worshiped. Nor is he particularly interested in the downfall of mankind or the spread of chaos, though he is not above working for those who are. He is, however, a keen collector of xenos, mechanicus, and chaos tech-relics.
Biography: (WIP) Formerly an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, Love fell to chaos through reading Heretek philosophical works, from which he became obsessed with self-augmentation. While his status as an inquisitor is murky (he has contacts among his former colleagues of the radical persuasion), he now pursues his own agenda in Chaos territory, usually working as a mercenary and 'fixer' for warlords and power-brokers. He has developed a reputation as a formidable figure among the warlords of the Vortex.
Other: (WIP) Love's main skillset will be a blend of heretech-magic and fairly straightforward, if potent, psyker skills.
She swallowed badly, whiskey burning on the way down. She coughed and lit a cigarette.
It was close to closing, only five or so regulars left, the die hard drinkers. Sinatra crooned about time wasted and love turning sour on the bar's tinny speakers. The Copperhead was hot and dank, the ancient AC doing nothing but make noise. Don was wiping down the bar, the dim light gleaming on his pate. Sergeant Bask was talking at him while slurping down his ninth beer.
"... old stations, the ones they closed after the flooding, kids down there like you wouldn't believe, tons of 'em, all strung out on this new shit," he said.
"Yeah, you said," said Don.
"Atlas," said Bask, "It's the whole department these days, all we deal with. Like wildfire, three months ago- nothin', now it's every-fucking-where. Rich kids, ghetto rats, everyone."
"Must be good stuff," said Don, sliding another beer across the bar.
Bask turned from Don and gave her a bleary, appraising look, "What do your people have to say about all this?"
"My people?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and rapping the bar for Don to refill her glass.
"Don't be cute," Bask said, "Oswald, what's he doing about this new shit? I know he ain't selling it. Ain't comin' from him."
"I don't come here to talk work, hon," she said, "and anyway, I work for a casino, not a drug dealer."
"Yeah okay," said Bask, "and my daughter's still a virgin. Peter Oswald runs half the fuckin' city, and you're his what?"
She smiled, "Executive assistant."
"Uh huh," said Bask, "the secretary- 'scuse me, assistant- of the fucking king of the under world knows nothing about this Atlas craziness. Why do you drink in this shit hole, anyway?"
"Shit hole?" said Don, a scowl creasing his impressive jowls.
"The mind is its own place," she said, smiling and snuffing out her smoke, "put the drinks on my tab, Donny boy, see ya soon."
Welcome to Kingston, a city of several millions in the American heartland, bordering Great Lake Oriab.
This RP will be a noirish, urban low-fantasy RP. Emphasis on low fantasy- no elves or vampire covens. We'll be exploring- and building- the creepy, crumbling, neo-gothic/art deco, crime-infested city of Kingston, with a view of building our own version of the Batman mythos. The idea here is of a masked vigilante trying to bring order to a crumbling metropolis, and playing on all the themes and tropes that make Batman so intriguing, but without 'batman' himself or any of the usual cast of characters.
Collaborative world building is a big one here, lets design a memorable setting. For inspiration, think Tim Burton's Gotham meets True Detective, with the lovecraft dial turned up a notch or two. There will be a central plot involving a new drug flooding the city, Atlas, that players can participate in or ignore as they like. It is a small purple pill that causes ecstatic states, and (of course) the occasional horrifying, mind-breaking trip.
Characters can be pretty much whatever anyone wants- including our as yet unnamed vigilante(s). We can figure out just how 'low' we want the low fantasy to be based on what folks would like to see. As the story progresses, I'll start adding setting details here in the OP based on what everyone comes up with.
To begin with, each player may submit one character sheet. Once they have ‘proven’ themselves (by engaging in roleplay, being active OOCly etc) they may apply for a second character. You may play up to three characters.
Any takers?
Name/Nicknames:
Age:
Appearance: (Short, physical description of your character required, pic optional)
Personality: (An IC scene here giving us a glimpse of your character would be best)
Bio: (A brief synopsis of what got your character to this point, and where they fit in to San Judas. Optional if you can work the gist of that into your IC scene.)
Other:(Any other notes, pieces of information, etc that you wish to include)
Hello, all! Delta Green is looking to recruit a player that would like to play a character well-versed in tradecraft, gun fighting, or any other kind of expertise!
Fluff and flavor for the character is up to you, but the team needs someone who can spy, shoot, or even offer expertise to the occult powers that be! Post here or PM me with your character ideas!
A healthy forewarning, we keep a pretty good and steady pace that the rest of us are more than happy with. If you can get with that and want a damn good story, go ahead and apply!
Ok- I'll bite. Any niches in particular that need filling? I have some initial ideas but they're a bit flexible depending on what the group needs.
"Reckon ships are gettin' inspected in low orbit, why they ain't taking fares... Which only means one thing: Union's here," said Augustine. In point of fact, he knew this was the case. He'd not spent all the time Kyra was out looking for tickets off-world drinking. Just most of it. But she didn't need to know everything. "Imperial security, 'specially out here in the Territories, is never so thorough."
He sipped his drink. "And if the Union's over Benson, that means either a new war is cookin' up or they worked somethin' out with the Imperial Houses. And if that last is the case, if the Union and the Great Houses are makin' nice, well..."
He signaled to the bartender for a refill, "...we want outta here. No goods comin' from whatever is spookin' Blues'n Whites into workin' hand in glove."
He chuckled and lit a smoke, "Though, I s'pose that does reflect our own situation a bit, Ms. Ren."
They hadn't discussed their backgrounds on the ride from the mine to Port Carolus- in fact, Augustine'd slept off his hangover for most of the drive. And they were too busy outrunning ganger patrols on the stretch from Carolus to Toehold to do much talkin' neither. But Augustine knew a Union witch when he saw one- after all he'd killed his share in the War. Kyra struck him as undertrained -or maybe she just had a weaker wyrd than some of the Union hags he'd met, or maybe she was a pro and good at hiding it- but he still kept his surface level thoughts masked. The trick was simple rhymes on repeat, keep 'em goin' in the back of your mind and the jaysers had a hard time pinning down your real thoughts.
Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime.
"Anyways, I think I got an answer to our problems," said Augustine lowering his voice and nodding at a rowdy table of slavers in the corner of the bar, "flesh traders over there are due off world in two days, totally legal- they got Imperial warrants. My thought is, we keep close to 'em and the day before they leave we get the drop on 'em, lock 'em in their own hold, and sail outta here as legal slave dealers."
The bartender slid another whiskey into Augustine's waiting hand, "Plus, gives us some time to do some serious drinking."
"They got some positions open now, anyways," said Augustine with something between a smirk and grimace, "I was lookin' into some things for a client, minor smugglin' type stuff, no big deal, didn't take these guys too serious and ran my mouth after a few drinks. What I get for slackin on the job."
He pulled handcuffs from the belt of the prostrate miners and shackled the two unconscious men together, grunting slightly as he dragged their bodies into a ditch off the side of the rutted road. He didn't motion to Kyra for help, just moved with steady purpose.
"Well," he said, nodding towards the truck, "What's say we..."
The alarm started blaring in the mines then, loud enough to hear even at this distance. Kyra and Augustine both turned, expecting they'd been detected.
A gunfight had broken out at the landing bay- figures from the mine were firing on the ship and her crew as they began to unload, and the off-worlders were returning fire. The ship's shields had activated, and rippled under the barrage of small arms and grenades.
"How 'bout we take the truck, drive in the other fuckin' direction," said Augustine, "hire us a ship outta Port Carolus or Toehold?"
Celestine V, Subsector Vienne, Imperial Space
"On behalf of the Royal Navy, allow me to extend my sincere thanks to House Kesselbrood for this hospitality," said Morning with a stiff bow, "I know these circumstances are...unusual, but we appreciate your, ah, receptivity."
"Displeasure," hissed the Castellan, beady eyes gleaming in the candle-light of the audience hall, "Is expressed." He was a small man in the white-and-red uniform of an Imperial officer. Lips stained purple from tarric root hovered over the curious absence of a chin. The gaggle of courtiers assembled behind him murmured sourly.
Commodore Morning cleared his throat, his gaze moving from the Castellan to the immense, frowning bulk of the Archduchess, whose gilded throne hovered several feet above the proceedings. Her Magnificence affected aloofness, waggling her fingers at a small, bluish, scaled creature with bulging eyes that squirmed and squeaked in her lap.
"The Royal Union of Octavius..." began the Commodore.
"Has not had ships permitted in Imperial space, nor the sovereign space of Great House Kesselbrood," said the Castellan, "Since the victory of our forces at Almalexia and the conclusion of the War. The second such victorious conclusion to attempted Octavian expansion."
"I am aware of recent history," said Commodore Morning, "I come today to discuss a matter of mutual concern."
"And what concerns could we possibly share with you?" asked the Castellan.
Morning sighed, eyeing the crowd of courtiers before addressing the Archduchess directly, "The clandestine excavation of Dark Age relics on a planet within your demesne, your Magnificence."
Caked powder cracked on the Archducal face as her eyes narrowed, "What manner of relics?"
"Un'Goliant, your Magnificence," said Morning, quietly.
"Clear the audience hall," barked the Archduchess, "I would speak with this man alone."
Goldeagle1221
cider
Squirrel98
Grijs
Marrone
josephb
