Isotope — Roleplayer Guild

Palace of Argesto, Destun, Kingdom of Verendes

Light from the new moon filtered weakly though the windows, illuminating the room with a nearly imperceptible glow.  In the dimness the space’s normally vibrant rug looked pale as the faces of the dead, and upon it tread skippered feet.  Though the rug covered the floor in its entirety the gentle steps seemed to echo in the room.

Tap… Tap… Tap…

On and on it droned, that soft report of her restlessly pacing feet, the one noise she held a truly ineffable hatred for.  In her mind it wasn’t that she loathed anything as simple as the sound itself, nor was it that she was even adverse to the tension that brought out the habit—in fact, of that tension, she relished every moment.  No, what she truly despised was what the maddening patter meant behind all of that, idleness, inaction, and her own powerless insignificance.

In name she was a queen, the sovereign of a nation and heart of its people. In other lands the title meant everything, yet the very word had felt dry in her mouth since she was eight years old. It was meaningless here, where she was the sovereign of a palace outshone by the abodes of the most modest nobility and the heart of a small few whose true loyalty even she was unsure of.

Most would have resigned themselves to a life of comfort so long as it lasted, taking whatever opportunity they could to reap the last withering fruits sown by their ancestors so long ago.  Under the conditions it was the logical choice, why rally and fight against a fate so tightly sealed?  She wouldn't have even blamed herself had that conclusion been the one which took root in her mind, but still it was one she could not abide.  

For her there could be no humble submission to fate, such ignorant pleasures had been forgone when the weed of defiance took hold of her mind.  When it had sprouted could not be said, but it had thrived in the confines of her psyche; the unseemly plant tended by her hatred, her smoldering desire for vengeance on those who'd reduced the very name of her line to its pathetic state.  True, for the moment she was content showing the world a demure lady resigned to the truth of being the last queen, but that was all it was, a show.  She had resolved to resist fate, to stamp upon eventuality, and laugh to in the face of inevitability.  Her mind was set to do this no matter what it cost her, and even as she paced the work she so longed to participate in was ongoing.  It was work that might restore her position, her birthright—work she lamented not being able to oversee herself.  In spite of that a jagged smile stained her perfect lips as she thought, so what if she was insignificant now?  What did it matter that she could not bloody her own hands as she ought to?  She would see that the time came when she could.

Even if she was left to meaninglessly pace waiting for it in short time there would be word of her unlikely supporter’s fortunes in the task she'd given them.  Yes she was idle, yes she was powerless, but soon enough she would be able to move herself without the crutches of support others provided.  Soon enough she would be able to avenge her father with her own hands.  It mattered not what was logical, it mattered not what realities had been handed down; even if her nation was reduced to ashes and her people to ruined husks Sanvila Aluven, the Queen, would have all the shining glory that was promised in the days of her youth, and all sordid darkness she lusted for.

Port 442, Destun, Kingdom of Verendes

For twenty nine years it had been spoken both in the darkest alleys and the highest houses of the nation, a name even the most righteous of officers knew to forget and the lowest criminals endeavoured to avoid.  To most it was 'Kerosene' and to the very few who were permitted to dig deeper, it was Lenst Mercon.  In nation where millions knew at least the former the astonishing reality that only fifty, perhaps fewer, could assign a face to the odd moniker made 'Kerosene' the greatest enigma to ever beset Verendes.

It was that enigma who watched patiently from the second story window of an ancient and derelict warehouse, unconcerned by the dust that settled over him in his unnatural stillness.  Below and concealed by the darkness of the night twelve masked figures moved slowly through the docks, each one vigilant and constantly scanning for any sign of detection, unaware of their impassive observer.  Minds set to their goal the figures located their destination behind the barbed fences of the military dock, taking care to avoid the static beams of searchlights forgotten by their supposed attendants.  The silent clinks of wire cutters made work the fences side, one of the masked men keeping the silhouette of a G.SG22 trained on a nearby guard tower even as it was illuminated by the cigarettes of heedless soldiers enthralled by their game of cards.

One by one the men made their way through the hole in the fence, the rifle eventually disappearing into a coat as the last man vanished behind the crates of the armies dock.  With a slow shake of his head Lenst spoke regretfully, “They make these things too easy.”

Beside him sat another man, dim light only illuminating the top of his greying hair and the slightest features of wrinkled face, “You shouldn’t curse your own fortunes Lenst…  Still, I agree one can tire of such easy victories.  That said, this may well be the last of them.”

Lenst nodded, “I imagine so, but perhaps that is for the best.  Despite all we’ve taught her the young mistress still holds the arrogance of a child, and why would she not?  What has ever come to challenge such misguided thinking?  You’ve spent your life at her side my friend so tell me if I'm wrong to say this, but I feel even if she knows what lies ahead, I can’t help but think she lacks a vital understanding of it.  At the very least the realities to come might to provide that.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” The other man sighed, “Realities…  Such ugly things aren’t they?”

At that Lenst gave out a low chuckle that sent the moonlight suspended dust spinning in intricate swirls like smoke exhaled by some ancient dragon, “Truly, but they remain something we must all confront at some point my old friend.  Fate has conspired so that our Queen will learn them as we did, all we can do is hope the lesson to come doesn’t break her.”

A thoughtful hum was the only reply the other man could give to that.

Thirty Miles From The Verenden Coast, Enroute to the Xins Colony

Slicing effortlessly through the infinite blue she moved silently in the night, behind her the brilliant lights of Destun growing distant and heralding her departure into the open ocean.  Solidly in the middle of her life the Darling Fisher was a freight vessel who’d sailed the journey ahead many a time, and it was with a relaxed confidence born from familiarity that her crew ensured she would make it once more.  

From the day she’d first set sail fifteen years ago Rede Aesnes been her captain, and looking down from the bridge he could only smile at the rusty blemishes left by years of loyal service that mottled her deck.  Whenever they left port he was like this, as if he’d been reunited with an old flame and was taking in the sight of her at every spare moment.

The crew had seen it as funny in the beginning, but as time went on many found themselves looking at the freighter the same way.  Built in a small order she had but a handful of existing sisters, and it was a point of pride that none of them had a record so spotless as the Fishers.  No matter how violent the storm, or how enraged the port authority, the old girl had kept them safe.

With a glowing smile Rede walked to his chair, the helmsman giving him a nod as he passed their station.  Night shifts were an oddity for him, but he was insistent upon being there for every launch, even if the military decided to make him set off when he ought to have been sleeping.  

It was a hassle, but he supposed the brass had a valid reason to rush the shipment after the last riots in the Xien colony.  Most of the time the ridiculous insurrections were put down quickly, but word from his friends in the Atlantic Fleet was that in the last one a gang of natives had managed to break into an arms depot and scatter before the army could apprehend them.

If that really was what happened Rede could see the logic in shipping so many new weapons out there, even if having that amount of ordnance in his holds made him nervous.  Then again, the Darling Fisher had never let him down, nor had his crew (the occasional night of drunken whoreing aside).  Letting his concerns fade away as the last lights of Destun vanished in the ocean mist Rede leaned back in his chair; it was just another hop across the pond.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

He waited restlessly in the darkness, clutching a small timer with a feverish anticipation.  Around him he knew the others waited in much the same way, surrounded by their kin, fellow tools of death in the crates of rifles.  They had snuck into the cargo before the ship was loaded, and with a dead stillness each one had endured the rough process.

Now though, the time had arrived.  Without a word of planning or confirmation he and the men around him smashed the wooden boards that confined them in unison, those who reached fresh air quickly freeing those trapped beneath heavier containers.

The commotion had not gone unnoticed, but by the time a guard made it into the hold his fellow intruders had finished their assembly, and the hapless soldier’s shout was cut off by the sputter of a G.SG22.  Breathing in the smell of gunpowder and death he donned a feral grin, now a new clock had started ticking.

Room by room they went, never sharing a word save the singing of their guns.  Every second counting he made his way higher and higher in the ship, killing with a joy he never felt outside of combat.  A burst there, a grenade here, the crew and their mostly drunken marine detachment fell like grass to deaths scythe.

It was five minutes later that they reached the bridge, and it was a bare second before they tore through the pitiable barricade the defenders had erected.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

In his life Rede had never fired nor owned a gun, it wasn’t a fact he boasted but one he felt a silent pride in.  So too was it a fact he cursed with the whole of his being as the door to the bridge erupted in an explosion of splinters and metal, sending the chairs propped against it flying across the room.

It was a moment later and with horror that he watched through a veil of dust as some sort of demon plunge a wicked knife into the heart of the helmsman.  Rising out of the smoke filled room the aberration approached Rede and he stammered, “Please no!  I’ll let you have it, just take it!  Anyth-”

With an echoing thump he was cut off.  Grasping his ringing ear in shock Rede looked at his blood soaked hand in a daze before glancing up to identify the rifle that had hit him by the crimson stain on its stock.  Two of the creatures that slaughtered his crew grabbed him by the arms, and he was only faintly aware of the ammunition box one tied to his waist as they dragged him painfully down stairs and across cold metal to the deck railing.

As clarity returned he was struck with horror at what was happening, but his swollen mouth refused speech as one of the wicked men hefted him over the side.  As the brisk ocean air ran over him and the deep blue drew near the last horrid words he ever shared the displeasure of knowing emerged from one of the grinning beasts that had raped his Darling, “Gods save the queen.”
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