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The Star-Breakers! A Sci-Fi Outlaw Story!

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The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Sythemeis gave that thief a look that said much without words but tempted though she was she chose not to argue. What good would it do to explain now that if he had tried to cross the wards the wizard had set he would have become the nine hundredth and ninety ninth set of finger bones in the collection of Antiachus the Mooncursed?

“Follow man,” she instructed the word ‘man’ laden with contempt. They climbed higher into the tower, the stairs lacking the larger than life rise of the dungeon. At intervals arched windows granted vistas of the palace gardens and the city beyond both illuminated with moonlight and winking with the cruder light of torches. They reached a great doorway and passed through. Inside a dozen guardsmen stood about a circular guard room, its floor tiled with alternating black and white wedges.

“Touch them not,” Sythemeis advised. The men were typical of the Emir’s guard, dressed in studded tunics with silk sashes over their shoulders and belted at the waist. High boots of woven leather gave their legs a rough and unhealthy aspect. None of the guards reacted to their presence as they all stared blind and bemused up at the waxing moon. Their eyes were monochrome and pearlescent like the nacre of a shellfish. One or two of them moaned softly as they passed.

“They looked upon the moon,” she told Amal as though that explained everything. There was an eagerness in her voice a yearning like a thirsty man at last in sight of a broad river.

“We must hurry, she swells,” she explained, reaching the stairs on the other side, atop the next flight they came to a door. It was of dark wood, inlaid with golden tracery and thumb sized gems which themself would have been worth a small fortune at the gem sellers and pawn brokers. A great lock was built into its center veins of gold and silver running away from it in a hateful imitation of the sun.



“No man has stepped beyond this door without a key,” Sythemis explained, reaching out and touching the wood with the palm of her hand. For the first time it was tentative and uncertain as she felt the grain of the wood beneath her smooth palm.

“A task for a master thief, one of three which are laid upon this tower,” she told Amal, turning to look at him, her dark eyes glittering in the moonlight.

“We must hurry,” she repeated, “if we are not gone when the bones return Antiachus from the depths, we shall wish for a death that will not come.”

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

There was only one way up from the Black Cells. It wound up a set of basalt stairs, cut too tall for the easy tread of men, though whether to allow the egress of fouler things, or simply to make the passage harder was unclear. The stairs opened onto a room paved with the most intricate mosaic Amal could imagine. It seemed the whole of the city was picked out in tiny tiles of white ceramic, the variations from ivory to a dull brown barely enough to provide contrast. Amal realized they were human fingerbones, cut and polished flat. In the center of the room, perhaps thirty paces away, a man in a snow white robe and a blindfold as black as night sat cross legged. Here, where the Tower would have been, the fingerbones lost their flat cross section and regained themselves reaching up to grasp at the mans legs like drowning victims reaching for a hand. It was very bright, moonlight shafting down from some place impossibly far above through some clever trick of mirrors and engineering. The whole tableau seemed to glow like the stars on fresh snowfall.



“Welcome thief,” the robed figure said and lifted his left hand. Tendrils of light whipped around Amal’s wrists and thighs. They were no solid thing but they burned like fire. Smaller tendrils spread out from their parents, coiling and hooking.

“Long have I pondered the secret of the old man, and long have I wondered what this so called Stygian priestess sought. I have long known that she bent the ear of the Emir with her filthy trickery but to what end I had not yet divined,” he stated, making a gesture that lifted Amal into the air. The pain grew more intense, like standing too close to a fire that was flaring hotter and hotter.

“Little wonder a fool such as you should choose to aid her. You all see only how she appears on the outside, but a pleasant curve can hide things that a man might not want to see. Shall I tell you? You are after all going to die so the secret does you no good, and perhaps it might bring you some extra measure of torment in hell? Well…” The man’s voice suddenly cut off as a red line appeared from ear to ear. For a moment the man seemed shocked. Then the red line began to pour down his white robe in a torrent of blood, soaking the pristine fabric in moments.

“You always talked too much Antiachus,” Sythemeis stated. Her hand gripped the white robed man’s cowl and the knife in her hand sawed back and forth, the edge grating against the bone. The fingers on the ground spasmed as blood rained down upon them and their color darkened to black. The ebon hue began to spread from tile to tile like dye poured into clear water. The fiery ropes of light holding the thief aloft vanished as the old man, the Wizard Antiachus, coughed his death rattle. The priestess had not succeded in severing the head, despite her strenuous effort so she let the ruined corpse fall forward into the embrace of grasping fingerbones.

“Run!” she called to Amal as the stain spread.

“You must reach this side of the chamber without touching the black, move, for your soul dont tarry!”

The Sunday Group

Eleanor pulled up the car, having circled around behind the gas station. She let out a sigh and pulled the handbrake on before stepping out. Her once fine outfit was ruined with small burns and stains from where drops of gasoline had splashed her. She smelled of petrol and gunsmoke despite the valiant effort of the enchanted air freshener. Mal did manage to look slightly abashed but the two civilians with him, the Petersons she presumed, looked like they were hanging on by a thread.

“Who… who are you?” the woman asked. Suppressing a sigh Eleanor reached into her pocket and produced the geas inlaid card.

“I’m Agent So-and-So from the Department of Whatever,” she told them, feeling the lilac bite of the geas. Both of the Petersons were nodding along. It was almost a mercy, though Eleanor knew that was a dangerous line of thinking. First you thought it would be good if your loved one wasn’t afraid, next you thought it would be ok if you made them happy. Next thing you knew you were running a mental puppet without ever meaning to. It was always a slippery slope.

“If you would get in the car Sir and Ma’am, we will take you to a safe place,” Eleanor coaxed. They both nodded jerkily and climbed into the back seat with Mal taking the front. They drove off ahead of the sirens.



The dropped the Peterson’s off by the side of the road, dazed and confused enough that emergency services would pick them up, but far enough from the actual site of the blast that their unseen enemies were unlikely to bother with them.



“So, a hundred incinerated monster energy drinks aside, what did we find out?” Eleanor asked as she pulled back onto the road.

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Sythemis let out a weird shuddering sigh as he sheathed the knife. Behind her the stars seemed to grow brighter and the moon seemed to pulse for a moment like a living heart. She wrapped her arms around the thief, the motion oddly devoid of human warmth despite the soft and pleasant feel of smooth skin.

“There are more sources of wisdom than that which is whispered by the stars,” she told him. The priestess opened her mouth and breathed, and something silvery and smelling of sharp spices came from her mouth like a hot breath on a winter’s morning. Amal had time to stiffen before paralysis locked his limbs, and his vision dimmed down to the dark pinpricks of her eyes before finally going black.



When Amal awoke he was in a dungeon. Heavy iron chain had been fastened around his wrists with cunning locks. The cell was small and barred with rods of rusted iron. Festering straw, rank with filth and death covered the floor. Screams could be heard in the distance, the eerie repetition of them bespeaking madness rather than simple pain. Torches of rancid fat guttered and burned in the hallway beyond like snapping dogs. The Black Cells were immediately recognizable from legend, even if few had ever returned to describe them. The Emir’s personal dungeons, deep beneath his spire.



“Awake is it,” a paunchy jailor asked. He had a lazy eye and a wound on his right cheek that constantly leaked some foul-smelling exudate. He cuffed at it with a filthy tunic sleeve.

“The last two she brought down here died without waking,” the jailers told him conversationally.



“I guess this means we will have some time to have fun with you before we take your tongue and your fingers,” he went on brightly. The plump man got up and hurled a chicken bone he had been gnawing on at Amal. It struck him on the chest and dropped to the floor.

“That's your dinner, you should enjoy it while you still have teeth to chew,” the jailer advised, the pulled up his torch and headed off down the hallway, the light fading until Amal was left in near total darkness.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla blinked the frozen slush out of her eyes. Black sludge was smeared over half her face from the disintergration of her mascara. This wa her third winter in the Empire. The first having been spent comfortabley by the fire of the son of the Elector of Ostland, the second slogging her way through the forests of Middenland. This was certainly the coldest and most miserable one so far. At times she wished for the warm sun of Tilea, where winters grip manifested as little more than a chill evening and a morning fog. In Tilea though what would she be? A courtesan? A mercenary? Neither occupation was enticing, the first because of Cydric, the second because of the nature of her southern homeland. At least in the Empire she found herself fighting forces she might consider evil, rather than participating in an endless round of fueds between petty aristocrats.

"We have to keep moving," Camilla encouraged. According to the story the trees were least active at night. Well maybe active was the wrong word, less agressive. There was a churn to snow that suggested a great many things had moved here in the last few hours. None of the trees around them seemed to be moving now though Camilla had that uncomfortable feeling that they were waiting till she looked away before moving a few fractions of an inch. She brushed her hand against the haft of one of her axes.

"How far away is this glade supposed to be?" Cydric asked, stepping up over a dead branch and ducking to avoid bumping his head on a tree limb.

"A day's march," Camilla supplied. Thor grunted.

"Not very exact," the dwarf grunted.

"It's half folk tale, half amatuer history, what do you want?" Camilla put in, a trifle sourly, brushing more sleet from her brow. The directions were rudimentary and everything in a folk tale was a days journey away.

"The cursed glade is about twenty miles south south east of Kadrin's peak might be nice," Gunnir put in sarcastically.

"Life is filled with dissapointment master dwarf," Camilla replied tartly.

As it turned out 'a days march' was a little opptimistic. Either the days were longer back then, or the hero wasn't trying to do it at night in a mobile forest in the middle of an icestorm. They were still nowhere near the glade when the sky began to lighten in the east. Camilla let out a sigh.

"We can't be out here when the trees get all murdery," she pointed out.

"Stonegrip's mine," Thor suggested. Camilla blinked, imagining this to be some kind of curse she hadn't yet encountered.

"Aye, I've beena thinkin' that too," Gunnir put in.

"Care to fill us in?" Camilla asked, leaning wearily against a tree. It made an odd sound and she pulled herself away in a hurry.

"Dwayla Stonegrip was touched by the moon," Thor told them, "He had this whole crackpot theory about establish new holds within the Empire itself, small ones in... hills," Thor explained, making the word 'hill' sound like 'dung'.

"He established a small hold, here abouts, perhaps two hundred years ago. No one has heard from it in nearly a century, but I bet the tunnels are still there, we could hole up till nightfall."

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

"They are using some kind of crazy encryption," Jocasta observed, watching bands of signal traffic dance across her display. A twitch in her left eye poked and prodded at it for a moment before she gave up and beamed it to Cygi. Dirk grunted as he stepped across a hallway and swept right and left with his blasters.

"You cant break it?" he asked without interest.

"Not entirely sure its even a cipher per se, it might be a trade langague im not familiar with," Jocasta opined. Rather than attempting to unravel the meaning of the words, she set the algorthim to monitor the traffic volume, looping it back over the records she had made for the past hour or so as a baseline.

"This is more fun than I had bargined for on this vacation," the apparent old man chuckled, ducking into a side room with surprising speed and sweeping it with the tip of his cane as though it were a laser rifle, which as far as Jocasta could tell, it might be.

The door at the end of the hall burst open and a bearded man in an armored chest plate burst in. Both of Dirk's blasters punched him in the chest, a half second before Jocasta's C-beam and the capacitor lance in the old man's cane did. The armor sublimed cherry red, then white, then exploded hurling the man back through the doorway in a spray of shattered plasteel. The signal traffic spiked way up.

"Oh oh," Jocasta said a moment before a pair of grenades came sailing through the door.

"Bugger," the old man added. Dirk was characteristically silent. Jocasta stepped surreptiously behind Dirk a moment before both of the spinning bombs went off in a flash and a concussion that shattered the glass windows in a spray of airborne shards. A moment later a drone that had wormed its way through the vents flashed a warning about three men crouching in the stairwell poised to burst out.

"Thanks alot," Jocasta muttered at the somewhat tardy drone. It bleeped abashedly as its camera watched the men storm into the hallway. Dirk had been stunned by the overpressure of the blast but he had clearly trained himself to work through it. Rather than standing there to be killed he charged forward, crashing into the would be assault team as they came through the door. Bodies went down in a clatter and Jocasta fired her C-beam on general principle. It hit a fire extinguisher which burst in an explosion of dust and burning propellant. Dirk grabbed one of the attackers and pitched him bodily back down the hall. Jocasta yellped and hurdled the flying body before it cracked into a door frame. The old man stepped out of the side room and stabbed the goon in the joint between helmet and breastplate with a subsonic sizzle. Jocasta tracked the melee infront of her with her pistol but couldn't get a clear shot. Dirk through an elbow that connected with one mans chin.

"Sorry!" she premptively appologised, then cranked a setting on her pistol and then opened fire, hosing Dirk and his attackers indiscriminitely. The blue white bolts richoted harmlessly off the armored figure by one of the thugs staggered backwards from a burn to an exposed arm. Dirk's boot caught him in the chest and slammed him into a wall so hard that the back of his head cracked against the wall and he slumped to the ground.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

"When I hired you I rather hoped you would be defending the manor rather than breaking windows and assaulting my household," the Graffine grumped as she followed her guards into the room. She was wearing the largest bearskin Camilla had ever seen, and it still seemed to struggle to cover her impressive frame.

"My Lady, they attacked me, they stole my medicine, they..." Von Michenkomph blubbered.

"What kind of medicine is this?" Camilla asked. The doctor cut his eyes between Cydric's sword point and his mistress.

"It is the ... thing I told you about, for the Graph's ...nerves," Von Michenkomph said, visibly deflating.

"He told us he thinks it is what the trees are after," Camilla provided, keeping her pistol leveled. The Graffine seemed to sag slightly and cast a weary look at the doctor.

"I told you there were risks," Konrad said, "In the old tale a single tree creature was all that came. How could we know that it would be so much worse this time? It is helping the Graph isn't it?"

"Perhaps if we could all put out weapons down?" the Graffine suggested. The guards lowered their billhooks but Camilla made no move to lower hers. Cydric also kept his blade up and the dwarves, casting glances at the humans did the same. Something sinister was clearly going on and Camilla wasn't willing to bet that a noblewoman wouldn't ensure that the Temple of Sigmar didn't have any questions by dumping the bodies of four mercenaries into the snow.

"My husband... he is troubled in his mind," the Graffine said, her eyes on the weapons. "The doctor found an old tale in the histories about a grove of trees deep in the woods. The heart wood of the Great Oak was said to be able to cure any illness."

"I had hoped that we could administer a single dose and then return the wood before it became a problem," she explained. Camilla relaxed, lowering her pistol if not putting it away. Cydric followed her lead and lowered his sword, though he kept his grip on the doctors nightshirt.

"It helps, it clears his mind, but after a day or so the effect fades," she continued. Thor muttered something in Khazlid which definitely wasn't complimentary to humans and their damn fool ideas. Luckily the Graffine was either more ignorant of the Dwarven tongue than Camilla was, or content to let it go.

"How did the story end in the history?" Camilla asked, feeling her heart sink.

"The woodsman in the tale took the wood back into the forest, planning to return it, but he was never heard from again..."

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Inez watched as the docks drifted closer. Her unfamiliarity with sea travel told her they would run out of momentum before they reached the dock but the ship coasted on even without her sail. Two sailors holding thick coils of rope hoped to the wooden dock and whipped the line around in a complicated knot, completing the task seemingly at the same instant the lines went taut and the ship juddered to a halt, rocking slightly as her wake reflected against the dock. The smell of saltwater, spoiled fish, and rotting seaweed mingled with the smell of sewage, replacing the clean iodine scent she had come to think of as open sea. Even as they were tying up she saw armed men gathering at the end of the dock. They were dressed in mail and were forming a rough cordon across the top of the pier. This show of force wasn’t directed at them however. A mob of townsmen, perhaps fifty in all were marching down the cobbled road that ringed the peer. Each of them wore some scrap of blue, mostly bandanas, but a few vests. They were roaring some incomprehensible song that broke into shouts and jeers as they neared the soldiers. Inez tensed slightly as a wave of missiles, stones and crockery lofted at the troops, shattering or clattering away as they raised their heater shields. The abuse continued for several minutes with the soldiers neither attacking or retreating, merely crouching behind their shields with weapons to hand. Inez had seen mobs before, and this one wasn’t in a killing mood, nor was it big enough to overwhelm a dozen soldiers who were disciplined enough to stand against a rain of stones. She heard snatches of their cries. Mingled with the usual imprecations of parenthood and lewd acts to be performed with or by the soldiers mothers, came smattering of more detailed grievances.



“Death to the League!”

“No League Lackeys!”

“Yhesra for Yhesrans!”



“Potato eaters fuck off!”



Inez gave a bemused snort as Aldrik came up beside her. The crowd issued a final set of jeers and began retreating up the road, several baring their arses at both the soldiers and the ship. Inez eased a hand away from the sword she had unconsciously gripped.



“Looks like it might be an interesting visit,” she commented dryly. The commander of the soldiers, a pimple faced boy of perhaps eighteen summers whose uniform seemed of higher quality than his fellows trotted down the peer his face split in a grin.

“Sorry for the delay master merchant,” he piped in a high pitched voice that would have been a bit more ridiculous if he hadn’t just calmly faced off a mob without so much as breaking a sweat.

“You might have to hunt down the harbormaster, things have been a little tense the last few days.”

A Thousand Legends ~ Sundered Veil

At first Zaya thought the turn in the crowds was simply part of the celebration. Among her people such a gathering would naturally have spawned a score of killings, drunken fights over women and horses, paying off old debts and new insults and the like. It wasn’t until Khiimori tensed that she realized there was trouble, the mare’s nostrils flaring and ears flattening at the familiar scent of spilled blood. Zaya stepped into an alley a few moments before the uneasy flow of the crowd turned into a stampede. Bowls of rice and noodles flew in all directions, scattering bowls of woven bamboo over the cobblestones. Men and women screamed and rushed for the end of the alley, eyes wide with panic. Zaya ducked under Khiimori, putting the warhorse’s bulk across the narrow mouth of the alley, sealing it as effectively as a barricade. The horse archer ducked beneath the steed and drew a long knife to discourage anyone from trying to force their way past the horse. Khiimori delivered a bone crushing kick to an old man who tried it, pitching him back into the surging crowd where the tide of people stamped the life from him in the space of a few brutal seconds. A blood curdling scream from down the avenue informed Zaya that some of the crowd had spilled into the food vendors booths and upended the pots of oil. A distinct smell like fried pork joined the melange. A whimper behind her whipped Zaya around and she came up brandishing the knife. A young girl, perhaps twelve summers, with wide terrified eyes stared at her. Zaya pulled a copper piece from her mouth and flicked it to the girl.

“Watch the horse,” she instructed. The girl’s mouth opened and closed like a fish and then a sly look came into her eye as she beheld the restive mare.



“Don’t even think about it,” Zaya advised. “The horse wont follow you.” She took a long step towards the girl and grabbed her by the tunic.

“But I will,” she promised. The girl nodded as tears flooded her eyes. Zaya made a disgusted sound and then jumped sideways, kicking off the stone walls in the same way she would run a canyon, finding enough purchase to drive herself upwards until she could haul herself onto the roof, her handhold betrayed her as she ripped free the smooth ceramic tiles, starting an avalanche of clinking stone shards that fell into the alley in a deluge. Whickers of irritation from Khiimori and the squawk of the girl informed her that this was unwelcome. Cursing all soft southerners and their stupid buildings, she finally got a hold of something and heaved herself up onto the now partially naked roof. A boot crashed down on her arm and she cried out in pain, grabbing the offending foot and yanking hard. A man screamed as his footing gave out, crashing to the roof and sliding as Zaya yanked on his rope belt and used the momentum to hurl herself up onto the roof and pitch her assailant down into the alley. She had a momentary glimpse of panicked eyes and long mustaches before he fell to the stones below, the crack of impact lost in the screaming bedlam of the crowd. Zaya pulled herself to her feet in time to see a second figure, a woman with a bow starting to turn towards her. Letting out an ear piercing war cry Zaya bounded across the rooftop as the woman spun to bring her bow to bear. Zaya slapped the point aside a heartbeat before the woman loosed it, the fletching cutting her hand as Zaya rammed her knife into the archers belly. The woman screamed as Zaya wrenched upwards, opening her from navel to tit in a single long stroke. Hot blood spattered the horse archer’s face as the woman coughed a great gout of it free and staggered back, clutching at the blood and loops of pinkish gray entrail spilling from her tunic. She managed one step, tripped and fell into the street, a loop of intestine catching on one of the ornamental dragons and uncoiling like a grotesque streamer. Grimacing at such an obvious clue to her location, Zaya slashed it free with the blood knife, dropping the whole mess into the street. The stink of blood and shit mingled with smoke, sweat, and fear.



The view out over the Imperial square was pure chaos. Bodies lay everywhere, trampled, put to the sword, or simply suffocated by the press. In places corpses were being carried along by the crush of people as they ran screaming for the exit. Kites and celebratory banners fluttered above the crowd, freed from the grips of their owners. Swords flashed and men died, though whether this was part of some attack or simply panicked people trying to cut their way free was unclear and probably unimportant. Zaya crouched on the roof and picked out several archers on other roof tops. There was so much going on she wasn’t sure where to look. Was this a riot? A coup? Might it be both? Was the Emperor she had come to make obeisance to about to fall from power. Was that a good thing? As the beating battle lust began to still into the colder mindset that came on her when considering the bigger picture she hunkered down, content to watch.

synopsis

Zaya climbs onto a roof to watch the show