@wanderingwolf Gorgeous, I wish I found blender a little more intuitive!
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STATUS: Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;) 9 days ago
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9 days ago
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Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;)
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1 yr ago
Achmed the Snake
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1 yr ago
It's kind of insane to me that people ever met without dating apps. It is just so inefficient.
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One, polyamory is notoriously difficult to administer
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I'm guessing it immediately failed because everyone's computer broke/work got busy/grand parents died
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Bio
Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.
Most Recent Posts
The Brettonian, I hesitate to call him a knight, led us into a plush sitting room. While the architecture was Tilean, it had been hung with elaborate tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and battle. A fire burned cheerfully in a vast stone fireplace above which a battered shield emblazoned with the head of an elk hung in pride of place. Servants arrived with wine which they poured into jeweled goblets for us to drink before withdrawing respectfully beyond the threshold.
“The restless dead stalk the land,” Fernald breathed when I concluded my candid recounting of events, “by the Lady, that is ill news.” I wondered if a Tilean would have taken my words at face value, but Brettonian’s even a few generations removed from their homeland, seemed more willing to lend credence to such a tale.
“Gaston!” Fernald snapped and a tough looking man-at-arms in a burgundy coat appeared. He had a line face that looked well beaten by the weather. He had clearly been awake and about, even at this early hour.
“M’lord?” he inquired perfunctorily.
“There is strangeness afoot, I’d like you to double the guard on the estate,” the Knight instructed. Gaston nodded, then waited a beat.
“Shall I also alert the hamlet my lord?” he suggested in a weary tone.
“Ah, yes of course I meant for you to do that as well,” Fernald agreed. Gaston bowed.
“Very good m’lord,” he agreed and hurried out to do his masters bidding.
“A good man Gaston… for a commoner,” Fernald observed. I decided not to point out that both Kian and I were orphans. I suspected that Gaston was an old retainer who had probably done more fighting than Fernald had ever daydreamed about.
“Now you must be my guests, I am sure you are both exhausted from the night adventure wot!”
“The restless dead stalk the land,” Fernald breathed when I concluded my candid recounting of events, “by the Lady, that is ill news.” I wondered if a Tilean would have taken my words at face value, but Brettonian’s even a few generations removed from their homeland, seemed more willing to lend credence to such a tale.
“Gaston!” Fernald snapped and a tough looking man-at-arms in a burgundy coat appeared. He had a line face that looked well beaten by the weather. He had clearly been awake and about, even at this early hour.
“M’lord?” he inquired perfunctorily.
“There is strangeness afoot, I’d like you to double the guard on the estate,” the Knight instructed. Gaston nodded, then waited a beat.
“Shall I also alert the hamlet my lord?” he suggested in a weary tone.
“Ah, yes of course I meant for you to do that as well,” Fernald agreed. Gaston bowed.
“Very good m’lord,” he agreed and hurried out to do his masters bidding.
“A good man Gaston… for a commoner,” Fernald observed. I decided not to point out that both Kian and I were orphans. I suspected that Gaston was an old retainer who had probably done more fighting than Fernald had ever daydreamed about.
“Now you must be my guests, I am sure you are both exhausted from the night adventure wot!”
The chaos spread like promethium vapor exposed to an open flame. Hundreds had been killed by the initial blast, and hundreds more as the crowds stampeded away in panic. A great cloud of dust billowed away from the blast choking and blinding the panicking pilgrims. The scribes were trying to maintain some semblance of order, using their staves as clubs as they tried to rescue surviving churchmen or simply keep the crowd at bay. Then the marksmen began firing their long las into the crowd, probably in an attempt to save the great prelates from being trampled to death. I watched in transfixed horror as the crowd went berserk with fear, surging over the Scribes, beating them down with fists and votive icons in a blind terror to flee the crowded street.
Things were not much better in the box we were in. Dozens of men were on their feet shouting. At least one noblewoman had fainted, and judging by the grayish pallor and convulsions a grossly overweight man was in the throes of a heart attack. Gunfire erupted below as the bodyguards were compelled to open fire to stop the mob from crashing in through the doorway like the ties.
“We need to get out of here,” Hadrian declared, speaking quickly into his vox bead. I could sense the frustration and anger roiling off him. He wanted to fight, but there were no enemy here, the men and women being trampled and gunned down were the Emperor’s Faithful, not minions of the arch enemy. Leibowitz was wringing one hand in the other in frantic prayer, his eyes wide and staring. I opened my mouth to reply when a second massive blast ripped through the street, the portico of a large chapel blasting outwards to scythe down hundreds of fleeing pilgrims.
I opened my mouth to ask him how he planned to do that, when the fans of an aircar roared down from above, hovering on dynamic thrust a few feet from the edge of the box. The pilot was white knuckled and praying, no doubt hoping that a sniper wasn’t about to blow his brains out and drop a half ton of steel and aluminum into the street below. Clara and Elektra, summoned by Hadrian, came rushing up the stairs. The guilded bodyguards made a perfunctory attempt to stop them, but quailed back from the bloodied evicisorator in Elektra’s hands and the fanatic glow in her eyes.
“Let them pass damn you,” Hadrian yelled out, giving the men the excuse they needed to not get involved.
“Get her aboard,” Hadrian said, hooking a thumb at me.
“I can get myself…” I began, but was seized by the two women and bodily carried across the gap into the passenger compartment of the car. Hadrian followed a moment later with Leibowitz, slamming the door closed and yelling at the driver to get us out of here. That worthy needed no encouragement, sending us howling upwards and into the night.
________
The death count was still unknown when, later that evening, we sat around our luxurious apartment. Columns of smoke rose from the city where fighting and riots were raging. Primates Hingaberg and Von Mandlebrot were both appealing for calm. Appeals which were not stopping their contingents of monks and fraternus militia from taking to the streets.
To make matters worth a cadre of street preachers were already whipping up the pilgrims, declaring the days events punishment for a Church which had lost its way, and that divine retribution was needed to restore the holy faith. Whether this was a result of heretical agitation, or simply the natural path of religious thought, was difficult to determine. Clashes between all three factions were spreading beyond control, accompanied as always by a fair amount of looting and the settling of personal scores.
“Don’t they have a PDF or Arbites or something?” Clara demanded as she stared out the window. Night had fallen and fires burning were reflected on tall cathedral towers to eerie effect.
“We are planet of prayer madmoislle, not a planet of war. The scribes are doing what they can, as are the Primates but … well this is dreadful,” Leibowitz moaned. The days events had hit him hard. Clearly Ratsini had been an idol of his, and the old mans violent death was a blow beyond measure.
I glanced at Hadrian who cocked an eyebrow at me. I knew he had been debating whether to openly play his Inquisitorial hand but was reluctant to do so for fear of driving out unseen assailants into hiding. That the bombing was their work we had no reason to doubt. It seemed likely that it had something to do with the election, though we had no idea which Primate might have been behind it, if either of them had. The problem we faced was that without flashing a rosette we had limited excuse to involve ourselves in the matter, and that was limiting our ability to gather information. I looked up at the night sky and wondered how many of the stars above were actually ships in orbit. An idea formed in my mind and I shot a glance at Hadrian. He nodded his head for me to proceed, a mark of trust given he had no idea what I might be about to say.
“Husband, did you not quell the riots on Secundus Finalus with men from your ship?” I asked, leaning on Hadrian’s supposed naval background before his retirement to his lordship on Gudrun.
“Perhaps you can bring men down from the void ships to do it?” I suggested breathily, apparently overtaken by the idea of my husband the dashing naval hero. Whether or not we ever landed any naval boarding parties, the idea that we could would give Hadrian an excuse to poke his nose in with both Primates by way of coordinating a response.
Things were not much better in the box we were in. Dozens of men were on their feet shouting. At least one noblewoman had fainted, and judging by the grayish pallor and convulsions a grossly overweight man was in the throes of a heart attack. Gunfire erupted below as the bodyguards were compelled to open fire to stop the mob from crashing in through the doorway like the ties.
“We need to get out of here,” Hadrian declared, speaking quickly into his vox bead. I could sense the frustration and anger roiling off him. He wanted to fight, but there were no enemy here, the men and women being trampled and gunned down were the Emperor’s Faithful, not minions of the arch enemy. Leibowitz was wringing one hand in the other in frantic prayer, his eyes wide and staring. I opened my mouth to reply when a second massive blast ripped through the street, the portico of a large chapel blasting outwards to scythe down hundreds of fleeing pilgrims.
I opened my mouth to ask him how he planned to do that, when the fans of an aircar roared down from above, hovering on dynamic thrust a few feet from the edge of the box. The pilot was white knuckled and praying, no doubt hoping that a sniper wasn’t about to blow his brains out and drop a half ton of steel and aluminum into the street below. Clara and Elektra, summoned by Hadrian, came rushing up the stairs. The guilded bodyguards made a perfunctory attempt to stop them, but quailed back from the bloodied evicisorator in Elektra’s hands and the fanatic glow in her eyes.
“Let them pass damn you,” Hadrian yelled out, giving the men the excuse they needed to not get involved.
“Get her aboard,” Hadrian said, hooking a thumb at me.
“I can get myself…” I began, but was seized by the two women and bodily carried across the gap into the passenger compartment of the car. Hadrian followed a moment later with Leibowitz, slamming the door closed and yelling at the driver to get us out of here. That worthy needed no encouragement, sending us howling upwards and into the night.
________
The death count was still unknown when, later that evening, we sat around our luxurious apartment. Columns of smoke rose from the city where fighting and riots were raging. Primates Hingaberg and Von Mandlebrot were both appealing for calm. Appeals which were not stopping their contingents of monks and fraternus militia from taking to the streets.
To make matters worth a cadre of street preachers were already whipping up the pilgrims, declaring the days events punishment for a Church which had lost its way, and that divine retribution was needed to restore the holy faith. Whether this was a result of heretical agitation, or simply the natural path of religious thought, was difficult to determine. Clashes between all three factions were spreading beyond control, accompanied as always by a fair amount of looting and the settling of personal scores.
“Don’t they have a PDF or Arbites or something?” Clara demanded as she stared out the window. Night had fallen and fires burning were reflected on tall cathedral towers to eerie effect.
“We are planet of prayer madmoislle, not a planet of war. The scribes are doing what they can, as are the Primates but … well this is dreadful,” Leibowitz moaned. The days events had hit him hard. Clearly Ratsini had been an idol of his, and the old mans violent death was a blow beyond measure.
I glanced at Hadrian who cocked an eyebrow at me. I knew he had been debating whether to openly play his Inquisitorial hand but was reluctant to do so for fear of driving out unseen assailants into hiding. That the bombing was their work we had no reason to doubt. It seemed likely that it had something to do with the election, though we had no idea which Primate might have been behind it, if either of them had. The problem we faced was that without flashing a rosette we had limited excuse to involve ourselves in the matter, and that was limiting our ability to gather information. I looked up at the night sky and wondered how many of the stars above were actually ships in orbit. An idea formed in my mind and I shot a glance at Hadrian. He nodded his head for me to proceed, a mark of trust given he had no idea what I might be about to say.
“Husband, did you not quell the riots on Secundus Finalus with men from your ship?” I asked, leaning on Hadrian’s supposed naval background before his retirement to his lordship on Gudrun.
“Perhaps you can bring men down from the void ships to do it?” I suggested breathily, apparently overtaken by the idea of my husband the dashing naval hero. Whether or not we ever landed any naval boarding parties, the idea that we could would give Hadrian an excuse to poke his nose in with both Primates by way of coordinating a response.
Kashvi hung upside down from the line, gripping the knotted rope with her thighs. The street below was filled with crowds in a state of near riot. A naked woman giggled as she tossed handfuls of flowers at a group of drunken youths purusing her with good hearted cheers. The streets were hung with blazing paper lanterns in bright colors that obscured Kashvi's position by ruining the night vision of those below. The Festival of Light was a three day revel that marked the beginning of a new year. By custom no writs of theft were to be issued by the Nightmaster during the festival, which meant if she were to be discovered the Guild would take a dim view of her exploit. A thief who stole without a writ was liable to be whipped or worse, but although the Festival prohibited working, it didn't excuse one from Guild dues.
"Gishra's teeth," Kashvi muttered as she wiggled the thin metal probe between the window panes. She was glad she had bound her hair back into a tight bun, though the weight of it pulled down on her scalp already flushed from pooling blood. The pick contacted something inside and Kashvi worked it around, slowly lifting the latch till she felt it click free. Carefully, she eased open the window and twisted herself in, feeling the rush of blood to her feet as she touched down. She pulled the window closed behind her and then traced one of the tattoos on her forearm. The dark interior of the building was suddenly lit with sourcless light. The magical light was in her mind rather than a physical luminance, a charm of dark vision that would last for twenty turns of the glass. The office of Galdor the Gemseller was a far cry from the oppulent show room down below, but it also lacked the elaborate wards which protected the glittering jewelery. Kashvi took out a black silk bag and began to loot the place, slipping handfuls of uncut gems into the pouch. With any luck these would cover her dues for the next two months. Maybe Galt would do well enough that they would both be off the hook for a few weeks.
A sudden creak made Kashvi freeze. Someone was moving about out in the hallway. Lantern light spilled from beneath the doorway as someone passed outside. The light faded as the night watchman passed by, too lazy to check a room he knew was safe. Breathing a sigh of relief she quickly finished her looting and tied the sack to her belt. Time to go. She slipped back out the window and climbed her line, jumping to the next roof, she pulled a slate from the ceiling and tossed it through the window with a crash before vanishing over the rooftops.
______________________
Kashvi playful pushed away one of the cavorting youths as she made her way through the cowd. Her black working clothes had been turned inside out to reveal the burgandy and gold street clothes she had stiched inside. Her braids had been unbound and allowed to hang down, looking for all the world like a prosperous young merchants daughter, or perhpas a minor palace functionary. She turned onto Feather Alley, heading for tavern which concealed the entry to the Seven Raven's guild house. It was still a few hours shy of dawn, but she wanted to get something to eat and find a warm bed before the sun came up. Suddenly, she became aware of an unusual number of people in the alley. They weren't dressed in the bright colors of the Festival, instead they wore gray over leather and chain. They looked like heavies, the muscle of the thieves guilds, but they weren't Seven Raven's muscle. Something was wrong. Her eyes cut to the daw of the Daybreak tavern. The Doormen were gone, replaced by gray clad thugs. Fear knotted in her gut. Something was very wrong. She turned to find a gray cloak standing behind her with an evil look in his eye and a compact crossbow leveled at her chest.
"Goodbye Raven," he chuckled and began to squeezed the trigger. The brick wall beside the man exploded outwards in a shower of dust and debris. Joe Shipwreck smashed his way through the wall, arcane sigils glowing. Kashvi knocked aside the bow and slapped the trigger mechanism, sending the bolt thudding into the guts of another of the gray clad attackers. Chaos reigned all around.
"Up Ravens!" Joe Shipwreck bellowed in a voice that rattled the window pains. Screams and howls filled the alley as the gray clad attackers surged into the guild house. Kashvi heard the sound of a lantern smashing and the whumph of exploding oil. One of the whores at the end of the alley leaped to her feet.
"Up Ravens!" she shouted a moment before several swords struck her down. Kashvi pulled the bag of gems from her belt and smashed it into the face of one of the heavies, then whipped her short blade from its sheath and gutted another.
"Scarper!" Joe Shipwreck shouted and drove a fist into the wall, arcane tattoos flashing bright as his great fist smashed the stone to powder. He dived through, followed by Kashvi who deflected two swords, one with her blade and the other with her sack of gems. They were in the back of the wineshop on Geth street, the clientelle already scattering as an enraged and bloody Joe Shipwreck bolted full speed through the shop. Kashvi rushed after him, lifting her hands to blast bright light into the eyes of her pursuers. A moment later they were out on the street and fleeing into the crowd.
"Gishra's teeth," Kashvi muttered as she wiggled the thin metal probe between the window panes. She was glad she had bound her hair back into a tight bun, though the weight of it pulled down on her scalp already flushed from pooling blood. The pick contacted something inside and Kashvi worked it around, slowly lifting the latch till she felt it click free. Carefully, she eased open the window and twisted herself in, feeling the rush of blood to her feet as she touched down. She pulled the window closed behind her and then traced one of the tattoos on her forearm. The dark interior of the building was suddenly lit with sourcless light. The magical light was in her mind rather than a physical luminance, a charm of dark vision that would last for twenty turns of the glass. The office of Galdor the Gemseller was a far cry from the oppulent show room down below, but it also lacked the elaborate wards which protected the glittering jewelery. Kashvi took out a black silk bag and began to loot the place, slipping handfuls of uncut gems into the pouch. With any luck these would cover her dues for the next two months. Maybe Galt would do well enough that they would both be off the hook for a few weeks.
A sudden creak made Kashvi freeze. Someone was moving about out in the hallway. Lantern light spilled from beneath the doorway as someone passed outside. The light faded as the night watchman passed by, too lazy to check a room he knew was safe. Breathing a sigh of relief she quickly finished her looting and tied the sack to her belt. Time to go. She slipped back out the window and climbed her line, jumping to the next roof, she pulled a slate from the ceiling and tossed it through the window with a crash before vanishing over the rooftops.
______________________
Kashvi playful pushed away one of the cavorting youths as she made her way through the cowd. Her black working clothes had been turned inside out to reveal the burgandy and gold street clothes she had stiched inside. Her braids had been unbound and allowed to hang down, looking for all the world like a prosperous young merchants daughter, or perhpas a minor palace functionary. She turned onto Feather Alley, heading for tavern which concealed the entry to the Seven Raven's guild house. It was still a few hours shy of dawn, but she wanted to get something to eat and find a warm bed before the sun came up. Suddenly, she became aware of an unusual number of people in the alley. They weren't dressed in the bright colors of the Festival, instead they wore gray over leather and chain. They looked like heavies, the muscle of the thieves guilds, but they weren't Seven Raven's muscle. Something was wrong. Her eyes cut to the daw of the Daybreak tavern. The Doormen were gone, replaced by gray clad thugs. Fear knotted in her gut. Something was very wrong. She turned to find a gray cloak standing behind her with an evil look in his eye and a compact crossbow leveled at her chest.
"Goodbye Raven," he chuckled and began to squeezed the trigger. The brick wall beside the man exploded outwards in a shower of dust and debris. Joe Shipwreck smashed his way through the wall, arcane sigils glowing. Kashvi knocked aside the bow and slapped the trigger mechanism, sending the bolt thudding into the guts of another of the gray clad attackers. Chaos reigned all around.
"Up Ravens!" Joe Shipwreck bellowed in a voice that rattled the window pains. Screams and howls filled the alley as the gray clad attackers surged into the guild house. Kashvi heard the sound of a lantern smashing and the whumph of exploding oil. One of the whores at the end of the alley leaped to her feet.
"Up Ravens!" she shouted a moment before several swords struck her down. Kashvi pulled the bag of gems from her belt and smashed it into the face of one of the heavies, then whipped her short blade from its sheath and gutted another.
"Scarper!" Joe Shipwreck shouted and drove a fist into the wall, arcane tattoos flashing bright as his great fist smashed the stone to powder. He dived through, followed by Kashvi who deflected two swords, one with her blade and the other with her sack of gems. They were in the back of the wineshop on Geth street, the clientelle already scattering as an enraged and bloody Joe Shipwreck bolted full speed through the shop. Kashvi rushed after him, lifting her hands to blast bright light into the eyes of her pursuers. A moment later they were out on the street and fleeing into the crowd.
I slumped against the side of the coach bench, exhausted and lulled by the rattle of the wheels over the road. We had turned off the main road and climbed a series of gravelled switchbacks flanked by manicured woods. We passed through a small hamlet surrounded by propsperous looking fields and orchards. A few dogs barked but the only light came from the inn and a small block house where an elderly nightwatchman peered out.
"How is it a Brettonian holds a manor in Tilea?" Kian asked as we turned up a hill on top of which sat an elegant manor house of creamy white stucko. Elaborate garden's spread out infront of it, with fragrant rose blooms growing in profusion below handsomely trimmed apricot and plum trees.
"Several generations ago the Duc De La Rochefoucauld was a great Condottiero," I explained, dredging the information up from the history I had been taught at the convent. He was the bastard son of the Bretonian Duke, but the name stuck. He fought for all of the major cities at one time or another. He was rumored to be devious, treacherous, and utterly ruthless. There were always rumors that he was a bit too lucky, but that isn't so unusual for great captains."
"You are very learned signoritta," the coachman observed. I shrugged my shoulders as two men with halberds in the armor of brettonian men-at-arms stepped from a stone guardhouse at the end of the main drive, polearms raised to block the progress of the horses.
"Who goes there?" the guards called out as the coach slowed to a stop.
"How is it a Brettonian holds a manor in Tilea?" Kian asked as we turned up a hill on top of which sat an elegant manor house of creamy white stucko. Elaborate garden's spread out infront of it, with fragrant rose blooms growing in profusion below handsomely trimmed apricot and plum trees.
"Several generations ago the Duc De La Rochefoucauld was a great Condottiero," I explained, dredging the information up from the history I had been taught at the convent. He was the bastard son of the Bretonian Duke, but the name stuck. He fought for all of the major cities at one time or another. He was rumored to be devious, treacherous, and utterly ruthless. There were always rumors that he was a bit too lucky, but that isn't so unusual for great captains."
"You are very learned signoritta," the coachman observed. I shrugged my shoulders as two men with halberds in the armor of brettonian men-at-arms stepped from a stone guardhouse at the end of the main drive, polearms raised to block the progress of the horses.
"Who goes there?" the guards called out as the coach slowed to a stop.
Jocasta gave Neil a hard look as the elevator began to lift the mech towards the arena above. Well there was no point complaining about it now they had commited. She placed both her fists on her hips and blew a lock of hair out of face. Then she nodded and lifted her arms pointing her fingers skyward and twirling them around.
"Ok, ok," she said and closed her eyes. "Drones!"
The dragonfly like automotons swooped in grabbing her white jacket and lifting it away. She hurriedly unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it away to be similarly seized. She adjusted her bra slightly and then focused her mind for a moment. Her hair flushed a vibrant shade of green as she activated the subdermal pigment enhancers. She considered stripping off her pants also but decided that this worked better.
"Hold out your... hand things," she instructed Neil aping the position she wanted with her own hands infront of her palms up.
"Uhhh sure," Neil agreed, holding out the mech's hands with much grinding of gears and a smell of hot lubricant that Jocasta wasn't entirely comfortable with. She hopped up into the mech's hands, sitting her butt in one hand and stretching her legs out to the other as though it were a luxurious couch.
"You have a plan," Neil asked. Jocasta adjusted her air to look frame her face. One of her drones floated a few feet away from her, recording imagrey which she spliced into the pict feeders in the arena above, a second drone joined the first casting a light over them to improve the picture.
"I have a tactical goal and a couple of rough approaches," Jocasta hedged, but further conversation was cut off as the roof above them opened. Mech, drones, and bounty hunter rose into an amphitheater. It was perhaps forty meters across at its widest point with a handful of obstacles and cover scattered across it. At each end of the oval was a low platform where the lifts hauled the combatants. Banks of seats ringed the arena. There was an occasional shimmer in the air that suggested there was a shield in place that protected the crowd from stray rounds. Jocasta could see the other mech, a much newer and sleeker model but the attentention of the crowd was on Neil thanks to the holo screens that were streaming the mech carrying the half naked Jocasta. Languidly she stood up in the palm of the mech, stretching her hands over her head like a ballet dancer.
"Ladies and gentleman!" she called, her voice piping out from the public address system.
"You have the honor today of witnessing one of the greats! You have all heard of him, the Titanium Titan, the Kevlar Corsair, The one, the only Neiilll Edwards!"
Luckily Neil seemed to get the idea na lifted the mechs hand slowly upwards till it was above the mechs head, elevating Jocasta high. There were laughs and jeers from a few of the crowd. Jocasta sat down and hugged one of the autocannon barrels laciviously.
"Your right, this mech is a piece of trash," she called, shouting down objections.
"But do you know why Neil is using a clapped out piece of trash?" she demanded. She paused long enough for a theoretical response then moved on.
"Because he couldn't find a worse one! Its the only way a massacre like this can be a challenge for a pilot like him!" She slid down the arm of the mech and crouched on its shoulder, thrusting her ass out theatrically before planting a kiss on the plexiglass flank guard. She fiddled with the link adding several alternate voices to the feed.
"Neil! Neil! Neil!" the sythesized voices began. The real crowd, unable to pick out the falsehood began to join in until a healthy swell of voices took up the call.
"Neil! Neil! Neil!"
"Good luck," Jocasta called as she ducked back behind one of the blast walls.
"Ok, ok," she said and closed her eyes. "Drones!"
The dragonfly like automotons swooped in grabbing her white jacket and lifting it away. She hurriedly unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it away to be similarly seized. She adjusted her bra slightly and then focused her mind for a moment. Her hair flushed a vibrant shade of green as she activated the subdermal pigment enhancers. She considered stripping off her pants also but decided that this worked better.
"Hold out your... hand things," she instructed Neil aping the position she wanted with her own hands infront of her palms up.
"Uhhh sure," Neil agreed, holding out the mech's hands with much grinding of gears and a smell of hot lubricant that Jocasta wasn't entirely comfortable with. She hopped up into the mech's hands, sitting her butt in one hand and stretching her legs out to the other as though it were a luxurious couch.
"You have a plan," Neil asked. Jocasta adjusted her air to look frame her face. One of her drones floated a few feet away from her, recording imagrey which she spliced into the pict feeders in the arena above, a second drone joined the first casting a light over them to improve the picture.
"I have a tactical goal and a couple of rough approaches," Jocasta hedged, but further conversation was cut off as the roof above them opened. Mech, drones, and bounty hunter rose into an amphitheater. It was perhaps forty meters across at its widest point with a handful of obstacles and cover scattered across it. At each end of the oval was a low platform where the lifts hauled the combatants. Banks of seats ringed the arena. There was an occasional shimmer in the air that suggested there was a shield in place that protected the crowd from stray rounds. Jocasta could see the other mech, a much newer and sleeker model but the attentention of the crowd was on Neil thanks to the holo screens that were streaming the mech carrying the half naked Jocasta. Languidly she stood up in the palm of the mech, stretching her hands over her head like a ballet dancer.
"Ladies and gentleman!" she called, her voice piping out from the public address system.
"You have the honor today of witnessing one of the greats! You have all heard of him, the Titanium Titan, the Kevlar Corsair, The one, the only Neiilll Edwards!"
Luckily Neil seemed to get the idea na lifted the mechs hand slowly upwards till it was above the mechs head, elevating Jocasta high. There were laughs and jeers from a few of the crowd. Jocasta sat down and hugged one of the autocannon barrels laciviously.
"Your right, this mech is a piece of trash," she called, shouting down objections.
"But do you know why Neil is using a clapped out piece of trash?" she demanded. She paused long enough for a theoretical response then moved on.
"Because he couldn't find a worse one! Its the only way a massacre like this can be a challenge for a pilot like him!" She slid down the arm of the mech and crouched on its shoulder, thrusting her ass out theatrically before planting a kiss on the plexiglass flank guard. She fiddled with the link adding several alternate voices to the feed.
"Neil! Neil! Neil!" the sythesized voices began. The real crowd, unable to pick out the falsehood began to join in until a healthy swell of voices took up the call.
"Neil! Neil! Neil!"
"Good luck," Jocasta called as she ducked back behind one of the blast walls.
Jessica turned to look at the new comer with a nod of approval. Few merchant sailors wanted to risk the short violent life of a pirate, seamen were a precious resource who could find employment with any merchant, or a navy if they preferred steady employment with less pay. There were some men however who preferred adventure to security. This man seemed to be the type willing to try his luck, which was fine with her.
"Welcome aboard lad," she called, clapping the man on the shoulder.
"Krycek here will get you set up with a watch... after we strip everything of value from this old bitch!"
The loot was largely food, booze and tools, but that was always what pirates needed most. There was gold to be found if you were lucky, but it was the day to day items that were most prized. Jessica kept watch on the beached warship through her spy glass. The Ran-tai sailors in a furry of activity. They had jury rigged a new rudder and were trying in vain to pull the ship off the beach with long boats. They seemed very keen to take up the chase.
"Cap'n," Krycek said as he stomped up onto the quarter deck. The last supplies were being hauled aboard now in slings fastened to the main yards.
"It's the sailor that volunteered he..."
"Isn't a sailor," Jessica interrupted, snapping her eye glass shut. The dwarf scowled, irritated to have his thunder stolen.
"How did you know?" the dwarf asked.
"No callouses on his hands," Jessica explained.
"Want me to put him over the side?" Krycek offered. Jessica shook her head and glanced to the gathering storm.
"No. Assign him to the top masts for this storm, lets see how dedicated to playing sailor he really is..."
"Welcome aboard lad," she called, clapping the man on the shoulder.
"Krycek here will get you set up with a watch... after we strip everything of value from this old bitch!"
The loot was largely food, booze and tools, but that was always what pirates needed most. There was gold to be found if you were lucky, but it was the day to day items that were most prized. Jessica kept watch on the beached warship through her spy glass. The Ran-tai sailors in a furry of activity. They had jury rigged a new rudder and were trying in vain to pull the ship off the beach with long boats. They seemed very keen to take up the chase.
"Cap'n," Krycek said as he stomped up onto the quarter deck. The last supplies were being hauled aboard now in slings fastened to the main yards.
"It's the sailor that volunteered he..."
"Isn't a sailor," Jessica interrupted, snapping her eye glass shut. The dwarf scowled, irritated to have his thunder stolen.
"How did you know?" the dwarf asked.
"No callouses on his hands," Jessica explained.
"Want me to put him over the side?" Krycek offered. Jessica shook her head and glanced to the gathering storm.
"No. Assign him to the top masts for this storm, lets see how dedicated to playing sailor he really is..."
“Thank you,” I responded sotto voce as we were escorted to the air car, a sleek luxury model which Hadrian had purchased or leased for work here. It lofted us up over the streets, curving between massive towers and chantries that dripped with gargoyles and rang with the sound of bells. This was briefly a problem as one of the bells, apparently seldom rung, sounded close by and discouraged a flock of black bird like lizards which would have pounded the air care to pieces if Clara’s quick reflexes hadn’t thrown us into a stomach churning dive to avoid them.
We landed in a discrete parking structure beside a massive boulevard bedecked in hundreds of thousands of silk buntings, each hand painted to detail some incident in the life of some saint or another. Viewing platforms had been erected along its length, some simple things of wood and rope covered with canvas, others, like ours, permanent structures. We exited the car,, climbing a series of ornamental stairs before being led to a sectioned balcony in which the great and good could view the procession. Body guards, of which there were many, lounged on a slightly lower tier, looking like a pack of leopards separated from their cubs. Gilded security, employed by the Church, guarded the stairs to the upper balcony. I could make out silver inlaid circuits which spoke of reaction enhancers and the subtle bulges of grafted stim glands beneath the skin. Each guard carried what appeared to be some kind of halberd, though I noticed they also had high caliber handguns in subtle holsters inside their quilted livery jackets. Clara and Elektra joined the waiting muscle, allowing us to proceed alone.
“Was it a contentious election?” I asked Leibowitz as he guided us to surprisingly comfortable seats of carved rose wood. The confessor made a clucking sound that I could not interpret.
“The Will of the Emperor is made manifest by the wisdom of His prelates Madam,” he declared grandly. I wondered at the timing of it, but the vagaries of Warp travel and the fact that old men did, occasionally, die, made it impossible to correlate. I made a note to pass the information to The Blind Idiots. The uncharitably named Idiots had been my idea. Four senior members of Urien’s crew were given basic information about the case and invited to speculate. The trick of it was that we had not explained the Logicae Mortis to them, and so they were still subject to its effect. This meant that any theory they came up with would necessarily be false and could be safely ruled out when passed back to us. Lazarus derided such a tactic as anti-data but it seemed to me worth the minimal effort. When I suggested that the same technique could be used to unravel the mysteries of the Machine God he turned a color that I didn’t think his augments should have allowed and then stalked off muttering about Heretechs and witches. It would make a stubborn monodominant like Hadrian proud.
Refreshments proved to be a bit of an understatement. We were presented with fried kash nuts, small bitter chocolates, slivers of grox cooked in amasec, candied loins, fish and vegetables wrapped in transparent starches, all washed down with excellent wines. I had to force myself to eat slowly and daintily. A lifetime of leeching off aristocrats teaches you to eat when you can, but I needed to maintain my pose. To that end, Hadrian and I maintained a somewhat desultory conversation about Church politics on Gudrun. To amuse myself I invented a vague rumor about an amorous relationship between the Primate of Gudrun and a member of one of the local houses. Yes, that rumor. Look, how was I know it was going to make it’s way back to Gudrun and end up touching off that blood feud?!
To my vague surprise, Leibowitz proved to be quite good company for a priest. He had an ecclesiastical bent of course, that was to be expected, but he was witty and well educated, capable, with a little encouragement on holding forth on recent Imperial history and politics in the subsector. I wondered why such an erudite man had not risen further in the Ministorum, but no Imperial organization is truly a meritocracy, with the possible and terrifying exception of the Holy Ordos themselves.
“Cardinal Umberto Ratsini is a very learned man, famous for his commentary on the Life of St Hudweck the Eyeless,” Leibowitz enthused as the parade proper began. A column of ‘scribes’ began marching down the boulevard, preceded by a weaponized version of the March of the Primarchs, so loud that it drove the pilgrims from the path of the procession with the efficiency of a fire hose. Young boys in the red and white livery of the local house of healing ran before them with brooms, sweeping litter out of the path and dragging the occasional drunk or corpse off to the side. Scribes was kind of a generous term. A cynical observer might note that the staves of office they carried were remarkably similar to shock halberds, or that the high narrow helmets they wore were alot like armor. I suspected that beneath their scarlet robes other items of scribe uniform might be rather multi-purpose as well. There could be no doubt that they were scribes though, otherwise they would be violating the ban on the Ecchlesiarcy keeping men under arms.
“We are not surprised to see such a luminary rise to glory,” Hadrian lied. I’ve no doubt that scholars occasionally rise in the ranks of the Church, but it seemed unusual in this case. With drill that would have made a Mordian sergeant blush, the scribes began echeloning off, forming a cordon on either side of the boulevard. As each ten man section fell into place they snapped their staves horizontal in unison, creating a physical barrier, ferrule to ferrule.
“Were the other candidates equally formidable?” I asked casually, taking a sip of wine. Leibowitz nodded.
“Primate Hingaberg and Primate Von Mandelbrot? Yes both formidable, though more in,” Leibowitz coughed to insert a pause for effect, “temporal power shall we say? The triumph of Ratsini over such potent men is widely seen as the hand of the Emperor at work.” I wondered if Leibowitz really believed that. More likely Hingaber and Mandelbrot were entrenched power players who had found themselves at loggerheads with no path forward.
“Is the new cardinal an aged man?” I prodded. Leibowitz nodded in confirmation.
“Nearly two hundred in fact, this will be the crown in a long career or service to Him on Earth,” the confessor enthused. An old man without too many years left in him. A compromise candidate tacitly endorsed to delay the showdown between the two power players. The street below was now lined for more than two kilometers with a double line of scribes with staves extended. Two files of white robed women advanced inside the cordon as the March of the Primarchs concluded. They were hooded but obviously young, perhaps members of some holy order. The street was suddenly silent as the echos of brassy marshal music died away and then the women, at some unseen signal, began to sing, their voices soaring in complicated harmony into a Te Deum Imperialis of staggering beauty. From the processional arch at the end of a boulevard the Triumph of Cardinal Ratsini began.
“The Seven Hundred Penitents,” Leibowitz explained unhelpfully, but his meaning soon became clear. A mass of men, naked to the waist marched forward into the swelling beauty of the choral music. Each carried a votive taper in his left hand and a barbed flail in his right. At regular intervals they scourged themselves with sharp strikes of the flails. This was no ceremonial show of devotion, spatters of blood flecked the stones as the marched, tearing their backs open to sanctify the progress.
“Impressive,” Hadrian admitted as the men advanced. Behind them came ranks of clergy, each caring a book of scripture held aloft and open. Impressive but unhelpful. Was Ratsini’s fortuitous elevation part of the Heretics plan? Was he involved? Or was it merely happenstance that had frustrated one of the other Primates. Could it have been done without the knowledge of at least one faction of the Church?
A parade of reliquaries was passing by. I had no doubt each bejeweled box held some item of deep significance to the gathered pilgrims who thronged the viewing platforms. Handfuls of rose petals, presumably imported from off world were being scattered from the heights surrounding the boulevard, floating down to be churned to redish mush under foot. The air began to ring with the tolling of countless bells as a vast altar was drawn into the boulevard by two rhino armored transports. It was an enormous thing, bedecked with gold aquila and waving standards. Clouds of incense lifted to the skies as dozens of priests tossed handfuls of the stuff into brass braziers that stood like bollards along its side. In the center of it, on a high backed golden chair bedecked with red silk sat an old man in a Cardinal’s miter so large I thought it might do him a neck injury. It was difficult to tell much about him from this distance, but the sheer ostentation of the altar throne made him seem small and fragile in comparison.
“You will have to pardon the noise,” Leibowitz shouted, “Every cathedral tower on the planet is ringing to celebrate this blessed day.” A slight smile touched my lips.
“It is enough to wake the dead,” I agreed with a quirk of my lips.
We landed in a discrete parking structure beside a massive boulevard bedecked in hundreds of thousands of silk buntings, each hand painted to detail some incident in the life of some saint or another. Viewing platforms had been erected along its length, some simple things of wood and rope covered with canvas, others, like ours, permanent structures. We exited the car,, climbing a series of ornamental stairs before being led to a sectioned balcony in which the great and good could view the procession. Body guards, of which there were many, lounged on a slightly lower tier, looking like a pack of leopards separated from their cubs. Gilded security, employed by the Church, guarded the stairs to the upper balcony. I could make out silver inlaid circuits which spoke of reaction enhancers and the subtle bulges of grafted stim glands beneath the skin. Each guard carried what appeared to be some kind of halberd, though I noticed they also had high caliber handguns in subtle holsters inside their quilted livery jackets. Clara and Elektra joined the waiting muscle, allowing us to proceed alone.
“Was it a contentious election?” I asked Leibowitz as he guided us to surprisingly comfortable seats of carved rose wood. The confessor made a clucking sound that I could not interpret.
“The Will of the Emperor is made manifest by the wisdom of His prelates Madam,” he declared grandly. I wondered at the timing of it, but the vagaries of Warp travel and the fact that old men did, occasionally, die, made it impossible to correlate. I made a note to pass the information to The Blind Idiots. The uncharitably named Idiots had been my idea. Four senior members of Urien’s crew were given basic information about the case and invited to speculate. The trick of it was that we had not explained the Logicae Mortis to them, and so they were still subject to its effect. This meant that any theory they came up with would necessarily be false and could be safely ruled out when passed back to us. Lazarus derided such a tactic as anti-data but it seemed to me worth the minimal effort. When I suggested that the same technique could be used to unravel the mysteries of the Machine God he turned a color that I didn’t think his augments should have allowed and then stalked off muttering about Heretechs and witches. It would make a stubborn monodominant like Hadrian proud.
Refreshments proved to be a bit of an understatement. We were presented with fried kash nuts, small bitter chocolates, slivers of grox cooked in amasec, candied loins, fish and vegetables wrapped in transparent starches, all washed down with excellent wines. I had to force myself to eat slowly and daintily. A lifetime of leeching off aristocrats teaches you to eat when you can, but I needed to maintain my pose. To that end, Hadrian and I maintained a somewhat desultory conversation about Church politics on Gudrun. To amuse myself I invented a vague rumor about an amorous relationship between the Primate of Gudrun and a member of one of the local houses. Yes, that rumor. Look, how was I know it was going to make it’s way back to Gudrun and end up touching off that blood feud?!
To my vague surprise, Leibowitz proved to be quite good company for a priest. He had an ecclesiastical bent of course, that was to be expected, but he was witty and well educated, capable, with a little encouragement on holding forth on recent Imperial history and politics in the subsector. I wondered why such an erudite man had not risen further in the Ministorum, but no Imperial organization is truly a meritocracy, with the possible and terrifying exception of the Holy Ordos themselves.
“Cardinal Umberto Ratsini is a very learned man, famous for his commentary on the Life of St Hudweck the Eyeless,” Leibowitz enthused as the parade proper began. A column of ‘scribes’ began marching down the boulevard, preceded by a weaponized version of the March of the Primarchs, so loud that it drove the pilgrims from the path of the procession with the efficiency of a fire hose. Young boys in the red and white livery of the local house of healing ran before them with brooms, sweeping litter out of the path and dragging the occasional drunk or corpse off to the side. Scribes was kind of a generous term. A cynical observer might note that the staves of office they carried were remarkably similar to shock halberds, or that the high narrow helmets they wore were alot like armor. I suspected that beneath their scarlet robes other items of scribe uniform might be rather multi-purpose as well. There could be no doubt that they were scribes though, otherwise they would be violating the ban on the Ecchlesiarcy keeping men under arms.
“We are not surprised to see such a luminary rise to glory,” Hadrian lied. I’ve no doubt that scholars occasionally rise in the ranks of the Church, but it seemed unusual in this case. With drill that would have made a Mordian sergeant blush, the scribes began echeloning off, forming a cordon on either side of the boulevard. As each ten man section fell into place they snapped their staves horizontal in unison, creating a physical barrier, ferrule to ferrule.
“Were the other candidates equally formidable?” I asked casually, taking a sip of wine. Leibowitz nodded.
“Primate Hingaberg and Primate Von Mandelbrot? Yes both formidable, though more in,” Leibowitz coughed to insert a pause for effect, “temporal power shall we say? The triumph of Ratsini over such potent men is widely seen as the hand of the Emperor at work.” I wondered if Leibowitz really believed that. More likely Hingaber and Mandelbrot were entrenched power players who had found themselves at loggerheads with no path forward.
“Is the new cardinal an aged man?” I prodded. Leibowitz nodded in confirmation.
“Nearly two hundred in fact, this will be the crown in a long career or service to Him on Earth,” the confessor enthused. An old man without too many years left in him. A compromise candidate tacitly endorsed to delay the showdown between the two power players. The street below was now lined for more than two kilometers with a double line of scribes with staves extended. Two files of white robed women advanced inside the cordon as the March of the Primarchs concluded. They were hooded but obviously young, perhaps members of some holy order. The street was suddenly silent as the echos of brassy marshal music died away and then the women, at some unseen signal, began to sing, their voices soaring in complicated harmony into a Te Deum Imperialis of staggering beauty. From the processional arch at the end of a boulevard the Triumph of Cardinal Ratsini began.
“The Seven Hundred Penitents,” Leibowitz explained unhelpfully, but his meaning soon became clear. A mass of men, naked to the waist marched forward into the swelling beauty of the choral music. Each carried a votive taper in his left hand and a barbed flail in his right. At regular intervals they scourged themselves with sharp strikes of the flails. This was no ceremonial show of devotion, spatters of blood flecked the stones as the marched, tearing their backs open to sanctify the progress.
“Impressive,” Hadrian admitted as the men advanced. Behind them came ranks of clergy, each caring a book of scripture held aloft and open. Impressive but unhelpful. Was Ratsini’s fortuitous elevation part of the Heretics plan? Was he involved? Or was it merely happenstance that had frustrated one of the other Primates. Could it have been done without the knowledge of at least one faction of the Church?
A parade of reliquaries was passing by. I had no doubt each bejeweled box held some item of deep significance to the gathered pilgrims who thronged the viewing platforms. Handfuls of rose petals, presumably imported from off world were being scattered from the heights surrounding the boulevard, floating down to be churned to redish mush under foot. The air began to ring with the tolling of countless bells as a vast altar was drawn into the boulevard by two rhino armored transports. It was an enormous thing, bedecked with gold aquila and waving standards. Clouds of incense lifted to the skies as dozens of priests tossed handfuls of the stuff into brass braziers that stood like bollards along its side. In the center of it, on a high backed golden chair bedecked with red silk sat an old man in a Cardinal’s miter so large I thought it might do him a neck injury. It was difficult to tell much about him from this distance, but the sheer ostentation of the altar throne made him seem small and fragile in comparison.
“You will have to pardon the noise,” Leibowitz shouted, “Every cathedral tower on the planet is ringing to celebrate this blessed day.” A slight smile touched my lips.
“It is enough to wake the dead,” I agreed with a quirk of my lips.
I huddled among the roots with Kian bitter coppery fear at the back of my throat. I could hear horses around us, the sound of hoof beats indistinct in the thickening fog. My hand gipped the hilt of my rapier so tight that my knuckles were pale and white. By the moment the fog grew thicker, the bright moonlight seeming to fill it with a silver glow that concealed more than it illuminated. More than once we saw bright patches in the fog where ghostly forms seemed to roam.
“Come on,” Kian said at last, his voice shockingly loud to my terrified mind. Ht took my trembling hand and tugged me into action, climbing over the roots and moving off into the fog. How he navigated I had no idea. More than once he pulled me into concealment moments before a spectre or a horseman emerged from the fog. The passage of time was impossible to judge but after what might have been an hour we reached a small stream.
“Running water, Ive heard that the undead fear to cross it,” I breathed, hopping across the stream.
“Sometimes,” Kian said wiith what wasn’t enough like agreement for my taste. We followed the stream down into the valley. As we decdened the fog began to thin and we found ourselves in woodlands. We were over the hills now, moving northwards towards the more cultivated plains. At length we reached the stone arch of a moss covered bridge and climbed the bank to find ourselves on a dirt road through the forest.
“Do we risk…” Kian began but I cut him off, pulling him off the road.
“Horses!” I hissed, perceiving the distant clatter of a coach. We crouched in the undergrowth as we head the approach of horses. I could tell even from here that they had been pushed hard, worked into a near fatal lather. The coachman was cracking a whip above his team but even that could muster no more than a brisk exhausted trot that slowed as he approached the narrow bridge.
“It is a mail coach,” I breathed and stepped out into the road. The coachman’s eyes widened and he reached for a coachgun, freezing as I produced one of my pistols and pointed it in his direction.
“What in Myrmidia’s Cunt do you think you are playing at?” the coacman demanded as his horse came to a stop.
“Are you Highwaymen?” he demanded, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.
“Just travellers friend,” I told him, I waggled my pistol.
“Shall we agree not to shoot each other?” I suggested. His eyes flicked between Kian and I and then he nodded. He was a stout man with an eyepatch, but though he was old he looked muscular and fit.
“You are the one with the gun drawn signorita, but yes,” he agreed, taking his hand away from the bell mouthed blunderbuss.
“And if it is all the same to you id rather not linger here, something ….evil is up in the hills,” he said. I tucked the pistol into my belt and hopped up onto the bench beside him, Kian following me.
“All the more reason to get out of here,” I agreed fervently.
“Come on,” Kian said at last, his voice shockingly loud to my terrified mind. Ht took my trembling hand and tugged me into action, climbing over the roots and moving off into the fog. How he navigated I had no idea. More than once he pulled me into concealment moments before a spectre or a horseman emerged from the fog. The passage of time was impossible to judge but after what might have been an hour we reached a small stream.
“Running water, Ive heard that the undead fear to cross it,” I breathed, hopping across the stream.
“Sometimes,” Kian said wiith what wasn’t enough like agreement for my taste. We followed the stream down into the valley. As we decdened the fog began to thin and we found ourselves in woodlands. We were over the hills now, moving northwards towards the more cultivated plains. At length we reached the stone arch of a moss covered bridge and climbed the bank to find ourselves on a dirt road through the forest.
“Do we risk…” Kian began but I cut him off, pulling him off the road.
“Horses!” I hissed, perceiving the distant clatter of a coach. We crouched in the undergrowth as we head the approach of horses. I could tell even from here that they had been pushed hard, worked into a near fatal lather. The coachman was cracking a whip above his team but even that could muster no more than a brisk exhausted trot that slowed as he approached the narrow bridge.
“It is a mail coach,” I breathed and stepped out into the road. The coachman’s eyes widened and he reached for a coachgun, freezing as I produced one of my pistols and pointed it in his direction.
“What in Myrmidia’s Cunt do you think you are playing at?” the coacman demanded as his horse came to a stop.
“Are you Highwaymen?” he demanded, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.
“Just travellers friend,” I told him, I waggled my pistol.
“Shall we agree not to shoot each other?” I suggested. His eyes flicked between Kian and I and then he nodded. He was a stout man with an eyepatch, but though he was old he looked muscular and fit.
“You are the one with the gun drawn signorita, but yes,” he agreed, taking his hand away from the bell mouthed blunderbuss.
“And if it is all the same to you id rather not linger here, something ….evil is up in the hills,” he said. I tucked the pistol into my belt and hopped up onto the bench beside him, Kian following me.
“All the more reason to get out of here,” I agreed fervently.
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