Sini

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

“I have seen things you mayflies would not believe.” The words were well-shaped and emphasised, thereby hinting at the intensity, control and particularity of the speaker’s character. His polished and refined accent only honed the edge of his speech.

All around them were the verdant, rolling hills with ample vegetation which made Topanga so private and attractive. They stood on Parker Mesa Overlook; bedrock mortars were carved out of the rocky outcroppings of the summit, and low shrubbery rustled in the night breeze. Behind them, the hills furled away in darkness to the west and north, while in front of them was the sandy arc of Venice Beach curving all the way down to Point Vincente. The illumination was so bright it seemed ablaze. Halfway down, Santa Monica Pier jutted out into the ocean like a sapphire pin dangling from a golden necklace. Catalina Island was visible off to the right. The couture-clad man who had spoken gazed out across the moonlit vista, and imagined the bay to be the gem-studded rim of Hebe’s sacred cup which contained the mythical nectar and ambrosia. The city, in this instance, symbolised the ambrosia Hebe served up to the Olympians as source of immortality, eternal youth and lifeforce. And like those Olympian gods, he intended to drink deeply from said grail.

L.A. suffered from smog, and the foggy blanket caught and held on to the light pollution. The phenomenon always brought to mind the great city fires he had seen. West of the metropolis and north of Santa Monica, this was where the mountains met the sea – a ‘Little Olympus’ of sorts, with its own pomegranate and date lined temple complex, the Getty Villa, nestled in the lower hills. Topanga was the place where the rich and artistic had been drawn since the 1920s, escaping the bustle of Los Angeles and Hollywood. As always, genius and insanity went hand in hand, culminating in the events of the late 1960s which had drawn Jonathan to the region. Not Neil Young’s musical mastery, but Charles Manson’s madness had pulled John to the City of Angels.

He wrest his eyes from the glowing bay below and settled them on the five kneeling men. When looking down at them he doubted any of them had been born when Manson started his campaign of murder, but he might be wrong. It was hard to tell sometimes, just when kine had been born... how shortly ago that they first had seen the light of day. To John, these had been children but yesterday, but already tonight they lay at his feet.

They were bound, and one of them was in bad shape. He would expire before long, as he was bleeding profusely. Jonathan’s nostrils flared at the scent. To those five kneeling men, he would appear as a figure of darkness cut from the lit-up sky at his back. Others like him watched from the shadows. Most of them wore similar long overcoats which ruffled in the wind.

Jonathan walked over to the man he thought was eldest among their number, then crouched down to come to eye-level. What vanity, to have come after him like this. “Who are you?” The question was grated out as if ground between a millstone. Jonathan angled his head slightly to the side in curiosity. “Who ordered this?”

The bound lout grumbled something, then spat a bloody glob at his captor. Quick as electric current, Jonathan recoiled and hissed maliciously. It was the instinctive sound of a coiled adder. Whimpers ensued at the display of the Mark of Caine, though the offender remained immune to Jonathan’s dread gaze.

There was little more disgusting to John than bad manners. Even in defeat one had to show grace, and this mere mortal had the audacity to spit at him. Worse, it was blood, and Jonathan knew that if it had hit him, he might have frenzied and thereby would have robbed himself of the chance to find out who these men were and who had sent them. He glared wide-eyed at the man, who was grinning through his red-stained teeth. This poltroon knows. He knows of the Beast raking my nerves with its claws, and thinks harassment will let slip its shackles.

Jonathan’s pride reared its head. “Just who do you misguided fools think you are dealing with?” He was Ventrue – not some Gangrel or Brujah barely in control of their tempers. Undoubtedly some insult had been coming John’s way, but the bleeding man collapsed which caused his neighbour to prattle out a verse in Latin for succour. So it was not just a hit but an ‘auto-da-fé’, an act of faith. Whether or not it was a crusade called against him or just a botched, overzealous attempt remained unclear. Now it was John’s time to grin. Alabaster fangs glinted silver in the moonlight.

“Be quiet, novice! Keep the faith. Trust in God.”

“Yes, be quiet, milksop. Your pronunciation is atrocious,” piled on Jonathan, scowling. It truly was an affront to the Roman tongue. Zealots, he thought, jaded. It was all he could do but roll his eyes.

“Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” came the muttered reply of the near-snivelling human. “I am sorry, Inquisitor.” The Ventrue’s face contorted in a demonic leer.

“You are an abomination, an animal enslaved by its base desires and hunger, an agent of Satan,” came the delayed insult. This time, it did not go unpunished, as one of the Ventrue’s fists shot forward and hit the inquisitor in the jaw. The punch cracked the man’s jawbone and spilled his teeth out in the dirt like pearls from a torn necklace.

“Oh, but how very wrong you are,” exasperated Jonathan. Part of it was true though: vampires were hungry creatures, and the older the more vitae they needed. The smell and sight of blood, for example, had roused Jonathan’s considerable appetite, but he would not feed on these wretches. They had not earned that privilege. They would not experience the bliss of a vampire’s kiss.

Instead, he drew upon the previously consumed lifeblood of his thralls and ghouls to ramp up his vampiric powers. “You have made yourselves into iron. Therefore, you are strong but brittle. It breaks before it bends, and I hear the brittleness in your speech. Doubt is setting in.” Through an amalgam of presence and domination, Jonathan wreaked havoc on the spiritual fortitude of the captured hunters. Gradually he increased the pressure on their minds.

“Doubt which is justified, and caused you to fail. These novices you led to their deaths… their faith was found wanting.” He grimaced, watching the inquisitor spit molars still. The sight nevertheless did not deter him from teaching them their final lesson. Once again, he got in close, and cradled the man’s head gently in his hands. It would have been very easy to crush his skull and brains into a mushy pulp… but where was the fun in that? Instead, Jonathan leaned in intimately and let the bloodthirst work so he snarled and snapped his words into the inquisitor’s ear. “God is gone. It is just us devils now.” It was about all he could say before he had to pull himself away or devour the man then and there.

“Faith is like poison,” he told them, softly tapping a flinching hunter’s face. The man was quaking in mortal fear. John looked down all compassion and understanding. “I know, unfortunate soul. I shall cut you open and suck it out like from an aging wound.” He could smell their desperation on the air. It was time to drive home his point, much like they had wanted to drive home the point of the stakes meant for his heart. “Will the Gates of Heaven open before you as the sound of silver trumpets heralds your arrival? Or will you find the way into Paradise shut?” The Ventrue paced slowly before them, looking each in the eye to solidify his hold over them. “Worse yet,” he spoke soft as a lover, voice bubbling over with sympathy and malice both, overwhelming whatever mental defences the hunters tried to scramble together. Yes, they had trained for this, but the way they had tried to force their way into his lair like bumbling children meant that they were inexperienced and in over their heads. Did they even know the calibre of Kindred they were dealing with? He thought not. “There are no gates, no Holy Spirit, there is no Heaven,… Godfearing men like you ought to know there are worse things to be afraid of.”

Only the leader of the hunters was not babbling or praying, hard as it was to do such things with a busted face, while Jonathan deconstructed their entire system of belief. The others shivered and pleaded – except for the one passed out from blood loss – and soon started begging as hysteria set in. Now it was time to indulge.

“Five little piggies, about to squeal. This little piggy went to market,” started John, pointing at the bleeding man. His shoes crunched the blood-soaked gravel. “This little piggy stayed home,” came the next verse. One of his cohorts stepped forward having heard a wordless command, and summarily ripped the back of the hunter’s neck out, then shoved the bony paste down the third man’s throat. The victim soiled himself. “This little piggy had roast beef,” the rhyme continued, the Ventrue spoke over the cries and gargles. “This little piggy had none.” The gibbering novice’s neck cracked with an audible pop, and the screaming stopped. Before long, the soothing sounds of night returned while Jonathan’s retroreflecting eyes which rested on the last survivor pulsed like garnets. He sighed. “And this little piggy cried ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home …”

In the end, the inquisitor spilled his guts literally as well as figuratively. Iron breaks before it bends. Talking had been hard, and John almost regretted breaking the man’s jaw. Almost.

They had been part of a fringe group tied to the Society of Leopold, left behind or expelled. Their strike at him had been their way back into the Inquisition’s good graces. One of the first probes directed at Kindred in Los Angeles. This was nothing he had not dealt with before, nothing new… until they mentioned an overarching cabal. Indeed, that was discomfiting: the inkling that there might exist a larger and more dangerous organisation. Larger, more dangerous and techno-savvy. These latter days wannabe Torquemadas disappointed as adversaries and fought like cowards by using advanced technology. While Jonathan admired their Machiavellian tactics, he figured the mention of “blankbodies” and “FIRSTLIGHT” to be the result of severe dementia he had inflicted upon the hunters: the ravings of dying men.

No, of dead men, he corrected himself, throwing one last and cursory glance back at the five bodies. Already his ghouls were busy chopping up the carcasses, and he could sense the bobcats and cougars prowling nearby. They had been attracted by the smell of gore. “Inform the Gerousia of the events from tonight,” he instructed one of his underlings. “And let the word go out through the proper channels that I wish to meet with our illustrious Prince. Tell him I am not amused.” Vannevar has some explaining to do as to why I had to deal with these rabid dogs in my backyard.

The past half-century he had watched events unfold from the sideline, comfortably numb. Tonight had shaken him awake. The chaos of the Anarch Free State had spilled over and touched him directly. This would never have happened with a strong Prince in power. Topanga was no longer safe. Or perhaps safety had always been an illusion. Regardless, he refused to run. This was as far west as west went, and he was disinclined to try his luck elsewhere. The time for idleness was over. Everyone in this godforsaken city is out for blood. Thus the thought grinding within his skull as he straightened his long coat. All bitterness aside, he grinned in long overdue excitement. And now, so am I. Time to shake the tree. Via his various blood bonds, carefully cultivated over the years, he called on his intimates - those who knew him as Jonathan Corbett. To most of L.A. he was Johnny Rook. The city was lousy with thin-bloods and anarchs, after all. Scum who had no business knowing his true identity.

Another summons went out from him, calling out to lynxes, mountain lions and coyotes alike to join for the coming meal. Their shrill screams and howling screeches rose up in the night’s air as the Ventrue started his descent towards all the coloured lights, heralding his coming like so many of Heaven’s corrupted silver trumpets.

Johnny Rook was coming to town.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Still accepting by the way!

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Jonathan Corbett
(formerly Jaoseph de Corbet), also known as Johnny Rook
Age: 909 / 30 (forever 31)

Species: Kindred, 7th or 8th generation Ventrue (sources differ and Jonathan is unlikely to debunk useful mystery)

Blood type: Being embraced in a time of war and at the site of a siege, has directly determined the herd he may feed upon. It has to be someone who has served as a soldier or policeman/-woman, or done bloody violence, and to a lesser extent someone who has wielded a weapon.

Personality

Personality:
Jonathan has been around for a long time, yet does not rank as an Elder in the traditional sense. His period of ‘leave’ over the past 300 years marks him more as an Ancilla. Yes, he has his own modest powerbase and agenda, but is more focused on upholding the traditions of Camarilla. This is all tempered by his own sense of what is right and Ventrue heritage. Jonathan believes in order and privilege, things which support his unlifestyle. From his time as an Anglo-Norman knight and baron, or as Mithras’ aedile and enforcer, there are certain things he feels entitled to do, claim and own. Above all, disloyalty and vulgarity disgust him, and manners are everything.

While other Ventrue have capitalised on the changes of the modern world, swapping out feudalism and nobility for majority shares and backroom politics, Jonathan oft-times finds it hard to do so. He can be set in his ways. His expectations can be outdated or anachronistic. Indeed, power and money go hand in hand, but true power comes from strength and a sense of duty. Instead, ironically perhaps, he sees organised crime and fringe-groups like motorcycle gangs for example as a more ‘kindred’ continuation of the feudalism and patronage of his formative decades. While sympathetic to some of such outlaws, he has as yet not got into bed with them. Jonathan prefers making his own way, and seeks a level of independence while remaining loyal to the Six Traditions and the Masquerade.

He has strayed from the Road of Kings, and dabbled gleefully in the Road of Sin, travelled extensively and met great kine and Kindred alike. While he adheres to a personal code constructed piecemeal from life and death’s experiences, Jonathan is a true Ventrue at unbeating heart with his own look on unlife, but loyal to the principles of the Masquerade. Superior beings they might be, Kindred must protect themselves from lesser ones. With an illustrious bloodline like his comes responsibility for those you claim to rule. Camarilla and the Masquerade, to Jonathan, represents security in a stratified and existential way. He upholds the latter if not necessarily the former. Jonathan himself represents an old-school vampire domain, though it is much larger than the old Rule of 1,001 Nights, officiously if not officially part of Camarilla offering some direly needed stability to volatile Los Angeles. Disappointed and disillusioned by his elders, he wants to create something of his own.

Biography

Biography:
Born in 1111 in the night of the thirtieth of April and the first of May, also known as Walpurgis Night, Jaoseph de Corbet’s birth was auspicious. The Saint was supposed to protect against a number of infantile diseases as well as witchcraft, and indeed Jaoseph survived into adulthood in spite of skyrocketing medieval child mortality rate.

Growing up at a time when state and Church frequently clashed over jurisdiction and consolidation of (secular) power, young Jaoseph was put through the crucible that was a Norman’s upbringing. Fifty years on since William’s conquest of England, and with his son Jonathan I Beauclerc firmly ensconced upon the throne, none of the rigours of knightly training had vanished. From a young age, family values and the ideas of legacy were instilled in Jaoseph, as he was a scion of a noble house descendant of Norse settlers which then won fame for supplying one of William the Conqueror’s companions.

Beauclerc’s reign would not last forever, however, and with the death of a king and a lack of an heir apparent, England descended into chaos. The period during which Jaoseph came of age was aptly named “The Anarchy” in which England and Normandy tore themselves apart in a dynastic conflict that would last until 1153. Jaoseph, however, officially died in 1142 during the Siege of Oxford. It was not an arrow, sword or spear that lethally pierced his skin, but fangs.

Mithras had awoken after a battle was fought over his resting place in 1069, although he had not returned to London until 1085. When he returned, he found the Romans gone, replaced by the Normans and the Cainites ruled over by a triumvirate of elders. Attempts to rebuild his cult and influence initially met stiff resistance from other Cainites, but through subterfuge and manipulation, he was able to clear his path to power, eventually regaining acceptance as the lord of the Court of Avalon just as mortal society stabilized under Jonathan II in the 1150s. Mithras re-ascended as monarch of the Baronies of Avalon in 1154. It had taken him nigh on a century to reclaim pride and place.

It was during this process that Mithras and his coterie shopped around for prospects worthy to bolster their ranks. One of which they found in the Anglo-Norman Jaoseph de Corbet. Jaoseph, embraced by a childe of Marcus Verus (he himself a childe of Mithras), easily adapted to the semi-feudal society that characterised the midnight aristocracy.

Forever pushed to prove worthy of his adventurous heritage, he participated in the Second Crusade as an agent of Mithras (1147) as initiation into his new unlife and spent considerable time in Outremer and Constantinople. He even met the venerate Belisarius. In 1170 Jaoseph had returned to England to aid the alliance between the Toreador and Ventrue as to oust the Einherjar from Ireland. The attempt was only semi-successful, and he spent the following decades as an itinerant between Constantinople, Rome, Aachen, ... Later he served as an enforcer of Avalon which pitted him against political opponents like the Scottish Toreador or Mithras’ own “vassals”, as well as against the more feral Welsh Gangrel vampires or Lupines stalking the countryside. Jaoseph went on to soldier in the War of the Princes against the rebellious Angevin Toreador (starting in 1204). Operating as a go-between betwixt mortal and Kindred politics and society suited him. A first rift opened between Jaoseph and Mithras when the latter opened his privy council to vampires from across the baronies, yet left his own supporters unrewarded.

When the fifteenth century was in full swing, Jaoseph grew increasingly angry and disgruntled. The Anarch Revolt, the sundering within vampire society, the creation of Sabbat, the Convention of Thorns,… all these grated upon his nerves. When the Conspiracy of Isaac ended not in the scouring of the Giovanni from existence but rather in their elevation, Jaoseph was outraged. Mithras kept the Baronies largely out of Hardestadt’s Camarilla, though he accepted its basic tenets. The Blood Laws of Avalon came to represent the Six Traditions of Camarilla in their own way.

For Jaoseph, the damage had nevertheless been done. Mithras was losing control over his own fiefdoms, and while loyal to the Prince of London, Jaoseph started to look for something more than servitude. He was nearing an age and level of strength where he could make his own choices in Kindred culture. A first sign of this was remaining rather aloof during the tribulations wracking Mithras’ court and England as a whole in the 1500s and 1600s. Though he was pleased and involved with the 1693 Treaty of Durham which saw Ventrue supremacy established over the Toreador in Britain, Jaoseph decided to retire.

Over the next three centuries he spent time in torpor or leisurely travel, only occasionally visiting the British Isles lest he be dragged back into its political web. As such, he missed the boat during the Victorian Age quite literally, and did not set up his own territory unlike many of his peers. Even much younger vampires spread across the globe, creating fiefdoms of their own whilst he slumbered. Time and progress left him behind.

In more recent decades, specifically since the Summer of Love in 1967, Jaoseph resurfaced with renewed energy. It was time to catch up with the world. Drawn from torpor by the energy of the buzzing, sun-soaked West Coast, he set his hungry re-opened eyes on Los Angeles. A new world and future awaited, and so Jaoseph de Corbet received a much-needed update and changed into Jonathan Corbett. Another alias of his, Johnny Rook, became less known in the penthouses and exclusive clubs of L.A., but spread like whispered wildfire through the back alleys. In spite of his apparent adaptation to the times, he has had a hard time ditching his feudal and noble outlook on life.

What brings him to the City of Angels? Some echo of the old frontier spirit? The search for a manifest destiny? Legacy and a cause? A small kingdom of his own? Other than the rich hunting grounds and staking a claim for himself, does he even know? At the very least, L.A. offers a chance to build something free from the yoke of those that left him unrewarded for centuries.

NPCs

NPCs: TBA as needed.

Territory

Notable locations or possessions:
Jonathan landed in the Westside of L.A., making a haunt for himself in the eastern portion of the Santa Monica Mountains, north of Santa Monica itself. Largely, his sway extends outwards from the Topanga State Park. Northernmost, the Ventrue’s domain runs along Route 101, between the intersections of Route 27 and Interstate 405. In fact, one could in general terms drive along the borders of what is considered his stomping grounds by following said Route 27 south until it hits the Pacific Coast, then turn east on the Pacific Highway. It is the south and southeast where things get tricky, as that is where he shares a border with the Santa Monica Anarch baron.

Shirking up against the Voerman Twins, a clearly defined boundary was necessary. After civilised if peculiar and tiresome discussions, San Vincente Boulevard, 26th Street, Montana and Centinel Avenue, and Wilshire Boulevard demarcated the border between Voerman and Corbett territory. As such, Brentwood and Pacific Palisades comprise his preferred hunting grounds, with careful extension across Interstate 405 into the Westwood territory, as to have access to both UCLA and WLA VA Hospital. The latter supplies him with the sort of blood he needs to sustain himself with. He is very territorial where the Hospital is concerned, as it is essential to his survival and a linchpin in his existence.

The Topanga hills, then, offers Jonathan a forested and secluded area to retreat to in case things turn sour, while the Getty Center as well as Villa allows him to indulge in his taste for art and culture. This, paired with the park visitor numbers, local demographics, Sunset Boulevard tourists and variety of country clubs assures him of a steady supply sufficiently educated and interesting company.

Will add some more about his stances/attitudes on topics or factions.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Already wrote up a char, baby.

[WIP] Balick Arken, Medical Doctor - Genetics and Cybernetics

Bio is a bit short and you need to figure out if your character's named Baltic, Balrick or Balick. I also suggest you do away with the lists and instead describe the sort of equipment he uses. Regarding force techniques and other skills you should at least somehow explain how he learned them. What are his interests? What are his goals? This sheet definitely needs to be expanded on.

[Approved] Mideo 'Mid' Benara, Jedi Padawan

She reminds me a bit of Avatar Korra, even if it's a different franchise. This is a good thing.

Approved. Have fun.

[Deep Core, 6 ATC 4] Mission: Harvest Moon

Collem watched the alerts, messages, number values and reports with grim vigilance. A holographic projection of the ongoing ambuscade was played out before his eyes, making the control station glow in reds and blues. Things were progressing better than he had dared hope. So far, most of the plan had worked: most shuttles and boarding craft had managed to get through and get in. Operatives who had infiltrated the refuelling station were still intact and causing trouble. Fighters and gunships were engaging the enemy all over the board. The Republic had been caught with their breeches down, but their scrambled fighters were putting up stiff resistance. Soon, he knew, those Hammerheads would recover from the initial shock and bring their arsenal to bear.

“Tell Flight Commander Turan to watch those breakaway squadrons. They might try to get around them,” Collem pointed out a small party of Aureks flitting around on the hologram. Aside from the possible damage, those Republic fighters might try and get far enough way to get some message out beyond the jammed communications bubble. Watching the battle unfold, he recognised patterns, feints and probes. Like a director picking out the notes in a symphony, Collem analysed the space battle as if it were a dance floor.

It was time to face the music.

A communication officer stood ready to forward Collem’s orders. “They will be lining up for attack runs soon. Tell the captains to put their point defence on alert, and bring interceptor squadrons into position. I bet they will be gunning for the Ajuur.” He nodded as if confirming with himself. He pressed a button to bring up a direct line of communication with the captain of the Ajuur-class. “Purple Jewel, this is Captain Corvinian. Recall a few fighters from their engagements, set up a screen to intercept. They’ll be coming for you soon.”

The Purple Jewel confirmed reception of the command. “Copy. Captain Jarmand requests support. Considerable support.”

“Get the bulk cruisers to cover your sides.”

“No, sir. He wishes the Terminus cruisers to join the fight. One of the Hammerheads is moving into a defensive position.”

“That’s a negative. Reform the attack line with the bulk cruisers and engage that lone Hammerhead.” There was still a chance they would be able to win this without deployment of the two distinctly imperial vessels. That is, if they were able to put the Republic cruiser out of the fight soon, before the other two had had a chance to slip their moorings. He knew he was asking a lot. Keeping the corridor to the boarded ships open was starting to take its toll on the motley fighter squadrons. Casualties and losses were gradually mounting as more and more Aureks were scrambled.

“Damned foolish bravery,” Collem hissed under his breath, and felt a begrudging grin tugging at his mouth. He would have done the same. That Hammerhead was about to get a pounding that would crack it open like a crustacean, but it would give the other two the opportunity to get into the fray. “Any word on the asset yet?”

“None, sir.”

Jarmand’s Ajuur-class cruiser was reporting the first incoming fire. Damage was minimal, but they all knew proton torpedoes would be coming soon. “Hail Vaughn’s ship… and get our systems hot. We might have to lock horns with those Hammerheads sooner than I had thought. Notify Jarmand's Purple Jewel, command him to fall back a little and see if he can draw those Republic cruisers into range of our guns.”

[Approved] Mara Cessair, Sith Overseer

Hey there and here goes!

Her nails are kept long and filed into points, laced with a different toxin every week. Usually, they are believed to be non-lethal unless an individual is physically weak.

Sounds eccentric and none too practical.

She’s tried to fail through.

What do you mean by this?

Her methods vary from harsh, degrading words to using toxins with a various range of effects. Her toxins are difficult to find in the body and even harder to trace back to her since she teaches every student in her class to create different toxins weekly. Just because she collects the projects, doesn’t mean they can’t be replicated later.

How does the use of toxins on students advance their education? How does unknown use? I suppose you somewhat refer to it later on, in the final paragraph of the interview but I'd like some more elaboration. Does she always teach through pain?

With Lords and Darths, she will often take a more respectful and humbling tone toward them.

Humble tone, as 'humbling' means she teaches them humility or puts them in their place and tells them off.

[Approved] Jedi Master Dominik Rothul

Other than the numerous use of 'reflect' I think this is great. Go for me (someone else will review the force power levels in depth).

[Deep Core, 6 ATC 4] Mission: Harvest Moon

Collem kept a tight lid on his personal reservations concerning the mission, but he knew that Briar was able slip passed his stoic exterior – much like she would be able slip passed the Republic’s emergency scrambled fighters and flak. A commander was supposed to exude calm and confidence, present a bedrock for his subordinates. Nothing was as contagious as panic. He had seen one rout and one mutiny during his time with the Imperial Navy; vicious and violent experiences both of them. Collem cared not to relive anything like it again.

The blonde ace sashaying in her flight-suit neglected calling him by his rank or title, a personal privilege. It was not as if he was a stickler, but a certain distance between superior and subordinate had to be maintained. Collem was against befriending those serving under him. After all, it was hard sending your friends into the jaws of war never mind sending them to their deaths when the greater good demanded it. Briar, however, was different. There were other designs and plans in motion, things in play. Even if it was his old man pulling their strings, Collem admitted he was extremely fond of the blonde pilot. A rather considerable notion that, he thought as he reminisced of how whimsical she could be.

But not when she flew. Her concentration and skill were sharp enough to split atoms. There was no doubt in his mind as to her expertise in handling a spaceship, which was a great font of comfort for the Captain.

Even if his eyes kept on surveying the hurried but meticulous preparations for the impending strike, he saw how well the uniform suited her, how effortlessly smooth she moved, how her pony-tail swayed merrily. A woman in uniform… Why must she torment me so? He noted the other women in tight-fitting uniforms and the air of professionalism, and was forced to amend his thoughts. Women in uniform, why must they torment me so?

They stood close to one another, close enough for the omission of rank to be allowed. He grimaced, shadow flitting over his face as the mask of confidence momentarily slipped. “If they’re half as good as they think they are, we’re in the clear.” He had had little time to acquaint himself with the prowess of the elements at his disposal. Some he had been familiar with, others he knew only from military manuals, briefings and personal research. Most of those participating in the operation might had been battle-tested… but not by him. That made a world of difference.

She coaxed a wry, ragged smile from him that stripped away years and almost made him look boyish. “Are you referring to that business on Sarapin?” They had made it out alive by the skin of their teeth, and largely because of Briar’s skill with a stick. “Or that sith-spitting debacle over Lannik?”

For a moment he considered lying to her, claiming he had the full scoop on the assignment. Would that make her better at her job? Instead he clasped his hands behind his back and set his face. He saw no point in hiding from her. “Apparently I am on a ‘need to know basis’. So, you can be sure of it that several agendas are being served by this… helter-skelter OP." Collem sighed, numbing the anger in his chest. "I did some heavy digging before being told to cease. They threatened to pull me off this detail, but I could not think of anyone else remotely qualified to pull this off.” Conceited, perhaps, but also responsible, he judged. Collem could practically hear Briar playfully rolling her eyes at him. The lack of information and intelligence (the latter nonetheless thankfully augmented with the 975th's efforts) would mean a lot of people would die today. A lack of intel almost always translated in a higher loss of life. Trust had forever been in short supply within the Empire.

“I don’t like it one jot. After this is through, I intend to pick up the shovel again. This thing goes high up the food chain, very high.” The lights suddenly died, turned red as the air was cut into shreds by the horn. Even after all the years of hearing the blaring alarm, it still put the fire in Collem’s bones. “Right. On. Time.” There was nothing boyish about the grin adorning his face now. He made to turn but paused, then put a propriety-breaking hand on Briar’s shoulder and squeezed down. “I will be watching closely from the bridge the whole time. Good luck…” A surprisingly gentle look softened his otherwise stern features. “And… be careful, Briar.” He followed up with a very uncharacteristic thing to say. "No unnecessary risks... please."

Then he was gone, brightly spit-shined boots beating out a purposeful cadence in the crimson-lit corridor. Collem was already volleying commands into his comms. “I’ll have the hide of anyone not at his designated station by the time I make it back to the bridge,” growled the Captain. “Get the tractor beams running hot, all squadrons go, priority targets are their engines and comms.” If all went according to plan they would be muffling any signal trying to go out of the system, but one could never be too careful.

Soon the Imperial vessels would swoop down upon the non-suspecting Republic convoy, turbolasers and ion-cannons blazing and ripping through space to be followed by waves of personnel craft. Looking back, Collem saw the crews froth into action. His eyes caught the masked sith one last time before the door hissed shut. An epigram of some distant memory of a Kaas City play came to mind. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.