Supermaxx

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Chapter Two: Artemis
Vox Fortuna
Meridian System, Hyades Star Cluster

Meridian could’ve been a case study in everything wrong with the galactic frontier. Mapping surveys put it as one of the farthest inhabited systems in the Federation from earth; though calling it ‘inhabited’ was a stretch. Four planets revolve around Meridian, a fairly typical orange dwarf star. It wasn’t as large nor burned as hot as the Sun, but K-type stars like Meridian were of particular interest to the Office for Extrasolar Colonization, or OEC: K-types are incredibly stable, allowing ample time for life to develop on planets within their habitable zone.
Meridian III and Meridian IV were both life-bearing. Meridian III’s relatively closer proximity to the star meant it was hot year-round- summertime could be a deadly affair for an unprepared human. Above ground vegetation was limited to only the hardiest plantlife, and water could only be found underground or at the planet’s poles. A few decades of terraforming could’ve seen it flourish if given the chance.
A heavy industrial mining conglomerate called Vanderwick-Kriegwald-Stalgard Industries, or VKS, stamped out that possibility when they purchased the property rights for the planet. They deployed a machine fleet controlled by a replicant mind to strip Meridian III of all viable resources. Corporate owners forbade human colonization as the world was slated for ‘total extraction’: in a few hundred years the planet would be gone.They were turning it into metal bars, fuel canisters, condensed gems and transitory biomass. It was an ungodly amount of wealth, and all it cost was one measly little world.
Meridian IV was thankfully spared such a fate, though its prospects weren’t much better. It was an ocean world with a single, massive continent and several island chains. The ecology was as variable and diverse as earth’s Cretaceous period. Megafauna was abundant; from the plodding, walking fortresses of the Phalanx tortoises to the Drakes: massive, reptilian apex predators with a surprising resemblance to mythological depictions of dragons. VKS had a pending purchase order for this planet as well, intending to sublease it to various research groups and entertainment companies.
If the OEC had its way this never would have happened. Their department had been pushing for habitable worlds to be excluded from global private ownership for centuries now. They pointed to the overpopulation of Earth, Mars,Thedes and Tiāntáng as proof that humanity needed to settle new worlds. If another galactic conflict like the Unification War kicked off, concentrating all of mankind’s resources on a handful of planets could mean apocalyptic results if people started dropping rocks.
Unfortunately for the OEC, VKS wasn’t an earth based company. It was Thedian. Therefore it was not beholden to Union governance, and the Federation wasn’t about to pass legislation regarding colonization policy or ecological preservation that pissed off the Thedes Empire, a security council member.
Artemis Corrigan wasn’t some Coreworld hippie or Union hardliner, but she still recognized the soundness in their arguments. It also didn’t surprise her that the institution’s warnings went unabated. The Federation General Assembly wasn’t exactly famed for its decisive action. They would debate the issue, of course. There would be studies, surveys, and hearings. If things got really serious they may even open a commission. A commission to make ‘serious inquiry’ into their claims, whose findings would be treated with all the weight of a single hydrogen particle.
It was the same song and dance they did with everything before going back to business as usual. That was why she’d always avoided government work. Better to work for herself and make her own decisions, flying free.
Artemis guided the Vox Fortuna through the final stages of waygate transference. If someone were watching her ship out of a window, they wouldn’t see much: the waygate’s interior ring was spinning at a measurable fraction of lightspeed while the exterior ring rotated in the opposite direction far slower. In the center of the structure was empty space. There was no colorful portal like in the cartoons grade school teachers showed their classes to explain interstellar travel. There was, perhaps, a barely perceptible distortion of spacetime inside the ring, like the small black dots you got in your eyes when you stared at the sun too long. That distortion was the only visual indicator of the wormhole opened inside the waygate, connecting this gate to an identical one somewhere else in the galaxy. This one was only a single system away, in Beta Yucatan.
When a ship equipped for faster than light travel approached a waygate and keyed its activation code, the gate would funnel a considerable amount of power into forming a two way wormhole connecting the pair of waygates together. By traveling through the waygates, transit time across lightyears was cut down exponentially: a journey that would’ve taken centuries using traditional thrusters could instead be undertaken in months, weeks or even days.
Vox Fortuna crawled through that break in spacetime, its aged hull creaking beneath the stress of FTL travel. Fortuna was a venerable old girl. In a just galaxy, she should’ve been retired and living out her days on the tropical beaches of Elysium. Even a scrapyard would’ve been more appropriate, though it pained Artemis to think about.
Fortuna had a narrow fuselage and four wings mounted near its rear in an ‘X’ formation. Each wing ended in an engine nearly a quarter the length and width of the main body. These engines were Waldetoft/Johannsson 99s, nicknamed ‘Screamers’ by the engineers that worked on them. They were top of the line thirty years ago, able to accelerate a ship of the Fortuna’s mass to a considerable percentage of the speed of light. Compared to the stuff coming off the line today, though, they were children’s toys. Modern engines could hit a ninety-nine point an-absurd-number-of-nines percentile of lightspeed. It was like comparing a Ford Model T to a fighter jet.
The engines- and the fusion reactor that powered them- were the best parts of the ship. Everything else was even older. The laser comms were unreliable, seemingly burning out a conduit every other day. Mold had to be cleaned out of the life support system last week. Whenever someone flushed a toilet the lights in the maintenance corridor would flicker for Saint knows what reason. If the whole ship exploded and shunted the crew out into space Artemis would only be mildly shocked- and annoyed that it had waited until they were nearly at the job site to do so.
She flicked a switch on the portion of her dashboard labeled ‘INTERCOM’ in brightly colored tap. The original label had been worn down to nothing over the years and this was her solution until they made it back to port to get the panel refurbished. “Captain Corrigan to crew, we’ve officially arrived in the Meridian system. Making our way to rendezvous with our employer’s vessel now. Should still be two to three weeks until mission is a go but I want the exoframes ready to launch pronto. No telling what’ll happen out here in the ass end of space.”
The Fortuna was a frigate, the smallest category of ship capable of independent long-haul space travel. And even for a frigate it was lightly crewed at the moment with only thirty-eight souls aboard. Thirty eight of the craziest, most desperate hired guns in the galaxy.
Artemis would kill for a real crew, if only she could afford it.
Flicking the same switch down to turn off the intercom, she shifted to private comms and phoned Lieutenant Landaris. “Rem, get up to the bridge. I’ll need your help locating our friends- their transponders are dark.”
After a few moments of static a voice came through: “You got it, cap. Be there in a jiff.” Rem Landaris replied, chipper as always. She spoke from the back of her throat, modulating her voice with a sprinkling of vocal fry that was either obnoxious or endearing, depending on if she was on Artemis’s good side or not.
The elevator to the bridge declared Rem’s arrival with a loud ding. Artemis was the only other person there, the other three station chairs left absent. The crew had suffered losses in the last few months that they were still trying to make up for.
Rem bounced up to the captain’s chair without a care in the world, leaning up against the back and getting directly into Artemis’s bubble before she had a chance to protest.
Rem was exceedingly young given her occupation, still a few years shy of thirty, but she was still two heads taller than her captain. She was thin and wiry, lacking even an ounce of unwanted body fat or visible muscles. Artemis wasn’t sure if that was intentionally deceptive or just an aesthetic choice: Rem Landaris was strong enough to toss a thousand pound steel girder over her shoulder and could carry it around with ease. She had more cybernetics than half the ship’s computers, and most of her meat and bones were grown in a lab.
‘I bet if I cut her up and sold her for parts I could buy a whole new damned ship,’ Artemis mused.
“So you’re having trouble finding our boss?” Rem asked, getting up off the back of the chair long enough to put up her hair with a thick headband. Her hair was a medium-length stark white. One would’ve assumed it was dyed, given her age, but Artemis had never seen it any other color. More modification, she assumed. Probably the same mods that let her grow sideburns thicker than most of the men on the crew.
Artemis shook her head. She’d never understand kids.
“They aren’t transmitting their location, even on encrypted channels. I have their last known position from when they sent us the contract but that was over a month ago. They could have drifted half a million miles since then.” She pulled the information from her neurodeck and tossed it into the main screen so Rem could pick through it. The other woman finally slipped away from Artemis’s chair and went to take the co-pilot’s seat, pulling a plug from the ship console and attaching it to the port at the base of her neck.
That was fairly typical tech, especially for people like the two of them. Being able to directly interface their brains with other computers allowed for incredible processing speed. Rem was picking through the data at the speed of cognition, her eyes glazing over as she stared straight ahead. For all Landaris’s faults, Artemis could never deny her expertise.
“I’ve got it,” Rem announced with a toothy grin. She tapped the coordinates into the flight computer and allowed the ship to begin turning towards the heliosphere, pointing their nose away from the star and out into the Oort cloud surrounding the star system. “They were transmitting a low-power laser in the waygate’s direction to guide us. Guess our sensors are so borked they missed it on our way in. Buuut I caught sight of it through a backscatter on some space dust and traced its location to a thousand AU from Meridian. Then I had to adjust for the roughly eleven day lightspeed lag at that distance and their likely drift trajectory, anddd…presto. There’s your ship.”
Artemis smiled, trying not to look too impressed. No point in stroking the specialist’s already gargantuan ego.
“Let’s let ‘em know we’re here. Deploying WARBLE.” Artemis clicked a few buttons and there was a lurch as the ship launched a comms beacon out behind them. It would take half an hour to connect to the waygate network but afterward it would allow the Fortuna instant communication with any other WARBLE-enabled ship or station in the system. She knew the beacon’s name was some stupid acronym the OEC had cooked up in the early days of human expansion, but she’d let it slip from her mind years and years ago. Wasn’t worth the brain matter it occupied. All she knew was it used miniaturized versions of waygate tech to connect with other beacons in the system, allowing FTL communication in a limited capacity. Still couldn’t do pangalactic video calls.
After ensuring encryption protocols were in place, Artemis fired out a transmission in the direction of their patron’s ship. That broadcast declared their Federation ship registration I.D code, the two hundred and seventy two digit passphrase listed in their contract and a request to dock.
A return message came back in moments: “This is the SUN Gilgamesh to Vox Fortuna. Message received. I.D confirmed. Sending you a rendezvous point and an ETA. Vice Admiral Song is eager to meet with you.”

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Chapter One: Malachi
SUN Gilgamesh
Meridian System, Hyades Star Cluster

Malachi Armeade threw back another glass of Leinonen whiskey. The scent clung to his nostrils like gasoline. Its taste was just as rank. His head swam with a familiar numbness. It made him comfortable; distracted him from the throbbing pain in his face. His nose was probably broken. He tapped it a few times with the tips of his fingers, and the burning feeling that followed confirmed his suspicions. That was fine. This wasn’t the first time his nose had been broken, and repairing damaged cartilage was trivial work for his internal medical augments. Nanomachines were already replacing the damaged blood vessels.
“Damn it, Mal,” Sean Brown slammed a palm against the countertop. Sean was the proud owner and bartender of this little hole in the wall, the Platinum Asteroid. He was also a Chief Mess Officer in the Sol Union Navy with twenty-some years of service under his belt. “Not again. Not in my bar!” The old man’s eyes burned with contempt as he looked between the young navy pilot sitting across from him and the marine sprawled across his floor. A heckling chorus filled the Platinum Asteroid as the other patrons cheered on the display. Three other uniformed marines ran forward to check on their friend.
Some people might wonder why a warship like the Gilgamesh had a dedicated bar. It actually had five, if you counted that rat-infested dive on deck twelve as a real bar. There were also many other decidedly non-military attractions such as restaurants, theaters, VRcades, and all manner of sports facilities from batting cages to basketball courts. The Gilgamesh wasn’t a typical warship, but a veritable city floating through space: it had a crew of over eight thousand, with another two and a half thousand civilian passengers including spouses and children of servicemen and women, colonists, researchers, documentarians and many, many others.
A rush of red filled Malachi’s cheeks. At least he was still self aware enough to feel shame. He lowered his eyes to his hands, where he found his knuckles split and bleeding. Those hands were worn like old leather; calloused, scarred. They looked strange attached to someone his age. Malachi paused. Drunk as he was, he had to think for a few moments to remember why he’d struck the man. Had he insulted Malachi? Bumped into him on his way to the counter? His shame deepened as he realized he didn’t know. Must’ve been more drunk than he thought.
“W-why’d I…” He turned, dumbfounded, to look up into Sean’s face in search of answers. He saw his anger, his confusion, mirrored in the old soldier. “What’d he do?”
“My own slaggin’ fault for not cuttin’ ya off,” Sean muttered, pinching his nose. “Jus keep yer shirt on ‘til the MPs get- look out!”
There was a dull thud as something heavy struck the back of Malachi’s head. Everything went dark for a blink, and he awoke with his head on the counter, covered in broken glass and liquor. “M-my drink. I was…n’t done with that.” He slurred. Someone was towering over him, their fists clutched together over their head, moments from slamming them down onto Malachi’s skull.
Pushing off the counter, Malachi slammed the back of his elbow into his attacker’s throat. There was a crunch, and the marine was gasping, panic in his eyes. Malachi hit him twice more.
Sean was shouting his throat raw trying to break up the fight with the sheer power of his voice. He was drowned out by the cheers and jeers of the crowd. The other two marines- friends of the unconscious fellow, more than likely- came at Malachi with a vengeance. The first bulrushes him, picking Malachi up off his feet and slamming him into a nearby table. It clattered to the floor, drinks and cards flying in the air as its occupants scattered to avoid the brawl. The second man followed behind them, delivering a series of kicks to Malachi’s center. Pain shot through his ribs. He kept his arms up over his face and gritted his teeth through the beating. Ears were ringing. Dark spots grew across his vision. A beep in the back of his head warned him of serious bodily harm, and his augments started flooding his system with pain killers and adrenaline. Malachi began to move. He struck faster than his addled mind could process; felt every blow instead of seeing them. His knuckles split against bone, his forehead shattered a nose.
Malachi stood in the middle of the room. One man lay at his feet, the remains of a broken stool scattered over his back. A second was trapped under a pair of fallen tables. A third was crawling off the bar countertop, head clutched in his hand. The fourth- the man who started all this- was finally sitting back up.
“You’re done,” the wounded man spat blood as he laughed. “Daddy’s not around to protect you any more.”
“Right. I remember now.” Malachi looked down at him. “That’s what you said.”
Then Malachi hit him again.

---

The cocktail of alcohol, painkillers and head trauma kept Malachi in a barely conscious haze. One moment he was in the Platinum Asteroid, and the next he was sitting in a too-comfortable chair in a wood-paneled office. Wood. Actual, grown-on-planet-earth wood. Malachi blinked in surprise, his head swiveling around to take in his environment for the first time since being escorted in. The desk in front of him was large and ornate. A pair of bookshelves covered the back walls. They were filled with leather-bound tomes with the same golden lettering and incomprehensible titles. Genuine paper books were as foreign on the UFS Gilgamesh as the mahogany furniture.
“Mr. Armeade?” A rich, professional voice broke Malachi out of his fugue state. He finally noticed that someone else was sitting across from him. An older, pale man with salt and pepper hair and eyes filled with a cool judgment. He was wrapped in the white and blue dress uniform of an officer. The pin on his chest showed a bronze eagle clutching a silver chain in its talons, the symbol of the Judge Advocate corps. His perfectly fitted suit and handsome face would’ve been just as at home on a Federation recruitment poster.
Comparing the two, Malachi couldn’t have been more different. Where the man was white as bone Malachi was a dusky brown. Where his officer’s uniform was finely fitted and freshly pressed, Malachi’s flight suit was rumpled, and stained with blood and alcohol. Mal was adorned with a bevy of bruises, cuts and half-healed abrasions, as well as a pair of handcuffs locked around his wrists. The lawyer’s smile told Mal he hadn’t seen a scrap since basic, if even then.
“Yeah, no, what?” Malachi cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Uh, sir.”
“Allow me to repeat myself: your guilt is not in question. We pulled the footage from your neurodeck. Lieutenant Commander Jacobson, Mess Chief Brown and ensigns Garland, De Felice, and Procházka are all corroborating witnesses.” The navy lawyer pushed a stack of papers across the desk. They were dense with legalese that Malachi couldn’t have parsed if he was stone cold sober. But the seal of the admiralty board was plain as day on the top of the first page, and that was all the proof he needed to see: his fate was sealed.
Malachi shook his head slowly, so as to not disturb his throbbing head too much. “I don’t…hold on, he started this.”
“You assaulted a superior officer without cause.”
“He insulted my father.” Malachi mumbled halfheartedly. Truth be told he didn’t much care about that. He’d heard a thousand insults thrown his father’s way over the years, and he agreed with most of them.
Malachi’s father was Gideon Armeade. Admiral Gideon Armeade, to be precise- the head of Battlegroup Hyades and commander of the SUN Gilgamesh. He was among the senior members of the Admiral Board, the body responsible for administering the largest military force in human history, the Sol Union Navy. Few men had ever held as much power as Gideon Armeade. One doesn’t rise to such a position without earning a few enemies.
The lawyer nodded. “We are all grieving the passing of Admiral Armeade. I and the Admiralty Board understand what you’re going through, but this is no excuse for criminal violence. Given your history of past incidents, our investigation found that this was not an isolated incident. You have shown a pattern of anti-social, aggressive behavior and a flippant disregard for authority.”
“Okay, well, only two of those are true. I’m very social.” He snorted. “How much did you pay for all this, by the way?” He waved a hand around the room.
The edges of the lawyer’s mouth crept up his cheeks like a spider on its web. “You are being stripped of your rank of Second Lieutenant, Junior Grade, EOS-5, effective immediately. You’re facing up to ten years in the Ganymede Military Penitentiary unless you can pay the thirty-three million FSC fine for bodily damages.”
“Thirty-three million?” Malachi blinked. “You want thirteen million digits for a broken nose?”
Another piece of paper hit the top of the pile. This one had some grizzly photos attached. “If you want to go over the extensive injuries you caused to four of your fellow servicemen, we absolutely can.”
“They came at me!” He yelled. “After the first guy went down, I was done. It was their bright idea to hit me while my back was turned-”
“We aren’t re-litigating this case, Mr. Armeade. Your guilt is not in question.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You waived your right to legal representation when you joined the armed forces. Union law does not require that we provide you with legal services beyond what I am carrying out today.” The man put down a third piece of paper, this one with Malachi’s sloppy signature at the bottom. It seemed like the suit was prepared for every eventuality.
“I don’t have those kinds of digits.” Malachi spread his hands in a shrug. “My aunt and uncle back on earth might, maybe. Or my mom, if you can find her and wring the money outta her.”
This time, it was a manilla folder that hit the growing pile. Malachi waited a few seconds for the lawyer to speak- he didn’t, this time- before opening it up. Inside he found a will written in Hindi in a familiar flowing script. The final wishes of Admiral Gideon Armeade, hero of the United Federation of Orion-Cygnus. Malachi wasn’t expecting much. His old man always wanted to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. ‘Nepotism is the enemy of excellence,’ he insisted. Mal couldn’t remember a day, an hour or a moment where Gideon Armeade treated him as a son rather than a subordinate. The only difference between Malachi and the other recruits was that Admiral Armeade expected his progeny to outclass everyone else.
From the day he was old enough for the neurodeck installation surgery, Malachi was running piloting sims. Even a single misstep would land him on bulkhead scrubbing duty. He was drilling with the other spacers before he was even old enough to enlist. Most kids who grew up in the fleet went to school, hung out in arcades or played baseball- Malachi played soldier.
And no matter how hard he committed to the work, it was never enough. He was always two steps behind the admiral’s personal standards. The only time they talked about their family was when his father wanted to compare Malachi to his cousins back in Mumbai: they were doctors, politicians, engineers, investors. What was he? A slow-witted brute who’d never amount to anything.
‘…To Sitara, the brightest star in the sky, I leave my estate in New Jerusalem and all its accompanying lands and holdings. I hope your children and your children’s children play in the same woods I once did, discovering the love for exploration that took me away from you all sixty years ago. I will also be transferring my various accounts to your name to do with as you wish. You will never want for anything again, provided you follow one request: tell the children I will be waiting for them in the Lord’s embrace.’
Bitter bile filled the back of Mal’s throat as he read. Everything was being left to his aunt Sitara and her family. She and his father had always been close, he knew. It shouldn’t have been surprising to know she was getting the dragon’s hoard the admiral had been building back on earth throughout his career. Somehow the truth of it wasn’t real until it was made clear through ink on a page.
‘This final segment will be addressed to my only son, Malachi Gideon Armeade. I request that it be read to him alone, as I refuse to shame a man before his family. You have been trouble since the day I had you. I am aware you haven’t had the fairest of upbringings: my work kept me from dodding on you as some fathers might, and your mother wanted nothing to do with you after our separation. Perhaps I could have done things differently to keep you from this path you’ve gone down. Alas, I cannot change the past, and as I have told you many times, apologies without action are worthless.’
The heat of anger filled Malachi’s chest like fuel tossed onto a raging fire. Only on his deathbed could the old man even hint at culpability for everything that happened to them. His fingers tightened around the folder, moments from tearing it to shreds. A final, pathetic act of defiance. Then his eyes slid down to the final paragraph.
‘Thus, I leave to you my greatest possession: Bucephalus. Though I have not ridden it into battle in some time, my technicians have maintained its readiness wonderfully. My exoframe will serve you well in your future career, and I have done my best to prepare you for the hard road ahead. I know I was not an easy teacher, but easy does not equate to good: my own mentor was a veritable cattle driver. It was only through the crucible of his leadership that I became the warrior I was in life. I hope you continue your studies as rigorously as before my death. You have been slipping as of late. Avoid the bottle, stop picking fights with worthless trash, and pursue greatness. Etch your name into the heavens alongside mine, Malachi. I love you, son.’
“He left me the mech.” He mumbled, eyes glazing over.
The Judge Advocate across from him gave Malachi a smile that never reached his eyes. “Indeed he did. Admiral Armeade’s exoframe is a legendary piece of equipment, I must say. He won more duels in that machine than most pilots will even fight. The admiralty board was most disappointed when he chose to retain ownership of Bucephalus when he retired rather than allowing it to remain in service. The Union could’ve made use of such a valuable…symbol. It still can, actually.”
This time, the lawyer handed Malachi a tablet rather than physical paper. On it was a simple form permitting transfer of ownership of the Bucephalus, a modified FFO-101 ‘Guardian’ developed by Polyhedron Manufacturing.
“What are you going to do with it? Put it in commercials?” Malachi rankled, the edge returning to his voice.
The lawyer shrugged. “That’s for the navy to decide. You only need to concern yourself with its monetary value: namely, by selling it to us, you’ll more than be able to afford your fine. You’ll have enough money to live comfortably for…twenty some years without putting in a day’s work. It's really quite a generous offer.”
Malachi leaned forward. “Go to hell.”

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

I will be posting this story on RoyalRoad.com under this account https://www.royalroad.com/profile/350380

Prologue: Peter
Minsky Station
CR-2003113081 (‘Hamlin’s Star’), Hyades Star Cluster

‘Worse ways to die than this. Probably.’ Peter Zhao Wei thought as he floated between the stars. Alarms blared. Warnings flashed across his heads up display in blocky red letters. Precious oxygen was leaking out of a spider web fracture in his helmet’s glass. Three golf ball-sized holes in his torso exposed his insides to the vacuum of space. He could feel his organs collapsing under rapid depressurization. Everything that wasn’t crushed and torn out was frozen solid. All around him, a stream of viscera and blood spooled out like the stuffing torn from a doll.
Peter blinked, trying to ignore the ice cold fluid buildup around his eyes. He looked on through fogged glass at his home: Minsky Station. The only home he’d ever known was cracked in half, like God had descended from heaven and crushed it between fingers the size of mountains. Streams of debris exited its orbit in all directions. The station grew smaller and smaller as the seconds ticked by, shrinking away from him in the dark. Or maybe he was flying away from it, the momentum from exploding out of his cockpit carrying him away into the asteroid field of Hamlin’s Star.
‘We tried to protect her, pal,’ Peter thought, his gaze flicking away from the station to the giant hurtling out into space with him. His giant, forged of steel and hydraulics, was meant for tearing precious minerals out of space rocks. The Goliath was never a weapon. In hindsight, they didn’t have a chance against a light frigate of the Sol Union Navy. That ship was the only thing still intact in the entire system. Well, mostly intact. Even from here Peter could see the gargantuan tears in its hull from where Goliath had gotten its claws on it. ‘Least we went down swingin’.’
As his consciousness began to fade, all he could wonder was how it came to this. They had a hundred- a thousand opportunities to step back from the brink, to stop the violence before it could even begin. If they’d only spoken longer. Negotiated better. If they’d never opened the door to begin with. If that ship hadn’t jumped into their system, or stopped at their station.
If.

Earlier

Minsky Station never slept. From end to end the station was three quarters of a mile long with a bulging center, shaped like a giant top spinning at a breezy one g. Several concentric rings rotated around Minsky counter clockwise.These were waygate rings. By injecting negative mass matter into localized quantum fluctuations, the rings form a stabilized wormhole connected to another waygate in the neighboring system. A network of connected rings ran throughout all of human settled space, allowing instantaneous travel across trillions of miles. Control of this network was what allowed the Federation of Orion-Cygnus to unite all of humanity across such vast distances.
Minksy was built nearly a century ago by a mining conglomerate called Vanderwick-Kriegwald-Stalgard out of Thedes. A bunch of imperial aristocrats with too much money and endless ambition saw the system, Hamlin’s Star, as an opportunity to cut off Earth’s own expansion into the frontier.
Ships flowed in and out of Minsky’s belly like bees from a hive. They took to the mineral rich asteroid field the system was known for to tear the rocks apart in search of treasures hidden within. Once their holds were full they flew back into the station and deposited their tons of gold, nickel and iron into the processing plants on sublevels eight through fifteen. There, technicians ensured the robotic drones and conveyor belts kept things moving at their regularly blistering pace. Moving too fast was barely fast enough these days. The quotas grew every quarter when the station managers promised their shareholders infinite, unstoppable growth, like a plague of locust tearing across space. Failure to meet those quotas only meant the labor force wasn’t pushed hard enough.
Living in space meant there was no such luxury as day and night to determine work hours. Instead, the crew lived by shifts: three alarms would sound every eight hours, waking a shift up for work, announcing the end of work for a shift, and sending the last shift for bed so they’d be rested for work come the next alarm. Everyone that lived on station was a VKS employee; even those with the bad luck to be born there. Children automatically adopted their parents’ contracts, though they were graciously allowed to renegotiate when they came of age. Anyone who wanted to leave could do so. If they could pay their own way off, anyway.
Second shift alarm boomed, and Peter Zhao Wei woke up with a sledgehammer pounding the inside of his skull. He sat up in a cot too small for his sizable frame. With a blink he activated his neurodeck. The VKS logo flashed behind his eyes for a few moments before transitioning to his home page. VKS was up twelve percent on the market. The Martian Rovers beat out the Russian Mishas eighteen to six in the fourth quarter. Sixty people were dead in Denver after a Dominionist bombing. Movie star Ollie Andromeda was having an affair.
Pete blink-clicked over to his bank account. His neurodeck consolidated his payments due and calculated his net income. He was down seven thousand Petramarks after last week’s accident. One of those morons in the Ziegler clan ignored his warnings and crawled into an unstable rat hole after a platinum ore deposit. He was lucky he only lost an arm. Ziegler’s antics knocked Peter right out of his six month window. Even if he took on overtime, he’d hit his income cap before his vacation date was up.
“Damn it.”
With a reluctant sigh he canceled the tickets off Minsky. Three seats on the Klepper all the way back to Thedes. His parents always talked about going back to the imperial homeworld to see the sights. Walk the halls of the royal palace, or take a shuttle up to the moon of Helia to pray before the Sacred Sword wielded by Karl von König himself in the first conquest. His mom had this dream of lying down in the grass and watching the sunset over the world of her grandmother’s birth. Peter had worked his ass off for half a decade to give her that today, the sixtieth anniversary of her baptism. The church considered sixty a hallowed number, and his mother took it very seriously. It would’ve been the perfect gift.
He stared at his mother’s message inbox. She’d be going to bed soon if she wasn’t sleeping already. His parents had always been strict about sticking to shift time. Staying up was bad for one’s health, they’d always say.
“Hey, mom, happy anniversary,” Peter started, only to sigh and drop his head into his hands. How was he supposed to break the news?
With a swipe of his eyes from left to right, he sent the message away and brought back his bank account. It took him a second to run the numbers. He couldn’t afford all three tickets, but one? One was doable. If he made it one way there’d even be some spending money left over. Put himself up in a hostel for a few weeks while he looked for work- good work. Not scrounging around for metal at the ass end of the galaxy. Peter could make a life for himself on Thedes. He could finally be free. How long would it take to earn enough marks to get his family off Minksy then? A year, maybe two.
‘Would they even last that long alone?’
Time slipped away from him for several minutes as he contemplated his options. A secondary alarm caused him to jolt up with a start. Should’ve left the room already. Being late for a shift would see his pay docked. Peter scrambled to dress himself and scarf down a bag of bacon, egg and pancake flavored protein cubes at the same time. He struggled to pull on the envirosuit he’d worn for longer than he could remember. Every patched hole was a memory of some close call or another. There was too much sentimental value wrapped up in its faded blue polymers to replace it; even if it was a size and a half too small now.
A third alarm buzzed. Okay, now he was really late. Every second he wasn’t in the hangar there were marks being deducted from his account. Peter practically broke his door down as he stumbled out into the hallway at a dead sprint. A crowd of first shift laborers parted before him as two hundred and sixty pounds of pudge and muscle bounded down the corridor.
“Sorry, guys! ‘Scuse me! Sorry!” He yelled, only to be met with curses and obscenities galore.
Peter reached the hangar in record time.
The hangar was the largest open space Peter knew. Well, except space, but that didn’t count. It was huge. There were dozens of mechanics working already and they looked like ants crawling along the surface of a tree. Not that’d ever seen ants outside that documentary he’d watched last night about a species of bullet ant that went extinct on earth a few hundred years ago. Nuclear war wasn’t great for anyone, he supposed.
Those not-ants were crawling along gantries to get at the dozen vehicles hanging from the ceiling and clamped to the floor. The station practically had a little fleet of its own: transport shuttles, survey drones, core crawlers. Those were all just the support staff, really- the infrastructure that allowed the real heavy hitters to do their work: the exoframes. Two mechanized giants stood shoulder to shoulder in the hangar bay, their hundred ton forms supported by a dozen different clamps on the walls, ceiling and floor. Hydraulic fluid was being pumped into valves on the lower back through large, expanding tubes. Canisters of MAL-176 fuel cells were being loaded into the exoframe’s reactor while emptied cells were dumped into hazardous waste bins.
Both exoframes were ancient tech by any measure. Even with constant upkeep and part replacement, they were both several generations behind the newest models. A safety board would likely bar them from use as anything but museum pieces. There weren’t many safety boards in the frontier.
The one to the left was a General Motors Rhino-class industrial exoframe. They were produced en masse by the largest vehicle producer in the North American Republic and sold across settled space. A rhino could be modified to do practically any job: from heavy extraction and orbital construction to security. Plenty of would-be rebellions built their guerrilla forces off the backs of armed Rhinos.
This one was his. He’d insisted to the mechanics they keep the horn broken; it gave the big guy character. It was tall, rounded out in the torso and bottom heavy. He felt no small amount of kinship with the big, awkward machine.
“Mornin’, pal.” Peter called to his machine as he climbed the service ladder up to the cockpit.
“Good to see you, Pete!” Gus, one of the techs up on the gantry, yelled back. “Goliath’s ready for the trip out.”
Peter answered Gus with a wave before crawling inside the opened cockpit, falling into the torn leather seat he called his own. It was a tight fit. Barely enough leg room. Still stunk like the sweat of the first shift’s pilot, he realized with distaste. He pulled a spray bottle out of the underseat storage compartment and applied a generous application of deodorizing spray to the air around him. Better.
The startup checklist took twenty minutes. Gus was on the comm talking him through it, just like he had a thousand times before.
Flight sticks were good. Drillers stuck a bit on startup, but reached acceptable oscillation speed after thirty seconds or so. Cranial plug fit into the implant in the base of his neck snuggly and didn’t fry his brain when they turned it on, so that was good. Once Peter was plugged in, he felt a jolt of sensation run through his entire body. His hands became Goliath’s hands. His legs thrummed with the power to leap a tall building in a single bound- though the exoframe had never entered an atmosphere as far as he was aware.
Direct neurological interface technology was older than he was. It allowed the user of a particular device to control it, by some measure, with their thoughts. Old models like the Goliath still required manual flight controls to do the heavy lifting- a full interface was expensive. Too expensive for a rust bucket like this, and any additional utility it might allow wasn’t necessary for asteroid mining.
“Think we’re wasted enough time draggin’ our feet here, Gus. Let’s launch.”
“Aye aye, captain. Clamps are released. You’re good to launch.”
The Goliath lumbered forward through the hangar like a toddler learning to walk for the first time. The ground shook beneath a hundred tons of old metal as it crossed the hangar to one of the airlocks. Everything shook as the doors pried themselves open, a rush of pressurized air blowing out. It took another five minutes for the air to cycle and the doors to shut. A red light in the corner warned him-- and anyone unlucky enough to still be inside- that they were moments from being blasted into the vacuum of space. Peter’s eyes flickered down to his gauges to ensure everything was working in fine order one last time.
“Goliath to control, ready to fly from the nest on six.”
“This is control, opening six. Good hunting out there, Pete.”
The airlock doors crept open, the blackness of the void beyond was revealed. Goliath took three, long strides and jumped out of the station into the vast nothing. Jet thrusters on its back and legs exploded to life, carrying the giant exoframe away from Minsky as it accelerated toward the asteroid field. To its right, another pair of doors opened and a hauler ship exited to follow close behind. Anything the Goliath dug up would be picked up by the hauler’s crew of miners in EVA powered suits and prospecting drones.
“Could you fly any slower? I’d like to get this done before I keel over and die.” Another voice crackled to life on his comm. Fran Ziegler was old enough to be his great grandmother, and she sounded like she’d eaten three packs of cigarettes a day since primary school. Fran was also one of the best pilots Peter had ever known. She was captaining the Hercules Mulligan, a mining hauler nearly as old as she was. Half her crew were her own grandchildren, nieces and nephews. The Ziegler clan was an odd one, but they were some of the best in the business.
“You got it, Franny. I’m slowin’ down. Wouldn’t want to upset your frail sensibilities.” Pete called back, grinning from ear to ear.
“Bite me, drecksack.”
They worked for six hours. The first step was deploying survey drones. They swept the asteroid field in grid formation, each drone claiming two hundred thousand miles of territory. The largest asteroids usually had the best yields, but they were rare: you could fly half a million miles in a straight line and only find half a dozen asteroids over five hundred thousand tons heavy. Small but dense rocks meant metals like platinum. Searching for radiation spikes was just as important: MAL-176 was the rarest substance in the universe, but it was also the blood that powered the body of mankind. Without it, there were no jump drives, no fusion reactors. Peter would never forget a conversation he had with Laton Camcross, a logistics supervisor: if all the MAL in known space disappeared for just a single minute, civilization would collapse before it popped back into existence.
Once a decent prospect was found, the next step was extraction. The Goliath would match the object’s orbit and latch onto its body with massive, titanium-weave cables to keep it from flying away when they started tearing it apart. Large drilling claws mounted to the exoframe were used to open up seams so that smaller, more delicate work could be done to pull the minerals out of stone. Workers with EVA suits and heavy tools would handle the most valuable finds, while the Goliath’s suite of robots would take out the bulk of material. Most of Peter’s job was staring at screens and sending mental commands to the crab drones using the cranial plug. It was meticulous work, but it required his full attention. Moving too quickly could risk damaging the fragile structure of the asteroid. Even a small cut in the wrong spot could cause catastrophic collapse in just minutes. The miners inside could be crushed beneath tens of thousands of tons of space rocks before they even knew they were in danger. If any of her kin were hurt, Franny would crawl out of her ship and beat Peter to death with a grav-pick personally.
A light started beeping on the dashboard. Pete sent the drone cams away with a flick of his fingers and pulled up the warning. ‘Incoming jump?’ He read, puzzled. Pick up wasn’t scheduled until the end of the month. Who else would want to come to this garbage heap of a system?
The waygate rings around Minksy Station broke dock and floated off its fat, round form. They began to rotate faster and faster until looking at them burned his eyes. Once they reached a measurable fraction of the speed of light, a bright flash of crimson energy filled the space between the rings.
Reality warped like iron under a smith’s hammer as the Meshuda jumped into the system. A wave of steam washed off the ship’s back as it vented the excess heat created by an active jump drive. Its shell glowed bright orange for several minutes as it flew through the void. Even with its thrusters burning hard to stop, it still covered a few million miles of space before it slowed enough to be visible to the naked eye as anything but a bright smear. The amount of energy necessary to teleport from one system to another dwarfed the heat at the center of a star. Even one tiny miscalculation in a ship’s design could see it turned to slag after one too many jumps in a row. The Meshuda was built to last, however. From bow to stern it was one hundred and fifty six feet long, putting it squarely in the smallest class of vessel to have its own jump drive. Two large engines stretch out on wings on either side of its boxy body, thicker on the rear and thinning out at its bow.
Peter’s eyes went wide as the ship’s name popped up on his HUD. The Meshuda was a light frigate designated SUN: Sol Union Navy. What in Helia’s name was an earth military boat doing way out here? This was Thedian territory.
“Goliath to Hercules Mulligan, are you readin’ this?”
“I’m not blind, boy, not yet. Already sending telemetry data back home. What do those soilsucking dogs want with us?”
Peter gulped. He called back his crab drones and began inputting the commands necessary to drop anchor on the asteroid and bail. “Maybe a bad jump. Maybe an emergency. They’re Federation too, they have every right to be here.” Even as the words spilled from his mouth, he knew they were wrong. It wasn’t illegal for them to be here, no. But there wasn’t any good reason for it, either. He had a terrible feeling knotting up on his guts that he couldn’t shake.
“I’m not getting any channels opened between the station and the ship yet. Bah, I’m calling them myself.” Fran growled. She was hitting her controls loud enough that he could hear her punching buttons through the open channel.
“Bad idea.” He warned, despite patching in with her to listen. Wasn’t like he could stop her anyway. Might as well learn what this was all about.
“Franscesa Ziegler of the Hercules Mulligan calling the Meshuda. This asteroid belt is the legal property of VKS Heavy Industries. Do not approach or you will be reported for trespassing. State your purpose.” That cranky old woman’s voice rose with a clear authority she only used for when she found her grandkids’s hands in the proverbial cookie jar. It wasn’t exactly her place to be making threats, but he wasn’t about to step in and stop her. The woman knew her business. He doubted she would do anything that would upset the station chief.
To the Meshuda’s credit, they responded immediately. “Mayday, mayday, this is Vice Captain Alexi Sablin, acting captain of the SUN Meshuda,” the man who called himself captain responded. His voice was hoarse, and his words seemed strangely drawn out, like speaking was difficult for him. He sounded young, too. Maybe mid-twenties, early thirties at the latest.
“My ship is in distress. We suffered significant damage and loss of life to a pirate attack in the Meridian system. We require immediate assistance.”
Peter’s eyes widened. Meridian was only a few systems over, and he had no idea pirates were operating so close to Minsky. Accessing his neurodeck, he scrolled through every company communique and news report he could find on their corner of space. Like many systems in the region, Meridian was another VKS Industries prospect. They had some small foothold on a single planet there. Nothing about pirates, however. There was an article about Sol Union military exercises in this sector, though…
“Ain’t no pirates in Meridian,” Fran protested, even as the Meshuda continued to steam ahead toward the station.
It was difficult to get a visual from this distance. Peter could’ve mistaken it for a smudge on his cockpit’s canopy. Goliath’s camera feed popped up as a box in the corner of his vision, sensing his need before he even asked. The zoomed in image showed him what he’d been wondering about: whether or not the Meshuda was actually damaged or not.
He was no soldier. He had no way of knowing if a hull breach was from a railgun spike or a collision with space debris; they were there, though. At least three different sections of the Meshuda had tears in the hull where emergency coagulating foam was preventing her atmosphere from venting into space. Scorch marks marred much of the body. Several panels were bent at odd angles, cables and wires dangerously exposed.
“Please, we’ve been out here for months. We only just brought our jump drive back online a few hours ago. We’ve been trying to ration our food, but the water recycler…”
“They need help, Fran.” He said, knowing Sablin would hear him as well. The man’s face visibly brightened.
“I’ve created an inventory of the supplies we need to return to the nearest Union port,” Sablin said quickly, leaning forward on the view screen to type away at a keyboard. A file popped up on the Goliath’s display. Opening it, Peter scanned through the request: food, fuel, and a long list of materials for a shipborne fabricator.
“I’ll forward this to station management,” the food and repair materials wouldn’t be a problem, he believed, but the fuel was another matter.
“I’m contacting them now.” The vice captain nodded. “Can you escort us to the station? Our sensor array was struck and we’re flying blinder than I would like right now.”
Peter returned the nod. The asteroid field wasn’t particularly dense but it wasn’t worth the risk. “I’ll lead ya in, pal.”
The connection dropped as Meshuda's captain called the station directly. Goliath detached from the asteroid in front of it, retracting its cables back into the back-mounted spools. Crab drones leapt back into their cradles on the exoframe’s midsection. The Zieglar miners kept to their work.
Another call came in. It was Fran Zieglar. “What hell do you think you’re doing? “ She snapped. “I’m not missing another quota so you can help a baby bird get back to its nest.”
Peter closed his eyes and sighed. “We’re obligated to provide aid. It's the law, n’ its just the right thing to do.”
“Law only matters when it helps them. You think they’d stop their pretty little boat to refuel our hauler?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Dumb Bastard.” Zieglar clicked her tongue and cut the call.
Heat filled his cheeks as Pete took flight, guiding the Meshuda through the asteroid field toward the station. The old crone had the gall to complain about meeting quota after her crew screwed him out of a shuttle ticket?
It took twenty minutes to navigate the asteroids and return to Minsky’s stationary orbit around Hamlin’s Star. A handful of other ships had spilled out of the hangar bays to loiter in space around the station. All the mining boats save Zieglar’s were returning from their work early as well, perhaps drawn in by the curiosity of their new guest. Dozens of messages and comm lines were flying across the system. Pete scanned the public feeds for any information on how negotiations were proceeding between administration and the naval vessel, but he could find little that was helpful. There was plenty of wild speculation and fearmongering, however. One particular employee was live streaming a political screed. Peter pulled it up against his better judgment.
“...Earther thugs will never destroy our way of life. We are the sons and daughters of the emperor, saved in the light of Her Grace, Saint Helia, whose sacred sword will one day pierce the heart of earth’s decadence. Democracy has no place in a civilized, godly society-”
Peter quickly switched it off. Helianite zealots were rare this far from the homeworld, but he knew each and every one of them on Minsky because they never shut up about it. Guys like Markus were the reason Pete stopped attending temple, much to his mother’s chagrin.
After a few more minutes of tense silence, he decided to give Sablin another call. To Pete’s surprise, the vice captain picked up immediately.
“What’s the hold up? Why haven’t you docked?” Peter asked.
“They won’t let us. The bastards won’t let us in!” Alexi nearly screamed. His face was red, veins bulging from his neck and forehead. His eyes were blood red. He looked exhausted, distraught, angry.
“What? Why?!” Peter nearly choked. He figured there must’ve been some kind of complication, a snag in the process that was holding them up.
“I don’t know why! Ask them!” Sablin did scream, this time, and then hung up.
He was quick to put in a connection request to the administration. It took another few minutes for the automated secretary to finally connect him to a comms officer. By then, the Meshuda was beginning to maneuver.
“Hey, this is Peter. Peter Zhao Wei, pilot of the Goliath.” He introduced himself quickly, stumbling over his words. “I was the one who made first contact with the frigate and escorted them in. They just told me you’re denying them their legally obligated refuge?” He asked, stressing the words ‘legally obligated,’ as if management had somehow glossed over the most important rule of space travel: always help a ship in distress.
“Hello, Mr. Wei. I’m Comms Officer Adebayo. Senior Station Manager Yaeger and Liaison Officer Ditka have already explained the situation to Captain Sablin.” The woman on the other end spoke with calm, practiced professionalism, sure to respect the various titles of all the very important people that were currently screaming at each other over their computer screens.
“Please, enlighten me. Nobody’s told me anything, ma’am.”
After a pause, she began to summarize. “Yaeger offered to ship an aid package to the Meshuda. Sablin has refused, claiming his ship is in too immediate a danger to remain in space and that it must dock.”
“Then why the hell are they not docked yet?”
“...Manager Yaeger believes their claim is untrue. Detailed scans of their ship show no signs of such critical damage.”
Peter balked. “Yeah, I’m sure those scans are real ‘detailed’ after, what, twenty minutes of lookin’? N’ no camera is goin’ to be able to tell ‘ya if a reactor chamber is cracked or if their life support is failin’.”
“Liason Ditka wishes to send an inspection team but Sablin has denied him access. He claims they carry sensitive materials that civilians can’t access.”
Frustration boiled up in his gut as he mulled over her words, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. The politics of it all. The petty fighting over terms while people were in real, physical harm’s way. It all seemed so pointless.
“Give me a second. Don’t hang up.” Peter put the administrator on hold and shot a connection over to Sablin, again. “Hey, asshole, what do you think you’re doing?”
Sablin paused, blinking. There was a heat behind his eyes that was only momentarily dulled by the unexpected faux pas. He was a decorated officer of the Sol Union Navy. A lifelong spacer with a pedigree as long as his arm. No one had called him anything but ‘sir’ to his face since boot camp. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.
“Just let them board your ship!”
He shook his head. “We are in more dire need than a few cargo crates on a drone can abate. My crew has been trapped on this ship for months with little food, dirty water and untreated medical emergencies. My captain is dead. I will not have a handful of upstart rock merchants stop me from taking care of my people.”
The conviction in Alexi Sablin’s voice was hard as steel. His battleworn frigate moved closer to the station, barreling past the mining haulers attempting to physically block his passage. For all the captain’s certainty, the hangar bay doors were still closed and sealed to him.
“Don’t be stupid!” Peter barked, but his warning went unheard as Sablin hung up the call. Peter could only watch in horror as one of the mining vessels released its laser cannons from their mounts and began powering them up. The Meshuda responded by unlocking its own, far more intimidating hardpoints: torpedo tubes, autocannons, and railguns. Enough firepower to crack a mountain in half.
Later, Peter Zhao Wei wouldn’t recall who fired the first salvo. It didn’t matter. Once torpedoes kissed cold vacuum and lasers raked the sides of hulls, all bets were off. History wouldn’t remember the people that died here, not really. No one would write about Comms Officer Adebayo begging everyone to hold fire across every channel, even as a fireball consumed the bridge around her. There would be no docu-vids about the Hercules Mulligan and the family of stupidly brave miners that dragged an asteroid across the system and slammed it into the side of the Meshuda before they were turned to nuclear ash. Fran Zieglar died with a mad cackle in her throat and blood in her eyes.
No one would remember him.
Goliath lurched forward. Its thrusters burned at maximum volume, building the exoframe’s momentum until it was practically a missile aimed directly at the Meshuda. Didn’t matter to Pete who started shooting. All he knew was that the frigate had the biggest guns, and was doing the most damage. Inertia tore him back into his seat. Black dots filled his vision as he built up speed. He visualized in his mind the Goliath- a mighty machine of steel and hydraulics and power- throwing a wild haymaker at the Meshuda. The exoframe lifted an arm as they came into range, cannon fire tearing into its central body and separating the torso from its legs. The cockpit canopy shattered, something sharp piercing it too close to Peter’s face for his liking.
Despite it all, he delivered that punch before he went. And it was a damned good one.
Claws made for digging out stone dug into the reinforced hull, tearing off a chunk a few meters across and flinging it back into space.
The Meshuda whirled on its axis, maneuvering thrusters flaring so the frigate could come around to face the Goliath. It delivered a salvo of railgun fire at point blank range that tore the suit apart. Its armored body shattered in a dozen different places, and the neurospike in Peter’s neck exploded from the feedback, sending blood shooting from his ears and out of his nose.
The canopy gave way, and Peter found himself floating between the stars.

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

---

Katsuro raised a brow at the curious lot gathered in the smithy. A gaggle of local village children, it seemed, with the shopkeeper nowhere in sight. They froze where they stood. He must've looked a fox to this nest of rabbits with the way their eyes glistened with fear. Off to the side he caught sight of a dirt-stained woman shrinking into a back room. Another stood off to the side, muscles coiled like a snake ready to strike. Those trepidatious first moments of silence were broken by a tall, pale boy beside the forge. His attire suggested this was his place of business, yet Ashida couldn't hide his amusement at the idea that this pretty waif of a boy was a metalworker.

Despite his looks, the boy was polite. Katsuro ought to reciprocate.

"We've traveled a great distance to get to your...humble village. It has been many months since a proper smith attended to our equipment. We'll need horseshoes, nails, hatchets. Many of our blades are dulled as well."

He untied the sheathe and pulled it out of his belt. Holding it out before Tsubasa, Katsuro revealed a few inches of the blade. The uchigatana was clearly well-worn, its edge dulled from lack of care. The metal itself was not of any particular quality; even the basic tools within the shop were made of higher grade iron than this. Whoever had forged it had likely recycled old pig iron from pots and broken tools and the like to form its brittle core.

Re-sheathing the weapon, Ashida pushed it into Tsubasa's hands and continued to speak: "Does your village have a lord, or an elder you look to for leadership? I need to negotiate our stay here for the time being while we comb the valley for our prize." The weariness that had plagued him since he stepped into the shop seemed to subside for a moment, overtaken by a covetous excitement that shone like fire in his eyes. "You lot ought to count yourselves lucky. You will see our liberation from the demon's yolk first hand."

--

Outside the Crane's Roost Inn, more than a dozen armed and armored soldiers stood still as the grave. All eyes were on the new arrival: a young woman in riding leathers atop a horse of her own. She'd ridden up before Shigeru and answered his boisterous demands with one of her own. The tension running through the village square was palpable. Hands hovered near the hilts of weapons in rapped anticipation, as if one wrong move might bring eighteen blades flying from their sheathes. The air itself seemed to hiss with the possibility of violence- the cold gripping all present like an unspoken threat.

The giant raised his head ponderously toward the squeaking of some angry little mouse. A country girl on a sickly-looking mule had ridden up before Shigeru, defiance burbling in her throat. The surprise on the big man's face was clear as day. He hadn't expected anyone in this backwater to give him lip. But a little girl? It was so absurd he couldn't muster his rage. All he could manage was an ugly, barking laugh. It came from so deep in his belly he nearly stumbled over his own club and fell on his ass. A few of his cronies joined in with laughter of their own, though it was colored with an undercurrent of nervousness.

"What queer sort've place 'ave we found ourselves in, where grown men cower in their hovels while little girls stand their ground?" Shigeru asked between dwindling chuckles. "They even give 'em whole inns o' their own! Ha! Fine, fine."

Onisawa Shigeru gave an exaggerated bow. "You 'ave my deepest apologies, little inn-master," he rumbled. Even his 'speaking voice' could drown out most people's shouts. "I did not mean to offend. I do so 'umbly request that you fetch oats for our horses and sake for our bellies..."

There was a sudden burst of movement as Shigeru lurched toward the rider, reaching one of his massive hands up toward her shoulder to grab at her. He intended to snatch the girl from her saddle and toss her into the mud at his feet.

"Or I'll introduce yer outsides to yer insides."

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

Yoshino Denji (The serious twin)

_______________________________________________ // INFO P E R S O N A L D E T A I L S Full Name - Yoshino Denji Age - 25 Gender - Male Occupation - Hunter - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Traditionalist Denji is a stickler for tradition after learning of his uncle's death. Having to watch his twin brother constantly shirk his duties feels Denji with untold dread. This has led the man to constantly act within the traditions, never once coming close to breaking them. Any breaking of these traditions will cause Denji to "discipline" the guilty party. Praying is vastly important to the point he prays at every turn. This traditionalism brought a level of fear toward Yokai that Denji has yet to rectify. Stalwart Thanks to growing up alongside a hyperactive twin, Denji is rather the silent type. He does not use many words to express himself nor, does he often go out of his way to befriend anyone. Anything that would get in the way of keeping the village safe and fed is seen as non-important; this does NOT mean that Denji avoids every get together but, that he chooses to be friendly after all tasks are finished. Selfless Denji is constantly helping those around the village despite his own personal wants and needs. This does not extend to those he considers harmful to traditions but, instead he is willing to patiently help those in need. Even so, Denji will not go out of his way if he thinks it will harbor on harming the traditions set in place. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Tracking Denji is an expert tracker. He has trained extensively underneath his father and grandfather, acquiring secrets that even his brother has yet to learn. Tracking is a hobby to Denji despite seeing it as a necessity, practicing his skills during his free time. The thrill of the hunt excites the man; hiding that excitement for his brother doesn't tease him. Using every sense, Denji can track with the best of his clan. Sojutsu To make a long story short, Denji is rather experienced when using a spear; specifically learning sojutsu to support his brother's affinity with archery. He has no love for using the spear, but it allows him to stay out of danger when hunting. He has practiced tirelessly to strike and kill animals in a single strike so as not to invoke the wrath of the yokai. Cook A trait learned from their mother, Denji has an affinity for cooking. He thoroughly enjoys mixing herbs, and spices to find the best combinations, marinating his meat to perfection. There is not much to say but, he has a specific eye for grilling. Cooking family meals has been a tradition for Denji for as long as he could remember.

Physical Description Considering that Denji is a identical twin, he shares a set of features with his older twin that classifies them as pleasing to the eye. The younger twin does attempt to differentiate himself from his brother, keeping his hair semi-straight in comparison to Denki's spiky look, and growing his hair out into a ponytail that reaches his lower back. Physically his body matches Denki almost identically, his muscles being more defined and pronounced due to his rigid training. Notably there is a scar across his left cheek from a failed hunt. Character Conceptualization Denji has not had a interesting life up to this point. For years, he was the responsible twin, despite being younger by a few minutes, that had to keep Denki in line. His stalwart and rigid personality being a result of his fear of Yokai; a fear crafted from losing his uncle to a yokai when Denji was 5 years old. This fear is a big part of the reason why he keeps to tradition so fervently, even explaining why he comes down so hard on his older twin so often, the fear of losing someone else swims through his mind every hunt. But also this fear has lead to a fascination with the old world and the relic that Takamori Kenji keeps at his side. Denji would be content with keeping things the way they are but, a part of him remains curious of the past. Other Information Denji constantly has to prepare Denki's meals and remind him to eat The shoulder pad on his kimono is a reminder of his Uncle Daiki, the same shoulder pad he died wearing Denji knows the signs purify, heat, and slow It is a rather known bit of info that Denji is afraid of Yokai but, only Denki knows how much

@Taka

Denji's accepted!

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

---

The cold of the day scarcely grew more bearable as the day marched on. In the time that had passed since dawn, dark clouds had rolled over the valley to cut off what little light the rising sun offered. The venerable Moriyama complained of aches in his bones- a surefire warning of coming rain. Some within the village placed votive offering papers in their households to the kami of rain to forestall its coming until the celebrations had concluded. Others rushed to ensure their windows were closed and none of their belongings were left to be soaked, fearing its coming regardless: some things were the will of the gods, regardless of the whims of men.

On the western edge of the village, where a handful of logger's camps and hunting lodges meet the edge of the Mumbling Wood, something stirs. Small animals rush from the safety of their dens and into the dirty streets of the village. Birds flee from their nests for distant horizons. Even a handful of Yokai follow, leaping into open windows or scratching and yipping at closed doors for the villagers within. People more curious than afraid peer out of the safety of their doorways into the dark clump of trees.

Hoof beats sound in the dozens. The voices of men, loud and abrasive, bay in similar number. Mounted soldiers break the treeline at a trot. Banners mounted on their backs flap in the wind as they ride: on them, a burning, steel fist on a crimson field. They wear mismatched armor of scavenged scraps, hastily slung together to patch holes in old, worn lamellar. Weapons of all kinds hang from their hips and backs: from clubs, spears and swords to bows, and a handful of long, metal tubes attached to odd handles. Panicked screams filled the air at the sight of these tools of blasphemy. Villagers sprinted away in terror, some headed deeper into town with warning cries on their lips, and others running for the safety of the wilderness. None of the horsemen gave chase. They simply continued down the main avenue, more of their number exiting the treeline to follow. Perhaps twenty men in total rode into Heiseina.

They came to a halt in the center of town before the Crane's Roost Inn. Some dismounted, taking their horses by the reins and making their way toward the pitifully small stables attached to the building. It could barely house half their mounts even if it was empty, and a few visitors from other villages had come in to partake in the celebrations. "This place is a sorrier sight than we thought. Largest village we could find and this is the best they've got? Its barely bigger'n a chicken coop." A giant of a man with a belly big around as a barrel grumbled, loudly.

He pulled a spiked war club nearly as tall as some of the other men around him from its holster on the saddle bags, much to his horse's relief. It was a massive beast itself, yet even still it was a wonder it could carry the man on its back for any time at all. "Where's the damned stable boys? Or in the innkeep, for that matter?" He thundered, his voice booming for all the world to hear. He leaned his impressive weight against the club as he stood beside his horse, waiting impatiently for someone to appear.

Another rider dismounted and left his horse's reins in the hands of another man so he could make his way across the village square. He strode with purpose toward one of the only groups of people still out on the streets. They were milling about around a squat, long structure. The hand-painted sign outside- and the clanging sounds from within- told him it was the shop of a metalworker.

"Good morning," he called out as he allowed himself inside, his voice straining to maintain a polite authority through his exhaustion. The heavy bags beneath his eyes and sweat-slicked forehead even in this chill reinforced this well. He wasn't a particularly tall man, nor was he sweet on the eyes: his face was scarred, his nose slightly crooked, and his expression ever dour. His armor appeared to be in better shape than he was. It had fewer dents and ad-hoc repairs than the rest of his cohort, and was even painted in the same red crimson of his banner, that flaming hand adorned on his chest piece. On his left hip a sword hung from his belt. Simple, unornamented, yet its like had not been seen in the valley for over three hundred years. On his right hip was a leather holster containing an alien device- a metal tube attached to a cylindrical chamber and a curved wooden handle.

"I am Captain Ashida Katsuro of the Blazing Fist," Katsuro bowed slightly in introduction. "I was hoping you could help me."

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

---

Takamori Kenji sat on his knees before his hearth, a kettle suspended on an iron hook over the open flames. He pulled his haori tighter around his chest. The morning was far too cold for his liking, especially this late into the new year. Another ill omen to add to the other, he knew. The size of the Takamori estate did little to help things: the first floor was a large, open space, as was traditional of the oldest homes in Heiseina. Paper screen dividers on rolling racks could be put up to split the chamber into multiple, smaller rooms, providing privacy for those who wanted it. Kenji had drawn the screens closed around the central hearth in the hopes that they would keep in the heat. It was better than nothing, he thought with a sigh, watching the shadows from the fire dance on the partitions. The light danced on the painted paper, accentuating scenes from Heiseina's history.

One painting showed the founding of the village, with the first Takamori patriarch kneeling before Miorochi and five other gods at the foot of the shrine. On another, the legendary swordsmiths of the Takahashi family fashion the Takamori blade from sacred dragon scales. Running along the bottom of every dividers was the Shimmering River, its life-giving waters filled with fishermen, kappa and villagers washing their clothes or simply swimming away the hot summer days. Along the top was an image of Miorochi soaring through the clouds, his body so long that he wrapped all the way around the dividers so that his nose met his tail.

The last piece wasn't as tasteful as the others. Depicted on the off-white paper screen were a dozen swords thrust into the earth before a shadowed, bottomless pit. Standing on one side of the pit was the grandfather of Kenji's grandfather, family sword sheathed at his hip. He held an accusing finger toward a man on the opposite side of the pit. The other man was on his knees, hands wrapped around the hilt of one of the earth-bound swords as he tried in vain to pull it from the dirt.

Fujiwara Ichiro had made his opinion on the art clear many times over the years. Kenji understood why he took offense. If the original piece wasn't over two and a half centuries old he would've considered replacing it or taking the shoji down. It was not his place to paint over his family's history, even its darkest times; he was merely its conservator.

It was all of excellent quality, he had to admit. He noted a few places where the paint had chipped or dulled from age. He would need to have someone touch it up. Perhaps he could ask Hayashi once the week was up. It would be better to have it done before then, of course, but it would be cruel to drag her away from the festivities. This was one of the few times in the year that the young could truly relax and enjoy themselves. The shoji had waited this long- it could wait a little while longer.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation before the burning coals, he lifted the kettle off its hook and poured himself a cup. The near-scolding tea helped to fight off the chill, at least.

His gaze shifted across the room to the ornate wooden stand where the Takamori sword rested. Its sheathe was bone white wood ornamented with teal-blue streams of water flowing the length of the sheathe. Kenji wondered if that ancient weapon could possibly still hold its edge. That was the legend he'd learned since he was just a boy on his father's knee. Dragonscale would be sharp a thousand years from now, and a thousand years from then. It did not rust or decay, as metal or mundane animal hide might. It was an odd gift the kami had given them. Why would the thing to seal a pact of nonviolence be a weapon- and one so potent? Kenji's father, Senshi, had always insisted it was not their duty to wonder about the kami's will. Theirs was merely to honor it until the end of days.

"Pardon me, master." A familiar, nasally voice dragged his attention back to the world around him. The source of the soft-spoken words had pushed one of the paper partitions aside and gave a deep bow of respect. It was Takamori Yoshie, one of Kenji's great nephews. The boy was here to provide any assistance Kenji may need throughout the day while Fumiko was out readying things for the festival. He was a few years older than Fumiko though he stood perhaps an inch and a half shorter than she did. The boy was as handsome as his father had been when he was the same age. Yoshie's smile was polite yet it did not reach his eyes- they were as cold as stones, ever evaluating and studying. They reminded Kenji of what a hawk looked like when it was hunting.

"Yes?" Kenji returned the smile with one of his own, broad and deep and filled with love. He loved his nephew as if Yoshie was Kenji's own son. Or grandson, he supposed with a grimace. He was getting too old.

"We have visitors. Would you like me to invite them in?"

Kenji gave several slow, deliberate nods. "Of course. And get me a few more cups, one for yourself as well. There won't be anyone in this house who doesn't have tea to warm themselves in this terrible cold."

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

@Supermaxx With a day to spare, here's one of two hunter twins dabs

Yoshino Denki

_______________________________________________ // INFO P E R S O N A L D E T A I L S Full Name - Yoshino Denki Age - 25 and loving life Gender - The malest of males Occupation - Village hunter-gatherer (shared with Denji) - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Positively Entertaining Some might call Denki a positive person. Some might even call him a beacon of hope (because he sure will), but truth be told, he's someone who just knows how to have a good time. Whether this is cracking jokes with the other guys in the village (or whomever will listen), smiling and generally, enjoying himself, Denki is someone that has the tendency of looking at life through a much simpler, less chaotic and not as serious gaze. In his heart, there is the pain of feeling the pressure from his family and the hunter legacy, but he tries not to let it bother him. On days when he can prevent his demons from ruining his good mood, Denki tries to spread his unique brand of positivity (not to be confused with Haruhi who is her own brand of sunshine). Denki shows his light in a different way. He does it through vibes that are more about enjoying the moment rather than uplifting everyone by being in their face (Denki respects that approach more than anyone would know). But honestly, for him it's more about not being reminded of the harsh realities that come with being part of the Yoshino family and the legacy that comes with it. Chill as an autumn breeze Despite being one of two hunters for the village, Denki is someone who enjoys the little things in life. Maybe too much if you were to ask his younger twin brother, who always seems to be picking up his slack and catching just as much heat for it. He isn't irresponsible, but Denki has a philosophy in life. What point is there to do all you can to contribute to the development of the village if you can't enjoy it too?. This is a philosophy that always ends up being his excuse for the minimal amount of EXTRA work he takes on. Again he's not irresponsible nor would be seen as lazy. He lives for the moment and sometimes that moment is taking a nap in the fields. Keeping a brave face is hard There's a certain sadness to Denki. A self-criticizing, self-doubting mess that stems from the bad history and bad luck the Yoshino family has had for some odd reason. Pressure placed on them by mother and father because they were the first pair of twins in nearly a century, so the pressure added to always feeling like he failed his brother by not taking everything so seriously has taken its toll on Denki. He tries to brave it out. He tries to put on a smile and not worry those around him, but some days it is hard. Maybe this is why he enjoys the little moments in life, sniffing the flowers, taking naps in the fields, or taking leisure strolls through the village. Denki needs his space to think and center himself and he knows that can be viewed as him being "lazy", but it's the only thing he can do to ensure that his mind is at peace and he doesn't bring even more shame to the family. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Tracking Half a skill that all those in the YOshino family were taught and half a hobby of Denki's, he knows how to track. He might not be as skilled as his younger twin when it comes to tracking but that's mostly due to Denki's habit of being too laidback and not putting in all the work that he could. That being said, he's still fairly capable when it comes to tracking animals by their prints, the time of day, and he has a general knowledge of other things. It's just not as finely tuned as his brother's tracking abiltiies are. Archary Ever since he could, Denki has known how to weild a bow. He's been taught out to aim effectively, value accuracy over supposed "trick shots", though if we're being compeletely honest here, he's worked in some style with his accuracy. In addition to winning soem stylistic points within himself, Denki also knows where to aim just as much as he does how to aim. He has a good range when it comes to giving a swift killshot, as all hunter should be able to do. A mercy kill is a respectful kill and the hunters have been taught, above everything else, that the wildlife and those that they slay deserve respect. Level-headed There is something to be said about Denki's more lax approach on life. To be a hunter and tracker (and a rather effective one, at that) one must also be patient and know when the apt time is to take affirmative action. Denki being able to be composed for the most part and exercise patience is a skill that applies to his every day life just as much as it does when he's out in the land.

Physical Description Whether it's Denji or Denki, one can't deny that the Yoshino genes are rich with an aesthetically-pleasing face to behold. Sharply-angled jaws, crisp spikes in the hair, and equally as beautiful eyes to draw you in. In Denki's case, his looks differ just slightly from that of his younger twin's. Denki's hair is spikier and his eyes are golden like the rays of the sun above. Nobody can explain why he and his brother have different colored eyes. It could be due to their difference in personalities. Amber being a friendlier color than red, or it just might be one of those phenomeona that nobody can explain and it just is. As a hunter, while Denki stands at an average height of 5'8" (just like his brother), it should be assumed, as well as pointed out, that he boisters a signficiantly larger build than most in the village. This is mostly due to the fact that hunters are always on the go and need to remain as agile as their movements need to be. To do this, Denki can't allow himself to fall short of a strict exercise regime...though somehow he does. His skills, as well as his overall physique might be slightly inferior to his twin brothers. But where Denki might be slacking in the physical refinement of his build and skills, he more than makes up for it in being fashionable, something he personally believes his brother doesn't prioritize as much as he should. It's always "hone your skills, Denki. Stop slacking off, Denki". What about "dress for the job you want, Denji?" That's what he does. More often than not, he sports a red kimono with a blue bottom part tied together with white cloth. He has a few but that one is his favorite, seeing it as a bold statement. He has other kimono's for casual wear, but he just feels the most line himself in this one. It's very him. Relaxed but bold and vibrant. One might say it chose him rather than him choosing it...if you were to believe in that sort of thing - which Denki absolutely does! Character Conceptualization Life for the hunter family of Yoshino hasn't always been the easiest. Dating back a century, in this family of hunters, there's always been something of an emphasis on good luck and bad luck. Maybe it's just thier close relationship with the animals and the respect that one must have for them and life itself and that in itself has prompted the family to prioritize luck and prosperity above all else. It's hard to say, but what is known as a pure fact is that for the current generation of the Yoshino family, they brought good luck and fortune to the family. For so long, the Yoshino family had viewed twins as a symbol of good luck. To have two children at the same time was seen as the Kami looking down on the Yoshino family in favor and blessing them, but for several decades, the family heads were seen as cursed. Even if that wasn't even close to being true, the fact remains that they weren't blessed with twins for over fifty years until the twins, Denki and Denji were born. Things started to change. The outlook from their parents began to change. Positivity and prosperity was at long last feeling as though it wasn't just a hope but a reality. On Denki's side of things, no matter how it may have seemed from the outside, at a certain point, he began to feel crushed by the pressure laid on him by his father, the head of the family. His father had a brother, but when both Denki and Denji were five, he died. Denki didn't have many memories of his uncle that he could recall. Honestly, it became a blur after a while. He just remembered a man with chocolate-colored eyes smiling at him. Maybe it was that Denki wasn't as close to the man as he remembered. Not like his brother was. Denki is the first-born of the two. It's only by a few minutes, so it may not seem like an important deal, but according to their father, Haruto, it was. Even though the better hunter was his brother because Denki wasn't as hard-working as Denji was (or rather he always found himself preferring to nap or relax than put in the work), it always felt like he was pushed harder. Denki always tried to see the positive, though. He maintained it through adolescence and into his young adulthood. He became a respectable hunter in his own right, being able to be proud to be a Yoshino. But at the same time, he still felt the immeasurable weight that came with being the eldest brother of the current generation of hunters. Really, somedays it seemed like Denji was the older brother with how much of Denki's slack he made up for. Father really must prefer him over Denki. Yeah, that's definitely what it was. It was okay. Denki was okay with not being seen as the favorite. Whether he had his father's approval or not, honestly, didn't matter to him as much as it did when he was a young kid. What Denki wanted was to have his brother's respect and he liked to think he did. No matter how many headaches his twin got because of how many times he must've found him napping or relaxing when he probably should have been studying, Denki could see it in his brother's crimson-colored eyes. He was his twin brother for a reason. Those kinds of siblings were truly lucky to have each other. Their bond couldn't be tainted, not even by the demons in one's head. Other Information Denki is older than Denji by three minutes Loves anything mochi related and hates soba noodles Denki knows the signs Beckon, Quicken, and Reinforce. In his free time, Denki loves to take naps (usually in open fields or somewhere relaxing) and loves cloud-watching. He can do the latter for hours and never get bored. He's deathly allergic to red bean paste.

@Eyeshine

Half the twins are accepted!

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

---

As the sun rose across the western mountains of the Heiwadani Valley, a dove took flight from her nest. She soared above the treetops of the Mumbling Wood, where the Kodama were just beginning to shake themselves awake with the dawn. Frost covered their leaves, a final present from winter as it gave way to spring. Those tree spirits groaned out greetings to one another in a language more ancient than men. Other, smaller animals scurried from their dens to get an early start on the day's foraging. A pack of fūri- feline, monkey-like beasts with more arms than sense- leapt from branch to branch and cried out in voices eerily close to human speech if not for a certain, monstrous quality to them. The dove knew to keep well clear of the pack. It veered to north, where it joined briefly with a flock of other birds headed toward the mountains. There was safety in numbers, after all.

The dove broke off from the flock to crest the mountains, carried on wings that could not tire. It glimpsed the world beyond the valley, illuminated by the early morning light. The sight filled even its heart with an equal mix of awe and terror alike. It did not linger long to wonder at the world, however, for it saw something else that caught its attention. Far below it- where the mountains split and a pass descended into the valley- it saw movement. The dove descended to land on a nearby rock, watching with curiosity and apprehension alike.

"Finally." Ashida Katsuro muttered as he dismounted his horse. Hours of riding left his legs cramped and burning with exhaustion. He pulled off his helmet, his dark, sweat-slicked hair falling down the sides of his face. His jaw was covered in something too long to be stubble but too short to be a beard. His ears were bleary with a lack of sleep. It had been too long since he'd been to a proper barber, he noted with distaste. Too long since he'd slept. Too long since he'd been home. Katsuro let out a sigh and took a few moments to stretch on the cold, rocky surface of the mountain's 'road'- if one could even call it a road anymore. Its pavement was cracked and covered in holes deep enough to break a horse's leg if it misstep.

"Do you fair well, captain?" Another man asked as he walked up the road to stop beside Katsuro, who answered his concern with only a grunt. He was ten years Katsuro's junior, barely a man, yet their commander had insisted he ride with the company for this journey. He was Ogata Hotaru, a short, slender boy as pale as porcelain that might've been pretty if not for the horrific burn scar that covered the left side of his face. He looked away from the other man and down the pass, to the giant, red structure that dominated the pass. "This must be the gate of the gods..." He muttered, awestruck.

"The gates to hell, more like." A third voice rumbled as Onisawa Shigeru lumbered up beside them. He was an oxen of a man, taller than anyone else Katsuro had ever met and just as wide. His gut nearly burst out of his robes, and the leather straps of his hack-job plate armor looked ready to snap. He clutched a gargantuan war club in his right hand that no one else in the company could even lift, let alone swing. "I do not like this place, captain. Feels like my skin is crawlin' off my bones just standing here."

"I never knew you for a craven, Shigeru." Katsuro grinned up at the man. Despite the lightness in his tone, Katsuro understood what his second meant. Something about that gate made his heart leap up into his throat. There was power here, for a certainty. He took it as a sign that they were on the right track. With a heavy sigh he tied back his hair once again and slid his helmet into place. "Break the wards on that thing, Hotaru, and be quick about it. I want to make camp before midday. Half our warriors will be dead in their saddles soon enough."

The young Hotaru nodded solemnly and approached the gate, and the dove watched in abject horror as the boy's skin began to glow beneath his robes and the magical wards that had protected the valley for three hundred years dimmed for the first time. A column of mounted men in patchwork armor of leather lamellar and steel plates rode through the gate unopposed. The dove took flight with all haste away from that place, soaring through the pass and straight for the Mumbling Wood.

--

To the east of all this, in the center of the valley, the village of Heiseina began to awaken, slow and trepidatious as it was. Roosters call to one another at the coming of the sun. Villagers lit their lamps and rose from their beds to make breakfast. An old man, eyes still heavy and red, steps outside his door with a giant sack in his hands. Reaching within he produces a handful of roasted soybeans, tossing them out into the street in front of his house. A neighbor on the opposite side of the road chucks them from the safety of her window; perhaps never even leaving her bed at all. Just about everyone would join them soon enough- those with the common sense to understand the Yokai and the bad fortune they can bring down on the disrespectful.

"eight weeks," the old man grumbles, his voice like the rasp of rocks grinding against rocks, "eight more weeks of winter! Salt the shimmer, I told Takamori- told him that girl was no good."

A broom cracked him over the shoulder, causing him to shout in a mix of pain and surprise. His wife lowered it to the ground, still rubbing the sleep from her eye. "Pull the turds outta yer teeth. What if the lady heard ya gobbin' off? If she was willin' to do her own kin in-"

"Balderdash! T'was the hag that did them in. That dumb, poor girl couldn't get a tanuki to scratch its scrotum. We never had long winters when the shrine maiden was around. I remember this one autumn, perhaps twenty years ago, when..."

And on and on they went as Heiseina slowly, gradually dragged itself from its restful sleep and set about preparing for today's festivities. This marked the first day of a week long celebration of winter turning to spring, culminating in the Dance of the Serpent- when Miorochi is meant to awaken and take to the sky, tearing the cold from the air and begin the changing of the seasons. The week would see the village gathering to eat, dance, compete in games and go through all number of religious rituals to bring good fortune on the year to come. Broken relationships would be fixed, old enemies would make amends, and newborns would be blessed at Miorochi's shrine.

In honor of the occasion, all sorts of decorations were strung from roof to roof, up and around poles, or painted along the cobblestones of the road. Papers dragons were a common sight on top of other imagery of life and spring: colorful bundles of flowers were strung together, cornucopias of fruits and vegetables, and most common were the beans. Hundreds upon hundreds of roasted soybeans being scattered, eaten or spread to make crude shapes. Soybeans were thought to drive away the spirits that brought bad luck.

Unlit lanterns hang via strings running from nearby roofs to the radio tower in the town's central square. Inside them are some of the only electric lightbulbs in the entire valley, wired together and tracing down the tower's side and disappearing into a hole carved into the tinkerer's workshop. More unnatural light shines from behind the curtained windows and under the doorway. Keen watchers might have noticed a similar phenomena on their way home for the previous night's rest. It wasn't unheard of for Anayo to work all throughout the night, though never as often as over this last month.

Near to the shore of Kama's Lake, where the Takamori Estate stands tall and proud, its master meditates in the early morning light. Only one of his students managed to drag herself out here so early, though whether or not she was focused on her inner harmony or struggling to stay awake was yet to be seen. Kenji, despite his age, was as sharp and energized as either of his nephews or his niece. He'd already run the full length of the lake's walking path in the time it took most of the village to drag themselves from their beds. With slow, measured breaths, he took in the morning as he always did.

Yet Fumiko knew the old man well enough to know something was different today. There was an ever so slight tremble in his hands that he was trying and failing to calm. A deep furrow along his brow seemed to form and disperse every fifteen or so seconds, as if he had worries he could not quell. Kenji took a final exhale and let his eyes slide open so he could look to the horizon. Some imperceptible thing clouded his ordinarily cheery gaze, like a grey sky hours before a storm.

"How I wish I could remain in this moment forever." He muttered. His voice was a river, deep and meandering. "Time marches on, however, and there is much to do." He turned his head just so he could catch Fumiko's gaze. "And I'll be delegating a great deal of it to you, Fumiko. I hope you're up for it! Come, walk with me, and we shall talk." Kenji stood, beckoning her to follow him as he began to pace down the manor's steps and into the gardens that surrounded the estate.

"First we must ensure the noon performance is ready. I trust Miss Hayashi is prepared, but it is always best to double check." Kenji lifted a finger, wiggling it a bit- his usual sign to 'note that down' that he gave whenever he was delivering a lesson. "Head over to her abode and ensure everything is ready. Give her any help she needs setting up. She is the opening act of the day, so the tone must be just so. Even the slightest misstep could have disastrous consequences for the rest of the week's mood!" Perfection was impossible, yet always demanded- that was the Takamori code. Yet even as he spoke he seemed...distracted. His vision still clung to western mountains, where the sun rested atop those stony peaks.

Near silent paws patter up old stone steps. They stretch, turn and twist along the hill at the edge of town, passed small shrines covered in offerings, flowers and trinkets of all sorts. Those paws are quiet, yet they're quick-- quick as lightning. They bound up three steps at a time, nearly slipping on wet, broken stone in their hurry to reach the peak.

When the fox finally reached the hill's zenith, where an archway led into the shrine proper, it dropped what was in its mouth and began to make a racket. Its odd yips could almost be mistaken for language, but even as an animal the urgency in its noises could not be mistaken. When the shrine's cartaker finally emerged the creature nudged the object it had carried and dropped to the floor: a scroll case. Kitsune were said to be the messengers of the gods, yet...those were only stories for children. Myths passed down from the ages. In reality they were a bunch of aimless tricksters whose only purpose was to spread mischief...right?

But there was the scroll case. And inside, a message:

FOR YUKI'S EYES ONLY

HARMONY BROKEN
UNNATURAL AND VILE
THE IRON EYE COMES

Heiseina: Memories Long Forgotten

No relation

_______________________________________________ // INFO P E R S O N A L D E T A I L S Full Name - 林純恋 (Hayashi Sumiko) Age - 22 Gender - Female Occupation - Traveling Artist - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Passionate More than anything, Sumiko is able to pour her entire heart into things she cares about, be they projects or people. From her passion stems both diligence and confidence, as she works hard for results. Her passion is quite obvious when one views her work, and the individuals who have felt her helping hand directed at them say the encouragement can be intense. Pushy Sumiko really likes getting what she wants. Doesn't everyone? But at times she can be a bit forceful in pushing her ideas onto others. She even pushes herself to keep going at something futile, her perfectionist streak showing through. She does have a sense of pride that can prevent her from backing down as well. Free Spirit Since her "liberation" Sumiko has greatly enjoyed doing whatever she likes, whenever she likes. She keeps her options open, as being tied down to one place or idea doesn't suit her at all. Like anyone else she has her rough days, her arguments with others, but ultimately she tries to let everything slide off of her back. Forgive, live and let live. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Rhythm and Balance A self-proclaimed expert in traditional dance and hopping back and forth on stage, Sumiko has a very good sense of balance. She has a strong core and her coordination is top notch. She's dexterous and rarely fumbles anything, whether she uses her hands or her feet. Physical Artist Though performance is her greatest love, Sumiko is excellent at working with her hands. Her calligraphy is steady and smooth, her paintings and drawings are detailed and life-like, her pottery comes out even and clean, and of course she can read and write quickly. If you need something written or made for you, Sumiko is your girl - but she can be a perfectionist so it might be a bit of a wait. Persuasive Sumiko has a knack for roping others into doing what she wants. This isn't always aggressive badgering - in fact being a poet Sumiko can be quite cool with her words, and being an actor she can make anything sound like the truth. She doesn't go around lying to people though, that would be uncouth! Tt's just that she can be quite convincing. With some people after a conversation with her they end up running an errand and thinking it was their idea in the first place.

Physical Description Sumiko always stands out in the village due to her taste in clothing: elaborate and stylish. Of course the frames she wears over her eyes are no exception. Even if she didn't dress like that, her shockingly pale hair would make sure that one can always pick her out of a crowd. Her physical appearance is rather plain; her eyes are dull, she isn't the most busty or shapely of women nor is she that tall or short... but she does love to paint herself in varying degrees of make-up. This has the side effect of making her seem more attractive, but the enjoyment of making an art piece of her skin is why she does it in the first place. Although she tries to keep clean its very common to find her with ink stains on her hands, arms, and even her face. Character Conceptualization Painting! Poetry! Pottery! Dance! Drawing! Acting! Storytelling! ...stilling working on the music! Even small towns need entertainment, and Sumiko takes it upon herself to provide that. She's a "jack of all trades" type when it comes to the arts, with the notable exception of song and instrument. Please don't call her tone deaf though, she will vehemently deny it. She was born in Heiseina, her family the last of the dying Hayashi clan. Hers was an old family, once well respected in the valley, so it came as a shock when each passing year saw their prosperity dwindle. No one really knows what happened to the Hayashi family, though some claim that the family's head offended a spirit so badly that it cursed his line for generations. It would explain the sons' early deaths, the daughters' lack of vitality that presented itself through pallid skin and colorless features. Some subsequent family heads were obsessed with turning their luck around. Sumiko's father was one such person, but he died desperate for a son to carry on his name and ended up with two daughters. The clan's fate was sealed. His passing was a sad thing, but for his wife and children it was also a freeing experience. There was a certain liberation in knowing they didn't have to toil on behalf of a doomed family name any longer. Sumiko left Heiseina when she was barely old enough to travel on her own, exploring the valley they lived in and the small hamlets that surrounded it. She met many people and heard many stories - in order to commit them to memory she wrote them down. To keep herself occupied during trips she would doodle pictures to go with her writing. It didn't take long for her to fall in love with art. For her freedom came in the form of a song on the wind, or a brushstroke on canvas. Now, Sumiko is Heiseina's resident artist extraordinaire (self-proclaimed). She's also a decent source of news and gossip, bringing stories and paintings with her all over the valley. She travels very often, taking advantage of not being tied down to one place. When she returns to Heiseina she stays at her family home and mooches off of her more responsible and respectable elder sister. Their mother passed years ago, leaving the large, empty estate to the both of them. She always makes it back in time for festivals, where she insists that she put on the newest play she's written, play a role in local re-tellings of myths and legends, and participates in dance until she can barely move. Though she has a strong passion for all kinds of art, dance and Kabuki are one of her favorite pastimes, so when she can she goes all out. Lately, life in the valley has been slower than normal. There haven't been as many interesting stories to create art about, so Sumiko has been going out a lot more and pestering others in search of something to spark her creativity. Other Information She likes to drink, but can't hold her liquor The only Sign she knows is Wind Her eyesight has started to get worse

@Yankee

Sumiko is accepted! You can move her over to the character tab.