Kaithe Dame
Tyler Night
WhiteAngel25
TokyoPewPew
Vixere
Overlord Thraka
Izurich
Lurking Krog
AntlersRedana!
For all the noise of the carnival nothing has ever felt so silent.
All you can hear is your blood. It rushes in your ears so hot and loud you can almost hear the nanites clink together. All you can hear is your pain. Hot liquid forces itself into ravaged muscles and demands, demands, demands. You are carried on wings of fear and agony. Hark! The Kaeri come!
Every child knows the tales of the Warriors of Ceron; martial legends crowned seven hundred years of glory in Imperial service. Unconquered, the wolves call themselves, for it was the diplomacy of Emperor Songast who brought them to her banner and rose to overthrow the Azura at their mightiest. They are the warrior-servitors who fight in the heat of the sun and the gaze of the gods to the renown and glory of all. None such for the Kaeri.
Instead, most people simply think of the Kaeri as jokes. It is not that the Kaeri themselves are considered incompetent - quite the opposite. They are considered so comedically, over-the-top effective that implausible military coincidences are jokingly attributed to Kaeri operations. A flash flood destroys a troop convoy? Kaeri action. Our scouts somehow didn't spot the enemy army until it was right on top of us? Must be Kaeri mercenaries. Enemy dictator struck by a lightning bolt from a clear sky? Make sure to thank the Kaeri liaison.
They don't feel like jokes now.
To be amidst them is like being in the wordless, slipstream control of a cloud of starlings. They play games with your attention, each new strike coming right at the moment when your attention has locked onto the previous one. They get inside your rhythms of combat, inside your habits, inside your loops. They are warriors who know more than any other how to make victory seem impossible.
Alexa!
"The lowest bacteria in the darkest cistern on the most wretched asteroid is not beneath the notice of the God of Love," said Cavel-4954, almost absently striking out with a shattering hooked kick to knock you clean onto your back. "Aphrodite is the father of Zeus, of Poseidon, of Hades and grandfather to all the Gods who sprang forth from them. Aphrodite is the bloody womb of Cronus, torn free and staining the stars red with desire. You denied his power. And for your hubris the galaxy burned."
The Cavel unit spun her spears as though preparing the killing strike - and then spread her arms to toss them aside like child's toys.
"So it would be really dumb for me to stab you here, huh?" she said with a strange energy. "We're going to do something way better instead! Candidates, come forwards!"
A strange crashing force of unity ran through the crowd and chaos. The anarchy seemed to quell and attention began to focus on you, here, in the centre of everything - as you were approached by three machine intelligences wearing roses painted onto their carapace.
"Batchelorette number one is a Pisel class dock loader!" said Cavel-4954, catching the microphone tossed to her by a machine in the crowd. "She's a working class girl, no doubt, but with her two story height and heavy industrial lifting crane she just might be the one to sweep our contestant off her feet! Give a round of applause for Pisel-1132!"
The enormous armoured piece of construction equipment lumbered towards you to the sound of an arena full of polite applause.
Dolce!
"Well," said the God of the Dead thoughtfully. "You'll certainly find that here."
Before there was time to clarify you emerged into the fires of the Styx
A Machine Intelligence increases in mental ability linearly and with diminishing returns. A house sized construct can perform the functions of a genius astrophysicist, a prize component for a mighty warship. Building something larger would be like trying to breed a horse the size of an elephant - expensive, impractical, arguably pointless and likely to collapse under its own weight. A project for an Emperor, in other words.
From atop bones and ruin, you survey the mind of Molech. A cathedral of clattering gears and pounding abacus beads, a roaring rumble of spinning marbles and clockwork binary. Here below his beloved and utopian baths is his inverse, his hated nightmare master computer by which he attempted to derive and isolate chaos from the galaxy. Everywhere are the signs of the owl, the blessing of Athena worked into every eternal and perfect cog. Everywhere there are fires, ruin, collapse as the works of man fail to contain the burning God trapped at its heart.
It goes on for miles, this mechanical vista. This is the heart of the Palace, stained with the blood of Emperors.
Bella!
"Compliance," states the machine as it leads you to conduct your orders.
And yes... this would make an effective gift, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to have it in the house, knowing that there was a machine immune to bribery, corruption or political intrigue? Wouldn't it be nice to have something around that Mynx couldn't easily shapeshift into? Something like this could be safe. Could be reliable. Could be useful! Redana didn't yet have Nero's political nous, so something like this would make a lovely set of training wheels for a future Empress...
Almost. A frown sneaks its way onto your face, thoughtful and habitual. For all its good qualities this machine was not well tended. Its copper plating has tarnished and developed veins of verdigris, it has - admittedly perfunctory - warpaint markings, it's acquired some sort of chainmail veil thing. Some of the machine intelligences exalt in their aberration but these alterations feel resentful, minimalist, more like weathering than celebration. Your tail twitches as you start to identify Omn as, more than anything else, something in need of cleaning.
"We will reach the Aspects shortly," said Omn. "Staff assets there remain under administrative control. Time remains, if you wish any specific environment to be prepared for the target. Would a cage be desired?"
For all the noise of the carnival nothing has ever felt so silent.
All you can hear is your blood. It rushes in your ears so hot and loud you can almost hear the nanites clink together. All you can hear is your pain. Hot liquid forces itself into ravaged muscles and demands, demands, demands. You are carried on wings of fear and agony. Hark! The Kaeri come!
Every child knows the tales of the Warriors of Ceron; martial legends crowned seven hundred years of glory in Imperial service. Unconquered, the wolves call themselves, for it was the diplomacy of Emperor Songast who brought them to her banner and rose to overthrow the Azura at their mightiest. They are the warrior-servitors who fight in the heat of the sun and the gaze of the gods to the renown and glory of all. None such for the Kaeri.
Instead, most people simply think of the Kaeri as jokes. It is not that the Kaeri themselves are considered incompetent - quite the opposite. They are considered so comedically, over-the-top effective that implausible military coincidences are jokingly attributed to Kaeri operations. A flash flood destroys a troop convoy? Kaeri action. Our scouts somehow didn't spot the enemy army until it was right on top of us? Must be Kaeri mercenaries. Enemy dictator struck by a lightning bolt from a clear sky? Make sure to thank the Kaeri liaison.
They don't feel like jokes now.
To be amidst them is like being in the wordless, slipstream control of a cloud of starlings. They play games with your attention, each new strike coming right at the moment when your attention has locked onto the previous one. They get inside your rhythms of combat, inside your habits, inside your loops. They are warriors who know more than any other how to make victory seem impossible.
Alexa!
"The lowest bacteria in the darkest cistern on the most wretched asteroid is not beneath the notice of the God of Love," said Cavel-4954, almost absently striking out with a shattering hooked kick to knock you clean onto your back. "Aphrodite is the father of Zeus, of Poseidon, of Hades and grandfather to all the Gods who sprang forth from them. Aphrodite is the bloody womb of Cronus, torn free and staining the stars red with desire. You denied his power. And for your hubris the galaxy burned."
The Cavel unit spun her spears as though preparing the killing strike - and then spread her arms to toss them aside like child's toys.
"So it would be really dumb for me to stab you here, huh?" she said with a strange energy. "We're going to do something way better instead! Candidates, come forwards!"
A strange crashing force of unity ran through the crowd and chaos. The anarchy seemed to quell and attention began to focus on you, here, in the centre of everything - as you were approached by three machine intelligences wearing roses painted onto their carapace.
"Batchelorette number one is a Pisel class dock loader!" said Cavel-4954, catching the microphone tossed to her by a machine in the crowd. "She's a working class girl, no doubt, but with her two story height and heavy industrial lifting crane she just might be the one to sweep our contestant off her feet! Give a round of applause for Pisel-1132!"
The enormous armoured piece of construction equipment lumbered towards you to the sound of an arena full of polite applause.
Dolce!
"Well," said the God of the Dead thoughtfully. "You'll certainly find that here."
Before there was time to clarify you emerged into the fires of the Styx
A Machine Intelligence increases in mental ability linearly and with diminishing returns. A house sized construct can perform the functions of a genius astrophysicist, a prize component for a mighty warship. Building something larger would be like trying to breed a horse the size of an elephant - expensive, impractical, arguably pointless and likely to collapse under its own weight. A project for an Emperor, in other words.
From atop bones and ruin, you survey the mind of Molech. A cathedral of clattering gears and pounding abacus beads, a roaring rumble of spinning marbles and clockwork binary. Here below his beloved and utopian baths is his inverse, his hated nightmare master computer by which he attempted to derive and isolate chaos from the galaxy. Everywhere are the signs of the owl, the blessing of Athena worked into every eternal and perfect cog. Everywhere there are fires, ruin, collapse as the works of man fail to contain the burning God trapped at its heart.
It goes on for miles, this mechanical vista. This is the heart of the Palace, stained with the blood of Emperors.
Bella!
"Compliance," states the machine as it leads you to conduct your orders.
And yes... this would make an effective gift, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to have it in the house, knowing that there was a machine immune to bribery, corruption or political intrigue? Wouldn't it be nice to have something around that Mynx couldn't easily shapeshift into? Something like this could be safe. Could be reliable. Could be useful! Redana didn't yet have Nero's political nous, so something like this would make a lovely set of training wheels for a future Empress...
Almost. A frown sneaks its way onto your face, thoughtful and habitual. For all its good qualities this machine was not well tended. Its copper plating has tarnished and developed veins of verdigris, it has - admittedly perfunctory - warpaint markings, it's acquired some sort of chainmail veil thing. Some of the machine intelligences exalt in their aberration but these alterations feel resentful, minimalist, more like weathering than celebration. Your tail twitches as you start to identify Omn as, more than anything else, something in need of cleaning.
"We will reach the Aspects shortly," said Omn. "Staff assets there remain under administrative control. Time remains, if you wish any specific environment to be prepared for the target. Would a cage be desired?"