(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 25, 2018 Author Share Posted July 25, 2018 6 minutes ago, RolloDex said: Please please please let that be my boi the punch man bouta lay into those Corpus fools. [That would be telling! Though I suspect the character's name may be something of a giveaway...] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 27, 2018 Author Share Posted July 27, 2018 Anomaly detected. Unknown object. Caution. Caution. Caution. - Proximity warning, detected by the Severance Package. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Telin crossed to the viewport. The repairs were almost complete. The bridge crew had gathered; binoculars and eye scopes pressed to their faces. At first they had come to gawk at the sea of dropships. Then something else caught their attention entirely. A pin-prick of fire in the sky high above, growing steadily larger. "Is that what I think it is?" Pohld asked. Neither Telin nor Kelpo could answer him. It defied belief. A man, falling from a colossal height. Only it was far too large to be a man. Far too dense; to a point where even the Severance's tracking systems blurted an orbital alert. The flitting shape was there, and then it was gone. Then the explosions started. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Doric felt the Frame vibrate around him; the stone-skin that was not his own impervious to the shrieking wind. The Elytron Archwing harness lay cold and silent; invisible to scopes of the landing teams deploying below. The Navy went about its deployment, oblivious to the doom hurtling in from orbit. The Elytron was defined by many things. Its snarling, turbine engines; full throated and muscular. By far its most notable feature was its payload. A trademark lack of subtlety. Doric didn't bother deploying it at first. He let his Frame punch shoulder-first clean through a dropship entirely; trailing bodies and shredded fuselage in his wake. The lander lost control; swinging into the drop-ship beside it; triggering a monstrous domino effect that played havoc with the Corpus dispersal. Then the Elytron's engines flared into life. Cluster munitions spat forth in its wake, shrieking into ground targets and tearing great fiery chunks throughout the Corpus Deployment Zone. In low orbit aboard the Corpus Navy Frigate Dominant Position, Captain Theo Plun frowned at the holographic overplay of the target area. His instructions from the Board had been rather brief. They were on their final security rotation in this sector. Another backward sector, in need of adjustment. He sipped his caffeine. It had been a long shift. He wrinkled his nose. The caffeine was sour, almost cold. The Dominant Position was a troop carrier, first and foremost. The outer pickets got all the action. They seldom saw Grineer activity, this far over the Frozen Sector. Another routine dispersal, right on schedule. It was almost boring. Still, the seismic reports seemed entirely at odds with initial surface scans. "Strange," He mused absently, taking a sip from his mug. "I didn't order the ground crews to undertake preliminary bombardment." His XO looked up at him, visibly sweating. "Sir, that's not us." The mug shattered against the deck. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- A wall of fire rose up at the rear of the Corpus army. Dropships panicked, scrambling in all directions; many colliding. Some exploded outright; others split in half by searing sheets of pure energy; as a tiny shape in the distance flew amongst them; scattering them like a fox in a hen house, only far more murderous. Even the bounding Hyena units skidded in their tracks, twisting about to see what the commotion was. In the distance, a mushroom cloud went up, then another. And another. Warheads rained from the sky. Armageddon. The sky itself was on fire. "About bloody time!" Mirage cheered as a fourth mushroom cloud went up. The Corpus army charged the ziggurat. Half in panic, half understanding - quite astutely - that it was better to at least engage their enemy up close than simply waiting to be mown down by the downpour of ordnance shrieking in from on high. A series of staggered electric shields met them as they charged up the slope; as piercing shots cut down men and drones alike. Volt and Mirage met them head on at the height of the steps, two against a thousand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Neera felt the elevator shake on its moorings. Dust sifted down the lift shaft. The lights dimmed momentarily. A nervous murmur went out amongst the Solaris. Glances were exchanged. "What was that?" It was the bruiser of a welder, Sparks. Neera looked up; eyes still raw. "The beginning of the end." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Isolde fumbled and wrestled with the collar in the dark; teeth clenched. The mighty Orokin barge loomed above her, drowning the Northern Landing Pad in its shadow. For a premium berth the innards beneath were notably industrial; all dangling chains and grubbily functional work spaces for the maintenance crews. Glowing advertisement plinths pitched one luxury item after another. The Dax could track her. Not precisely, but he walked in her direction every time she relocated; slipping from one shadowy machine shop to the next. If the inferno on the skyline bothered him, he didn't show it. Just one clanking footfall after another, patient yet relentless. There was no running from this fight. "Your Cell is here. Servants of the House Eternal, united once more." Eythan remarked as he stopped in the middle of the warehouse. "I wonder what they'll say to you, when I reunite you with them…" Eythan's visor panned from left to right; one hand on his nikana. "…Knowing you abandoned them." He shifted at the last second. The nikana met the pipe in Isolde's hands as she descended from the rafters above. She had to roll aside to narrowly avoid bisecting herself on the razor sharp blade. Eythan Dax chuckled, thoroughly amused. He whipped the blade in a flourishing bow. "Ever the creeping shadow, Tenno." He settled into a forward guard. "But no more games." He swept toward her, faster than any human rightfully should. A neat hand-spring carried her clear, but only just. The blade flashed out, twice. Hanging chains and stacked engine cores fell apart in precise cross-section. In her haste to get away, Isolde's foot caught a box of spare parts and she went sprawling over on her back. The blade was inches from her face, all but tickling her eyelashes. "Desist." Eythan Dax towered over her. "Lord Septimus awaits." A thunderclap threw the golden warrior clean across the room. Terrenus Vern lowered the smoking Hek. "I'd threaten you to leave the girl alone. But I've just about had it with speeches for the day." By rights a normal man would be dead. Eythan Dax was no ordinary man. He rolled to his feet, his shield system fluttering and spitting as it re-asserted itself. The Dax's golden armour had absorbed the blast, but had been bruised an ugly chrome from where the pellets had caught him centre-mass. He rolled to his feet, groggily. Vern looked at the Tenno blinking up at him from the floor. "Yeah, surprise." Vern winked at her, then nodded to the door behind him. "Now scram." "Not without you." Isolde shook her head. "Non-negotiable, kid. Zone crawls with Corpus Navy. The others are waiting. Move. I'll finish this." Isolde snarled and ran. Vern stepped between her and the Dax, the shotgun raised. He thumped the door control one-handed. The emergency hatchway slammed down, sealing the Dax in the machine shop with him. "Just you and me now, Golden Boy." Eythan Dax took a low stance, the sword held primed in his hands. His lips curled in a sneer; disgusted that a mere Corpus had gotten the drop on him. "This isn't your war bounty hunter." The bounty hunter and the Dax faced off with murderous intent. Vern sighted the shotgun, eyes narrowed. "Oh, I rather think it is." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Telin watched the ziggurat from a distance. He could just about make out Kael and his companion on the slopes. The trick wasn't to try and pick out a single shape amidst the horde. It was to spot the flashpoint where the horde suddenly and irreversibly thinned. Unfettered by the lack of friendlies in the vicinity, the Tenno unleashed their powers to the fullest. Sheets of electricity washed down the slope. A wave of energy bolts swept back and forth; occasionally interspersed with a twisting ball of vibrant colour; that clove through the Corpus army before exploding with a brilliant flare of light. Bodies tumbled freely down the slope. The Tenno fought as demons. Navy Tactical Assessment struggled with the footage afterward. Statistically, the losses proved scarcely credible. Stocks for supplies all across the sub-sector shot up within the hour, such was the volume of replacement orders. The ziggurat ran red with blood. Even so the Corpus army advanced; all but swallowing the temple. Not even the constant aerial bombardment deterred them. The Tenno were being driven back, step by step. Encroached on all sides. Soon, they would be overwhelmed. "We need to help them." Telin said suddenly. "You're joking." Sobil replied stiffly. "There? That's death." Telin ignored him. He snapped his fingers. "Stren, what kind of ground ordnance does this thing have?" Stren blinked at him. "Mine layer hasn't been loaded in years." He scratched at his jowls thoughtfully. "There's the twin-linked Senta; couple of Mordda's and the fore and aft Akkalak; but ammo reserves are down. Running about thirty percent, give or take. Fight like that? We can't last more than thirty minutes, tops." "What about energy cells? What do you do with the spent cores?" "We've a containment charger." Stren blinked slowly. "You don't mess around with old cores." "We do now." "You're thinking of a Vallis Special?" Kelpo shook his head in disbelief. "What's a Vallis Special?" Pohld asked, brow furrowed. Telin grinned wolfishly. "Couple cycles back Kelp and I had to clear an old Grineer mining wreck that went down near the Orb Vallis. Thing was buried deep. Used an old power core to jury rig an explosion." "Nearly fried us both." Kelpo shook his head with a dark chuckle. "You're both insane." Sobil folded his arms. "That's the Corpus Navy you're talking about – we're bloody scavengers for Void's sake! Think of what you're suggesting!" Telin grabbed Sobil by the hem of his environment rig; eyes flinty; nose inches from the man's face. His voice was icy calm, resolute. "It's like this Sobil. The Exchange wants us dead. The Board are about to bring their boot down on everyone and everything I've ever known and loved. Now we can sit here, and try and our weasel our way out of this; maybe try and scrape a profit on some other misbegotten spit-hole where we're not plagued by bounty hunters for the rest of our days. Or we can accept that maybe, just maybe, this is our fight too." Sobil blanched. Telin released him, shaking his head; looking out the window. Sobil looked at the others. "And the rest of you? You're with him?" Kelpo nodded without hesitation. Pohld and Teico murmured their assent. "Aye, surely." Stren grinned; folding his burly tattooed arms across his chest. "Great, so now we're terrorists." Sobil looked at Telin pointedly, "But if you're going in there, you're going to do this properly." They all looked at him. Sobil offered a conspiratorial wink. "Our mine-layer is perfectly functional, for one." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- From behind the blast shield, Isolde heard Vern's shotgun discharge right as steel bit steel. She needed this damn collar off. She needed the Void. She stumbled blindly, wrestling with the collar; as a rabbit chews the snare. Something tackled her, smashing her into cover. A brace of plasma shots cut the air where she'd been moments before. "Down girl!" Parson-Luk hissed, shying back. "Company!" Three Corpus dropships circled on the Northern Dock; search lights probing the gloom. An assault force of hardened military troops, two platoons strong. They fanned out between the densely packed gantries and columns at the base of the Northern Landing Pad; picking their way through the metallic jungle. Rifle torches flitted left and right. Brakarr emerged from the shadows of a stairway, the eyes of his facemask a baleful yellow. The Akkalak was not intended as a portable weapon. Brakarr was large enough not to heed such limiting physical factors. His was custom made, with a shortened barrel; fed by the mighty drum mounted on the back of his war rig. Brakarr made it sing. It split the heavens; ripping tracer fire across the front of the dropships. Search lights burst and crewmen tumbled from side ports; all but shredded. A lightshow of plasma fire broke out in the chaotic space. Above it all, Brakarr's booming laughter. This was war. This is what he lived for. Even so, they hunters were woefully outnumbered. The Navy troopers responded with dutiful precision; splitting into two groups; bounding from cover to cover. Those caught in the open swiftly paid the price; reduced to splintered meat. "Behind me!" Brakarr bellowed, retreating backward. Parson-Luk had not been idle. Time and time again, Corpus ankles snagged tripwires; triggering explosions or electrified snares. Gas bombs popped left and right; choking air filters with clogging mire sourced from Earth's most virulent swamps. Others fell shivering, their skin pierced by dart traps carefully seeded throughout the innards of the Docking bay. The Corpus advance slowed to a crawl, as paranoia set in. This was good. This gave the Ostron range, and distance. The Grinlok rifle had been a gift from Brakarr; bestowed to the Hunter after their fateful encounter, which had nearly left them both dead on the Plains. The Ostron curled himself up behind a pillar as he put it to use; expertly slamming shot after shot down range. More twisted and fell; their helmets punctured with ferocious accuracy. Isolde grabbed Parson-Luk by the wrist. The hunter started with a snarl, his blood up. His eyes softened when he saw it was Isolde. "The collar! Can you get it off?!" The hunter took the collar in his hands, assessing it with beady eyes. There were no seams, or rivets to work with. Just that smooth polished brass-gold finish. "Ai yo… Orokin tech. Not good, Tenno. Quite valuable though." Parson-Luk looked over at Brakarr and bellowed "Eh! Ito-da! Over here!" The Grineer trundled over dutifully; having to stoop his head under the dense pipework overhead. His war-rig was already scored with burn marks. Brakarr took one look at the collar. He then set his mighty mechanical hands around it, and with a determined grunt pulled. The collar split with a sharp metallic peal. The Void surged back in an instant. Isolde gasped as if surfacing for air. Brakarr scrutinised her; offering her his Brakk side-arm. It was a snarling, brutish weapon. "Tenno fight?" Brakarr asked. "Tenno skoom." Isolde graciously grinned, taking the hand-cannon from him. Brakarr boomed a chuckle, patted her on the head; then took up his cannon once more, surging once more into battle. The Tenno and the Ostron followed. The bounty hunters bled the Corpus as they pushed the Northern Landing Pad. Each fought their own way, their own style. Isolde, Void dashing between them, breaking bones at close range; turning their own weapons against them in a ballistic, crunching ballet that swept her from one victim to the next. The Brakk snarled and thundered in her hands; a chomping, savage repeater that demolished armour and bone alike. Parson-Luk thinned the crowds through careful marksmanship and cunning ambushes; constantly keeping the enemy off-balance. And Brakarr, most of all Brakarr; with sheer industrious firepower. The Corpus assault began to wither; as the dropships fell back. Isolde pressed the attack; racing after them. Parson-Luk followed, stalking from the shadows. Picking off targets where he could. The Corpus melted away; the hunters becoming the hunted. Isolated, the Grineer caught a glimmer of movement in the shadows of the crates to his left. A bounding, hunched form. A quadruped drone, loping forward in bounding strides. The Hyena unit was an advanced war proxy; intended for hunting only the most difficult targets. Brakarr fit the bill. The Hyena darted left and right; chased form pillar to post by stitching gunfire. Its shields flickered, wobbled; but it was quick. Much too quick. It closed the distance faster than Brakarr could track. The Hyena slammed into the Grineer bodily; sending them tumbling over in a crashing heap. Plasma incisors set beneath the Hyena's chin flared to life, inching closer and closer to his faceplate. It gnashed at him; the cutter flaring again and again. Its hooked claws ripped savage gouges deep into his side. Brakarr bellowed in pain. He fended the biting teeth one handed; groping for his side-arm. Isolde had it. She was too far away to help. No matter. Brakarr was Grineer. No help was required. The Sheev buzzed to life as he drew it from its sheath. Part machete, part welding torch; it doubled as everything from an entrenchment tool to a field-tin opener. Brakarr added drone-dismantling to the list. He slammed it up through the base of the Hyena's chin. The proxy didn't stop; it continued to bite and thrash at him. Again and again he stabbed it. The Hyena squealed in agony as sparks flew and cables severed; squirting coolant. The weight on him slackened. The Grineer threw his weight to one side, rolling atop the addled drone. He left the Sheev buried in its central processing core as he took its head in a firm grip. With a roar he tore it clean off with his bare hands; bellowing as he bashed it against the steel floor again and again. The optical lenses on its face dented and cracked, then burst entirely. Circuits spilled like broken teeth. The Hyena's thrashing ground to a mewling halt; its legs locked in a rictus flinch. Brakarr retrieved his Sheev with a grunt, before casting the Hyena's severed head aside with a snarl. It clanked and rolled away in the shadows, forgotten. Then he collapsed. Parson-Luk found him, sprawled beside the headless Hyena; surrounded by a carpet of empty shell casings and fallen Corpus soldiers. Parson-Luk rolled the Grineer onto his back. Blood and oily coolant leaked freely from deep puncture wounds dimpled throughout his plating. His breathing was laboured; his lungs rattled with excess fluid. "Eh Brakarr. You still with me big guy?" The Grineer waved him away, wheezing. He tried to get up, slipped in his own fluids; then settled back, exhausted. Parson-Luk fussed over him, mopping at the various leaks seeping from the depths of the Grineer's chassis. There was more oil than blood. The hunter looked about desperately for help. Isolde was nowhere to be seen. "Oh sure. Just carry the Grineer." The Ostron shook his head. "C'mon now. Up we go." Brakarr snarled in pain as the hunter helped him back up. They limped away from the combat area; dripping blood and oil with every hobbled step. "I tell you now, Big Guy." Parson-Luk shook his head ruefully. "This is no way to make a living." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vern fired right as Eythan Dax charged. The Dax had preternatural speed, but Vern was no slouch either. Shields sparked, the sword sang. The Hek caught the sword thrust; biting clean through the shotgun's housing. The sword caught, holding the hunter and the Dax face to fac. Vern smashed his forehead into the Dax's nose, knocking him back. Then the Lex was in his hands, barking. The sword flashed, turning shots left and right. Vern didn't blink. A second Lex was in his hand; the servos embedded throughout his arms synching with the targeting software in his eyes. The hailstorm of shots drove the Dax further and further back. Eventually one got through; catching the Dax in the shoulder and spinning him off his feet. Or not; as the Dax's twisting fall became a strike. His foot lashed out; an acrobatic high-sweep that snapped one of the Lex's clean apart. Vern backpedalled as the Dax flooded toward him; fists whistling. The other Lex was dry. Vern holstered it and met the other man's assault hand to hand. The Dax struck like water; bending flowing strikes and snapping punches with kicks in a storm of blows that changed stance and rhythm with alarming speed. Vern's approach was more simple but no less brutal; a practiced pugilist and a grappler; with a degree of precision honed from a lifetime of fighting. The bounty hunter surprised the Dax on occasion. A snapping punch or biting counter-jab; a spinning elbow or a throw that became a counter-throw, slamming the Dax into the ground. But the golden warrior showed no signs of fatigue, or slowing. He simply pressed on; recovering, relentless. Every time Vern caught one of the Dax's blows head one, the room swam. It was like being mule kicked by an Eidolon. Vern swiftly backpedalled, snapping a new magazine into his Lex and opening up once more, lighting quick. By the third squeeze of the trigger the gun was already pointed at the ceiling, wrestled upwards in the Dax's vice-like grip. Blood dribbled down the Dax's golden arms; where one or two of the rounds had clearly found their mark beneath the plating. Whether he felt pain or not as he stared into Vern's eyes, it was impossible to tell. The Dax spied the hole in Vern's forearm, left by an Exchange Agent's knife hours before. He held Vern's hands aloft one handed. The other snapped out and took a grip around his opponent's fore-arm. Eythan Dax dug a thumb into it the hole. Applied the tiniest degree of pressure. Vern's cybernetic hand sprang open. His lips drew back in a howl. The Lex slipped from his grip, skittering across the floor. Eythan Dax swung the bounty hunter and bashed him through a set of shelving; scattering tinkling components noisily in his wake. Then he tossed the bounty hunter across the room with a contemptuous snarl. The bounty hunter dropped into a smooth roll, coming to his feet; a blade in his hands. A snap kick sent it spinning from his grasp. Vern had hunted all manner of creatures; had killed just about everything there was to kill across the known span of the Solar Rail. A rogue Jackal walker on the surface of Europa, its IFF code broken. A Grineer Nox; dribbling toxin from every vent. Vern was the most successful hunter the Exchange had ever seen. Ruthless in his ambition, merciless in his pursuit of the task at hand. He used every tool at his disposal. Grenades and knives; rifles and bayonets. His own bare hands, when necessary. One thing became clear to Terrenus Vern; right as Eythan Dax's next throw sent him crashing through an advertisement hoarding in a descending shower of sparks and glass. This was one hunt he may not survive. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Podge Posted July 27, 2018 Share Posted July 27, 2018 dude. this story is great. like seriously, excellently written. i've literally gone across the spectrum of feelings towards vern in particular, cause at first i kinda hated his guts and was hoping he'd get offed at some point during the part with neera's tavern, but now i don't want him to die. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted July 27, 2018 Share Posted July 27, 2018 Spoiler I agree with Podge, the reader literally goes on a little journey with Vern's team. From ruthless scoundrels to people who just want to make a living, with their own little code-- "together, no matter what." I hope Brakarr will be alright. And where'd Isolde run off to again? 😄 Also liking the character development Telin goes through. In the end, the Severance crew might actually keep him and Kelpo around 😂 I don't envy the Corpus >.< Getting sandwiched in between Kael, Sara and Doric and their respective frames. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Red X278 Posted July 28, 2018 Share Posted July 28, 2018 Brakarr > Clem Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted July 29, 2018 Author Share Posted July 29, 2018 (edited) "Consider the longevity of our Empire. The expanse of the Rail. We have existed for centuries, constrained only by the limits of our collective imagination. Yet there is a frontier unconquered. These survivors of the Zariman, with their fitful devil minds; they swim in the shadows of the Void, unmoved by its currents; unswayed by its eddies. A Gift? A Curse? Both of these things, and so much more. A chance to plum the endless depths; to be stared at by the howling Void, and stare right back. An Opportunity." - Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-9 (Recovery Site Redacted) -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Then. The Tenno return to The House Eternal. To re-arm, to reflect. To kneel before their Master, and give thanks for the many gifts bestowed upon them. The singers and bards are gone now. The halls are forlorn and silent. Even the cloisters are barren. Only the most trusted Dax remain. They linger behind, hands twitching by their swords; pacing, frustrated. They long to join their comrades on the front. The Lorists and Archimedeans stand aloof from the Tenno, content to observe but never interact. The children are placed in turn in the Somatic Link; an unnecessary Cradle. These Tenno Dream no longer. The Tenno endure the tests, cold and unblinking. The war is not unfelt; by Sohren most of all. He has grown exacting; harsh, distant. He has seen too many Dax fall before his eyes; good warriors expended in the endless furnace of the War. His father had been one of the Golden Few, as his father before him. As a child he had dreamed of becoming Dax, brave and loyal and true. Yet the Void has denied him this dream; providing an all new nightmare in its stead. He will never follow in his Father's legacy. Instead, he is damned to surpass it. Kael and Isolde follow him dutifully; Kael, as cold and precise as the blade he wields; Isolde, colder still. Her songs never lift the halls, nor do her smiles light the room. Sara is the opposite; she hides her despair behind caustic smiles and brittle laughs, but the others have seen her wipe her eyes; in those unguarded moments. Still, they remain strong. The mission is everything to them. It is the decree of The House Eternal. The Empire will endure. Doric watches them all; concern ever-mounting. They are told little as to how the war truly progresses. Doric has to piece it together from unguarded asides from the strategos that hurry from one briefing to the next. A patchwork picture is formed. Other Tenno operate under the will of the Executors; deploying from staging areas far removed from the House Eternal. Doric reads of their deeds in the Lua despatches; of heroic sacrifices and desperate victories, hard-fought. He imagines his own Cell fighting alongside them; comparing their abilities with their brothers and sisters further afield. This question above all others vexes him. Why have they been separated? -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fire and fury. The Dax hurl themselves upon the Foe. Golden bodies fall; rendered scorched husks, blackened by streaming energy. Steel and swords clash. Cutting beams hiss. The Destroyer's Children sing their deadly song. Sohren is up ahead. He carves a path through the foe, Kael at his side. Isolde and Sara hold the flank; pressing ever onward. Screaming hellfire and robotic wails fill the air. It is up to Doric to hold the rear guard. He is the largest, the strongest. A rock, upon which the surge of all counter-attacks break. He marshals the forces at his command; the pitiful remaining Dax fanning out; their blades high, eyes searching the heavens. Another attack could come at any moment. There is a lull in the carnage, as Sohren and the others drive deep into the temple. Doric holds the annex with the rearguard. Doric stands tall, marveling at the ruined majesty of the ruins around him. In truth they were late. The Dax had assaulted the Citadel an hour before the Cell's arrival. The annex is a vaulted place; once colonnaded and proud with splendour. Now it is a charnel house. Broken Sentient and scorched bones splinter underfoot. A hand grasps his ankle; slick blood spattering cold stone. Doric looks down. Death was a mercy to this warrior. The body the hand is attached to is little more than a torso. The skin of the face has been burnt away on one side; showing white bone, teeth and a single staring eye in anatomical cross-section. Doric frowns, leaning down; peering closer. The hand is known to him. After a moment, Doric cries out in horrified recognition. It is Trainer. He is surrounded by fallen Sentient. Their chassis broken, their Oro crushed with a destructive totality that shocks even the Tenno. Trainer's pistol is empty, his sword broken in two. The riven hilt has been driven clean through another of the infernal machines, pinning it to floor beside him. Trainer's other eye blinks. His lips gasp for air with an agonised croak. He is still alive. Doric witnesses a level of willpower than transcends the superhuman. Trainer reaches up with his remaining hand and beckons Doric closer. The ancient Dax strangles out the words, every syllable in agony. "Beware the House. Beware its Lies." Doric blinks. Trainer is gone. Doric never learns his true name. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Months pass. There has been a breakthrough. A counter-attack on the front has proven wildly successful. The Sentient advance has stalled. There is a reprieve. The mood amongst the House Eternal is buoyant. Courtiers return, in select amounts. Music fills the halls, once more; but it is hesitant; tempered by an unspoken tension. There is no sign of Lord Septimus. The Tenno are ordered to remain as they are. The Tenno languish in a state of limbo; restless. The Tenno are forbidden from seeing their Lord. They are forbidden from the front. They are to remain here, and here alone; until instructed otherwise. Left to their own devices, they roam the halls; enjoying an unusual degree of freedom, albeit within the carefully supervised confines of The House Eternal. The other Tenno notice the change in mood, but know better than to comment on it. Sara becomes less sullen, glad to be away from the death and destruction, if only for a brief respite. She spends her time with her Warframe and the artificers; decorating its elaborate chassis, humming to herself sadly. Trainer's death has weighed heavily upon them all. Grief is expressed in many ways. Kael and Sohren train, blade brothers now; readying themselves for the next phase of the endless war, that must surely come. Skana after skana is called for. A crowd of Dax gathers in size with each progressive contest, marvelling at their skill. They will honour their mentor's memory the only way they can. Doric spends his time in the library, alone. Books are not forbidden to them, and he takes comfort in them when he can. The room is a vast place, panelled with Earthen wood and lined with cool stone; an unusual affectation for a space of Orokin design. Row after row of mouldering books line the shelves; entirely at odds with the sweeping alabaster and gilded archways of the halls beyond. A vaulted cloister runs around the perimeter of the shelves; serving as an elevated viewing gallery of the priceless relics. Many of the tomes are in languages long since forgotten. Doric has been through many of them over the years, has translated what few he could. He has not come here to read, not today. He sits at the games tables; set apart in an open space in the heart of the library. He repeats Trainer's words in his mind, over and over. Beware the House. Beware its Lies. He dares not share the warning with the others. He ponders over the Komi board, lost in thought. Beside it are several other games; each more complex than the last. He plays himself regularly; articulating strategy in multiple languages under countless rule sets. He plays each of the boards in unison. It helps him think. It calms his frenzied mind. Doric is broken from his reverie by the scrape of a chair against the stone floor. Isolde sits across from him; fingers laced together under her chin. She studies the Komi board, then regards Doric with those startlingly violet eyes. Her book of poems sits on the table beside her, forgotten. "Let's play." Doric looks up, his dark face set and solemn. She has changed much from the girl that used to sing joyfully in the golden halls of the Zariman. Cold now, aloof. Focused on the mission, above all else. Still, her presence in the library is not unusual. Often she can be seen in one of the far alcoves, a frown upon her face as she devours yet another history or poem. She has never shown an interest in the games before. "It's a simple game. You'll grow tired of it." "Try me." They play. Doric blinks. It proves more difficult to best her than first anticipated. "Again." She says, at once. They play again. The result is closer still. "Once more." Doric finds himself frowning at the board, wondering quite how she managed to outmaneuver him so. "Another game." Her attention is on the next board. "Something more complicated." Her voice speaks in his mind. Don't react. We are being watched. Doric's face remains still as he draws her attention to a far more elaborate set on the next table. It is a three-tiered board, with a maddening variety of many-sided dice. The pieces range from the lowliest foot soldier to the most elegant star-galleon. The value of each piece is defined by the material they are crafted from; in descending value: ivory, steel, wood. The game is antiquated, long out of favour with the Golden Lords. Nevertheless, Doric has learned its rules, the careful steps that can be taken. He explains to Isolde the subtleties, the strategies and counter-moves necessary to win the game. Even then, his introduction is painfully high level. "The Golden Lords call it Ars Bellica, though it is often shortened to simply Bellica. Three boards: space, ground, tower. One must master all three before pressing their opponent's tower." He illustrates the rules in a practice game: he against himself; demonstrating the nuances from one board to the next. All the while, the Dax watches them. Doric spies him in return; reflected by the polished ivory of the galleon shows to Isolde. The Dax is one of the proudest members of Trainer's flock. Strong-willed, ambitious; a peerless fighter, by the exacting standards of the Dax soldiery. Vehemently loyal to the House Eternal. The gaps in the ranks have afforded him a meteoric rise in station. With Trainer's death, he now stands as castellan to Lord Septimus. This promotion is behind much of the change within The House Eternal. It is his men who deny the Tenno access to the High Archimedean; his men who watch their every move with a thinly disguised animosity. His name is Eythan. "Focus on the pieces." Doric says softly, as Isolde scrutinises the board. They are playing their first proper game. No more Void Talk. The Dax lack the command of the Void, but are not without a sensitivity. Their prolonged proximity to the Orokin has granted them as much. Different avenues of communication are required. A new language is developed, leveraging the complexity of the game to the Tenno's favour. A form of spy-craft, devious even by Doric's standards. Isolde catches on quickly. The complexity of the game is such that pieces can interchange and flow with alarming speed. Doric establishes the baseline structure of their impromptu language; defined by strikes, feints and retreats. They are forced to pantomime reactions of perceived victories and defeats; under the ever watchful eye of the Dax across the library floor. The true conversation is conducted through the Bellis Board. Isolde opens with a daring strike: Lord Septimus is ill. I am aware. The servants speak of it often. Isolde's cruisers then batter one of Doric's forward positions. Then you know there is to be a ceremony. A coronation, of sorts. Doric swiftly counters; his own forces weathering the initial storm and mounting a reprisal strike of their own. A successor? I am not certain. The servants say little, and the Dax even less. Do we know when this ceremony is to take place? Isolde frowns as Doric makes a blinding series of adjustments to his forward line. She rallies her forces as best she can, brow knitted: No. The cards have spoken to me, but their words make little sense. Just a single word, over and over. Doric holds his line, bowing his head to Isolde: Show me. Isolde leaves her flank open with a piteously exposed counter-pushed; a clear signal that their conversation is over. Doric exploits the gap ruthlessly. Isolde pushes herself up from the table with a defeated sigh. "I had hope to best you, but I have a lot to learn, it seems. Next time, Doric." The Tenno rise to their feet, exchanging a bow. She turns on her heels and departs, leaving him alone at the table. She has left her book on the table: Great Minds and Poems of the Orokin Third Age. It is her favourite. Doric spares a glance at the polished ivory pieces. The Dax is gone. He does not open the book until he is safely lost amongst the endless shelves. A single tarot card is inside. The symbol is known to him. It is the Ouroboros; the Endless Serpent. Its meanings are many and varied. Its origins are in alchemy; the snake that eats its own tail, and is then eaten in turn. An infinity loop; an endless process that repeats itself, over and over. Continuity. Edited July 29, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted July 29, 2018 Share Posted July 29, 2018 (edited) Spoiler Briefly, I thought that the Tenno were denied access to their Master because Septimus was slain at the Absolution Ceremony during the Tenno Betrayal-- an event that these kids were totally separated from, and the Dax were closing the ranks to maintain secrecy. I didn't expect the final answer, but I'm looking forward to see where this is going and what the kids will do with this information. >:) Curious where Eythan Dax's animosity comes from. 🤔 Were Trainer and his lieutenants the only half-decent Dax that cared for the Tenno, even if just a bit? Or is this spite, because the Tenno were the ones to break the news of "Trainer Dax's" death to the rest of the house? Ars Bellica... the pieces are used differently, but the description of the board(s) kinda reminded me of the 3D chess from Star Trek. Either way, cool idea! 😉 We've yet to see Sohren... I wonder, how strong his loyalties are to Septimus and House Eternal, versus that of Kael, Doric, Sara and Isolde. 🤔 Wait... noooo... 😱 Don't tell me Sohren was the victim of this particular Continuity! (yes, don't tell me 😄 I'll want to read it 😛) Yay more Orokin flashbacks 🙂 The kids were plotting something. Or... plotting their plots to be plotted. ^^ Edited July 30, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DrMegavolt Posted July 29, 2018 Share Posted July 29, 2018 Well I just found this and am rather amazed. Excellent writing, if I do say so myself. Cannot wait to see where this goes. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julian_Skies Posted August 2, 2018 Share Posted August 2, 2018 I am so lucky to have found this. You're, in fact, quite an amazing writer. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 5, 2018 Author Share Posted August 5, 2018 (edited) "War teaches in startling contrast. Heroism and cowardice. Our capacity for courage, against odds insurmountable. Of cruelty, meted out without the merest hesitation. It teaches you friendship. Of ties that bond. And when those same bonds are severed; pain..." - Trainer, addressing the Tenno of The House Eternal. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- A stray plasma round finally struck Doric from the sky. The starboard engine of his Archwing gave out; chugging smoke. Sending him into a wild corkscrewing tailspin straight into the deck. Mirage twisted about, watching as the twisting shape descended into the midst of the Corpus army. "Doric!" Sara cried. The Archwing did not explode when it impacted. Instead, it punched clean through the skin of the Upper Tier, burying itself like a meteor. Corpus forces rushed over the cooling impact site; a churning sea of Moa, interspersed with the occasional Hyena hunter and scrambling crewman. Something burst forth from the crater. A tumbling boulder. It ploughed through the swarm, flattening all in its path. Moas shrieked moments before they were buried beneath the descending wall of rock. The crowds backed away, self-preservation protocols kicking in and sending the Moa skidding in all directions, shrilling and bleating. All too late. Atlas arose from the smoking ruins: proud and tall; streaming pieces of the Elytron harness as it fell away in ragged smoking chunks. A Hyena shrieked and pounced. Atlas turned its shimmering gaze upon it. The air warped and vibrated with arcane energy. The Hyena froze in place; shivering as the lustre of its metallic sheen hardened and crackled; condensing to frozen rock. Doric-as-Atlas shattered it with a single upper-cut. It burst in a thousand cascading pebbles. Doric strode toward the ziggurat amidst the confusion. He paused. The Warframe was a lumbering titan, its mighty shoulders all but swallowing its neck. The Frame raised a single fist in the air. A salute to cherished comrades. A command all of its own. A giant arose from the twisting dun smoke behind him. A single monstrous rock golem; a towering behemoth that quivered with primal rage. Parts of the shattered drones were infused in the rock. It was a ghastly, towering thing. It dwarfed even Atlas. Atlas glanced back at it. It rumbled obediently. Doric simply pointed at the ziggurat. The golem brayed a challenge; surging forth into the Corpus army. Drones and bodies were smashed aside; tossed like ragdolls and broken articula as it charged headlong for the temple. Atlas followed; crushing anyone who had the temerity to stand in his way. Kael and Sara pounced; ripping towards their comrade with thinly disguised impatience. Blades sang and blood flew. Caught on both sides, the Corpus on the ziggurat panicked; between a literal rock and a hard place. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vern slapped a new mag home, dropping to one knee and snapping off shot after shot at the relentless Dax. Eythan advanced steadily; blade flashing. The gap between them shrank once more. Vern had no intention of getting cornered again. Vern flicked a puck-shaped charge out behind him. It mag-locked to the wall; cheeping twice. Then it erupted with a flash; bringing the wall down in a chunking avalanche of descending masonry. The fire suppression system shivered to life; hosing them in a fine hissing mist. Vern melted away into the twisting smoke, methodically reloading. The Dax surged out of the fog before him; lighting quick. The Lex was slapped aside. A golden hand encased his throat once more. Lifted him clean off his feet. Eythan Dax studied him coldly. His armour was scorched and pitted from where Vern's rounds had found their mark; embedded in the golden armour. Water dribbled freely down his sneering face. "Impressive, for a mercenary." The golden warrior tilted his head with an avian curiosity. " A different era, you might have even made a worthy Dax..." The squeeze on Vern's neck tightened. "…such a pity." "Gold's not my colour." Vern spat. He snatched at something on his belt. The flashbang was not intended as a melee weapon. Even with all his enhancements, it deafened Vern as he slammed it into the side of the Dax's head. The two men separated; the golden warrior staggering; gauntleted hands clamped to his visor. Vern's cybernetic eyes recovered far faster. Disorientated, eardrums bleeding; Vern saw his window. He took it. The mercenary grabbed the nearest object to hand; a remote extinguisher canister. He swung it as a club. Metal met metal with a resounding hollow clang that pealed like a cathedral bell. Once, twice; a third time. The entire unit broke apart; spraying them both with foam. A chunk of the Dax's wide-brimmed helmet was fully dented inward. Miraculously, the Dax stayed on his feet. Vern didn't hesitate. Discipline was everything. The takedown was an essential skill for any hand to hand practitioner. This was a man; a preternaturally strong and agile man; but a man nonetheless. The twisting throw put the golden warrior neatly over Vern's shoulder; slamming him into the ground. Then Vern was on him; his fists pulverising the Dax's face; again and again. A golden hand clamped Vern's fist in place. There was a lance of searing, crushing pain as the wiring approximating a nervous system overloaded, then crumbled altogether. A numbness took over. Vern snarled and flashed in the elbow of his other arm. Eythan's nose broke with an audible crunch. The grip released. Vern continued striking with both hands. Anything to inflict damage. Vern would rip the man's damned throat out with his teeth if he had to. Eythan Dax was not lacking in grappling skill. His legs locked around Vern's midsection; locking tightly. With a rolling twist the Dax muscled Vern aside. The two rolled apart; both blooded, both gasping for breath. The Dax pointed his blade at Terrenus Vern. Blood coursed from the ruin of the Dax's nose. His cheek had burst, and a spiderweb of cracks coursed their way across the surface of his gilded visor. There were no lofty threats or grandiose statements, not anymore. Only ruthless intent; simmering rage. Vern had little left than a humble combat knife. He settled low into a knife-fighters stance; the blade pointed downward. Unflinching, ever the patient hunter. His broken hand drifted to the small of his back; to the last remaining tool in his arsenal. Ruined fingers twitched feebly as they closed around it. A single grenade; small and potent. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kelpo walked the Severance Package, making his rounds with Stren. He had stepped into the role of XO by dint of his association with the Tenno, but word of his commitment during the boarding action had spread quickly. The men and women of the Severance nodded at him as he passed, looking up from their welding kits and firing ports. Stren explained the nuances as they went; pointing out structural weaknesses and firing arcs of the various weapons; and their various crews. Making introductions where needed. Should anything happen to him, Stren wanted the lad briefed on how the ship worked. Blood coated the walls where various munitions had pierced the outer hull; fully vaporising those unfortunate enough to be caught beyond. The crew had done their best, patching the hull as best they could; washing the decks down with soapy water, but these wounds were deep. They would scar, or else damn the barge entirely. Loading crews bustled to and fro, lumping heavy panniers of munitions for the Grineer-based weaponry. Cells were locked down; activated with a keening hum. Even the boarding javelins were reloaded; their securing winches cinched tight and locked down. Engineering managed to bring the shield system back online within something approaching normal levels, but even then it was painfully fragile; a jury-rigged fix that would either save the ship from external fire or else blow it up entirely. Battered, scarred and bruised; the Severance Package made ready with its sister ship; poised on the edge of the Upper Tier. In the distance, the war for the ziggurat raged on, oblivious to the two ragged ships on the horizon. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The elevator droned ever downward. The Mid-Tier was choked with bodies. The Low Tier was all but abandoned, as they descended deeper into the colony. The Watch had been severely outnumbered and surprised, but they had beam weapons and tight firing channels. The price paid to subdue them had been savagely high. It was perhaps merciful that the Solaris' view was often blocked by the vast infrastructure that supported the central elevator. Prospect 141 was in a state of open anarchy. The rebellion had came and went. Now the downtrodden freely looted the streets; ravenously picking over the salubrious areas the Watch had so sternly denied them all these years. The only place left alone was the Upper Tier. Those few that dared to venture there saw the fire and flames on the horizon, and retreated; knowing there were some chances not worth taking. Some places no mortal could hope to witness, and survive. Stories of the fires on the horizon; of the endless screams and raging lighting would live on, in whispered stories passed on from generation to generation. The surviving Solaris bore witness to a colony surely damned by their actions. The Board would not suffer such impudence lightly. Nef Anyo in particular would deem the rebellion a personal insult. Examples would be made. Neera looked at the brawny cutter, Sparks. He showed no emotion to speak of (and had no means of expressing it, even if he wanted to). But he could sense the despair radiating from her. The brutish welder rested a hand on her shoulder, gave it a supportive squeeze. "It's alright, lovey." Sparks' face lit up in time with his words, "The Board won't scrap the colony. Too much investment in the site. Frozen Sector's lucrative, too lucrative even for a second rate colony like this. It'll be tough on these people, but they'll survive. As they've always done." Neera studied him, her face set. Her eyes were red rimmed, but clear. She had a job to do. "You're sure?" she asked. "Course they will. Board need the labour pool, don't they?" Sparks nodded at the Data Mass clutched in her hands. "Important thing is we get that thing there clear. Into safe hands. Make it all worthwhile, eh?" The lights above shivered once more. More dust sifted down the lift shaft. The Solaris looked up as one. Sparks chuckled darkly as they descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the colony. "Still, all things considered; reckon the Board 'ave their hands full right about now." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The halls beneath the Northern Landing Pad lay in ruin. A great and terrible battle had taken place here; waged between two men hell bent on killing each other. No quarter had been sought, and none was given. There were no witnesses to it, and long after the Battle for Prospect 141 ended, it would be forgotten; just another destructive curiosity to be picked over by the salvage teams that would surely follow. Its aftermath would stay with Isolde for the rest of her days. She followed the trail of shell casings, broken furniture and dents in the walls that marked the path of Vern and Eythan's duel. She paused by a slick of blood on the wall. A hand print. Bullet holes coated the walls. She paused. A Hikou throwing star was wedged in the wall at head height. She stepped carefully past it; through yet another hole in the wall. She found one Lex; discarded, smashed into component pieces. Then another; top slide locked back; snapped empty. There were starbursts of shrapnel and burn marks that scorched unlikely places on the ceiling. A trail of emptied shelves and discarded fall back weapons; secreted and improvised, that spoke of a struggle fought to the most bitter inch. It was not one sided. More than once she saw gold flecks on the wall; where a body had been thrown or battered into a wall. The sprinkler systems sluiced down from above; soaking her. A hundred small fires competed with the emergency lighting; rendering the machine shop beyond a bitter crimson. Isolde gasped. She floated forwards on numb feet. Vern sprawled in the middle of the floor. Pinned in his chest was the golden nikana; buried to the hilt. There was no sign of the Dax. It was a message. Yet another challenge, taunting her. Goading her. Isolde tore her hooded cloak free as her knees splashed to the floor beside him. She did her best to stem the bleeding; swabbing with the cloak. She had no idea where to start. Vern was more cybernetic than flesh, and even then he was a bloodied wreck. His hand was little more than a mechanical stump; ground to pieces from where Vern had all but demolished it against his opponent's face. Splinters of golden armour were embedded in Vern's ruined fist. Vern groaned a chuckle when he sensed Isolde was there. "He bled. Oh I promise you, he bled." Vern's goggles were missing. He groped about with his one remaining hand, which trembled with a palsied quake as he felt her burning cheek. With a start, she realised he was blind. "EMP Grenade. One of my own." Vern turned his head to one side, as blood pulsed out of his mouth freely. He coughed, spat. "Was out of options." He stirred, went to move. He hissed; pinned in place. His webbing, normally festooned with throwing knives and explosives, was entirely barren. Her hood was soaked in blood now. "Don't move…" Isolde despised how weak she sounded, the helplessness in her voice, "I'll get help…" Terrenus Vern chuckled at that. "Don't get soft on me now, girl." He felt up toward her face, wiping her burning cheek, chuckling. "This was always gonna happen, sooner or later. Part of the job description. Profitable lives, not long ones." Isolde was shaking now. Not in fear, or sorrow. Something more primal; dormant since the Old War. She swiped her cheeks, unable to stop the streaming tears. "I'll bury him." Isolde swore, her voice low and venomous. "By the Void and all that's holy I'll bury him." Vern smiled slightly at that. "That's my girl." Then he settled his head back, eyes closed. His voice was little more than a rasp. "A thousand contracts. Endless hunts. Creatures and beasts. Good men, evil men." Vern's face was set, at peace. He shuddered, swallowing heavily. "Never once fought for myself, though. Felt different. Felt right." Terrenus Vern coughed, once. His good hand wiped at Isolde's streaming face affectionately. "Be seeing you, kid." Then his hand fell limp. Eventually, Isolde rose to her feet; still clutching the bloodied rags in her hands. She drew the nikana from Vern's body cleanly; cleansing it with a measured swipe of the blade. She tilted her head back, eyes closed. Felt the stream of the sprinklers wash over her; a cleansing wave that did little to quench the rising inferno within. With singular will, the Tenno reached out with the Void, to where a silent ship lay in orbit; long forgotten. And broke an ancient promise to herself. Edited August 6, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
skaianDestiny Posted August 6, 2018 Share Posted August 6, 2018 This? This right here is a damn good fic. I cannot find enough praise for it. The characterization, the world-building, the tone, the mood, the word choice, all of it combines seamlessly into a single 78 thousand word story that brings you through emotional highs and dramatic lows. You could print this out on paper, slap a well-illustrated hardcover on it, and sell it as an official Warframe novel, hell, novels, and I'd buy it. That you're doing it pretty much for free is just another example of how underappreciated fanfiction authors are. One thing I liked was how at the beginning it seemed to just focus on a certain few protagonists, yet in the end it turned to be more of an ensemble piece. As one poster noted, the way Vern's crew turned from ruthless mercenaries opposing the protagonists to the close-knit family you want to root for in the reader's eyes was well-done. Along those lines, the way you give every named character, well, character, from the main protagonists to the one-off side characters is laudable. It speaks well to making the world a living, breathing one, and despite practically every character being an original creation aside from background mentions of canon ones, every single one of your original characters and ideas and concepts could slot right into the Warframe game with how well they're made. The only thing I can say I detest is how the story is so tantalizingly close to the finish that the fact it's incomplete is a total travesty. Yet at the same time, I don't want it to end. The catch-22 of being a fan of an incomplete work. 😛 I'm definitely going to follow this and any other Warframe story you make. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 6, 2018 Author Share Posted August 6, 2018 (edited) "And who are We Those that should be alone? Without songs or stories; A Hearth of our own? The Unum's Chosen A Many from a Few A Clade without Kinsmen With the Plains for a View…" - excerpt from Ostron Poem, source unknown -------------------------------------------------------------------------- In a utility depot near the Northern Landing Pad, Parson-Luk's hands worked quickly. He was not a technologically advanced man, but understood the necessity of field repairs. A weakness in the snare could let slip even the smallest prey. For all the primitive trappings of the hunter, Parson-Luk possessed a keen mind that belied his outward savagery. The welder in his hands sealed the largest of the gouges in the Grineer's war rig. The workmanship was amateur, but tidy. His needlework was better; careful stitches holding shut the more angry lacerations in the Grineer's weeping side. This was not unexpected. He had been a Fisherman, before he was a Hunter. Brakarr was gene-kin. His mortal enemy. They had met on the Plains. Had damned near killed each other, at first. Parson-Luk had been a young hunter then. Proud, full of piss and fire, as all young hunters are. The Grineer threatened his home. They threatened Cetus, and the Unum that watched over them all. Killing them was more than sport. It was an obsession. Brakarr's unit had been yet another advance recon force, striking out in the days long before the Grineer established a foothold right on the Ostron's very doorstep. They were in an unfamiliar land, then; undocumented. His territory, not theirs. The Ostron had stalked them one by one; his looted Grinlok rifle puncturing armoured shells and finding the soft clone-flesh beneath. Until there were only two of them left: the giant and the hunter. The duel had lasted fully a full day and night. Brakarr his munitions exhausted, Parson-Luk, scared out of his wits by the relentless giant that simply would not die. Eventually the tracker's knowledge of the terrain had won out: the Grineer found itself tangled in a charc-snare at the base of a pit; beset on all sides by wild kubrow, hellbent on defending their nest. Frenzied with pain, the Grineer bawled in anguished fury as they pounced. Parson-Luk had watched from afar as the giant smash the feral hounds down one by one. For all his rage, they had numbers; and could sense death. They chased it with open jaws. Parson-Luk watched the Grineer fight to the last; a buzzing knife in its hands; all but blinded by the shimmering charge of the fizzling charc-snare. As the fight drew on and on, a curious feeling took over. Pity, tinged with begrudging admiration. The Grinlock sounded three times. The first shot took the Kubrow alpha in the throat. The second and third felled the other in quick succession. The rest of the pack fled; yelping. They knew the sound of Parson-Luk's rifle all too well. The Grineer had scrambled to its feet, finally freed of that damned net. It rounded about in confusion. It spied Parson-Luk downwind on the hill, the rifle in his hands. The Grineer was caught dead to rights in the open; a sitting Condroc. The Ostron had tapped his brow in salute, turned and left. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Grineer walked him through the repairs. Pointing at this feed tube or leaking pipe. His breath was laboured, but stable. Parson-Luk shushed the Grineer as he fussed over yet another stitch. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Their paths crossed again a month later. A hunt had gone wrong. It was a silly thing; a moment of absentmindedness that should have cost the Ostron his life. There was no moon in the sky, back then. But that evening the Void light was beautiful and shimmering. It twisted on the horizon; glinting off the lake beside him; distracting him. The hunter's right ankle went straight down into a Kuaka burrow; twisting badly. He hissed in pain; trapped. He cursed his clumsy stupidity. The pool of water beside him began to shimmer and bubble. Arcane tendrils of light rose into the air above, twisting fragments of starlight from the ancient past. Terror gripped him like a vice. An Eidolon; a shambling husk of Sentient debris. Dull and witless; so easily avoided. So capable of immense destruction. Parson-Luk tried to pull his leg free, with ever-mounting panic. It was firmly wedged. He began to frantically dig; clawing at the earth with chipped fingernails. An immense pair of mechanical hands gripped him by the shoulders. Parson-Luk yelped in surprise. The giant Grineer hauled him free with a single mighty tug. It threw him over one shoulder, and began sprinting in the opposite direction of the lumbering shape that arose from the boiling water. They broke bread that night in a cave overlooking the Eidolon that raged and meandered across the plains, its plaintive wails splitting the night's air, haunting them as it shook the ground with each ponderous step. The meal was entirely provided by Parson-Luk's own rations. Parson-Luk had little choice in the matter; his ankle was a swollen wreck. Trapped as he was, through narrowed eyes and thinly veiled suspicion, the hunter established a rudimentary level of understanding. A dialogue began. The Grineer watching him with those rheumy eyes; orange like hot coals. Slowly, Parson-Luk learned the Grineer's story. It had gone feral. It had no weapon, and was proving a miserable hunter. It was starving; had been living off what slow witted creatures it could hastily blunder upon in a moment of weakness. Parson Luk's ankle healed quickly; enough that he could hobble about; demonstrating the basics of quiet movement. It looked ridiculous, to see the lumbering beast mimick his own movements. Yet the Grineer seemed sincere in his desire to learn. He learned its name was Brakarr. That it was something called a Bombard. At first Parson-Luk told himself that his tutelage was out of necessity. Keep the beast happy, or get his head caved in. Different rationalisations took shape. It was a priceless opportunity to observe his enemy; to see how they quickly they learned, how swiftly they could adapt in adverse circumstances. And yet there was something more. A kind of respect, from one survivor to another. The teachings provided Parson-Luk with a satisfaction he had not expected; his lessons became more technical in their instruction. Parson-Luk would learn later that Brakarr was a defect. An Aberrant, to borrow the Grineer's insistent use of the term. There were other Aberrant; some intellectually stunted, others still entirely pacifist. Most were exterminated as soon as they were detected, by decree of the Queens that ruled their Empire with an iron fist. But Brakarr was intelligent; knew how to toe the Empire's line. He was Grineer, Bombard class; blessed with enormous physical strength; but precious few skills beyond brute power and an eagerness to use it. He served because it was expected of him. He fought because that is simply what Grineer did. This was an opportunity to become something more. Brakarr seized it. The Ostron taught the Grineer basics of field craft, of stalking and camouflage. Partly so the brute could feed them, and partly to hide him from the Grineer patrols that routinely swept these hills. Days passed, the Grineer returning to their meagre shelter with a poorly speared fish, or a half starved Kuaka. As time progressed, the Grineer's yield steadily improved. He would appear back at the cave, a brace of fish dangling on the simple lines the hunter had prepared. Parson-Luk would then teach him how to dress the fish, or the most effective means of flaying the small rodents and game the Grineer managed to wrangle in its solitary adventures. By the fourth day, Parson-Luk was mobile enough to return to Cetus. He smiled at the Grineer, shaking his head. The Grineer had fashioned himself a cloak of Condroc feathers, that did little to hide the scabbed armour plating beneath. He looked ridiculous, but the hunter felt proud of him despite himself. The Hunter bade the Bombard farewell, clapping him on the shoulder; setting off for Cetus with a long stick for support. He returned to his home, where his daughter awaited him. His wife had been lost seasons past, and he was needed by the fires of the hearth. He often thought of his unlikely friend, as he listened to the elders by the fire preach of the importance of friendship; of the ties that bound. It was with a tinge of disappointment that Parson-Luk returned to the cave, some three weeks later, to find it abandoned. The fire had been put out, as if in a tremendous hurry. The bones had been piled neatly in a corner. Stacked in a heap, for use in a broth later. Just as he instructed. The Ostron shook his head, bemused but surprised at how saddened he felt. He had hoped to see the shambling lummox again. The Karak rifle clacked behind him, startlingly loud in the confines of the cave. The Tusk Lancer barked something harsh and unintelligible through its filtered mask. Two more of its comrades emerged from deeper in the cave; weapons trained. They were dressed in camouflaged livery; had used the soot from the fire to dull the edges of their armour, masking its shine. An ambush then, Parson-Luk was livid with himself. Of course the Grineer had betrayed him. A Hyekka didn't stop being dangerous just because you fed it once in a while. He cursed himself for his naivety. Brakarr emerged from the shadows with a rock in his hands. The only sound made was the crunch of Grineer battle-plate as he stove in the skull of one of the Grineer troopers. Then the rifle was in Brakarr's hands. Brakarr unloaded on fully automatic as he charged with a bellowing roar. The Grineer scout team panicked, diving in all directions; hard rounds whickering and spanking off their armour as he closed the gap. Then the brute was upon them. These were field troopers; rangy scouts. There was no physical contest. Armour dented. Bones splintered. "Parson-Lurk!" Brakarr beamed up at the stricken Ostron hunter, caked in gore. The cave was littered with fallen Grineer. "Brakarr lurk too!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Parson-Luk smiled at the memory, as he finished the last seal on the Grineer's battered chassis. That had been over a decade ago. Since then his daughter had taken ill, as her mother before her. Medicine was required. Expensive medicine. That meant contract work. That meant off world. Brakarr had stubbornly followed him every step of the way since. The Ostron made a pact with himself, as he worked on the next stitch. His hands were caked in gore and spilled coolant. They would see this hunt through, together. They would see the Plains again. Edited August 7, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
skaianDestiny Posted August 7, 2018 Share Posted August 7, 2018 "Enemies-turned-friends/lovers through mutual saving and respect" is a favorite thing of mine. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 7, 2018 Author Share Posted August 7, 2018 (edited) "… and from that pain, rage." - Trainer, addressing the Tenno of the House Eternal -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The shelves were cluttered with all manner of bric-a-brac. A wide variety of Moa heads were mounted on the wall, arrayed and displayed less like a trophy cabinet, and more like an accessories store. From patrol units to simple janitorial support. This was the part of the Upper Tier unseen by the wealthy and proud. The necessary storehouse that kept their machines running, and their perfect lives functioning smoothly without interruption. Beneath the display cases were boxes of spare parts: a butcher's array of synthetic limbs and cybernetic chassis. There were small boxes of joints, focusing lenses; rotator servos big and small; all manner of odds and ends. Enough to save Brakarr's life. Parson-Luk was almost finished with his repairs when the boxes began to rattle in unison. Then the entire shop began vibrate. Cybernetic limbs fell from their hooks, clattering against the floor. Parson-Luk looked up from the task at hand. The Ostron's ear twitched; his nostrils sniffing. A ship, hovering at low altitude. Parson-Luk rose to his feet, a wicked recurve dagger in his hand. He left Brakarr slumped by the wall, hidden behind a large shape covered by a tarpaulin. The door hissed open. A ship hung overhead. Parson-Luk marvelled at its unusual organic curvature. He had seen its kind come and go from Cetus over the years. Had more recently seen one buried beneath the ice, a hole shot clean through its bow. A Liset, Isolde had called it once; when she first invited them aboard. This one was intact. It was familiar; dressed in red and black. It hovered in the air by the Northern Landing Pad. A metal figure dropped from its belly, automatically finding its feet. It rose to stand where it was, its head dipped; inert. Isolde stepped from the shadows; stripped to her simple body-glove. Her eyes were red rimmed, baleful slits. Bruises studded her exposed arms. A golden nikana was clamped in her hand; a bloodied crimson rag in the other. The buildings behind her were ablaze. An ugly pillar of coiling smoke rose in the air before the ribbed Orokin barge that shimmered through the haze. Parson-Luk had seen her Warframe before, in those unguarded moments where Isolde had allowed them aboard, to sit with her and work on improving Brakarr's augmentations. For Brakarr it was life-saving. Grineer lives were short-lived; could only be prolonged through extensive and intrusive cyberization. For Isolde it was practice. Her Warframe's skin had been extensively modified; stripped and rebuilt with every successive rework of Brakarr's systems. The Grineer design influence shone heavily, tempered by the Tenno's more streamlined aesthetic. Gone was the Orokin finery. It was dressed in jet black; complimented by dark strokes of crimson. A single bulky ocular lens was mounted over where one eye should have been. The face itself was an impassive mask of smooth crimson metal. A hooded red cloak flitted in the breeze. It was a keep sake, a trophy from an era long forgotten. Never once had Parson-Luk seen it removed from its display stand in the heart of the Liset. Even in the direst circumstances she had refused to deploy it; preferring instead to rely solely on her Void tricks and her own brand of lethal improvisation. Vern had never questioned it, never forced the issue. The Grineer and the Ostron similarly respected her wishes. She was dangerous enough without it. Isolde ignored Parson-Luk as he approached, cautiously. Her focus was entirely on the metal figure before her. She tied the bloodied rag around its waist. Parson-Luk recognised her cloak; frayed and charred as it was. It was soaked with blood, that still dripped and pattered on the deck at her feet. The blood was not her own. A profound sense of dread overtook the Ostron hunter. She sensed him, finally acknowledged him with the briefest of nods. "It's funny." She smiled a brittle smile at the floor. "When the war ended, I entered my great sleep. I made a promise. That when I awoke and the world had forgotten the Old War, I would live for myself. She cinched the knot tighter. "That I would never wear their puppet again." She spoke softly, running her finger along the sleek lines of its arm. Her finger glowed as she traced it down the forearm; all but caressing it. The Warframe's fingers twitched. "By rights I should have buried it, left it alone. Instead it has followed me wherever I've gone; a box on a shelf. Forgotten, but never cast aside." She looked at Parson-Luk. "Perhaps it was weakness. Sentimentality of some kind." She looked up at the Warframe's faceplate. "I saw it as a burden." The loathing in her voice was palpable as her eyes narrowed. "I was a fool." "I know better now. This is who I am. The weapon I was meant to be." "What happened, Surah?" he asked hesitantly. Isolde closed her eyes. Her grip on the nikana tightened. Tears pulsed down her cheeks. She sobbed. Vern then. It defied belief. The bones of Parson-Luk's necklace jangled as he swamped her with a hug. She flinched at the unfamiliar affection, arms rigid by her sides. He was struck by just how small she was. For a moment he thought of his own daughter. His throat tightened. Then she was gone; fading into the Void itself. The nikana clanged to the deck. The Warframe's head rose up. The ocular lens projected a single yellow targeting circle, as it became live once more. Isolde-as-Mesa looked up at the looming Orokin barge. At the ziggurat, coated in fire; teeming with Corpus. The dropships that drifted above the smoking ruins of the Upper Tier; piercing the gloom with their searchlights. Her ocular lens tagged targets, marking them each in turn. Methodical, systematic. The Pyrana at its side was a snarling short range repeater. It whirled and flashed in her hands as she twirled it about. It whipped back into its holster with a snap. Mesa rolled its neck about, cracking imaginary tendons. Awakening, after so many years dormant. Mesa retrieved the nikana from the floor with a metallic scrape; sliding it into the rags at the small of her back. Isolde's voice carried a harsh metallic echo as it issued from the Warframe. "I'll wear it now. I'll wear it now and I'll bury them. The House Eternal, the Exchange. Even the damned Board. In the name of Terrenus Vern, I'll bury them all." She stalked toward the ziggurat, her voice carrying over her shoulder. "But I won't do it alone." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Severance Package and Forward Transaction reported green on all systems. They idled at the edge of the Upper Tier, far from the chaos of the ziggurat. Telin smiled as Kelpo and Stren appeared on the bridge. "You know, Kelp; I'm beginning to think we're not getting paid for finding that contract." "You think?" "Mm, call it a hunch." Telin scratched at his cheek. "Could be worse." Kelpo shrugged as he joined him by the viewport. "Got a barge out of it." "Yeah." Telin snorted. "Finally have our own ship, our own crew. Good timing for a suicide mission, I reckon. Baby steps, and all that." "You were always ambitious, Tel. Never said you were smart." Telin grinned. "So how we lookin'?" "Guns loaded. Shields are running, but for how long is anyone's guess." Kelpo was blunt. "Crews ready; far as I can tell. But don't push it. This is going to have to be an in and out job." "Like the old Proximus Contract." Telin raised an aside eyebrow. "Don't remind me." Kelpo chuckled. "I still have the scars." "Well here's to a few more, buddy." They bumped knuckles. Kelpo took a station beside Stren, who was now fully absorbed with the readout of the munitions station. Telin settled back in the command throne. The ziggurat was awash in Void energy. Boulders ran freely down its sloping face; pulverising the advancing Corpus below. At its summit, a rock giant raged; stomping and bellowing; swatting at flitting drones that needled it from above. Telin was long past questioning how any of it made sense. The Tenno did as they did. Telin Voss was just a humble scavenger. Who just so happened to owed one of them his life. Telin had scraped and scrapped through most of his life. Often poor, seldom comfortable. Never once had he been in debt. He wasn't about to start now. Telin flicked the broadcast button on the command chair. Open broadcast; all channels, all decks. "Right, we doing this?" Telin asked, addressing the bridge casually. The crew murmured a vague affirmative. "Really? That's the best you've got?" Telin thumped his fist against the arm rest, indignant. "C'mon now; we're about to make history. Are we doing this?" A louder cheer, more heartfelt this time. Telin shook his head. "Not good enough. Look out there. Just look. A thousand drones. More box-heads and warranties than I rightly know what to do with. Some see an army. I see opportunity. Circuits, scrap; spare parts in bulk. An ocean of salvage." Telin was on his feet now. He crossed to the viewport. His eyes were narrowed; voice laden with contempt. "The Board forget about us. They write us off. Subcontractors. Starving on the lowest rung, begging for scraps. Hired help, they call us. Cheap. Disposable. Expendable. No longer." Telin's eyes were infused with a zeal Kelpo had never seen. A lifetime of small indignities, of freezing their sorry hides in the most inhospitable climate. Anger, frustration; rage. It all came welling up, spilling forth in a blazing fire: "Two barges against an army! The stuff of songs; of legends! The Board won't see us coming, they won't know our names; but by the howling Void we'll make damn sure they remember when we send them there!" Telin looked at each of the crew in turn. His voice was strong and clear; eyes fierce: "So I ask you; one last time: are we doing this?" The crew howled. Edited August 8, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Now Listening To: "Deadwood" - Really Slow Motion Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted August 7, 2018 Share Posted August 7, 2018 (edited) Spoiler I was saddened to see Vern go, but that finally pushed Isolde over the edge, forcing her to take up her warframe again. And a Mesa, no less! That, the other three Tenno, and those two barges combined, will tear the Corpus to shreds. >.< But they still have a ship in orbit 🤔 My next big concern is that Isolde is blinded by grief and pain. I hope the others look after her so she doesn't make a fatal mistake. Mesa is powerful but, refusing to "wear" the frame for an extended period of time, Isolde could be rusty as hell. Also, Clem and Brakarr and Parson must have tea in the pillow fort in Iron Wake 😄 The Corpus were already in for a whooping, and could've made the Tenno run for their money, but now... those foolish enough not to surrender on the ground are toast >.< Edited August 7, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 9, 2018 Author Share Posted August 9, 2018 (edited) "Consider the nature of the Body. Not as a fighting unit. As an organism. Individual components can accomplish much. But as they band together, those cells become something more. A greater system. A machine, infinite in its complexity. More powerful than any single component. You live here in isolation, servants of The House Eternal. Bound by a duty that others of your kind may never know, or understand. But make no mistake: you form part of that larger whole. A single Cell, serving a wider cause. Your fates, intertwined. You are Tenno. Bound by the Void. Bound as one. Know this, and you will never walk alone." - Trainer, addressing the Tenno of the House Eternal. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Tenno fell back into the ziggurat. Kael backpedalled; the electric shield in his hands shuddering under the weight of incoming fire. Doric and Sara blazed shots over his shoulder. A Hyena tried leaping over the rim of the shield, skittering across the wall; only to be wrenched to the floor with a searing crack of Mirage's whip; legs scrabbling for purchase as it was wrenched off its feet. Volt blasted it with a surge of power from his finger-tips. It shrieked in synthetic pain, stricken. Doric brought Atlas' mighty fist down upon it; a single savage slap. There it lay; imprinted in the stonework. Doric raised his other hand. The floor around it burst upward; sealing the corridor ahead of them shut; fusing the Hyena directly inside it; its front paw twitching plaintively. That bought them a moment. They could hear a thousand feet scrambling across the surface of the ziggurat. Skittering like ants over an abandoned picnic. Soon they would choke the other entrances, surging inside. If the Tenno fell, then Central Elevator would be in Corpus hands. More time. They had to buy more time. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mesa stopped at the edge of the battlefield. Most of the clearing was open field now. A ruinous moonscape of craters carpeted with broken drones and littered dead. The ziggurat itself was a heaving blur of drones. Its surface teemed with their numbers; shimmering and shivering like a hive. Corpus infantry established a careful perimeter; letting the proxies exhaust themselves as they continued to pile into the temple in industrial quantities. A wall of them lay between her and her Cell; establishing plasma mortars and marshalling an array of short range artillery Moa. So intent were they on securing the ziggurat that they never thought to look behind them. Nobody paid Isolde any attention as Mesa strode across the smoking clearing; her cloak flitting and snapping in the wind behind her. Her hands extended out by her sides, palms upraised. On she strode: a deliberate, even pace. Her targeting system mapped targets calmly; logging targets as the muscles of her frame tensed. Her forearm glowed in anticipation. A small mote of light appeared before her; circling her. Her index fingers twitched, twice. The Regulators spun free of their elbow mountings with a metallic snap; locking smoothly into Mesa's palms. The closest Corpus spun around, caught flat-footed by the unexpected sound behind them. Mesa cocked her head to one side; a wordless sneer. Giving the Corpus just enough time to soil themselves. Showtime. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Atop the ziggurat; Doric's summoned Titan mewled in frustration as Hyena models pounced from all sides; latching on and biting deep with plasma incisors. It roared, swatting one or two aside; before the Void's hold gave out. The golem fell apart; an avalanche of cascading rock that tumbled freely down the ziggurat; sending many of the Hyena screeching to their deaths. The Tenno looked up in unison. "Not good." Sara grimaced. "For once we agree." Doric locked a new magazine into the top of his Soma rifle. Empty magazines cluttered the floor, vying for space with steaming casings. Kael was too focused on the drones flooding in from the other entrances; swamping the inner annex before them. There was no end to them. Warframes did not tire. Their muscle was adaptive Technocyte; their skin hardened sword-steel. Yet there was only so much power a Tenno could draw upon, without rest; allowing that conduit to breath, even if just for a moment. He raised a hand to blast another knot of charging Moa. The fizzle of power was pathetic. He drew his machete once more. It was notched and pitted; a sorry, broken thing. It would have to do. The Tenno met the drones head one; surging into the swarm; blades biting, fists flashing. Rock crunched against metal and sparks flew; as geysers of coolant painted the walls in great splashing arcs. A desperate last stand, against odds they had not seen since The Old War. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Isolde was amongst them before the Corpus noticed her. Before the Regulators sang their murderous song. They were ornate pistols, meticulously engineered; carved with Orokin precision. With Orokin precision they found their mark; sweeping from one direction to the next; criss-crossing before Mesa. Bodies fell. Drones were wrenched from the sky; blown asunder. Around and around she spun, dancing between them; sidestepping bodies as they toppled by. The bloodied rag tied about her waist soon found company in the ground around her. A dance of death. A murderous waltz. Mesa twirled and wove through the rank and file; the gun-kata guided by the Void itself. Shaping her movements, weaving her from harm; her aim snapping from one target to the next. The Regulators screamed at fever pitch. Then they snapped back into their moorings; steaming hot smoke as the Void released its furious grip. To linger was death. She was one amidst a thousand. It was move and kill, or stay and die. Mesa leapt high into the air; a conflicting light show of beams chasing her though the air. She rolled smoothly into a crouch; leapt again, drawing the Pyrana and nikana smoothly. They too found a rhythm of their own. The Pyrana gnashing out; punching crewmen off their feet. The blade, opening stomachs and removing the limbs of anyone who dared close the gap. Move and kill. Kill and move. Again and again she leapt; raining a storm of shots down upon the army as she danced between them. Isolde ripped through the foe, blitzing her way up the stairs. Corpus cursed their luck with thinly disguised panic. Weapons inexplicably jammed. An invisible force took a hold of energy cells and snapped them free; or scrambled the targeting matrices of the drones as they thrilled at the sight of a such an outnumbered target. And yet their shots were confounded by a force unseen; often finding their allies who screamed as they were cut down. The Corpus tried to rush her, to knock the flowing gunfighter off her feet. If the Pyrana did not find them; the nikana certainly did. Men fell in component pieces; wounds steaming in the cold air as they fell apart. By rights it was a suicidal charge, born of anger and grief. It should not have worked. But surprise and power are two commodities that can make the difference between success or failure in any battle. The Board's army were turned, off-balance. She was but a single target, leaping and striking amongst them. And yet for all its bravery, Isolde's charge would not work forever. For all of Mesa's lethal potency, numbers would decide the outcome. There were simply too many. When the Corpus army asserted itself, she would be worn down eventually. Isolde didn't care. Her heart thrilled at the rush of combat. For years she had starved herself of the Warframe's embrace. Its power, its speed; its raw lethality. It was the vessel, and she the storm within. On and on she killed; cutting a bloody swathe through the army that reeled from the killer in its midst. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The drones before the Tenno skittered and skidded on the floor. A new order swept the command line, wheeling them about. They surged back out of the annex as quickly as they had appeared. "Anyone care to explain?" Sara asked aloud. They heard the buzzing rattle of the Regulators long before they heard the laughter beyond. They paused. It had been centuries since they had seen her. "What are we waiting for?" Mirage looked at the others. "Isolde made her decision long ago." Doric said, the wariness in his voice clear. "She fights for herself." "And yet she's here." Kael replied, Volt nodding at them each in turn. "Same as Sara. Same as you." "You never saw what she did." Doric cautioned him. "What she's capable of. She's a killer." "We're all killers." Kael replied fiercely. "She just happens to enjoy it more than most." Sara was already running, eager to see her friend once more. Atlas' shoulders dipped in resignation. "I hate it when she does that." Doric sighed. They took off after her. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Drones above. Drones to the sides. A sea of Corpus below. Regulators flashed and clacked dry and locked back once more. Isolde thought of Vern, broken and blinded on a machine shop floor; a nikana driven through his chest. She snarled. The Pyrana snarled with her. Odds be damned. Let them come. She'd bury them all. Her rage blinded her. The Void's protection eased, if only for a split second. The lapse in concentration cost her dearly. A dozen bolts slammed into her from all directions. Mesa twisted and spun; shields fizzling. Blood splattered the steps below her; Technocyte knotted itself to seal the trauma. Transference feedback spiked. Isolde felt the animal pain as her own. She screamed; the Frame shivering in agony as she rolled onto her back. The Pyrana was still in her hand; defiantly seeking targets. A wall of drones swarmed up toward her. Isolde hissed, taking aim. A twisting ball of curling light speared through their midst before she had a chance to fire. Then a shape of blinding speed dove past her; a storm of electric power pulsing from it. Boulder after boulder tumbled by her either side, slamming into the army beyond. Mirage appeared above her. Isolde froze; blinking up at the hand extended to her. "On your feet!" Sara roared. "There's a battle to win!" Mesa clasped Mirage's wrist. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pohld the Helmsmen glanced back from his console as he eased forward on the throttle. He was a mousy fellow, with a jittery disposition that stood at odds with his focus at the helm. "Can I just note for the record, before we get started? This is a terrible idea." "Truly terrible." Teico nodded sagely. "Awful." Stren agreed, before nonchalantly flicking a switch on his panel. "Weapons armed." "If you all think this is a terrible idea, why on Earth were you cheering?" Kelpo asked, aghast. Stren's bushy eyebrows knitted as he jerked a thumb back at Telin, who was growing steadily more unsure of himself with each passing moment. The haggard weapons officer offered a shabby shrug. "Well... good speech, wunnit?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Captain Theo Plun's memory was reliable, in the sense that he was detail orientated. He had been a naval officer for as long as he could remember, as long as he was permitted to remember, at any rate. There were certain contractual obligations which forbade him from recalling anything prior to his service. Still, he had an eye for these things. Knew how to read a battle, its ebb and flow. Had cultivated that innate sense of when a push was going their way, or when further commitment was required. He understood deployments. Troop movements, logistics; these were his specialty. He had gone nose to nose with Grineer frontline pickets more than once in his career; marshalling ground forces as the war frigates exchanged slug after slug with the Grineer galleons. Captain Plun looked down at his XO, Lieutenant Sel. "Explain to me, in very simple terms, what is happening below." Sel simply shook his head in amazement, the expression on his tattooed face utterly baffled. By rights they should be winning. By rights the colony should be theirs now. Its people brought to heel, any semblance of resistance broken. Instead his army were tangled in a battle that gripped the Upper Tier. The rest of the colony lay in open anarchy, entirely unchecked. Every conceivable deadline had been missed. The Board had expectations of him. Expectations that he, Theon Plun, was failing to meet. Further failure would not be tolerated. Before Captain Plun could act, something caught the younger officer's attention. "Sir, unidentified civilian barges moving toward the ziggurat at speed." "What?!" The holo-display told no tales. Two radar contacts, previously greyed out on surface scans as being mere civilian rif-raff, flared an angry red. They steadily beeped as they inched closer and closer to the heart of the battle. The angry colouration of the display meant only one thing. Weapon signatures detected. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the heart of the Orokin Barge, Eythan Dax took a knee before the shadowy throne. The blood dripping from his broken nose had healed, but his armour was burnt and scarred. Its golden lustre was gone entirely. His cheeks burned in shame. No Dax should ever leave their weapon behind. Even if instructed otherwise. The room was dark. It was always kept this way. The only light came from the underlit pools of water that lined the edge of the chamber; their reflection danced high against the ceiling. That and the gold of the Dax honour guard that lined the chambers; long fluted halberds in their hands. Each were worthy warriors; hand picked and trained by Eythan himself over the centuries. The Royal Guard of the House Eternal. The Last Cadre. A melodious voice drifted down at him from the shadows. "You look worse for wear, Eythan Dax." "An unexpected obstacle, my Lord." Eythan Dax's eyes were locked on the floor. "I dealt with it." "And our message?" Eythan thought of his prized sword. His eye twitched as he nodded. "Delivered, as instructed." An icy chuckle filled the air. "Excellent. Now all we need do is wait." "Have your men make ready. We're about to have guests, and they may not be polite." Eythan Dax rose to his feet; one arm folded against his breastplate as he bowed. "As you command, Lord Septimus." Edited August 10, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Now Listening To: "The Wild Card" - Really Slow Motion Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted August 10, 2018 Share Posted August 10, 2018 (edited) Spoiler Quote They heard the buzzing rattle of the Regulators long before they heard the laughter beyond. Quote "We're all killers." Kael replied fiercely. "She just happens to enjoy it more than most." I have almost forgotten the first impressions I wrote about Isolde when this whole journey started. I didn't exactly hit the nail in the head, if I recall correctly, but pretty close. With the person closest to her gone, I wonder how much of that "mask" is going to fall off and reveal what she really is like. Does she really just enjoy the fights, or she outright revels in the suffering of her foes? Beneath the surface, is there a bloodlust that she keeps bottled up? But... if yes, then for how much longer? How much of her "died" with Vern? In her current state, will the others have to restrain her from doing something she might regret later? So, Septimus is indeed still kicking, one Continuity later, based on that flashback to the Orokin era. I wonder whose skin he is wearing... 🤔 Current bet is on Sohren, as he seems to be missing from the picture entirely, as far as the kids are concerned... knocks on wood Although they are busy shooting up the Corpus, I detect some charge/tension in the air among these kids. No, I don't mean Volt's electricity. 🙂 Edited August 10, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 13, 2018 Author Share Posted August 13, 2018 (edited) "Clear the logs. Everything. I want it wiped. Gone, you understand? There was no colony. There was no uprising. There is nothing there other than what the scavvers will stumble across, years from now. A wreck. A wasted scrapyard. A cinder, if needs be." - Nef Anyo, addressing field logs received from the Dominant Position -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Volt twisted the machete as he wrenched the blade free; letting the crewman's corpse tumble down and join so many others below. Kael looked back up the slope. More and more drones piled over the top of the ziggurat. Filling the horizon. Burrowing clean through its corridors and emerging through the other side. The Tenno had abandoned the channelling confines of the corridors to save Isolde. Instinctually it was natural. Estranged or not, she was one of their own. Tactically it was an error. For all their killing power the Moa swamped them; feet lashing; emitters spitting. They tried to dam the flood. Atlas had built a bulwark across the face of the ziggurat; warping its smooth lines with ridged masses of ruptured stone. Kael had done the rest; hemming their flanks in with a line of shimmering shields that, while effective at absorbing the sheets of plasma fire, would not hold forever, Isolde's Repeaters felled the Corpus in droves. Gone was the laughter now. She sweated as Mesa snapped from one target to the next. Still ever more came, eager to crush the Tenno against the side of the slope. Moa leapt forth over the top of their improvised wall. Atlas and Mirage awaited them, tearing them off their feet. Stabbing and chopping and stamping. Ammunition had long run out; their plasma weapons overheating to the point of melting. Now it was blade work and bruising hand to hand. Still more came. An endless tide of shrieking metal. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- "All hands, stand by." Stren's throaty voice echoed over the com line. Both crews stood ready. The weapons crews shivered at their posts; wrapped against the freezing air as the barges droned toward the conflict. Respirators and environment masks were mandatory. Not enough holes in the hull had been plugged. The wind whistled freely through the hold; tugging at sleeves and buffeting any loose strapping. "Firing solutions piping to your stations… now." The scavengers rustled into action; cranking manual winches and sighting the cruder cannon by eye. Turret batteries swivelled on their axis. Targets were pre-sighted. Final adjustments were made. "Stand by." There was an electronic squelch as the com-line cut out momentarily. All they could hear was their own nervous breathing; harsh and loud in the confines of their masks. The ziggurat drifted into view below. A surging storm of plasma bolts, electricity and eldritch power that raged across its surface. "Mines check." Stren's voice buzz-clicked. In the belly hold of the Severance Package, Chief Engineer Lorna Rone and a fellow crewman took positions at either end of the release ramp. Between them were stacks of old power cores; improvised explosives and unexploded munitions. Anything that could be conceivably gathered, piled and weaponised clogged the cargo hold. Even the old shield core had been rigged; tied to a transmitter that would trigger the wider detonation sequence. They flashed each-other a thumbs up. "Mines… standby." The scavver-tech lacked polish or sophistication. It was a frontier craft, built for frontier work. Manual levers were hooked into latches securing the release ramp. Lorna braced herself for the order, shoulder pressed to the lever. "Now!" Both levers were hauled. There was a metallic chunk as the release locks snapped open. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was only in a momentary snatch-glimpse through the melee that Kael spied the Severance Package rumbling in overhead. The cascade of tumbling objects that rained from its belly like silent hail. "Down!" Kael roared. The Tenno threw their Frames flat against the stone bulwark. At the last second Kael used the last of his power to throw up one final shield. He held it over his head. Braced himself. Nothing happened. There was no explosion. Not at first. The Severance's minelayer was an archaic wreck. Mines and scrap refuse fused with IED's rained down; bouncing noisily off the stonework and crushing drones beneath with the sheer weight of the descending impact. They dribbled freely across the far side of the ziggurat. Or perhaps not. Kael looked up once more. The dispersal was not random at all. Far from it; the Severance made a complicated series of micro-adjustments in its course; pivoting just so. The ziggurat was being seeded with careful deliberation. The drones possessed limited intelligence; they squawked as they hopped to and fro, unsettled by the metallic downpour; proximity sensors overloaded; the Tenno temporarily forgotten in the face of the unusual distraction. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Telin frowned. They could feel the Severance palpably lighten. "What's happening?!" Stren had no words. He was stabbing the trigger sequence; openly sweating. Either the transmitter to the munitions was malfunctioning, or the cores were failing to erupt from the concussive impact as they bounced off the ziggurat. The hold was almost empty. Pohld spared a glance back at him, shrilling: "Stren, for fug's sake man! You had one job!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Tenno stayed pressed flat against the network. The noise of chunking debris was maddening. But there was no explosion, no dramatic kick-off. After a moment they looked at each other, hesitant; still pressed flat against the deck. Even the encroaching Corpus seemed perplexed, staring up at the curious vomiting barge. Sara alone rose to her feet. Mirage cocked her head to one side, fists planted on her hips. "Huh, is that it?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------- They were all yelling at him now. Stren was roaring blind curses, spitting at his console in abject frustration. He brought his fist down on the console, once. The faulty transmitter connected with a cheerful ping. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- There was a shockwave. Fully half of Watch Control disappeared in a mushroom cloud of blinding light. The far side of the ziggurat simply vanished. Then more explosions, as the isolated duds triggered in a rippling, trembling chain reaction. The Boardroom at the summit was obliterated instantly. The detonation was all but visible from orbit. The shockwave flattened the Tenno; all save Atlas, who fell to his knees, such was the staggering force of the blast. Transference Static threatened to rip them from their Frames entirely. Then the sound caught up with the fury of the violence. It hit them with a slap. A deafening roar. The Frames spasmed; systems overwhelmed by a fury that tested even their ab-human endurance. The slope trembled. Entire sections of the façade simply shucked its surface coating; a descending tide of sifting rubble that passed either side of the Tenno's makeshift shelter. Drones were washed away by the surging tide of toppling rockwork. EMP did the rest. Drones clattered to the floor in spreading wave of flopping artifices. Watch Control had been reduced to a blackened cinder; a cross-section of exposed rooms and twisted rubble; robbed of all shape or form. The Tenno blinked. Only their side of the ziggurat remained relatively intact, and even then it was a scorched mess. "What the hell was that?!" Sara croaked, as Isolde's Frame hauled Mirage upright. Their shields sparked fitfully as they reasserted themselves. Kael clambered to his feet, swiping charred pieces of drones from his shoulder plating. Each of the Tenno were caked in sooty grime. Charred flakes flitted down over them in an ashen blizzard. "Reinforcements." Kael chuckled, as Volt dusted itself down. Sara was livid, all but deafened by the explosion. Mirage stomped her foot; channelling her Operator's indignation. "Reinforcements?! They damn nearly killed us!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The scopes were awash with smoke. Visibility was gone. "Void's Teeth…" Kelpo blinked through the scope. "You think we over did it?" There was the briefest of breaks in the oily fog. Large parts of the Citadel were simply gone. Broken drones layered its surface; their instrumentation pulverised by the shockwave. Stren was still wheezing, tears rolling down his face. "Solid hit!" He cackled. "Always hated that place!" There was no time to celebrate. Corpus manufacturing was cut-price, but not without in-built redundancies. The stricken army began to recover; the surviving drone horde slowly rebooting and groggily finding its feet once more. Many limped lamely or simply fell back over, giving out. But for all the numbing violence, it was clear that the Board's army would not so easily be defeated. It was now or never. "Light 'em up!" Telin cried. "Hit 'em with everything we've got!" Stren picked up the com-horn. "All hands, weapons free!" Turrets chattered to life, steaming into the Corpus army freely. Fire licked freely from the barrels of rotary cannons, as they raked churning beams in criss-crossing patterns across the dazed army. In the distance, the Forward Transaction deployed its mine layer; carpet bombing the beleaguered Corpus invasion force as they stumbled through the hell-smoke. A lightshow of Corpus munitions struck out, venting into the Board's forces with ruthless intent. Return fire was sporadic, scattered. Those crewmen still alive on the ground were entirely shell-shocked, stumbling through the haze in a stupor; ears bleeding. Senior crewmen went hoarse trying to marshal them. Hauling their fellows upright, bawling orders that conflicted from one second to the next. Their unit to unit communications were shot. Drone coordination was fried. All was confusion. The only light sources were the rig-lights of the crewmen, and the probing searchlights coming from the marauding barges above. That and the downpour of tracer fire, which blazed like hellfire through curtaining black smoke. The Corpus officers slowly began rallying their fellow crewmen. Shapes flitted through the mire toward them. Too fast to track; elusive, fleeting. The Tenno cut them down; blades biting. Whispering nightmares that emerged, struck; and then vanished again. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Telin sat forward in his chair, staring at the charred slag that had once been the ziggurat. It was as though some terrible god had taken a scoop to the side of the Temple, and dug at the Upper Tier with thinly disguised greed. They had definitely overdone it. The scavenger shook himself, snapping out of his stunned silence. "Take us in." He ordered. "We're on a clock here." Pohld licked his lips, tipping the control yolk. The Severance dipped into a steep dive. There was a lurching sensation as the Severance swept in low over the charred blast radius. Turrets droned and rattled, steaming drones off their feet. The crew slammed open firing ports; squeezing off shots into the horde with small arms fire. There was little aiming required, such was the density of targets available. Impulse drives pulsed and wobbled as the barge slew to a halt, its belly all but tickling the ruined surface. The hull began to shudder from the multitude of impacts impacting the outer shield. It was their backup system; one ill-suited to for prolonged abuse. The Forward Transactionrove overhead; turrets describing a pulsing tide of spearing light as it lay down cover fire. Direct coms were still soup; awash with static. Fortunately the Severance had been designed with more primitive redundancies of its own; a by-product of its looted heritage. Telin scooped up the old fashioned com-horn, broadcasting on the ship's PA. "Kael if you can hear me haul ass!" He waited, the com-horn in one hand. There was a series of thumps as heavy objects landed on the roof of the barge from improbable angles. The plating banged twice. Telin frowned, looked up. "That you, kid?" Another confirmation thump, more insistent. "Works for me." Telin shrugged. He nodded at Pohld. "Get us out of here Pohld." Pohld was sweating. The shield system was taking a pummelling. "Gladly." The Severance Package's engines blasted as it took off at maximum speed; bound for the horizon. Kelpo pulled a switch. Volt and the other Warframes tumbled in from the top hatch at the rear of the bridge, landing in a clattering heap. The Warframes were scorched and blackened; filthy with soot. Kael was the first to emerge from his Frame in a flash of light, his clothing remarkably pristine in contrast with the Frame behind him. His face was sheened with sweat, as Kelpo helped him up. "We never asked for a rescue." he breathed, "But thank you." "A rescue?" Telin arched an eyebrow and feigned surprise as he twisted about in his command chair. "Hear that Stren? You missed." They laughed; as the Severance and its sister ship gunned for the horizon with all speed. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the depths of the Lower Tier, a great and terrible force took a hold of the Central Elevator and shook it. The lights went out. The massive elevator ground to a jolting halt, throwing them off their feet. Murmured cries of alarm filled the air. The only light was from the startled faces of the mechanised; as they blinked blue confusion in the dark. They groped about in the dark, blind with panic. Something had struck the colony, hard. It was not an orbital strike. The Board wouldn't risk their investment, not unless the situation was beyond repair. But Neera had no intention of sitting around waiting for things to deteriorate further. Neera was on her feet before most of them. Orbital bombardment or not, there was no way she was sitting in this death trap any longer. She raised her voice above the chaos. "C'mon! We have to move. Everybody off!" They clambered for the small emergency egress tunnels that lined the edge of the elevator shaft. Neera found herself directing the evacuation, helping the more addled survivors collect themselves as they clambered in one by one. She looked over at Sparks, at the back of the procession. The burly welder seemed distraught as he looked around. "The trader." The Solaris rebel shook his head ruefully. "He's gone." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aboard the Dominant Position, Captain Theo Plun watched in sullen silence as fully a third of his forces vanished from the tactical display. The initial explosion had decimated the assault force. EMP had rendered many of the surviving units combat ineffective. That left him a combat force hovering around fifty percent efficiency, give or take. The dropships had largely been recalled; one of the few saving graces in this entire debacle. Captain Plun considered the disposition of his forces. Still more than enough to take the colony, under the circumstances. Nevertheless, protocol was clear. "Prepare a second wave." The Captain instructed Lieutenant Sel, crossing to the viewport. "Full production cycle. Drone units; the more you can give me the better." Plun clasped his hands at the small of his back. He thought of the Tenno. The blast should have killed them. Must have killed them. Even so, he was an investor, not a gambler. Risk would be mitigated. The Void demanded as much. "Send word to the Board. Requesting contingency approval for planetary bombardment. Standard containment spread." "Is that a bit extreme, Sir?" Sel asked hesitantly. "Our orders were to secure the colony, not destroy it." "There are Tenno in our deployment zone." Captain Plun replied sternly. "Nothing is too extreme." Plun's eyes narrowed, as he mused to himself. "By the Void, we will take this colony, or bury them in its ashes." Edited August 14, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 15, 2018 Author Share Posted August 15, 2018 "What do you remember of The Collapse? Where were you, when it happened? It was to be our moment of victory. Our Grand Celebration. The Sentient were broken; finally vanquished by the Void killers we had so carefully crafted, after so many disastrous setbacks. Our greatest triumph. Our most ruthless creation. Our crowning mistake. The blood was still warm on the floor of the Outer Terminus when it began. The Grineer in open rebellion. The Technocyte Plague running rampant; entirely unchecked. Those who could salvage the situation were too few. Our leaders, for the most part, were dead. Noble Ballas was nowhere to be found. I had assumed him slain, like so many others. The Tenno had betrayed us; the Seven butchered with thinly disguised hate. Our ruling council cut down; decapitated in a single savage stroke. A Grand Betrayal; one that buried a civilisation; and damned us all." - Musings on the Fall of the Orokin Empire, Author Unknown -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Severance and the Forward Transaction flew away from the smoking ruin of the ziggurat with all speed. They had no destination. "Pardon me for asking the obvious question." Sara cleared her throat. "But where are we going?" "Anywhere but here." Telin replied. Privately he had been wondering the same thing. "You're running away?" Sara was incredulous. "Have you a better plan?!" Telin shot back. Smoke churned up all around the two barges as they sped through the ruins of the Upper Tier. It blanketed the city; a layer of impermeable smog that billowed and parted as the barges sped through. All was ruin. If the colony had once resembled an ornate candlestick, its top layer was a melted mess; ugly and misshapen. Skeletal blown out buildings rose out of the smog like headstones. Plumes of boiling smoke rose up from the bombed out data stacks and washed across the viewport. Pohld kept his eyes on the instrumentation, lips taut. The smoke afforded them cover from the recovering Corpus army, but there was the ever present-risk of colliding with the architecture. The silence was deafening. Telin felt the Tenno's eyes on him. He kept his eyes on the viewport as he spoke. "Look, I admire the whole noble child warrior monk schtick, I really do. But let's deal with the facts here. We barely got out of there. We've barely any ammo. Our shields? All but toast. And the mine trick? That's a strictly one-time gig." "We're in the salvage business, not miracles." Kelpo agreed. "Sara's not asking for miracles." Kael replied patiently. "Only to let us finish what we started." Telin sighed, twisting in the command chair to face Kael. His face was lined with exhaustion. "Let's assume for a moment that staying in this fight was in any way possible, Kael. That somehow we had some way of meaningfully stopping the Board from simply filling the sky with more dropships. Let's be clear: this is ship isn't space-worthy. Not even before it was riddled with holes; and certainly not now." "You're right." Isolde stepped forward, eyes narrowed at the sifting fog ahead. "It's not." She pointed behind him, one hand resting on the back of the command throne. "But that is." The smoke parted. The Orokin barge awaited them on the Northern Landing Pad. A majestic, sleeping behemoth fully three times the size of the Severance. A gilded brute. "What the hell is that thing?" Telin blinked. "You mean you haven't noticed the gilded monster sitting on the edge of the Upper Tier?" Stren raised an eyebrow. "Need your eyes checked, lad." Telin shot him a look. Stren coughed. "Erm, Captain." "Let's just say I've been a little preoccupied. What am I looking at?" "Unfinished business." Isolde said, her expression grave, "Why I came back." Telin smiled politely at that. "… yeah, not helping. One more time, with less Tenno mystique?" Isolde ignored him. She turned and looked at the other Tenno. "Time is short. A brief word, if I may." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- They convened in private, in an empty hold at the rear of the ship. Their Frames lined the edges of the chamber, silent statutes; heads bowed. Isolde paced before them, gripping the golden nikana. She felt Doric's glare upon her; hated the fleeting, uncertain look Sara gave her whenever they made eye contact. A thousand emotions roiled beneath her surface. They were friends. Or had been, once. Damnit, it wasn't meant to be like this. Kael said nothing. So much remained a mystery to him. How had he found himself on Venus? What had struck him down, and why? He bit his tongue, wary of the leaden tension that draped the air. For all the clarity that had returned to him, so much remained elusive; wrapped in the fog of ancient memory. Isolde heaved a sigh, then began, addressing Doric and Sara in particular. "I know you don't trust me. For doing what I did. For leaving, when I thought the task was done." The others said nothing. She continued. "You have to understand. I wanted revenge. For what they did. For the lives they stole from us. And what they planned to do." "And you sought it alone." Doric's eyes were slits. Sara studied the floor, desperately wanting to be somewhere else. "What did you want me to do?" Isolde stood tall, arms spread; incredulous. "Sohren was gone. Kael; lost to us. The other Tenno were in open rebellion. The Empire was falling. We knew Septimus' wretched contingency. We had to act!" Sara had gone entirely pale. She crossed her arms, her chin tucked against her chest. A war she could handle. But this row had been coming for centuries. "And I asked you to wait." Doric stepped closer to her,. "To stand with us. To find Kael; act as one! As we agreed! As we prepared for!" "There was no time!" Isolde blazed. "A moment's delay and the House would have been gone forever! I saw my chance to bury them and I took it!" "It didn't give you licence to murder!" Doric thundered, words all but spitting "To butcher!" "Would that I butchered them sooner!" Isolde snarled back as she stepped closer. "Sohren might still be with us!" "How dare you—" "Enough!" Kael blazed. The lights in the hold flickered. They all shut up. Looked at him. Doric and Isolde were nose to nose, fit to kill one another. Kael looked at them all in confused frustration. His expression pained, all but pleading. "Can somebody please tell me what's going on?" Both Doric and Isolde fell silent, their faces a mask of guilt. It was then that Sara stepped between them, pushing them aside; and began to speak, quietly. Of the end times. Of how they got here. 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(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 18, 2018 Author Share Posted August 18, 2018 (edited) "The War is ended. There is to be a celebration. I will have no part in it. My Continuity grows near. Damned be the hour, but I must move to the Temple on Earth, and quickly. Time grows short. This flesh is frail. No bartering for me. No auctions or bidding. The work of the House Eternal is too important. There is much to rebuild, so much more to document. We Orokin will survive this war. We will flourish. In the end only one could be chosen. I have made my decision." - Vitruvian 2-3 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Then. Isolde is a patient hunter. Even so, her patience has its limits. She sits quietly in the dark, legs folded beneath her. The Dax presence has relaxed somewhat. The Cadre keep entirely to themselves, leaving the Tenno be. The House Eternal does not seat itself in one fixed location. It changes every few months. Hidden towers and fortresses lie scattered across the Empire. Of all the many citadels they have occupied throughout the War, the Mars Bastion is her least favourite. It is an ancient fortress; carved into the very mountain itself. Retainers sweep the floors, robes swishing across the cool stone as they fight an endless battle against the unstinting tide of sand that blows in from the wastes. Outside the air is arid and pitiless, the dusty canyons and howling winds sifting stinging sheets of sands through the open windows that mark the ancient monastery's walls. Isolde prefers the darkness of the Grotto. It is a cavern at the pit of the fortress. Orokin engineers have worked hard, coaxing the underground spring to the surface. The water splashes down the cool rock, a pattering sound that soothes her anxious mind. There are five regular indentations in the wall. The Liset cling to the edge of the surface of the fortress, hidden in the shadows of the deep canyon. Ready for deployment at a moment's notice. Sohren's is missing. This is not unusual. With Trainer's passing, Sohren often serves as Lord Septimus' avatar, representing him in matters of state and custodial affairs where the Lord of the House Eternal cannot be in person. Only Mesa accompanies her in the dark. This is part habit, part precaution. She does not trust Eythan Dax, or his men. The lack of a war has led the Tenno in separate directions. Doric is lost in his books now. Isolde knows better than to distract him. Endless study is his gift, not hers. She waits by her Frame, anxious to keep it close should Eythan Dax and his ilk elevate their actions beyond mere surveillance. She does what only a patient hunter can. She bides her time. She distracts herself. Isolde sets the Tarot on the deck again, scraping each leathery card against the hard stone floor in careful, deliberate sequence. The Nine of Quills. Fate, ever-changing. The Four of Chains. The ties that bind. The Fool's Eye. Her hand trembles as she sets out the next three cards. Knows their faces even before they are revealed. The Yuvan. The Tower, inverted. And finally, that grinning skull. Death. It is the same sequence. Always the same. The set had been an ironic gift. One from her Mother. Her parents were scientists. People of science and learning. Superstition was beneath them. And yet every time she sets the cards out, the sequence repeats. She scoops the cards up, reshuffles with a sense of ever-mounting dread. And deals again. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sara claps her hands. The musicians in the halls bow as one. The Archimedeans and the Lorists cheer and holler. The revelry is constrained, given the nature of The House Eternal, but celebrations are nevertheless in order. The War is over, after all. They have won. Word of the Grand Celebration is abuzz, leaving the courtiers and retainers breathless with excitement. The Tenno are to be honoured in a grand ceremony. It is the talk of the Rail. The Seven themselves will be present. Sara knows her Cell will not attend. Cannot attend. They are of The House Eternal. Theirs is a secret life, of service left unseen. Still, she enjoys the mood that has left the soldiers and scholars around her buoyant. After so many years of endless struggle, of so many battles and unstinting horror, their hard work is finally at an end. She rises from her chair, sparing a glance at the corridor beyond. She is the only Tenno present. The others are unsuited to life without conflict. One in particular worries her. She sighs and makes for the kitchens. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- It is only when Sara places a warm mug on the table and pushes it steaming into Doric's hands that he stirs from his slumber. He blinks. It is morning in The House Eternal. How long has he slept? Twenty minutes? An hour? Dust motes twirl and dance a giddy jig in the great arched windows that form skylights to the Library. Doric rubs at his eyes, massaging the heavy bags beneath. For all his power and manifold gifts; he is, ultimately, human. His calloused fingers are smudged with ink, which has filled a neat pile of journals and diaries as tall as any of the heaps around him. Knowledge surrounds him. Stacks of learning rendered in as many forms as there are languages. Data slates and gilded Vitruvian, ancient tomes and rumpled scrolls. Gathered too is a sea of endless mugs and Martian clay ware. Some filled, others with dregs of caffeine or flavoured lemon water. Sara has been clearing them as they pile up, "Emptying the hutch", as she calls it. Doric knows he is a disgrace, that Trainer would take him to task over his dishevelled appearance, but there is so much to learn, and so little time. Continuity. The word taunts him. Endless, infinite – but how so? In what context? Whatever the secret is, it is closely guarded. He is working in over two dozen languages; many forgotten. Cracking cyphers and riddles. Deciphering texts and tablets long faded. Interpreting ancient poems that might as well be riddles, such is the antiquity of their wording. Still the answer eludes him. There is a reason for this. He finds gaps in the documents. Intentional censorship. Pages torn, scrolls strategically missing select pieces of parchment; Vitruvian carefully expunged, redacted. For all its knowledge, there are answers in the Library that the Orokin do not wish others to know. A secret, sacrosanct. Forbidden. Doric presses on, building a picture: stalking the answer he seeks by framing the gap at its centre with the knowledge around it. He is close. So very close. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kael meets Sohren in the sparring chamber at the top of The House Eternal. He is dressed for their morning session: a simple black body-glove, a blunted skana in his hands. His hands and feet are exposed. They have moved away from wooden weapons, trusting each other with true steel, however dull. The chamber is on the summit of The House Eternal: an open air auditorium flanked by dark red stone, cut into the top of the mountain. The stonework of the floor is of Earthen import, arrayed in a pattern around the Endless Eye of the House Eternal. The endless wastes are visible through the gaps in the pillars, a magnificent view of undulating rock and sloping dunes. The stonework is warm beneath his feet. Sohren is dressed quite differently today. He wears a ceremonial suit of gilded armour, more comparable to a Dax honour guard. An artic white cloak drapes across his shoulders; pinned in place by a shining silver broach. It flashes brilliantly in the sun as he turns to face Kael. Sohren looks imperious, every inch the heroic warrior of old. "What is the occasion, Friend Sohren?" Kael smiles, laughing. "Should I have worn a robe?" Sohren returns the smile, but it is fleeting, distracted. "I can't train with you, Brother. Not today." Kael raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Afraid I'll school you?" Sohren shoots him a scowl. "Now, now. Trainer taught you better than to spout such nonsense." His expression grows serious. "But I must speak with you, if I may. A favour." Kael nods readily. "Of course. Anything." Sohren smiles. "I am leaving. For how long, I cannot say." "The Ceremony?" Kael grins, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly. "You have been selected?" Sohren shakes his head, smiling sadly. "We serve the House Eternal, Kael. Such glory is not ours to witness." Kael frowns. "A mission, then?" "Of sorts." Sohren offers the merest shrug, armour clicking with the gesture, "In truth I cannot say. But I have a duty to you, and the others, as much as any Lord." Sohren produces a sword, swathed in velvet crimson. "My father's sword. Yours now." Sohren smiled at his friend, "You have command of the Cell until I return. Keep them focused. Keep them together. I worry for them, now that the War is done." Kael takes the sword in his hands. It is a gilded nikana: silver laced with gold. Kael shakes his head, marvelling at its craftsmanship as he draws it briefly from its sheath. It is perfectly weighted; the metal folded countless times. Sohren has wielded it in a thousand battles. Countless enemies of the Empire have met its final, biting touch. "I cannot accept this." Kael breathes. Sohren smiles reproachfully. "You can and you shall. Quarrel no further; my time is short." "But what if you need it?" "I am with our Lord, surrounded by the finest Dax." Sohren laughed. "Go on, it's yours." The blade clacks back into its sheath smoothly. Kael takes a step back. He bows, deeply, the sword close to his chest. "I accept your gift with thanks, Tenno Sohren. Go with Glory." Sohren returns the bow, fist folded across his chest. "Go with Glory, Tenno Kael." Dax have appeared at the edge of the arena. Eythan Dax nods at Sohren. It is time. He is expected. Sohren looks at them, then back at Kael. Sohren offers a curt nod and a smile. "Well then. Until our paths next cross." Kael returns the nod, as solemn as ever. There is nothing further to say. Sohren turns and heads for the dark tunnel at the edge of the Arena. The Dax fold in behind him, a royal escort eight strong. Kael watches them go. Sohren is the first to be swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel. Kael never sees him again. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Doric turns the pages of the next chapter, heaving a sigh despite himself. This is futile. His current book is ponderously written, obsessed with the banal and the arcane. Rituals of the Meso Era. A tired tome, even to one as versed in academia as Doric. A loose leaf sifts to the floor. He frowns, picks it up. It is an illustration. Rendered in harsh charcoal and crude crayon, its lines harsh and angular. Whether it comes from the book or from a separate text the illustration is arresting. It depicts a single figure, diminutive in height. The figure stands atop a shallow pedestal, surrounded on all sides by hunched, snarling figures. Elder wrecks and haggard crones, they bicker and bid, casting shekels and bidding vast fortunes. It is an exchange of power, a bidding contest between rival parties. It is an auction. There is something forbidden about the drawing. Something dangerous. It is illicit, heretical. The symbol denotated at the base of the small figures face is known to him. He has seen it before, countless times in his research. Always in connection with the Orokin. Always in reference to the Continuity they always mention, but never explain. Doric bolts upright. Paper flies as he scrambles for his notes. The same word, over and over. Seldom explained. Eventually he finds a translation he can work with. Yuvan. Ancient Hindu. The translations are diverse and varied, but the same two words crop up; over and over. Young, healthy. Doric looks at the elder crones, then at the single figure they squabble over. Around them all, that etched symbol. Framing the entire picture in jagged markings. Continuity. A pit opens in his stomach. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- It is mid-morning. There has been no word from the site of the Grand Celebration. It was to be a crowning moment of glory for the honoured Tenno. By rights it should have been broadcast to all and sundry by now. Instead nothing. Just a lingering silence. The retainers and staff wait by the broadcast monitors, exchange uncertain glances. A half hour passes. The retainers emit a deflated sigh. There must be a technical fault with the base's transmitter. The Dax confer privately, exchanging glances. Unbeknownst to the Tenno of the House Eternal, there is a seismic shift in the Empire's status quo. Orders are given. Sara knows none of this. She resumes her rounds, visiting Doric once more. She is bound for the kitchens, fists full with bunches of clanking mugs when she hears the barge depart. It rises up into the air above the citadel, drives thrumming at maximum speed. Sara finds what little entertainment she can. She watches it leave. It is Lord Septimus' personal ship. It thrums into the sky, engines pulsing. She watches it leave through the window, disappearing into the cloudless sky. She senses a sudden feeling of sadness, and cannot understand why. It is a curious feeling. Perhaps it is because she is not aboard. Perhaps because she is missing out on some secretive adventure, that is not for her to know or experience. Or perhaps, years from now, she will look back and realise that this was the moment when their lives change forever. She hears footsteps sprinting behind her. It is Doric, breathless. A single tattered page flaps wildly in his hand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kael works through his kata with his practice sword, Sohren's blade is tied at his waist. It is too grand a blade for simple drill work. The barge has long disappeared into the sky. He watched it go, a hand cupped over his brow to shield from the beating sun. That was then. He resumes his drills, honing his skills for the time that he may duel his friend again. The sun is high in the sky now. It is early afternoon on Mars. Kael's brow is sheened with sweat. The blade moves slowly, describing a deliberate flow interspersed with sharp cuts that split the air and whistle. He stops mid flow. Many eyes are watching him from the shadows of the tunnel. The Dax soldiers that emerge are not the same warriors who accompanied Sohren that morning. Far from it. This is no honour guard. They are dressed in field gear. Stark and utilitarian. They wear no insignia, no identifying marks of any kind. Leering Oni masks rob their faces of any expression. Kael is Tenno. He senses the tension even as they file out into the practice area. Kael turns to face them. "Well met." Kael nods a greeting. "A fine day for a bit of sparring." They do not reply. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There are two of them. He glances over his shoulder. No, four. They have fanned out in a circle. Surrounding him. The Tenno watches them carefully. The Dax draw their blades as one. Long form nodachi; streamline blades hissing from their sheathes in a single smooth motion. Kael silently notes the nature of the blades. Razor-sharp, killing edges all. Far longer than his dull training sword. Trainer's words stay with him, even now. A Dax does not draw unless they intend to kill. Kael does what any Tenno would. He flourishes his practice blade up before his nose: a classic fencing salute. He bows, ever respectful. As his other hand closes around the hilt of Sohren's blade, cinched at the small of his back. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the Grotto there is a burst of commotion. One of the Lisets detaches from its moorings. Canyon winds howl through the gap, sending the cards flying. Isolde leaps to her feet, shielding her eyes; dark robes flapping. Tarot cards swirl all around her. She blinks as the environment seals entomb her once more in soothing darkness. She recognises the space the Liset has departed. It is Kael's. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- At first Kael intends only to incapacitate. He favours the practice sword; flowing between his opponents. The blade reflects strike after strike, turning aside attacks that surely intend to kill. He rolls and whirls from one opponent to the next: a whirling blur. He checks their guard; punishing his would be assassins with snatching hits that dent armguards and flash at their faces. The Dax are Dax. Master swordsmen, every bit as skilled as he. Even so their numbers grant them overconfidence. They rush him as one. No less than three blades are caught in a lock with his own. The metal peals as it struggles. Physically they outmatch him, man for man. "Final warning." The Tenno pants, sweat beading his brow. "Desist." The fourth man slashes at him. Kael rolls away at the last second, shrieking his blade free. Not fast enough. Warm blood spits on burning stone. It was a glancing hit, but the Dax have caught his bicep. The Tenno snarls in pain, reacts. Sohren's blade leaves it sheath in a whipping strike. A charging Dax topples to the floor, a geyser of blood jetting from the stump that was once his neck. Kael whirls both blades around to criss-cross before him, sinking low in a crouching guard. His lupine war stare takes them in, eyes brimming with controlled fury, nostrils flaring as blood pours down his arm. The other Dax freeze, exchanging glances. They raise their guard, warier now. They fan out, encircling him once more. The merciless sun beats down upon them, relentless. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Doric grabs Sara by both arms, panting. Sweat soaks his tunic. He has sprinted fully three levels of the fortress to reach her. "Continuity! I know what it is!" Doric gasps. We have to warn the others!" Sara is taken aback. Doric is a frenzied wreck. He had not slept properly in three days. None of what he says makes even the slightest semblance of sense. She gets three words in. "Kael? Drilling. Why?" "Isolde?!" "The Grotto." Sara shakes her head. "What's the matter? What's wrong with you?!" Doric ignores her. "Sohren, where's Sohren?!" "I've no idea. With Kael maybe?" She grabs his wrists, trying again. "Why?" Before he can react further, there is a clatter of armoured feet. Dax soldiers line both ends of the corridor. Their faces are hidden by snarling masks. Trainer has taught them the turbulent history of the Empire. The various ages: from ancient Lith to the early Axi. Sara is as rebellious as a Tenno can be, but she is a quick student. She remembers her lessons well. The Empire has not been without its internal struggles, throughout its many ages. Internecine warfare, attempted coups and countless betrayals. Orokin history is often penned in the blood of tyrants, or traitors. These Dax have masked their faces, as any assassin would. Their intentions are clear. Sara tightens her grip on the bunched mugs. Doric stands tall behind her. Gone is the fatigue now. The Tenno stand back to back: Doric's hands raised in a resting guard, Sara and her collection of clay ware. They have no real weapons. They are penned in on both sides. The Dax on Sara's side rush them first, hoping to drive them backward into their comrades waiting blades. Sara hurls the mugs into the air. The air shudders as the Void slaps the air; shattering the clay into a thousand lancing fragments. The Dax shy back as the shards glance off their armour; skittering off their bracers. Sara and Doric take the momentary distraction to charge: angling punches at throats and kicking at the soft sections of their armour. Doric's beaked fist catches a windpipe. A Dax falls, choking. Sara draws a blade free from one Dax's boot, buries it deep into the next man's throat. Blood dribbles from the eyeholes of his mask, as he falls; his whole body juddering. The Tenno sprint free, exploiting the gap. Clattering armoured cleats reverberate against the high stone walls, as the rest of the Dax give chase. They round the corner. Mesa stands in the doorway, Regulators low at her side. Doric yelps and hauls Sara into a side archway at the last second. There is a dizzying storm of rapid fire shots. A clatter of armour as bodies topple. Mesa appears, wreathed in gun smoke. Isolde's voice is rendered harsh and stern through the Warframe's filters as she looks down at them. "The Grotto. Move." Sara bolts for her Warframe. Doric hesitates. He can feel Isolde's rage simmering in the air around the Frame, infusing the Void around her. She has to know. "Sohren and Kael. You have to warn them." Mesa's mask then is a silvered helmet, not dissimilar to an ancient Conquistador. It betrays no expression as she listens. "I've discovered what Continuity is." Doris says. "How exactly the Orokin live forever." And so he tells her. Of the parades of children; a shivering procession that winds its way high up into the Mountain Pass, to a forbidden fortress on Ancient Earth. Of the Chosen that is selected, the Yuvan. Of the bidding that ensues. The pithy bartering and twisted arcane rituals that follow. The more he explains, the more Mesa's fists curl into tightened balls. How the children's minds are stolen from them, their spirits crushed as Transference obliterates their very essence, replacing them. The knuckles themselves crack. How the process is repeated, time and time again. Now and forever, pitiless and cruel. The Regulator's reflexively snap into her hands, itching for a target. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kael plays for time he does not have. The Dax know better than to try and brute force him. He is bleeding, but not helpless. The wound on his arm weeps openly, soaking his body glove. That is not enough for his would-be killers. They inch ever closer, probing the outer stretches of his guard. Testing him. Time and time again the blades flash – staccato exchanges of shrieking steel, brief and deadly. One Dax overextends himself. His swordsmanship is excellent. There is no faulting the striking technique or angle of attack. But Kael is lightly armoured, dressed for quick sparring against a fellow Tenno. This grants him a certain speed that far outstrips the armoured Dax. He spins inside the Dax's guard, the training blade turning the Dax's blade high and aside. Sohren's sword flashes, and the Dax is left without a hand. Kael is not finished. He is Tenno. His commitment to the kill is absolute. The training sword is cast aside entirely. Two handed, the golden nikana opens the man's throat, then belly; swift alternating cuts. Then it snaps back around, truncating the man's leg at the ankle. The Dax topples, gurgling. The assassin is still falling when the blade comes down through his chest, slamming clean through the breastplate in a decisive twisting finish. Kael dances back, ripping the blade free and flecking the sandy stone with blood. The young man holds his friend's blade pointed toward the two Dax, fully-extended, as they slowly circle each other. His face is entirely devoid of emotion. That wolf-like stare never blinks. Two against one now. The Dax's teamwork is laudable. They have seen the Tenno's style now; assessed how the boy moves and balances himself. Most Tenno are thought to be physically frail, wholly dependent on their Warframes. Not so a Tenno of the House Eternal. The Dax change their approach: adopting alternating stances that will sorely test Kael's ability to defend. It is a sound tactic, emblematic of their skill and training. In a fair fight, it would surely work. Kael has no intention of fighting fair. He grunts as he burns his cut arm shut with the Void, his vision swimming as the flesh cauterises. Then he intentionally lowers his guard. He closes his eyes, waiting. The Dax see the feint for what it is. They tense, expecting some trick or subterfuge. The Tenno waits, breathing deeply. Listening with every sense. The taller Dax strikes first. His blade cleaves forward, whooping as it splits the air. The golden nikana clatters to the stone floor. The Tenno has vanished. The Dax frowns, spinning about, uncertain. He glances left and right, his blade at high guard. The golden nikana rattles at his feet, between his legs, abandoned. Kael reappears from the Void behind the Dax, crouched low. The nikana rips upward; flaring with eldritch power as the Tenno's eyes blaze. The Dax flops apart in two separate directions. Kael doesn't wait for the blood to settle. He is already charging the final Dax, who lunges in return. Steel meets steel as they flash past one another. The Tenno rolls to his feet, recovering. He blinks, patting himself down. He is unscathed. The final Dax stands tall, facing him. Then his foot staggers, once. The Dax crashes over in a heap, face-first; an expanding pool of blood running freely across the tiles. Kael looks up as his Liset finally arrives. He thinks of warning the others. Of Isolde and Doric and Sara: unarmed, scattered throughout the fortress. Of Sohren's parting words. Then thinks of Sohren, surrounded on all sides by Eythan Dax and his Honour Guard. He looks at the bloodied sword in his hands. There is no time. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kael is long gone by the time the other Tenno tear their way through the old monastery, fighting their way to the summit. They find the discarded training sword and the Dax's ravaged bodies scattered across the roof of the temple. The wind whistles freely through the pillars around them, low and plaintive. Sara and Doric look at each other. Then Doric looks back over his shoulder. Isolde too is gone. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kael's Liset emerges from the Rail Gate, shuddering. He sits encased in the Somatic Link. His senses are one with the organics of the ship around him. Once more, he sees through eyes that are not his own. Venus stretches out before him. The surface is a raging extreme of boiling heat and numbing cold. His Ship Cephalon scans on all frequencies, adamant that the signal is here. Where is it? Where have they taken Sohren? The Planetary Defence Grid surrounds Kael. Imposing cylindrical towers, they lay there inert. They have not fired since the Sentient last broached the sector. Debris and asteroids flit by as the Liset weaves its way through the wreckage. So much of it is still fresh from the war. A proximity alert. Kael blinks, seeing the debris moments before his Cephalon takes over; neatly slipping the ship around it. An asteroid of some kind, larger than most. An alarm bleats. His Cephalon, normally so calm and focused, shrills in panic. The debris is no debris at all. The Orokin Barge bears down on them, weapons already powering up. Kael has time to scream before a wall of light envelops them. He is slammed into darkness. The Liset falls in a tail spin towards the planet, its bow alight. The Cephalon is gone, so too are ship systems, any semblance of control. By the time the Tenno awakes, the House Eternal will be long forgotten. And Origin System forever changed. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- They find the aftermath of Isolde's rampage throughout the ancient monastery. It is a slaughter. Bodies choke the halls. Doric recognises Mesa's handiwork: the pinpoint precision of an exacting brand of butchery. And not just the Dax. The courtiers and the musicians, the traders and the cooks. People they have known their entire lives. In mute horror they follow the trail of corpses, back toward the Grotto. None were spared. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- As her Liset departs, Mesa's golden armour is painted in blood. Her Regulators glowing red hot like a furnace. She had stalked the halls in silence, the only sound her deliberate footfalls and the chattering echo of the Regulators against the high vaulted ceiling. The screams linger with her, even now. Isolde doesn't care. They made their choice. Serving the monsters who would wear them as puppets. Each of them are complicit. Each of them deserve justice. Isolde thinks of Sohren, alone on the Barge surrounded by Dax. She thinks of ailing Lord Septimus, of what plans he and their other Gilded Masters had in store, should they too grow sick and old in time. Her resolves only hardens. The task ahead is clear. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Isolde is gone by the time they reach the Grotto. There is no note, no parting message. Kael and Sohren are missing entirely. There is nothing he can do for them. Doric knows the totality of Isolde's rage. In truth he shares it, but he masters it. Isolde must be stopped. For her own sake, if nothing else. Doric resolves to find her first. He and Sara track her Liset's signature. Yet they are too late, always too late. It is a scene that will be repeated throughout the Origin System. Doric and Sara will arrive at the next forgotten fortress, to find the same carnage repeated. Many of these bases are mercifully abandoned before Isolde descends upon them. So many more are not. In each fortress, Doric checks the Library. Where the rest of the corridors are ablaze, their standards defaced, their ayatan sculptures broken and scattered across the floor. Yet the Libraries are always intact. The books are left untouched. Tomes of poetry are even missing: each one a memento of yet another purging slaughter. Left in the heart of each Library is an Ars Bellica set. Each time the pieces shift. Isolde is continuing their game, alone. Doric tracks the moves, discerning her intentions. It is a record. With each fortress destroyed, another piece is removed from the board. Sara watches as Doric examines the particular disposition of the pieces on the board. It is a finishing action; a pincer movement. There is but a single move left to make. Doric examines it sadly, as Mirage steps closer. "What is it?" Sara askes. Doric looks at her, lips taut. He borrows an expression from another game entirely. "Checkmate." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Isolde finds Septimus in a forgotten cave on Earth. The cavern is abandoned. The only guards present have fallen on their swords as one. Their skulls grin up at her from their heaped armour. The Orokin's twisted secret will be taken to their graves. Mesa stalks into the cave. Isolde has stripped her Warframe of its finery. It is a ragged mess; an oilcloth tied over its face where the finer detailing used to be. In time she will rebuild it, reshaping it in an image better suited to the machine-like focus she has dedicated to her bloody quest. Septimus wheezes atop the roughly hewn throne. The machine behind him resembles a fluted organ; golden and splendid, bronzed with time and age. Tubes and pipes of all shapes and sizes snake from it and into his gaunt, hunched frame. He is but a husk, a wretched thing. His hair is lank, his skin droops from the bone. Mesa spares one look over her shoulder. There is a shimmer of light as Isolde steps free of the Frame, padding across the floor of the cave. She rises up to the throne room, looking down at him. She feels no pity, no remorse. Septimus burbles and rasps nonsense up at her. His pupils are milky white, long since without sight. He giggles inanely; the sound a wet shuddering against the tubes that force his mouth open. The Tenno's nose wrinkles. The Golden Lord has fouled himself countless times. He has been left to rot. Isolde calmly her hands upon the tubing. Her fingers clench and twist. She tears the pipe free of his throat. Blood and skittering teeth spatter across the floor. The support organ locks in place with a resounding clunking sigh, finally at rest. Silence fills the chamber once more. Eventually the Tenno sets something at the base of the throne. Then Isolde turns, and walks away. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The cave is overgrown by the time Doric and Sara come across it, six months later. The machinery is threaded with vines, dappled with ivy and speckled moss. Lord Septimus is little more than a grinning skeleton, that has all but grown into the lichen coating the throne. Earth's ravenous plant life spares no one. An Ars Bellica board is set at the foot of the throne, beside an ancient mahogany box. The board itself is empty, its pieces neatly collected and placed back in the box. The message to Doric is clear. Their private conversation is at an end. The game is concluded. There is no satisfaction, no true closure in Isolde's vengeance. But The House Eternal has been eradicated, its fading embers finally extinguished. Now they can rest, knowing that the twisted house that raised them is gone forever. Or so they think. Edited August 19, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Typos & lore corrections Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ocriel Posted August 18, 2018 Share Posted August 18, 2018 This has to be the best chapter so far, you've kept me on the edge of my seat throughout the retrospective of this different angle of the Collapse. So good! Where do we go from here? 😄 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted August 19, 2018 Share Posted August 19, 2018 (edited) Speculating a bit 🙂 Spoiler Earlier in the story I did not dare interpret those tarot cards but now... Quote The Nine of Quills. Fate, ever-changing. Seems to involve the Tenno and their fate. From tools to heroes of the empire to betrayers, then finding a new purpose and redemption in the present. Quote The Four of Chains. The ties that bind. At first, it sounds clear enough, this is about Kael, Sara, Isolde, and Doric and the connection they share. At least, this is how I can fit "four" on them, but that leaves Sohren still hanging out. 🤔 Quote The Fool's Eye. House Eternal and its symbol, the Endless Eye. They (both the House and the Orokin in general) were fools to believe that the Tenno could be contained. Give them a reason and they will not hesitate to use their powers. Well... sometimes they don't need a reason, seeing how Isolde went berserk when Doric shared the info about Continuity with her. Quote The Yuvan. Speaking of which, Continuity. One of the reasons things went sour between the House and its Dax and our merry band of four. Quote The Tower, inverted. In IRL it symbolizes disaster, sudden change, revelation. When inverted, it means that the disaster will be averted. In story, the tower could refer to the Orokin / House Eternal and its downfall, as the final card is: Quote And finally, that grinning skull. End (of life?), change. My takeaway from this is that the cards foretell the Tenno's liberation from the Empire (including our kids from the remnants of House Eternal), but at great cost, which could refer to all those people Isolde slaughtered, all the lives lost during the Solaris uprising (including Vern), or some (still) hidden threat to the Tenno themselves. But why was Isolde "cursed" with this constant "pattern" with that tarot deck? Were the Tenno aided by the void in some way? 🤔 About that ending: Calling it now, that body was an empty husk, left there to throw Isolde off the trail! Septimus escaped into a new body! 😱 Already suspect the answer but the question remains: whose skin he is wearing in this "cycle"? 🤔 One tiny correction: It's "Archimedian." 🙂 For reference take a peek at Apostasy Prologue for example, or the Detron Crewman synth imprint. And a question: The Dax Skiajati--- If you read the description of that sword in the arsenal, it was fashioned from Umbra's skin. Sooo... how'd that sword get there? O.o Or it's a different weapon altogether? Edited August 19, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139 Posted August 19, 2018 Author Share Posted August 19, 2018 (edited) [Well spotted Aldrr; I've amended the reference to a long form version of a katana; I am not sure what the Warframe version of a odachi/nodachi is, but hopefully the revised meaning is clear without stepping on lore boundaries. The spelling of Archimedian/Archimedean is the one fed to me by Microsoft Word; is it a separate concept entirely, or is a stylistic spelling on Warframe's part? I'll go back and change it in the earlier chapters when I'm doing a final edit. This story is first draft, and I want to just get it out on the page while it's cooking in my head. Regarding your speculation, I'm not saying a word; only that I enjoy reading your predictions immensely! Also you should consider Fortune Telling as a career. 😉 The most recent chapter is roughly double the length of a typical chapter, so bear with me while I get back into the swing of things; I'll resume writing tomorrow morning. When the story is done I must post screenshots of the various Frames as I've made them in game. More soon. Edit: the most recent chapter is also riddled with typoes - I'm working on them now.] Edited August 19, 2018 by (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aldrr Posted August 19, 2018 Share Posted August 19, 2018 (edited) Just providing impressions / feedback. :3 Also, I think half the fun is brainstorming over the "what's next?", then watching how the puzzle pieces come together, seeing who was closest to "nailing it". About "Archimedian": My current understanding is that it's a title given to high ranking scholars / scientists of the empire, like Margulis or Perintol. And yes it is likely a play on the original word. "Archimedean" is a term pinned on concepts / properties that are linked to the Greek mathematician Archimedes, like "Archimedean absolute value" or "Archimedean field" or "Archimedean point" Edited August 19, 2018 by Aldrr Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blakrana Posted August 20, 2018 Share Posted August 20, 2018 (edited) 11 hours ago, (XB1)Katsuhiro 1139 said: [Well spotted Aldrr; I've amended the reference to a long form version of a katana; I am not sure what the Warframe version of a odachi/nodachi is, but hopefully the revised meaning is clear without stepping on lore boundaries. Regarding your speculation, I'm not saying a word; only that I enjoy reading your predictions immensely! Also you should consider Fortune Telling as a career. 😉 The most recent chapter is roughly double the length of a typical chapter, so bear with me while I get back into the swing of things; I'll resume writing tomorrow morning. When the story is done I must post screenshots of the various Frames as I've made them in game. More soon. Edit: the most recent chapter is also riddled with typoes - I'm working on them now.] Overall, I wouldn't worry too much on what to call a "Nodachi type" weapon. I mean, barring it likely have "kana" in the name somewhere (skana, nikana), there isn't much to work with on what the prefix would be. Though, Tarot trivia point that probably already aware of, but Death represents change; whether for better or worse depending on which cards it follows and preceeds. Certainly interesting in that the overall worse of the Major Arcana is the Tower, by contrast, as that's always bad news one way or another. Any event, continues to be a good read, and hope it's going well for you. Typos are a bit rough, especially if they're easy slips like "they're, there and their" or "its or it's" and the like. Best of luck heading forward, and will be interesting to see how you've made use of the in-game options for character "design". Certainly a useful perk for the loadout slots we get. Edited August 20, 2018 by Blakrana Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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