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    Where Angels Fear to Tread

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    Claymore
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    Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Claymore on Sun Feb 12, 2017 7:32 am

    Welcome to Angels Fear to Tread, a tale of epic heroics; vast, sweeping vistas of space and exotic worlds; Gods ancient and new. The stars beckon to those with hearts pure and true; the deep reaches of space are the realm of evils unspeakable. Angels Fear to Tread takes place over a large expanse of space, and commences 250 CE (current epoch)

    - THE GREAT RACES    -

    HUMANS
    Humans are the most ubiquitous residents of the universe, populating countless worlds, displaying a myriad cultures and factions. Headed most notably by the High Vatican, a vast monastery city built on the near side of the moon, humanity’s reach into the stars is as tenacious and bold as any human endeavour over the millennia.

    Humanities Primary Factions are The Order of New Christians of the High Vatican, The Doussek Republic, and the Veritas Consensus.
    Humanities primary traits are Determination, Economic Power and Strength in Numbers.

    STARSTRIDERS (ELVES)

    Starstrider is the name given to a species of fair, slender humanoids that closely resemble the elves of ancient human folklore. Starstriders are the only race that are united; the few outlier members of the species fled to the dark corners of the galaxy and are rarely seen. Starstriders possess some level of telepathic ability, able to communicate using their minds. To humans, this comes across as a kind of mental barrage of emotion, as opposed to a specific articulation, but evidence suggests that mental communication between Starstriders is levels above human verbal interaction. Starstiders have incredible arkships that ferry them between worlds, entire cities that traverse the vast expanses of space.

    Starstriders are united as a race, and as such have no factions to note.

    Starstider primary traits are Intellect, Grace and Longevity.


    SHARDFOLK (DWARVES)

    The Shardfolk are a race of stout, strong limbed people, who inhabit vast fortress cities on their homeworld of Galin. The Shardfolk are the sole providers of Shard, the substance that provides most of the civilised galaxy with power. Only after humans met the Shardfolk were they able to develop the energy refinement systems that allowed them to build the High Vatican. The Shardfolk are a defensive but diplomatic race, rarely involving themselves in the wars of other races. They control a monopoly on Shard, and as such trade in vast quantities of goods from other races.
    Shardfolk factions are clan based, with three main clans presiding over the Shard industry. The Bahu clan, the Vostok clan and the Maig Clan.

    Shardfolk primary traits are Diplomatic, Astute and Hardy.



    - THE LESSER RACES    -
    ULASTAI (ORC/GOBLIN MEN)
    DESHNOKE (RATMEN)
    SCALESKIN (LIZARDMEN)

    - FACTIONS     -
    The Order of New Christians of the High Vatican
    Physical Traits: Dark complexion and hair; medium build; men tend to grow beards, women tend to braid their hair elaborately.
    Christians of the High Vatican are descendants, loosely, of the Persian dynasty. Their culture is arabesque, with focus on family and the home, faith, community and spirit as founded through the trinity. Their culture is centrist and reactionary.

    Militarily, the High Vatican commands a field army of around 2 million, with armoured elements of 10 thousand; warships of 5 and a half thousand. High Vatican soldiers wear repulsor units as standard, over which is often worn lamellar ablative plating and silk robes, scarves, veils, capes and the like. Sabres and shields are in common use, as are pikes and long, accuracy focused shard-lasers, used in loose, small formations to try to snipe opponents.

    The High Vatican is the Capital of the Order of New Christians of the High Vatican, and the High Vatican also has territories on Earth.


     The Doussek Republic
    Physical Traits: Strong limbed, fair and tall. Men wear their hair short and spiked, and rarely grow beards; women favour short hair styles due to compulsory military service.
    The Doussek Republic is a Germanic-centric nation state that holds territories on earth and most of Mars. Their culture is dominated by industry and military endeavours, with emphasis placed on personal strength, determination, skill and expertise in one’s field. Their culture is primarily conservative and jingoistic.
    Militarily, the Doussek Republic commands a field army of over 5 million, with armoured elements of 100 thousand, and warships of 7 and a half thousand. Doussek footsoldiers wear ornate full plate suit armour over repulsor units, and favour mounted charges against opposing infantry formations, riding scaly emu-like birds as mounts. Lances and polehammers are mainstays of their armouries alongside arquebus style shard-lasers used in block formations.


    Veritas Consensus
    Physical Traits: smaller than average build; dark complexion. Men favour beards and long hair tied into knots; women wear their hair long and often adorn it with ribbons and beads.
    The Veritas Consensus is a latin style culture holding territories in dome cities on Neptune and placeholder territories on Mars. The Veritas culture is liberal, open and free, with emphasis on arts and relationships. Economically the Veritas Consensus produces vast amounts of high art, culinary artefacts and their culture is the most exported to the smaller human factions. Their culture is primarily Diplomatic and Liberal.
    Militarily, the Veritas Consensus commands a field army of 2 and a half million, primarily made up of levies and militias. Armoured elements of only 3 thousand and Warships, 1 thousand; however, in times of war many civilian ships are converted to military use. Vertias soldiers favour light armour over repulsor units, and over that silk shirts, stockings, plumed headgear, frilled doublets and the like. Weapons favoured include longswords, hangars and polearms alongside mixed units of shard-laser rifle wielders.


    Addendum

    Generally speaking, most formal soldiers wear repulsor units; these nullify conventional ballistic weapons through the use of shard-repellor fields. As such, most fighters use melee weapons with negative-aspect repellor fields along their edges, allowing them to cut through the fields put out by repulsor units. As such, slug throwers are relegated to the realm of civilian weapons and bandits. Because slug throwers aren’t any use against opponents with repulsor units, shard-lasers are employed. However, shard is both expensive and heavy, meaning most all shard-lasers are single shot affairs, with a new shard needing to be loaded after each shot, slowing the process down considerably. Shard-lasers have reasonably short range, too, meaning melee combat is an entirely viable and oft used solution. Combat has reverted to something resembling renaissance Europe circa 1650 – melee combat is fought whilst blocks of riflemen try to outmanoeuvre opposing forces of a similar nature to better neutralise opposing formations of a dissimilar nature. Similarly, naval (or stellar) combat has reverted to something resembling Napoleonic warfare, with warships delivering broadsides of shard-laser fire before closing and exchanging boarding parties.


    Last edited by Claymore on Wed Feb 15, 2017 2:00 am; edited 2 times in total
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Claymore on Mon Feb 13, 2017 11:04 am

    AGRISSA SYSTEM / 244 CE

    The weak wash of photons from Agrissa barely let the crew see the ship five kilometres distant, weak glints of light reflecting off of sensor blisters and protruding antennae. However, despite the less than desirable visual conditions, the sensor suite onboard the Hildebrand picked up the full spectrum images with no effort even at this distance. Hildebrand was decelerating toward the ship, all of its forward-facing cannon trained on the hulk of metal drifting without propulsion one million kilometres from Belias, Agrissa’s sole gas giant.

    On the bridge of the Hildebrand, Captain Viktor Sulzer lay on an acceleration couch, restraint webbing stretched over him. He wore a simple tunic of grey wool and yellow pants that clung to the strong musculature of his legs. There was a visor fitted across his face, a complex mass of lenses, wires and processors modules. It allowed him to view exactly what the sensors of the Hildebrand saw, complete with tactical overlays of complex approach vectors and runic inscriptions. Around him in a fanlike formation were his bridge crew; Artur Kraus, technical specialist; Jan Sulzer, Viktor’s sister and the ship’s weapons captain; Reinhold Straube, navigator and jump specialist; and Ansgar Hammar, Viktor’s second, the ship’s marine captain. The bridge was a pod of cuboctahedron shape, the acceleration couches arrayed with Viktor dead centre. The front face of the pod was a viewscreen; the rest of the pod was crammed with various pieces of technology; processors and computers that allowed the crew to manage the entire warship from one space.

    As Hildebrand pulled ever closer, an observer looking from the stranded ship would have noted the long, forward jutting nacelles of the approaching craft, sensor blisters and antennae probing space. The hull of the ship was chequered yellow and black; there was a conning tower that sat proud of the vaguely ovoid hull, its surface covered in gold lenses and long, spindle-like antennae. The black falcon of the Doussek Republic was emblazoned on the protrusion, its talons gripping a longsword, its beak spearing a red banner. To the rear of the Hildebrand was a clustered mass of chemical engines and shard-propulsors. Neon jets of pink and blue hazed out from the conical engines, while chemical thrusters on the prow and sides of the ship kept its attitude regular, bringing the Hildebrand to within two meters of the hulk. A hatch slid open of the port side of the Hildebrand, white light spilling out to illuminate a patch of the hulk’s hull. From the hatch, the marines about to disembark could see the faintly stencilled name on the armour-plated hull of the hulk; Dardanelle. The first marine pushed out of the hatch; he wore a suit of yellow armour in the gothic style, a sallet protecting his head, tubes snaking behind him, supplying him with oxygen from a small tank on his hip. On his back was a huge chemical tank; he held an arc welder with both hands. His boots connected with the Dardanelle, magnetising instantly. The marine set to work carving a hole in the hull. Meanwhile, more marines attached themselves insect-like to the Dardanelle’s hull, aiming shard-lasers at the widening cap the arc-welder was carving. His tool moved in concentric ovals, spiralling composite steel down into the bowels of the Dardanelle. Not atmosphere vented from the ruined ship; a few ice crystals glinted out, only to be melted by the arc-welder, instantly refreezing moments later.

    Inside the Dardanelle all was silent. Sparks illuminated an access hallway, splattering against bulkheads and floor panelling before the last of the hull plate fell away under the weight of the marine’s booted foot. A frozen corpse, skin blackened from exposure to void, bumped against the marine’s arm as he dropped through the gap, his comrades following him. The marine brushed the body away, sending it spiralling down the hallway. The squad moved off in the opposite direction, scanning the numeral markings on bulkhead doors before reaching one that was rimed with frost. The marines crouched around it as the arc-welder set to work one more, cleaving the doors in two down the direct centre. Moments later the doors floated free, slipping out of their cradles by a few millimetres. The marines carefully edged forward, placing hands on the doors and pushing them inwards, gun muzzled momentarily facing downwards. There was a sudden flash of light and then a blade materialised out of the darkness, sweeping in a downward arc, cleaving through the first marine’s armoured forearm with literal resistance. Blood sprayed out, splashing against hallway panels and was instantly frozen, the marine reeling backwards, obscuring the attacker from the other marines. The blade carved right, slicing the arc-welder’s stomach open; the man pirouetted away, vital fluids curdling in the non-atmosphere around the bulkhead. Finally, a marine fired a shot into the darkness, a searing flash of shard-laser that illuminated the pod’s interior for an instant. The marines saw inert forms, floating, knocking against each other, either dead or asleep in induced comas. The bolt had struck a viewscreen, shattering it and charring the glass. The blade jabbed toward the man that had fired; he leapt back, pulling a dagger out and grasping his opponents blade, yanking it from whatever grip they had on it. A young boy barrelled out of the darkness, wearing a skintight voidsuit and cobbled together armour. The marine with the dagger plunged it deep into the boy’s side, and caught the rush with his body, knocking back against the wall behind him. The other marines grabbed the now sobbing boy, throwing him toward the breach through which they had come.

    The marines swept into the pod, pulling the bodies out into the corridor. Over the next twenty minutes they loaded them back onto the Hildebrand, before finally cracking the huge cast safe that was sunk into the floor of the command pod of the Dardanelle. Inside was a sheaf of parchments and papers, and a series of etched glass tablets. The marines loaded them into a black steel chest before leaving the way they had come. The stabbed boy had bled to death, and the marine pulled his dagger back out of the inert form as he left.

    The Hildebrand reversed engines, pulling away from the Dardanelle. When they were six kilometres distant, two deep penetration explosive warhead torpedoes shot from bays on the Hildebrand’s nacelles, and tore into the Dardanelle, ripping it into radioactive wreckage. Then the shard-lasers carved up the debris until nothing remained but a series of chunks no larger than a man. Finally, another depth charge was blasted into the midst of the cloud, spraying the chunks on hundreds of paths, seeding them throughout the Agrissa system. The Hildebrand charged its jump nodes, shard-reactors folding time and space around the hull. It disappeared within a wormhole interstice of its own creation.
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by JS on Tue Feb 14, 2017 9:29 am

    [ Seven Years Ago ]
    [ Shiraz, rim territory of the Order ]


    A wormhole opened up above the desert planet. The Ceremony of Innocence emerged from the space-time tear like a dagger slowly emerging from a sheath, lightning coursing along the length of her scarlet hull; she pulled away, rolling, and exposing her underside to the planet's surface below. The wormhole closed; silence followed. The ship hung in space, motionless.

    A dropship emerged, flanked by two escort fighters. They cut a steep angle down through the atmosphere, the dropship's trapezoid wings unfurling from its monolithic, pyramid-shaped hull as the squadron pulled up into a much shallower descent, overshooting the dense marshlands of Shiraz's northern continent. At the edge of the marshland lay a clearing; the dropship slowed, its flaps deploying as it came in for a vertical landing. It touched down with minimal ado.

    A troop of black armored soldiers emerged, wearing the hooded blood-red tabbard of the Inquisition over polished black lamellar armor; each one wore a black klappvisor bascinet, the green glow of their thermal imaging suites emerging ominously from beneath the wearer's hood. Each one carried a heat saber slung across their back, as well as an 8.2mm/L1280Kw Tannhauser assault rifle, which comprised of an assault rifle module resembling a Sturmgewehr rifle fused to an undermounted, breech-loaded las-shot module. The soldiers spread out, taking positions around the landing site; at that point, Inquisitor Farah emerged from the dropship, flanked by two of her personal guard. The inquisitor was an attractive young woman, clearly born of the nobility of the Order; as such, she had an Arabic appearance, with raven black hair, pulled into a half-updo by a light braid, whilst her eyes were two emeralds buried beneath the sandy tones of her skin. She wore no armor - instead, a black neoprene bodysuit and tunic of an inquisitorial officer, under a heavy black military long coat, the high collar of which framed her sharp jawline; a red armband emblazoned with the image of the crucifix would serve as her tabbard. She surveyed the situation, folding her arms.

    "We probably should've landed closer."

    They marched across the clearing. The settlement was where she had last left it; buried in the treeline, formed around the mouth of one of the few shard mines located outside of Shardfolk territory - long since depleted, of course. At this point, half her soldiers stopped, going prone and training their rifles on the settlement; Farah continued, her arms folded behind her back. The villagers ran as she approached, leaving the gate undefended; she casually walked in, her guardsmen training their rifles on all unseen angles as she carelessly inspected the rundown settlement. Mud, wooden shacks, motley thatchwork - a stone wall that served no apparent purpose running partway through the central clearing of the village, as if someone had gotten bored of building it halfway through.

    A man emerged from a hut at the rear of the village; his rags were slightly less brown and ragged than the other villagers, which probably made him their leader. He approached Farah with a confused expression on his face.

    "Why have you come?" he asked, his voice as harsh on the ears as time had been to his body; the old man was sinewy and thin, even through his thick robes, and crow's feet lined his sunken eyes like old scars carved into his face. "Why have you come here?"

    Farah paused, before smirking incredulously. "You... you do know what the Inquisiton's job is, don't you?"

    "Persecuting Heresy. Godlessness. None of which you will find here, Inquisitor. Leave us be."

    "Anima creation is heresy."

    Shepard looked around, surveying the village. His people emerged from their shacks, timidly; each one human in appearance, but bearing the yellow eyes that marked them as his Anima creations. Men, women, children - so much clockwork wrought into flesh, and so many souls birthed from ice and fire, he thought.

    "You commissioned me. That makes you a heretic, too."

    "Well, nobody's perfect."

    "Supersoldiers. Anima warriors with inbuilt repulsor fields; armies that could endure conditions no normal humans could survive. A grand army that would assert Vatican dominance over the entire galaxy - are you truly willing to throw that all away to avoid offending some nonexistent god?!"

    The inquisitorial troopers brought their rifles up, aiming them at him. Inquisitor Farah stayed them with a raise of her hand.

    "People are getting suspicious, old man. People who can't afford to get suspicious. An Anima infiltrator was discovered in the Doussek Republic. Integrated Repulsor unit, and all." she added, as the older man's face sunk. "I know you betrayed me. Sold Anima patterns to the Doussekians - probably to the Veritas, too. Anima created with the money and resources my family invested in you... the resources I invested in you. So no, Shepard, I'm not here because you've angered God. I'm here because you've angered me."

    "Hmm."

    A dagger emerged from the man's robes, shooting up towards Farah's face; she deflected it with the armored forearm guard of her bodysuit, grabbing the man's arm and breaking it at the elbow with a single punch, before grabbing the dagger flailing from his hands and slitting his throat with it in one fluid motion. He fell to the ground, blood spraying from his neck, covering Farah's longcoat in a shade of dark crimson that matched the uniforms of her men. She looked down at it with an annoyed expression on her face.

    "I suppose we may as well finish the job."

    The soldiers raised their weapons, and fired. Staccato blasts of gunfire tore through the village, the flamethrowers of Farah's personal guard screeching into action - a wave of flaming destruction emerged from the inquisitorial party as the thatch- and wood-work of the settlement was torn into by the incendiary rounds and flamethrower strikes alike. The soldiers coursed through the village, the fire acting as their vanguard; when they arrived at the mine, they simply dispatched a bandolier's worth of incendiary grenades into the stone-hewn maw to take out whatever inhabitants might have been taken shelter within.

    Dust and ashes, exclusively, remained.

    The settlement was far behind Inquisitor Farah and her squad when the escort fighters began their bombing run - wiping out whatever evidence could have possibly survived. Her expression was one of bitter resentment; she lifted her hand up, wiping the old man's blood from her face. Vengeance had brought her no satisfaction; Justice had not sated her aspirations. She had merely arrived at yet another dead end; another impediment to her ambitions, and other insult to her destiny. She climbed back into the dropship; her soldiers followed, and soon they were headed back towards the Ceremony of Innocence. Farah leaned annoyedly against the window, gazing at the burned-out ruins of the settlement with an expression of discontent.

    And for a moment, the reflection of the light against the window almost made it look like another ship was taking off in the distance.

    -

    [ To Be Continued ]


    Last edited by JS on Sat Feb 18, 2017 9:15 am; edited 1 time in total
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Klak on Tue Feb 14, 2017 7:30 pm

    High Vatican Starport / 250 CE

    The voice of the Lieutenant echoed throughout the Yusuf 's speakers, commanding all the crew to stand in respect. Captain Bravarius Cromwell, and his Commander Waleed el-Nasir, had both boarded the ship and had made their way to the bridge.

    Lieutenant: “Hail to Commander Waleed el-Nasir and Captain Bravarius Cromwell, humble servants of the Lord our God!”

    Captain Bravarius stroked his black and white beard as he followed the Commander. He wore a white repulsor unit underneath a tunic and standard military boots, while his chest was encased in a silver lamellar ablative chestplate decorated with a Persian lion in the center. On his back was a flowing red cape. Commander el-Nasir wore a relatively similar outfit, but his chest had a cross in its center (along with various stars and stripes) and he had a black cape, all indicators of his superior rank.

    Commander el-Nasir: “Captain, it of the utmost importance that we reach our objective. The Tomb of Klak on the planetoid Almawt must be secured before any enemies of the Church obtain whatever secrets lie inside of it.”

    Captain Bravarius: “Yes, Commander.”

    He turned to the crew that surrounded them, and sneered. Since his daughter’s disappearance and his wife’s death, Bravarius had become stricter and harsher to his crew. No doubt this would increase now that the infamously gruff Commander el-Nasir was on board.

    Captain Bravarius: “Hark, and women of the 8th Battalion! Set course for Almawt. Our journey is perilous, but by the grace of God we will succeed. Do not disappoint me or your Commander, for failure is not an option.”

    Cliched, certainly, but it got the job done.

    The crew hummed to life as both Bravarius and el-Nasir sat on their respective acceleration couches.

    ---

    Market Square, Mogoch City, Galin / 250 CE

    Jortenn Karasdius carried his bag full of wares, silently cursing to himself about the miserable sales he had endured this week. Cassandra dela Espaccio closely followed, her doe-like brown eyes looking at Jortenn with concern.

    Cassandra was Jortenn's assistant for as long as she could remember, and she referred to him as her uncle, even though she was almost certain they had no blood relation. Jortenn had told her that he rescued her from pirates when she was only three years old, and raised her for the past 19 years, teaching her the tools of their trade, how to defend herself, and much more.   Jortenn, too, had unknown origins (at least to Cassandra). He claimed to be from the Veritas Consensus, with his paternal grandfather coming from the Doussek Republic, and had an accent to prove it. But he was far too tall and light-skinned to be from Veritas, and too bearded to be from Doussek. As for Cassandra, her short dark hair and skin tone convinced her that she had to have come from either Veritas or the New Christians. However, this was something she did not seem to care much for: as far as she was concerned, Jortenn was her family and faction.

    Jortenn and Cassandra worked as "space entrepreneurs," purchasing and even stealing minerals, artifacts, goods, and other cargo throughout the cosmos. This, combined with a few odd jobs (bounty hunting, delivering shipments of questionable legality, etc.) helped them scrape a living.

    Essentially, they were an interesting pair.

    Jortenn looked up to see his drab space freighter, decorated with random graffiti in various bright colors and random strips filled with colorful flags (from Cassandra's creative phase, you see). He sighed in relief. The ship was like home to them. They spent more time on it than anywhere else, anyway.

    A sickly scaleskin clad in a tan cowl step in front of them, his yellow irises narrowed by its devilish grin.

    ???: "Hello, friends-des! Shall I regale you with an adventurous opportunity-des?"

    Jortenn: "Treskis, how nice to see you."

    Jortenn's sarcasm was not lost on the creature, but her continued.

    Treskis: "Yes, yes, yes, well, I have a new job for you-des. Treasure in a tomb-des!"

    Jortenn: "Who'll pay me for it, the market, or you?"

    Treskis: "Prices are good for what you might find, of course I want to take my finder's fee, friend-des. I am far too ill to make such a journey in space, of course-des. And you, my friends....who I have always been loyal to, would love to go on this adventure and get a good...er....satisfactory cut-des!"

    Cassandra rolled her eyes.

    Cassandra: "Of course you do. Tell us what we need to know."

    Treskis nodded and handed them a small silver orb. A holographic star map appeared in front of them, detailing where to go.

    Jortenn: "What.....You want us to go to Almawt, the dead planetoid? That route's filled with pirates and bandits, and the place is probably cursed anyway! No one's been there in ages."

    Treskis: "I never assumed you were the superstitious type, Jortenn-des."

    Jortenn scowled.

    Jortenn: "Fine. We'll take it. See you later."

    They left towards their freighter, and set course for Almawt.


    Last edited by Woodsman on Wed Feb 15, 2017 6:54 am; edited 1 time in total
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Claymore on Wed Feb 15, 2017 2:10 am

    THE HIGH VATICAN, LUNA / 250CE

    The High Vatican itself was unlike anything humanity had created before. After a century of construction, the city-church now spread across half the surface of the moon. The central spire reached up into the expanse, stretching to reach out to Earth, three kilometres tall and a kilometre wide at its base. The first lunar crusade began construction on the near side; now the entire hemisphere that faced earth was populated. Some fifty-million people lived on its surface; refugees from the nova storms that ravaged earth, pilgrims from other human colonies, and countless residents who were born and would die without ever stepping outside the city-church.

    The city not only reached some seventy stories into the lunar vacuum, the city delved beneath the surface another twenty, a huge warren of catacombs and crypts inhabited by the lower of the Order’s classes. Vast ghettos of Scaleskins and Deshnoke occupied the lowest levels, hives of debauchery and crime; however, so long as mass was attended, and tithe given, they were permitted to stay.

    The High Vatican, was, at best, a microcosm of human endeavour, faith and engineering. At worst, it was a breeding ground for bigotry, depravity and corruption. It was ultimately home to the largest single population of humans in the galaxy, and it was home to Presbyter Mardavij Hemmati. His rooms overlooked an area of low roofs that afforded him a spectacular view of the starscape outside, and every month for the last quarter he could see earth itself, watching the swirling nova storms that careened across the tropics, leaving deserts in their wake. The rooms were no doubt expensive, although Hemmati had never paid a single dremar for them. As Presbyter he was given them in his second year, for “outstanding service in the Lord’s name.” Hemmati had no doubt strings had been pulled for him to get the rooms – some Cardinals had more modest quarters.

    Mardavij Hemmati was a short man, of medium build, with cropped black hair (now speckled with silver) and a short, pointed beard. It was his unassuming appearance that lent him so well to the line of work he was involved in (along with his simply frightening personal traits). For three decades Hemmati had organised assassinations, extortions, attacks, smear campaigns, ‘accidents’, coups and revolutions against the myriad opponents of the High Vatican. Even to those who outranked him in the church he was feared and revered; despite none of them knowing what he did exactly. The only people who did were the High Inquisition - one couldn’t escape their scrutiny – Buzhal Jafaar, and the Pope himself. It was his job to make sure that the enemies of God were never allowed a moments rest; he was omnipotent, and omnipresent, and an extension of God himself.

    It was late evening when a dossier was brought to Hemmati. The leather-bound file was handed to him at his door buy a woman in a purple silk dress, her long black hair in a thick braid slung over one shoulder. Hemmati thanked her, closed the door, and sat at his desk. The lamp light revealed four grainy sepia photographs. They were of four different men; Hemmati recognised three vaguely, but one stood out in his mind. He shifted through the rest of the parchments in the file, which reminded him the identities of the other three men. Hemmati leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his sharp face.
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by JS on Fri Feb 17, 2017 8:34 am

    [ High Vatican, Luna ]
    [ Office of Lord-Inquisitor Tauheed Kalen al-Ahad ]

    Farah pulled her fist away from the wall. Her knuckles were bloodied, though most of it remained on now-dented plasteel surface. She looked over to the Lord Inquisitor, who was seated casually behind his desk, filing through his daily allotment of paperwork. The Lord Inquisitor was a silver-haired man of many decades in age; the dark-skinned Levantine sat, resplendent in the golden lamellar armor and crimson-shoulder fastened cloak of an Inquisitorial officer. Farah, by rank, was entitled to such a uniform - instead, she wore her trademark longcoat, a red armband over her right arm displaying the Inquisitorial falcon.

    "You exhibit such a character as yours, and then wonder why you find yourself constantly passed over for promotion?"

    The Lord Inquisitor's retort came without so much as a glance away from his paperwork. Farah pulled her bloodied hand up to her chest, covering it.

    "I've done more for the Inquisition than any other Inquisitor in history - more for the Order than any other Inquisitor in history. My loyalty and piety are unquestionable. Being kept at this paltry rank is an insult to the service I have offered His Holiness."

    "My apologies, Inquisitor-General." replied the Lord Inquisitor, standing up and slamming his knuckles into the polished teak of his desk. "If the shame of your paltry rank is so great, I will happily strip it from you."

    Something caught in Farah's throat. She paused, a surge of panic flooding through her body. The Lord Inquisitor recognized it, and sat back down.

    "No." he added, smirking. "I didn't think so."

    "I merely..." she started, before the Lord Inquisitor's eyes tracked back up to her. She sighed hopelessly, before saluting with a clenched fist over her heart, and withdrawing from the Lord Inquisitor's chambers. The passage outside was cool; high up within the central spire of the High Vatican, separated from the cold vacuum of space beyond by only a thin shard-field projected across the pillars encircling the antechamber, which was built in an Arabic style. Farah made her way from the entrance to the Lord Inquisitor's tower, to the elevator chamber at the center of the compound, sliding her bloodied hand into the pocket of her longcoat as she did; as she reached her other hand out to summon the elevator, the doors opened by themselves. A man stood behind them, arms folded; Farah sighed, and stepped inside, standing next to him.

    Inquisitor-General Azariah Ephraim was a young man, only slightly taller than Farah, though far better built; he wore a black neoprene combat undersuit of the style commonly worn by Inquisitorial agents whilst on mission, with a brown monastic robe tied around his waist; his head was fully obscured by a close-fitting black helmet, the face plate of which was silver, carved in a simple design with a 'T'-shaped protrusion running from his eye-line to his chin, giving him the appearance of gaunt, withered cheeks. His sole visual viewing port was a red circular lens embedded in the center of the 'T', which relayed visual information to him through two cybernetic ports located either side of his temple. The two stood in silence as the elevator slowly traversed down the length of the spire, before Ephraim spoke up, breaking the silence.

    "I see Lord Tauheed rejected your request for a promotion." spoke the man, his voice mechanically augmented by his mask.

    "We had a difference of opinion."

    "I can smell the blood on your hand from over here." he replied, bowing his head slightly. Farah looked over to him, an annoyed expression on her face.

    "That's not a scent you want to get into the habit of picking up."

    Ephraim chuckled. The two stood in silence as the elevator slid down into a transparent section of the shaft, affording them a brief view of the surface of Luna, before the tunnel recessed, once more, into the interior of the spire.

    "Surely, you must realize that yours is a futile quest? They will never make a bastard Lord Inquisitor, al-Maseeh."

    al-Maseeh. The surname of a bastard; salt driven into a wound that had come to define Inquisitor Farah. Her father had been Mohammed al-Farsi, patriarch of the hugely influential al-Farsi banking clan; her mother had been an unmarried scribe, which meant Farah's blood was worth nothing. It was a blessing and a curse; everything she had accomplished had been a result of her own talents, but Order society was far from a meritocracy. And today, that glass ceiling she so reviled was being particularly opaque.

    Gilt, almost.

    "I shall... correct their misconceptions."

    "And how do you plan to do that?"

    Farah remained silent. The elevator slid to a halt; she stormed out without so much as a parting word to Ephraim.

    The Baleful Spirit was moored at the High Vatican's outer embarkation ring; two of her personal guard, resplendent in their black plate, saluted her as she made her way up the embarkation ramp, into the hull of her command frigate. Her quarters aboard the ship had become a makeshift office; sliding into them, she pulled off her longcoat, throwing it over her bed. She slumped down behind her desk, throwing her feet up onto it, and steepled her hands.

    And how do you plan to do that?

    Ephraim's words taunted her, which meant they were exactly the motivation she needed. She remained in meditative silence until, out of either desperation, contemplative loneliness, or outright boredom, she vocalized a command to the ship's computer.

    "Computer. Call Mardavij Hemmati."
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    Brief Introductions

    Post by redwolfmoon99 on Sun Feb 19, 2017 3:48 am


    Space is deep, dark, and dangerous.
    But then so are we.

    We have risen and fallen,
    Learned to adapt and rebuild,
    For our history
    Is a history of struggle and survival.

    We protect our own.
    We take what we need,
    And salvage what we find.

    To be Voyani is to work hard,
    Fight hard,
    And celebrate hard.
    Because life is hard.

    But it is also beautiful,
    And even in the deep dark of space,
    It never fails to give us hope.


    - Admiral Petrov Kata, First Fleet Admiral of the Voyani Federation

    -------

    [ 250CE ]
    [ Voyani Nomadic Fleet, Near Veritas Territory, Deep Space ]

    Consisting of roughly 30 thousand ships, the Voyani Federation Nomadic Fleet is the largest array of spacefaring vessels in the known galaxy, though less than half operate at anything resembling military capacity. While impressive, such a massive collection of spacecraft brings about its own problems, the one currently evident being that it can take days for the collective fleet to properly reorganize after an FTL jump. However, in this instance, the bulk of the fleet had already jumped and reorganized into their respective subfleet 'districts', the only ones still in transition being a few ships from the civilian fleet and the rear-guard elements of the patrol and heavy military fleet.

    Xernius Polito, a leanly-built male scaleskin with a pale colouration, was in such a ship. Clad in a simple but tasteful shirt, trousers and boots, the young scaleskin was currently enjoying a nice cool alcoholic beverage as he stared out the reinforced window of what used to be a small Veritas civilian yacht now repurposed into a Voyani pub. As Xern started lifting the glass of liquid to his mouth, the sudden jolt of the ship exiting FTL resulted in him spilling the drink all over his new shirt, causing a stream of obscenities to erupt from the scaleskin.
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by JS on Tue Feb 21, 2017 8:17 am

    [ Duchy of Hyqoque ]
    [ Border Territory of the Doussekian Republic ]

    "Sen Kerra. That's not a Terran name."

    "I'm not Terran."

    "But you work for the Inquisition."

    "I work for an Inquisitor who works for the Inquisition."

    Ser Lincoln paused, looking down to his companion. Sen Kerra was a young woman with lightly bronzed skin complemented by curled locks of auburn hair; her slender, athletic frame was obscured by a heavy inquisitorial longcoat, though she wore no armband; in addition, the inquisitorial rank pin had been removed from the crimson beret she wore upon her head. By contrast, Ser Lincoln de Beige was a tall, lanky fellow, outfitted in a suit of neogothic plate armor polished to a silver finish; he wore a beige cloak draped over one shoulder, fastened with a bronze broach displaying the arms of House Beige; two antique machineguns of differing designs, crossed over a field of beige.

    "So you're one of Lady Farah's Retainers?"

    "That's not the term I'd use." replied Kerra, tugging on the reins of her horse. "But, fundamentally, yes."

    After their arduous trek, the duo arrived at the encampment; buried within the cracks and crevices of the Duchy's northern highlands, nestled at the mouth of a valley. Kerra rode into the base, past the rows of medical tents lining the entrance; as she made her way towards the commander's tent, she noticed the soil beneath change color - taking on a purplish hue as she approached the mouth of the valley.

    "Bio-Titan blood." called out the Commander, emerging from his tent at the sound of Kerra and Lincoln's horses approaching. "It's not concentrated enough to do any harm, but I wouldn't walk around barefoot." he said, reaching a hand up to help Kerra down from her horse, before signalling for a squire to lead the beast away. Doussekkians rarely involved scientists such as Ser Iyan to helm their military expeditions; his presence here confirmed to Kerra that she had been called here for something far more serious than a standard Bio-Titan incursion. Ser Iyan was a slender-framed man of no apparent bulk; he wore a suit of armor similar to Ser Lincoln's, which appeared somewhat too big for him. He wore a pair of simple glasses, and his long brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

    "I trust my men at Keep Vorgotten saw to your every need?" asked the commander, brushing off his armor and gesturing for the group to enter his command tent. Sen Kerra looked around; A group of men were mustering by the gates, wearing the heavy plate of the Duchy of Hyqoque; each man carried a two-handed warhammer, with a second arming hammer hanging from their belt. She also noticed a detachment of federal Bundeswache, wearing the gleaming silver plate of the Doussekian army, trimmed with the faux gold of their regiment's colors. They were considerably under-armed; their trademark Claymores were absent, replaced instead by crudely fashioned hammers and mauls. Ser Iyan gestured for her to follow him.

    "Well, they were certainly interested in knowing when Farah would next be around to buy your Vorgotten weapons."

    Iyan chuckled. "Ah, but it is that business relationship that has lead to today's meeting. Come."

    The interior of Ser Iyan's command tent was outfited with banks of communications and surveillance technology; Squire-Accountants ran back and forth, preparing a report of the mission's status for Ser Iyan's consumption. He lead the group to a holo-table; waving a hand over it, he summoned up a projection of a bizarre tri-legged arachnid creature. The upper-side of its abdomen was host to eight eye-like protrusions, extending forth on flexible stalks.

    "A Bio-Titan." remarked Kerra.

    "A Bio-Titan Mining Forme." corrected Ser Iyan. "The weakest, yet most dangerous, component of any incursion. We don't quite understand the process by which they work, but we think that they have an internal biological furnace that converts the ore they eat into rudimentary Shardmatter. It'd be a miracle of nature - if it weren't so damn frustrating."

    Iyan made a pinching gesture with his hand, expanding the holographic projection to show a field of Miners. A small shuttle flew over them; at that point a wash of Shardlasers beamed forth from the eye-stalks of the Miners, knocking the shuttle out of the air.

    "Every battle we've fought with the Bio-Titans has been on foot, because anything that flies over a Miner Forme gets shot down. The only support we could rely on when combating Bio-Titans was orbital - that was, until two weeks ago."

    He expanded the projection even further, showing a small cruiser in orbit over Hyqoque. It loosed a volley of cannon fire down towards the planet's surface; as it did, a single column of Shardlaser light rose up, cleaving the ship in half. Kerra's eyes shot open.

    "It defied everything we knew about the Bio-Titans. Over a thousand Miner Formes acting in concert - even the biggest Overseer Forme we've fought couldn't co-ordinate an action like that. We were left without an answer - without an explanation. But we think we've found one." said Iyan, looking to her. "You're going to want to see this for yourself."

    The group emerged from the tent, making their way towards the mouth of the valley; Iyan signalled for both his own men, and the detachment of Bundeswache to fall in rank behind him.

    "The Duchy has suffered two Bio-Titan spore incursions in as many months, and so the Chancellor has seen fit to deploy the Bundeswache to assist us." said Ser Iyan, annoyance evident in the tone of his voice. Kerra looked down to her feet, inspecting the purple soil.

    "No-one told them about the rules when fighting Bio-Titans."

    Ser Iyan nodded. "Acidic Blood. Those tents back there are filled with men who didn't realize that until they took a blade to a Bio-Titan's side; the luckiest have only suffered major burns. Unfortunately, that blood has soaked into the soil. This area's going to be uninhabitable for a few decades."

    They traversed the floor of the valley, along a narrow path that had been swept clear of Bio-Titan blood and corpses; along either side Kerra could see various smoking Bio-Titan corpses, already decaying only hours after their death. Soldier Formes, Archer Formes, Tank Formes, Transport Formes; Kerra had read about them, but seeing them in person was something else entirely. The smallest was the size of a small car; the largest dwarfed a house.

    "You're sure they're all dead?"

    "Nope."

    The climb plateaued into a clearing, which was strewn with Bio-Titan corpses. A company of Ser Iyan's personal guard stood around a tent that had been crudely erected in the centre of it; Iyan gestured for the company escorting him to halt, and he and Kerra proceeded into it.

    "By God's grace..."

    It lay in the centre of the tent; a humanoid body, its head pounded into a bloodless pulp. Its skin was humanoid in color, but was composed of a clay-like substance; the only other substance that made up its body was a shard skeleton, evidenced by the golden shards laying in the mushy pulp of the being's destroyed head. It wore a suit of armor that resembled the bodies of the Bio-Titans it had led into battle, which was now, like those Bio-Titans, decaying. Kerra knelt down, running a hand across it; taking a closer look, she realized the figure had been a female.

    "Who else knows about this?"

    "No-one outside my personal guard."

    "I wasn't aware that Farah had discussed Shiraz with you."

    "Shiraz?"

    Kerra stood up, looking to Ser Iyan. "You mean to say you don't actually know?"

    Iyan searched his memories. "A border territory of the Order, If I remember correctly."

    Kerra frowned. "If you don't know about Shiraz," asked Kerra, folding her arms. "Then why did the apperance this Anima prompt you to send for me?"

    "Send for you? Lady Kerra... The Anima... The visage it bore was that of your Inquisitor. The visage of Farah Amat al-Maseeh."

    Kerra stumbled backwards, stunned. She turned, looking to the Anima; it certainly did share Farah's figure, though Iyan's claims were impossible to verify now that its face had been destroyed. She knelt down again, inspecting its armor for any form of identification whatsoever; her search was fruitless. She stood back up, inspecting the figure.

    "I'll need some assistance loading this on to my ship."

    "Of course." replied Ser Iyan, bowing curtly and leavign the tent to muster his men. Kerra stood back up, inspecting the figure once more. She reached down to pull a shard from the being's head; she lifted it up, holding it to the light. And then, as she clenched her fist around it, it sunk effortlessly into the flesh of her palm, disappearing without a trace.

    "What the f-"

    Her body violently jerked forwards, spasming; crushing the now lifeless vessel of the Anima Commander as it crumpled into dust. She rolled onto her back, wrestling with her hand, a a golden Shardglow emanating from within her flesh; she felt the Anima's influence spread throughout her body, until it eclipsed her mind.

    Sen Kerra stood up, adjusting her beret. She looked down at her previous vessel with contempt; when Ser Iyan and his men returned, she would have to tell them that it had self-destructed in the same manner as the Bio-Titan Overseer Formes. She folded her arms, closing her eyes; the static of the Bio-Titan subspace communication network flowed into her new vessel, its nerves tingling as it experienced the sensation of being linked to an entire species at once. Within the unintelligible noise, she found the rest of the network's Anima intruders, their biosignatures augmented with the neuro-pheromones they had used to render the Bio-Titans subservient to them.

    As she dove into the subspace plane of the intruders, her mental form materialized in the image of Farah, as her clay body had appeared; she quickly reassembled it to resemble Sen Kerra's body. Her consciousness floated in a room of pure black, until the visages of her kin emerged from the shadow, gathered in a circle around her.

    "The bait was successful."

    "You've infiltrated Farah's organization."

    "Not an Inquisitor."

    "Someone Farah trusts."

    "Good enough".

    From the mass of dispersonalized, hurried voice emerged the image of a tall, bald-headed man; adult, with a philosophical, statuesque appearance. He was naked, though lacked any visible genitalia; his skin was pure white, augmented with bands of silver that ran across his body in a circuit-like pattern, converging on his silver eyes. He stood silently, his arms folded across his chest, but nodded. Kerra fell backwards, her consciousness pulling free from the Bio-Titan hivemind and back into the flesh and blood of her new vessel.

    A few hours later, the Crimson Intent pulled away from the surface of Hyqoque, headed back towards Imperial Space.
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Klak on Tue Feb 21, 2017 12:22 pm

    The Little Rascal, hundreds of kilometers above the Almawt / 250 CE

    Jortenn whistled in satisfaction as the Little Rascal slowly flew towards the planet. Their wormhole shortened their travel, and helped them avoid pirates. This foolishly caused him to believe that the mission would go on without a hitch, a mistake he would slap himself for minutes later.

    Cassandra gasped as their radar beeped menacingly, an indication that they were not alone.

    “Oh crap,” shouted Jortenn. “It’s the Order. They must have sent their own expedition.”

    Jortenn slammed his fist on a panel, realizing that the tip received from Treskis was probably some sort of leak from a less-than-faithful Order adherent. The Tomb was only partially explored, and its remaining secrets were kept unperturbed by grave robbers and historians due to persistent rumors of a curse. However, for some reason the Order suddenly had renewed its interest in the Tomb.

    Cassandra turned on the ship’s cloaking devices as Jortenn slowed the boosters. The freighter drifted amongst the debris until it finally landed on Almawt’s surface.

    After hurriedly putting on their space suits, they emerged from the Little Rascal. Cassandra cautiously gripped her shard rifle, looking around as they crept around the grey and sandy valley.

    They climbed on top of a rock that overlooked the entrance of the Tomb. Four soldiers from the New Vatican Navy, clad in white and gold armored space suits (this design but with different colors) guarded the doors.

    “Look at the markings on their armor. They have a signature Persian lion, meaning they’re some of the best of the best,” Jortenn explained. “I figure we need a diversion to get past them.”

    “Way ahead of you, Uncle,” Cassandra replied. She threw a small shock grenade, and before the soldiers could react, they were stunned by shocks of electricity. It was enough to knock them unconscious, but not enough to burn out their space suits. A little too nonlethal for her tastes, but it got the job done.

    Both space entrepreneurs silently entered the tomb, and made their way down a stone corridor.


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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Klak on Sat Feb 25, 2017 7:51 pm

    The Yusuf, hundreds of kilometers above the Almawt / A Few Hours Before Cassandra and Jortenn's Arrival / 250 CE

    From the bridge the crew could see Almawt, or whatever was left of it. A portion of the planet's southern hemisphere had been blown out, debris floating around the devastated world. It was awe inducing, even to the most experienced pilots. A planet shrouded in myth and mystery with a third of its surface obliterated by unknown causes. Of course, whatever caused that catastrophe helped render the planet's atmosphere inhospitable to any life.

    Various crewmen quietly prayed after witnessing such a menacing site.

    Captain Bravarius began to suit up with a few Elites from his crew. He returned to the bridge to salute Commander El-Nasir.

    Commander El-Nasir: "God be with you, Captain Cromwell."

    Bravarius: "Ameen, and also with you, Commander. We will let you know when we have landed."

    The small cylindrical shuttle disembarked from the Yusuf and made its way to Almawt's surface. Most of the squadron emerged, cautiously aiming their shard rifles while their Captain gripped the sheath of his blade.

    Ensign Trefaya: "All clear, Captain."

    Bravarius motioned for the remainder of the squadron to get out. They all held a small battering ram that would help them break through any sealed doors.

    Bravarius told the crew of the Yusuf that they had landed, and led his garrison to the location of the Tomb of Klak.

    The mausoleum looked like a grey, unfinished pyramid, with an eerily thin, black obelisk coming out of the flat top. The entrance was an arched door, at least sixty feet in length, with runes of a long forgotten language carved into the Almawtium stone above it. The imposing and cryptic nature of the Tomb rivaled both the planet and its namesake; most civilizations claimed that Klak was one of their leaders centuries ago, and various historians often held debates as to which claims had the most veracity. The only commonly accepted theory was that Klak was a major figure with incredible power and skill, leading his people to victory in several wars.

    Two-thirds of the tomb had already been explored, even plundered. However, the remaining portion seemed inaccessible due to various traps and mazes. There were rumors that the Inquisition of the New Vatican had explored the area and declared it to be off limits, but Bravarius was unaware of such gossip. Even then, he would have probably attributed them to the Doussek Republic, or Veritas, or the Voyani, or the Shardfolk, or anyone who wanted to discredit the Inquisition.

    The squadron assembled in front of the entrance. Two of the soldiers were ordered to stay behind as Bravarius and the others entered. Hours later, they found themselves in front of a dark corridor, the only light behind the torch of the room they were in. This was believed to be the way towards the hidden part of the tomb, where Klak's body was kept mummified.

    Captain Bravarius: "Let's move."

    They courageously sauntered down the hallway, unaware that Jortenn and Cassandra had just sneaked into the tomb. They were also oblivious to the trap that lay right in front of them.

    A soldier stepped on a panel that suddenly sunk. Before he could react, he was impaled by a shard.

    Ensign Trefaya: "Duck!"

    Everyone crouched as a multitude of shards flew above them. Captain Bravarius felt one of them nick the back of his armor, but he was safe, just as all of the remaining soldiers were. He sighed as he passed by the corpse of his former Elite, and quietly prayed for him. Several soldiers made the sign of the cross as they passed by, others making a note to come back for his body.

    OOS: Yes, Trefaya is an alternate version of Treveya. Razz Almawt's appearance is based on Concord Dawn from the Star Wars franchise (but Almawt has a different color and is inhospitable).


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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by JS on Sun Feb 26, 2017 11:33 am

    [ Alamwt Orbit ]
    [ IIV Baleful Spirit ]

    "Scout torpedo loaded."

    "Fire."

    A small subspace tear opened in space; a torpedo emerged, its secondary boosters firing and propelling it down into the planet's surface. Within the Baleful Spirit's bridge, a projection of its findings appeared; Inquisitor-General Farah lent back in her command throne as her eyes ran over the viewscreen, a grin forming on her lips.

    "Surface."

    The Baleful Spirit burst forth into realspace; not sliding forth from a portal generated at the end of a long jump, but slowly emerging upwards from the subspace realm it had been lurking in. Traditional Naval doctrine favored broadside combat - the art of generating so many overlapping fields of fire that the destruction of one's enemies became not a matter of chance, but mathematical certainty - but an Investigatory Frigate like the Baleful Spirit had nothing to offer in such a confrontation. Instead, the ship was built for stealth; its hull was sleek and angular, its turrets folded away within its hull for concealment, and its torpedo tubes hidden away behind sliding plates of tritanium armor. She had a crew compliment of roughly 80 men; half of these were members of Farah's 117th Inquisitorial Battalion, with the other half being the private mercenaries and sellswords she had attracted to her side over the years - functionally, the only difference between the two groups was the job description written at the top of their payslips.

    "We're being hailed by the 8th Battalion."

    "Well, that's cute." replied Farah, standing up and pulling her longcoat from its perch at the back of her throne. "Tell them we're on Inquisitorial business. Alssen, you have the bridge."

    "Yes, ma'am." replied a stern, grey-haired Doussekian, who turned to sit down in Farah's throne. Farah turned and left, two of her personal guard following her.

    The Baleful Spirit's hangar bay unfurled, and Farah's dropship emerged, flanked by two fighters. They descended into the planet's atmosphere, cutting a low flight path over the tomb - the dropship set down just across from the Little Rascal, training its weapons on it. Farah emerged from the vehicle, flanked by a company of her elite troops; all wore armored exosuits, and were outfitted with a standard expeditionary arrangement of a single shield with an integrated multimunitions launcher, a skeletonized lasrifle, and a retractable close-quarters battleblade, the blade of which resembled that of an oversized utility knife. Farah looked over to the Little Rascal. And to think Hemmati found about this before the 8th did, she thought.

    "Hostile forces are already inside the tomb. We will purge them, inshallah." she said, drawing her blade. She stormed towards the entrance to the tomb; her soldiers charged out in front of her, leading the way.
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Klak on Fri Mar 17, 2017 6:57 pm

    Passage, Tomb of Klak, Almawt

    Cassandra: "We've been travelling for half an hour, damn it. When will we find the treasure?"

    Jortenn: "Patience, Cassandra. Aren't you entertained by the paintings on the walls, telling us about history?"

    Cassandra didn't reply.

    Jortenn: "Yeah, me neither."

    He spun around and narrowed his eyes.

    Cassandra: "What is it?"

    Jortenn: "Nothing, I just have the strangest feeling that we're being followed."

    Cassandra stepped back, her heel suddenly falling on a platform that sunk into the ground. A chasm opened, and they dropped through a series of tunnels that acted as slides. Eventually, they stopped right in front of a group of New Vatican soldiers, all pointing shardrifles at them.

    Jortenn: "Aww shit."

    ---

    Antechamber, Tomb of Klak, Almawt

    The troops had finally made their way to the antechamber, the first individuals to have done so in many years. They had also pierced through the sealed entrance. However, such accomplishments did not come without cost. Several more Elites had been killed by other traps in the tomb.

    Captain Bravarius courageously stepped through the makeshift entrance, with Ensign Trefaya and the remaining Elites following him. The tomb's burial chamber took their collective breath away.

    OOS: Theme for their entrance...

    The behemoth expanse inside of the chamber was well lit, revealing walls of turquoise colored bricks, and a bridge that seemed to rise out of nearly infinite blackness below. At the other side of the bridge was the clear sarcophagus of Klak himself, the symbols of various states (the three major powers included) adorning it below. A gigantic golden cross, almost as tall as the wall it was painted on, sat above Klak's coffin. The sarcophagus was sitting vertically, and made its occupant appear to be floating in mid air. Klak's arms were crossed, and he wore a black wet suit that covered all but his head.

    However, once Bravarius got a closer look, he realized that it was not a sarcophagus at all! It was some sort of preservation tank, keeping its specimen intact for many centuries. That meant that Klak was not just an incorrupted corpse...but that he had been alive all this time!

    Captain Bravarius: "Unbelievable...he's been asleep for centuries and hasn't aged a day!"

    Ensign Trefaya: "Look at the vital signs. He's definitely still alive. The New Vatican will benefit greatly from his wisdom...if only we could wake him up."

    An Elite spun around.

    Elite: "I hear something..."

    A middle-aged, scruffy looking man, and a young adult female suddenly fell out of a hole that opened in the wall.

    ---

    <Xernius's Ship, Voyani Nomadic Fleet>

    After they had finished the jump to lightspeed, the scaleskin Kassizh Eichinski, better known by his nickname "Keichi," stumbled towards Xernius, cackling.

    Keichi: "I always love the look on your face when you spill a drink. I have some news, brat."


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    Getting The Ball Rolling

    Post by redwolfmoon99 on Sat Apr 01, 2017 1:38 pm


    [ 250CE ]
    [ 'Quantum Break' Pub, Voyani Nomadic Fleet, Near Veritas Territory, Deep Space ]

    Xernius hissed in annoyance as he futilely tried to dry off the front of his shirt with a bar rag borrowed from the bartender, turning to look in Keichi's direction when he heard the familiar voice.

    "Great..." Xern sighed in exasperation, tossing the rag onto the bar counter as a gesture of defeat. "Just what I need..."

    Turning towards the new arrival, Xern tried his best to appear nonchalant about his recent predicament, predictably with less than stellar results.

    "What the hell do you want now, Kassizh?"
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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

    Post by Klak on Tue Apr 11, 2017 5:46 am

    'Quantum Break' Pub, Voyani Nomadic Fleet, Near Veritas Territory, Deep Space

    Keichi's tongue flicked out of his mouth while he rolled his eyes.

    Keichi: "Good to see you too, Xernius. I'm here because of a job."

    Xern: "I'm not hiring. Piss off, Kassizh."

    Keichi: "A job for both of us. Questionably legal."'

    The bartender pretended he didn't hear that.

    Xern looked at his spilled glass, then at Keichi.

    Xern: "And I thought I had some of the strong stuff."

    Keichi: "You think I kid? This is the opportunity of a lifetime."

    Xern: "Who told you about this?"

    Keichi: "Does it matter? Anyway, you remember that dwarf Gadrwin Balin, the one that works for the Maig?"

    Xern: "Quick Billy? I thought you hated him."

    Keichi: "And he hates you. Anyway, he made some sort of deal and is shipping shard to the Doussek. They even sent some sort of supervisor and some additional soldiers to make sure this shipment arrives safely. There flying close to Ulastai space, but once they're out of that we can hit em before they get to Mars. Enough money to split evenly. Whaddya say?"


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    Re: Where Angels Fear to Tread

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      Current date/time is Sat Jun 24, 2017 7:00 am