Charlie Foxtrot (IC, Any Tech, ATTN SR)

by **Olwe** » Tue Feb 28, 2017 2:21 pm

OOC thread: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=402899

The Zunite president had just arrived for his scheduled state visit when all hell broke loose. Emperor Jason Frost was summoned to the war room, and decided to bring Zuni's president Cordell Hayes with him despite it being a breach of protocol. "What are we looking at?" he said without preamble.

"The question is, what aren't we looking at?" a worried-looking lieutenant said as she studied an array of screens, each displaying massive amounts of carnage. Jason recognized some of the locations... the city he was in, Nariel, overrun by zombies. Shiranui in East Olwe, being demolished by gremlins. A kraken dragging an aircraft carrier beneath the waves off the coast of Alqualonde. And storming New Erebor in West Olwe...

"Fuck my ass," he said as he stared disbelieving at the screen. "Is that..."

"Azog the Defiler," the voice of Mandos Fiedor, the Lord Of Space And Time, said. "Yes, it is."

Jason turned toward the voice, whose owner previously hadn't been in the room. "Please tell me you know what's going on here," he said.

Mandos shook his head. "Not exactly," he admitted. "I've sensed a massive temporal disturbance, but can't pinpoint its source. I can confirm it's not just here in Olwe, though."

Jason turned back to the lieutenant. "Put any allies we're monitoring onscreen."

The bank of monitors shifted, changing to views of various other countries Olwe was keeping tabs on. He heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and realized that it was the Zunite president... he looked at the monitor showing live video of Zuni. "Is that an eclipse?" he asked.

"No," President Hayes said from behind him, "that's a Death Star."

"Fork the gods," Jason said, his accent shifting back to Olwean and altering the pronunciation of 'fuck'. He turned back to the lieutenant. "Scramble all our forces. Mobilize everything. Respond to as many threats as possible. Put the word out to our allies they should do the same. Mandos..."

The Planeswalker was shaking his head. Though his expression was inscrutable, his eyes darted briefly to Hayes before he shook his head again. His meaning was clear... if you order me to return this man to Zuni, he will die. "... come with me," Jason finished. He strode out of the room, followed by Mandos, and halfway down the corridor placed his hand against the wall. The wall slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling and revealing a secret room beyond. Jason and Mandos entered, and the wall slid back down behind them. There was no way to tell that there was anything behind it. Jason raised a hand, and out from it burst several silvery-white donkeys. They took off in all directions, running right through the walls of the secret room, and shortly people started appearing in the room with Jason and Mandos. These were the most trusted people in the emperor's circle, most of them Planeswalkers. He briefed them on what was happening as quickly as he could.

----------------------------------------------------

The only one who didn't respond to Jason's Patronus signal was the Grand Duke of Phyrexia, Mor'Baruk. He had his hands full at the moment. Somehow, the Phyrexians -- defeated by Olwe millennia ago -- were back in full force, and were overrunning the occupying Olwean force on their home plane.

He and his wife Alicia had marshaled the remaining Olwean forces and were attempting a counterattack. They had actually managed to drive the Phyrexians back a bit, but now the enemy was making another push forward. The Olweans were outnumbered, still recovering from the surprise of the attack and the massive casualties sustained in its first few minutes and had been denied the high ground... nothing was going their way. And then, things got worse.

------------------------------------------------------

"We'll have to start without him," Jason said regretfully. He turned to Mandos. "Let's start with you. What possible version of the future is so scary to you that you're willing to sacrifice Zuni?"

"There are several... dark timelines, as they're known. In the worst one, Aratar rules much of the multiverse."

Jason's eyes lit up as if with a sudden realization. "Aratar! Could he be responsible for this?"

Mandos nodded. "That would be my current suspicion," he said. "But I can't be a hundred percent sure without actually timewalking. A rather involved process for which we might not have -- pardon the pun -- time."

"Do it anyway," Jason said. Mandos vanished from the room. Jason turned to the other Planeswalkers. "Anyone else know anything that might help?"

Medwyn the Librarian spoke up. "I think I know which artifact was used to achieve this level of cataclysmic disturbance," he said. "Pandora's Box. Aratar's been seeking it for centuries."

"He wouldn't actually open it, though," Andrew Goldstein said in horror. Jason felt a pang of sympathy for him... his people would be hit hardest by this problem. Jason wondered whether Hitler had already come back, but then pushed such useless thoughts to the back of his mind.

"He would, and he apparently did," Jason said.

Just then, someone else -- or rather, what was left of someone else -- appeared in the room via teleportation. "Gone," the burned out husk of Mor'Baruk croaked. His right arm was missing, the left one bent at an angle it was never meant to take. Both of his legs had been severed, and organs were visible through a gaping hole in his chest cavity. Were he not a Planeswalker -- a cybernetically enhanced one, at that -- he would already be dead. As it was, he might not survive these injuries.

"What's gone?" Jason asked, having to crouch down next to the prone Grand Duke in order to hear his reply.

"It's all gone. Phyrexia. He took it back."

"Who?" Jason asked.

"Yawgmoth," Mor'Baruk replied.

by **Dyste** » Wed Mar 01, 2017 2:50 pm

Fort Gradvius

Knight Commander Kel Darkfire was known to rarely smile, and some wondered if his face was permanently fixed into a scowl. But this was a day that nobody could blame him for looking upset. As he arrived in the fortress, the scarred Fire Draconid cleaned some blood off his halberd. "Would anyone here care to tell me exactly HOW a demon managed to make its way to Dystan shores?! I though the Sages' barrier prevented access to abyssal realms! And why are so few of you here?!"

Indeed, the only two Royal Knights present at the time were Dame Kyla Waterscale and Sir Jangah Wyrmstrom. Kyla, known as the Sage of War, spoke in a much calmer tone than her superior, "Well, it appears there wherever the demon forces are coming from, it does not appear to be directly from the Infernal Realm. As for the other Royal Knights, most of them have been dispatched to different areas to deal with attacks. Princess Tynah in particular got Lavian and Riks to help her deal with some sort of undead attack. Either way, I think perhaps we should get in contact with the other divisions of Dyste's defense to launch our plan of defending our borders."

Kel seemed to calm down a bit by this news, but he was still on edge. "I see... of course, protecting our cities and the castle should be our top priority. We can worry about where this attack is coming from after our lands are secure. In the meantime, can someone get me in contact with the Fleet Admiral? I want to see if he has any insights..."

Well, ask and you shall receive, Kel, a voice was heard in the knights' heads. I thought maybe that kraken was an isolated incident, but apparently you are having trouble on the mainland? Should I sail back and aid you...

"Actually, Nialis," Jangah spoke this time, "Can you set up a psychic link with the other divisions?" Nialis Kevelle was Dyste's most powerful telepath, making him an ideal choice for long-distance missions and for being in charge of the naval forces. "The Inquisition, Clan Dragonlover, the Druid Circle..."

Look like Nialis thought ahead, a different voice sounded in their heads, this one sounding a bit more feminine but still unmistakably a Draconid's. This is Eylah Lustevios of the Inquisition. We have gotten reports that this is not just localized in Dyste, but is affecting places as far as Olwe. Let us formulate a plan quick; my wife is currently fighting this snake demon and I cannot just let her fight it herself...

Looks like we weren't the only ones with issues, a drow's voice, known to everyone as Mishera Val'Shorath, spoke next, But I don't think it's only demons that we're fighting. Teravel just fought some sort of golem... not like Jarl's style, this one was larger and more menacing, made for attacking rather than defensive purposes.

Hey, we're having problems too! A youngish-sounding female dwarf's voice rang out, I sent some ninja to investigate what was going on and they were ambushed by these shadowy creatures! Their stealth was useless against them, and they were lucky to escape with their lives! I wish Marron was around, but she's currently with His Majesty. Hopefully she's helping him keep safe!

"Alright, everyone!" Kel slammed the table in front of him, which he didn't seem to realize that the ones talking through the mindlink wouldn't hear anyways. "We need to ensure the king is safe once he arrives back from that conference. Now, any other issues I have to hear? Or are you all just overly worried about a few threats we are more than capable of dealing with?

Actually, Commander, Nialis 'spoke' once again, One of my ships was sailing around the old Cornerian lands, and they noticed that the shrine we toppled long ago is back up. Do you think maybe...

"Oh, for the love of Bahamut..." Kel sat with his head in his hands, "Not him... His Majesty is not going to be happy about this one..."

Royal Airship Gungnir

King Tyroth Blackfang was enjoying a relaxing day on his luxury ship, his black and gold scales gleaming against the sunlight, "Ah, so glad to be done that conference. Maizena, do you feel I was too soft on the trade deals?" He stretched his long, muscular limbs as he rested on the throne made for his burly figure as a kobold arrived with a drink for him.

He was speaking to an orange reptilian a bit shorter than him, but still at almost 10 feet tall easily towered over any human. She also had a plump yet feminine figure, with long black hair and wore ceremonial robes. "No, I think you were fair enough on them. Many people are hesitant to the idea of magic items, but I think my samples won them over." She sat next to a sleeping half-elf, rather chubby with brown skin and white hair, "I don't know why Marron's so tired, she barely did anything during our time here. In anything, I'd think Lissah would be the one worn out..."

"Excuse me," The golden-armored orcess was only one of two of them standing up, the other being a black-armored figure, who stood perfectly still, "But unlike some people, I take my duties quite seriously. Protecting the king is a job very few are given a privilege for, and I can't rely on Bucky to do everything by himself. Besides, I had my vacation last month, so I'm all rested up. Not like there were an threats there anyways..."

"In that case," a voice came from behind her, "Perhaps I can alleviate your boredom." A figure clad from head to toe in dark grey armor with a purple cape stood behind them, carrying a massive greatsword. Lissah, a bit shocked from not having sensed the evil presence, was caught off guard by his fist attack and sent back. Meanwhile, Bucky the Shield Guardian rushed the figure and tried to grapple him, but was in turn knocked away, though in his case not without a chunk of him carved out.

Tyroth stood up, his normally light-hearted and jovial tone gone completely, "Garland. I hoped that I would never have to lay eyes on your vile self ever again. I suppose Chaos found a way to bring you back?" Taking his scepter, he pushed a button, turning the staff into an flaming sword.

Garland let out a laugh, "I admit, even I am a little surprised to see myself back, Tyroth. But no matter, because I found some friends while I got back. I just came to let you know that you and your allies have no chance to stop us, so you might as well surrender..."

Maizena and Lissah each got their magic axes ready, but surprisingly, out of all of them it was Marron who actually reacted first, slamming into Garland with her own body, "You really ruined my nap, whoever you are! Oh, and don't attack my king either." In spite of her unassuming appearance and lack of mythic powers, Marron was often sent with the king on visits for a reason, and she was about as physically strong as he and Lissah were.

This actually seemed to catch the former Emperor of Great Corneria off-guard, and the others took advantage of this as Lissah fired a beam of light from her axe, Maizena charged her own axe with lightning and struck the evil knight, Bucky swing his large metal fists, and while Tyroth himself reacted last, his darkness breath hit the hardest of all. "You cannot win, Garland. Even if you come back again and again, we will always beat you."

Garland seemed hurt (though it was hard to tell with his helmet covering his face) but didn't seem to bothered by it. "Alone... you may be right. But I have things far better than an army of weaklings this time around. As for coming back again, I fully intend to. See you later, Champion of Bahamut." Turning all his magical energy within, Tyroth was immediately aware of what the ex-Emperor was doing, "EVERYONE GET BACK!"

Garland used his energy to cause an explosion that took out a notable chunk of the airship. After getting up, Tyroth could see everyone but Bucky had made it, "Ugh, I will have to send him for repairs again... but I am glad to see the rest of you all right."

"Don't relax too soon, Tyroth," Maizena replied, "I don't think the ship can stay up with such damage. We're gonna have to land soon, but as long as the..." the place rumbled... ".. Levistone wasn't damaged... um... that's not good." In spite of the pilotbold's efforts, the Gungnir was falling.

"Everyone, ABANDON SHIP," Tyroth said in his most authoritative voice, "We can salvage and fix Bucky and the ship later, but I will NOT allow any of you to die here. Marron, find anything worth taking and fly off with it. Maizena, get the staff out, then teleport yourself and Lissah away, I will fly out once everything is done..."

"Your Majesty," Lissah interrupted, "By my duty, I cannot leave your side at this point, even if you order otherwise. As long as you are on this vessel, I will be too." Feeling no point in arguing this, Tyroth relented and worked to get the kobolds and important items and documents out of the ship, Marron's body became more draconic as she flew off with the items, and Maizena teleported the kobolds away, ending with the pilot and herself.

Before the ship crashed by the southwestern edge of Dyste, Tyroth grabbed Lissah and flew out, landing them nearby. "First my dining hall and now this... Garland will pay for this." Tyroth tried to be calm, but his voice was shaking with rage.

"I think we might have other issues right now," Lissah said, pointing to the ooze monsters that were crawling around. "Ugh, why always oozes?! I hate them so much..."

Realizing that his scepter, Drakonroth, was not suited to this, Tyroth reached into his mantle and brought out his famed Metal King's Flail. "Well, Lissah," he said, a smile reaching his face for the first tie since Garland showed up, "I suppose it is up to the Black Fangs to bruise some ooze, GHAHAHA!" In a weird sort of way, he was actually enjoying this.

by **New United States of Columbia** » Wed Mar 01, 2017 3:48 pm

Seas of Dyste, Templar Fleet

He'd been waiting a long time for this. The Emperor's lips curled into a smile as he watched his Crusader fleet slowly approach the shores of the Hellspawns. He'd hoped he'd see the day come and here it was. His ships guns trailed the shoreline of the port city of Undellah, their dark magic doing barely a thing to hinder him. He turned from the large windows of his flagship, the H.E.S. Armageddon, as he headed back to the stairwell of the command deck of the Super-Battleship. As he did so he passed a massive computer pit filled with officers handling many tasks at once, namely communicating with the other warships of the Templar Fleet.
The former human turned monster thudded his way down the steps, every step having a fair bit of weight behind it. He wasn't angry, not in the least. His electric yellow cybernetic eyes soon adjusted to the bright sun as he stepped out on deck, watching the various cruisers, destroyers, carriers, troop transports, and supply ships steam through the blue waters. He had to admit, for a place infested with the children of Satan, it was quite beautiful. His face then hardened as he remembered why he was undertaking this glorious Crusade. Aside from his personal hatred of their kind (formed after the Holy Order of Saint Anthony, his new Inquisitorial Secret Police, saved him from death and claimed they set the bomb that killed his wife) there was the manner of Daemonic activity throughout the empire. Possessions, whole towns wiped out in an instant with no sign of external force, and reports of sudden bouts of madness and delusions of all sorts, it was clear the faithful of the Columbian Empire were being attacked by Satan and his legions. And Emperor Foley was going to see to it that it ceased. Either through conversion or total extermination.

Castle Dyste, Draconid Monarchy of Dyste

"Where the hell are we!?"
"Dunno Sergeant! Some storm took us in and now, well..."
The Columbian Pilot stayed silent, not sure how to describe what he saw. He didn't need to as the crack Columbian Marines soon saw the massive castle themselves. The Sergeant gave a whistle as he saw it.
"Anyone reckon it's on our side?" The Sergeant asked.
The Captain, his scared face looking up at the Sarge, shook his head.
"I'm betting it's owned by the Reds. Probably a headquarters of some sort, by the looks of it."
The Marines headed back to double checking their weapons. Rifles were locked and loaded, Light Machine Guns had their belt fed magazines hooked up, and rocket launchers were ready to blast any tank or structure to hell. The VTOL landed, it's propellers winding down as the pilot hopped out.
"The hell you doing that for?" The Sergeant barked, more confused then angry. Though, if they needed to get back to base quickly, the pilot doomed them. The pilot sighed.
"I have no idea where we're at and... just look around! Does this LOOK like Latonos?"
The Sargent said nothing. That massive castle in the background wasn't helping him believe they were merely lost in Latonos. It looked more and more like they were lost on some different continent. Probably Asia, if those Hollywood film were anything to go by. The Sergeant walked forward slowly, looking at the thick forest ahead of them, turned to face the Marines and pilot, and signaled for them to follow him.
"Time to figure out what the hell's going on." The Sergeant muttered to himself.

Boston, Columbian Empire

"Anyone care to tell me what the HELL is that thing!?"
Right now Cpl. Fredrick Burke was fighting for his and his squads lives as the towering creature tried to slash him with some type of "energy sword". He ducked, narrowly avoid having his head cut off, before he aimed his Lasma Rifle (A Laser/Plasma mixture) at the thing's mandibite head and blew it's brain and bone into a few thousand pieces as it's intense blue heated plasma bolt tore into it. He gave a deep sign of relief before he heard explosions and plasma shots high above. He looked up and sighed angrily.
"God please forgive us for whatever sins we've committed."
Up high above the skies of Boston a Covenant super carrier and Republic Attack cruiser were duking it out.

by **Zuni** » Wed Mar 01, 2017 8:19 pm

Captain Candace Payne pushed the battlestation looming over her home world to the back of her mind. She still had a job to do -- protect President Hayes -- and that was becoming a more pressing matter by the minute. She gestured to the screen with the increasingly large horde of zombies on it and then asked the lieutenant, "What's being done about that? Are we secure here in the palace?"

"For now, we're safer sheltering in place than we would be trying to evacuate," the lieutenant replied. "The Zombie Hunters have been dispatched to deal with the problem." An elite unit of the Olwean Army specifically trained in fighting the undead, the Zombie Hunters were well known internationally. Hearing their name mentioned, Candace relaxed a little.

"There are so many countries under attack at once," Cordell Hayes said. "This isn't normal." Countries got attacked all the time, but not on such a grand scale... and especially not simultaneously. "Something is very wrong here," he said.

-----------------------------------------------------

Vice President Harlan Rusk studied the bank of monitors before him intently. "And similar events are happening all over?" he asked. Olwe, Dyste, The Rhythm Nation... he couldn't believe it. What a great time for him to be left in charge. He thought about the galactic history he knew. "The first Death Star was destroyed by snubfighters firing proton torpedoes at a thermal exhaust vent," he said. "So it stands to reason that our best chance is to scramble our starfighter screen. Can the Corps Of Engineers ascertain the exact location of this exhaust port?"

"They already have, sir," an aide said, running up with a printout and jabbing a small red circle on it with his index finger. "This right here is the spot we need to hit."

Harlan nodded. "Then throw everything we have at that spot," he said.

by **Goldsaver** » Fri Mar 03, 2017 10:44 pm

A billion upon billions of voices rang out in unison; the sheer weight of it all almost broke his mind. He allowed his focus to shift for but a moment to himself. He was Khay Asmito, Lord of Ice. He remembered, his life, his accomplishments. The voices threatened to drive all that out. Each voice screamed in agony, and he could feel each and every one of their torments writhing in his skin.

He had tried to commune with this power of Torment before, and each time had found himself driven out by the sheer weight of all that suffering. Now, with this temporal anomaly, the nightmares of the universe had come alive; old, dead terrors that were once forgotten now struck anew. His mind returned to himself, and he remembered the Federation. The invaders from the Hells had returned. Millions would die in a matter of hours. The power of Torment was so much greater, and so much harder to crack. Yet he could not afford failure, this time. The future of the Federation depended it.

He returned to the voices, felt the weight of their pain, sifting through each one, looking for a sign. He found he was weeping in spite of himself, as he felt the tragedy of a parent losing her child, a solider seeing his people annihilated, a youth losing the love of his life. It was too much for any one person to bear. As his mind began to fracture, as he felt himself slip away, he heard it, finally.

A faint whisper, a comforting voice.
"We hear your cries. Do not despair. We are coming."
Finally, he pulled away. He had found what he was looking for. There was still hope.

Federation National News

DANIELS: We have some breaking news from the city-state of Eclipital. There appears to have been an incident at a major mineral extraction facility. Local police have reported at least two hundred employees of the company “Coal Under Pressure” trapped as a result of some sort of collapse. We’ll go live now to our reporter, Iminathi.
-IMAGE OF REPORTER IMINATH, G. STANDING INFRONT OF A LARGE WINDOW. HEAVY SNOWFALL IS CLEARLY VISIBLE-
IMINATHI: Yes, uh, there was a spontaneous snow front. You can see behind me…ten, twelve inches of snow have fallen over the course of an hour. The company is reporting that one of their facilities have been completely closed off.
-IMAGE TRANSISTIONS TO A MINE ENTRANCE, CLOSED OFF BY A SOLID SHEET OF ICE-
DANIELS: (visibly alarmed) Uh, yes, it appears that a…spontaneous freezing has occurred, sealing off access to the mine, and trapping… 227 workers within. We have…uh…some audio taken from a distress signal from within the mine. Uh, I am informed the content of this audio is very disturbing…Please send any children out of the room…and turn off the television or leave the room if such material would bother you.
-TEN SECOND PAUSE-
-AUDIO LOG PLAYS-

DANIELS: We uh…we have a spokesperson for the owner of the facility here…with uh, a contact from the Federal armed forces. Can you two…please tell us what measures are being taken?
REAGAN: Yes, yes. The Federal Emergency Response Force is working with us to set up a cordon around the trapped mine. We at CUP have been working hard to get in contact with the family members of those trapped within the mine. We have…no idea what’s in there. We haven’t received any more word from inside.
NIKKI: A armed medical response and investigation team is en route from Latark as we speak; we’ll let you know more as we begin entry.

The Free Federation of the Golden Lands

Tower of Consciousness

Cordath Academy

City-State of Dritlit
Khay entered the conference room in a huff, to see a debate already well underway. The Provost-Electors had gathered to discuss the turn of events; the old enemy had returned after six centuries of silence. It was an impossibility; the lord of these demons was no more. Yet they had seen the first attack already take place, and had felt the transitional consciousness of the demons emerge in the thousands, and he had felt the Torment rippling through the plane.

Something had happened, and all the shadows of the past were emerging, and they were so ill-prepared to excise them.

The room had gone silent when he took his seat overseeing the massive round table. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, and the debate continued below. Dr. Tiren stood again, and seemed to continue a speech.

“…As I was saying. If the demons are returned, that likely means the return of their lord. That means thousands…millions of infernal invaders, invincible to conventional arms. This time, there will be no emergence of Lords to save us. The Federation will die. If we wish to survive…we must follow the wisdom of our founder, and offer supplication to the demon lord. We…”

Khay felt an anger surge, as he remembered the screams of agony once again…and remembered the hope the voice offered. He had but focused on his rage for a second when it was manifested. Tiren stopped in the middle of his speech, clutching his chest, and tumbling on the ground, giving a last exhale of visible cold breath before going limp. Only now did Khay noticed he had raised his hand, his fingers coated in a snowy frost. His powers had grown immensely since the impetus of the anomaly. Now, he saw how dangerous they were, as he looked upon the body of a man who was once his colleague, killed by a half-second impulse. The room was silenced again, as the remaining twenty-four Provosts turned to their Lord.

Khay stood from his seat, improvising a speech.

“It would seem that the despair our colleague Dr. Tiren suffered has been made manifest. Let us use this tragedy as a learning opportunity. We cannot afford to lose hope, lest we all fall to Torment. Yes, the demons have returned. Even now, the Knights of Latark work to produce weapons that may bring their end, and my fellow Lords work to save as many of their people as possible. Soon, the demons will emerge fully from their hiding places in the underground, and it will be war. The time for debate has ended. Our forebear betrayed the world to bring the demons here…and betrayed the demons once he saw the true consequences of their invasion. I would advise you all to reflect on this decision; for our forbearer was a petty, vengeful man, and yet even he rejected the demons in the end.

For centuries, we studied the arcane arts in secret; it is time to put that knowledge to use. We must contain this menace and minimize the loss of life; it is to our knightly comrades the honor of exterminating them falls. The old Lords are dead, but they ensured they would never be needed again. Honored colleagues, it is time we find our courage, and fulfill our duty to the world.

For this Federation is a beacon of light in a dark reality, founded on three promises. None Shall be Held in Chains, and so we must do everything in our power to destroy the slaver-demons, and ensure the Federation can pursue the protection of the rights and dignity of every person. All Shall Find Shelter Behind our Walls, and so we must push ourselves to the absolute limit to save everyone we can from this invasion. And most important today, No Evil Shall Survive our Wrath. Remember that we are not fighting a war of states, but a war of the very survival of everything worthwhile in the world. Remember your duties, and find courage in the righteousness of your cause. There will be no more debate on the course we shall take…only how to navigate it. So, let’s get started.”

Khay took his seat, waiting and watching. Now more than ever, they needed a plan.

Syrthras Fortress

City-State of Latark

The Knight-Captains had already received their orders. The demons would surface soon, and it would take the full force of the Knights of Latark to stand even a chance of beating them back. Already, the order’s smiths were being pushed beyond the limit, churning out blessed bullets, blades, and even rockets to put weapons in the hands of the Federal armed forces. The protective magic webbed long ago had done much to hold the demons at bay, but they would be imprisoned under the surface for so long. Knight-Commandant Taris had to focus on finding out what brought the demons back, and whether it could be reversed. When the demons breached the barrier, millions would die, no matter how well the Federation fought back.

Taris sat at his desk, letting his mind clear so that a solution might present itself. The Federation was not alone in its suffering, that was clear; all across this plane of existence were the screams of the suffering. There was no coincidence; it seemed that there must be a guiding mind behind all this chaos. His thoughts were interrupted as the High Chaplin stormed into his office. He spoke rushed, without prompting.

“Commandant…it’s worse than we imagined. All the old nightmares are rising from the grave….Torment’s Champion has arisen, once again.”
The Commandant lept out of his seat at that. His hand grabbed his holy blade; in all his years, he had never had to use it. There was never cause for it, before now.
“He’s back, are you sure?”
The Chaplin merely nodded, and the Commandant rushed out of the room.
“I need the Dragon Knights, all of them. If the Champion is back, then the demon invasion is a secondary concern.”

by **Sterkistan** » Sat Mar 04, 2017 2:21 am

Alarms rang in the ears of Warrant Officer Richard Drevan of the 34th Mobile Frame assault battalion, "Luminescent Spear."
He woke suddenly, his Second Lieutenant blaring over the ship P.A.
The ship jolted around him as he dressed, the alarms gaining in intensity and volume, until the lights went out and everything was plunged into darkness.
The emergency lights came on and already he was making his way to the bridge. The yells of Marines rushing to the drop-pods to get onto the colony world beneath them as soon as possible.

The bridge door opened, the Squad Advisers and other pilots huddled around the main screen.
"What the hell is going on here Captain." Drevan asked.
The captain adjusted his hat, "We've got about 437 organic hostiles attacking colony 85, evacuations are underway but we don't have time."
"Let me see." Drevan pushes himself up to the ceiling, floating back down toward the console.
An image flashed of a creature, measuring about 390 foot from its feet to its head, shooting a beam of energy from its mouth.
"What the hell..." Drevan was taken aback, only hearing about these creatures, known as "Reapers" in stories.

He turned to the captain, "We have to mobilize everything, the colony-"
"We already have mobilized everything..." The captain motions to the view from the bridge, of wreckage and light blue blood spilled out as far as the eye could see.

"I'm going out there." Drevan turned to leave.
"Wait, Warrant Officer, I have a different job for Luminescent Spear."
He motions to beside him where a kid, no older than 17 emerges, "Take him to 'Pillar 1' the cruiser in the vicinity of Colony 72." An image of a medium cruiser with red stripes and a unicorn head logo appears on the screen
"But that's 3 days flight by Mobile Frame!" Drevan argued.
"Your Frames have been outfitted for the journey, go... NOW!"
Richard grabs the kids' hand, pulling him to the Mobile Frame deck.

The team are there, suiting up and checking their equipment, the ship rumbles violently as the pilots man the 60 foot tall Frames.
Draven fits a passenger seat into the cockpit of his Stark Jegan Custom, hooking the kid in. "I don't know what's so special about you kid, but you better be worth it."
The Frames are fitted with fuel tanks, extra oxygen, ration and water packs and long-distance thrusters, Drevan requests the left shoulder missile pod be replaced with Nuclear Warheads.

"This is Captain Revel, ready catapult decks 1 through 30, and ready Luminescent Spear for launch, we'll cover their exit with the Hyper-Mega Particle cannon."
Richard checks his systems as his suit is pulled to the catapult deck, locking his safety harness.
He locks the feet into the catapults, "This is Richard Drevan, RGM-89S 'Starky' heading out."
He pushes the joysticks forward and the suit rockets out of the gate, detaching and gaining altitude, followed by the other suits.
Immediately, one of the creatures makes a beeline for the suits, they turn, rocketing toward Colony 72, firing their Solar-Particle rifles. It rushes past them, using it's clawed hand to tear apart 2 of the Mobile Frames, each shot from the Beam-Rifles cut a hole on the creature's hide, blood spilling from each one. But it wouldn't die.
It curls around, making a head on beeline for the largest cluster of Frames, crushing 7 of them in its powerful jaws.
Two of the Frames draw their beam sabers, flanking it and skewering its' throat.
"Go Drevan, we'll hold it!"
Drevan nods, the action passed through to the Frame's helmet and he as well as three other Frames retreat for Colony 72.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The alarm shoots Drevan from his light slumber, his Frame is missing an arm and has armor pieces torn off, half of his missile pods gone and down to one Nuclear warhead.
He looks around, only seeing the other Frame still with him. He opens contact with Pillar 1, who agreed to meet the now-crippled Frames two-quarters of the way there. "Pillar 1 this is 'Shattered Spear', do you copy?"
(Note: Upon the event where more than three-quarters of a squad has been destroyed, the first half of the call-sign is changed to 'shattered')
A patchy radio signal opens, "Shattered Spear this *static* 1, we-*static*."
Drevan responds, "Pillar 1 in the dark, the signal is patchy, I'll run field repairs now to improve the connection."
He closes the connection and puts on his helmet, closing the visor.
He wakes the kid, telling him to watch the monitors and heads out, clipping himself to the front of the frame and grabbing a tool-kit from its stow-away point. The line auto-reels him out further, and he gets to the head. He hooks himself up to another clip and opens the hatch on the antenna, tinkering with the components to discover the problem. He finds the damaged pieces, and begins repairs where he can.
Suddenly the Frame jerks around, he grabs the Frame for support, he looks in the direction the head is facing and sees one of the creatures, injured but still making a beeline toward them nonetheless. Drevan opens a com-link to the cockpit, "Kid, open the hatch I'm coming in!"
"There's no time." The kid responds. Suddenly the rifle arm comes up and fires a shot at the creatures right eye, the hit sends it reeling downward before it quickly curls it's way around and rockets toward the Frame, raising it's arm to strike. The Frame draws it's beam sword and rushes it, disconnecting its long-range thruster-pack. The other Frame fires at the creature trying to draw its attention.
As the arm comes around, the Frame rockets upward, slicing off the hand of the creature. Moving along it's body, dragging the saber across it's whole length.
It whips around and the beam of light charges, the energy glowing brightly in the creature's mouth. The kid fires all three leg-mounted grenades into the mouth of the creature. The explode, causing the energy to dissipate. It brings around it's other arm quickly, grabbing the suit in an iron grip, as well as smacking the other suit with it's tail.
(Imagine an ugly-ass eel with arms)
It begins crushing the suit, until it's midriff explodes. The grip on the suit loosens, and in the distance a flash is seen.
"Ready railgun 2, TEAR THAT BASTARD IN HALF!" The captain of Pillar 1 orders.
The second blast tears through the head of creature and it squirms before going limp, the suit escapes its grip and makes its way to the other Frame and they help each-other to Pillar 1.

Two RGX High-Mobility Frames meet them and help them to the hangar of Pillar 1.
The RGX frames are the only frames on-board apart from one other, a purely white frame with a horn jutting from its head, the kid surveys the suit, sitting inside and tinkering with the controls.
Drevan goes to the bridge while the other pilot is taken to the med-bay.

"Captain." Drevan salutes. "I hope this kid was worth it."
"He sure as hell was." The captain replies, returning the salute and motioning for him to relax.
Drevan looks around the bridge, half of the controls are missing, with only some remaining and others either in pieces or unmanned.
"What the hell happened here?" Drevan asks.
"Ah yes, that. Well this is a SRV-821, with the outfits for a 823, it may not look like much but she gets the job done. Plus we're only a skeleton crew."
"Why are you running a suit like that." Drevan motions to the console showing the schematics for the single-horned suit, "In an 821?"
"The commander pushes his hat up his forehead, "Majority of the funding for the UNICORN project went into the suit, not much left for any of the other stuff."
"Unicorn project?" Drevan asks, confused.
'You'll know later, for now we need to head to Sol, it's being used as a staging point for the retaking of the Alpha Centuri system." The Captain brings up a map of the Alpha Centuri system, "After the Reaper attack there recently, the rebel militiamen annexed the whole thing, we're going to take it back."
"Okay then, why are we being sent and not the attack fleets?" Drevan inquires.
"Because they're fighting off the Reapers here, in the Aperox galaxy, they need us to do this for them."

Drevan sighs, "Fine, we'll go. I'm going to oversee the repairs to my Jegan." He leaves the bridge.
"Navigator." The Captain snaps, "Set a course for Sol"

"Yes sir!" The navigator responds.

Drevan inspects the ships arms and capabilities, it was a much smaller ship than the 823, carrying 40 Marines, an elite squad known as 'Londo Bell', as well as 6 BR-52's, 8 IF-SF's and 4 Serenity Mark 24's. This really was a skeleton crew.

The ship enters FTL speed.

by **Thoricia** » Sun Mar 12, 2017 9:54 pm

Voices sounded off the huge domed chamber, its large sloping reaching up until it disappeared from sight its walls were unique in that there were no doors or windows and yet hundreds of bodies were present within it. The casual mortal observer would likely be confused, that was until he realized what this place actually was.

Impartcia was the neutral meeting ground of the denizens of the Eternal Realms, very rarely was it ever used due to the animosity between the multitude of all powerful beings. Archdevils, gods, demon lords, devas, and numerous other beings who resided within the realms that existed outside the Material Plane.

A snarl and a shout rose above the rest of the voices as Gor, God of War for the orcs made his discontent known above the others.

“The box has been opened, the covenant clearly states that when that happens the Infernal Realms are allowed to unleash their champions and hordes upon the Material Plane until it is destroyed and then the box is hidden again and time is reset, why has that not been allowed, already the hordes of the Wilder demons have been allowed to begin breaching the walls. Why has Deo halted out assault this time, what have you Celestials done this time.” roared the huge orc god as his foot stomped the ground which caused a great crack in the floor that quickly sealed itself up almost as fast as it appeared.

Electricity thummed through the air and the voice of the most powerful Olympians spoke up.
“You know good and well we had nothing to do with this, Deo summoned all of us here for a matter of great importance, if you cannot be patient perhaps you should be taught it.” said Zeus as the electricity ran down his arm and formed into a lightning bolt.

More shouts sounded through the chamber as Infernals and Celestials alike began shouting more and more at each other while the Symantras tried to calm everyone down, their pleading voices drowned by the shouting.

“ENOUGH.” boomed a great voice through the chamber that managed to silence every being within the chamber. All eyes turned towards where the voice had come from. A figure that’s mere presence seemed to tower above even the largest and mightiest of the Eternals present. The figure was cloaked in a gray robe, the hands and feet couldn’t be seen and where the face was nothing but a black void could be seen.

“You were not summoned here to continue your petty squabbles amongst yourselves.” the voice reprimanded.

“Why have we not been allowed to begin our attack on the Material Plane, give an explanation now or we’ll rip it out of you and then we’ll do whatever we please.” screamed the voice of Mal’Kothar one of the most powerful of the Daemon Princes as he took a step towards the gray robed figure, seemingly intent on his promise. The figure merely lifted a hand towards the Prince whose body was suddenly flung across the chamber like a rag doll until a sickening crunch could be heard as his body slammed into the walls of the chamber. His screams pierced the silence as his body crashed into the walls again and again until he was dropped by the unseen force.

“Things are...different this time.” explained the robed figure, it’s voice genderless and neutral much like it’s clothing. “The box has been opened to many times, and it’s effects are such that not even I could have foreseen. The magic that has held the Elder Gods in place has been weakened enough that they will likely escape this time.” said Deo

Snorts and laughter could be heard from the Infernals as everyone within the chamber realized the implications.

“And what are we to do once that happens?” asked Neptune, his face grave with concerns over what would happen if the Elder Gods returned.

“What’s the matter, not thrilled over the prospect of a little family reunion.” smirked the Archdevil Mephistos which set off another round of laughter amongst the Infernals and nothing but glares from the Celestials.

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that. The same magic that holds the Elder Gods also holds the Primordials.” clarified Deo “When the Elders escape it’s likely that the Primordials bindings will also fail.”

A pin drop could be heard in the chamber as a deafening silence swept over the group.

“Is there anything you can do to stop it?” asked Yanweh

“I’m afraid all I can do is watch.” said Deo “My prediction is that they will focus their attacks on the Eternal Plane, however they’re well aware of the connection between the two planes and they will send their more powerful minions and their armies against the Material Plane in an effort to weaken you all.”

“I however can alter the covenant, you will all be allowed to release your champions along with their armies at once, you all will however need to marshall your forces because this is a fight for your very existence, because if the Primordials and the Elders succeed they will not bind you as you all did them, they will erase you from existing at all once they are through with you.” said Deo

“Then the hordes of the Infernal Realms will be waiting for them.” spoke up Asmodeus

“And so too shall the legions of the Celestial Realms.” said Odin

“The armies of the Sykmantra Realms will also be at the ready” spoke Amman as well.

*******************************

Lokarta, Thoricia

The emergency session of The Council had seen members of the group that “ruled” Thoricia ripped from their activities and vacations. Military teams of Svaslandans had been assigned with retrieving the members by the Chairman Arne Skulisson as quickly as possible, and they had been particularly efficient.

As the other Members of The Council were rushed into the emergency meeting room they were surprised to see several people were there already, that was hardly the most shocking thing though. Instead of wearing what most would consider modern Thorician garb the thirty odd people standing before them were mostly wearing either chainmail hauberks or some other unusual “costume” from Thoricia’s history. One however stood out prominently in front of the others. His body was clad in head to toe in plate armor that seemed to give of it’s own glow of light.

The Chairman coughed to break the others out of the examination of the strange crowd before them.

“I’m sure you all have questions but I’m afraid we are short on time from what the seers have explained to me.” Arne said as the others looked at him and then back towards the crowd.
“The end of times are at hand, soon our world will be invaded by minions of some dark force that even has Abbadon itself trembling in it boots.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that the Infernal Realms are trembling, but they are certainly not pleased.” came a soft musical voice of a woman clad in a flowing green gown that covered her body like mercury, its form seemed liquid and ever shifting.”

The sound of a sword being unsheathed could be heard as the warrior covered in plate step forward.

“Aglæc-wif.” he shouted as he stalked towards the woman that appeared from thin air.

“Now now now Beowulf, I’m almost certain you were told the same thing I was before we were allowed to return, no fighting amongst ourselves.” grinned the woman as she walked amongst the people in the room. Mumbling something under his breath others couldn’t hear the huge warrior sheathed his blade before turning towards The Council.

“What your leader says is true, darkness descends on not only the Material Plane but also the Eternal Plane as well, the gods have sent their mightiest champions.” Beowulf paused before he looked over at the woman again before continuing. “We have also been allowed to return with our armies as well to help bolster the forces of the Material Plane, every people and nation across the Armagedox will be receiving these gifts from the Eternals along with a warning, prepare for war at once.”

Murmurs could be heard from the members of The Council as a quick discussion was had amongst themselves before Ulf the Spokesman for The Council spoke up first.

“If this is indeed true then the country will be put on full alert, anyone not capable of fighting will be evacuated into the safety of Thorcia’s bunker system. The northern lands will be abandoned at once and the residents there will be brought to Thoricia proper at once. Hopefully the gods will have mercy on us and help us through this catastrophe.”

The last remark brought the sound of soft laughter to everyone’s ears as the woman giggled.

“I think the gods themselves will be happy if they manage to survive this themselves.

by **Nyte** » Wed Mar 15, 2017 6:27 pm

The Imperial Palace
Halcon
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

He had been running for several minutes through the palace's darkened hallways... Despite this, there was little noise aside from the sound of his muffled footsteps on the plush carpet. In his mind however, he could imagine that the city outside was anything but, and the information on the holopad clutched within his armored hand only made his thoughts all the louder. Rounding the final corner to his destination, he pulled up short at the sight of the two Nytelords slumped on the ground outside the Emperor's personal rooms. Dropping the holopad with a muffled curse, he reached over to his right hip and drew his force sword while priming his gauntlet mounted plasma pistol; the violet glow of the pistols power cell casting its glow outward. Hugging the wall, he moved towards the downed Nytelords, and upon reaching them was relieved to notice that they were both merely unconscious instead of dead.

Triggering the lock on the door, he swiftly spun into the room, ducking under the rising door before it could fully open and activated the power field on his sword expecting the worst. Instead, a quick glance from left to right revealed no one... No attackers thankfully, but unfortunately, also no Emperor... "Fuck me" muttered Xaiah Morningstar the head of the Emperor Conrad Curze's Nytelord bodyguard...

Elsewhere
Halcon
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

The attack had come with no warning. One moment, it had been a regular night in Halcon; the normal scenes of night life in the Empire playing out as they always have... The next, the first of the attackers simply seemed to bleed out of the shadows. The first victim of the attack; an elderly bum who'd clearly had far too much to drink, had just enough time to to think that the cloaked figure looked surprisingly like one of the Assassins from the history holo's he'd watched in school in his youth before a blade flicked out and the bums head was sailing through the air; leaving a trail of blood as it went... And that's when the screaming started.

It only got worse from there as word of the attack took time to spread. By the time military command had received word of the attack, the death tole was already approaching six digit figures, and the earliest responder's to the attack were actually the Arbitrators who, despite the fact that they bore military grade power armor and weapons were still in essence police, and as such, were far from equipped to deal with the assault so that despite their best efforts they were pushed back nearly to their precinct houses before the first response from the military made itself known as the thousands of concealed weapons built into Halcon activated; sliding out of their concealed positions and unleashing a withering hail of weapons fire as their targeting systems locked on to what could only be described as a target rich environment.

~BREAK~

He watched them play with her... One at each end of the alley taking turns sending her screaming one way and the other... Back and forth she ran as they merely chuckled darkly as they took turns chasing her a short distance; leaving little shallow cuts with their blades every time until she finally fell down somewhere between the two; sobbing and bleeding. He watched as they silently determined which one would get to finish her off, and was not surprised when the one on the left stepped forward with an arrogant swagger. Soulless black eyes narrowed as the Assassin grabbed the woman by her pale silvery hair and yanked her head back. "Hold still poppet, I have a new toy you're gonna help me break in" the Assassin muttered darkly while reaching to a holster on his belt...

Only to be interrupted by the sound of massive wings unfurling with a whumpf. The Assassin had enough time to look up and see his death coming before the glowing force sword punched through his surprised face and out his lower back with a sizzle of burning flesh; his corpse collapsing back and away from the still screaming woman. His killer was an unnaturally tall man; gaunt, with a pale face, deeply set soulless black eyes and long, straight inky black hair. The ornate set of onyx colored power armor with its massive anti-gravity wings and tattered black cloak did little to disguise the identity of this killer... Seeing as this was the second time this man had killed him. As he died, the Assassin had enough time for one last thought... The name of his killer; Night Haunter.

Conrad Curze "The Night Haunter" disdainfully kicked the sizzling corpse off of his massively long force sword. "You fuckers should have stayed in whatever hell I'd sent you to..." He spoke softly as he slowly turned to face the remaining Assassin; ignoring the sobbing woman as she crawled around him and stumbled into a run. Somewhere within her panicked mind she thought perhaps she should look back to see what would happen, but that thought died with a whimper as the screaming started up behind her; reaching a crescendo as she stumbled out of the alley. As panicked as she was, something about the tone of those screams made her glad she hadn't looked back...

by **Skarr** » Thu Mar 16, 2017 12:05 pm

Krukal'Righ

Fortresses in the Stars

Traitors Gathering

“I see the way but not the path, I see the thief but not the vault. I see pride unbound, and hatred released. I see The Forsaken’s Folly bring about the rise of a million fiends.

I see the storms of Chaos unleashed… and with it, the return of the power to kill Stars and Gods.”

The Maw of Darkness, Machina

Magos Daqhaos Khol always believed he was destined for greatness. Today, he was simply reminding himself that; no matter the indignity, or the tedium of his task, or the distance of his exile, he was. It was he who developed a new revolutionary strain of scrap-code that set the forges of Ghamark’s rivals alight with daemonic flame spawned from its malfunctioning cogitators. It was he who proposed and wrote eighty-eight treaties on the optimization of the bindings and sacrificial-rites of the daemon forge Zalatax, increasing the production of machine-fiends by fifteen (fifteen!) percent. It was he who scoured the ancient data-crypts of the Diabolus Cogliothica to retrieve its precious, ancient, knowledge. It was HE who, by right of intelligence and merit, should have been Fabricator-Locum of Ghamark.

Alas, how power shifted so quickly when in the hands of weak minded, unambitious fools. Alas, how power shifted all the quicker when violence, the greatest solution to inequality and injustice, failed.

Daqhaos slowly surveyed the central command deck of his orbital forge and tried not to let the reality of how much he lost in his endeavors embitter him further. The creatures he shared his space with where utterly worthy of his wrath but they were loyal, and that was a precious commodity he counseled himself. His lair was a data-temple defiled, infested with maintenance hololiths, data stations, and sensorium postings. All of it attended to by Dark Mechanicum Magi and servitors alongside short figures, sharing the form of the demiurge.

He and all who served under him could tell that his humors were out of sorts. Stomping on clawed, reversed jointed, legs in a slow gait like a caged beast. His body was a bulwark of adamantine, ceramite, and Martian-Lore plasteel. A dreadnaught of a hunchbacked form covered in tattered black-on-red-on-rust robes, hiding a plethora of integrated weapons. Volkite, plasma, bolter, launchers, arms built long and simian like that could split into multiple manipulators alongside a score of mechadendrites equipped for various purposes. Daqhaos’ body was built for war more in the way of the Skitarii than the usual augments of the Mechanicum. Before this exile-within-exile, before the first exile, he believed the Quest for Knowledge was best pursued with a personal touch when it could be helped.

His current exile had lead him to Machina, and as far as refuges went, it admittedly could have been worse. The daemon world was a treasure trove of technologies for the Magos to slowly rebuild his power-base so long as he was willing to claw and tear his way against the competition and the native daemon-engines. There was certainly no shortage of either, numerous clades of the Mechanicum and the mysterious squat sapients had come to plunder the world long before he had ever arrived. Some, he suspected, bore pacts with Ghamark and other forge-worlds, returning to them periodically with the fruits of their labors. There was also a pact of sorts, a tacit agreement that kept what passed for peace, but it was never to be counted on. Even less so with the enemies Daqhaos had made.

How long he could hide here among renegades and scrap-heap hereteks, he could not surely calculate. Estimate perhaps, but he did not like the results even then.

There was a spark and a shout from one of the terminals. As well as a sound of gurgling and glitching binaric ranting; a sound that could be likened to a thousand different vox-modulated screams filled the chamber. Daqhaos remembered there were other matters to attend to, all future worries aside.

Aether-monitor stations and warp-diviner shrines were in uncharacteristic distress. There was an attrition of aethericognition servitors due to a strange plague of wild scrap-code and terror-meme viruses. More than a few divining augur-cabalist burned out their enegram enhancements with recent views into the Sea of Souls. They ranted and raved of a prison of horrors unlocked, a box of fiends unleashed, and a myriad of other disasters. The phenomena were not limited to Machina either, Daqhaos Khol may have fallen far, but he still had enough connections to know the anomaly, while not exactly widespread, was not a curse not laid on him alone. It had plagued other regions, and it took different forms as well. The halls of seers and daemonic basilicas rang with similar prophesies that made minds hurt and eyes bleed. The planets of the Enchained Worlds inexplicably formed a constellation that prophesized misery and woe when viewed from a disturbingly vast number of angles. Sacrifices of celebration and warding were being done on several feral worlds.

It was all eerily coincidental. Daqhaos did not consider himself a creature of faith or superstition, but he knew these things had significance. Such was the nature of the realm he called home.

Daqhaos made his way over to the terminal. It was manned by an aethercognition servitor, part of a wider network of augur relays, auspex arrays, warp monitors, and covert vox-net monitors; along with several others of its kind it worked in tandem. The ghoulish creature was broken. Its bionic eyes smoked and sparked, black blood flowed and gurgled past the vox-grille that replaced its mouth, and whatever was left of its muscles twitched like it was being electrocuted, it probably was.

“Krukal’Righ… Krukal’Righ!” It blurted in binaric cant.

Daqhaos could not physically sneer as a normal man could, but the stream of binaric curses he let out would have given even the unaugmented a hint of his thoughts. It was not the type of language used in social circles even in the Mechanicum.

“Get me another one. Get me another one! I don’t care where you get it. Flash-clone one, modify another servitor, scoop out the entrails of some witless slave if you must. Just. Get. Me. Another one.” He growled, three unblinking orange-green eyes and a mess of cybernetic tendrils made up his face. The squat figure attending him nodded quickly and hurried off the procure a replacement servitor. This was the third one blurting nonsense this cycle.

“Krukal’Righ, asha’tar!” The tainted mech-slave blurted again.

For all his annoyance Daqhaos still had a sense of curiosity, the tongue the servitor was speaking was familiar to him but he felt the need to confirm it. What it was saying simply shouldn’t be possible. He was tempted ever so slightly to link with its cortex, to analyses whatever data had infected the lobotomized cyborg but thought better of it. He sent a few orders through the noosphere, and in response, several data collecting servo-skulls and cyber-imps that fluttered and floated near the chamber’s sealing broke off, attaching themselves to various data-vaults and cogitators in search of the Magos’ desired information.

“Krukal’Righ! Krukal’Righ, asha’tar!” The servitor blurted again. Daqhaos responded by grabbing the machine-slave by its neck, ripping it from its station in a spray of preservative fluids, nutritional oils, and viscera. He through it at a nearby wall.

“I heard you the first time.” He said simply. He allowed a cyber-imp to perch on his form, it was a small fat-bellied creature with horns, fangs, leathery wings. Some claimed they resembled miniature cybernetically modified Neverborn know to many as Furies. It connected itself through an MUI unit and proceeded with its upload.

It still shouldn’t be possible. The language was Cthonic based that was no doubt, the tongue used by the former Sons of Horus and still among the Black Legion but…

The second part of the statement meant ‘Deliver us’ but the first…

In a display of strange adaptiveness, the cyber-imp whispered more. The servitors - two more where lost in the process though – had managed to pinpoint the source of the transmission. It was a tight-beam meme-virus, very specifically targeted. It also had coordinates. They were at the edge of the system, straight at the center of a virulent aether-storm that was flaying several of the Machina’s black-adamantium moons, filling what passed for their atmospheres with ash and ionic rust-storms.

It couldn’t be…

Servitor probes were sent, as many as Daqhaos could spare. Many of them were lost but a few caught sights of a massive stellar object within the eye of the storm. It was a vessel as large as any as the Magos had ever seen. It was encrusted with void-ice and stellar-grime. Massive barnacles clung to it in places. It’s hab sized weapons batteries would have been the envy of many a Chaos Lord’s flagship. It’s forward lance array gave an unmistakable profile.

It couldn’t be, Daqhaos cross-referenced the servitor’s observation with ancient lore from the Diabolus Cogliothica. He turned back, vocally, voxing, and noospherically relaying new orders. Skitarii clades activated, brotherhoods reaffirmed their oaths, tech-guard and battle automata were mustered. Nearby void-ships fell into new positions, the unmistakable bulk of a heavy cruiser that served as Daqhaos’ personal vessel drew closer, patiently awaiting its master’s shuttle. It was not even a shadow of the power he could have once commanded, but it would have to be enough. For a prize, such as this, anything could be risked.

The servitor Daqhaos savaged earlier twitched in a parody of life “Krukal’Righ, asha’tar!” it said again. Daqhaos incinerated its upper body with a plasma bolt.

“Magos, all maniples stand ready. Some of the servitors are bleating nonsense again, does this have to do with the recent probe returns?” The voice of Audaxus Primas, his Master of Skitarii, ever loyal, came through the noosphere.

“It does, ready your clades and board your designated transports.” Daqhaos replied, already he was rushing with an attendant of bodyguards, Skitarii and servitors. Other creatures drifted in the shadows, flickering in and out of stealth like ghosts in augur baffling quantum fields. They passed through the veins and hallways of the orbital forge, a place of industry and worship both, making good time to the hangar deck.

“News is spreading my Magos. Our vox-thieves and augur spies are reading a large amount of activity from the other covens. The storm that surrounds the prize is weakening, we cannot be sure if we are the first to discover its nature but if the others do…”

“It will be all out war.” Daqhaos finished for him. The opening of a gun-cutter craft’s loading ramp yawned in front of him “I am aware of this.”

The trip from forge to cruiser was uneventful. Magos Daqhaos settled into the bridge, new noospheric connections flooded into his mind with alerts, status updates, and logistical reports. There was little time to waste. He suspected he had a head start in his preliminary research but that was not to be counted on.

Audaxus had asked him something on the way to the ship. It was a question Daqhaos did not have an answer to. Even if they got to the prize first, even if they took it unopposed, how would they keep it? He had much in the way of deployable defenses, deadfall torpedoes, and various patterns of mines, but how long would that last? How long could he dig in and hold this prize like a stubborn dying herbivore against scavengers that sensed weakness. Daqhaos Khol had made many enemies but he had relatively few allies. The rival covens and brotherhoods that infested Machina might put aside their rivalries just long enough to dislodge him. If the lords of Ghamark got word of the prize he hoarded to himself, Blood of the True Omnissiah, they would throw everything they could at him.

He had nothing. Nothing but desperation and a ghost of a chance to seize something resembling power again. Damnation, the Maw would respect the name Daqhaos Khol once again!

But he had nothing… except the Diabolus Cogliothica perhaps. It bore certain tech-rites, certain dark arts that could restore the vessel. That and more, but a lack of resources was the greatest enemy in seeing it a reality, and he was one of the few that comprehended most of it. That was something to barter for. But not with the scum of Machina, and certainly not with the pretenders of Ghamark!

No… there was one potential ally he could court. Many did, and while it was fraught with risk, he felt there were few other options.

Standing at the head of the bridge, facing the vast expanse of the void, instruments and augury senses could tell that storm was indeed abating. It was losing strength. Daqhaos silently ordered more speed. They had to get there first if his last hope was to have any weight.

He sent a binaric blurt into the noosphere. On cue, a cyber-imp perched on his form again. This one was slightly larger than its forge-cousin, fatter, and a strip of parchment dangled from its mouth. Its hands were claws of quills and data-ink.

“Compile an astropathic message. Send word to the Warmaster. Tell him I have found a most interesting prize. I am willing to offer my services, and my oath for it. All I ask is his boon.” Daqhaos said, the imp compiled his message in data-script, vomiting more parchment as it ran out, its claws frantically scribbling as it did so.

The imp wasted no time, it fluttered off when it was done, bearing the Magos’ message to the astropathic relay. There, cabalists, and sorcerers would work with baleful maltek to send a message through the Sea of Souls as fast as it could be helped.

Daphaos took one last look through the vast viewport that spread from one edge of the bridge to another. Observatory data from multiple servitor probes fed into his mind, showing him the vast form of his prize: The Krukal’Righ. The word was Cthonic, but in Gothic it had a more familiar name.

Planet Killer.

Krukal’Righ, asha’tar. Planet Killer, deliver us. Something within the ships spirit was calling out to certain souls. Daqhaos, again, did not consider himself a creature of faith or superstition, but he felt in his soul that fate was conspiring something, maybe it was even the will of the Omnissiah itself. Whether for or against him, he could not tell.

His ship plunged into the waning storm. Space became a shifting torment of familiar and unfamiliar colors; physically illegal readings began to feed into augur systems. Armored panels slid over the viewport, casting him in darkness.

“Rally your minions, summon your servants, gather your rivals around you. Walk the red path across the tides of the godsea, and spread the wrath of the Ruinous Ones, across the stars… Acheron the Archfiend, and claim your prize…”

Furose

The world was burning.

That was not all that out of character perhaps. Furose was a world of fire. Of endless lava streams, oceans of molten metal, and active volcanic activity whose geological character changed almost daily. Fire made up its sea, boiling semi-solid rock made up its very few landmasses. Neither of which were friendly to extended habitation and it was said the world recoiled at the very idea of it, sundering shielded colonies and cracking open field braced platforms. Some say the world consciously ejected entire tectonic plates into the void to spite certain inhabitants. These where events of legendary, apocalyptic magnitude, where entire portions of the planet came apart in a way that it could be seen from orbit.

Civilization found a way, however. A surprisingly advanced culture arose from Furose’s near inhospitable environment. Decedents of ancient colonists, their political and social life centered on the mobile hive-barges that floated across the lava seas. Each was a massive city sized vessel of immense displacement and capacity for inhabitance. Their heat resistance, modular, armored hulls extended well past the surface while their spires and towers clawed at the ash-chocked atmosphere, surrounded by crackling flare-shields and power fields. Each was attended by a fleet of barges, airships, and smaller modular vessels that traded and mined with other hive-barges.

The psy-reactive grav-engines that moved each city were the product of a near lost art. They were maintained carefully by a caste of machinewrights that passed their knowledge down from one generation to the next. They were only one half of the circle, however, the other were the helmsmen, the psykers that were used to navigate the tumultuous tides of Furose. Part seer, part pyromancer, they had a sense for the planets humors like few others. A helmsman could steer clear of flame-storms before they manifested, they could (When connected to the engines) calm a volcanic eruption as it raged, they stared into sacrificial pyres where bone burned and ash swirled and used their art to divine the future; it was also said that they had a talent for navigating a starship through the Sea of Souls, in the vanishingly rare events when they made it off-world.

In some of these cities these creatures were worshipped. From the day they are discovered, for they could arise anywhere from any social class, they are taken to secluded cult temples and treated as though they are speakers of the Ruinous Powers themselves, attending and overseeing ceremonies and sacrificial rites in their honor. In others, they maintained a position of great respect but one that was ultimately secular, often working with the city’s ruler, king, or council, wielding great influence and respect for their gifts, but no hard authority. In some others, however, they were reviled, seen as a necessary evil, and lived lives little better than slavery.

Many of the cities were burning. This was less in character. The hive-barges spent their entire operational existence in heat and ploughed through Furose’s strange firestorms repeatedly. Their design was optimized to protect them from many of planet’s natural hazards.

There was nothing natural about the cities plight. The answer laid in the sky. Warships filled it. Vast wedges, colored in legion colors, their hulls void black and edged with gold. There were others to, allies and vassals; some bore iron-grey hulls stamped with the iron skull of the Iron Warriors, others showed the allegiance of murder-vessels of the VIII Legion. They bore rank after rank of daemon mouthed weapons batteries. Macro-cannon, plasma, missile pods, lances, and more aimed like a sword of Damocles down at the world below. They were surrounded by orbital rubble, the last remains of the planets orbital defenses and the fleet that defended it.

The battle to take Furose was short but vicious. The planet maintained an extensive orbital defense network and the firepower of the hive-barges was never to be underestimated, armed as they were with batteries of defense lasers that could tear a battleship in twain and void shields that could shrug off similar firepower. Had certain circumstances been different, the battle would have been much more difficult.

The war was still hot though. Stormbirds and devourer dropships broke off from different vessels, braving what remained of the resisting cities’ anti-air defenses to deliver their cargo to warzones where stubborn resistance still cleaved on. Waves of dreadclaws shot from battle barges like missiles, sophisticated guidance systems and telemetry data leading them to the planet’s surface without risk of accidently plunging into the lava-seas.

Other cities bore the humiliation of occupation. Some surrendered after bearing the brunt of orbital bombardment, others were conquered with bolter, fire, and chainsword. The price of their defeat was a blood tithe. A generations worth of bodies to fight in the name of the Gods and the sons of Cthonia. This tithe was marched through streets, a mass of humanity separated into manageable columns, overlooked by a mix of heavily armed humans and Astartes. Beatings and executions were routine for the rebellious and the randomly violent. Their path winded through their former homes before it ended in the holds of fat bellied dropships and landers. They would be stuffed to the brim before taking off with their cargo.

The truth of the matter was that the inhabitants of Furose had been waging war on each other long before the Black Legion invaded. The prophesies of the helmsman of the hive-barge Ghun’teinzak were not all that different from those of many other seers across the Maw. Zubara the Flame-Eyed had suddenly begun to speak of the so-called Vault of Fiends and the rise of a million dark pasts long lived and futures undreamt. This had not been dismissed per-se, all her prophesies were well recorded by her attendant priest-hood to be later cross-reference and digested with other pieces of malefic lore. That she claimed her words were a message from the Chaos Gods themselves were taken with kindly acceptance.

Then she began to speak certain words. Certain prophesies. Proclaimed the imminent arrival of certain powers. Her priest-hood attempted to hush her, but word spread. Rumors reached the ears of certain cults, certain cabals, that gave their allegiance to a runic symbol, an eye, the eye of The Warmaster. They, at great risk, sent a message into the Sea of Souls. Their master received that message and sent one back: “Bring her to me.”

Civil war was instant. Lines were drawn between those who would hand over the seer, and those who desired to keep her for their own purposes. The pact that kept what passed for peace between the hive-barges dissolved when Ghuntein’zak was suddenly attacked by its trading partner Val’zuck, demanding they hand over the seer. Zubara was once questioned what she thought of the war over her fate. It is said that she smiled kindly to the speaker and said that no matter what, she would be where she was needed most. So the Gods willed it, so it would be. Furose erupted in intracity warfare. Hive-barges flung macro-cannon, laser, and clouds of guided missiles at each other while orbitals and void-craft traded blows in orbit.

The Black Legion arrived a month later, they broke through whatever resistance was left in the void, and reaped havoc on any hive-barge that did not immediately submit. Now they were mopping up whatever was left.

Meanwhile, Acheron the Archfiend had personally led the assault on Ghuntein’zak. He dwelt there still, for he had business with its helmsman.

Acheron stood in a massive domed, circular, chamber. It’s floor, walls, and the multitudes of pillars that held up the ceiling were carved of black stone and black-on-red crystal. A large pit where sacrificial pyres were lit and offerings were laid dominated the center. On days of celebration or significance the flames that were lit would reach the ceiling, showing shapes and forms in the conflagration from which the helmsman would chart a course for the hive-barge or divine the future. Today, only black smoke and ash emerged from it.

Tattered banners and grotesque fetishes hung on the walls and ceilings; they were native proclamations of devotion, history, and victories. Zubara the Flame-Eyed’s throne laid at the rear end, across from the entrance. All around her the remains of the priest that attended her were flayed and strung up on barbed-wire, impaled on pikes, or laid in pools of their own blood; their throats cut and bellies split open in rituals of bloodletting and anthropomancy. These were more recent proclamation of victory and sacrifice from the conquerors. Zubara had never shirked or looked away when Acheron’s sorcerers sacrificed the men and women who worshipped her, she merely waited patiently until the Chaos Lord finished making his statement.

When he demanded the answers he sought, the flames in her eye-sockets that betrayed her title brightened. She spoke her prophesies.

Acheron faced one of the massive gothic windows, his formed rendered a shadow by the play of the light from the burning city outside. After all the punishment the hive-barges had sustained from orbital bombardment, not a single city had sunk into the lava seas. Many a legion warpsmith wanted more time to analyze their design. His honor guard, chosen and terminator elite, lingered at the other end of the chamber, weapons primed, horned and tusked helms stood at attention. His brothers, those captains and warlords closest to him lingered closer, enough to hear The Archfiend and the Flame-Eyed’s words.

“I was told you had answers witch,” he broke the silence with a voice that was molten steel, his helmed head turned in her direction “Yet all I hear from you is madness and riddles. Where is this vault you speak of? Who is the thief? What is the power to skill stars and gods?”

Zubara was a strange creature, Acheron had decided. The way she managed portray sheer age yet show a mindset that never truly outgrew that of a child was curious, he wondered if it was deliberate. She smiled through black teeth and old cheeks, curled on her engine-throne as she was, it was a mocking smile, “Madness and riddles? Foolish child, have you no reverence for the voice of the gods themselves? I am the conduit of their will, pilgrim, I-”

She was cut off. Acheron moved to her with a speed that terminator plate, and his own bulk had little right to. It showed in the brief engine roar of straining servos in his armor. Zubara made to speak but a black gauntlet wrapped around her throat, her words were lost in chocking gasps. With little effort Acheron ripped her from her throne, bloody cabals and MUI links that connected her to her city’s engines disconnected with a hiss. She landed with an audible crack, face first, on the stone floor.

She hissed, in rage and pain both. She turned over on her back, power building in her form, embers and flames began to dance across her body.

They died as quickly as they began. A sword came to her throat, blade tip just inches from it. Every one of her senses recoiled in horror. The daemon weapon probed her with its inky, alien, thoughts. It spoke its name to her, in a voice that could only imitate human speech. Reav’dhakhel. It was an ancient weapon, drawn from the rubble of Felhiem, its final prison; forged by the Old Ones in desperation long ago.

She saw jaws snap and snarl in the cloudy black-glass like substance that made up the form of its blade, and eyes that stared at her with an incomprehensible hunger. She tore her gaze away from it, finding the cold malice of Acheron’s helm more comforting, his expression was hidden behind a T shaped visor fashioned like the helms of knights of old, crowned by arching horns. She did not need to touch his mind to guess his humors.

“Mine is the will of the Dark Gods crone, you would do well to remember that. Answer my questions and I may yet forget your insolence. The vault and the thief, what and who are they?”

“The vault is empty and the thief far beyond your reach, but they are irrelevant…” The seer croaked.

“And the power to kill stars and gods?” Acheron pressed.

“Weapons of an ancient war. Bastions in the void, wielding the purest might of the immaterium.”

“Fortresses in the Stars. A circle of six…” A new voice cut in from the shadows, scholarly and learned. Mozenwrath stepped forward carefully, staff clicking as he did so, as if he felt any sudden move would disturb the divination that was currently occurring. Prosperine script and Tizcan charms marked him as a sorcerer of no small talent.

“Impossible.” Another voice, hissing like an unsheathed dagger, mixed with a rich accent and deep with the unmistakable tone of an Astartes, “They were all destroyed in the dark millennium.” Sithis Aren’s, armor was decorated in grisly trophies and Nostraman runes along with several psychic charms. He looked wearily at Mozenwrath.

“You have the gall, soothsayer, to taunt me with dead relics? Do you think me a fool?” Acheron growled at his prey.

“They are returned! The vault’s opening has broken the boundaries of before and tomorrow!” Zubara forgot her fear momentarily, she raised herself higher from her laying position “Do you think these the prattling of some dabbler!? This was no random whisper of the warp! It was a message! Though it was but a glance, the gods have looked away, from their Great Game! Only a fool would ignore this opportunity!”

Acheron loomed over her, his voice was a harsh hiss “Where are they? How do I make them mine?”

Zubara the Flame Eyed smiled kindly, blood dripped from her mouth and she spoke with four voices that were not her own.

“Awaken the Krukal’Righ. It found what you sought before, it remembers the way. Find the Eye. Take the Hand. With these, the citadels will bend to your will. Run the stars red with blood, and break the fools who would stand in your way.”

A rune flashed in the auto-senses of Acheron’s helm. A message from the fleet. Blood of the Ruinous Ones, of all the times.

“What is it?” He snapped, though the only thing anyone around him would have head was the muffled click of vox chatter.

“Lord Acheron,” Terminus’, Furnace Master and Warpsmith of the Black Legion, augmented voice came through the other end, “Zangothrax has received an astropathic message from Machina.”

“And?” Acheron replied.

“A Tech-Priest, one Daqhaos Khol, has requested an audience with you. He says he has found a prize he is willing to offer you… In return for a boon.” Terminus said.

“Go to him…” Zubara hissed and raised herself higher. Acheron brandished Reav’dhakhel at her and she cringed back with a yelp.

“And what could some heretek from a backwater scavenger world offer me?” Acheron questioned.

“The message simply ends with: Krukal’Righ” Terminus was not known to be easily moved, but his reply had the slightest inkling of reverence.

“Stand by and await my return.” Acheron said tersely and closed the channel. He looked down at the seer where she sat now. She was smiling that smirk of hers. She asked to speak once more, before they departed. Acheron allowed it. Through bleeding lips Zubara the Flame-Eyed spoke her last god-given words. Acheron regarded her silently before turning away.

They were done here. The Chaos Lord turned to his warlords and champions. “Gather your warriors and return to the ships. Ready for translation out of this system.” He ordered.

A hulking form in terminator plate stepped forward. Black-on-blood marked his armor. Burning runes of the Blood God were burned into it. His helm was horned and fanged in imitation of a juggernaut, those beasts said to be given by the Lord of Skulls to his favored champions. “And where are we going?” Korsaad Ark asked. His chain-axe’s spirit roared with motored blades in sympathy.

“To war.”

Daqhaos Khol was not lying. He was a heretek grasping for whatever power he could, he was as ambitious as he was genius and Acheron was not sure if he could trust him to be loyal. Not yet at least. But he was not lying, and for whatever his faults or eccentricities, the man knew his craft well. He would have the boon he requested. Protection, access to the Legion’s engines and support, as well as a place in The Archfiend’s inner circle, if only to keep an eye on him, if nothing else. In return, he provided knowledge gleamed from the Diabolus Cogliothica to restore the Kruka’Righ, and whatever other pieces of dark lore he desired.

They stood, all of them, in the strategium of the Krukal’Righ. Torchlight, candles of human wax, and crimson light from a massive hololith showing a perfect real-time reflection of the galaxy bathed them in a red glow, a device of sorcery as much as it was circuits and technology; spilt blood on its cogs and silica factored into its function as much as power. Many of them were Astartes, their battle-plate representing several different legions, warbands, and chapters. Many others weren’t; rogue admirals and mortal warlords, pirate lords and reaver kings, alongside the robed and augmented representatives of many Dark Mechanicum forgeworlds.

Voices shot back and forth, low and murmuring then loud and raucous, sibilant and hissing then boasting and posturing. It was a rare event for such a gathering of warlords to come together and even between brothers and allies there was an air of tension. When their ships met over a neutral world the vox-net was filled with the sounds of clipped greetings and veiled threats. They argued over the coming wars goals, and which worlds they should kill.

“I hear the worlds of the Olweans are known for their fertility, they worship life and growth. What glories could be had in visiting the Grandfathers gift upon them?” Ebolus Corpa ‘The Corpse Slaver’ gurgled through phlegm and blood. His blackened was armor pockmarked with rust and symbols dedicated to the Lord of Decay.

“Plague and rot?” Korsaad shot back, “You want to wait until our enemies die of sickness? Death should run quick and bloody till the veil runs red!”

“Fools. This is not simply a matter of how many worlds we murder, or how many skulls we collect,” Mozenwrath said sternly, “Cleave to the task, we must divine where we are to find the hand, the eye, and then the citadels…”

“I do not understand why we are considering dedicating so much effort into unearthing old relics,” Sarael the Red-Handed said, arms crossed, he leaned casually on a pillar. He was clad in the midnight blue of his legion pockmarked with lightning ornamentation, arching bat-wings formed his helm crest, and his gauntlets were stained red as his title proclaimed. It was a Nostraman tradition that certain traitors and fools have their hands stained red for their failure or stupidity, a sign that they were dead men walking. No one knew who gave Sarael sinners’ hands, and he took a twisted pride in the fact that no one has yet been able bring his supposedly fated end, “They failed us before, why not just choose a sector and ravage it to our hearts content?”

“They didn’t exactly fail us. They served their purpose.” Sithis replied. He and Sarael’s regarded each other tensely, though they shared a parent legion they chose to walk very different paths.

“Even so, we don’t even know where they are now.” Sarael retorted.

“Our cabals are working to rectify that issue.” Mozenwrath informed, “We have managed to isolate several zones of temporal torment.” He gestured to the massive hololith. As his hands moved the representation of the galaxy splintered, magnifying several areas of interest, represented by swirling space where the anomalies were most intense. “A powerful mortis rite performed at certain areas of significance, channeled through the proper rites of sympathy and mysti-rhythms will give birth to a series of incantations that will echo in a decantation of warp-questions that when applied to proper esoteric-equations will slowly triangulate the aether-reflections of those treasures we seek by following their sympathetic conjure-calls. When they clash with the quarto-potentials we will have previously unleashed, it will be but child’s play to unearth the prize.”

“A grand ceremony no doubt.” Balor, Dark Apostle and Lord of the Ashen Circle, said in admiration. He held the accursed crozius that marked his station easily on his shoulder.

“So basically, you need to go to these places and work your magic?” Korsaad asked skeptically.

“Magic.” Mozenwrath shook his head, “A small word for small minds. It is not that simple.”

“All I heard was, kill lots of people, read maps from their screams and flailing entrails. Sounds rather simple.” Korsaad said with a shrug.

“Ah yes, your mind has a tendency to simplify things, doesn’t it?” Mozenwrath shot back. Korsaad simply shook his fist at the sorcerer, a low growl building in his throat.

“Simplification of the art or questioning the value of the prize aside…” Sithis intervened, and turned to a warrior in the shadows, “Lord Acheron, I do not like falling back on prophesy, much less our campaigns be guided by the random whispers of the other-sea. It is too many possibilities to be certain.”

“On that, we can agree on something at least.” Sarael muttered.

“You doubt my abilities? Can you think of something better Sithis?” Mozenwrath sneered.

“I doubt-” Sithis made to speak, until another voice cut-in, the voice was their host, and for many the one they swore their allegiance to.

“Enough.” Acheron stepped into the red light. Like the old warmasters, the Horned King was fond of entertaining these war councils, allowing his men and generals to speak their piece, but when plans and schemes gave way to petty baiting it came time to real them in.

“You will all have your fill of glory and bloodshed. But I will have the prize that has been offered to us, do not allow your ambitions to jeopardize this campaign.” Acheron said coldly, discussion died down as he spoke, “Mozenwrath and his allies have already shifted through the tides of the sea of souls to provide us insight to where we should start.”

“Even so,” Korsaad said, taken by the scale of the temporal storms, “It is will be a vast endeavor. So much blood… too much to drink.”

Sithis turned to his brother, “I never thought I would ever hear you say that.” He sounded amused.

“I’m being sensible. So many worlds, which do we burn first?”

“What of the Fractal World? Do your divinations say anything about it?” Acheron asked. Another warrior stepped forward silently, his armor was sea blue, and decorated with serpents and draconic heads.

“I… have seen, glimpses, yes.” Mozenwrath answered carefully.

Acheron gestured to the hololith, magnifying it. Stars and worlds raced and rushed until it settled upon a single world. It seemed a habitable, if unremarkable, planet. Until one looked closer at least.

The world flourished with life. The life of a trillion civilizations. The orbital debris of a million nations.

“Is that-” Barbaxus, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors and lord of the Shatter Companies, gaped and leaned forward to look closer, “Terra?!” His face slowly twisted into a look of shock and slow burning anger.

“No.” Acheron replied immediately, “But the name will suffice for now. What do you have to say about this Saren?”

The blue armored warrior met Acheron’s gaze with his own. “Our assets all report similar temporal disturbances to the ones occurring throughout the Maw and the galaxy.” The Alpha Legion lord said.

“Do you think we'll have to send some of our warbands through the gates?” Sithis asked.

“We will see.” Acheron replied. He digested all he had learned in the past few months, Daqhaos and the Krukal’Righ, Mozenwrath and his divinations, Zubara and her prophesies. Acheron looked upon the warriors he assembled. They were brothers and allies, not all of them totally loyal, not even truly trustworthy, but they could pass for it.

Suddenly the Archfiend drew his sword, Reav’dhakhel caught the red glow of the sorcerous construct at the center of the room in a way that was hypnotizing. He raised the blade just a little higher as he raised his own voice.

“We digress however. We all know what is truly coming. We all know why I have called you here. You are only the first. The true call is yet to come.”

Heads turned, warriors raised from their seats, faces hardened, grinned, and smiled cold murderer’s smiles. Some pulled out their own weapons. Acheron continued, raising Reav’dhakhel aloft.

“The god-sea quakes, the universe trembles, whatever folly The Forsaken has unleashed will be our boon. Glory, wealth, and the prizes can be ours, but not alone. We know what must be done, we know what a labor such as this calls for.”

Sithis stamped his staff hard on the floor, “In shame and shadow recast, in black and gold reborn.”

Sarael raised his blade in salute, it crackled with killing lightning, “We stand in midnight clad.”

“Iron within, Iron without. No matter what bastions the foe raises, what walls he cowers behind, we will break them.” Barbaxus growled.

“Bloooooood…” Korsaad drawled, the nails were singing, “…for the Blood God.”

Saren was utterly silent. A nearly imperceptible nod in Acheron direction was all he showed.

And on it went. Oath after oath, promise after promise. Weapons raised, warlords and champions declared the forces they would contribute, allies they could coerce, pacts they could call upon, servants they could set loose. Acheron cut through the volume of post-human voices.

“Ring the bells of disharmony. Let the clarion call of war ring through the depths of the Dark Maw. Let all know that the Archfiend calls upon the god-sworn for a Black Crusade!”

Weapons and fists raised, cheers and roars from augmented and unaugmented throats filled the strategium.

“Brothers, allies, follow me to war. Follow me the edge of the Maw and beyond. We march to despoil the worlds of man and alien. Let terror reign, let none look to the skies with hope. Let no soul, no matter how blackened or pure, see salvation!”

Acheron held his hand out. The representation of Terra shrank and moved to float over his palm. Slowly, his fist closed about it. It cracked and sputtered, it curiously gave actual resistance as he did so, as if it was no mere hololithic projection.

“Let the Galaxy Burn.”

His fist closed, the illusion shattered like a glass ball.

They gathered over neutral worlds and the space of shadow ports. They undocked from towering fortresses and slip their moors from orbital bases. They did not do so all at once, the unholy armada broke up into smaller flotillas as it sailed its way across the tides of the Maw of Darkness. Again, and again the call rang, it snowballed as it moved. The call to war echoed in the halls of sorcerers and daemon lords. It visited seers and apostles of darkness in visions promising slaughter in the name of true gods. Champions and warlords flocked to it, hoping to court the eye of the gods, to plunder worlds, and some cases, simply revel in the madness of war.

The storms at the edge of the Maw of Darkness weakened, a rare event that allowed an armada of hundreds to sail from its currents into the void of realspace. It was a fleet of a many different allegiances, with banners and runes that marked out many warbands. Blood on rust battleships of the World Eaters flew alongside cabal-vessels of the Changer of Ways, plague hulks of the Deathguard sailed with sybarite cruisers of the Dark Prince. Space Hulks retrofitted into assault carriers and battle barges lumbered with servitor crewed adamanticlads and a menagerie of other void engines. They made good speed towards the edge of their haven and prison, bows breaking through aetheric tides formed of tormented souls and the stuff of Neverborn.

They broke through the final tempests, the Krukal’Righ at their head, and carved new wounds through the immaterium. They followed warp routes that did not rely on the light of a corpse mounted on a throne and called a god, but by darker guides.

Communication passed randomly between warbands. A picture of torment was formed in their strategiums. Information was disseminated and digested as they chose which worlds would be the first to feel their attentions.

Acheron sat in the command throne of the Krukal’Righ. There was a weight to it, the ambition of warlords who took it before him, the screams of trillions of souls damned from this very place. He looked around the command deck, then to the tactical hololith that showed the vast fleet that followed him.

Then he stared out into the void. Voices called out across the command deck; status reports, binding orders in the dark tongue, and low chanting to entice the Neverborn. Acheron sat silently, his hand tightened on the grip of his sword. Through it all the crone’s final words echoed…

“Tell me… Acheron. In the face of the old war denied to you, of fathers that failed you, and brothers that barely remember they are such. Do you have the strength for this task? The cunning for it? There must always be contest. A thousand stars and civilization will cry out in fear and hatred. The gods promise much but they give only what we earn through our own strength and deeds. So tell me... do you have the courage for it, to face the new night? Warmaster?"

by **Korintar** » Thu Mar 16, 2017 7:48 pm

Harunso was laying in bed, struggling to sleep. He couldn't believe his beloved Aunt Cheri was actually gone! Struck down with a lightning bolt by Elisra Mylxnori- the latest member of that vile clan to be a thorn in the Atlantic Union's side. His wife, Maiane, turned to him and nudged him.

"Hari, you awake," she inquired.

"Yes," Harunso responded. He turned and saw a terrified look on her face. The blood was drained from her face and she was sweating profusely.

"What's wrong, my love" he said nervously

"Free Cappadocia... my mother...," was all she was able to sputter out.

Hari sat up and turned on a light. There was no sleeping tonight. Just then, their daughter and two sons ran in. They couldn't sleep either. "What about grandma," exclaimed their daughter as she crawled up between both parents, her brothers following close behind.

Regaining her composure, Maiane answered her daughter, "Grandma is in danger. I sensed some very bad people were in Free Cappadocia and that they wanted to hurt grandma and grandpa. We need to go to Olwe in the morning and speak with your grand aunt's friend Jason, and find out what is going on. Your dad and I have been keeping tabs on Aratar and Misuan Mylxnori very closely at work, but Misuan has been very quiet lately... too quiet, in fact."
------------------------
The next morning, Maiane and Harunso left their kids with Harunso's brother and flew over to the imperial palace. Once they arrived, they were immediately escorted to the war room. Harunso interjected, "I don't believe I am familiar with this Yawgmoth person."

by **Allanea** » Mon Mar 20, 2017 8:04 am

Greater Prussian Ocean, far south

It was speeding under the surface, accelerating with every moment. As it sped up, the water around the creature’s tough, scaly skin began to bubble, and then boil as the enormous animal moved faster and faster. As it rushed forward, a terrifying sound was produced under its majestic fins. In its wake, fish were stunned, jellyfish torn apart like garbage bags. It moved now - faster and faster, indeed, than the sound of its coming spread through water. Only seconds later, the anti-submarine microphones spread along the bottom of the Greater Prussian Ocean received the sound of its passing.

The creature ascended, moving towards the surface. Lesser marine creatures, those who were not killed by its sheer passing, were dragged along in its wake. Finally, it decelerated. Only now the creature was visible to the naked eye - a giant, majestic shark, dozens of yards long.

The dread of the Greater Prussian Oceans was now almost breached, its back fin, as tall as a human being, cutting the water’s surface. Half a mile away, the crew of an Allanean frigate watched in terror as the animal approached.

”Megashark! Megashark!”

The frigate’s main armament, a small, dual-purpose cannon, barked and spat death, the shells missing the shark by only a few yards as the animal closed. Machineguns clattered, and blood spurted from the shark’s sides, but it only accelerated. It did not even feel pain.

One ensign, the fear of the beast cracking his sanity, fired his pistol at the approaching, accelerating shark. Two men leaped overboard, as if this would in any way save them.

There was a slamming sound as the giant shark rammed into the frigate. Metal buckled and gave way, water rushing into the frigates body, bulkhead doors smashed open by the enormous impact. The shark, disoriented slightly by the attack - what the hell is its skull made of? Titanium? - dove under the frigate. Seconds later, it would strike again.

Greater Prussian Ocean, West

The tentacles - enormous, thick as tree trunks - lashed across the side of the ship’s deck like giant whips, and then pulled back again. Aircraft caught in the path of the tentacles’ passing were crushed or thrown into the water. For a moment the crew of the carrier thought themselves safe, but, a few seconds later, the tentacles appeared again. Pulled to the side by their might, the vast warship began to tilt dangerously, men screaming as they were thrown overboard.

In a few moment, the sailors on the other ships of the battlegroup could see - for the first time in their lives - the exposed belly of an aircraft carrier as it turned on its side, its propellers spinning helplessly, and vanish beneath the waves.

New Thermopilae, Allanean Mainland

They rose from the blackness - from the dark ventilation shafts of the arcologies, where they had bred unnoticed, ignored perhaps by sanitation workers, or perhaps spurred on by a dark, malevolent force. They were the very stuff of an insectophobe’s nightmares - black beetles, looking for the world like stag beetles - if stag beetles were two feet long, and reeked of chemical poisons. They spread, through the apartments, through the hallways, hang in vicious clouds among the arcologies, their wings beating. Gunfire clatters, echoing from the arcology walls, the dwellers of the dark, vast buildings fight for their lives.

The police helicopters arrive a precious fifteen minutes later, hanging over the clouds of insects, lashing the insect clouds with gunfire. This is ineffective - and indeed, several seconds later, the creatures, flapping and clattering, are on board one of the helicopters.

It takes forty-five minutes for C-SWAT and M-SWAT to arrive - that is to say, cybernetic and magical special police. Cyborg cops, their bodies gleaming in blue chrome, and police wizards, their wands raised towards the threat. Forty-six minutes from the first call, Sisters of Liberty, in colorful armor, arrive to back the police up.

It takes a full five hours to fully contain the clawed, biting, venomous animals, and six before the last one of them is tracked down and shot. It is only at dawn the next day that the last nest filled with their toxic eggs, each the size of a pigeon’s egg, is found and torched.

Leyfield, Duchy of Leyfield, Capital of Greater Prussia

“If anything, we have been somewhat lucky, Your Imperial Majesty. We have only had sixteen recorded events today. Six thousand dead soldiers and sailors, due to the carrier attack, and three hundred dead civilians. Over five thousand seriously injured, number of light and panic injuries not known, but likely in the seven digits.” - the Minister of War finished.

“How is that lucky?” - Cassiopeia asked.

“It’s worse at the epicenter. New Olwe, Dyste, Thoricia, several others have seen attacks on incredible scales. Entire towns subsumed in zombie outbreaks. Demon attacks. Moreover.” - he paused. “Yawgmoth has returned. At least. One of the Yawgmoths.”

“What.” - Cassiopeia stared.

“As you know, in the fractal multiverse there are several Yawgmoths, as there are several Phyrexias, several Russias, several Americas, what-have-you. Well.... Yawgmoth, one such Yawgmoth, has awakened, and taken over control of Phyrexia.”

Very few things could unnerve a necromancer.

Even fewer things could unnerve Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Empress of Allanea.

Now she was somewhat unnerved.

“Yawgmoth. In control of Phyrexia.”

“Yes. Yes.” - the Minister has said. “We believe that Pandora’s Box has been opened.”

“As in, the mystical artefact containing, supposedly, the troubles of sapientkind? That Pandora’s Box?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Call out everyone.”

“Your Imperial Majesty. What do you mean everyone?”

“I. Mean. EVERYONE.”

by **Nyte** » Mon Mar 20, 2017 9:53 pm

The Imperial Palace
Halcon
The Interstellar Empire of Nyte

Xaiah finished mounting a second plasma pistol on the back of his armors gauntlet and ran a few last minute tests on the waist mounted anti-grav unit he'd pulled from a locker marked C. Winter. Whoever this Winter was, Xaiah was sure he'd not mind if his anti-grav unit was borrowed for a bit. Exiting the armory door, Xaiah started making his way towards the nearest exit; down four floors through wing D... As he got further from the armory, his armors comms system crackled to life. "Sir, respectfully... Going out there alone is suicide. Even with the concealed weapons systems and the army reinforcements pouring in, there's been no sign of a noticeable decrease in numbers among the enemy. You're gonna get yourself killed Sergeant."

"The Emperor is out there" Xaiah replied. "There's not a damn thing you could say that will get me to stay in here... What kind of an honor guard would I be if I abandoned him now?.. No... No, I'm going out to find the Emperor. I should be able to track him through the locator beacon in his armor, and right now, that beacon is active, and its moving so I have a job to do. Morningstar out."

It took several more minutes of rapid walking for Xaiah to get down through wing D. As he approached the exit, a figure stepped out from the shadows; his older model of Onyx colored armor gleaming dully in the minimal light. He wore no helmet, and as he stepped out of the shadows, the face that was revealed was an old one; one covered liberally in scars that were clearly visible through the grey stubble on his face and head. One of the mans eyes was missing as well; replaced by a simple but sturdy looking augmetic with a lens that gleamed a dull crimson as it whirred to focus on him. Xaiah recognized the man instantly... Even though he'd been retired now for nearly a decade...

"Victor Morrow? How did you get in here? Last I heard you were retired" Xaiah continued as he stepped up beside the much larger, bulkier figure... Noticing as he did so that the other man was fully armed with a wrist mounted plasma pistol, an ornate looking, sheathed chainblade; a weapon that had been phased out of service a good four or five years ago, and a shoulder mounted Evicerator Chaingun. Morrow replied with a wheezing laugh; the sound of his artificial lungs breathing in and out was clearly audible through it. "Fucking retirement... It was overrated anyway." Morrow stomped along beside him; keeping pace with the younger man despite an awkwardness to his steps that came from an augmetic replacement leg. "As for how I got in here... Well, it seems my old authorization codes still work on the doors... You might want to fix that after this; pretty shitty security if you get what I mean."

"After this...? No offense Morrow, but I'm in something of a hurry" Xaiah replied, looking the other man up and down. It may have gone unsaid, but the message was clear. You're too old and decrepit to keep up with me.

"You let me worry about that boy" Morrow replied; his remaining natural eye narrowing as he spoke. "I'll manage."

"Whatever. Just don't slow me down, or I'll leave your ass behind" Xaiah replied as he entered his authorization code on a glowing red panel next to the doors. Stepping outside as the doors retracted silently into the walls, the severity of the situation made itself readily apparent in the glow of fires in the distance and the sound of gunfire echoing through the streets beyond the plaza that surrounded the palace... Both men stopped for a moment; just to take in the scene if nothing else. "Come on then... It seems we have a job to do" Xaiah remarked as they started down the stairs and began to make their way across the plaza...

"Sir" his comms system crackled into life once more. "Just thought you should know... We just received a priority message from Olwe. Its not entirely clear, but it seems that we're not the only ones being attacked right now. Aside from that, there was something about a Pandora's Box having been opened; not sure what the hell that's supposed to be though; I've never heard of it, and the computer doesn't bring up anything when I search for it... Whatever it is though, they seem pretty sure its responsible for this mess."

It would have been nice if the warning had come before all of this Xaiah thought to himself. "Send a reply... Let them know we have the situation here mostly contained, and try and get some information on this Pandora's Box... Whatever the hell it is."

"Sir" came the reply before the line cut out.

With that, Xaiah drew his force sword and looked over to Morrow. "Shall we?"

Morrow simply chuckled in reply as they both broke into a run; disappearing amid the smoke and fires of war...

by **New United States of Columbia** » Tue Mar 21, 2017 11:54 am

Undellah, Templar Fleet

Foley watched as the first waves of Vertibirds and Landing Craft deploy the Imperial troops on the sandy shoreline. He watched as his brave men charged forward, Plasma rifles firing scorching blue plasma bolts into the unholy horde of Draconids and Orcs that awaited them, while Vertibirds peppered them with rockets and laser fire. His smile grew wider when he saw the first large transport ship deploy tanks in the Dystan dockyards, it's massive twin 160mm smoothbore cannons giving precise aim as it's high explosive shells began to blast away at the inhabitants of the dockyards. Up high above fighter escorts engaged any unidentified aircraft that approached the Apocalypse class heavy bombers, who's mission was to incinerate and poison Dystan farmland. It was a valuable lesson the Emperor learned from his own experiences in the Columbian Wars: He who destroys the land wins. No army or populace can fight on empty stomachs.

He turns his hulking frame from the carnage and headed back up to the command center. He soon was on the radio with the Crusader, Hussar, and Gothic fleets, each fleet twenty ships strong. He got off the radio, having ordered Gothic and Hussar to launch fighter raids on Castle Dyste while Crusader was to launch missile attacks on Auram, the Dystan's center of wealth. He returned his attention to the landing, watching with pride as he saw the warriors of Christendom slowly pushing forward, with massive formations of infantry crashing agains these unholy warriors. Soon Dyste would fall and Christendom would be victorious...

Castle Dyste

The small Marine squad slowly crept forward, watching the castle with interest.
"Jesus," one of the Marine Privates said with genuine awe as he looked at how large the castle was "what the hell lives there that requires it to be so huge?"
"Someone with an ego problem?" Another suggested.
The Captain hushed them as he began to lie on his belly, take out a pair of binoculars, and observe the front entrance and some of the lower windows. He saw nothing. No guards, no inhabitants, no nothing. He looked behind him at Sergeant Foley and a heavy weapons expert.
"You two," Captain Alexander whispered as quietly as he could "go ahead and scout out the entrance. Report back to me if you find anything."
The two Columbians nodded before they quickly sprinted to the entrance. As they noticed how large it was, they doubted their ability to open it without requiring the entire squad to push on it. Foley sighed and shrugged.
"Might as well give it a shot."
The two men then pushed on one of the large wooden doors. It opened slowly (and seemed to shut on them if they weren't actively pushing against it) and flooded part of the massive entry hall with light. No one was there or so they thought. Foley, pushing his back agains the large door with all his might, hissed for the Heavy Weapons man to get the rest of the squad up to their position. He complied and, a minute or so later, the entire squad had infiltrated Castle Dyste.
"Now what do we do?" Foley asked Alexander.
"Look for whoever's in charge and demand to know what the hell's going on." Alex replied cooly before he led his men deeper into the labyrinth of a Castle.

by **Allanea** » Tue Mar 21, 2017 2:14 pm

Somewhere over the Greater Prussian Ocean

The animal spotted its target. Or perhaps it was guided by an external force.

There was no way of knowing, after the fact, what happened. Investigators would lean, for obvious reason, towards the external force hypothesis. What is certain, however, is that a large specimen detected its target, or acted as if it did - a regional airliner, flying over the Southern seas. If it detected its target on its own, that would mean the animal possessed uncanny eyesight - detecting a flying airliner, dozens of kilometers away, through at least a hundred yards of water, was essentially impossible to most visual systems known to man.

Upon detecting the airliner, the animal began to dive rapidly, descending - a hundred, two hundred, three hundred yards, eventually to a depth of almost a mile - beyond the reach of most submarines. It then began to ascend, its travel calculated with a precision that would be great not in an animal, but in a guidance computer. As it rose, it accelerated, moving faster and faster, until it was rising at a speed associated less with animals, and more with bullets and anti-air missiles.

By the time it broke the surface, it was moving at a speed of several hundred miles an hour. It could be seen for miles as it ascended - but it was a blink-it-and-you-miss it kind of sight, an enormous shark the size of a small warship, rising from the sea nearly vertically, its mouth already opening as it rose to meet the airliner.

Up above, on Dawn Airlines Flight DAF-5789, the passengers were not yet aware of the shark’s approach. Warning lights on the pilots’ dashboards came alive and blinked, the emergency signals blaring ominously.

As the animal impacted, the plane’s emergency impact signal came on, alerting air traffic controllers of the impossible - DAF-5789 had impacted a solid object - while still several miles up in the air.

It takes half an hour for them to take the alert seriously.

Only several hours later are the terrible news confirmed - DAF-5789 is lost with all aboard.

Innsmouth, Allanean Old America

It would remain obscure why Tamara Kalichkina, a reporter for the Allanean News Network, decided to stop at an Innsmouth motel that night with her girlfriend, Shirley Stocks. Some claimed it was as part of an investigation, but Tamara was a sports reporter, and was only traveling through the town on her way interview a professional kickboxer. What was definite, however, is that, for whatever reason, the creatures that had long believed they owned the town, decided to have that night as the night of their... plan.

It wasn’t clear what their plan was. When the creatures, some more or less human, others like some terrible mix of frog, ape, and fish, made their way through the motel’s parking lot, Shirley noticed them, and when they knocked on their room’s door, neither the reporter nor her girlriend answered.

But the motel’s owner did. He was not part of the plan.

It was an immense credit to the man - a fat, headshaven man who probably was not even from Innsmouth - that he first asked the creatures to simply leave the hotel.

It was an even more immense credit that he repeated the request a second time, even though the second time it was worded get out of here or I’ll let you have it!

There was a fight then, of course. The hissing words of ancient spells, the bark of the motel-keepers shotgun, the snapping reports of Tamara and Shirley’s pistols lasted for several minutes.

They called the state police, of course. Then they repelled another attack on the motel, this time by a dozen of the creatures. By this time the motel-keeper was already injured, a trident-like weapon having made several nasty-looking gashes in his expansive belly.

By the time of the third attack, greenish foam was rising from his mouth.

By the time the state police rolled into the town, the man was already dead.

By morning, the town burned, reddish flames rising from several spots.

Official Address from Her Imperial Majesty, Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Empress of Greater Prussia, Queen of Allanea, Reichskampen and Leipzig-Island, Archduchess of Free Dragkon, Duchess of Leyfield and Blaken-Island, Tsarina of All Russia, Professor of Necromancy, etc.

Our husband is fond of saying that one can see the universe a swirling world of darkness, in which evildoers, tyrants, and monsters move about. And against this darkness there are the warm, beautiful, pools of joy and love and hope, where you can relax with a mug of tea or hot chocolate with a marshmallow in it. The parts of the world where big things - liberty and decency, love and mutual respect - and small things, like bacon and eggs and orange juice - exist. Often these are physical areas, delimited by nations and their borders, other times, they’re conceptual.

At time, this reality can be seen as frightening. So is it now. For these days, the darkness at the edges seems to press against our pools. It seems the creatures and evildoers that power them - the semi-mythical Old Ones, Yawgmoth, Aratar, whoever - are pressing against them, their jaws clacking to grasp those that we love. We mourn the fallen - our brave navy sailors and state troopers, the fallen of New Thermopilae and the passengers of DAF-5789. And many of us feel fear, fear that the monsters will reach for us and ours, as well.
We feel, perhaps, like a child who is afraid of the dark, cowering under his blanket from the shadows under his closet, or like a group of friends hugging each other around a fire that is about to die out.

But the child’s hand moves under the blanket, until it touches something reassuring. A piece of cold, firm metal. A flashlight. The light comes on - brilliant, searing, slashing through the shadows under the closet.

So, too, is science and progress. For though the pools of joy and love and hope seem fragile, they are filled with a strength of their own. Light is always stronger than darkness.

And even now as We mourn - as the country mourns - we prepare, also, to fight and win.

Our Husband is now with the forces, making the first needful preparations to fight the enemy. And to Us is fallen the honorable duty to light the nation’s flashlight that will drive back darkness.

We are hereby declaring a state of national emergency. For the first time since the First Freemen’s Crusade, we are calling out the Military Reserves in their entirely. Civilian air travel is temporarily suspended until safe travel conditions can be re-established. All reservists in the first and second readiness categories are to report to their military units, or if not possible, to the local garrison or military recruiter within twenty-hour hours. All city commandants are to open their safes and open the dark-blue envelope and act accordingly.

That is all.

May the Gods continue to bless and protect Allanea in this dark hour.

Let us remember also that there are those who curse the darkness, and there are those who flip the light switch.

Let us, in this time of darkness, be those who press the light switch.

by **Loxana** » Fri Mar 24, 2017 11:19 pm

It seemed like it only ever rained in Loxana, and even when it didn’t the skies were constantly gray and melancholic look. A slight misting rain fell over the armies that had assembled on this seemingly mundane and innocuous field. The kind of rain that when you stood in it didn’t seem to be very strong but somehow a person standing in it always managed to become soaked to the bone. If the sun had been shining it would have glittered off the armors of the multitude of knight lords and their armies. Numerous banners could be seen along the line of men-at-arms who seemed out of place in this era. Men covered in head to toe in steel sat upon horses also covered in armor, ancient runes traced their way through the entirety of the armors to provide it’s wearer protection from the arcane malevolence of the knight’s more magical foes.

Behind the armies of medieval warriors were the more up to date forces of Loxana. Huge hulking armors strode back and forth in front of columns of tanks and armored vehicles filled with the soldiery of Loxana. Several kilometers away another large force of armored vehicles could be seen as well. And endless sea of barrels and missile tubes pointed towards the sky ready to unleash their full fury at the drop of a pin.

Here in this rocky green field where an old farmer had shepherded his sheep for decades as his father had done was where the wizards and sages had divined where the baleful forces of the Primordials would enter the Material Plane within Loxana and begin their assault.

Ulthor Pendraco, King of Loxana stood next to his command vehicle and looked the knight sitting on his horse in front of him over again. His armor was seemed to be made of silver, Ulthor knew from the legends though it was tougher than even the armor on the tanks that were around them. And the sword in his hilt was even more legendary, Excalibur. It was said there was nothing in this world or the next that it couldn’t cut through. And even though the sword was legendary it was only because of the man that wielded it, that very man who was now in front of him, Arthur Pendragon.

“I have only heard rumors and legends of the minions of the Primordials.” said Arthur “Foul beasts who will rip a man’s soul from his body and consume it so that he cannot join his brethren in Avalon.”

“Aye, my scholars have been pouring over the ancient texts to see if they can discern anything at all but there isn’t much to go on” said Ulthor “We’ve brought everything we can think of though to throw at these damned things.”

“I appreciate you allowing me the honor of the first charge into the enemy.” said Arthur “It’s been so long since I have raised my sword in the defense of Loxana.”

“I couldn’t very well see you listening to me anyways even if I had told you no.” said Ulthor as a slight grin creeped up into the corners of his mouth. “Besides, who am I to deny the first king of Loxana the honor and the privilege to defend the country he forged.”

A smile grew onto the face of the king who hadn’t rode to his country’s defense for several centuries.

“Can we please stroke each other’s egos another time perhaps?” piped up a woman’s voice “I’m sure you boys can get together afterwards and and the young ‘king’ can gush over how you were his hero growing up and all that other nonsense.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed into a glare of death, his ears recognizing the owner of the voice before his eyes saw her.

“What brings you here you foul witch?” asked Arthur as the woman walked towards him

“Oh you know why I’m here ‘brother’.” said Morgan le Fey as she sauntered sensually towards the two kings. “I can’t very well claim what is rightfully mine if it’s completely destroyed.”

“You would do well to steer clear of me on the battlefield regardless of whether or not your concern for Loxana is genuine.” spokke Arthur in a stern voice

“Come come now brother I would have figured this to be a more happy reunion.” Morgan said “Either way, the moment of battle is near, you had best join up with your men if you wish to lead one more glorious charge before you are ripped to shreds by whatever crawls through that portal.”

“I know you wish to witness my demise you hateful bitch, but today will not be that day.” said Arthur as he pulled on the horse’s reins and kicked his horse into a gallop back towards the front of his army’s line.

*******************

Horses pawed at the ground impatiently and snorted all along the line of knights who were assembled at the center of the line prepared to launch an attack straight into the teeth of the enemy. Men’s grip tightened around their weapons and archers stood at the ready, an arrow nocked and several more just within reach. Diesel fumes filled the air as vehicle’s engines roared to life. Arcane users began waving their hands and wands in a ritualistic manner as they raised wards of defense and prepared offensive spells against their enemy. Gryphon wings towards the rear stretched out as their riders mentally prepared themselves for the battle ahead. Near them rotors on helicopters slowly began churning to life as their pilots awakened their war machines. The ground shook as the new knights of Loxana, warriors clad in armor powered by magic and fusion, their huge hulking forms moving amongst the tanks as they spoke over their radios to their men to raise moral.

The first thing that was heard was the deafening noise of what sounded like fabric tearing. Next a black crack seemed to form from thin air. In what seemed to take an eternity it slowly grew, the tearing sound growing louder, the crack growing larger and larger. And then it grew wider and the first of them crawled through the tear in reality itself. Ugly misshapen things, they seemed to be a mixture of a mouth of endless rows of needle teeth and the long slimy bloated body of a slug. Monstrous in size they moved with a swiftness that seemed uncharacteristic for their fat sluggish looking forms.

All along the rear echelon artillery belched fire as thousands of shells launched into sky towards the grotesque beasts. Seconds later clouds of arrows fell from the sky as the archers added their ammo to the assault. Soon fireballs, acid rain, ice spikes, and lightning bolts tore into the ranks of the ever growing horde of slug beasts. More creatures poured from the tear though as fast as they were demolished by the initial volley of attacks. Large frog like creatures with huge leathery wings and gaping maws began to fill the skies, giants with long spindly limbs and huge bloated bellies strode through the tear alongside misshapen spider like creatures with a slimy newt like skin.

Arthur looked up and down his line of knights who were ready to charge as soon as the beasts came to close for artillery. He breathed in slowly as he calmed his beating heart and watched as huge metal arrows launched from the siege machines he saw earlier screamed in and burst cutting through entire swathes of enemies. And still they crawled from the tear in an endless stream of slimy misshapen bodies. He watched as one of the giants easily pick one of the slugs which were nearly twice as big as war charger and launch it into the ranks of men behind him. Several more slugs flew through the air, landing onto the ground with a sickening thud. The screams of men behind could be heard as the slug beasts tore into the ranks. A dull thud thud could be heard from behind as well but Arthur dared not take his eyes off the enemy. Lines of fire arced over his head and chewed up earth and flesh as the new knight’s flying machines launched their attack.

Body parts continued to fly through the air as the siege weapons towards the rear continued to unleash their fury onto the endless onslaught of creatures coming through the tear. Piles of corpses began to build up while the others just crawled over the top of their dead comrades in a mindless rage. Suddenly the siege weapons roar became quiet, the mages magic ceased as well.

The unworldly host was finally to close to the front line.

Arthur drew his sword and thousands of other were drawn from their scabbards shortly after and the dull thunder of a thousand war charger’s iron shod feet could be heard as the ancient king led his warriors into the enemy.

by **Allanea** » Sat Mar 25, 2017 3:37 am

Allanean New York City, Old America, Columbia University

Somewhere, the world was being torn asunder. Chaos warriors were plying the spacelanes once more. Yawgmoth was invading the Prime Material Plane. Deep Ones were rising from Devil Reef. In stores around Allanea, men and women alike were standing in line for ammunition and survival supplies, and millions of reservists were trying on their old, weathered uniforms. But for Professor Cassidy Orga, this hardly mattered.

“We are lucky,” - she spoke, as she stood behind her podium, “to be having this class in New York City. Old American and Allanean literature has long been fascinated with the image of New York. It has long been seen as the very quintessential big city. To some, it had been the symbol of modern capitalism. This can be seen, for instance, in the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Ayn Rand if you want to see a positive portrayal of the city. As a negative one, any number of socialist and semi-socialist writers have been the city as an image of capitalist corruption. Now when we’re talking about capitalism here, I am not strictly talking about the political or economic ideal. I am talking about the city as a place where trade takes place. You have to remember that human culture has taken centuries to adjust to the idea of big finance and of trade in general. That is to say, while of course humans had engaged in trade since the earliest members of that species had first exchanged a round rock for a sharp stick, the notion of someone deriving their living, in general, not from producing some manner of physical object, but simply from buying and selling, that is something that mankind had problems dealing with both from an aesthetic and a philosophical standpoint. It’s been easier for writer and poets to accept the idea of a landed gentry than it had been to accept the idea of trading upper-”

There was a rumbling sound, far, far away, but the Professor chose to ignore it. Instead she went on speaking, about trade, about the rupture of personal ties in the passage from rural to urban life, and of the reflection of these in literature.

Times Square

James Ikeda was a handsome man, tall, his slick black hair meticulously laid back. Right now he was talking to his two lovers, Melissa Berry and Amanda Sammonds. “Don’t you worry,” - he said, “this whole nonsense will blow over. The company is making profits still, and of course when it is over, profits will bounce up.”

Melissa nodded as she leaned on him, her skin feeling the texture of his navy-blue business suit. It felt as if she was in physical contact with his unusual power, as if she was - no, not just touching money, but touching that capacity in Ikeda that had created the money, as though his ability to create profits was actually a physical, or perhaps magical force with which his money was charge. She folded her legs, almost sensing his eyes tracking her brilliantly-green bikini bottoms. “And then you’ll open that resort you wanted to open, in the colonies?”

“Quite. I had the architect’s plans all drawn up before the nonsense took off.” - he waved his hand with irritation, his language betraying only the slightest accents the Psychotian immigrants that had founded the Ikeda corporate line three generations ago. “There will be several ski courses rated by difficulty, and of course an open-air shooting range - on the opposite side of the mountain from the ski courses, naturally,” - he laughed.

“What is that rumbling?” - asked Samantha incongroussly. - “That... pounding sound.”

Ikeda looked out through his suite’s vast, wall-sized window, down into Time Square. The gleaming lights of the cinemas and stores shone below him, but things seemed almost normal. As Ikeda above, so below hundreds of New Yorkers paused momentarily, their heads turned in the direction of the unusual sound, and then went on their way.

Central Park

”Mr Watkins! Mr. Watkins!” - the schoolchildren, in the teens, ran towards the ice cream stand. Their favorite ice cream man, Mr. Watkins, was ready for them behind the green, wheeled stand. He seemed under thirty years old, but of course, nobody could know what anti-aging treatments he’d received. His hair was blond, running to his shoulders, and he had a slight stubble of a beard. As the youngsters approached, one of them, a red haired girl, spoke.

“Totally, Miss Dexter is like, you know, such a bitch. "

“What’s really bad?” - a spectacled boy, his hair bright-blue, said “What’s really bad is that, frankly, I am bad at that algebra bullshit. I’m taking it because Dad says I have to. But you? You’re good. You have a brain for that shit. Why the fuck does she pick on you?”

“Hi Terrence, Hi Phil, Hi Ivan and Cindy!” - said Mr. Watkins “I have your choco-vanilla here, Cindy,” - he saw them coming yards away, and of course recognized them. “I see it’s not going well with Miss Dexter?” - he would not tell them, of course, that the teachers from their school passed him too, and he treated them with equal kindness. Treating everyone with kindness, however, was Watkins’ main marketing gimmick.

“Oh you know, she’s picking on me. Totally, right?” - said Cindy.

Watkins nodded, he had heard Priscilla Dexter talk about Cindy yesterday - such a talented kid, but I have to figure out how to make her work harder - “I know, right?” - he said, handing her the ice-cream. “What’s she done today?”

“She’s down-marked me for no good reason at all, I’m telling - what’s that sound?”

“That rumbling?” - Watkins asked - “I think it’s an industrial -”

“No! Those screams!”

“What screams? I don’t-”

And then the ice-cream seller paled momentarily. Moving carefully, he handed the blue-haired boy his ice-cream. “Get behind me.” - he said.

“What?”

Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!

Everywhere

The creatures were everywhere at once. On the People’s Beach, they were walking out of the surf - terrifying warriors, part-fish, part-frog, part-man, armed with spears and tridents, their skin glistening with slime. Some wore gleaming silver crowns and carried short staves with seaweeds entwined around their length, their status as spellcasters clear. The water was already red with the blood of swimmers caught naked in the water. The fins of sharks criss-crossed the waves, and it was clear the creatures had brought their ocean servants with them.

Horrifying monsters, looking like vast, shapeless bodies of ooze, glowing terrifyingly from within, their size dwarfing even the city’s subway trains, rose from the river on the Upper East side, wiping cars and trucks into the river as they advance. It was their cries that Mr. Watkins heard.

Other fish-warriors followed behind them, appearing out of the water on the city’s promenades, spell-light lighting the air.

But nothing what quite like The Monster.

There was no name for it.

It was enormous, larger than the shoggoths. It was indescribable. It was a quadruped, somewhat looking like a dinosaur, but not quite, and it was at least a hundred yards long. As it appeared out of the sea, wading down one of the rivers, its feet produced that terrible rumbling that everyone had heard. A myriad parasites dwelled on its skin - so enormous was the creature, even these parasites were the size of a large dog. They skittered off its skin as it moved, and spread across the river’s bottom. Screams of horror were heard as they emerged - six crab-liked legs, two sets of sharp pincers, one rear, one front. In the first moments of confusion, one of the creatures leaped forward forwards, and the light-blue shirt of a city policeman was splattered with blood.

In Professor Orga’s classroom, the students were now openly ignoring the lecture, gazing in their laptop screens with pure horror.

“What has happened?” - the woman asked, a tone of anger in her voice. “Is it something more important than the growth of Common-language literature? I doubt it is.”

“Well.” - one of the students whispered. “A patrol frigate outside the city has been lost, with all hands...”

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“And a dragon is rampaging in New York Bay.”

“A dragon, you say?” - the Professor said. “Show me.”

The student turned his screen around. Several students behind him were trying to whisper - No man - don’t speak like that - it’s Professor Orga - you don’t - but the woman stared at the screen where, on the video feed, the monster was advancing up the bay, a ferry burning behind it.

“That’s not a dragon. “ - the professor noted. “That’s... that’s some fuckery.

“He’s headed towards Liberty Island.” - someone whispered.

“He is also disrupting my class.” - she said.

“What? Professor Orga, I -”

The Professor paced past the students. She no longer cared for their excuses as she flung the window open with a crash, and then threw herself out, from the fourth floor.

There were several gasps of horror - and then there was a flap of majestic wings. Momentarily, the view of the skies was obscured by something, and then they could all see her in her true form - gleaming gold, flexible, like a snake perhaps, her wings spread wide, shining in the light of the midday sun as she rose over the city. For a moment, she turned her head towards the class, and spoke, her voice making the windows shake.

”That thing is not a dragon. I am a dragon.”

She sailed over the roofs of the City, sweeping towards the Bay, her wings nearly glowing in the rays of the sun. The monster was there, still moving forward towards the Island. Even crouched on all fours, its misshapen, folded legs bents down, it was taller than the Statue. Its head - toothed, bulbous, ugly - turned towards the dragon. She could see clearly it had two sets of eyes - one black, focused forward like a predator, and two enormous, bloated ones, like a lizards, red and covered in a disgusting whitish film, at its sides.

”Some call me Chassinoa, Protector of the Skies. I prefer Professor Cassidy Orga. I am a writing instructor in this city, and that statue is part of the national heritage.” - she said, her voice like a lashing whip as the creature stared.

It roared. Perhaps it thought it was defying her. Perhaps it didn’t think at all.

She roared back, breathing fire.

The monster’s snout was bathed in flame that could melt steel. Its red, lizard-like eyes couldn’t be shut to protect them, and they boiled and burst. The fire came into its roaring mouth, burning it as the creature screamed. The parasites on it body caught flame and fell into the river - and then the dragon swooped in on its, clawing and biting. They trashed in the river, claw against claw, mighty tail against mighty tail.

Central Park

Cindy and her friends took shelter behind the ice-cream van, as Mr. Watkins stood firm behind it, his feet seemingly planted in the soil. Cindy let out a scream, a high-pitched scream of sheer terror as she saw the parasites skitter close and closer, their segmented feet covering the distance faster than any of the other monsters. “Mr. Watkins.” - the blue-haired boy asked. “Why aren’t you running?”

“Because I doubt you can outrun me.” - the ice-cream man said, reaching under his apron. “Besides. I am not sure the insurance covers this stand.”

He drew his pistol easily, in a fluid practiced motion much like the one Cindy saw her PE teacher demonstrate in self-defense classes. He looked like a man in a shooting range now, the ice-cream stand like a firing position. The gun rocked in his hands as he fired two quick shots, and one of the parasites reeled and fell.

Times Square

”Fuck.” - said Ikeda, as he heard the sounds. Screams, and then machinegun fire - a long, sustained burst, three seconds of constant fire. Down below, the large pharmacy’s doors shattered from the inside. That was where the machine gun was - kept there in case of robberies, it was now raking the Square with fire. Several people were laying in the street dead, and their killers - the fish-like monsters - were now trying to fight their way towards the pharmacy. In the few minutes that Ikeda was ignoring the strange noises in the street, Times Square had turned into a scene from Book of Revelations.

“Fuck that shit.” - said Ikeda. “Melissa, help me open my gun safe.”

Only through modesty could it be called a gun safe. As they pushed on the heavy steel door, like the door of a bank vault, what opened within was a room filled with weapons of all kinds. Rifles, shotguns, machineguns, swords lined the walls and floor, stood in racks and cases, lay on shelves and even hung on the ceiling. Reaching towards one of the racks, Ikeda grabbed a battle rifle of Imerian make, its receiver inlaid with ornate ivory, a vast hunting scope mounted on its scope.

“These bipedal shitballs want to kill us all.” - Ikeda said. “If I get killed I can’t build the resort, can I now?”

Down below, one of the creatures croaked out the words of a spell, and a glowing lightning ball two dozen yards across blossomed in the pharmacy. The power in the entire building it was in shorted out instantly. Fire engulfed the pharmacy from within. Those nearby could smell burning flesh and rubber, and hear the screams of those fortunate enough to survive the spell’s power. The pharmacy clerks manning the machinegun were, however, alive still, having been missed by the blast, and a second later the gun came alive again, clattering mercilessly as it cut down another of the sea creaturs.

The spellcaster croaked in anger, and raised his spells, working the spell again - and then his head exploded.

”Kutabare!” [Go to hell!] said Ikeda, one of the few words in his ancestors language that he still knew, as he saw the spellcaster slump to the ground. Then he shifted his aim and fired again, another of the fish-men dropping its trident.

His ears were still ringing with the sound of his own rifle, as next to him, Melissa raised a pistol and emptied the magazine. She missed every single shot and then reloaded, before the magazine hit the ground she was firing again. This time she hit, a fish-man screeching and croaking as the bullets blossomed in its flesh like flowers. And then there were other sounds - Amanda with a shotgun, a neighbor in the next suite with a giant revolver, everyone, everywhere. Suddenly Times Square was a fire trap, its skyscrapers fortresses as hundreds of men and women unloaded on the monsters with what they had. Not all used weapons - an office desk, weighing perhaps five hundred kilograms, came screaming from somewhere up above, shattering into a myriad pieces just next to a fish-man, the creature screeching as a chunk of wood tore into his flesh.

In the Park

Cindy was deafened, stunned by the hurricane of unpleasant noises around her. It was now not only the sound of Watkins’ pistol, smashing against her eardrums like a sledgehammer. Overhead, a police helicopter circled, its rotors deafening, its own gunfire clattering and clattering away. Thene deafening sound of an explosion shook Cindy’s body - she had never known a sound could be so loud as to make you feel it with your very flesh. As she raised her head in surprise, she saw the wreck of another helicopter burning somewhere among the park’s trees.

And finally, she saw it. It was the creature that screamed. She did not know the word - shoggoth - but she saw it - vast, moving through the park at barreling speed. And it screamed.

Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li! Tekeli-

The creature twisted and shrieked, a shriek of pain and anguish, as suddenly an explosion burst among its horrible flesh, and another, and then another. Then there was a terrifying sound that was even worse than the creature’s infernal screaming - dozens of explosions, literally dozens, bursting on, around, and in the shoggoth. It burned suddenly, several loci of white, bright flame seeming to glow in its flesh. It twited and screamed, felling trees in its death throes as more and more explosions ripped its body, and then moved no more. A terrible, indescribable smell rose from where the shoggoth’s corpse was still burning.

Cindy blinked - and then she saw them, walking through the park in long, staggered rows. They seemed unusually handsome in that moment - men and women, elves, humans, and others, in camouflage uniforms, advancing through the park, rifles with long, chromed parade bayonets held at chest level. If they saw one of the parasited, they briefly snapped a rifle to the shoulder, fired a shot and that was it. Seeing them, Watkins reholstered his pistol. He didn’t tell the children cowering behind him how many round she had left. “Hey! Hey!” - he shouted to one of the men “What’s going on? Where do we go?”

The young man - perhaps two years the senior of Cindy and hers classmates - paused, saluting Watkins. “Sir, I’m with Columbia ROTC. These creatures are invading from the sea. There’s a injury treatment center in the school down the street. Go there with these kids. It’s more or less safe there.”

Then he mvoed on. As the cadets advanced, stepping over the bodies of park visitors and parasite monsters alike, they could be heard singing.

My eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord...

Far overhead, a gold dragon could be seen. She was injured in several places, blood dripping from among her scales. Magical power pulsed through her body as she regenerated swiftly, the wounds closing fast enough to watch. Behind her, on Liberty Island, the monster lay, mutilated, half-burned, is bones broken, its muzzle burned away wit dragon-fire. It did not look so big now, dead at the Statue’s feet where Ogra had placed its corpse.

But Ogra was not done yet. She watched over the fighting below her, watching men in uniforms advance against monsterkind. She listened to the howl of engines above her. The Navy and the Air Force were at last involved, fighter jets criss-crossing the skies, depth-charges dropping into the bay and the river. They dared not, of course, drop bombs on the City itself. No doubt, ground forces would arrive eventually, but right now, minutes and seconds counted.

Professor Cassidy Ogra turned her head towards a shoggoth and spat fire again. The creature shrieked as its flesh boiled away into foul-smelling vapor and smoke. Ogra smiled, her golden lips moving back from her teeth. She could feel the creature’s fear. She liked the idea of a shoggoth feeling fear.

Times Square

“It’s over.” - said Ikeda in disbelief, tossing off his navy-blue jacket. Smoke rose from the square below, and the horrifying smell of burning gasoline, rubber, and dead bodies. He had never been to war, never served in the military - he had never killed a sapient creature before. He felt no guilt - but he felt a strange sense of relaxation, knowing that the fight was over, that he had lived. His shirt was soaked with sweat for some reason, and he walked back to the sofa and let himself fall into it. “It is over.”

The surviving screens on the walls of Time Square displayed some manner of emergency broadcast now. Someone was talking about the dead, about how ambulances would reach everyone who needed help. He knew rationally that for many in the city - how many? Hundreds? Thousands? - this would be an incredible tragedy. He knew rationally that he should be horrified. But what he felt was something differentl.

“I... can’t believe it.” - he said to Melissa and Amanda. “Did we do that?”

“Well.” - Amanda breathed out, rubbing the spot on her chest where a hot shell casing had hit her skin, and then sitting down next to Ikeda, the blue bikini set contrasting quite awfully with Melissa’s. She smelled of gunpowder now. “Some of it.”

by **Allanea** » Thu Mar 30, 2017 4:38 am

Liberty-City Air Defense Command

“What do you mean they’re in square F-65, how the fuck in the cocking fuck are they there? How did they-”

“They’re diving at us from the Liberty Mountains.”

“How did they just-”

“A Phyrexian portal has-”

“FUCK. YOU. FUCK YOU ALL. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT SHIT IS HAPPENING.” - the General screamed as he saw the blinking, green light points approach, coming down from inside the country. “Unfuckingbelievable. Scramble the fighters. Prepare the missile batteries. Let’s teach Yawgmoth a lesson.”

The creatures are visible in the midnight sky, their eyes blazing like searchlights - hundreds of them, terrifying beasts, their limbs like the forearms of a praying mantis, their wings leathery and batlike. Horrifying heads, somewhat like a hammerhead shark, somewhat like an insectoid, complete the ensemble.

On the ground, pilots are running towards their planes. In the air, interceptor patrols are banking rapidly, turning to meet the monsters. Missiles - enormous, strategic air defense missiles, far too large for such monsters - scream through the air, their engines glowing across the sky as the ground radar guide them in. They explode loudly, of course, waking up the thousands of city residents below as the creatures are showered in steel. Some fall, their searchlight-eyes glowing no longer.

The survivors scatter in every direction, some remaining aloft, others diving towards the city. Everything is a mess now - the fighter jets scream past the monsters, and only now it is obvious that the infra-red guidance of the missiles simply does not detect them, several of the short-range missiles flying helplessly past the creatures. The fighter pilots fly past the beasts, their vast speed actually a disadvantage in tracking the leathery beats, and then turn - and, incongruously, a pilot screams, as he sees a skirge adjust its course just enough, slamming violently into his cockpit.

He is slain instantly, the plane plummeting, helplessly, to the ground.

The other skirges dive now, into the streets. Some pilots open fire with their guns, uncaring now that the shells would impact in the city - and several monsters fall to the ground, shredded alive. A second later evne that is no longer viable, as the skirges are flapping, turning, banking among the roof of arcologies and factories, screaming at ground-level among suburban homes.

Now the butchery begins. Gunfire clatters from below, as homeowners and militiamen, groggy from of sleep, struggle to fight back against the dark flock. Some armed with shotguns, some with pistols, some with heavier weapons, the city residents fight as terrifyinmg monsters are now invading - not just their country, their very homes.

“Falcon Nest, this is Sioux-Five, the targets have landed, over.”

One skirge darts across an open suburban lawn, rifle fire lashing its flesh, and collapse. In the police station, alarms are ringing, officers grabbing weapons, police cruisers roaring alive. Overhead, the fighters scream by, useless.

By dawn, the fighting ends. Smoke rises from the ruins of several homes, and rescue teams are pulling out the bodies of the dead and bandaging the injured. Another flock attacks near dawn, but by this time the military is ready for it, and clattering autocannon rend it to bits in the air. The portal is sealed by mages several hours later, but for hundreds of city residents, that is far too late.

Rio, Kurzweil Province

In the blazing light of the tropical sun, the monsters are only more clearly visible. They are here, too - appearing at once, in several parts of the enormous city. On a small tour boat on the harbor, an entity seemingly composed of black, living metal - part spider, part octopus - slithers aboard, its tendril smashing through the skipper’s body as if it was a whip of metal cable.

From the jungle at the city edges, the things begin to emerge. Spiders the size of semitrailer trucks, tentacled horrors beyond description, and horrifying, twisted monstrosities that once were men.

For a brief moment, the creatures seem inevitable, surging into the suburbs.

But this is not the first day of the war. Army troops on checkpoints at the city entrance open fire. The clatter of automatic cannon and rifles rises above the city din, and the mighty explosions of spellcraft join in. For a moment it seems that the monsters might be repelled - but there is more of them than one can possibly even contemplate.

They advance - swift, merciless, half-metal, half-flesh. Some are too swift to contemplate. Others - armored beyond the capacity of bullets. The checkpoints are swept away within minutes.

The cityfolk panic - screams of terror beginning to rise over the city as men look up, and see the skies blackened with dozens, hundreds, thousands of creatures.

Those who are close enough, look at the statue of the Redeemer in panic as it seems to be covered in spiders - hundreds of terrible, black things, even more terrible when one realizes that the statue is enormous.

Slowly, the statue of the Redeemer begins to fall, finally flinging itself down the mountain with a terrible crash, and thousands of witnesses scream out in horror.

This is the first day of the Battle for Rio De Janeiro.

by **Dyste** » Thu Mar 30, 2017 2:28 pm

Much like with Foley and Columbia, there was more than one Dyste in the multiverse, mostof which were ruled by a king named Tyroth but otherwise could be quite different from one another...

Castle Dyste?

Sergeant Foley’s team seemingly came across an empty castle, but once they had entered the castle, two suits of armor, seemingly just for decoration, stood in front of the door, blocking the way back through. “So, humans, you have come to visit my humble abode,” a voice echoed from one of these constructs. “If you wish to talk, we may, but I ask that we keep things peaceful. I abhor violence and dislike weapons, so if you would be so kind, please leave them behind, or at least are willing to deactivate them for the time being. If you are cooperative, we can continue our talks in person. It that acceptable?” Granted, with the hulking sets of armor, it seemed rather foolish to refuse…

The soldiers were lead into a luxurious room with silk couches, a variety of valuable items lining the walls, and a figure sitting at a golden desk. A rather rotund black-and-gold scaled Draconid sat there, having just weighed stacks of two different metals. He was wearing jewelry on his hands, mainly rings with varying gemstones. “Welcome, friends. I am Tyroth Blackfang, head of the Black Fangs Item and Trading Company… but I suppose that you might also be here to converse to me as the King of Dyste. Either way, what brings you here? Perhaps you wished to purchase some magic items? Or doing a commission? Either way, relax a while. My wife should be arriving home shortly from her training, she loves meeting visitors.” A few smaller reptilians were walking about - no, slithering about, as a closer look would show they had snakelike lower halves. “Please, do not mind them, they are just my assistants. If you wish for some refreshments or the like, ask them.” He seemed to treat the soldiers not as invaders, but as guests.

Across Dyste?

If Emperor Foley thought that this would be a simple quashing of heathens, he would be sorely mistaken. The Dyste he had encountered was not a peaceful nation, but one of conquest and terror. Cities were lined with Magitek cannons, ready to fight back against the invading forces.

Within the darkened walls of Castle Dyste, Kel Darkfire made haste; the king did not care for tardiness. “Your Majesty!” the scarred veteran spoke, in deference to his master, “It seems these humans have plenty of firepower. We can handle the defences, but I do not think it is safe in here…”

Tyroth slouched on his throne, drinking from his wine glass before crushing it in his hand, “Am I not the champion of Tiamat, fool?!” These humans have no idea who they are dealing with... activate the cannons. They will rue the day they have trespassed into our lands!” As he watched out the window as cannons fired beams of fire, ice, and lightning, he recalled that elven wizard who had had forced to work on them in order to save his people. Almost a shame he had to slay him and burn down that pesky forest, but he could not let those secrets spread. “And when you get a chance, give me a location of their lead fleet. I believe I have a little visit with the corpse who was too stupid to turn around straight away.” he drew a sword pulsating with pure darkness energy, a gift from his goddess to slay those who turned against her will. “My blade has not been bathed in blood for days. Let us see if their leader is worthy to stain it…”

Dystan Plains

After a rather short but grueling few minutes, Lissah was in a worse mood than when she had to fall out of an airship. “Ugh… it’s in my armor… I hate oozes so much. Why must we always fight these?”

Tyroth was cleaning off his mace; apparently the slime didn’t stick to his mantle very well. “One of life’s mysteries, Lissah. Anyways, this is hardly the end of our troubles. We need some help if we are going to stop these threats.”

The golden armored orcess nodded, still feeling rather messy. “So I suppose that we should get going to the castle, then? I suppose Kel will want to speak to you…”

“No,” Tyroth held his hand up, “We can let Sarisa and Maizena deal with that for the time being. We need to go to Glaristant.” The semi-autonomous region of Dyste was home to an organization sometimes known as the ‘Inquisition’, though in reality that was only one part of their job. While there was some contention on how much Dystan influence should be in the city-state, they were still the best choice for this job, and the Grand Duchess was an old friend of his who was entirely loyal to him. In fact, it was because of this that they didn’t need to walk or fly there, but instead he could go straight to the palace…

----

Glaristant was on a smaller island to the northwest of the mainland, and if it was not connected, it would be hard to realize that it was part of Dyste. Compared to the older feel of the cities of Valitora and the like, Glaristant was fairly modernized, in particular with the style of the homeland of the Grand Duchess’s. While the palace was a fairly luxurious place, it was also the home to the leader of the Inquisition, and therefore was also an office as well as a residence for its ruler.

When Tyroth and Lissah arrived, the king expected to see their leader right away; she always aimed to please her king. Instead, it appeared that neither her nor her wife were home at the moment. Instead, he noticed a lamia with silver and blue scale patterns and wearing a black-and-gold blouse slithering around, looking worried. When she noticed the pair, she moved towards them, bowing, “Your Majesty, I wish I could say it is a great time, but Iriyea is not in at the moment. Perhaps you could come back later…”

“Kiara,” Tyroth was puzzled by her choice of words; Iriyea usually let him stay around the palace, and her assistant usually was happy to attend to him until that happened. “Is something the matter? Regardless of anything, if Iriyea needs help I am willing to provide…”

The lamia hesitated, her boss usually wanting to be deal with problems like these herself, but she was loyal to the king and knew his help might be needed. “Well, you see this giant lamia appeared on our shores. When Iri tried to converse with it, it suddenly started attacking! But it wasn’t like me or any lamia I know; it had six arms and had scimitars in each hand. She told us not to get involved; she was worried about our safety, I guess.”

Lissah facepalms, “Oh, for the love of… Marilith, I presume? Is this another one of Garland’s tricks?”

Tyroth shook his head, “I do not know… Garland’s power can do a lot of things, but he would still need time to revive her. We would have gotten reports of strange activity beforehand instead of this all happening at once. Kiara, see what sort reports the Graveck Division can get on this. Meanwhile, I have to help Iriyea. Lissah, get that ooze out of your armor and then join us…”

The Orcess scoffed, “C’mon, you think a little slime is enough to stop me from doing my duty? I just will need a hot shower after all this is done. Just because you beat Marilith by yourself last time doesn’t mean my help is unneeded.” The paladin had a little score to settle from her last encounter with the half-snake demon. She wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

Tyroth didn’t even bother trying to tell his bodyguard to not fulfil his duty. Truth be told, if it was the other way around, he would’ve stayed as well. “Well, then, I suppose we must have a lich and kraken to deal with soon enough, so let us get this over with.” He was more concerned with finding out how Garland and the others were able to come back, but at the same time, that was more for the spies and information gatherers to sort out. In his case, he had to play to his own strengths; before he was a king he was a warrior, and he never truly lost his spirit...

by **New United States of Columbia** » Thu Mar 30, 2017 5:43 pm

Castle Dyste?

The squad looked around, amazed at the sheer scale of the Castle, when they heard a slight klink. They looked around, saw nothing out of the ordinary (well, at least, nothing that was even more out of the ordinary), when they heard heavy thuds on the stone floor.
They all spun around, aiming their weapons at two moving suits of armor. The two non-commissioned officers looked the most stunned of the squad.
"Bloody hell..." Alexander said quietly.
Foley nodded, keeping his finger tight on the trigger of his rifle.
They then heard one of the suits... speak. The entire squad lower their weaponry though it was really more from sheer shock.
"They... want to... peacefully talk... I..." Foley stammered out, pausing often and trying to think of what to say.
He didn't have much time to speak though as he saw something he thought he'd never see: Alexander willingly threw his weapon to the ground. He heard the heavy clattering as the wood finished rifle his the ground and continued to watch in amazement as the Captain removed his grenades, pistol, knife, and helmet. His sandy hair shined a bit in the natural sunlight. The Captain's blue eyes turned to face the Sergeant's hazel.
"You know what to do. Disarm. Doubt we can fight out way out."
The squad obeyed his command but not without confusion and resentment.

As they were led to the King of Dyste the squad looked around the seemingly fantastical castle. They seemed both amazed and confused at the various enchantments and items and dwellers they came across. They could barely get a word in as they were kept at a brisk pace, namely to keep up with the massive stride difference from the massive suits of armor and their smaller human frames.
When they got to the room everyone was taken aback by it. Some of the soldiers happily flopped onto the silk couches, desperate for a relaxing rest from their constant fighting and drilling back on Latonos. However, as son as the rotund figure spoke, everyone was listening and staring. The two officers exchanged confused and nervous glances. 'Black fangs Item and Trading Company'? What was that? None of them ever heard of it before. The Captain cleared his throat as soon as the Draconid finished speaking.
"I..." Gladium trailed off, trying to wrap his head around what just happened and what was going on before his very eyes "I'm a bit lost. My men and I... we're from Columbia and were serving in Latonos before some... storm of sorts took us and dropped us off here... wherever here is."
He paused as he looked over the slithering creatures, eyes bulging as he saw their twisted form. What in the hell was going on!? This was like some fairy tale but now real. None of it was making sense. His blue eyes soon realigned themselves with Tyroth's.
"I suppose we could wait before we really try to figure out what's going on. I think I'd like to see your wife, who and whatever she is."
Paul cleared his throat.
"Yes you may speak, Sergeant."
Foley nodded before he then stepped forward and brushed a hand through his crew cut chocolate hair.
"If I may speak... Tyfroth? I'd like to inquire as to what exactly you are. I mean, it's not everyday a human finds... whatever you are."
He then took a step back and was shoulder-to-shoulder with his new Captain again, clearly trying to avoid offending whatever the hell this "King of Dyste" was. After all he might be rotund by they figured he could take them all on.

Across Dyste?, Fleet Gothic

The Captain of the H.E.S. Jackson Missile Destroyer watched the missiles streak through the early morning sky with his binoculars. For the past few minutes they had begun to launch every missile from their launch bays and rain fire and steel upon the hellish horde that awaited them. They picked up little radio chatter from the airborne incursion into Valitora or of the naval assault upon nearby shores. But from what little they picked up it was absolute hell back there. As they began to load another set of missiles, however, something strange happened. Some dark purple and black cloud formed overhead, as if it were a tear through the reality of space itself, and launch... something from it's infernal door. Massive cloud creatures descended upon the fleet, tearing through ships like wet cardboard and the men... the Captain didn't dare think of what they did to the men. He watched, rooted to the spot in sheer terror, as one of those things rapidly sped towards the Jackson, his grey eyes filled with fear and hatred as he let out a blood chilling scream as he heard the sickening sound of something unholy rip through metal like nothing. He soon would be treated with the silence of death...

Undellah, Dyste?

Sgt. Clinton ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his green-blue eyes filled with fear as he ran by fellow soldiers being cut down by these unholy demons. For the past three hours the advance of Christendom had been stalled. Massive naval and air support from the nearby Templar fleet proved useless as even the armor detachment in Undellah was reporting problems dealing with the demons unholy magic. So far the only two solutions to come to the surface of debate were to pull out of Undellah and refocus their landing elsewhere (which was dismissed as they had already poured too many men and machines into this assault to simply pull out. Never mind how much time and how much of a logistical nightmare it would be) or to completely level the city in massive aerial strikes and naval bombardment. The later had been chosen.

The H.E.S. Armageddon's guns slowly turned, their massive plasma cannons pulsating with raw destructive power. The crew and Emperor watched, smiles curling upon their redish pink lips. The turrets turned so every cannon that could was aiming straight at the buildings of the city. However, as exciting as this would be, the Emperor had other plans at the moment. He turned, his fire retardant cape slightly billowing as he strode out of the command deck and headed down to a special room. It was barely filled with anything except a simple stand with some papers on it, about a dozen different metallic microphones, and a simply dressed navy sailor who looked both awestruck and terrified at the sight of the monstrous Emperor. Foley's enhanced eyes merely looked the man over, found his rank and profile from the neural network his brain had been hooked up to, and lumbered with authority to the microphones and stand. In a matter of seconds he would be addressing all of Dyste. Or whatever the massive, mighty, and loud speakers on the various ships, aircraft, and tanks could reach...
He cleared his throat, looked over at the sailor, and waited for the signal. He got it. He then looked at the short speech he intended to give. He opened his mouth, and let loose...
"We have come for you! We are the righteous soldiers of the Angel of Death! And today your world shall face judgement! Dyste is guilty! You heathens are guilty! You are all now sentenced to your DEATH!"
His grin slowly grew as he let hatred and damnation spew forth.
"I can offer you my pity. But forgiveness... NEVER! NOW PREPARE TO BE PURGED FORM THE EARTH! MOWED DOWN LIKE GRASS! CRUSHED LIKE THE PATHETIC INSECTS YOU ARE!"
He then let loose a horrific laugh as he heard the faint sounds of explosions and fighting.
"Enemies stand to our left! Enemies stand to our right! But remember, soldiers of Christendom, to eradicate all who stand before you! Execute them all! Destroy them! KILL! KILL! KILL! FOR THE ONLY GOOD DRACONID IS A DEAD DRACONID! BURN THEIR FIELDS, SMASH THEIR CITIES, DESECRATE THEIR TEMPLES, GIVE THEM NO MERCY! FOR SUCH IS THE WILL OF THE ONE TRUE GOD AND OUR ONLY SAVIOR, LORD CHRIST! AMEN!"
With that the microphones let out a loud bit of feedback as they were shut off. Even now the men aboard the ships, in the city streets, in the skies above, and perhaps even back home (if they sent this on the radios and TVs back in Columbia), the Emperor's words were sent to every man, woman, and child. They could only hope the brief yet hellish bombardment of blue superheated plasma would do the trick. The Emperor returned to the command deck to watch the city of Undellah become the equivalent of hell on earth with it's black collums of smoke, rampant fires, and sounds of dying souls.

by **Lichmoor** » Thu Mar 30, 2017 9:01 pm

Haruktha’s eye sockets scanned across the area that would soon become an arena of war where it was divined the Primordial’s host would attack. If his fleshless face could grin it would but the lich had lost any remnant or humanity centuries ago. He pondered for a moment which Primordial's army would be sent against the horde that now awaited them.

Every lich and necromancer had worked tirelessly bolster the ranks of their already substantial army of the dead. Millions upon millions of zombies stood in the open area awaiting their master’s command to fight. Numerous other undead creatures summoned and created through the darkest of arts where present as well, franken, huge intelligent flesh constructs, ghouls, wights, wraiths, spectres, and countless other breeds of undead stood waiting impatiently.

Haruktha was actually impressed the bickering and infighting had been set aside. He supposed imminent doom and destruction could have that effect even on those who could control death itself.

His finely tuned senses for the arcane sensed it at first, a fluctuation in power in the air. This soon followed by the deafening sound of the fabric of reality itself tearing. And then the host began their assault.

It pleased Haruktha to see that it was constructs of flesh that came bellowing through the portal, he had been slightly concerned on how well the horde would perform against creatures of metal or stone, these beasts however would soon come to regret ever coming to the Material Realm. The Primordial's host were chaotic looking in nature, as if some god had grabbed random animal parts and mashed them together. No two seemed to look alike their forms twisted by their creation. They roared, trumpeted and snorted as they came through like a stampede, a stampede that was suddenly stopped by a wall of decaying flesh and bone. The ghouls with their swift loping gait were the first to fall upon the beasts, like jungle cats they pounced upon their prey and tore a swath through them, their teeth and claws felling many instantly to their paralyzing touch. The incorporeal troops were next to move through the beasts, their cold deathly touches instantly sapping whatever life force these foul beasts had. More and more fell before the bulk of the zombie horde crashed into them. Like ants the undead swarmed over the seemingly endless host that poured through. And whole many a zombie fell more and more filled the holes they left.

Haruktha heard the chanting coming from several necromancers near and knew what was next before it even happened. Several huge dark globes formed above the host, seconds later the ichor spheres of malignance and death dropped onto the host, thousands upon thousands of the beasts were instantly killed as their life force was ripped away from their misshapen bodies.

Untouched by the spells the undead surged forward towards the portal, their goal clear to any spectator watching, the lichs meant to invade the realm of the invaders. Larger constructs pushed through the portal only to be instantly meet by the flesh golems. They felt no pain or fear as they moved forward through the zombies and other undead. Arrows singed through the sky and explosions rocked the beasts as skeleton archers began firing arcane arrows into the beasts and into the portal itself.

As mighty as the beasts would have been against a more mortal foe they were no match against the undead horde who began pushing in through the portal and into the unknown on the other side.

by **Menelmacar** » Fri Mar 31, 2017 3:40 pm

OOC: This post written cooperatively with Allanea.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour.¬ Winston Churchill

Liberty-City, Allanea, Greater Prussia Majeur

It would be difficult to look at Liberty-City, as it was now, without sadness, and perhaps even some fear. Fear was the emotion many felt now, though few would admit. In orbit, military spacecraft stood guard. Sometimes thier ventral guns flashed, aimed at some target in the Kurzweilian jungles, or at something in the Prussian ocean. Civilian ships were nowhere to be seen, having long been landed or rerouted.

At LCAX, the glowing schedule boards displayed - simply by inertia, because by now it was no longer needed - ists of flights, with the word CANCELED glowing next to each of them in red. Only refugee flights and military flights took off and landed. In the empty terminal, riflemen in aged reservist uniforms patrolled, weapons at the ready. Outside the terminal doors, there was that customary display of grief for a mass tragedy - a mass of flowers and postcards, candles and toys left as an improvised memorial for the flight that was meant to have landed here.

The city itself grew quiet and ominous. Traffic was much lighter now, as those who could afford to do so stayed within their homes, delaying getting outside for a safer time. At intersections, Army vehicles stood, their weapons aimed skywards. In some places - on boulevards, on the lawns of public buildings - one could see weapons positions, hastily dug for the emergency. Searchlights criss-crossed the evening skies, with the hope of detecting some creature deft enough to avoid a radar before it dove, hungry and furious, towards the city.

There were of course some places where men and women still were present by their multitudes - long lines, rarely seen in this country outside Wintereenmas shopping, were poised outside grocery stores and gun stores, with the city residents stocking up on ammunition and food. Some stores already hung up the ominous signs - NOT MORE THAN ONE BOX OF AMMO PER MAN.

In some places, one could even see the signs of recent attacks - a house marked terribly with the scars of fire and sharpnel, or even, in one place at least, the wreck of some terrible, flesh-and-metal, Phyrexian beast, and men in protective suits unwrapping yellow hazard tape around it. A crane stood by to heft the creature’s body into a container, diesel was poured over it, and the corpse driven away. As the work was being done, the uniformed men waved angrily at passers-by and shouted “Go away! This is a necrohazard area! Nothing to see here! Go the fuck away you fucks, do you want to catch something?”

Government posters - FOLLOW THE EMERGENCY BROADCASTS, or alternately ENLIST TODAY, or alternately, FREEMAN, IT’S LATE - DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR MILITIA RIFLE IS? underscored the situation.

It would be to this sort of scene that Lady Aislinn Garrahan, the Menelmacari envoy would arrive. Four black, unmarked gravitic limousines awaited her on the runway, their windows tinted so dark they appeared, from the outside, to be a single whole with the body. Men in field uniforms, armed and dressed as if they were about to start a battle right there, saluted her crisply and led her to one of the vehicles. An observant eye - and Menelmacari were nothing if not observant - would notice some members of the escort to carry identical holstered wands made of black metal, their handles wrapped in a matte, kraton-like material.

The arrival did not come in the form of the typical Menelmacari Vilyúlairë dropship customarily used in much the same fashion that less advanced cultures would use an executive jet; but rather in an exotic fighter aircraft built in the form of a dragon, a Mornagrothim angaslókë. Looking very much in its motions like an actual dragon, the craft glided in low, before rearing up and flapping its wings to shed speed and alight gently on the tarmac. This craft was in fact ‘Alvin’, the very same angaslókë in which Aislinn had escaped her slavery in Mornagroth many years before, and which she had retained, and lovingly maintained, ever since.

The cockpit slid open, and Aislinn Garrahan herself stepped out, resplendent in her blue-and-gold robes, fire-red hair seemingly untouched by the wind, and grasping the tall white airevandil staff of a Menelmacari battlemage. Unlike most of her countryman, she was in fact human, though with one elven great-grandparent, and in any case many years among the elves had clearly made their mark on her. She had learned her craft directly from the Elentári herself, and after completing her apprenticeship had remained as the Lady’s direct representative in affairs such as this. She turned briefly, whispering several commands in the Mornagrothim dialect of Avarin, and Alvin flapped again, before autonomously taking off; with the ongoing and growing chaos in Allanea, she did not want to risk his accidental destruction on the ground should the Phyrexians, or something worse, attack the airport in force.

That handled, she turned to the Allaneans, and returned their salute, before falling in with them and walking to the car.

Inside, the automobile was luxurious, the seats turned inward in a carriage-like fashion, and a small table-like shelf at the center with a stand for a bottle of wine in an icebucket already awaiting the honored guest. “Welcome to the Free Kingdom, Ma’am.” - said one of the men, clearly an officer. His shoulderboards had four stars on them, the mark of an Allanean Army captain. As the car began to move, softly, with only a faint hissing sound, the officer began to explain.

“We are taking you to the Ministry of War building. Her Imperial Majesty expects you there.”

Aislinn nodded at that, “Excellent,” she answered, “I look forward to seeing her again. It has been some time, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances.” She smiled, and reached for the bottle, carefully pouring herself a glass.

The wine turned out to be a Reichskamphenite champagne of excellent vintage, clearly selected by someone with elaborate knowledge of those things. As their car passed through the evening streets, they were unusually clear.

“This should be usually taking us much more but there’s little traffic between here and the Ministry,” - the officer explained. “People want to avoid being out as much as they can. Also some of the shopping malls have closed down for the emergency, and I believe some clubs are closing down, too. Don’t want to be out dancing and get snatched by some dive-bombing skirge thing.”

“Entirely understandable,” Aislinn answered, peering out the window at the disturbingly empty streets. It was strange to her, seeing a city like this so devoid of life. “How frequent are these attacks?”

“Fu- Uncomfortably frequent.” - the officer said, deciding to respect the Menelmacari’s culture in this case and avoid the sort of language that Allaneans were famous for. “We have some manner of air raids, if you could call them this, two or three times a night, and we have smaller attacks throughout the city where some creature will emerge from the canals or from the air vents, or whatever. Of course it’s the capital so it’s probably worse here than most places. So far these... things, have been focusing on big cities.”

Aislinn nodded again, frowning. “I understand that Kurzweil province has seen some concerted and large-scale attacks,” she mused, “Has anything like that happened here? And…. air vents and canals… has there been any direct observations of the creatures entering our plane, through a portal or what have you? They are not native to our realm of existence.”

“I understand that some manner of portals open up at least for the skirges to spew from. But we’ve also had problems where the sort of stuff that exists normally has become more active and dangerous. Like those huge bugs that live in arcology vents started breeding and biting everyone in sight, and of course we’re somehow at war with R’Lyeh now, because fuck you I guess... I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“So it’s less of a Phryexian attack specifically than ‘basically everything getting worse’. Interesting,” Aislinn mused, peering out the window again and sipping the wine. “I am already formulating some theories,” she continued, “but I’ll need more data. Hopefully the Empress can provide it.”

The Ministry of War building could be seen long before it was actually approached - a vast, menacing-looking tower, somewhat like the brooding horrors of Stalinist Imperial architecture or perhaps a Gothic cathedral. Searchlights poised on the building’s roof moved against the dark skies.

As the four cars moved, they changed their order every few turns, with the hope, clearly, to confuse potential assassins as to which car the Menelmacari dignitary was in. Eventually - as they came within a few minutes of the Ministry - they were stopped, briefly, at a roadblock. A short conversation with a soldier in body armor - and, suddenly, minutes short of its objective, the motorcade drove down.

There were now in a tunnel, well-lit, its walls lined with light-grey concrete. THe officer commented:

“Welcome to the Ministry of War’s tunnel network. Mostly it’s here so we could move things around the city unobserved, and of course avoid being hit in the face with airstrikes if it goes south.” A few more minutes, another brief inspection, another soldier saluting Aislinn’s car - and they were in a vast, underground parking lot.

Aislinn continued looking around as they traveled, it had been some time since she’d last been in Liberty City, and the difference between peacetime and war were stark. The wine, at least, was excellent, and she had to force herself to only have the one glass. There was a lot less to see once they entered the tunnels, however, and she looked up at the officer’s comment. “Part of me is glad it doesn’t reach all the way to the airport,” she answered him. “There would have been a lot less scenery.”

“That’s definitely true,” - he said as the car stopped, again, softly and without a sound. “Please, ma’am, to the lift.” - the amount of guards they had to pass was now growing somewhat irritating to him, as he displayed his ID card to yet another soldier. There was a hallway, and, finally, an enormous elevator. It was a sharp contrast from the greyness of the underground parking lot, oak paneling and polished brass railing covering its inner walls, a single mirror on the wall opposing its entry. The Captain looked dispassionately into his own reflection.

The machine did not torment them with the indignity of elevator music, and rose upwards rapidly. Finally, a few minutes, an elevator change and another guard later - they were in a long, ornate hallway. Down the hall, one could see a heavy set of double doors, market with a brass plaque - Professor Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky - and another pair of guards. These were clearly different from the soldiers below. For a start, they have clearly been dead for years, even though they were standing in martial poses at each side of the door. As they saw Aislinn, they saluted her crisply, and one of them spoke in a low voice that sounded exactly as one would imagine the voice of a mighty undead warrior to sound. It was like the voice of the grave itself.

”Greetings, My Lady.” - the warrior spoke. Lady Blaken awaits you.

Aislinn was vaguely amused by the nameplate on the door. The title it displayed, and the title it lacked, gave an insight into Cassie’s priorities, or at least her priorities at the time she’d had it put up. “Thank you,” she answered the undead warrior, taking this as an indication she could simply open the door and step inside rather than knocking.

The heavy doors swung open with ease, having been balanced and oiled carefully. Inside, one could see an enormous work desk, on which documents, photographs, and two tablets were splayed out in disarray. Cassiopeia, disheveled, furious, dressed in what appeared to be a set of black BDUs, stood at the table, speaking to someone on her phone. Only the gold circlet on her brow indicated who she was. “Unfuckingbelievable.” - she said to someone. “I cannot humanly believe this sort of stupidity is capable of existing on Earth. Are you absolutely- Oh Afflux Bloodspiller. Fuck. Fine. Whatever. Open all the warehouses. Prepare for evacuating Rio. I will speak to you again.” - she hung up.

“Hello Aislinn.” - she said. “I apologize. There has been a series of emergencies. There is a series of emergencies.”

“Hello, Cassiopeia. So I have been told,” Aislinn answered with a smile. She took a seat opposite Cassie, and the smile vanished all too quickly. “Of course the reports we have already received indicate this is not merely an Allanean problem -- it may turn out to be the largest single fractal event in centuries. There are some indications it will affect us as well.”

Cassiopeia started counting off on her fingers. “Phyrexian invasions in three countries, Chaos crusades, some pustulent cockmonglers with a Death Star attacking... Zuni, I think, Azog the Despoiler, Cthulhu, Dagon, megashark attacks on civil aviation. THe working theory we have that, and I shit you not, some idiot tried to use Pandora’s Box as a weapon.”

Aislinn’s frown deepened. “That would be…. Problematic,” she answered. “Back home there have been increased attacks from feral bands of orcs, and outbreaks of giant sewer-spiders boiling out of the tunnels and attacking civilians. These have been of comparatively little concern so far, or individually, but they are increasing, and the fact they are happening at all is a disturbing trend. If Pandora’s Box has been found and opened it would indeed fit what we know so far -- and it must be found, seized, and sealed as soon as possible. And then kept somewhere it can never be opened again.”

“I am just fucking flabbergasted that someone would do such a fucking dolboyeb thing.” - Cassiopeia said. “I mean beyond whatever moral considerations, it’s just such an obviously fucking awful idea. Oh look, it’s a fucking box holding all the troubles and evils in the world, let’s fling it open, what could possibly fucking go wrong? It’s like some shit a mentally damaged undergraduate student world do.”

“Or someone actively evil,” Aislinn mused. “Fortunately I have a notion as to how we can get at least a rough idea of where the box is, and presumably, where we can find the insane fool that thought opening it was either wise or entertaining.”

“Someone actively evil and insane.” - Cassiopeia corrected. “What possible guarantee can they have one of the many forces they unleash won’t turn on them? But, do go on.”

“None,” Aislinn answered, “But the lack of guarantees has not always stopped such people before. History already has no shortage of deliberately engineered plagues, after all. Anyway -- as you probably know,” she continued, “the Ascendancy has for many centuries applied its technology to solving, or at least forestalling, the instability that continues to plague this world. By smoothing the fabric of reality through the same mechanisms by which our ships are propelled through space we stabilize fractal events in and around our territories. This is why these attacks have been, so far, less severe in Menelmacar than elsewhere.” She paused a moment before going on. “However, like a rock hitting a pond, fractal events cause ripples in spacetime that can be detected and measured. Using the entire network of reality anchors and comparing their logs we should be able to triangulate the overall source of this event.”

“That’s... that’s actually fairly brilliant.” - Cassiopeia said. “I’ve not thought of this at all, but then I’m not a chronomancer nor a temporal physicist.” - she waved her hand a bit embarrassedly. “Well we are probably going to be up to our elbows in blood and ichor here as it stands. Intelligence suggests that there is going to be a grand Phyrexian offensive in Rio soon, and quite likely we’ll see other threats as all of this unfolds. We have called out the reserves,” she added, perhaps unnecessarily, “and are opening the strategic arms stockpiles.”

“I am sure if you requested it the fleet could provide additional fire support and overwatch. I know the shipminds are especially fond of target-rich environments,” Aislinn suggested with a smile.

“I’ll inform the Army Signals Command,” - Cassiopeia said, making a note. “So far, as far as we understand, Phyrexians have been using a combination of illusion magic and jungle cover to mass large quantities of creatures in the woods and then throw themselves at the city in waves, with support from mages and some manner of technomagical droids. It’s deeply concerning. We’ve managed to slow them in the suburbs but it’s a shit-show all around. Eventually they’ll probably deploy their famous bioweapons so I’ve given the order to evacuate as many people as we can before that particular balloon goes up.”

“Speaking of bioweapons,” Aislinn mused. “Isn’t the Rio area scattered with the mass graves of all the Grand World Order genocidal slaver types you killed? Why not raise them and throw them at the Phyrexians as an undead horde? Probably better to do it before they do, in any case.”

Cassiopeia stared. “Am I now in a universe where you are encouraging me to raise an army of the living dead?”

Aislinn gave her a level gaze over her lightly steepled fingers. “We are in a universe where if you don’t, that same army is liable, and even likely, to be used against you instead. Raising them yourself is by far the lesser of two evils here.”

“That’s fair.” - Cassiopeia nodded. “I will make the arrangements. I’m taking it that Menelmacari officials would want to be copied on all the documentation involved?”

“We would. We would also like as many samples as your people can gather of the Phryexians themselves -- when they aren’t fighting for their lives, of course. These creatures and the realm from which they come are still far too little understood.”

“We have some limited samples as it stands, and of course we have extensive combat footage via the Combat Photographer Service, which I’ll order transferred to you as soon as possible.” - Cassiopeia said. “There are also several DREAD teams en route to the major combat theaters, who are trained to collect and isolate samples.” - she pondered momentarily. “I stress, of course, that any work we will do with this completely hypothetical undead army will be handled in a responsible and scientific manner.”

“Oh, I would expect no less,” Aislinn answered with a smile. “Your chosen field of study may not be…. entirely savory to us, but your reputation for responsibility in handling it is well known.”

“Thank you.” - Cassiopeia said, and it was clear she was, in fact, genuinely thankful. “As you know, it irks me to a great extent when people utilize the Dark Arts stupidly. As, in fact, is the whole basis for our current ordeal.”

by **The Ctan** » Fri Mar 31, 2017 5:26 pm

Maxy Million's Fun Globe

The Fun Globe was perhaps not the most threatening name in the world, but then, it had been sponsored by the recreation park owner, Maxine Marai ita Frith, better known as Maxy Millions, whose franchised rec-parks were to be found on many a world. She sat in the central park at a table in an autocafe, “What do you want to do with my Fun Globe?” she asked. Maxy’s appearance was carefully sculpted to maximise her apparent benevolence, her frizzy blonde hair framed a mid-forties face with smile lines across it, and she wore bright red spectacles, a cultural diadem that was long out of date, and gave her an air of eccentricity.

“Well, nothing particularly… damaging,” the shipmind avatar said, “We just… want to use your amusement park to fight a superweapon.”

“Luna’s hoof,” she said, rubbing two fingers against her temple, “You know how long it is since anyone fired up the weapons suite on this puppy for anything but routine tests and the occasional light show?”

“Of course I do,” Telissat said, brushing the silver robe his avatar wore. “But with the refit, the Fun Globe stands an excellent chance of destroying the unmodified DS-1 attacking Zuni.”

She looked up at the fabrication-ships visible through the dome of the central park, “Can’t you just send some fighters to take the thing out, there is that engineered flaw in the reactors…”

“Thought about it, and mobilizing a world engine, and using a displacement engine,” Telissat said, “But none of those are going to have the same morale effect as the Fun Globe taking this thing out,” he said. “Besides, we’re going to need those things elsewhere, if

“Oh, politics. You want to use my amusement park as a battle-station.”

“Look on the bright side,” Telissat said.

“I have to evacuate all my paying customers and hurtle into battle with a death star painted in harlequin-pattern, which I remind you, has no superlaser, since we junked it and replaced it with a much more fetching park,” she said.

The dome-park was miles wide, modelled on an eldar craftworld dome, and encompassed the main outdoor area of the Fun Globe.

The Fun Globe had been acquired from Allanea, long ago, as part of a ransom by the previous government which, frankly, everyone thought was usurious, but as there had been a prospect that the Allaneans would point this thing, and the Galaxy Gun that had come with it, at the C’tani or more importantly, innocent people the C’tani did not want vapourised, it had seemed appropriate at the time.

Since then it had been stripped out, equipped with a quarter million sub-sapient androids and five times as many crypt spiders to maintain it, its superlaser removed, junked, and the kyber crystals that had collimated the primary beam had been returned to the various cults and sects, or used in the rebuilding of Crystal Spires, as paling focus-crystals, notably for the city of Tabril. Much of the space that had been intended to house invasion armies, or the fuel for long term planet-busting operations, had been stripped out and replaced with space for guests, or more importantly, passengers, as the Fun Globe was, now a habitation sphere.

Maxine’s investment had defrayed the refit cost, and she was contracted to use it as a refugee housing center, which left more than enough time for the thousands of funfairs that filled the urban sprawl, including the centrifugal roller-coasters that spanned the equatorial trench along the top and bottom sides.

“So, yes, our weapons suite is superior, and our shields, as you say, are far more advanced, and use proportionately more power, but if the thing turns around and blasts us, what’s your plan, Mr President?”

“We're going to hyper-in on top of it close enough to tidally lock with it,” Telissat said. “The tidal stress will damage both stations, but not cripplingly,” he said. “We’ve run the sims.”

Maxine paused for one long moment, mentally trying to untangle the math of that. “This is insane.”

“And then?”

“Our angular momentum, if we get the Fun Globe up to just the right velocity, will prevent them aiming their gun anywhere dangerous. Then, and we’ll be almost touching their hull at this point, we board their one.”

“Are you sure you’re not Cegorach?” she said, speaking of the Eldar god of performance art and audacity.

“I really must object.”

“In principle I can’t force you to let me use the Fun Globe,” Telissat said, “You’re contracted to use it for evacuation purposes, but let me persuade you another way…”

“I’m listening,” Maxine said.

“You could get another Fun Globe out of this.”

“I’ll do it… on one condition.”

“Go on?”

“I’m going to watch this in the Emperor’s tower. And I want the option for unaccompanied adult visitors to stay and watch. I can’t generate publicity like this.”

“We really should evacuate all non-combatants,” Telissat paused, “but, I suppose in this case.”

Transmission Source: His Supremacy Telissat Amris, Arnstorana of the Great Civilization
Destination: Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Queen of Allanea, etc.
Secondary Destinations: Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, Sirithil nos Fëanor, Primus rex Stjärnkhrone
Subject: Operation Haldir
Security: Public.

Your Imperial Majesty,

An Alliance once existed between Allanea and the C’tan, long ago we fought and died together. We come to honour that allegiance. We are proud to fight alongside Allaneans once more.¹

We have observed that Allanea is a locus of the current fractal disjunction, and we wish to send aid to you at this time. We are responding to other attacks on those less able to defend themselves than your own great nation, but nonetheless we feel that our experience in these matters will be beneficial, should you choose to accept our aid.

I have mobilized approximately half a million troops of the necron reaction forces, under the command of Marshal-Commander Ranisath nos Fëanor, who I have activated to take command of this force, as it is our policy to keep at least one C’tan in the sol system at any given time, we will be delegating him to the Terran sphere of operations throughout this crisis.

We also recommend that the Imeriatans participate, their experience with the creations of the Old Ones makes them ideal to support this defence, and should both you and the Imerians be prepared to participate, we have a group of gates ready to transfer Imerian troops from the colonies and Scandera-proper to hot-zones.

We also have supplies of munitions specially calibrated to defeat the spawn of the Old Ones, ranging from bullets to bombs, in various scales, and we will happily turn these over to you, with or without your accepting our aid.

Yours,
- Telissat

¹ Yes, I know this is apocryphal and not supported in the Red Book, but I could not resist.

by **Allanea** » Fri Mar 31, 2017 9:14 pm

Official Joint Press Release of the National Dark Arts Researcher Association, the Allanean Necromancy Association, the National Academy of Demonology, and the National Panel for Ethical Necromantic Research

As researchers in the field of the Dark Arts, we are often faced with dangerous spells and artefacts, arcane knowledge that can literally damage the mental and physical health of a person, and other dangers. Sadly, the history of the Dark Arts is fraught with multiple incidents where wizards and other spellcasters have used our knowledge either for morally unacceptable purposes, or without consideration for magical safety, causing untold disasters and suffering. Unfortunately, peaceful and responsible researchers are often faced with stigma and sometimes even physical violence due to their association with the acts of these insane malefactors.

For this reason, academic authorities in the Free Kingdom of Allanea and other countries had long promoted stringent ethical and safety standards to control experimentation and study in the field of the Dark Arts. These are as important in our field as they are in chemistry, space engineering, surgery, and construction work.

Recently we have been informed that unknown individuals have triggered a powerful fractal artefact for the purpose of international terrorism. This has had the result of strengthening the various forces of evil in the multiverse, and tearing the very fabric of reality itself as to encourage their attacks. It is likely that these individuals, whoever they may be, have no real control over the result of their own actions.

The Dark Arts community, as represented by the signatory groups herein, wishes to condemn this act not just on grounds of morality, but moreover, on the grounds of how blasphemously stupid and irresponsible it is.

Once again, we stress that individuals wishing to engage in the study of the Dark Arts should only do so when following the safety and ethics protocols laid out for this, and only when they possess the proper knowledge of qualifications.

Should a person or a group of people locate an unknown and potentially dangerous artefact, the intelligent thing to do is to avoid activating it if at all possible until its use is completely understood. Qualified researchers arriving on-scene should secure any potentially dangerous dark arts artefacts, store them in a safe location, and then collect any documents and sources that may pertain to their use. Any experimentation should commence in carefully secured locations, equipped with the full safety devices and processes. [If you do not have understanding of these, this is not the sort of research project you should be tackling on your own!]. NDARA or any of its associate organizations can provide assistance in containing, securing, and studying any potentially dangerous artefacts, or remove them from your premises safely.

At any rate, we absolutely discourage activating any magical items that you cannot reliably control, and summoning any dangerous entities that you do not have control over. Should you locate a dangerous and potentially uncontrollable artefact, we absolutely recommend contacting emergency services or the local university to secure and possibly destroy it.

Once again, NDARA and its associate organizations denounce those evil and irresponsible acts. We mourn with those who have lost loved ones in this dark hour, and are willing to render assistance where we can.

May the Gods protect us all.

by **Imeriata** » Mon Apr 03, 2017 2:12 pm

Old Sha'li kashla, Erathia, Scandera, the absolute royal federation.

Dim halls that had been dug hastefully and deep into the ground to escape vengeful wrath that stretched for miles were once again touched with a green sickly light as old evil runes started to shimmer. They reached out, touched by a mind lost in dreamless sleep, a mind ancient even by divine recognising, a mind that had been old even before the stars themselves were young. A mind as malevolent as it was ancient, a mind destined to be the second of nine to awake. Power had stirred it's dreamless slumber and it reached out to old accursed places where once beings had sung it and it's brothers names in praise, names now lost in fire, and forgotten in holy wrath. The old accursed runes shimmered angrily, thirsty for blood and old unholy hymns that would awaken the second sleeping one. The runes furiously shimmered and their light reached walls, old worn walls that wore the marks of smoke and hammers. The floors where once skeletons had rested, women and men, children and old, warriors and priests, were lighten up and the thick dust that covered the ground was all that remained of those that once had been chosen to answer the call.

The unholy song that were supposed to be sung had been stopped by a more powerful song ages ago, a song sung in screams and roars, a song played on fire and bronze, a song of death. The runes shimmered one last time awaiting long dead priests to carry out the abominable hyms that would awake the second of the eight sleepers and the dead one. The mind receded, old powerful enchantments and spells started to have their effects on it again, the mind once again withdrew to the darkest and coldest caverns where it and it's brothers were locked away sleeping. No matter, it would have other chances to once more claim what had been stolen from it. The runes started to fade, but they did not entirely die. The old forgotten halls, buried and forgotten still vibrated slowly, faintly with dark old magic, the sickly green light still reached out amongst the dust of long gone corpses. The runes waited and they thirsted.

Khönungaholme, Sydvinland, The absolute royal federation

The court was for once very much in agreement Primus had to admit to himself for once, there were no shouting, there were no political arguing between the elected and the nobles, between the religious components and the guildmen. All around a good day when the system worked as it was intended to the monarch had to admit as he sat immoble on the silver throne, far from Scandera but with how much power Sydvinland, Imerian Africa, Swallya, and Austland had been able to snatch up for themselves after the end of the slight troubles the federation had gone through so did Primus make his home in Sydvinland as often as he did in Imeriata. A small price to pay for unity as the oldest realms now too stod on the top of the pile with the home continent as the rulers of the federation. A sacrifice he felt was less horrid was how many men of the sun faith sat in attendance, some slight change in policy on the largest non-scanderan group of people had been taken to bring that group to heed as well, some people even argued about raising them to the status of High Culture beside the Scanderans. Primus sometimes wondered what his father would say if he saw what Primus had done with the federation and the reforms that were slowly creeping into it. He tried to think seriously what the kind smiling man, that always showed up in his mind when he imagined his father, but quickly pushed the image away. He had enough to worry about without feeling like his father would be disappointed in him too.

"Well the scriptures on the issue is clear, where there is evil men of good must smite it for thus is the will of the gods!" one of the men in the red robe of the chronologically said as the high king looked in his direction as the fifteenth, was it the sixteenth argument came in favour of flexing the federal muscles again, his reign had been far too peaceful and had done far too much regrouping, fighting rebels, rebuilding, and repeating. There had not been one single push abroad, no new lands had been added to the federation, no new exotic markets had been opened for the guild, no glorious victories had been brought to the commoners. But those days were over, Primus nodded quickly to himself as he listened to the red robed man go through more reasons for sending in the army. To be honest this was the kind of war he could get behind too, this was not a war about glory and conquest, it would be one chance to redeem his nation for it's many sins.

"Very well, we have listened to our honoured advisers and our decision is taken, we will offer aid abroad with the glorious arms in the name of good and righteous as we have always done!" He finished and could from the corner of his eyes see scribes take down notes that would later on be carried out.
"As thee has spoken, as shall it be!" the entire court said in accordance to the old traditions and bowed their heads before they sat down and the days discussions tended to one last issue, should the cut off wealth for votes be raised, Primus had of course heard this discussion before but the merchants in the guild seemed very adamant about that cause even if the lords elect, the nobility, and the religious authorises almost universally united against the issue as one could expect. The lords elect would get more people to compete against or need to spread out their platforms worrying about richer people too. The religions were only way too happy to let the poor and more religious part of the subjects be the majority of the electorate. The nobility as always just wanted to keep the wealthy commonry away from power as much as they could.

Official communiqué from the absolute royal federation of Imeriata and her realms

From: Lord Edward auf stjärnhelm speaker of the Royal Foreign relation advisory.
To: His Supremacy Telissat Amris, Arnstorana of the Great Civilization, Hans Khöngliga höghet Alexander auf Blaken-Kazansky, Hennes Khöngliga höghet Cassiopeia auf Blaken-Kazansky, Hennes Khöngliga höghet Sirithil auf Fëanor
Regarding: The slight troubles facing us.
Encrypted: No

At his royal highness, may his house reign until the end of time showered in glory, command to I pen this letter as quickly as my quill allows. His royal highness is of course willing to put several field armies to support any of your warriors in battle as fellow brave warriors. We would also be willing to provide inquisitors of the magical protective branch, and clerics from all the three faiths that are trained to do battle with the unholy to provide whatever help we can. His royal highness hope that this first of many glorious battles on the same side would be one of the first steps towards redemption that our beloved fatherlands needs to take in penance for our past sins in his own words.

With the greatest of well wishes. Lord Edward auf Stjärnhelm.

Signed and approved by:
His royal Highness Primus rex Stjärnkhrone XIV silferföd by the grace of the gods high king of the absolute royal federation and divinely appointed ruler and unifier of the Scanderan races, the descendant of the first Imerian high kings especially and foremost Emanuel the first, Son of Oskar II, the son of Primus the XIIIth, the son of Emanuel the VIIth, the son of Gustav the IInd, the son of Anders the IIId, the carrier of the royal sword first carried by the demigod Belrion son of Bel, vanquisher of evil, Champion of life and light, defender of the living and vanquisher of the dead, liberator of slaves, breaker of chains, the protector of the federal crown jewels, the holder of the sword of Halmir and carrier of the enlightened torch of civilisation, patriarch of the noble house auf stjänkhrone, carrier of better and more important titles than the space Russians and the king of Old Tyrannia, Chief of chiefs, Shan of shans, Monarch of monarchs, Prince of princes, Crowned in steel, fire, and flowers. Flame of all flames, protector of the faith of the chronicles and the city of the burning rose and the arch cleric, leader of ritual and sacrifice, chosen of the fierce unconquerable sun and crowned in starlight, mortal protector of the faith of the two faced goddess and defender of her temples and chosen by all gods big and small. As well as the protector of the free city states of Ta’ka sha’mirias well as defender of Hungary and her regions and the realms as king of Imeriata and as such the king of salt, forest, river, and mountain, defender and autocrat of flodmarkerna, Sundet, Söderang, Söderberga, Innahafsarna, Aster öarna, Vast öarna, Sydvedian, Storfloden and the river king, king of Vedian and the duke protector of the mountains, Eple Halvøyn and lavlandet, king of Erathia and as that the duke of Ankea metsä and ruler of the thousand lakes, the lord and defender of Länsisola and Etelä-kentät, king of Karmanjaka over the ancient rivers river, from the ancient mountains mountain, king of Northern Taranakan, king of Chanjing, king of Nordomark, and king of Andervel but also the righteous and lawful king of New felandia and the king emperor of Dajing, the duke of Sydvinland, Northern Venezue, Sthalinge, Gustavsland and Sjöland, The Shah of the crown states of Ta’ka sha’miri and the Padishah of all of Ta’ka sha’miri, The lord regent of the colony of Nova Imeriata, Imerian Africa, Angland, the two peninsulas of Tvaude and of Somalmark, The Grand duke of Suderland, The prince of Isarna, Salmo, judeheim and Khan of Salonia, Sultan king of Ramir, the Emir of Sandland and Jarl of Salywa and the free city of Krakborg and Styrfastning, defender and lord of the city of Arkham and Sirmera, and further more the ruler of the federal terretories of Vastermark and the northern iceplains and as such high chief of Isfalten and keeper of Sfartmård , By the right of the constitution of the protectorate leopridaeria prince defender of leopridaeria, the high lord of Kalmer, Salmoborg and Gaseborg, Lord of the countless cities and lands under his most blessed and righteous rule, the lord defender of Imerbürg, Coparborg, Vesiki, Sjöborg, Afrikas fastning, Erikasborg, Nova Imerbürg, Wein, Udeborg, Angborg, Ambir, Nya Landborg, Nymarksborg, Sorgerstad, Anderborg, Nordanstad, Kängruborg, Sthalstad, Kängruborg, Judeborg, Moskstad, Daji, Sajing, Ademarksborg, Salem, Söderhamn, Öborga, Dragograd, Gapur, Bor-zut and Táibĕi but as well the Enlightened Emperor of Nicksyllvania and as such the King of Leazus, Emperor of Helman, Grand Prince of Zeth, Emperor of Japan, Emperor of Jungria, Duke and king of Hornet-Kereburos, Despot of the Great North, Grand Duke of the Western Badlands, Master of the Southern Marshes, and the king of Dragkon and the wielder of the Holy Swords, the Demon Sword Kaos, the Holy Sword Nikkou, and the Greatsword of the Empire, Nickiller, Great Protector of the Helman Wall and Majino Line, also by the right of his birth high marshal of the royal guard and the Imperial commander of the Imperial nicksyllvanian army, the grand commander of the federal order of the golden sword and the Nicksyllvanian order, the knight commander of the order of the golden cross and the order of Africa, the lord commander of the colonial order, the high commander of the federal order of the silver rose and the order of Scandera, the Taranakan order and the Order of Vinland may his reign last until the end of time and may the empire and federation he rules stand even through the flames of the endtimes to protect all of his royal highness subjects.

by **The Ctan** » Mon Apr 03, 2017 2:48 pm

[This post was co-written with Menelmacar and uses characters and situations from The Revenant Worlds D&D/Pathfinder Campaign set in the Great Civilization]

Nar Velin Spaceport

Three years ago, there had been a massive eruption of the Volcano now classified as Tan-Shar, on the Isle of Lugan, on Sol III. That particular eruption had been the cause of more than a few deaths, and localized ecological damage, and the eruption had sunk a sizable portion of a priceless archeological site, Terra Agartha. That eruption had been instigated deliberately by explorers who had looted much of the city’s value, to prevent it falling into the hands of paramilitary troops of House Eärendil, though they had not entirely succeeded in doing so, the whole incident was known as the Agartha Incident, and a matter of much interest - and profit for the Menelmacari, too, in selling the treasures that survived from Agartha to the Malgravean institute and government.

The greatest treasure had been an encrypted data-crystal the size of a dog’s head, that had contained gods-only-knew what valuable information, and had been consigned to a miniature Tipler Oracle for decryption, although it had been years since that had been done, the transcomputational problems that were required to decrypt such information by brute-force would pass infinitely quicker there, and it would likely resolve within the next decade - hardly long in the life of an elf.

Such things weren’t what had brought the only free survivor of the first part of the Agartha Institute to Nar Velin Starport today; that was another matter - that was the other survivors. One of them was believed to have been killed, but the others had been captured by raiders and shipped offworld through a star-gate by forces loyal to the sinister and reclusive Lord Atum.

Here at Nar Velin, that survivor and several others had come on more pressing business; there was a man here who was the best contact that Jax Agrin, investigator at large, had been able to find for the Atumite underworld.

The Hundred Worlds of Lord Atum were, officially, closed to outsiders, and no one save the agents of Atum had returned from them, if indeed there were a hundred worlds, except Alassë nos Eärendil and the explorer-adventurers who she worked with, who had accomplished this feat once, and hopefully would again.

Of course, that wasn’t quite true, for where there was sapience there was ambition, and when that ambition did not align with the ruler’s desires, there was crime. The Atumites bought in slaves - legally and illegally - through any number of avenues, but those slave traders were generally wise enough to avoid Menelmacari for reasons of desiring all their limbs to remain attached to the right parts of their bodies.

There were however, export operations from the hidden empire, the most important of which was medicine. The Atumites possessed some of the most advanced medicaments in the galaxy, including a machine that could raise the dead up to Mort-2 death without trouble within minutes.

There was a five point scale of hominid death in common currency, the first was when the subject’s heart and brain ceased functioning, Mort-1 - when the brain was partially destroyed, one had reached Mort-2, Mort-3 was complete destruction or cremation of the head, while four was complete dissolution of the body - and Mort-5 was something better contemplated by the religious.

Atumite medicine sold.

And where there was a seller, there was information, that was what Alassë’s group was here to buy, or acquire by other means.

The Thrush-class light freighter Continuation of Diplomacy’s boarding ramp lowered to the pad, and already those aboard were descending, “--someone here who trades with the Atumites,” a woman was saying to her male companion as they debarked, “then we should be able to follow that lead back to your sister and the others.” She reached the bottom, looking around, adjusting black and gold robes. She was tall, delicately pointed ears poking slightly through raven-black hair, clearly an elf of the sort from Menelmacar. Her movements were graceful and deliberate, and, like her people generally were, she was armed with sword and pistol alike.

“This place is a prize shithole,” Than Marasen said, as he stepped down with her, he was dressed down a little more than Alassë, in trousers of heavy black fabric and a jacket with far too many pockets that made him look more like a spacer, “And I say this as someone who lives in Altea, so you know it’s serious.” Than’s appearance suggested a gene-background among the indic nations of Earth, and he wore a close-cropped beard that gave him a neater look than his clothes suggested, despite a few days of being untrimmed.

And it was, the landing bay was surrounded by an earthen berm that had been set into place with ceramics, rather than fusion-formed, and it had cables of reaction mass, “Numen’s beard, look at that, they don’t even flush the fuel from the pipes when they’re not in use,” he said, commenting on the indicators of a box on the wall as they headed out through a blast shutter that had been raised, “Sloppy fuckers,” he said, “I hope they’re not charging you for this berth, frankly, you should be paying them.”

They were, of course, the spaceport was run by a independent freehold, who processed fuel to make this a viable layover point for ships on their way to some of the more prosperous ports of the Delta Quadrant.

“Hey handsome,” a woman purred from nearby with a solicitous tone that matched her salacious dress; he thought she was a woman, girl might have been a better description, and Than shook his head sadly to forestall further invitation.

With them came two others, one of them was apparently an android, chromed plating and crystal stack power suggesting a comparatively primitive construction, while the other was a darker skinned man, narrow face, and wide eyes giving him a boyish look despite his gene-tweaked muscles; a heavy.

“Ugh,” Alassë nos Eärendil looked around herself in obvious disgust at the surroundings. “You are not kidding,” she mused in answer to Than’s comment. “I don’t think there’s a building-code section this place doesn’t violate. Still, I hope we can find what we need here. Quickly, so we can leave. Fortunately we don’t need to buy fuel here. I wouldn’t trust them with my ship.”

“I don’t suppose that Jax was clear what exact rock this Ovandel the drug-runner is hidden under?” Than asked, and gathered the answer from Alassë’s expression, “Shall we split up or do you think we’d be better sticking together?”

“Plasgun or not, I don’t think it’s wise to be here alone,” Alassë replied, shaking her head. “One moment, I’ll ask him.” She dug out her global for a moment, typing out a quick text-message and sending it off to Jax. We’ve arrived. Any idea where specifically we can find Ovandel?

The answer flashed back, it wasn’t clear if Jax was a synthetic intelligence or a human, or something entirely other, he was well known by reputation, but rarely put in a direct appearance. Starlight Tap-Caff, next to the radiation crash-center, don’t let the name fool you, the reply came.

Thanks, she sent back, pleasantly surprised at the speed of the response, I’ll be in touch. She pulled up a map of the spaceport and passed on to Than what Jax had told her, all the while looking around herself suspiciously. She looked wealthy and out of place here, having underestimated just how much of a shithole it was. Paranoid? It’s only paranoia if they’re not really out to get you.

“Really?” Than said, when they arrived at the rad-center, an essential feature of any spaceport, along with a good burn ward, which still did a good trade but mostly in laser injuries these days, the rad-center had been re-fitted to a salvage-shop, a strange alien of a sort he’d never seen, ten feet tall and half as many across the shoulders, was sat outside it. The Tap-Caff was nearby, an underground, cellar-like structure. “I guess this is it. After you,” he said, with a mild grin.”I want to know where it’s safe to step,” he said, looking at the dirt on the floor.

Alassë shot him a good-natured glare, “Thanks,” she deadpanned, but gamely rose to the occasion, leading Than and the others down the stairs, pushing open the door to step inside the Tap-Caff, entirely expecting that the stereotypical spaceport cantina was likely the absolute top end of the range of possibilities here.

The strip-lighting was annoying enough to boosted, or elven, eyes to look almost like a strobe, and it revealed a mostly empty daytime cantina, which was only staying the right side of the cliche due to the fact that most of the denizenry were out rattling through a hangover somewhere. Than followed with a hand on the butt of his pistol, and a portly barkeep with a arachnid body-plan turned its eyes on them, hanging from the ceiling.

“If you say no robots, I will insert this hand in your cloaca,” the android behind them said, and showed a hand apparently full of knives.

The spider-creature seemed to consider its options for a moment, “Whatever, what do you want? Buy something or get out.”

Alassë frowned. She doubted there was much on sale here that wasn’t acutely toxic. “It’s less a something we want than a someone,” she said after a moment.

“Hah, find your own slave dealers, I’m not rube enough to hang around with them, and even if I did, I’d not tell your sort, Solarian.”

Alassë smiled. It was, sometimes, nice being from somewhere whose reputation could precede her. “You misunderstand. I am looking for Ovandel.”

“You and me both, apeling, he hasn’t paid his tab all week. You want to buy his stuff, comm-code two-sixteen and he’ll show soon enough.”

‘Apeling’ was rather less appealing, and Alassë strongly suspected she could shoot the spider and face no legal consequences in a place like this, but she resisted the urge -- he had given her the information she wanted. “Two-sixteen. That will do.” She selected a table from which she could see the whole room and led the others over to take a seat, before retrieving the global again and dialing Ovandel.

“Yeah-ha? Ovandel Pharma, tell me what you need,” the voice-only link said. The accented common wasn’t easily tracked down to any particular origin, and the muscle and the android stood on either side of the booth as though they were here as guards, which wasn’t directly true.

“We wish to buy,” Alassë answered him. “We are at the Starlight Tap-Caff; you should have no trouble finding us, we are the only ones here.”

“What do you want to buy?” He asked, “I’ve got a pharmacopoeia of stuff here, enough to cure any ailment you name and many you can’t, and more besides.”

“A representative sample of your offerings,” Alassë mused, “and some information.”

“Huh, I’ll be in,” he said, and the line disconnected.

“I have a positive trace there,” Lithesh, Alassë’s pilot, reported from the sh, after a moment or two, “Got him, hab unit two blocks away, I’ll lock on, if he runs, let me know, and I’ll put a scout-missile in the air.”

“Excellent, thank you, Lithesh. Maybe put one up anyway for overwatch. Is he alone or does he have goons?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said.

A few minutes later, there was news, “Yeah, goons, you got about six guys inbound, maybe more. Lascutters and hand-blasters, oh, and one of those atumite guns,” she said. “The disruptor ones. Definately getting warm.”

“Lovely. And here I was hoping this would go well for once. Thanks again Lithesh.” Alassë hung up, her companions had no doubt already overheard; she reached into her handbag and got out her own zat’nik’tel that she had recovered from the Jaffa in her escape. The plasgun, she preferred not to use, at least not immediately. “Everyone be ready, just in case.”

Ovandel was a portly man, with a long beard, and yellow robes that were discoloured by the dust of this place, he carried a small bag on his waist, and he looked to the barkeep, briefly engaging in an argument about unpaid monies, before he looked toward the table with Alassë and Than at it, walking over, “Collector of Atumite kit, are you?” he asked, eying the weapon.

Another man who had entered a little time later was surreptitiously holding the butt of a holstered blast-pistol across the bar from them. The other five had to be outside.

“Mm, of a sort,” she answered. “You must be Ovandel. Why don’t we start by showing me what you have to offer? Then we can talk about money.”

“How about you let me know who referred you here?” he asked. “I don’t get many surprise clients. Not like I have a shop here.”

“Information like that cost us, don’t see why we should be giving it to you free,” Than said.

“You’d better not have paid too much,” Ovandel said, “I’ll need to see money before we do business, and I don’t mean on your girl’s clothes here,” he said, nodding to Alassë.

Alassë nodded, and dug out a number of credchips, which she stacked neatly on the table. “There is more where this came from, of course,” she added, leaving them just long enough for him to see the face value, before tucking them away again.

He looked skeptically at the money, “I can’t change half of that,” he said, grimacing, “There’d better be a big face value there.”

Alassë looked more than skeptical at his apparent inability to change credits, but nodded, “There’s no shortage.”

“Good,” he said, “Now, you want a sample?” he asked, and took out a small box, several cylinders of glass which had apparently been fused shut and marked with atumite texts, heiroglyphic descriptions which had been seconded with rough translations taped on that described the drugs by name of target affliction, not their real names.

“Is this one of everything?” she asked, picking up one of the vials and examining it, before setting it down.

The phial she picked was labelled ‘reweaves all physical birth defects (human) 2-3 days, take with high protein diet’ it was clearly nanotechnological, not beyond the abilities of her own people, but a respectable achievement nonetheless.

“Everything that I have with me.”

Alassë nodded at that. “Very well, this will do for now,” she answered, “I also require information.”

“You’re not the only one. You want those samples, though, I’ll need at least six thousand of those shiny credits of yours.”

“Done,” she answered, transferring six thousand onto one of the chips, before sliding it across the table.

“I’m not going to ask for your buyer if you don’t ask for my supplier, but, what kind of quantity do you need?”

“It depends of course how effective they are,” answered the elf, “But the quantity may turn out to be considerable. Now, information -- I am not, in fact, interested in the identity of your supplier. I am, however, looking for a planet.”

“Are you now?” the dealer had suddenly become quite cagey, “Why’s that?”

“The less you know about why, the better off you probably are,” Alassë mused, “but I am looking for the world, or worlds, to which the Atumites send their prisoners.”

“Bye,” Ovandel said, rising, stepping away from the table immediately.

“That’s as far as you go,” Alassë answered, drawing the zat with one hand, aimed at Ovandel, and the plasgun with the other, aimed at the goon across the room. “I will have what I came for. You can do it the lucrative way, or the painful way.”

Ovandel actually laughed at her, “Really?” he asked, “Shoot me, you’ll never get out of here alive.”

“You think I’m worried about the five men outside? I’m only here to begin with because I shot and stabbed my way through an entire company of Jaffa. Now sit down.”

Than drew a gun on the man, as well, while the other two took aim at the door and the watching man.

Ovandel sat, slowly, “You must be crazy, what the hell do you want with, well, hell worlds?”

“I misplaced some associates. Now. Where.”

“There are lots of them, and I don’t know details. Do you know what one you want?”

“No. I wasn’t in the same room with the stargate when they were taken.”

“Well, low risk prisoners taken for intruding tend to go to the Industrial Hell worlds, lovely places, where the Atumites do heavy ore processing. Unless they’re pretty.”

“And if they are?” Alassë frowned. Fenya was pretty.

“Often sold,” he said, “That’s not going to surprise you, though.”

“These would be higher risk prisoners,” Than said, “Very high risk.”

“Ah, well, no. I’m not telling you anything about that, slavery and work-camps is one thing, the actual prisons. The goa’uld have a long reach for people giving that kind of information.”

“They have a long reach for people selling their kit, too,” Alassë noted. “You seem to have evaded that just fine.”

“That’s because I know the right people to pay. There are no right people to pay for military secrets.”

“Perhaps I’m missing something here,” Alassë mused, “but if you didn’t already have the information I want, you would have said so. With that in mind, at this point you have three options. One, you can tell me what I want to know. That, hypothetically, leads to at most the possibility of the goa’uld having you killed at some point in the future. But, they might not. They might not find out you told; they might not find you. In the meantime I give you money, and who knows, maybe we develop a productive, long-term business relationship. Everyone goes home happy. Two, you can withhold the information. That leads to the certainty of dying here and leaving this room only as a cloud of vapor. Sure, the information I seek would die with you, but if you’re not going to tell me, that doesn’t cost me anything anyway, now does it? Three, you could always lie, but that just means I come back and kill you later, probably with orbital fire. So… it’s your choice.”

“You’re only going to kill me once,” he said, “and you have no idea how good the Atumite hunters are, there could be one in this room and you’d never know. You... sure, maybe you kill me, or I kill you. Maybe. But at least that’s as bad as it gets.”

The large man who had accompanied them turned to look at Ovandel, “It’s really not those goa’uld that you need to fear,” he said, his voice becoming deeply resonant, and eyes glowing with bioluminescence.

Ovandel bolted to the far corner of the booth as Ke’van revealed himself, “I told them nothing, nothing at all!” he prostested, in clear terror.

“Indeed you didn’t. But you will now, won’t you?” Alassë added with a grin.

“There’s a dozen prison worlds, Netu, Xoal, Sheol,” he said, protesting, “Your people could be on any of them,” he said, “I have no idea where they all are, no one comes back from those places.”

“First time for everything,” Alassë noted. She opened her global and pulled down from the ship a map of the region in which the Hundred Worlds were known to lie. She then projected this into a hologram above the table. “Indicate the systems containing the prison worlds you know about.”

The spaceport shook, with a sudden reverberation like an earthquake, or a crash, bottles shattering and the building groaning as the entire world rattled, the global skittering across the table more than a foot in the first moment as they were slammed from their feet.

“Atum attacks!” Ovandel shouted, in wild panic, taking to his heels.

“That’s absurd, there’s no possible way-- Kev’an, hold him… Lithesh, what the hell is going on out there?” She quickly retrieved the global.

“I have no idea,” Lithesh said, “but I’m getting off the ground, I’ll come to you,” she said.

Kev’an had been created by the Atumites as a kull-warrior; his new sub-sapient host-form was much more stable, and human, but he had to admit, right now the full regalia of his original design would have been useful, as he grabbed Ovandel, and held him by the neck, throwing the gun from his hand in one smooth gesture.

“Change of plans, Ovandel, we’re all going on a little field trip together.” Alassë got up out of her seat, leading the others towards the door, keeping her plasgun on the other goon to dissuade him from trying anything entertaining. She did not want to be here if the planet was under attack.

The ground writhed like a living thing, as they stepped out onto the dirt road outside, and Ovandel’s men were already scattering, as cracks appeared in several of the buildings already.

Alassë looked around, for any sign of Continuation. “Lithesh, where are you? The whole town’s falling apart around us.”

“Just tracking the worm,” Lithesh said.

“Are you coming to us? Wait. Worm?”

“Yeah,” Lithesh said, and a moment later the crimson-hulled Continuation of Diplomacy could be seen above the top of the buildings, as they broke and crumbled, as a vast armoured worm burst from the ground its pitted, stony body brushing masonry aside as it reared up, teeth like swords gleaming in the pale morning light.

Ovandel shrieked, while Than opened fire, and Ke’van stepped back, raising his wrist-mounted gun, a remnant of his former life. Alassë did the same, opening up on the creature with the plasgun, golden light lashing over its armor plates, the report echoing over the landscape with a resounding THOOM, as she tried to move over the increasingly unstable ground towards the ship.

No organic substance could resist such weaponry, and holes were punched through it, black oil running freely from the wounds, “Don’t get any of that stuff on you,” the Android said, stepping back, and raising his hands, creating a barrier that the dark substance splashed off.

The creature leaned down and snaffled Ovandel in one enormous bite.

Alassë just blinked. Staring. “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me. ….can we leave now, please?”

“Firing, get down,” Lithesh said, as she circled near the creature, the Menelmacari Thrush class expedition ship’s guns traversing to lock onto the Phyrexian worm.

“Oh good, that’s what I was going to tell you to do next,” Alassë dove for cover, the others no doubt close behind.

The avatar continued to route every available erg of energy into the shield, while the group staggered into cover through the rumbling terrain, and the world exploded with rippling light as the Worm was blasted to chunks, “Don’t get the oil on you,” the AI repeated.

“Understood… I’ve heard about this stuff,” Alassë answered, staying well clear of any of the creature’s horrific oily blood. “There any more of those things, Lithesh?”

“Hundreds,” she said, the terrain shifted, and she swept in toward ground level, the Continuation ramp lowering. Alassë and her companions wasted no time in getting aboard the moment they could.

“Then get us out of here,” answered the elf, “And we should probably let someone know what happened here so a proper fleet can come finish the job.”

“Already on it,” the Avatar said, “Shit just hit the fan across the whole galaxy. I’ve ditched my manufactury modules and am inbound to this system, five minutes to finish up what I’m doing, actually, three...”

Alassë grinned. It looked like she’d get to see some fireworks after all. “Then at least we can probably stick around to watch.”

Than sighed, as they stepped into the bridge and he slumped down by the operations console, “Fuck.”

“Don’t worry about it, Than,” Alassë answered as she took the captain’s chair. “We’ll find them. If there’s one leak in Atum’s security, there must be others. It’s… just going to take a little longer than we thought. Take us into orbit, Lithesh. Find us a nice view.”

Charlie Foxtrot (IC, Any Tech, ATTN SR)

Charlie Foxtrot (IC, Any Tech, ATTN SR)

Who is online