The Stars Blood Red|| Science Fantasy Mecha RP||IC

[Ithalian Empire]

The stars are soaked with blood.
The Age of Gold has slipped by.
The Age of Silver is now tarnished.
Now is the Age of Iron.

The Stars Blood Red

The air was tense and laden with pipe smoke as the men looked down at the tactical display laid out before them. As information streamed in more and more the realized the magnitude of what had come. Twenty worlds already fallen, billions of souls now enslaved. Devastation on a scale that none could truly comprehend. And now the panicked cries of help from other worlds. The Phrixapearian fleets where crushing all in there way. Imperial fleets without direction where being taken piecemeal, the worlds the guarded where now being put to the sword like the twenty before them.

Standing at the head of the table, before the collection of generals, admirals and noblemen was one man that stood a head taller than the rest. He wasnt dressed nearly as lavishly as the rest of the great men in the room, preferring a simple tunic adorned with the crest of his house upon his right breast. Neither was he the oldest, perhaps in his mid 40’s. But as he looked at the blue and white map of the Juliet Sector he felt well over a hundred. Most of the sector had already fell, and others would soon feel the fire of war if something wasn’t done.

He took a breath before speaking, “Gentlemen, it is clear now that this is no mere raid, these xenos are not testing the boundaries of our Empire. They have come in a force we have never seen. We have been taken by surprise, but now is the time for us to act. I do not intend to sit here and prepare the defense of my own house. No, this time we put and end to this threat.”

There was a murmur among the assembled men, some where eager for action. There was vengeance to be had, glory to be one. Others balked at the thought of trying to retake worlds taken by such tenatous and fierce foe. The murmur turned into a grumble as some accused other of being cowards, the grumble into a roar as men began to shout over who would lead what and who was more the fool.

“Silence!” shouted the man, “We are going to war for war is already upon us.”

“But there isn’t enough of us to hold them beck, let alone try and stop them!” Shouted a portly nobleman from the back of the room.

“No, there isn’t, but we will have to do. If I cant get my own vassals to move, than I shall have to seek aid else wear. And if there are none who will march with me, that I August vas Krick, will stand alone if I must. But I intend to stand. Radick,” August said to another slender framed gray eyed Strellian, “Issue a proclamation to all who will hear. Tell all the the High Marshall of the Eastern Marches requires aid.”

Radick nodded before leaving the room, “To the rest of you, you will either march with me or you will stand against me. Ready your houses and prepare your muster.”

---

Out into the cold void a message was sent. A cry for aid, a call to action. Among the hundred of request of aid that rang out from the galactic east this was the loudest. For Strellia was marching to war against the Phrixapearian invaders.

[Northern Socialist Council Republics]

Namsskogan, Trondheim, Region of Norway, North Sea Sector

It was a sad commentary on the state of the empire, Cassandar reflected, that she was watching commercial hologram broadcasts to keep up to date on the comings and goings of the rim sectors. News relevant to the defence of the empire generally found its way to the press much, much faster than it filtered up the Imperial bureaucratic hierarchy to land on her office desk on Earth. The disposable frontline journalists, drawn from the endless ranks of the quiet desperate who wanted to feel like they were making a difference despite being completely unable to do so, could be accused of being filled with partisan propaganda or of making mountains out of molehills. But nobody ever accused them of failing to be timely.

That was how she came to know, out in the Rosengard family's rural estates where Cassandar preferred to spend her free time, about the brewing crisis in the Eastern Rim.

Cassandar may have only received a basic education, but that was basic by the standards of the North Sea Sector, home to one of the most famous educational institution in the empire, and the standards of its high nobility at that. She was familiar, at least in academic terms, with the conditions of the rim sectors and the incessant xeno raids that they suffered from.

At first, therefore, Cassandar was inclined to dismiss the news as yet another eager journalists over-exaggerating a routine event to fill the airwaves on a slow news day. After all, it was generally known that the Eastern Rim, the informal name given to that cluster of impoverished rim sectors in the counterspinwise frontier of the empire, suffered from constant Phrixapearian raids and were heavily militarised to deal with the same. But one detail of the story gave her pause. What was not routine was the High Marshall calling for aid. One of those prideful and stubborn rulers of the rim sectors admitting that they were unequipped to protect them and theirs was a rare event indeed.

The thought of what a situation being worse than usual meant, when that usual was defined by the provincial nobility that lived in the volatile rim sectors, brought a shudder to her shoulders. Why anyone would want to go out to, let alone live in, those overcrowded habitats and domed cities of the rim she would never understand.

Oh, sure, Cassandar's little realm may have been plagued by overflowing hives of the very worst that the human species had to offer, the ever-pervasive scent of industrial chemistry and unnatural biology, as well as the endless intrigue and self-destructive scheming of Earth-side nobility who had that most unfortunate combination of great ambition and mediocre intelligence. But at least she didn't have to deal with the prospect that one day it will all burn down because some hungry neighbour decided that they needed more excitement in their lives.

Not that it would stop her from going. Duty was duty, of course, whether that be in asserting the rights and privileges of her House and Sector on the battlefield or dealing with the endless administrative minutiae that Soundstead alone generated by the truckload. But she couldn't deny that if it was in her power to choose, she'd choose the field of battle over sitting in an office any day. Frankly, while some found it odd that the largest city of the Sector was not and has never been under the direct domain of its Jarls, Cassandar was glad for it. New Albion was unrestrained chaos at the best of times. The larger of the North Sea Sector's two hive cities was, as far as Cassandar could tell, constantly in a process of trying to burn itself down. As far as she was concerned, Lord Mayor Jonathan was very much welcome to that hellpit - Cassandar didn't want any part of that mess.

Nonetheless, she still had to consider whether it even was possible for her to go. Over two years have passed since the Battle of Kensington and the traitorous Rochester-Lydford family had been publicly executed in full from its elder patriarch down to the smallest newborns, but the nobility of the Sector, high and low, were still bristling. And it was one of those open secret-not-secrets that the Rochester-Lydfords were not the real traitors, anyway; the Principal Houses of the North Sea preferred to keep a veneer of friendliness and cooperation, jabbing at each other indirectly using puppets in the lower nobility, and she gave it good odds that the Rochester-Lydfords were just such puppets. If Jarlkona Cassandar suddenly decamped from her power base to go fight some frontier brush war, there was a very real possibility that the Sector would descend into chaos again.

By gods, how she hated the politics of it all, even the small taste of it she got in her own Sector.

"Decaryon?"

"Yes, dear," the immediate response came.

Marriages of the nobility, made usually for practical reasons even when they weren't outright arranged, could often be unhappy affairs plagued by the usual personality conflicts that came with forcing two incompatible people to tolerate each other's presence constantly. But, despite having almost completely opposing personalities, Cassandar liked Decaryon and she liked to think that Decaryon liked her back. They complemented each other well; Decaryon's infinite patience, his eye for fine detail, and the way he could always offer a bland, noncommittal smile to their friends and enemies alike pulled her out of the proverbial fire more than once.

Cassandar wouldn't describe what she felt for Decaryon as love. Oh, sure, his assistance was helpful, the emotional support that he could offer was welcome at times, and the heat of their marriage bed certainly didn't hurt. But neither the sight of his slight frame and mousy look nor his awkward and youthful smile inspired any passion or any devotion the way newly-married couples could feel, or at least people insisted they could feel, towards each other. Perhaps, in the years to come, something more would come out of this relationship, but for the moment Cassandar couldn't honestly say that she really loved Decaryon.

No... what they had instead was a practical and amicable relationship based on the satisfaction of each other's self-interested objectives, which was similar to love, except more reliable.

"There seems to be another frontier brush war in the making," she told him, pointing at the visage of the panicked journalist who was, apparently, broadcasting from a hab module being bombarded rather than doing the sensible thing of putting all his efforts into getting out. "The North Sea Sector is rich and powerful enough that not sending a response will raise concern from people whose attention we really don't need."

And I really, really, want to go, Cassandar didn't say. But Decaryon heard nonetheless.

The way he struggled to wipe the visible panic from his face told Cassandar all she needed to know. If Cassandar left for the front, Decaryon was going to have a hard, unenviable job keeping a lid on the developing political situation, and Decaryon obviously could imagine the amount of administrative paperwork and late-night discussions with important officials that he was about to have thrown at him.

Work... work never changed.

[The GAmeTopians]

Aboard the HMS Ashen Sword, 1530 Hours Empire Standard Time

This story begins like any other. Hell, you could practically copy parts of it word for word. A crumbling empire, faltering from decades - if not centuries - of incompetent emperors, greedy bureaucrats, and scheming nobility. A disillusioned noble to the far North, quietly building immense power under the emperor’s nose while simultaneously growing more and more disgusted with the state of His rule.
“I’ve heard it all before… one man builds an empire, his son spends its fortune, and his son’s son lets it burn to the ground. Just because it lasts a few more generations doesn’t mean the pattern ever fell out of sync.”
Her Noble Highness, Duchess of the Twin Systems and Lord of the Jewel of the North Iona Ashcrown II gazed intently toward the stars, the dome of her command center mimicking glass, as if space were right on the other side of it, rather than being buried amid hundreds of tons of metal plating. This far within the bowels of the massive flagship, you couldn’t hear the hum of the gigantic main thrusters if you tried, not to mention the thousands of maneuvering engines and stabilizers. Sometimes Iona tuned into the ambient microphones, officially intended to allow the maintenance crews to diagnose engine issues early, just to feel like she was actually in a spaceship instead of an office.
“Your Highness, our docking request has been accepted. Executing docking clamp maneuvers, coordinated with STC operator at Bay Alpha-Alpha Zero.”

“You have the floor, Captain. Danvers, on me.”

Spinning on her heel, the Queen of Ash strode away from the mesmerizing view of deep space - as the gargantuan ship’s engines pulsed, it pivoted around its own axis, settling on a course for the Jewel of the North, and the massive space station - The Amphora - that orbited above it. Phosa, in all its blue, green, and purple (yes, purple) glory, steadily grew in size on the screen of the dome, and soon enough even the comparatively tiny speck of Amphora and its sister stations, scattered across Phosa’s orbit, soon became clear to the human eye. Not that Iona was there to see it - only Captain Soto now stood in the center of the command deck, his support staff seated at stations surrounding him whilst the hiss of the door at the rear heralded the departure of their Lord Commander and her Hand.
“Danvers, you’re on the Shinigami. Treat my baby right - I’m going out for a drink.”
The stout frame of Marton Danvers struggled to keep up with Iona’s brisk pace, already slightly out of breath along the main hallway that served as the spine of the ship’s infrastructure.
“Your Highness, with all due respect, you have a mountain of paperwork at the citadel, not to mention meetings with every advisor in the system-” A held up hand from the Ash Queen was as sure a sign to stop talking as any.
“Danvers, I just spent the last two weeks killing pirates dumb enough to enter my space, surveying border stations, and killing more pirates. I need a drink.”
As if to punctuate her point, the wide bay door on their right slid open with a telltale pneumatic hiss, revealing a jet black fighter craft in a hangar all its own. The design seemed relatively new, but hardly next-gen - certainly expensive, but not suspiciously so. “Aon Lance” was emblazoned on the hull with a silver metallic sheen, standing out from the otherwise jet black finish. Iona smirked at her weary aide, before running over to the ship and vaulting up to the cockpit hatch in one smooth motion.

“Don’t crash the Shini! You’ll be paying for it for ten lifetimes!”

With one final wave, the craft began to pulse blue, as the ion repulsors embedded halfway down the wings gathered force, and the craft began to float. Warning lights flashed, and Marton Danvers disappeared behind the frame of the air-tight door, a look of utter exasperation on his face.
“Omega Tower, this is Aon Lance, prepping Launch-At-Speed configuration. Setting guide rail.”
The massive exterior airlock door began to inch open, the hangar already depressurized to prevent issues during the launch cycle. Already a metal rail lined with white guide lights extended out into the void of space - this was the guide rail, though the name was deceiving - in actuality, it behaved as a powerful Gaussian accelerator, which allowed fighter craft to accelerate much more quickly than a standard launch from idle, much like the runways that planes used back on ancient Earth.
“Aon Lance, your departure has been approved, and we’ve taken the liberty of pre-approving your landing request planet-side. You’re in Bay O-3 as usual. Good flying.”
“I copy, Omega Tower, appreciated. Aon Lance out.”
The transmission light blinked out, and a countdown hologram began. Five, the red display blinked. Four. Three. Two.

One.

Blink and you’d miss it - the Aon Lance shot out like an arrow from a bow, arcing downward away from the plane of Ashen Sword’s docking approach - the comparatively miniscule craft darted out towards the planet that awaited beyond, quickly fading from scanner range on the flagship itself.

---

The Drunken Lance, Knight’s Bar, Phosa (Sappho II, Sappho, Asha Sector)

Having safely made her landing at the spaceport just moments earlier, Iona slid quietly into the Drunken Lance, her favorite spot at the bar already open and waiting. She was still in a skin-tight flight-suit, not that being in uniform was an odd sight at a bar like this - a quick glance around would show knight uniforms from the local PDF and Obsidian Fleet bases, as well as the occasional pilot or ship crewman. Anyone who deigned to look at her awards, emblazoned where the left breast pocket would be on a proper uniform, would immediately know who she was - but even those who didn’t already know her by face alone knew better than to pull rank in a knight’s bar. This was the one place for military folk where rank meant shit-all, anyway. The surly sovereign sat atop her barstool, straddling it with the weary swagger of a rather annoyed soldier.

“Leon, I need a mug of Leskar Ale, right quick. Been a long week.”

[Insaeldor]

Lord Abbot Hi'el of Eshcolon
Basilica of the Temple of Mythreadese
17:22 Imperial Standard Time

"Oh woe are the blessed." One man shouted as he struck his back with the end of the cat-tail.

"May the one so blessed and perfect forgive me, I am but a lowly coward!" He exclaimed through breaths of pain and exhaustion.

"May he who is Righteous and True show me the light of his lordship and guide me!" He struck himself again, he yelled out the phrase Deus Gratias. I rose my hand, the indication to stop. I stood up, as did all the Brothers who were in attendance. I walked up to him and put my hand on his shoulders.

"Brother Elior, why do you flog yourself here in our halls?" We all know why, but it was his duty to confess himself to his brothers for something so dreadful. Brother Elior eyes watered slightly.

"Lord Abbot, during the battle with the Shediam I ran from the fight." He explained.

"And if you ran you simply be sent to the Hall of Occultation, what made it so that you had to flog yourself Brother." The water turned to tears, his breath aspirated and snot rolling down his nose down to his lips.

"Brother Zohar, he fought what I could not, and the Shediam tore him apart." He exclaimed, finding enough breath in his chest to say it. The other brothers bowed their head in humility.

"Brother Elior, you fled combat and allowed another brother to take on your fight. That brother, Brother Zohar was then killed by the Shediam foe? Are you saying that your weakness of heartland directly to the death of Brother Zohar?" Brother Elior nodded in acceptance of his sin.

"Brother, fear is but one of our punishments from God. It is but our nature to be fearful and to attempt to preserve ourselves. We must look to Brother Zohar's example. I do not believe he judged you, as no one should. He simply did what he had to and if it was not for his martyrdom in the face of evil then we might not have come back. We must look at him as a paragon of what what we should achieve. A man who through his devotion to God was able to set aside all his imperfections and fight in the name of God. He reflect the Blessed Ostyn of Mghilla, our Patron Saint and our source of idoolization. He fought for God in a civilization war, and rather than flea he chose to accept his martyrdom and the steel jaws of the gurrot, and then by flame. We must remember these Martyrs for then give us strength. Ultimately we must never dear death. For if we die in the service of God we shall never die but have eternal life. You have shown penitence for what you've done, you know what you did wrong snd you know how to fight it."

I kissed the traumatized brother on his forehead and ushered the others to come and embrace him. They all repeated the phrase You are my brother whom I love so dear as they all came and brought him into their embrace. Once everyone was down I stopped them for prayer.

"O Deus, Pater noster. Inhabitare facit unius moris cum prudentia. adiuva nos publice argue eum ne sit in mala a nobis, ut serviamus tibi." They repeated after me. It was a gruff and guttural chorus, men who'sives had been nothing but war for the last half decade, fighting on the Frontline of the Fringe since the first probing attacks started. Only now that Juliot had fallen was the wider imperial consciousness focused on these events.

"Sic enim dilexit Deus, qui frustra sudaveram vidi in nomine illius dedit illis specialem in paradiso." I ended it there, with this final chant. The Brothers retreated to their Barracks, except for Elior who went to see the Monastic Physician. I retreated to my quarters as well.

I sat in silence for awhile, the state of the Order was on the verge of collapse, the battle of the last few years had burdened us with massive casualties. The invasion of the Juliot sector crushed what little organization we still had in much of the Fringe. Nearly 1,000 Brothers-in-Arms perished in that event. And it showed us the fragility of our defense. We'd thought for sometime that we'd been holding off the invasion, that while every defeat or victory was just one step in an invasion. And yet now everyone knew we were just naïve souls. We'd put so much of ourselves fighting tbr proves that we never saw the true war crashing down upon us. It felt as if God had forsaken us, that whatever this was we could not beat it, it would consume us and wipe our very memory from existence.

"Deus patris mei, da mihi fortitudinem his temporibus ad videre lucem agnitionis allocutionem." I whispered softly to myself. We'd be going back out to attack what seemed to be a large ship that seemed to have come from Phrixaperean space. It would be a small operation to attempt and push back against operations outside their area of control. I was convulsed by fear at the thought of it. That we might suffer another cataclysmic defeat by their hands. But right now we had the The choice of death or enslavement. And I was no slave except for God's slave.

---

Lord Abbot Hi'el of Eshcolon
Hanger of the Temple of Mythreadese
19:46 Imperial Standard Time

Attached to the old amalgamation of titanium and aluminum was a suspended hanger. Here the Mechs of the Order were stored, as were their transport ships. The Knights of the order jumped into the cockpits of their bulking machines, various men of lower rank grabbed their rifles and armor and found space in one of the numerous drop pods. Infantry Carrier Mechs were something we'd experimented with to moderate success in the battles. The high maneuverability helped to let us kettle enemy forces in complex terrain. Yet we hadn't tried it in something like a boarding mission, thus the Knights in charge formulated new strategies, hopefully to good effect.

I approached my Mech, Jephtah. The bound souls of a Pregenator and my beloved Avihail. It's body was a grayish blue color, thick leather-like flesh. Covered in armor that gave it an angular, black and grey appearance. On it was a carving of the orders symbol. A Sword ingulfed in flame. It stood it is carrier, the Docking Bridge extending to its back. The back housed the Chamber of Synchronicity. First the armor opened up to reveal a seam within the Bioforms flesh. Mechanical arms attached to the docking platform opened the seam, the Bioform moved in its holdings slightly. The opening revealed a slowly swirling sphere of deep viridian liquid. Always in a constant state of motion. I stripped my basic habitual robes, and walked across the cold steel bridge towards the opening. I walked slowly like into the cold river used by the Baptist himself. The viridian liquid swallowed me until I was fully submerged. I could feel the flesh of my body being stripped away, painless and blissful. I could eventually feel myself floating in the nothingness, my spirit had been cut from my mortal body.

"Mihael, come please." She called to me inside the void. I followed the sound until I could see through the eyes of Jephtah. It was me now, fully in control of his functions.

The carrier dropped me down into the belly of a large carrier ship. I rested in the monstrosity, as it flew off into the space surrounding the temple. Around me were the mechs of various Knights, sadly no one was around to replace the seat held by Brother Zohar. We waited as the rickety ship wheeled its way to the target. I would lead the first infiltration group into the bow of the craft. Our goal was to take control of the flight deck while infantry cleared out the bridge. If fate had permitted us we'd simply strike it down with a fleet strike, alas all we could muster was this docking party. So instead of blasting it out of the sector, we might as well haul the damned thing back so we could get a greater understanding of the enemy.

Lord Abbot Hi'el of Eshcolon
Space, near Phrixaperean Craft ID 7856112, Outer Juliot Sector.
19:46 Imperial Standard Time

The craft slowed down, the lights turned red, bathing us it its dreadful glare. It indicated we were close to our target. The hauls of the landing craft were silent. Everyone if they were not in their Mech rushed to enter it. The haul started to slowly decompress, until it matched the vacuum of the cold space outside. The latches that held us secure retracted and we were allowed to move freely, floating slightly in the zero-gravity environment. The rear hatch opened, the ship was visible, it seemed docile, un aware of the current situation. Or at the very least early and delayed in its response.

A Tether launcher gave us a connection to the Phrixaperean vessel. We hooked ourselves to the cabal, with propulsion from small rockets we able to descend onto the craft. It was an extremely simple craft, a long nearly perfect rectangular base. With the aft end having a large spherical construct that most likely housed most of the crew, jutting from said Sphere was the bridge. My team landed on the starboard side, roughly where a cargo door was identified. Brother Boaz was armed with the light torch and swiftly started making cuts in the hull. Brothers Malachi, Bealis, and Melchior stood guard, I prepared to lead the team into the breach. The final cut was made and a large piece of the hull drifted off, I jumped in, followed by Boaz, then Melchior, Malachi, and Bealis. We cut through the outer shell, enough space between the main hull existed. We knew roughly where to strike, the door we assumed would lead to a major chamber. We wanted to strike the main cargo hold and this was generally the most efficientplace we could do it. Brother Melchior placed an explosive on the inner hull. We initially planed to use it against armored doors, but this would have to do. We set the bomb up and then scattered, pressing out mechs bodies and close to the inner hull as we could.

The explosion, and then the ships violent decompression were indistinguishable. Destroyed metal, and what looked like viscera blew from the hole with veracity. We quickly made our way in, the initial shock of the event meant we were safe to enter, I drew my sword, the hard light edge gave off a minor glow. Inside was the Cargo Bay, as we suspected. Crates and corpses floating in the vacuum.

"Get ready for counter attack." I said through the comms system. Everyone got ready, Melchior was armed with a large 45mm Autocannon, Boaz a shoulder fired solenoid cannon, Baelis and Malachi where both armed with particle rifles. It was only a matter of moments before the sound of the common Phrixaperean thrall echoed through the halls, a sinister chirping filled the air. Then the doors slowly opened, we wasted no time and everyone started to fire. The chirping turned to hi pitches wails and screams as we tore through then. Yet as was always the case they overwhelmed our firepower through force of numbers, a few sliding through and then, and more, and more. The green bile that we could only assume was blood covered the floor, mounts of burt and traumatized flesh flowed with it, as did shards if their exoskeletons.

I rushed at the first few to get through, I brought my sword up and struck the first one at the base of its head, the antenna twitched as it fell to the floor, the body writhed as it bleed. A second one grabbed my by the ankle. I brought down my blade and stabbed it, and cut it off before it could wrap itself around me. The beast recoiled in pain and I took a moment to finish the demon, the abhorrent Shemian. I thrust my sword between its armored plates and struck its weak flesh. It soon ceased to move.

"Behind you." A soft voice from within me called, it was Avihail. I quickly turn and saw the spear-like foreleg coming down upon me, I caught it in my blade, we both struggled as the creatures mouth opened and it's large tongue wriggled from its mouth. A loud crack stopped the whole thing, the demon buckled into itself. Brother Boaz had struck it down. We continued our battle as we waited for the can from the bridge party. Holding the line as nothing more than a distraction.