Storythread

Adaxos felt something hit him, on the shoulder, and he jerked violently, lashing out in blind surprise at whatever was attacking him. He swung round, muscles tense, ready for pain, to receive another blow or to deal another out.

All he saw was Ephimei, in the dirt, scrabbling away from him. Mind caught up with body and he realised that what he had felt on his shoulder was only a light touch. The tension in his body drained away; concern and shame flooded in to replace it. He reached out for his wife, to comfort her, but for a moment she continued to shy away from him. Only a small moment, but he saw it and it hit him like a punch to the gut. Then her fear, too, evaporated, and she was just sitting there on the ground. Adaxos was struck by how young she looked, how vulnerable. A teenager, only a little younger than him but still barely more than a child. In fact, the same age he had been when... he didn't bother completing the thought. Instead, he reached down to her.

'I'm sorry, baby.' said Adaxos. 'Are you okay? Did I hurt you?' He pulled her too her feet and held her in his arms.

'No, no, I'm okay honey.' she whispered soothingly. 'You just caught me in the ribs with your elbow, it's nothing.'

'You know I didn't mean...'

'I know, I know.' she said reassuringly. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come up behind you like that. Gave you a fright, didn't I? I should have known better, I'm sorry.' For some reason this just made him feel even worse.

'No, baby, it's not your fault. You know it's not your fault, I just get... you know.' Adaxos didn't have the words to describe it, but he knew she knew. 'It's just... it all comes back to me sometimes.'

'Did you have the dream again?' Ephimei asked.

'Yeah. I had the dream again. Same one, same one as always.'

'It's okay now, honey.' She hugged him, warmly, and although Adaxos didn't feel like he deserved it he hugged her back. 'How about we go get some breakfast, yeah? We don't have to have bacon, we can go and get some nice fresh bread from the baker's, okay?'

'That sounds good, Ephi.' he smiled at her, and was relieved to see her face light up in return, no reservation, no hesitation. Every time this happened he looked into her eyes, searching, because every time came with that gnawing fear, eating away inside him, that one time it would be too much and he would lose her. Yet every time, all he saw was love.

The bakery wasn't far, just along the little dirt track that could have been called a street only by someone who had never lived in a real town. Their village wasn't small - some villages wouldn't even have their own baker, or their own blacksmith or tavern - but it wasn't big either, and it certainly wasn't rich. Adaxos and Ephimei walked along, passing their neighbours' houses, waving greetings at those who were out in their yard picking herbs from their garden or hanging washing. Each neighbour called back a cheerful greeting in turn; it was a lovely, bright, sunny morning, and there was a smile on every face they saw. If any of their neighbours had heard the shouting coming from the young couple's home, they gave no sign of it. Even in a small village some things could remain a secret, if everybody put enough effort into it.

The bakery was on the crossroads - what would have been the town square if it was large enough to be a town. Adaxos could already smell fresh bread before they reached the crossroads, warm and tempting. He smiled, and was about to say something to Ephimei when he caught the scent of something else, something slightly sulphurous.

Ephimei had obviously seen them first, for she said to Adaxos, 'Don't look, honey. Just look at me.' But Adaxos turned his head anyway, knowing what he would see.

The patrol was maybe a dozen infantrymen and two mounted officers. They were by the water trough, and any villagers around were giving them a wide berth. The infantry sat on the grass, sweating in their plated leather, their helmets by their feet, slopping beer down themselves as they shared a skin around. The two riders, in shining scale armour, had kept their red-lacquered helmets on but opened up the expressionless faceplates. They looked bored. They leaned against the fence by the trough, chatting indifferently, watching their mounts drink greedily. One of the pyrosaurs pawed at the earth, scoring ruts in the ground with its claws; its rider ignored it, and it kept drinking

None of them paid any attention to Adaxos or Ephimei, even though Adaxos was looking straight at them. He slowed, and Ephimei almost had to drag him along to keep him moving. Then one of the pyrosaurs raised its head from the stone trough and turned, fixing its yellow slit-pupiled eyes on Adaxos; it grunted, and steam rose from its nostrils. This caught the attention of its rider, and he met Adaxos' eyes. There was no hate there, nor contempt, nor mockery. Just the indifference of a man who is too hot, got up too early, and is too saddlesore to care about someone like Adaxos - and would rather Adaxos didn't force him to take an interest.

'Do you think they'll have any buns left?' said a voice beside Adaxos, and he snapped his head round. Ephimei continued: 'I like the ones with the rosemary. What about you?' She looked pointedly at him.

'I don't mind.' muttered Adaxos. 'Just so long as I'm eating with you.' Ephimei smiled, and he leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek.

As they got to the door of the bakery, Adaxos stole a glance back towards the water trough. The rider had already gone back to his conversation, and the pyrosaur was lapping from the trough. At that moment, Adaxos realised that he was gripping his left arm, feeling the ugly, leathery skin beneath his fingers. It didn't hurt - the seared flesh had long since healed. Adaxos took his hand away and went into the bakery.

Some scars healed better than others.

---- The End ----

...

I'll ask once more: would anyone mind a Halo short, or is that too /v/? I wrote a piece about the F-F War and it's just kinda sitting around.

go for it. Trips confirms it.

As a general rule, this thread'll take practically anything so long as it's A) fiction, and B) vaguely related to Veeky Forums (which basically just means anything sci-fi or fantasy, although I think there is actually a Halo RPG).

pic possibly related, or possibly not.

...

The Forerunners kept getting new superweapons while the Flood only got Silentium for an upgrade. I couldn't find any good fanfiction so I filled the gap.

The black, starry space around the planet of Van Ihnor was silent, but not still. Like idle fish in a stream the geometric vessels orbited around the blue sphere, massive sections shifting, war guardians scanning the astral horizons. Beyond them by millions of miles could be seen the metallic dust rings that formed all about this solar system.
On board his dreadnought, Sower-of-Fallow-Skies waited, information buzzing in his headset and among the warriors controlling the deck. The tension of war was thick in the air, and it didn’t help that he was on the verge of dizziness from the slow rotation of his ship, coasting far above the planet’s northern pole so as to maintain a watch on the rest of his fleet. Beyond the unassuming blackness of space lay the forces of the enemy, infesting the remains of their empire in the Burn. Their approach could come from any direction, though, such had proven the Parasite’s surprising grasp of slipspace.
About to go for the controls on his chair—a routine check of systems—he was interrupted by a light flicker of a power surge and the call of his chief operator.
“Steward-Admiral!.” The lieutenant monitoring his readouts hailed him, “Slipspace fluctuation detected at 30 degrees west of current rotational vector.”

“Very well, servant.” The admiral pulled up a holographic display from his headset, commanding the machine to put him in touch with the greater fleet using just the darting of his eyes. “All captains, match weapon coordinates to the Esotera. If the enemy tries to filter in as many ships as possible through a single slip, unleash directed fire as they come through. Wave tactics will be met with seeker blasts. Stand firm when the hour of battle comes, comrades. Panic is a weapon of the enemy.” He collapsed the display, eyes fixed on the twisting silver rings in the far distance. He remembered visiting the surface of this planet not too long ago. The imperial natives held the astral phenomena in high regard, saying the asteroids and nebulae were sacred. That their intricate dances through the solar gravitational fields reflected the intricate order of the Mantle.
The holograms and lights on the bridge flickered again.
“Another slipspace fluctuation, Steward-Admiral. Still no sign of enemy ships.” His operator updated him.
“Tell me more, there isn’t enough information.” Sower-of-Fallow-Skies snarled, the feathers on his head raising in discomfort. Van Ihnor was chosen to defend not just for its massive population and manufacturing capabilities. The same gravitational anomalies that marked the system as unique also made slipspace travel much more fickle. It had taken solar months to move the defense fleet into position, though with the knowledge that any attack jumps would come in staggered and far easier to slaughter even if they proved to have a numerical advantage.
“We have nothing, Steward-Admiral.” The lieutenant shook his head, “Just fluctuations, no focused electrical signals.”

“Remain vigilant.” The dreadnought Esotera and its servant fleet stood more still than before, weapons locked on to the broadcasted location of the fluctuations. Sower-of-Fallow-Skies yet again was left in droning silence and cold anticipation, listening to readouts and watching the silver rings.
Rings which had moved much since he’d first taken interest in them.
“Comrade.” He addressed the operator this time, “The astral rings, do they not seem more orderly? Denser?”
“Admiral?”
“Extend scanner range, keep the greater fleet locked on. I want more information on those dust clouds.” They both consulted their holo-displays.
“Gravity wells shifting. Condensing, sir.” The other pilots and systems managers began shuffling in their seats as they were forwarded the information. “They’re getting closer!”
“Prepare weapons!”
“Steward-Admiral, there are no life signs.” He turned in his seat.
Sower put his fist down, “They could be hiding within the mass!”
“Sir, there are no signatures in or beyond the clouds, the Parasite has not arrived yet.”
The Admiral’s eyes watched as the clouds drew closer and closer, coalescing into one long funnel drawing to the very edge of their defense radius. “This does not bode well.” Though he knew firing on what amounted to inert material would do nothing to their benefit.
The lights flickered again, this time going out in their entirety for some three seconds before returning.
“Stewa—”
“Just tell me the readouts, warrior-servant!”
“Massive slipspace reverberations! Electrical systems on the brink! The nebulae—they’re converging on the anomaly, on the gravity sink!”
Massive chatter was coming over the Admiral’s headset, which he dimmed in preparation to give the order to fire.

The dust clouds kept coming, sinking into one tiny point far from the equator, before filtering back more and more into long cylindrical forms, fragmented and going off as far as they had material to build. The systems flickered one more time before the now motionless silver objects did anything more.
The white flash of a slipspace portal, though sustained like a burning beacon on the perimeter. It expanded, more and more, beyond the mere meters and kilometers of the Forerunner ships. The swirling white ring of proto-matter grew in an unbroken and stable fashion into a gaping black maw, as it grew almost to the size of the very planet they were defending.
“A black hole?!”
“Gravity readings normal, sir—wait…” the lieutenant looked up from his controls, through the viewing window at the phenomenon with the rest of the crew.
Something moved—shifted within the cosmic blackness.
The size of ships, cities—continents—was matched by the appendage. From so far away it looked textureless, just tinted a dark brownish-green, trailing a lime glow of its own atmosphere. The tentacle lashed out from the portal, and with so casual—if colossal—a motion smashed aside two war guardians and three defending vessels, their forms subsumed, but the fires of their wreckage visible on the surface of the arm.
He didn’t need to wait. “Open fire!”
Beams, streams of light, physical missiles, drones—anything that could be fired was sent at the portal. It was already too late. From every depth within the blackness came more of the arms, swatting aside ships and ancilla craft; the gravity of such massive, mobile masses diverting the paths of the very things being fired at them, sending much of the ordinance flying off into space or into harmless glancing shots.

The monstrous limbs seemed to grow bored, their continental forms shifting past the defending fleet—past so many massive bulwarks of searing light and metal—as if they were just pests. Now from within them, within the slipspace portal, came the hordes. Hundreds of thousands of captured ships to mirror the defenders’ own, dilapidated and caked with necrotic mass as they sped towards their prey, weapons discharging and boarding pods launching.
“Ancillas intercept boarders! Focus all greater fire on the limbs!” the Steward-Admiral yelled into his headset. Already he could see more ships going down, some detonating outright the second they were assailed by the swarms of boarding pods, rather than face direct combat. Far below the Esotera, tentacles made landfall, sending debris flying and tainting the skies with green spores.
Before he could issue more orders, checking for any channel that wasn’t silent or filled with screams familiar or alien, Sower-of-Fallow-Skies held his forehead in agony as the rest of the bridge followed. The throbbing within his brain was accompanied by words that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of space and time.
>Corpus flies now wheel away, before this, my ceaseless tread.
>Now they know their fated end, among legions of the dead.
More tentacles of various sizes issued forth from the portal, engulfing the sphere of Van Ihnor, crushing its great factories and cities, choking its skies and seas as the appendages, through gravity, muscle, and some greater force drew the very planet itself towards the slipspace portal. The Flood-infected ships, with their erratic pathways, moved among the chaos unharmed in whole, while the once proud defense fleet crumbled in disarray, warships and robots detonating, crashing, or being engulfed in massive eldritch bioforms which may have once been recognizable machines.

>Hunger drives the very stars, and I’ve keys to every door.
>My grasp is longer and more fleet on roads older than yours.
The Admiral could only watch as the planet was drawn into the portal by the sheer might of the Parasite. Before he could even give a final order, the ship bucked as it was drawn to the gravity well of a lashing tendril, and the Esotera, mightiest dreadnought of the fleet, was shattered like glass. The laugh of the Keymind reverberated not through the empty space, but through the very channels of subspace, along the star roads it would soon conquer in their entirety.

>End

Posted this in my own thread because of an interval without a Storythread but didn't get too much feedback. I've made some amendments but still wouldn't mind people giving it a glance.

=][=

By the Terran Antique Calendar I came to the Agri-World Prosper at the height of autumn, though planetside summer was still in season.
A majority of the planet’s major continent was a network of Market Cities and small townships that could barely be seen from the shuttle’s windows. Nevertheless, what I saw was a world covered in lush green and red, which had often been described to me as the ‘Orchard world’.
To think that there were no Hive Cities at all made my skin itch.

Our transport had deposited us under cover of night to a hill overlooking the neat rows of trees filling Pontiff’s Valley, and from there we walked, ascending the ancient pathways towards a building set into the hillside at the valley’s head.
A major chemical plant, the building’s purpose was to pump a cocktail of ingredients into the air that would cause the valley’s bounty to grow large and ripe regardless of the season.
And ample evidence had been handed to me of a cult embedded within the ranks of the workers.
Now we were crouching in the courtyard doorway, looking upon a mass of robed figures writhing in ritual unison around the central chimney stack while a corrupted magos stood over a vat, anointing it with the blessings of gods whose names I would rather forget.

(cont.)

Watching my back, clad in matt-black armour but having foregone her usual trenchcoat, Arbiter Leah Sianan checked her shotgun for what must have been the twelfth time during our approach.
“Fingers itching?” I asked.
“No guards,” she said, “Doesn’t do much to set me at ease.”
She glanced up with a faint smile, her neck-length blond curtains framing her angular face. She’d had many rejuvenat treatments over the years, yet none could erase the faint network of scars lining her left cheek.
I had known Leah longer than I had held a rosette, and I knew that beneath the armour hunched a woman of raw muscle who was intimidated by nothing short of an Astartes.
It was difficult to keep her unease from becoming contagious.
Behind her sat Macharius Tannhauser. Largely silent, brutally efficient, and practically immune to punishment, it was hard to fathom what he was thinking beneath the bug eyes of his Tempestus helmet.

I bought my auspex to bear, studying the readings with scrutiny. As far as I could see, no readings abounded save for the cluster near the compound’s central chimney stack.
A sickly-sweet smell that I soon identified as scorched flesh stung the air, and the stark stone corridors were daubed in sigils and runes, the shapes of which were so unnatural as to make my pulse quicken involuntarily.
“We got a plan?” Leah asked after a moment’s silence.
“Kill them.” Macharius wheezed flatly. I would have berated them, but at this stage the chant was so loud as to block out whatever we said at a whisper.

(cont.)

I took note of the stairwell off to the right.
Memory served me well that day, extensive study on the chemical plant’s layout had pointed out that the stacks were too unwieldy to stand alone, and so secondary support struts had been implemented in the upper levels to keep them from toppling.
“Bunker down here,” I ordered, taking off at a run towards the stairs, “Wait for my signal, and be prepared to retreat!”
The stairs rattled with the thud of metal beating against metal as I climbed, and I could only pray to the Emperor that the blasphemous chanting was enough to block it out.

I had lost my legs below the knees years ago, in what I consider to be one of the most gruelling missions of my early career. A story for another time, though. What I had now instead were the most extensive prosthetics the Mechanicus could provide, their capacity far beyond those of a normal human. And so my sprint carried me up several flights of stairs in short notice.
As I ran, I unclipped a string of melta bombs from my belt. I had anticipated having to resort to this, though my hope had been to arrive before the ritual and simply blow the stacks directly.
I veered off from the stairwell, darting out into an exposed corridor.
It was exactly as Leah had said: No guards whatsoever. I put the implications from my mind and slipped out onto the strut anchoring the colossal chimney to this floor.

Though I have many fears, some accumulated over a lifetime of hunting the galaxy’s most forsaken and miserable creatures, heights was never one of them. Yet I couldn’t help but feel a sense of trepidation as I stepped out onto the strut, walking along its ancient, rust-stained surface and setting one of the bombs into a large crevice between the strut and the chimney stack. The heat this close was immense, and clad in Ignatus pattern power armour and robes, sweat began to bead on my forehead.

(cont.)

My time was set once the bomb was primed, three minutes I’d granted myself. I had little faith it would be enough time for us to get out, but there was no telling what the Magos’ ritual concoction might do. Taint the harvest, warp the valley…maybe something worse.
I put those thoughts from my mind, judging the leap to the next strut a couple of floors below. It was a fair distance, but I had confidence my legs could take the impact. I jumped, and by some twist of misfortune found myself hanging onto the strut by my fingers.
Hauling myself up, I reached for the next charge only to find the entire belt missing.

“Inquisitor.” A cold, artificial voice called up from below.
I cast my gaze down and beheld the grinning, metal mandibles of the Magos pointing upwards towards me, my melta charges lying on the rockrete before him.
“Magos Klyte,” I said, “Several accusations spring to mind right now, shall I add stealing my melta charges to the list?”
“Admirable,” he replied, “Humour in the face of death, but it won’t save you.”
I crouched, tilting my head under the pretence of interest while extracting something from the lining of my sleeve.

“I’m curious to note, Magos, your sermon seems eerily devoid of any form of protection.”
Despite my brave words, I was all too conscious of the countless side-arms the congregation now had pointed in my direction.
“Protection is an unnecessary distraction when one has eyes everywhere.”
Klyte lifted his arms, I could almost feel the smugness dripping from his voice despite its monotone. Not two seconds passed before my melta charge dropped past me, diffused, followed shortly by a grinning servo-skull daubed in obscene signs.

(cont.)

I sighed, shrugging nonchalantly. The blood was pulsing in my ears now, but I was hardly without contingency.
The device hidden in my palm, the one which, previously, had been concealed in my sleeve, became active with the press of a button. I placed it carefully between my feet and stood, smiling down at the Magos.
“I would say you’ve won, Klyte, but you really did bumble your way through this.”
“Yet here we are.” He said.
“Here we are…”

I levelled my plasma pistol and squeezed off two shots. The first caught the servo-skull and sent it spinning into the chimney stack, the second blasted the melta charges apart, causing a chain detonation which reduced a large swathe of the gathering to molten slag.
I took off at a run as gunfire pursued me, rebounding off the stonework as I made for the staircase.
Through the din, I could just make out the whine of a plasma gun and the repetitious crack of a combat shotgun.

Footsteps pounded up the stairwell below me, but I didn’t dare return fire for fear of hitting one of my own. Instead I kept going, keeping one hand firmly on the rail while lifting the other, tapping my vox mic thrice, clumsily, with my thumb whilst simultaneously doing my best not to blow my own head off with my plasma pistol.
Two more flights and I hit the roof, throwing myself against the wall as I holstered my plasma pistol.
Cover up here was far too scarce for it. Instead I reached for the wire-bound scabbard at my hip, drawing the wickedly-curved Eldar blade residing therein.
That, too, has its story, but all you need to know for now is that it was alarmingly potent.

(cont.)

A trio of lifting servitors burst out onto the rooftop, the Magos’ voice echoing through their vox units.
“To run blindly does you no credit, Inquisitor. More virtuous machinations await us, things that would make your Emperor-swaddled mind snap!”
I leapt into them from behind, aiming a spinning kick out that connected solidly with pallid flesh, snapping bone, metal and wiring alike as the servitor’s head clattered away. A low sword strike followed, severing the creature’s torso from its legs.

Another lunged at me from behind, but I spun as I reversed my swing, cutting its pincer-arm before separating its head from its shoulders.
To you, it may seem I am altering facts to suit my own image, however I should point out that these were servitors meant to tend a chemical plant on an agri-world. They were not built for combat.
I was confident in this fact, so much so that I scarcely even felt it when the third servitor’s piercing rod lanced through my shoulder.
I stumbled away, shock numbing me as I reached for my plasma pistol. Before I could so much as work the safety, Leah had darted past me, her shock maul punching a dent in the servitor’s chest the size of its head.

The creature buckled and fell over, but I barely noticed as pain began to seep from my wound.
“Perhaps don’t go for the roof next time, Inquisitor.” Leah said dryly as voices and sporadic gunfire echoed up towards us.
I hadn’t even noticed Tannhauser until he tugged my sleeve and pointed towards the flicker of distant engine flare. The air-strike I had called in had arrived, my ace in the hole.
One of the Valkyries broke formation and veered towards us, banking on its axis as the rear hatch opened.

(cont.)

Leah wasted no time in hustling me onto the Valkyrie while Macharius slung his plasma gun in favour of a hellrifle, unleashing a barrage into the emerging cultists.
For a moment I thought he wouldn’t come, but at the last second he turned and leapt through the hatch as the rest of the Valkyrie formation lit the night sky with fire.
I could actually feel the immense heat wash over my face as we cleared the blast radius, the chemical plant crumbling under the vicious salvo, taking the heretical Magos and his cult with it.

“Emperor’s saggy sack, that looked hairy,” a voice echoed over the vox, “Must’ve been the entire worker force down there just now.”
“Focus on the sky, Tobias.” I replied, hauling myself into a seat and stripping away my shoulder guard to inspect the wound.
“Taking her up, m’lord.” Tobias said. He had been my pilot now for a good few years, young and rather free with his mouth, but he seemed to have a natural knack for mastering almost any aircraft, and that made him invaluable.

“By the way,” Tobias piped up, “The cat wants attention.”
“She can wait.” I said as Leah reached up to retrieve a medkit from the overhead lockers.
“She won’t be happy. Want me to bring some yarn?”
“She’d flush you out of the airlock if she heard you saying that, Toby.”
I chuckled, sitting upright as Leah began swabbing my wound. I knew Tobias’ commentary wouldn’t abate, it was going to be a long flight.

(cont.)

The command deck was in neat order, as per usual. Banks of monitors attended by naval officers and servitors, with alcoves containing the malnourished forms of astropaths. A low murmur accompanied the hum of the ship, and overseeing all from her throne, tail draped over her lap, sat the woman Tobias so brazenly referred to as ‘the Cat’.
She stood, straightened out her tunic and clasped her hands together behind her back. Although she seemed human enough at first glance, there were giveaways. The tail, for one. The constantly-swivelling feline ears for another, and the tufts of fur that decorated the backs of her hands and her forearms.
Piercing amber eyes turned to observe me for a brief moment before she tossed her braided hazel hair over her shoulder and called, “Inquisitor on deck!”

I waved the deck personnel back to business after a brief chorus of salutes was thrown my way, stepping over to the Felinid.
“Captain MacBarain.”
“Inquisitor Bronn,” she replied warmly, “You’ve seen better days.”
I had known Jessica MacBarain for a number of years. An abhuman from Carlos McConnell, dint of birth had denied her entry into the Imperial navy. Denied her ambition, she had taken up with a Rogue Trader and proven herself incredibly capable. By the time I came to hire her services she had already taken up with her own crew and ship, the Lady Sovereign.

“The servitor is worse off, trust me,” I laced my hands together, leaning against the railing before the throne as she came to join me, “What do we have?”
“Nothing good,” she said, producing a datapad and handing it over to me, “Crestworld, backwater forest planet, notable for nothing in particular save maybe furniture, but a few days ago somebody made a hole in it.”

(cont.)

“So I see.”
I studied the datapad’s contents in a little more detail. The crater had once been the site of an old farmstead, occupied only by a young woman who had moved there from offworld some years ago, and had lived in silence since. Locals, superstitious by nature, had avoided the place, fearing her a sorceress, and claimed to have seen strange lights in the windows at night.
With the nearest Arbites office being several islands over, any attempt for local authorities to make sense of what happened had failed miserably.
“Interrogator Medara hopped a merchant vessel ahead to get set up, said she’d meet you down there.”
“Lysa’s gone alone?” I asked, struggling to keep the concern from my voice. The Captain nodded, and in that instant my mind was set.
“Charter a course,” I ordered, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and this won’t get blown into something bigger.”

...

I have never played Halo nor read any of the fluff, so most of this doesn't really mean anything to me, but on a technical level this seems well written enough

...

docs.google.com/document/d/1iSLPvwGZPLk9ARKHd1gH-GKeqMyFthVz6teezs_c9Nc/edit?usp=sharing

This was ALOT of fun to write.

Comments?

...

Ok. I liked this, I really did. I think you've got a good sense of character and plot - but I found myself wanting things while I read it.

I wanted the main character to be a little more tense, you know? You showed him nervous a few times, but I never really 'felt' it.

I also wanted some of the lines to be a little more... BAM. Like; you wrote...

"I leapt into them from behind, aiming a spinning kick out that connected solidly with pallid flesh, snapping bone, metal and wiring alike as the servitor's head clattered away."

and I was craving something like...

"I leapt into them from behind, spinning with the lunge and throwing my heel into one. I felt the pallid flesh bend under my heel, the bone beneath it cracking, wires ripping free. When I rounded the arc of the kick I saw the Servitor's head clattering away, bouncing off the grate with a hollow, iron rattle."

Like, more sensory stuff. How it felt, how it sounded. Also, more personal. From the outside, he did a spin kick. From the inside, he twisted his body, lost sight of what was happening but felt it, then spun around to see what he'd done. Right?

...

...

...

>Human soldier's POV

Today's a bit of a slow day. I; Corporal Mark Braz and Private Jonah Bergen were escorting two rich elven aristos; Mr. Theodas Dornan and his fiancee; Ms. Faylen Falen.

Me and Private Bergen are from the Republic of Betrana and both of us are serving our second tour in this elf nation of Flealia. Me and Jonah Bergen are of the 5th Catering Division of the Armed Forces of Betrana, the Catering Division is in charge of providing protection for our allies and lately this elven land is starting become Betrana's newest friend thanks to some political deals and cultural exchange.

Recently the government of Betrana has been giving the elven people of Flealia electrical grids to power their homes, radio complete with a nation wide station dedicated for Flealia and chocolate sweets and treats for the people to indulge in. Though we tired to offer them some of our vehicles the elves said no thanks as they were aware our gasoline powered vehicles had emissions. They rather preferred not to have too many cars giving smoke to their lush green pastures, elves are the type of people who're 'close to nature', that sort of thing but whatever.

And in exchange of all the goodies we provide to help make their lives a bit better, they allow us to make trade with their economy, allow mining corps to drill for precious minerals in their lands and one funny thing is that there so happen to be oil wells located around Flealia that we could even drill out.

Anyways, me and Private Bergen are just escorting these two lovebirds; from what I can tell in their body language, we were going no where really, just talking a walk in these woods with our vehicle parked in a distance. Figures that even powerful, magical and beautiful people such as elves who're also pretty much just like typical rich people love the idea of being surrounded by bodyguards.

...

>song playing: www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gC-UsVHtg8

>one of the elves' POV

It was a beautiful day for walk with my lovely Faylen. I remember the day I met her as I was taking a stroll on the Baron's Gardens, she loved taking walks to any place where it was quiet and full of nature. I chose this remote spot of this forest that is about twelve kilometers away from the nearest town and I proposed in building our own private lodge in these woods as our new home when we are to get married.

Though I'm still currently living with my aristocratic parents and can simply inherit my familial manor, I simply chose a much smaller abode just for me, my Faylen and our future children. But for now those plans are for another time as me and Faylen are taking a stroll, by her request aswell.

The security detail accompanying us was necessary considering me and Faylen are of nobility, if not, are simply rich people and there could be brigands or dangerous creatures about who may bear down upon us.

"Theodas my dear, I'm glad you chose such a nice place to build our home and such a nice place for just a nature walk. So lovely of you to consider my Wood Elf heritage. Though are these soldiers necessary to bring along?"

"Oh you? These fine soldiers from the land of Betrana are the new friends of Flealia and as policy goes, they're here to protect us in this trip if anything bad happens."

"But Theodas, you served as a battle-wizard during your time on the serving the City Watch and the Baron's Army during the attacks from the Dark Kin, correct? Surely you alone could repel such dangers since you're such an experienced magick user and a brave man?"

Me and Faylen continued talking in our tongue, very certain those humans did not understood a word me and Faylen have uttered. Their job was to simply escort us till we both feel like we've had enough walking after all.

...

...

...

...

Thanks for the feedback!

My main concern was not to get people too bogged down with super-long descriptions. Its a difficult balance to get.

I did wonder about being more sensory, I'll definitely alter those combat descriptions after re-reading.

I've done some revision in regards to some of the description, especially regarding the combat. I won't post everything here in an effort to avoid spamming the thread, but as an example:

***

I leapt into them from behind, throwing my weight into a spinning kick. Servos reeled and clicked with the impact as my prosthetic heel connected with pallid flesh, simultaneous with the sickening sound of cracking bone and snapped wiring. The servitor’s head clattered away. A low sword strike followed, the alien blade cutting clean through metal and flesh alike with satisfying fluidity, severing torso from legs neatly.

I didn’t so much as see as I did feel the second lunging at me from behind, reflexes honed over many years guided me as I reversed my swing, cutting its pincer-arm before separating its head from its shoulders. Life has never seemed clearer to me as it does in combat, when the world is reduced to component parts and the surgical manner of their disassembly.

...

...

All the possessive and precise chatter comes off very awkward, I think. How many times was Faylen referred to as "mine, my, I met her", and so on? Too many is how many. Too much use of "I" throughout. Exchange with phrases such as "I remember the day we met" rather than "I remember the day I met her". Decreases repetition and the awkward personalization.

Things like "Me and Faylen" stand out like a sore thumb (should be Faylen and I).

Use of dialogue is completely non existent. You simply put speech marks around sentences without ever inflecting upon each character having actually 'said' something. Spoke. Chortled. Laughed. Chittered.

The way they stood, walked, held each other. Paint the environment. There are trees we can assume from the woodlands. Describe them, and the birds flitting about atop them.

This is taken as a first person account, but in the present tense, so it cannot be a journal entry or some such. It isn't a recollection what Theodas was thinking during a past event, this is what is happening now, and it is very one sided and without foundations.

You've got the names, the characters, and an idea of how they behave. All you need to do now is use more paint.

Obligatory "keep writing!".

Bump

...

...

"Did you know him?"

...

...

>continuing from Theodas Dornan's POV

The lead soldier wearing the dessert colored uniform; Corporal Braz, took a quick glance at Faylen and I, which really didn't bother us since it was just him looking after us. And his partner; Private Bergen looked to me quite worried or anxious, though that mask he wears with his gear and uniform blocked most visible expressions, I could simply tell from how he was looking side by side and back and forth. Then he asked me.

“Mr. Dornan, sir. I hope I don’t bother you and all. But where exactly are we going, if I may ask?”

I answered Private Bergen.

“Well since you asked. We’re just simply taking a stroll here as my fiancée, Faylen, loves the outdoors and nature. She is of Wood Elf heritage you see, and surely you understand how Wood Elves and their relatives revere nature. There’s no need to worry too much, this location is remote and I doubt there’re any bandits or hoodlums lurking about. Sure there’s still the wildlife, but I shouldn’t worry too much.”

Then Private Bergen asked again.

“Well sir. Why did you choose this place in particular? There was already a nature reserve back at the nearest town we came for resting and supplies.”

“Alright soldier, I’ll be honest. Me and ms. Faylen Falen have chosen this particular location for its remoteness and full exposure to nature. Sure I have my familial manor, but Ms Falen here desired for a peaceful and quiet and pristine location far away from the hustle and bustle of the urban area. So we found this place that is not claimed by anyone, yet. So we chose to have our future home built here.”

“Really now mister Dornan? You sure that’s a wise idea? Living out in here in such a remote area? Far away from civilization? What if you get into some trouble, like some large group of trouble makers decide to raid your estate? Assorted wild creatures attacking?"

>to be cont

>continuing from Theodas Dornan's POV

The lead soldier wearing the dessert colored uniform; Corporal Braz, took a quick glance at Faylen and I, which really didn't bother us since it was just him looking after us. And his partner; Private Bergen looked to me quite worried or anxious, though that mask he wears with his gear and uniform blocked most visible expressions, I could simply tell from how he was looking side by side and back and forth. Then he asked me.

“Mr. Dornan, sir. I hope I don’t bother you and all. But where exactly are we going, if I may ask?”

I answered Private Bergen.

“Well since you asked. We’re just simply taking a stroll here as my fiancée, Faylen, loves the outdoors and nature. She is of Wood Elf heritage you see, and surely you understand how Wood Elves and their relatives revere nature. There’s no need to worry too much, this location is remote and I doubt there’re any bandits or hoodlums lurking about. Sure there’s still the wildlife, but I shouldn’t worry too much.”

Then Private Bergen asked again.

“Well sir. Why did you choose this place in particular? There was already a nature reserve back at the nearest town we came for resting and supplies.”

“Alright soldier, I’ll be honest. Me and ms. Faylen Falen have chosen this particular location for its remoteness and full exposure to nature. Sure I have my familial manor, but Ms Falen here desired for a peaceful and quiet and pristine location far away from the hustle and bustle of the urban area. So we found this place that is not claimed by anyone, yet. So we chose to have our future home built here.”

“Really now mister Dornan? You sure that’s a wise idea? Living out in here in such a remote area? Far away from civilization? What if you get into some trouble, like some large group of trouble makers decide to raid your estate? Assorted wild creatures attacking?"

>to be cont

> "Did you know him?"
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio

>continuing from Theodas Dornan's POV

The lead soldier wearing the dessert colored uniform; Corporal Braz, took a quick glance at Faylen and I, which really didn't bother us since it was just him looking after us. And his partner; Private Bergen looked to me quite worried or anxious, though that mask he wears with his gear and uniform blocked most visible expressions, I could simply tell from how he was looking side by side and back and forth. Then he asked me.

“Mr. Dornan, sir. I hope I don’t bother you and all. But where exactly are we going, if I may ask?”

I answered Private Bergen.

“Well since you asked. We’re just simply taking a stroll here as my fiancée, Faylen, loves the outdoors and nature. She is of Wood Elf heritage you see, and surely you understand how Wood Elves and their relatives revere nature. There’s no need to worry too much, this location is remote and I doubt there’re any bandits or hoodlums lurking about. Sure there’s still the wildlife, but I shouldn’t worry too much.”

Then Private Bergen asked again.

“Well sir. Why did you choose this place in particular? There was already a nature reserve back at the nearest town we came for resting and supplies.”

“Alright soldier, I’ll be honest. Me and ms. Faylen Falen have chosen this particular location for its remoteness and full exposure to nature. Sure I have my familial manor, but Ms Falen here desired for a peaceful and quiet and pristine location far away from the hustle and bustle of the urban area. So we found this place that is not claimed by anyone, yet. So we chose to have our future home built here.”

“Really now mister Dornan? You sure that’s a wise idea? Living out in here in such a remote area? Far away from civilization? What if you get into some trouble, like some large group of trouble makers decide to raid your estate? Assorted wild creatures attacking?"

>to be cont

...

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...

He walks slowly, each step feeling endless. Even though he is alone, he does not shake the feeling of company. Two times already he had raised his gun at empty corridors and silent courts, half-expecting to meet an alien or thing to kill. He hates this place. If the bot hadn't broken down, if he hadn't drew the short stick, if he...

He curses, grateful that no-one can hear him. In front of him is a face. Once it might have been identifiable, but the growths on its face and time made it difficult. He was sweating now. His hands grip the gun tighter, as if it would keep his fears away. It takes him all of his willpower not to pee on his suit. The suit's legs are the only thing keeping him steady, his legs shake uncontrollably. He turns back, wanting to run back to the nearest base. He nearly does when he sees what is in front of him.

Even in the light they (or it?) are hard to see. Their forms seem to be air and water, shifting and dancing in the pale starlight. It moves halfway like a charmed snake, never standing still yet never moving any further from its position. He cannot be certain. Then like machine, he raises his gun in one motion, not truly thinking. It seems to stop. He fires.

...

...

Here I'll post a bit of a short story I've got saved, related vaguely to this sign:

======THE ONTOLOGIST'S FOLLY
Unspecified Date, 2340
Office of Psionic Development
CLASSIFIED DEBRIEFING - EYES ONLY

Any action has an equal but opposite reaction.

This rule is extremely basic, one that dictates the flow of a majority of things that Man has come across. It is in the very basic interests of physics that this rule be followed, that you never do anything without being aware that it may have consequences. However, when direct manipulation of force through one’s mind occurs, as is the case of psionic power, this rule can be forgone and energy can be amplified from electronic impulses in the user’s skull to anything from minor concussive blasts to dilation of local time, this can sometimes be forgotten. So long as a psionic has no ambition, this “forgotten” law can be left as such. What if a psionic become ambitious enough to try something -greater- than that?

It is the Ontologist Council’s job to ensure that such an ambitious act never happened, and ensure it does not happen again.

Technically, they do not exist. The Ontologist Council is simultaneously an error and a fix in the great system that is existence, one that also simultaneously had a birth and did not. A self-correcting paradox, simply put.

To elaborate, you must step into the complex world that is psionics. For psionics, a human’s eyes are not all that the world is. They perceive the world as String Theory describes it, a combination of strings that indicate what all is tied to existence, and what is not. The organ they have, the Psi-Node, allows them to manipulate these strings. Of course, this is merely a cursory explanation, enough to illustrate a minor point. The true description would be like describing a single color to a blind man: far too long an explanation to warrant going through with.

-CONT-

The point of this discourse, however, is to explain the top-secret, eyes-only classified nature of this Council. We need to step out of causality for a moment, and explain that time does flow in one direction, and that it is forward. It is not so much an absolute thing as much as a force: time passes and things move about. The nature of measuring it is a human concept. Its existence is not.

The Ontologist Council began, in their timeline, as a project to explore the most powerful form of psionics ever devised: Applied Ontology.

Now, ontology as it stands is the subset of metaphysics that deals with what encompasses the state of “being.” In layman’s terms, the arguments about whether or not something exists, and how to classify the “state” of existence. Many philosophers have argued about this and gone blue in the face about it, but what the Council discovered was that it was a state of being that can be pretty easy to switch on and off. Imagine existence as a switchboard, where you can turn a current of electricity one way or another. It was theorized that, if enough psionics grouped together, they could directly manipulate this motherboard and change fixed points in time to undo an entity’s existence. It was purely a thought experiment, until the ECMF heard that the Black Scribes were performing potentially illegal psionics research.

Yes, the ECMF and Black Scribes have, since the end of the Plague War, come to an agreement to share such critical research and cooperate as needed. However, according to the Council this was not viable for their native timeline. They were given a collection of dossiers, and were to choose the one that, if they never existed, would have virtually zero impact on the Confederacy as a whole. “Virtual” impact was gauged as whether or not the benefits outweighed the consequences, specifically to the ECMF. This became an issue of debate among the Council, at the time only known as “Research Team 87.”

After a few weeks of rigorous debate, the target was decided.

Enter the impotent dictator, Samson J. Strider, who was as effective a dictator as he was a fertile adult male. Considering he had only one child born from a test tube and numerous attempts of such a conception, that is to say he acquired his status as “dictator” through sheer dumb luck. His tactics were laughable, his attempts at terrorizing his foes amounting to nuclear missile launches into defense arrays more than capable of handling the attacks. The analogy was made of him, by the Council, that he was a monkey with an assault rifle that was not loaded. If you gave him a bullet, he could do some harm, but that was assuming he figured that shooting at the man behind bullet-proof barriers was a waste of time.

The Council decided, after extensive research, that there was no adverse effects to his existence. Nothing of any major importance happened because of him, and nothing particularly noteworthy caused his existence to occur. Simply erasing him from existence, while a cruel act, would have no notable impact on reality beyond a sector of space having a different leader, or potentially becoming an ECMF territory. The Council took their dossiers, and a single ship, into a section of space independent of a solar system and began their work.

Describing this work is the word “ritual,” and to many that is a bit far-fetched. However, the reader must be made aware that psionics can amplify their power by joining minds and unifying to a single purpose. This is a delicate procedure, one that requires more finesse the more ambitious the end-goal. In the matter of simply undoing someone’s very existence on such a level that not even the slightest possibility of them ever existing could be fathomed, there are few loftier goals to achieve. Twelve psionics of average power gathered, and twelve returned.

Upon their arrival there was a great change, one that only a god could have seen coming.

The folly of the Ontologist Council was in not calculating the fact that only one man was ever killed by Strider, and that this kill was wrought during a completely unrelated civil war on a home planet shared by Strider and a certain man by the name of Desmond Morganti. Desmond Morganti was aged twenty-nine when he was shot fatally in the head by Strider, and nothing of note came from this kill that made it ring out on any of the research done by the Council.
Desmond Morganti, in our timeline, is now aged forty-three and controls the fascist regime known as “The People’s Free State,” and is actively pursuing ways to pressure ECMF-defended space.

When he was not killed by the now-nonexistent Strider, he rose through the ranks of that planet’s government and became a leader in a psionics research team ran by a group known as “The True Republic.” This “Republic” was a militant rebel faction, determined to press the ECMF into ruling the galaxy once more through weakening all of its opponents and forcing them to swear fealty. A particular project was in the creation of artificially-made psionics. That is, a psionic that was not born that way. The notion was absurd, and received no funding, but Desmond Morganti was ambitious. He became the lab rat for his own experiments, and when he was given the Psi-Node of a dying Grade Delta, he saw the strings of existence. He also felt things that were never touched before, and will never be again.

When a user reformats a data storage device, especially older models, a portion of data-storage is forever occupied by the remnants of data. You will go from three terabytes to two-point-nine terabytes, and never again be able to store data to the advertised limit. In the view of time as a psionic, there is a “color” to things. Desmond Morganti saw that everything he touched with his psionics took on a different color, and that his very soul was that same color.

He then ignored this, and used his ambition and fiery zeal to conquer colonies and force them to swear allegiance to his name. In comparison to that of Strider, Morganti had doubled the effective control of space. Simply put, for every one solar system Strider owned, Morganti held two.

The Ontologists returned to Earth and reported the deed done. They asked what had happened in their absence, to be met with puzzled looks from all around them to the nature of this “Samson Strider.” The ECMF Office of Psionics Development pointed to the map carved out by the People’s Free State, and the Ontologists were only able to panic. The negation of Samson Strider had no ill-effects, so they thought.

But, as this man declared war on the ECMF and specifically requested the Ontologists by individual names as prisoners, there was sheer bewilderment. The Black Scribes were informed of this, to which they only responded with acknowledgement of a problem. They sent an extensive report on Morganti’s existence, entailing his rise to power, his use of psionics, and the fact that they had sent several raids into State territory with the intent of killing this man with the same methods the Research Team used to accidentally create him. They reported that he was immune to such effects, and that he was aware of his immunity. Simply put, Desmond Morganti was a glitch in existence that had become self-aware, and was going to push his permanence as far as causality would let him.

The twelve psionics exiled themselves from known space, and have since become the Ontologist Council. They operate in secret, perfecting their art and using it judiciously against those who would think themselves greater than the laws of reality.

If man were inherently guilty of any sin, it is in the nature of thinking itself greater than the world it lives in.

(One last post)

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” Desmond Morganti announced to a crowd of eager soldiers, “And unless you are particularly ambitious, you can ignore that. If you are that ambitious but do not heed that law? You create me.”

====FIN

It was vaguely related to the reality sign, figured I'd throw it up there. It was inspired vaguely by the idea of "applied ontology" as it's depicted in Destiny, where a race of aliens use time-travel bullshit to erase people from existence. Not quite "go to your grandpa and shoot him when he's four" erasure, but simply altering the timeline so that reality never convenes in the way it needs to make you an active part of the 'alpha timeline.' Remnants of you may exist (and some people may have vague memories of something like you existing once akin to imaginary friends), but the greater whole of reality does not register you.

I ran with it, and it helped me explain the origin of one of my setting's major factions.

Thanks for the feed back, this is my first time writing a "POV style" type of writing. But I will include more dialogue between characters soon.

Just thinking what other parts or whats the next action gonna be. Good to know someone reads my stuff atleast.

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...

Have you ever thought about starting up a blog a la Weird Tales?

"Orkwo! You take that silly mask off. You must be sweating in that thing!"

"Mothur, this mask is the symbol of my god."

"Orkwo! You cant just go makin up gods. You will anger the ones we already have."

"Mothur, my god is real. He gave me the strength to slay a lion and I wear it and this mask to honor him."

"Very well, Orkwo. I see these things are important to you. Would you like some watah?"

"Yes I would."

"Why would a man surround himself with beautiful women but wear armor so they cannot touch him?"

"A coward, father. This place has many cruelties not like our own country."

The snow slowly drifted with the cold, but gentle air. Winter had come earlier than most expected, yet those same agreed that summer had lasted too long. Many blamed it on global warming, though now that winter was here, it only reminded them of how much they hated the cold, no matter how gentle the white breeze felt.

At first, of course, there was that familiar sense of wonder. Everything looked so sparkling white, pure and innocent. However, when the roads became busy with snow plowers, the pavements drizzled with salt, and the white itself brown and black with sooth and industry, the wonder was lost. In modern society's need to pump out goods and services to feed the hungry, the poor, the workers, and above all else, the excuberant needs of the rich, there was precious little room for admiring nature.

It wasn't until the seasons simply seized to exist, that snow had not fallen for years anywhere in the civilized world, when people really started noticing. Everything had become homgeneous, globalized, brown, black, grey, yellow, so arid, dry, and some of those old fisherman huts were beneath water. What happened? they asked, on their blogs and social media; but nobody answered. They were too busy on their own phones, checking the global markets, checking their social status, so integrated into the machinations of modern society that nothing needed more than a glance to judge fully. At least we can ERP in VR, someone said, finally. And that was that.

...

yep, pretty good. You took a good concept and went in the right direction with it. Good ending too.

While you generally handled the setting well, there are one or two things that tickled my Romanaboo autism. The title seems a bit wonky given that SPQR means the Senate And the People of Rome. And Phoenicia was never part of Judea.

As for the prose, it was generally good but I think you went a little too far in places. e.g.
>He smiled, and in so doing revealed the demon of his character.
It's... just a little to much, too on the nose; simply dial it back a sliver and it'd be fine.

well written, and genuinely interesting. The concept may not be entirely original (Star Trek Voyager's Year of Hell episodes spring to mind, largely because for some reason I was reading the wikipedia page on them a few days ago), but you do it well so why not. Good work.

>And on the 7th day, god rested.

come on, doesn't anyone have anything to say about this? I even managed to get it finished for the start of the thread, and under ten posts long. What does a guy have to do to get some feedback around here?

incidentally, if Falsor_Wing is around anywhere don't think I've forgotten that you promised to give me feedback on
1d4chan.org/images/5/53/PathOfFlowers.png
I would literally take "it's so bad I couldn't read more than two posts of it", just give me something and I'll hold your oath fulfilled.

I did know him, the last son of Edward the First of wanted to say.

As a craftsman. As a casual acquaintance. A blacksmith in London, but far more wily than any should be.

As a mentor. As family. The shoulder to cry into when noone else would offer.

As a traitor. As an assassin, an usurper. The throne of Britain, delivered onto him by poison, force and trickery. And himself a willing collaborator! Had he hated his father that much?

As an innovator. As a conqueror. The whole of France! Who else would have dared? With the swinging beams on towers, as much as by might.

As a madman, a fool lost in visions of glory. The forests of yew chopped away, the crops left to rot in the fields. The cream of England, rotting carcasses in the sands of the Middle East.

As a desperate escapee. Ousted from London by the last of the knights, cornered against the Normandy Channel.

As a madman gone sane. Begging for forgiveness, his last words before the final sleep.

"...No. No, I did not know him."

Some things were better left buried, with the man who had birthed them.

(...I admit to knowing fuckall about Medieval era Britain other than the Magna Carta, so this is strictly fiction with English names glued on, as opposed to alt-history.)

(Comments?)

Poetic, but perhaps a touch beyond my comprehension. Is he talking about a bunch of figures, represented by the one dying, or is each descriptor for the same man?

Same guy, different times.

The swinging beams on towers are semaphore towers, two centuries ahead of their time. Make of that what you will.

>cont

"I'm no mere cushy or sheltered aristocrat. I did serve as a battlemage for the Baron's forces fir a decade, so I have experience with dealing with any 'trouble' that Faylen and I would encounter."

“I see… Well I do hope this place you and yer girlfriend chose is good enough.”

As we continued our stroll Faylen and I simply took in the breeze, the sounds of the forest, and the rustling sounds of the leaves and the sounds of the singing birds. Faylen then asked me, speaking in our elvish tongue.

“Dear, did you have to really tell about our dream home? Why do they care?”

“Now, now dear Faylen. These humans are our friends and our races have benefited from both each other. Besides he did ask why we’re here and I figured a little bit of honesty can help with relations between our two people. Plus these two men of the Betrana Armed Forces are protecting us in our journey, so I take we can repay them by answering his question with honesty.”

I now aslo spoke up to Corporal Braz in the common tongue, who was still in the lead of us. “You know Corporal once the construction of my new home in this part of this forest starts and is completed, I could request your commanders and or superiors to have you assigned as a guardsman in it. It’ll be a fine yet still luxurious abode, and I’m certain you and your comrade wouldn't get bored.”

“That’s a nice offer Mr. Dornan but I’m afraid that won’t happen for me and my colleague, we don’t work that way. We’re soldiers of the armed forces of the Republic of Betrana and I’ve also got a family back at my homeland. Though MAYBE I could probably visit? Especially if you throw a significant event in your place perhaps? If you must have security for your new private home out here, hire some private military contractors or mercenaries to the job.”

>to be cont

Thank you! I'll have to look into those episodes.

...

Cursed armour of nubile summoning:
So long as it is worn in its entirety the magic of the suit will summon a half dozen fully physical manifestations of the wearers ideal sexual partners. These summoned beings will proceeded to dote upon the wearer and try and coax them to carnal acts. However should even a single piece of the full body armour be removed the summoned beings will instantly vanish leaving their promises of ecstasy forever unfulfilled.

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Chapter 2 is underway. Thought I'd post the first part for feedback. The series has a name now: The Cormyr Archives. If nobody has read the prologue yet, it might help give some insight into the character of Lysa as she develops.
1d4chan.org/images/b/b4/BornOfChaos.png

Anyway, without further ado, Chapter 2, part 1:

=][=

The tent flaps billowed outwards as I stepped inside, my breath fogging before my face in the dim early-morning light. The chatter of local fowl reached my ears, a hauntingly beautiful melody which, if I closed my eyes, I might imagine belonged on a paradise world or in a garden dome.
“No civilians, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
I spun on my heel, coming face to face with the stout Guardsman who’d been stood outside. Funny, I could have sworn I’d at least flashed the rosette.

I shook my head a little and produced it again, holding it needlessly close to his nose just in case.
“Interrogator Lysa Medara, Inquisition.”
“Apologies, ma’am.” The guardsman stammered, stepping out hurriedly. I allowed myself a discreet smile, maybe it was just the cold that made his cheeks ruddy, but I preferred to think it was embarrassment.

I took a moment to survey the tent’s interior.
Guardsmen milled about, murmuring with each other in low voices, sipping caff or checking their weapons, each and every one of them looking rather grim.
I nestled my chin a little further into the heavy, white fur collar of my cloak, eager to keep the biting cold out. Even in the tent, with heating units blasting warm air at full capacity, it wasn’t easy to escape the morning frost.
A guardsman approached me shortly, his uniform decked in silver threading and numerous medals. He threw a smart salute and remained at attention. The smug confidence with which I had set foot on-planet melted away as I debated how the Inquisitor might handle this.

(cont.)

“Uh…at-ease.” I managed after a moment, sweeping black hair back from my eye as I cleared my throat. No matter how I tied it, it always seemed to get in my eyes.
“Lady Interrogator, ma’am,” he spoke with a rough, low-hive accent, “Welcome to Crestworld. Would’ve thrown you something more grandiose, but the Arbiters and we are a bit stuck in all this shit. Name’s Major Quinn Hardy.”
He tossed his name in almost as an afterthought, flashing me a tired smile.
“Major,” I extended my hand, pale in the frigid air, “I hope my arrival hasn’t caused too much of a commotion?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a firmer shake than I would have preferred, “Bloody short notice though. Need to get you set up with a liaison, assuming I can find the bastard.”
He stepped past me through the tent flaps, bidding me follow as I nursed my poor hand. I followed at a distance, savouring the lingering stares I got from the sporadic Guardsmen and Arbiters we passed.
A gentle breeze graced my cheeks, instantly infusing them with crimson. Frost crunched underfoot as we made our way over to a nearby fire, surrounded by fold-out seats and windswept Guardsmen.
“Kiasan,” the Major clicked his fingers, pointing to a disgruntled Guardsman with a short crop of light brown hair and handsome, if grim-set features, “You’re on liaison, cater to the Interrogator’s every whim, lick her damn boots if its asked, just make us look good.”

(cont.)

A chorus of jeers were raised from the other guardsmen as the man called Kiasan set his caff aside and rose, shrugging off his cloak to reveal the stripes of a Lieutenant.
“This way please, ma’am.” He said through clenched teeth as he led me away from the camp. He seemed to ease up a little after we’d covered some distance, descending into a copse of long-limbed trees with boughs swaying overhead.
“Has the Major filled you in?” he asked after some time.
“Not entirely,” I said, “I understand there’s a crater of some description? Presumably from something crashing to earth.”

“Wish it were so simple, Interrogator.”
We skirted around a thicket of brambles and pushed through a patch of low-hanging firs, before I came face to face with the site of the crater.
“Two-hundred yards, one side to another, almost perfectly circular, no wreckage within the site.”
I nodded, ducking under the cordon that had been established around the site. There was no hint of scorched earth around the crater nor did any such odour assault my nostrils, the air was crisp and scentless, though there was something…an unnatural jitter of psychic activity that sat like an itch at the back of my mind.

I closed my eyes, extending my mind instead, my consciousness spreading like a blanket over the surrounding area. There was something here, a faint, fuzzed afterthought, an imprint left on the world by some courtesy of the warp, invisible to those who did not have the gift to see.
A shudder ran down my spine as I realized just how fragile the veil of reality truly was here.
I retreated back into myself, rubbing my eyes.
I quickly became aware of Kiasan watching me cautiously, as if he were dealing with some rabid animal that might snap at him any second. He was afraid of me now, his mind made it plain to see. I extended myself once again, to nudge his mind, to offer some comfort, but he retreated into himself.

(cont.)