For stories, roleplaying, or any other creative literary projects.
User avatar
Jedi Master
Posts: 3920
Joined: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:24 pm
Location: Quebec City


Post by Praeothmin » Tue Oct 08, 2013 11:38 pm

Talkies are always nice when there's double-crossing afoot... :)

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Mon Oct 28, 2013 7:46 pm

Guess who! Yep I'm still alive. Hopefully I can keep focused for regular updates for a while. Anyway short update, hopefully in the gothic spirit of the holiday, which I try and expand Captain Jor'ock's character and history from merely "drunken Han Solo". Also expand on the Vraen and add yet another reason why they are not liked by most of the civilized races in the Galaxy.

“Biological freedom, the right to choose our evolutionary destiny, is only act of meaningful consequence Mankind can make. Only by direct, naked action can we progress from these crude environs we find ourselves in. But the attempt is not without its fraught of difficulties. Subject naught-naught-one, a vagrant John Doe found deceased from drug overdose, has not taken well to treatment. Through nerve tissue appears to have been fully grafted to subject naught-naught-two’s, a Diabolus Aqua hybrid recovered during a raid by the Bureau, Autonomic and Somatic systems, highlighting the adaptive and regenerative matrix of the hybrid’s “inhuman” parentage, an unintended necrotic process has begun in Subject naught-naught-one’s mind. Initially capable of limited speech and interaction has become increasingly more violent and irrational. Possible flaw in the transplant procedure or an artifact of the poor condition of Subject naught-naught-one’s body at time of acquisition. Dissection may prove illumination.” Excerpt of Doctor W. Herbert personal journal

Extractum Gladius, bridge-

The Vraen, as a matter of practical course, were a race of many, diversified gods. On their manifold and splintered worlds a visitor could view the bleached, ivory cathedrals of the blood drenched goddess Egar-Etah, the understated and sublime splendor of the Ka’tu the decaying god’s tomb-shrines, or even the catacombs of fane dedicated to Draco the BaneFell. The scaly serpent-god who would, when he awoke, annihilate all of creation starting with those loony enough to worship him. But, as Jor’ock knew, you couldn’t help what you were raised to believe in.

All those years ago, another life, Jor’ock he’d been invested with a strict traditional upbringing in sect of the Great Ghoul Paen, as well as a more informal relationship with the trickster god Nyarlathotep he’d inherited from paternal grandfather, which was the multifaceted, cherubic deity-lord of choice from the deepest slum-pits to the highest vaulted heights of society. The Great Paen at once a young, new and rebellious act against the staid and rigid society of his birth-world and yet timeless, the hooded ones in their ebony and crimson robes speaking of a time before time when Paen had been first known to the people. That he rose from the mists of creation forever and unchanging and only been briefly forgotten by his chosen ones.

A time, the hooded ones promised, which was ending. Their pious sermons, delivered amid feasting tables laden with food and drink or amiable wrenches to sate any roused passion, glorious describing the end of the old interim and the start of a blazing new epoch. About the new order which would be established after the old one, eaten from within as if by maggots and worms, collapsed.

They had all been so blind, Jor’ock now saw. The Captain retired to his quarters, bottle or two of wine in hand, since hammering an agreement to meet with his Imperial opposite Krevin. The Commodore most eager and insistent on meeting Jor’ock in the flesh, either naively trusting or deviously plotting. The former if one accepted his own account of being a wayward survey squadron blown off course by a “Navi-comp miscalculation”, the latter if you had so much as a shred of spacer sense. So naturally Tresh had swallowed it, the exuberant engineer almost giddy at the thought of talking at the creators of such ships. All but badgering the Captain to see if he could poke around in their engineering. For all of Slyth’s reptilian grace and intelligence, through he hide it well, Jor’ock could see he’d have been sorely tempted as well even knowing it was a trap.

Only Rhyas had seen completely through it, in what may have been the last time he and the Elder-Sergeant ever agreed, through dismissing it with the suicidal arrogance of a Cytherian encased in augmented armor. Any trap sprung would break its barbs he was confident and the Captain would have been content to let the jar head go out and prove it one way or the other but he had to account for the First Atune’s, or perhaps Rhyas’s, prejudice against him. He would “lead” the assault, piloting a small shuttle towards the Judgment, obstinately because of his command of the “gutter-language” the people on the ship spoke but really because it made more likely he’d die horribly without the First Atune technically breaking his word. And if somehow he avoided that he was certain the Elder-Sergeant could be counted on to “miss” so spectacularly as to cost him his life.

So he’d retired to his quarters to become “presentable”, to drink and dwell on the capricious nature of gods.

They claimed to bring salvation, a balm for troubles and ills, and Paen was no different when his representatives appeared. Nor had Jor’ock been any different from the hundreds of thousands of other followers then greedily groping for their own piece of “salvation”, the scion of an interstellar shipping magnet he’d been introduced to the Ghoul Lord from his mother. A sensible, if avaricious, woman with a cold pragmatism which had landed her an influential mate, an heir and, ultimately as stress and drink destroyed him, control over her husband’s company.

Obviously with such a happy family union it hadn’t been surprising the Captain had taken to the company’s flotilla of freighters, first turning his hand down amid the gunsel decks of old dumpboxes but working his way up to the flightstick of workbees, Steamer lines and anything else he could get his hands around. Learning the trade from every salty spacer he could while helping run “errands” to please “Mommy” such as helping smuggle supplies and weapons to the rebellious Outer Colonies. Eventually taking command of his own vessel, the Arkenstone, he began to push the development of new trade routes. Opening routes, among others, to the highly industrious and mercantile Trader enclave Khordon and all the wealth that entailed as well as a chance to spread the word of Paen to virgin shores. The latter what had most interested his mother and her encouraging him to spread further out.

Maybe if he’d been less filled with wanderlust it would be have been different. Maybe he would seen the discordious rot befallen his Birth-world, of the unending and destructive struggle between the Hierarchy and the vagrant Radicals. Heard the stories of great pits discovered, on the outer as well as inner worlds, filled with chewed bones the flesh boiled off. Of the people murdered in the dead of night; senators, policemen, industrialists it didn’t matter. Their bodies and their surrounding bodyguards broken to pulp by some monstrous force.

But he and the Arkenstone had been far away, haranguing with Trader lawyers over contracts, when the Great Ghoul Paen arrived at his devoted world.

Filling his tankard up with the pale, tasteless wine Jor’ock, lost in remembrance, walked to the cupboard of his closet and opened it rifling tepidly for a spell, the wheels in his mind turning, before reaching far in the back for the desired assemble. Throwing back his drinking stein as he lifted out the plastic wrapped suit and draped it over his rumpled bed and going back for the great coat which went with it, the boots and the sheath, sword and harness which spoke of noble parentage. All old memories, so well preserved.

Just as it had been with the day Paen arrived to his Birth-World, orbital satellites making crisp and neat digital recordings of the armadas of dark iron ships which emerged from the nullity of space to descend on the helpless world, its defenses exhausted and riddled with derision. Police vids had captured the acts of sabotage, the arson or sheer madness as devote disciples slathered out into the streets intent on making them run with blood. Military drones had been mute observers to the lopsided and fragmented battles against the invaders, watching armored soldiers dissolve beneath the hordes of the sickly, pale creatures or being plucked into the air and mentally rended apart by their grotesque mystics. In the span of a day his wracked world had been claimed and he orphaned.

Literally so, his mother’s must cherished boon from the “god” she worked so fervently for a pained, protracted death along with the other faithful as a warning to the remainder of the population. Her death, along with every other data file or vid-image, viewed days distant by himself as part of the regular telemetry from his Birth-World. He had his first drink, a bottle of cheap Trader swill, watching his world burn after hence.

Gesturing and setting his tankard down Jor’ock stood flat footed as a pair of Drones approached to remove his more typical attire, scampering off for them to be washed as the Captain cleansed himself sequestered in his own personal shower. The pair waiting for him when he exited, towel to dry off his faded blue skin then scented oils to polish its luster before they began fitting him with the suit and jacket. Relics from his old life which he’d adjusted to fit his new one.

All because of the merest whim of chance, returning mad with grief hurriedly to his Birth-World and over pushing the engines. Wanting to fling himself in the planet, to die along with its crushed spirit, but the Great Ghoul Paen is a hateful being with a jaundiced sense of humor. It not his world they careened into, engineering ablaze, but the deathless shroud of an ashy moon. Dead and lifeless but for the vagabond camps of Vraen who instantly preyed upon the wreckage, tearing at the wreckage like carrion beasts for whatever morsel they could find. And among it, broken and bleeding, they’d found Jor’ock.

He’d still remembered that fat Vraen, towering over his battered body, jabbing a hook into his gut and twisting it when he didn’t answer fast enough. Didn’t explain his skills and what he knew clear enough. Still remembering the metallic taste of blood in his throat and mouth as he shouted at them, spat and cursed demanding they finish with him and be done with it. That accursed feeling of hope he felt as the fat Vraen had relented, backing away, only for one of the Drones to come scampering up.

A bullish green thing which, at the fat one’s command, shoved Jor’ock down on the floor and hunched over him, the black gullet of its mouth widening as it leaned to clasp his head within it robbing him of all sight but it. He still recoiled, all those years distant, at the noxious smell which belched up in hot and humid waves leaving filthy film across his face in the final moments of his old life. He remembered sudden pressure, piercing pain through his scalp then release…awakening reborn much later in a body both alien and familiar to him. The genetic heritage from the Matriarch as well as being surrounded by his brethren, the Vraen, at once reassuring him while his conscious mind grappled with his altered form or his original body, its skull cracked opened and emptied, crumpled beneath him pecked apart and stripped of most of its flesh.

His new life laid before him and he took it as best he could following the Fat One, named Dughat, for a time before acquiring his own ship again. And yet here he was at the end of it once more, a reprieve of his demise.

The myriad and numerous gods, he decided brandishing then holstering his sword, hated him with a passion.

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Tue Nov 05, 2013 8:20 pm

Another update. This time peeling back some of Krevin's convulated backstory.

“ The chains that bind us to our hobbled and ignoramus destiny shall not be easily overcome, our bindings taunt and thick forged links woven by thousands of generations of imbecilic and directionless “development”. But I will break them! Subject Naught-Naught-One’s condition has continued to deteriorate, becoming more feral and aggressive, and in order to ward off having to euthanasia the subject I’ve scheduled to perform a Leucotomy in hopes it may alleviate some of the symptoms. As for the cause my leading theory is still the imperfect condition subject Naught-Naught-One was in before the procedure. Testing this I’ve convinced Subject Naught-Naught-Three, a Sandra Husskin, a Tetraplegic to undergo the procedure and transplant her onto subject Naught-Naught-Four, a secondary Hybrid I’ve personally obtained at no small expense to myself. Hopefully this time it will work…” Excerpt of Doctor W. Herbert personal journal.

Judgment, Commodore’s quarters-

Commodore Jack Krevin, born of an Alderaan diplomat and artist, had gazed down from the heavens as worlds died, the very filament of stars exploded and bore mute witness to strangled death of incalculable decadent Xeno civilizations. He’d traversed from the splendor and opulence of the Inner Core to the straddled wastes of the fringes of Human reach, and even now orbited in some nameless, distant Galaxy undreamed of by the Imperial cartographers. In his years he’d seen the death of an ageless Republic and the birth of a nascent empire, walked on shroud worlds cleansed by viral bombing and, by the slimmest of miracles, won duels against savage Wookiee pirates.

For all that, for all the grandeur and majesty of the celestial wonders he’d witnessed, he was still most impressed by the holistic balm of a simple hot shower. With the noticeable exception of a woman’s inviting smile Krevin had never found anything which quite so rejuvenated him, washing away in its stinging, sultry spray his fears, aches and doubts. More than that its steamy embrace, kneading and loosing muscles clenched in knots, cocooned him from an outside Galaxy, from the concerns and needs to present the facade of Commodore Krevin fearless space adventure and concentrate on being himself.

Freeing him to dwell on his past, reflect on it. Him on the bridge, beside aloof Tyler, brokering with the alien captain Jor’ock. The two of them spiritedly arranging the noose in which the latter would be snared; inviting the Xeno to come aboard where he’d be plump bird for the picking. He and Tyler had run similar cons along the fringes, ignorant alien and isolate human enclaves oblivious to the Empire, luring commanders and crews over to parley only to be captured and handed over to interrogation droids or, if Krevin was feeling less than merciful, to one of Tyler’s handpicked associates. Artisans being the best word to describe those beings, devils of their craft blending clinical medical knowledge with psychology and raw intuitive instinct.

He thought of Bauer, calm and composed yet overbiddingly eager to be a soldier to the Empire. Like he’d once been, before scars deeper than any bacta tank could heal, and yet sweetly innocent in way he’d never been. Still a game to her rather than a muddy, painful reality. More than that there was the matter of her convictions, untarnished and gleamining, which infectiously set her apart from the greater majority which made up the Judgment and her escorts. While seldom outright traitorous Krevin received, and sought, individuals with invariably some colored blemish against the New Order. Ruffians, vagabonds and cutthroats most were loyal enough to the Empire in the broad sense, it was only the particular agents chosen by the Emperor which they took umbrage over. But Bauer believed in a way Krevin imagined the Jedi, sitting in the dark breathing in incense in their great temple on then named Coruscant, had been convinced of their superior connection, and therefore superiority over the “masses”, with the mystic “Force”.

Most of all he thought back to a blue-green world that was no more, to long summer days long since vanished, and a dour, mustached patriarch and his lively wife equally nonexistent. Of their bitter last meeting, on a mirthless rainy day with him in his still damp from the Academy uniform, and how it had all come down that.

His father had been a talented artisan, of the sculpting variety not the make people scream in bloody pain variant, richly schooled in antiquated Alderaan orthodoxy by the rigid universities he’d entertained to send Young Jack too. Hoping Jack would be able to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, a noted if somewhat gaseous scholar and philosopher, and all through his formulative years Jack’s father had tried to instill in his son a love of the classical thought, justice and harmony.

His mother had been a warm, vibrant spirit able to seem at ease at any quarter whether she was deliberating with the gaunt Pau’ans or the lecherous Gamorreans. Willowy, cheerful and adventurous where his father had been strict, grim and serious she’d tried to entice him with pageantry of the Galaxy and its myriad inhabitance. Of the splendor of diversity and its infinite combinations.

But Young Jack would have none of that, rejecting dusty philosophizing kings and their mealy-mouth words for slick printed flimsies graphic adventures and juvie holo-vids of pirate smashers. Daring, brave men of action, not words, whom saved the weak and merciless from the vile villainous scum and their greedy Xeno backers who supported them. Later as he grew older he would be drawn to more contemporary “philosophers” such as Lord Vandron who sought to galvanize the disparate humanities of the Galaxy into one mailed force.

Similarly he looked out upon the spectacle of the Galaxy and saw not his mother’s “poetry of life” but rather a dank, cesspit where inhuman aliens held great swathes of human beings in all but chattel-slavery. The banking clan, the Trade Federation and a dozen other less affiliates bloated parasites feeding off of the ingenuity, hardwork and spirit of humanity.

No he couldn’t be what either of them wanted, neither in occupation or temperament, or up hold the proud legacy of either wing of the family. Teachers, doctors, musicians, professors and negotiators all, men and women of sedate culture and dignified inclination. All except Young Jack’s uncle, Old Jack, whom he inadvertently shared his name with; both of them named in tribute to Young Jack’s much deified Grandfather.

Much like his brother Old Jack had been schooled in the universities, the old teachings pressed while the mold was still soft, and like his father Old Jack had shown a flair for the venerable texts an ancient histories. Unlike him through Old Jack’s preferences were not drawn to the stale, conformity of pious kings or blasé word couplets but rather the darker mythologies and legendarium which seemed so out of place in the modern day.

Tales of profane rites inacted to slumbering gods by queer and mysterious tribesmen or secretive sect, of mystics who could scry your future or kill you with but a glance. He’d been drawn to it as if a siren song, vanishing with hardly a note one fine day only to turn up bedraggled, filthy but clutching some arcane treasure, some fragment of history, to his chest like a newborn baby. The start of his many and ceaseless sojourns, Old Jack possessed by wonderlust never staying in the same place long.

It was from him where Young Jack had first truly learned of the Galaxy, not the humdrum and sterile simulacrum his parents offered him but the cyclopean, turbulent maelstrom it truly was. Oh how he longed for those fleeting days when he was a child, for his uncle to come visit from some expedition “in the area” and bringing with him stories of cracking open burial vaults unglimpsed since the days of Xim.

His uncle such a change from the pragmatic, dour form of his father; so rigid, exacting and neat while his Uncle always arrived as if he’d just stepped foot off of some rusted hulk garbage scow onto some uncharted planetoid. A coiled whip hooked to a side of his belt, a holstered blaster on the other, his Shaak leather hide jacket over a rumpled tan shirt and his hat with its wide brim crooked down to shadow his face.

He and Young Jack would sit and lay together out under the lazy sun and talk and tell stories until long after the blanket of night had risen and the stars twinkled. Telling the latter of his adventures and exploits, like how on his search for the fabled sacred stones of Khallee he’d discovered and broken a degenerate Thugghe cult, or recounting the shadow-myths which proper, “sensible” people were aware of but forcefully ignored. Such as the builder of the Spires, the great mounds which populated Jack’s homeworld, a secretive insectoid race which had once ruled the placid planet and perhaps still dwelt, burrowed deep into mountain crevices and bore pits far away from the curious gaze of humanity.

Young Jack would always listen spell bound and zealously vow he too would one day join his Uncle out in the depths, through not as a “erudite folklorist”, as his father in his more charitable moments described his elder brother, lacking the mental discipline as his own forbearer had. But an adventurer nonetheless, an admittedly vague goal in those early days, which Old Jack had, with some wiry amusement, supported. Through a firm supporter of the intellectual side of his profession, perhaps recognizing the inability in his young ward, he’d prudently chose to focus on the physical rigors.

Taking Young Jack, during one of his brief interludes, to the Crimson Twilight Lodge, a cadre of veteran Alderaan Guardsmen and similarly bent associates, where, while his peers were at the learning crèche racing hover-skiffs, for the next eight months he was put to paces of marksmanship, hand to hand fighting and, much to his dismay, attempts at sword fighting.

The time spent more than grueling, the leathery old dogs of the Lodge strict taskmasters, and perhaps Old Jack had thought it might dissuade his young nephew from following in his footsteps but it had proved invaluable when he at last went for the Academy. His blood alight and singing hymns for the greater glory of the Republic as it grappled with the insidious threat of the Confederacy. Old Jack the only one who understood his decision or at least the need to follow your own path.

Showing up to bid him farewell when he departed for it, only one who shared encouragement to Young Jack as he left his world for the wider Galaxy. Even he’d had cringed ever so slightly when they’d met after the War in some villa on Naboo, his face souring as if he’d bite into something repugnant when he saw Young Jack in his Lieutenant’s uniform. A certain pain in his voice, astute as he ever was of the happenings in the Galaxy, which he tried to hide and pretend like things were as they always were. They continued that way for a time, sporadic meetings with forced nonchalance, but after the loss of Alderaan…Jack had never bothered to relocate his Uncle. He couldn’t have faced him, neither of them could have.

Such were the brooding, melancholy tidings of the Commodore, Krevin banishing them back to their sepulcher pits as he shunted off the water and stepped out filling his private bath with steam. He had work to attend to, toweling himself off and donning a simple field uniform then the bodyglove of the Stormtrooper Corps. Adjusting it as he stepped into his wider cabin where his armor, polished and cleansed of any lingering gore or encrustment of frozen oxygen molecules, lay on his bed.

Taking his place at the foot of it he motioned to the statuesque droid, a “Betty”-3000, which resumed to life to begin assembling the disparate pieces with a precise if hurried manner. After all Commodore Krevin, warrior-hero, was expected to meet the Xeno Captain, along with a detachment of battle-harden Stormtroopers, and he wanted no one left waiting.

User avatar
Jedi Master
Posts: 3920
Joined: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:24 pm
Location: Quebec City


Post by Praeothmin » Sat Nov 09, 2013 12:59 pm

Loved Krevin's backstory, his reminiscing...
It paints an emotional portrait of one hardass...

On another note, I'm not out of inspiration, or tired of my story, it's just that I've forced a "promotion" of sorts on myself and thus work has been kicking my ass for the last month or so...
Hopefully should be able to resume my work soon...

Hopefully! :)

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Thu Feb 06, 2014 5:13 am

Because I shamelessly mimic my betters I'd also like to reassure my readers, if any, that I haven't completely given up on the Terrorverse. And that hopefully this will give me the kick I need to either finish my meandering tale or at least own up and end it proper intead of "rotting on the vine" as it were. As a token of good faith I'm offering the below through it isn't really anything, just what happens when I watch Beowulf and run with it.

Hail mad god Pan, forest prince and jester, whom no bound stays.
Nor law or custom bind.
Hail Iron-mountain keep, den to dark Clymenus, which he did delve.
Warren-crypt to those long dead.
Hail mighty Rothwulf, warrior and tribal-king, whose plight Pan did hear.
Blessing him with life‘s substance.
Hail Rothwulf reborn, wedded flesh and purpose, who fought his way free.
Seeking the hills of his clansmen.
Hail proud Beyer, last of the hill people, who ended Rothwulf quest.
Slew by torch and sword each was.
Hail Rothwulf, weeping bloody tears, who swore furious oaths against Man’s kin.
Seeking prey without quarter or mercy.
Hail bloody Rothwulf, reaver of souls, he who collapses keeps and breaks armies.
Excerpt of Rolf Konig’s seventh canticle.

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Mon Feb 10, 2014 8:46 pm

"Its okay, we’re the good omni-present, heavily armed shadow organization." Agent John during the rescue of the abducted held at a Brotherhood’s compound.

Extractum Gladius, surgical bay-

“And what did you bring me today?” Arch-Chirurgeon Hrad slurred turning away from his still quivering vivisection.

His body stooped and twisted by scars of war and ill considered self-augmentation and held together with braces of iron and servo-motors which replaced atrophied or missing muscular. The exoskeleton as well serving for the housing for the pump and tubing which fed the steady stream of the black lotus extract which addiction not even the act of transference could shake from Hrad.

Countless deployments with the Marines had only deepened its hold on him as well as giving him a diverse menagerie of specimens to titillate his sharp but poisoned mind. Many of which adorned the walls of the former supply room he’d converted into some cross between a charnel house and a hospital. Jars of particularly choice organs, suspended in carefully concocted enzymes, dotted the walls on shelves next to splayed anatomies of the more queer or curious lifeforms the Chirurgeon had encountered. The compound eye of a Hegemony drone warrior, the adrenal gland of a female Cytherian even the, carefully sealed, lymphatic tissue of the hirsute Satyr was on triumphant display. All preserved by the humming engines which belched coolant into boxy, surgical bay and sucked the heat away keeping it the degree of an ice-locker.

“Something wet and bloody for you.” Elder-Corporal Sar laughingly boomed striding in ahead of the gang-press of drones hauling the withered, vacuum poxed article in question in.

A gangly, disjointed thing of flaking carapace, ruptured oozing eyes, tepidly bleeding mouths and swelling talon-fingers split ruinously open which almost immediately brought the glimmer of excitement to Hrad’s glazed eyes. The Chirurgeon swatting the chittering drones away as he hunched over it, darting in each way like some bird trying to all of its contours, his synthetically reinforced fingers hovering over it uncertain then reaching for one of the surgical tools tethered to the bracket of his exoskeleton.

“Where did you find this? Scuttling around in the galley, perchance?” The Chirurgeon cackled taking hold of one of the creature’s knobby digits and systematically began cutting away at it with a thermal cutter.

“The smaller of the two alien ships jettisoned it shortly before we finished our transition to Realspace.” Sar, the helm of his armor sliding open, corrected with an ice plumed laugh.” A small thing, easily missed but I didn’t. And when I saw what it was…naturally I thought of you.”

“And my standing reward for interesting discoveries, of course.” Hrad, cradling the severed finger lovingly, needled returning to his work bench.

Setting it down in a fresh tray and moving aside the mewling head and spine of the Cultium he’d been cutting at it the Chirurgeon pinned the digit to the tray’s bottom, deftly sliced it open from its fleshy tip and base and, folding the skin away, pinned it open so that he could prod the exposed skeletal and muscular with a needle like scalpel.

“Your generosity was not, totally, far from my mind it is true.” Sar continued walking over to the surgical master.” But it was not the whole of my ambition.”

“Oh, do tell.” The Chirurgeon, sounding puzzled, muttered dispensing with the cutting tool for a hand held imager that bathed the limb in blue light.

An oscillating and detailed batteries of ultrasonic, magnetic, X-particle and thermal senses probing the alien tissue in anatomical minute detail. The device’s miniature electronics decoding the myriad responses, structuring it into a coherent form pleasing to the eye then feeding to the Chirurgeon’s cranial implant and from there to his mind as it would any other sensory organ.

“Nothing like this has been encountered in this area of space or any other.” The Elder-Corporal, affixing a lecturing tone, detailed rather needlessly for the Xenological Hrad.” It must be some kind of war-beast employed by the aliens, these “Imperials”, which, dead, they naturally disposed of.”

“Possibly, the weave and knitting of the tissue doesn’t suggest natural development.” The Chirurgeon allowed with only distant interest.” Through what hopes of it, Elder-Sergeant Rhyas has already departed with a detachment to secure the larger starship in the name of the Consul. I hardly doubt a dispatch warning he might face augmented fodder would mean much to a seasoned veteran such as he or you?”

“Unimaginative thinking. Surprising coming from you.” Sar cackled pointing back, with a servo whine, at the drone surrounded creature.” While I have no doubt Rhyas will secure the bridge and therefore the ship to cleanse the interior will be a slow, deliberating process. We will have to capture the work-crews alive until we’ve mastered its operations, an effort made more difficult by so few Marines, tending against unknown numbers of such beasts. I’m sure Rhyas would be appreciative of Marine who became deft at felling such monstrosities.”

“And you want me to determine what its weakness are for you, Corporal?” The Chirurgeon said absently adjusting his imager.

“Merely that I am first among equals on any pertinent discoveries you may find.” Sar suggested with a whimsical flourish as Hrad, shutting his imager off, stepped away from his workbench and began clearing away leafs of his personal notes and dissection diagrams from his computer terminal.

Turning the engine on with a warbling chirp he turned his attention back to the imager extracting its auxiliary positronic cartridge from its housing and inserted it into the terminal’s slot with a muted click.

“So, do we have a deal or not?” The Corporal, annoyed, asked following and peering over the diminutive Chirurgeon as he accessed the imager’s latest readings from the cartridge.

The terminal’s screen, blinking rapidly, changing to a monochromatic rendering of the tissue’s cellular level, slippery soft ovals squished together overlapping, which Hrad immediately began adjusting and refining trying to clear the resolution.

“Deal?! You have no idea what you found have you?” The Chirurgeon berated hotly as the image narrowed onto a random cell expanding pixilated grains upon it Sar’s had presumed were merely the result of a choppy rendering.

Instead, ballooned until it nearly filled the screen, he saw it was something extant and clinging outside the cell’s membrane. A blurish, baroque covered half sphere with a jutting “tail” of haphazard, spindly limbs of disproportionate size. Some of which ended in broken spurs or listed slightly to the side while Sars military accustomed eye began to make out what appeared to be “carbon scoring” on the outer, pitted hull of the body almost as if a miniature ship had went nova beside it.

“Some kind of cybernetic implant?” The Corporal, out of his element, offered.” For control maybe?”

“Hardly. What you are looking at is a self-contained and independent module complete with manipulator tools all at two hundredth Nanoth meters.” A very excited Hrad exclaimed reaching to turn up the flow of black lotus to his bloodstream.” When I was on Krona, in the capital Denerio, I once attended a lecture on…”Assemblers” which were similar to this but…it was only a theoretical simulacrum. A possibility of what was to come.”

“Which amounts to what?” Sar asked huffily, tiring quickly of this exchange, folding his arms with a creaking of motors over his armored chest.” Other than the beast being infected with artificial mites.”

“Its implications are staggering, if under some form of central direction and control what it could do…with a level of precision and detail that would make my surgical technique akin to amputating with a blunt rock.” The Chirurgeon, drooling, rasped lost in his own awe.

“As if it did this creature any good.” The Corporal grunted as a second identical looking “Assembler” joined in the picture with the first.

Trawling limbs forward it briefly enveloped the first, manipulators firing like pistons, then broke away with the original reanimated and encircling out of range of the magnification.

“I think you may find traditional concepts of death are transcended with such a being.” Hrad continued reverently as the drones began to squeal.

Both men turning to find the specimen wracked with spasmodic convulsions its husk bursting open to allow congealed, viscous dripping tendrils to whip out and ensnare to the startled worker drones and drag them into its undulating center of mass. Fanged mouths appearing and melting away in its brawny sinew in accordance to where the raining deluge of squawking drones fell; scythe like teeth thrusting up into their squirming bodies.

“Emergency, hostile onboard!” Sar, his helm sealing closed, screamed as pulpy chunks splattered against him.

Stepping in front of the diabolic Chirurgeon and widening his stance to brace the armored Marine raised and extended his arm towards malleable creature and, rushing towards it, opening fire from his gauntlet’s inbuilt machine gun. His other armored hand reaching for the bracket on his moving leg uncoupling the razor-gun hooked into the recess there. Compact and stubby with a protruding, proboscis under-lip which was lined with revolving saw-teeth the gun fired high grain, copper jacketed rifle slugs designed to put down a fully enraged Satyr. And each shot tore a deeper, puckered hole through the beast than his shredding deluge of machine gun fire.

And all it served was to provoke the misshapen lump of protoplasm; boils erupting along its wobbling “back” which blistered into screeching into blood red skull-faces, their lower jaws splayed open as mandibles, which shot into the air on twitching, serpentine necks. Underneath scaled, talon-clawed feet unfurled scrabbling at the frigid cooled deck while grasping, amphibious hands poked out from beneath its crumbling exoskeleton. The pieces molting making room for the pinchers, knobby fingers, and barbed tentacles which batted Sar’s arm aside and wrenched it out like a toy or, despite his frantic hacking and weaving with the whirring saw of his razor-gun, cracked and dug through his armor plate to the soft meat beneath.

“By the Pit! Hostile onboard!” Sar, choking on his blood, screamed as he felt its cancerous growth shoot up through him.” Surgical bay!”

The Arch-Chirurgeon, muttering to himself, watching the Marine go limp, his anguished scream die away and his armor swell against the growing pressure as more ropy tendrils of the creature spurred through the gaping rents in its surface. Voracious devouring all it could of substance before the technological battlesuit cracked apart like some shellfish and was regressed along the undulating behemoth sinking into self-styled ports in its porous flesh assimilating that as well into its greater whole.

“Endless possibilities…” A wide eyed Hrad crooned as a tendril, budding hooked claws, whipped across the side of his head ending all sensation.

User avatar
Jedi Master
Posts: 3920
Joined: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:24 pm
Location: Quebec City


Post by Praeothmin » Tue Feb 11, 2014 1:40 am

Aaahhhh, Mad-Scientists never learn, do they?

Allow me to reiterate what you told me:
It is good to see you back at updates again... :)

Admiral Breetai
Starship Captain
Posts: 1813
Joined: Mon Aug 31, 2015 8:28 pm


Post by Admiral Breetai » Thu Feb 27, 2014 5:15 am

I missed a great deal and having finally caught up all I can say is...fuck yeah!!!

First of all did the man in black/angel eyes whip out a light saber and maim an immortal thing? Also see the problem with trying to emulate Thanagar and Krevin is that...they would never have fallen for that haha.

Or Thanagar would have shot her then ordered a feast

J'rock and his cohorts come off as less foolish as the TF though so they had better watch out and Krevins biography was pretty interesting actually. Seems like someone who really is a die hard patriot a true loyalist not in for himself.

keep this going

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Wed Mar 26, 2014 1:22 pm

Editorial note: The following "teaser" for the coming chapter, as well as certain other instructions, were placed in the possession and security of myself, Doctor Mordrid, by Sonofccn before the latter's imbecilic attempt to steal a "timebox" to return to primordial Hyperboria and obtain an "uncorrupted" version of the grimoire "De Vermis Mysteriis". Knowing intimately the results of Sonofccn's previous ventures, as well as the instructions left to me, I've already contacted an imitable physician, a Dr. West, to deal with any eventuality of this endeavor. Hopefully the normal chronicler of this gothic tome shall be back, and alive, by the start of next week.

- Much thanks for your patience, humbly yours Dr. Mordrid

Jor’ock’s shuttle-

I. sad violin Japan 4

“Did I pick the wrong time to quit drinking.” Jor’ock, strapped into the flight seat, mewled at the dark gray, durasteel hulk which expanded across his crystalline viewer.

And expanded and expanded, the ship’s original dimensions lost and forgotten, filling every inch of the window with an ever finer and detailed cross-section of the swelling colossus. The armored behemoth stretching above his diminutive shuttle for magnitudes more beyond his constrained field of vision than he dared to fathom. Only crudely grasping some comparable reference of scale from some of the very largest of station yards and orbital facilities he’d encountered in his travails.

Such experience as well lending him the eye to notice the faint gradients and blisters on the pitted, squamous superstructure, subtle marks where thermal scoring or hull ruptures had been melded back in place. Scars of battle of which the “Judgment” has no shortage of along its underbelly, the accrued detritus of dust, filament and particles which ships’ developed in the null of space helping to construct a rough chronology of their infliction and subsequent reconstruction.

“These are not explorers.” The Vraen concluded shuddering in contemplation of the mammoth force needed to carve in the glazed smooth fissure he passed beneath as he piloted towards the desired hanger bay.

Knowing a brawling ship when he saw one, a scarred juggernaut bred and tested in the fiery crucible of destruction, a ship made solely to dominate. And he was about to stick a pin in its eye to feed the vanity and ego of the First-Consul, tyrant and despot of countless worlds and moons and whose only wish was to control ever more. A ship like the Imperial’s, like the “Judgment”, would give him that. Give him the marital strength to unit the petty and unruly Vraen fiefdoms behind a Consul-Supreme and forge them into a force rivaling the Consortium or the reborn Ascendancy.

Or it might damn them all to a War it couldn’t win against an inscrutable and unknowable adversary.

“And perhaps give these buggers a foothold in our Galaxy, one no one will shake from them.” Jor’ock thought ruefully deeply wishing he’d brought a bottle along.

His melancholy was sharply curtailed however by the trilling of his shuttle’s alarms as first a high resonance scan passed over him then control was forcefully ripped from him as a focused gravimetric disturbance snared him and tugged him the rest of the way to the yawning hanger.

“Do not be alarmed honorable Captain Jor’ock. You have been cleared by our security scan and are now under the guidance of our [tractor beam]” A clipped, metallic voice rather uselessly assured the frantic captain moments later.” Please deactivate your reaction drives for a safer and more comfortable landing.”

“Wonderful.” The Vraen cursed slamming a balled fist to open a return channel.” And no one thought to warn me?”

“I assure you, most honorable Captain, the protocol is standard as per the Imperial regulatory committee’s most revised edition.” The voice continued managing to somehow sound perplexed.” If you like I could began the work of translation so you could study it at your leisure.”

“No.” Jor’ock bluntly cut off the machine voice as he complied in shutting off the shuttle’s thrusters.

Finishing, placing his hands together to crack his knuckles in turn, he leaned to look behind his seat at the grim, unmoving iron statues who were latched and tied down in the shuttle’s cramped interior. Each housing a warrior-marine, his vitals suppressed to a catatonic state by the suit’s arcane machinery, dreaming crimson dreams.

“I truly doubt I’ll have the time to read any of it.” Jor’ock bemoaned desperately wishing for a drink.

Admiral Breetai
Starship Captain
Posts: 1813
Joined: Mon Aug 31, 2015 8:28 pm


Post by Admiral Breetai » Tue Apr 15, 2014 7:14 pm

Come on that's all?

I liked that line "these are not explorers" something tells me these merchants are going to be crapping their pants throughout the entire meeting.

A chance for imperial soldiers to impress upon this savage galaxy their, majesty and might

User avatar
Jedi Master
Posts: 3920
Joined: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:24 pm
Location: Quebec City


Post by Praeothmin » Wed Apr 16, 2014 10:32 pm

Yeah, like the admiral said... :)

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Wed Apr 23, 2014 8:10 pm

Good News, while it took longer than I thought to walk back from the Hyborian age, thankfully I got a lift in the 30's through the Guardian of Forever, I finally clawed my way back to nearly the time period I set sail from.

Bad news is that means I can continue torturing you with the convulated fevers of my imagination. ;)

I. Anvil of Crom

Since before the days of the black pyramid, now lost to the march of ages, and the fall of the Arseian race the frail creature MAN has been prey to the foul legion of monsters, beasts and demons. Down the millenniums these loathsome cohorts have strove to strip the flesh and suckle the marrow from the bones of humanity or in turn to pervert astray the collective race beneath their odious thrall yet from each decade, each century, there arises for both the highest born and most depraved reasons erstwhile champions against whom fate rests. The child hearted giant Zingar, the murderous-vigilante Charles Dex and even I, the erstwhile fallen high-priest Akhen, have each in our turn stood against the vile shadow-banes and horrors that dwell beyond our jeweled sphere across the long march of MAN’s history.

It is now Anno Domi Nineteen-Hundred and Sixty-Eight as reckoned by the followers of the Christ-God, an uncertain if adventurous time. Humanity daringly reaches into the onyx gulf through which nameless leviathans slumber seeking answers in their hubris they believe they will understand. On a nameless isle, worshipped by feral savages, a blood soaked flesh-prince lays the foundation of his newborn empire with the skulls of the vanquished. And from the dark corners a forsaken sect seeks to awaken the hideous intelligence imprisoned beneath the frozen Earth.

It is also a courageous age where valiant men and beautiful women slay alien-gods and dispatch monstrous hordes. Where heroes, and villains, are born from the crucible of creation. It is the Terrorverse!

“This week has been a bit counter intuitive. So far we’ve smashed a Nazi smuggling ring, demolished a pirate cove and repulsed an interplanetary invasion of oversized arthropods by imploding their interphasic rift. Normally we’d have to deal with the really weird happenings.” Agent Sylph remarking on Bureau life.

Judgment, Hanger Bay-

As Colonel Kratz was won’t to incessantly blather, during those times he attempted to ingrate himself with the Commodore’s planet-bound activities, perception was reality. You controlled that you controlled the room whether said domicile was filled with stuffy, old men in admiral uniforms eager to place blame on why their latest asinine stratagem failed or a cohort of portly Gamorreans hell-bent on feasting on your liver. Both categories of which Krevin had ducked and sparred with far too often for his comfort. Comparatively through, impressing some limp-spined wanna-be Neimoidian was unlikely to be more of a chore than sweet-talking the doe-eyed daughter of the local planet’s governor. Another category in which he had ample, and vastly more pleasant, hands on experience with.

Strutting purposefully in flanked on either side by the largest two Stormtroopers on the Super-StarDestroyer, both chem-enhanced to the taut limit of human endurance, with swaggerish confidence borne from one who had emerged from a thousand deadly scrapes unscathed, at least physically, he beamingly looked over the two sections of Imperial Soldiers in parade squares and full dress regula standing at attention on either side of the crude, and bulky looking transport.

“At ease, men. Save it for the Xeno captain and the pompous brass boys.” He boomed with a grin and as much fostered camaraderie as he could manage stopping in front of the two squares and continuing to look them over.” All I need is a quick word with your CO.”

“Here, Sir.” A brisk, gaunt officer with a jaundiced complexion quickly spoke up stepping out from now noticeably less stiff troopers.

Struggling to keep pace with its waddling gait a black paneled protocol droid followed after him, even mimicking the officer’s salute to Krevin as the two drew together then shook hands.

“Lieutenant Philip Graves, Sir.” He continued professional folding his arms behind his back before the Commodore detected tickling gush of emotion in the stern man’s tenor.” I would like to take this chance, as someone who participated in the assault against their stronghold, what a pleasure it is to meet someone who can handle the Schlange one on one. The assault at the Capitol…”

“Left me terrified and running behind the backs of hardarses like yourself.” Krevin dismissed with a joviality he didn’t feel, insides turning to ice at the mere thought of that dreadful day.” If I hadn’t had a security detail.”

“And I know a Corporal in the Stormtrooper Corpse who all but swears you personally dragged him off that world. Then there was the accident which but for you would have released a murderous Xeno onboard…” Graves continued, not letting it go, before his pale face narrowed and his hand slide from out behind him to rest on his holstered blaster.” What is the meaning of this?”

“The murderous Xeno?” The Commodore laughed turning to see the scaly hybrid stiff walk in a crude approximation of a human’s stance into the bay.” I invited him.”

Its clawed hands clasped behind its back through no restraints showed from beneath the flowing sleeves of the draping, brown cloak the creature had been attired in. The hood pulled back revealing its chiseled, fanged mouth and the thin, metallic band encircling its craggy throat. At his side, guiding and leading him on, holding carefully in his black, thick rubberized gloved hand the remote control which would trigger the ring device’s shock feature was the Xeno’s trainer. A larger, more powerful stun baton hanging off the loop of his belt underneath the laboratory smock he wore in keeping with his perception of what a “great scientist” looked like including a pair of brass goggles he wore over his forehead likely pilfered from some early industrial world.

“Real pleasure to meet ya’ Sir. They call me Dex.” He’d announced while vigorously shaking Krevin’s hand and generally acting as giddy as a first year recruit with his first joygirl when the Commodore had come to request the alien.

When he’d at last finished testing the fastening and structural integrity of the Commodore’s arm, satisfactory if only just, he’d jerked a rubber clad thumb to the scaly hybrid which had been patiently waiting in the corner for its master’s instruction. Its eyes hard flints of malevolence.

“And don’t let Gollum’s sour puss fool ya either, he’s as excited as me to be meeting you again.” Dex had gushed.

Gollum?” The Commodore had confoundedly asked all too bitterly remembering the last encounter, which had cost the lives of several good men and a mug of decent Earl Gray, he had with the sharp toothed creature.

“Taken liberally from a tormented soul in an excerpt of the “Red Book”, part of the cultural exchange from the German Imperium and purportedly one of their earliest chronicles of their race.” Dex had explained in a font of needless exposition as, it would painfully become clear, was his way.” Clearly apocryphal and wedded with whimsical fancies of wizards and magic rings it concerns a war between various kingdoms and a local tyrant.”

“Why is it here?” Graves, in the present, asked with a croaked, tightly wound voice his hand not leaving the worn grip of his blaster.

“I thought it may be of greater linguistic use than mere, unthinking droids.” Krevin answered with a smirking smile as, stepping out from between the officer and the Xeno, clapped his hands and ordered the alien to introduce itself.

The Commodore amusingly enjoying the look of confusion on the dour, jaundiced Lieutenant’s face as the creature lumbered up to him then stiffly bowed unfurling one clawed hand from behind its back as a sign of supplication.

“I am one now called Gollum, he who serves the Emperor and his emissaries.” It growled in a fair approximation of Coruscanti accent rising up once more glaring balefully at the officer.” And you?”

“ Certainly a well trained…animal.” Graves rather distastefully pronounced as he turned on his heels to lead the group on.” Through the blood of countless loyal Imperials stain it, never to be forgotten.”

“It is a new Galaxy.” Krevin suggested following trailed by his bodyguards then Dex and the Xeno.” I might even start a collection starting with this merchant captain. Speaking of which has he so much as made a peep?”

“No, Sir.” Graves answered matter of factly leading the entourage between the two troop columns who straightened in a thunderous stomp of booted heels.” Did as detailed a scan I thought we could wrangle without appearing too intrusive but I figure he’s just keeping tight until he sees you.”

“He is facing the mailed, martial might of the Empire.” The Commodore observed with a gay humor indicating the banner and flag festooned soldiers who, beneath their polish, had been selected for their veternacy.” I’d be scared too.”

“ Really, you Sir? He who spat in the eye of an army of Gamorreans on Astor with only a cadre of Stormtroopers and some Governor’s militia?” Graves dismissed with a resurgence of that odd, prideful tone.” That was a hell of a battle, wasn’t it Sir?”

“I’m sorry.” Krevin, pausing with the Lieutenant in clear view of the waiting shuttle, quizzically asked uncharacteristically caught off guard for the second time that day.

Remembering a certain red-haired soldier-girl he had the privilege to share the evening after with far greater than he did the actual battle he flummoxedly struggled to place the lined, ashen face of Graves with the small handful of staff he’d brought down and failing.

“You met my father I believe, High Council-Man Philip Graves.” The morose officer explained superimposed by Krevin for the flicker of an instant for a vastly larger and more jovial man.” I was on the Wall during the battle, part of the “rabble” militia, and only caught sight of you once in the maelstrom. Standing defiantly, your foot propped against the fat belly of Gamorrean, gunning down the vile savages as they attempted to break through.”

“Trust me, Lieutenant. I was scared then too.” Krevin, aware of the shuttle starting to open, answered honestly trying to laugh it off.

The incident, with such prompting, painfully coming back as an excruciating, terse set of seconds in which he’d been caught flat footed by a Gamorrean sapper team breaching a man, or more precisely a pig-man, sized crater through the city’s wall. His legs frozen with fear had, with Tyler’s most gracious assist, had whittled the contingent flooding through with a volley of snapped shots into the charging beasts. The Xeno’s spirit as well as numbers all but broken by that point thankfully and the tide had quickly broken.

Ahead the shuttle extended down a ramp and the shadow of its occupant slide across through instead of some meek, inoffensive alien captain Krevin’s ears were assaulted with the heavy tang of metal on metal as a towering, cacophonous metallic construct larger than even the cumbersome armor of a spacetrooper trotted into view. More emerging from behind it with the hiss of hydraulics lumberingly fanning out from the base of the shuttle sweeping vicious looking weapons which bristled from off of their steely armor.

“Like I am now.” Krevin admitted, hand going to his holstered blaster, as the lenses of the first metal behemoth paused over him glaring balefully.

User avatar
Jedi Master
Posts: 3920
Joined: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:24 pm
Location: Quebec City


Post by Praeothmin » Tue Apr 29, 2014 12:51 am

That's a fight James would love to take part in... :)

Starship Captain
Posts: 1657
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 4:23 pm
Location: Sol system, Earth,USA


Post by sonofccn » Tue May 20, 2014 8:04 pm

“Victory is won on the blood, sweat and battered courage of the honored dead. Less we forget.” SubCommander Krevin on the successful defense of Imperial Reach circa 13.7 BBY.

Judgment, hanger-

The familiar sensations returned to Commodore Krevin as the wrought mountain of alien iron and hydraulics rotated and raised its metallic arm out towards him. Time gelled and slowed into a morasses river which seemed to hang, his breath catching in his throat as his heart, in contrary to the dilation occurring around him, sped up. The muscular organ beating furiously against his ribs futilely trying to hammer its way to freedom, to escape its slack jawed host which gazed vacantly as three vicious looking gun barrels juttingly extended from the alien’s robotic, clenched fist just above the iron knuckles.

Three big, black bores which looked as big as saucers to Krevin as he, with regrettable familiarity, stared down his mortality. Some frenzied, whimpering corner of his mind screaming for him to act, for him to move. To lift his heavy, clay like legs and run or to grab for his blaster dangling off the side of his uniform. To do something, anything, to snatch the quickly fading glimmer of hope from the jaws of certain doom.

And he was, his hand snaking for the cumbersome but high powered handgun even as he twisted pushing past his entourage seeking the safety of the chamber’s egress but it was insufferably too slow. Knew it even as his outstretching arm collided with the annoying, utterly bewildered and flat footed scientist Dex knocking him aside as Krevin, his blaster sliding free from its holster, gaped back at the metal monstrosity. The crystalline eyes set in its sculpted, stoic and inhumanly reptilian face wickedly alight with baleful malevolence. A sort of cruel smile despite its deadpanned helm.

“Feth!” Krevin screamed over the pained grunt of Dex as the Commodore’s knotted hand sunk into his chest pushing aside.

The muscles in his gun arm burning as he slung it up leveling his gun against the iron behemoth as he scrabbled for that faded pinprick of hope. A lucky shot, a critical wound anything to delay or distract his opponent those fractional seconds he needed. A heartbeat, a solitary breath, a thousand-thousand times the Universe had consented to offer him little more than that in its repeated attempts to assassinate him, each he’d risen to the occasion. So what was one more time?

His whimpering mind still chanting that question as time snapped back into full, fluid motion with a thunderous rush. The once uniform ranks of parade soldiers breaking, panicked voices muffling into each other, as instilled training combated primeval instincts of survival. To the credit of the Imperial Standard it was a short battle moving swiftly to the assault with vigor even a Gamorrean would have been proud of but not nearly quickly enough for Krevin’s life…

Instead, as the world spun back up, it was the pale, scaly apparition which did moving over and in front of the Commodore in a hazy blur. A distorted flicker, the hint of a sprinting leg or a clawed hand reaching out, half glimpsed in the infinitesimal span for the alien hybrid to gallop forward and leap upon the towering, iron monstrosity. A venomous, guttural snarl of a curse erupting from the feral monstrosity Krevin still saw in his bleakest nightmares as it writhed and scampered around the bulkier armored suit, evading the owner’s clumsy swattings, snagging at any wiring or machinery exposed beneath the shifting plates of armor tearing them out.

Indoctrinated defense of its Imperial masters or merely a petty rivalry with the Vraen Krevin didn’t question as he fired lobbing a high-powered energy-shell squarely into the iron behemoth’s midsection. The highly-spun plasma erupting in a pyrotechnic cloud of escaping heat and vaporous gases that, when it parted, left a small, burned dimple punched into the otherwise intact armored plate. The wearer disparagingly oblivious as its huge metal hand, a large circular blade extending past the segmented fingers, collided against its helm, denting it worse, narrowly missing Gollum who swung and slide down the giant being’s side slashing open a geyser vane of hydraulic fluid which gushed down and over the two combatants as murky, soot colored blood.

The volley fire of the assembled soldiers faring even poorer Krevin saw, still continuing to shoved aside Dex as he pushed himself through his knot of followers, their lower intensity bolts washing over the phalanx of armored aliens like summer rain as they with casual indifference swept an arm mounted gun across the human ranks. Each shot of the grotesquely primitive weapons like a cannon tearing misty filaments through its unfortunate victim or snapping off limbs like kindling and they shot continuously rivulets of empty casings spilling out in brass streams from under their arm and body.

Adding to the carnage were wrist-mounted rocket propelled ordnances ratcheted up from some cache or hollow installed on some of the armored suits; the missiles streaking off in sets of one and twos into the dens of the densest resistance causing heads to vaporize as it sailed through or impaling a victim through the chest before detonating in a lacerating cloud of shrapnel flaying the meat off the bone.

Still a third type, a scoring sooted nozzle and housing underslung and protruding out from beneath their forearm, wading into the maelstrom without fear, bullets and detritus harmless deflected off of their armor, sweeping ahead of them with a hand mounted razor-saw weaving crimson tapestries through the air and firing short, roasting gouts of super-heated radiant-matter that incinerated to ash whatever it touched.

This Krevin saw then the hanger’s ceiling as the sprawling legs of falling Dex kicked into his and he toppled over the moronic nerd. The two entangled for one, brief but terrifying moment before the Commodore broke free and rolled into a crouch his keen eyes shooting every which way as he tried to take in every facet of the unfolding battle. His bodyguards were still standing, eerily untouched, and moving with a calculated and oddly serene grace as they bent down to retrieve their charge. The officer Graves barely a half step behind walking backwards as he fired at an armored alien which contemptuously, ripping its whirling saw blade from the twitching mess that had been a soldier, swung towards him thundering over the mewling, broken bodies of the wounded.

“I’ll live, shoot them!” Krevin commanded, wanting as many guns and therefore distractions as he could manage, brushing off his guards as he popped up.

“We have to get you to safety.” One of the two said with dull conviction barely jerking as a stray bullet tore through the back of his shoulder and came spiraling out past the Commodore’s face.

Then again between the augmented trooper’s enlarged adrenal gland and the deliberate reduction in his brain’s sensory perception Krevin doubted the man would unduly react to a speeder running him down. As it was the he nonchalantly swung an arm around and fired indiscriminately in the general area the shot had come from. With his other he gently pushed against Krevin’s chest trying to coach him to withdraw through, inwardly questioning his own sanity, the Commodore resisted stepping against and reaching to his bodyguard’s utility belt as he fired inbetween him and Graves into the approaching alien.

“High power setting and aim for joints or other vulnerables.” He screamed, trying to be heard over the din, as his bolt impacted the crystalline lens of the smugly invulnerable Xeno exploding it out and shoving the tiny shards into the occupant’s face along with a searing gust of ionized gas.

More than sufficient to incapacitate, if not out right kill, the wearer through Krevin snapped off a second shot through the remaining eyehole before he turned aside prepping a thermal detonator torn from his bodyguard and pitching into the midst of the slowly advancing phalanx. He then bent to grab at Grave’s collar, who had paused to stoop and help up Dex off the ground, hissing at the younger man over the stacco hail of gunfire and echoing thunder of explosives.

“Fall back, get your men out of this.” He hurled, the depravity of the situation tugging at some vestige strings within him, yanking the officer up and dragging him towards the door.” Signal the retreat!”

Then when Grave’s didn’t respond fast enough, his face confused at the unexpected order, Krevin sunk his hand beneath the underside of his collar tearing off the thin, silver whistle hung around his neck. Certainly low tech but incapable of being jammed by the Rebellion and cheaper by several million credits then the requisite slicer-proof com-gear would have been. Jamming it between his lips he blew a rapid series of notes alternating between long and short, the code haven’t been changed since the ascension of the Emperor, signaling the survivors then spat it out tossing it to Graves as he spun and raced towards the egress his good deed for the day accomplished.

His guards clinging with him, watching over him, as he then triggered the door controls closing down the blast shield as the other survivors hurriedly stampeded past, Graves included. But not everyone, some simply too slow while others had stayed drawing their enemies terrible fire for just those few more precious seconds. Either way shortly the hanger would belong to the invaders.

“Feth, feth, feth!” Krevin, coughing acidic fumes from his lungs, cursed as he leaned against and grabbed at the bloody armor of one of his bodyguards.”Get Tyler, tell him we have a situation. We need reinforcements and we need fething E-Webs. Feth, I want a squadron of AT-ST’s down here to fight these buggers!”

Continuing his angry diatribe to the attentively listening trooper when he felt a slight tug on his arm and Krevin craned his head to look down at Dex, a particularly pleased with himself and unscathed Gollum curled beside him like a family pet, gazing up at him like he just discovered the Emperor.

“I just wanted to say thank you, sir, for what you did back there.” He spoke, for once plain and straightforward, continuing to look up at the Commodore.” Risking your life to get me to cover…I mean I thought I was a goner. My brain just locked up but…but you saved me.”

It took all of Krevin’s will not to laugh.

Commodore Krevin wrote:
Praeothmin wrote:That's a fight James would love to take part in... :)
Well having had the pleasure of seeing holovids of the Mysterious Stranger in action I am honored and deeply wish he could partake.

Admiral Breetai
Starship Captain
Posts: 1813
Joined: Mon Aug 31, 2015 8:28 pm


Post by Admiral Breetai » Tue Jan 20, 2015 3:10 pm

Welp that last part was spectacular, Kevin proving you don't have to be an augment, a mystical warrior, a Jedi or a klingon freak to be an incredible bad ass


Post Reply