is this it?

Everything is different now.

Standing still, the figure in the black poncho remained a shadow embodied, even as it occupied space, just beyond the deeper shadow of the doorway set into the plain wall. A faint voice, the wind stole across the figure’s outer layers, ripping the heavy woven material aside to reveal the glitter of paired seven-guns riding heavy on dust-laden thighs. Unknown beneath the black hood, the figure placed palms upon pistols, finely tended fingernails punctuating finger-less leather gloves that bore obsidian hallmarks. Tracing the ornate markings carved into the ivory grips, the hidden woman radiated the presence of the Great Estimator, the katana slung across the small of her back broadcasting the subtle see-saw of her pelvis as she shifted her weight side to side, the wind now clutching at her garments hungrily.

The woman’s coin was fair, the woman mused, angrily spinning away from the inset doorway as she shook her fists, her voice a clarion as she screamed into the sky.

“Damn the humans, and them all, those that do not!” the woman cried out in pure feeling, her hood falling back as she raged into the sky. She bore close-cropped snow, contrasted against her obsidian skin, long, low-swept ears announcing her mixed-blood. Men and elf had spawned her, a half-breed, filthy and detested by both her lineage. Unbeknownst to many, perhaps all, she possessed a paragon’s portion of each tree, with her speed and strength unparalleled by either race, her seven-guns bearing the deathmarks of over one hundred foes.. So often had she been underestimated, despite her stature and her strength, that her opponents fell before her, wheat before the blade.

“Hah, you announce yourself, Wren,” the young woman spoke to no-one as she returned her attention to the dark, sinister opening, electing to leave her hood low, her hands returning to comfortable grips. She could smell the ghouls within, the faint incense shouting a warning to her preternatural senses of the death-cult beyond. The children of men did not posses long lives, and so were prone to seek out the lure of the everlasting.

Please, Steady! Weigh my son’s life and…should you find him wanting, grant him absolution! the woman had begged, a blonde, human beauty, with piercing blue eyes that Wren found comely. A Steady was no saint, nor paragon of virtue, Wren knew. She had found powerful comfort in the grips of male and female alike in her travels, and it was this, perhaps, that had stirred her to act. The Steady were created to level the Road, to prevent another recurrence of the Lasting War, a globe-spannng conflict that resulted in the near-annihilation of all races, men, elf, dwarf, fey. In the aftermath, magic had been rent asunder, leaving the few artificers alive to create a new way of enchantment.. The focus of her attention was really no more than a rectangular hole in a stone outcropping alone in a vast field of sand, the sad proof of the raw power of the weapons of man. The latent radiation from the Night Battle posed no threat to her mixed-blood heritage. During the War, Man had elected to focus nuclear power upon the Drow during their terrifying emergence Night-Raids. Menzoberranzan died quickly. The millions of refugees fleeing the underground nuclear detonations were but hapless victims for the voracious appetites of an impinged-upon humanity.

Steeling herself, the Wren strode into the dark portal, irises flaring into brief brilliance, bathing her surroundings in ultraviolet. It seemed a stairwell of sorts, folding back on itself tightly, the walls consisting of some strange, smooth stone. Ancient markings in red and black broke up the continuity of the grey stone as the woman descended, a language she could not recognize.

Something from the before-time,she mused, tracing a fingertip along the flaking material. Careful with each footfall, Wren descended further into the pitch black, her world illuminated by the small gems that adorned her pistol-belt, their iridescence casting ultraviolet light around her, her pupils now clearly oval, akin to a feline. With every switchback came a metal door inset, each rusted surface seeming somehow centuries more ancient than the last. So betrayed, the presence of water became a distant echo, the shaft containing air more fetid and damp as Wren descended, her steps silent. Slowing, the dark elf slunk closely, stealing a glancing into the empty doorway, it’s steel panel laying flat just inside the  doorframe.

A keen trap, if there ever was, Wren considered, crouching down to press the corner of the seemingly askew panel. Pinned into the stone floor, the panel swung silently on the diagonal, releasing the stink of impaled dead, the maw gaping to reveal blood-blackened stakes projecting up from the floor below this one, a nasty fall even without the vicious trap.

An Intelligence is here, the Steady considered as she demonstrated her incredible agility, smoothly flowing across the trap in a sinuous ripple, one hand bracing her body as she walked the other edge. Wren had dealt with the Hungerung before, knowing all too well that every entrance and exit would be similarly trapped. Ensuring an exit for herself, the Pistoleer jammed a rock into the simple mechanism of the door, freezing the construct before she once more stood, senses awash in the stink of uncured meat, sour sweat.Head within the lion’s mouth, Wren unstrapped her pistols, the gesture keying to life the arcanic constructs, dust drifting into the empty chambers in her seven guns. In moments, Wren could feel the much heavier weights as the pistols now hung loaded. As was the tenet of the Steady, Wren was obliged to meet force with equal force, rarely straying from this edict when dealing with her enemies, ensuring a fair judgement. Moving along the hallway, Wren allowed her senses to blossom, preternatural abilities a gift from her Drow blood. She was still far away from the main group of the Hungerung, identifying their clustering behaviour as a sign of the appeasing of their needs, her heart sinking at the prospects that lay ahead for the human boy she sought.. Reacting, Wren’s lightning assault caught the stray Ghoul by surprise as he filled the doorway to Wren’s left, Death wrapping the bald, hideous parody in final bliss, his head wrenched free with a violent twist.  Snaring the rags of her victim, Wren helped the ghoul fall silently, wet burbles rushing through his torn neck. She crouched low, surveying the long, wide room, wondering the purpose of so many smaller spaces within a larger one, each tiny space decorated similarly with what seemed perhaps a chair, and some small…desk? FLowing over the wall of the tiny square, Wren slipped a powerfully muscled arm around the woman ghoul’s throat, muscles  flexing, instantly rendering the monstrous creature silent. Stepping backwards out of the cubicle, Wren easily controlled the beast, the ghoul’s body flopping and jumping as she fought for freedom. Jagged talons scrabbled harmlessly along Wren’s nano-shell bracers, a mute struggle that rapidly lessened until the wet crescendo. Thus the dark shape slipped forwards along the abandoned chamber, a whispering Death the fell among the Hungerung. As she killed, the ornate leaf-work on Wren’s Seven Guns grew with each passing soul, the Death Marks increasing in complexity, each gold-inlaid vine sprouting new leaves.  Finding herself at a second stairwell, a mirror to the first, Wren peered carefully through the blasted door frame. The floor beyond had been shattered by some impossible impact, revealing a harrowing drop into a vast cavern below, it’s walls lit by the irregular light of fire. Along the strangely adorned walls of the ancient stone cavern, twisted silouettes danced and cavorted in sympathy with muted, percussive chanting. Producing a narrow cable from within the confines of her trousers, Wren checked her immediate surroundings, her thumb flattening the cable against the jagged steel that protruded from the grip of the strange, gray stone. Flashing briefly, the material of the cable flattened against the steel, seeming to bond to the surface with a strength Wren knew would never break Shedding her looser garments, Wren slipped down the cable into the space below, beads of perspiration sparkling across her shoulders as she lowered herself, hand over hand, silently to the distant floor. Ahead, in a section of less-collapsed structure, the real mass of the Hungerung gathered to welcome their prey, numbering in the hundreds as they milled and massed, coaxed into a collective trance by the invocations of their Witch-maidens.

Separated across many floors by the stone edifice that remained, clots of Ghoulish men and women spiraled and flailed, exhaling faint wails and shrieks as their collective mental energy was siphoned away. Observing silently from concealment, Wren spied the Coven, the group of more ancient True Undead that shepherded the massive colony of ghouls. Rarely would the Coven reveal itself, as their destruction would sever the unnatural long-life that existed for the rest of the Hungerung, and it was this long life and it’s resource of mental energy that served to sustain the Coven. They looked almost human, such was the size of their Hungerung Colony, Wren considered, taking in the Coven’s clothing, the four women and three men clad in the rags they had perhaps died in, strange suits and dresses, a clue  to their age.

These are Ancient Ones! Wren realized, slipping behind the shattered column as she silently cursed her own foolish bravado. Ancient Ones were considered some of the world’s deadliest foes, as they embodied the foulest of magicks and traits, often possessing artificial enhancements granting them not only superior strength but great resilience. Now, having descended into the Hungerung’s lair, Wren’s only recourse was clear. She needed to escape….

“Why is it always cloudy?” Trenton asked, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, hands slotted into the pockets of his Hugo Boss nano-tech slacks, the armor-grade black fabric feeling soft as silk.

“Because this is Detroit, Trent,” Sally replied as she sat at the conference table, a massive, oaken thing that dominated the voluminous room.

“Now come on, our new hire is about to show up. Molly and the others met with him downstairs, and they seem to think he’s the real deal.” the blonde woman, Sally, replied. She was COO of the Tycom Megacorp, the largest manufacturer of nano-tech power systems in the inner orbit. Certainly a hard woman, Sally seemed to have a soft spot for new hires, especially ones from her native Detroit. Beyond the window, Trenton spied…weapons fire?

Mr. Winslow, I must intercede, there are troops closing on the building. Drow Forces-

“Drow forces aren’t our concern, Meg-op,” Trenton replied with a frustrated look, “Our security forces have always proven sufficient in the past.” he expressed, mirroring Sally’s nod.

“Ah, here they are anyways, Meg,” Sally interjected, the woman rising to approach Trenton’s side as the elevator at the end of the room chimed softly. Stepping out as a group, the Tycom Board surrounded the glowing, radiant source of power, each laying a hand upon the young man’s radiant flesh.

“Now we can get down to business!” Trenton expressed happily….

A whirlwind of devastation, Wren dominated her opponents, snap-kicks fully exploding Ghoulish limbs, blistering hooks and crosses pulverizing necks and skulls, gore splattering the walls around her. Coated in guts, Wren proved difficult to grab, easily kicking or ripping free of assailants that fell upon her from every angle, the half-breed beauty beginning to laugh during her defensive onslaught. Above and across the shattered underground structure, the Coven stood fully ensnared in their feeding trance, the zombified men and women playing though some unknown pantomime even as their ghoulish servitors were struck down. Wren’s escape had been interrupted by an unnoticed ghoul that inadvertantly flanked her, the night-skinned girl squeaking in surprise as her cable was disconnected, sending her plummeting back down into the massive cavern. Against the relative silence of the cavern, Wren’s cry echoed, the many hundred ghouls ceasing their weird prancing.

Now, fueled by killing, the Steady leapt to and fro among the ghoulish horrors, landing unnaturally strong strikes that in turn disintegrated bodies, blasting deadly shrapnel outwards from the impact. A fluid concept, Wren occupied the spaces made empty by the deaths she caused, leading the gathering horde of ghouls deeper into the shattered stone catacombs, the wielder of Justice creating a battlefield that choked her enemies advance, replete with intensely confined killing zones. Deeper within the collapsed structure, Wren flipped over strange machines made of glass and steel, their hulls emblazoned with still-rich colors even as the mixed-blood’s attacks hammered them into debris, Wren’s kicks turning the machines into battering rams. Crying out in pained surprise, Wren’s body flew backwards from the impact of a tremendous energy bolt, lightning crackling across nearby metal surfaces. Time stretched around the Steady as she sailed backwards, twin pistols leaping from their holsters, muzzles roaring to life in staccato blasts, returning fire. Clearly Wren had disturbed the trance of the feeding coven, meeting the angry, unnaturally intense gaze of the dark-haired girl with her own smile. Flickering, the Witch-Maiden materialized first left, then right of the column of return fire, translocating through space-time, proof of extensive cyber-enchantment. Still air borne, Wren holstered her weapons, drawing her katana in preparation for the inevitable attack. Twisting in mid-air, the dark warrior met the wall with her feet, straightening her body as she drew her sword, her form parallel to the floor, her blade intersecting the materializing form of the Coven girl.Wearing her surprise, the dark-haired girl in the faded, stained dress gripped the hilt of the nano-steel blade as she sank to her knees. With time still in a fractal state, Wren knelt in front of the dying Witch, weapons aimed over the girl’s shoulders as she engaged, her body shielded by the dying monster. Powerful lightning blasts began to disintegrate the girl’s slight form while Wren returned fire, the dark-skinned beauty crying out in glee as the dark-suited male with a ghastly skull flipped backwards, his brain shattered. Seizing opportunity, Wren leapt forwards, gripping the neck of the nearly-immaterial girl in her left hand…..

“What’s going on down there?” Sally demanded as she stood at the intercom module, glancing worriedly at the stone postures of Wilson, Tabitha, and the attending assistant, a young, pretty waif..Sarah, Sally recalled.

“We barely have enough signatures to complete signing authority,” Trenton shouted angrily, his expression also worried, his fists closing as Meredith’s face fell slack, the aging matron, his Chief technology Officer, suddenly rigid in her stance, despite her hand being against the Glowing One’s skin.

I am sorry, Mr. Winslow, but the buildings central architecture is being attacked by an enemy intelligence, one I have not faced before. I am having to eject board members as their stability degrades…I may not be able to maintain this construct. Meg-op replied, the central Intelligence’s uneasiness clearly palpable.

“If you can’t maintain this construct, Meg, what happens to us?” Sally asked, rising to take Trenton’s hand in a strange display of closeness.

I have maintained this construct for over thirty thousand cycles, Chief Operations Officer I…do not know. The central A.I. replied

“And our security forces?” Trenton asked, his hands moving over a virtual key-pad, his armor-fabric crackling to life, molecular plates rearranging to form extremely dense planes.

…There are no remaining security forces.

Somewhere far below her, Wren could sense a building power, a resonating hum filling the walls and floor as she danced and skipped across the sea of slain Ghouls. Wielding her black katana in one hand, the Steady deflected energy bolts dextrously, allowing the imparted kinetic energy to guide her flowing grace. Shrieking their dismay, the second wave of Witches worked in feverish concert in an attempt to surround and undo the invader, their efforts stymied by Wren’s hellish agility. She could stick briefly to surfaces, the enchantments tattooed into her skin illuminating with green energy as she used them, Words of Power granting her defiance of the material plane, often hanging from the ceiling to evade charges and coordinated blasts. This very same power painted her with the honeyed essence that the Witch-Coven desired above all else, Wren’s body becoming a dancing, bobbing lure to their ravenous need. Changing her attack, Wren flipped in behind a stone column, sprinting round the left a she traded her blade for her now-reloaded guns, long strides carrying her across the gut-strewn floor. The trio of witched flanked, their deaths assured, Wren smiled as she carefully selected each fatal shot, thumb-sized slugs hammering brains as an alarm klaxon began to wail, ancient lighting flaring to life throughout the collapsed structure. Drawn by some unseen power, the scattered corpses of the dead witches rose up and began to drift towards a central point, their bodies crackling and popping, rib-cages and pelvises snapping open to expose whirring, clicking cores. Awaiting them, the last pair of witch-Maiden stood silently, one arm outstretched towards the other, fingers interlocked in a grisly pairing, energy rippling between the man and woman. Revolving around them, the assembled meat-circuits crackled and buzzed, the man’s flesh melting into a growing pool of gore at his feet, his ragged, dark suit changing into oval ports as the woman stepped further aside, their hands still aligned.

“The last of our power,” the pair spoke in eerie unison, with an additional, artificial inflection. “We have existed in this place for a very long time, forever suspended on the edge of life.”

“All things change,” Wren replied, careful of her words, realizing the value of ancient wisdom, no matter how fleeting.

“Who were you?” she asked, weapons sheathed, the girl holding her ground even as the Hungerung God-Man took on the the size and strength of the additional components he grafted to himself. Behind him, the haggard blonde rose from the floor in a very rare display of power, the God-Woman possessing the power of flight, deadly pieces of shrapnel moving to circle her in tight orbits.

“Once we were as you are, things of flesh and mortality,” the pair responded, “Then came the Lasting  War. It’s magicks coupled with our Nano-systems in a result most…unexpected…” the pair spoke as the man began his assault. Empowered by the additional strength and speed of the deceased Witches, Wren struggled to stay ahead of the titan’s thunderous attacks, the Drow sprinting to leap onto the wall, guns drawn to engage the monster. Sprinting to circle the towering behemoth, Wren split her attacks between them, keeping the hovering Arcanist at bay while pummeling the Great Beasts’ knees with rhythmic gunfire, the Steady keenly aware of the passing time as she fought, her heart-rate steadily increasing.

I can’t do this forever, Wren surmised, watching her opponents wounds close rapidly, the Titan’s body drawing material from the legion of dead that surrounded them.

“WARNING! CENTRAL CORE INSTABILITY DETECTED! POWER SYSTEM INSTABILITY DETECTED! EVACUATE PRIMARY MAINFRAME!” A synthetic voice roared throughout the the collapsed structure, the flashing yellow lights turning a sinister red. Narrowly evading the ranged attacks of the flying witch, Wren could feel blood trickling along her skin beneath her armor, each fatal attack turned into a slowly draining wound, such was the speed of the pair’s assault. The Titan kept her moving in a fashion that allowed his ally an opportunity to strike. Fleeing upwards, Wren could find no escape, the titan easily smashing through the stone layers behind her, the Steady harried by the flying witch, gunfire answered by telekinetically hurled debris. Leading them higher in the collapsed structure, Wren’s efforts were redoubled, her lungs filling with the dry, crisp, welcome air of the Great desert as she sprinted up the stairwell, pursued by the cackling glee of the Hungerung God-woman. Springing through the aperture at the top of the ruined staircase, Wren fell to the earth, feet knocked out from under her as the ground shook violently. Exploding upwards, the now much-larger Titan roared into the pale blue sky, a rising cloud of steam billowing, the God-woman rising up with her Enforcer. Slamming fists to the earth, the Titan clambered up through the chasm, a horrifying assemblage of twisted, rotting corpses, laughing gleefully through five mouths as it reached for the prone Drow.

“FIRE!’ shouted a voice from Wren’s left, her world erupting in violent pressure. Sitting heavy on the ancient railway, the three hundred millimeter cannon belched it’s single, enormous round into a distant mountainside, the shell exploding in a tremendous gout of fire. Now without a torso, the Titan fell to pieces, assembled bodies released by their connecting Nano-cables, the hovering God-woman beginning to smoke as she lost her abilities, slowly descending until her feet touched the earth, ragged, half-decayed expression peering about in wonder, seeing the world anew.

“The clouds…they’re gone,” Sally expressed, reaching up towards the sky in supplication, “Trenton will be so happy…” the Hungerung Goddess expressed, even as her flesh became dust, artificially extended life fading as her nano-tech matrix destabilized. Free of the confines of human technology, an unnatural wind began to tear at sand and sky, magical forces flowing back into the dead below, reanimating the hellish horde as energy pulsed from far below the sandy plain. Deafened by the nearby artillery shot, Wren leapt to her feet, turning to sprint towards the collected soldiers that crewed the massive artillery gun. Behind her, the hole in the earth disgorged it’s awful contents, the Hungerung now completely mindless, ravenous as ever.No longer governed by the Intelligence of the Coven, thousands of undead poured up through the massive hole, heads bobbing on broken necks, shattered limb-stumps proving little impediment to their shuffling gait. Deafened by the artillery blast, Wren turned and stood her ground as her allies opened fire, trained men and women, soldiers all, carefully selecting their rifle-shots, even as she chose her pistol targets. In moments, an invisible barrier sprang up between the opposing forces, the wall of fire unleashed by the Gun Crew managing to almost halt the advance of the Hungerung, Wren’s cautious steps backwards now timed. Stationary weapons emplacements roared to life aboard the rail-way gun, adding further fire-power to the fullisade that blanketed the encroaching undead, creating a strange meat-fountain that filled the air with the stink of decaying innards. Quickly, the additional fire pushed the wave of shrieking dead back to the hole in the earth moments before a brilliant flash emanated from below, vaporizing the buried structure and it’s awful occupants, a wide sink-hole falling into the blast-emptied space. Still deaf, Wren turned about face and leapt into the sky, driving her fist upwards with a gleeful cry, her heart gladdened to see the soldiers follow suit, uniform caps spinning high against the pale blue. Among them as they debarked the enormous war machine, Wren gladly gripped forearms in tradition as the soldiers gathered around her. Many had never before seen a Steady, much less a Drow-kin girl of her size and stature. Wren stood equal to the taller men, the muscularity of her form drawing naked interest from the cluster, her grip revealing a strength that was real.

“-ot many dark girls like you I reckon,” spoke the blonde halfling man that stood atop the enormous rail-cannon, his grin from ear to ear, his grey-blue uniform bearing the marks of Captain. SLowly Wren’s hearing returned, letting in the many thanks and praises of the gathered troops

“Though I would hope they smell better! Captain Wynne and the 26^th Company of Iron at your service, Milady,” Captain Wynne called out as he descended the machine, leaping from point to point, his small stature making the machine a climbable structure as he neared. Clearing around him, the soldiers remained at ease as Wynne strode towards the Steady, his gaze appraising.

“We came as fast as we could Milady, once word spread of a Steady here in Windscombe, and it looks as though not a moment too soon. What was that hellish thing? From whence can such a thing be brought?” Cpt. Wynne queried, “The rest of you return us to travel condition, Readiness Factor 1. I want wheels sparking in an hour,” the force commander shouted, using the power of overwhelming victory to further cement the bonds of his troops to their mobile gun.

“I could not save the boy, alas,” Wren acknowledged in dismay, closing the ties on her holsters, the magical hum of her Seven-guns falling silent as she regarded the short Captain. He stood no higher than her hips, a strange sight, but no stranger than she, Wren mused, reaching her hand down to the Halfling.

“Wren, of North Mountain,” Wren remarked, “I was in Windscombe on an unrelated matter when I was approached regarding the Hungerung lair, that they had taken prey recently. There were many more than I anticipated, a result of ancient power.”

“I see, a nest of shocking size, and so close to Windscombe, yet my Company never the wiser. It is I who should be chastised for allowing such to come to pass,” Cpt. Wynne remarked wearing a heavy frown.

“An intelligence controlled the mob so that they preyed on wanderers, and left Windscombe relatively unmolested,” Wren replied, “I have suffered many slight injuries, pray tell you have a medical officer?” Wren asked, once more aware of her numerous lacerations as the excitement of combat faded. Infection was a real danger, even for her kin, as nano-tech could lay in wait for millenia, or magical creatures, that attracted to the scent of fresh blood.

“That is one thing I do not possess, my medical officer has been slain for some time now, and I have had no luck hiring a suitable candidate. I can, however, offer you a berth aboard the Archimedes during our return to the Windscombe Redoubt. Perhaps there you can see to your injuries?” Cpt. Wynne offered, Wren looking past him towards the great hulk of iron that squatted menacingly upon the triple-rail track. The main gun once more moored in it’s transport cradle, the train possessed a monolithic air, diesel engines rising to full power to energize the magnetic coils buried deep within the Archimedes’ heart.

“She’s gorgeous!” Wren assented, balling her fists on her hips, “Although I may be frank, I have never set foot on such a construct.”

“Then by all means Milady, please, come aboard the Archimedes. You will not find her wanting, I promise you!” Cpt. Wynne declared with assured bravado, stepping to the side as he swept his arm towards the enormous construct.

Instantly in love, Wren marveled at the interior of the train, the air cool and refreshing, the hum of enormous engines a faint suggestion in the background, kept far away by sumptuously appointed interior surfaces, rows of finely inlaid oak and ash highlighted by gold and silver accents. Cpt. Wynne had not exaggerated in the least, Wren realized, taken aback by the incredible juxtaposition the Train represented, the crew quarters consisting of an attached car just behind the Train’s primary weapons-cradle. This allowed the crew to swarm about the Train’s weapons array, constantly cleaning and maintaining her guns, the smell of weapon oil wafting through the hatch at the far end of the car, their salutes crisp and professional as they passed her open door. Among them, Wren’s status granted her a provisional rank of lieutenant, though this was only in effect should the Company’s own lieutenants be slain. In this event, Wren would be drafted into their ranks until a given conflict ended, her responsibilities as Steady temporarily prorogued.

“Most of us thought your kind a myth,” Sgt. Maynard spoke as he stood behind the Steady, the half-elven youth selected by Wren for his calm nerve, skilled hands. Working diligently, the soldier followed Wren’s instruction to the letter, weaving the needle and thread through the worst of the cuts between her shoulders, where Wren could not reach.

“What is that sound I am hearing?” Wren asked, constantly aware of faint percussion.

‘The P.A. system,” Sgt. Maynard replied, “The Captain values music above all else, the real old-world stuff, from before the war. He would rather trade all the wealth in the world for music, as nothing means anything to someone else, but music. I think I’m about done back here,” the brown-haired half-elf remarked, trading the needle and thread for a mirror.

“You have done very well, my thanks,” Wren remarked as she looked into the wall mirror, focusing on the reflection. The sergeant’s sutures were neat and closely spaced, drawing Wren’s wounds into narrow disruptions that wept only slightly, tattoos magically reconstituting themselves around the marks in her obsidian skin.

“You are well versed then? In technologies? As Steady I know only that which will serve me, basic field craft, the nature of evil, and the Book of Justice,” Wren asked, reaching into her thigh pocket to produce a small, flat rectangle of some strange crystal.

“Possibly that may be the greatest discovery of our time,” Sgt. Maynard replied, taking the device from Wren, his demeanor reverent. “It needs to be charged, but these are the things that Cpt. Wynne covets. I believe they are some kind of recording device from the ancient times. Like some of the systems on board, they take a lot of work to keep up and running, but-Hey! Mayguh! C’mere a second, come and see this!” Sgt. Maynard called out through the open door of the cabin, catching the attention of a raven-tressed halfling woman as she trotted along the hallway.

‘Wuzzat? I have a rank you know,” the spry female retorted somewhat hurt, her blue eyes sparking.

“I apologize, Lt. Mayguh, I just-”Sgt. Maynard stammered, silenced abruptly by the Lt’s raised hand.

“That’s enough from you. Is this yours?” she asked, meeting Wren’s gaze squarely as she took the offered device, her glance quickly surveying Wren’s physique.

“Aye, it is mine,” Wren replied plainly.

“Showers are  at the end of the hall. By the time you are cleaned up, I should have this up and running. I’ve never seen a Drow before. Word has it you’re from North Mountain? What is it that you eat up there? Other, smaller,elf-kin? You’re enormous,” the officer remarked as she sat down on the cabin bench next to the Drow, pulling her goggles up from her neck while she produced a small pouch of fine tools. Drawing a short length of cable, the lieutenant connected the device into the wall via a port that Wren had not initially spied.

“This way,” Sgt. Maynard expressed, offering Wren a clean, plain towel and a small handful of bead-soaps before gesturing out the cabin doorway. “We ration our hot water to keep-”

“Take as much as you like, I imagine it’s been some time since your last hot wash.” the officer interrupted, “The heat is waste energy from our power plant, so it’ll never run out.”

“Liuetenant!” Sgt. Maynard exclaimed in surprise. His expression confused.

“I’m an engineer and you are not,” Lt. Mayguh smiled as she looked up from the device, her grin wide beneath the heavy, multi-aspect goggles. Disregarding the pair, Lt. Mayguh returned to her inspection of the device, a small square portion flickering to life in her delicate care…

She possessed a slow, rolling gait that whispered of fluid agility, perhaps deadly, overwhelming power, even dressed in the casual blue and grey uniform of his company, Cpt. Wynne noted as he stood on the catwalk. Below, his infantrymen sparred and sweated, honing their combat training in constant preparation, one of the elements that hardened Wynne’s Hammer, men and women training equally to ensure every one of them a deadly combatant. Filling the catwalk, the Drow Steady was tall, with comparably broad shoulders, intensely exaggerating the hour-glass of her waist, her eyes downcast as she regarded the training area below, her bootheels clicking s she strode towards him.

“My thanks again Captain, this ‘shower’ was truly remarkable, and the heat of the water…a miracle!” Wren remarked, taking the Captain’s offered forearm.

“The pleasure is all mine, and the Company’s thanks are yours, Wren,” the blonde man replied as he looked back towards the training area. “What do you think?”

“Your soldiers are very capable, especially your lieutenant Mayguh. She…is very forwards, I haven’t met very many halflings with her backbone,” Wren responded, wearing a wry smile.

“Yes, I agree, but Mayguh is unrivaled when it comes to the old technologies, her knowing is innate, perhaps a little scary. When she was younger, her family was slain by Goblin Berserkers from West Marsh, she was the only survivor, thanks to her understanding.”
”How so? I doubt Berserkers would sit to listen to reading,” Wren replied, folding her arms across her chest, thick shoulders and biceps drawing the uniform taut. Her great strength could not dent her femininity, lending the Steady the air of a powerful predator.

“Well, I’ll leave the fine details to Saril, but over in the corner, that machine? That’s her Ogre, the only one of it’s kind as far as I can tell., atleast the only working one,” Cpt. Wynne pointed to the corner of the training deck. The machine stood unknown beneath a heavy, gray tarp, a menacing barrel poking from beneath the right side.

“Amazing!” Wren exclaimed, “In fact, were I not to see the splendor within Archimedes, I would doubt any who told me of it!” the Drow-kin expressed brightly, looking about in wonder at the complex interior construction of the war machine, the myriad pipes and conduits criss-crossing, disappearing to whatever unknown destination they raced to..

“This? Hah! This is nothing!” Cpt. Wynne replied, “Come with me, We can take a look at her real treasures. This way,” Cpt. Wynne gestured, nodding towards the far end of the catwalk.

In the Heart, Wren marveled at the holographic representation of the massive rail weapon, the green wire-frame image depicting her living crew as red dots, each one carrying a tiny label that included biometrics, activity, and readiness level. Everyone remained at readiness level 1, save for Wren, the lone blue dot.

“I…why do I not have a readiness level?” Wren asked, faintly hurt to be ranked so poorly.

“You do,” Cpt. Wynne replied, reaching up to double-tap the projection, triggering a magnification of Wren’s input. Filling the space above the projectors, her image was real-time, the borders around her rolling full with constant scans and measurements, a large title below her indicating readiness level 0, sensory input prioritizing the magical tattoos under her skin, her dangerous musculature, labels denoting her ultra-vision capability, listing her as a potential assassin resource.

“Were we in combat, I would assault you first, as you are by many factors more dangerous than almost everything we have aboard. In fact, I would elect not to jeopardize the Archimedes herself and engage you at range,” the halfling Captain explained.

“Likely I would deploy Lt. Mayguh and her Ogre to combat you directly, with fire support from the Archimedes, but thankfully I can see you like the Archimedes and by extension her crew…right?” Cpt. Wynne remarked with a sly grin, a moments silence before laughter erupted between them, Wren’s surprised joy a high clarion.

“Ah, thank you Captain, I have not been so struck by the beauty of this world for some time, in my profession I walk…the darker places,” Wren expressed. “So often the things from the old times bear such malice and hate that to survive them is to be…changed, much like the Hungerung at Windscombe.”

“Speaking of WIndscombe, we are approaching the old redoubt, where we will engage the base. Hopefully we will have enough time to refuel and re-arm before the vampires push us back. It’s just before noon, so that gives us a fair five hours fighting before we are obliged to retreat.” Cpt. Wynne expressed as he lead Wren up a spiral stairwell to the Visual Bridge.

“Oh my…” Wren expressed, turning slowly as she stood at the top of the stairwell. Surrounded by the vast, unending plain of the Great Desert, near-blinding light filling the armored bridge. It was as standing atop a mountain, Wren reasoned, realizing they were screens that displayed the view, the navigation crew sitting in pockets of instrumentation below the mammoth displays.

“The displays receive their input data from the crow’s nest above the main chassis, which in turn is projected here,” Captain Wynne stated proudly. “From here, we wage war on the things that threaten those who cannot wage war for themselves…for a modest fee of course,” the halfling commander added. “Oft times we simply elect to replenish our ranks from the willing, of which there is no end, but recently I have had to seek specialized help, like our medical officer. She has been gone…some time now,” he expressed, his face clouding.

“She?…I see,” Wren remarked, discretely touching the Captains arm, “I am sorry. She was more…”

“Alas such are the tides of war, the ebb and flow,” Cpt. Wynne replied, briefly meeting Wren’s countenance before the iron mask of discipline stilled his expression.

“When we arrive at the redoubt, we will be able to dock, but further than that, I make no guarantees-”

“I will guarantee this,” Wren interrupted, “I will take unto Them the the Book of Justice, and they will heed me, and my Will,” Wren expressed the psalm, her face heavy with unspoken intent….

“You sure about this?” Lt. Mayguh’s voice crackled from the Ogre’s external speakers, the massive chassis sweeping the 40mm auto-cannon back and forth to cover the dark, gaping maw of the loading dock. Once more dressed in her customary black armor-vest and leather, Wren wore her pitols across her thighs, her katana angled across the bare of her back, just above her pistol belt.

“It’s such a lovely day out today, it’d be a shame to miss it just for a few vampires,” Wren replied, her tone light and jovial as the wind plucked at her bangs, keen mind aware of the faint, psychic hiss that vampire dens radiated. For humans, the psychic field was akin to faint, alluring music, ever-present and beautiful.

“It is a lovely day out,” Lt. Mayguh agreed, popping the armored hatch of the Ogre’s cockpit, “What’s that sound? I can’t…” the halfling girl asked, her expression confused.

“You’re part human,” Wren realized aloud, turning to regard the pilot, “Listen to it carefully, the real weakness of the vampire lay within it,” Wren explained. “Even as they call to you, they yearn and are drawn to you in turn. Reach into what you feel, and take the time to remember who you are.”Wren instructed, standing still as she monitored the latent ability of the Halfling Lt.

She’s powerful,Wren mused, remaining still as a single vampire emerged from within the deep blackness of the loading bay, the young girl’s expression a confused mixture of joy, fear, elation.

Bound by the power of light, the vampiress halted at the terminator, her gaze locked upon the Lt. She was a newer monster, still possessing more human than monstrous traits, likely serving the den as a lure, acting to lower the defenses of any colonies that the den might seek to attack. Irises flaring, Wren peered into the deep black, spying an increasing number of vampires emerging from the numerous doorways dotting the buildings withing the larger hangar.

“The master…where is it?” Wren asked the vampiress, the girl’s intense, almost piercing gaze falling upon her, brilliant green contrasting the black hair.

“Far away…Sleeping, always hungry, but sleeping in the mountain fastness,” the vampiress replied, the monsters behind her in deeper shadow possessing muchly reduced humanity, their features drawn into sick parodies of Man, enlarged biting jaws dominating their faces, eyes steadily blinding over time, the hallmarks of years, perhaps decades of undying thirst.

Without warning, the vampiress was struck unconscious by Wren’s merciless round-house kick, even as the Drow leapt into the shadows, the girl’s limp body sliding across the metal floor plates of the loading dock. Falling upon her as a tidal wave upon the shore, the gathered beasts shrieked and wailed, demanding their share of Wren’s sweet, heavenly blood. Wickering around her, Wren’s katana flashed into life, disconnecting portions from pieces, sending parts of bodies flying away as she began to laugh. Obeying the Steady’s orders, the combat group remained in the bright desert sunlight, weapons firing into the hangar deck to support the Steady as she worked, the ogre’s armored hatch slamming shut as Lt. Mayguh recovered from her near-trance. Firing 40mm HEAT ammunition, the Ogre’s weapon thundered above the din in a rhythmic boom-boom-boom, shells shattering vampires relentlessly. Before battle, Wren had consecrated their weapons with litanies from the Book of Justice, every aspect of the weapons-fire setting vampires ablaze in holy light.

“ADVANCE!” Wren shouted as the wave of Vampires crumbled, the Drow-kin sprinting after them, Words of Power brightly lit against her jet skin, her combination of melee and sword-skill laying waste to the undead horde. Bolstered by her leadership, the men and women of Wynne’s Hammer charged into the black, flashlamps engaging automatically in the dark as they controlled their fire, fullisade weakening into staccato bursts as their enemies seemed to dwindle.

“Destroy their brains before you drag them out there,” Wren remarked matter-of-factly as she stood watch over the collected heap of dead. “I don’t do this to torture them,” Wren added, the drow-kin inhaling the dry, fresh desert air as she watched over the disposal process.

“I can say we have never experienced this kind of success against the Vampires before, Milady, our thanks,” Captain Wynne stated as he approached, ever crisp and polished in his uniform, nary a hair out of place.

“Lt. Mayguh deserves the praise, Captain, not I,” Wren replied, wearing her customary smile as she raised a thumb In the direction of the massive, clumping Ogre. Dragging knots of butchered Vampires, the ogre plodded back and forth into the bright light of the day.

“I don’t understand,” Cpt. Wynne replied, wearing confusion.

“She’s a little human, somewhere under her intelligence, and she’s a Force,” Wren replied, tapping her temple as she spoke. “Mayguh called this one out to her, a very rare ability to overwhelm the hive-mind, the master’s mind.” Wren explained. “Tonight the master will come for its lost lamb, and I will be waiting,” Wren explained as she gestured to the blind-folded and bound Vampiress that lay tucked  in next to a stack of supply crates, protected by shadow.

“Thats why she is still alive!” Cpt. Wynne inhaled sharply, “She’s bait!”

“Technically no, this fair waif is considered a lure, but you are on the right path. Now the the Master has felt the psychic presence of your warrior-engineer, It will need to come and dominate the Lieutenant, to take her as it’s own, adding to it’s already formidable power,” the Steady reasoned.

“These things do not change, not ever,” Wren spoke, feeling a faint chill as she recalled the last Master she faced directly.

“Maysa had been changed when she was but a child, and thus she was keen enough to escape her enthrallment, but that was a very long time ago, even before the Great Drought,” Wren began, accepting the offered canteen, taking a moment to drink before continuing…

…Lightning flashing, rain buffeted Wren’s Long Coat as she faced the diminutive Maysa, massive raindrops splashing down around them. Maysa’s nest had been destroyed, drawing the Master’s ire, and her attention, to Wren.

“I have worked very hard to build this nest,” Maysa expressed politely, red energy burning in her eyes as she took in the sight of her many destroyed Lambs, lightning seemingly flashing at the young girl’s control.

“I will not apologize for what this is,” Wren replied plainly, green light rising from the Words tattooed in her flesh, visible across her collar bones, her guns, her sword having proven futile against Maysa’s incredible power. The Master demonstrated the ability to deflect the path of inanimate materials, reflecting pistol fire and sword-strikes into Wren’s body, her dark blood seeping from beneath her armor, proof that despite Wren’s tremendous ability, a Master Vampire was another force all together. Flickering, Maysa began her assault, meeting Wren in matched ferocity. Her finger-nails were akin to hardened steel, ripping clean through Wren’s Long Coat, scattering sections of reinforced armor around the hill-top where they fought. Catching the slender waif with a rising knee, Wren cursed, pain flashing through her leg as she connected. Striking Maysa physically was like striking iron, unnatural power hardening the girl’s form. Ignoring the pain, Wren stepped into the double-snap kick, knocking Maysa’s legs out before hammering her into a rock outcropping with enough power to shatter the stone surface….

“Master Vampires are not a thing to be trifled with,” Wren added, tightening the cap onto the steel canteen,  the threads squeaking in protest.

“Captain, I think that’s all of them,” Lt. Mayguh spoke, the Ogre striding towards them across the metal deck-plates, weapon slung along it’s right shoulder.

“Very good Lieutenant, finish our resupply as necessary while the Steady and I take a peek inside the central Hub. I doubt anyone has seen the inside of this place since the Before Time.” Cpty. Wynne expressed, offering a curt nod. “As an after thought, I may need your tech skills in the hub, please join us when you can,Lt.” Cpt. Wynne added, looking about the now well-lit loading bay. The Archimedes chuffed and puffed as it slowly rolled into the gigantic berth, ramps and gang-ways extending on cue from within the tiers of the automated loading facility.

“REFUELING OPERATIONS COMMENCING-PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF SUPPLY APPARATUS!” The voice of the Archimedes boomed throughout the loading bay, a deep, tenor announcement that brought a smile to Cpt. Wynne’s face.

“She can be intimidating when she wants to be,” the halfling chuckled. “What will we face inside the Hub?”

“Traps possibly, perhaps a few dozen of the weakest thralls,” Wren spoke as she lead the Captain towards the central Com tower, the steel and stone edifice dominating the inset buildings. “There will likely be room to room fighting if we get bogged down. If that happens, watch my six, I’ll work as quickly as I can.” the Steady remarked, drawing her black katana as she neared the doorway to the platform stairwell.

“Come out come out!” Wren called into the darker interior space, rapping her blade against the doorframe loudly, her reflexes significantly faster than those of the captain as Wren intercepted the sprinting thrall. Stepping behind the raging attacker, Wren’s palm slammed into the boys forehead, forcing his skull back and down as she kicked out his back leg, his neck snapping loudly as she compressed his spine. Uttering a final, rattling cough, the dead thrall pitched over forwards beneath Wren as she stepped ahead, cutting the head from the next shrieking thrall by pinching the girl’s neck against the steel edge of a partially open door. Covering Wren’s back, Cpt. Wynne sidestepped a third  attacker as he drew his combat knife, deftly flipping the blade across the back of his hand before delivering a rising thrust upwards into the grey-haired man’s exposed neck, blade piercing brain efficiently. In minutes, the remaining thralls lay dead or dying around them, bodies littering the blood-wet stairs.

“Well that was intense,” Cpt. Wynne exhaled raggedly as he wiped blood and gore form his combat knife, blood spatter marking his normally pristine uniform.

“Well done Captain,” Wren nodded, wearing her usually wide grin, “Let’s have a drink sometime, perhaps, if we survive the night that lay ahead.” Wren remarked.

“Steady, will it be so terrible?” the Captain asked, his steps quick to follow her up the spiralling stairwell…

...Wren maintained the upper hand, delivering powerful attacks to consistently force Maysa back towards her hill-side hideaway. During the previous day, Wren had armed the facility with many dozens of shaped charges, intending the isolate the Master Vampire within before vaporizing the entire installation. She had underestimated Maysa’s durability, a mistake Wren paid for even now, her body bearing many bleeding cuts that served to feed the monster. During their battle, Maysa’s psycho-kinetic field acted a siphon, drawing away the blood that Wren lost, ensuring that every exchange of strength left Maysa the stronger.

“You can’t  last forever,” the Beast intoned gleefully, inserting her index finger into her mouth, a lewd lollipop. She had been Changed just on the cusp of womanhood, her breasts no more than suggestions, her hips barely developed, most likely as an offense to whatever family had offended her once-master.

“ANd you’re a juvenile brat!” Wren replied, unable to deny the truth. Soon, one of Maysa’s attacks would prove faster than Wren could match, and the Drow-kin would die, her death sustaining the monster-child. Watching the Master’s expression, Wren realized she had struck a nerve, seeing Maysa’s face pinch at the reference to her age, her maturity.

‘C’mon you little twerp,” Wren added, waving for the teen girl to attack, faintly regretting her additional insult as the psycho-kinetics around the Master Vampire increased in intensity, the swirling sphere of stone fragments blasting outwards with Maysa’s enraged cry. While vampires could not teleport, they could move fast enough to seem so, the pig-tailed girl in the tattered summer dress striking near-simultaneously from three angles, drawing Wren’s hand-to-hand skills to their limit. Interrupting the attack, Wren lashed out, a back-hand slap hammering Maysa into a pirouette that left her sprawled on the muddy, rain-soaked earth.

“Oh so sad,” Wren sneered, “Mama ne’er hugged you enough? Maybe Papa didn’t see you shine?,” she pressed, dancing through Maysa’s counter-attack to deliver a pair of stinging slaps, the Steady at last finding the chink in the Master’s armor. She had loved her parents dearly, Wren realized, and perhaps had killed them in the throes of her thirst.

“I’LL KILL YOU BITCH!” the Master Vampire roared, slapping her hands together to mime a pistol, the thundering shock-wave materializing in a knife edge of rippling pressure…

“Master Vampires are an unusual sort,” Wren spoke as she stood guard, wacthing the Captain as he perused the computer files still retained in the memory banks of the ReARM Facility. It was called Ticonderoga, they had discovered, ancient power systems coming into full operation as the halfling Captain keyed the central console in one of the recessed stations. Blowing away the accrued dust, Cpt, Wynne lightly hopped into the station chair, his hands flaoting across the virtual keyboard that materialized above the smooth, blank surface.

“How so?” Wynne responded, ‘I mean, beyond immortality, preternatural ability, and what have you,” he added before keying his personal radio. “Mayguh. I’m gonna need you up here to speed this up, bring one of your externals,” Cpt. Wynne ordered.

“-opy that, Captain, I’m on my way,” the lieutenant replied, her voice audibly excited at the prospect of ancient tech.

“Vampires exist only to serve their own needs, and that of their Master. But the Master will always have an Aspect, or a sort of psuedo-emotional complex, something that makes them unique among their kind. It can be rage, or serenity, or love, or any one of the myriad other traits that the living possess.” Wren explained, kicking the toe of her boot against the stair railing support.

“The last Master, in fact the only true Master I have faced, hers was confidence, belief in herself. She had been changed just as she blossomed, and would be forever trapped in the arc between girl and woman. She was very ancient by the time I found her…”

…In full retreat, Wren stumbled backwards through the steel doors of the facility, slamming them shut as quickly as she could, in an attempt to buy precious time from the whirling maelstrom she had conjured. Behind her, Maysa roared wordlessly as she focused her power, steel and stone disintegrating effortlessly, vibrations building as her psycho-kinetics approached a terrible peak. The girl-monster had given up on physically besting Wren, her abilities blunted by Wren’s constant harassment, for which Wren was secretly grateful. Now, the greater problem loomed, as Wren was forced to seek refuge in the very facility she intended to immolate. Without hesitation, Wren fired through the doors, her Seven-guns belching hellish red as they discharged, coin-sized holes appearing int the armored doors, two tight groups.

I hit her? Wren noted as her unseen enemy screamed in a high-pitched wail, Maysa’s diminutive body materializing in the instant it took for the roof to disintegrate. Swiping the guns out of Wren’s hands viciously, Maysa wrenched the Drow-hybrid upwards from the floor, the pair rising into the wild storm that raged above the hill-top facility before Maysa hurled Wren towards the earth…

“One hell of a mess downstairs,” Lt. Mayguh spoke as she climbed the last of the steel steps up into the Com tower’s central hub, the freckle-cheeked hlafling technologist carrying a small, nondescript metal box dangling cables. “Is everything ok up here? Did you get taller?”

“Ha! No, Lieutenant, I did not,” Wren replied, clapping the soldier on the back as she passed, “What is that you carry? Likely something I do not ken, I reckon,” the snow-haired beauty surmised.

“This is called an external drive, complete with an integrated power system. I had a dream a while back, and when I woke up, I knew how to build these,” the Halfling girl spoke as she traded places with her commanding officer, skillfully interconnecting the mess of cables with ports in the blank metal surface below the virtual screen.

“A dream? And before you never knew about these…drives?” Wren asked, her curiosity piqued. “Savants are rare, I must say, even in my lifetime you are the first I have met.”

“Umm, thanks, I guess, but the way you say that makes me feel as maybe being a Savant isnt necessarily good…?” Lt. Mayguh frowned, her hands dancing across the holographic keypad. If the Captain had a working knowledge of the old systems, Lt. Mayguh composed symphonies on them, her console soon boasting additional key-interfaces, these bearing unknowable symbols and notations, with read outs soon running on their own onscreen.

“I’ll have core access soon, sir,” the lt. Remarked, “Permission to listen to music while I work?” the soldier asked.

“FInd something new Lieutenant?” Cpt. Wynne asked, taking the small device the soldier held up.

“Not me, sir, this belongs to the Steady. I cracked the encryption while we were clearing the refueling deck.”

“Well done lieutenant! Oh man I love these things, all the stuff they have on them, sometimes music, sometimes vi-dat files, they’re always a really crazy look into the ancient times,” Cpt Wynne exclaimed, his expression betraying his youth. “Patch it into the P.A. system, if it’s awful I want everyone to feel our pain,” the Captain remarked with a wry grimace, “And if it’s good, I’m starting the pool at five hundred.”

“Pool?” Wren asked, hunching over the lieutenants shoulder as she worked, the halfling’s fingers swimming across the multiple layers of key-inputs. Reading the displays, Wren felt she was getting close to understanding the long strings of symbols, the intricacy of machine-language not quite bubbling to the surface of her mind.

“We always have a pool to guess all the instruments used in a given musical work, and it costs five to make a guess, but that guess can be as long or as short as a person wants,” Lt. Mayguh replied, her head bobbing to the staccato percussion that emanated from the Com deck speakers, her hands moving perceptably faster as her focus intensified.

“I’m not allowed to play anymore, though” Lt. Mayguh remarked, sweeping her hands right to left to clear her screens, the massive, central screens springing to life above them, filling the overwatch windows with endlessly scrolling data.

“Core access, Captain,” Lt. Mayguh expressed, “I have integrated control of the facility from here, file corruption at seventy percent, but there’s still alot here, probably more than the Archimedes can download. We are t-minus sixty five minutes to sun-set.”

“What have we got lieutenant?” Cpt. Wynne queried as he manuevered to sit in a second station.

“Ticonderoga went off-line in the first days of the Lasting War, sir, time stamp 10:20:2207, just after dusk,” Lt. Mayguh expressed, the massive central screen depicting a 3/4 view of the Central Processing Yard engulfed in full-scale combat. Real Ogres fought mechanized chassis as Drow forces swarmed over the perimeter defenses, utilizing armor-defeating magicks and piercing weaponry to defeat the human soldiers that defended the base. Clad in dark, smoking armor blessed by the Spider Queen, the drow swordsmasters flashed through the massed defenders quickly, as even close proximity to the smoking metal caused intense sickeness culminating in a bloody, vomiting death. Prior to the wars, magick had been separated from the bulk of Humanity by the COncordat of the Five, as was decreed by the last Dragon of the world, Shel’marath, leaving each major race to govern it’s own affairs. Within a thousand years, mankind dominated the globe, with striking advances in technology, medicine, and science. Onscreen, each spear-head was bolstered by the chaotic power of a priestess of Lloth, lightning bolts and miniature cyclones tearing the facility’s defenders asunder.

“Your fore-folk weren’t very nice,” Lt. Mayguh expressed softly as the trio absorbed the level of violence employed by Wren’s Drow-kin, each passing moment of the battle revealing greater horrors emerging from the smoking holes in the courtyard. When all seemed lost, the facility underwent a Gamma Pulse, the last bastion of human defenders choosing instead to sacrifice their lives to defeat the invaders, the onscreen data indicating a catastrophic release of reactor energy, the brief flash instantly killing all living organisms within range of the base. Looking about in confusion, the leashed squads of vampires and vampiress’ regarded one another gleefully, tearing off their shackles, their mistresses dead. As if on cue, the groups of vampires disbanded, moving apart from one another in the deepening night, representing the sad vulnerability of the ignorant masses.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Wren exhaled softly, taking in the weight of what she had seen, the sheer violence, the brutality of her people as they waged war. None had been safe, no quarter given against children, nor women, combatants or otherwise. After the nuclear destruction of the Great City Menzzoberranzan, the remaining few million Drow found themselves disconnected form Lloth, a punishment for their abject failure. Without her protective graces, the denizens of the deep Earth proved too great a challenge, leaving women and boy-children marooned upon the surface of the earth, the vast majority of males of fighting age turned to radioactive ash. Drow were extremely long-lived, with only a few generations passing since the start of their slavery, their species slowly and inexorably added into the genetic material of the Human masters they knelt before. Wren could feel their eyes upon her, the pair of halflings regarding her with an new, more guarded air.

“Steady, I apologize for what happened to your people-” Cpt. Wynne remarked.

“They are not my people,” Wren interrupted angrily, “I would be slain as surely as you both, if only for my…impurity,” she spoke, punching her palm angrily, suddenly realizing the depth of the hatred she felt for her pure-blood kin.

“I need some air,” the Steady remarked curtly, the halfling soldiers conscious to remain silent as she left the Com Hub.

“I would not go,” Maysa spoke as she floated above the earth, the Master Vampiress regarding her companion flatly, the slender, pig-tailed girl looking no more than thirteen years old, the wind pulling at her tattered flowers-on-blue sun dress. She could feel the Steady’s distant rage, the intense anger charging her mind, a distant thunderstorm. A Master could not know fear, but Maysa was no one’s fool, very certain that in the passing years the Drow-kin had not only grown stronger, but much more deadly. She had heard rumor that for the first time in history, trees had taken root along the barrels of the Drow’s Seven-guns, leaving behind the vine motif to accurately represent so many death-marks. Wiggling her toes in the as she hovered in air, Maysa boasted pristine ivory skin only slightly tinted with the dark veins common to the undead, her pouting lips full beneath her upturned nose. Freckles liberally splashed across her slight shoulders, such was her promise of a future beauty never to be realized. Her large, green eyes held the glowing, red embers of Dranek’s fury easily, the Master Vampire’s rage palpable at the loss of his most prized Den.

“You would not go because you are cowardly,” Dranek responded, the massive, hulking brute flexing beneath layers of armor, “I must go, for she has seen somewhat into me, Maysa,” Dranek added, reaching down to take up the adamantine wing-tip he had fashioned into a broadsword of sorts. Clad in bands of metal nailed into his skin, Dranek had enforced his will over the Great Desert for nearly four hundred years. Sadly, Maysa realized Dranek’s Aspect was strength, even though he possessed so much, he could not resist the lure of more.

“There is a mechanized army with the Steady, Dranek, you will die,” Maysa added as she continued to drift along by the ten-foot monster’s side. “I have faced her, and barely did I escape, and not without losing everything I had gained in the process. She was alone and unprepared when she faced…when she deposed me from Hilltop Cybertech!,” Maysa exclaimed, reaching to touch Dranek’s broad shoulder, “She was but a child then, and she was a horrifying force! This Steady is not like the others you have killed! She is faster, and so, so much stronger, not to mention her skill…Dranek, you go to die, and I would ask but why?” Maysa pleaded in a rare display of feeling for her fellow master…

ALways a storm, Wren mused as she looked skywards, the darkening sky quickly filling with angry, pregnant clouds, a rarity in this part of the Great Desert. Alone, Wren could feel the Master approaching, the world becoming less alive, more faded with each passing moment, even as large raindrops began to spatter upon the metal plates of the loading dock. She had ordered the Archimedes moved to a safe distance, it’s crew maintaining a defensive perimeter, their scopes and sensors aligned upon the ReARM base as Wren waited. They would lay waste to the facility if Wren should fall, the Archimedes having taken on enough supplies to remain fast for another year, more if rationed. Wearing her armored vest and greaves, Wren idly clanked her bootheels against the deck plates, akin to bored equines in their pens, stamping only to make noise. Dangling behind her waist, water fell from the handle of her Katana, her Seven-guns humming in the suddenly cold air.

“I miss my long coat,” Wren spoke into the communicator that wrapped her throat, longing for the warm layers of protection it had once offered.

“Can you find another one?” Cpt. Wynne replied through the tiny bud in her ear, the little tech miracle keeping Wren in close contact with the miles-distant rail fortress. Now fully fueled, all the Archimedes tertiary systems had been brought to full power, unlocking a technological cornucopia of telecommunications options, her every weapons system brought to readiness level 0, even the activation of the Primary Anti-matter Laser was now possible, Wren had been told, though she had no idea what that phrase meant. She kept that part to herself.

“A Steady’s Long Coat is unique to them, and it’s part of their Sojourn Kit. The few things we leave the Field House with, it comprises a large part. It warms us, and protects us. Mine even helped heal my wounds while I slept,” Wren explained, “but it’s time. The Master has come,” Wren concluded, turning slowly to face the giant as he seemed to appear from nothing, dust swirling up from the sand to form his tremendously muscled body.

“You are wise to remove your hapless soldiers from my home,” the Master spoke, his voice a reverberating growl, the tip of his obscene broadsword clinking against the deck as he stepped closer, his eyes raping Wren as she stood still, his eager intent naked. Responding to the presence of evil, energy began to course through Wren’s skin, various sigils brightening into life, Words of Strength, Speed, and Stamina woven together upon the girdle of muscle surrounding Wren’s collarbones.

“They have been consecrated against your ilk, so live or die, they will erase this place with you in it,” Wren replied, knowing the Master’s Aspect even as she gauged his power.

“My strength will surpass yours, you WHORE!” the Master Vampire roared into the night as he charged, the pressure wave shocking moisture out of the air where he stood, such was his speed. Matching him, Wren deflected his deadly power, lifting herself high into a forward flip over her attacker, her sliding kick hammering the backs of the Master’s knees before Wren rolled away. Pirouetting, the armor-plated Master cleaved the dura-steel deck plates, kicking the cloven steel towards Wren, his power mashing the steel into a spray of molten spears, accelerating  behind the deadly projectiles to close the distance to his prey. With sinuous, almost boneless flexibility, the snow-haired beauty wove herself through the oncoming deluge of killing steel, dropping flat to the deck between the Master’s feet as he thundered past, unable to stop himself.

She’s too fast, Dranek worried silently, cursing himself and his own arrogance for not heeding the tiny Maysa’s warning. Around them, Dranek could feel the circle of containment shimmering in and out of reality, the powerful enchantment having activated when he stepped across it in his foolish bravado. Were Dranek to flee, the circle would complete, and his physical body would be torn asunder, his soul cast out into the between-space. While he would return in time, depending on the power of the spell, it may take months, or centuries for him to do so. With his strength, Dranek’s blade shrieked through the air, minor imperfections in the adamantine hull metal vibrating with each devastating stroke, yet he could not seek the girl out. A living organism, the Steady’s sweaty body filled the air around the Master with sweet, awful promise, his mind splintering as a monster’s could when presented with a dancing, maddening lure to his most desperate delights. Stars flared in Dranek’s field of view as she connected, the Steady’s armored boot finding the corner of Dranek’s jaw with the force of a falling boulder. Spinning off of his feet, Dranek’s broadsword went flying, sparking and clattering across the long deck as the Master crashed to the plates. Seizing opportunity, the rain-soaked Steady delivered a second field-kick to the Master’s toothy maw, propelling the Beast into the sky. As he rose, pistol fire raced through Dranek’s flesh, the monster realizing the Drow had lensed his armor’s gaps, each annointed shot spearing through his exposed flesh, setting him ablaze from within. Screaming in abject agony, the Master caught fire high aloft, radiating brilliant, golden light across a vast swath of desert. Still burning as he descended, Dranek barely felt the inercepting round-house kick that shot him west, out onto the sand dunes, water cooling and quenching the flames that engulfed him. Recovering quickly, Dranek sped across the rain-drenched dunes, his body transforming, his arms elongating as his visage became gorilla. Snaring the Drow, Dranek roared in victory as he raised her, the girl’s ribs popping loudly as she screamed in pain. Freeing her right arm, the Steady liquified Dranek’s fore-brain with a devastating elbow-strike, loosing his deadly, crushing embrace. Slipping to the sand, the Drow’s Katana flashed in the lightning as she set to work, her strikes falling in a flickering display of martial prowess. Cleaving strategically, the Steady unfastened Dranek’s remaining armor plates, kicks and punches scattering plates to and fro. Once more Wren moved ahead of Dranek’s slowing assault, whickering slices and pierceing stabs intersecting the Master’s muscles and organs, Dranek’s might spurting out of him in gouts as he struggled. Transforming further towards a misshapen beast, Dranek beat his fists against his chest as the Steady suddenly relented, the girl rolling away to Dranek’s left, her voice audible between mighty lightning strikes

“Archimedes, you are clear to fire,” the warrior spoke, wearing an easy I-have-you grin. Sheathing her blade, the Steady slipped the ties over the hilts of her guns as she turned away from Dranek’s towering, blood-slick form. In the night, a single flash blossomed far to the east, a whistling shriek announcing the arrival of the hyper-velocity slug that converted Dranek’s physical body into steam, his latent moisture activated by the blessed rail-gun shot. Knocked to the ground, the steady caught herself on hands and knees beneath the rising steam-blast, looking back at the expanding cloud.

“Archimedes, good shot,” the Steady remarked, rising to approach what little remained of the Master Vampire, her fingers drawing through the steaming meat until she produced the vampires enormous, ivory fangs.

Sitting atop the primary sensor array, Wren toyed with the large fangs, her eyes closed as the first rays of day began to tear across the Great Desert, the storm of the previous night having dispersed as quickly as it had formed, From her perch many tens of feet up, Wren could see for fifty miles in every direction, the Drow-human girl taking in the splendor of the surrounding world. She had done it, the defeat of the Master Vampire, and she had thus proven her mastery over an entire Aspect of Evil. Below her, soldiers collected up all the sections of armor she had removed from the Master, adding them to the burning pile of remains. Cpt. Wynne intended to reactivate the ReARM station fully, electing to split his company between the Rail Fortress and the loading facility, triggering the largest recruiting drive anyone had ever considered. Even now word had spread of the impossible, Caravans dotting the horizon to the east, as folk left the less prosperous Windscombe valley towards the lure of undiscovered wealth among the structures of the ReARM facility. The captain had collected the Master’s  massive blade as a trophy, hanging it over the entry to the central courtyard. In light of the announcement, applications for Wynne’s medical officer began to pour in over the loosely coordinated radio channels, in a manner Wren did not fully understand, save for trusting Lt. Mayguh in her skills. In the hours following the defeat of the Master, sensory data had been compiled to capture the last moments of the conflict, the long-distance scopes zooming in as Wren radioed for the gun-shot. Casting her as a leader and a hero, the footage had been carefully edited for effect, with Wren’s rolling, blatant stride carrying her towards the camera as the Master beat his chest behind her,roaring his last in the instant before the rail-gun shot arrived. Among the troops Wren was an instant Icon, receiving bare accolades where-ever she went, having to politely decline offered weapons, even family heirlooms of luck and good fortune…

“It’s not their fault you know,” Cpt Wynne remarked as he moved to the side, offering Wren a place to sit at the mess table, “you’re very photogenic.”

“I don’t know that word,” Wren replied, nodding her thanks as she accepted the tray offered to her, Lt. Mayguh sitting to Wren’s left.

“It means you’re pretty and belong on camera,” the halfling spoke, her own smile open and honest. “You impressed us all, with what you did last night, Steady, and no one here really believed what the old stories say, about good finding it’s way to evil, like a river to the sea,” cpt. Wynne remarked. “You’ve made believers of us all. More than that, I want you to know that beyond our legal obligations to keepers of the Book, we will march on your order, when you order it, “ the halfling captain stated as he rose, snapping into a precise salute, as did all others present.

“That’s not necessary Captain, but I thank you none the less. I did my part, as did everyone else,” Wren replied, gesturing for the commander to sit down. “But to that end, I would like to stay and go among the travelers. It is through the eyes of our lessers that we really see and hear the world,” Wren explained.

“You have a permanent berth on the Archimedes, but know this. We are scheduled to depart ReARM in two hours time, to make our way towards the Capital. I have received a communique that is…distressing. Before you ask, clearance is restricted, but the matter is pressing,” Cpt. Wynne expressed, his hands up to placate the concerned Steady.

Chapter II

Sitting atop the Ogre’s armored hulk, Lt. Saril Mayguh took a brief respite from her work to watch the sparring in the center of the large training deck, the crowd of soldiers ringing the raised dias cheering and whistling in support of Team Cerberus, the three human infiltrators that comprised the deadliest close-combat team aboard the Archimedes. At their center, practically dancing among them, the Steady arced her back into a cartwheel turned back-flip to evade in a manner almost sexual. No one had yet landed any strikes as the soldiers gauged their opponent, testing Wren’s speed, her agility. Leaping over her ally’s bent over form, Sgt. Dellis landed the first kick, scoring a vital hit against the back of Wren’s left thigh before popping up into a round house that failed wildly. Turning the stumble into a backwards grapple, Wren latched onto Dellis’ outstretched leg, adding pivoting velocity before releasing her violence into Cpl. Marrick. Following the imparted inertia, Wren extended her own round house to complete the circle, her shin circling to crash against her third opponent, Lt. Simmons. His gaurd raised, the Lt. deftly absorbed the blow, springing back to dash in, striking with rapid jabs. Struck by inspiration, Saril quickly clambered inside of her Ogre, bringing the tactical processors online as she focused the machine’s attention onto Wren’s flexing, ducking evasion.

“Tactical systems Online,” the Combat Intelligence stated quietly, the voice a direct clone of Archimedes tenor.

“System update, analyse algorithm, source data from current video input,” Saril ordered, closing the hatch as she activated the enhanced displays.

“System update in progress, recording source data-source data catalogue update complete, do you wish to upload this file into the combat directory?” the machine mind asked politely, the onscreen information indicating which concepts could be replicated by the Ogre’s on-board intelligence, and which could not.

“Yes,” Saril replied, clapping in gleeful secrecy, delighting in opportunities to enhance her most influential resource. While halflings were innate mechanics and tinkers, their combat feasibility was relatively limited against the like of Elves and Humans, simply because of their small bodies. Halflings relied upon mastery of the elemental artifice, or even the humans’ extremely rare and advanced nano-sciences. Magic was difficult for her people, but their resistance to it greater as a result. When Saril had discovered the Ogre, the stars aligned for her life to be spared. Brushing her hair back, Saril donned her helmet, the neuro-link crackling to life inside her mind, infusing her essence into the machine. Seeing through the machine’s eyes, Saril watched the continued sparring, where Wren had been backed into a corner by the well-rehearsed skills of Team Cerberus, the machine mind still recording the lengthy battle, a black-board on the far wall now boasting the odds of victory vs.defeat, meaning betting had begun.

“Analysis, projected odds of winning, single combatant,” Saril asked, struck by a second inspiration when the Ogre replied, the spry halfling rushing to exit the war-machine.

I don’t have much time, Saril mused as she sprinted along the hall leading to the crew barracks, the sleek girl dipping and dodging those she encountered…

“Here!” Saril remarked brightly as she offered the ice-cloth to the Steady, her hand also bearing a folded up stack of bills. “We made fifty thousand each with my bet. I figure you did the winning, so you can have half!”

“I’ve never seen this much money,” Wren remarked as she took the offered handful, lifting the ice-cloth to sooth her swelling brow, her eyes on the thick fold.

“Is this…a great deal of money?” Wren added, her naive glance lighting Lt. Mayguh’s face.

“You really are from the mountain-top aren’t you?” the Lt. Replied before laughing brilliantly, kicking her heels as she cast herself backwards on her bunk.

“This is a years’ pay, easily, and all those suckers decided to bet against you! Ha! You poor broke bastards!” the Lt. shouted into the Barracks hallway, rolling forward to sit upright, her features flushed above her smile. “I suppose you’ll need it when we get to the Capital, but don’t worry, I’ll steer you clear of the real cons,” Lt. Mayguh explained, rolling onto her stomach to once more count her considerable winnings.

“A year’s pay…” Wren remarked, idly considering the folded bills. “How long have you been with this company, Lt.?”

“Midsummer will mean five gloriously short years for this one,” the Lieutenant, “have you been to the Capital? Personally I’ve never been to Man’Ttan in the fall, but I hear it’s really great, they use the ancient power grid to light the city at night, and a lot of the old Star-spires are being reclaimed each year from the Goblins.” Saril replied.

“Really? Humans can restart the old Grid?” Wren replied in surprise. “I have only ever been in summertime, and even then I have had little taste for the throngs and their…sticky fingers,” the Drow-kin remarked, her expression dispelased.

“What?!?” the officer replied in shock, ‘Who would be fool enough to steal from a Steady?”

“Mostly children, starving urchins that haven’t the courage to simply ask,” Wren replied, disheartened, “The orphaned, or forgotten, and a rare few that are employed deliberately to commit misdeed. Those I like the least, but my judgement is always swift. They die without pain,” Wren expressed, gazing into her strong, killing hands. Saril wore an expression dumbfounded, speechless.

“Ha! I am no boar-skinner you oaf! I don’t kill children!,” Wren shrieked before the pair erupted in peals of laughter.

“In all fairness, I feel too tightly enclosed in large groupings. I prefer to be with the few, or even alone if I can be,” the Steady related timidly, sharing her flaw.

“Well I’m happy to go later in the evening, when the citizenry has more or less returned to their homes,” Saril replied. “Besides, I doubt we will run into any problems all things considered. I mean, that is if you would like to?” the halfling officer asked unabashedly, blue-grey eyes bright above her freckled cheeks. Overhead the track of lights in the ceiling flickered and dimmed, leaving the hallway as the primary light source, soldiers and technical crewmen speaking their good-nights as they passed Lt. Mayguh’s cabin.

“Cpt. Wynne likes to simulate a day and night cycle for the engineering crew to more readily rest. We have found it helps a round-the-clock crew to know what time of day it is outside the hull, especially while we are en-route across great distances,” the raven-haired halfling woman expressed, following Wren to her cabin further along the car.

“You mean we won’t make any stops until..” Wren replied as she hesitated inside the doorway to her cabin, fingers tracing the gold accent of the door.

“That’s right,” the lieutenant replied, “No stops from here to Man’ttan, the communique said best-speed, so thats what we’ll do. I’ll wake you for dawn meal, and prayers, if you’d like,” Saril offered, smiling at Wren’s nodded assent.

“Rest well, Steady,” Saril spoke, stepping back from the closing doorway, aware of a faint chiming emanating from her pocket.

“Go ahead,” the lieutenant worded softly as she drifted back along the corridor.

“Lt. Mayguh, gather my command group, please, in the ready room,” Cpt. Wynne’s voice crackled, “We’ve completed the decode.”

“Very well, sir,” Saril Mayguh replied, “How bad is it?”

“Leaving half the crew at ReARM may have been a mistake, Mayguh, you’ll see,” Cpt. Wynne replied. To hear admission of a mistake was rare, spurring Saril to hurry.

“As you all know, since the Conflict of Rising Dawn, the Humans of Man’ Ttan and their nearby Goblin neighbors have co-existed relatively peacefully since the destruction of the Goblin War-King Sen-Gash and his Terror Acolytes,” Cpt. Wynne expressed as he stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling wire-frame image of the Spires of Man’Ttan. Once a megalopolis, now lost to the ravages of time and deterioration, Man’Ttan consisted of myriad underground tunnels beneath towering edifices of steel and stone, these edifices twisted and bloated as a result of the Goblin’s unique forms of technomancy. Defying gravity, enormous balloons of glass and steel expanded high above the occupied Human city at ground-level, the many tribes of Goblin preferring to control access to their respective kingdoms via massive occupied portals built into the bases of their structures. Open trade was always welcome, but none save Goblin-kin were ever allowed access into the high reaches of their Aeries. Over time, towers became empty, through means not understood by the groundlings, and only then could humans and varied fey-folk claim occupancy.

“The reason for our urgency and secrecy is the behest of the governing council,” Cpt. Wynne continued, the wire-frame image behind him changing dramatically as one of the more central Aeries seemed to disappear, it’s main structure replaced with a massive, towering tree of similar shape and size, standing fully one hundred sixty feet tall, its branches represented in green. This structure pierced the nearest buildings, and as the wire-frame image rotated, visual data began to fill the projection.  Atop the highest levels of the tree, brilliant white flashed, tiny motes falling from the higher boughs, pepper from a mill.

“Are those…” Lt. Mayguh asked, her voice trailing off as Cpt. Wynne nodded.

“Yes lieutenant, those are Goblin defenders being slain in droves. The estimated population of the Sky-Claw Aerie will likely be eradicated by the time we arrive, with Long-Jaw and Ruinous Spear not far behind it, unless we can make a difference.” Cpt. Wynne expressed.

“Sir, what’s killing them?” Lt. Simmons asked, sporting a black eye from his match against the Steady.

“Elves, Lt. Simmons,” Cpt. Wynne replied, evincing a collective gasp of shock, surprise.

“We’ve been closely allied with every major elvish colony or principality at some point now or in the past, but I will say now that these are not your standard elf-kin. They are militaristic, well trained, and versed in the art of war, not to mention extremely well armed,” the captain spoke, his gesture bringing to life a compiled scan of the attackers. They were very tall, wielding weapons of unknown pedigree, sporting blonde hair and the sharply rising ears of the higher-blood elf-kin.

“We won’t know anymore details until we are in range of Muni-tac, the municipal mainframe for Man’ttan just doesn’t have the range to broadcast to us. Ready your squads, and select supplementary troops from our engineers. You all have five hours to prepare,” the commanding officer stated, waving for Lt. Mayguh to approach as the group of combat leaders began to exit the ready room.

“Do you think the Steady would be willing to fight her own people?” Cpt. Wynne asked as the pair found themselves alone. “You are the only one to have spent any time with her alone.”

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t make any garuantee, “ Saril replied, her expression conciliatory, “I’ll try to ask her, but I’m fairly certain the Book commands her to remain above our sorts of conflicts. She’s a Steady, and this is a very military concern,” Saril replied.

“Those aren’t my people,” Wren spoke as she skipped rope, casually sashaying side to side in a more advanced footstep than most would employ, the Steady choosing to use her time to reach her personal peak of readiness. Less than five hours remained before the Archimedes would reach engagement range, with the massive rail-vehicles long-range sensory gear detecting massing elven troop signatures near where the triple rail track swung towards Man’Ttan.

“Exercise steadies the heart even as it clears the mind,” the Drow-kin remarked, ceasing her work to offer the skip-rope to the very much shorter Lt. Mayguh. “Why has the Captain requested my assistance in this matter? The actions of the Elven-kin cannot be related to a perpetuation of the Lasting War, nor are they innately evil. Likely their motivations, however obscure, are rooted in the Law, or some sense of it.” Wren explained as the halfling officer shortened the leads on the rope, Lt. Mayguh springing into easy left-right pairs.

“The Captain isn’t very clear on the role of a Steady in this particular application,” Lt. Mayguh responded, “The wholesale slaughter of the Goblins is sure to attract the attention of perhaps more sinister forces of evil.”

“Unfortunately these forces are the ones a Steady is supposed to combat,” Wren stated, “Unless these new Elven-kin employ some kind of horrifying death-magic, or perhaps extra-planar summoning, my hands and their pistols will be relegated to a supporting role, Lt. I’m very sorry. Having said this,’ Wren continued, breaking into her usual smile, “If harm should befall a vessel as beautiful as the Archimedes, I will tear the Elven-holm to the ground.”

“Alright you fools, here’s how it is!” Lt. Mayguh shouted out over the din of violent wind, the Ogre chassis clumping back and forth in front of her battle-group.

“These Elves are from somewhere no one has ever been, and they are really good at making war! I want you all to work together with the same focus you’ve all shown me in the past. Remember ReARM, the place we could never take…We own it now!” Lt. Mayguh cried out, pumping a mechanized fist in the air. “The Steady is with us, in case we find something awful, but for our parts, we will taste the same war we have fought for many years. We are blood, we are iron, we are..-” the officer lead.

“ARCHIMEDES!” Lt. Mayguh’s troops shouted in unison, all of them feeling the distant clank of brakes engaging, the massive hulk of the Archimedes beginning the deceleration into Man’Ttan Rail Port. Above and to their right, brilliant white fire flashed and flickered in the high boughs of the unnaturally green tree, wet thumps and smacks heralding the arrival of the first Goblin dead, diminutive corpses falling as rain from high above.

“Twenty seconds-” Captain WYnne reported over their shared comms, battlegroups two and three breaking formation to spread out across the boarding deck, eyes turned skywards as hands raised to make sigils of wards and protection. Silently gliding among them, Wren passed man and woman, her subtle touch seeming to infuse  resolute strength as she moved, the tall, broad gun-hand possessing a dragon’s bearing.

“Load weapons!” Lt. Mayguh ordered, dozens of ranged weapons clacking rounds into chambers, red beams flaring to life as targeting systems energized, goblin bodies now falling in clots and groups, wet smoking meat.

“On dock, Group three will lead up the catwalk, I’ll lay down suppressing fire from the deck, one and two converge on the secondary ma-WE ARE ENGAGED!!” Lt. Mayguh roared, swatting the translocating elven spear-wielder to the deck with a metal-on-metal crash. Materializing amongst them, the white-armored Elves struck without warning, finely honed spear-tips finding crucial arteries with unnerving accuracy. Opening fire above the heads of her troops, Saril Mayguh quickly established an exclusion zone, some rounds detonating inside materializing Elves in a wholly satisfying gore-blast.

“All battlegroups converge on my position,” Lt. Mayguh shouted, her voice amplified above he din of battle, the white-elf attackers rapidly switching tactics, spears held reversed to unleash staccato blasts of white energy, against which armor was only partly effective, screams of burnt soldiers rising above the cacaphony.

“ALL BATTLEGROUPS BE ADVISED ANTI-PERSONNEL WEAPONS ARE ENGAGING!” Captain Wynne’s voice boomed out over the battle-torn boarding deck the instant before Archimedes close-range anti-infantry guns roared into life. A result of training constant and rigorous, every soldier hit the deck as weapons fire swept the air almost directly above them, A-I munitions bouncing harmlessly off of Lt. Mayguh’s Ogre. In her fugue state, the world moved around Wren as though steeped in molasses, the tall, long-legged Drow-kin smiling gleefully as she traversed the battle-zone. These new elves employed sophisticated spells and artifice in their arms and armor Wren could feel, her own skin-deep Words of Power flaring and fading as actions were taken against her, the Steady growing in power to meet the deadly strengths of the enemy. Around them, anti-infantry ammunition soared and streaked, shots bursting in air to scatter deadly shrapnel about. With a thunderous shock, a single elf manifested in the sky above the crowded, chaotic deck, this new figure bearing much more stylized and complex armor. Crackling through the air, rolling waves of electricity disabled the Archimedes infantry guns, even as the waves dispelled every last elven soldier, their bodies fading away where they stood or lay. Her helmet a stylized skull beneath a top-knot of brilliant crimson, the newest arrival slowly descended to the tarmac, releasing her sleek staff, the weapon remaining aloft above her as the elf removed her helm.

“Shem-baya-Who are you?-nem shaddath,” the pale-skinned elven beauty asked, her left hand gesturing an intricate spell, it’s locii of power igniting the emblems in Wren’s skin dealing with Time. Around them Time stopped, an incredible display of power, Wren mused silently as she discretely unstrapped her pistols.

“Wren, of North Mountain,” the Steady replied, mind working to plot a possible attack angle in a field populated with her allies.

“Ah, I see your language now, Wren of North Mountain. In your heart you see my death, but your mind does not will it. I thank you,” the white armored elf female replied, her hair as pale as Wren’s own, her skin alabaster. Regarding her a dragon’s golden eyes, the elven magic user weaved among the frozen human soldiers, pausing briefly to inspect the massive Ogre.

“Why has this happened to our Elven-holm?” the woman asked, reaching above her head to gesture to the intermingled realities of Aerie and Great Tree, “We left this place before the Dying time, when the Children still met and mingled.”

“They called it the Lasting War,” Wren replied, carefully manuevering to keep a clear line between them, should her pistols roar into life.

“And you…so different, I can see, your blood…so amazing!” the elf added, her smile mischievous beneath her crinkled nose, an entirely elven expression of curious disgust. Wren bottled her flaring rage at the elf’s arrogant disdain, but only just, her palms now fully against elegantly adorned grips.

“Oops, I have offended thee! And with speech so plainly foul! I haven’t even called you a Bakkesha-” the elven witch spat, her eyes widening at the speed of Wren’s draw, the Drow-kin’s anger at the racial slur guiding her hand. Unaffected by the time-fugue, Wren’s shots were narrowly deflected by the whirling staff that descended before the Elf Sorceress, the white-armored commander suddenly on the defensive before the Steady’s furious assault. Advancing behind the fullisade of fire, Wren engaged the elf at melee, quickly lensing her weakness in martial skills as Wren landed a series of withering blows, leaving the female with a bloody nose.

“HOW DARE YOU!” the elf roared, magical energy intensifying her Presence, her arcane gesture bringing the Ogre to life.

“Wren I can’t stop it!” Lt. Mayguh announced over the Ogre’s intercom, the massive, hulking chassis smashing time-locked troops into bloody paste as it stepped forwards. Attacking immediately, Wren shattered the knees of the construct, trying to limit the collateral damage of the imbued chassis. Slipping left then right, Wren locked her shoulders beneath the barrel of the Ogre’s 40 mm anti-tank gun, muscles rippling as she heaved, levering the barrel up. Her ears ringing, Wren couldn’t help but to smile, 40 mm HEAT rounds exploding against the Elven Sorceress’ whirling staff once, twice.

“Enough!” the elven caster shouted loudly, reaching both hands skyward, the heavens answering with a brilliant blast of light. Once more locked in time, the Ogre hung in strange immotion as white lightning thundered around the Steady, burning and blasting her obsidian skin, even as the caster vanished, time-stream resuming as the lightning-blast faded. Standing still among them, Wren’s upstretched hands gripped brightly glowing pistols, the arcane weapons having served their real purpose, to defend the Steady, more shield than sword. Startled by the Ogre crashing to the deck, the mixed races of the troops looked about and towards one another for clarity, their focus turning quickly to the downed Ogre and the steaming Wren. Popping the hatch on the combat Chassis, Lt. Mayguh leapt from the machine, sprinting to wrap her arm partly around Wren’s waist, the Halfling lieutenant quizzically diminutive beneath the Drow-kin’s muscled girth.

“Assume defensive posture, inner and outer defense formation, on us!” Lt. Mayguh ordered, her hard edge snapping the remaining soldiers into reality. “We don’t know if they’ll be back.”

“I wasn’t alone this time,” Wren remarked, wearing a drunken, exhausted smile as she slowly recovered strength in the aftermath of immense magical discharge. “Thanks lieutenant.”

“Thanks? For what? It’s my Ogre that did all this,” Lt. Mayguh replied, looking about worriedly at the dead soldiers flattened to the deck.

“It was your weapon as well,” Wren responded, “It seems this enemy has a distaste for explosives.” Wren expressed, touching her forehead to the officer’s in a rare expression of relief.

“All of you OUT!!” Lyym demanded, the high elven Sorceress waving a gesture as she pushed the doors to the warchamber open, a purple bruise adorning her right eye, the shadow spreading across the bridge of her nose, blood staining the cuff of her sleeve. Obeyance in silence, she could expect this from her underlings, but Lyym could sense their silent shock, even horror, that someone, no matter the enemy, would DARE touch her physically. Responding to her inimitable will, lightning crackled around the ringlets of Lyym’s platinum locks, only Mage’esh remaining in her central chamber, the faceless helm of her most powerful warrior turning to lock onto her motions.

“You understand…You! Mage’…they have…Mage’esh, my face!” Lyym remarked in broken fashion, her mind tumbling through the perfect recollection of the Drow-filth’s fist hammering her occipital bone, cracking the orbital bone beneath Lyym’s pristine flesh. Responding, Mage’esh tore open the breast-plate of his sinuous armor, baring his muscular breast for a killing blow, that he would die so her pain could be assuaged.

“No, Mage’, no,” Lyym replied, pressing her palms against the bare, almost vibrating power contained within the apex hunter’s chest. “If you are to die, my beauty, you must die among my enemies, not by my sullied hand,” Lyym responded, feeling the Hunter’s palpable sense of dismay at her denial.

“I command you, go among them, wreak your havok. Make known unto the that I WILL NOT BE DENIED!” Lyym cried out, focusing her temporal power upon the Hunter’s body. Around them, elvish klaxons howled to life at the activation of space/time magicks within the command level, a trait they had adopted from humans so long ago. Heralded with a collapsing pop, Mage’esh vanished into the conflux of sympathetic coordinates, the rift opened by his queen falling closed behind the sleekly armored warrior…

“Code silver! Code silver! We have a breach on the engineering-urgk!!” Chief Weslan coughed his last, his brains and teeth splatching across the ceiling as the leanly clad warrior delivered a devastating upper-cut, the materializing death immediately springing into a horrifying snap-kick that killed the ensign standing next to the Archimedes’ core. Contained in a super-positioned bubble, the Archimedes core remained resolute as spinal bones skittered across it’s surface, an open hole appearing in ensign Phelps’ waist. Such was the negative pressure generated by the kick, loops of pink and gray entrails tumbled through the meaty hole in the ensigns’ back. In reflex-time the engineering crew of the Archimedes fired upon the translocated attacker, caseless ammunition sparking and glancing off the blank-faced soldiers’ armor. Equipped with quantum-field apertures, the faceless warrior’s gauntlets seemed to intercept all incoming fire, palm-slaps redirecting rifle and pistol fire into nearby surfaces with no seeming logic, his arms simply gravitating towards bullets in an insane display of martial prowess. In truth, his hands could not avoid weapons fire, magically enchanted to spare his death, each saving gesture sending a shock of agony up the faceless one’s limbs. Pirouetting over the engine station railing, the faceless warrior sprinted into the open access door, his senses keen on the focus of his mission, her dark skin licking across his perception, a forbidden fruit. Steps became sprinting lunges as the faceless warrior gained speed, a pressure wave filling the corridors he traversed, blasting ears and eye-sockets where he passed, urine and feces sucked onto wall surfaces by the intense low-pressure of the warrior’s travel-magic. Each step a symphony, the Faceless Mage’esh thundered along the hallway ceiling, fists gripping ever tighter as he envisioned the killing blow that would bring the epiphany of justice to his mighty queen, but this was denied him. Rounding the corner to the nest of his filthy prey, Mage’esh stumbled from the ceiling, his rapidly advancing power wrenched away from the ceiling by a sudden reassertion of space/time.

A bubble! Mage’esh reasoned even as he plummeted from the roof, ceiling fixtures cascading down around his sleekly armored form. Struggling in the newly found real-time, Mage’esh rapidly pedaled his hands, seeking purchase across the changing floor of the medical area, his strength strangely, terribly, matched by another. Wrapping his upper body, Wren carried their combined weight through the wall of the medical bay in a display of sparks, the Drow-kin rolling effortlessly around the elf’s weight. Rising at the same time, the pair caught one another with countering kicks, a shockwave resounding like cannon-fire, blasting lights from their fixtures.

 As she stepped into a defensive boxing form, uniquely stimulated by an opponent without face, Wren admired his sleek, alabaster skin, even as he used his armor to protect himself from her counters, his fists and feet lashing out in a glorious display of martial skill. Switching to an open-palm style, Wren leapt ahead in strides, her fore-arms flashing up and down to intercept the faceless ones’ assault. In moments, pulses of energy rocked outwards from their colliding bodies. The Steady’s forte was the countering of single opponents. Placing her in a unique advantage against the Blank-helmed warrior, Wren’s words of power flared and faded as the pair fought. She knew very well that her strength was not without limit, the emblem for endurance around her collar-bones shimmering brightly, behind which the mixed-blood warrior could feel exhaustion creeping in. The elvish combatant boasted a range of varying combat styles, to Wren’s delight, the pair somehow moulding to one another in their understanding of battle, their footwork carrying them in skipping dashes across the armored plates of the cargo deck….

“Sir! Barometric pressure around our hull is falling rapidly!” Corporal Winslow called out, the primary displays locked onto the vista of the fighting pair, white and green energies flashing.

“How is that relevent corporal?” Cpt. Wynne requested, the blonde halfling grimly surmising the incoming casualty reports of their very brief skirmish against the unknown Elvish force.

“Sir, the pressure has fallen almost one barre from when we arrived, if it keeps going like this, we’ll have tornadoes spawning right on top of us!” the lean human replied, his grey expression one of intense uncertainty.

“All hands this is your captain! Baton all hatches and prepare for inclement weather! I repeat, All hands get yourselves inside!” Cpt. Wynne shouted as he keyed the ship-wide intercom. On the screen furthest left, a yellow warning icon faded into dark, sinister red, the windspeed value climbing in tens..one hundred…

“Sir! We have a funnel cloud touching down in the Port!” Corporal Winslow called out, the hull of the Archimedes beginning to creak as her weight shifted.

“What speed can we sustain before she’s off the rails?” the Captain called out, walking along the gangway above the technical nests, his hand gesturing where to divert the muchly-reduced emergency response forces.

“I honestly have no idea,” the corporal replied, “I haven’t seen a tornado, sir…Ever!”

Neither have I, the Captain considered secretly, wringing his hands in rare uncertainty as he perused the overhead displays…

Using her pistols strategically, Wren would never run dry, the long, heavy guns barking to destroy incoming attacks hurled towards her, the blank-helmed warrior snatching jagged metal debris from the air. In return, the Steady marched ever closer to the agile warrior, taking every opportunity to ensnare or entangle the elf’s skilled footwork as the surrounding storm grew more chaotic. Their battle had carried them out into the Port proper, with massive crates of foodstuffs and crafted goods disintegrating beneath the hammer-blows of their traded offensives.  Free of the confines of the Archimedes’ corridors, the faceless warrior relied heavily on his rift-stepping, applying his power to enable many series of multi-directional attacks, the elvish combatant keen to remain at the cusp of Wren’s sphere of influence. Around them, piles of stacked goods began to lift away from the dock, a massive funnel cloud forming in the open space between the ancient, defunct rail-crane and the hulking mass of the Archimedes’. High above them, the unnatural Green of the Elven-holm was lit with tremendous flashes of lightning as the storm cell’s power increased. There were no mountains to the east of Mann’Ttan to interfere with the vortex’s growth, the vast, poisoned ocean roiling and surging beneath the newly formed monstrosity. Around the island of Mann’ttan, black, greasy surf crashed and roared around the ancient, broken teeth of towers long forgotten, the Elven-holm partly protected as it shimmered, standing along the leeward side of the land-mass. Behind it, the fading light illuminated a quickly-filling sky, suggesting the approach of some greater horror in the clouds beyond. Now fully involved, the Elven-holm swayed and groaned beneath the tremendous power of the storm, the blank-faced warrior looking skyward towards some unknown summons, even as pieces of steel and stone began to rain from the creaking Goblin Aeries. The combat above them had all but ceased, the two warring factions driven into retreat by Nature’s unrivalled might.

“Mentashak ku’umo kashak!” the warrior shouted over the shrieking wind, gesturing towards Wren as she stood, resolute in the tearing gale, the mixed blood holstering her pistols as she neatly sidestepped flying debris. Stepping backwards, the tall, lithe assassin ducked into the portal that shimmered into life, offering the Drow a final, respectful salute before vanishing altogether. Drawn together by the locii of magic, the storm overhead tried to dissipate, but further away, in the beyond, something far greater had been stirred to life. In the centuries following the Lasting war, the temperature of the Poisoned Sea to the east had been relatively stable, the majority of Mankind’s polluting efforts stymied by the horrifying outcome of the Lasting War. Even as her body cooled, Wren could feel the change that had been wrought by the dueling of magicks, elven and otherwise. The fever that preceded healing, a vast storm marched to muster out over Mann’Ttan’s Sea, the water rising around the port as the air pressure plummeted…

“Captain! Projections indicate a fifteen measure rise in the level of the Poisoned Sea! This will inundate the outlying shanty-town around Mann’Ttan proper!” Corporal Winslow expressed fearfully, his fingers scrabbling across the keys to illuminate a three dimensional overlay on the Meteorological view-pane. Represented in wire-frame, the boundary between the Poisoned Sea and the coastline shifted and morphed as the water-line rose, immersing a vast portion of the green-indexed structures, the Archimedes’ processing core projecting casualties in the many tens of thousands. Walking along the gangway above the technology nests, Cpt. Wynne pointed to the icon of the Archimedes location.

“What about us? Will the Archimedes stay on the tracks? What’s our displacement?” the blonde, sharply-dressed officer queried, apprehensive that the Mann’Ttan port did not have the necessary faculty to right the rail-weapon if she decided to derail.

“Our projections have us remaining stable, but sir…the civilians…” the Corporal trailed, disheartened.

“Our course is clear, then,” the Captain remarked, his face grim as he keyed the ship-wide broadcast.

“All hands this is the captain. We have a major storm approaching from beyond the coastline. It will bring something called a storm surge with it that will flood the low-lying areas around Mann’ttan, killing untold thousands unless we act.The enemy has disengaged for now, for reasons unknown, and our actions will place us in direct risk. We must secure as many civilians as we can before the storm arrives. I know we are undermanned, and have suffered terrible losses in the recent conflict, but we must be resolute. Battlegroups report to your field commanders!” the Captain declared…

Above the risen tide, stacks of over-water containers served to shelter the many thousands of refugees, the slap-dash assembly taxing the loading and handling capabilities of the Archimedes’ boom-cranes. Holes had been hastily sliced into the sides of the rusted steel boxes allowing the many races gathered together in Mann’Ttan to find some measure of shelter against the building storm. The incoming storm surge had already begun to swallow street-level homes and shops, even washing away the weakest structures.

“This is the best we can do,” Captain Wynne explained as he regarded the impromptu leader of the Mann’Ttan refugees, Seer Hyga, a half-elven woman with steely bearing. Standing as tall as the Steady, Seer Hyga looked downwards at the halfling commander, her expression softening.

“We did not ask for this conflict Captain, and yet your aid comes to us, a light in this great darkness,” the silver-haired woman remarked, placing her hand upon the Halfling’s lapel. “And you, Steady, certainly a surprise for your kind’s rarity since Juura’s fall. The Drow walk in your stride, alive, even as they have become as dust.”                                               

“Juura…was some time ago,” Wren remarked, shifting inside her pistol belt uncomfortably, her expression troubled. “What have you heard of the Western Gate? Have others of my kin been this way?” the Drow-human asked, guarded.

“Of the dark Kin, no I have not seen, nothing more that the usual whispers. The last Steady to come amongst us was Steady Merriam and her brother Steady Maxxam. A deadly pair of guns if there were ever. They went south to the old ‘Lanta in search of a Great Evil that plagued the land there. This was many winters past. I pray for them,” Seer Hyga remarked as she gestured for the approach of a pair of wizened human men.

“My councilors may be able to tell you more. We have always maintained pure liasons between the many races, in the interest of equal representation,” the half-elf expressed.

“I am Natha, and this is Deenen. We serve as representatives for the human merchants and shops, Steady,” the bald human spoke as the pair bowed respectfully.

“We can discuss my fellows at a later time,” Wren returned, moving her attention back to where Cpt. Wynne viewed the massive overhead displays. “How are they doing Captain?” Wren queried.

“Well, all things considered I would have liked to have had more time to prepare for the coming storm, but all in all, we are holding…for now.” the Captain spoke as he turned, sweeping his arm in a gesture. “Let us retire to the war room, where we can discuss recent events in more detail. My forces, as they are, are deployed defensively across the containers. Should the enemy return, we will have no better defense than what we have there now. This way, Seer, Councilors,” Cpt. Wynne nodded diplomatically.

“Captain, if I may, I would ask to go among your forces, to lend to defense what I can,” Wren ventured, turning on her heel at the Captain’s nod.

This world contained magnificent, violent energy, Lyym mused as she strode along the highest walkway in the Elven-holm. High enough, in fact, that the bottom of the Great Tree was obscured in pounding rain-clouds, the entire tree surging and swaying in the Maelstrom. Her Seers warned the Paragon that the storm itself would last for days, even weeks as it marched across the surface of the world, the sensitives aware of nightmare monstrosities hidden within both sky and sea. The world was nothing like her mother had told her, all the magnificence it had once possessed having been burned away in the Lasting War. Now all that remained was corruption and death, the Five Races having been boiled into a disgusting mush of impure blood, debase lineage. Free of her combat armor, Lyym reveled in the hungry, ripping power of the gale-force winds. She had never felt such power in the Old World, a place of green pastures and glorious twin moons, a place that was ultimately…unfulfilling. Plastered to her flesh, Lyym’s gossamer gown was made translucent beneath the driving rain, her brilliant crimson hair darkening as it clung to her. In the Eld Holm, the Vibrant Spire, Lyym had learned the many secrets of the Arcane, the child prodigy manifesting the power of the Returning One. She had been declared the stuff of Prophecy, and been granted station above all others, the young Elf maiden assuming command of the greatest of the War Hosts, the Resplendent White. As long as the Great Tree shone, Lyym would never die, nor age, nor suffer greivous injury, and in return the tree would feast upon the dead of the Enemy. Even now, with it’s tremendous roots submerged in the awful poisons of this world’s nearly dead oceans, the Great Tree tasted of many centuries of Death, energy coursing through it’s numberless boughs. Just by existing here, the Tree grew in power, an outcome not even the most gifted visionaries could foment.

“Mage’esh, I sense you there, your gaze…I feel it upon me. You wonder why I called you back,” Lyym voiced, easily reading the Silent One’s faceless interest. It pleased Lyym to know that there was atleast one among her warhost that saw her as both Paragon, and maiden.

“Placing my Vanguard against theirs it seems has had unforeseen consequence,” Lyym remarked, clapping twice to open a scrying window, the branches that formed the nearby railing springing apart to weave themselves into a light-filled oval.

“The War Machine they have brought against us, while it cannot harm us directly, serves as a shield against our Visionaries’ attempts at lensing the future,” Lyym expressed, her frown thoughtful. “Your engagement exacerbated this potential many fold when you tangled with this…pretty beast,” the Paragon added, silently acknowledging the Drow-human’s unorthodox beauty. The cross-breed was easily the deadliest opponent this world possessed, having risen to the challenge Mage’esh represented handily.

“There is not a future that can be seen when these two elements are combined, my deadly, so our plans must be rearranged. They do not appear willing to face us in the confines of the Elven-holm, so we will continue our assault against these pathetic Goblins when the storm passes. It seems, up higher our future sight is less hampered. Go to the Visionaries, heed their will until I call for you,” Lyym commanded, her pride naked as she regarded the mute soldier. Returning to the scrying lense, Lyym allowed her consciousness to roam the surrounding lands, delicately scoping for more of this world’s strange offering. Departing his mistress in easy leaps, Mage’esh descended from the heights rapidly, finding himself lost in thought, forever marveling at lyym’s mercurial nature. The Paragon lead the War Host with unerring focus, much the same way the Silent One approached her orders, but unlike the Paragon, Mage’ had no questing Spirit, the soldier happy to exist within the much more readily defined limits of orders. To be lucky enough to have the Paragon grace one’s presence with her countenance was sublime, yet Mage’ found himself by her side daily, basking in the pure and unsettling vibrance Lyym represented, a snake beneath desert sun. Slipping sinuously along interconnecting boughs, Mage’esh’s connection to the Great Tree was much more intense than other elves, the massive Elven-Holm unfurling or removing branches to aid the warrior’s travel, a veritable tunnel forming to carry him to the Central Chambers, where the Generals and Visionaries gathered to plot the hosts’ next strategy.

“Ah, Brother, Welcome!” called Dyshan’Kaiduun, the mightiest of the Resplendent’s armored Cavalrymen, the extremely tall, armored form reaching towards Mage’esh as the Silent One seemed to blossom from the ceiling. Gripping his older brother’s forearm, Mage’ touched his featureless helmet to the larger warrior’s visor in silent homage.

“You lead us in your grace, brother,” ‘Kaiduun expressed honestly, triggering a greeting of salute from those present. Known as the Dragon’s Heart, Daishan’Kaiduun was foremost among the troops of the Resplendent White, Lyym’s First, second only to the Silent One in raw power. ‘Kaiduun’s Griffon Wing kept the Great Tree proof against aerial threats that had yet to be scryed. Removing their helmets, the kinship was blatant, the much-younger Mage’esh looking up to his battle-scarred sibling with an open smile, the Silent One barely more than a boy.

“Yes, yes, of course,” ‘Kaiduun noted casually, reading his younger brother’s expression, “I have saved you some of the berry-wine,” ‘Kaiduun soothed, offering a flask to the young warrior, “But we cannot dally, our plans have had to change. The halflings war machine remains berthed below us, and the Visionaries have peered into it. It possesses…strange power,” ‘Kaiduun remarked, waving his armored hand across the massive pool that dominated the open space. Stimulated by the general’s thought-pulse, the surface of the pool bubbled up to assume the shape of the massive railway craft.   

“You have seen it’s heart then?” ‘Kaiduun remarked interestedly, the Silent One nodding his reply as  Mage’esh’s mind reached out to the pool, memory filling the reflective space beneath the life-like image of the armored construct.

“Yes, I see it,” ‘Kaiduun spoke, waving for his lieutenants to pay further attention…

Chapter III

This is a dream, Wren remarked as she stood atop the windswept outcropping, the powerfully muscled mixed blood regarding the diminutive frame of the Master Vampire, Maysa.

Of course it is, Maysa replied, dressed in yet another faded sun-dress, the hem of the bloodstained fabric torn and tattered, the hungry wind lashing the cloth about. Forever suspended in the arc of blossom, Maysa struck a strange contrast to Wren’s own predatory beauty, each one containing the aspects of the feminine, the murderous.

Why come to me in dream, you have no power here, Wren considered, their thought-forms snapping into frozen combat together, time remaining stalled, muzzle-flashes illuminating the press of their bodies.

You are a threat to me, this cannot be overstated, Maysa replied, the dream-fugue shifting again to a more conciliatory arrangement, Wren’s hand gently gripping Maysa’s bare shoulder as the pair stood upon the nearby hillside overlooking the storm-wracked Mann’Ttan Port.

You have a new enemy now, I also know. They are my enemy as well, Maysa spoke, her dream-avatar pointing towards the Great Tree. They drink of this world’s death, and the Tree’s roots grow ever deeper. Looking up, Maysa’s eyes glinted sinister red in the flash of lightning that shattered the sky.

I need this world to live so that I, in turn, may live. These…elves, they seem to need only a space to occupy to muster their strength. My fellow…masters, have been eager to bring their forces to bear against the City, if only to tear down what they themselves have not built, Maysa explained, the vista around them changing dramatically as though the pair raced through air. Shielded by the shadow of the mountains, vampires and ghouls swarmed over ancient human war machines, bringing long-inert hover-systems to brilliant crimson life, weapons emplacements whirring and clicking, auto-loading mechanisms filling rusted chambers.

Why show this to me? I am a Steady, I offer no aid nor succor to my foe, Wren replied, unable to deny the threat the sheer number of undead represented, with or without the weapon systems they had commandeered.

You have the Archimedes, as well as your own ability, which I admit is..considerable. Understand that this information is only to benefit myself. If you should survive, your guns, the Trees of Death, will grow to an extent never before seen on this earth, for which I will admit a grudging respect. And if you should die, smashed between the hammer of the dead and the anvil of the newcomers’ Great Tree, well… Maysa trailed, before breaking into gleeful laughter.

Eyes clicking open, Wren could still taste Maysa’s parting kiss as she sat up, the inside of the Drow-human’s mouth dry, drained of moisture, tasting of cold death. In the darkness of her quarters, Wren slipped from her bunk, taking a moment to reassert her surroundings, her toes working the material of the deep floor-covering. The Master Vampire’s purposes would always serve her first, Wren knew, and Maysa had proven to be a worthy adversary in the decades that had passed since their last real conflict. The pubescent Vampiress existed as a plague upon this world, but her motives, however obfuscated, never varied. Maysa nurtured life, in her own cruel, twisted way, raising the five races to afford her endless thirst, immortal life. During the prior hours, Wren had gone among the refugees, offering air where she could, performing the last rites for those that couldn’t survive the wind’s howling chill, and those too badly injured during the skirmish with the newly arrived elvish. Among the masses, their hands reached for her, each soul desperate to receive the blessings of the House of Juura, no matter how strange the seneschal seemed, only a few hesitating as they beheld Wren’s obsidian countenance, her steeply sloped ears. The excursion had drained her strength even as it bolstered her spirit, the energy in the needy throngs flowing into the arcane words under Wren’s skin, the faith of the People lighting anew the forge of Wren’s soul. Rare was the day when Wren’s Seven Guns drew full chambers while holstered on her hips. Hanging on the wall in their leather holsters, the myriad petals on the guns’ grips fluttered softly in some unfelt breeze, the living carving embodying the death-force of every kill the guns had made. Maysa had no idea that Wren’s pistols had moved beyond simple vine-work, now bearing mature trees. This made the Drow strangely proud as she traced the ornate carvings.

“You’ll only be free of me while I allow it,” Wren spoke to the pistols, her thoughts revolving around the Master Vampire’s message. Still wearing the bandages from her encounter with the faceless Warrior, which the humans had dubbed Shrike, Wren winced and groaned as she donned her armored leathers, wriggling and stretching inside her gear as she reached for her gun-belt. The irons felt warm, somehow reassuring as she lashed her thighs, the arcane, nano-tech weapons representing the pinnacle of separate schools of belief. Preferring to cover her hair, Wren loosely bound her head with a dark cloth, partially hooding herself before she stepped out into the silent corridor, armored boots clumping faintly. Even here, the weakest of the refugees had been given space, materials and supplies moved outside the crew cars to make room for additional cots, mothers and new born babes sleeping in the reduced lighting. Among them, Wren struck a height of grandeur that many of them were likely never to see again in their lives, the living embodiment of fairness, justice, and protection.

“Lt. Mayguh,” Wren called softly as she neared the halfling technologist’s open doorway, the Steady eager to consult with her new-found friend, something of which Wren had been long without.

“My Lady, the one that was here has gone elsewhere,” a young boy spoke from his bedroll just inside of the doorway, Wren’s expression surprised as she peered into keen magenta eyes.

“You’re like me!” the young boy blurted in shocked surprise as he looked into life’s mirror, across the vastness of time and experience.

“Yes I am Drow, and I am Human,” Wren replied, “I knew there had to be a handsome young man here somewhere! Do you know where she went, Mr. Handsome Young Man?” Wren asked quietly, sinking to one knee just outside the doorway, a tigress regarding a cub. Rubbing his eyes, the boy blinked twice.

“I dunno Lady, she said sumthin ‘bout Ogre’s or somethin. Can you bless me and my mama? An my little sister? Mama said our home is likely gone in the storm.” the boy spoke, murmurs of command emanating from deeper within Lt. Mayguh’s quarters.

“Of course, little one, I will carry you in my heart, and yours is the light that will guide my hand. Sleep now,” Wren spoke solemnly, placing a kiss on the boy’s forehead before rising.

“Ah, Ms..Err, do I address you as Steady?” Specialist Mikes called towards Wren’s back as she strode along the cramped corridor, the Hybrid’s stature dominating the open space.

“Yes, Steady will do,” Wren replied as she turned, the lesser-built human soldier strangely opposed to her height. Spc. Mikes weilded an open, earnest expression Wren found disarming, the human male’s keen aspect undimmed behind thick, round glasses. Taking his offered forearm, Wren held her surprise as the man deftly rolled her palm up, his fingertip tracing the worn impressions he found.

“I apologise for my frank demeanor, Steady, but I have found that being timid leaves my questions unanswered,” Spc. Mikes, quickly removing his beret, revealing a shock of red hair.

“Indeed? To hesitate is to die, this is true, Specialist, what can I answer?” Wren ventured, the pair carefully picking their steps through the crowded access-way.

“I serve as Archimedes’ historian, now with my sergeant having been killed in our recent exchange with these new elves, and I feel it my duty to ensure a complete and error-free continuation of the Archimedes deployment record.”

“And how does this involve me, specifically?” Wren asked, stepping to one side as she gestured for the Specialist to enter the dining compartment first.

“Oh, thank you,” Spc. Mikes acknowledged as he stepped through the doorway. Inside the room, those seated at the hastily arranged benches ceased their quiet discourse to rise, their eyes on Wren as she filled the hatch.

“I don’t understand,” Wren remarked.

“We watched you fight the lone, faceless warrior, Steady,” Spc. Mikes replied, triggering a thunderous rise applause, “It’s the root of my questions, to be sure,” the human shouted over the din. Unused to such displays, Wren became suddenly self-conscious, adjusting nervously inside her black armor with an uncertain smile while Spc. Mikes raised his hands to quiet the crowd that had begun to whistle and cheer.

“Alright everyone, well done! Let’s leave it at that, I still have questions for the St-” Spc. Mikes called out, falling silent with the realization that the Steady had slipped away from his side, completely out of sight.

“Damn.”

Topside, wind and rain howled, threatening to suck Spc. Mikes overboard from his safe location on the Archimedes’ railed gangway, the human soldier shielding his glasses from the driving sheets. His prey lurked in the shadowed cover of the central comm tower, the Steady’s smile glinting brightly, a suggestion of some greater beast that lay in wait.

“You’ll forgive me, Specialist, if we continue our conversation out here, where there are fewer…well, where it’s just you and I?” the Steady queried apologetically where she sat. Reaching the covered circuit alcove, SPc. Mikes felt the heat billowing up from the power-conduit, an effect that filled the mostly enclosed space with enough warmth to make it comfortable, even against the hurricane’s violence.

“My thanks, Steady, but people notice where ever you pass,” Spc. Mikes remarked as he wrung out his soaked beret, “Finding you was little challenge.”

“It’s not the finding that protects me, Specialist. It’s the determination that finds you out here that serves us both,” the Steady replied, smiling with many lifetimes’ wisdom. “Ask your questions, I will give you until either this storm breaks, or my stomach orders me to obey,” Wren offered matter-of-factly.

“Excellent!” the SPecialist replied happily, producing a recording device from within his uniform jacket.

“If I may, I’d like to note your beginning as a Steady,” Spc Mikes spoke, placing the device between where they sat on their impromptu bench.

“Understand that I have been gifted long life by my blood,” Wren began, unbuckling the armored rises of her black boots, projecting her naked feet and shins out into the pouring rain, wiggling her toes.

“I have been a Steady proper for over seventy five years, and was perhaps the last student to leave Juura before it’s destruction at the hands of the Council of the Dead…”

Glowing green, the line feeding the tattoo gun in the dwarf’s hand radiated unnatural warmth, the ink flowing into Wren’s skin to fill already-inset outlines of the Words of Power. Gripping a leather bite between tightly clenched jaws, the Drow-Human focused on her breathing beneath the overwhelming pain of the Process. No one was spared the agony of the tattoos, with many recipients passing unconscious during the injections. Malgeven cared not at all for Wren’s physical comfort, the dwarf whispering Invocations as he set her flesh to burning, filling her with an arcane mixture of imbued mercury and phosphor, the culmination of centuries of alchemical research and discovery. The Lasting War had revealed all races to the predations of Man, sundering the root of the world’s magical nature and laying bare millenia of treatise and negotiations. Now the unholy held the greatest share of power, with Mankind’s technological and martial prowess proving dominant over all others, nuclear fire decimating the Drow, eradicating the Dragons. Working the length of her body, Malgeven inked the verses of the Steady from Wren’s collarbones down to her shins, commanding her to roll onto her belly with a gruff, don’t-waste-time demeanor. Her chest and pelvis wrapped for her own privacy, Wren uttered not a sound, tears rolling freely while the fire-haired Dwarf worked. It took the entire day for the Words to be complete, leaving her obsidian skin radiating green light as the magical ink cooled into permanence. Sitting back from the bench, Malgeven worked his aching, stiff fingers as he harumphed his opinion, seeing no errors. He would never share with Wren his amazement at the Silent Mountain’s endurance, as unknown to either of them, this work, perhaps his finest, was also his last.

“All done,” Malgeven grunted, his hand stroking the length of his impressive red and grey beard, “You’ll go for the Trials now, Steady, whether that’s too soon to call you such we will see,” Malgeven spoke, standing only as high as Wren’s hips, the burly Master presenting the Drow-human hybrid with a wrapped package.

“Armor, crafted from the last of my Bovine leather, I think you’ll make the most of the ceramite plating, with your speed,” Malgeven spoke, his face expressionless as he helped Wren dress, quietly outlining the importance of the many clasps and buckles. Silently, Wren obeyed, impressed but not surprised by the armor’s snug, intimate fit. Complete protection, it seemed, did not have to sacrifice mobility or speed.

“My weapons?” Wren asked as she regarded herself in the floor-length mirror, ignoring the pain of tightly-squeezed tattoos beneath the armor to admire the Dwarf’s craftsmanship, the armor equal parts protection and flattery, numerous inter-locking plates not diminishing Wren’s femininity.

“Your guns are where you left them, and a Katana has been provided for you. Likely some nano-nonsense afforded by the Gun Council.” Malgeven replied gruffly, the dwarf hiding his pleasure at Wren’s sunrise smile, starting and sputtering as she bent down to kiss his forehead.

“Ever my thanks you grumpy little fellow,” Wren assented, noting the sudden flush racing into Malgeven’s cheeks.

“Ahem, err, well...You’ll not need my wishes of luck in the trial, Wren, but even so…Take care, and try not to kill your fellow Steady.” the Dwarven Runemaster remarked, offering a backhand wave as Wren strode towards the heavy plank door, newly crafted leathers creaking.

“I’ll not kill him, Runemaster, just because you said so,” Wren remarked jokingly, leaving Malgeven with a parting smile. In her absence, the world seemed somehow more gray, despite the burning sunshine that poured through the large windows into the Dwarf’s cluttered workshop. Partial armors adorned the walls in the spaces between complicated drawings and diagrams, various leathers of numerous design, an unknown treasure trove of advanced, one-off concepts. In his heart existed no doubt as to whom would reign the victor in the coming trial, even as sunlight turned from gold to red. Young Killian stood no chance against Wren, their competition no more than a formality in her progress to Steady, the drow-human mixed blood possessing the peak of both species in terms of speed, agility, and power. Her human heritage blessed Wren with the ability to think in unorthodox ways, coupling an exceptional fighting ability with non-linear problem solving. Malgeven had noted this even during Wren’s first acceptance into the Process. Many had spoken out against her admittance, Gun Council members openly afraid of granting the power of Steady to one of Drow heritage, fearing the empowerment of an assassin. Rising from his stool, Malgeven tackled the process of cleaning up the tattoo bench, his keen hearing picking up the announcement in the combat yard of the beginning of the Trial, hoots and hollers of accolade sounding decidedly for the young human, Killian of Westerly Reach.

So quickly do they pick sides, the dwarf mused, tidying his workspace before taking care to wash his hands of the enchanted mercury-phosphor. His hands clean, Malgeven rounded the tattoo bench, opening the concealed face of the small cooling unit set into the plas-crete wall, retrieving his evening meal, a large, complex array of layered meats, vegetables, and cheeses trapped within an enormous bun. SHuffling footfalls moved the hungry dwarf to the railing beneath the central window, his left hand weilding the monstrous sandwich, his right drawing forth a pair of viewing glasses, reserved for this very special occasion. Sitting upon the worn stool at the railing, Malgeven, Runemaster of Juura, laughed in open delight as the tables below turned steadily in his protege’s favor.

She’s toying with me! Killian realized, the young man stepping through a series of normally impressive and devastating snap-kicks, his armored boots sounding loudly against the protected shins and forearms of his opponent. Against Wren’s sinuous grace, Killian seemed a clumsy, clunky attacker, sweat running down his face as he sought to breach Wren’s perfect defense. The Trial consisted of 3 set time-spans, in which the paired competitors could choose first unarmed, then blade-armed, and finally pistol-armed combat. Traditionally, the paired combatants would only meet force with equal force, restricting displays of one-sided competition. Well into the third time-span, their bodies bedecked with paired long-guns and katana’s, while their combat remained hand-to-hand. Visible beneath their very different armor styles, green energy illuminated the different words of Power that adorned the Steadys, magic reacting to magic, Killian’s chest bare beneath his jacket-style upper protector, whilst Wren’s armor more closely resembled a form-fit vest and bracers. Despite the cheers of the gathered Steadies and Initiates, Killian had always respected Wren for her outrageous ability, having been lucky enough to train against her during their time at Juura. Each had spent a decade beneath a Master, learning the myriad skills and crafts that a Steady needed to fend off the unholy evils of the world at large. Now in the third tier of time, all of one’s abilities could be brought to bear upon the opponent, Killian toeing a stone into the air to propel it ahead of a round-house kick. Shattering under the human’s amplified strength, the stone burst into a could of stinging shrapnel and blinding dust. Her eyes closed, Wren relied on her training to counter Killian’s surprisingly under-handed tactic, the obsidian fighter silently commending the bronze-skinned human’s tactic. Wrapping her left arm around the inevitable follow-up kick, Wren switched her footing to a stance that would unlock the power of her core, balling her right fist as she hammered the inside of Killian’s trapped thigh once, twice. Agony filled Killian’s face as his thigh cramped tight, but there was no time to react. Moving through fluid, trained motion, Wren turned the hold into a throw, a shuffle-step drawing out the man’s leg as Wren’s waist tightened up, a loaded spring. Reaching for her, Killian was denied a grip as his center of gravity rounded hers, centrifugal energy drawing his body outwards in the moment before his release. A hapless passenger, Killian cried out in surprise as he arced through the air, bouncing and rolling across the dusty flagstones of the Combat Square, ‘oofing’ in hurt as Wren followed him aggressively, her boots skipping. Their roles reversed, Wren cleared the last of the grit from her eyes, springing into a complex sequence of kicks and feints, disrupting Killian’s recovery with a steady, inexorable advance. Quickly closing to her fists and knees, Wren unveiled her mastery of Jeet Kun Do, the surrounding spectators having fallen silent at the slanted display of martial prowess. Driven by desperation, Killian made the first of his three deciding errors, his left hand cross-drawing the pistol from his right thigh, the gun-metal grey artifact shattering into a spray of broken metal and sparks before it had cleared it’s holster. Wren’s speed was unrivaled, the second of Killian’s mistakes becoming apparent as the Drow holstered her pistol in the time it took the human to realize he held a smoking, shattered pistol. Acting on trained reflex, Killian drew his second pistol as Wren pirouetted into his guard, black steel flickering from the sheath she wore along the small of her back. Struck by the powerful blade, the grip of Killian’s pistol slammed into his forehead, the knurled hammer scraping a bleeding gouge into his flesh as the cylinder and frame clattered to the flagstones before him, the human dropping to his knees.

“Those were my father’s guns,” Killian spoke in timid surprise as he regarded his destroyed weapons, his eyes hovering on the back of his naked right index, the path that had been drawn by Wren’s blade cleanly slicing through the back of his gloved finger. Her blade already sheathed, Wren turned to face her defeated opponent, the mixed-blood graciously offering to help Killian stand before the pair erupted into laughter.

“Well fought, Brother!” Wren exclaimed, warmly lacing her arm around Killian’s shoulders, their contest ended to rising applause, “That blinding tactic, so unexpected, especially from you! I’m very impressed-”

“So you didn’t kill each other during the trials?” Spc. Mikes interrupted, wind and rain screaming around the comm tower’s power-conduit, unable to reach the pair as warm exhaust continued to rush up from within the Archimedes’ bowels. Around them, meters below, the black storm-surge continued to lap against the armored train’s plated hull, the massive magnetic levitation construct proving far too heavy to be influenced by buoyancy or pressure.

“Not if it could be avoided, although some trials were heated affairs, but for the most part, Steady Initiates were few and far between, with many dying during the more basic training, or shooting themselves dead when faced with the view of the world the Masters of Juura revealed. Plainly said, the First Hunt proved by far the most deadly for young Steadies,” Wren explained, sneaking a wave across the expanse between the comm ridge of the train and the nearest of the oceanic transport containers that had been assembled for the displaced citizenry. The pair of twin human girls’ reaction was easily read even through the storm, a no doubt shared shriek of surprised glee before they rushed back into the protective darkness afforded by the open-sided structure.

“Killian and I chose to pursue our First Hunt together, and, sadly, I proved unequal to it’s measure, and for that failing, Killian died. We happened upon our sojourn from the Citadel at Juura, and word had come to the Gun Council from the south, that there had come upon the people a menace known only as Maysa…”

“Why do I have to have the headless one?” Killian remarked as he regarded first his auto-steed, then Wren’s, the pair of simulacrum horses the same in every regard but for the most disturbing one. Wren’s blue-on-white Equine sported a luxurious, flowing mane of silver hair, where Killian’s boasted only a cluster of optical sensors the projected from the green on red shoulders.

“It’s creepy and I don’t like it,” the lean human rankled, grimacing as the thing with no head tried to offer a very artificial knicker, more an electronic bleat.

“They didn’t even give it a horse voice. That’s a sheep voice,” Killian added, staring pointedly at Wren’s sleek mount.

“Supplies are limited Killian, you know this,” Wren replied as she stepped up and across the auto-steed’s built-in saddle, “And besides, despite it’s ugly, horrible, off-handed attempt at a face…” Wren spoke, faltering into laughter, tears wetting her cheeks.

“I-I am sorry Killian, your luck is awful! That beast…I’m glad it cannot understand…” Wren struggled between fits of laughter. With accidental emphasis, Wren’s mount shook it’s mane, silver cascading through gold daylight.

“Well let’s get on with this then,” Killian spat irritably as he stepped up into his own saddle, reaching back to ensure his saddlebags were properly closed before urging the green on red thing into a trot.

“The Council bade us south, at least let me lead, so I don’t have to admire the head on yours all the while,” Killian suggested, Wren nodding her assent.

“I like your Long Coat,” Wren replied, quick to change the topic.

“Really? My thanks, it took forever to get the armor to fit just right you know?” Killian replied back over his shoulder as the pair trotted out of the Citadel’s Main Gate, hooves clip-clopping along the draw bridge that joined Juura to the city of EL-Faandul. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship, the Citadel and El-Faandul, as had been the way since some time after the Lasting War. Nations had been torn down in the intense conflict, cities risen and fallen in the centuries passed, but the Citadel and it’s sister El-Faandul had remained resolute, a bastion against the encroaching chaos that had slunk behind the dissolution of order. Laughing and singing, children circled Wren and her steed, tossing garlands of flowers before the sim’s hooves. Killian recieved…lesser emphasis, children’s faces upset at the sight of the poorly constructed beast upon which the Cloaked Rider sat. Some even went so far as to wave symbols of preservation in the air before themselves.

“It’s no one’s fault Killian,” Wren remarked as she captured the hearts and minds of the young, the uniquely suited representative having long since overcome ingrained racial dislikes with her winning charm. Young girls wanted to be as pretty, young boys sought her measure of strength, Wren’s reputation painting her as something more than flesh and blood, maybe even more than forever.

“Ok then let’s switch stee-” Killian began as he looked back over his shoulder.

“Never!” Wren interrupted, triggering a laugh between them as they continued through the central street. The drow-human was aware of the attentions that Killian recieved, the striking young man discretely fanning the flames of fantasy in those young ladies that somehow materialized in darkened alcoves and almost-unseen window sills. Parents were conservative in El-Faandul, and many were the rumors of young, pristine beauties swept up in the mystery and intrigue of Citadel affairs. Because the Citadel protected it’s privacy, whispers were all that could fill the void, lonely wives and mothers pouring their own misintentions into the void, to lurid effect. Without trying, Killian had been deemed a scintillating rapscallion intent only on the torrid devices young ladies bodies could afford.

“I think they like your coat too,” Wren remarked quietly as she trotted up to Killian’s left, discretely pointing to the gaggle of budding girls filling the doorway to Central Goods and Materials, Doc McMurdy’s store.

“Hrm?” Killian answered, looking towards Wren’s cue. With a nod of his Stetson hat and a wink, Killian melted the dark-haired girls where they stood, the trio acting swiftly to save the fourth from a swoon, even as their manager, old June Crouk beat them back with her corn-broom

“Back at it ye fillies! I’ve no mind to tan one or all of ye!” The aging blonde matriarch shrieked, staring daggers towards the Cloaked Rider. Catching her eye, Killian earned a harumph as Madam Crouk turned up her nose. Along each side of the street, the dashing children and on-lookers gave way to more seasoned travel, heavy covered wagons arranged precisely by their handlers, each team of three or more auto-steeds relying on still active point-to-point positioning relays embedded in their navigation arrays. Such ancient technology had it’s origin in the once-popular automobile, an edifice gone the way of Megacities and Starscrapers. Clambering on and around them, stock-hands shuffled immense quantities of cargo, woven textile from Nor-andra, dried meats and cheeses from as far east as Mann’ttan. Secretly, Wren desired to visit these far away places, hoping against hope that her travels would avail her. As the street widened, the pair of Steady’s wove into the flow of hoofed traffic exiting El’Faandul, politely addressing passersby with nods, more than one set of eyes lingering on the guns worn by the law-bringers. Unlike Wren, who didn’t mind wearing heavier, larger guns, Killian’s reforged weapons held three-round cylinders, allowing the human to fire bullets almost twice again as large as the Government 45/70 Wren preferred. In context, Killian believed necessity outstripped feasibility, making the first shot far more valuable than the following. Woven into the material of his leather and armor jacket, Killian’s holsters rode right in front and left behind, favoring the man’s initial roll tactic. Killian had practiced the left-shoulder roll-and-draw into a science, allowing him to rise fluidly into a closing sprint, his edged weapon sheathed along his right thigh. The sun had only begun to dip as the pair moved outside the last of El’Faandul’s defensive walls, their company that of heavily shielded wagons, shine-drapes drawn fully against the unrelenting heat of an angry sun. From behind armored slits, wren could feel the caravaners peering out at them, the end of the cities defenses signaling the end of trust. Wearing a much lighter covering, Wren rode with her arms bare from shoulder to elbow, her features protected beneath a dark grey Dupatta that would serve as a dust-mask if needed, the material whipped by the unforgiving wind. Spreading out, the pair began to gallop, their steeds navigating an unseen network of surface-point relays. From time to time, the sandy highway would yield to reveal an ancient, dark surfacing much akin to stone, but would become pliable under the sun’s harsh light. Two hours south of the Citadel, Killian signaled back to Wren, his fist raised in a sharp gesture. Without reply, Wren reigned in her steed, triggering the in-laid Hold command on the beast’s side-console. Responding with a timid beep, the blue and white Equine Sim became as stone.

“No sense wrecking our gear,” Killian expressed as Wren reached his side, the human kneeling behind an outcropping of stone atop the rise. He had parked his own carrier only so many paces ahead of Wren’s, the scent of cooking flesh now pungent on the dry air. Cannibalism was frequent in the Southern Lands, Caravans lost during sandstorms were often discovered weeks later, their cargo generally intact, the closely knit families vanished. Beyond the hillock, a group of perhaps fifty crudely armed and armored humans gathered around the last of their catch, the bodies of five humanoids roasting atop hastily fashioned cook-pyres, some evidence of their intent scattered about the searing preparations. Cowed into broken sobbing, their fight drawn out of them, the eight remaining females ranged in age from girl-child to matriarch, their bodies stripped bare, revealing clear signs of abuse. They had not been captured recently.

“What’s our hand?” Wren queried softly, her strengths complemented by Killian’s knowledge of tactics and strategy.

“Too many to take straight on, twenty five to one odds. Some will get ammo fired, and you or I will pay for it,” the human replied, his right hand drawing a pistol, his left producing an intricately carved totem.
”We’ll use a small dust storm to cover our advance into more fair engagement terms, then light them up point-blank, but we’ll need to save on shots.” Killian remarked, winking as he met Wren’s amused smirk….

Blinded by the dust storm, Anna Helsway covered her daughters eyes as Saran began to cry, stinging wind striking up the blinding storm without a cloud to be seen. The stage-hands were all dead, eaten by the cannibal raiders, Sons of Rhakhan, her brothers and father among them. Marden Helsway had traded over the Dune Sea south of El’Faandul for more than twenty years before a surprise sandstorm waylaid their six-wagon train. The Sons barely spoke any understandable form of common parlance, but in the sudden, stinging chaos, horror knew no language barrier. Something terrible had come among them, likely attracted by the smell of death, and now, with thunderclaps ringing, the monster rent into the marauders.

“Mama!” Saran cried out, the pair suddenly sprayed with gobbets of hot, greasy material as an armored form crashed into them, knocking mother and daughter to the ground. They had been stripped nude, subjected to rape and mutilation at the hands of their captors, the remaining women of the Helsway Cargo Company counting the days until the meat from the stage-hands lean bodies ran out. Galvanized to action, Anna shouted angrily as she kicked at the body, jamming her hands into where she believed the assailant’s face to be.

I will die before they harm my Saran, Anna fumed, before recoiling in confusion, her hands displacing the jumble of meat atop a shattered jaw-line, incidental brain-stem contact triggering a violent convulsion.

“Gods save us!” Anna cried out in surprise, her mind permanently ingrained with the brief sight of eye-balls dangling laughably on either side of a shattered face. There were two distinct hammer blows of sound in the stinging dust storm, the Sons of Rhakhan no longer screaming in angry fear, but in mortified surrender, pleading for succor with none to be found. As soon as it had begun, the dust storm faded, revealing two black-clad figures standing back to back in the center of the dying place, fifty marauders in various stages of death arranged around them. Skulls emptied by close-range gun play, the majority of the Sons wore skewed grimaces, often with the right or left eye empty, evidence of assured skill. Those that had been eating now burned as they lay in their fires, legs twitching as their still-conscious minds dealt with the pain of being burned alive. Shots placed into their torsos had crippled them, but only partially, leaving them able to feel.

“We should leave them not to burn, but for the birds,” the man in the wide-brimmed hat remarked, spurring his dark companion to action. Boldly spearing her armored forearms into flames, the woman with the snow-white hair pulled the burning cannibals free. She seemed the stronger of the two, with corded, pronounced biceps easily handling even the largest of the surviving cannibals, the Chef. Hauling the heavy men into the center of their once-comfortable feeding space, the black-skinned woman in the head covering drew out a small, ornately bound book.

“By Order of the Citadel of Juura, and it’s Granted Subsidiaries, We the Steady, Travellers of the Road, find you and your guilt of the crimes of Cannibalism, Theft, Rape, Murder in the first degree, murder in the second degree. Steady Killian what say you?” the woman asked, her tone even-handed, devoid of malice.

“I second these charges, Steady Wren,” the man in the black hat replied, nodding solemnly as he turned to regard Anna as she huddled next to the young blonde, Saran. “Have you an idea where the remains of your possessions are, Lady?” the man asked, holstering his weapons to administer splashes of water to the faces of the guilty, ensuring they would not die easily.

“uh..I-” Anna mumbled, falling into shook at the speed of events.

“I know!” the young Saran replied, the naked youth rising angrily to stomp the Chef’s horribly burned face, her heel crushing an occipital bone possibly weakened by underlying illness.