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Original post


I've updated this as I'm writing a lot at the moment and there are some other systems I'm getting into the background of. All the original 40K stuff is here but I'm adding in Heavy Gear and Warmachine too

Any C&C is always welcome

Warhammer 40K
Adeptus Ministorum Homecoming
Cult Mechanicus The Price of Alliances
Dark Angels: Sword of Dulan
Harlequins: The Selection
Orks: Skrapmaster

Heavy Gear
The Red Powder
Run Rabbit, Run
Gardena Part 1

Warmachine
Flintsteps Part 1: Blessings

Skrapmaster

The trukk slewed to a halt, just failing to miss a couple of grots lounging outside the scrap yard. Their broken forms bounced down the street much to the amusement of their companions perched up on the mud brick wall. The sound of grot laughter always grated on Groztakk but as Skrapmaster Ogbog placed some value on them he left his slugga where it was.

"'umon ladz" he growled, climbing down from the battered vehicle. His small retinue of blue-faced Burnas and Lootas dismounted and formed up into a loose mob in front of the scrap yard gates. Working a fingernail into his ear he dislodged a ball of dirt and wax which he flicked at one the grots hitting it square in the face. Its mates sniggered but Groztakk fixed them with a glare and they fell silent, suddenly interested in the sky or their feet.

Wiping his hand on his chest plate he turned to his boys. "Shakrat, Nozgob, Dakrot keep an eye on the trukk." He had learned from bitter experience that the Skrapmaster’s grots were light-fingered little zoggers. "If there's a chance for gettin’ a bit of grub for ride back take it." He always liked roasted grot, especially if it was still a bit wriggly.

The three boys broke away from their boss as the rest followed him to the entrance of the largest scrap yard on Ugfug’s World. The smell of iron, fungus drops and rancid flesh wafted towards him. Ogbog’s scrap yard was vast and they didn’t always remove a vehicles previous occupants. He looked over toward the mob of blue and white armoured Orks approaching him.

"Ogbog!" he nodded the greeting with a little smile at the corner of his mouth, all friendly like.

"Groztakk!" the Skrapmaster approached, bionic arms held out in friendship though one hand held a vicious looking hammer. The retinue of apprentice Meks following him all had their megablasters at the ready. The two Meks despised each other but they were both Deathskulls and business was business. The traditional Mek ways must be followed if either of them was to walk away from this.

"'Erd you got new scrap out of Snotgutz' Waaagh. Fancied a look see." Groztakk took a bag of teef from his belt and hefted it over the fence. He nodded toward the impressive piles of wrecked vehicles, building materials, balls of wire and other components.

"Course." The Skrapmaster nodded and, as the gates swung open, he waved him in. One of his grots snatched up the teef.

The Mek and his boys walked through the gateway and past some of the ramshackle watchtowers that were dotted about the yard. He stopped next to a large walker lent over at an odd angle against a large pile of ‘umie bikes. Its shoulder mounted weapon was impressive though the rest of it was riddled with holes and, from the look of it, nails. Several squigs seemed to have made it their home. Ogbog noticed his interest.

"Umie tinboy. big bugger init?" A loud clang reverberated between the huge piles of metal as the Skrapmaster gave the walker a blow with his hammer. "Skumteef’s boys took it down over on da whatchacallit, ‘Umie 'ive world, two jumps over

"Works?" Groztakk asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nah, y'know Skumteef.” Ogbog snorted “Blew the 'ed off it an' nailed it back on. Said he found it like that" Both Meks shook their head disapprovingly. Nobs always tried to put one over on Meks, they never learned. "Fixerupper though" Ogbog added confidently

"Yeah? 'Ow much?"

"Two crates."

"Two crates?" Groztakk replied incredulously, pointing at the slumped giant "For that bodge? Your havin' a laf."

Anger briefly flashed over Ogbog’s face but he raised his hands. "Times is tough Groztakk, cost of transport, scarcity of good scrap, grot feed, it all adds up."

Groztakk snorted his disgust but none-the-less nodded his understanding. "I'll be 'aving that look around now."

"Alright then," the skrapmaster nodded "Waaslag!" he bellowed to an apprentice over his shoulder. "This Mek 'ere is going to Perooze. When he's done, get listing. Pay atenshun too and you might learn somtin" He gave one final nod to Groztakk and wandered off.

Groztakk gestured to his boys to fan out and he began to walk between the scrap piles taking note of this piece or that all the while tailed by Ogbog’s lad. Once he had walked the entire scrap yard he climbed to the top of one of the larger piles and sat down. Grimgul, his old Big Mek, called the next bit “Kontomplatin”, a stupid word but it seemed to fit. He relaxed his breathing and began to stare, his eyes glazed over and a grin spread over his face. To other Orks it looked so foolish he could easily be mistaken for a Madboy. Anyone looking closely however would see his eyes darting from pile to pile.

The scrap yard blurred out of existence before his eyes. A faint green haze descended and then, piece by piece, the scrap snapped into focus before dissolving back into the hazy green background. Bits of Trukks, jets, bikes and buggies whipped past him as did ‘umie tanks, flyers and pansy ‘overers. His brain catalogued everything he could see and, though he never knew how, things he couldn’t. He sensed iron and copper rich scrap under those that were obvious to all.

There were some ideas here which could work depending on the parts of course. Finally his mind brought the chassis of a large trukk into focus. In his peripheral vision other components began to flash. He glanced around and scowled as the vehicle was assembled in his mind’s eye. It was a large halftrakk pulling a flatbed behind it. Why had it done that? A mixture of disappointment and confusion washed over him.

He looked around to see if there was something he was missing, something he could add to change it into a dakkatrukk. His gaze passed over the large walker and a sharp pain sliced into his brain. Wincing he forced himself to look at it and what he saw made him to lick his lips in nervous excitement. It was different, the head was gone and in its place was the snarling face of Mork. An impressive looking mega-kannon occupied the shoulder mount though it seemed to switch between a lIfta-droppa and back again. The massive mechanical hands were replaced too, one with a buzzklaw and the other a twin barrelled big zappa. Some grot sized shoota mounts were nailed around it for good measure.

He'd have to build the halftrakk here so he could move the walker back to his workshop. That wouldn’t be a problem as the scrap yard made such space available, for a price. He didn't have enough teef for it all but that wouldn't matter, Mork had spoken. He could have the walker back to his workshop and up and running within 10 days and then? Well, then he'd come back a pay Ogbog another visit.

True they were both Deathskulls, though Ogbog had more than a touch of Bad Moon about him, and business was indeed business. However, they were both Orks and Skrapmaster Groztakk had a nice ring to it.

The Selection

The three entered the vaulted chamber through one of the nine gates that define the edge of its reality. The Master of Light, bellicose and bullish, skips and pirouettes forward. The storied sword, mirrored in form to those of legend, thrust boldly at his target. The Master of Darkness, whipping her cruelly curved blade around her as she leaps and flips, her entitlement visible beyond the plainly sneering mask. The Master of Twilight simply walks between his dancing siblings, unarmed, perhaps the most dangerous of the three. They converge before a small stage at the chambers heart and the figure dancing upon it.

“I seek guidance Oracle.” Light bows grandly tumbling forward to rise to a kneel before the stage, every minute gesture portraying great strength tempered by true humility

“I seek command Oracle.” Darkness whispers spinning at the apex of a cartwheel. Pushing off from the glass surface she plants both feet firmly, coming to rest in statuesque arrogance.

Twilight stops and bends at the waist, not a bow but an impertinent effort to approach further than allowed. His head raised and tilted slightly to the left “I seek the Laughing Father,” his head tilts to the right “Daughter of the Fall.”

The slender figure dances gently to a refrain only she can hear though the three sense its power through her movements. Clad only in a short kilt, her porcelain skin reflects the shifting patterns of the chambers prismatic walls and the ripples of the gates that surround her small stage. The moment draws out as she stares through them. Finally she shakes her head and chuckles.

“Mon-Keigh vie with hollowed Yngir on ancient Liasinya.” Her voice seems held in a tone somewhere between mirth and madness. Cupping her hands before her an image appears “The Rose of Charred Sapphires is threatened though Sullen Void Dancer defends.” She moves to the edge of her stage “Darkness grows,” reaching out she touches the sneering mask “Darkness must resist.”

Their commander selected the three Harlequins bow, each mirroring their aspect, and turn to leave. In an explosion of light the Oracle darts from the stage, hands grasping a mask firmly
“You, though now lesser, must remain undiminished in your hopes” Twilight’s form is ridged as the Oracle touches her forehead to his. “He. Sees. You.”

Light and Darkness portray amused shock though only briefly as the sound of gently peeling bells fills the chamber. Straightening, the Oracle releases her grasp. “Dance well,” she gestures languidly to one of the rippling blue gateways before returning to the stage “three more children come a-seeking”.

Fantastic stuff! It can be hard to write such short pieces well, but you seen to have got the hang of it!

Sword of Dulan

Uziel unsheathed the sword, a weapon made with his own hands in the ships artificer-forge. Plain, functional, sharp, like his own blessed Chapter. He knelt before his squad mates who were arrayed in a semi-circle. All wore their bone coloured training tabards over black leather bodysuits. each bore a red winged sword embroidered on their chest.

The Fenrisian stood opposite chest bare, axe resting on his shoulder, flexing his corded muscles for the fight to come. He gestured toward Uziel and made some joke in that foul guttural language of theirs. The ale drinking barbarians howled with laughter. No discipline, Uziel shook his head, a disgrace.

This fight had been building since the two squads had boarded Trader Oleber's sprint hauler. No words had passed between the warriors of either chapter, not even to arrange this ritual. Chapter vassals stood, armed, at every doorway into one of the smaller holds, where their masters now gathered, where this would be settled.

The circle had been laid out in salt and seven fuel drums had been converted into braziers. The lights had been lowered and the promethium fuelled flames danced casting shadows across the assembled warriors and the squad banners which hung from the walkways above the circle. As these things went it was crude but the forms had been correctly observed and the ritual of Dulan could proceed.

Finishing their benediction the Dark Angels rose as one. Turning, Uziel faced the Space Wolf and took stock of his opponent. Perhaps a half a head taller the Fenrisian seemed to ne made of layer upon layer of muscle. His torso and arms were covered in scars and tattoos. Small shamanistic talismans pierced his flesh, small globs of congealed blood fell from them as he flexed.

His axe, oddly glinting blue in the lowlight of the braziers, was no doubt razor sharp and, judging by its edge, well used. He was right handed, from his posture he had taken a deep wound in his left side which had not healed as well as it could have. Blows to his lower right side would be effective, forcing him back and to his left. The haft of the axe was a meter and a half long, unwieldy at close quarters, best to stay within its swing and negate its full effect.

The first of three chimes sounded from the servo skulls above them. Both warriors stepped into the circle and turning saluted their respective chapter symbols. The Space Wolves began to bellow and howl in support of their champion, the Dark Angels remained silent offering no distraction for theirs.
The second chime sounded and meeting in the centre of the ring the champions grasped each other wrists

"My brother Völund" Uziel nodded.

"My brother Uziel" The Space wolf greeted with a smile.

The final chime sounded and, as he released his grip and raised his sword, the wolf pulled him forward smashing his tattooed forehead onto the bridge of Uziel's nose. Blood sprayed over them both though the flowed quickly stemmed. Releasing his grasp the wolf took two steps back, all humour vanishing from his face.

The first traitorous blow had been struck, the fight could now begin.

Thanks Paradigm!

I do like the little bits of colour text in Codices/rpgs. Proceeding as planned for these stories. Itching to get my teeth into something a bit more substantive but it's hard to pin down a subject. I'd love to get something in print eventually. ..

I think the Ork story has been my favorite so far. The dialogue was orkish enough but not too mangled.

Fantastic writing! All three of these are great so far. Hope you're still writing more, I look forward to following your progress through the different armies.

I know it's been a while ...

The Price of Alliances

The incessant, high pitched mechanical chattering that washed the bridge of the Mechanicus vessel was drowned out as the immense lance batteries began firing. Columns of incandescent light speared through the void finally igniting the atmosphere. Watching from the surveyor station it seemed to Lady Oleber that it had taken a mere four hours to transform the verdant orb of Eronticus into a ball of liquid fire.

It was hypnotic really.

The initial bombardment was almost prosaic in its lack of fanfare. The virus had taken three hours to eat ninety six percent of the planets biological life. During this time the Vox traffic transitioned from anger, pleading, begging and impotent threats to screaming, terror and the final fluid filed breaths of those operating the units. “Minor” fires took hold in great numbers as cities, mountains and even seas burned.

Lady Oleber’s fleet hung in high orbit over the single space port ensuring any vessels that made it out of the atmosphere were quickly dealt with. Given that if was a pre-warp civilisation it seemed bloody minded of the Adeptus Mechanicus. In the end only six ships had attempted to flee, six. The paucity of the number felt like a blade in her guts. Had there been thousands or even hundreds she could have easily dehumanised them.

The collision claxon broke her from her morbid reverie and, glancing briefly at the surveyor station, she saw the crust has begun to flay open exposing the planets mantle. Returning her gaze to the planet she saw her fleet fell back to their secondary position some five thousand clicks off the port beam.

The chattering and chirping resumed behind her and turning she watched the tech-priests of Ryza scuttle from one cogitator station to another. There seemed to be no decorum or etiquette among them, at least none discernible to her. Their mechandrites moved like snakes beneath their orange and red robes, connecting either to data ports, servitors or other tech-priests. She wondered how many planets she would need to destroy before she was as unfeeling as these servants of the Imperium.

One of them disconnected from a nearby cogitator unit and seemed to almost float towards her. Lady Oleber stood a little straighter; it would not do to show any emotion to these... things. The honour of her House demanded it.

“The Adeptus Mechanicus is grateful for your gift.” The voice was mechanical yet oddly female. “The components agreed are now available to House Oleber. You may disembark.”

“You have my thanks Mag...” She stopped, shocked, as the tech-priest simply turned and left. With a loud hiss the entrance to the bridge slid open and a squad of Skitarii stood ready to escort her back to her shuttle. She let out a gentle, anger reducing sigh and headed off the bridge. The addition of the Mechanicus forces would nearly double the size of her fleet. The logistics alone would take weeks to resolve.

Eronticus , a planet she personally had discovered was now stripped of biological life, its molten core cooled by swiftly evaporating oceans and tempered with the blood of two-and-a-half billion souls. A horrific price to pay for an alliance with the scions of Mars. A price her house would no doubt pay again.

Brilliant! A perfect blend of almost-surreal understatement and personal dramatics.

Homecoming

Grey. It was the one word had always associated with the Imperium of man. Now, back in the governor’s throne room, it was brought home to him in stark contrast. The nobility of Eydis were a veritable rainbow compared to the faded tones of the servants of Terra.

The faded red and gunmetal of the Mechanicus envoys, the gunmetal and white robes of the Sororitas garrison, the simple browns of the publicly pious ecclesiarchy, of which he must admit he was a member. The brown and greys of the Adeptus representatives, the black of the Arbite captians. They were all, rather amusingly, more grey than the black and white of their collective positions.

There they stood, behind the throne of his forefathers at the far end of the airy receiving hall, a real and tangible shadow cast by the Imperium. A constant reminder that the nobility of this world was only important on this world. A world he himself had not set foot upon in almost 20 years. Since he was exiled. Since he was muted.

They had taken his tongue, pulled so crudely from his mouth that it was almost a death sentence. The Merchant cartels had him sign their damn abdication pronouncements but they had needed him alive and, it seemed, quiet. In so doing they severed a line of governors stretching back to the fabled compliance of this world.

The large windows had been opened allowing in the chill air of the mountains into the vast chamber. Above the central promenade standards and banners fluttered gently in the breeze. As he walked Brandr tried to reconnect with his prior existence here, with his childhood. The wars of the last two decades had erased all but a dreamlike memory of those softer times. The gardens perhaps, yes, those he could picture quite vividly.

As he passed the Aesidar holding he heard the grunting of some of the bolder members of the family. No doubt mocking his inability to speak. A wave of discreet but insulting chuckles made it way around the gilded hall. He recognised some faces, remembered their hands. Stopping at the correct distance from the governor he bowed deeply and stood, hands clasped before him within voluminous sleeves.

“My lord,” a blue clad major-domo took a step forward “may I present to you Confessor Brandr Aristides, recently returned son of Eydis, world of his birth.” The preening fool stood to one side. “As all sons must he comes is humility to pay his respects to your lordship and your assembled nobility”

The Confessor bowed again and small dismissive hand gesture, barest of acknowledgments, was returned. Turning slightly he bowed next to the assembled Ecclesiarchy of Eydis. A minor breach in the overly complex ceremonial etiquette of the nobles but it made his point rather succinctly.

Lord Hectan Galvanis, the stick thin Governor of Eydis gave a small nod. “So this then is what became of you cousin.” He rose from the plain wooden throne, his golden scaled robes chiming at the movement. “My noble servants I present to you the fabled Quiet Confessor of Eydis.”

Brandr held his face impassive at the mocking tone. Some of the Imperial envoys however let the briefest of scowls cross his face. One does not mock a member of the faithful so lightly. Brandr suspected that if any other had spoken those words they would spend a year within a neuro-gibbet.

The governor made a point of looking the priest up and down “Clearly you come to us straight from landing. We are touched by your sense of duty. My goodness but how stern you are. As befits a servant of the Throne.”

“Let me see. A sword but no side arm, a follower of Hands on preaching eh?” He tilted he head slightly and a smile spread over his face. “I commend your zeal yet I notice a heraldic device mounted on the pommel.” An almost accusatory finger pointed to the blade. ”Tell me, cousin, have you adopted a new armorial, Perhaps seeking to distance yourself from those, shall we say, unfortunate days before your hermitage?” The question hung there.

“No, my lord governor.” Strongly spoken his words cut through the susurration of the assembled nobility and reverberated around the hall. The governor flinched, eyes wide as if struck and not a few gasps came from around the chamber. Brandr’s tongue or rather his new tongue, a blessing from the mother church, had exactly the effect the wounded child inside him desired. “I would not presume to undertake such a course without your permission.”

The Governor shook his head almost ruefully. “Well, well. It does my heart good to see a son of Eydis returned to us whole and true.” glancing back to the bishop inclined his head. “Then forgive me cousin I must push you for an explanation.”

“This sword was a gift my lord. The simple armourial you see is the mark of the Urstan Crusade of which I played a minor role. It was presented to me by His grace Helmund Bertholdt. He saw fit t...”

“This Bertholdt, a leader of a crusade?” the governor interrupted. He smiled knowingly to those nobles nearest to him “Odd that I have not heard this name before.” A small ripple of laughter spread through the governors supporters.

“Forgive me my lord; Chaplain Bertholdt of the Black Templars is a lord Astartes under Master Urstan himself.” Turning slowly Brandr held out his arms apologetically. “I ask the noble assemblies indulgence for my familiarity. Too long have I been starved of refined and civilised Eydisian company.“

Shock was plain on the faces of most of the assembled nobility. The Astartes founded this world in ages past and none had been seen in generations. They continued, under the ministrations of the Ecclesiarchy, to be objects of veneration. The governor however was unmoved by this new but as he leant forward to speak it was an elderly member of the Ecclesiarchy who spoke first, the Bishop of Eydis.

“Such a gift Confessor, a symbol of great action and faith no doubt?“ The strength of his voice belying the slightness of his frame.

“The lords Templar were overly generous my lord bishop. I led a company of guardsmen in a breaching action against the heretic of Praesidia. More deserving than I fell that day.”
“My son, of the many aspects the Emperor endowed his sons with excessive generosity is most certainly not one of them.” He bowed his head to the confessor. “I look forward to hearing of your actions, in your own voice, now your hermitage has been discharged.”

“Was the gift fairly given?” enquired the governor. His ire rising at the threat implied in the tale of action against another world leader.

“Yes my lord.” Brandr said fighting the temptation to snap at the not so subtle accusation. “It is a death sentence to carry an Astartes weapon without permission. It came with a patent of faith and favour.” He rested his hand on a small scroll case at his hip.

The governor’s gaze flicked towards the Aesidar as if seeking … what? Instruction? Backing? Sanction?

The Major domo stepped forward, somewhat recklessly. “Lord Governor Galvanis it appears that a force of Astartes has landed at the cathedral of Enlightenment.” Panic creeping into his voice.

“There is no cause for alarm my lords” Brandr turning to address those assembled. “ Lord Chaplain Bertholdt and his Black Templar Astartes merely wish to pay their respects at the cathedral of his blessed Primarch. The Lord Astartes expressed his desire to look upon the Founder’s hololithic visage and view the Eydis Charter. After which they will come and pay due ... respects to the nobles holding this world in the Founders name.”

This announcement brought many cries from those in the court, not all of them positive. The Aesidar and their mercantile representatives blanched and suddenly fear and the wild desire for pandemonium hung in the air though not a soul dared move. The audience was certainly not going as the cartels had hoped but before any of the nobles could speak the governor raised his hands quieting those present.

“We are honoured by this unannounced and welcome visitation by the sons of the holy Emperor. Their skill at teaching us our sensor-nets and stellar auguries need yet more calibration is a gift we will treasure for a long time to come. ” He glowered at his military advisors. “Alas the Charter has been missing these many years cousin. It is widely reported that the document was lost during the fires of Correction.”

“Not so cousin, it will bring your great joy to learn that it was discovered and, as we speak, is being restored to its rightful position.” He bowed his head so as to hide the grin he could not stop spreading over his face. At this news the Bishop of Eydis leapt to his feet.

“My lords!” his arms held out. “This day promises to overflow with glad tidings and much, much cause for celebration.” Walking down to where Brandr stood the elderly man placed a hand on his shoulder. The Bishops ever present Sororitas bodyguard followed and surrounded them both. ”The long sought charter is once again in the bosom of Eydis and descendants of the founder himself make planet fall in holy pilgrimage. Truly the hand of the Emperor is upon us all.”

Some of the more pious members of the nobility dropped to their knees in prayer and a few others smiled broadly looking directly at Brandr or the governor, both of whom merely started at the other. The cartels military advisors rushed swiftly to the governor’s side, each pushing to be heard before the other, all waving dataslates at their lord.

“Given this news my lord governor,” the bishop continued loudly “I ask that my servants and I be permitted to withdraw. Let us arrange a suitable welcome for these great warriors and sons of the Emperor.”

Distracted by the prattling of his aides he nodded, eyes still locked with Brandr’s.

“Come my children.” The bishop gestured to the rest of his followers. He turned to face Brandr, the barest of smiles dancing around the edges of his mouth. Bowing to the Ecclesiarch Brandr felt his arm being taken and turning saw it was the Lady Augustina Sol-Hastings, head of the planets Famulous chantry. The small yet heavily protected congregation moved swiftly from the chamber.

“So stern my little one, have you neither greeting nor the warmth of a smile for your old and humble tutor?” Dressed in the black, blue and yellow of her order her attire nonetheless put the noble ladies of Eydis to shame. He almost laughed at her use of the word humble but kept himself composed.

“The lessons we had in the chantry’s gardens where the only memory of this place that gave me purpose and a sense of hope. Yes,” He placed his hand over hers “I have missed you ‘tina”
He had called her that in his childhood and it was the last name he had spoken for nearly twelve long years. He remembered begging her to stop them ripping out his tongue, the fury in her face as she fought his attackers before being rendered unconscious. The scar on her temple was all that marred her porcelain face.

She shook her head as if in sadness. “Oh my lovely boy, to hear your voice once again.” Squeezing his arm tightly she smiled at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “Come let us get you to safety before it all begins.”

He had learned much of the manipulations used by the Order Famulous in the execution of their duties. The scale and depth of it was at times breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. He had learned some tricks of his own during his hermitage. He would need them all in the coming conflict.

Still, it was good to be home.

Heavy Gear - The Red Powder

The spice quarter of the market place was a riot of color, aromas and, to Vider’s disgust, haggling. He stood in the covered shop front of a dye merchants. He never understood why dye was classed as a spice here. “Badlanders” he said in the same tone he used when uttering the word morons. He turned at the polite cough heralding the dye merchants approach.

“I must admit monsieur I am surprised to see you again so soon. I am gratified to see that you miss my…” he grinned and slapped his stomach “… expansive company.” He gestured to the cups as the end of the counter. “Tea?”

Vider nodded “Please, oasis mint”. Returning with a small cup he gestured for Vider to sit on one of the stools.

”How may I assist the valiant duellist on what my friend assures me is a fine, clear morning?”

“I wish to buy some dye”

“Indeed monsieur, which shade?”

“Desert Crimson”

“An expensive powder monsieur and one that is quite difficult to obtain. I fear a deposit is required to even view such a shade.”

Reaching into his vest pocket Vider pulled out a signet ring and placed it onto the counter. The Merchant raised an eyebrow but nodded and walked to the apothecary chest. He returned with a wooden drawer of red powder and placed it next to the scales. He picked up the ring and examined it. “Ah yes, platinum.”

Placing the ring onto the scales he carefully started to measure out the crimson dye. He glanced up “If I may ask monsieur, I am curious as to where you obtained such a fine ring?” Seeing Vider hesitate he smiled.

“De Vere was gracious enough to give it to me by way of an apology” the duellist replied quietly

The Merchant tapped the measured power into a small wooden box which he gently placed onto the counter. He returned the ring to Vider. “six apologies in four cycles, you shame our analysts monsieur”, he smiled spreading his hands “Their projections crumble before your commitment.”

Vider snorted “Perhaps it is time to revise their projections.”

“Perhaps” The spice merchant chuckled mirthlessly ”You have leads on the rest?”

“On some” Vider replied “You will inform Frasier of the progress?”

The merchant paused but his smile didn’t waver “I can do better than that my dear Vider. There is a clean line in the office upstairs.” he bowed and motioned to the doorway. “Go inside and I’ll follow shortly to place the call. Bring your tea.” Vider rose and entered the store.

Prabel looked at the doorway and gave a long sigh. In four cycles the arrogant bastard had never mentioned his old CO, not even obliquely. It was as he feared then; now that the sting of disgrace had lessened Vider was becoming weary of the hunt.

It was not unexpected or even uncommon among soldiers. Perhaps the Republicans were right to accept death before dishonor. Discovering that life continued regardless of their honor was too much for some of them. Yes, perhaps a reminder was overdue. Looking around the shop front he shook his head and gave a small chuckle. “A pity” he said to no-one in particular “I rather
enjoyed selling spices.”

Turning towards the entrance he glanced up at the awnings fluttering on Padshiy stadium, quickly finding the position his sniper occupied, drew two fingers down his right cheek and walked through the doorway.

Heavy Gear - Run Rabbit, Run

Small chassis parts pinged off the Pitbull’s armour as Sidhra sped past her team mate. Lunete’s gear, a copperhead she had named Chompy, had just taken the left arm and a portion of an engine cowling from a Jaguar with its heavy chainsaw. The arena filled with sirens, flashing lights
and the crowd chanting “NOM NOM NOM.”

“That’s gotta HURT Eric!” Bellowed the announcer “Austel won’t be high-fiving his Vipers anytime soon.”

“That’s right Gary,” laughed the other “oh and it looks like Lunete Beauchamps is now beating the sensor pod off the Jaguar with the severed arm. That’s cold... even for her!”

The Firebrands, of which Sidhra was a member, had been matched against the Rock Vipers, an ad hoc but effective mix of underground duellists. If rumours were to be believed they had some serious connections in the shadier parts of Khayr ad-Din. This was only the second time they had faced off but one of their roster, a loudmouth named Juzman, had faced off against Sidhra in a few of the rallies held in the badlands and had a chip on his shoulder about his losses.

His SD-Jager was currently perusing her around the arena. Their every move broadcast by the announcers.

“So to those not keeping track; the Firebrands are currently in the lead with three KOs to two. The Vipers are hungry for victory however particularly Oscar Juzman who is hunting down Sidhra Nassim, the Desert Rabbit herself. “

“It seems good time to mention that today’s match up is brought to you by Weird but Tasty. Try their new menu item, the Eldritch Sandwich, a taste of unspeakable horror. “

“Y’know Eric, I had one of those sandwiches this morning and I have to say it was one of the most unusual things I’ve ever had.” As if to illustrate the fact he let out an sizeable belch.

“Well Gary,” Eric chuckled “they aren’t called Weird but Tasty for nothing.”

Heading up the slip ramp onto the central platform Sidhra loosed another batch of oil. Juzman dodged around it throwing in a pirouette much to the amusement of the crowd. His reputation for entertaining the masses was almost as bloated as the man himself.

“You seem to have soiled yourself again little rabbit” the harshness of his laughter was accentuated by the tannoy system. “Do I frighten you that much?” another burst of MAC fire raised sparks around her tyres.

Nassim slew the Pitbull around at the centre of the platform. As Juzman leapt over another oil patch she ignited it under him with a burst of autocannon fire. Reacting badly to as the flames engulfed him his SD-Jager clipped one of the dragons’ teeth sending his Gear sprawling behind it. His MAC slid off the platform leaving him just his vibroclaw and a packgun. The crowed hooted with laugher and some of the louder insults came though the roar quite clearly.

“Oooh ... that’s embarrassing. He seemed to move so daintily” The crowd responded with more laugher and jeers.

“Eric my friend, I think he’s beginning to realise that Nassim is a rabbit in name only.”

Slapping her final magazine into the LAC she dropped to one knee and set the rest of the oil patches she has spent the last ten minutes laying ablaze with controlled burst of fire. Both duellists were, for as long as the flames lasted, trapped on the platform suspended nearly twenty metres above the arena floor.

“You’ve been so ardent in you pursuit Badlander.” Sidhra said throwing aside the now empty gun. ”Come here and let me reward you with a kiss” she drew her Chainsword and kicked it into life.

The crowd went insane.

Heavy Gear - Gardena - Part 1

They had assembled sporadically over the course of the past four hours. Posing as scientists, business people and commercial workers they had arrived individually or in pairs, some drove, others walked. Most of them had been in Gardena three to four weeks at this stage though their tradecraft presented a different reality. The languid yet steady strides, heads held unwaveringly in the direction of travel, that spoke of “resident” rather than “outsider”.

Some carried equipment bags, others briefcases. One, Fazzad, a pale wiry man, even carried a bundle of laundry over his shoulder and a carton of milk in his free hand, truly a local.

Santha and Karsk, part of a trade delegation from Perth, turned south onto Coros Way. Their cover had positioned them closer to the MILICIA barracks than she would have liked but despite the added risk her people had taken it in their stride. That it was soft infiltration helped but one could never be too prepared as the Republicans were a suspicious and observant people by nature.

As they approached the Protectors checkpoint Karsk touched her hand gently and, following his gaze, saw a silver van labelled “DeGalt's Delicacies” being waved through. Adrienne and her group had been in Gardena for nearly a two cycles running a small perishables delivery firm that serviced the more exclusive cafes in the River District and, surprisingly, the barracks. The contacts Adrienne had made within the service sector alone was worth their investment.

Gardena itself was a marvel. A pearl hidden in the gullet of the MacAllen Tunnel Network. The utilitarianism of the Humanist Alliance tended to be associated with functional architecture but this was clearly not the case here. It was as if the lack of a skyline had forced the inhabitants to other, more controlled, forms of inspiration. This far below the surface however it was the sound that was most disquieting. The usual sounds of a city merged with a susurration of water and echoes of the populace at large. Unnerving for those not used to it.

Passing through the checkpoint with the subservient smile and muted politeness of commoners they came onto the bridge complex proper. Consisting almost entirely of residential buildings the central road of the bridge was almost an afterthought as if someone had drawn their finger though a sandcastle. The engineering involved was clearly impressive and some research into their construction would be warranted. Cafes, restaurants and a few stores dotted the length of the bridge offering a unique beneath-the-stalactites dining experience.

“Fifteen minutes” Karsk rumbled as they walked.

“There’s still time” she replied snaking her arm through his. “Noticed the shadow?”

Karsk grunted. “Right side, second in, third floor above the dispensary”

She leaned in pointing toward the river. “Have Gaethe deal with it at minus five minutes”

They strolled down towards a cafe opposite the main target, a medium town house, and took seats out on the sidewalk. A waiter brought over cups of steaming coffee and they watched as Adrienne’s team unloaded crates of produce into the small delicatessen two doors down from them. Of those passers by, window shoppers and other nearby patrons Santha made out fifteen of her twenty strong detail. All were a few seconds walk to the store front.

“Five minutes twenty” Karsk stated neutrally while taking out his phone and placing a call. Moments later the pop of a round breaking the sound barrier went pretty much unnoticed by those around them. Perhaps the noise of this place was a boon after all?

Santha nodded and rose to her feet “Fall in.” Leaving their coffee half drunk they headed towards the deli where the other members of her team were converging. She was the first through the door and walked up to the counter at the far end.

“VDSS,” She said holding out her badge to the staff “if you have a store room please make your way there now.”

The manager looked on in shock as his store was suddenly full of people tearing apart crates and removing weapons and other pieces of equipment from the goods he had just received not five minutes earlier.

“Is ... is there danger Protector?” Alarm, feint, yet present in his voice.

Despite the urgency her training kicked in and her face split in a broad smile “Not in the store room my friend” she said reaching across the counter to place a hand on the man’s shoulders. “I would never put you in danger but I do need you to comply immediately” she said firmly.

“Of course Protector” he replied and dutifully guided his staff and startled customers through the back of the store.

“Three minutes ten” Karsk’s voice cut through the noise of the officers checking a double checking their equipment and that of their team mates.

“Kyle, Donner” Santha queried and received sub-vocal responses from the two officers who had remained in plain clothes at the Cafe. “At minus thirty seconds quietly clear the cafe and disable anything that isn’t us.” Karsk handed her a Sfika rifle which she begun to check.

“Two minutes. Attention!” Karsk barked.

The men and women in the room snapped to and all eyes fell on their commander, Pendekarch Jasail Santha. She returned their gaze unflinchingly, a fierce pride and trust in those she commanded blossomed in her chest. “Remember who we are, remember who we protect, remember your oaths.” She noted those that stood a little straighter. “Blacktongues! Set
positions.”

The breach teams flowed out of the store front in single file quickly forming two groups, one either side of the town house. Nervous faces looked on from across the street though Kyle and Donner calmly began the process of keeping the citizenry at arms length from the raid.

Santha gave a curt “brace” into her comms system. The entry teams crouched down and, placing their left hands on the right shoulder of the officer in front of them, gave the ready response. Further confirmations came in from the perimeter team. Both ends of the bridge were now secured and local Protectors were informed and began crowd control. City Preceptor Bleu would no doubt be receiving a somewhat chastening call within the next few seconds. The pilots of the Water Vipers in the river below were the last to respond in the positive.

She glanced back to Fazzad and with a quick chop of her hand signalled him forward. He raced up to the door and set the pneumatic ram in place. Checking it briefly he nodded its readiness back to his commander. Without taking her eyes from her watch Santha gave a single nod.

“Breach in 3,2, ...” the pop of the ram reverberated through her chest.

“GO! GO! GO!”

Warmachine - Flintsteps Part 1: Blessings

"No! You get to be Katrena all the time, it's not fair!" Rosie shouted while glancing to each of the others looking for support. The sound of the waves below crashing onto the shore filled the silence.

"Well? I'm a better fighter that you so I get to be her?" Molly said flatly, sighing as if the truth of this fact was both self evident and incontrovertible.

“It's not about fighting it's about being virtuous and kind. If you such a good fighter then why don’t you be Markus?” Hands planted firmly on her hips Rosie was clearly determined not to give in this time.

Molly scoffed loudly “Eh? He’s a boy stupid.”

The other children stood around the pair as Rosilyn and Molly had the inevitable fight that marked the beginning of games of Ascendants and Scions. The group of friends, mostly middle children the eldest being fourteen year old Bors, had gathered under the trees not far from the Morrowan chapel that marked the western edge of the village of Flintsteps.

"Come on Molly, what's the harm in letting her be Katrena this time?" Marelus asked, his Llaelese accent at odds with his Cygnarian playmates. He motioned towards the village. "How long will it be before our parents find jobs for us? Let us just go." Garth and Bors nodded their agreement while the twins, Camden and Caylan, shuffled around impatiently. As always Talia stood quietly next to Marelus, simply watching.

Molly looked back to the village. The storm had blown itself out mid-morning and the adults were starting to take stock of the damage. As the sun once again began to shine groups of them could be seen moving from building to building pointing and writing things down. The small refugee camp in the eastern meadow had been hit the worst but, according to Marelus, the council had managed to get the people into the hall and some homes before the worst of the wind made land. The storm had been so strong that a few of the older wooden buildings had collapsed and, judging by the smell, a few outhouses had been obliterated too. Sighing she made a sour face "Fine, but I get to be her next time, come on."

The chapel doors were open, as always, and a large group of people stood next to piles of materials listening while the twin’s father, Doyle Burloch, was listing out jobs. His deep voice punctuated with nods and sounds of ascent from the crowd. A loud whine and hiss made some of them jump as Master Keller’s labour jacks rounded the side of the chapel. Both were laden with immense stacks of wood, held under each arm, and crates lashed to their bodies. The shipwright was between the faded blue steam-powered monsters, his face bunched up in a deep scowl of concentration.

Nipping into the pale building through the open doors the group dodged between people and nudged their way into the dim and warm interior. Garth nodded towards the back of the chapel where, through the wisps of candle smoke coloured by stained glass, they could see Sister Rehn tending to some of the refugees. The slight woman a smile perpetually at the edge of her lips moved amongst those in her care, her presence calming to those who had lost so much already.

As they drew near they could see people laid out on the pews, some with very large bandages on their limbs. They didn’t recognise any of them and they were passed out though they seemed asleep. When Camden had broken his arm last year he had told everyone how tired you get after receiving magical healing. Noticing how small one of those sleepers was they began to see just how many families were within the chapels strong walls.

“My goodness what a motley looking bunch you are!” Sister Rehn exclaimed causing all but Talia to jump. She had finished with the last of the injuries and rather upsettingly was wiping her bloody hands on her vestments. Brushing her auburn hair from her face she could see Molly’s worried expression she smiled “Everyone is fine little one, not to worry, bumps, cuts and some broken bones. Morrow is with us. It could have been so much worse. Now,“ pointing to the altar further inside the chapel "line up then, quickly as I have a lot to do besides blessing you young reprobates."

Ascendants and Scions was a somewhat scandalous game given the strong Morrowan presence in the village. They first time they were caught playing it their parents took a dim view of it and most of them couldn’t sit down for a week. Sister Rehn had intervened on behalf of the children reasoning that they should be allowed to play in the open lest they become tempted by the attraction of making it forbidden. She would also bless the group to keep them from the gaze of Morrows twin. The parents had eventually relented on the condition that they all wore the symbol of Morrow and that the Sister blesses them every time.

Sister Rehn held out her hands as the children took each other’s hands to form a circle. “Father Morrow I beseech thee to protect these innocent souls, faithful in service both to you and your flock. Guide them in their play that they may take heed and learn of the goodness of your Ascendants. Protect them also from the excesses of the Dark Sister that they may resist that which is within the nature of us all. For it is only in yo…”

“FARIZA!” The scream pierced the murmuring hush. Sister Rehn’s head snapped up towards the door as a woman ran in. “We’ve found Meryll. She’s badly hurt, Gastonne says to run if we are to save the child.”

“Merciful Morrow” Sister Rehn uttered her face turning ashen. She looked to the assembled children. “Go, stay out from under foot, do not stray too far and be back for evening prayers” she said sternly. With that she grabbed one of the satchels from beside the altar and rushed out of the chapel through the path cleared by those within.

Molly looked after the women as she left. In the past year the quiet structured life in Flintsteps had been shattered by the ongoing wars. The fall of Llael had marked the start of it for the village with the arrival of the refugees flooding into Cygnar. There had been two raids by forces from the Schardes; the second of which had claimed both of Molly’s parents. Flintsteps looked after its own so she had been taken in by the Burlochs but it was Fariza Rehn, Paladin of Morrow, too whom she had become attached. Perhaps more deeply that she would admit for fear of betraying her parents love.

Caylan moved up and took Molly’s hand “come on sis, let’s go.” Nodding, Molly and the rest of the group carefully headed back outside. The crowd had moved off in the direction of the first ruined house with the Labour jacks and Keller in tow. They watched as smaller groups peeled off and began to sort the debris. Turning they walked the short distance to the sea steps stopping a few steps into the descent aghast at the destruction the storm had wrought on the small shipyard.

“Wow!” Came Garth’s voice form the back “Come on, what are we waiting for?”