Location: Tolkeen – High Tower War Chamber – Storm Outside
Lightning flashes through stained-glass windows. The scent of rain mixes with smoke from war-maps and old incense. In a great circular chamber of stone and arcane sigils, the King of Tolkeen sits atop his throne, robed in violet and crimson. Around him are generals, mages, envoys, and shadowed advisors. Their faces glow from the magical battlefield projections.
A single pulsing red mark blinks on the map east of Duluth — surrounded by thousands of chittering Xiticix glyphs.
A chamberlain announces, “Lord Coake, founder of the Cyber-Knights, enters.”
The room falls silent as Lord Coake steps in, his silver-blue armor reflecting the thunderlight. No banners. No entourage. Just him.
The king narrows his eyes but gestures for him to speak.
He walks calmly into the center of the room, armor creaking faintly. The council watches him with a mix of tension and disdain.
“Wounded. Half-devoured. Surrounded by monsters,” Lord Coake said. “And your plan… is to let them die.”
A general speaks, trying to be diplomatic, “We do not engage the Xiticix. The Coalition is at war with us, even your own Fellowship. While, to interfere would provoke a war with the Xiticix we cannot contain. You must know this, Coake.”
Lord Coake, “I do. I also know what it means to watch men die when you could save them.”
He looks around the room.
Lord Coake, “Soldiers they may be. But they are dying as prisoners, not warriors. Trapped. Isolated. Starving. Not one among you would call that ‘honorable.’”
The King leans forward, his tone sharp, “They marched to exterminate us. They burned villages. Enslaved our people. You ask us to risk our lives for theirs?”
Coake’s voice is quiet now, but cutting as a blade, “No. I ask you to remember who you are. You call yourselves a kingdom of learning, of tolerance, of magic and diversity. But what meaning is there in revenge through silence?”
He walks toward the map, his eyes fixed on the blinking red mark.
Lord Coake, “If you do nothing, the world will remember Tolkeen not as the nation that stood for freedom… but as the one that watched its enemies die in agony and called it justice.”
A tense silence. The King does not look away, “You would risk open war with the Xiticix? You would save the very army that would have wiped your knights from the Earth?”
Lord Coake, firm, unwavering, “If I can save even one life — yes.”
He scans the room again.
“We are not soldiers. We are knights. That means something. Or it should.”
A long pause. No one speaks. Then Coake finishes, voice calm but final:
Lord Coake, “You may do as you will. But the Cyber-Knights will not stand idle. We will send a team. We will do what we can. Not to fight. Not to rescue an army — but to preserve honor. To remind the world that mercy still walks the Earth.”
With that, he turns and walks from the chamber, his cape trailing behind him like a banner of silver-blue judgment.
Thunder shakes the tower. And somewhere far to the east… men continue to die.
---
Location: Cyber-Knight Forward Camp – Dusk – Edge of Xiticix Territory
The camp sits half-buried in the woods northeast of the Mississippi River, under the shrouded twilight. Camouflage netting drapes between trees.
Eight Cyber-Knights — kneel in a loose circle as Lord Coake addresses them. His presence is grave. The wind blows low through the pines, and in the far distance… the faint, insectile scream of the Xiticix swarm.
Lord Coake, “You know the risks. This isn’t a mission of battle. It’s a mission of mercy. You are not here to fight. You are here to rescue. And if that proves impossible — then guide those you can to safety.”
A younger knight, Sir Erian, tightens her vambrace and speaks quietly, “Do we know if any of them will even accept our help? These are Coalition soldiers…”
Lord Coake, “Some will. Some won’t. We’re not here to argue politics with the dying.”
He looks at each of them, eyes hard but not cold. “Many of them are scared. Some only fought because they were ordered to. That doesn’t make them righteous — but it doesn’t make them unworthy of compassion.”
An older knight, scarred and pragmatic, speaks next, “What about the Xiticix? We can’t take on a swarm.”
Lord Coake, “You have all been asked to be a part of this. You all have experience with Xiticix. We are NOT here to wage war with the swarm. We cannot afford that.”
He gestures toward a folded map on the ground. Marked paths show the few known tunnels and routes not yet collapsed by the Xiticix.
Lord Coake, “These are the safe corridors, if any still exist. The Xiticix spray will mask our scent. Our Spell caster will cast the sound dampening spell to mask noise.”
Our Shifter has already created the “Circle of Travel” for rapid exit. will open a portal for rapid exit.
A heavy silence falls. One of the knights nods grimly.
Lord Coake steps forward, voice resolute, “I will follow behind you. If any of you fall — I will not let you fall alone.”
The knights rise, one by one, drawing helmets into place, blades into sheaths.
Lord Coake, “This is what separates us from them. Not power. Not armor. Not code. This. The willingness to act with mercy, even when no one will thank us for it.”
The youngest among them, still not hardened by war, whispers, “If we die saving the enemy… will anyone even believe we were heroes?”
Lord Coake looks to the darkening sky. “If the world doesn’t believe… then we act until it remembers what a hero truly is.”
With no fanfare, the knights melt into the woods — into the borderlands where man, monster, and madness clash. Behind them, Lord Coake lowers his visor.
And follows.
---
Location: Xiticix Territory – Night – “The Choke Zone”
The world has turned black and green. Moonlight filters through twisted trees, thick with fungal webbing and mucus-like resin. The ground is uneven — scored with deep furrows, punctured by jagged hive-spikes that jut from the soil like bones. The air is humid, toxic-sweet, and the only sound is the distant, rhythmic clicking of insectoid sounds.
Seven Cyber-Knights move in complete silence, spaced evenly in a V-formation, masked with Xiticix Scent gland juice scent. Noise-less they move thanks to their TW Cloaks (provides Chameleon and Stealwalk [magically suppress any sound made by the enchanted individual while moving. The spell masks the sounds of breathing, footfalls and climbing as well as muting the sound of equipment attached to or worn by the individual that might rustle, clunk or clatter, including body armor, weapons, etc.]). They only communicate via telepathy and hand signals.
At the front is Sir Venn scans the terrain with presence sense, eyes narrowed (telepathically), “We’re close to a nest spine. I feel fifty-plus signatures east of us — dormant, maybe.”
Sir Marius raises a hand, signaling a halt. The group drops instantly. From the trees above, a Xiticix scout scuttles down an organic pillar, clicks its mandibles, then vanishes again.
The group doesn’t move. No one breathes loudly.
A minute passes. Then two.
The clicking fades.
They resume, cutting into a trench of collapsed earth that forms a kind of tunnel — barely large enough to crawl.
[Interior Passage]
The walls pulse faintly, slick with some kind of fluid. Bioluminescent mold glows in sickly yellows and purples. The tunnel twists and throbs like a living organ.
The youngest knight, Squire Malen, tightens his grip. His lips tremble, (telepathically) “Sir Erian… what if the soldiers don’t want our help?”
Sir Erian, “We help anyway. If they die, it won’t be because no one tried.”
A low vibration begins not audible. A vibration in the very walls. The knights freeze.
From above, the sound of burrowing claws.
Sir Marius (telepathically), “They’re active. We triggered a response. Not full alert… but they know something’s here.”
Suddenly, ahead — a glimmer of metal in the fungal mist.
The group approaches slowly. A dead Coalition APC, torn open, covered in ichor and resin. Scorch marks. Inside, desiccated bodies in black armor — some still clutching rifles, others melted into the walls. One helmet is cracked, and the inside is completely hollow.
Sir Malen stares (telepathically), “…They didn’t even fight. They couldn’t.”
Sir Venn moves forward and kneels, placing two fingers to the dead soldier's helmet. His Object Reading activates — a flicker of memory.
Pain. Screams. Darkness. A swarm of wings. No escape. No sound — just clicking. Then silence.
Sir Venn (telepathically, to the group), “This unit was hit two days ago. Ambushed. No one got out.”
Sir Erian (telepathically), “Survivors. Close. South by southeast. Half a klick. Moving slowly.”
The team regroups, slipping back into formation. They leave the APC behind — no time to bury the dead here.
As they vanish deeper into the Xiticix warzone, the forest seems to breathe around them. From above, a thousand eyes track their movement. Somewhere, deep beneath the earth, a hive mind stirs. Not yet aware… but curious.
The knights have crossed the line.
Now the test begins.
---
Location: Xiticix Warzone – Night
The forest clears into a flattened scar of war. Burnt earth. Wrecked metal. Charred husks of once-powerful tanks, giant walking robots, and APCs line the ground like broken teeth. The air reeks of scorched polymer and old blood. Every few yards, insectoid limbs twitch in the dirt — reminders of the thousands of Xiticix warriors who died here.
Across the warzone, hundreds of them perch like grotesque gargoyles on tree limbs, shattered vehicles, and the ridges of distant hives. They don’t move. They just watch. Wings folded. Mandibles still. Listening.
The only movement comes from a cluster of six APCs, half-buried and scorched, positioned in a tight circle — like a desperate last stand. They don’t move. No engines run. Nothing moves. The lights are off. It looks like a graveyard.
But still, there is life inside.
Inside Coalition APC-92 – 11th Mechanized Infantry, 27th Unit
It’s dark, but barely lit by emergency glowstrips. The air is stale. Humid. Half the men are asleep — or passed out. The others sit, wordless, staring at walls, gaunt and sweat-soaked. One man gently shakes a canteen. It’s empty.
Sergeant Major Derren, face pale and unshaved, whispers to his lieutenant. “We’re down to two rations. One of the corporals died in the night. That gives us a half-day more. Then it’s the recycling bag… or the side door.”
The lieutenant doesn’t answer. He just stares at a dead radio receiver, as if hoping it will speak.
Lt. Targos (dryly), “Side door is a coffin. You know that.”
Then there’s a voice, “Don’t shoot.”
The entire squad stiffens.
Weapons rise. Breath holds. They hear it — soft, deliberate footsteps. Too soft to be Xiticix. They don’t walk. They skitter.
Someone swears under his breath.
The Voice (telepathically), “I am speaking via telepathy. We are outside. We are here to help. Do not shoot.”
The voice is calm in its tone — not Coalition. Not Xiticix. But it’s in perfect American.
Voice, “We’re not your enemy. We are here to help.”
Silence.
Then a telepathic sound of a person saying, “Open the door, please.”
Inside, the squad is stunned. Then, against protocol, Targos moves to the view camera door slit — and blinks in disbelief. A figure stands there, cloaked… and holding no weapon.
Targos slowly unlatches the inner door, and Sir Erian slips in. Her face is uncovered — calm, alert, human. Behind her, five other figures move in coordinated silence, already checking the other vehicles.
Lt. Targos, “You’re… you’re real?”
Sir Erian (quietly), “We are. And we’ve come to get you out.”
Behind her, Sir Marius slips into the next APC. Two men inside weep openly when the light hits their faces. One of the knights kneels beside a soldier who’s suffering from PTSD.
From a distance, the Xiticix watchers twitch slightly. They continue watching. Still waiting.
Sir Venn (telepathically to the team), “This is a rescue, not an extraction. Stay quiet. Heal who we can. Don’t waste time on those who refuse to come.”
Inside APC-92, Derren is still staring.
Sgt. Derren, “Why would you save us? We were going to kill your people. Kill you.”
Sir Erian looks at him, not coldly — but without pity either. “I’m not here for what you were going to do. I’m here because what’s happening to you is wrong.”
The words hang in the dark, like a truth no one knows how to carry.
Lt. Targos (quietly), “…How many can you take?”
Sir Erian, “We’ll guide as many as can walk. We have an extraction prepared, and a safe path mapped.”
Sir Marius steps in, nodding, “We’re ghosts out here. They can’t hear us. We just need you to take off your armor, get sprayed down with a masking scent and move slowly on foot. No sound. We’ll get you out. But not if you panic.”
The Coalition survivors:
“It's a trap.”
“I’m not taking my armor off.”
“They want to kill us.”
“We are already dead.”
“We are dead if we stay.”
“…I thought you people were just myths.”
The lieutenant, “I need a volunteer.”
Silence. Everyone looks at everyone else.
The Lt, “Radio man. You are volun-TOLD, You are going go and take a video camera and record everything.”
Glancing at two CS Grunts,
“You two, you are ORDERED to strip and go with him. Radio-man come back with the video. We’ll see.”
The men begin to move — stunned, but obeying.
As the squads of soldiers — guided by knights — begin to slither out of the graveyard of metal, a dozen Xiticix from above click softly, heads tilting.
They watch the humans retreat into the forest. No threat. Just silence.
And the Cyber-knights, now ghosts in the dark, vanish with them.
---
Location: Edge of Xiticix Territory
The survivors — about forty in all, limping and silent — are guided by the Cyber-Knights through a shrouded ravine. No one speaks unless they must.
A clearing opens — a ring of standing stones. Waiting at the center is Lord Coake, helmet under one arm, cloak flaring in the wind, eyes scanning every face.
Sir Erian approaches first and bows her head slightly. “Mission complete. Forty-three survivors. Wounded, exhausted… cooperative.”
Coake nods. His gaze shifts over the gathered soldiers. Eyes sunken. Guns slung like forgotten burdens. No longer invaders. Just men broken by something they couldn’t understand.
Lord Coake, calmly, to the group, “I am Lord Coake. I do not expect your thanks, nor your trust. But I offer you what neither your commanders nor your enemies will give you — a second chance.”
A few soldiers lower their eyes in shame or disbelief.
Lord Coake, “You cannot return to the Coalition. You are already presumed dead, or soon will be. And IF you return, they might consider you traitors for accepting aid from enemies of the Coalition. Tolkeen will not welcome you with open arms. The army you were a part of has killed too many of their people to forget, and it will take years, if ever, for them to forgive.”
He gestures to the glowing circle.
Lord Coake, “Instead, I will send you to New Lazlo. They are not your allies. But they are not your enemies either. There, you will be treated. Fed. Housed. Free.”
A corporal steps forward, limping, eyes sunken with suspicion.
Coalition Corporal, “You’re just gonna let us go? What’s the angle? We’re soldiers. We killed your people.”
Lord Coake, “I’m not here to punish the defeated. I’m here to stop the killing.”
He steps forward, his voice rising slightly.
Lord Coake, “You were part of a war started by men who do not care how many of you die so long as their enemies do. I cannot undo that. But I will not let you become fuel for another grave.”
A long silence.
A young private wipes his eyes. A medic slumps to her knees. For the first time in weeks, the soldiers are unguarded — because they’re no longer expected to fight.
Coake turns to his Ley Line Walker.
Lord Coake, “Begin the spell. Open the way to Lazlo.”
The air shimmers. Wind rushes in. And one by one, the soldiers begin to step into the light — some hesitating. Others weeping. A few whispering to their comrades, unsure if they’re waking into heaven or hell or just exile.
Lord Coake stands at the edge of the circle, unmoving.
Sir Venn (quietly, beside him), “This will cost you, politically.”
Lord Coake, “So be it.”
The last soldier turns before stepping into the portal. A weathered officer. Face hollow, but eyes clear.
Coalition Officer, “…I don’t know who you are. But if this gets me court-martialed or shot later, I just want you to know…”
He hesitates.
“…I’d rather die remembering this than forget it ever happened.”
He vanishes in the light.
The portal closes.
The forest goes quiet again.
Lord Coake turns to his knights.
Lord Coake, “There are others still trapped. We go again at sunset.”
And the knights ready themselves — not for war, but for the next rescue. Because that is the fight Lord Coake chooses.
Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Moderators: Supreme Beings, Immortals, Old Ones
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darthauthor
- Champion
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Emperor Prosek’s Intelligence Council Chamber
Dark stone walls, an imposing eagle-and-gear Coalition sigil behind Prosek’s seat. Prosek sits alone at the head of a long black table, surrounded by senior intelligence officers, military strategists, and propaganda chiefs. The report on New Lazlo flickers on a secure holo-terminal.
Director Olivia Helstrom (reading the summary), “…100 Coalition service members, formerly part of General Holmes’ now-isolated army, have been extracted from Xiticix territory. The operation was reportedly led by Lord Coake and elements of the Cyber-Knights. They were magically teleported to New Lazlo. Most are receiving trauma treatment. There are no high-value personnel or classified intel losses. So far.”
(The room is quiet. A few glances are exchanged.)
Emperor Karl Prosek (slowly), “One hundred out of four hundred thousand.”
(He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable.)
Prosek, “A fraction of a fraction… but like a drop of blood in a glass of water, it spreads. Tell me: who among them has spoken?”
Helstrom, “No public declarations yet. Some have tried to get messages to their families. The New Lazlo government, and the Cyber-Knights, appear to be monitoring them closely—perhaps controlling the flow of information.”
Minister Carlisle (interjecting), “That’s intentional. Lord Coake wants this story to spread. He’s crafting a myth—noble warriors saving our lost soldiers from alien horrors when we, their own nation, left them to die. He wants to stain your name with their survival.”
Prosek (darkly amused), “Coake always did have a flair for drama. Chivalry for show, sedition beneath.”
(He stands, pacing toward the tactical display.)
Prosek, “The question isn’t whether to respond. The question is how loudly. If we do nothing, the myth grows. If we punish the rescued soldiers, we confirm the myth.”
General Rockford, “But they did accept magical aid. From knights who openly oppose us. That cannot be ignored.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (low, intense), “They were touched by magic. That alone makes them suspect. Their minds… compromised. Their loyalties… uncertain. They should be retrieved, interrogated, and if necessary—purified.
Helstrom, “If we move openly against them, New Lazlo will react. It risks triggering backlash—or worse, drawing neutral factions closer to Lazlo and the Cyber-Knights. Many outsiders still view Coake as a ‘moderate.’
Prosek (coldly), “Then we move quietly.”
(resolute, voice sharp as steel) “We do not waste time and resources on a hundred broken men. Let them rot in New Lazlo, breathing in mage-ridden air and waiting for peace that will never come.
”But no word of their survival reaches our people. No letters. No broadcasts. No songs of ‘noble knights’ rescuing Coalition soldirs from the jaws of death.
“Silence them—not through bullets, but shadows. Disinformation teams will leak a controlled story: the Cyber-Knights ‘abducted’ Coalition soldiers—used them as pawns for propaganda.
“Portray Coake’s rescue as a political stunt. Frame it as reckless, magical brainwashing. Insinuate the soldiers have been compromised by psionics or spellcraft—no longer loyal. Unstable. Dangerous.
“Meanwhile, assign Ghost Ops to identify which among the rescued might speak. If any begin to show signs of turning into mouthpieces for Lazlo… eliminate them. Quietly. Precisely.
“These are not heroes. They are strays. And strays are either brought to heel… or put down.”
(He turns to Carlisle.)
“Begin preparing a broadcast piece. Highlight the million Xiticix slain by Holmes’ army. Call it a triumph. A service to humanity. Elevate their sacrifice, not their survival. Spin it as a final victory, not a story of abandonment.”
(Then to Helstrom.)
“And leak to our 100 strays that we may consider retrieval... but only if these soldiers recant, reject the Cyber-Knights, and return to face tribunal. Let them feel the weight of choosing exile.”
Aftermath:
Propaganda Campaign:
The focus is on Holmes “heroic last stand” against the Xiticix.
Accuse Lord Coake of using broken, traumatized men as props in a magical PR stunt.
Dismiss any speech from the soldiers as either scripted or coerced.
Ghost Operations:
Identify and monitor the rescued soldiers.
Neutralize those attempting to contact Coalition families or spread positive sentiment about Cyber-Knights.
Begin quiet intimidation campaigns against any soldier families inside Coalition territory who inquire about their “lost” loved ones.
Diplomatic Maneuvering:
Publicly ignore the event.
Privately remind neutral powers of the Cyber-Knights associate with D-Bees, use techno-wizardary devices, and have allies who use magic. Use this event to frame them as manipulative actors who abandoned Coalition members to be eaten alive by the Xiticix, if they did not lick the Cyber-Knights boot.
Prosek’s Final Thought (to himself, under breath, as the room empties):
“Let Coake play his game of mercy. In the end, mercy dies just as easily as men do.”
Dark stone walls, an imposing eagle-and-gear Coalition sigil behind Prosek’s seat. Prosek sits alone at the head of a long black table, surrounded by senior intelligence officers, military strategists, and propaganda chiefs. The report on New Lazlo flickers on a secure holo-terminal.
Director Olivia Helstrom (reading the summary), “…100 Coalition service members, formerly part of General Holmes’ now-isolated army, have been extracted from Xiticix territory. The operation was reportedly led by Lord Coake and elements of the Cyber-Knights. They were magically teleported to New Lazlo. Most are receiving trauma treatment. There are no high-value personnel or classified intel losses. So far.”
(The room is quiet. A few glances are exchanged.)
Emperor Karl Prosek (slowly), “One hundred out of four hundred thousand.”
(He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable.)
Prosek, “A fraction of a fraction… but like a drop of blood in a glass of water, it spreads. Tell me: who among them has spoken?”
Helstrom, “No public declarations yet. Some have tried to get messages to their families. The New Lazlo government, and the Cyber-Knights, appear to be monitoring them closely—perhaps controlling the flow of information.”
Minister Carlisle (interjecting), “That’s intentional. Lord Coake wants this story to spread. He’s crafting a myth—noble warriors saving our lost soldiers from alien horrors when we, their own nation, left them to die. He wants to stain your name with their survival.”
Prosek (darkly amused), “Coake always did have a flair for drama. Chivalry for show, sedition beneath.”
(He stands, pacing toward the tactical display.)
Prosek, “The question isn’t whether to respond. The question is how loudly. If we do nothing, the myth grows. If we punish the rescued soldiers, we confirm the myth.”
General Rockford, “But they did accept magical aid. From knights who openly oppose us. That cannot be ignored.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (low, intense), “They were touched by magic. That alone makes them suspect. Their minds… compromised. Their loyalties… uncertain. They should be retrieved, interrogated, and if necessary—purified.
Helstrom, “If we move openly against them, New Lazlo will react. It risks triggering backlash—or worse, drawing neutral factions closer to Lazlo and the Cyber-Knights. Many outsiders still view Coake as a ‘moderate.’
Prosek (coldly), “Then we move quietly.”
(resolute, voice sharp as steel) “We do not waste time and resources on a hundred broken men. Let them rot in New Lazlo, breathing in mage-ridden air and waiting for peace that will never come.
”But no word of their survival reaches our people. No letters. No broadcasts. No songs of ‘noble knights’ rescuing Coalition soldirs from the jaws of death.
“Silence them—not through bullets, but shadows. Disinformation teams will leak a controlled story: the Cyber-Knights ‘abducted’ Coalition soldiers—used them as pawns for propaganda.
“Portray Coake’s rescue as a political stunt. Frame it as reckless, magical brainwashing. Insinuate the soldiers have been compromised by psionics or spellcraft—no longer loyal. Unstable. Dangerous.
“Meanwhile, assign Ghost Ops to identify which among the rescued might speak. If any begin to show signs of turning into mouthpieces for Lazlo… eliminate them. Quietly. Precisely.
“These are not heroes. They are strays. And strays are either brought to heel… or put down.”
(He turns to Carlisle.)
“Begin preparing a broadcast piece. Highlight the million Xiticix slain by Holmes’ army. Call it a triumph. A service to humanity. Elevate their sacrifice, not their survival. Spin it as a final victory, not a story of abandonment.”
(Then to Helstrom.)
“And leak to our 100 strays that we may consider retrieval... but only if these soldiers recant, reject the Cyber-Knights, and return to face tribunal. Let them feel the weight of choosing exile.”
Aftermath:
Propaganda Campaign:
The focus is on Holmes “heroic last stand” against the Xiticix.
Accuse Lord Coake of using broken, traumatized men as props in a magical PR stunt.
Dismiss any speech from the soldiers as either scripted or coerced.
Ghost Operations:
Identify and monitor the rescued soldiers.
Neutralize those attempting to contact Coalition families or spread positive sentiment about Cyber-Knights.
Begin quiet intimidation campaigns against any soldier families inside Coalition territory who inquire about their “lost” loved ones.
Diplomatic Maneuvering:
Publicly ignore the event.
Privately remind neutral powers of the Cyber-Knights associate with D-Bees, use techno-wizardary devices, and have allies who use magic. Use this event to frame them as manipulative actors who abandoned Coalition members to be eaten alive by the Xiticix, if they did not lick the Cyber-Knights boot.
Prosek’s Final Thought (to himself, under breath, as the room empties):
“Let Coake play his game of mercy. In the end, mercy dies just as easily as men do.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
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- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Forge of the Mystic Kuznya
The forge was cold.
That alone said more than a dozen oaths etched in stone. For five weeks it had roared like a god kept in chains — bellows hissing, hammers ringing, steel howling under the discipline of fire and spirit. Now, silence. Only drifting smoke, the creak of cooling iron, and the scent of scorched leather lingered.
Ten suits of armor stood in rows, tall and proud, each of them as flawless as a sculptor’s final breath. They were sleek and simple in design but with ornate flourishes. Each weighed only six pounds, but could stop a railgun round. They whispered like silk when moved and wore like a second skin.
The Mystic Smith stood with arms folded, boots planted in ash. He was not tall, but hhi presence filled the chamber like heat. His apron was stained with soot and chemical burns. The last five weeks had taken much—but he had given more. His fingers twitched, unused to stillness.
He felt had Not broken the code. Not in spirit, but in number. Ten suits, forged at once. An act not of greed, but efficiency—for the Cyber-Knights, for Lord Coake, for the innocent they bled and risked their life for. And when the final one had cooled, he had declared: “Enough. Now I drink. Now I dance. For four weeks, I belong to myself.”
---
The armor arrived in silence.
No fanfare. No caravan. Just a matte-black hauler with a seal.
Lord Coake stood at the head of the hall when they opened the crates. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Ten suits. Each one standing upright on its own. Each one unique, but unmistakably cut from the same vision.
The first Cyber-Knight to step forward was Sir Kaelen—a veteran who had survived four campaigns in the Pecos Empire and lost two ribs to a Vibro blade. He reached out with a gauntleted hand and touched the armor’s chestplate.
He said quietly, “And it feels like cloth, but…”
Another Knight, Serah Vynn, removed her current plate and tried one on. It slid over her body like it had known her all her life. No rattle. No weight. She moved, pivoted, dropped into a crouch, rose, spun, then stilled.
“It’s lighter than my jacket,” she whispered.
Lord Coake finally spoke.
“She made these for us. Not for me. Not for glory. For purpose. You will not sell, trade, or boast.”
He stepped forward, running his hand over a shoulder guard. The alloy shimmered briefly under his touch.
“You will earn it.”
One by one, the Knights approached. Some touched it like a holy relic. Others nodded quietly, their faces hard but respectful. A few just stared, their thoughts running deeper than words could reach.
One younger Knight—barely past knighthood—asked in a hushed voice, “Why now?”
Coake looked down at the message that had come with the shipment. It was short.
"For the defenders of the defenseless. These are not yours. They belong to those who still stand when the world turns its back. Use them well."
—The Mystic Kuznya
---
He hadn’t even made it through one.
It was evening when he arrived. Not announced. Not armored. Just a tall man in a weatherworn duster, a faint limp in his left leg, and a presence that bent the air around him like gravity.
The Mystic Kuznya didn’t look up when the door opened. He was in the forge, not working—just tending a low flame, the kind used to draw out impurities in rare alloys. The coals hummed. The smell was iron, oil, and rosemary.
He spoke first.
“Didn’t send you a receipt.”
Lord Coake stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low beam. He didn’t smile, but there was warmth behind his eyes. “Didn’t need one.”
He looked around the space—clean, organized, intimate in its way. Not a factory. Not a warehouse. A sanctum.
He set his tongs down and faced him fully.
“You’re here for the gold?”
“No,” he said. “It was never mine.”
A pause.
“I heard what happened in the Hive-lands,” He said. “A hundred lives saved. Could’ve gone the other way.”
“It still could,” he said. “Your armor won’t make the lucky few Cyber-Knights infallible.”
“Wasn’t meant to. Just meant to give them a chance.”
He nodded. Then, after a pause, stepped forward and held out a small object wrapped in dark blue cloth.
He took it and unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a crushed helmet plate—dented, scorched, split clean through. Not one of the new suits. One of the old ones. The kind that let a Knight walk into battle, but not always walk back out.
“Sir Gannen wore that for eight years,” Coake said. “Saved thirty-six lives. Carried a thousand pounds of gear through swamps, cities, and warzones. It failed him last month. He’s alive. Barely. One of your suits saved his replacement. So now he mentors, instead of bleeds.”
The Mystic Kuznya stared at the plate for a long time. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Coake said. “But I owed you more than words.”
He looked up at him. “You’re not here to recruit me?”
“I’m not that stupid.”
A quiet laugh escaped him—half genuine, half wary.
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “I know your code. Like the Fellowship of Cyber-Knights, you serve no army, no king, no nation.”
He waited.
“But if there ever comes a time,” he said, voice low, “when you need us, not as customers, but as brothers and sisters, to retrieve something of your craft that you lost, that fell into the wrong hands or was put to the wrong use... you have only to ask. No banner. No chains. Just blades drawn in the right direction.”
He didn’t answer with words. Just gave a short, solemn nod.
He walked out into the night.
The Mystic Kuznya stayed by the forge a while longer. He didn’t melt the helmet plate down. He set it above the mantle, next to the first hammer he’d ever cracked.
For memory.
For direction.
The forge was cold.
That alone said more than a dozen oaths etched in stone. For five weeks it had roared like a god kept in chains — bellows hissing, hammers ringing, steel howling under the discipline of fire and spirit. Now, silence. Only drifting smoke, the creak of cooling iron, and the scent of scorched leather lingered.
Ten suits of armor stood in rows, tall and proud, each of them as flawless as a sculptor’s final breath. They were sleek and simple in design but with ornate flourishes. Each weighed only six pounds, but could stop a railgun round. They whispered like silk when moved and wore like a second skin.
The Mystic Smith stood with arms folded, boots planted in ash. He was not tall, but hhi presence filled the chamber like heat. His apron was stained with soot and chemical burns. The last five weeks had taken much—but he had given more. His fingers twitched, unused to stillness.
He felt had Not broken the code. Not in spirit, but in number. Ten suits, forged at once. An act not of greed, but efficiency—for the Cyber-Knights, for Lord Coake, for the innocent they bled and risked their life for. And when the final one had cooled, he had declared: “Enough. Now I drink. Now I dance. For four weeks, I belong to myself.”
---
The armor arrived in silence.
No fanfare. No caravan. Just a matte-black hauler with a seal.
Lord Coake stood at the head of the hall when they opened the crates. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Ten suits. Each one standing upright on its own. Each one unique, but unmistakably cut from the same vision.
The first Cyber-Knight to step forward was Sir Kaelen—a veteran who had survived four campaigns in the Pecos Empire and lost two ribs to a Vibro blade. He reached out with a gauntleted hand and touched the armor’s chestplate.
He said quietly, “And it feels like cloth, but…”
Another Knight, Serah Vynn, removed her current plate and tried one on. It slid over her body like it had known her all her life. No rattle. No weight. She moved, pivoted, dropped into a crouch, rose, spun, then stilled.
“It’s lighter than my jacket,” she whispered.
Lord Coake finally spoke.
“She made these for us. Not for me. Not for glory. For purpose. You will not sell, trade, or boast.”
He stepped forward, running his hand over a shoulder guard. The alloy shimmered briefly under his touch.
“You will earn it.”
One by one, the Knights approached. Some touched it like a holy relic. Others nodded quietly, their faces hard but respectful. A few just stared, their thoughts running deeper than words could reach.
One younger Knight—barely past knighthood—asked in a hushed voice, “Why now?”
Coake looked down at the message that had come with the shipment. It was short.
"For the defenders of the defenseless. These are not yours. They belong to those who still stand when the world turns its back. Use them well."
—The Mystic Kuznya
---
He hadn’t even made it through one.
It was evening when he arrived. Not announced. Not armored. Just a tall man in a weatherworn duster, a faint limp in his left leg, and a presence that bent the air around him like gravity.
The Mystic Kuznya didn’t look up when the door opened. He was in the forge, not working—just tending a low flame, the kind used to draw out impurities in rare alloys. The coals hummed. The smell was iron, oil, and rosemary.
He spoke first.
“Didn’t send you a receipt.”
Lord Coake stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low beam. He didn’t smile, but there was warmth behind his eyes. “Didn’t need one.”
He looked around the space—clean, organized, intimate in its way. Not a factory. Not a warehouse. A sanctum.
He set his tongs down and faced him fully.
“You’re here for the gold?”
“No,” he said. “It was never mine.”
A pause.
“I heard what happened in the Hive-lands,” He said. “A hundred lives saved. Could’ve gone the other way.”
“It still could,” he said. “Your armor won’t make the lucky few Cyber-Knights infallible.”
“Wasn’t meant to. Just meant to give them a chance.”
He nodded. Then, after a pause, stepped forward and held out a small object wrapped in dark blue cloth.
He took it and unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a crushed helmet plate—dented, scorched, split clean through. Not one of the new suits. One of the old ones. The kind that let a Knight walk into battle, but not always walk back out.
“Sir Gannen wore that for eight years,” Coake said. “Saved thirty-six lives. Carried a thousand pounds of gear through swamps, cities, and warzones. It failed him last month. He’s alive. Barely. One of your suits saved his replacement. So now he mentors, instead of bleeds.”
The Mystic Kuznya stared at the plate for a long time. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Coake said. “But I owed you more than words.”
He looked up at him. “You’re not here to recruit me?”
“I’m not that stupid.”
A quiet laugh escaped him—half genuine, half wary.
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “I know your code. Like the Fellowship of Cyber-Knights, you serve no army, no king, no nation.”
He waited.
“But if there ever comes a time,” he said, voice low, “when you need us, not as customers, but as brothers and sisters, to retrieve something of your craft that you lost, that fell into the wrong hands or was put to the wrong use... you have only to ask. No banner. No chains. Just blades drawn in the right direction.”
He didn’t answer with words. Just gave a short, solemn nod.
He walked out into the night.
The Mystic Kuznya stayed by the forge a while longer. He didn’t melt the helmet plate down. He set it above the mantle, next to the first hammer he’d ever cracked.
For memory.
For direction.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The War Room – Temp HQ of the Mercenary Company “Black Vow”
The makeshift war room is buried in the lower deck of a grounded Coalition transport turned command center, salvaged and repurposed by Knight Three.
The floor is layered with maps, gear crates, and wires. The stale air smells of ozone, soldered circuits, and dried blood.
A steel door creaks. Knight Two enters, silent as a breeze.
Knight Three doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over a custom-rigged data console, fingers flying across a shattered Coalition comms panel retrofitted into a tactical map display. A coffee unit gurgles on a nearby crate. Surveillance feeds flicker across suspended monitors. His voice is thin and nasal, sharpened with sarcasm and caffeine.
Knight Three, “You’re late. (pauses, finally looks up) Though I guess all that you brought back buys you some leniency.
Knight Two walks in, unceremoniously drops a reinforced duffel onto the floor. It thuds like a body hitting concrete.
Knight Two, “Asher paid in FULL.”
Knight Three, “Our clients pay for results, not restraint.”
Knight Two, “Knight One?”
Knight Three, “On a personal and special assignment. I assumed command in your absence.”
Knight Three begins to bring up the company’s latest reports and hands the data-pad to Knight Two.
Knight Two taps a screen—brings up a map of mercenary positions retreating from Tolkeen’s defensive line.
Knight Three (leans back, folds arms), “You missed A LOT. Half our freelancers are packing up. Half of the half that’s left is thinking about mutiny. Morale’s a post-apocalyptic campfire ghost story. Boo. Scared yet?”
Tactical screens now show rotating lists of names and last known locations.
Knight Two, "Where are Four and Serana?"
Knight Three taps away on his keyboard.
A new holo-image of Lady Serana flickers to life above the table—smiling, armored, radiant. Next to it, an older photo of Knight Four—face unreadable, always half in shadow.
Knight Three sits, eyes closed, fingers to his temples.
Knight Two stands over him, watchful.
After a moment, Knight Three exhales sharply, opening his eyes.
Knight Three, “Found Serana.”
Knight Two, “Where?”
Knight Three, “She’s herding war refugees. Looks like some old-world community settlement zone—buildings made of shipping containers and prefab junk. Kids. Injured. Mages. All the usual broken pieces.
(leans back, wipes his brow)
She’s not captured. She’s not dead. She just left.
Knight Two’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays cold and controlled. “She broke contract. No buyout. No debrief. She broke her word.”
Knight Three (dryly), “You want to put her on the deserter board?”
Knight Two, “I want to stop paying her. Immediately.
(pause)
“Mercy doesn’t pay the bills. Loyalty isn’t a feeling. It’s an obligation.”
Knight Three, (nods, already typing) “Done. Her line item’s gone. I’ll transfer remaining credits into emergency reserves.
(glances up)
“You still want a formal mark on her file? Or, perhaps, even a death mark?”
Knight Two is silent for a moment. Then, “No. Just cut her out. Quietly. If she comes back, we decide then.”
Knight Three nods once, satisfied. “Alright. Now Knight Four...
(he picks up the second photo, focuses again. There’s a long pause. Then, slowly—)
“He’s alive. Different dimension. Can’t place it.”
(his voice grows slower)
“He’s in Coalition armor. Not just wearing it—moving with them. Like he belongs.
(opens his eyes, visibly disturbed)
“It wasn’t training. It wasn’t infiltration. It was... real. Like he’d forgotten us. Or chosen something else.”
Knight Two doesn’t flinch. He just processes. “Alternate timeline? Brainwashed? Or going deeper undercover?”
Knight Three, “Could be any. Or he’s playing a long game and didn’t think we needed to know.”
(leans forward)
“Or... he went native. Coalition native.”
Knight Two (flatly), “Not impossible.”
Knight Three, “He always had questions about what makes them tick. And a taste for chaos.
(sits back, arms crossed)
“So what now? We can't track him. We don't know the dimension. Best case—he resurfaces. Worst case—we meet again on opposite sides of a barrel.”
Knight Two, “We don’t chase him. No trail. No proof.
(pause)
“But we do plan for him not coming back.”
Knight Three exhales. “Just like that?”
Knight Two, “Just like that.
(pause)
“He left. She left. We’re down two.”
Knight Three leans forward again, voice serious. “So what now? Just us two—Knight Two and Knight Three, running a merc company in a war that’s going to grind the continent into gravel?”
Knight Two doesn’t blink. “No faith in outcomes. Only plans.”
Knight Three chuckles grimly. “Sounds like a motto.”
Knight Two, “It is now.”
He walks over, eyes the map. Fingers trace Coalition fallback lines with machine-like precision.
Knight Two, “They're regrouping. Two weeks at least. A few months at most.
(points at a digital map)
Flank comes from here next. Heavy mech. Same doctrine, tighter focus.
Knight Three (grins, dry), “I missed your sunny disposition.”
Knight Two turns his gaze on Knight Three. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just there—present and still like a blade waiting in a sheath.
Knight Two, “Pull the freelancers. Anyone not under contract by dawn gets cut loose.
(beat)
“If they stay and break later, they compromise us in the next wave. No dead weight. No split loyalties.”
Knight Three nods, reluctantly impressed, “You still know how to make friends.
Knight Two, “Discipline isn't friendship.”
(pause)
“It's function.”
Knight Three chuckles, pulling up another screen—company finances.
Knight Three, “With what you brought in from the Asher campaign, our reserves go green for another 6 months.
Knight Two’s eyes flick toward the console, then back to the tactical feed.
Knight Two, “Salvage what we can. Fortify a fallback point here.
(marks a mountain pass with a cold precision)
“If Tolkeen burns, we survive to finish the contract or charge triple for phase two.”
Knight Three, “You think phase two happens?”
Knight Two, “Coalition isn't done. And Tolkeen isn’t ready.”
Knight Three turns, leans closer.
Knight Three, “And what’s your plan, oh silent knight? March back to the Order with a war story and a résumé?”
Knight Two meets his eyes, unblinking, “I do the job. I do it well. The Order expects and respects results.
(pause)
“They passed me over for promotion. So I left to make my own.”
Knight Three, (grins, eyes dancing with mischief), “Spoken like a man who intends to be irreplaceable.”
Knight Two, (quietly), “Results. Loyalty. Mission.”
(an open datapad displaying war projection curves)
Not fast. But, the Coalition will win eventually, after it costs them a fortune.”
Knight Three, (leans back, hands behind head) Numbers always win, given time. People. Machines. They’ve got all of it. Tolkeen has quality, but Coalition is winning the quantity department, and quantity has a quality all its own.”
Knight Two taps the datapad. A graph shows Coalition supply lines and estimated losses. The curve dips, then climbs like a fist raised from the grave.
Knight Three, “Siege will take years. Maybe five. Ten if Tolkeen rations smart.”
(pause)
“Force-field turns the city into a box with no lid. Only question is how long they can breathe inside.”
Knight Two (nods)
Knight Three, “It’s a slow suffocation. Costlier for the attacker, but the attacker can afford it.”
Knight Two folds his arms. “If they don’t break the economy, or logistics, or each other first.”
Knight Three, (half-smile) “Now you’re dreaming. That collapse? It'll come. But after they win. Like Rome.”
pause.
Knight Two, “We won't see the end. Not our war. Never was.”
Knight Three sits forward, serious now, “So we’re clear: this city falls. Eventually. Unless a dragon god drops a moon on the Coalition or a dimensional army shows up from nowhere. Which is statistically…
Knight Two, (deadpan) ”We don’t talk about that.”
Knight Three turns on a white noise generator. “The space is clean.”
Knight Two, “Tolkeen keeps hemorrhaging fighters. But we know more can be brought in, and will be, before or after Tolkeen falls.”
Knight Three (grins), “You ran the numbers?”
Knight Two, ”Math doesn't lie. Just people.”
Knight Three sighs, drumming his fingers on the table. “So what’s our angle? Stay too long, we get buried in the rubble. Leave too soon, we miss the payout. War’s a slot machine—only suckers pull the lever after it’s cold.”
Knight Two looks at him flatly. “Stay until profit dies.”
Knight Three, “Define profit. Because, Tolkeen’s is worth less every day they print more of it”
Pause
Knight Two, ”Contracts with the profitters.
(pause)
“Rare magic or tech. Favors from the survivors, like the Dragon Kings of Freehold.
Knight Three (squinting), “Favors from dragons?”
Knight Two, “Asher’s still out there. He may come back. He had hiding spots with treasure.”
Knight Three considers this. “And when the pay runs out?”
Knight Two, ”We run out.”
Knight Three (mutters), “So back to scavenging and competing with the big companies. Lovely.”
Knight Two gives a single nod. “Better than dying for someone else’s crusade.”
(pause)
“We’ve never fought for politics. Or pride. Or prophets.”
Knight Three, “Or provinces.”
(pause)
“Only the three P’s that matter: Profit, Pleasure, and Personal gain.”
Knight Two doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.
Knight Three (leans in), “What about the Order?”
Knight Two answers without blinking, “The Order does NOT value martyrdom. However, the Archduke could command an army to defend Tolkeen. He is entertaining a deal from Lord Duncan NOT to come to Tolkeen’s defense. Under the guise of this independent mercenary company we can act outside of the Order’s Mandates for Mystic Knights.”
Knight Three leans back, satisfied. “Alright then. We prep for siege support. High-risk, high-paying contracts only. Secure rare salvage. Barter in magic and favors.
(smirks)
“And when the blood starts costing more than the gold, we ghost out with a smile and a loaded truck.”
Knight Two stands. “No heroes. No graves.”
Knight Three raises his mug. “To profits... and exits.” A recollection comes over his face and he sets his mug down.
“So. The Tree.
(pause)
“Not a tree. The Tree. Capital T. You sit under it, spill your guts, it spills its guts, and when you’re done crying or puking—or both—it teaches you a spell you didn’t know you needed.
(glances at Knight Two)
“Month-long nature nap. Supposed to be good for the soul. Or whatever part of me still qualifies.
Knight Two doesn’t move. Just says, “Who goes?”
Knight Three smirks, “One of us gets soul-deep with Mother Bark. Other stays to keep the mercs from killing each other or cashing out early.
(leans forward)
“Let’s do the math. You’re the second in command. You handle discipline. You shoot better than God on a good day. You’re the only one the recon team listens to without talking back. And they’re all a mess since Knight One left.
(points at himself)
“Meanwhile, I’ve got accounting, comms, and gear logistics wrapped so tight I can run this place from a sleeping bag with a radio.
(grins)
“Plus, let’s be honest—no one listens to me unless money’s involved. I’m not exactly morale-boosting material.
Knight Two walks over, sets a small holo-projector on the table. It flickers to life, showing rotating statistics: unit readiness, resource consumption, morale ratings, field efficiency.
He gestures to the morale number: 63% and falling.
Knight Three looks at it, grimaces. “Alright, fine. You stay. Play the ghost-commander. Keep the edge sharp.
(pause)
“I’ll go spill secrets to a tree. Probably make friends with a moss-covered owl while I’m at it.”
Knight Two, “Come back.”
Knight Three, “I better. Month without me and the parts pile’s gonna look like a junkyard.
(stands up, stretches)
“You’re sure? You won’t get bored without someone sneaking trackers into everyone’s boots?”
Knight Two’s face doesn’t change.
Knight Three laughs, “Ah, the sweet sounds of love and trust. Alright. I’ll pack and hope the Tree likes sarcasm.
Knight Two, “It doesn’t.”
Knight Three, “Figures.”
(He turns toward the exit, pausing before stepping through the door.)
Knight Three gives a lazy salute.
Knight Two, “Stop.”
Knight Three exhales through his nose and half-turns.
Knight Three, “I know that tone. That’s not “good luck with the Tree.” That’s “sit your ass back down.”
(he closes the door and leans on it)
Alright, what’s left?
Knight Two doesn’t shift. Just speak’s low and direct. “We send a message to Knight One. Ask if he’s returning to command... or going straight to Lazlo to cross into Hades.”
Knight Three blinks. “You’re serious.”
Knight Two tilts his head.
Knight Three walks back toward the table slowly, rubbing his temple. “You want to know if he’s still on his whole “liberator of the damned” arc.
Knight Two, “If he’s not returning, we need to schedule the run before you leave.”
Knight Three groans. “I swear, he’s addicted to it. Like there's some hero-rush he gets from pulling Atlanteans out of literal hell. Knight Four also. I mean, noble cause, sure. But every time it’s demons, and Duke Disc’s pompous ass expecting us to kneel and bow.”
(grabs the comm panel and starts tapping)
“Alright, fine. I’ll send a magic pigeon.”
Knight Two shakes his head. “You go.”
Knight Three (still typing), “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill. Three days in. Grab the manifest. Pay the price. Punch the portal. Get them out before anyone asks questions or grows more horns.”
Knight Two watches him quietly for a moment. “You’ve done it three times last year.”
Knight Three (doesn’t look up), “Yeah, and each time the ticket price went up and the demons got smarter. One of these days I’m gonna come back with cursed boots and a soul lease. But sure. If Knight One’s busy, I’ll run it again.”
Knight Two, “You know the risks.”
Knight Three stops typing. Looks up, serious now. “Yeah. I know. But someone’s gotta do it. And you’re too useful here. So I’ll go.
Again.
(pause)
“Just make sure the Tree still wants me after I smell like brimstone.”
Knight Two doesn’t smile. But there’s a rare flicker of something in his eyes.
Knight Three grins and sends a magic pigeon. “Alright. One more topic left. Please tell me it involves something simple, like weaponizing a unicorn.”
The makeshift war room is buried in the lower deck of a grounded Coalition transport turned command center, salvaged and repurposed by Knight Three.
The floor is layered with maps, gear crates, and wires. The stale air smells of ozone, soldered circuits, and dried blood.
A steel door creaks. Knight Two enters, silent as a breeze.
Knight Three doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over a custom-rigged data console, fingers flying across a shattered Coalition comms panel retrofitted into a tactical map display. A coffee unit gurgles on a nearby crate. Surveillance feeds flicker across suspended monitors. His voice is thin and nasal, sharpened with sarcasm and caffeine.
Knight Three, “You’re late. (pauses, finally looks up) Though I guess all that you brought back buys you some leniency.
Knight Two walks in, unceremoniously drops a reinforced duffel onto the floor. It thuds like a body hitting concrete.
Knight Two, “Asher paid in FULL.”
Knight Three, “Our clients pay for results, not restraint.”
Knight Two, “Knight One?”
Knight Three, “On a personal and special assignment. I assumed command in your absence.”
Knight Three begins to bring up the company’s latest reports and hands the data-pad to Knight Two.
Knight Two taps a screen—brings up a map of mercenary positions retreating from Tolkeen’s defensive line.
Knight Three (leans back, folds arms), “You missed A LOT. Half our freelancers are packing up. Half of the half that’s left is thinking about mutiny. Morale’s a post-apocalyptic campfire ghost story. Boo. Scared yet?”
Tactical screens now show rotating lists of names and last known locations.
Knight Two, "Where are Four and Serana?"
Knight Three taps away on his keyboard.
A new holo-image of Lady Serana flickers to life above the table—smiling, armored, radiant. Next to it, an older photo of Knight Four—face unreadable, always half in shadow.
Knight Three sits, eyes closed, fingers to his temples.
Knight Two stands over him, watchful.
After a moment, Knight Three exhales sharply, opening his eyes.
Knight Three, “Found Serana.”
Knight Two, “Where?”
Knight Three, “She’s herding war refugees. Looks like some old-world community settlement zone—buildings made of shipping containers and prefab junk. Kids. Injured. Mages. All the usual broken pieces.
(leans back, wipes his brow)
She’s not captured. She’s not dead. She just left.
Knight Two’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays cold and controlled. “She broke contract. No buyout. No debrief. She broke her word.”
Knight Three (dryly), “You want to put her on the deserter board?”
Knight Two, “I want to stop paying her. Immediately.
(pause)
“Mercy doesn’t pay the bills. Loyalty isn’t a feeling. It’s an obligation.”
Knight Three, (nods, already typing) “Done. Her line item’s gone. I’ll transfer remaining credits into emergency reserves.
(glances up)
“You still want a formal mark on her file? Or, perhaps, even a death mark?”
Knight Two is silent for a moment. Then, “No. Just cut her out. Quietly. If she comes back, we decide then.”
Knight Three nods once, satisfied. “Alright. Now Knight Four...
(he picks up the second photo, focuses again. There’s a long pause. Then, slowly—)
“He’s alive. Different dimension. Can’t place it.”
(his voice grows slower)
“He’s in Coalition armor. Not just wearing it—moving with them. Like he belongs.
(opens his eyes, visibly disturbed)
“It wasn’t training. It wasn’t infiltration. It was... real. Like he’d forgotten us. Or chosen something else.”
Knight Two doesn’t flinch. He just processes. “Alternate timeline? Brainwashed? Or going deeper undercover?”
Knight Three, “Could be any. Or he’s playing a long game and didn’t think we needed to know.”
(leans forward)
“Or... he went native. Coalition native.”
Knight Two (flatly), “Not impossible.”
Knight Three, “He always had questions about what makes them tick. And a taste for chaos.
(sits back, arms crossed)
“So what now? We can't track him. We don't know the dimension. Best case—he resurfaces. Worst case—we meet again on opposite sides of a barrel.”
Knight Two, “We don’t chase him. No trail. No proof.
(pause)
“But we do plan for him not coming back.”
Knight Three exhales. “Just like that?”
Knight Two, “Just like that.
(pause)
“He left. She left. We’re down two.”
Knight Three leans forward again, voice serious. “So what now? Just us two—Knight Two and Knight Three, running a merc company in a war that’s going to grind the continent into gravel?”
Knight Two doesn’t blink. “No faith in outcomes. Only plans.”
Knight Three chuckles grimly. “Sounds like a motto.”
Knight Two, “It is now.”
He walks over, eyes the map. Fingers trace Coalition fallback lines with machine-like precision.
Knight Two, “They're regrouping. Two weeks at least. A few months at most.
(points at a digital map)
Flank comes from here next. Heavy mech. Same doctrine, tighter focus.
Knight Three (grins, dry), “I missed your sunny disposition.”
Knight Two turns his gaze on Knight Three. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just there—present and still like a blade waiting in a sheath.
Knight Two, “Pull the freelancers. Anyone not under contract by dawn gets cut loose.
(beat)
“If they stay and break later, they compromise us in the next wave. No dead weight. No split loyalties.”
Knight Three nods, reluctantly impressed, “You still know how to make friends.
Knight Two, “Discipline isn't friendship.”
(pause)
“It's function.”
Knight Three chuckles, pulling up another screen—company finances.
Knight Three, “With what you brought in from the Asher campaign, our reserves go green for another 6 months.
Knight Two’s eyes flick toward the console, then back to the tactical feed.
Knight Two, “Salvage what we can. Fortify a fallback point here.
(marks a mountain pass with a cold precision)
“If Tolkeen burns, we survive to finish the contract or charge triple for phase two.”
Knight Three, “You think phase two happens?”
Knight Two, “Coalition isn't done. And Tolkeen isn’t ready.”
Knight Three turns, leans closer.
Knight Three, “And what’s your plan, oh silent knight? March back to the Order with a war story and a résumé?”
Knight Two meets his eyes, unblinking, “I do the job. I do it well. The Order expects and respects results.
(pause)
“They passed me over for promotion. So I left to make my own.”
Knight Three, (grins, eyes dancing with mischief), “Spoken like a man who intends to be irreplaceable.”
Knight Two, (quietly), “Results. Loyalty. Mission.”
(an open datapad displaying war projection curves)
Not fast. But, the Coalition will win eventually, after it costs them a fortune.”
Knight Three, (leans back, hands behind head) Numbers always win, given time. People. Machines. They’ve got all of it. Tolkeen has quality, but Coalition is winning the quantity department, and quantity has a quality all its own.”
Knight Two taps the datapad. A graph shows Coalition supply lines and estimated losses. The curve dips, then climbs like a fist raised from the grave.
Knight Three, “Siege will take years. Maybe five. Ten if Tolkeen rations smart.”
(pause)
“Force-field turns the city into a box with no lid. Only question is how long they can breathe inside.”
Knight Two (nods)
Knight Three, “It’s a slow suffocation. Costlier for the attacker, but the attacker can afford it.”
Knight Two folds his arms. “If they don’t break the economy, or logistics, or each other first.”
Knight Three, (half-smile) “Now you’re dreaming. That collapse? It'll come. But after they win. Like Rome.”
pause.
Knight Two, “We won't see the end. Not our war. Never was.”
Knight Three sits forward, serious now, “So we’re clear: this city falls. Eventually. Unless a dragon god drops a moon on the Coalition or a dimensional army shows up from nowhere. Which is statistically…
Knight Two, (deadpan) ”We don’t talk about that.”
Knight Three turns on a white noise generator. “The space is clean.”
Knight Two, “Tolkeen keeps hemorrhaging fighters. But we know more can be brought in, and will be, before or after Tolkeen falls.”
Knight Three (grins), “You ran the numbers?”
Knight Two, ”Math doesn't lie. Just people.”
Knight Three sighs, drumming his fingers on the table. “So what’s our angle? Stay too long, we get buried in the rubble. Leave too soon, we miss the payout. War’s a slot machine—only suckers pull the lever after it’s cold.”
Knight Two looks at him flatly. “Stay until profit dies.”
Knight Three, “Define profit. Because, Tolkeen’s is worth less every day they print more of it”
Pause
Knight Two, ”Contracts with the profitters.
(pause)
“Rare magic or tech. Favors from the survivors, like the Dragon Kings of Freehold.
Knight Three (squinting), “Favors from dragons?”
Knight Two, “Asher’s still out there. He may come back. He had hiding spots with treasure.”
Knight Three considers this. “And when the pay runs out?”
Knight Two, ”We run out.”
Knight Three (mutters), “So back to scavenging and competing with the big companies. Lovely.”
Knight Two gives a single nod. “Better than dying for someone else’s crusade.”
(pause)
“We’ve never fought for politics. Or pride. Or prophets.”
Knight Three, “Or provinces.”
(pause)
“Only the three P’s that matter: Profit, Pleasure, and Personal gain.”
Knight Two doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.
Knight Three (leans in), “What about the Order?”
Knight Two answers without blinking, “The Order does NOT value martyrdom. However, the Archduke could command an army to defend Tolkeen. He is entertaining a deal from Lord Duncan NOT to come to Tolkeen’s defense. Under the guise of this independent mercenary company we can act outside of the Order’s Mandates for Mystic Knights.”
Knight Three leans back, satisfied. “Alright then. We prep for siege support. High-risk, high-paying contracts only. Secure rare salvage. Barter in magic and favors.
(smirks)
“And when the blood starts costing more than the gold, we ghost out with a smile and a loaded truck.”
Knight Two stands. “No heroes. No graves.”
Knight Three raises his mug. “To profits... and exits.” A recollection comes over his face and he sets his mug down.
“So. The Tree.
(pause)
“Not a tree. The Tree. Capital T. You sit under it, spill your guts, it spills its guts, and when you’re done crying or puking—or both—it teaches you a spell you didn’t know you needed.
(glances at Knight Two)
“Month-long nature nap. Supposed to be good for the soul. Or whatever part of me still qualifies.
Knight Two doesn’t move. Just says, “Who goes?”
Knight Three smirks, “One of us gets soul-deep with Mother Bark. Other stays to keep the mercs from killing each other or cashing out early.
(leans forward)
“Let’s do the math. You’re the second in command. You handle discipline. You shoot better than God on a good day. You’re the only one the recon team listens to without talking back. And they’re all a mess since Knight One left.
(points at himself)
“Meanwhile, I’ve got accounting, comms, and gear logistics wrapped so tight I can run this place from a sleeping bag with a radio.
(grins)
“Plus, let’s be honest—no one listens to me unless money’s involved. I’m not exactly morale-boosting material.
Knight Two walks over, sets a small holo-projector on the table. It flickers to life, showing rotating statistics: unit readiness, resource consumption, morale ratings, field efficiency.
He gestures to the morale number: 63% and falling.
Knight Three looks at it, grimaces. “Alright, fine. You stay. Play the ghost-commander. Keep the edge sharp.
(pause)
“I’ll go spill secrets to a tree. Probably make friends with a moss-covered owl while I’m at it.”
Knight Two, “Come back.”
Knight Three, “I better. Month without me and the parts pile’s gonna look like a junkyard.
(stands up, stretches)
“You’re sure? You won’t get bored without someone sneaking trackers into everyone’s boots?”
Knight Two’s face doesn’t change.
Knight Three laughs, “Ah, the sweet sounds of love and trust. Alright. I’ll pack and hope the Tree likes sarcasm.
Knight Two, “It doesn’t.”
Knight Three, “Figures.”
(He turns toward the exit, pausing before stepping through the door.)
Knight Three gives a lazy salute.
Knight Two, “Stop.”
Knight Three exhales through his nose and half-turns.
Knight Three, “I know that tone. That’s not “good luck with the Tree.” That’s “sit your ass back down.”
(he closes the door and leans on it)
Alright, what’s left?
Knight Two doesn’t shift. Just speak’s low and direct. “We send a message to Knight One. Ask if he’s returning to command... or going straight to Lazlo to cross into Hades.”
Knight Three blinks. “You’re serious.”
Knight Two tilts his head.
Knight Three walks back toward the table slowly, rubbing his temple. “You want to know if he’s still on his whole “liberator of the damned” arc.
Knight Two, “If he’s not returning, we need to schedule the run before you leave.”
Knight Three groans. “I swear, he’s addicted to it. Like there's some hero-rush he gets from pulling Atlanteans out of literal hell. Knight Four also. I mean, noble cause, sure. But every time it’s demons, and Duke Disc’s pompous ass expecting us to kneel and bow.”
(grabs the comm panel and starts tapping)
“Alright, fine. I’ll send a magic pigeon.”
Knight Two shakes his head. “You go.”
Knight Three (still typing), “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill. Three days in. Grab the manifest. Pay the price. Punch the portal. Get them out before anyone asks questions or grows more horns.”
Knight Two watches him quietly for a moment. “You’ve done it three times last year.”
Knight Three (doesn’t look up), “Yeah, and each time the ticket price went up and the demons got smarter. One of these days I’m gonna come back with cursed boots and a soul lease. But sure. If Knight One’s busy, I’ll run it again.”
Knight Two, “You know the risks.”
Knight Three stops typing. Looks up, serious now. “Yeah. I know. But someone’s gotta do it. And you’re too useful here. So I’ll go.
Again.
(pause)
“Just make sure the Tree still wants me after I smell like brimstone.”
Knight Two doesn’t smile. But there’s a rare flicker of something in his eyes.
Knight Three grins and sends a magic pigeon. “Alright. One more topic left. Please tell me it involves something simple, like weaponizing a unicorn.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Reclaimed Farmland – Northern Minnesota
The land is strangely alive here.
Fields that should be dead from war and neglect are lush with corn, beans, and thick green vegetables. Flowers bloom along collapsed fences. Trees bend as if whispering to each other. It smells like damp earth and new life.
Knight Two and a detachment of Black Vow mercenaries arrive at the perimeter without noise. They're dust-covered, armored, alert—trained to expect hostility. Instead, they find peace. Strange, eerie peace.
He steps forward alone, leaving the others at a distance. He’s not here for intimidation. He’s here for clarity.
At the edge of a field, a tall Jungle Elf—shirtless, skin like dark mahogany bark and eyes like amber knives—looks up from a tomato plant. Beside him: a Biomancer, wiry, radiant with residual energy. Near the treeline, four identical Warlock brothers chant in harmony as bees orbit them in hypnotic spirals. A Necromancer sits nearby, sharpening bone into a dagger. Grian cuts wheat with beams of concentrated sunlight.
Knight Two approaches slowly. Helmetless. Hands free. Just steel discipline in his spine.
They all turn to watch.
Jungle Elf (cautiously), “You lost, stranger?”
Knight Two stops three paces away. Nods once. Voice even. “No. I’m found.
(holds up a data-slab with a flickering image—a group photo, all of them, taken by Knight Three.)
I came looking for former associates.”
The Warlock brothers glance at each other and Grian.
Grian, “You with Knight One?”
“I’m Knight Two.”
(He lets the name land. Some eyes widen slightly. Others remain blank.)
Grian, “We weren’t with HIM. He was with us. He sort of followed us.”
Knight Two, “I have an offer.”
The Necromancer straightens. His eyes are heavy. “And what if we’re done with war?”
Knight Two, “This war won’t stay out of your life just because you are done with it. The Coalition will return, someday, and they don’t forget or forgive. They burn what they don’t like.
(steps forward, now addressing all of them)
“And when they come, they will try to kill you, and your family here.”
Grian (coolly), “So what do you want?”
Knight Two (He gestures behind him—his mercs unloading gear, kneeling in rows, already moving into the fields with tools in hand.)
“We’ll harvest your crops. We’ll pull weeds.
(turns back)
In return, I ask the following:
(lists, calmly and methodically, as if ticking off inventory)
From Grian, I need limbs restored.
Biomancer, wooden armor for my troops. I can pay in labor, materials, or protection.
Necromancer, I want your work. We have too many bodies and no one to bury them. I can offer bones for crafting... and, (quietly whispering into their ear), Coalition soldiers. During the next full moon. For your own... workforce.
All of you, I want to know what Knight One did for you. What debt is owed—by you or by us.
(pause)
And if any of you want to ride with us—on your terms, no contract, no commitment. No tricks.
The Necromancer looks up, jaw tight. “And what do you offer me... besides bones?”
Knight Two steps closer, lowers his voice. “Revenge. Power. A position of authority. For three months, you run funeral operations and rituals. You decide what becomes of the dead. In the field, you do things your own way, answer to no one. Our outfit ensures your protection, brings you all the bones you need, kills Coalition, .
(pause)
And when the Coalition returns—we’ll fight them. You’ll be ready.
The Necromancer doesn’t speak. But his fingers tighten around the bone.
Biomancer (softly), “We’ve been through hell together. He deserves more than vengeance.”
Knight Two, “He’ll have more. But power comes first. Then choices.
(He straightens.)
“You don’t owe me trust. Only consideration. The farm is yours. I’m just here to plant a seed.”
(He turns, no flourish, no bow, walking back toward the mercs now pulling weeds.)
Behind him, the Warlocks whisper.
The Jungle Elf squints into the horizon.
Grian stares at the man, not the idea of him.
The Necromancer... smiles faintly. Just once.
Knight Two doesn’t charm, plead or threaten.
He lays out the facts.
He respects their peace.
But he prepares for their war.
---
As the sun sinks behind the tree line, the entire landscape glows gold. Smoke from cook fires curls lazily into the sky. Rows of mercenaries are gathered near the fields and old barn houses, armor off, weapons stacked neatly in secured racks.
Someone rigged a makeshift grill out.
Jungle Elf is slicing tomatoes with a blade that could gut a Coalition grunt.
The Biomancer crushes herbs between his fingers.
The air fills with the smell of sizzling vegetables, roasted roots, and spiced squash.
Knight Two stands near the edge, as always—just close enough to observe, just far enough to avoid casual conversation.
He doesn't eat yet.
He doesn't drink.
His eyes move across the field like a sentry, silently calculating who’s present, who’s relaxed, who’s not.
But his troops? They're thriving. It’s the closest thing to peace they’ve had in months.
Laughter ripples through the rows. Someone plays music on a digital sound box wired to solar panels—old Earth tunes from before the Rifts. Twangy, upbeat, unpolished. The kind of music no one admits they like but everyone knows the words to.
Grian is surrounded by soldiers asking innocent questions about sunlight magic and sunburn prevention. She handles it all with easy grace. She hasn’t approached Knight Two once.
The Necromancer sits on a crate, legs crossed, listening to the music with closed eyes. There's a wine jug in his hand, but he hasn’t touched it. Not yet. His voice is soft when he speaks to Knight Two, who now stands near.
“You know this doesn’t last.”
Knight Two doesn’t look at him. “Nothing does. That’s not the point.”
Necromancer, “You’re using the quiet. Storing it like ammo.”
Knight Two, “So should you.”
The Necromancer opens one eye. “You ever rest?”
Knight Two finally turns to look at him. “I don’t get tired. I get prepared.”
The Necromancer chuckles, low and dark. “That’s why they follow you. Not because you speak well. But because you never stop.”
Knight Two says nothing. Just nods, once. Like a machine logging a result.
By the fire, soldiers start sharing stories—clean ones, funny ones. One of the older sergeants even sings, badly. No one cares. They clap anyway.
Knight Two finally takes a seat. Still reserved. But he eats the roasted squash handed to him. Quietly. Respectfully. It tastes like earth and smoke and effort.
No speeches. No toasts. Just the rare, collective exhale of a company that knows tomorrow is uncertain.
Tonight, they rest.
---
The fire crackles as dusk fades into deep night. The laughter has thinned. The mercs are more relaxed now—leaning back on crates, wrapped in plant weaved blankets, chatting in low tones or staring at the stars with full bellies and tired limbs.
Knight Two sits with the Necromancer a little ways off from the others.
Necromancer, “We have a problem with mice and rats around the farms. Catch them. Dead or alive. It makes no difference, they have to die anyway. At least one for everyone one in your company and one more for everyone one in mine here.
---
The next morning Knight Two orders the fighters to go rat hunting and the support crews to set traps for rats. Then goes out personally on the hunt.
Firing his sniper rifle the rat was misted. Knight Two shrugged.
Time to switch to arrows or at least bullets.
---
Between Knight Two and the Necromancer sits a modest crate, its lid removed. Inside: hundreds of rat bones—meticulously cleaned, arranged by size, and bound in linen. The Necromancer runs his fingers through them like a jeweler sorting gems.
Necromancer, his voice calm, “You know most people think I need dragon bones or the femur of a murdered king to make magic work.
(picks up a tiny rib)
“But this? A rat. Street scum. Carrion. One of the most expendable creatures on the continent. This bone?
(he holds it up to the firelight)
“This bone is enough to make someone vanish from the world. Six times a day.”
Knight Two says nothing. He simply nods. He already knows.
Necromancer (flicks the bone into a leather pouch), “I can’t give you better rifles. I can’t enchant powered armor. But I can make shadows.
(pause)
“How many do you need?”
---
Location: the Nearest Ley Line
Montage Sequence (Next Morning)
The Necromancer works.
Bones etched with glowing sigils. He carves runes with a blade shaped like a fingerbone. Mists rise from the fire as he chants quietly, dead languages flowing like breath from a crypt.
One merc gets a Bone of Invisibility woven into their bandolier strap.
Another wears one as a pendant, wrapped in gunmetal wire.
A sniper secures his bone into the inner sleeve of his glove—accessible with a twitch and a whisper.
A scout tucks hers into a pouch sewn into her boot.
They all rehearse the activation ritual:
"Make me invisible."
Some test it. Flicker—gone. A ripple in the air. Then nothing.
---
Knight Two Watching the Field – Midday
Knight Two watches a squad drill. Fast movement, room clearance. Bone charms clutched. Gone. Movement resumes. Emergence. Shot fired. Back into invisibility. Repeat.
He watches. Times them. Notes response rates. Calculates kill-to-exfil ratios. It’s not just magic—it’s logistics. And it works.
Behind him, the Necromancer steps up, arms crossed. ”You’re getting the war you want... by accepting the war you’re given.”
Knight Two speaks without turning. “We adapt. Or we die.”
Necromancer, “I didn’t join you. You came to me. Promised me power, protection, and revenge. The bone items I make serve my purposes, as do you. Our work with each other is one of convenience and mutual advantage.”
Knight Two turns slightly. Just enough to look the man in the eye. “That’s all I need.”
Note: “Bone of Invisibility” has now become standard issue for recon squads and close-action operatives within the Black Vow Mercenary Company. Stored in encrypted personnel logs as “Shadow Key – Type VI.”
The land is strangely alive here.
Fields that should be dead from war and neglect are lush with corn, beans, and thick green vegetables. Flowers bloom along collapsed fences. Trees bend as if whispering to each other. It smells like damp earth and new life.
Knight Two and a detachment of Black Vow mercenaries arrive at the perimeter without noise. They're dust-covered, armored, alert—trained to expect hostility. Instead, they find peace. Strange, eerie peace.
He steps forward alone, leaving the others at a distance. He’s not here for intimidation. He’s here for clarity.
At the edge of a field, a tall Jungle Elf—shirtless, skin like dark mahogany bark and eyes like amber knives—looks up from a tomato plant. Beside him: a Biomancer, wiry, radiant with residual energy. Near the treeline, four identical Warlock brothers chant in harmony as bees orbit them in hypnotic spirals. A Necromancer sits nearby, sharpening bone into a dagger. Grian cuts wheat with beams of concentrated sunlight.
Knight Two approaches slowly. Helmetless. Hands free. Just steel discipline in his spine.
They all turn to watch.
Jungle Elf (cautiously), “You lost, stranger?”
Knight Two stops three paces away. Nods once. Voice even. “No. I’m found.
(holds up a data-slab with a flickering image—a group photo, all of them, taken by Knight Three.)
I came looking for former associates.”
The Warlock brothers glance at each other and Grian.
Grian, “You with Knight One?”
“I’m Knight Two.”
(He lets the name land. Some eyes widen slightly. Others remain blank.)
Grian, “We weren’t with HIM. He was with us. He sort of followed us.”
Knight Two, “I have an offer.”
The Necromancer straightens. His eyes are heavy. “And what if we’re done with war?”
Knight Two, “This war won’t stay out of your life just because you are done with it. The Coalition will return, someday, and they don’t forget or forgive. They burn what they don’t like.
(steps forward, now addressing all of them)
“And when they come, they will try to kill you, and your family here.”
Grian (coolly), “So what do you want?”
Knight Two (He gestures behind him—his mercs unloading gear, kneeling in rows, already moving into the fields with tools in hand.)
“We’ll harvest your crops. We’ll pull weeds.
(turns back)
In return, I ask the following:
(lists, calmly and methodically, as if ticking off inventory)
From Grian, I need limbs restored.
Biomancer, wooden armor for my troops. I can pay in labor, materials, or protection.
Necromancer, I want your work. We have too many bodies and no one to bury them. I can offer bones for crafting... and, (quietly whispering into their ear), Coalition soldiers. During the next full moon. For your own... workforce.
All of you, I want to know what Knight One did for you. What debt is owed—by you or by us.
(pause)
And if any of you want to ride with us—on your terms, no contract, no commitment. No tricks.
The Necromancer looks up, jaw tight. “And what do you offer me... besides bones?”
Knight Two steps closer, lowers his voice. “Revenge. Power. A position of authority. For three months, you run funeral operations and rituals. You decide what becomes of the dead. In the field, you do things your own way, answer to no one. Our outfit ensures your protection, brings you all the bones you need, kills Coalition, .
(pause)
And when the Coalition returns—we’ll fight them. You’ll be ready.
The Necromancer doesn’t speak. But his fingers tighten around the bone.
Biomancer (softly), “We’ve been through hell together. He deserves more than vengeance.”
Knight Two, “He’ll have more. But power comes first. Then choices.
(He straightens.)
“You don’t owe me trust. Only consideration. The farm is yours. I’m just here to plant a seed.”
(He turns, no flourish, no bow, walking back toward the mercs now pulling weeds.)
Behind him, the Warlocks whisper.
The Jungle Elf squints into the horizon.
Grian stares at the man, not the idea of him.
The Necromancer... smiles faintly. Just once.
Knight Two doesn’t charm, plead or threaten.
He lays out the facts.
He respects their peace.
But he prepares for their war.
---
As the sun sinks behind the tree line, the entire landscape glows gold. Smoke from cook fires curls lazily into the sky. Rows of mercenaries are gathered near the fields and old barn houses, armor off, weapons stacked neatly in secured racks.
Someone rigged a makeshift grill out.
Jungle Elf is slicing tomatoes with a blade that could gut a Coalition grunt.
The Biomancer crushes herbs between his fingers.
The air fills with the smell of sizzling vegetables, roasted roots, and spiced squash.
Knight Two stands near the edge, as always—just close enough to observe, just far enough to avoid casual conversation.
He doesn't eat yet.
He doesn't drink.
His eyes move across the field like a sentry, silently calculating who’s present, who’s relaxed, who’s not.
But his troops? They're thriving. It’s the closest thing to peace they’ve had in months.
Laughter ripples through the rows. Someone plays music on a digital sound box wired to solar panels—old Earth tunes from before the Rifts. Twangy, upbeat, unpolished. The kind of music no one admits they like but everyone knows the words to.
Grian is surrounded by soldiers asking innocent questions about sunlight magic and sunburn prevention. She handles it all with easy grace. She hasn’t approached Knight Two once.
The Necromancer sits on a crate, legs crossed, listening to the music with closed eyes. There's a wine jug in his hand, but he hasn’t touched it. Not yet. His voice is soft when he speaks to Knight Two, who now stands near.
“You know this doesn’t last.”
Knight Two doesn’t look at him. “Nothing does. That’s not the point.”
Necromancer, “You’re using the quiet. Storing it like ammo.”
Knight Two, “So should you.”
The Necromancer opens one eye. “You ever rest?”
Knight Two finally turns to look at him. “I don’t get tired. I get prepared.”
The Necromancer chuckles, low and dark. “That’s why they follow you. Not because you speak well. But because you never stop.”
Knight Two says nothing. Just nods, once. Like a machine logging a result.
By the fire, soldiers start sharing stories—clean ones, funny ones. One of the older sergeants even sings, badly. No one cares. They clap anyway.
Knight Two finally takes a seat. Still reserved. But he eats the roasted squash handed to him. Quietly. Respectfully. It tastes like earth and smoke and effort.
No speeches. No toasts. Just the rare, collective exhale of a company that knows tomorrow is uncertain.
Tonight, they rest.
---
The fire crackles as dusk fades into deep night. The laughter has thinned. The mercs are more relaxed now—leaning back on crates, wrapped in plant weaved blankets, chatting in low tones or staring at the stars with full bellies and tired limbs.
Knight Two sits with the Necromancer a little ways off from the others.
Necromancer, “We have a problem with mice and rats around the farms. Catch them. Dead or alive. It makes no difference, they have to die anyway. At least one for everyone one in your company and one more for everyone one in mine here.
---
The next morning Knight Two orders the fighters to go rat hunting and the support crews to set traps for rats. Then goes out personally on the hunt.
Firing his sniper rifle the rat was misted. Knight Two shrugged.
Time to switch to arrows or at least bullets.
---
Between Knight Two and the Necromancer sits a modest crate, its lid removed. Inside: hundreds of rat bones—meticulously cleaned, arranged by size, and bound in linen. The Necromancer runs his fingers through them like a jeweler sorting gems.
Necromancer, his voice calm, “You know most people think I need dragon bones or the femur of a murdered king to make magic work.
(picks up a tiny rib)
“But this? A rat. Street scum. Carrion. One of the most expendable creatures on the continent. This bone?
(he holds it up to the firelight)
“This bone is enough to make someone vanish from the world. Six times a day.”
Knight Two says nothing. He simply nods. He already knows.
Necromancer (flicks the bone into a leather pouch), “I can’t give you better rifles. I can’t enchant powered armor. But I can make shadows.
(pause)
“How many do you need?”
---
Location: the Nearest Ley Line
Montage Sequence (Next Morning)
The Necromancer works.
Bones etched with glowing sigils. He carves runes with a blade shaped like a fingerbone. Mists rise from the fire as he chants quietly, dead languages flowing like breath from a crypt.
One merc gets a Bone of Invisibility woven into their bandolier strap.
Another wears one as a pendant, wrapped in gunmetal wire.
A sniper secures his bone into the inner sleeve of his glove—accessible with a twitch and a whisper.
A scout tucks hers into a pouch sewn into her boot.
They all rehearse the activation ritual:
"Make me invisible."
Some test it. Flicker—gone. A ripple in the air. Then nothing.
---
Knight Two Watching the Field – Midday
Knight Two watches a squad drill. Fast movement, room clearance. Bone charms clutched. Gone. Movement resumes. Emergence. Shot fired. Back into invisibility. Repeat.
He watches. Times them. Notes response rates. Calculates kill-to-exfil ratios. It’s not just magic—it’s logistics. And it works.
Behind him, the Necromancer steps up, arms crossed. ”You’re getting the war you want... by accepting the war you’re given.”
Knight Two speaks without turning. “We adapt. Or we die.”
Necromancer, “I didn’t join you. You came to me. Promised me power, protection, and revenge. The bone items I make serve my purposes, as do you. Our work with each other is one of convenience and mutual advantage.”
Knight Two turns slightly. Just enough to look the man in the eye. “That’s all I need.”
Note: “Bone of Invisibility” has now become standard issue for recon squads and close-action operatives within the Black Vow Mercenary Company. Stored in encrypted personnel logs as “Shadow Key – Type VI.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Grove – North of the Farm, Dusk
The towering trees arch overhead, their bark glowing faintly under the moonlight. A ritual clearing has been prepared—swept clean, ringed with glyphs drawn in nutrient-rich soil, lit by fireflies and bio-luminescent moss. The forest holds its breath.
Knight Two stands near the edge of the grove, impassive as ever, overseeing the ceremony like a battlefield maneuver.
The Biomancer, barefoot, prepares the ritual.
Behind him stands a massive, healthy tree with limbs thick as boulders and roots deeper than the dead. This tree is the forge.
Jungle Elf steps forward silently, placing a reverent hand on the bark. The Biomancer begins the chant, a slow, guttural rhythm that causes the leaves above to tremble. The tree stirs. Its limbs stretch—like a lover reaching for a reunion long delayed.
As the wood wraps him, the Jungle Elf closes his eyes, breathes once, and goes still.
Minutes go by. When it ends, the tree withdraws. In its place stands the Elf, encased in deep green armor that ripples like bark over muscle. No fear. Just the natural order of things.
He nods once to the Biomancer, then to Knight Two.
Knight Two’s platoon pilot’s the Carriages with food far enough away to be out of sight and sound where it is repacked onto a hover truck and taken to Tolkeen.
---
The next day.
Grian hesitates. She watches the tree. Her fingers twitch. The Warlock brothers surround her.
The Earth Warlock—speaks first. “You don’t have to want it. But we want you to have it.”
Joromir (the Water Warlock), “It’s not about war. It’s about surviving the storm.”
Grian steps forward, glancing at Knight Two. He says nothing, but his gaze holds steady. Not cold. Not commanding. Just certain.
She takes her place before the tree.
As the Biomancer chants, her breath catches. The tree stirs—reaches. She flinches as the wood begins to curl around her arms, waist, chest.
Then—sunlight flickers through the branches, striking her face.
Something shifts. She exhales. Relaxes. The tree wraps around her, tight, but not choking. Secure. Warm.
When it’s over, her armor shines like gold-flecked bark. The seams breathe with her. Leaves grow from her shoulder and pulse gently with each heartbeat.
She doesn’t speak. She just smiles—small, private, grateful.
And again the mercenary company works the farms. Packing the Biomancer and Jungle Elf’s gifts of nature on to carriages to haul to Tolkeen.
---
The day after
Earth Warlock steps up next, already calm, already grounded. The tree reaches eagerly. His armor forms quickly—broad, ribbed like roots, with thick greaves and shoulder growths like miniature towers. He barely reacts—this is an extension of himself.
The farm continues to ship out food.
---
The Next Day
Water Warlock follows, graceful and fluid. As the tree wraps around him, sap flows along his skin like dew. His armor becomes sleek, aquatic in silhouette, with subtle ridges and shell-like patterning. He bows at the end of the ritual, arms crossed in thanks.
As Joromir steps away, the Biomancer turns to Knight Two (voice measured, not unkind), “You came here without demand. But remind us of the world in which we live. Remind us to shield ourselves, for our protection. That matters to me.
(pause)
“You work the land. That matters to me.
(pause)
“I’ll make as many suits. But it’s slow work. I need strong trees, and patient men.”
Knight Two gives a slight nod. He doesn’t smile. But inside, he knows:
This was a victory. Not won, by asking the right questions. It was different from seeing the world through a sniper's scope or where he could plant a bomb. Getting people to do what you want is a matter of watching them and their weaknesses. They are a family. Their weakness is their need to protect that family. Once they got to casting their spells, the hardest part was over.
All he had to do was get the ball rolling.
Already in motion. . . they will stay in motion until the inertia runs out.
---
A work bell rings from the edge of the grove. Dozens of mercs stand clustered around a set of repurposed wagons loaded with harvested crops. Dirt on their boots. Callouses on their hands. Sweat streaking faces trained for bloodshed, not tilling.
Grumbles ripple through the crowd.
“We’re soldiers, not farmers.”
“This what we trained for?”
“Feels like we’re being used.”
Knight Two stands in front of the wagons. Not on a crate. Not elevated. Just there. Straight-backed. Gear on. Data-slab in hand.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The silence falls when he speaks.
Knight Two, “You're working farms because you're being paid.
(He holds up the data-slab. Numbers flicker.)
“Delivery to Tolkeen: fifteen hundred to three thousand credits a day. Covers half our weekly payroll.
(He steps forward. His tone tightens.)
“Every day you load wagons, haul crops, and run escort, you’re feeding a city of civilians and fighters. And that buys us more than coin—it buys us relevance.
(He holds up a small object—a Bone of Invisibility.)
“You’re not just getting paid in credits. These? These make you invisible. Every one of you who did the work earned this.
(He looks out across the rows of men.)
“A few of you might get armor next. Living armor. Tougher than plate. Grows back. Breathing. Silent. At least 100,000 in value. You'll earn it with your sweat, not your rifle.
(He waits two seconds. Then adds.)
“This is asymmetrical warfare. We are not the Coalition. We don’t win with numbers. We fight, survive, and win with advantages.
(His eyes scan them—calm, sharp.)
“But if anyone has a better idea—something that gets us paid, fed, and supplied without risk injury or death—I want to hear it.
(He gestures to the open field.)
“Now’s the time. Speak up.”
(A silence lingers. One hand raises slowly—then lowers. No one steps forward.)
Knight Two nods once (He turns, pausing only briefly.)
The grumbling fades. They get it. Maybe they don’t like it—but they get it.
And they trust one thing about Knight Two: He doesn’t waste words.
The towering trees arch overhead, their bark glowing faintly under the moonlight. A ritual clearing has been prepared—swept clean, ringed with glyphs drawn in nutrient-rich soil, lit by fireflies and bio-luminescent moss. The forest holds its breath.
Knight Two stands near the edge of the grove, impassive as ever, overseeing the ceremony like a battlefield maneuver.
The Biomancer, barefoot, prepares the ritual.
Behind him stands a massive, healthy tree with limbs thick as boulders and roots deeper than the dead. This tree is the forge.
Jungle Elf steps forward silently, placing a reverent hand on the bark. The Biomancer begins the chant, a slow, guttural rhythm that causes the leaves above to tremble. The tree stirs. Its limbs stretch—like a lover reaching for a reunion long delayed.
As the wood wraps him, the Jungle Elf closes his eyes, breathes once, and goes still.
Minutes go by. When it ends, the tree withdraws. In its place stands the Elf, encased in deep green armor that ripples like bark over muscle. No fear. Just the natural order of things.
He nods once to the Biomancer, then to Knight Two.
Knight Two’s platoon pilot’s the Carriages with food far enough away to be out of sight and sound where it is repacked onto a hover truck and taken to Tolkeen.
---
The next day.
Grian hesitates. She watches the tree. Her fingers twitch. The Warlock brothers surround her.
The Earth Warlock—speaks first. “You don’t have to want it. But we want you to have it.”
Joromir (the Water Warlock), “It’s not about war. It’s about surviving the storm.”
Grian steps forward, glancing at Knight Two. He says nothing, but his gaze holds steady. Not cold. Not commanding. Just certain.
She takes her place before the tree.
As the Biomancer chants, her breath catches. The tree stirs—reaches. She flinches as the wood begins to curl around her arms, waist, chest.
Then—sunlight flickers through the branches, striking her face.
Something shifts. She exhales. Relaxes. The tree wraps around her, tight, but not choking. Secure. Warm.
When it’s over, her armor shines like gold-flecked bark. The seams breathe with her. Leaves grow from her shoulder and pulse gently with each heartbeat.
She doesn’t speak. She just smiles—small, private, grateful.
And again the mercenary company works the farms. Packing the Biomancer and Jungle Elf’s gifts of nature on to carriages to haul to Tolkeen.
---
The day after
Earth Warlock steps up next, already calm, already grounded. The tree reaches eagerly. His armor forms quickly—broad, ribbed like roots, with thick greaves and shoulder growths like miniature towers. He barely reacts—this is an extension of himself.
The farm continues to ship out food.
---
The Next Day
Water Warlock follows, graceful and fluid. As the tree wraps around him, sap flows along his skin like dew. His armor becomes sleek, aquatic in silhouette, with subtle ridges and shell-like patterning. He bows at the end of the ritual, arms crossed in thanks.
As Joromir steps away, the Biomancer turns to Knight Two (voice measured, not unkind), “You came here without demand. But remind us of the world in which we live. Remind us to shield ourselves, for our protection. That matters to me.
(pause)
“You work the land. That matters to me.
(pause)
“I’ll make as many suits. But it’s slow work. I need strong trees, and patient men.”
Knight Two gives a slight nod. He doesn’t smile. But inside, he knows:
This was a victory. Not won, by asking the right questions. It was different from seeing the world through a sniper's scope or where he could plant a bomb. Getting people to do what you want is a matter of watching them and their weaknesses. They are a family. Their weakness is their need to protect that family. Once they got to casting their spells, the hardest part was over.
All he had to do was get the ball rolling.
Already in motion. . . they will stay in motion until the inertia runs out.
---
A work bell rings from the edge of the grove. Dozens of mercs stand clustered around a set of repurposed wagons loaded with harvested crops. Dirt on their boots. Callouses on their hands. Sweat streaking faces trained for bloodshed, not tilling.
Grumbles ripple through the crowd.
“We’re soldiers, not farmers.”
“This what we trained for?”
“Feels like we’re being used.”
Knight Two stands in front of the wagons. Not on a crate. Not elevated. Just there. Straight-backed. Gear on. Data-slab in hand.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The silence falls when he speaks.
Knight Two, “You're working farms because you're being paid.
(He holds up the data-slab. Numbers flicker.)
“Delivery to Tolkeen: fifteen hundred to three thousand credits a day. Covers half our weekly payroll.
(He steps forward. His tone tightens.)
“Every day you load wagons, haul crops, and run escort, you’re feeding a city of civilians and fighters. And that buys us more than coin—it buys us relevance.
(He holds up a small object—a Bone of Invisibility.)
“You’re not just getting paid in credits. These? These make you invisible. Every one of you who did the work earned this.
(He looks out across the rows of men.)
“A few of you might get armor next. Living armor. Tougher than plate. Grows back. Breathing. Silent. At least 100,000 in value. You'll earn it with your sweat, not your rifle.
(He waits two seconds. Then adds.)
“This is asymmetrical warfare. We are not the Coalition. We don’t win with numbers. We fight, survive, and win with advantages.
(His eyes scan them—calm, sharp.)
“But if anyone has a better idea—something that gets us paid, fed, and supplied without risk injury or death—I want to hear it.
(He gestures to the open field.)
“Now’s the time. Speak up.”
(A silence lingers. One hand raises slowly—then lowers. No one steps forward.)
Knight Two nods once (He turns, pausing only briefly.)
The grumbling fades. They get it. Maybe they don’t like it—but they get it.
And they trust one thing about Knight Two: He doesn’t waste words.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Tolkeen's POW camp.
Sir Drake—the man who has overseen the capture and humane detainment of the Coalition prisoners of war.
A Tolkeen government official says, “We’re feeding them. Protecting them. And we can’t even trade them for our soldiers because the Coalition doesn’t talk to us; they shot at us. So what now? Let ‘em go, so they can kill our children next month?”
Murmurs of agreement rise from the prison guards. Some angry. Some just tired.
All eyes turn to Sir Drake—not just a Cyber-Knight, but the architect of Tolkeen’s honorable prisoner of war internment system. His arms are folded, brow deeply furrowed.
He speaks slowly, deliberately. “I won't sugarcoat it. The latest reports are grim. The Coalition is not taking prisoners. Not really. And those they do… they don’t stay alive long. There’s no one to exchange.”
He pauses, letting the weight of it sink in.
“But I will not order executions. Not even in war. That is their way—not ours.”
The official snorts, “Letting them go is handing energy rifles to tomorrow’s front line troops.”
The deputy warden, “We show mercy. They show none. Honor doesn’t mean letting murderers go so they can re-arm to come back and kill us.”
Drake nods. “That’s why we don’t just let them go. But I will NOT keep them locked up forever, either. We don’t have the food. The space. Or the luxury.”
He places both palms on the table. “So here’s what we do.”
The room leans in.
“We march them to New Lazlo. Then we turn them over to the Lazlo government. Let the Coalition see their soldiers treated with dignity. Let others see how we treat even those who would burn our homes.”
Drake nods, “Lazlo will handle them. Maybe they keep them. Maybe they interrogate them properly. Maybe they even use them for negotiation, years from now.”
He looks at the refugee leaders. “But we don’t execute them. We don’t let them go. We escort them. And if any one of them so much as looks like a threat, we deal with it. Quietly.”
Sir Drake, “Then we build a camp outside its gates. Let the world see what the Coalition does. Let them see what we don’t.”
A moment of silence follows.
Sir Drake, “If we don’t show the world a better way, who will?”
The others nod slowly—some reluctantly, some firmly. But the path is chosen.
Outside, the Coalition prisoners, still well-fed, sit quietly behind a perimeter. They look up as new orders ripple through the guards.
They're not going free.
But they’re not being shot, either.
Because the people running the prison still remember the difference between justice… and vengeance.
---
The magic pigeon returned and left it’s message with Sir Drake.
“Lazlo will not take the Coalition prisoners. No space. No support. No political will.”
Sir Drake lowers his head for a long moment, eyes closed in quiet frustration. Finally, he speaks. “They won’t take them. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s inconvenient.
“Both Lazlo and New Lazlo’s right about one thing. Housing these prisoners would be a political statement. And not one they can afford. If they housed the prisoners of war it would look like they are taking a side and the Coalition would demand their release. Not to mention the expense of building a POW camp for them all.”
He looks directly at the bureaucrat.
“And we can’t afford it either. Not in coin. Not in food. Not in labor. Not when our own people are sleeping in the dirt and boiling weeds for soup.”
A heavy silence follows.
Then the bureaucracy scoffs, “You’re saying we release them.”
Drake hesitates. Then, “…I’m saying we can’t keep them.”
Silence for a long moment.
Then he speaks, softly, but with steel. “We will not become what they are.”
He stands.
“We do not feed them when our own people starve.”
He walks to the center of his office, facing the map of the region.
He looks back at the others, gaze unwavering.
“We don’t starve them to death.”
---
The Coalition prisoners—some defiant, others hollowed by the weight of war—are escorted to the perimeter.
“They’re all alive because we remember what mercy looks like. If we forget… ”
---
Serana kneels in the dim light of a makeshift sanctuary for reflection. The air smells of dew and dust. Her armor lies beside her—still whole. She holds a candle in both hands. The flame flickers in rhythm with her thoughts.
Outside, refugees stir.
The Magic Pigeon from Sir Drake was dire.
“The Tolkeen government will not feed the Coalition prisoners of war while their own people go crazy from eating old Xiticix meat every day. They refuse to release them back to the Coalition whom they expect will attack again someday.
There are whispers: execution, sell the prisoners into slavery, work them as slaves themselves, use them as human shield walls on the Iowa border so they will be the first to day when the Coalition attacks.
Tolkeen's leaders are turning ruthless, even vengeful.
And the Coalition prisoners of war, as detested as they are, have become the enemy’s abandoned children—unnegotiated for by their homeland, unless, costly to Tolkeen."
---
She sends magic pigeons in reply to Sir Drake with a list of abandoned Coalition clothes, equipment and gear and notes on Xiticix meat. You can march them North into Canada and a new beginning. Start a penal colony with them.
In another Magic Pigeon, “They’re soldiers. But they’re also men who surrendered. That counts for something.”
---
Drake reads it. Nods. “It’s not much. But if they work with it, they will live.”
Sir Drake begins writing:
Project Northlight: Colony Proposal for Coalition Prisoners of War
Population: ~1,000 unarmed POWs
Location Target: Western Canada (Summer Migration Route – Flatlands, Dense Forest, Water Access Required)
Goal: Resettlement, Isolation, Non-combatant Status
Beneath it, he begins drafting the essentials:
Supply list:
Long-term rations (60 days x 1,000 people) – approx. 2.5 million calories/day
Seed packs (corn, wheat, potatoes, beans, squash, root vegetables)
Livestock (20 goats, 15 pigs, 100 chickens)
Hunting/fishing gear (500+ bows, nets, basic traps)
Water purification kits (50+)
Cooking utensils, field stoves, water containers
Cold-weather clothing (boots, cloaks, gloves, underlayers)
Blankets, bedding
Tent fabric & fasteners (can also use scavenged vehicles for shelter)
Tools: hammers, nails, axes, shovels, picks, saws
Wood or prefab components (portable lumber mill if available)
40 large cargo haulers or ox-carts (coalition trucks if usable)
200+ pack animals or wagons
Fuel for at least 500 miles or a combination of draft alternatives
Sleds for later snow use (if staying through winter)
Manacles (non-invasive)
Watchtowers, bell system, patrol routes.
Volunteer guards (non-lethal protocols for internal order)
Seedling greenhouses (basic)
Storage silos
Portable latrines
Soap, sanitizers, and medical kits
Assigned leaders among POWs (to maintain discipline)
Grouped into 10s, 100s (squads and platoons)
Logs, records, work rotations, punishment protocols (non-lethal)
Total Estimated Volume: 120-150 tons
Estimated Cost: Astronomical without patron funding
Sir Drake leans back, staring at the ink-streaked list. He exhales sharply, as if the weight of 1,000 human lives sits right on his shoulders.
He scribbles in the margin: “No charity for the executioners. But mercy for the blind. Is this justice—or self-imposed penance?”
He knows the political cost.
Knows the moral toll.
But above all, he knows this truth, “If I turn them loose, they die. If I guard them, they live. My sword cannot protect the innocent and ignore the guilty made helpless.”
He is a Cyber-knight. And now, a warden. And perhaps, a builder of lost men.
The next morning, he’ll message this list to Lady Serana.
And if she cannot join him…
He will still go. North.
With his prisoners, his guilt, and his fading idealism.
Because no one else will.
---
Lady Serana, (via Magic Pigeon), “Would you have them wear the Coalition uniform?”
Sir Drake frowns. “Burn it. Or dye it. But not one man goes North wearing the black skull.”
---
In a secluded grove, Lady Serana kneels before a large man in simple gray robes, skin like old bark, eyes deep with wisdom. He sits on a root, unmoving as a statue, water swirling lazily at his fingertips.
Lady Serana, “If I had the means, I would feed them. If I had the right, I’d call in a favor from our mercenary friends I walked away from. But all I truly have left is this…”
She places her hand over her chest. “…and the strength of those willing to do what’s humane and noble.”
The old Warlock looks at her for a long time. Then he says simply, “You ask for burden.”
He reaches into the earth beside him and conjures a chunk of clean ice and a bundle of dry pinewood in each hand.
“I will go. But not for them.”
Serana looks up.
“For you. Because if even one Cyber-Knight remembers compassion when everyone else forgets, then the world still has hope.”
---
Sir Drake will lead the march North, escorting the Coalition prisoners of war to unclaimed wilderness, away from both Coalition and Tolkeen territory.
The Warlock will travel with them, ensuring a reliable source of clean water and firewood.
Coalition uniforms will be burned or dyed, to strip military identity.
Each prisoner will be assigned to a work unit: farming, carpentry, hunting.
Xiticix meat will sustain them for a week.
Abandoned Coalition gear (tools, cookware, purification kits) will be issued to them.
No armed guards, but strict structure. Sir Drake will hold final authority.
Lady Serana will attempt to open negotiations with Knight One’s mercenary company to inquire about the Dog Boy colony in Canada she is not supposed to know about and does not know the location of or condition.
If there's a chance of relocating or joining forces, it could stabilize the fragile colony-to-be for the Coalition Prisoners of war.
Sir Drake—the man who has overseen the capture and humane detainment of the Coalition prisoners of war.
A Tolkeen government official says, “We’re feeding them. Protecting them. And we can’t even trade them for our soldiers because the Coalition doesn’t talk to us; they shot at us. So what now? Let ‘em go, so they can kill our children next month?”
Murmurs of agreement rise from the prison guards. Some angry. Some just tired.
All eyes turn to Sir Drake—not just a Cyber-Knight, but the architect of Tolkeen’s honorable prisoner of war internment system. His arms are folded, brow deeply furrowed.
He speaks slowly, deliberately. “I won't sugarcoat it. The latest reports are grim. The Coalition is not taking prisoners. Not really. And those they do… they don’t stay alive long. There’s no one to exchange.”
He pauses, letting the weight of it sink in.
“But I will not order executions. Not even in war. That is their way—not ours.”
The official snorts, “Letting them go is handing energy rifles to tomorrow’s front line troops.”
The deputy warden, “We show mercy. They show none. Honor doesn’t mean letting murderers go so they can re-arm to come back and kill us.”
Drake nods. “That’s why we don’t just let them go. But I will NOT keep them locked up forever, either. We don’t have the food. The space. Or the luxury.”
He places both palms on the table. “So here’s what we do.”
The room leans in.
“We march them to New Lazlo. Then we turn them over to the Lazlo government. Let the Coalition see their soldiers treated with dignity. Let others see how we treat even those who would burn our homes.”
Drake nods, “Lazlo will handle them. Maybe they keep them. Maybe they interrogate them properly. Maybe they even use them for negotiation, years from now.”
He looks at the refugee leaders. “But we don’t execute them. We don’t let them go. We escort them. And if any one of them so much as looks like a threat, we deal with it. Quietly.”
Sir Drake, “Then we build a camp outside its gates. Let the world see what the Coalition does. Let them see what we don’t.”
A moment of silence follows.
Sir Drake, “If we don’t show the world a better way, who will?”
The others nod slowly—some reluctantly, some firmly. But the path is chosen.
Outside, the Coalition prisoners, still well-fed, sit quietly behind a perimeter. They look up as new orders ripple through the guards.
They're not going free.
But they’re not being shot, either.
Because the people running the prison still remember the difference between justice… and vengeance.
---
The magic pigeon returned and left it’s message with Sir Drake.
“Lazlo will not take the Coalition prisoners. No space. No support. No political will.”
Sir Drake lowers his head for a long moment, eyes closed in quiet frustration. Finally, he speaks. “They won’t take them. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s inconvenient.
“Both Lazlo and New Lazlo’s right about one thing. Housing these prisoners would be a political statement. And not one they can afford. If they housed the prisoners of war it would look like they are taking a side and the Coalition would demand their release. Not to mention the expense of building a POW camp for them all.”
He looks directly at the bureaucrat.
“And we can’t afford it either. Not in coin. Not in food. Not in labor. Not when our own people are sleeping in the dirt and boiling weeds for soup.”
A heavy silence follows.
Then the bureaucracy scoffs, “You’re saying we release them.”
Drake hesitates. Then, “…I’m saying we can’t keep them.”
Silence for a long moment.
Then he speaks, softly, but with steel. “We will not become what they are.”
He stands.
“We do not feed them when our own people starve.”
He walks to the center of his office, facing the map of the region.
He looks back at the others, gaze unwavering.
“We don’t starve them to death.”
---
The Coalition prisoners—some defiant, others hollowed by the weight of war—are escorted to the perimeter.
“They’re all alive because we remember what mercy looks like. If we forget… ”
---
Serana kneels in the dim light of a makeshift sanctuary for reflection. The air smells of dew and dust. Her armor lies beside her—still whole. She holds a candle in both hands. The flame flickers in rhythm with her thoughts.
Outside, refugees stir.
The Magic Pigeon from Sir Drake was dire.
“The Tolkeen government will not feed the Coalition prisoners of war while their own people go crazy from eating old Xiticix meat every day. They refuse to release them back to the Coalition whom they expect will attack again someday.
There are whispers: execution, sell the prisoners into slavery, work them as slaves themselves, use them as human shield walls on the Iowa border so they will be the first to day when the Coalition attacks.
Tolkeen's leaders are turning ruthless, even vengeful.
And the Coalition prisoners of war, as detested as they are, have become the enemy’s abandoned children—unnegotiated for by their homeland, unless, costly to Tolkeen."
---
She sends magic pigeons in reply to Sir Drake with a list of abandoned Coalition clothes, equipment and gear and notes on Xiticix meat. You can march them North into Canada and a new beginning. Start a penal colony with them.
In another Magic Pigeon, “They’re soldiers. But they’re also men who surrendered. That counts for something.”
---
Drake reads it. Nods. “It’s not much. But if they work with it, they will live.”
Sir Drake begins writing:
Project Northlight: Colony Proposal for Coalition Prisoners of War
Population: ~1,000 unarmed POWs
Location Target: Western Canada (Summer Migration Route – Flatlands, Dense Forest, Water Access Required)
Goal: Resettlement, Isolation, Non-combatant Status
Beneath it, he begins drafting the essentials:
Supply list:
Long-term rations (60 days x 1,000 people) – approx. 2.5 million calories/day
Seed packs (corn, wheat, potatoes, beans, squash, root vegetables)
Livestock (20 goats, 15 pigs, 100 chickens)
Hunting/fishing gear (500+ bows, nets, basic traps)
Water purification kits (50+)
Cooking utensils, field stoves, water containers
Cold-weather clothing (boots, cloaks, gloves, underlayers)
Blankets, bedding
Tent fabric & fasteners (can also use scavenged vehicles for shelter)
Tools: hammers, nails, axes, shovels, picks, saws
Wood or prefab components (portable lumber mill if available)
40 large cargo haulers or ox-carts (coalition trucks if usable)
200+ pack animals or wagons
Fuel for at least 500 miles or a combination of draft alternatives
Sleds for later snow use (if staying through winter)
Manacles (non-invasive)
Watchtowers, bell system, patrol routes.
Volunteer guards (non-lethal protocols for internal order)
Seedling greenhouses (basic)
Storage silos
Portable latrines
Soap, sanitizers, and medical kits
Assigned leaders among POWs (to maintain discipline)
Grouped into 10s, 100s (squads and platoons)
Logs, records, work rotations, punishment protocols (non-lethal)
Total Estimated Volume: 120-150 tons
Estimated Cost: Astronomical without patron funding
Sir Drake leans back, staring at the ink-streaked list. He exhales sharply, as if the weight of 1,000 human lives sits right on his shoulders.
He scribbles in the margin: “No charity for the executioners. But mercy for the blind. Is this justice—or self-imposed penance?”
He knows the political cost.
Knows the moral toll.
But above all, he knows this truth, “If I turn them loose, they die. If I guard them, they live. My sword cannot protect the innocent and ignore the guilty made helpless.”
He is a Cyber-knight. And now, a warden. And perhaps, a builder of lost men.
The next morning, he’ll message this list to Lady Serana.
And if she cannot join him…
He will still go. North.
With his prisoners, his guilt, and his fading idealism.
Because no one else will.
---
Lady Serana, (via Magic Pigeon), “Would you have them wear the Coalition uniform?”
Sir Drake frowns. “Burn it. Or dye it. But not one man goes North wearing the black skull.”
---
In a secluded grove, Lady Serana kneels before a large man in simple gray robes, skin like old bark, eyes deep with wisdom. He sits on a root, unmoving as a statue, water swirling lazily at his fingertips.
Lady Serana, “If I had the means, I would feed them. If I had the right, I’d call in a favor from our mercenary friends I walked away from. But all I truly have left is this…”
She places her hand over her chest. “…and the strength of those willing to do what’s humane and noble.”
The old Warlock looks at her for a long time. Then he says simply, “You ask for burden.”
He reaches into the earth beside him and conjures a chunk of clean ice and a bundle of dry pinewood in each hand.
“I will go. But not for them.”
Serana looks up.
“For you. Because if even one Cyber-Knight remembers compassion when everyone else forgets, then the world still has hope.”
---
Sir Drake will lead the march North, escorting the Coalition prisoners of war to unclaimed wilderness, away from both Coalition and Tolkeen territory.
The Warlock will travel with them, ensuring a reliable source of clean water and firewood.
Coalition uniforms will be burned or dyed, to strip military identity.
Each prisoner will be assigned to a work unit: farming, carpentry, hunting.
Xiticix meat will sustain them for a week.
Abandoned Coalition gear (tools, cookware, purification kits) will be issued to them.
No armed guards, but strict structure. Sir Drake will hold final authority.
Lady Serana will attempt to open negotiations with Knight One’s mercenary company to inquire about the Dog Boy colony in Canada she is not supposed to know about and does not know the location of or condition.
If there's a chance of relocating or joining forces, it could stabilize the fragile colony-to-be for the Coalition Prisoners of war.
Last edited by darthauthor on Mon May 26, 2025 2:16 am, edited 2 times in total.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Lady Serana’s Tent, Night
She sits down at her desk. Dips a quill in ink.
And she begins writing:
To Knight One,
“I left without saying goodbye.
Without fulfilling my duties, or explaining why I did what I did.
I won’t offer excuses.
But I will offer this:
I have too many Coalition prisoners to provide for.
Surrendered men.
Unwanted by Tolkeen, abandoned by their empire.
Sir Drake and a Warlock will take them North.
I believe… I hope… the Dog Boy colony you sponsored in Canada still exists.
I have no right to ask for your help.
But if there’s any part of you that remembers what you said about the Dog Boys—that we don’t shoot those who surrender—
If there’s a way forward, please send word.
If not… I understand.
—Serana
She hands it to a messenger mage with a picture and name of the mercenary company’s secretary.
Then turns to face the night.
Soon Sir Drake will begin the long Summer march to the North.
And no matter who they were, or what they've done—Sir Drake will give them a chance to become something else.
---
The Reply:
Lady Serana,
You are a deserter. I invite you to explain your status if you would have me believe otherwise. You were paid in advance—handsomely, I might add—and your leave has been fully exhausted. Unless you can justify your absence, that is the definition we will operate under.
I will not confirm or deny the existence of a Dog Boy colony. But hypothetically—IF such a place existed—and IF I knew its location, I would not send Coalition soldiers to interfere with it.
Such a colony, if it exists, would be self-sufficient, independent, and built by its residents using tools and resources provided through my command. It would be made FOR Dog Boys, BY Dog Boys—individuals who were once enslaved and used as expendable assets. To send Coalition troops there now would be to force these free beings back into a subordinate role. That won’t happen on my watch.
So, why should I betray any Dog Boy who surrendered to my command and now walks free—more free than they ever were under Coalition control?
What, exactly, is in it for me or my company? What profit, what gain would justify helping an enemy who would not hesitate to put me in the ground if the roles were reversed?
Here’s an alternative: Return the Coalition prisoners alive and unharmed.
Let their survival speak louder than any broadcast. Let the Coalition see that the defenders of Tolkeen—including the Cyber-Knights and affiliated forces—treat prisoners with dignity. Let the idea spread through Coalition ranks like a contagion: surrender means survival. That’s psychological warfare—PSYOP—and it’s far more effective than brute force alone.
If the prisoners are marched North, many will die. The rest will vanish, presumed dead, presumed murdered by our hands. Their families will never know the truth. But if they return alive, they become proof that we are not monsters. They become living witnesses that we showed mercy, humanity—even to our enemies.
That matters.
The execution or exile of those prisoners of war won't stop the Coalition's campaign of annihilation. The return of them won't ensure it. But it will create DOUBT in the hearts of those POWs.
IF you have a better plan? If it’s sound, if it aligns with the values and mission I stand by—I’ll consider it. But until then, I stand by my decisions.
Very Respectfully,
Knight One
---
The firelight flickers low, casting shadows across the canvas as Lady Serana reads the message from Knight One, its words projected line by line in a magical, glowing script from a series of magic pigeons. She reads it twice. Then a third time.
Her face is unreadable—caught between conflict and clarity, duty and disillusionment. She sets the crystal tablet aside with care, though her hands are tight.
She leans forward over a blank parchment. And slowly, begins to write.
Knight One,
I won’t argue the facts. I did leave without notice. I used my authority, rank, and the goodwill I had with your company to walk away and do what I felt was right.
I didn’t plan to stay gone. But then I saw what the war had done—what we let happen. I chose to help the people who would never be able to pay us. I became a knight for moments like this, not for silver or for titles. So if that makes me a deserter, I accept it.
I won't ask you to send Coalition prisoners to the Dog Boys’ colony. You're right. I wouldn’t want that either. I asked out of desperation—and hope. You're right to defend them. They deserve better.
Your suggestion about returning the prisoners is a good one. Better than mine. It's practical. It's political. And it might save lives on both sides. You call it PSYOP. I call it grace with purpose.
If I can send them back alive—and do it in a way that undermines the Coalition's narrative of us—I will. That is something.
I asked for your help. You gave it—just not in the way I expected. That matters. Thank you.
And one last thing—if I survive this, I will pay back what I owe your company, in full. With interest. I won’t die in your debt.
Respectfully,
Lady Serana
---
She seals the letter, sets it aside for the courier mage.
Then she walks out into the cold night where Sir Drake sharpens his sword by firelight, surrounded by murmuring guards. When he gets a magic Pigeon.
“I have a better idea.”
Drake looks up.
“We’re not marching them to exile. We’re sending them home. Alive. Unharmed.”
Drake frowns, confused. To the Coalition? Why—?
“Because the story they carry back might save more lives than any battle ever could. We show them mercy. We give them back to their people.”
“And we let their stories do what our swords can’t—infect the machine that sent them here with doubt.”
Drake watches the magic Pigeon carfully
Then nods, slowly.
---
Location: The POW CAMP – Dawn
A line of prisoners stands in quiet disbelief as they are addressed by Sir Drake. Behind them, wagons prepared. Food. Supplies. An escort, light but official.
Drake’s voice is low, but it carries:
"You are going home. You surrendered with honor. You are being returned with the same. Tell them we are not monsters. Tell them we remembered mercy. Even if your leaders didn’t."
Some cry. Some stare. Some don’t believe.
But they march—toward Coalition lines, to carry a message:
Not everyone in Tolkeen answers hate with hate.
---
Location: On the road to the Coalition
The cracked old highway stretched across the plains like a scar, flanked by dead trees and the ghosts of a war long lost. The sky hung low and gray. In the distance, a line of unarmed men in battered black uniforms marched with heads down—Coalition soldiers, prisoners of war. Behind them, a wooden carriage creaked, carrying only barrels of water. At the front rode Sir Drake, gleaming in polished armor, a silver cape trailing behind him, the crest of the Cyber-Knights proud on his shoulder.
Ahead, in the center of the road, stood a dark figure: Sir Tor, the Blackguard Justiciar. His black and crimson armor drank in the light, his visor down, his posture still.
Sir Drake slowed, then stopped. I know the type. A Justiciar. The kind who rewrote the rules of justice and called it truth.
Tor’s voice rang out cold and cutting. "Sir Drake. You escort enemies of life back to their war machine of death. That is not justice. That is betrayal."
Sir Drake reined in his horse, eyes locked on the armored figure. "They are unarmed. They have surrendered. They will not be harmed on my watch."
Sir Tor took a step forward. "You think the Coalition keeps prisoners?"
A long silence.
Tor's gauntlet curled into a fist. "You shame our order. I should strike you down where you stand."
Sir Drake dismounted slowly and drew off his right gauntlet, tossing it into the dirt between them.
"Try."
Tor didn’t hesitate. His own gauntlet hit the ground beside it. Both stepped away from their mounts.
Then—FWHOOM—blades of pure psychic energy flared into being.
Sir Drake’s Psi-Sword took the form of a gleaming longsword—blue-white, humming with righteous focus.
Tor’s blade was curved, jagged at the edge, like a glowing scimitar of red flame. It pulsed like a wound that refused to close.
They launched into each other with impossible speed.
Steel-sharp light clashed, sending arcs of energy into the asphalt. They leapt high, flipping midair, blades crossing in bursts of psychic force. Tor struck low, then high, his blade carving tight, brutal angles. Drake moved like water with a powerful current behind every counter.
The prisoners behind them stopped marching and stared.
Tor snarled and surged forward, his boots cracking the pavement as he closed the distance. His eyes locked on Sir Drake’s. Then—he launched.
With a burst of kinetic force, Tor kicked off the remnants of a rusted road sign jutting from the asphalt like a skeletal finger. The steel pole bent under the pressure of his legs, and he flew into the air with a telekinetic leap, twisting with unnatural grace. Ten feet high, back arched, he inverted mid-flight—his crimson Psi-Scimitar igniting in a blazing arc as he came down like a flaming guillotine, blade aimed directly at the junction of Drake’s neck and shoulder.
Drake doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he spins into the attack, pivoting on one heel. His Psi-Sword—a radiant longsword—met the scimitar in a deafening clash of psychic force. Sparks of raw telekinetic energy exploded on contact, rippling through the air like heatwaves.
Drake’s spin carried him through the deflection, turning his body away from the impact just in time. As Tor hit the ground with a heavy stomp, Drake’s boots slid across loose gravel, and he dropped into a low crouch, cloak flaring like a banner behind him. In the same motion, he swept his blade in a wide horizontal arc at Tor’s legs, a move meant to end it.
But Tor was fast—too fast.
He vaulted over the slash with a sharp grunt, and the edge of his scimitar snapped downward in retaliation, carving a red-hot blur through the air toward Drake’s knee. The psychic heat from the blade scorched the ground an inch from contact.
Drake recoiled, narrowly avoiding the cut, then rose with a burst of strength into an upward slash. His Psi-Sword sang as it cleaved the air, the blade a streak of silver-blue aimed straight for Tor’s midsection.
Tor brought his weapon up just in time. The two swords met—CLANG—the force of the strike reverberating like a gong. Tor’s arms shook as he absorbed the impact, boots skidding against the blacktop.
Then—he was airborne.
The sheer power behind Drake’s swing sent him flying backward. Tor tumbled end over end, landed hard in a crouch fifteen feet away, one knee hitting the pavement with a crunch. His breath came in ragged bursts. A faint trickle of blood ran from beneath his helmet. The scimitar in his remaining hand flickered, its form destabilizing for a second before reasserting itself in his grip.
Tor looked up, teeth bared behind his visor, the fire in his soul flickering, but not yet out.
Sir Drake straightened, his sword lowered but still lit. His stance was steady.
"You're not this naïve," Tor growled. "You think mercy is enough to wash away what these monsters have done?"
Drake circled, silent. His blade hummed.
Tor lunged. Fast. Reckless.
Drake met him halfway—and struck.
A clean arc through the air.
Tor screamed as his sword clattered to the ground beside his severed hand, still gripping it. Then the Psi-Scimitar disappeared
He collapsed, clutching the stump, blood steaming on his armor.
Drake stood over him, sword fading into smoke. Tor looked up, eyes wide behind the shattered lens of his visor.
"Finish it," he spat.
Drake only shook his head. "That’s not justice. That’s vengeance. And that’s your path—not mine."
He turned his back.
One by one, the line of Coalition prisoners marched past the fallen knight. Some stared. Some looked away. None spoke.
Drake remounted his horse. The carriage creaked behind him, water sloshing. And the march continued, south toward the Iowa border, under the eye of a knight who still believed in mercy.
Behind them, Tor remained in the dirt—beaten, but alive. Left to decide what kind of justice he would choose next.
She sits down at her desk. Dips a quill in ink.
And she begins writing:
To Knight One,
“I left without saying goodbye.
Without fulfilling my duties, or explaining why I did what I did.
I won’t offer excuses.
But I will offer this:
I have too many Coalition prisoners to provide for.
Surrendered men.
Unwanted by Tolkeen, abandoned by their empire.
Sir Drake and a Warlock will take them North.
I believe… I hope… the Dog Boy colony you sponsored in Canada still exists.
I have no right to ask for your help.
But if there’s any part of you that remembers what you said about the Dog Boys—that we don’t shoot those who surrender—
If there’s a way forward, please send word.
If not… I understand.
—Serana
She hands it to a messenger mage with a picture and name of the mercenary company’s secretary.
Then turns to face the night.
Soon Sir Drake will begin the long Summer march to the North.
And no matter who they were, or what they've done—Sir Drake will give them a chance to become something else.
---
The Reply:
Lady Serana,
You are a deserter. I invite you to explain your status if you would have me believe otherwise. You were paid in advance—handsomely, I might add—and your leave has been fully exhausted. Unless you can justify your absence, that is the definition we will operate under.
I will not confirm or deny the existence of a Dog Boy colony. But hypothetically—IF such a place existed—and IF I knew its location, I would not send Coalition soldiers to interfere with it.
Such a colony, if it exists, would be self-sufficient, independent, and built by its residents using tools and resources provided through my command. It would be made FOR Dog Boys, BY Dog Boys—individuals who were once enslaved and used as expendable assets. To send Coalition troops there now would be to force these free beings back into a subordinate role. That won’t happen on my watch.
So, why should I betray any Dog Boy who surrendered to my command and now walks free—more free than they ever were under Coalition control?
What, exactly, is in it for me or my company? What profit, what gain would justify helping an enemy who would not hesitate to put me in the ground if the roles were reversed?
Here’s an alternative: Return the Coalition prisoners alive and unharmed.
Let their survival speak louder than any broadcast. Let the Coalition see that the defenders of Tolkeen—including the Cyber-Knights and affiliated forces—treat prisoners with dignity. Let the idea spread through Coalition ranks like a contagion: surrender means survival. That’s psychological warfare—PSYOP—and it’s far more effective than brute force alone.
If the prisoners are marched North, many will die. The rest will vanish, presumed dead, presumed murdered by our hands. Their families will never know the truth. But if they return alive, they become proof that we are not monsters. They become living witnesses that we showed mercy, humanity—even to our enemies.
That matters.
The execution or exile of those prisoners of war won't stop the Coalition's campaign of annihilation. The return of them won't ensure it. But it will create DOUBT in the hearts of those POWs.
IF you have a better plan? If it’s sound, if it aligns with the values and mission I stand by—I’ll consider it. But until then, I stand by my decisions.
Very Respectfully,
Knight One
---
The firelight flickers low, casting shadows across the canvas as Lady Serana reads the message from Knight One, its words projected line by line in a magical, glowing script from a series of magic pigeons. She reads it twice. Then a third time.
Her face is unreadable—caught between conflict and clarity, duty and disillusionment. She sets the crystal tablet aside with care, though her hands are tight.
She leans forward over a blank parchment. And slowly, begins to write.
Knight One,
I won’t argue the facts. I did leave without notice. I used my authority, rank, and the goodwill I had with your company to walk away and do what I felt was right.
I didn’t plan to stay gone. But then I saw what the war had done—what we let happen. I chose to help the people who would never be able to pay us. I became a knight for moments like this, not for silver or for titles. So if that makes me a deserter, I accept it.
I won't ask you to send Coalition prisoners to the Dog Boys’ colony. You're right. I wouldn’t want that either. I asked out of desperation—and hope. You're right to defend them. They deserve better.
Your suggestion about returning the prisoners is a good one. Better than mine. It's practical. It's political. And it might save lives on both sides. You call it PSYOP. I call it grace with purpose.
If I can send them back alive—and do it in a way that undermines the Coalition's narrative of us—I will. That is something.
I asked for your help. You gave it—just not in the way I expected. That matters. Thank you.
And one last thing—if I survive this, I will pay back what I owe your company, in full. With interest. I won’t die in your debt.
Respectfully,
Lady Serana
---
She seals the letter, sets it aside for the courier mage.
Then she walks out into the cold night where Sir Drake sharpens his sword by firelight, surrounded by murmuring guards. When he gets a magic Pigeon.
“I have a better idea.”
Drake looks up.
“We’re not marching them to exile. We’re sending them home. Alive. Unharmed.”
Drake frowns, confused. To the Coalition? Why—?
“Because the story they carry back might save more lives than any battle ever could. We show them mercy. We give them back to their people.”
“And we let their stories do what our swords can’t—infect the machine that sent them here with doubt.”
Drake watches the magic Pigeon carfully
Then nods, slowly.
---
Location: The POW CAMP – Dawn
A line of prisoners stands in quiet disbelief as they are addressed by Sir Drake. Behind them, wagons prepared. Food. Supplies. An escort, light but official.
Drake’s voice is low, but it carries:
"You are going home. You surrendered with honor. You are being returned with the same. Tell them we are not monsters. Tell them we remembered mercy. Even if your leaders didn’t."
Some cry. Some stare. Some don’t believe.
But they march—toward Coalition lines, to carry a message:
Not everyone in Tolkeen answers hate with hate.
---
Location: On the road to the Coalition
The cracked old highway stretched across the plains like a scar, flanked by dead trees and the ghosts of a war long lost. The sky hung low and gray. In the distance, a line of unarmed men in battered black uniforms marched with heads down—Coalition soldiers, prisoners of war. Behind them, a wooden carriage creaked, carrying only barrels of water. At the front rode Sir Drake, gleaming in polished armor, a silver cape trailing behind him, the crest of the Cyber-Knights proud on his shoulder.
Ahead, in the center of the road, stood a dark figure: Sir Tor, the Blackguard Justiciar. His black and crimson armor drank in the light, his visor down, his posture still.
Sir Drake slowed, then stopped. I know the type. A Justiciar. The kind who rewrote the rules of justice and called it truth.
Tor’s voice rang out cold and cutting. "Sir Drake. You escort enemies of life back to their war machine of death. That is not justice. That is betrayal."
Sir Drake reined in his horse, eyes locked on the armored figure. "They are unarmed. They have surrendered. They will not be harmed on my watch."
Sir Tor took a step forward. "You think the Coalition keeps prisoners?"
A long silence.
Tor's gauntlet curled into a fist. "You shame our order. I should strike you down where you stand."
Sir Drake dismounted slowly and drew off his right gauntlet, tossing it into the dirt between them.
"Try."
Tor didn’t hesitate. His own gauntlet hit the ground beside it. Both stepped away from their mounts.
Then—FWHOOM—blades of pure psychic energy flared into being.
Sir Drake’s Psi-Sword took the form of a gleaming longsword—blue-white, humming with righteous focus.
Tor’s blade was curved, jagged at the edge, like a glowing scimitar of red flame. It pulsed like a wound that refused to close.
They launched into each other with impossible speed.
Steel-sharp light clashed, sending arcs of energy into the asphalt. They leapt high, flipping midair, blades crossing in bursts of psychic force. Tor struck low, then high, his blade carving tight, brutal angles. Drake moved like water with a powerful current behind every counter.
The prisoners behind them stopped marching and stared.
Tor snarled and surged forward, his boots cracking the pavement as he closed the distance. His eyes locked on Sir Drake’s. Then—he launched.
With a burst of kinetic force, Tor kicked off the remnants of a rusted road sign jutting from the asphalt like a skeletal finger. The steel pole bent under the pressure of his legs, and he flew into the air with a telekinetic leap, twisting with unnatural grace. Ten feet high, back arched, he inverted mid-flight—his crimson Psi-Scimitar igniting in a blazing arc as he came down like a flaming guillotine, blade aimed directly at the junction of Drake’s neck and shoulder.
Drake doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he spins into the attack, pivoting on one heel. His Psi-Sword—a radiant longsword—met the scimitar in a deafening clash of psychic force. Sparks of raw telekinetic energy exploded on contact, rippling through the air like heatwaves.
Drake’s spin carried him through the deflection, turning his body away from the impact just in time. As Tor hit the ground with a heavy stomp, Drake’s boots slid across loose gravel, and he dropped into a low crouch, cloak flaring like a banner behind him. In the same motion, he swept his blade in a wide horizontal arc at Tor’s legs, a move meant to end it.
But Tor was fast—too fast.
He vaulted over the slash with a sharp grunt, and the edge of his scimitar snapped downward in retaliation, carving a red-hot blur through the air toward Drake’s knee. The psychic heat from the blade scorched the ground an inch from contact.
Drake recoiled, narrowly avoiding the cut, then rose with a burst of strength into an upward slash. His Psi-Sword sang as it cleaved the air, the blade a streak of silver-blue aimed straight for Tor’s midsection.
Tor brought his weapon up just in time. The two swords met—CLANG—the force of the strike reverberating like a gong. Tor’s arms shook as he absorbed the impact, boots skidding against the blacktop.
Then—he was airborne.
The sheer power behind Drake’s swing sent him flying backward. Tor tumbled end over end, landed hard in a crouch fifteen feet away, one knee hitting the pavement with a crunch. His breath came in ragged bursts. A faint trickle of blood ran from beneath his helmet. The scimitar in his remaining hand flickered, its form destabilizing for a second before reasserting itself in his grip.
Tor looked up, teeth bared behind his visor, the fire in his soul flickering, but not yet out.
Sir Drake straightened, his sword lowered but still lit. His stance was steady.
"You're not this naïve," Tor growled. "You think mercy is enough to wash away what these monsters have done?"
Drake circled, silent. His blade hummed.
Tor lunged. Fast. Reckless.
Drake met him halfway—and struck.
A clean arc through the air.
Tor screamed as his sword clattered to the ground beside his severed hand, still gripping it. Then the Psi-Scimitar disappeared
He collapsed, clutching the stump, blood steaming on his armor.
Drake stood over him, sword fading into smoke. Tor looked up, eyes wide behind the shattered lens of his visor.
"Finish it," he spat.
Drake only shook his head. "That’s not justice. That’s vengeance. And that’s your path—not mine."
He turned his back.
One by one, the line of Coalition prisoners marched past the fallen knight. Some stared. Some looked away. None spoke.
Drake remounted his horse. The carriage creaked behind him, water sloshing. And the march continued, south toward the Iowa border, under the eye of a knight who still believed in mercy.
Behind them, Tor remained in the dirt—beaten, but alive. Left to decide what kind of justice he would choose next.
Last edited by darthauthor on Mon May 26, 2025 10:06 am, edited 2 times in total.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Inner Chamber of the Emperor – 12 Hours After the Return
A private intelligence briefing room deep within Chi-Town’s fortified core. The air is tense. A steel holotable glows with security feeds, biometric scans, and troop tracking overlays. Emperor Karl Prosek sits at the center, his gloved hands clasped in deliberate stillness, eyes locked on the image of 1,000 ragged, unarmed soldiers standing in line under floodlights. Around him are his core advisors once again: Helstrom, Carlisle, Rockford, Kreel, and Richter.
Director Helstrom (delivers the briefing):
“The returned Coalition POWs have been screened: no diseases, no magical or psionic contamination, no impersonators. Their stories are consistent—held by a Cyber-Knight calling himself Sir Drake. Treated well. No torture. No coercion. No conversion attempts. And then… he simply returned them. Marched them home.”
Prosek (coldly), “Returned them? As if they were… pets?”
General Rockford (tense), “They were presumed dead or missing. Over 1,000. That’s not a gesture—it’s a message. He’s using our own people to embarrass us. Undermine us.”
Minister Carlisle, “He’s staging a spectacle of mercy. Sir Drake will be seen as righteous—humanitarian. Noble. Our men will speak of honor. Of decency. And our enemies will say: “See? Even Coalition soldiers can be saved by the kindness of the Cyber-Knights.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (scowling), “That ‘kindness’ will rot their loyalty. Mercy is the first contagion. Then comes doubt. Then treason.”
Prosek (rising, his voice like drawn steel), “Do you think this is about them? No. This is about us. Coake and his hounds want our soldiers to ask, ‘Why?’ Why didn’t we save them? Why do we show no mercy, yet demand obedience? Why does the enemy treat them like men… when we treated them like tools?"
(He slowly circles the holotable, stopping before a paused surveillance image of one soldier weeping at a camp medical tent.)
Prosek, “And when these men return to their homes, what stories will they whisper? What seed will they plant? All are to be held in isolated processing centers under strict surveillance, under the guise of ‘reintegration protocol.’ Their return must remain classified. Begin a full psychological reset—Mind Wipes of the memory of their release. They are never remember what really happened. The men were being transferred and somehow escaped following others. Frame Sir Drake’s as using psionics or magic to mentally destabilize our soldiers.
The public is not to know of the return yet. Family inquiries will be delayed or redirected until loyalty assessments are complete."
Turning to Carlisle, “Carlisle, begin a negative campaign. Accuse the Cyber-Knights of unethical experimentation on POWs. Suggest they released our soldiers because they were mentally broken. Create testimonials describing ‘magical violation’ and ‘psychic tampering’ to erode public trust in the prisoners and their captors.
We do not waste useful flesh.
Reassign re-indoctrinated soldiers to remote fronts, under loyalist commanders. Monitor closely.
Those who fail loyalty screenings will be used:
As test subjects for new psi-conditioning programs.
As decoys in future operations against Tolkeen or Lazlo.
Quietly disappeared, if necessary."
General Rockford (with a tinge of doubt), “And… if their families demand answers?”
Prosek (cold smile), “Then we tell them their sons returned damaged. And the Coalition is healing them.”
High Inquisitor Kreel, “And Sir Drake?”
Prosek (steely), “He seeks to become a legend? Then we shall break him in the shadows. Discredit. Character assassinate. Then literally assassinate. Let him feel the weight of trying to fight an empire with honor.
Prosek (to the room), “They thought they could shame me with charity. They thought mercy was a weapon. But I will weaponize their mercy. I will turn every returned soldier into either a silent instrument of loyalty—or a ghost no one will mourn.”
(He turns to the door.)
“Begin.”
A private intelligence briefing room deep within Chi-Town’s fortified core. The air is tense. A steel holotable glows with security feeds, biometric scans, and troop tracking overlays. Emperor Karl Prosek sits at the center, his gloved hands clasped in deliberate stillness, eyes locked on the image of 1,000 ragged, unarmed soldiers standing in line under floodlights. Around him are his core advisors once again: Helstrom, Carlisle, Rockford, Kreel, and Richter.
Director Helstrom (delivers the briefing):
“The returned Coalition POWs have been screened: no diseases, no magical or psionic contamination, no impersonators. Their stories are consistent—held by a Cyber-Knight calling himself Sir Drake. Treated well. No torture. No coercion. No conversion attempts. And then… he simply returned them. Marched them home.”
Prosek (coldly), “Returned them? As if they were… pets?”
General Rockford (tense), “They were presumed dead or missing. Over 1,000. That’s not a gesture—it’s a message. He’s using our own people to embarrass us. Undermine us.”
Minister Carlisle, “He’s staging a spectacle of mercy. Sir Drake will be seen as righteous—humanitarian. Noble. Our men will speak of honor. Of decency. And our enemies will say: “See? Even Coalition soldiers can be saved by the kindness of the Cyber-Knights.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (scowling), “That ‘kindness’ will rot their loyalty. Mercy is the first contagion. Then comes doubt. Then treason.”
Prosek (rising, his voice like drawn steel), “Do you think this is about them? No. This is about us. Coake and his hounds want our soldiers to ask, ‘Why?’ Why didn’t we save them? Why do we show no mercy, yet demand obedience? Why does the enemy treat them like men… when we treated them like tools?"
(He slowly circles the holotable, stopping before a paused surveillance image of one soldier weeping at a camp medical tent.)
Prosek, “And when these men return to their homes, what stories will they whisper? What seed will they plant? All are to be held in isolated processing centers under strict surveillance, under the guise of ‘reintegration protocol.’ Their return must remain classified. Begin a full psychological reset—Mind Wipes of the memory of their release. They are never remember what really happened. The men were being transferred and somehow escaped following others. Frame Sir Drake’s as using psionics or magic to mentally destabilize our soldiers.
The public is not to know of the return yet. Family inquiries will be delayed or redirected until loyalty assessments are complete."
Turning to Carlisle, “Carlisle, begin a negative campaign. Accuse the Cyber-Knights of unethical experimentation on POWs. Suggest they released our soldiers because they were mentally broken. Create testimonials describing ‘magical violation’ and ‘psychic tampering’ to erode public trust in the prisoners and their captors.
We do not waste useful flesh.
Reassign re-indoctrinated soldiers to remote fronts, under loyalist commanders. Monitor closely.
Those who fail loyalty screenings will be used:
As test subjects for new psi-conditioning programs.
As decoys in future operations against Tolkeen or Lazlo.
Quietly disappeared, if necessary."
General Rockford (with a tinge of doubt), “And… if their families demand answers?”
Prosek (cold smile), “Then we tell them their sons returned damaged. And the Coalition is healing them.”
High Inquisitor Kreel, “And Sir Drake?”
Prosek (steely), “He seeks to become a legend? Then we shall break him in the shadows. Discredit. Character assassinate. Then literally assassinate. Let him feel the weight of trying to fight an empire with honor.
Prosek (to the room), “They thought they could shame me with charity. They thought mercy was a weapon. But I will weaponize their mercy. I will turn every returned soldier into either a silent instrument of loyalty—or a ghost no one will mourn.”
(He turns to the door.)
“Begin.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Far outside of the town of Solomon
Knight Two lay prone on a slight rise in the earth, his breath slow, shallow. From a distance, he looked like nothing more than another dead man lost to the swamp—camo fatigues muddied, boots half-sunk into the soft loam, face streaked with charcoal and algae. But his eyes were alive, sharp behind military-grade sniper scope.
Before him sprawled the killing field.
Between his position and the ghost of Solomon, the land was a canvas of destruction—burnt, cratered, pocked with blackened metal and blood-crusted bone. What remained of the town of Solomon crouched behind scorched ruins. But here, at the edge of the Coalition’s most disciplined trench line, everything stank of war.
The trench itself was a marvel of grim efficiency—seven feet deep, seven feet wide, dug by Skelebots and lined with sandbags.
A berms rose on BOTH sides, creating a trough of flesh where human troops scurried like ants, checking sensors, whispering into comms, cleaning weapons.
Knight Two scanned the perimeter, following movement with the grace of a predator. A command post. A supply shack. The angled shapes of semi-buried mech suits. Antennae. Beyond it all, the wetlands with quiet life—tall reeds shifting, frogs croaking, dragonflies buzzing over shallow, glittering pools. The land just a mile back from the Coalition’s trenches was alive, thriving in spite of the war machine chewing at its edge.
He noted that too.
Knight Two shifted his weight just enough to adjust the focus. Behind the trench, the Coalition’s perimeter extended miles in a circle, encasing Solomon like a metal noose.
The Coalition had numbers. They had machines. But they didn’t understand the ground beneath their boots.
He scanned left, where a slope dipped down toward one of the newer streams gouged by Pokegama Creek. It was deep, erosion carving a path beneath the Coalition’s outermost edge. Potential ingress. Noted.
Further out, near a fold in the hills, Knight Two saw a cluster of freshly camouflaged tents. Logistics or intelligence. Human movement was slow. Tired. Fatigued despite the rotation. He could see the weight of the siege sinking into their bones. Discipline held—but only just.
Solomon had something they didn’t: fire in the belly. Faith in the dirt.
Knight Two pulled back slowly. This wasn’t the time for combat. He was out of range. This was recon work. Map the heart. Find the arteries. Slice when it matters.
He began to crawl back through the brush, moving like shadow through wind, boots never cracking a twig. Somewhere behind him, a heron croaked in the marsh, lifting off into the humid air.
Knight Two slid behind a twisted stump cloaked in moss and lichen. He crouched, sheltering from view beneath a thicket of fern and vine, and pulled a Coalition-issue long-range comm unit from his satchel—painted to match his disguise, modified to bounce encrypted pulses along shortwave frequencies.
He thumbed the dial. Click. Static. Click.
White noise.
“Come on,” he muttered. He adjusted the gain and whispered into the receiver, “Solomon. This is Knight-Two. Respond.”
Nothing but digital snow. Not a surprise, not really. The deeper he’d pushed toward the Coalition’s inner trench line, the more the signal had thinned, until now—it was gone entirely. Blanketed. Jammed.
He switched the unit off and exhaled slowly.
They’re not just holding the line. They’re blacking it out.
He turned and moved, low and quick, back to the hidden ridge where the rest of his platoon waited. Five shadows among roots and stones, each one cloaked in scavenged gear, each with the presence of a predator waiting for the dark to shift.
He knelt in the middle of them and began to speak, voice hushed but sure.
“They’re jamming us,” he said. “Hard. It’s not just static—this is directional, structured. Wide-net. They want to cut Solomon off from the outside entirely.”
“High-tier signal ops?” one asked.
Knight Two nodded. “Definitely. Somewhere in their trench network, they’ve got jammers. Maybe more than one. Probably hardened. Definitely guarded.”
“Reckon they’ve got a fallback?” another muttered, chewing on a strip of dried meat.
Knight-Two looked east, toward the gently rising slope that vanished into low hills and marsh.
“They do. They have to. I’d wager a full depot and comm center five to ten miles out—standard fallback pattern. They’ve gone deep on this siege. There’s no way they’re running it all from the line.”
He reached into his vest and pulled out a rough sketch, drawn from memory and observation, unfolding it on a flat stone.
“Here’s what we’re up against. I estimate at least twelve-thousand Skelebots, that I can see, across both inner and outer trench lines. Their best-preserved section runs here—southwest quadrant. Seven feet deep, seven wide. Berms on both sides made from the dig. It's textbook Coalition—modular kill zones, overlapping fire arcs.”
He jabbed a finger at the outer rings. “They’re dug in tight. Probably underground bunkers for sleeping and supply storage. It’s not just a wall—it’s a spine.”
One of the Mystic Knights leaned in. “What’s the distance to Solomon?”
“Too far for snipers. At least a mile between their trench and Solomon's wall. That ground’s nothing but craters, wrecks, and corpses.”
“Solomon?”
“Holding. They’ve got dual walls—stone and twice as tough Iron-wood, thanks to the Nexus in the center of town. Watchposts on the inside. Their own trenches too, tight in front of the wall. No one's getting in without losing a battalion.”
The circle fell quiet.
Then Knight-Two looked up, eyes calm and burning. “But they don’t know we’re here. They don’t see us.”
A silence passed. Just the breeze through the reeds. A raven called somewhere behind them.
“We left a platoon of rookie Mystic Knights, undercover as mercs, in Solomon to get some experience. Now, they've got it,” Knight-Two said. “I can send a Magic Pigeon. We don’t need to break their wall—Solomon platoon can tell us what they need and the whereabouts of the Circle of travel or whatever mages teleports for the town so we can get it, and Grian 'The Restorer of Missing Limbs' to them. That and to coordinate surprise pincer attacks on BOTH sides of the Coalition's lines. And attack the Coalition's supply lines to their position here.”
He rolled the map up.
"What's the strategy? The Coalition could just artillary strike, so why don't they? And, if people can teleport out, why not abandon town?"
“The Coalition wants to capture the town intacted so they doing this siege warfare. They believe there is something here they want to possess without destroying it. We’re here to hold ground. Solomon is Kill-Box that has killed thousands of Skelebot and hundreds of Coalition grunts. Even after the Sorcerer's Revenge this Coalition fighting force held their ground and Tolkeen's defenders let them. As long as the Coalition's troops and Skelebots are here they are not somewhere else attacking. Here the Coalition keeps experimenting with tactics and technologies in attempt to break Solomon.”
And with that, the Mystic Knights disappeared into the dusk, ghosts with rifles in their hands and fire in their veins, hunting the heartbeat of a machine army in a war they refused to lose.
Knight Two lay prone on a slight rise in the earth, his breath slow, shallow. From a distance, he looked like nothing more than another dead man lost to the swamp—camo fatigues muddied, boots half-sunk into the soft loam, face streaked with charcoal and algae. But his eyes were alive, sharp behind military-grade sniper scope.
Before him sprawled the killing field.
Between his position and the ghost of Solomon, the land was a canvas of destruction—burnt, cratered, pocked with blackened metal and blood-crusted bone. What remained of the town of Solomon crouched behind scorched ruins. But here, at the edge of the Coalition’s most disciplined trench line, everything stank of war.
The trench itself was a marvel of grim efficiency—seven feet deep, seven feet wide, dug by Skelebots and lined with sandbags.
A berms rose on BOTH sides, creating a trough of flesh where human troops scurried like ants, checking sensors, whispering into comms, cleaning weapons.
Knight Two scanned the perimeter, following movement with the grace of a predator. A command post. A supply shack. The angled shapes of semi-buried mech suits. Antennae. Beyond it all, the wetlands with quiet life—tall reeds shifting, frogs croaking, dragonflies buzzing over shallow, glittering pools. The land just a mile back from the Coalition’s trenches was alive, thriving in spite of the war machine chewing at its edge.
He noted that too.
Knight Two shifted his weight just enough to adjust the focus. Behind the trench, the Coalition’s perimeter extended miles in a circle, encasing Solomon like a metal noose.
The Coalition had numbers. They had machines. But they didn’t understand the ground beneath their boots.
He scanned left, where a slope dipped down toward one of the newer streams gouged by Pokegama Creek. It was deep, erosion carving a path beneath the Coalition’s outermost edge. Potential ingress. Noted.
Further out, near a fold in the hills, Knight Two saw a cluster of freshly camouflaged tents. Logistics or intelligence. Human movement was slow. Tired. Fatigued despite the rotation. He could see the weight of the siege sinking into their bones. Discipline held—but only just.
Solomon had something they didn’t: fire in the belly. Faith in the dirt.
Knight Two pulled back slowly. This wasn’t the time for combat. He was out of range. This was recon work. Map the heart. Find the arteries. Slice when it matters.
He began to crawl back through the brush, moving like shadow through wind, boots never cracking a twig. Somewhere behind him, a heron croaked in the marsh, lifting off into the humid air.
Knight Two slid behind a twisted stump cloaked in moss and lichen. He crouched, sheltering from view beneath a thicket of fern and vine, and pulled a Coalition-issue long-range comm unit from his satchel—painted to match his disguise, modified to bounce encrypted pulses along shortwave frequencies.
He thumbed the dial. Click. Static. Click.
White noise.
“Come on,” he muttered. He adjusted the gain and whispered into the receiver, “Solomon. This is Knight-Two. Respond.”
Nothing but digital snow. Not a surprise, not really. The deeper he’d pushed toward the Coalition’s inner trench line, the more the signal had thinned, until now—it was gone entirely. Blanketed. Jammed.
He switched the unit off and exhaled slowly.
They’re not just holding the line. They’re blacking it out.
He turned and moved, low and quick, back to the hidden ridge where the rest of his platoon waited. Five shadows among roots and stones, each one cloaked in scavenged gear, each with the presence of a predator waiting for the dark to shift.
He knelt in the middle of them and began to speak, voice hushed but sure.
“They’re jamming us,” he said. “Hard. It’s not just static—this is directional, structured. Wide-net. They want to cut Solomon off from the outside entirely.”
“High-tier signal ops?” one asked.
Knight Two nodded. “Definitely. Somewhere in their trench network, they’ve got jammers. Maybe more than one. Probably hardened. Definitely guarded.”
“Reckon they’ve got a fallback?” another muttered, chewing on a strip of dried meat.
Knight-Two looked east, toward the gently rising slope that vanished into low hills and marsh.
“They do. They have to. I’d wager a full depot and comm center five to ten miles out—standard fallback pattern. They’ve gone deep on this siege. There’s no way they’re running it all from the line.”
He reached into his vest and pulled out a rough sketch, drawn from memory and observation, unfolding it on a flat stone.
“Here’s what we’re up against. I estimate at least twelve-thousand Skelebots, that I can see, across both inner and outer trench lines. Their best-preserved section runs here—southwest quadrant. Seven feet deep, seven wide. Berms on both sides made from the dig. It's textbook Coalition—modular kill zones, overlapping fire arcs.”
He jabbed a finger at the outer rings. “They’re dug in tight. Probably underground bunkers for sleeping and supply storage. It’s not just a wall—it’s a spine.”
One of the Mystic Knights leaned in. “What’s the distance to Solomon?”
“Too far for snipers. At least a mile between their trench and Solomon's wall. That ground’s nothing but craters, wrecks, and corpses.”
“Solomon?”
“Holding. They’ve got dual walls—stone and twice as tough Iron-wood, thanks to the Nexus in the center of town. Watchposts on the inside. Their own trenches too, tight in front of the wall. No one's getting in without losing a battalion.”
The circle fell quiet.
Then Knight-Two looked up, eyes calm and burning. “But they don’t know we’re here. They don’t see us.”
A silence passed. Just the breeze through the reeds. A raven called somewhere behind them.
“We left a platoon of rookie Mystic Knights, undercover as mercs, in Solomon to get some experience. Now, they've got it,” Knight-Two said. “I can send a Magic Pigeon. We don’t need to break their wall—Solomon platoon can tell us what they need and the whereabouts of the Circle of travel or whatever mages teleports for the town so we can get it, and Grian 'The Restorer of Missing Limbs' to them. That and to coordinate surprise pincer attacks on BOTH sides of the Coalition's lines. And attack the Coalition's supply lines to their position here.”
He rolled the map up.
"What's the strategy? The Coalition could just artillary strike, so why don't they? And, if people can teleport out, why not abandon town?"
“The Coalition wants to capture the town intacted so they doing this siege warfare. They believe there is something here they want to possess without destroying it. We’re here to hold ground. Solomon is Kill-Box that has killed thousands of Skelebot and hundreds of Coalition grunts. Even after the Sorcerer's Revenge this Coalition fighting force held their ground and Tolkeen's defenders let them. As long as the Coalition's troops and Skelebots are here they are not somewhere else attacking. Here the Coalition keeps experimenting with tactics and technologies in attempt to break Solomon.”
And with that, the Mystic Knights disappeared into the dusk, ghosts with rifles in their hands and fire in their veins, hunting the heartbeat of a machine army in a war they refused to lose.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Outside of the town of Solomon
Knight Two and his team move through the undergrowth like shadows. Silence. No birds. No wind.
The hairs on Knight Two’s neck rose a fraction of a second before the sound reached him. Every bit of his experience screamed ambush. That’s when the Mystic Knight’s Sixth Sense goes off.
Knight Two (telepathically), “Hold.”
All five freeze. Heads low. Eyes scanning. Then—Knight Two raises two fingers. His voice is quiet but hard.
Knight Two (telepathically), “Invisibile.”
Five hands tighten around Bones of Invisibility. Five voices whisper, “Make me invisible.”
They vanish instantly.
Seconds tick by while the team takes position dropped low behind fallen logs, scattered boulders, and thick underbrush, and searches for danger with their scopes.
A low growl. Then movement—a lot of movement.
From all sides, the Kill Hounds closed in—forty-two of them, moving like wolves driven mad, eyes gleaming in the gloom, nostrils flaring as they sniffed past the magical veil. Their monstrous bodies loomed in the moonlight: tall, heavily muscled, with coarse black and grey fur bristling, saliva dripping from jaws filled with brutal teeth.
“They're here!” one snarled, its deep guttural voice cutting the air. “Kill!”
Knight Two was already sighted in, breath slow and even. His energy sniper rifle barely made a sound.
TWHAP.
One Kill Hound collapsed mid-stride, the back of its head vaporized.
TWHAP.
Second one dropped, skull punctured clean through.
TWHAP. TWHAP.
Third and fourth fell like dominoes, unmoving before they hit the dirt.
The rest of his team opened fire with brutal discipline—tight bursts, controlled fire, no panic. They were snipers working a kill box.
The Kill Hounds rushed forward regardless, fearless, teeth bared, the stench of rage and bloodlust rolling off them.
The Kill Hounds howled as they lunged, their confidence only growing. This was their element—up close, tooth and claw.
Dozens of Kill Hounds surge from all directions — their snarls rip through the dark, limbs flexing with genetically enhanced power as they bound across the broken terrain.
Hawk is crouched behind a fractured tree trunk, using the thick roots as partial cover. His energy rifle is steady in his hands — finger off the trigger as his breathing slows, waiting for the exact moment.
A Kill Hound bursts through the brush ten meters ahead — its muzzle pulled into a snarl, jaws wet with saliva, leaping directly at him. Its claws extend, its teeth bared for the kill.
Time slows.
Hawk doesn’t flinch, he fires not at the body’s center mass, but at the leading edge of motion where the target will be in the next half-second.
He pulls the trigger.
BRRRT.
The energy round leaves the barrel. The round finds the throat, blowing out vertebrae as it spins sideways from the force.
The Kill Hound crumples in mid-air — its massive form twisting unnaturally, crashing into the dirt beside Hawk in a limp, blood-slick heap. Steam rises from the cauterized wounds.
Without missing a beat, Hawk shifts his rifle, tracking the next threat.
---
"Ghost” holds position behind a low dirt berm, the embankment offering partial concealment but minimal real cover. His rifle is slotted into the gap between two rocks, scope locked in, eye unblinking.
Movement flashes in the corner of his optics — a Kill Hound sprinting up the opposite hill, gaining speed with terrifying ease. Its momentum peaks, and it launches— muscles flexing like coiled steel, flying over the top of the berm in a high arc.
Ghost’s finger tightens.
The shot is not reflex.
It’s timed.
As the Kill Hound passes the zenith of its leap — fully exposed, no cover, body outstretched — Ghost places the glowing red reticle right at the beast's eyes.
He fires once.
TWHAP.
The high-powered energy round rips through the creature’s skull like paper — the beam punching straight through the cranial vault and vaporizing the back of its head in a spray of dark mist and fragments.
The Kill Hound’s leap collapses instantly — the lifeless corpse slamming into the far side of the berm with a dull, wet thud. Its claws scratch the dirt in useless spasms for two seconds before going still.
Ghost exhales.
Eyes already searching for the next target.
---
They do not panic.
They do not freeze.
They kill precisely.
And they make every shot count.
---
A larger Kill Hound landed hard in front of Knight Two, jaws snapping as it charged. Knight Two shifted position, his rifle rising fluidly—TWHAP.
The beast’s head jerked back, blood spraying into the dirt.
Let’s expand that moment in much greater detail:
---
Then it happened.
One of Knight Two’s men—shifted left, stepping back to adjust his angle of fire. His boot caught under a half-buried, twisted branch—thick, slick with mud, the kind of debris the wetlands liked to hide beneath the grass. His foot locked up, the forward momentum of his body wrenching him off balance.
In that frozen instant, the Kill Hounds saw the weakness.
A black-furred Kill Hound—a beast easily seven feet tall, its hackles bristling and saliva dripping from jagged teeth—exploded forward like a missile. Its powerful hind legs launched it 30 feet through the air, claws extended, jaws already opening wide in anticipation.
The man tried to recover, twisting his body, bringing his rifle up to fire. But he was half a beat too slow.
The Kill Hound slammed into him full force, its muscular frame colliding with the man’s chest like a battering ram. The impact knocked him flat onto his back with a brutal, wet crunch as the air was driven from his lungs.
Before the merc could react, the creature's jaws snapped downward and clamped onto his right forearm.
CRACK!
The sound was horrible—like thick branches snapping underfoot—but wet, organic. The Kill Hound's bite strength shattered the radius and ulna instantly, splintering bone and tearing through muscle and tendon like paper.
The merc screamed—a raw, involuntary burst of agony—his voice cutting through the sharp sound of the energy fire. His eyes bulged as his shattered arm bent at an unnatural angle, the useless limb hanging limp from the beast’s jaws. Blood began pouring from the ragged wound, soaking the Kill Hound’s muzzle and staining the man's fatigues dark.
The Kill Hound growled low in its throat, twisting its head slightly, working its jaws for a better grip. The beast's powerful arms pinned the merc’s torso, claws sinking into his chest and shoulder, its thick tail lashing behind it in excitement.
The creature was savoring the kill.
The Merc, half-strangled by pain, kicked and writhed, using his good arm to pound at the monster’s face, his steel-toe boot slamming into its ribs in a desperate bid for escape. But the Kill Hound was too strong, too heavy—every movement only drove the teeth deeper into ruined flesh.
Knight Two was already pivoting. His rifle tracked smoothly, breath controlled, the entire world shrinking down to a single target.
TWHAP.
The energy round struck the Kill Hound in his right eye. Its skull burst open like a ripe fruit under pressure, brains and bone fragments spraying into the night air.
The beast collapsed immediately, limp and heavy, pinning the Merc beneath its corpse.
In an instant, two nearby teammates lunged forward under cover fire, pulling the dead creature off and dragging their injured battle buddy back behind a shattered log.
The man’s breathing was ragged but steady. His shattered arm was useless, swelling rapidly, the bone jutting under torn skin. But he was alive.
Knight Two glanced at him, expression cool but sharp.
"Use your good arm."
The merc gritted his teeth and gave a small nod, as he fired an energy blast from his eyes.
The Kill Hounds kept coming—leaping, snarling, their ferocity undiminished. But with every rush, more of them died. Their numbers were thinning. Blood soaked the ground.
The Coalition officer voice snapped, “Skelebot! Evacuate me. We’ll return with reinforcements.”
One Skelebot broke formation, grabbed him under the arms, and sprinted at full speed—ninety miles per hour out of sight.
The sergeant’s voice broke through, sharp with desperation, “FRAG THEM ALL!”
A Coalition grunt snapped, "But the Kill-Hounds."
The sergeant was already throwing his, the rest of the Skelebots followed, their movements precise. Hands grabbed for the cylindrical grenades strapped to harnesses and belt loops—fragmentation grenades, packed with micro-shrapnel that would rip flesh from bone.
The Kill Hounds were still fighting, some wounded, others already dead or dying, but the sergeant no longer cared. These mercs had proven too dangerous. If it meant sacrificing a few lab grown animals that are going to die anyway, so be it.
Pins flew.
The sound was metallic, tiny rings spinning off into the dark like falling coins.
Then came the throw.
Dozens of grenades arced up into the air in a wide, murderous spread.
The night sky briefly glittered as the metallic casings caught the faint light, flying like iron hailstones. Dozens of arcs cut across the open space above the broken battlefield—perfect, high, and broad, designed not to strike individuals, but to turn the entire area into a storm of lethal fragments.
For a moment, everything slowed.
The Mystic Knights tracked them instinctively, calculating trajectories as if time itself had given them extra seconds to breathe. The angles were good—too good. The spread was wide enough that there would be no blind spot, no single safe place to dive for cover. They were caught in a net of explosions.
Telepathic pulse. Knight Two’s command snapped like a thought-knife across the team's minds: “Armor of Ithan—NOW.”
In a heartbeat, each Knight cast simultaneously. Pale, translucent force fields blossomed around them that flickered briefly as they hardened against the coming storm.
Then the grenades hit.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The ground shook beneath their feet. The night was ripped apart by thunderous, overlapping detonations. Dirt, broken branches, and chunks of shattered earth were thrown high into the air. Massive gouts of fire illuminated the field in split-second flashes, lighting the night like a strobe of war.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each grenade unleashed hundreds of razor-sharp steel fragments, spraying in all directions. Shrapnel tore through the bodies of the surviving Kill Hounds. Limbs were shredded. Flesh was flayed from bone. Howls of agony were abruptly cut short as bodies were pulped under the rain of death.
Several Kill Hounds tried to leap away at the last second—one mid-jump was caught directly in the blast and torn apart mid-air, the pieces scattering like broken dolls.
The Skelebots stood firm, their armor pitted and dented by the shrapnel, but unharmed, their mechanical minds unfazed by the carnage around them.
Invisible from within their A, the Mystic Knights weathered the onslaught in near silence. The blast waves hammered against the magical barriers, causing ripples of distortion across the shimmering shells. Dirt and debris slammed harmlessly into the fields and slid off, unable to penetrate.
The entire forest clearing had become a cratered wasteland of smoke, flame, blood, and broken bodies in a matter of seconds.
And then—
Silence.
Only the crackle of small fires remained.
The air reeked of scorched flesh, ionized metal, and wet earth.
The few remaining Kill Hounds lay broken and twitching, their bodies riddled with catastrophic shrapnel wounds.
Knight Two scanned the battlefield once more, eyes narrow behind the mask of his magic.
Cloud of Smoke.
His spell summoned a thick, swirling cloud that billowed out like living fog, spreading quickly, swallowing the wreckage in a dense, suffocating mist.
“Withdraw.”
Knight Two and his team move through the undergrowth like shadows. Silence. No birds. No wind.
The hairs on Knight Two’s neck rose a fraction of a second before the sound reached him. Every bit of his experience screamed ambush. That’s when the Mystic Knight’s Sixth Sense goes off.
Knight Two (telepathically), “Hold.”
All five freeze. Heads low. Eyes scanning. Then—Knight Two raises two fingers. His voice is quiet but hard.
Knight Two (telepathically), “Invisibile.”
Five hands tighten around Bones of Invisibility. Five voices whisper, “Make me invisible.”
They vanish instantly.
Seconds tick by while the team takes position dropped low behind fallen logs, scattered boulders, and thick underbrush, and searches for danger with their scopes.
A low growl. Then movement—a lot of movement.
From all sides, the Kill Hounds closed in—forty-two of them, moving like wolves driven mad, eyes gleaming in the gloom, nostrils flaring as they sniffed past the magical veil. Their monstrous bodies loomed in the moonlight: tall, heavily muscled, with coarse black and grey fur bristling, saliva dripping from jaws filled with brutal teeth.
“They're here!” one snarled, its deep guttural voice cutting the air. “Kill!”
Knight Two was already sighted in, breath slow and even. His energy sniper rifle barely made a sound.
TWHAP.
One Kill Hound collapsed mid-stride, the back of its head vaporized.
TWHAP.
Second one dropped, skull punctured clean through.
TWHAP. TWHAP.
Third and fourth fell like dominoes, unmoving before they hit the dirt.
The rest of his team opened fire with brutal discipline—tight bursts, controlled fire, no panic. They were snipers working a kill box.
The Kill Hounds rushed forward regardless, fearless, teeth bared, the stench of rage and bloodlust rolling off them.
The Kill Hounds howled as they lunged, their confidence only growing. This was their element—up close, tooth and claw.
Dozens of Kill Hounds surge from all directions — their snarls rip through the dark, limbs flexing with genetically enhanced power as they bound across the broken terrain.
Hawk is crouched behind a fractured tree trunk, using the thick roots as partial cover. His energy rifle is steady in his hands — finger off the trigger as his breathing slows, waiting for the exact moment.
A Kill Hound bursts through the brush ten meters ahead — its muzzle pulled into a snarl, jaws wet with saliva, leaping directly at him. Its claws extend, its teeth bared for the kill.
Time slows.
Hawk doesn’t flinch, he fires not at the body’s center mass, but at the leading edge of motion where the target will be in the next half-second.
He pulls the trigger.
BRRRT.
The energy round leaves the barrel. The round finds the throat, blowing out vertebrae as it spins sideways from the force.
The Kill Hound crumples in mid-air — its massive form twisting unnaturally, crashing into the dirt beside Hawk in a limp, blood-slick heap. Steam rises from the cauterized wounds.
Without missing a beat, Hawk shifts his rifle, tracking the next threat.
---
"Ghost” holds position behind a low dirt berm, the embankment offering partial concealment but minimal real cover. His rifle is slotted into the gap between two rocks, scope locked in, eye unblinking.
Movement flashes in the corner of his optics — a Kill Hound sprinting up the opposite hill, gaining speed with terrifying ease. Its momentum peaks, and it launches— muscles flexing like coiled steel, flying over the top of the berm in a high arc.
Ghost’s finger tightens.
The shot is not reflex.
It’s timed.
As the Kill Hound passes the zenith of its leap — fully exposed, no cover, body outstretched — Ghost places the glowing red reticle right at the beast's eyes.
He fires once.
TWHAP.
The high-powered energy round rips through the creature’s skull like paper — the beam punching straight through the cranial vault and vaporizing the back of its head in a spray of dark mist and fragments.
The Kill Hound’s leap collapses instantly — the lifeless corpse slamming into the far side of the berm with a dull, wet thud. Its claws scratch the dirt in useless spasms for two seconds before going still.
Ghost exhales.
Eyes already searching for the next target.
---
They do not panic.
They do not freeze.
They kill precisely.
And they make every shot count.
---
A larger Kill Hound landed hard in front of Knight Two, jaws snapping as it charged. Knight Two shifted position, his rifle rising fluidly—TWHAP.
The beast’s head jerked back, blood spraying into the dirt.
Let’s expand that moment in much greater detail:
---
Then it happened.
One of Knight Two’s men—shifted left, stepping back to adjust his angle of fire. His boot caught under a half-buried, twisted branch—thick, slick with mud, the kind of debris the wetlands liked to hide beneath the grass. His foot locked up, the forward momentum of his body wrenching him off balance.
In that frozen instant, the Kill Hounds saw the weakness.
A black-furred Kill Hound—a beast easily seven feet tall, its hackles bristling and saliva dripping from jagged teeth—exploded forward like a missile. Its powerful hind legs launched it 30 feet through the air, claws extended, jaws already opening wide in anticipation.
The man tried to recover, twisting his body, bringing his rifle up to fire. But he was half a beat too slow.
The Kill Hound slammed into him full force, its muscular frame colliding with the man’s chest like a battering ram. The impact knocked him flat onto his back with a brutal, wet crunch as the air was driven from his lungs.
Before the merc could react, the creature's jaws snapped downward and clamped onto his right forearm.
CRACK!
The sound was horrible—like thick branches snapping underfoot—but wet, organic. The Kill Hound's bite strength shattered the radius and ulna instantly, splintering bone and tearing through muscle and tendon like paper.
The merc screamed—a raw, involuntary burst of agony—his voice cutting through the sharp sound of the energy fire. His eyes bulged as his shattered arm bent at an unnatural angle, the useless limb hanging limp from the beast’s jaws. Blood began pouring from the ragged wound, soaking the Kill Hound’s muzzle and staining the man's fatigues dark.
The Kill Hound growled low in its throat, twisting its head slightly, working its jaws for a better grip. The beast's powerful arms pinned the merc’s torso, claws sinking into his chest and shoulder, its thick tail lashing behind it in excitement.
The creature was savoring the kill.
The Merc, half-strangled by pain, kicked and writhed, using his good arm to pound at the monster’s face, his steel-toe boot slamming into its ribs in a desperate bid for escape. But the Kill Hound was too strong, too heavy—every movement only drove the teeth deeper into ruined flesh.
Knight Two was already pivoting. His rifle tracked smoothly, breath controlled, the entire world shrinking down to a single target.
TWHAP.
The energy round struck the Kill Hound in his right eye. Its skull burst open like a ripe fruit under pressure, brains and bone fragments spraying into the night air.
The beast collapsed immediately, limp and heavy, pinning the Merc beneath its corpse.
In an instant, two nearby teammates lunged forward under cover fire, pulling the dead creature off and dragging their injured battle buddy back behind a shattered log.
The man’s breathing was ragged but steady. His shattered arm was useless, swelling rapidly, the bone jutting under torn skin. But he was alive.
Knight Two glanced at him, expression cool but sharp.
"Use your good arm."
The merc gritted his teeth and gave a small nod, as he fired an energy blast from his eyes.
The Kill Hounds kept coming—leaping, snarling, their ferocity undiminished. But with every rush, more of them died. Their numbers were thinning. Blood soaked the ground.
The Coalition officer voice snapped, “Skelebot! Evacuate me. We’ll return with reinforcements.”
One Skelebot broke formation, grabbed him under the arms, and sprinted at full speed—ninety miles per hour out of sight.
The sergeant’s voice broke through, sharp with desperation, “FRAG THEM ALL!”
A Coalition grunt snapped, "But the Kill-Hounds."
The sergeant was already throwing his, the rest of the Skelebots followed, their movements precise. Hands grabbed for the cylindrical grenades strapped to harnesses and belt loops—fragmentation grenades, packed with micro-shrapnel that would rip flesh from bone.
The Kill Hounds were still fighting, some wounded, others already dead or dying, but the sergeant no longer cared. These mercs had proven too dangerous. If it meant sacrificing a few lab grown animals that are going to die anyway, so be it.
Pins flew.
The sound was metallic, tiny rings spinning off into the dark like falling coins.
Then came the throw.
Dozens of grenades arced up into the air in a wide, murderous spread.
The night sky briefly glittered as the metallic casings caught the faint light, flying like iron hailstones. Dozens of arcs cut across the open space above the broken battlefield—perfect, high, and broad, designed not to strike individuals, but to turn the entire area into a storm of lethal fragments.
For a moment, everything slowed.
The Mystic Knights tracked them instinctively, calculating trajectories as if time itself had given them extra seconds to breathe. The angles were good—too good. The spread was wide enough that there would be no blind spot, no single safe place to dive for cover. They were caught in a net of explosions.
Telepathic pulse. Knight Two’s command snapped like a thought-knife across the team's minds: “Armor of Ithan—NOW.”
In a heartbeat, each Knight cast simultaneously. Pale, translucent force fields blossomed around them that flickered briefly as they hardened against the coming storm.
Then the grenades hit.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The ground shook beneath their feet. The night was ripped apart by thunderous, overlapping detonations. Dirt, broken branches, and chunks of shattered earth were thrown high into the air. Massive gouts of fire illuminated the field in split-second flashes, lighting the night like a strobe of war.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each grenade unleashed hundreds of razor-sharp steel fragments, spraying in all directions. Shrapnel tore through the bodies of the surviving Kill Hounds. Limbs were shredded. Flesh was flayed from bone. Howls of agony were abruptly cut short as bodies were pulped under the rain of death.
Several Kill Hounds tried to leap away at the last second—one mid-jump was caught directly in the blast and torn apart mid-air, the pieces scattering like broken dolls.
The Skelebots stood firm, their armor pitted and dented by the shrapnel, but unharmed, their mechanical minds unfazed by the carnage around them.
Invisible from within their A, the Mystic Knights weathered the onslaught in near silence. The blast waves hammered against the magical barriers, causing ripples of distortion across the shimmering shells. Dirt and debris slammed harmlessly into the fields and slid off, unable to penetrate.
The entire forest clearing had become a cratered wasteland of smoke, flame, blood, and broken bodies in a matter of seconds.
And then—
Silence.
Only the crackle of small fires remained.
The air reeked of scorched flesh, ionized metal, and wet earth.
The few remaining Kill Hounds lay broken and twitching, their bodies riddled with catastrophic shrapnel wounds.
Knight Two scanned the battlefield once more, eyes narrow behind the mask of his magic.
Cloud of Smoke.
His spell summoned a thick, swirling cloud that billowed out like living fog, spreading quickly, swallowing the wreckage in a dense, suffocating mist.
“Withdraw.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Farms
The grove is calm again. The survivors of last night's battle rest far away, out of sight. Knight Two arrives alone, walking through the open field, his boots sinking slightly in the damp soil. He wears no helmet, his rifle slung. His presence here is deliberate — not as a soldier, but as a man on a mission.
Grian waits near one of the larger trees, sunlight dancing across her armor of living wood. She watches him approach, guarded but curious.
Knight Two stops a respectful distance away. No flourish. No posturing. (calm, direct) “One of my men, his forearm—broken clean. I’m here to ask if you will heal him.”
Grian (measured), “A broken arm is not life-threatening.”
“It’s not. But our work often is. His survival depends on his ability to work his rifle. The War will not wait and I would rather not lose him later because we ignored today.
Grian (pauses, then nods), “I’ll heal him.”
(She expected as much. This part was easy.)
But Knight Two remains. His voice steady, deliberate (quietly), “That’s not my only request.”
(He waits a beat, letting her see there is no deception here. His voice carefully measured)
“The Town of Solomon waits in need. Soldiers. Civilians. Sorcerers. Many there have suffered injuries: missing fingers, hands, entire limbs. Most can’t afford cybernetics or bio-systems. They survive, but they limp through the aftermath of wars they never chose.
(pause)
“Your gift could change that.”
Grian (cautious), “And you want me to go there... to heal them?”
Knight Two nods.
Grian (frowning slightly), “You want me to risk myself, walk into a warzone?”
Knight Two answers immediately. “The Town of Solomon has ‘Circles of Travel,” that allow precise teleportation in and out of the town. You would teleport directly in and out. I’ve confirmed it with my contacts via magic pigeons.
(He lets that sit, waiting for her next objection.)
Grian (eyes narrowing), “Why does this matter to you? You don’t strike me as someone who cares for charity.”
Knight Two doesn’t blink. This is not a man used to explaining himself, but he does so now, because it serves the mission.
Knight Two (calm, rational),
“Because it strengthens Solomon. And a strong Solomon slows the Coalition advance.
Because every man or woman you heal may serve as mage, builder, or defender instead of becoming dead weight.
Because morale sustains populations longer than walls.
Because they need more than weapons—they need hope. And you can give it to them.
And because... it would cost us very little compared to what it gives them.
(He pauses before adding softly.)
And you would not just heal. You would inspire. Faith brings discipline. Discipline brings stability. You know this better than I do.”
Grian (quiet, considering), “You speak as though faith is a tool.”
Knight Two (steady, honest), “Faith is a tool. For many, it is the only one they have left.”
(He doesn’t apologize for the statement. It is not mockery; it is Knight Two’s truth.)
Grian (eyes studying him closely), “And what do you gain from this, personally?”
Knight Two answers immediately, without flinching.
Knight Two (flat), “Stability means fewer refugees flooding my contract zones. Stability means fewer desperate civilians I may one day have to defend or leave behind. It makes my work easier.”
(beat)
“It also saves lives. IF that matters to you.”
Grain (softer, but testing), “And you would ask nothing else of me? No contract. No long-term obligation?”
Knight Two, “You heal who you choose. When you’ve done what you feel is enough, you leave. You have my word. I will not allow any to force you to stay or serve Solomon beyond what you freely chose.”
(After a moment, he adds.)
“You will gain followers. Your faith will grow stronger. That is your benefit.”
(A rare thing: Knight Two has empathy and insight into another human being's motivations. Namely, Grian healing others as a tenet of her beliefs and her feeling of guilt and obligation to share and spread her faith.)
Silence hangs.
Grian feels that the offer is not manipulative. It’s Rational and Mutually beneficial.
Grian considers.
The sun warms her armor. The gentle wind stirs the tall grass. Birds sing nearby — fragile sounds in a world so often filled with machines of war.
Grian (quietly, at last), “I will go.”
Knight Two nods once. He turns to leave, then pauses. without turning back. “Thank you.”
---
Location: Arrival at Solomon
The Circle of Travel pulsed with a soft, golden-blue light as the group materialized, their forms shimmering into existence like ghosts snapping into flesh. The smell of energy weapons fire still lingered in the air, but here, within Solomon's makeshift perimeter, there was a momentary stillness. The ley lines could be felt like a vibration.
Knight Two’s boots hit the ground first, his eyes already scanning, every sense alert.
The party followed behind him: The Biomancer, Jungle Elf, The Necromancer, the Four Warlock Brothers, identical in face but different in aura—each representing their elemental dominion, moving like a unit around Grian.
And at the center, Grian herself—Sun Priestess, Laser Mage, and now, reluctant healer—her warm, amber eyes calm but thoughtful as she took in her new surroundings.
The people of Solomon were already gathering.
Children were absent, as always, but the elderly, the wounded, and the defenders emerged from their stations, curious, their faces marked by months of siege and monotony. Eyes widened at the sight of the overflowing baskets of food.
Fresh vegetables.
Eggs.
Baskets of summer fruits.
Cooked chicken, still steaming.
The aroma alone drew audible sighs from the crowd.
Knight Two barely glanced back at his team as four disguised Mystic Knights in fatigues approached the Circle, their eyes sharp beneath their helmets. They gave Knight Two a quick nod of silent acknowledgment and pointed him toward the command tent stationed just past the western trench line inside Solomon’s stone-wood barrier.
Knight Two turned toward his platoon and spoke in a tone that brokered no debate.
“Guard Grian with your lives.”
The Four Warlock brothers nodded in unison, each man already subtly shifting position to form a loose diamond around Grian. Their eyes, while friendly to the crowd, rarely left her.
Without waiting for a reply, Knight Two motioned two of his own men to follow and moved off swiftly toward the command tent to speak privately with the assigned leader of Solomon's defense.
Meanwhile, in the town square:
The Biomancer and Jungle Elf moved quickly to set up makeshift distribution tables. They worked efficiently, having done this at countless farms. Baskets were put out, and vibrant color spilled forth — deep red tomatoes, green cucumbers, golden corn, bright peppers, fresh herbs, and glistening piles of eggs in straw-lined baskets.
The Jungle Elf called out, smiling, "One at a time, people. There’s enough for all."
An old man’s voice cracked with excitement, "By the gods, fresh corn! Real corn!"
A wounded defender muttered as he limped up, "I haven’t seen a fresh tomato in six months…"
Laughter rose as one woman, wrinkled but sharp-eyed, held a still-warm roasted chicken breast under her nose and simply inhaled. The smell alone seemed to lift the weight off her hunched back.
The Necromancer, usually grim, cracked a thin smile as he handed out smaller parcels of preserved herbs and medicinal roots to the town’s healers.
Morale surged.
This wasn’t just food—it was a break in the siege, a reminder of life outside.
Inside the makeshift hospital:
Grian stood before the first wave of injured — men with missing limbs. Psychic healers had already mended the deep wounds, and terrible scars. The smell of old blood filled the air.
Grian didn't like this part — being forced to perform triage, forced to choose who she could save completely, who would have to wait, who might not walk away whole. But she understood the necessity.
Her voice was steady, filled with purpose. “Bring me the worst first.”
The spells she cast here carried twice their normal strength, thanks to the Nexus, their golden beams of light wrapping around broken stumps of bone, knitting tissue, restoring fingers, hands, entire arms. Men who thought they’d never walk again felt muscle reknit beneath their skin. A soldier missing half his right leg stared in silent awe as new flesh grew, the pain of loss replaced by the warm pressure of restoration.
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of her energy spells and the stifled sobs of gratitude.
The Warlock brothers watched her with quiet reverence, guarding every corner of the hospital tent like temple sentinels, eyes and senses trained for the first sign of danger. They didn’t argue, didn’t interfere, but stayed locked in their silent pact: protect Grian above all else. Sharing their magical energy with her, that Grian may continue to cast her magic spells.
For the first time in weeks, Solomon smelled like a town again.
---
Location: The Command Tent
The interior of the command tent was dim, lit only by a few hovering orbs of Lantern light that cast long, sharp shadows across the heavy canvas walls. A thick layer of maps, tactical notes, and casualty reports littered the central table. The air smelled of wax, ink, sweat, and quiet exhaustion.
Knight Two stepped inside, his boots soundless on the dirt-packed floor. His two men took up positions outside the entrance. The tent flap fell shut behind him.
Across the table stood Platoon Leader Harvek, one of the senior Mystic Knights assigned to Solomon. He looked up at Knight Two’s approach, his weathered face hard but not unfriendly. His fatigues were worn but clean. His left eye, long replaced by a patch.
Harvek said with a nod, “You’re late.”
Knight Two answered flatly, “Tell me that after the healer I brought restores your eye.”
Harvek’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “I heard. Food and miracles. The town hasn’t seen real produce in months. You’ve just bought us another two weeks of calm.”
Knight Two approached the table, eyes flicking across the maps. He gestured at the perimeter diagrams. “The Coalition’s tightening their perimeter. Reinforcements arrived while we were outside—Kill Hounds, heavier mech units staged behind the western flank. They’ve added an estimated ten-thousand Skelebots to the lines.”
Harvek exhaled slowly.
“They are staging another push.”
Harvek grunted, voice dropping. “And your replacements for my rotation?”
Knight Two’s voice remained perfectly calm. “I brought them to take your platoon’s place.”
Harvek nodded. “That’s something.”
Knight Two pointed to a section of the map—roughly five miles east of Solomon, close to the Mississippi’s floodplain. "The Coalition has a fallback depot here. We haven’t confirmed it yet, but they’re resupplying too cleanly to be pulling everything through the trenches. The depot is hidden in the wetlands or buried underground.”
Harvek’s eye briefly looked at it. “You want to hit it.”
“I will hit it.” Knight Two leaned in slightly, voice low and sharp.
Harvek, “Then my platoon is leaving for R & R?”
Knight Two locked eyes with Sir Harvek, “The platoon I brought still needs to be familiar with the enemy’s attacks. Your platoon will stay to train with them until they are ready. The Four Warlocks twins presence ensures that Solomon will not be conjured while our fire teams pillage and destroy the Coalition supply depot.”
Harvek raised a brow. “You trust them to fight?”
“They won’t fail. They have motivation.” His tone suggested this wasn’t up for debate.
Harvek chuckled dryly. “I heard. The girl.”
Knight Two’s voice stayed flat, professional. “The morale boost she just gave this town is priceless. I intend to keep her alive.”
Harvek’s tone grew serious again. “And when the Coalition regroups?”
“They’ll regroup. They always do. But not before their victory is a Pyrrhic victory. If we thin their ranks before Tolkeen’s next offensive, the Coalition may divert more military resources to Solomon.”
Harvek nodded once. The two men held each other's gaze for a long moment—two soldiers who both understood exactly how precarious this entire operation was.
Finally, Harvek extended his hand.
Knight Two clasped it firmly.
“Welcome back to Solomon,” Harvek said. “It’s going to get loud soon.”
Knight Two allowed himself the faintest flicker of a grin.
They released hands, already thinking several moves ahead.
Outside the tent, the people of Solomon were laughing for the first time in weeks.
The grove is calm again. The survivors of last night's battle rest far away, out of sight. Knight Two arrives alone, walking through the open field, his boots sinking slightly in the damp soil. He wears no helmet, his rifle slung. His presence here is deliberate — not as a soldier, but as a man on a mission.
Grian waits near one of the larger trees, sunlight dancing across her armor of living wood. She watches him approach, guarded but curious.
Knight Two stops a respectful distance away. No flourish. No posturing. (calm, direct) “One of my men, his forearm—broken clean. I’m here to ask if you will heal him.”
Grian (measured), “A broken arm is not life-threatening.”
“It’s not. But our work often is. His survival depends on his ability to work his rifle. The War will not wait and I would rather not lose him later because we ignored today.
Grian (pauses, then nods), “I’ll heal him.”
(She expected as much. This part was easy.)
But Knight Two remains. His voice steady, deliberate (quietly), “That’s not my only request.”
(He waits a beat, letting her see there is no deception here. His voice carefully measured)
“The Town of Solomon waits in need. Soldiers. Civilians. Sorcerers. Many there have suffered injuries: missing fingers, hands, entire limbs. Most can’t afford cybernetics or bio-systems. They survive, but they limp through the aftermath of wars they never chose.
(pause)
“Your gift could change that.”
Grian (cautious), “And you want me to go there... to heal them?”
Knight Two nods.
Grian (frowning slightly), “You want me to risk myself, walk into a warzone?”
Knight Two answers immediately. “The Town of Solomon has ‘Circles of Travel,” that allow precise teleportation in and out of the town. You would teleport directly in and out. I’ve confirmed it with my contacts via magic pigeons.
(He lets that sit, waiting for her next objection.)
Grian (eyes narrowing), “Why does this matter to you? You don’t strike me as someone who cares for charity.”
Knight Two doesn’t blink. This is not a man used to explaining himself, but he does so now, because it serves the mission.
Knight Two (calm, rational),
“Because it strengthens Solomon. And a strong Solomon slows the Coalition advance.
Because every man or woman you heal may serve as mage, builder, or defender instead of becoming dead weight.
Because morale sustains populations longer than walls.
Because they need more than weapons—they need hope. And you can give it to them.
And because... it would cost us very little compared to what it gives them.
(He pauses before adding softly.)
And you would not just heal. You would inspire. Faith brings discipline. Discipline brings stability. You know this better than I do.”
Grian (quiet, considering), “You speak as though faith is a tool.”
Knight Two (steady, honest), “Faith is a tool. For many, it is the only one they have left.”
(He doesn’t apologize for the statement. It is not mockery; it is Knight Two’s truth.)
Grian (eyes studying him closely), “And what do you gain from this, personally?”
Knight Two answers immediately, without flinching.
Knight Two (flat), “Stability means fewer refugees flooding my contract zones. Stability means fewer desperate civilians I may one day have to defend or leave behind. It makes my work easier.”
(beat)
“It also saves lives. IF that matters to you.”
Grain (softer, but testing), “And you would ask nothing else of me? No contract. No long-term obligation?”
Knight Two, “You heal who you choose. When you’ve done what you feel is enough, you leave. You have my word. I will not allow any to force you to stay or serve Solomon beyond what you freely chose.”
(After a moment, he adds.)
“You will gain followers. Your faith will grow stronger. That is your benefit.”
(A rare thing: Knight Two has empathy and insight into another human being's motivations. Namely, Grian healing others as a tenet of her beliefs and her feeling of guilt and obligation to share and spread her faith.)
Silence hangs.
Grian feels that the offer is not manipulative. It’s Rational and Mutually beneficial.
Grian considers.
The sun warms her armor. The gentle wind stirs the tall grass. Birds sing nearby — fragile sounds in a world so often filled with machines of war.
Grian (quietly, at last), “I will go.”
Knight Two nods once. He turns to leave, then pauses. without turning back. “Thank you.”
---
Location: Arrival at Solomon
The Circle of Travel pulsed with a soft, golden-blue light as the group materialized, their forms shimmering into existence like ghosts snapping into flesh. The smell of energy weapons fire still lingered in the air, but here, within Solomon's makeshift perimeter, there was a momentary stillness. The ley lines could be felt like a vibration.
Knight Two’s boots hit the ground first, his eyes already scanning, every sense alert.
The party followed behind him: The Biomancer, Jungle Elf, The Necromancer, the Four Warlock Brothers, identical in face but different in aura—each representing their elemental dominion, moving like a unit around Grian.
And at the center, Grian herself—Sun Priestess, Laser Mage, and now, reluctant healer—her warm, amber eyes calm but thoughtful as she took in her new surroundings.
The people of Solomon were already gathering.
Children were absent, as always, but the elderly, the wounded, and the defenders emerged from their stations, curious, their faces marked by months of siege and monotony. Eyes widened at the sight of the overflowing baskets of food.
Fresh vegetables.
Eggs.
Baskets of summer fruits.
Cooked chicken, still steaming.
The aroma alone drew audible sighs from the crowd.
Knight Two barely glanced back at his team as four disguised Mystic Knights in fatigues approached the Circle, their eyes sharp beneath their helmets. They gave Knight Two a quick nod of silent acknowledgment and pointed him toward the command tent stationed just past the western trench line inside Solomon’s stone-wood barrier.
Knight Two turned toward his platoon and spoke in a tone that brokered no debate.
“Guard Grian with your lives.”
The Four Warlock brothers nodded in unison, each man already subtly shifting position to form a loose diamond around Grian. Their eyes, while friendly to the crowd, rarely left her.
Without waiting for a reply, Knight Two motioned two of his own men to follow and moved off swiftly toward the command tent to speak privately with the assigned leader of Solomon's defense.
Meanwhile, in the town square:
The Biomancer and Jungle Elf moved quickly to set up makeshift distribution tables. They worked efficiently, having done this at countless farms. Baskets were put out, and vibrant color spilled forth — deep red tomatoes, green cucumbers, golden corn, bright peppers, fresh herbs, and glistening piles of eggs in straw-lined baskets.
The Jungle Elf called out, smiling, "One at a time, people. There’s enough for all."
An old man’s voice cracked with excitement, "By the gods, fresh corn! Real corn!"
A wounded defender muttered as he limped up, "I haven’t seen a fresh tomato in six months…"
Laughter rose as one woman, wrinkled but sharp-eyed, held a still-warm roasted chicken breast under her nose and simply inhaled. The smell alone seemed to lift the weight off her hunched back.
The Necromancer, usually grim, cracked a thin smile as he handed out smaller parcels of preserved herbs and medicinal roots to the town’s healers.
Morale surged.
This wasn’t just food—it was a break in the siege, a reminder of life outside.
Inside the makeshift hospital:
Grian stood before the first wave of injured — men with missing limbs. Psychic healers had already mended the deep wounds, and terrible scars. The smell of old blood filled the air.
Grian didn't like this part — being forced to perform triage, forced to choose who she could save completely, who would have to wait, who might not walk away whole. But she understood the necessity.
Her voice was steady, filled with purpose. “Bring me the worst first.”
The spells she cast here carried twice their normal strength, thanks to the Nexus, their golden beams of light wrapping around broken stumps of bone, knitting tissue, restoring fingers, hands, entire arms. Men who thought they’d never walk again felt muscle reknit beneath their skin. A soldier missing half his right leg stared in silent awe as new flesh grew, the pain of loss replaced by the warm pressure of restoration.
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of her energy spells and the stifled sobs of gratitude.
The Warlock brothers watched her with quiet reverence, guarding every corner of the hospital tent like temple sentinels, eyes and senses trained for the first sign of danger. They didn’t argue, didn’t interfere, but stayed locked in their silent pact: protect Grian above all else. Sharing their magical energy with her, that Grian may continue to cast her magic spells.
For the first time in weeks, Solomon smelled like a town again.
---
Location: The Command Tent
The interior of the command tent was dim, lit only by a few hovering orbs of Lantern light that cast long, sharp shadows across the heavy canvas walls. A thick layer of maps, tactical notes, and casualty reports littered the central table. The air smelled of wax, ink, sweat, and quiet exhaustion.
Knight Two stepped inside, his boots soundless on the dirt-packed floor. His two men took up positions outside the entrance. The tent flap fell shut behind him.
Across the table stood Platoon Leader Harvek, one of the senior Mystic Knights assigned to Solomon. He looked up at Knight Two’s approach, his weathered face hard but not unfriendly. His fatigues were worn but clean. His left eye, long replaced by a patch.
Harvek said with a nod, “You’re late.”
Knight Two answered flatly, “Tell me that after the healer I brought restores your eye.”
Harvek’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “I heard. Food and miracles. The town hasn’t seen real produce in months. You’ve just bought us another two weeks of calm.”
Knight Two approached the table, eyes flicking across the maps. He gestured at the perimeter diagrams. “The Coalition’s tightening their perimeter. Reinforcements arrived while we were outside—Kill Hounds, heavier mech units staged behind the western flank. They’ve added an estimated ten-thousand Skelebots to the lines.”
Harvek exhaled slowly.
“They are staging another push.”
Harvek grunted, voice dropping. “And your replacements for my rotation?”
Knight Two’s voice remained perfectly calm. “I brought them to take your platoon’s place.”
Harvek nodded. “That’s something.”
Knight Two pointed to a section of the map—roughly five miles east of Solomon, close to the Mississippi’s floodplain. "The Coalition has a fallback depot here. We haven’t confirmed it yet, but they’re resupplying too cleanly to be pulling everything through the trenches. The depot is hidden in the wetlands or buried underground.”
Harvek’s eye briefly looked at it. “You want to hit it.”
“I will hit it.” Knight Two leaned in slightly, voice low and sharp.
Harvek, “Then my platoon is leaving for R & R?”
Knight Two locked eyes with Sir Harvek, “The platoon I brought still needs to be familiar with the enemy’s attacks. Your platoon will stay to train with them until they are ready. The Four Warlocks twins presence ensures that Solomon will not be conjured while our fire teams pillage and destroy the Coalition supply depot.”
Harvek raised a brow. “You trust them to fight?”
“They won’t fail. They have motivation.” His tone suggested this wasn’t up for debate.
Harvek chuckled dryly. “I heard. The girl.”
Knight Two’s voice stayed flat, professional. “The morale boost she just gave this town is priceless. I intend to keep her alive.”
Harvek’s tone grew serious again. “And when the Coalition regroups?”
“They’ll regroup. They always do. But not before their victory is a Pyrrhic victory. If we thin their ranks before Tolkeen’s next offensive, the Coalition may divert more military resources to Solomon.”
Harvek nodded once. The two men held each other's gaze for a long moment—two soldiers who both understood exactly how precarious this entire operation was.
Finally, Harvek extended his hand.
Knight Two clasped it firmly.
“Welcome back to Solomon,” Harvek said. “It’s going to get loud soon.”
Knight Two allowed himself the faintest flicker of a grin.
They released hands, already thinking several moves ahead.
Outside the tent, the people of Solomon were laughing for the first time in weeks.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: the Town of Solomon
The sky was overcast and heavy, as though the world itself held its breath. Then came the first rumble—not thunder, but the unified stomp of 10,000 Skelebots charging across the battlefield.
Like a tidal wave of steel, a Coalition mechanized legion surged forward in perfect unison. Their black armored frames reflected the dull morning light as they ran, creating a rolling quake across the scarred earth. Dust and debris whipped up behind them like a spreading shockwave.
Their red optical sensors glowed like a moving wall of blood.
As they advanced, each Skelebot locked targets and opened fire precision laser bursts slamming through the air. Bright crimson beams lit the landscape, cutting through abandoned craters and trenches toward Solomon’s walls. The blasts raked high and low until they could come close enough.
Then the defenders answered.
In Solomon’s forward trenches, energy rifles waited in silence as the wall of death came within range. Calm, disciplined town militia and soldiers squeezed triggers as the lead units crossed into the 2,000-foot killing zone.
The effect was immediate.
The first rows of Skelebots were cut down at the knee, their legs blown apart, torsos collapsing forward under the weight of their own inertia. Limbless machines were trampled or vaulted over by the endless horde behind them. The second and third lines stumbled briefly but kept coming, driven by Coalition programming and a single objective: secure Solomon.
30 seconds into the charge: the sky broke.
Standing on the western side of Solomon, the Air Warlock raised his hands to the heavens and unleashed the storm.
The clouds churned violently, spiraling as if torn by an invisible hand. In seconds, a monstrous black funnel descended, howling like a living god of war.
The tornado struck with its 60 meter wide vortex of pure destruction.
The Air Warlock guided it like a master sculptor, sweeping directly into the densest lines of Skelebots.
The machines were no match for nature’s wrath.
Hundreds of Skelebots were ripped from the earth, their limbs flailing helplessly as they spiraled up into the black column, slammed into one another, twisted, and crushed.
Metal screamed as units were torn apart and flung like toys.
Some collided in midair and shattered.
And still, the others kept charging.
Meanwhile, unseen above the battlefield:
The previously-conjured Major Air Elemental drifted silently. No eyes could see it. No scanners could track it.
It cast its magnetization spell deep into the field.
Suddenly, dozens of Skelebot units in the charge began to buckle unnaturally.
Pulled into the invisible singularity like iron filings sucked toward a lodestone. Machines crumpled and bent as though grabbed by unseen hands. The Skelebots were yanked off-balance, stumbling into one another as whole formations were crippled.
On Solomon's eastern flank:
The Earth Warlock planted his hands to the dirt.
With a violent crack, the ground split open—a fissure 1,200 feet long and yawning like the mouth of a hungry beast.
Skelebots directly in its path—and hundreds to either side—plunged into the abyss. The front wave fell first, crushing those beneath them as layer after layer collapsed into the widening pit.
Metal snapped and shrieked as the pit filled with the crushed remains of hundreds of Skelebots, ground down into a single, compressed ruin.
To the North:
The Fire Warlock bellowed an incantation, raising both arms as twin pillars.
Flames blazed brighter than the sun itself, forming an inferno wall across the charging horde’s path. Skelebots ran headlong into the fire, their optics and sensors instantly melting, their outer plating liquefying as they tried to push through. Many simply fell mid-run, sizzling and convulsing, until they collapsed into heaps of slag and charred metal.
Those that emerged on the other side were unrecognizable—melted, disoriented, nearly blind, and easy prey for the trench gunners.
To the South:
The Water Warlock, safely positioned behind his 5 meter tall towering 10 ice monsters, cast his deadly hailstorm.
Massive spheres of supernaturally hardened hail, slammed into the Skelebots like iron cannon balls.
Every impact obliterated heads and torsos, crushing rows of Skelebots in their tracks. Dozens fell with every pulse of the spell. The storm rained devastation without mercy, hammering the southern charge flat.
The Skelebots continued to push.
Nearing the trench in front of Solomon's wall the Skelebots stepped on and over their mechanical brothers.
The ground beneath trembled with every movement, and the sharp scent of metal and smoke filled the air. Standing at the ready, a massive catapult sat in the heart of the encampment, its imposing frame rising like a colossus. Its crew, focused and disciplined, worked together in precise harmony, their hands deftly pulling the heavy ropes and winches to prepare for the coming onslaught.
The catapult’s basket, lined with Fire Globes, sat poised at the ready. Each globe was a perfect sphere, no larger than a grapefruit, and though they appeared harmless at first glance, their fiery glow suggested otherwise. Flickering flames danced silently inside the glassy spheres, waiting to be unleashed. The catapult’s arm, thick and sturdy, groaned under the strain as it was pulled back, the taut ropes creating an eerie silence that only heightened the sense of impending destruction.
The crew exchanged quick nods, their motions practiced from countless drills. At the signal, a massive release mechanism clicked into place, and the tension was released all at once. With a mighty CRACK, the arm of the catapult swung forward, sending the Fire Globes soaring into the sky, one after the other in rapid succession. They sailed through the air with astonishing speed, each globe streaking like a comet across the battlefield, their faint flickers growing larger and more threatening as they traveled.
The first Fire Globe hit the stone wall with a sickening thud, shattering upon impact. A brilliant flash of fire erupted in a wave, engulfing the stone in molten heat, sending chunks of debris and dust into the air. In the wake of that initial explosion, the Fire Globes continued their deadly trajectory, landing across the sea of Skelebots. Each globe, upon impact, erupted with a fierce burst of magical fire that spread across the Skelebot, burning through as they were nothing more than kindling.
The ground shook as the Fire Globes continued to fall, each explosion more violent than the last, painting the sky with fleeting moments of blinding light. The catapult crew moved like their practiced drills knowing that with each round, the enemy’s attackers were crumbling.
The flames raged uncontested, relentless, until, one by one, the fires began to subside, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared. What remained was a landscape of devastation—walls reduced to rubble, steel melted into pools of slag, and a battlefield strewn with the smoldering remnants of the enemy's once-proud defenses.
What was once a perfectly synchronized advance dissolved into a metal grinder. The waves behind had no way of stopping or slowing, and the broken forms of their fallen comrades only made the field more hazardous. Piles of crushed, burning, or frozen machines littered the entire zone.
And through it all, Solomon Wall crumbled to the Skelebots laser fire.
The trenches, however, remained firing.
The tornado kept vaccuming Skelebots up and rained them down upon each other.
Bunched together the clouds of supernatural HAIL broke their chassis.
Walls of Fire slagged the machines of war.
And Quakes of Earth and Fire burnt and slammed Skelebots into each other.
Nearing within 60 meters of the trenches Rivers of Lava became moats of Lava.
The Skelebots tried running them only to sink beneath them.
The Skelebots ran upon the backs of their brothers slipping while being blasted the Skelebots fell until the Moats of Lava became bloated mounds of Skelebots.
The Coalition’s endless machine legions smashed against Solomon’s defenders like waves against a jagged, unmoving cliff.
That is, until they breached the trenches.
The sky was overcast and heavy, as though the world itself held its breath. Then came the first rumble—not thunder, but the unified stomp of 10,000 Skelebots charging across the battlefield.
Like a tidal wave of steel, a Coalition mechanized legion surged forward in perfect unison. Their black armored frames reflected the dull morning light as they ran, creating a rolling quake across the scarred earth. Dust and debris whipped up behind them like a spreading shockwave.
Their red optical sensors glowed like a moving wall of blood.
As they advanced, each Skelebot locked targets and opened fire precision laser bursts slamming through the air. Bright crimson beams lit the landscape, cutting through abandoned craters and trenches toward Solomon’s walls. The blasts raked high and low until they could come close enough.
Then the defenders answered.
In Solomon’s forward trenches, energy rifles waited in silence as the wall of death came within range. Calm, disciplined town militia and soldiers squeezed triggers as the lead units crossed into the 2,000-foot killing zone.
The effect was immediate.
The first rows of Skelebots were cut down at the knee, their legs blown apart, torsos collapsing forward under the weight of their own inertia. Limbless machines were trampled or vaulted over by the endless horde behind them. The second and third lines stumbled briefly but kept coming, driven by Coalition programming and a single objective: secure Solomon.
30 seconds into the charge: the sky broke.
Standing on the western side of Solomon, the Air Warlock raised his hands to the heavens and unleashed the storm.
The clouds churned violently, spiraling as if torn by an invisible hand. In seconds, a monstrous black funnel descended, howling like a living god of war.
The tornado struck with its 60 meter wide vortex of pure destruction.
The Air Warlock guided it like a master sculptor, sweeping directly into the densest lines of Skelebots.
The machines were no match for nature’s wrath.
Hundreds of Skelebots were ripped from the earth, their limbs flailing helplessly as they spiraled up into the black column, slammed into one another, twisted, and crushed.
Metal screamed as units were torn apart and flung like toys.
Some collided in midair and shattered.
And still, the others kept charging.
Meanwhile, unseen above the battlefield:
The previously-conjured Major Air Elemental drifted silently. No eyes could see it. No scanners could track it.
It cast its magnetization spell deep into the field.
Suddenly, dozens of Skelebot units in the charge began to buckle unnaturally.
Pulled into the invisible singularity like iron filings sucked toward a lodestone. Machines crumpled and bent as though grabbed by unseen hands. The Skelebots were yanked off-balance, stumbling into one another as whole formations were crippled.
On Solomon's eastern flank:
The Earth Warlock planted his hands to the dirt.
With a violent crack, the ground split open—a fissure 1,200 feet long and yawning like the mouth of a hungry beast.
Skelebots directly in its path—and hundreds to either side—plunged into the abyss. The front wave fell first, crushing those beneath them as layer after layer collapsed into the widening pit.
Metal snapped and shrieked as the pit filled with the crushed remains of hundreds of Skelebots, ground down into a single, compressed ruin.
To the North:
The Fire Warlock bellowed an incantation, raising both arms as twin pillars.
Flames blazed brighter than the sun itself, forming an inferno wall across the charging horde’s path. Skelebots ran headlong into the fire, their optics and sensors instantly melting, their outer plating liquefying as they tried to push through. Many simply fell mid-run, sizzling and convulsing, until they collapsed into heaps of slag and charred metal.
Those that emerged on the other side were unrecognizable—melted, disoriented, nearly blind, and easy prey for the trench gunners.
To the South:
The Water Warlock, safely positioned behind his 5 meter tall towering 10 ice monsters, cast his deadly hailstorm.
Massive spheres of supernaturally hardened hail, slammed into the Skelebots like iron cannon balls.
Every impact obliterated heads and torsos, crushing rows of Skelebots in their tracks. Dozens fell with every pulse of the spell. The storm rained devastation without mercy, hammering the southern charge flat.
The Skelebots continued to push.
Nearing the trench in front of Solomon's wall the Skelebots stepped on and over their mechanical brothers.
The ground beneath trembled with every movement, and the sharp scent of metal and smoke filled the air. Standing at the ready, a massive catapult sat in the heart of the encampment, its imposing frame rising like a colossus. Its crew, focused and disciplined, worked together in precise harmony, their hands deftly pulling the heavy ropes and winches to prepare for the coming onslaught.
The catapult’s basket, lined with Fire Globes, sat poised at the ready. Each globe was a perfect sphere, no larger than a grapefruit, and though they appeared harmless at first glance, their fiery glow suggested otherwise. Flickering flames danced silently inside the glassy spheres, waiting to be unleashed. The catapult’s arm, thick and sturdy, groaned under the strain as it was pulled back, the taut ropes creating an eerie silence that only heightened the sense of impending destruction.
The crew exchanged quick nods, their motions practiced from countless drills. At the signal, a massive release mechanism clicked into place, and the tension was released all at once. With a mighty CRACK, the arm of the catapult swung forward, sending the Fire Globes soaring into the sky, one after the other in rapid succession. They sailed through the air with astonishing speed, each globe streaking like a comet across the battlefield, their faint flickers growing larger and more threatening as they traveled.
The first Fire Globe hit the stone wall with a sickening thud, shattering upon impact. A brilliant flash of fire erupted in a wave, engulfing the stone in molten heat, sending chunks of debris and dust into the air. In the wake of that initial explosion, the Fire Globes continued their deadly trajectory, landing across the sea of Skelebots. Each globe, upon impact, erupted with a fierce burst of magical fire that spread across the Skelebot, burning through as they were nothing more than kindling.
The ground shook as the Fire Globes continued to fall, each explosion more violent than the last, painting the sky with fleeting moments of blinding light. The catapult crew moved like their practiced drills knowing that with each round, the enemy’s attackers were crumbling.
The flames raged uncontested, relentless, until, one by one, the fires began to subside, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared. What remained was a landscape of devastation—walls reduced to rubble, steel melted into pools of slag, and a battlefield strewn with the smoldering remnants of the enemy's once-proud defenses.
What was once a perfectly synchronized advance dissolved into a metal grinder. The waves behind had no way of stopping or slowing, and the broken forms of their fallen comrades only made the field more hazardous. Piles of crushed, burning, or frozen machines littered the entire zone.
And through it all, Solomon Wall crumbled to the Skelebots laser fire.
The trenches, however, remained firing.
The tornado kept vaccuming Skelebots up and rained them down upon each other.
Bunched together the clouds of supernatural HAIL broke their chassis.
Walls of Fire slagged the machines of war.
And Quakes of Earth and Fire burnt and slammed Skelebots into each other.
Nearing within 60 meters of the trenches Rivers of Lava became moats of Lava.
The Skelebots tried running them only to sink beneath them.
The Skelebots ran upon the backs of their brothers slipping while being blasted the Skelebots fell until the Moats of Lava became bloated mounds of Skelebots.
The Coalition’s endless machine legions smashed against Solomon’s defenders like waves against a jagged, unmoving cliff.
That is, until they breached the trenches.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Solomon - The Skelebot Battle
South side — The Water Warlock’s kill zone
As the first ranks of Skelebots stumbled out of the hail-storm — their sensor heads shattered, their limbs mangled by the iron-hard spheres — they surged blindly into the waiting wall of ice monsters.
Towering at 16 feet tall, the 10 elemental minions stand like Norse Frost giants of winter, their humanoid frames gleaming under the grey sky. Their eyes glowed faintly blue, and in each massive, clawed hand, they gripped a 7-foot sword, forged of ironwood, enchanted with the spell Frostblade—capable of slicing through armor as though it were soft flesh.
The first Skelebots charged straight into them, arms raised, weapons firing—but laser fire simply evaporated harmlessly against the Giant Ice Monster’s bodies.
WHOOSH. SLICE. CRUNCH.
One swing—Skelebots split diagonally from shoulder to hip.
Another—limbs severed, torsos halved.
The Ice Monsters swung in brutal unison, each strike cleaving through lines of charging machines like farmers harvesting wheat.
The Water Warlock, standing behind them in the eye of his own icy carnage, added to the trap: with a gesture, he conjured a slick sheet of supernatural ice, spreading instantly across the battlefield in front of his Big Ice Monsters.
The Skelebots lost their footing as soon as they crossed into the frozen field—legs skidding wildly, colliding with each other, falling helplessly into the waiting blades of the Ice Monsters, who cut them down with calm, tireless precision.
Each step they tried to take only made them more vulnerable.
---
North side — The Fire Warlock’s inferno
At the same time, the Fire Warlock doubled down.
His incantation roared like a second sun. A fresh wall of flame exploded across the field, this time igniting on top of the advancing Skelebots themselves.
The flames roared to life directly inside the wave of machines, instantly turning many into walking fireballs, cooking them. Optics exploded under the intense heat. Those that staggered through were half-melted wrecks, struggling to function as their systems boiled under the unrelenting assault.
The black smoke of burning metal, plastics, and synthetic fluids rolled high into the sky.
---
West side — The Air Warlock’s tornado shifts
The Air Warlock, eyes glowing, hands raised like a puppeteer, guided the swirling black tornado toward the densest concentration of surviving Skelebots who were advancing on Solomon's trenches.
The funnel devoured them.
Skelebots were ripped off their feet and sucked screaming into the sky, crashing into one another as they spiraled upward like insects trapped in a hellish cyclone.
Skelebot torsos slammed into heads, legs into arms. The twisting funnel acted as a giant steel blender, smashing their frames together before hurling broken wreckage high into the clouds. Shards of armor rained down like metallic hail.
The men in Solomon’s trenches poured continuous fire into the approaching waves while the tornado thinned their ranks into nothing.
---
East side — The Earth Warlock’s iron judgment
As the Skelebots pressed forward, ahead of the Earth Warlock, the ground shuddered.
With a deep rumble and an echoing boom, an enormous wall of iron materialized—summoned from thin air.
Hanging in the air the mass of iron hung in the air for only a heartbeat—then crashed downward like the hand of a god.
The weight was unstoppable.
A sickening, deafening crunch filled the battlefield as Skelebots were crushed beneath it—flattened, buried alive under thousands of tons of solid metal.
The few who stood outside the edge of the impact staggered backward, their formations ruptured, the destruction.
---
At the edge of Solomon’s trenches, between chock points, the ground trembled as the Skelebots charged forward, their iron feet pulverizing the already cratered earth. The front wave had reached the very edge of Solomon’s outer trenches, barely twenty feet away from breaching the defenders' final lines.
The militia stood frozen for an instant—faces pale, sweat streaking down dirt-caked skin.
They were too close.
Too many.
Too fast.
But standing behind them, half-shadowed beneath the remnants of a collapsed watchtower, the Necromancer smiled.
His pale, gaunt face was calm, focused, but his eyes burned with dark confidence. This was his moment. The Mystic Knights and Warlocks had unleashed their storms—now it was time for his art to answer.
The ground directly in front of the trenches erupted.
The earth broke open like a wound. Bony arms, skeletal fingers, half-decayed hands shot out from the soil as if the mass graves of the land itself had awakened. Some were human. Others were D-Bees long since slain. Their rotted, supernatural limbs stretched toward the sky, twisting unnaturally as they lashed around the legs of the advancing machines.
The Skelebots were instantly ensnared.
Powerful metal legs buckled as skeletal arms wrapped around them like constricting snakes, pulling them down, forcing them to their knees under impossible, supernatural strength.
The Skelebots struggled, servos whirring, arm blades extending—but they were trapped, unable to move their limbs far enough to strike back or free themselves. Their programming couldn’t account for the dead reaching up from below.
Without hesitation, the Necromancer’s voice rose again. “Again!”
He cast the spell a second time, then a third—each casting expanding the circle of death by adjacent patches, building a wall of grasping corpses that trapped entire clusters of the Skelebot charge.
Within moments, dozens of Skelebots were locked in place, kneeling helplessly within circles of writhing undead arms.
The militia did not waste the opportunity. “OPEN FIRE!”
The command snapped across the trench like a spark.
At this range, there was no missing a Point-blank shot.
Energy rifles barked in unison. Bright flashes cut across the air. HEADSHOTS.
One by one, the Skelebots' heads exploded under concentrated fire—some shorted out instantly, others spasmed violently as their processors fried under the focused barrage.
Entire units were systematically executed, unable to move or defend themselves. It was a firing line turned execution squad.
The Necromancer laughed—a quiet, rasping sound. “Let the bones of the fallen be your undoing.”
All across the forward edge of the trench line, the dead clutched the living machines—an army of silent, merciless hands dragging down soulless killers, holding them so that Solomon’s defenders could slaughter them without mercy.
While the fire and storms raged on other fronts, the Necromancer’s shadowed circles of death created choke points where the Skelebot charge was ground to a halt, one brutal cluster at a time.
The air was thick with smoke, steam, and the bitter scent of burning metal.
---
Skies churned with lightning, hail, and wind.
The screams of tortured servos and snapping steel filled the world.
Dismembered Skelebots lay in shattered piles, some still twitching, most utterly destroyed.
Solomon’s defenders stood, calm, firing into the broken remains of the once-perfect charge.
In under four minutes, thousands upon thousands of Skelebots had been annihilated.
In the trenches, Knight Two ran around, along with the two platoons under his command rapidly casting the spell of “Armor of Ithan” on the shooters in the trenches.
Only four Mystic Knights were left out, assigned to each Warlock to shield them with their energy rifle proof bodies.
---
Coalition Forward Command Post Outside Solomon
The tactical holotables flickered wildly under the storm-wracked sky. The air smelled of ozone, burning metal, and the lingering stench of ruined machines.
Reports streamed into the command center in rapid succession — all of them catastrophic.
“—confirmed losses: 73% of forward Skelebot assault waves neutralized—”
“—fire wall still holding—”
“—tornado consuming reserves—”
“—necromantic suppression zones growing—”
“—second and third attack waves crushed—”
The officers standing nearby whispered to each other, their voices tight with fear. No one dared speak too loudly.
At the center of it all stood General Mordane.
His hands gripped the edge of the holotable hard enough that the reinforced steel creaked under the strain. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, twitched as they darted across the flickering images.
His voice was a rasp. “You see it, don’t you? This is not a battle. This is not war. This is heresy.”
An aide tried to speak — voice shaking. “Sir... we still have enough forces to regroup. If we pull back now—”
Commander Mordane’s head snapped toward him. The man froze mid-sentence. “Pull back? Pull BACK?”
The general’s voice rose into a snarl — part madness, part venom. “Do you know what happens if we leave this town standing? Do you know what happens if that pyramid, those filthy sorcerers, and that damned ley line nexus remain in enemy hands? Do you?””
No one answered.
“We don’t pull back. We don’t regroup. We break them. Completely.”
His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “If humanity cannot have Solomon, then neither will they.”
Mordane stepped to a secure control console, bypassing the safety protocols with his own command codes.
A new screen opened:
BIO-LOCKED: CONTINGENCY SEVERANCE
The assembled officers stared in horror.
“Sir... that’s not authorized under Siege Protocols. High Command—”
“High Command isn’t here. I am.”
His voice was shaking but fierce — his sanity, by now, shattered. “Send them in. Solomon ends now.”
---
Back at Solomon.
Knight Two narrowed his eyes as shapes emerged from the distant smoke.
Across the battlefield, the defenders of Solomon watched in horror as a new formation appeared on the ruined fields.
Skelebots advanced at a steady pace—tall, menacing, armored bodies gleaming. But it was what clung to their armored chests that froze the militia where they stood D-Bees.
Humanoid children—or rather, beings carefully selected to look like human children—their frames small and fragile, dressed in human children's clothes, tied like grotesque trophies to the Skelebots' chassis.
Each D-Bee’s arms and legs were bound tightly to the metal plating. Some wept. Others screamed in terror. A few were eerily silent too exhausted to cry. The Coalition now displayed them like twisted shields.
The Skelebots, expressionless as ever, being the machines of war that they are, actively marched onward.
The defenders in Solomon's trenches froze, horror and revulsion gripping their hearts.
“Hold fire!”
South side — The Water Warlock’s kill zone
As the first ranks of Skelebots stumbled out of the hail-storm — their sensor heads shattered, their limbs mangled by the iron-hard spheres — they surged blindly into the waiting wall of ice monsters.
Towering at 16 feet tall, the 10 elemental minions stand like Norse Frost giants of winter, their humanoid frames gleaming under the grey sky. Their eyes glowed faintly blue, and in each massive, clawed hand, they gripped a 7-foot sword, forged of ironwood, enchanted with the spell Frostblade—capable of slicing through armor as though it were soft flesh.
The first Skelebots charged straight into them, arms raised, weapons firing—but laser fire simply evaporated harmlessly against the Giant Ice Monster’s bodies.
WHOOSH. SLICE. CRUNCH.
One swing—Skelebots split diagonally from shoulder to hip.
Another—limbs severed, torsos halved.
The Ice Monsters swung in brutal unison, each strike cleaving through lines of charging machines like farmers harvesting wheat.
The Water Warlock, standing behind them in the eye of his own icy carnage, added to the trap: with a gesture, he conjured a slick sheet of supernatural ice, spreading instantly across the battlefield in front of his Big Ice Monsters.
The Skelebots lost their footing as soon as they crossed into the frozen field—legs skidding wildly, colliding with each other, falling helplessly into the waiting blades of the Ice Monsters, who cut them down with calm, tireless precision.
Each step they tried to take only made them more vulnerable.
---
North side — The Fire Warlock’s inferno
At the same time, the Fire Warlock doubled down.
His incantation roared like a second sun. A fresh wall of flame exploded across the field, this time igniting on top of the advancing Skelebots themselves.
The flames roared to life directly inside the wave of machines, instantly turning many into walking fireballs, cooking them. Optics exploded under the intense heat. Those that staggered through were half-melted wrecks, struggling to function as their systems boiled under the unrelenting assault.
The black smoke of burning metal, plastics, and synthetic fluids rolled high into the sky.
---
West side — The Air Warlock’s tornado shifts
The Air Warlock, eyes glowing, hands raised like a puppeteer, guided the swirling black tornado toward the densest concentration of surviving Skelebots who were advancing on Solomon's trenches.
The funnel devoured them.
Skelebots were ripped off their feet and sucked screaming into the sky, crashing into one another as they spiraled upward like insects trapped in a hellish cyclone.
Skelebot torsos slammed into heads, legs into arms. The twisting funnel acted as a giant steel blender, smashing their frames together before hurling broken wreckage high into the clouds. Shards of armor rained down like metallic hail.
The men in Solomon’s trenches poured continuous fire into the approaching waves while the tornado thinned their ranks into nothing.
---
East side — The Earth Warlock’s iron judgment
As the Skelebots pressed forward, ahead of the Earth Warlock, the ground shuddered.
With a deep rumble and an echoing boom, an enormous wall of iron materialized—summoned from thin air.
Hanging in the air the mass of iron hung in the air for only a heartbeat—then crashed downward like the hand of a god.
The weight was unstoppable.
A sickening, deafening crunch filled the battlefield as Skelebots were crushed beneath it—flattened, buried alive under thousands of tons of solid metal.
The few who stood outside the edge of the impact staggered backward, their formations ruptured, the destruction.
---
At the edge of Solomon’s trenches, between chock points, the ground trembled as the Skelebots charged forward, their iron feet pulverizing the already cratered earth. The front wave had reached the very edge of Solomon’s outer trenches, barely twenty feet away from breaching the defenders' final lines.
The militia stood frozen for an instant—faces pale, sweat streaking down dirt-caked skin.
They were too close.
Too many.
Too fast.
But standing behind them, half-shadowed beneath the remnants of a collapsed watchtower, the Necromancer smiled.
His pale, gaunt face was calm, focused, but his eyes burned with dark confidence. This was his moment. The Mystic Knights and Warlocks had unleashed their storms—now it was time for his art to answer.
The ground directly in front of the trenches erupted.
The earth broke open like a wound. Bony arms, skeletal fingers, half-decayed hands shot out from the soil as if the mass graves of the land itself had awakened. Some were human. Others were D-Bees long since slain. Their rotted, supernatural limbs stretched toward the sky, twisting unnaturally as they lashed around the legs of the advancing machines.
The Skelebots were instantly ensnared.
Powerful metal legs buckled as skeletal arms wrapped around them like constricting snakes, pulling them down, forcing them to their knees under impossible, supernatural strength.
The Skelebots struggled, servos whirring, arm blades extending—but they were trapped, unable to move their limbs far enough to strike back or free themselves. Their programming couldn’t account for the dead reaching up from below.
Without hesitation, the Necromancer’s voice rose again. “Again!”
He cast the spell a second time, then a third—each casting expanding the circle of death by adjacent patches, building a wall of grasping corpses that trapped entire clusters of the Skelebot charge.
Within moments, dozens of Skelebots were locked in place, kneeling helplessly within circles of writhing undead arms.
The militia did not waste the opportunity. “OPEN FIRE!”
The command snapped across the trench like a spark.
At this range, there was no missing a Point-blank shot.
Energy rifles barked in unison. Bright flashes cut across the air. HEADSHOTS.
One by one, the Skelebots' heads exploded under concentrated fire—some shorted out instantly, others spasmed violently as their processors fried under the focused barrage.
Entire units were systematically executed, unable to move or defend themselves. It was a firing line turned execution squad.
The Necromancer laughed—a quiet, rasping sound. “Let the bones of the fallen be your undoing.”
All across the forward edge of the trench line, the dead clutched the living machines—an army of silent, merciless hands dragging down soulless killers, holding them so that Solomon’s defenders could slaughter them without mercy.
While the fire and storms raged on other fronts, the Necromancer’s shadowed circles of death created choke points where the Skelebot charge was ground to a halt, one brutal cluster at a time.
The air was thick with smoke, steam, and the bitter scent of burning metal.
---
Skies churned with lightning, hail, and wind.
The screams of tortured servos and snapping steel filled the world.
Dismembered Skelebots lay in shattered piles, some still twitching, most utterly destroyed.
Solomon’s defenders stood, calm, firing into the broken remains of the once-perfect charge.
In under four minutes, thousands upon thousands of Skelebots had been annihilated.
In the trenches, Knight Two ran around, along with the two platoons under his command rapidly casting the spell of “Armor of Ithan” on the shooters in the trenches.
Only four Mystic Knights were left out, assigned to each Warlock to shield them with their energy rifle proof bodies.
---
Coalition Forward Command Post Outside Solomon
The tactical holotables flickered wildly under the storm-wracked sky. The air smelled of ozone, burning metal, and the lingering stench of ruined machines.
Reports streamed into the command center in rapid succession — all of them catastrophic.
“—confirmed losses: 73% of forward Skelebot assault waves neutralized—”
“—fire wall still holding—”
“—tornado consuming reserves—”
“—necromantic suppression zones growing—”
“—second and third attack waves crushed—”
The officers standing nearby whispered to each other, their voices tight with fear. No one dared speak too loudly.
At the center of it all stood General Mordane.
His hands gripped the edge of the holotable hard enough that the reinforced steel creaked under the strain. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, twitched as they darted across the flickering images.
His voice was a rasp. “You see it, don’t you? This is not a battle. This is not war. This is heresy.”
An aide tried to speak — voice shaking. “Sir... we still have enough forces to regroup. If we pull back now—”
Commander Mordane’s head snapped toward him. The man froze mid-sentence. “Pull back? Pull BACK?”
The general’s voice rose into a snarl — part madness, part venom. “Do you know what happens if we leave this town standing? Do you know what happens if that pyramid, those filthy sorcerers, and that damned ley line nexus remain in enemy hands? Do you?””
No one answered.
“We don’t pull back. We don’t regroup. We break them. Completely.”
His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “If humanity cannot have Solomon, then neither will they.”
Mordane stepped to a secure control console, bypassing the safety protocols with his own command codes.
A new screen opened:
BIO-LOCKED: CONTINGENCY SEVERANCE
The assembled officers stared in horror.
“Sir... that’s not authorized under Siege Protocols. High Command—”
“High Command isn’t here. I am.”
His voice was shaking but fierce — his sanity, by now, shattered. “Send them in. Solomon ends now.”
---
Back at Solomon.
Knight Two narrowed his eyes as shapes emerged from the distant smoke.
Across the battlefield, the defenders of Solomon watched in horror as a new formation appeared on the ruined fields.
Skelebots advanced at a steady pace—tall, menacing, armored bodies gleaming. But it was what clung to their armored chests that froze the militia where they stood D-Bees.
Humanoid children—or rather, beings carefully selected to look like human children—their frames small and fragile, dressed in human children's clothes, tied like grotesque trophies to the Skelebots' chassis.
Each D-Bee’s arms and legs were bound tightly to the metal plating. Some wept. Others screamed in terror. A few were eerily silent too exhausted to cry. The Coalition now displayed them like twisted shields.
The Skelebots, expressionless as ever, being the machines of war that they are, actively marched onward.
The defenders in Solomon's trenches froze, horror and revulsion gripping their hearts.
“Hold fire!”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Battle of Solomon
No one wanted to see what was happening.
No one could bring themselves to shoot. The militia’s hands trembled on their triggers, eyes wide with disbelief.
A veteran near the front dropped his rifle to his knees and whispered, “What kind of monsters...”
The Mystic Knight Sir Harvok stood atop the rubble that was the western wall, eyes locked on the Skelebots. “They’ve abandoned warfare,” he said, voice quiet. “This is desperation.”
The distant sound of Skelebot servos cutting through the tense air like a knife. Knight Two lay prone on the bell tower platform, his rifle cradled steady against his shoulder, its optics feeding him a crisp, unforgiving view.
The 10 Skelebots advanced methodically. Seven feet tall, three feet wide, 390 pounds of engineered obedience.
Strapped to the front of each Skelebot was a small figure—that looked disturbingly like D-Bee children, squirming or hanging limp.
Living shields.
Psychological warfare.
The Coalition commander wanted to break the defenders of Solomon.
Knight Two's mind processed what was happening. His finger rested near the trigger. "They want hesitation," he muttered to himself.
He analyzed the four options:
Surrender—unacceptable
Retreat—impossible under current time constraints
Surgical rescue attempt—low probability, too many variables.
That left the final option: engage and destroy.
The calculations ran through his mind. In psychological warfare there was always a probability of decoys, or worse—booby traps.
There were at least fifty-fifty odds on their authenticity. Regardless, the Skelebots intended to kill everyone if allowed to close range. The hostages were dead either way unless stopped now.
Knight Two lined up his shot. The lead Skelebot moved slower than the rest, putting its grotesque display fully on show.
The 'child' strapped to its chest twitched.
The shot cracked like a whip. The laser shot punched through the mannequin's skull, core, and into the Skelebot's primary sensor array.
The machine shuddered and stubbled forward blindly.
The second Skelebot advanced, stepping over its fallen comrade. This time, the 'child' flailed and screamed, its eyes wide in genuine terror.
Real.
His shot passed through the alien child's thin torso, tearing through flesh and bone, then smashed into the Skelebot's power core. The machine staggered, sparked, and collapsed. The D-Bee was gone before it hit the ground.
The third target moved forward. This time, the 'child' was rigid, lifeless, with an odd bulge in the abdomen. Knight Two recognized the signs: explosives.
His shot pierced it cleanly. The detonation was immediate. The Skelebot exploded, sending shrapnel through nearby.
Fourth target. The shot was surgical—center mass, then a rapid second round into the Skelebot's head before the chemicals could deploy. The machine collapsed with a hiss of venting gas.
"All units," Knight Two barked. "Engage."
The defenders of Solomon opened fire in unison. The remaining Skelebots, crumbled under the coordinated barrage.
Seconds later, the field of battle was littered with smoking wreckage and torn metal. The few surviving real D-Bees were lifeless, their fates sealed long before Knight Two ever pulled the trigger.
Knight Two stood, reloading his rifle with mechanical precision. His voice came calm and clear. “Neutralize any remaining threats. Fire Warlocks hit that area."
The bio-weapon and chemical dirty area of the Skelebots was asunder with fire.
Knight Two, "Water Warlocks, wash it."
Next, Water Warlocks hit the area with rain and ice.
Aftermath — The Cost of Holding the Line
The battlefield outside Solomon smoldered under a bruised sky.
The storm had finally passed, but the air remained thick with ash and the metallic stench of slaughter. Piles of twisted Skelebot frames littered the ground like rusting tombstones.
Behind Solomon’s rubble that were once walls:
The town was no longer a place of civilians and soldiers. For the moment, it was a giant field hospital.
Makeshift triage tents had sprung up where shops once stood. Grian moved like a force of nature, her hands glowing, eyes alight with soft golden sunlight as she calmly restore severed limbs, and stop internal bleeding. Her robes were soaked through with sweat, but she did not stop.
The Necromancer mended broken bones with power from the Nexus.
The Four Warlock Brothers stayed close, each working in turn to aid wounded with their respective skills and elemental gifts:
The Air Warlock with the spell "Breathe of Life" to bring back the dead.
The Earth Warlock with Holistic Medicine.
The Fire Warlock with the spell "Flame of Life."
The Water Warlock with Healing burns and providing water.
Air stank of burnt polymer and weaponized toxins. The earth was sick—bleeding, poisoned by the filth of war.
The people of Solomon could rebuild their walls, their homes, even their defenses.
And so the Biomancer stepped forward. In his wooden armor, he walked to the center of the most bio-hazard area, standing upon a mound of twisted metal. Around him, the remains of machines still hissed with residual heat. The broken bones of fallen D-Bees that had been lost here.
The Biomancer closed his eyes and knelt, pressing both hands deep into the ground.
He whispered directly to the soul of the earth itself.
A soft green glow began to emanate from beneath his palms. The Nexus energies of Solomon responded—quietly at first, then with rising resonance as the magic merged with the living pulse of the world.
The glow expanded outward in a perfect circle, spreading like a ripple across a pond, flowing across the battlefield at an even, steady pace in all directions.
As the spell took hold, the acrid chemicals broke down into harmless vapor.
Toxic substances dissolved, returning to inert elements buried harmlessly deep beneath the soil, leaving behind rich, dark soil.
The air itself seemed to brighten, the heavy taint lifting like a fog burned off by morning sun.
Shoots of grass pushed their way up from previously barren dirt.
Moss reclaimed scorched stones.
Wildflowers bloomed in cautious bursts of color.
The Biomancer stood as the circle finished its expansion.
Around him now lay a sanctuary of rebirth, a landscape perfectly suited for Solomon’s natural ecosystem to reclaim and thrive.
He opened his eyes, breathing deeply as the smell of burnt was replaced by the rich, vibrant aroma of living earth.
Behind him, townsfolk and defenders watched silently, almost reverently, as life returned to what had been before.
The people of Solomon were hollow-eyed but alive. They whispered to each other in hushed, disbelieving tones:
“We survived.”
“We held.”
“They didn’t break us.”
---
The command tent:
Knight Two stood over the new battle map. Harvek was seated across from him.
The map was no longer marked by Skelebot formations or siege trenches. Instead, it showed the wreckage of an entire Coalition battlegroup obliterated.
Harvek shook his head slowly.
“I still don’t believe we survived this.”
Knight Two’s voice was steady. “They underestimated the Warlocks. They are what made the biggest.”
Harvek's face hardened. “He’ll report this. They'll send more.”
“Yes.”
They both stared silently at the map, the weight of coming battles already creeping into their minds.
---
Elsewhere — Deep within Coalition High Command:
General Mordane stood before a tribunal. His face was gaunt, but his eyes still carried the same madness that had driven him.
The tribunal was silent for a long time.
“You failed,” one officer said coldly.
“I weakened them!” Mordane snapped. “Look at what I’ve done! Their defenses shattered—Solomon cannot last!”
“Your orders were to capture Solomon intact.”
“You violated Siege Protocols.”
“You used unauthorized weapons. They could have killed our own people.”
“I saved humanity!” Mordane shrieked.
The tribunal members exchanged glances.
“You’ve disgraced the Coalition.”
A pause. Then one officer calmly spoke:
“Dismissed, General.”
Two guards flanked Mordane. His career—and possibly his life—were now hanging by threads.
---
Back in Solomon:
As the sun set, the defenders stood watch atop restored walls. Repair work had already begun.
But something else had changed.
The story of Solomon’s stand was spreading.
The survivors would carry it across Tolkeen and beyond:
The town that broke the Coalition’s blade.
Small groups of Tolkeen reinforcements were already arriving, along with fresh supplies teleported through the circles of travel. Engineers, new mages, fresh troops.
Solomon would rebuild.
No one wanted to see what was happening.
No one could bring themselves to shoot. The militia’s hands trembled on their triggers, eyes wide with disbelief.
A veteran near the front dropped his rifle to his knees and whispered, “What kind of monsters...”
The Mystic Knight Sir Harvok stood atop the rubble that was the western wall, eyes locked on the Skelebots. “They’ve abandoned warfare,” he said, voice quiet. “This is desperation.”
The distant sound of Skelebot servos cutting through the tense air like a knife. Knight Two lay prone on the bell tower platform, his rifle cradled steady against his shoulder, its optics feeding him a crisp, unforgiving view.
The 10 Skelebots advanced methodically. Seven feet tall, three feet wide, 390 pounds of engineered obedience.
Strapped to the front of each Skelebot was a small figure—that looked disturbingly like D-Bee children, squirming or hanging limp.
Living shields.
Psychological warfare.
The Coalition commander wanted to break the defenders of Solomon.
Knight Two's mind processed what was happening. His finger rested near the trigger. "They want hesitation," he muttered to himself.
He analyzed the four options:
Surrender—unacceptable
Retreat—impossible under current time constraints
Surgical rescue attempt—low probability, too many variables.
That left the final option: engage and destroy.
The calculations ran through his mind. In psychological warfare there was always a probability of decoys, or worse—booby traps.
There were at least fifty-fifty odds on their authenticity. Regardless, the Skelebots intended to kill everyone if allowed to close range. The hostages were dead either way unless stopped now.
Knight Two lined up his shot. The lead Skelebot moved slower than the rest, putting its grotesque display fully on show.
The 'child' strapped to its chest twitched.
The shot cracked like a whip. The laser shot punched through the mannequin's skull, core, and into the Skelebot's primary sensor array.
The machine shuddered and stubbled forward blindly.
The second Skelebot advanced, stepping over its fallen comrade. This time, the 'child' flailed and screamed, its eyes wide in genuine terror.
Real.
His shot passed through the alien child's thin torso, tearing through flesh and bone, then smashed into the Skelebot's power core. The machine staggered, sparked, and collapsed. The D-Bee was gone before it hit the ground.
The third target moved forward. This time, the 'child' was rigid, lifeless, with an odd bulge in the abdomen. Knight Two recognized the signs: explosives.
His shot pierced it cleanly. The detonation was immediate. The Skelebot exploded, sending shrapnel through nearby.
Fourth target. The shot was surgical—center mass, then a rapid second round into the Skelebot's head before the chemicals could deploy. The machine collapsed with a hiss of venting gas.
"All units," Knight Two barked. "Engage."
The defenders of Solomon opened fire in unison. The remaining Skelebots, crumbled under the coordinated barrage.
Seconds later, the field of battle was littered with smoking wreckage and torn metal. The few surviving real D-Bees were lifeless, their fates sealed long before Knight Two ever pulled the trigger.
Knight Two stood, reloading his rifle with mechanical precision. His voice came calm and clear. “Neutralize any remaining threats. Fire Warlocks hit that area."
The bio-weapon and chemical dirty area of the Skelebots was asunder with fire.
Knight Two, "Water Warlocks, wash it."
Next, Water Warlocks hit the area with rain and ice.
Aftermath — The Cost of Holding the Line
The battlefield outside Solomon smoldered under a bruised sky.
The storm had finally passed, but the air remained thick with ash and the metallic stench of slaughter. Piles of twisted Skelebot frames littered the ground like rusting tombstones.
Behind Solomon’s rubble that were once walls:
The town was no longer a place of civilians and soldiers. For the moment, it was a giant field hospital.
Makeshift triage tents had sprung up where shops once stood. Grian moved like a force of nature, her hands glowing, eyes alight with soft golden sunlight as she calmly restore severed limbs, and stop internal bleeding. Her robes were soaked through with sweat, but she did not stop.
The Necromancer mended broken bones with power from the Nexus.
The Four Warlock Brothers stayed close, each working in turn to aid wounded with their respective skills and elemental gifts:
The Air Warlock with the spell "Breathe of Life" to bring back the dead.
The Earth Warlock with Holistic Medicine.
The Fire Warlock with the spell "Flame of Life."
The Water Warlock with Healing burns and providing water.
Air stank of burnt polymer and weaponized toxins. The earth was sick—bleeding, poisoned by the filth of war.
The people of Solomon could rebuild their walls, their homes, even their defenses.
And so the Biomancer stepped forward. In his wooden armor, he walked to the center of the most bio-hazard area, standing upon a mound of twisted metal. Around him, the remains of machines still hissed with residual heat. The broken bones of fallen D-Bees that had been lost here.
The Biomancer closed his eyes and knelt, pressing both hands deep into the ground.
He whispered directly to the soul of the earth itself.
A soft green glow began to emanate from beneath his palms. The Nexus energies of Solomon responded—quietly at first, then with rising resonance as the magic merged with the living pulse of the world.
The glow expanded outward in a perfect circle, spreading like a ripple across a pond, flowing across the battlefield at an even, steady pace in all directions.
As the spell took hold, the acrid chemicals broke down into harmless vapor.
Toxic substances dissolved, returning to inert elements buried harmlessly deep beneath the soil, leaving behind rich, dark soil.
The air itself seemed to brighten, the heavy taint lifting like a fog burned off by morning sun.
Shoots of grass pushed their way up from previously barren dirt.
Moss reclaimed scorched stones.
Wildflowers bloomed in cautious bursts of color.
The Biomancer stood as the circle finished its expansion.
Around him now lay a sanctuary of rebirth, a landscape perfectly suited for Solomon’s natural ecosystem to reclaim and thrive.
He opened his eyes, breathing deeply as the smell of burnt was replaced by the rich, vibrant aroma of living earth.
Behind him, townsfolk and defenders watched silently, almost reverently, as life returned to what had been before.
The people of Solomon were hollow-eyed but alive. They whispered to each other in hushed, disbelieving tones:
“We survived.”
“We held.”
“They didn’t break us.”
---
The command tent:
Knight Two stood over the new battle map. Harvek was seated across from him.
The map was no longer marked by Skelebot formations or siege trenches. Instead, it showed the wreckage of an entire Coalition battlegroup obliterated.
Harvek shook his head slowly.
“I still don’t believe we survived this.”
Knight Two’s voice was steady. “They underestimated the Warlocks. They are what made the biggest.”
Harvek's face hardened. “He’ll report this. They'll send more.”
“Yes.”
They both stared silently at the map, the weight of coming battles already creeping into their minds.
---
Elsewhere — Deep within Coalition High Command:
General Mordane stood before a tribunal. His face was gaunt, but his eyes still carried the same madness that had driven him.
The tribunal was silent for a long time.
“You failed,” one officer said coldly.
“I weakened them!” Mordane snapped. “Look at what I’ve done! Their defenses shattered—Solomon cannot last!”
“Your orders were to capture Solomon intact.”
“You violated Siege Protocols.”
“You used unauthorized weapons. They could have killed our own people.”
“I saved humanity!” Mordane shrieked.
The tribunal members exchanged glances.
“You’ve disgraced the Coalition.”
A pause. Then one officer calmly spoke:
“Dismissed, General.”
Two guards flanked Mordane. His career—and possibly his life—were now hanging by threads.
---
Back in Solomon:
As the sun set, the defenders stood watch atop restored walls. Repair work had already begun.
But something else had changed.
The story of Solomon’s stand was spreading.
The survivors would carry it across Tolkeen and beyond:
The town that broke the Coalition’s blade.
Small groups of Tolkeen reinforcements were already arriving, along with fresh supplies teleported through the circles of travel. Engineers, new mages, fresh troops.
Solomon would rebuild.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Coalition Inner Sanctum — Midnight Strategic Council Meeting
Once again, Prosek sits alone at the head of the obsidian war table. Around him are his top operatives.
The mood is tense. This is now no longer a theoretical discussion—this is a point of policy.
Director Helstrom (concise, but with a hint of caution):
“They have fulfilled their end of the contract, my Emperor. No sabotage, no trickery, no tampering with the equipment. Our agents confirm full compliance. They delivered exactly what was agreed upon.”
General Rockford (gruff), “Their discipline is impressive—for mercenaries. Professional scavengers, but not fools. And they know the rules of this game: deliver first, get paid second.”
Minister Carlisle (interjecting with caution), “Of course, merely following through does not make them loyal. Their discipline serves their own interests — profit, nothing else. As long as we continue to feed that hunger, they remain predictable. The moment we cross them, they become a liability.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (cold, openly hostile), “They are parasites. That they delivered on the agreement proves only that they seek to keep feeding. Poison the food shipments. Hide bombs them. End this now. While we are ahead and they are exposed to our attack when they pick up our payment.”
Prosek (silently watches the debate, then raises his hand — all fall silent.), "They have demonstrated competence. They have returned valuable Coalition assets that would otherwise be lost or resold to our enemies. They may serve again in the future — both as suppliers and as covert tools against other mercenary companies. Only a few hundred people inside the Coalition even know these transactions are occurring. Our infiltration into the broader mercenary market remains intact — if we burn this company now, others may hesitate to approach us, fearing betrayal. As long as we control the terms, this one compnay is not a threat. They are an instrument. The more dependent they become on this lucrative deal, the easier they will be to manipulate — or destroy — later. The inability to reliably track them long-range is noted.
(spoken slowly and deliberately) "We honor the transaction — for now. Deliver the agreed-upon payment. Out of Date Food, Previously owned Cybernetics. retired Electronics, expiring pharmaceutical, old seaonal clothing. None of these are weapons. They are overstolk and a step or two from the recycle and trash bin. Let them see that the Coalition is reliable—so long as it suits us.
No poison. No bombs. No betrayals this round.
Their greed keeps them useful. Inform them that if they wish to continue doing business, they must now bring us more. Specific Coalition assets we identify. Equipment taken from rival mercenaries fighting for Tolkeen.
And bodies—dead or alive—of mercenary commanders who resist us. Even bounty rates for Tolkeen's most famous.
Expand the contract. Make them see their fortunes tied to ours. The more they serve us, the more vulnerable they become. And when they are fat with wealth and utterly dependent...
Then we crush them.
But not before."
Director Helstrom (nodding in approval), “A slow tightening of the noose, my Emperor.”
Minister Carlisle, “Shall I prepare contingency narratives in case this becomes public knowledge?”
Prosek, “Yes. Two versions. One: We deny everything. Two: If useful later — we spin it as Coalition superiority over lawless opportunists—showing our power even extends to the black markets.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (reluctantly, but obediently), “So be it. But mark my words — no mercenary remains loyal once their belly is full.”
Prosek (with that faint, calculating smile), “That, Inquisitor, is why we never let them finish their meal.”
Once again, Prosek sits alone at the head of the obsidian war table. Around him are his top operatives.
The mood is tense. This is now no longer a theoretical discussion—this is a point of policy.
Director Helstrom (concise, but with a hint of caution):
“They have fulfilled their end of the contract, my Emperor. No sabotage, no trickery, no tampering with the equipment. Our agents confirm full compliance. They delivered exactly what was agreed upon.”
General Rockford (gruff), “Their discipline is impressive—for mercenaries. Professional scavengers, but not fools. And they know the rules of this game: deliver first, get paid second.”
Minister Carlisle (interjecting with caution), “Of course, merely following through does not make them loyal. Their discipline serves their own interests — profit, nothing else. As long as we continue to feed that hunger, they remain predictable. The moment we cross them, they become a liability.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (cold, openly hostile), “They are parasites. That they delivered on the agreement proves only that they seek to keep feeding. Poison the food shipments. Hide bombs them. End this now. While we are ahead and they are exposed to our attack when they pick up our payment.”
Prosek (silently watches the debate, then raises his hand — all fall silent.), "They have demonstrated competence. They have returned valuable Coalition assets that would otherwise be lost or resold to our enemies. They may serve again in the future — both as suppliers and as covert tools against other mercenary companies. Only a few hundred people inside the Coalition even know these transactions are occurring. Our infiltration into the broader mercenary market remains intact — if we burn this company now, others may hesitate to approach us, fearing betrayal. As long as we control the terms, this one compnay is not a threat. They are an instrument. The more dependent they become on this lucrative deal, the easier they will be to manipulate — or destroy — later. The inability to reliably track them long-range is noted.
(spoken slowly and deliberately) "We honor the transaction — for now. Deliver the agreed-upon payment. Out of Date Food, Previously owned Cybernetics. retired Electronics, expiring pharmaceutical, old seaonal clothing. None of these are weapons. They are overstolk and a step or two from the recycle and trash bin. Let them see that the Coalition is reliable—so long as it suits us.
No poison. No bombs. No betrayals this round.
Their greed keeps them useful. Inform them that if they wish to continue doing business, they must now bring us more. Specific Coalition assets we identify. Equipment taken from rival mercenaries fighting for Tolkeen.
And bodies—dead or alive—of mercenary commanders who resist us. Even bounty rates for Tolkeen's most famous.
Expand the contract. Make them see their fortunes tied to ours. The more they serve us, the more vulnerable they become. And when they are fat with wealth and utterly dependent...
Then we crush them.
But not before."
Director Helstrom (nodding in approval), “A slow tightening of the noose, my Emperor.”
Minister Carlisle, “Shall I prepare contingency narratives in case this becomes public knowledge?”
Prosek, “Yes. Two versions. One: We deny everything. Two: If useful later — we spin it as Coalition superiority over lawless opportunists—showing our power even extends to the black markets.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (reluctantly, but obediently), “So be it. But mark my words — no mercenary remains loyal once their belly is full.”
Prosek (with that faint, calculating smile), “That, Inquisitor, is why we never let them finish their meal.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The refugee trail
The convoy of refugees slowly moves along the rough trail, the rumble of wagons blending with the murmurs of displaced souls. Near the front, Lady Serana rides, overseeing the movement of the people.
A messenger on horseback, wearing Knight One’s crest on his cloak, rides up alongside Lady Serana’s horse. He slows to match her pace and produces a sealed scroll and a carefully folded map.
The messenger, “From Knight One, milady. His personal request.”
Lady Serana accepts it, expression cautious but unreadable. She breaks the seal, quickly skimming the short message:
Lady Serana,
You are self-sufficient for your basic needs. But we both know you are not in a financial position to repay the debt you owe me anytime soon, nor are you likely to become so unless you abandon your present calling — which I know you won’t.
You ask no payment from those you aid.
That’s your path — I respect it.
However, there is a service you can perform to clear the debt.
Attached is a map.
I seek the remains of the six Cyber-Knights slain by Lady White in duels. She may have viewed them as dishonorable, but others might see it differently.
I do not know where Lady White laid them to rest, or if she did at all. But I suspect you may have better standing to inquire than I. If you can provide me with locations and names — even approximate locations — I will consider your debt paid in full.
This is information, not labor. You need not abandon your refugees to do this.
Respectfully,
Knight One
Lady Serana folds the scroll slowly, then takes a long look at the map. It shows the regions Lady White and her White Knights operated in heavily—ambush sites, battle zones, deep wilderness.
Lady Serana (talking to herself), “Information... not action. You could do this, Serana.”
(firm but tired)
“Yes, I could. But I’ll have to ask Lady White for it.”
She exhales deeply, staring into the horizon where Lady White’s group last went.
Lady Serana, “This isn’t about tactics. This is about trust. And whether she’s willing to share it.”
She pockets the scroll and map into a secure pouch.
“Either way... I’ll ask.”
---
Later that evening
The sun dips low as Lady Serana rides into Lady White’s small camp where her freebooters are relaxing. The men glance at her but give no challenge.
Lady White stands by the fire (smirking), “Come to check up on me, or are you finally bored of playing shepherd?”
Serana dismounts quietly. “Neither. I’ve come to ask for something.”
Lady White studies her with mild amusement. “Go on.”
Lady Serana holds her ground, steady, direct. “The six Cyber-Knights you slew in duels. I need to know where their remains are. Names and places.”
The amusement fades from Lady White’s face. The camp grows quieter.
(after a beat)
“Why?”
“Because someone wants them returned to their families. Or perhaps to the Fellowship.”
Lady White narrows her eyes, but her tone is measured. “They were dishonorable. They broke their code long before they broke their blades.”
“I am not asking you to surrender anything. I am asking for the truth. A truth that might let others mourn properly.”
Lady White’s lips press together. She stares into the fire for a long time, saying nothing. Then, quietly, “I buried five. The sixth... didn’t leave enough to bury.”
She turns to one of her lieutenants, who brings her a small leather-bound notebook from a saddlebag.
“I kept records. Names. Coordinates. Dates.”
She holds the book for a moment, studying Serana’s face. Then finally extends it. “Don’t ever ask me for anything like this again.”
Serana accepts it, her tone soft. “I won’t.”
Lady White steps back toward the fire, voice colder now. “They earned their fate. Don’t make me regret letting you carry it.”
Serana nods once. Then turns and rides back into the dark, with the small notebook secured at her side and a debt nearly paid.
---
Location: Somewhere in the Kingdom of Tolkeen
The ancient pines swayed gently under the soft, whispering wind, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. Shafts of fading amber light broke through the canopy as night approached, staining the forest floor in fractured gold.
This was remote country—untouched by war, unclaimed by settlements. It was quiet, but not peaceful. The air carried the weight of old death.
In the center of a shallow clearing, two figures stood—the Necromancer and his wilderness guide. The Necromancer, wrapped in brown wilderness robes, held in both hands a wishbone as long as a man’s arm, pulled from the breast of some giant mountain bird. The ends trembled with life, quivering faintly like antennae.
The guide stood nearby, eyes wary, hands resting lightly on his hunting bow. He said nothing as the Necromancer slowly stepped forward, letting the bone guide him.
The wishbone twitched sharply, the tips bending ever so slightly toward the northeast. He shifted his feet accordingly, following the unseen thread as the bone pulled him like a dowsing rod toward its target.
Every few steps, the vibration grew stronger—a faint pulsing through his fingertips, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
Tens of minutes passed. The Necromancer advanced in slow, deliberate strides, until suddenly—
The vibration ceased.
The wishbone stilled in his hands, becoming rigid. Its faint hum of power fell silent.
Necromancer (softly), “Here.”
He knelt down and produced the shovel made from human femurs and spinal vertebrae, its handle polished to a pale sheen. Gripping it with both hands, he plunged it into the soft loam.
The shovel cut into the earth effortlessly yet the Necromancer’s breathing remained steady and unlabored, his robes barely stirring with the movement. Soil flew behind him in rhythmic bursts, and within minutes, a dark hollow began to form.
Soon, the shovel struck something solid with a dull thud.
Carefully, the Necromancer brushed away the last layer of earth with his gloved fingers, revealing a partial wooden coffin, half-rotted, its lid collapsed under the weight of time and soil.
With a final push, he exposed the remains.
Lying beneath him was the skeletal remains of a Cyber-Knight.
The armor, once proud, was now dulled and pitted, but largely intact—the polished plates fused to his bones, still clinging like a second skin. The armor bore deep cuts—sword strikes, clean and precise, especially across the chest and helm, evidence of the lethal duel that ended his life.
The helmet had been removed before burial, set reverently upon the body’s chest, hands folded over it.
Beneath the helmet, tucked into the breastplate, was a small leather pouch, surprisingly intact.
Inside, protected from moisture, the Necromancer found:
A simple identification scroll, with the deceased’s name:
Sir Cedric Nalen of the Fellowship of Cyber-Knights.
A prayer strip, inscribed with a personal mantra in his own hand:
“I fall with honor so others may stand.”
No grave marker stood above. No monument.
The Necromancer studied the remains for a long moment. He did not speak. Instead, he lowered himself to the edge of the open grave and simply rested. The soft wind whispered through the trees while the wilderness guide stood silent nearby, glancing around uneasily as if sensing the weight of unnatural forces gathering.
The Necromancer inhaled deeply, his gloved fingers resting against his knees, centering himself.
Then the chant began.
Low, rhythmic, and in an old tongue few dared speak aloud, his voice pulsed with power.
The ritual continued, uninterrupted, for nearly an hour. The very air grew heavy, the ground itself seemed to pulse faintly with life and death intermingled. The wilderness scout shifted anxiously but did not interrupt.
As the ritual reached its crescendo, a smoke coalesced over the remains like a shroud. And then—the transformation began.
The corpse knit itself back together.
The skeletal frame thickened, bone shifting and reshaping. Missing ribs reformed, shattered vertebrae realigned, and severed ligaments regenerated as if woven by unseen hands.
Muscle tissue blossomed, stretching smoothly over bone like clay being molded. Torn sinew wrapped around limbs. Skin, pale and lifeless, crept across the form like liquid marble, smoothing into place, sealing wounds and scars.
Where Lady White’s sword strikes had once split him open, now faint scar lines like pale silver threads remained — echoes of the fatal duel that took his life.
The Cyber-Knight now lay before the Necromancer, not as a shattered corpse, but as a fully restored, lifeless man—strong, clad in his armor, his face calm, as if asleep. His hair was black, his skin smooth though lacking any warmth.
The helmet still rested on his chest, the broken sword still at his side.
The Necromancer exhaled slowly, the spell complete. "Now you are whole again. For the work to come."
He stood, voice still calm but laced with satisfaction (to his guide), "The restoration is done. His remains will be easier to preserve... and to transport."
The guide stared at the fully restored knight, unnerved. "And what now?"
The Necromancer’s expression remained distant. "Now we repeat this… five more times."
But then, he tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear—a silent chorus from beyond the veil.
He raised his left hand, fingers curling in a series of deliberate, intricate gestures. As he spoke, his voice dropped to a low, resonant whisper, almost like a chant, but sharper—more commanding.
A faint pulse of necrotic energy rippled outward from his palm, coiling around the floating, restored corpse like thin strands of black silk.
The Cyber-Knight's restored body slowly stood up. For a moment, it stood motionless—perfect, silent.
Then the eyes opened—not truly alive, but faintly glowing with an unnatural, vacant light.
The knight moved.
Mechanical, stiff at first, like a puppet learning to stand, its head twitched slightly to align with the Necromancer’s position. The restored Cyber-Knight stood upright, breathing non-existent, but posture correct, awaiting its master’s command.
The wilderness guide took an instinctive step back, unable to hide his unease. "By the gods... you’ve made it walk."
The Necromancer did not look at him, eyes still fixed on the reanimated knight. "I have made it useful."
The Cyber-Knight shifted slightly as the Necromancer gestured once again. The magic now fully settled into the body, converting it into what was, in essence, an animated dead.
"This is efficiency. One less burden for our backs. He will walk himself to rejoin the others."
The Necromancer whispered a command in the tongue of death, and the animated knight began walking, slow and steady, following behind them like a silent, armored sentinel.
The guide swallowed his discomfort as they pressed onward into the darkening forest.
The two living men moved through the moonlit trees. Behind them followed the armored figure, walking with mechanical precision. His armor softly clinked with every step.
The Necromancer's smile was thin.
The forest whispered again as they moved deeper into the northern wilderness, seeking the next grave.
The convoy of refugees slowly moves along the rough trail, the rumble of wagons blending with the murmurs of displaced souls. Near the front, Lady Serana rides, overseeing the movement of the people.
A messenger on horseback, wearing Knight One’s crest on his cloak, rides up alongside Lady Serana’s horse. He slows to match her pace and produces a sealed scroll and a carefully folded map.
The messenger, “From Knight One, milady. His personal request.”
Lady Serana accepts it, expression cautious but unreadable. She breaks the seal, quickly skimming the short message:
Lady Serana,
You are self-sufficient for your basic needs. But we both know you are not in a financial position to repay the debt you owe me anytime soon, nor are you likely to become so unless you abandon your present calling — which I know you won’t.
You ask no payment from those you aid.
That’s your path — I respect it.
However, there is a service you can perform to clear the debt.
Attached is a map.
I seek the remains of the six Cyber-Knights slain by Lady White in duels. She may have viewed them as dishonorable, but others might see it differently.
I do not know where Lady White laid them to rest, or if she did at all. But I suspect you may have better standing to inquire than I. If you can provide me with locations and names — even approximate locations — I will consider your debt paid in full.
This is information, not labor. You need not abandon your refugees to do this.
Respectfully,
Knight One
Lady Serana folds the scroll slowly, then takes a long look at the map. It shows the regions Lady White and her White Knights operated in heavily—ambush sites, battle zones, deep wilderness.
Lady Serana (talking to herself), “Information... not action. You could do this, Serana.”
(firm but tired)
“Yes, I could. But I’ll have to ask Lady White for it.”
She exhales deeply, staring into the horizon where Lady White’s group last went.
Lady Serana, “This isn’t about tactics. This is about trust. And whether she’s willing to share it.”
She pockets the scroll and map into a secure pouch.
“Either way... I’ll ask.”
---
Later that evening
The sun dips low as Lady Serana rides into Lady White’s small camp where her freebooters are relaxing. The men glance at her but give no challenge.
Lady White stands by the fire (smirking), “Come to check up on me, or are you finally bored of playing shepherd?”
Serana dismounts quietly. “Neither. I’ve come to ask for something.”
Lady White studies her with mild amusement. “Go on.”
Lady Serana holds her ground, steady, direct. “The six Cyber-Knights you slew in duels. I need to know where their remains are. Names and places.”
The amusement fades from Lady White’s face. The camp grows quieter.
(after a beat)
“Why?”
“Because someone wants them returned to their families. Or perhaps to the Fellowship.”
Lady White narrows her eyes, but her tone is measured. “They were dishonorable. They broke their code long before they broke their blades.”
“I am not asking you to surrender anything. I am asking for the truth. A truth that might let others mourn properly.”
Lady White’s lips press together. She stares into the fire for a long time, saying nothing. Then, quietly, “I buried five. The sixth... didn’t leave enough to bury.”
She turns to one of her lieutenants, who brings her a small leather-bound notebook from a saddlebag.
“I kept records. Names. Coordinates. Dates.”
She holds the book for a moment, studying Serana’s face. Then finally extends it. “Don’t ever ask me for anything like this again.”
Serana accepts it, her tone soft. “I won’t.”
Lady White steps back toward the fire, voice colder now. “They earned their fate. Don’t make me regret letting you carry it.”
Serana nods once. Then turns and rides back into the dark, with the small notebook secured at her side and a debt nearly paid.
---
Location: Somewhere in the Kingdom of Tolkeen
The ancient pines swayed gently under the soft, whispering wind, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. Shafts of fading amber light broke through the canopy as night approached, staining the forest floor in fractured gold.
This was remote country—untouched by war, unclaimed by settlements. It was quiet, but not peaceful. The air carried the weight of old death.
In the center of a shallow clearing, two figures stood—the Necromancer and his wilderness guide. The Necromancer, wrapped in brown wilderness robes, held in both hands a wishbone as long as a man’s arm, pulled from the breast of some giant mountain bird. The ends trembled with life, quivering faintly like antennae.
The guide stood nearby, eyes wary, hands resting lightly on his hunting bow. He said nothing as the Necromancer slowly stepped forward, letting the bone guide him.
The wishbone twitched sharply, the tips bending ever so slightly toward the northeast. He shifted his feet accordingly, following the unseen thread as the bone pulled him like a dowsing rod toward its target.
Every few steps, the vibration grew stronger—a faint pulsing through his fingertips, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
Tens of minutes passed. The Necromancer advanced in slow, deliberate strides, until suddenly—
The vibration ceased.
The wishbone stilled in his hands, becoming rigid. Its faint hum of power fell silent.
Necromancer (softly), “Here.”
He knelt down and produced the shovel made from human femurs and spinal vertebrae, its handle polished to a pale sheen. Gripping it with both hands, he plunged it into the soft loam.
The shovel cut into the earth effortlessly yet the Necromancer’s breathing remained steady and unlabored, his robes barely stirring with the movement. Soil flew behind him in rhythmic bursts, and within minutes, a dark hollow began to form.
Soon, the shovel struck something solid with a dull thud.
Carefully, the Necromancer brushed away the last layer of earth with his gloved fingers, revealing a partial wooden coffin, half-rotted, its lid collapsed under the weight of time and soil.
With a final push, he exposed the remains.
Lying beneath him was the skeletal remains of a Cyber-Knight.
The armor, once proud, was now dulled and pitted, but largely intact—the polished plates fused to his bones, still clinging like a second skin. The armor bore deep cuts—sword strikes, clean and precise, especially across the chest and helm, evidence of the lethal duel that ended his life.
The helmet had been removed before burial, set reverently upon the body’s chest, hands folded over it.
Beneath the helmet, tucked into the breastplate, was a small leather pouch, surprisingly intact.
Inside, protected from moisture, the Necromancer found:
A simple identification scroll, with the deceased’s name:
Sir Cedric Nalen of the Fellowship of Cyber-Knights.
A prayer strip, inscribed with a personal mantra in his own hand:
“I fall with honor so others may stand.”
No grave marker stood above. No monument.
The Necromancer studied the remains for a long moment. He did not speak. Instead, he lowered himself to the edge of the open grave and simply rested. The soft wind whispered through the trees while the wilderness guide stood silent nearby, glancing around uneasily as if sensing the weight of unnatural forces gathering.
The Necromancer inhaled deeply, his gloved fingers resting against his knees, centering himself.
Then the chant began.
Low, rhythmic, and in an old tongue few dared speak aloud, his voice pulsed with power.
The ritual continued, uninterrupted, for nearly an hour. The very air grew heavy, the ground itself seemed to pulse faintly with life and death intermingled. The wilderness scout shifted anxiously but did not interrupt.
As the ritual reached its crescendo, a smoke coalesced over the remains like a shroud. And then—the transformation began.
The corpse knit itself back together.
The skeletal frame thickened, bone shifting and reshaping. Missing ribs reformed, shattered vertebrae realigned, and severed ligaments regenerated as if woven by unseen hands.
Muscle tissue blossomed, stretching smoothly over bone like clay being molded. Torn sinew wrapped around limbs. Skin, pale and lifeless, crept across the form like liquid marble, smoothing into place, sealing wounds and scars.
Where Lady White’s sword strikes had once split him open, now faint scar lines like pale silver threads remained — echoes of the fatal duel that took his life.
The Cyber-Knight now lay before the Necromancer, not as a shattered corpse, but as a fully restored, lifeless man—strong, clad in his armor, his face calm, as if asleep. His hair was black, his skin smooth though lacking any warmth.
The helmet still rested on his chest, the broken sword still at his side.
The Necromancer exhaled slowly, the spell complete. "Now you are whole again. For the work to come."
He stood, voice still calm but laced with satisfaction (to his guide), "The restoration is done. His remains will be easier to preserve... and to transport."
The guide stared at the fully restored knight, unnerved. "And what now?"
The Necromancer’s expression remained distant. "Now we repeat this… five more times."
But then, he tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear—a silent chorus from beyond the veil.
He raised his left hand, fingers curling in a series of deliberate, intricate gestures. As he spoke, his voice dropped to a low, resonant whisper, almost like a chant, but sharper—more commanding.
A faint pulse of necrotic energy rippled outward from his palm, coiling around the floating, restored corpse like thin strands of black silk.
The Cyber-Knight's restored body slowly stood up. For a moment, it stood motionless—perfect, silent.
Then the eyes opened—not truly alive, but faintly glowing with an unnatural, vacant light.
The knight moved.
Mechanical, stiff at first, like a puppet learning to stand, its head twitched slightly to align with the Necromancer’s position. The restored Cyber-Knight stood upright, breathing non-existent, but posture correct, awaiting its master’s command.
The wilderness guide took an instinctive step back, unable to hide his unease. "By the gods... you’ve made it walk."
The Necromancer did not look at him, eyes still fixed on the reanimated knight. "I have made it useful."
The Cyber-Knight shifted slightly as the Necromancer gestured once again. The magic now fully settled into the body, converting it into what was, in essence, an animated dead.
"This is efficiency. One less burden for our backs. He will walk himself to rejoin the others."
The Necromancer whispered a command in the tongue of death, and the animated knight began walking, slow and steady, following behind them like a silent, armored sentinel.
The guide swallowed his discomfort as they pressed onward into the darkening forest.
The two living men moved through the moonlit trees. Behind them followed the armored figure, walking with mechanical precision. His armor softly clinked with every step.
The Necromancer's smile was thin.
The forest whispered again as they moved deeper into the northern wilderness, seeking the next grave.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Sanctuary of the Tree of Wisdom
Hidden deep stands the Tree.
Knight Three sits cross-legged at the base of the trunk, close enough that his bare hand rests lightly against the bark. His breathing is slow, measured, eyes closed. His mind is open.
Images pulse into Knight Three’s consciousness:
Lumerian artisans crafting working with sea glass, the melody of their forgotten songs humming in the background.
Healers weaving biomancy threads to treat coral-born wounds.
Engineers growing architecture, towering spirals of living stone.
Scholars debating the ethics of manipulating ocean currents through magic.
Children playing gravity-defying water games beneath the great domes.
Emotions surge with the images: awe, pride, curiosity, and tranquility that these people, and their world.
All are long gone.
The Tree’s instinctual need to share is almost desperate now, pushing more memories forward — hungering for the exchange. In return, Knight Three projects his own offerings: recent memories and his own emotions — ambition, calculation, and guarded respect.
The connection is not language. It's sensation. Images. Emotion. Mutual feeding.
---
The sun hung like molten brass over the flat mirror of the Pacific, its light shimmering across the endless blue. A lonely island of pale sand rose from the water like the back of some ancient creature, its surface barely large enough to host the cluster of supplies and study materials the young biomancer had ferried here weeks before.
Knight Thre knelt on the warm sand, breathing slowly, feeling every grain beneath his knees. The faint scent of salt and distant kelp rode the breeze. Around him, the tools of his discipline were arranged with the care, tiny glass pots of seeds, and a battered leather-bound journal filled with diagrams and notes, their pages curling at the edges from the constant humidity.
The lesson had been simple in theory: accelerate life’s rhythm without breaking it.
But theory did not prepare him for the intimacy of it.
His hand hovered over the small hole he had dug, a seed resting inside like a sleeping heart. He whispered the first incantation, channeling the threads of biomancy through his fingertips. The seed twitched, shuddered, and then cracked open. A fragile green tendril uncoiled from within, reaching for the sky. The sapling emerged, wobbling but alive.
Sweat beaded along Knight Three's brow. This was the easy part. The true spell was next.
He drew a deep breath, grounding himself in the rhythm of life surrounding him—the cry of seabirds, the pulse of waves, the stirring wind. He spoke the words, slow and deliberate, his voice weaving into the living world. His palms glowed faintly, the light of raw growth magic pooling and spilling over the sapling.
The transformation was instant. The plant surged upward, its trunk thickening and branches exploding outward in elegant arcs. Leaves unfurled like emerald flags, and blossoms erupted at the tips, rapidly swelling into ripe, heavy fruit. The scent of sweetness filled the air.
Knight Three could barely contain his awe. The small tree now stood twice his height, its branches laden with vibrant orbs of fruit glistening like rubies under the sun.
"Life's rhythm," he whispered to himself, heart pounding. "Not forced. Invited."
He ran a hand across the bark, feeling its warmth, its hum of vitality. This was not theft of time. This was partnership with nature, urging it forward on its own potential path.
Knight Three sat back on his heels, the Pacific breeze ruffling his hair, and for the first time in his training, he felt it: mastery. The spark of true biomancy lived now in his hands.
---
The tree’s satisfaction radiates as a warm current through his chest, like a low harmonic chord vibrating in his bones.
Around him, three others sleep or meditate in similar communion — with the Trees young children. These people were old and near death. This was their “last call.”
Their bodies are sustained by magic so they have no need for food or water or bathroom breaks.
The Trees took from them, their life’s experiences, and gave them the experiences of the lives and adventures of others. They lived through ten times the day theys would have had in a rest home, but in the life's experiences of another time and another world: without boredom, loneliness or pain. And then they would pass away.
The latest memory transfers end with a sensation like the closing of a great book.
The Tree rests.
Knight Three opens his eyes. His mind holds the faint impression of a new spell inside him.
He leans back against the warm bark. The Tree feels like it softly approves.
Hidden deep stands the Tree.
Knight Three sits cross-legged at the base of the trunk, close enough that his bare hand rests lightly against the bark. His breathing is slow, measured, eyes closed. His mind is open.
Images pulse into Knight Three’s consciousness:
Lumerian artisans crafting working with sea glass, the melody of their forgotten songs humming in the background.
Healers weaving biomancy threads to treat coral-born wounds.
Engineers growing architecture, towering spirals of living stone.
Scholars debating the ethics of manipulating ocean currents through magic.
Children playing gravity-defying water games beneath the great domes.
Emotions surge with the images: awe, pride, curiosity, and tranquility that these people, and their world.
All are long gone.
The Tree’s instinctual need to share is almost desperate now, pushing more memories forward — hungering for the exchange. In return, Knight Three projects his own offerings: recent memories and his own emotions — ambition, calculation, and guarded respect.
The connection is not language. It's sensation. Images. Emotion. Mutual feeding.
---
The sun hung like molten brass over the flat mirror of the Pacific, its light shimmering across the endless blue. A lonely island of pale sand rose from the water like the back of some ancient creature, its surface barely large enough to host the cluster of supplies and study materials the young biomancer had ferried here weeks before.
Knight Thre knelt on the warm sand, breathing slowly, feeling every grain beneath his knees. The faint scent of salt and distant kelp rode the breeze. Around him, the tools of his discipline were arranged with the care, tiny glass pots of seeds, and a battered leather-bound journal filled with diagrams and notes, their pages curling at the edges from the constant humidity.
The lesson had been simple in theory: accelerate life’s rhythm without breaking it.
But theory did not prepare him for the intimacy of it.
His hand hovered over the small hole he had dug, a seed resting inside like a sleeping heart. He whispered the first incantation, channeling the threads of biomancy through his fingertips. The seed twitched, shuddered, and then cracked open. A fragile green tendril uncoiled from within, reaching for the sky. The sapling emerged, wobbling but alive.
Sweat beaded along Knight Three's brow. This was the easy part. The true spell was next.
He drew a deep breath, grounding himself in the rhythm of life surrounding him—the cry of seabirds, the pulse of waves, the stirring wind. He spoke the words, slow and deliberate, his voice weaving into the living world. His palms glowed faintly, the light of raw growth magic pooling and spilling over the sapling.
The transformation was instant. The plant surged upward, its trunk thickening and branches exploding outward in elegant arcs. Leaves unfurled like emerald flags, and blossoms erupted at the tips, rapidly swelling into ripe, heavy fruit. The scent of sweetness filled the air.
Knight Three could barely contain his awe. The small tree now stood twice his height, its branches laden with vibrant orbs of fruit glistening like rubies under the sun.
"Life's rhythm," he whispered to himself, heart pounding. "Not forced. Invited."
He ran a hand across the bark, feeling its warmth, its hum of vitality. This was not theft of time. This was partnership with nature, urging it forward on its own potential path.
Knight Three sat back on his heels, the Pacific breeze ruffling his hair, and for the first time in his training, he felt it: mastery. The spark of true biomancy lived now in his hands.
---
The tree’s satisfaction radiates as a warm current through his chest, like a low harmonic chord vibrating in his bones.
Around him, three others sleep or meditate in similar communion — with the Trees young children. These people were old and near death. This was their “last call.”
Their bodies are sustained by magic so they have no need for food or water or bathroom breaks.
The Trees took from them, their life’s experiences, and gave them the experiences of the lives and adventures of others. They lived through ten times the day theys would have had in a rest home, but in the life's experiences of another time and another world: without boredom, loneliness or pain. And then they would pass away.
The latest memory transfers end with a sensation like the closing of a great book.
The Tree rests.
Knight Three opens his eyes. His mind holds the faint impression of a new spell inside him.
He leans back against the warm bark. The Tree feels like it softly approves.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
War Journal
Location: Forward Encampment, Wastelands, Northern Iowa
The Lord hungers again.
Today, the Gargoyle Lord stood upon the ridge before dawn, wings flexed wide against the dying stars, eyes burning like twin furnace coals. Ten of his gurgoyle grunts crouched at his feet—hulking, patient, eager. They await his word, but his word is mine to craft. As always.
The Coalition patrol base at Grid Reference C-49 became our target this morning. An outpost so as to draw their full fury in reprisal. I sold it to the Gargoyle Lord, Krag'Sharr, as a worthy meal, and he accepted. He needs only to believe it will test his strength. The grunts need blood and broken bodies. I give them both.
Their instincts are pure aggression, but without the leash of my counsel, they would charge blindly into fortified positions or walk into Coalition kill zones designed to break even the most brutal of monsters.
The Gurgoyles are not mindless—they simply do not care for strategy. I am the courtier; the whisperer. They crave the hunt, I give them prey.
At 0500 hours, under cover of pre-dawn fog, we advanced. The vassals moved like iron golems through the mist, their footfalls shaking the ground.
The Coalition has not predicted our pattern because I have kept it random. Random attacks camouflage where we are going to attack next.
The grunts descended upon the Coalition’s border outpost with savage glee. Laser bursts from the Coalition riflemen barely slowed them.
Even as limbs were lost, their regeneration would make them whole again in a day or two.
The Gurgoyles descended upon the Coalition Grunts with savage brutality. Laser bursts splashed against their flesh, doing little more than scorching their hides.
The Coalition riflemen panicked as the towering brutes charged through their perimeter, shrugging off rifle fire. When a limb was blasted off by concentrated fire, the vassals howled but fought on undeterred.
Then came the Gargoyle Lord, Krag'Sharr.
He landed among the enemy lines like a meteor, two tons of unstoppable might crushing a defensive emplacement underfoot. His wings folded as his blazing eyes locked onto the Coalition's Robot. The machine's railguns opened fire, but Krag'Sharr was already moving—a blur of motion nearly twice as fast as any human response. He vaulted thirty feet in a single bound, landing atop the mech. His claws ripped through the armored carapace like tearing paper.
Around him, the Gurgoyles rampaged through the defenders. Screams filled the air as soldiers were torn apart, their bodies flung like broken dolls. Blood and viscera slicked the ground as the Gurgoyles feasted amid the slaughter, their hunger momentarily sated.
Much of my work is already done. My role is not to fight, but to guide the fury and support theirs.
My spell of “Armor Bizzare” both keeps them all in the fight longer and disguises them while terrifying the Coalition grunts.
The Lord glanced back once, his eyes studying my reaction as his Gurgoyle grunts fed upon the broken bodies of men and beast.
I nodded.
He smiles.
By 0615, the outpost was blood and bone.
The Gargoyle Lord comes alive with each battle. His grunts grow restless in anticipation. They are not patient creatures, nor should they be.
I must continue to select targets that satisfy their thirst for battle while maintaining the unpredictability.
The Coalition will send more forces soon. Kill-hounds. Possibly even robot divisions.
The Coalition should believe these raids are random acts of monstrous savagery.
They do not see the hand that guides the beasts. And through his battles, I have studied the way this Gargoyle Lord and his Gurgoyles fight, as well as how the Coalition responds to these Guerrilla warfare raids.
End Entry.
Location: Forward Encampment, Wastelands, Northern Iowa
The Lord hungers again.
Today, the Gargoyle Lord stood upon the ridge before dawn, wings flexed wide against the dying stars, eyes burning like twin furnace coals. Ten of his gurgoyle grunts crouched at his feet—hulking, patient, eager. They await his word, but his word is mine to craft. As always.
The Coalition patrol base at Grid Reference C-49 became our target this morning. An outpost so as to draw their full fury in reprisal. I sold it to the Gargoyle Lord, Krag'Sharr, as a worthy meal, and he accepted. He needs only to believe it will test his strength. The grunts need blood and broken bodies. I give them both.
Their instincts are pure aggression, but without the leash of my counsel, they would charge blindly into fortified positions or walk into Coalition kill zones designed to break even the most brutal of monsters.
The Gurgoyles are not mindless—they simply do not care for strategy. I am the courtier; the whisperer. They crave the hunt, I give them prey.
At 0500 hours, under cover of pre-dawn fog, we advanced. The vassals moved like iron golems through the mist, their footfalls shaking the ground.
The Coalition has not predicted our pattern because I have kept it random. Random attacks camouflage where we are going to attack next.
The grunts descended upon the Coalition’s border outpost with savage glee. Laser bursts from the Coalition riflemen barely slowed them.
Even as limbs were lost, their regeneration would make them whole again in a day or two.
The Gurgoyles descended upon the Coalition Grunts with savage brutality. Laser bursts splashed against their flesh, doing little more than scorching their hides.
The Coalition riflemen panicked as the towering brutes charged through their perimeter, shrugging off rifle fire. When a limb was blasted off by concentrated fire, the vassals howled but fought on undeterred.
Then came the Gargoyle Lord, Krag'Sharr.
He landed among the enemy lines like a meteor, two tons of unstoppable might crushing a defensive emplacement underfoot. His wings folded as his blazing eyes locked onto the Coalition's Robot. The machine's railguns opened fire, but Krag'Sharr was already moving—a blur of motion nearly twice as fast as any human response. He vaulted thirty feet in a single bound, landing atop the mech. His claws ripped through the armored carapace like tearing paper.
Around him, the Gurgoyles rampaged through the defenders. Screams filled the air as soldiers were torn apart, their bodies flung like broken dolls. Blood and viscera slicked the ground as the Gurgoyles feasted amid the slaughter, their hunger momentarily sated.
Much of my work is already done. My role is not to fight, but to guide the fury and support theirs.
My spell of “Armor Bizzare” both keeps them all in the fight longer and disguises them while terrifying the Coalition grunts.
The Lord glanced back once, his eyes studying my reaction as his Gurgoyle grunts fed upon the broken bodies of men and beast.
I nodded.
He smiles.
By 0615, the outpost was blood and bone.
The Gargoyle Lord comes alive with each battle. His grunts grow restless in anticipation. They are not patient creatures, nor should they be.
I must continue to select targets that satisfy their thirst for battle while maintaining the unpredictability.
The Coalition will send more forces soon. Kill-hounds. Possibly even robot divisions.
The Coalition should believe these raids are random acts of monstrous savagery.
They do not see the hand that guides the beasts. And through his battles, I have studied the way this Gargoyle Lord and his Gurgoyles fight, as well as how the Coalition responds to these Guerrilla warfare raids.
End Entry.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Refugee Train West
The sky hangs low, heavy with thin gray clouds that filter the sunlight into a dim, silvery glow. The forest is dense and old, a living cathedral of towering trees, their gnarled branches reaching high above like the twisted ribs of some great beast.
The air is damp, thick with the earthy scent of moss, wet bark, and rotting leaves. Every step into this place feels like entering a world abandoned centuries ago.
At the vanguard of this fragile exodus moves Lady Serana, blades drawn.
Her Psi-Machetes cast twin arcs of glowing, psychic energy. Each slash sends thick vines, creeping brambles, and hanging roots tumbling aside in neat, steaming slices. Their edges never dull, their cuts always precise. She moves with practiced rhythm: step, slash, glance ahead, listen.
Beside her, weaving in and out of the debris like a hunting animal, is the D-Bee wilderness scout—a short, wiry figure with a battered field cap, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. A small hand computer flickers in his gloved hands, constantly updating a rough digital map as they push forward. The device quietly as it marks obstacles, elevation changes, and safe zones behind them for the caravan.
The scout, “Soft patch ahead. Mud’s thick as soup. Heavy wagons’ll sink for sure.”
Serana halts for a moment, her breath steady, eyes sweeping over the ground—a sunken hollow, where rainwater from weeks ago still lurks under a thin skin of moss and reeds.
Lady Serana,“We’ll skirt north. Add a half-mile. Safer than losing wagons.”
The scout nods, tapping notes into his map, the alien computer projecting a faintly glowing holographic route before them. Every decision like this costs them precious time, but it's better than lost lives or injuries.
Around them, the ruins of humanity’s long-dead empire rise in broken glimpses. Twisted metal girders, once skeletal remains of ancient buildings or bridges, protrude from the forest floor like fossilized ribs. Corroded steel beams, half-swallowed by trunks and vines, bear faded remnants of pre-cataclysm civilization—pieces of forgotten cities, consumed by nature.
The ground underfoot constantly shifts—uneven roots, sudden sinkholes, and the treacherous weight of waterlogged soil forcing them to slow to a crawl.
Insects buzz around them in small, relentless swarms. Somewhere distant, the sharp cry of a wild predator echoes through the trees. The wilderness is alive, but indifferent.
As they round a bend, Lady Serana stops abruptly. A massive, boulder the size of a house, slick with moss and spiderweb-thin cracks, blocks the narrow pass ahead.
The D-BeeScout (frowning), “Not going over that.”
Serana eyes it carefully, weighing the options. “Another detour.”
The scout grimaces, muttering under his breath as he adjusts the mapping again. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to make ten miles by week’s end.”
Serana doesn't respond immediately. She gazes westward, past the obstacles, past the crushing wilderness, toward some unseen future.
“We’ll make it.” Her voice is calm, but iron-hard.
The scout glances at her—tired, but reassured. He knows she means it. He’s seen too many break along the way, but not her.
Serana raises both Psi-Machetes, slicing a fresh path through a dense curtain of hanging vines. Beyond, the trail continues, snaking like a narrow scar through the wild.
They press on.
Behind them, far back but steadily moving, thousands of refugees inch their way west, following the trail carved by the blades and courage of those ahead.
Toward Colorado.
---
Location: The Homestead
The land stretched wide and green under a pale, cloud-scattered sky. Towering cottonwoods and ancient pines framed fields of prairie grass, while herds of shaggy, broad-shouldered bison roamed in the distance. The air smelled clean, rich with soil, flowers, and the faint musk of distant game.
Lady Serana crested a ridge beside her Wilderness Scout partner, the two of them emerging from the shelter of the woods. Below lay Clearwater Hollow — not much more than a patchwork of hard-won existence carved into the wilderness.
Scattered wooden cabins with hand-split roofs formed a loose ring around a shared garden plot. Corrals held small herds of goats, hardy long-haired cattle, and a few shaggy ponies. Chickens clucked in their coops, while smoke rose in thin threads from stone chimneys.
D-Bee People worked mending fences, tending livestock, checking traps, and sowing rows of corn, squash, and beans. D-Bee Children in patchwork clothes herded chickens and carried buckets of water. Dogs lounged but watched sharply. Eyes turned to the travelers as they approached, cautious but not hostile.
Lady Serana understood these folk. The wilderness teaches hard lessons.
She walked with her usual steady, calm poise. Her armor gleamed under the midmorning sun — an intricate masterwork of living wood and organic magic, its curves and knots like vines grown into the shape of a knight. The carved filigree of her breastplate caught the light like polished amber. Her waterproof survival cape shifted slightly in the breeze, revealing her front: a compass clipped for quick access, her survival knife resting ready, and a rugged old watch ticking steadily. Her stuffed backpack rode high, weighted with gear for the long haul. Cordage and rope hung neatly in loops; two canteens, both running low, clinked softly at her hips beside their metal cups. A short cluster of arrows poked from the side of the pack—no bow in sight.
The Wilderness Scout beside her kept one hand near his sidearm but let her lead.
Serana’s presence usually eased introductions.
A grizzled man in his forties stepped forward from the gathered homesteaders, wiping his hands on his worn trousers. His eyes were wary but measured. A practical man who’d seen enough to know trouble often wears a smile — but he could also see honest wear on the travelers. They were not brigands or beggars.
“Morning,” he called out, voice calm but firm. “You’re a long ways from any trade road.”
Lady Serana inclined her head, voice even, calm. “Good morning. We seek only water and safe passage. In return, we offer news of the outside, if you care to hear it.”
The man nodded slowly. “Water we have.” His eyes flicked to her companion. “Stories we might take. But that’s all that’s free.”
Behind him, an older woman coughed heavily from a nearby porch, her labored breathing sharp in the quiet air. Another man, younger but pale, sat with a bandaged leg, trying not to wince.
Serana’s gaze lingered briefly on the two, then returned to the homesteader leader. “I may be able to offer more, if you’re willing.”
The man studied her, weighing risk and need.
A small standoff of courtesy and unspoken worry hung in the air — as it always did with strangers.
The man rubbed his jaw, sizing her up. “Name’s Harbuck. I speak for Clearwater Hollow.”
Lady Serana nodded. “Lady Serana. Cyber-Knight. My companion is Jak."
Harbuck grunted, neither impressed nor dismissive. “We don’t see many knights. Outsiders usually mean trouble, one way or another.”
“We are not trouble,” Serana said calmly. “We travel light. We carry no claim on your crops or livestock. Water will see us on our way.”
Harbuck’s eyes flicked to the canteens dangling at her hips, then to the villagers gathering behind him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and guarded hope.
“You said you might offer more,” he said cautiously. “We’ve two sick. Old Ma Grissom there’s coughing herself raw. And young 'Eor' took a gut wound two days back—axe slipped while clearing timber.”
Serana’s gaze was steady. “I am trained in healing. And more. I may be able to help both.”
Harbuck didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed. “And what do you want for your work?”
“Nothing but your goodwill, clean water, and your patience.” She let a pause hang in the air. “No coin. No barter. No future claim.”
The D-Bee scowled slightly. “You don’t expect us to believe you’re here out of pure kindness.”
Serana’s tone didn’t change. “I expect nothing. I offer what I can.”
The D-Bee turned, speaking low to a couple of elders behind him. They murmured back and forth, glancing at the pale youth on the porch and the old woman with the ragged cough.
Finally, the D-Bee faced her again. “Alright. You help ‘em, and we’ll see you watered and sent on your way. And if your stories are worth hearing, maybe we throw in directions that’ll keep you clear of the Raiders.”
At the mention of the raiders, Jak shifted slightly, but Serana remained composed.
“That is acceptable.”
The D-Bee gave a small nod, but his voice still held steel. “Mind you, we’re simple folk. We’ve worked for every damn meal. You help us, you’re welcome. You try to take what isn’t yours, and we bury you in the dirt like anyone else.”
Serana’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “As it should be.”
He gestured toward the porch. “Then let’s see what you can do.”
The porch creaked under Serana’s boots as she approached, Jak keeping a respectful distance behind. The small cluster of homesteaders stood close but silent, watching her every move.
The old woman, Ma Grissom, sat hunched in a rough-hewn chair, wrapped in a threadbare quilt. Her breaths came fast and shallow, with a sharp wet rattle. Her skin was sallow, eyes glassy but alert.
Next to her, 'Eor' reclined on a cot, his face pale and slick with sweat. His shirt was off, and a rough dressing covered his lower abdomen, already stained with fresh blood.
Serana knelt beside Eor first, setting down her pack with practiced ease. “May I examine the wound?”
Eor gave a weak nod. His mother, standing nearby, looked ready to intervene if anything seemed wrong.
Serana gently peeled back the dressing. The wound was swollen, and starting to fester. Infection had already taken hold. Without intervention, the D-Bee boy wouldn’t last the week.
She closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. The living wood of her armor pulsed faintly as she reached into the well of her mind. Her psionic Diagnosis reached into Eli's body like invisible fingers, mapping torn tissue, rising infection, and internal bleeding.
“This is bad,” she said quietly, so only the family could hear. “But not beyond saving.”
With deliberate care, she cleaned the wound, flushing the infection while focusing her psionic purification. Then using her Psi-Surgery, tissue knit beneath her fingertips, bleeding slowed, and the fever broke. The boy gasped, color returning to his cheeks as the pain ebbed.
After almost thirty minutes of work, she leaned back. “He’ll heal now. Keep him clean. Light food. No heavy work for a week.”
The boy's mother wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”
Serana nodded and rose, turning to Ma Grissom. The old woman coughed again, wet and painful. Pneumonia, Serana suspected.
“I’ll need to lay my hand on your chest,” she said gently.
Ma Grissom rasped.
Serana pressed her hand to the old woman’s breastbone, closed her eyes, and let the power flow again. This was more delicate work. She bolstered Ma Grissom’s failing lungs, eased fluid buildup, and a perfect cure.
Minutes passed before Ma Grissom’s breathing eased, no longer rattling but steady. Color flushed her cheeks as her eyes grew clearer.
“Feels like breathin’ after a storm,” she whispered.
Harbuck and the others looked on, a mix of awe and relief breaking through their caution.
Serana stood and gathered her kit. “They’ll both need rest. And clean water.”
The D-Bee stepped forward. His voice was quieter now. “You did good work. Kept your word.”
“I said what I meant,” Serana replied.
The atmosphere shifted. The suspicion wasn’t gone, but it softened into respect. The kind only earned with action and results.
The D-Bee Harbuck nodded toward the central well. “Fill your canteens. And tonight, when the work’s done, we’d hear those stories.”
Jak finally spoke, breaking his long silence. “We’ve got a few you might find worth the telling.”
A ripple of cautious smiles spread among the homesteaders.
---
The sun had long since dropped behind the ridgeline, leaving only a crescent moon and a clear blanket of stars overhead. In the center of Clearwater Hollow, the homesteaders gathered around a wide fire pit. The flames crackled and danced, casting warm light on tired but curious faces. The day's work was done, the sick were resting, and now came the part Lady Serana knew they had truly bargained for: the stories.
Children sat cross-legged near the flames, wide-eyed. The adults kept a more measured distance, some leaning on tools or chairs, others sipping from battered tin mugs. Jak sat nearby, sharpening his knife, silent but alert as always.
Harbuck spoke first, breaking the quiet. “You kept your word. Now we’ll listen to your tale. Tell us… what brings a Cyber-Knight this far west, and what of Tolkeen?”
Serana’s face was lit by the flickering fire, her voice calm, steady, without embellishment.
“I am Lady Serana, formally of the Fellowship of the Cyber-Knights,” she began. “We are few in number but bound by our Code — to protect the innocent, to heal the wounded, and to uphold justice with mercy.”
A few heads nodded — the homesteaders were practical people; they respected plain speech.
“My mission now is to shepherd refugees of Tolkeen to safety. Farmers. Craftsmen. Mothers. Children. Survivors. They are not soldiers. They lost their homes, their land, and their lives as they knew them.”
She paused, letting that settle. The fire popped, and some of the children instinctively leaned closer to their parents.
“The war between Tolkeen and the Coalition States grew darker with every season. In the beginning, many believed Tolkeen’s magic could protect them. In the end, both sides committed acts that stained their honor. But the Coalition—”
Here her voice grew heavier, her jaw clenched slightly.
“—The Coalition made war upon the defenseless. They razed entire townships. Used skull-faced death squads to hunt non-humans. Burned farms and took prisoners—men, women, and children. They called it cleansing. They called it purity.”
An uncomfortable ripple moved through the D-Bee settlers. The Coalition's reputation was known, even this far out.
Serana continued, her voice quieter, but no less firm. “Dragons from the Freehold came at last to strike them back. For now, the Coalition has paused. But it is no surrender. They regroup, even now, for a second wave.”
Harbuck’s jaw tightened. “And your refugees?”
“Those with me chose not to wait for that second wave. They have no homes to return to. They have no faith that Tolken either can or will defend them since they lost their homes and many the lives of family and neighbor. They carry only what little they could save, and their hope that somewhere west — perhaps Colorado — they can begin again.”
She looked around the fire, meeting the eyes of the farmers.
“They want what you have here. Not your land, not your livestock. Just the chance to build a life, and to live it in peace.”
The oldest of the elders, a wiry woman named Brii, spoke next. “You mean to lead them here?”
Serana shook her head. “Not here. I will not put your community at risk. My road lies farther west. But some, perhaps, along the journey… may find places like Clearwater Hollow and wish to settle — if welcomed.”
The fire cracked again. Silence hung heavy for several moments.
Finally Harbuck spoke. “I reckon I respect a folk who want to work for their keep. But anyone you bring here’ll have to live like us. No handouts. No claims. We fight tooth and nail for every bite of bread.”
“As it should be,” Serana said softly. “But it would be mercy — and justice — for those who have lost everything to be given the chance.”
One of the younger hunters leaned forward. “And what if the Coalition comes this far? Brings their war to our door?”
Serana’s eyes sharpened, voice like steel now. “Then I will stand as I was sworn to stand. Between them and you. I cannot promise you the Coalition will not spread — only that I will not abandon those who cannot fight for themselves.”
Jak finally spoke, voice low but firm. “The Coalition may be powerful. But there’s still good people left who will fight them when the time comes. And there are places the Coalition fears to tread.”
That drew a few nods. The D-Bees of Clearwater Hollow knew the wilds could swallow armies if the land willed it.
The D-Bee, Harbuck, exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I can’t speak for folk I haven’t met. But if any of your refugees come this way — and they bring their strength, and not their troubles — we’ll judge them by their labors, not their past.”
Serana inclined her head, respectful. “That is all I would ask.”
The fire crackled on as the mood lightened, cautious but warmer now. Children yawned. The night shifted from negotiation to quiet stories of local troubles and distant rumors.
The sky hangs low, heavy with thin gray clouds that filter the sunlight into a dim, silvery glow. The forest is dense and old, a living cathedral of towering trees, their gnarled branches reaching high above like the twisted ribs of some great beast.
The air is damp, thick with the earthy scent of moss, wet bark, and rotting leaves. Every step into this place feels like entering a world abandoned centuries ago.
At the vanguard of this fragile exodus moves Lady Serana, blades drawn.
Her Psi-Machetes cast twin arcs of glowing, psychic energy. Each slash sends thick vines, creeping brambles, and hanging roots tumbling aside in neat, steaming slices. Their edges never dull, their cuts always precise. She moves with practiced rhythm: step, slash, glance ahead, listen.
Beside her, weaving in and out of the debris like a hunting animal, is the D-Bee wilderness scout—a short, wiry figure with a battered field cap, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. A small hand computer flickers in his gloved hands, constantly updating a rough digital map as they push forward. The device quietly as it marks obstacles, elevation changes, and safe zones behind them for the caravan.
The scout, “Soft patch ahead. Mud’s thick as soup. Heavy wagons’ll sink for sure.”
Serana halts for a moment, her breath steady, eyes sweeping over the ground—a sunken hollow, where rainwater from weeks ago still lurks under a thin skin of moss and reeds.
Lady Serana,“We’ll skirt north. Add a half-mile. Safer than losing wagons.”
The scout nods, tapping notes into his map, the alien computer projecting a faintly glowing holographic route before them. Every decision like this costs them precious time, but it's better than lost lives or injuries.
Around them, the ruins of humanity’s long-dead empire rise in broken glimpses. Twisted metal girders, once skeletal remains of ancient buildings or bridges, protrude from the forest floor like fossilized ribs. Corroded steel beams, half-swallowed by trunks and vines, bear faded remnants of pre-cataclysm civilization—pieces of forgotten cities, consumed by nature.
The ground underfoot constantly shifts—uneven roots, sudden sinkholes, and the treacherous weight of waterlogged soil forcing them to slow to a crawl.
Insects buzz around them in small, relentless swarms. Somewhere distant, the sharp cry of a wild predator echoes through the trees. The wilderness is alive, but indifferent.
As they round a bend, Lady Serana stops abruptly. A massive, boulder the size of a house, slick with moss and spiderweb-thin cracks, blocks the narrow pass ahead.
The D-BeeScout (frowning), “Not going over that.”
Serana eyes it carefully, weighing the options. “Another detour.”
The scout grimaces, muttering under his breath as he adjusts the mapping again. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to make ten miles by week’s end.”
Serana doesn't respond immediately. She gazes westward, past the obstacles, past the crushing wilderness, toward some unseen future.
“We’ll make it.” Her voice is calm, but iron-hard.
The scout glances at her—tired, but reassured. He knows she means it. He’s seen too many break along the way, but not her.
Serana raises both Psi-Machetes, slicing a fresh path through a dense curtain of hanging vines. Beyond, the trail continues, snaking like a narrow scar through the wild.
They press on.
Behind them, far back but steadily moving, thousands of refugees inch their way west, following the trail carved by the blades and courage of those ahead.
Toward Colorado.
---
Location: The Homestead
The land stretched wide and green under a pale, cloud-scattered sky. Towering cottonwoods and ancient pines framed fields of prairie grass, while herds of shaggy, broad-shouldered bison roamed in the distance. The air smelled clean, rich with soil, flowers, and the faint musk of distant game.
Lady Serana crested a ridge beside her Wilderness Scout partner, the two of them emerging from the shelter of the woods. Below lay Clearwater Hollow — not much more than a patchwork of hard-won existence carved into the wilderness.
Scattered wooden cabins with hand-split roofs formed a loose ring around a shared garden plot. Corrals held small herds of goats, hardy long-haired cattle, and a few shaggy ponies. Chickens clucked in their coops, while smoke rose in thin threads from stone chimneys.
D-Bee People worked mending fences, tending livestock, checking traps, and sowing rows of corn, squash, and beans. D-Bee Children in patchwork clothes herded chickens and carried buckets of water. Dogs lounged but watched sharply. Eyes turned to the travelers as they approached, cautious but not hostile.
Lady Serana understood these folk. The wilderness teaches hard lessons.
She walked with her usual steady, calm poise. Her armor gleamed under the midmorning sun — an intricate masterwork of living wood and organic magic, its curves and knots like vines grown into the shape of a knight. The carved filigree of her breastplate caught the light like polished amber. Her waterproof survival cape shifted slightly in the breeze, revealing her front: a compass clipped for quick access, her survival knife resting ready, and a rugged old watch ticking steadily. Her stuffed backpack rode high, weighted with gear for the long haul. Cordage and rope hung neatly in loops; two canteens, both running low, clinked softly at her hips beside their metal cups. A short cluster of arrows poked from the side of the pack—no bow in sight.
The Wilderness Scout beside her kept one hand near his sidearm but let her lead.
Serana’s presence usually eased introductions.
A grizzled man in his forties stepped forward from the gathered homesteaders, wiping his hands on his worn trousers. His eyes were wary but measured. A practical man who’d seen enough to know trouble often wears a smile — but he could also see honest wear on the travelers. They were not brigands or beggars.
“Morning,” he called out, voice calm but firm. “You’re a long ways from any trade road.”
Lady Serana inclined her head, voice even, calm. “Good morning. We seek only water and safe passage. In return, we offer news of the outside, if you care to hear it.”
The man nodded slowly. “Water we have.” His eyes flicked to her companion. “Stories we might take. But that’s all that’s free.”
Behind him, an older woman coughed heavily from a nearby porch, her labored breathing sharp in the quiet air. Another man, younger but pale, sat with a bandaged leg, trying not to wince.
Serana’s gaze lingered briefly on the two, then returned to the homesteader leader. “I may be able to offer more, if you’re willing.”
The man studied her, weighing risk and need.
A small standoff of courtesy and unspoken worry hung in the air — as it always did with strangers.
The man rubbed his jaw, sizing her up. “Name’s Harbuck. I speak for Clearwater Hollow.”
Lady Serana nodded. “Lady Serana. Cyber-Knight. My companion is Jak."
Harbuck grunted, neither impressed nor dismissive. “We don’t see many knights. Outsiders usually mean trouble, one way or another.”
“We are not trouble,” Serana said calmly. “We travel light. We carry no claim on your crops or livestock. Water will see us on our way.”
Harbuck’s eyes flicked to the canteens dangling at her hips, then to the villagers gathering behind him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and guarded hope.
“You said you might offer more,” he said cautiously. “We’ve two sick. Old Ma Grissom there’s coughing herself raw. And young 'Eor' took a gut wound two days back—axe slipped while clearing timber.”
Serana’s gaze was steady. “I am trained in healing. And more. I may be able to help both.”
Harbuck didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed. “And what do you want for your work?”
“Nothing but your goodwill, clean water, and your patience.” She let a pause hang in the air. “No coin. No barter. No future claim.”
The D-Bee scowled slightly. “You don’t expect us to believe you’re here out of pure kindness.”
Serana’s tone didn’t change. “I expect nothing. I offer what I can.”
The D-Bee turned, speaking low to a couple of elders behind him. They murmured back and forth, glancing at the pale youth on the porch and the old woman with the ragged cough.
Finally, the D-Bee faced her again. “Alright. You help ‘em, and we’ll see you watered and sent on your way. And if your stories are worth hearing, maybe we throw in directions that’ll keep you clear of the Raiders.”
At the mention of the raiders, Jak shifted slightly, but Serana remained composed.
“That is acceptable.”
The D-Bee gave a small nod, but his voice still held steel. “Mind you, we’re simple folk. We’ve worked for every damn meal. You help us, you’re welcome. You try to take what isn’t yours, and we bury you in the dirt like anyone else.”
Serana’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “As it should be.”
He gestured toward the porch. “Then let’s see what you can do.”
The porch creaked under Serana’s boots as she approached, Jak keeping a respectful distance behind. The small cluster of homesteaders stood close but silent, watching her every move.
The old woman, Ma Grissom, sat hunched in a rough-hewn chair, wrapped in a threadbare quilt. Her breaths came fast and shallow, with a sharp wet rattle. Her skin was sallow, eyes glassy but alert.
Next to her, 'Eor' reclined on a cot, his face pale and slick with sweat. His shirt was off, and a rough dressing covered his lower abdomen, already stained with fresh blood.
Serana knelt beside Eor first, setting down her pack with practiced ease. “May I examine the wound?”
Eor gave a weak nod. His mother, standing nearby, looked ready to intervene if anything seemed wrong.
Serana gently peeled back the dressing. The wound was swollen, and starting to fester. Infection had already taken hold. Without intervention, the D-Bee boy wouldn’t last the week.
She closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. The living wood of her armor pulsed faintly as she reached into the well of her mind. Her psionic Diagnosis reached into Eli's body like invisible fingers, mapping torn tissue, rising infection, and internal bleeding.
“This is bad,” she said quietly, so only the family could hear. “But not beyond saving.”
With deliberate care, she cleaned the wound, flushing the infection while focusing her psionic purification. Then using her Psi-Surgery, tissue knit beneath her fingertips, bleeding slowed, and the fever broke. The boy gasped, color returning to his cheeks as the pain ebbed.
After almost thirty minutes of work, she leaned back. “He’ll heal now. Keep him clean. Light food. No heavy work for a week.”
The boy's mother wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”
Serana nodded and rose, turning to Ma Grissom. The old woman coughed again, wet and painful. Pneumonia, Serana suspected.
“I’ll need to lay my hand on your chest,” she said gently.
Ma Grissom rasped.
Serana pressed her hand to the old woman’s breastbone, closed her eyes, and let the power flow again. This was more delicate work. She bolstered Ma Grissom’s failing lungs, eased fluid buildup, and a perfect cure.
Minutes passed before Ma Grissom’s breathing eased, no longer rattling but steady. Color flushed her cheeks as her eyes grew clearer.
“Feels like breathin’ after a storm,” she whispered.
Harbuck and the others looked on, a mix of awe and relief breaking through their caution.
Serana stood and gathered her kit. “They’ll both need rest. And clean water.”
The D-Bee stepped forward. His voice was quieter now. “You did good work. Kept your word.”
“I said what I meant,” Serana replied.
The atmosphere shifted. The suspicion wasn’t gone, but it softened into respect. The kind only earned with action and results.
The D-Bee Harbuck nodded toward the central well. “Fill your canteens. And tonight, when the work’s done, we’d hear those stories.”
Jak finally spoke, breaking his long silence. “We’ve got a few you might find worth the telling.”
A ripple of cautious smiles spread among the homesteaders.
---
The sun had long since dropped behind the ridgeline, leaving only a crescent moon and a clear blanket of stars overhead. In the center of Clearwater Hollow, the homesteaders gathered around a wide fire pit. The flames crackled and danced, casting warm light on tired but curious faces. The day's work was done, the sick were resting, and now came the part Lady Serana knew they had truly bargained for: the stories.
Children sat cross-legged near the flames, wide-eyed. The adults kept a more measured distance, some leaning on tools or chairs, others sipping from battered tin mugs. Jak sat nearby, sharpening his knife, silent but alert as always.
Harbuck spoke first, breaking the quiet. “You kept your word. Now we’ll listen to your tale. Tell us… what brings a Cyber-Knight this far west, and what of Tolkeen?”
Serana’s face was lit by the flickering fire, her voice calm, steady, without embellishment.
“I am Lady Serana, formally of the Fellowship of the Cyber-Knights,” she began. “We are few in number but bound by our Code — to protect the innocent, to heal the wounded, and to uphold justice with mercy.”
A few heads nodded — the homesteaders were practical people; they respected plain speech.
“My mission now is to shepherd refugees of Tolkeen to safety. Farmers. Craftsmen. Mothers. Children. Survivors. They are not soldiers. They lost their homes, their land, and their lives as they knew them.”
She paused, letting that settle. The fire popped, and some of the children instinctively leaned closer to their parents.
“The war between Tolkeen and the Coalition States grew darker with every season. In the beginning, many believed Tolkeen’s magic could protect them. In the end, both sides committed acts that stained their honor. But the Coalition—”
Here her voice grew heavier, her jaw clenched slightly.
“—The Coalition made war upon the defenseless. They razed entire townships. Used skull-faced death squads to hunt non-humans. Burned farms and took prisoners—men, women, and children. They called it cleansing. They called it purity.”
An uncomfortable ripple moved through the D-Bee settlers. The Coalition's reputation was known, even this far out.
Serana continued, her voice quieter, but no less firm. “Dragons from the Freehold came at last to strike them back. For now, the Coalition has paused. But it is no surrender. They regroup, even now, for a second wave.”
Harbuck’s jaw tightened. “And your refugees?”
“Those with me chose not to wait for that second wave. They have no homes to return to. They have no faith that Tolken either can or will defend them since they lost their homes and many the lives of family and neighbor. They carry only what little they could save, and their hope that somewhere west — perhaps Colorado — they can begin again.”
She looked around the fire, meeting the eyes of the farmers.
“They want what you have here. Not your land, not your livestock. Just the chance to build a life, and to live it in peace.”
The oldest of the elders, a wiry woman named Brii, spoke next. “You mean to lead them here?”
Serana shook her head. “Not here. I will not put your community at risk. My road lies farther west. But some, perhaps, along the journey… may find places like Clearwater Hollow and wish to settle — if welcomed.”
The fire cracked again. Silence hung heavy for several moments.
Finally Harbuck spoke. “I reckon I respect a folk who want to work for their keep. But anyone you bring here’ll have to live like us. No handouts. No claims. We fight tooth and nail for every bite of bread.”
“As it should be,” Serana said softly. “But it would be mercy — and justice — for those who have lost everything to be given the chance.”
One of the younger hunters leaned forward. “And what if the Coalition comes this far? Brings their war to our door?”
Serana’s eyes sharpened, voice like steel now. “Then I will stand as I was sworn to stand. Between them and you. I cannot promise you the Coalition will not spread — only that I will not abandon those who cannot fight for themselves.”
Jak finally spoke, voice low but firm. “The Coalition may be powerful. But there’s still good people left who will fight them when the time comes. And there are places the Coalition fears to tread.”
That drew a few nods. The D-Bees of Clearwater Hollow knew the wilds could swallow armies if the land willed it.
The D-Bee, Harbuck, exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I can’t speak for folk I haven’t met. But if any of your refugees come this way — and they bring their strength, and not their troubles — we’ll judge them by their labors, not their past.”
Serana inclined her head, respectful. “That is all I would ask.”
The fire crackled on as the mood lightened, cautious but warmer now. Children yawned. The night shifted from negotiation to quiet stories of local troubles and distant rumors.
Last edited by darthauthor on Thu Jun 05, 2025 6:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Solomon — The Garden Fortress
Days passed since the breaking of the siege, but the memory of battle still hung in the air like a distant storm. Yet, within the walls—where once there was only crumbling stone, ash, and ruin—life surged forward.
The Biomancer walked slowly through the former kill zone, now utterly transformed. His hands moved in deliberate, flowing gestures, as if painting upon the canvas of the earth itself. With each spell, each whispered invocation, he pulled forth what should have taken decades to grow.
Within the reclaimed space, vibrant rows of crops flourished under a perfect sky. The ley lines beneath the soil pulsed gently, feeding the fields like an underground heartbeat.
Bright strawberries glistened in wide beds, their red fruit heavy and sweet.
Tangled lines of raspberries and blueberries arched over trellises that wove like natural latticework.
Grapevines twisted gracefully up enchanted supports, their fat clusters of green and purple fruit swelling under the Biomancer’s touch.
Eggplants, their deep purple skins glossy, grew beside rows of peppers—red, orange, and gold.
Thick tomato vines crept along carefully prepared beds, heavy with ripe fruit.
Corn stalks towered, swaying gently in the breeze, their golden tassels nodding.
Rows of carrots, parsley, and radishes pushed up vibrant green tops from deep, dark soil.
Lush Swiss chard and sprawling summer squash lay beneath wide leaves like emerald fans.
In every direction, color dominated the landscape.
The people of Solomon came each morning to tend and harvest. Militia still carried weapons on their backs, but now they filled baskets with smiles.
But that was only part of the restoration.
The destroyed outer walls had been replaced.
The Ironwood Ring.
At the former wall’s perimeter now stood a circle of towering trees—massive-looking sentinels that should have taken centuries to reach their current size. The Biomancer had raised them in days.
Each tree stood over 100 feet tall, with thick trunks twice as tough as steel—unbending, enchanted to resist fire, energy weapons, and even Coalition railgun fire.
The bark gleamed like polished ironwood under the sunlight.
Carefully crafted lookout platforms were built near the highest boughs, allowing scouts to look out across the flat plains and wetlands beyond.
The people called them "The Living Towers."
Knight Two stood at the base of one of the great trees, watching the new world take root.
Sir Harvek approached quietly beside him. “When this began, I never believed we’d see something like this.”
Knight Two’s eyes never left the distant horizon.
The sun dipped low over Solomon, casting long shadows across the vibrant fields that now grow.
At the center of the town square, under the protective canopy of freshly grown vines and magic spell lantern-lights branches, the dead were laid out.
Rows of simple markers bore no grand inscriptions.
The fallen were both human and D-Bee.
Soldiers, farmers, senior town’s people—all who had perished at Solomon.
Their faces were solemn. Their voices low. The town held its breath.
The Necromancer stood alone in front of them.
He wore only simple dark cloth, the kind worn by morticians. His pale hands held the Kangling — the bone trumpet, its surface polished smooth, its age impossible to guess.
The crowd was silent as he raised the instrument to his lips.
The first note cut through the stillness like a piercing lament.
Not loud—never loud—but sharp, haunting, and eerily resonant.
The Kangling's voice was that of the grave: Raw. Earthy. Otherworldly.
The dense human bone carried a timbre neither warm like wood nor bright like brass—but something altogether ancient. Each tone seemed to hang in the air longer than physics should allow, vibrating within the bodies of those who listened, like the breath of the dead echoing through living lungs.
The melody drifted in spirals—rising, falling, bending around the gathered mourners as if weaving through them.
It was not a song for comfort.
It was not a song for joy.
It was a song for memory.
The Kangling sang of those who had fallen.
Of those who had given their lives for a town that still stood.
Of sacrifice.
Of blood, both human and D-Bee.
Of duty.
And of release.
As the final note faded, the silence that followed was almost as weighty as the battle itself. No one dared move. Even the wind respected the moment.
And then the Necromancer lowered the instrument, voice soft, but steady:
“Let their spirits rise.
Let their burdens fall.
What remains of them now belongs to the land.
And what remains of us belongs to the living.”
A long moment passed before anyone breathed again.
Grian stepped forward next.
She was dressed in flowing silk dyed in the vibrant golds and reds of a summer dawn. As the heavy air of grief threatened to linger too long, her voice rose, soft at first, but growing with each phrase—a melody filled with hope and renewal.
The tune was bright, almost playful, like sunlight breaking through after a storm. Around her, a handful of musicians joined in — stringed lyres, wooden flutes, and light percussion. The music lifted the weight that the Kangling had pressed into their souls.
And then, Grian danced.
Her steps were light and graceful. She spun across the garden square like a ray of sunlight itself — not ignoring the sorrow but refusing to drown in it. Her movement spoke the unspoken words:
“You live.
You breathe.
You continue.”
The townsfolk slowly followed her lead.
The Warlock Brothers clapped along, each unable to hide their awe as Grian’s energy filled the square.
The mood shifted.
Where once stood a graveyard of silence now blossomed.
Music replaced grief.
Knight Two stood at the edge of the gathering, watching quietly.
Sir Harvek approached, voice low. “That woman has more power than any of us.”
Knight Two nodded, eyes steady on Grian’s dance.
The war was not over.
But tonight… they lived.
Days passed since the breaking of the siege, but the memory of battle still hung in the air like a distant storm. Yet, within the walls—where once there was only crumbling stone, ash, and ruin—life surged forward.
The Biomancer walked slowly through the former kill zone, now utterly transformed. His hands moved in deliberate, flowing gestures, as if painting upon the canvas of the earth itself. With each spell, each whispered invocation, he pulled forth what should have taken decades to grow.
Within the reclaimed space, vibrant rows of crops flourished under a perfect sky. The ley lines beneath the soil pulsed gently, feeding the fields like an underground heartbeat.
Bright strawberries glistened in wide beds, their red fruit heavy and sweet.
Tangled lines of raspberries and blueberries arched over trellises that wove like natural latticework.
Grapevines twisted gracefully up enchanted supports, their fat clusters of green and purple fruit swelling under the Biomancer’s touch.
Eggplants, their deep purple skins glossy, grew beside rows of peppers—red, orange, and gold.
Thick tomato vines crept along carefully prepared beds, heavy with ripe fruit.
Corn stalks towered, swaying gently in the breeze, their golden tassels nodding.
Rows of carrots, parsley, and radishes pushed up vibrant green tops from deep, dark soil.
Lush Swiss chard and sprawling summer squash lay beneath wide leaves like emerald fans.
In every direction, color dominated the landscape.
The people of Solomon came each morning to tend and harvest. Militia still carried weapons on their backs, but now they filled baskets with smiles.
But that was only part of the restoration.
The destroyed outer walls had been replaced.
The Ironwood Ring.
At the former wall’s perimeter now stood a circle of towering trees—massive-looking sentinels that should have taken centuries to reach their current size. The Biomancer had raised them in days.
Each tree stood over 100 feet tall, with thick trunks twice as tough as steel—unbending, enchanted to resist fire, energy weapons, and even Coalition railgun fire.
The bark gleamed like polished ironwood under the sunlight.
Carefully crafted lookout platforms were built near the highest boughs, allowing scouts to look out across the flat plains and wetlands beyond.
The people called them "The Living Towers."
Knight Two stood at the base of one of the great trees, watching the new world take root.
Sir Harvek approached quietly beside him. “When this began, I never believed we’d see something like this.”
Knight Two’s eyes never left the distant horizon.
The sun dipped low over Solomon, casting long shadows across the vibrant fields that now grow.
At the center of the town square, under the protective canopy of freshly grown vines and magic spell lantern-lights branches, the dead were laid out.
Rows of simple markers bore no grand inscriptions.
The fallen were both human and D-Bee.
Soldiers, farmers, senior town’s people—all who had perished at Solomon.
Their faces were solemn. Their voices low. The town held its breath.
The Necromancer stood alone in front of them.
He wore only simple dark cloth, the kind worn by morticians. His pale hands held the Kangling — the bone trumpet, its surface polished smooth, its age impossible to guess.
The crowd was silent as he raised the instrument to his lips.
The first note cut through the stillness like a piercing lament.
Not loud—never loud—but sharp, haunting, and eerily resonant.
The Kangling's voice was that of the grave: Raw. Earthy. Otherworldly.
The dense human bone carried a timbre neither warm like wood nor bright like brass—but something altogether ancient. Each tone seemed to hang in the air longer than physics should allow, vibrating within the bodies of those who listened, like the breath of the dead echoing through living lungs.
The melody drifted in spirals—rising, falling, bending around the gathered mourners as if weaving through them.
It was not a song for comfort.
It was not a song for joy.
It was a song for memory.
The Kangling sang of those who had fallen.
Of those who had given their lives for a town that still stood.
Of sacrifice.
Of blood, both human and D-Bee.
Of duty.
And of release.
As the final note faded, the silence that followed was almost as weighty as the battle itself. No one dared move. Even the wind respected the moment.
And then the Necromancer lowered the instrument, voice soft, but steady:
“Let their spirits rise.
Let their burdens fall.
What remains of them now belongs to the land.
And what remains of us belongs to the living.”
A long moment passed before anyone breathed again.
Grian stepped forward next.
She was dressed in flowing silk dyed in the vibrant golds and reds of a summer dawn. As the heavy air of grief threatened to linger too long, her voice rose, soft at first, but growing with each phrase—a melody filled with hope and renewal.
The tune was bright, almost playful, like sunlight breaking through after a storm. Around her, a handful of musicians joined in — stringed lyres, wooden flutes, and light percussion. The music lifted the weight that the Kangling had pressed into their souls.
And then, Grian danced.
Her steps were light and graceful. She spun across the garden square like a ray of sunlight itself — not ignoring the sorrow but refusing to drown in it. Her movement spoke the unspoken words:
“You live.
You breathe.
You continue.”
The townsfolk slowly followed her lead.
The Warlock Brothers clapped along, each unable to hide their awe as Grian’s energy filled the square.
The mood shifted.
Where once stood a graveyard of silence now blossomed.
Music replaced grief.
Knight Two stood at the edge of the gathering, watching quietly.
Sir Harvek approached, voice low. “That woman has more power than any of us.”
Knight Two nodded, eyes steady on Grian’s dance.
The war was not over.
But tonight… they lived.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Knight Three's journey through memory via the Lemurian Tree.
The ocean swallowed Knight Three in a vast curtain of blue as he descended along the ley line current, his biomancer’s body takes naturally to the underwater environment.
Below him, The Garden Valley unfurled like a dream beneath the mountain range—a vast sea-farm life hidden from the world above.
Thermal vents pulsed like the breath of the Earth itself, casting spirals of mineral-rich steam into the dark water. The heat fed fields upon fields of aquatic crops, their leaves swaying gently in the steady currents. Towering kelp forests rose like emerald cathedrals, their fronds nearly brushing the rocky ceiling of the underwater valleys. Thick beds of engineered seagrass waved in complex patterns, growing fibers destined to become rope, clothing, nets, and paper. Crimson-veined vines from distant worlds spiraled up crystalline stalks, their hybrid fruits pulsing with faint light, fed not by sunlight, but by the raw Ley Line energy thrumming through the ocean floor.
Schools of brilliant fish darted between the rows, some destined for Lemurian tables, others bred as riding beasts. Great armored rays glided lazily above, their riders guiding them through the labyrinthine channels with silent commands. Along the valley walls, biomancers carefully tended to coral pens filled with bio-engineered creatures—soft-bodied grazers, inkfish that secreted silk-like threads, and gelatinous orbs used in medicine and rituals.
But even this bounty paled against the heart of the Garden Valley: the Bioluminescent Forests and Crystal Gardens.
Knight Three drifted toward one such grove, where the Crystal Trees stood like frozen fireworks. Towering up to twenty feet tall, their latticed trunks shimmered faintly, nearly invisible in the gloom until his magic sense caught the soft hum of their energy. Each tree was a living crystal, grown through centuries of careful cultivation—deep-sea bacteria fused into the crystal matrix, feeding on mineral streams from the volcano vents. The crystal branches sprawled like frozen lightning, leaves of translucent quartz catching what little light there was. Pearlescent orbs hung like fruit, each one brimming with latent magic.
A slight flick of Three’s fingers activated a small light bioluminescent light of his.
In an instant, the entire grove bloomed into color. Thousands of crystal facets refracted the beam, sending sheets of rainbow light across the valley floor. The darkness retreated as if burned away, revealing an entire expanse of Crystal Trees extending for miles, their glow resembling daylight under the waves. Giant sea serpents slithered between the trunks, scales flashing iridescent. Biomancer trainers swam alongside them, guiding the creatures with practiced ease, while Serpent Hunters and Oceanic Guardsmen monitored the drills from fortified outposts carved into the mountainside.
Three exhaled slowly, taking in the symphony of light, life, and motion.
This was not simply farming. It was a living citadel sustained by magic, ingenuity, and generations of devotion. In the Garden Valley, nature itself had been reshaped—not conquered, but coaxed into something grander. A vision of what was the Lemurian civilization.
Knight Three drifted onward, his hand trailing through a cluster of glowing fruit, the feeling of Ley Line energy radiating through him.
“Life, guided,” he murmured, repeating the Lemurian Biomancer's mantra. “Not commanded. Guided."
The ocean swallowed Knight Three in a vast curtain of blue as he descended along the ley line current, his biomancer’s body takes naturally to the underwater environment.
Below him, The Garden Valley unfurled like a dream beneath the mountain range—a vast sea-farm life hidden from the world above.
Thermal vents pulsed like the breath of the Earth itself, casting spirals of mineral-rich steam into the dark water. The heat fed fields upon fields of aquatic crops, their leaves swaying gently in the steady currents. Towering kelp forests rose like emerald cathedrals, their fronds nearly brushing the rocky ceiling of the underwater valleys. Thick beds of engineered seagrass waved in complex patterns, growing fibers destined to become rope, clothing, nets, and paper. Crimson-veined vines from distant worlds spiraled up crystalline stalks, their hybrid fruits pulsing with faint light, fed not by sunlight, but by the raw Ley Line energy thrumming through the ocean floor.
Schools of brilliant fish darted between the rows, some destined for Lemurian tables, others bred as riding beasts. Great armored rays glided lazily above, their riders guiding them through the labyrinthine channels with silent commands. Along the valley walls, biomancers carefully tended to coral pens filled with bio-engineered creatures—soft-bodied grazers, inkfish that secreted silk-like threads, and gelatinous orbs used in medicine and rituals.
But even this bounty paled against the heart of the Garden Valley: the Bioluminescent Forests and Crystal Gardens.
Knight Three drifted toward one such grove, where the Crystal Trees stood like frozen fireworks. Towering up to twenty feet tall, their latticed trunks shimmered faintly, nearly invisible in the gloom until his magic sense caught the soft hum of their energy. Each tree was a living crystal, grown through centuries of careful cultivation—deep-sea bacteria fused into the crystal matrix, feeding on mineral streams from the volcano vents. The crystal branches sprawled like frozen lightning, leaves of translucent quartz catching what little light there was. Pearlescent orbs hung like fruit, each one brimming with latent magic.
A slight flick of Three’s fingers activated a small light bioluminescent light of his.
In an instant, the entire grove bloomed into color. Thousands of crystal facets refracted the beam, sending sheets of rainbow light across the valley floor. The darkness retreated as if burned away, revealing an entire expanse of Crystal Trees extending for miles, their glow resembling daylight under the waves. Giant sea serpents slithered between the trunks, scales flashing iridescent. Biomancer trainers swam alongside them, guiding the creatures with practiced ease, while Serpent Hunters and Oceanic Guardsmen monitored the drills from fortified outposts carved into the mountainside.
Three exhaled slowly, taking in the symphony of light, life, and motion.
This was not simply farming. It was a living citadel sustained by magic, ingenuity, and generations of devotion. In the Garden Valley, nature itself had been reshaped—not conquered, but coaxed into something grander. A vision of what was the Lemurian civilization.
Knight Three drifted onward, his hand trailing through a cluster of glowing fruit, the feeling of Ley Line energy radiating through him.
“Life, guided,” he murmured, repeating the Lemurian Biomancer's mantra. “Not commanded. Guided."
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Lemurian Outpost: Rapa Nui (later to be named Easter Island, in the future)
The first light of dawn crept into the home, casting a soft golden hue across the walls woven from living wood. For a moment, Knight Three lay still, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his face. His eyes fluttered open, drawn by the gentle pull of the day’s beginning, a sense of deep calm settling into his bones as the world outside slowly stirred to life.
Knight Three let out a soft sigh and stretched under the woven blanket of moss that kept him warm. The steady rhythm of the island’s pulse, the gentle sway of the trees and the whisper of wind through the leaves, filled the air, a constant reminder of the harmony he shared with the land.
His wife, Nia, was already awake, as he expected. She had always been the early riser, ever in tune with the flow of the island, a calm smile always on her face.
His young son, Maro, was still curled up at the foot of their sleeping nook, his small figure breathing deeply in a dream-filled slumber.
Knight Three glances over at his son, grateful for the quiet moments of the morning before the day begins. The small, intricately woven toys Maro played with the night before were scattered around him like seeds waiting to grow, evidence of his creativity and joy. Knight Three smiled softly, turning his attention back to the warmth of the sun creeping across the room.
The first thought that came to him, as it did every morning, was one of gratitude. He closed his eyes, his mind focusing on the rhythm of his breath. Today, like every other day, he would begin with the ritual of gratitude. It was a tradition that had been passed down from the ancient Lemurians, an act that reaffirmed their connection to the island, the people, and the world around them.
Give thanks for the sun, the water, the earth, the air, and the community.
With a quiet sigh, Knight Three swung his legs over the side of their bed, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath his bare feet. He stood, pressing his palms together in front of his chest, and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, feeling air fill his lungs, and exhaled slowly, releasing any lingering tension from the previous day.
“I give thanks to the sun, for the warmth it brings to my family and our home.” His voice was soft, reverent.
“I give thanks to the water, for the life it nourishes in every drop, and for the ocean that sustains us.”
“I give thanks to the earth, for the gifts it provides and the life it nurtures, from the smallest seed to the tallest tree.”
“I give thanks to the air, for the breath of life that fills us and connects us all.”
“And I give thanks to my community, for the bonds that tie us together, for the strength and peace we share.”
Knight Three stood there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sunlight growing stronger on his skin, the peace of the island infusing him. He could hear the faint sounds of his neighbors already stirring—an echo of the communal life they shared. There was something grounding about the ritual, a reminder of why he lived the way he did, why he embraced the slow, deliberate rhythm of his days.
He looked over at Nia, who was already kneeling beside the Tupu-Te-Va, the great tree at the heart of their home. She was performing her own morning gratitude, her fingers gently tracing the tree’s smooth bark, grounding herself in the ritual. The tree, as always, stood steady. He silently admired her peaceful grace before turning his attention to the next part of the morning’s tradition.
Knight Three moved toward the woven shelf near the door and pulled on his simple, well-crafted clothes—durable, purposeful, and beautiful, as was the custom. The pieces had been carefully made from local plant fibers, designed for both comfort and function. After adjusting the layers, he walked to the living area where the communal exercises were taking place.
He joined a group of other Lemurians, all of whom were already gathering at the open air space near the central hearth. The sun was still low, but its light had begun to color the sky in soft pinks and oranges, casting everything in a gentle glow. The soft sounds of natural instruments—wooden flutes, drumming, and stringed instruments—filled the air, as each person began their morning ritual of warm-up exercises. Stretching and light movements brought flexibility and focus, the motions fluid and graceful, a way to honor both body and nature.
The exercises were followed by yoga-like sessions, where each Lemurian family practiced together in quiet concentration, stretching and strengthening their bodies. Knight Three (Tui) felt the calm flow of the island’s breeze pass over him as he stretched and bent, reaching for the sky as his feet stayed firmly planted on the earth. The sound of the wind swirled through the trees, refreshing and calming as it mingled with the deep rhythm of their collective practice.
As the session finished, Knight Three felt his body both invigorated and at peace, with clarity and focus. The morning was young, and now came his favorite part of the day.
Without speaking, the group began to move toward the communal swimming area, a natural pool fed by the nearby spring and sea. The Lemurian love of water was deep, and swimming was both a way of life and a celebration of their connection to the sea. Knight Three could feel the pull of the water as they walked. It was cool, fresh, and life-giving—exactly the way it should be.
He dove into the water with the ease of someone born to it, his body moving through the water like a fish. Swimming wasn’t just about exercise; it was about cleansing the spirit, a way to wash away the stress of the day before, to feel truly connected to the world and the people around him. His family and neighbors swam alongside him, exchanging smiles and quiet words, some performing simple underwater maneuvers as others floated, letting the gentle current carry them.
After about an hour, the group emerged from the water, feeling rejuvenated and at peace. Knight Three felt the sun on his skin, drying him off as he walked back to his home. He stopped briefly to check on his son, Maro, who was now awake, his small hands grasping at the air playfully. Knight Three bent down to scoop him up, feeling the weight of fatherhood in his arms, a weight that always felt like a privilege.
By mornings end, Knight Three had completed his morning rituals: gratitude, exercise, yoga, swimming. The day was now fully begun. As he returned to his home, he heard the familiar hum of activity from the other families in the commune—children laughing, the sounds of others practicing their daily dance routines, and the soft strumming of musical instruments as they began their work.
Knight Three felt the familiar sense of purpose and peace as he prepared to spend the rest of his day—attending to the crops and garden, fishing, sharing in the care of Maro. It was a life of simplicity and harmony—a life built on community, and connection to the natural world. And Knight Three knew, as he always did, that it was exactly the kind of life he was meant to live.
The morning had unfolded with its usual tranquility, and now, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Knight Three moved deeper into his day. The soft rustling of leaves, the quiet hum of his neighbors going about their tasks, filled the air as he made his way through the communal space toward the large common garden at the heart of their home.
The garden was lush, thanks to the Lemurians' expertise in growing food with care. Here, the crops are vibrant and diverse: rows of purple sweet potatoes with their deep violet skins, kale, carrots, herbs, and patches of wheatgrass that grew in tidy patches.
Knight Three’s first stop was the sweet potato patch, where he knelt down, feeling the rich soil between his fingers. He could sense the moisture it held, the fertility of the soil—and he could feel that the plants were thriving. He took only what was needed: one or two tubers for the day’s meal. His people never harvested more than was necessary; they took only what the land could easily give, never depleting it, always leaving space for regeneration.
As he worked, Nia came to join him, her hands deftly gathering fresh herbs from the nearby plants—rosemary, mint, and thyme. Their son, Maro, was playing nearby, his small hands patting the earth, fingers sticky with the sweet juices of fruit that had fallen from the trees. Knight Three smiled at the sight. Family—it was everything here. In the rthym of work, they shared small moments of connection.
After gathering what they needed, Knight Three placed the harvested crops into a woven basket made from local grasses, the weight of it a gentle reminder of the labor that sustained them. Together, they walked toward the communal kitchen, where the larger cooking area was shared by several families.
The kitchen was open to the air, the stone firepits already lit, with cooking herbs drying on wooden racks above. The smell of roasting vegetables and the sound of laughter mixed as other families began their own meal preparations.
Knight Three and Nia set their basket down beside the communal hearth, where others were already preparing their share of the day’s meal. Large bowls of purple sweet potato stew simmered over the fire, the vegetables melding with herbs, seaweed, and coconut milk to create a hearty, nourishing dish. The aroma was warm and comforting. The meal was both simplicity and purpose: fresh, nourishing food that was grown with care, cooked communally, and shared among the people.
As the family gathered, Knight Three took a moment to give thanks again for the food before them, silently acknowledging the contributions of the land, the water, and the community in preparing the meal. Maro babbled excitedly from his seat, already tasting the sweet potatoes, his eyes wide with joy at the flavors. Nia smiled at him, and then at Tui, before they all settled into their seats. The meal was shared quietly at first, each of them savoring the taste of the earth’s bounty, the food that had grown so close to home, harvested from the island itself.
After the meal, the family, along with their neighbors, joined together to participate in their seafood collection. Knight Three and several of the men and women of the commune gathered by the shore, where the waves lapped gently at the rocky beach. The ocean, a constant companion in the Lemurians' lives, was a provider, and the collection was done with respect, always in balance with the world. They harvested fish and shellfish—not in great abundance, but enough for the community to share. The work was methodical, each person contributing in their own way, using nets made from woven fibers or simply their hands to gather what was needed.
Knight Three waded into the cool, clear waters, feeling the water rush around his legs as he moved with the rhythm of the waves. The sea was alive beneath him, teeming with life. It was always a peaceful task—familiar and soothing. His eyes scanned the clear water, watching the silvery flicker of small fish darting among the rocks, and he felt a sense of calm as he took what was necessary, never more than what could be replenished.
After collecting the catch, the group returned to the commune. Knight Three and his companions carefully prepared the fish, roasting them over the fire alongside more herbs and seaweed gathered from the shore. The aroma of the fish mixed with the sweetness of the roasted sweet potatoes. As they worked, the sounds of laughter, singing, and the soft strumming of instruments filled the air. Music was always present, and it was a joy woven into the daily tasks, as natural as the rhythm of the ocean itself.
By evening, the day had settled into its peaceful rhythm. With their meal and work behind them, Knight Three and Nia gathered with the other members of the commune in the library, a simple yet well-curated space tucked into a large living tree. It was not a library in the conventional sense—there were no rows of shelves, but rather scrolls made from plant-based paper and books that were carefully maintained, written in the ancient Lemurian script. The space was designed for quiet study, contemplation, and shared learning, where everyone was welcome to contribute and expand their knowledge.
Knight Three pulled a scroll from one of the shelves—a scroll about Lemurian mission, at Rapa Nui, creating an army of Moai Guardian Statues to fight supernatural evils, like the Demons of Hades and their most hated enemy the Dyvals. The island is unique in that it is located on one of the most powerful ley line
nexus points on the planet. Among the phases of building the colony was to contrust stone Ziggurats at the Ley Line Nexus points before construction began on the Stone like golems that are the Moai.
Knight Two paused taking in the images of the map showing the Ley Lines extending to South America before his host's eyes turned to his wife, Nia, sitting beside him, read from a collection on surface land based herbs, continuing her studies of the Holistic Medicine. They read quietly, sometimes exchanging thoughts, sometimes lost in the peace of shared silence.
The communal library was not just a place for learning but a center of culture, where knowledge was passed from generation to generation. The knowledge of the land, of Biomancy, and of the ancient Lemurian technologies that still resonated in their daily lives was stored here, available for any who wished to learn. The Lemurians maintained their past wisdom and used it to support their present way of life.
After hours, Knight Three began to feel the gentle pull of the day winding down. The rhythms of life on Rapa Nui (Easter Island), the cycles of work and rest, had grounded him. He felt a profound sense of connection to the earth, to his family, and to the community as a whole. There was still much work to be done, but for now, it was enough to breathe, to share in the moment, and to know that his contributions mattered.
The day had been simple—working in the garden, enjoying a communal meal, collecting seafood, and learning from the library—but each moment had been woven with care and meaning. It was the Lemurian way: a life built on balance, respect for nature, and the deep satisfaction that came from contributing to the well-being of those around you.
The first light of dawn crept into the home, casting a soft golden hue across the walls woven from living wood. For a moment, Knight Three lay still, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his face. His eyes fluttered open, drawn by the gentle pull of the day’s beginning, a sense of deep calm settling into his bones as the world outside slowly stirred to life.
Knight Three let out a soft sigh and stretched under the woven blanket of moss that kept him warm. The steady rhythm of the island’s pulse, the gentle sway of the trees and the whisper of wind through the leaves, filled the air, a constant reminder of the harmony he shared with the land.
His wife, Nia, was already awake, as he expected. She had always been the early riser, ever in tune with the flow of the island, a calm smile always on her face.
His young son, Maro, was still curled up at the foot of their sleeping nook, his small figure breathing deeply in a dream-filled slumber.
Knight Three glances over at his son, grateful for the quiet moments of the morning before the day begins. The small, intricately woven toys Maro played with the night before were scattered around him like seeds waiting to grow, evidence of his creativity and joy. Knight Three smiled softly, turning his attention back to the warmth of the sun creeping across the room.
The first thought that came to him, as it did every morning, was one of gratitude. He closed his eyes, his mind focusing on the rhythm of his breath. Today, like every other day, he would begin with the ritual of gratitude. It was a tradition that had been passed down from the ancient Lemurians, an act that reaffirmed their connection to the island, the people, and the world around them.
Give thanks for the sun, the water, the earth, the air, and the community.
With a quiet sigh, Knight Three swung his legs over the side of their bed, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath his bare feet. He stood, pressing his palms together in front of his chest, and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, feeling air fill his lungs, and exhaled slowly, releasing any lingering tension from the previous day.
“I give thanks to the sun, for the warmth it brings to my family and our home.” His voice was soft, reverent.
“I give thanks to the water, for the life it nourishes in every drop, and for the ocean that sustains us.”
“I give thanks to the earth, for the gifts it provides and the life it nurtures, from the smallest seed to the tallest tree.”
“I give thanks to the air, for the breath of life that fills us and connects us all.”
“And I give thanks to my community, for the bonds that tie us together, for the strength and peace we share.”
Knight Three stood there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sunlight growing stronger on his skin, the peace of the island infusing him. He could hear the faint sounds of his neighbors already stirring—an echo of the communal life they shared. There was something grounding about the ritual, a reminder of why he lived the way he did, why he embraced the slow, deliberate rhythm of his days.
He looked over at Nia, who was already kneeling beside the Tupu-Te-Va, the great tree at the heart of their home. She was performing her own morning gratitude, her fingers gently tracing the tree’s smooth bark, grounding herself in the ritual. The tree, as always, stood steady. He silently admired her peaceful grace before turning his attention to the next part of the morning’s tradition.
Knight Three moved toward the woven shelf near the door and pulled on his simple, well-crafted clothes—durable, purposeful, and beautiful, as was the custom. The pieces had been carefully made from local plant fibers, designed for both comfort and function. After adjusting the layers, he walked to the living area where the communal exercises were taking place.
He joined a group of other Lemurians, all of whom were already gathering at the open air space near the central hearth. The sun was still low, but its light had begun to color the sky in soft pinks and oranges, casting everything in a gentle glow. The soft sounds of natural instruments—wooden flutes, drumming, and stringed instruments—filled the air, as each person began their morning ritual of warm-up exercises. Stretching and light movements brought flexibility and focus, the motions fluid and graceful, a way to honor both body and nature.
The exercises were followed by yoga-like sessions, where each Lemurian family practiced together in quiet concentration, stretching and strengthening their bodies. Knight Three (Tui) felt the calm flow of the island’s breeze pass over him as he stretched and bent, reaching for the sky as his feet stayed firmly planted on the earth. The sound of the wind swirled through the trees, refreshing and calming as it mingled with the deep rhythm of their collective practice.
As the session finished, Knight Three felt his body both invigorated and at peace, with clarity and focus. The morning was young, and now came his favorite part of the day.
Without speaking, the group began to move toward the communal swimming area, a natural pool fed by the nearby spring and sea. The Lemurian love of water was deep, and swimming was both a way of life and a celebration of their connection to the sea. Knight Three could feel the pull of the water as they walked. It was cool, fresh, and life-giving—exactly the way it should be.
He dove into the water with the ease of someone born to it, his body moving through the water like a fish. Swimming wasn’t just about exercise; it was about cleansing the spirit, a way to wash away the stress of the day before, to feel truly connected to the world and the people around him. His family and neighbors swam alongside him, exchanging smiles and quiet words, some performing simple underwater maneuvers as others floated, letting the gentle current carry them.
After about an hour, the group emerged from the water, feeling rejuvenated and at peace. Knight Three felt the sun on his skin, drying him off as he walked back to his home. He stopped briefly to check on his son, Maro, who was now awake, his small hands grasping at the air playfully. Knight Three bent down to scoop him up, feeling the weight of fatherhood in his arms, a weight that always felt like a privilege.
By mornings end, Knight Three had completed his morning rituals: gratitude, exercise, yoga, swimming. The day was now fully begun. As he returned to his home, he heard the familiar hum of activity from the other families in the commune—children laughing, the sounds of others practicing their daily dance routines, and the soft strumming of musical instruments as they began their work.
Knight Three felt the familiar sense of purpose and peace as he prepared to spend the rest of his day—attending to the crops and garden, fishing, sharing in the care of Maro. It was a life of simplicity and harmony—a life built on community, and connection to the natural world. And Knight Three knew, as he always did, that it was exactly the kind of life he was meant to live.
The morning had unfolded with its usual tranquility, and now, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Knight Three moved deeper into his day. The soft rustling of leaves, the quiet hum of his neighbors going about their tasks, filled the air as he made his way through the communal space toward the large common garden at the heart of their home.
The garden was lush, thanks to the Lemurians' expertise in growing food with care. Here, the crops are vibrant and diverse: rows of purple sweet potatoes with their deep violet skins, kale, carrots, herbs, and patches of wheatgrass that grew in tidy patches.
Knight Three’s first stop was the sweet potato patch, where he knelt down, feeling the rich soil between his fingers. He could sense the moisture it held, the fertility of the soil—and he could feel that the plants were thriving. He took only what was needed: one or two tubers for the day’s meal. His people never harvested more than was necessary; they took only what the land could easily give, never depleting it, always leaving space for regeneration.
As he worked, Nia came to join him, her hands deftly gathering fresh herbs from the nearby plants—rosemary, mint, and thyme. Their son, Maro, was playing nearby, his small hands patting the earth, fingers sticky with the sweet juices of fruit that had fallen from the trees. Knight Three smiled at the sight. Family—it was everything here. In the rthym of work, they shared small moments of connection.
After gathering what they needed, Knight Three placed the harvested crops into a woven basket made from local grasses, the weight of it a gentle reminder of the labor that sustained them. Together, they walked toward the communal kitchen, where the larger cooking area was shared by several families.
The kitchen was open to the air, the stone firepits already lit, with cooking herbs drying on wooden racks above. The smell of roasting vegetables and the sound of laughter mixed as other families began their own meal preparations.
Knight Three and Nia set their basket down beside the communal hearth, where others were already preparing their share of the day’s meal. Large bowls of purple sweet potato stew simmered over the fire, the vegetables melding with herbs, seaweed, and coconut milk to create a hearty, nourishing dish. The aroma was warm and comforting. The meal was both simplicity and purpose: fresh, nourishing food that was grown with care, cooked communally, and shared among the people.
As the family gathered, Knight Three took a moment to give thanks again for the food before them, silently acknowledging the contributions of the land, the water, and the community in preparing the meal. Maro babbled excitedly from his seat, already tasting the sweet potatoes, his eyes wide with joy at the flavors. Nia smiled at him, and then at Tui, before they all settled into their seats. The meal was shared quietly at first, each of them savoring the taste of the earth’s bounty, the food that had grown so close to home, harvested from the island itself.
After the meal, the family, along with their neighbors, joined together to participate in their seafood collection. Knight Three and several of the men and women of the commune gathered by the shore, where the waves lapped gently at the rocky beach. The ocean, a constant companion in the Lemurians' lives, was a provider, and the collection was done with respect, always in balance with the world. They harvested fish and shellfish—not in great abundance, but enough for the community to share. The work was methodical, each person contributing in their own way, using nets made from woven fibers or simply their hands to gather what was needed.
Knight Three waded into the cool, clear waters, feeling the water rush around his legs as he moved with the rhythm of the waves. The sea was alive beneath him, teeming with life. It was always a peaceful task—familiar and soothing. His eyes scanned the clear water, watching the silvery flicker of small fish darting among the rocks, and he felt a sense of calm as he took what was necessary, never more than what could be replenished.
After collecting the catch, the group returned to the commune. Knight Three and his companions carefully prepared the fish, roasting them over the fire alongside more herbs and seaweed gathered from the shore. The aroma of the fish mixed with the sweetness of the roasted sweet potatoes. As they worked, the sounds of laughter, singing, and the soft strumming of instruments filled the air. Music was always present, and it was a joy woven into the daily tasks, as natural as the rhythm of the ocean itself.
By evening, the day had settled into its peaceful rhythm. With their meal and work behind them, Knight Three and Nia gathered with the other members of the commune in the library, a simple yet well-curated space tucked into a large living tree. It was not a library in the conventional sense—there were no rows of shelves, but rather scrolls made from plant-based paper and books that were carefully maintained, written in the ancient Lemurian script. The space was designed for quiet study, contemplation, and shared learning, where everyone was welcome to contribute and expand their knowledge.
Knight Three pulled a scroll from one of the shelves—a scroll about Lemurian mission, at Rapa Nui, creating an army of Moai Guardian Statues to fight supernatural evils, like the Demons of Hades and their most hated enemy the Dyvals. The island is unique in that it is located on one of the most powerful ley line
nexus points on the planet. Among the phases of building the colony was to contrust stone Ziggurats at the Ley Line Nexus points before construction began on the Stone like golems that are the Moai.
Knight Two paused taking in the images of the map showing the Ley Lines extending to South America before his host's eyes turned to his wife, Nia, sitting beside him, read from a collection on surface land based herbs, continuing her studies of the Holistic Medicine. They read quietly, sometimes exchanging thoughts, sometimes lost in the peace of shared silence.
The communal library was not just a place for learning but a center of culture, where knowledge was passed from generation to generation. The knowledge of the land, of Biomancy, and of the ancient Lemurian technologies that still resonated in their daily lives was stored here, available for any who wished to learn. The Lemurians maintained their past wisdom and used it to support their present way of life.
After hours, Knight Three began to feel the gentle pull of the day winding down. The rhythms of life on Rapa Nui (Easter Island), the cycles of work and rest, had grounded him. He felt a profound sense of connection to the earth, to his family, and to the community as a whole. There was still much work to be done, but for now, it was enough to breathe, to share in the moment, and to know that his contributions mattered.
The day had been simple—working in the garden, enjoying a communal meal, collecting seafood, and learning from the library—but each moment had been woven with care and meaning. It was the Lemurian way: a life built on balance, respect for nature, and the deep satisfaction that came from contributing to the well-being of those around you.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Solomon
The tree lies on its side, a massive, gnarled trunk sprawled across the ground like a fallen giant. Its once-mighty roots are exposed, twisting and coiled in strange, grotesque patterns. The bark, now weathered and splintered, bears the scars of its fall, with jagged pieces torn away and edges splintered from the violent impact. Broken branches jut out at odd angles, some splintered, others intact, creating a crisscrossed canopy above. The thick, sturdy trunk, though cracked and scarred, provides a solid barrier, offering shelter from the barrage of enemy fire. Behind it, the once-healthy foliage is now sparse, leaves burned or torn away, leaving only remnants of green in places. Dust and dirt are kicked up around the fallen tree, as if it too is trying to reclaim its place amidst the chaos, standing firm despite the odds.
It lies awaiting nature to break it down even further until it rejoins the soil.
Instead, the tree, broken and twisted, begins to undergo a transformation. Its once weathered bark, starts to harden and darken, taking on the appearance of rough, cracked stone. Slowly, the wood’s fibrous texture is replaced by jagged, gray stone, flecked with veins of black and dark brown, as though ancient minerals were coursing through its very veins. The roots, once gnarled and stretched across the earth, now resemble a network of jagged rock formations, cracking the soil beneath them as they solidify into a stony mass.
The leaves, which were once a vibrant green, begin to curl and wither, turning to brittle shards of rock, falling to the ground like shards of ancient petrified glass. The branches stretch outward, their forms becoming more angular and rigid, their tips jagged and sharp like the tips of stalagmites.
Where once there had been life, the tree now stands, frozen in time, a petrified barrier of stone. The once living tree is now a downed pillar of stone—silent, cold, and forever bound to the earth.
The air grows thick as the Earth Warlock extends his hands toward the petrified tree, his fingers on it. A pulse of power radiates from his palms, and the stone begins to tremble. The transformation begins at the roots, where the stone’s dark surface begins to shimmer with a dull, metallic sheen.
With a deep, resonating groan, the stone cracks and splits, as though protesting the change, but it cannot resist.
The tree, now petrified into stone, shifts as the stone’s texture changes, turning first into a coarse iron surface, rough and uneven. The edges of the stone start to glow faintly, as if being smelted from the inside out, and in a heartbeat, the stone solidifies into iron—dark, heavy, and unyielding.
The weight causes the iron truck to slowly sink as it shifts from stone to iron. Each segment of the tree succumbs to the magic, turning to iron, with the once stone now hardened into steel-like metal. The trunk thickens, its iron surface gleaming darkly in the light, rippling with the power of the spell. Branches, once fragile, become twisted rods of iron, their sharp, jagged edges glinting menacingly.
The leaves, now no longer stone, transform into sheets of dark iron, their once light structure becoming heavy and dense, as though the tree itself is becoming a monument of steel. With each transformation causes the iron tree to sink slightly deeper into the earth, its weight pushing down as if it were a heavy anvil being hammered into the ground.
The transformation continues, piece by piece, until the entire fallen tree is a barrier iron, its once natural beauty now replaced by an unyielding, metallic shell.
These and dozens more, just like them, will become the new forward defense for the Mystic Knight Mercenaries. More trenches with fall back positions are formed. Made to be compatible with Earth Warlocks spells to bury or crush those inside them.
---
The siege lines were quiet for now.
Beyond the Iron-Tree Ring, the Coalition’s machines sat still in their distant trenches like vultures waiting for a weakness. But inside Solomon’s walls, life danced to Grian's melody.
With food abundant from the Biomancer’s enchanted gardens…
With injuries tended by by the magic and psionics of many, with lost limbs made whole again by Grian…
With trenches manned, weapons charged, and defenses repaired…
And with the Mystic Knights keeping the shadows at bay…
Now came the task that no sword or spell could handle:
Holding the morale of Solomon together.
---
Location: the Gathering Fields — Just outside the Town Hall
The large open courtyard once served as a rallying ground for soldiers.
Now, under Grian’s guidance, it now served something just as important.
Large colorful banners wove between the ironwood trunks, catching soft breezes.
Simple wooden stages had been raised, lined with glowing lantern lights that glowed softly as night fell.
Tables loaded with food from the day’s harvest sat at the perimeter.
A small reflecting pool gleamed at the center, catching moonlight like a silver eye watching over them.
---
The people of Solomon gathered — soldiers and civilians alike who had slowly returned to their homes as the worst dangers passed.
There was laughter here.
At the center stood Grian.
She wore robes of deep indigo threaded with gold, simple yet elegant, her long hair braided back, a single sunstone pendant glowing faintly at her chest.
Her voice carried easily — clear, warm, full of life.
“Tonight,” she said softly, “we are not defenders. We are not soldiers. We are not mages.”
She let her eyes sweep across the faces.
“Tonight… we are simply alive.”
The music began.
Light drums.
Stringed lyres.
Wooden flutes.
The melody rose gently at first—like a breeze whispering through the fields—and then slowly grew into something joyous.
Grian sang.
Her voice was beautiful.
She sang of seasons returning.
She sang of families reuniting.
She sang of fields blooming where war once burned.
She sang of the weight of grief giving way to the warmth of memory.
Dancing followed.
Veterans stomped in loose circles, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, laughing between drinks of freshly conjured wine (from water).
Old women clapped along with the beat, their faces creased with both wrinkles and relief.
Even the soldiers on duty relaxed at their posts, humming softly as the music carried across the night air.
Beyond the lights, hidden in the shadows of the trees, the Mystic Knights watched.
Knight Two stood among them, silent, arms folded, eyes scanning for threats—always vigilant.
Sir Harvek stood beside him, smiling faintly.
“She’s giving them something we can’t, you know. The people of the siege need their sanity cared for as much as their appetites.”
Knight Two nodded. Then said, "We have to stay viligant. Keep moving teleporting out the salvaged pieces of the Skelebots and their laser rifles."
Harvek, "I have to admit. It is a genius idea. The black market is flooded with the stuff. Tolkeen's full too. Everyone else either doesn't want them or is too far away to be bother with the trouble of transporting. The Coalition really is the best paying customer in the game."
The tree lies on its side, a massive, gnarled trunk sprawled across the ground like a fallen giant. Its once-mighty roots are exposed, twisting and coiled in strange, grotesque patterns. The bark, now weathered and splintered, bears the scars of its fall, with jagged pieces torn away and edges splintered from the violent impact. Broken branches jut out at odd angles, some splintered, others intact, creating a crisscrossed canopy above. The thick, sturdy trunk, though cracked and scarred, provides a solid barrier, offering shelter from the barrage of enemy fire. Behind it, the once-healthy foliage is now sparse, leaves burned or torn away, leaving only remnants of green in places. Dust and dirt are kicked up around the fallen tree, as if it too is trying to reclaim its place amidst the chaos, standing firm despite the odds.
It lies awaiting nature to break it down even further until it rejoins the soil.
Instead, the tree, broken and twisted, begins to undergo a transformation. Its once weathered bark, starts to harden and darken, taking on the appearance of rough, cracked stone. Slowly, the wood’s fibrous texture is replaced by jagged, gray stone, flecked with veins of black and dark brown, as though ancient minerals were coursing through its very veins. The roots, once gnarled and stretched across the earth, now resemble a network of jagged rock formations, cracking the soil beneath them as they solidify into a stony mass.
The leaves, which were once a vibrant green, begin to curl and wither, turning to brittle shards of rock, falling to the ground like shards of ancient petrified glass. The branches stretch outward, their forms becoming more angular and rigid, their tips jagged and sharp like the tips of stalagmites.
Where once there had been life, the tree now stands, frozen in time, a petrified barrier of stone. The once living tree is now a downed pillar of stone—silent, cold, and forever bound to the earth.
The air grows thick as the Earth Warlock extends his hands toward the petrified tree, his fingers on it. A pulse of power radiates from his palms, and the stone begins to tremble. The transformation begins at the roots, where the stone’s dark surface begins to shimmer with a dull, metallic sheen.
With a deep, resonating groan, the stone cracks and splits, as though protesting the change, but it cannot resist.
The tree, now petrified into stone, shifts as the stone’s texture changes, turning first into a coarse iron surface, rough and uneven. The edges of the stone start to glow faintly, as if being smelted from the inside out, and in a heartbeat, the stone solidifies into iron—dark, heavy, and unyielding.
The weight causes the iron truck to slowly sink as it shifts from stone to iron. Each segment of the tree succumbs to the magic, turning to iron, with the once stone now hardened into steel-like metal. The trunk thickens, its iron surface gleaming darkly in the light, rippling with the power of the spell. Branches, once fragile, become twisted rods of iron, their sharp, jagged edges glinting menacingly.
The leaves, now no longer stone, transform into sheets of dark iron, their once light structure becoming heavy and dense, as though the tree itself is becoming a monument of steel. With each transformation causes the iron tree to sink slightly deeper into the earth, its weight pushing down as if it were a heavy anvil being hammered into the ground.
The transformation continues, piece by piece, until the entire fallen tree is a barrier iron, its once natural beauty now replaced by an unyielding, metallic shell.
These and dozens more, just like them, will become the new forward defense for the Mystic Knight Mercenaries. More trenches with fall back positions are formed. Made to be compatible with Earth Warlocks spells to bury or crush those inside them.
---
The siege lines were quiet for now.
Beyond the Iron-Tree Ring, the Coalition’s machines sat still in their distant trenches like vultures waiting for a weakness. But inside Solomon’s walls, life danced to Grian's melody.
With food abundant from the Biomancer’s enchanted gardens…
With injuries tended by by the magic and psionics of many, with lost limbs made whole again by Grian…
With trenches manned, weapons charged, and defenses repaired…
And with the Mystic Knights keeping the shadows at bay…
Now came the task that no sword or spell could handle:
Holding the morale of Solomon together.
---
Location: the Gathering Fields — Just outside the Town Hall
The large open courtyard once served as a rallying ground for soldiers.
Now, under Grian’s guidance, it now served something just as important.
Large colorful banners wove between the ironwood trunks, catching soft breezes.
Simple wooden stages had been raised, lined with glowing lantern lights that glowed softly as night fell.
Tables loaded with food from the day’s harvest sat at the perimeter.
A small reflecting pool gleamed at the center, catching moonlight like a silver eye watching over them.
---
The people of Solomon gathered — soldiers and civilians alike who had slowly returned to their homes as the worst dangers passed.
There was laughter here.
At the center stood Grian.
She wore robes of deep indigo threaded with gold, simple yet elegant, her long hair braided back, a single sunstone pendant glowing faintly at her chest.
Her voice carried easily — clear, warm, full of life.
“Tonight,” she said softly, “we are not defenders. We are not soldiers. We are not mages.”
She let her eyes sweep across the faces.
“Tonight… we are simply alive.”
The music began.
Light drums.
Stringed lyres.
Wooden flutes.
The melody rose gently at first—like a breeze whispering through the fields—and then slowly grew into something joyous.
Grian sang.
Her voice was beautiful.
She sang of seasons returning.
She sang of families reuniting.
She sang of fields blooming where war once burned.
She sang of the weight of grief giving way to the warmth of memory.
Dancing followed.
Veterans stomped in loose circles, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, laughing between drinks of freshly conjured wine (from water).
Old women clapped along with the beat, their faces creased with both wrinkles and relief.
Even the soldiers on duty relaxed at their posts, humming softly as the music carried across the night air.
Beyond the lights, hidden in the shadows of the trees, the Mystic Knights watched.
Knight Two stood among them, silent, arms folded, eyes scanning for threats—always vigilant.
Sir Harvek stood beside him, smiling faintly.
“She’s giving them something we can’t, you know. The people of the siege need their sanity cared for as much as their appetites.”
Knight Two nodded. Then said, "We have to stay viligant. Keep moving teleporting out the salvaged pieces of the Skelebots and their laser rifles."
Harvek, "I have to admit. It is a genius idea. The black market is flooded with the stuff. Tolkeen's full too. Everyone else either doesn't want them or is too far away to be bother with the trouble of transporting. The Coalition really is the best paying customer in the game."
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Ruins of Coalition Outpost, Iowa
The air still reeks of scorched metal and burnt flesh. The gorgoyles have moved on, following their Gargoyle Lord as they march toward their next feast. I remain behind to gather what knowledge I can from the shattered remains of the enemy.
Amid the rubble, I located the command bunker—half-collapsed under the weight of the assault, but partially intact. The Coalition officers—efficient, disciplined to the end—had kept meticulous records. Their logbooks survived, protected in reinforced database bolted into the concrete. I retrieved them with ease. My psionic powers let me access them and Speed Reading and Total Recall lets me fly through them.
The command staff of this outpost was typical of the Coalition military machine. Captain Elias Mortensen commanded the garrison. His personnel file paints a clear picture: age 41, third-generation Coalition officer, educated at Chi-Town Military Academy, graduated in the upper third of his class. Evaluations emphasize his punctuality, strict adherence to protocol, and a reputation for suppressing dissent within his ranks without recourse to excessive force. A loyal servant of the regime.
Mortensen's subordinates followed similar patterns. His executive officer, Lieutenant Hannah Griggs, was younger but equally disciplined, noted for her organizational skills and precision in logistics management. The quartermaster, Warrant Officer Keller, maintained supply lines with near-fanatical accuracy, ensuring shortages never arose despite frequent requisition delays. These were not brutes or zealots; they were bureaucratic soldiers—efficient, professional, and utterly loyal to the Coalition's hierarchy.
Their personal logs reveal more. Mortensen maintained a private journal, recording daily operations with obsessive detail: patrol schedules, maintenance rosters, even notes on the personal lives of his men. The entries show no signs of rebellion, fear, or doubt. Only duty. Only order. Even as my Lord's grunts approached unseen, they followed protocol. They died as they lived—orderly, disciplined, predictable.
This is the Coalition's strength: its structure. Its iron hierarchy. But it is also its weakness. Their rigidity blinds them to the unpredictable. My strategy continues to exploit this flaw.
In these officers, the regime sought loyalty above all else—men and women who would uphold order, suppress dissent, and ensure that the military remains focused on the regime's goals. Individual initiative is tolerated only when it reinforces discipline. Creativity is dangerous to them.
Had Captain Mortensen possessed more flexibility, perhaps he would have pulled consolidated his forces or retreated until backup came. Perhaps he would have questioned the odd pattern of attacks before this one. But no. The system discourages deviation. And so they remained at their posts—until they were swept aside.
Their efficiency cannot save them from unpredictability. That is my advantage. I will continue to study them, to find the gaps in their machine. The Gargoyle Lord provides the force; I provide the precision.
Soon, we will strike again.
End Entry.
The air still reeks of scorched metal and burnt flesh. The gorgoyles have moved on, following their Gargoyle Lord as they march toward their next feast. I remain behind to gather what knowledge I can from the shattered remains of the enemy.
Amid the rubble, I located the command bunker—half-collapsed under the weight of the assault, but partially intact. The Coalition officers—efficient, disciplined to the end—had kept meticulous records. Their logbooks survived, protected in reinforced database bolted into the concrete. I retrieved them with ease. My psionic powers let me access them and Speed Reading and Total Recall lets me fly through them.
The command staff of this outpost was typical of the Coalition military machine. Captain Elias Mortensen commanded the garrison. His personnel file paints a clear picture: age 41, third-generation Coalition officer, educated at Chi-Town Military Academy, graduated in the upper third of his class. Evaluations emphasize his punctuality, strict adherence to protocol, and a reputation for suppressing dissent within his ranks without recourse to excessive force. A loyal servant of the regime.
Mortensen's subordinates followed similar patterns. His executive officer, Lieutenant Hannah Griggs, was younger but equally disciplined, noted for her organizational skills and precision in logistics management. The quartermaster, Warrant Officer Keller, maintained supply lines with near-fanatical accuracy, ensuring shortages never arose despite frequent requisition delays. These were not brutes or zealots; they were bureaucratic soldiers—efficient, professional, and utterly loyal to the Coalition's hierarchy.
Their personal logs reveal more. Mortensen maintained a private journal, recording daily operations with obsessive detail: patrol schedules, maintenance rosters, even notes on the personal lives of his men. The entries show no signs of rebellion, fear, or doubt. Only duty. Only order. Even as my Lord's grunts approached unseen, they followed protocol. They died as they lived—orderly, disciplined, predictable.
This is the Coalition's strength: its structure. Its iron hierarchy. But it is also its weakness. Their rigidity blinds them to the unpredictable. My strategy continues to exploit this flaw.
In these officers, the regime sought loyalty above all else—men and women who would uphold order, suppress dissent, and ensure that the military remains focused on the regime's goals. Individual initiative is tolerated only when it reinforces discipline. Creativity is dangerous to them.
Had Captain Mortensen possessed more flexibility, perhaps he would have pulled consolidated his forces or retreated until backup came. Perhaps he would have questioned the odd pattern of attacks before this one. But no. The system discourages deviation. And so they remained at their posts—until they were swept aside.
Their efficiency cannot save them from unpredictability. That is my advantage. I will continue to study them, to find the gaps in their machine. The Gargoyle Lord provides the force; I provide the precision.
Soon, we will strike again.
End Entry.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Somewhere in Iowa
Knight One's War Journal
I have spent time now among the Gargoyles. The longer I observe them, the more I come to understand the strange simplicity—and terrifying purity—of their nature.
They have no fear of death. It holds no sway over their minds. Old age is not a specter that haunts them. Most will not live long enough to feel its grip, for they expect, even welcome, a violent end on the battlefield. To die in combat is not a tragedy to them; it is fulfillment. I have seen Lord Krag'Sharr speak of fallen Gurgoyles with no sorrow, only respect, as one might speak of a hunter who finally met a worthy beast.
Their joy is battle. Killing for them is not simply duty, but indulgence—as intoxicating as any drug to a human addict.
They do not require coin, threats, or orders to seek conflict. Violence is their sustenance.
The Coalition’s archives, thick with reports from survivors and military analysts, paint Gargoyles as savage horrors—beasts of nightmare who descend upon outposts with frightening speed and unspeakable brutality. These accounts, while colored by fear, are not entirely wrong. The Gargoyle strikes are swift, ferocious, and deeply unsettling to those who experience them. Many of the humans who fled such attacks or studied their aftermath speak of monsters who seemed to take pleasure in the suffering they inflicted. The terror they inspire is real.
But there is more nuance beneath their savagery. Under my guidance, Lord Krag'Sharr has directed his bloodlust primarily against military targets of the Coalition. I have carefully convinced him that attacking peasants, farmers, or the poor offers no worthy challenge and produces inferior prey.
"A true Lord does not hunt rabbits," I have said. "He hunts lions."
To my surprise, this logic appeals to him. Prideful and status-driven as he is, Krag'Sharr finds sport only in worthy opponents. The defenseless bore him.
Unlike men, they do not hunger for land, knowledge, titles, or wealth. They do not conquer to rule. They do not take women, form families in the human sense, or build kingdoms. Their society is based entirely on dominance, strength, and competition. Life itself is an unending contest for supremacy, and only the strong deserve to lead. Yet they are not solitary. Despite their brutal hierarchy, Gargoyles crave the presence of others of their kind. They are social in their own way, but never equals.
Their natural tactics rely on ambushes, quick strikes, and brutal retreats when overmatched. These instincts serve them well against most foes, but under my hand I have refined them into feints, diversions, and carefully staged traps that disorient Coalition forces. My strategies give their raw aggression purpose.
As for my place among them—I suspect Lord Krag'Sharr sees me as one might view a particularly useful and entertaining servant. Perhaps a favored pet. I have earned his indulgence through my magic, my refusal to cower before him, and my success in guiding his wars. The Gurgoyles respect strength and cunning. So long as I remain valuable and do not bore or displease him, I remain at his side.
Every day I walk a dangerous path, balancing on the edge of his tolerance. Yet so far, it has worked. My knowledge tempers his wrath. My guidance channels his hunger. And in doing so, we strike blows that the Coalition has yet to out predict.
End Entry.
Knight One's War Journal
I have spent time now among the Gargoyles. The longer I observe them, the more I come to understand the strange simplicity—and terrifying purity—of their nature.
They have no fear of death. It holds no sway over their minds. Old age is not a specter that haunts them. Most will not live long enough to feel its grip, for they expect, even welcome, a violent end on the battlefield. To die in combat is not a tragedy to them; it is fulfillment. I have seen Lord Krag'Sharr speak of fallen Gurgoyles with no sorrow, only respect, as one might speak of a hunter who finally met a worthy beast.
Their joy is battle. Killing for them is not simply duty, but indulgence—as intoxicating as any drug to a human addict.
They do not require coin, threats, or orders to seek conflict. Violence is their sustenance.
The Coalition’s archives, thick with reports from survivors and military analysts, paint Gargoyles as savage horrors—beasts of nightmare who descend upon outposts with frightening speed and unspeakable brutality. These accounts, while colored by fear, are not entirely wrong. The Gargoyle strikes are swift, ferocious, and deeply unsettling to those who experience them. Many of the humans who fled such attacks or studied their aftermath speak of monsters who seemed to take pleasure in the suffering they inflicted. The terror they inspire is real.
But there is more nuance beneath their savagery. Under my guidance, Lord Krag'Sharr has directed his bloodlust primarily against military targets of the Coalition. I have carefully convinced him that attacking peasants, farmers, or the poor offers no worthy challenge and produces inferior prey.
"A true Lord does not hunt rabbits," I have said. "He hunts lions."
To my surprise, this logic appeals to him. Prideful and status-driven as he is, Krag'Sharr finds sport only in worthy opponents. The defenseless bore him.
Unlike men, they do not hunger for land, knowledge, titles, or wealth. They do not conquer to rule. They do not take women, form families in the human sense, or build kingdoms. Their society is based entirely on dominance, strength, and competition. Life itself is an unending contest for supremacy, and only the strong deserve to lead. Yet they are not solitary. Despite their brutal hierarchy, Gargoyles crave the presence of others of their kind. They are social in their own way, but never equals.
Their natural tactics rely on ambushes, quick strikes, and brutal retreats when overmatched. These instincts serve them well against most foes, but under my hand I have refined them into feints, diversions, and carefully staged traps that disorient Coalition forces. My strategies give their raw aggression purpose.
As for my place among them—I suspect Lord Krag'Sharr sees me as one might view a particularly useful and entertaining servant. Perhaps a favored pet. I have earned his indulgence through my magic, my refusal to cower before him, and my success in guiding his wars. The Gurgoyles respect strength and cunning. So long as I remain valuable and do not bore or displease him, I remain at his side.
Every day I walk a dangerous path, balancing on the edge of his tolerance. Yet so far, it has worked. My knowledge tempers his wrath. My guidance channels his hunger. And in doing so, we strike blows that the Coalition has yet to out predict.
End Entry.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Coalition High Command — Deep Strategic Operations Briefing
The lights are low. The security here is absolute.
Only the Emperor and his absolute inner circle are present.
The holotable glows red with the projected map of Earth. Ley Line Nexus points pulse like beating hearts across the globe. One Nexus—already corrupted into a “Hell Pit”—glows black on the map.
The briefing is laid bare before them: the so-called “Minion War.”
Director Helstrom (reporting), “The mercenary company’s intelligence is accurate. Cross-referenced reports from our assets and spies in Lazlo, New Lazlo, Tolkeen, and our own psychic divisions confirm the presence of an active Demon incursion—operating from what they call 'Hades.' They are already building interdimensional infrastructure. They require six more Nexus sites to establish full invasion capacity.”
Colonel Richter, “Psi-Stalker units have psychically verified activity around the first Hell Pit.”
General Rockford (grimly), “The Kingdom of Tolkeen invited these demons, but now the demons are no longer servants. They are invaders. That is now the correct designation. They were summoned as weapons against us. Now they’re establishing a new war—one that no longer recognizes Tolkeen's control. And as predicted, Tolkeen remains blind. The Tolkeen fools believe they are still in control. They aren’t.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (voice like acid), “This is the fruit of their sorcery and their blasphemy. They invited evil—and now evil devours them. But in the end, only we have the strength to purge it." The inquisitor's voice turns intense, almost reverent. "Humanity against Hell itself. Our destiny.”
Minister Carlisle, “The opportunity for propaganda is beyond calculation, my Emperor. We stand once again as humanity’s sole defenders. The rest of the world will either follow our lead… or burn.”
Summary of Intelligence
Verified: A functioning "Hell Pit" Nexus controlled by Demonic entities from the Hades dimension.
Enemy Intent: Seize six more strategically important Ley Line Nexus points to secure mass invasion routes.
Strategic Implication: If successful, the Demons would establish a permanent, self-sustaining dimensional bridgehead on Rifts Earth.
Collateral Danger: Rival demons (Dyval) may interfere or exacerbate the threat, leading to unpredictable escalation.
Political Note: Tolkeen remains ignorant; demons exploit their war of survival against the Coalition as cover.
Coalition Intelligence Conclusion:
A war with Tolkeen was inevitable. Now, a war with their summoned Minions is likewise inevitable.
Codename for Future Conflict: “The Minion War.”
Options on the Table
Option 1: Immediate Assault on the Existing Hell Pit
Pros:
Destroy their first beachhead.
Demonstrate strength and claim the mantle of “Defenders of Humanity.”
Limited enemy build-up at the initial site.
Cons:
Risks significant casualties.
Demons may disperse and seed other sites faster.
We lose the chance to identify future Hell Pit sites before they're activated.
Option 2: Stealth and Surveillance Operation
Pros:
Track the Demons’ expansion plans.
Identify and map all intended Hell Pit sites.
Build comprehensive assault strategies to eradicate them simultaneously or prevent further footholds.
Minimize Coalition casualties.
Allows time to entrench defensive outposts.
Cons:
Risk Demons entrenching deeper.
If detected, might escalate to early conflict at unfavorable times.
Requires long-term commitment of covert assets.
Strategic Secondary Objective:
Build fortified outposts or Coalition strongholds at major Nexus points to deny future Hell Pit construction.
Will take years, possibly decades.
Emperor Prosek’s (He listens to the advisors’ debate. No emotion crosses his face as they speak of wars against demons and dimensional apocalypse. Then he rises. The room falls dead silent. The flickering map glows red against his face.
Prosek (calm, cold, surgical), "It was always going to come to this. The war against Tolkeen was never just a war of conquest. It was a war for survival—a necessary purification before the real war began. Now, the Minion War stands before us. And we, once again, will carry the burden for all of HUMAN-kind"
(deliberate, commanding)
"The war against Tolkeen taught us a simple truth. Victory belongs not to the boldest blade, but to the surest hand. We are not Tolkeen. We are not desperate mage-lings begging monsters for salvation. We are humanity's sword and shield; the last sheild. We will not fall into the trap of heroism at the cost of annihilation."
Prosek’s Orders
"We allow the Demons to reveal their full plan. The more Hell Pits they attempt to build, the more targets they expose. We will use stealth assets to track their activity, every ritual, every construction effort."
1. Stealth and Surveillance Approach — Approved
Immediate covert operations: Track, Observe, Map.
Deploy Ghost Ops recon units, Psi-Stalker infiltration teams, and long-range surveillance drones.
Establish intelligence networks around the known Hell Pit.
No public acknowledgment. No grandstanding. No interference until the full network of Hell Pits is understood.
2. Intelligence Preparation and War Planning
Draft full assault plans for simultaneous strikes against all Hell Pit sites when they are weakest and most vulnerable.
Learn or steal anti-demon tactics from others.
3. Nexus Fortification Project
Begin drafting long-term fortification blueprints for all major Ley Line Nexus points.
Launch the “Aegis Project”: a decades-long operation to build fortresses at key nexus points.
Prioritize Earth’s defense over Coalition expansion. Humanity’s survival comes first.
4. Propaganda Directive
Prosek, "We will control the narrative. Prepare media narratives for eventual disclosure. The Coalition, once again, saved humanity from the brink of extermination. The foolish magic-using kingdoms invited the apocalypse through their arrogance. The Coalition, and only the Coalition, stood prepared to defend humanity against Hell itself.
"Publicly, the demons shall be labeled by what they are, Minions of Tolkeen, their summoners, Tolkeen, directly responsible for this apocalypse.
"The Coalition will present itself as the 'Heroes of Humanity.' I expect, with the proper marketing, civilians and even rival governments will come to depend on Coalition protection, expanding our soft power across the continent.
Prosek (final statement to the Council):
"We will let the Demons dig their graves.
We will follow them into the dark.
And when the time comes...
We will burn their Hell to ash.
This will be the Minion War.
And it will be our greatest victory."
(The Council salutes. Orders are transmitted. The wheels of quiet, terrible war begin to turn.)
The lights are low. The security here is absolute.
Only the Emperor and his absolute inner circle are present.
The holotable glows red with the projected map of Earth. Ley Line Nexus points pulse like beating hearts across the globe. One Nexus—already corrupted into a “Hell Pit”—glows black on the map.
The briefing is laid bare before them: the so-called “Minion War.”
Director Helstrom (reporting), “The mercenary company’s intelligence is accurate. Cross-referenced reports from our assets and spies in Lazlo, New Lazlo, Tolkeen, and our own psychic divisions confirm the presence of an active Demon incursion—operating from what they call 'Hades.' They are already building interdimensional infrastructure. They require six more Nexus sites to establish full invasion capacity.”
Colonel Richter, “Psi-Stalker units have psychically verified activity around the first Hell Pit.”
General Rockford (grimly), “The Kingdom of Tolkeen invited these demons, but now the demons are no longer servants. They are invaders. That is now the correct designation. They were summoned as weapons against us. Now they’re establishing a new war—one that no longer recognizes Tolkeen's control. And as predicted, Tolkeen remains blind. The Tolkeen fools believe they are still in control. They aren’t.”
High Inquisitor Kreel (voice like acid), “This is the fruit of their sorcery and their blasphemy. They invited evil—and now evil devours them. But in the end, only we have the strength to purge it." The inquisitor's voice turns intense, almost reverent. "Humanity against Hell itself. Our destiny.”
Minister Carlisle, “The opportunity for propaganda is beyond calculation, my Emperor. We stand once again as humanity’s sole defenders. The rest of the world will either follow our lead… or burn.”
Summary of Intelligence
Verified: A functioning "Hell Pit" Nexus controlled by Demonic entities from the Hades dimension.
Enemy Intent: Seize six more strategically important Ley Line Nexus points to secure mass invasion routes.
Strategic Implication: If successful, the Demons would establish a permanent, self-sustaining dimensional bridgehead on Rifts Earth.
Collateral Danger: Rival demons (Dyval) may interfere or exacerbate the threat, leading to unpredictable escalation.
Political Note: Tolkeen remains ignorant; demons exploit their war of survival against the Coalition as cover.
Coalition Intelligence Conclusion:
A war with Tolkeen was inevitable. Now, a war with their summoned Minions is likewise inevitable.
Codename for Future Conflict: “The Minion War.”
Options on the Table
Option 1: Immediate Assault on the Existing Hell Pit
Pros:
Destroy their first beachhead.
Demonstrate strength and claim the mantle of “Defenders of Humanity.”
Limited enemy build-up at the initial site.
Cons:
Risks significant casualties.
Demons may disperse and seed other sites faster.
We lose the chance to identify future Hell Pit sites before they're activated.
Option 2: Stealth and Surveillance Operation
Pros:
Track the Demons’ expansion plans.
Identify and map all intended Hell Pit sites.
Build comprehensive assault strategies to eradicate them simultaneously or prevent further footholds.
Minimize Coalition casualties.
Allows time to entrench defensive outposts.
Cons:
Risk Demons entrenching deeper.
If detected, might escalate to early conflict at unfavorable times.
Requires long-term commitment of covert assets.
Strategic Secondary Objective:
Build fortified outposts or Coalition strongholds at major Nexus points to deny future Hell Pit construction.
Will take years, possibly decades.
Emperor Prosek’s (He listens to the advisors’ debate. No emotion crosses his face as they speak of wars against demons and dimensional apocalypse. Then he rises. The room falls dead silent. The flickering map glows red against his face.
Prosek (calm, cold, surgical), "It was always going to come to this. The war against Tolkeen was never just a war of conquest. It was a war for survival—a necessary purification before the real war began. Now, the Minion War stands before us. And we, once again, will carry the burden for all of HUMAN-kind"
(deliberate, commanding)
"The war against Tolkeen taught us a simple truth. Victory belongs not to the boldest blade, but to the surest hand. We are not Tolkeen. We are not desperate mage-lings begging monsters for salvation. We are humanity's sword and shield; the last sheild. We will not fall into the trap of heroism at the cost of annihilation."
Prosek’s Orders
"We allow the Demons to reveal their full plan. The more Hell Pits they attempt to build, the more targets they expose. We will use stealth assets to track their activity, every ritual, every construction effort."
1. Stealth and Surveillance Approach — Approved
Immediate covert operations: Track, Observe, Map.
Deploy Ghost Ops recon units, Psi-Stalker infiltration teams, and long-range surveillance drones.
Establish intelligence networks around the known Hell Pit.
No public acknowledgment. No grandstanding. No interference until the full network of Hell Pits is understood.
2. Intelligence Preparation and War Planning
Draft full assault plans for simultaneous strikes against all Hell Pit sites when they are weakest and most vulnerable.
Learn or steal anti-demon tactics from others.
3. Nexus Fortification Project
Begin drafting long-term fortification blueprints for all major Ley Line Nexus points.
Launch the “Aegis Project”: a decades-long operation to build fortresses at key nexus points.
Prioritize Earth’s defense over Coalition expansion. Humanity’s survival comes first.
4. Propaganda Directive
Prosek, "We will control the narrative. Prepare media narratives for eventual disclosure. The Coalition, once again, saved humanity from the brink of extermination. The foolish magic-using kingdoms invited the apocalypse through their arrogance. The Coalition, and only the Coalition, stood prepared to defend humanity against Hell itself.
"Publicly, the demons shall be labeled by what they are, Minions of Tolkeen, their summoners, Tolkeen, directly responsible for this apocalypse.
"The Coalition will present itself as the 'Heroes of Humanity.' I expect, with the proper marketing, civilians and even rival governments will come to depend on Coalition protection, expanding our soft power across the continent.
Prosek (final statement to the Council):
"We will let the Demons dig their graves.
We will follow them into the dark.
And when the time comes...
We will burn their Hell to ash.
This will be the Minion War.
And it will be our greatest victory."
(The Council salutes. Orders are transmitted. The wheels of quiet, terrible war begin to turn.)
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: A News Broadcast in the City of Lazlo - 107 PA
The camera zooms in on a polished, pristine news desk, where a well-dressed female anchor, Sarah Dresin, sits with an air of professionalism, her face lit by the soft glow of studio lights. Her dark hair is neatly pulled back into a tight bun, and her eyes, normally warm and inviting, now seem somber as the weight of the news weighs heavily on her.
Behind her, a large holographic screen flickers to life, displaying various images of Coalition soldiers, the harsh and war-torn landscapes, and the unsettling sight of a vast Xiticix swarm.
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen reads:
"Over 400,000 Coalition Military Personnel Missing in Action after Xiticix Attack. Cyber-Knight Fellowship Leads Rescue Efforts, but a New Threat Emerges."
Sarah Dresin (voice steady, but laced with gravity), "Good evening, citizens of Lazlo. Tonight, we bring you news, where the war between the Coalition States and the Kingdom of Tolkeen has taken a catastrophic turn. General Jericho Holmes, once heralded as a pillar of the Coalition’s military might, and his army of over 400,000 soldiers appear to have been engaged in a battle with the Xiticix of the Duluth Hive.
After a fierce battle with the Xiticix forces, radio contact was lost with the Coalition command, and it is feared that all those brave men are dead.
The Xiticix swarm, believed to be under control after the fall of the Xiticix queens years ago, is now wreaking havoc on an unprecedented scale."
The camera cuts briefly to an image of General Holmes—his determined face staring back from a holographic memorial.
Sarah Dresin (continuing), "Thousands of Xiticix continue to fly miles out from around the Duluth Hive. This massive swarm, seen through drones, many military experts fear the worst: that the Xiticix have regrouped, and one or more queens—believed to have all been killed—may have survived."
The screen shifts to grainy footage of the Xiticix swarm—a chaotic flurry of wings—descending upon what remains of the Coalition General Holmes mechanized army . There are flashes of explosions and military vehicles tossed aside like toys.
Sarah Dresin (her voice hardens as she speaks, showing concern), "In a stunning development, Lord Coake, founder of the Cyber-Knight Fellowship, has sent a team of elite Cyber-Knights on a dangerous search-and-rescue mission, risking their lives to save Coalition soldiers trapped is the alien landscape that is the Xiticix Hive-lands.
Yet, in an unexpected twist, Lord Coake has maintained that he is neutral in the war between the Coalition and Tolkeen. Despite saving the lives of many Coalition soldiers, he insists his mission is one of mercy, and those soldiers are now free to return home, to wherever they see fit."
The screen cuts to a group of weary Coalition soldiers—dirty, wounded, but alive—walking through the arid wasteland. They are shown thanking their rescuers, and then the camera focuses on a few of the soldiers as they wave to the Cyber-Knights who saved them. Some seem relieved, others hesitant, unsure of where their allegiances now lie.
Sarah Dresin (pauses, then continues with an air of urgency), "Reports from the battlefield suggest that not only has the Xiticix population grown exponentially, but the situation has become far worse than previously feared.
Lord Coake himself warned that this could be just the beginning, and though he is leading these rescue operations, the true threat of a renewed Xiticix war may be on the horizon.
Military experts of Lazlo have begun discussing a potential second war—against the Xiticix, to prevent the hive from expanding unchecked."
A short clip plays, showing Lord Coake in his signature armored regalia, surrounded by his fellowship, speaking in a solemn tone. His voice echoes over the footage:
Lord Coake (from recorded interview), "We cannot afford to ignore this threat. If one or more of their queens has survived, we are looking at a disaster far greater than anything we have faced before. The Xiticix are relentless—there is no negotiation, no compromise. We must act now, before it is too late."
Sarah Dresin (cutting back to the studio, her face grim):
"The leadership here in Lazlo is preparing to debate the next course of action. If the swarm continues to grow unchecked, our own survival could be at risk."
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping into a more intimate tone.
Sarah Dresin, "Sources within the Lazlo military suggest that if a second war against the Xiticix is to be waged, it will require the combined forces of not only Lazlo but the Coalition and Tolkeen as well."
The camera pulls back to show the newsroom once again, with the holographic images of the Xiticix and the soldiers fading into the background.
Sarah Dresin (closing the broadcast), "Stay tuned as this story develops. We will continue to bring you the latest updates on the Xiticix crisis as new details emerge."
She gives a small, somber nod to the camera. “This is Sarah Dresin, reporting live from Lazlo."
The camera zooms in on her face for a final moment, her expression one of deep anxiety.
The camera zooms in on a polished, pristine news desk, where a well-dressed female anchor, Sarah Dresin, sits with an air of professionalism, her face lit by the soft glow of studio lights. Her dark hair is neatly pulled back into a tight bun, and her eyes, normally warm and inviting, now seem somber as the weight of the news weighs heavily on her.
Behind her, a large holographic screen flickers to life, displaying various images of Coalition soldiers, the harsh and war-torn landscapes, and the unsettling sight of a vast Xiticix swarm.
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen reads:
"Over 400,000 Coalition Military Personnel Missing in Action after Xiticix Attack. Cyber-Knight Fellowship Leads Rescue Efforts, but a New Threat Emerges."
Sarah Dresin (voice steady, but laced with gravity), "Good evening, citizens of Lazlo. Tonight, we bring you news, where the war between the Coalition States and the Kingdom of Tolkeen has taken a catastrophic turn. General Jericho Holmes, once heralded as a pillar of the Coalition’s military might, and his army of over 400,000 soldiers appear to have been engaged in a battle with the Xiticix of the Duluth Hive.
After a fierce battle with the Xiticix forces, radio contact was lost with the Coalition command, and it is feared that all those brave men are dead.
The Xiticix swarm, believed to be under control after the fall of the Xiticix queens years ago, is now wreaking havoc on an unprecedented scale."
The camera cuts briefly to an image of General Holmes—his determined face staring back from a holographic memorial.
Sarah Dresin (continuing), "Thousands of Xiticix continue to fly miles out from around the Duluth Hive. This massive swarm, seen through drones, many military experts fear the worst: that the Xiticix have regrouped, and one or more queens—believed to have all been killed—may have survived."
The screen shifts to grainy footage of the Xiticix swarm—a chaotic flurry of wings—descending upon what remains of the Coalition General Holmes mechanized army . There are flashes of explosions and military vehicles tossed aside like toys.
Sarah Dresin (her voice hardens as she speaks, showing concern), "In a stunning development, Lord Coake, founder of the Cyber-Knight Fellowship, has sent a team of elite Cyber-Knights on a dangerous search-and-rescue mission, risking their lives to save Coalition soldiers trapped is the alien landscape that is the Xiticix Hive-lands.
Yet, in an unexpected twist, Lord Coake has maintained that he is neutral in the war between the Coalition and Tolkeen. Despite saving the lives of many Coalition soldiers, he insists his mission is one of mercy, and those soldiers are now free to return home, to wherever they see fit."
The screen cuts to a group of weary Coalition soldiers—dirty, wounded, but alive—walking through the arid wasteland. They are shown thanking their rescuers, and then the camera focuses on a few of the soldiers as they wave to the Cyber-Knights who saved them. Some seem relieved, others hesitant, unsure of where their allegiances now lie.
Sarah Dresin (pauses, then continues with an air of urgency), "Reports from the battlefield suggest that not only has the Xiticix population grown exponentially, but the situation has become far worse than previously feared.
Lord Coake himself warned that this could be just the beginning, and though he is leading these rescue operations, the true threat of a renewed Xiticix war may be on the horizon.
Military experts of Lazlo have begun discussing a potential second war—against the Xiticix, to prevent the hive from expanding unchecked."
A short clip plays, showing Lord Coake in his signature armored regalia, surrounded by his fellowship, speaking in a solemn tone. His voice echoes over the footage:
Lord Coake (from recorded interview), "We cannot afford to ignore this threat. If one or more of their queens has survived, we are looking at a disaster far greater than anything we have faced before. The Xiticix are relentless—there is no negotiation, no compromise. We must act now, before it is too late."
Sarah Dresin (cutting back to the studio, her face grim):
"The leadership here in Lazlo is preparing to debate the next course of action. If the swarm continues to grow unchecked, our own survival could be at risk."
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping into a more intimate tone.
Sarah Dresin, "Sources within the Lazlo military suggest that if a second war against the Xiticix is to be waged, it will require the combined forces of not only Lazlo but the Coalition and Tolkeen as well."
The camera pulls back to show the newsroom once again, with the holographic images of the Xiticix and the soldiers fading into the background.
Sarah Dresin (closing the broadcast), "Stay tuned as this story develops. We will continue to bring you the latest updates on the Xiticix crisis as new details emerge."
She gives a small, somber nod to the camera. “This is Sarah Dresin, reporting live from Lazlo."
The camera zooms in on her face for a final moment, her expression one of deep anxiety.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Refugee trail somewhere in South Dekota
The day waned into golden quiet as Lady Serana reined in her horse atop a ridge just west of the Missouri River, her gaze sweeping across the sprawling wilderness below—a forgotten town now overgrown with life.
Below her, were the remains of collapsed rooftops peeked out of bramble thickets. Stone outlines of old homes, the sun-bleached skeletons of rusted tractors, and leaning signposts half-swallowed by tall grass whispered stories of a people long gone.
But to Lady Serana’s eyes, it was perfect.
She turned to the wilderness scout beside her—mud-smeared, tired, but alert. He nodded. “Good spot. Creek’s clean. Deer trails are everywhere. We can eat here.”
The wilderness scout beside her gave a tight nod, marking the coordinates on his hand computer.
Lady Serana gave a brief nod. She raised a hand, signaling to the refugee column trailing behind them in the distance.
“We make camp here. Tonight, we rest.”
Behind her, the refugees shuffled forward, their pace slow but steady. Families, elders, and ragged children trudged onward under the weight of what little they carried—blankets, pots, tools, and each other. Their footsteps fell into silence as they beheld the peaceful sprawl of wild nature where a town once stood.
Serana exhaled deeply, as if releasing the burdens of the day.
The warlock, a quiet elder robed in faded green, raised his arms at the edge of the town. With whispered words in Earth and Water tongue, he summoned fresh firewood from the ground, perfectly stacked and dry. Nearby, pools of clean, glistening water welled up at the touch of his hand, filling troughs and barrels in moments.
The tired caravan surged forward with grateful murmurs, spreading out among the ruins. Some began collecting edible greens, berries, and wild roots along the edge of the forest. Others made for the creek with homemade fishing lines or sat by the wetlands, watching the still water ripple with life—frogs, dragonflies, and turtles thriving in their sanctuary. Old men leaned against shattered walls, grateful for the chance to rest their legs. A chorus of tent canvas snapping, cooking pots clinking, and low, relieved chatter rose through the twilight.
Children’s laughter soon danced across the fields, mixing with the rhythmic sound of crickets and the flap of birds’ wings in the high boughs. A group of young ones discovered a half-standing structure—its faded sign still legible: Museum.
Inside, the remnants of an old world remained undisturbed: arrowheads in glass, clay pots cracked by time, fossilized bones, and quartz crystals dusted in silence. Lady Serana stepped into the museum, brushing away a curtain of vines. She crouched before a spider web cracked case displaying a piece of ancient jewelry—beads of turquoise strung beside fragments of obsidian blades.
She bowed her head in reverence (softly), “They remembered the old ways.”
A feeling came over her. She could sense something. An entity or spirit or something. Suddenly, Serana felt compelled to collect some of the items. So she did so with reverent respect and notes.
Outside, the campfires crackled to life. Venison and wild turkey were being cleaned and spitted. MREs were rationed alongside foraged greens, and for the first time in days, the camp felt not like a desperate journey, but a moment of peace.
Refugees huddled beneath stars that began to blink into the evening sky, grateful for the stillness.
Lady Serana returned to the hilltop, surveying the slumbering wild town below her—a forgotten place, now breathing with life once more. The creek glistened, and the wind stirred the grasses like waves on a quiet sea.
Scouts and hunters moved quietly into the surrounding woods and meadows. Birds scattered from branches as bows were strung and snares set. Others carried buckets to the creek, where they knelt beside pools filled with darting fish and watched herons flap lazily overhead.
A gentle wind rustled through golden grasslands and rolled across the wild meadows—oceans of blooming lupines, black-eyed Susans, and tall blue-stem prairie grass. Deer grazed at the edges of the woods. Somewhere deep in the trees, a fox barked, and the flutter of wild turkeys disturbed the underbrush.
The wetlands pulsed with quiet life: frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and the slow buzz of dragonflies mingled with the call of a distant loon. Reeds and bulrushes swayed like dancers in the breeze.
As darkness blanketed the land, fires sparked to life across the old town ruins. Families huddled close, roasting fish, boiling roots and herbs, and sharing stories by firelight. Lady Serana walked among them, watchful, calm.
Overhead, the stars blazed bright, unfettered by the light of cities. The Milky Way cut a pale path across the sky, and the air smelled of pine, woodsmoke, and blooming night-flowers.
In the distance, an owl hooted, and the ruins of a town whispered gently with the rustling of leaves.
The day waned into golden quiet as Lady Serana reined in her horse atop a ridge just west of the Missouri River, her gaze sweeping across the sprawling wilderness below—a forgotten town now overgrown with life.
Below her, were the remains of collapsed rooftops peeked out of bramble thickets. Stone outlines of old homes, the sun-bleached skeletons of rusted tractors, and leaning signposts half-swallowed by tall grass whispered stories of a people long gone.
But to Lady Serana’s eyes, it was perfect.
She turned to the wilderness scout beside her—mud-smeared, tired, but alert. He nodded. “Good spot. Creek’s clean. Deer trails are everywhere. We can eat here.”
The wilderness scout beside her gave a tight nod, marking the coordinates on his hand computer.
Lady Serana gave a brief nod. She raised a hand, signaling to the refugee column trailing behind them in the distance.
“We make camp here. Tonight, we rest.”
Behind her, the refugees shuffled forward, their pace slow but steady. Families, elders, and ragged children trudged onward under the weight of what little they carried—blankets, pots, tools, and each other. Their footsteps fell into silence as they beheld the peaceful sprawl of wild nature where a town once stood.
Serana exhaled deeply, as if releasing the burdens of the day.
The warlock, a quiet elder robed in faded green, raised his arms at the edge of the town. With whispered words in Earth and Water tongue, he summoned fresh firewood from the ground, perfectly stacked and dry. Nearby, pools of clean, glistening water welled up at the touch of his hand, filling troughs and barrels in moments.
The tired caravan surged forward with grateful murmurs, spreading out among the ruins. Some began collecting edible greens, berries, and wild roots along the edge of the forest. Others made for the creek with homemade fishing lines or sat by the wetlands, watching the still water ripple with life—frogs, dragonflies, and turtles thriving in their sanctuary. Old men leaned against shattered walls, grateful for the chance to rest their legs. A chorus of tent canvas snapping, cooking pots clinking, and low, relieved chatter rose through the twilight.
Children’s laughter soon danced across the fields, mixing with the rhythmic sound of crickets and the flap of birds’ wings in the high boughs. A group of young ones discovered a half-standing structure—its faded sign still legible: Museum.
Inside, the remnants of an old world remained undisturbed: arrowheads in glass, clay pots cracked by time, fossilized bones, and quartz crystals dusted in silence. Lady Serana stepped into the museum, brushing away a curtain of vines. She crouched before a spider web cracked case displaying a piece of ancient jewelry—beads of turquoise strung beside fragments of obsidian blades.
She bowed her head in reverence (softly), “They remembered the old ways.”
A feeling came over her. She could sense something. An entity or spirit or something. Suddenly, Serana felt compelled to collect some of the items. So she did so with reverent respect and notes.
Outside, the campfires crackled to life. Venison and wild turkey were being cleaned and spitted. MREs were rationed alongside foraged greens, and for the first time in days, the camp felt not like a desperate journey, but a moment of peace.
Refugees huddled beneath stars that began to blink into the evening sky, grateful for the stillness.
Lady Serana returned to the hilltop, surveying the slumbering wild town below her—a forgotten place, now breathing with life once more. The creek glistened, and the wind stirred the grasses like waves on a quiet sea.
Scouts and hunters moved quietly into the surrounding woods and meadows. Birds scattered from branches as bows were strung and snares set. Others carried buckets to the creek, where they knelt beside pools filled with darting fish and watched herons flap lazily overhead.
A gentle wind rustled through golden grasslands and rolled across the wild meadows—oceans of blooming lupines, black-eyed Susans, and tall blue-stem prairie grass. Deer grazed at the edges of the woods. Somewhere deep in the trees, a fox barked, and the flutter of wild turkeys disturbed the underbrush.
The wetlands pulsed with quiet life: frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and the slow buzz of dragonflies mingled with the call of a distant loon. Reeds and bulrushes swayed like dancers in the breeze.
As darkness blanketed the land, fires sparked to life across the old town ruins. Families huddled close, roasting fish, boiling roots and herbs, and sharing stories by firelight. Lady Serana walked among them, watchful, calm.
Overhead, the stars blazed bright, unfettered by the light of cities. The Milky Way cut a pale path across the sky, and the air smelled of pine, woodsmoke, and blooming night-flowers.
In the distance, an owl hooted, and the ruins of a town whispered gently with the rustling of leaves.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Deep forest in Northern Iowa, Coalition territory.
Pre-dawn. Mist hugs the ground. Distant wind turbines creak. Faint sounds of Gargoyle grunts carry on the wind like low growls.
Knight One steps away from the edge of the encampment, as he disappears into the trees to take answer the "Call of Nature."
He doesn’t hear Lord Wolf approach. There’s no sound. No warning. The presence simply becomes undeniable.
A cold ripple flows across the edges of his mind — not a hostile probe but a pressure, like a hand pressing against a locked door. Then a voice, smooth as ice sliding over steel:
“You’re pissing on the ground I buried two squads in.”
Knight One doesn’t flinch. He finishes and zips up slowly, still facing the trees. “What do you want?”
Lord Wolf steps forward from behind a blackened pine, hood drawn, coat slick with last night’s frost. His eyes gleam like candlelight behind tinted goggles. Tall. Heavy. Built like a boulder that learned to speak.
He tilts his head, considering Knight One like a surgeon might study a tumor.
“To meet you,” he says simply.
“Why?”
Wolf chuckles once. Low. Dry. Like gravel sliding down a ruined church stairwell.
“Because I saw it. You, standing in the dark. Me, standing right here. You ask what I want. I tell you what you already know.” He gestures around them. “This conversation, this exact one… I watched it burn into my future like a brand. It happened in my psychic vision, so it will.”
Knight One turns now. Fully. Studying Wolf with measured eyes. There is no fear — not of the psychic’s power, not of his madness. Only recognition. Of a kindred spirit forged in blood and prophecy.
“You trust visions that much?”
Wolf nods.
“More than I trust breath in my lungs.” He walks a step closer, boots silent in the needles. “I’ve burned men alive because I dreamed it. I’ve spared worse monsters because the path said I should. Every time I’ve strayed, men I trusted died. Visions don’t lie. They’re me, in the future, screaming truth backward.”
Knight One folds his arms. “And what truth brought you to me?”
Lord Wolf doesn’t smile — his mouth doesn't know how anymore — but something in his stance shifts. A tension, like a wolf just before it lays down beside the fire.
“That you burn like I do. That you command monsters like I do. That you kill the Coalition, not because it's easy, but because you can’t not.”
He tilts his head again, birdlike. Studying Knight One’s soul through a lens only he can see.
“And because one day… not today, maybe not for years… you’ll need me. Just like I’ll need you.”
Knight One says nothing for a moment. The distant sound of the Gargoyles muttering in their sleep drifts between them.
Then finally, “You came to shake hands or start a war?”
Lord Wolf lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “Neither.” He lifts a gloved hand and taps his temple. “We already agreed—in here.” He turns slightly, already starting to walk away. “You’ll remember that when the day comes.”
And just like that, the forest swallows him.
No sound. No footsteps.
---
Location: Forward Position Gamma | Sector 17B, Iowa
Status: Undetected by CS Patrols. Allies (Gargoyle Lord + Gurgoyles) resting.
I encountered an unknown variable.
He approached undetected — impossible under normal conditions.
My Sixth Sense was active. If this man had hostile intent, I would’ve felt it. I’ve sensed Coalition ambushes and snipers. I’ve caught the presence of unbound shadow-beasts before they knew they were visible. But this one…
Nothing. Stillness. Controlled, like a dagger already pressed to the throat before it dares to slice.
He made no move to harm. He spoke as though the moment had already happened — as though time was something he merely walked through. Claimed he saw the encounter before it occurred. A vision. Psychic certainty.
It didn’t feel like a bluff.
I reviewed his behavior the moment he left. Calm. Deliberate. Confident without arrogance. His words weren’t about influence. They weren’t bait. He came to mark the moment. Not to start a chain of events, but to acknowledge one already begun.
That tells me several things:
He believes in his psychic visions.
He sees the future — or thinks he does.
He believes I am part of that future.
It’s possible he’s insane. The obsessed often are. But his clarity was unnerving. Focus like that doesn’t come from delusion alone.
He never gave a name. No insignia. No faction markings. His gear was mismatched — part field scavenger, part black-ops relic. CS issue reworked and repurposed. That tells me he’s either ex-Coalition or someone who’s been taking their toys apart for years.
His I.S.P. was strong — I felt resonance in his wake. The same way you feel heat after lightning. That man has bathed in blood and psychic fire. Often.
I don’t know if he’s an asset or a threat. The difference may be academic.
I must profile him:
Avoid him? Pointless. He’ll appear again when it suits him, not me.
Defeat him? Risky. I didn’t see weakness. I saw planning. He doesn’t fight to lose.
Recruit him? Doubtful. He follows visions, not commands.
Interrogate? Not directly. Men like him reveal more in silence than under pressure.
Use him? Possibly. But only if I understand why he showed up now.
His mention of “squads buried beneath my boots” suggests he’s active in Coalition territory — possibly long before I arrived here. If he’s hunted them from the inside, he may be the reason their forward scouts haven’t returned.
He’s useful. But unpredictable.
I considered pursuing him. Asking questions. Forcing answers.
But how does a psychic — a strong one — react when you shatter the moment he’s seen in a vision? When you don’t play your part?
Would he vanish?
Strike?
Rewrite the encounter with blood?
Or would I be the one altering my fate?
No. I won’t chase him.
The moment played out as he saw it.
Let him believe that.
Let the timeline stay intact, for now.
But next time…
I’ll ask the questions.
Pre-dawn. Mist hugs the ground. Distant wind turbines creak. Faint sounds of Gargoyle grunts carry on the wind like low growls.
Knight One steps away from the edge of the encampment, as he disappears into the trees to take answer the "Call of Nature."
He doesn’t hear Lord Wolf approach. There’s no sound. No warning. The presence simply becomes undeniable.
A cold ripple flows across the edges of his mind — not a hostile probe but a pressure, like a hand pressing against a locked door. Then a voice, smooth as ice sliding over steel:
“You’re pissing on the ground I buried two squads in.”
Knight One doesn’t flinch. He finishes and zips up slowly, still facing the trees. “What do you want?”
Lord Wolf steps forward from behind a blackened pine, hood drawn, coat slick with last night’s frost. His eyes gleam like candlelight behind tinted goggles. Tall. Heavy. Built like a boulder that learned to speak.
He tilts his head, considering Knight One like a surgeon might study a tumor.
“To meet you,” he says simply.
“Why?”
Wolf chuckles once. Low. Dry. Like gravel sliding down a ruined church stairwell.
“Because I saw it. You, standing in the dark. Me, standing right here. You ask what I want. I tell you what you already know.” He gestures around them. “This conversation, this exact one… I watched it burn into my future like a brand. It happened in my psychic vision, so it will.”
Knight One turns now. Fully. Studying Wolf with measured eyes. There is no fear — not of the psychic’s power, not of his madness. Only recognition. Of a kindred spirit forged in blood and prophecy.
“You trust visions that much?”
Wolf nods.
“More than I trust breath in my lungs.” He walks a step closer, boots silent in the needles. “I’ve burned men alive because I dreamed it. I’ve spared worse monsters because the path said I should. Every time I’ve strayed, men I trusted died. Visions don’t lie. They’re me, in the future, screaming truth backward.”
Knight One folds his arms. “And what truth brought you to me?”
Lord Wolf doesn’t smile — his mouth doesn't know how anymore — but something in his stance shifts. A tension, like a wolf just before it lays down beside the fire.
“That you burn like I do. That you command monsters like I do. That you kill the Coalition, not because it's easy, but because you can’t not.”
He tilts his head again, birdlike. Studying Knight One’s soul through a lens only he can see.
“And because one day… not today, maybe not for years… you’ll need me. Just like I’ll need you.”
Knight One says nothing for a moment. The distant sound of the Gargoyles muttering in their sleep drifts between them.
Then finally, “You came to shake hands or start a war?”
Lord Wolf lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “Neither.” He lifts a gloved hand and taps his temple. “We already agreed—in here.” He turns slightly, already starting to walk away. “You’ll remember that when the day comes.”
And just like that, the forest swallows him.
No sound. No footsteps.
---
Location: Forward Position Gamma | Sector 17B, Iowa
Status: Undetected by CS Patrols. Allies (Gargoyle Lord + Gurgoyles) resting.
I encountered an unknown variable.
He approached undetected — impossible under normal conditions.
My Sixth Sense was active. If this man had hostile intent, I would’ve felt it. I’ve sensed Coalition ambushes and snipers. I’ve caught the presence of unbound shadow-beasts before they knew they were visible. But this one…
Nothing. Stillness. Controlled, like a dagger already pressed to the throat before it dares to slice.
He made no move to harm. He spoke as though the moment had already happened — as though time was something he merely walked through. Claimed he saw the encounter before it occurred. A vision. Psychic certainty.
It didn’t feel like a bluff.
I reviewed his behavior the moment he left. Calm. Deliberate. Confident without arrogance. His words weren’t about influence. They weren’t bait. He came to mark the moment. Not to start a chain of events, but to acknowledge one already begun.
That tells me several things:
He believes in his psychic visions.
He sees the future — or thinks he does.
He believes I am part of that future.
It’s possible he’s insane. The obsessed often are. But his clarity was unnerving. Focus like that doesn’t come from delusion alone.
He never gave a name. No insignia. No faction markings. His gear was mismatched — part field scavenger, part black-ops relic. CS issue reworked and repurposed. That tells me he’s either ex-Coalition or someone who’s been taking their toys apart for years.
His I.S.P. was strong — I felt resonance in his wake. The same way you feel heat after lightning. That man has bathed in blood and psychic fire. Often.
I don’t know if he’s an asset or a threat. The difference may be academic.
I must profile him:
Avoid him? Pointless. He’ll appear again when it suits him, not me.
Defeat him? Risky. I didn’t see weakness. I saw planning. He doesn’t fight to lose.
Recruit him? Doubtful. He follows visions, not commands.
Interrogate? Not directly. Men like him reveal more in silence than under pressure.
Use him? Possibly. But only if I understand why he showed up now.
His mention of “squads buried beneath my boots” suggests he’s active in Coalition territory — possibly long before I arrived here. If he’s hunted them from the inside, he may be the reason their forward scouts haven’t returned.
He’s useful. But unpredictable.
I considered pursuing him. Asking questions. Forcing answers.
But how does a psychic — a strong one — react when you shatter the moment he’s seen in a vision? When you don’t play your part?
Would he vanish?
Strike?
Rewrite the encounter with blood?
Or would I be the one altering my fate?
No. I won’t chase him.
The moment played out as he saw it.
Let him believe that.
Let the timeline stay intact, for now.
But next time…
I’ll ask the questions.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: En route to Coalition Village via Autonomous Car (Vehicle)
The Electric vehicle hums quietly beneath me as I pass through the southern checkpoint, the mechanical sentry offering no challenge. My credentials, falsified through Coalition access routines "borrowed" from a destroyed outpost, remain intact. As does the Coalition Officers uniform I stole and wore.
The Autonomous car attracts the attention of the people but it is immediately accepted and blends seamlessly into the Coalition patrol routines.
Ahead lies the village—a 2.5 kilometer grid area nestled like a domesticated animal under the Coalition's iron hand.
I observe the layout through the vehicle’s feed:
The people here are clean, quiet, and cooperative.
Their homes—twelve multi-generational dwellings—wrap around the central square like ringed fortifications.
There is no visible homelessness here. No hunger. The streets are clean.
Solar panels owned by the Coalition power their induction stoves and LED lamps.
Water comes from a central well, reinforced by rainwater barrels.
Wood-pellet heating keeps them warm through the Midwestern cold.
Outside are:
A saloon, clock and bell tower, the ever-present church with its sterile symbolism. A flagpole stands proudly in the center square, the Coalition's black and white standard rippling like a holy relic.
The Emperor watches from the plaza. His statue, nearly two stories tall, looms above all. The eyes conceal motion-sensitive cameras, while other surveillance cameras rest unseen at the base of his skull. Orwellian and predictable. His image infests every structure, even the barber shop and the medic's office. He is omnipresent, as intended.
The community functions like a wound dressed in antiseptic. Two guardhouses watch the northern and southern roads. The sheriff's station doubles as the jail, bank, and bureaucratic center—a small kingdom of paper and control.
Their children wear matching uniforms, identical down to the buttons and bootlaces.
I step out of the vehicle in full Coalition officer uniform, the illusion complete. My gait matches their rhythm. My salutes precise. My presence unquestioned.
I walk the main street and enter the barber shop.
The barber nods, eyes lowering respectfully. No small talk, only tools and focus.
"The usual, sir?" he asks.
"Short back, square edge. Smooth face," I reply.
He complies.
The blade is sharp, the strokes practiced. It has been decades since anyone here saw real war, in their own territory, but they serve their machine with religious conviction. Every movement is order. Every breath, compliance.
As the hair falls away and the razor scrapes skin, I look into the mirror—and see not a face, but a mask. Beneath the Coalition uniform is a mind they could never control.
---
After paying for his haircut and shave, Knight One uses the bathroom. Looking at I.D. card he had stolen he activated his psionic power of Ectoplasmic Disguise and shapes the ectoplasm into the pale likeness of the officer he is impersonating.
Next walked out as he concealed his face with his hat, and wore a facemask.
Inspecting the medical records, I find:
The medical records are pristine.
No Parkinson's, no Alzheimer's, no diabetes.
The diseases that plague the outside world—cancers, viruses, genetic disorders—have been eliminated or mastered.
Obesity, once a symbol of excess, is gone.
The people here live longer, healthier lives: 100 to 130 years, provided accidental death or murder or suicide does not interrupt.
Marching down the street, I walk into the Sheriff’s office.
I’m in luck. Only the deputy is here.
“This is a surprise inspection,” I said. “Show me the records.”
Crime is minimal and always caught—the few offenses on record are minor: trespassing, curfew violations, hoarding ration credits.
"Pass."
Moving along to the school.
Their days begin with the anthem, hands over hearts, eyes on the image of Prosek.
They are instructed by recorded videos—carefully curated visual and auditory content crafted by Coalition psychological teams to condition behavior.
The human teacher provides kinesthetic learning and discipline: drills, combat forms, team exercises.
They learn by doing, not questioning. There is no room for curiosity.
Their curriculum is a blueprint for ideological engineering: body building, team sports, hand-to-hand combat, military etiquette, running, and state-approved versions of history. They sing patriotic songs with mechanical rhythm. March in formation with blank eyes.
No critical thinking. No philosophy. No literature.
Books are forbidden—dangerous artifacts, according to Coalition dogma. Literacy, outside the approved functionaries, is a threat to control. A literate mind might wander. A curious mind might question. Best to keep the masses functional, obedient, and entertained by order.
And it works.
The school teaches obedience, not inquiry. Books are forbidden, a dangerous liability according to Coalition dogma. A literate population might begin to think. They might begin to ask questions.
Farming is the village’s engine. Their genetically neutered crops bloom with unnatural abundance, fed by state-issued fertilizer and pesticide. The people till the land with discipline and passivity.
Dogs chase rats, children chase dogs, and the adults chase quotas.
This place is not evil; it is not monsterous. It is a cage wrapped in community values and the illusion of choice.
Everyone knows everyone.
They trade with neighbors across a hundred-kilometer range.
They live within their roles like actors on a stage they cannot leave.
---
So I walk through the town now, a ghost in their midst. No one sees me for what I am.
The terriers bark, the statue watches, and the farmers nod to a stranger in a Coalition-marked transport.
I am learning. Always learning.
And when the time comes to burn away the illusions of order, I will know where to strike.
The Electric vehicle hums quietly beneath me as I pass through the southern checkpoint, the mechanical sentry offering no challenge. My credentials, falsified through Coalition access routines "borrowed" from a destroyed outpost, remain intact. As does the Coalition Officers uniform I stole and wore.
The Autonomous car attracts the attention of the people but it is immediately accepted and blends seamlessly into the Coalition patrol routines.
Ahead lies the village—a 2.5 kilometer grid area nestled like a domesticated animal under the Coalition's iron hand.
I observe the layout through the vehicle’s feed:
The people here are clean, quiet, and cooperative.
Their homes—twelve multi-generational dwellings—wrap around the central square like ringed fortifications.
There is no visible homelessness here. No hunger. The streets are clean.
Solar panels owned by the Coalition power their induction stoves and LED lamps.
Water comes from a central well, reinforced by rainwater barrels.
Wood-pellet heating keeps them warm through the Midwestern cold.
Outside are:
A saloon, clock and bell tower, the ever-present church with its sterile symbolism. A flagpole stands proudly in the center square, the Coalition's black and white standard rippling like a holy relic.
The Emperor watches from the plaza. His statue, nearly two stories tall, looms above all. The eyes conceal motion-sensitive cameras, while other surveillance cameras rest unseen at the base of his skull. Orwellian and predictable. His image infests every structure, even the barber shop and the medic's office. He is omnipresent, as intended.
The community functions like a wound dressed in antiseptic. Two guardhouses watch the northern and southern roads. The sheriff's station doubles as the jail, bank, and bureaucratic center—a small kingdom of paper and control.
Their children wear matching uniforms, identical down to the buttons and bootlaces.
I step out of the vehicle in full Coalition officer uniform, the illusion complete. My gait matches their rhythm. My salutes precise. My presence unquestioned.
I walk the main street and enter the barber shop.
The barber nods, eyes lowering respectfully. No small talk, only tools and focus.
"The usual, sir?" he asks.
"Short back, square edge. Smooth face," I reply.
He complies.
The blade is sharp, the strokes practiced. It has been decades since anyone here saw real war, in their own territory, but they serve their machine with religious conviction. Every movement is order. Every breath, compliance.
As the hair falls away and the razor scrapes skin, I look into the mirror—and see not a face, but a mask. Beneath the Coalition uniform is a mind they could never control.
---
After paying for his haircut and shave, Knight One uses the bathroom. Looking at I.D. card he had stolen he activated his psionic power of Ectoplasmic Disguise and shapes the ectoplasm into the pale likeness of the officer he is impersonating.
Next walked out as he concealed his face with his hat, and wore a facemask.
Inspecting the medical records, I find:
The medical records are pristine.
No Parkinson's, no Alzheimer's, no diabetes.
The diseases that plague the outside world—cancers, viruses, genetic disorders—have been eliminated or mastered.
Obesity, once a symbol of excess, is gone.
The people here live longer, healthier lives: 100 to 130 years, provided accidental death or murder or suicide does not interrupt.
Marching down the street, I walk into the Sheriff’s office.
I’m in luck. Only the deputy is here.
“This is a surprise inspection,” I said. “Show me the records.”
Crime is minimal and always caught—the few offenses on record are minor: trespassing, curfew violations, hoarding ration credits.
"Pass."
Moving along to the school.
Their days begin with the anthem, hands over hearts, eyes on the image of Prosek.
They are instructed by recorded videos—carefully curated visual and auditory content crafted by Coalition psychological teams to condition behavior.
The human teacher provides kinesthetic learning and discipline: drills, combat forms, team exercises.
They learn by doing, not questioning. There is no room for curiosity.
Their curriculum is a blueprint for ideological engineering: body building, team sports, hand-to-hand combat, military etiquette, running, and state-approved versions of history. They sing patriotic songs with mechanical rhythm. March in formation with blank eyes.
No critical thinking. No philosophy. No literature.
Books are forbidden—dangerous artifacts, according to Coalition dogma. Literacy, outside the approved functionaries, is a threat to control. A literate mind might wander. A curious mind might question. Best to keep the masses functional, obedient, and entertained by order.
And it works.
The school teaches obedience, not inquiry. Books are forbidden, a dangerous liability according to Coalition dogma. A literate population might begin to think. They might begin to ask questions.
Farming is the village’s engine. Their genetically neutered crops bloom with unnatural abundance, fed by state-issued fertilizer and pesticide. The people till the land with discipline and passivity.
Dogs chase rats, children chase dogs, and the adults chase quotas.
This place is not evil; it is not monsterous. It is a cage wrapped in community values and the illusion of choice.
Everyone knows everyone.
They trade with neighbors across a hundred-kilometer range.
They live within their roles like actors on a stage they cannot leave.
---
So I walk through the town now, a ghost in their midst. No one sees me for what I am.
The terriers bark, the statue watches, and the farmers nod to a stranger in a Coalition-marked transport.
I am learning. Always learning.
And when the time comes to burn away the illusions of order, I will know where to strike.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The edge of the refugee camp. Dawn.
The rising sun cast golden rays across the wild meadows burnishing the dew-laced grass and the crumbling skeletons of buildings with a warm, ephemeral glow.
Lady Serana, in her full armor, moved quietly through the makeshift encampment, her boots crunching gently against the earth. Her face was calm, her eyes scanning the families beginning to stir—mothers feeding children, elders stoking fires, men and women organizing gear for the next march.
Every now and then, a child would wave. A tired parent would offer a nod of respect. Refugees who once trembled in fear now met her gaze with quiet trust. Her presence inspired them—not through speeches, but through her actions.
As she moved past the remains of what had once been a school, she noticed a gathering of people, their attention fixed on a single figure speaking beneath a weather-worn oak tree. The man stood in a cloak of violet and indigo, streaks of morning sunlight dancing across his shoulders like arcane symbols brought to life. His long black hair spilling over his shoulder like an ink-drenched curtain. His eyes twinkle with both sorrow and insight.
He gestured with quiet power, his words both scholarly and compassionate as he explained the importance of understanding the past and facing the future unshackled from fear.
Lady Serana stepped forward. Several people turned as she approached, but the man—The Great Purple Mage—did not falter in his story. He finished his sentence, nodded respectfully to his listeners, and then turned to her.
The Great Purple Mage (smiling softly), "Ah. A Cyber-Knight walks in the morning light. You must be Lady Serana."
Serana (nods), "And you are the Great Purple Mage. I’ve heard stories. They call you many things... savior, traitor, madman, hero."
He (chuckles), "All of them true, and none of them complete. Titles are like shadows. They stretch or shrink depending on the light."
He motioned for her to walk with him. The two strolled slowly among the ruins, passing children playing beside cracked foundations and old trees now blooming through what once were rooftops.
Purple, “I heard you’re the one scouting ahead, leading these people west. Good. That’s good. You're not the only one.”
He motions subtly to two younger mages, not much older than teens, tending a boiling pot and a small group of orphaned children near the creek. Their faces are tired but alert.
Purple (voice low), "Bright minds. Young hearts. I taught them spells, and history, and how to question cruelty."
He stopped, eyes misting slightly, and looked over the creek where some villagers were fishing.
“They're all I have left. The rest... died in the last stand for a village that couldn’t defend itself. A Coalition officer figured out the Math: shoot the civilians, the mages waste energy protecting them. It worked. We died shielding innocents.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice—only the weight of history.
Lady Serana, “I’ve seen that Math myself. Still, I’d make the same choice.”
He nods approvingly. “You would. That’s why I wanted to meet you. You're walking the same road I did years ago. But the Coalition? They’ve gotten better at destroying without remorse.
“Serana. Don’t lose yourself in vengeance. I did. For a while. I helped Tolkeen, then left when I realized they no longer fought for their people—but for revenge. Don’t become that. Even if the Coalition deserves everything that’s coming.”
She nods, quietly digesting his words. The two of them walk back toward the refugee camp, watching as the people begin to break down tents and prepare for the road.
He continued, "I couldn’t save them. But I can help these people make it West."
Serana (sincerely), "We're lucky to have you with us."
Purple, "And you? What has drawn you away from the war machine?"
Lady Serana paused, the weight of her journey clinging to her like the dust on her armor.
"I made a promise to protect the innocent. It was easy for me, to disable Skelebots. They are machines. I told myself I wasn't hurting anyone if I destroyed a Coalition machine of war. I was saving all those who would be maimed and killed by them.
(pausing)
"I was... a sword in someone else's hand for a time. A mercenary commander. Paid me well, gave me freedom. But I started seeing what he didn’t care to. That this war is eating more than armies of machines.
It’s eating people. Families. And Consciences...
the Defenders of Tolkeen... the Socerers Revenge...
in the end they fought like the Demons of Hades who beside them. No Mercy. No prisoners. No quarter. And the Coalition never gives up."
She glanced around at the refugees setting up morning cookfires and tending to the weak.
"The Tolkenites were doing anything to hurt the Coalition. Nothing help those who had lost everything. I'm about protecting the innocent; not abandon them to avenge them. Survival and honor are more important than freedom or the independence of Tolkeen."
The mage smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet admiration.
"You chose to fight a different war. Not one of politics or strategy. One of conscience. That’s harder."
He turned to face her fully. "I walked away from the battlefield too, after nearly losing myself to grief. We are not so different, you and I. Except I once believed every problem could be solved with truth and power. I forgot that sometimes... just walking beside someone is the greater magic."
He leans in slightly. “I want to give you something. In case I don’t walk much longer.”
He pulls from beneath his cloak a rolled parchment and hands it to her.
“It leads to 300,000 Coalition credits. Hidden in a Chi-Town Burb. I’ll never go back for it. If I die, use it. For the people. Or for yourself. Just don’t let them take it.”
Serana opens it, eyes scanning the handwritten notations. “This is dangerous to keep.”
“So is truth. But someone must carry both.” He pauses. "And I relate to you more than Coake and those closest to him. And Lady White is a little to mercenary for my tastes. Other Cyber-Knights, depressed or vengeful."
Serana, “Why are you here now, truly?”
He smiles, wistful. “Because they need help. And because I can’t let the Coalition write the end of my story.”
The morning light grows stronger. Birdsong swells.
The Great Purple Mage stretches his arms slightly, revealing a bracelet of charms and amulets, souvenirs from a lifetime of travel and resistance. Then, he disappears into the camp.
The rising sun cast golden rays across the wild meadows burnishing the dew-laced grass and the crumbling skeletons of buildings with a warm, ephemeral glow.
Lady Serana, in her full armor, moved quietly through the makeshift encampment, her boots crunching gently against the earth. Her face was calm, her eyes scanning the families beginning to stir—mothers feeding children, elders stoking fires, men and women organizing gear for the next march.
Every now and then, a child would wave. A tired parent would offer a nod of respect. Refugees who once trembled in fear now met her gaze with quiet trust. Her presence inspired them—not through speeches, but through her actions.
As she moved past the remains of what had once been a school, she noticed a gathering of people, their attention fixed on a single figure speaking beneath a weather-worn oak tree. The man stood in a cloak of violet and indigo, streaks of morning sunlight dancing across his shoulders like arcane symbols brought to life. His long black hair spilling over his shoulder like an ink-drenched curtain. His eyes twinkle with both sorrow and insight.
He gestured with quiet power, his words both scholarly and compassionate as he explained the importance of understanding the past and facing the future unshackled from fear.
Lady Serana stepped forward. Several people turned as she approached, but the man—The Great Purple Mage—did not falter in his story. He finished his sentence, nodded respectfully to his listeners, and then turned to her.
The Great Purple Mage (smiling softly), "Ah. A Cyber-Knight walks in the morning light. You must be Lady Serana."
Serana (nods), "And you are the Great Purple Mage. I’ve heard stories. They call you many things... savior, traitor, madman, hero."
He (chuckles), "All of them true, and none of them complete. Titles are like shadows. They stretch or shrink depending on the light."
He motioned for her to walk with him. The two strolled slowly among the ruins, passing children playing beside cracked foundations and old trees now blooming through what once were rooftops.
Purple, “I heard you’re the one scouting ahead, leading these people west. Good. That’s good. You're not the only one.”
He motions subtly to two younger mages, not much older than teens, tending a boiling pot and a small group of orphaned children near the creek. Their faces are tired but alert.
Purple (voice low), "Bright minds. Young hearts. I taught them spells, and history, and how to question cruelty."
He stopped, eyes misting slightly, and looked over the creek where some villagers were fishing.
“They're all I have left. The rest... died in the last stand for a village that couldn’t defend itself. A Coalition officer figured out the Math: shoot the civilians, the mages waste energy protecting them. It worked. We died shielding innocents.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice—only the weight of history.
Lady Serana, “I’ve seen that Math myself. Still, I’d make the same choice.”
He nods approvingly. “You would. That’s why I wanted to meet you. You're walking the same road I did years ago. But the Coalition? They’ve gotten better at destroying without remorse.
“Serana. Don’t lose yourself in vengeance. I did. For a while. I helped Tolkeen, then left when I realized they no longer fought for their people—but for revenge. Don’t become that. Even if the Coalition deserves everything that’s coming.”
She nods, quietly digesting his words. The two of them walk back toward the refugee camp, watching as the people begin to break down tents and prepare for the road.
He continued, "I couldn’t save them. But I can help these people make it West."
Serana (sincerely), "We're lucky to have you with us."
Purple, "And you? What has drawn you away from the war machine?"
Lady Serana paused, the weight of her journey clinging to her like the dust on her armor.
"I made a promise to protect the innocent. It was easy for me, to disable Skelebots. They are machines. I told myself I wasn't hurting anyone if I destroyed a Coalition machine of war. I was saving all those who would be maimed and killed by them.
(pausing)
"I was... a sword in someone else's hand for a time. A mercenary commander. Paid me well, gave me freedom. But I started seeing what he didn’t care to. That this war is eating more than armies of machines.
It’s eating people. Families. And Consciences...
the Defenders of Tolkeen... the Socerers Revenge...
in the end they fought like the Demons of Hades who beside them. No Mercy. No prisoners. No quarter. And the Coalition never gives up."
She glanced around at the refugees setting up morning cookfires and tending to the weak.
"The Tolkenites were doing anything to hurt the Coalition. Nothing help those who had lost everything. I'm about protecting the innocent; not abandon them to avenge them. Survival and honor are more important than freedom or the independence of Tolkeen."
The mage smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet admiration.
"You chose to fight a different war. Not one of politics or strategy. One of conscience. That’s harder."
He turned to face her fully. "I walked away from the battlefield too, after nearly losing myself to grief. We are not so different, you and I. Except I once believed every problem could be solved with truth and power. I forgot that sometimes... just walking beside someone is the greater magic."
He leans in slightly. “I want to give you something. In case I don’t walk much longer.”
He pulls from beneath his cloak a rolled parchment and hands it to her.
“It leads to 300,000 Coalition credits. Hidden in a Chi-Town Burb. I’ll never go back for it. If I die, use it. For the people. Or for yourself. Just don’t let them take it.”
Serana opens it, eyes scanning the handwritten notations. “This is dangerous to keep.”
“So is truth. But someone must carry both.” He pauses. "And I relate to you more than Coake and those closest to him. And Lady White is a little to mercenary for my tastes. Other Cyber-Knights, depressed or vengeful."
Serana, “Why are you here now, truly?”
He smiles, wistful. “Because they need help. And because I can’t let the Coalition write the end of my story.”
The morning light grows stronger. Birdsong swells.
The Great Purple Mage stretches his arms slightly, revealing a bracelet of charms and amulets, souvenirs from a lifetime of travel and resistance. Then, he disappears into the camp.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: At the Edge of the Refugee Camp
The rising sun bled streaks of orange and red across the treetops. Smoke drifted lazily from a dozen cookfires, curling upward in thin, tired ribbons. Breakfast before resuming the trail hiking.
Lady Serana stood alone at the edge of the camp. Her gaze swept the tree line—dense forest, no roads, no towns, no chance of a resupply.
She tapped the weathered scrap of paper in her hand. A treasure map, genuine.
I have a treasure map.
The thought echoed, tinged with bitter irony.
I don’t have money in my hands. The money is hundreds of miles away in a Chi-Town Burb.
She scowled. Even if she had the credits now, what then? Buy supplies? From whom?
There is no general store around here to buy things with it.
She turned, taking in the scene—tents of stitched tarp, huddled bodies.
Coalition money is good everywhere… where money is used to pay for things.
Her mind turned westward—toward broken towns and savage roads, toward barter tables under canvas awnings, toward people who’d trade bullets or clean water long before they’d take scrip.
But the more we travel West, and into the wilderness, people we find there and on the way are NOT going to accept money as payment. It is barter and TRADE, one thing for another the farther West we go. Credits don't spend out here.
The truth settled like weight in her chest.
In order for anyone to benefit from this treasure map, they have to go to where it is—unless they’re in the town already—find it, and spend it. The goods are then there at that location. Transporting it to some future rendezvous is fraught with problems that could go wrong and will be a separate expense in itself.
She folded the map. Tight. Tighter.
It’s too complicated.
Serana exhaled and narrowed her eyes toward the horizon.
I need to outsource this treasure hunting mission.
She paused. Thought of the camp again. The people here wouldn’t benefit. Even if she ran off to get the money, succeeded, even if she survived the run and cashed out, the odds of those goods ever reaching this forest or a future rendezvous location? Near zero.
But there was someone who could use it.
I don’t believe the goods the money will pay for will make it to the refugees here. I might as well donate them to the orphanage, Camp Fireplace.
A flicker of something like hope nudged at her heart. Camp Fireplace. She been there months ago.
I can either send a magic pigeon message to the kids of the Orphanage to find the credits…
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—mischievous and dangerous.
…one of the adults of the orphanage…
But no. There was someone better.
…or one of the graduates of the orphanage—Hayley.
Serana nodded, more to herself than anyone.
It was time to send a message westward.
It was time to let someone else chase the gold.
She had refugees to protect—and no time for treasure hunting.
---
Location: A Hazy Night in New Lazlo – Hayley’s Apartment
The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and solder. One window half-boarded, a neon sign outside casting dancing red light across the walls like slow bleeding.
Hayley sat cross-legged on the worn-out mattress that served as her couch, staring at the Magic Pigeon floating in midair — flickering blue light holding shape like ghostfire.
The image sharpened, and there she was — Artemis (Lady Serana).
Fully armored, wind cutting across the edges of her projection, where her cybernetic eye once was, now a real eye had taken its place, she stood in the cold dusk of some nameless frontier. Her voice was steady, low, and carried that old weight of certainty Hayley hadn’t heard in months.
"Hayley. If you’re seeing this, it means the message got through."
Hayley blinked, her arms folding unconsciously — walls going up as old emotion cracked through her practiced calm.
Artemis (Lady Serana), "Busy pathfinding and shepherding Tolkeen refugees. Lost their homes and jobs. Believed me when I said the war’s not over. Leading them to a new home."
A new Magic Pigeon takes its place, then continues: "A Great Purple Mage stashed 300,000 Coalition credits in one of the Chi-Town Burbs. He can’t get it, and is not going back, so he’s given me the details.”
The Magic Pigeons fades into mist. Another takes its place.
Hayley tilts her head, eyes narrowing.
"I thought about what those credits could do for the orphanage. You, Hayley. I want you to go back to the Burbs and find those credits. "
Hayley sat up straighter, hands tense.
A new Magic Pigeon arrives:
"I know it’s dangerous. I know what that place means to you. But you know it better than anyone I know. Evelyn is looking after the orphans.
Another Magic Pigeon:
“The orphans might get in over their heads. I hate to say this, but their kids, and it’s a lot of money. Your Streetwise. You blend in."
Another Magic Pigeon arrives, its wings flutter the air pushing Artemis’s hair across her face. She brushed it away.
"Give the credits to Miss Evelyn. All of it. The orphanage is hanging by threads. That money could pay for it for years."
Another magic Pigeon arrives:
Artemis’s voice dropped, the tough mask cracking just enough for the barest glimpse of heart.
"Help give orphans like you and Jenni a future. That’s what I’d do, if I were there."
The light began to dim, the figure starting to dissolve.
"I trust you."
A pause.
"And I miss you."
Then the image shimmered and dispersed into thin air like mist under streetlight.
Hayley sat there in the silence, the room colder now, lonelier.
She stared ahead for a long while, fists clenched in her lap. Jaw tight.
Then, she stood — slowly — like gravity had gotten heavier.
She crossed the room and opened her closet. Inside: her GO BAG (an easy-to-carry bag that holds everything you need if you have to leave in a hurry or in an emergency), her coat, her knives. She pulled the coat around herself, slung the pack over her shoulders, and took one long look at the flickering lights outside.
“Back to the Burbs,” she muttered. “Hell of a goodbye.”
She texted her network that that a 'thing' came up and she had to leave for while but that she would be back.
She shut the door behind her. The city swallowed the sound.
The rising sun bled streaks of orange and red across the treetops. Smoke drifted lazily from a dozen cookfires, curling upward in thin, tired ribbons. Breakfast before resuming the trail hiking.
Lady Serana stood alone at the edge of the camp. Her gaze swept the tree line—dense forest, no roads, no towns, no chance of a resupply.
She tapped the weathered scrap of paper in her hand. A treasure map, genuine.
I have a treasure map.
The thought echoed, tinged with bitter irony.
I don’t have money in my hands. The money is hundreds of miles away in a Chi-Town Burb.
She scowled. Even if she had the credits now, what then? Buy supplies? From whom?
There is no general store around here to buy things with it.
She turned, taking in the scene—tents of stitched tarp, huddled bodies.
Coalition money is good everywhere… where money is used to pay for things.
Her mind turned westward—toward broken towns and savage roads, toward barter tables under canvas awnings, toward people who’d trade bullets or clean water long before they’d take scrip.
But the more we travel West, and into the wilderness, people we find there and on the way are NOT going to accept money as payment. It is barter and TRADE, one thing for another the farther West we go. Credits don't spend out here.
The truth settled like weight in her chest.
In order for anyone to benefit from this treasure map, they have to go to where it is—unless they’re in the town already—find it, and spend it. The goods are then there at that location. Transporting it to some future rendezvous is fraught with problems that could go wrong and will be a separate expense in itself.
She folded the map. Tight. Tighter.
It’s too complicated.
Serana exhaled and narrowed her eyes toward the horizon.
I need to outsource this treasure hunting mission.
She paused. Thought of the camp again. The people here wouldn’t benefit. Even if she ran off to get the money, succeeded, even if she survived the run and cashed out, the odds of those goods ever reaching this forest or a future rendezvous location? Near zero.
But there was someone who could use it.
I don’t believe the goods the money will pay for will make it to the refugees here. I might as well donate them to the orphanage, Camp Fireplace.
A flicker of something like hope nudged at her heart. Camp Fireplace. She been there months ago.
I can either send a magic pigeon message to the kids of the Orphanage to find the credits…
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—mischievous and dangerous.
…one of the adults of the orphanage…
But no. There was someone better.
…or one of the graduates of the orphanage—Hayley.
Serana nodded, more to herself than anyone.
It was time to send a message westward.
It was time to let someone else chase the gold.
She had refugees to protect—and no time for treasure hunting.
---
Location: A Hazy Night in New Lazlo – Hayley’s Apartment
The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and solder. One window half-boarded, a neon sign outside casting dancing red light across the walls like slow bleeding.
Hayley sat cross-legged on the worn-out mattress that served as her couch, staring at the Magic Pigeon floating in midair — flickering blue light holding shape like ghostfire.
The image sharpened, and there she was — Artemis (Lady Serana).
Fully armored, wind cutting across the edges of her projection, where her cybernetic eye once was, now a real eye had taken its place, she stood in the cold dusk of some nameless frontier. Her voice was steady, low, and carried that old weight of certainty Hayley hadn’t heard in months.
"Hayley. If you’re seeing this, it means the message got through."
Hayley blinked, her arms folding unconsciously — walls going up as old emotion cracked through her practiced calm.
Artemis (Lady Serana), "Busy pathfinding and shepherding Tolkeen refugees. Lost their homes and jobs. Believed me when I said the war’s not over. Leading them to a new home."
A new Magic Pigeon takes its place, then continues: "A Great Purple Mage stashed 300,000 Coalition credits in one of the Chi-Town Burbs. He can’t get it, and is not going back, so he’s given me the details.”
The Magic Pigeons fades into mist. Another takes its place.
Hayley tilts her head, eyes narrowing.
"I thought about what those credits could do for the orphanage. You, Hayley. I want you to go back to the Burbs and find those credits. "
Hayley sat up straighter, hands tense.
A new Magic Pigeon arrives:
"I know it’s dangerous. I know what that place means to you. But you know it better than anyone I know. Evelyn is looking after the orphans.
Another Magic Pigeon:
“The orphans might get in over their heads. I hate to say this, but their kids, and it’s a lot of money. Your Streetwise. You blend in."
Another Magic Pigeon arrives, its wings flutter the air pushing Artemis’s hair across her face. She brushed it away.
"Give the credits to Miss Evelyn. All of it. The orphanage is hanging by threads. That money could pay for it for years."
Another magic Pigeon arrives:
Artemis’s voice dropped, the tough mask cracking just enough for the barest glimpse of heart.
"Help give orphans like you and Jenni a future. That’s what I’d do, if I were there."
The light began to dim, the figure starting to dissolve.
"I trust you."
A pause.
"And I miss you."
Then the image shimmered and dispersed into thin air like mist under streetlight.
Hayley sat there in the silence, the room colder now, lonelier.
She stared ahead for a long while, fists clenched in her lap. Jaw tight.
Then, she stood — slowly — like gravity had gotten heavier.
She crossed the room and opened her closet. Inside: her GO BAG (an easy-to-carry bag that holds everything you need if you have to leave in a hurry or in an emergency), her coat, her knives. She pulled the coat around herself, slung the pack over her shoulders, and took one long look at the flickering lights outside.
“Back to the Burbs,” she muttered. “Hell of a goodbye.”
She texted her network that that a 'thing' came up and she had to leave for while but that she would be back.
She shut the door behind her. The city swallowed the sound.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Flying over the Coalition
The airplane buzzed beneath her, a metal bird slicing through the air, its engines rumbling softly. Hayley Chonlan adjusted her goggles, the world blurring slightly as she stared down through the small window. Below, the land stretched out, lots of untamed wilderness followed by an occational patchwork of fields.
The pilot, a quiet man she’d hired for the day, kept his eyes locked on the horizon, gliding at just 150 meters. They were flying under radar—too low for anyone to notice, too fast to care.
She'd arranged this. Hired him specifically. No one would bother a small, unregistered propeller plane with no weapons or hostile intentions. And she wouldn’t wait for any other method of travel. Time was the one thing she couldn’t waste, not with her mission ahead. Not with those credits somewhere in the heart of Chi-Town Burbs, waiting for her to find it.
No telling who else that Purple Mage told about his money staff.
Hayley’s fingers tapped against the armrest, her gaze never wavering from the window.
She'd been on assignments but today was different.
She inhaled, drawing deep breaths, feeling the tension in her chest.
A flicker of fear tried to creep in, a natural response to the vertigo-inducing height, but it was quickly extinguished.
Suppressing fear. It was second nature now, something she'd trained herself to do since she was a child. Even now, as the adrenaline built in her, as her mind churned over the task ahead, she felt a flicker of that cold calm that had been her survival mechanism for so many years. She’d come a long way from the frightened, hungry girl she’d once been.
She extended her senses, her psionic power sweeping through her body like a second skin. Fear was a shadow that existed outside and behind her now. The panic she’d once felt at the edges of her senses disappeared, as if it never existed. Instead, a thrill surged within her, raw and unfiltered.
The wingsuit she wore fit well enough, its sleek design hugging her athletic frame. The fabric shimmered in the dim light of the plane.
Hayley stood, her movements fluid, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders. She checked her gear once more, making sure everything was tight. She felt the weight of her gloves, the slight pull of the harness around her waist. The exhilaration of the moment set in as she prepared to step into the vastness below.
"Ready when you are," the pilot’s voice came through her earpiece, calm, almost indifferent.
She gave a single nod, a quick, decisive motion.
Her body was excited as she approached the open door. A gust of wind roared in from below, swirling her hair in every direction. Her blue eyes shone with a focused intensity, the only thing on her mind the freefall ahead.
She couldn’t waste another second.
She stepped out of the plane.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the rush of wind against her body, the world opening up beneath her as she plummeted. The ground was a distant blur, but she knew exactly where she was going. The wingsuit flared open, and Hayley’s body immediately shifted into a glide, cutting through the air with precision. The feeling of weightlessness was complete freedom.
She felt alive in a way few others could understand.
The wind whipped past her ears, but in that moment, Hayley was untouchable. Her arms spread wide, guiding her, her movements graceful and practiced. She glided over the patchwork of fields, the earth far below seeming so small, so distant. Her psionics kept her steady, her mind sharp, her body responding like it always had, like it was made for this.
Her heart pounded, the rush of the dive only fueling her focus. There was no fear, no hesitation. There never was. Just an unbreakable resolve to reach her destination, to find what she’d come for.
She soared, the wind roaring in her ears, a thrill only matched by the absolute certainty that she would get what she came for.
Chi-Town Burbs was still a long way off, but Hayley didn’t mind. She’d glide for miles if it meant she could move closer to those credits. She didn’t just survive anymore. She thrived. And in that dive, with the ground rushing up to meet her, she felt invincible.
She had the power. She had the will. And now, she had the wings.
---
Location: Firetown
The sky over Firetown was a sickly mix of orange haze and soot-stained gray, the sun clawing through the smoke like a dying coal. Hayley stepped off the transport bus with a thump of her boots, the hiss of pneumatics behind her as the vehicle groaned and rattled away into the crowded avenue.
She stood still for a moment, letting the smell of the old place hit her like a slap — burnt plastic, cheap grease, and too many bodies jammed too close together in a city that never healed. It was colder than she remembered.
Or maybe she’d just been gone too long.
Some things had not changed, like ‘The Fire Pole,’ the strip club where she’d hustled and danced and half-lived her nights, still stood like a crooked neon monument. Its flickering sign still blinked between red and purple, and the two security goons out front looked like they hadn’t moved in a year — still bored, still armed, still watching for trouble they wouldn’t stop.
Hayley paused across the street, her coat pulled tight around her. Part of her wanted to walk back in, ask for a shift, dance one more night — easy credits. Fast. Familiar. But that wasn’t the mission.
Her eyes turned south, toward the orphanage. That old building with patched windows and too many mouths to feed. She could already hear Miss Evelyn’s sharp tongue and see the younger kids' hopeful faces, half-hiding behind door frames. That was the emotional side of her — the soft part that missed warmth and trust and tiny hands gripping hers.
But Hayley clenched her jaw. If she told them the truth — that she was hunting the Purple Mage’s secret stash of Coalition credits somewhere under the skin of this burned-out town, then they’d expect something. Help, protection, maybe even a piece of the prize. They’d deserve it, too. But she wasn’t sure how much she was ready to give away.
Artemis’s clues were years out of date. Names that no longer had meaning. Landmarks that had crumbled or been renamed by inhabitants, gangs or burned down. The street Hayley stood on now had been called Dogleg Avenue a year ago. The new tag on the broken street sign read Killa Kross.
She stuffed her hands into her pockets and turned her eyes to the sky, following the weave of power lines above like a spider’s web stretched over the city. Finding the stash would be like trying to untangle that web — possible, but only with patience, skill, and the willingness to work a lot.
She could do it solo. It’d take longer. More risk. No backup. But the payoff… it would all be hers.
If she found it before someone else did.
The breeze picked up, blowing grit into her face. She didn’t flinch. Firetown welcomed her back with open teeth.
Hayley turned away from the orphanage.
Tonight, she’d find a place to sleep. Then tomorrow, she’d start chasing ghosts.
And if luck held?
She’d leave this place with more than just scars.
The airplane buzzed beneath her, a metal bird slicing through the air, its engines rumbling softly. Hayley Chonlan adjusted her goggles, the world blurring slightly as she stared down through the small window. Below, the land stretched out, lots of untamed wilderness followed by an occational patchwork of fields.
The pilot, a quiet man she’d hired for the day, kept his eyes locked on the horizon, gliding at just 150 meters. They were flying under radar—too low for anyone to notice, too fast to care.
She'd arranged this. Hired him specifically. No one would bother a small, unregistered propeller plane with no weapons or hostile intentions. And she wouldn’t wait for any other method of travel. Time was the one thing she couldn’t waste, not with her mission ahead. Not with those credits somewhere in the heart of Chi-Town Burbs, waiting for her to find it.
No telling who else that Purple Mage told about his money staff.
Hayley’s fingers tapped against the armrest, her gaze never wavering from the window.
She'd been on assignments but today was different.
She inhaled, drawing deep breaths, feeling the tension in her chest.
A flicker of fear tried to creep in, a natural response to the vertigo-inducing height, but it was quickly extinguished.
Suppressing fear. It was second nature now, something she'd trained herself to do since she was a child. Even now, as the adrenaline built in her, as her mind churned over the task ahead, she felt a flicker of that cold calm that had been her survival mechanism for so many years. She’d come a long way from the frightened, hungry girl she’d once been.
She extended her senses, her psionic power sweeping through her body like a second skin. Fear was a shadow that existed outside and behind her now. The panic she’d once felt at the edges of her senses disappeared, as if it never existed. Instead, a thrill surged within her, raw and unfiltered.
The wingsuit she wore fit well enough, its sleek design hugging her athletic frame. The fabric shimmered in the dim light of the plane.
Hayley stood, her movements fluid, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders. She checked her gear once more, making sure everything was tight. She felt the weight of her gloves, the slight pull of the harness around her waist. The exhilaration of the moment set in as she prepared to step into the vastness below.
"Ready when you are," the pilot’s voice came through her earpiece, calm, almost indifferent.
She gave a single nod, a quick, decisive motion.
Her body was excited as she approached the open door. A gust of wind roared in from below, swirling her hair in every direction. Her blue eyes shone with a focused intensity, the only thing on her mind the freefall ahead.
She couldn’t waste another second.
She stepped out of the plane.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the rush of wind against her body, the world opening up beneath her as she plummeted. The ground was a distant blur, but she knew exactly where she was going. The wingsuit flared open, and Hayley’s body immediately shifted into a glide, cutting through the air with precision. The feeling of weightlessness was complete freedom.
She felt alive in a way few others could understand.
The wind whipped past her ears, but in that moment, Hayley was untouchable. Her arms spread wide, guiding her, her movements graceful and practiced. She glided over the patchwork of fields, the earth far below seeming so small, so distant. Her psionics kept her steady, her mind sharp, her body responding like it always had, like it was made for this.
Her heart pounded, the rush of the dive only fueling her focus. There was no fear, no hesitation. There never was. Just an unbreakable resolve to reach her destination, to find what she’d come for.
She soared, the wind roaring in her ears, a thrill only matched by the absolute certainty that she would get what she came for.
Chi-Town Burbs was still a long way off, but Hayley didn’t mind. She’d glide for miles if it meant she could move closer to those credits. She didn’t just survive anymore. She thrived. And in that dive, with the ground rushing up to meet her, she felt invincible.
She had the power. She had the will. And now, she had the wings.
---
Location: Firetown
The sky over Firetown was a sickly mix of orange haze and soot-stained gray, the sun clawing through the smoke like a dying coal. Hayley stepped off the transport bus with a thump of her boots, the hiss of pneumatics behind her as the vehicle groaned and rattled away into the crowded avenue.
She stood still for a moment, letting the smell of the old place hit her like a slap — burnt plastic, cheap grease, and too many bodies jammed too close together in a city that never healed. It was colder than she remembered.
Or maybe she’d just been gone too long.
Some things had not changed, like ‘The Fire Pole,’ the strip club where she’d hustled and danced and half-lived her nights, still stood like a crooked neon monument. Its flickering sign still blinked between red and purple, and the two security goons out front looked like they hadn’t moved in a year — still bored, still armed, still watching for trouble they wouldn’t stop.
Hayley paused across the street, her coat pulled tight around her. Part of her wanted to walk back in, ask for a shift, dance one more night — easy credits. Fast. Familiar. But that wasn’t the mission.
Her eyes turned south, toward the orphanage. That old building with patched windows and too many mouths to feed. She could already hear Miss Evelyn’s sharp tongue and see the younger kids' hopeful faces, half-hiding behind door frames. That was the emotional side of her — the soft part that missed warmth and trust and tiny hands gripping hers.
But Hayley clenched her jaw. If she told them the truth — that she was hunting the Purple Mage’s secret stash of Coalition credits somewhere under the skin of this burned-out town, then they’d expect something. Help, protection, maybe even a piece of the prize. They’d deserve it, too. But she wasn’t sure how much she was ready to give away.
Artemis’s clues were years out of date. Names that no longer had meaning. Landmarks that had crumbled or been renamed by inhabitants, gangs or burned down. The street Hayley stood on now had been called Dogleg Avenue a year ago. The new tag on the broken street sign read Killa Kross.
She stuffed her hands into her pockets and turned her eyes to the sky, following the weave of power lines above like a spider’s web stretched over the city. Finding the stash would be like trying to untangle that web — possible, but only with patience, skill, and the willingness to work a lot.
She could do it solo. It’d take longer. More risk. No backup. But the payoff… it would all be hers.
If she found it before someone else did.
The breeze picked up, blowing grit into her face. She didn’t flinch. Firetown welcomed her back with open teeth.
Hayley turned away from the orphanage.
Tonight, she’d find a place to sleep. Then tomorrow, she’d start chasing ghosts.
And if luck held?
She’d leave this place with more than just scars.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Central square, known as Founders’ Plaza, is the heart of Chi-Town Burbs.
The square is lined with old cobblestone streets and gardens, giving it a historical feel. At the center of the square stands the iconic statue of the Burb’s founders—two figures, a man and a woman, cast in stone, reaching towards the sky as if offering the town’s future to the heavens.
Hayley arrives at Founders’ Plaza that night. She studies the statue with a sharp eye and a flashlight.
As she examines the statue closely, she eventually turns her gaze to the base and begins to notice that what had once been sharp but had worn away with time.
Using her psionic power of 'Total Recall," she remembers the clue Artemis gave her that the Great Purple Mage gave Artemis.
“When the sun first kissed the ground,
And two hands did shape the town,
Beneath their feet, where shadows lay,
Seek the stone where time is lost.”
This Purple Mage is crazy. I thought the riddle was these statues but why could he just say that.
After a minute, she looks beneath the statue and discovers a loose stone that doesn’t fit the rest of the square’s cobblestone. Pulling the stone away, uncovering it Hayley finds a small, weather proof notepad wrapped in a plastic bag with an ink pen.
This is only of use to someone who can read.
Eh, if only my Reading teacher, in New Lazlo, could see me now. She was right. "The secrets of the world are contained in books." I guess it is a test. If anyone found this it would be worthless unless they could read it. And few can read.
---
The alley was dark, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp at the far end.
Walking back to her after meeting with a contact—her mind occupied with the next step in her treasure hunt.
The city had never been kind to people like her, but she’d learned to navigate its dangers.
She knew the risks of being a young woman, alone, attractive, and vulnerable in a place like Chi-Town Burbs.
And tonight, those risks became a reality.
A slow whistle echoed from the shadows.
Hayley used your psionic power to suppress her fears.
Her pulse didn’t quicken.
She felt no fear, only a quiet calculation.
She knew the situation she was in—three men, tough, rough, with intent to rob her or worse. They were drunk, or high, or both, and their eyes followed her every step.
"Hey, sweetheart," one of them called, stepping forward. He was tall, built like a linebacker, and his voice carried the grating rasp of someone who was used to taking whatever he wanted.
"Got a minute? We need to talk."
Hayley stopped walking, her back to the alley wall, analyzing every angle. They were blocking her way, closing in on her.
"You looking for trouble, or just passing through?" she asked, her voice calm, controlled.
"You’re gonna make us some money, sweetheart," the second one said, a grinning man with a scar over his lip. His eyes were empty, his hands twitching as though eager to grab something. "Or maybe a little something else."
Hayley’s eyes flicked to the third—smaller, but quick. His gaze was predatory, darting between her and the two others. He wasn’t the leader, but he’d play his part when the moment came.
She took a slow breath. "You think I’m afraid of you?" she asked. The words hung in the air.
They laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was a jagged, broken sound, filled with alcohol and delusion.
"You should be," the scarred one said, stepping closer, "You should be real scared."
Hayley’s fingers twitched at her sides, subtly adjusting the 9mm tucked inside her jacket, and feeling the comforting presence of the knife strapped to her thigh. Her psionic powers ready to be unleashed. She could her cold, calculating anger.
But she didn’t want to use the gun. Not unless she had to. The noise it would make would attract attention—too much attention. And, they might be carrying guns themselves. One lucky shot was all they needed.
These three wouldn’t stop if she gave them her money. She knew that.
They took another step forward. "Give it up, girl. Credits. Now," the big one said, reaching for her. "And then we’ll have some fun."
Before he could lay a hand on her, Hayley moved.
Her body flowed like the dancer she is. A sharp ‘telekinetic kick’ to the knee sent the scarred one stumbling backward, his face twisting with pain.
The big guy lunged at her, grabbing for her hair. She twisted, slipping out of his grip, her foot telekinetically kicked his face sending him crashing onto the dirty alley floor.
The third man took a step back, drawing a knife from his jacket. Hayley’s eyes locked on him. His movements were quick, desperate. He swung at her, but she was faster—sidestepping with a fluidity that resembled a practiced dance move, her body shifting effortlessly.
The third man took a step back, drawing a blade from his jacket. It was small but sharp, gleaming under the faint light. His movements were quick, reckless.
His eyes, wide with panic, fixed on Hayley. He swung at her, his knife aimed for her torso, a swift lunge.
Hayley’s eyes locked onto his hand, watching the blade cut through the air in a glittering arc.
Using her psionic intuitive combat, her body flowed, a seamless motion, her feet light on the ground as she sidestepped with a fluidity that could have belonged to the greatest athlete.
As the blade missed her, she spun, bringing her own knife into her hand in one smooth motion. The sound of metal against the air rang out for just a fraction of a second before it found its mark.
Confusion flashing across his face for the briefest moment, and in that second, Hayley was already on him. Her blade a blur, weaving through the space between them.
He raised his arm in a desperate parry. The sharp edge cut deep into his forearm, and he howled in pain, dropping the knife he’d been holding.
With the smallest flick of her wrist, she knocked the blade from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor. The fight was no longer about him attacking her—it was about her dismembering him.
She stepped back, just out of his reach, her eyes focused. The man’s face twisted in anger as he staggered backward, clutching his arm. Hayley sidestepped again, not even breaking a sweat, and this time, she drove her knife forward with a perfect thrust to his side, just beneath the ribs.
He gasped, blood bubbling up at the wound, and his knees buckled slightly as the wind was knocked out of him.
She spun, twisting her body like a dancer preparing for a pirouette, and in one fluid motion, she brought the knife down in a sharp arc—cutting across his inner thigh, just above the knee.
The man collapsed, clutching at his leg, his face contorted in pain and disbelief. He was disarmed and slow to react, his breath shallow and ragged.
Hayley moved in, her knife was a scalpel, whittling away at him piece by piece.
Her foot was planted firmly against his chest, keeping him pinned to the ground, and she crouched over him, her face close to his. She looked down into his eyes, watching as they flickered with the final, fading sparks of defiance.
"You were never going to win," Hayley said, her voice cool.
With a final, swift motion, Hayley pressed the knife against the man’s throat, the tip barely grazing his skin.
And in that moment, she had full control of his fate.
The third man didn’t make another move. His hand fell limply to the ground, his breath ragged, his fight gone. Hayley stood up slowly, her knife still gleaming in her hand. She gave him one last look—no mercy in her gaze.
She swiped her blade across the man’s throat and tucked it back into her belt.
She turned her attention back to the other two gang members, who were now a few steps away, watching her every move. But Hayley didn’t hesitate. She moved towards them ready to finish what she’d started.
Hayley’s elbow shot up with telekinetic force, slamming into the man’s gut leaving him gasping. She followed it with a sharp jab to his throat, sending him stumbling back, choking. He hit the wall behind him with a sickening thud, crumpling to the ground.
She turned, the big guy was back on his feet, roaring with anger. She spun into a kick, catching him in his midsection. As he fell, she was already on him, pinning him with her knee to his chest, her hand reaching for the 9mm at her side.
The sound of the gun cocking was louder than it needed to be. The big guy’s eyes widened with realization.
But Hayley’s eyes were cold. No mercy. She’d spent too many years fighting for survival to show it now.
"Give it up, Bee-Aww-Tch. Credits. Now," Hayley mimicked her attackers, reaching for knife. "And then we’ll have some fun..."
---
Hayley stood in her hotel room, the adrenaline slowly fading.
Her body was already starting to feel the aftermath—the sharp sting of a cut across her arm from one of their knives, a bruise blooming on her side where the big guy’s fist had landed. But it wasn’t anything she couldn’t heal.
She pulled off her jacket, feeling the warmth of her blood against her skin. Her hand hovered over the cut on her arm. She focused her psionic power of Bio-Regeneration into the injury. Within moments, the skin began to knit itself together, the blood flow ceasing, and the pain of it fading into nothingness. The bruise on her side was gone as the muscle fibers and skin realigned, the pain slipping away as if it had never been there.
Once the physical injuries were healed, she felt the familiar sense of clarity return. The fight, the fear, the danger—it was all gone.
She was in control again.
Hayley took a deep breath, adjusting her clothes, and looked at the clock. Too many monsters out tonight to go trolling for another fight. Need to recharge the batteries.
“I’m calling it a night.”
The square is lined with old cobblestone streets and gardens, giving it a historical feel. At the center of the square stands the iconic statue of the Burb’s founders—two figures, a man and a woman, cast in stone, reaching towards the sky as if offering the town’s future to the heavens.
Hayley arrives at Founders’ Plaza that night. She studies the statue with a sharp eye and a flashlight.
As she examines the statue closely, she eventually turns her gaze to the base and begins to notice that what had once been sharp but had worn away with time.
Using her psionic power of 'Total Recall," she remembers the clue Artemis gave her that the Great Purple Mage gave Artemis.
“When the sun first kissed the ground,
And two hands did shape the town,
Beneath their feet, where shadows lay,
Seek the stone where time is lost.”
This Purple Mage is crazy. I thought the riddle was these statues but why could he just say that.
After a minute, she looks beneath the statue and discovers a loose stone that doesn’t fit the rest of the square’s cobblestone. Pulling the stone away, uncovering it Hayley finds a small, weather proof notepad wrapped in a plastic bag with an ink pen.
This is only of use to someone who can read.
Eh, if only my Reading teacher, in New Lazlo, could see me now. She was right. "The secrets of the world are contained in books." I guess it is a test. If anyone found this it would be worthless unless they could read it. And few can read.
---
The alley was dark, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp at the far end.
Walking back to her after meeting with a contact—her mind occupied with the next step in her treasure hunt.
The city had never been kind to people like her, but she’d learned to navigate its dangers.
She knew the risks of being a young woman, alone, attractive, and vulnerable in a place like Chi-Town Burbs.
And tonight, those risks became a reality.
A slow whistle echoed from the shadows.
Hayley used your psionic power to suppress her fears.
Her pulse didn’t quicken.
She felt no fear, only a quiet calculation.
She knew the situation she was in—three men, tough, rough, with intent to rob her or worse. They were drunk, or high, or both, and their eyes followed her every step.
"Hey, sweetheart," one of them called, stepping forward. He was tall, built like a linebacker, and his voice carried the grating rasp of someone who was used to taking whatever he wanted.
"Got a minute? We need to talk."
Hayley stopped walking, her back to the alley wall, analyzing every angle. They were blocking her way, closing in on her.
"You looking for trouble, or just passing through?" she asked, her voice calm, controlled.
"You’re gonna make us some money, sweetheart," the second one said, a grinning man with a scar over his lip. His eyes were empty, his hands twitching as though eager to grab something. "Or maybe a little something else."
Hayley’s eyes flicked to the third—smaller, but quick. His gaze was predatory, darting between her and the two others. He wasn’t the leader, but he’d play his part when the moment came.
She took a slow breath. "You think I’m afraid of you?" she asked. The words hung in the air.
They laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was a jagged, broken sound, filled with alcohol and delusion.
"You should be," the scarred one said, stepping closer, "You should be real scared."
Hayley’s fingers twitched at her sides, subtly adjusting the 9mm tucked inside her jacket, and feeling the comforting presence of the knife strapped to her thigh. Her psionic powers ready to be unleashed. She could her cold, calculating anger.
But she didn’t want to use the gun. Not unless she had to. The noise it would make would attract attention—too much attention. And, they might be carrying guns themselves. One lucky shot was all they needed.
These three wouldn’t stop if she gave them her money. She knew that.
They took another step forward. "Give it up, girl. Credits. Now," the big one said, reaching for her. "And then we’ll have some fun."
Before he could lay a hand on her, Hayley moved.
Her body flowed like the dancer she is. A sharp ‘telekinetic kick’ to the knee sent the scarred one stumbling backward, his face twisting with pain.
The big guy lunged at her, grabbing for her hair. She twisted, slipping out of his grip, her foot telekinetically kicked his face sending him crashing onto the dirty alley floor.
The third man took a step back, drawing a knife from his jacket. Hayley’s eyes locked on him. His movements were quick, desperate. He swung at her, but she was faster—sidestepping with a fluidity that resembled a practiced dance move, her body shifting effortlessly.
The third man took a step back, drawing a blade from his jacket. It was small but sharp, gleaming under the faint light. His movements were quick, reckless.
His eyes, wide with panic, fixed on Hayley. He swung at her, his knife aimed for her torso, a swift lunge.
Hayley’s eyes locked onto his hand, watching the blade cut through the air in a glittering arc.
Using her psionic intuitive combat, her body flowed, a seamless motion, her feet light on the ground as she sidestepped with a fluidity that could have belonged to the greatest athlete.
As the blade missed her, she spun, bringing her own knife into her hand in one smooth motion. The sound of metal against the air rang out for just a fraction of a second before it found its mark.
Confusion flashing across his face for the briefest moment, and in that second, Hayley was already on him. Her blade a blur, weaving through the space between them.
He raised his arm in a desperate parry. The sharp edge cut deep into his forearm, and he howled in pain, dropping the knife he’d been holding.
With the smallest flick of her wrist, she knocked the blade from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor. The fight was no longer about him attacking her—it was about her dismembering him.
She stepped back, just out of his reach, her eyes focused. The man’s face twisted in anger as he staggered backward, clutching his arm. Hayley sidestepped again, not even breaking a sweat, and this time, she drove her knife forward with a perfect thrust to his side, just beneath the ribs.
He gasped, blood bubbling up at the wound, and his knees buckled slightly as the wind was knocked out of him.
She spun, twisting her body like a dancer preparing for a pirouette, and in one fluid motion, she brought the knife down in a sharp arc—cutting across his inner thigh, just above the knee.
The man collapsed, clutching at his leg, his face contorted in pain and disbelief. He was disarmed and slow to react, his breath shallow and ragged.
Hayley moved in, her knife was a scalpel, whittling away at him piece by piece.
Her foot was planted firmly against his chest, keeping him pinned to the ground, and she crouched over him, her face close to his. She looked down into his eyes, watching as they flickered with the final, fading sparks of defiance.
"You were never going to win," Hayley said, her voice cool.
With a final, swift motion, Hayley pressed the knife against the man’s throat, the tip barely grazing his skin.
And in that moment, she had full control of his fate.
The third man didn’t make another move. His hand fell limply to the ground, his breath ragged, his fight gone. Hayley stood up slowly, her knife still gleaming in her hand. She gave him one last look—no mercy in her gaze.
She swiped her blade across the man’s throat and tucked it back into her belt.
She turned her attention back to the other two gang members, who were now a few steps away, watching her every move. But Hayley didn’t hesitate. She moved towards them ready to finish what she’d started.
Hayley’s elbow shot up with telekinetic force, slamming into the man’s gut leaving him gasping. She followed it with a sharp jab to his throat, sending him stumbling back, choking. He hit the wall behind him with a sickening thud, crumpling to the ground.
She turned, the big guy was back on his feet, roaring with anger. She spun into a kick, catching him in his midsection. As he fell, she was already on him, pinning him with her knee to his chest, her hand reaching for the 9mm at her side.
The sound of the gun cocking was louder than it needed to be. The big guy’s eyes widened with realization.
But Hayley’s eyes were cold. No mercy. She’d spent too many years fighting for survival to show it now.
"Give it up, Bee-Aww-Tch. Credits. Now," Hayley mimicked her attackers, reaching for knife. "And then we’ll have some fun..."
---
Hayley stood in her hotel room, the adrenaline slowly fading.
Her body was already starting to feel the aftermath—the sharp sting of a cut across her arm from one of their knives, a bruise blooming on her side where the big guy’s fist had landed. But it wasn’t anything she couldn’t heal.
She pulled off her jacket, feeling the warmth of her blood against her skin. Her hand hovered over the cut on her arm. She focused her psionic power of Bio-Regeneration into the injury. Within moments, the skin began to knit itself together, the blood flow ceasing, and the pain of it fading into nothingness. The bruise on her side was gone as the muscle fibers and skin realigned, the pain slipping away as if it had never been there.
Once the physical injuries were healed, she felt the familiar sense of clarity return. The fight, the fear, the danger—it was all gone.
She was in control again.
Hayley took a deep breath, adjusting her clothes, and looked at the clock. Too many monsters out tonight to go trolling for another fight. Need to recharge the batteries.
“I’m calling it a night.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: A place where people used to go to watch banned movies.
Examining the burnt down remains, Hayley is not surprised.
Maybe the Coaliton caught on to the unground movie scene.
Or it could have been a criminal competitor.
Or it could have just been a fire.
"Let's see if there are any ghosts home."
Sitting and crossing her legs Hayley meditated listening for the echos and whisper of those past.
She can feel them.
"I come seeking the fortune The Great Purple Mage left behind or the clue he left to it."
The Voice, "The trapdoor, let not my dreams die..."
Hayley’s gaze detects a concealed trapdoor, hidden beneath the layers of dust and debris.
A thorough examination reveals the first hint—there’s an indentation in the floorboard.
She crouches down, using her telekinetic powers to carefully pull up the loose board without disturbing the surrounding dust. Beneath the floor lies an old metal drawer, barely visible in the gloom. The drawer seems out of place—no other compartments like it exist in the space around it, suggesting that it was intentionally hidden away.
As Hayley pulls out the drawer, she finds a small, weathered box.
The box is locked, but Hayley is no stranger to obstacles like this. She focuses her psionic telekinesis on the lock, feeling the subtle movements of the mechanism within. With a mental push, the lock clicks open.
Inside, memory drive with the labels of films from the Golden Age.
A small slip of parchment is tucked inside the box alongside memory drive, yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. Hayley unfolds it carefully, and finds an old key. Reading the message:
“When the night sky burns bright with stars,
The door that sleeps behind the bars,
Awakes and opens, guided by the flame,
Only the worthy can claim the name.”
The riddle isn’t as clear as the first, but the imagery is unmistakable—“night sky,” “stars,” “flame,” and “bars.” Hayley’s mind races as she pieces together the puzzle.
The “flame” could refer to a psychic Burster.
The phrase “behind the bars” suggests a door or compartment that has been sealed away.
The key in her hand, Hayley understands, the key to unlocks something. She feels certain that the key, combined with the riddle’s reference to the stars and flame, will lead her to a hidden safe or passageway beneath the city, one The Great Purple Mage kept money in.
Hayley tucks the key into a hidden pocket inside her jacket, carefully stashing the parchment with the riddle in her bag. She believes that the next part of the hunt involves finding the location where the key will fit.
The morning light had barely begun to creep through the holes in the wall as Hayley made her way to the exit, her footsteps light across the debris ridden ground. Her bag was tucked close to her side, the clues she had recovered from the theater resting inside.
Then the hair on the back of her neck stood up—Sixth Sense.
Before she could react, a shrill laugh pierced the air, echoing off the walls of nearby buildings.
“Ah, the beauty emerges from the shadows! The competition finally reveals herself!” The voice was manic, wild—a crazed, unpredictable energy vibrating from the words.
Hayley spins around just in time to see him.
A man, tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes glowing with a feverish madness. He was dressed in a strange, torn outfit, but what caught her attention was the claw that extended from his hand—a long, razor-sharp weapon. His face was partially covered by a mask, but the psychotic grin was unmistakable. His movements are erratic, yet agility is incredible, as if he were a performer on stage, ready to deliver his lines. His muscles twitched under his skin, the type of strength that was unnaturally amplified.
He took a step forward, his body flexing in the way of a fighter. “You... you are beautiful. But I will have to eliminate you. You are a rival, a blemish on this world of mine,” he hissed, his voice almost melodic, as if he were reciting a script.
"I don't have time for this," Hayley muttered under her breath, her hand sliding to the handle of the knife hidden on her belt. But her mind was already shifting, this man had to be crazy if not a Crazy.
With a screech of laughter, the man lunged. He was impossibly fast, his feet blurring across the ground. In one move, he was upon her, his claw slashing for her face. Hayley had only a split second to react, sidestepping just as his claw scraped the air where her cheek had been.
Her body shifted as if guided by instinct. She twisted, bringing her knife up in a fluid arc to counterattack. But he was faster—his hand, now a blur, deflected her strike with his claw. The impact sent a shock up her arm. The blade flew from her hand, and the crazed man’s eyes widened with manic delight.
He spun on his heel, a high-speed roundhouse that Hayley barely dodged—his leg brushing her side and sending a jolt of pain through her ribs.
She retaliated with a low kick, aiming for his knee, but he jumped backward, his body defying gravity as he leapt ten feet into the air, landing with the grace of a cat.
“Hehehe, pathetic. You think you can defeat ME? The MIGHT EL TORO!” He mocked, his voice thick with derision. “I am more than you can handle, woman. I am the beauty—the perfection!” His eyes gleamed, dripping with obsession.
“Shut up,” Hayley muttered, breathing heavily, adrenaline spiking.
She knew she was in danger now. She had underestimated him. The way his body moved, the speed with which he attacked—it wasn’t normal.
Hayley leapt back, using her own agility to put some distance between them.
She wasn’t dealing with a typical street thug anymore.
El Toro—or whatever delusion this man was caught in—wasn’t just strong. He was fast, his enhanced reflexes keeping him a step ahead. He didn’t give her a moment to breathe. He lunged again, his claws aimed for her throat. His speed was unreal, and this time, he landed a hit—his claws slashing across her arm, a deep gash that burned like fire.
Hayley gasped, but her hesitation was short-lived. She gritted her teeth.
She needed more distance. She needed an advantage. Hayley’s hand finally pulled her handgun from its holster—her fingers brushing the steel, a momentary relief in her otherwise chaotic thoughts. She fired, aiming for his chest.
The first bullet missed, El Toro dodging with an agility that was beyond any human she had faced before. The second one veered to the side, missing again by inches. But the third found its mark, a sharp crack of gunfire that rang in the air as it struck him in the arm.
The man grunted, more from surprise than pain, but he kept coming—he never stopped. He didn’t slow. With a feral snarl, he lunged forward again, closing the distance. He was coming straight for her, aiming to impale her with his claws.
Hayley’s mind snapped into overdrive. Her only chance was to fight back with everything she had.
As El Toro’s body shot forward in a desperate, bull-like charge, his claws aimed directly for her chest, Hayley fired one last shot, but this time she jumped back, leaping as high as she could with her psionics enhancing the motion.
But the Crazy, powered by his M.O.M.-Augmented strength and speed, leapt after her. He was closing the gap faster than she expected.
The claws slammed into her forearm as she twisted her body in mid-air, attempting to dodge. Pain flared up her arm as his claw pierced her gun hand, digging deep into her forearm.
Her mouth set in a hard line as she landed, her feet skidding on the pavement. The pain from the wound in her arm threatened to take her down.
Hayley’s eyes glowed for a moment as she tapped into her psionics. With a thought, she activated her Electrokinesis.
Electricity coursed through her arm, arcing through the blade of the claw that had impaled her parrying forearm. The current traveled down the metal, shocking the insane man as it burned its way through his body. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as the volts surged through him, his screams of fury and pain turning into garbled noise.
His body spasmed violently. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. The electricity had already taken hold. His entire nervous system short-circuited under the barrage of power. The moment he tried to fight it, his heart gave out—overloaded, unable to withstand the surge.
The Crazy collapsed, his body twitching, his eyes wide with shock as he crumpled to the ground in a final heap. His heart stopped as his body fell completely still.
Hayley stood, breathing heavily, looking down at the man who had once been so sure of his own superiority. She could still feel the heat of the electricity pulsing through her arm as it dissipated.
She pulled the claw from her forearm with a sharp, controlled motion. Blood dripped from the wound.
Hayley turned on her Bio-Regeneration psionic power. She focused on the injury, willing it to close. It takes her a minute.
The pain receded and so did the wound. And again.
Exhaustion claimed her. She holstered her gun in her concealed holster.
The world around her is silent once more.
The rush of the fight faded, she came down from the adrenaline high.
Using her knight she slit the Crazy man’s throat, just to be certain.
She she got an idea. Using the claw she severs the Crazy's head off.
The M.O.M. might be worth a credit or two.
After looting the corpse, Hayley turned up the heat setting the man’s pants on fire.
“Now those are some HOT PANTS!”
Examining the burnt down remains, Hayley is not surprised.
Maybe the Coaliton caught on to the unground movie scene.
Or it could have been a criminal competitor.
Or it could have just been a fire.
"Let's see if there are any ghosts home."
Sitting and crossing her legs Hayley meditated listening for the echos and whisper of those past.
She can feel them.
"I come seeking the fortune The Great Purple Mage left behind or the clue he left to it."
The Voice, "The trapdoor, let not my dreams die..."
Hayley’s gaze detects a concealed trapdoor, hidden beneath the layers of dust and debris.
A thorough examination reveals the first hint—there’s an indentation in the floorboard.
She crouches down, using her telekinetic powers to carefully pull up the loose board without disturbing the surrounding dust. Beneath the floor lies an old metal drawer, barely visible in the gloom. The drawer seems out of place—no other compartments like it exist in the space around it, suggesting that it was intentionally hidden away.
As Hayley pulls out the drawer, she finds a small, weathered box.
The box is locked, but Hayley is no stranger to obstacles like this. She focuses her psionic telekinesis on the lock, feeling the subtle movements of the mechanism within. With a mental push, the lock clicks open.
Inside, memory drive with the labels of films from the Golden Age.
A small slip of parchment is tucked inside the box alongside memory drive, yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. Hayley unfolds it carefully, and finds an old key. Reading the message:
“When the night sky burns bright with stars,
The door that sleeps behind the bars,
Awakes and opens, guided by the flame,
Only the worthy can claim the name.”
The riddle isn’t as clear as the first, but the imagery is unmistakable—“night sky,” “stars,” “flame,” and “bars.” Hayley’s mind races as she pieces together the puzzle.
The “flame” could refer to a psychic Burster.
The phrase “behind the bars” suggests a door or compartment that has been sealed away.
The key in her hand, Hayley understands, the key to unlocks something. She feels certain that the key, combined with the riddle’s reference to the stars and flame, will lead her to a hidden safe or passageway beneath the city, one The Great Purple Mage kept money in.
Hayley tucks the key into a hidden pocket inside her jacket, carefully stashing the parchment with the riddle in her bag. She believes that the next part of the hunt involves finding the location where the key will fit.
The morning light had barely begun to creep through the holes in the wall as Hayley made her way to the exit, her footsteps light across the debris ridden ground. Her bag was tucked close to her side, the clues she had recovered from the theater resting inside.
Then the hair on the back of her neck stood up—Sixth Sense.
Before she could react, a shrill laugh pierced the air, echoing off the walls of nearby buildings.
“Ah, the beauty emerges from the shadows! The competition finally reveals herself!” The voice was manic, wild—a crazed, unpredictable energy vibrating from the words.
Hayley spins around just in time to see him.
A man, tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes glowing with a feverish madness. He was dressed in a strange, torn outfit, but what caught her attention was the claw that extended from his hand—a long, razor-sharp weapon. His face was partially covered by a mask, but the psychotic grin was unmistakable. His movements are erratic, yet agility is incredible, as if he were a performer on stage, ready to deliver his lines. His muscles twitched under his skin, the type of strength that was unnaturally amplified.
He took a step forward, his body flexing in the way of a fighter. “You... you are beautiful. But I will have to eliminate you. You are a rival, a blemish on this world of mine,” he hissed, his voice almost melodic, as if he were reciting a script.
"I don't have time for this," Hayley muttered under her breath, her hand sliding to the handle of the knife hidden on her belt. But her mind was already shifting, this man had to be crazy if not a Crazy.
With a screech of laughter, the man lunged. He was impossibly fast, his feet blurring across the ground. In one move, he was upon her, his claw slashing for her face. Hayley had only a split second to react, sidestepping just as his claw scraped the air where her cheek had been.
Her body shifted as if guided by instinct. She twisted, bringing her knife up in a fluid arc to counterattack. But he was faster—his hand, now a blur, deflected her strike with his claw. The impact sent a shock up her arm. The blade flew from her hand, and the crazed man’s eyes widened with manic delight.
He spun on his heel, a high-speed roundhouse that Hayley barely dodged—his leg brushing her side and sending a jolt of pain through her ribs.
She retaliated with a low kick, aiming for his knee, but he jumped backward, his body defying gravity as he leapt ten feet into the air, landing with the grace of a cat.
“Hehehe, pathetic. You think you can defeat ME? The MIGHT EL TORO!” He mocked, his voice thick with derision. “I am more than you can handle, woman. I am the beauty—the perfection!” His eyes gleamed, dripping with obsession.
“Shut up,” Hayley muttered, breathing heavily, adrenaline spiking.
She knew she was in danger now. She had underestimated him. The way his body moved, the speed with which he attacked—it wasn’t normal.
Hayley leapt back, using her own agility to put some distance between them.
She wasn’t dealing with a typical street thug anymore.
El Toro—or whatever delusion this man was caught in—wasn’t just strong. He was fast, his enhanced reflexes keeping him a step ahead. He didn’t give her a moment to breathe. He lunged again, his claws aimed for her throat. His speed was unreal, and this time, he landed a hit—his claws slashing across her arm, a deep gash that burned like fire.
Hayley gasped, but her hesitation was short-lived. She gritted her teeth.
She needed more distance. She needed an advantage. Hayley’s hand finally pulled her handgun from its holster—her fingers brushing the steel, a momentary relief in her otherwise chaotic thoughts. She fired, aiming for his chest.
The first bullet missed, El Toro dodging with an agility that was beyond any human she had faced before. The second one veered to the side, missing again by inches. But the third found its mark, a sharp crack of gunfire that rang in the air as it struck him in the arm.
The man grunted, more from surprise than pain, but he kept coming—he never stopped. He didn’t slow. With a feral snarl, he lunged forward again, closing the distance. He was coming straight for her, aiming to impale her with his claws.
Hayley’s mind snapped into overdrive. Her only chance was to fight back with everything she had.
As El Toro’s body shot forward in a desperate, bull-like charge, his claws aimed directly for her chest, Hayley fired one last shot, but this time she jumped back, leaping as high as she could with her psionics enhancing the motion.
But the Crazy, powered by his M.O.M.-Augmented strength and speed, leapt after her. He was closing the gap faster than she expected.
The claws slammed into her forearm as she twisted her body in mid-air, attempting to dodge. Pain flared up her arm as his claw pierced her gun hand, digging deep into her forearm.
Her mouth set in a hard line as she landed, her feet skidding on the pavement. The pain from the wound in her arm threatened to take her down.
Hayley’s eyes glowed for a moment as she tapped into her psionics. With a thought, she activated her Electrokinesis.
Electricity coursed through her arm, arcing through the blade of the claw that had impaled her parrying forearm. The current traveled down the metal, shocking the insane man as it burned its way through his body. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as the volts surged through him, his screams of fury and pain turning into garbled noise.
His body spasmed violently. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. The electricity had already taken hold. His entire nervous system short-circuited under the barrage of power. The moment he tried to fight it, his heart gave out—overloaded, unable to withstand the surge.
The Crazy collapsed, his body twitching, his eyes wide with shock as he crumpled to the ground in a final heap. His heart stopped as his body fell completely still.
Hayley stood, breathing heavily, looking down at the man who had once been so sure of his own superiority. She could still feel the heat of the electricity pulsing through her arm as it dissipated.
She pulled the claw from her forearm with a sharp, controlled motion. Blood dripped from the wound.
Hayley turned on her Bio-Regeneration psionic power. She focused on the injury, willing it to close. It takes her a minute.
The pain receded and so did the wound. And again.
Exhaustion claimed her. She holstered her gun in her concealed holster.
The world around her is silent once more.
The rush of the fight faded, she came down from the adrenaline high.
Using her knight she slit the Crazy man’s throat, just to be certain.
She she got an idea. Using the claw she severs the Crazy's head off.
The M.O.M. might be worth a credit or two.
After looting the corpse, Hayley turned up the heat setting the man’s pants on fire.
“Now those are some HOT PANTS!”
Last edited by darthauthor on Mon Jun 16, 2025 1:27 am, edited 2 times in total.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: A Cyber-Clinic
The sun had barely risen, but Hayley was already making her way through the winding back alleys of Chi-Town Burbs. The city’s streets were a mix of old, decrepit buildings and newer, sleek corporate storefronts. The stench of rust, garbage, and something else—something metallic—hung in the air. But Hayley didn’t mind.
This was the Downside.
The underbelly of the city where things like the law didn’t matter, where the Black Market thrived, and where people like her could make a living—or at least survive.
The Cyber-Clinic.
It was a dirty hole in the wall, tucked away behind an unmarked door in a narrow alley. A place where people went to get their bionic limbs or implants, or where they went to sell stolen parts. The kind of place where trust was a luxury and transactions were made with a mixture of desperation and grim pragmatism.
The Cyber-Doc’s name was Dr. Z. Or, at least, that’s what he called himself. No one knew his real name, and most didn’t care to. He was known for two things: his sharp skills with installing upgrades, and his sharp temper when it came to payment. He was part surgeon, part businessman, and all about profit. He had a reputation for getting what he wanted—and for keeping things quiet. That was all Hayley cared about today.
The head of the Crazy man she had fought tonight was still in her Go Bag and slung over her shoulder. She could already picture the bionic part she’d seen embedded in the man’s skull. It was something too advanced to be found in the hands of the average street thug. It was definitely worth money. More than money—it could be the ticket to a bigger payoff.
She stopped in front of the nondescript door of Zee’s, a grimace crossing her face.
The place didn’t inspire confidence—there was no sign, just a door with a single cracked window. She knocked once, and the door creaked open just enough for her to see a bloodshot eye peering through the crack.
“You got something for me, or are you here to waste my time?” the voice rasped.
Hayley nodded, her gaze locking onto the eye. “I’ve got a head for you. And a deal if you’re interested.”
The door opened just wide enough for her to slip inside.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and old metal. The clinic was cramped, lighting was bad, and filled with rows of mismatched surgical tools and out-of-place medical equipment but at least the beds looked clean. The walls were lined with cabinets and drawers filled with odds and ends—strange mechanical parts and what looked like human limbs, neatly stored away. A faint sound of a machine running in the corner added to the eeriness of the place. A cold, clinical atmosphere that barely masked the underworld of the Black Market.
Dr. Z stood behind a rusted metal counter, wearing a stained lab coat and rubber gloves over his cybernetic hands. He was older than Hayley had expected, his face lined with age and the weariness of a man who had spent too many years in this profession. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his bionic eyes never left her.
“Let me see what you got,” he muttered, clearly uninterested in pleasantries.
Without saying a word, Hayley laid out the decapitated head. The once-vibrant face of the Crazy was now pale and slack. She placed it on the counter, pushing the head forward with a sharp tap.
Dr. Z didn’t flinch. He eyed the head for a moment, inspecting it closely. His fingers traced the edges of the implants, the eyes narrowing. “Oh, this guy,” he said flatly, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. “He was just some crazy bastard who liked to kill people.”
Hayley, her voice was calm, “You know how this works. I’m looking for credits.”
Dr. Z grunted, leaning in closer, he tilted his head slightly, examining it from different angles. “You think I’ll pay you upfront for something like this?”
Hayley leaned forward slightly, her eyes steady. “I’m walking out with money, or you’re going to have a problem.”
Dr. Z tapped a finger to his chin. He was clearly a businessman but even he had limits. He nodded after a moment. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll hold onto it for now. You get your credits when I sell it. But don’t expect me to babysit you. If you want it quick, you’ll have to take the chance of going through someone else. There’s always a risk in this business.”
Hayley didn’t flinch at his words. She knew the game. “Deal. And, I don’t want to have to track you down.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll find you when the time’s right.” Dr. Z smirked, wiping his hands off on a rag. “And if I don’t, well... you can always come back here. There’s always someone looking for something.”
Hayley didn’t respond. She simply turned and walked toward the door, her steps lighter, one less burden.
Outside, the air felt a little fresher, despite the stink of the city. She had handing over the head of a psycho for some unknown future payment. But in a world like this, risk was what kept everything moving. And Hayley was always ready to bet on herself.
---
Hayley’s stomach growled as she stepped out of the Cyber-Doc’s dingy clinic, the sharp smell of antiseptic and machine oil still lingering in her nose.
Her body ached—tired from the fight, the healing, and the constant sense of danger that seemed to hang in the air.
She needed food. And she needed it fast.
She was drained—physically, emotionally, and mentally—and the thought of food was her only immediate priority.
A quick glance at her surroundings revealed the familiar hustle of Chi-Town Burbs. The streets buzzed with activity. People coming and going, vehicles speeding past, the sounds of factory workers winding down their shifts filling the air. In the distance, she saw the glowing neon sign of Park Place Restaurant. It was one of the few places in the area that offered decent food without the threat of undercooked meat or a sudden robbery.
Besides, it was close, and she was too tired to wander too far.
As she approached, the chatter and clinking of plates greeted her, a welcoming din from the bustling, packed dining room inside. The Park Place was always alive, especially during peak hours, its location making it a hub for the local residents, workers, and even the occasional wanderer from Barter's Square. The restaurant was right on the main strip—next to the pharmacy, a stone’s throw from the mini-shopping district, and just a quick walk from the Parkview Hotel, where Hayley had booked a room for the night.
She could already feel the weight of the day beginning to lift. She just needed a quick meal to settle her mind.
The restaurant was bright, almost annoyingly so, with its glaring fluorescent lights overhead. The smell of cooked food filled the air—meats sizzling on the grill, the tangy scent of tomato soup, and something sweet, likely from the Park Lane Bakery. The tables were packed close together, filled with a mix of factory workers grabbing a quick bite, families having dinner, and travelers who had nowhere better to go. The din of conversation and clinking cutlery was like a living heartbeat to the place.
Hayley maneuvered through the crowd, easily slipping between bodies and over cluttered chairs. She didn’t want to waste time; she was hungry, and food was her only priority. The friendly waitress—an older woman with graying hair and a genuine smile—spotted her immediately.
“You look like you could use a seat, sweetheart,” the waitress said with a chuckle, her voice warm. “How about a table for one?”
Hayley nodded gratefully. “I’ll take a seat at the counter, if you don’t mind. I just need something quick.”
“Of course, right this way.” The waitress led her to the counter, where a few empty stools sat, offering a view of the sizzling grill and the busy kitchen in the back.
As Hayley settled onto a stool, she rubbed her eyes, letting the exhaustion take hold for just a moment. She could hear the sounds of the chef shouting orders, the clatter of pots and pans, and the hum of the restaurant. It felt good—comforting even. The kind of noise that meant life was happening—and right now, that was all she needed.
A brief escape from the chaos she had been facing.
“What can I get you today, honey?” The waitress was quick with a menu, laying it in front of Hayley.
“Just something simple,” Hayley said, her voice low. “Maybe the meatloaf, and some fries. Nothing fancy.”
The waitress smiled knowingly. “Meatloaf it is. It’s a good choice if you’re hungry.”
As Hayley leaned back slightly on the stool, she couldn’t help but notice the two distinct atmospheres in the Park Place. The lower floor was for the everyday folk—the ones who worked hard, the ones who needed comfort food, and the ones who didn’t mind a little noise with their meal. But the second floor—she knew all about that place.
The Park Gentlemen's Club—the so-called G-Club—was a completely different world. Up there, the elite came to mingle, the suits and ties (or the equivalent of expensive fashion) rubbing elbows with business owners and the city’s wealthy. She had never been up there, but the rumors were all the same. The G-Club was a high-class operation—a place for the rich and powerful to blow off steam after a long day of deals and backdoor negotiations.
But Hayley didn’t belong in that world. Not now. She used to be interested in the G-Club. Wanted to dance there. Now, all she wanted was food, a room to sleep in, and a few hours of rest before the next part of her fortune hunting.
The waitress returned quickly, setting a steaming plate of meatloaf and fries in front of Hayley. The smell alone was enough to make her stomach growl louder. The meatloaf was perfectly cooked, a deep brown glaze over the top, and the fries crispy, golden, just like she liked them.
“Here you go,” the waitress said with a grin. “Eat up, honey. You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
Hayley didn’t argue. She dug in, savoring each bite as it hit her taste buds. The meatloaf was hearty, the seasoning just right. It was simple, but good. And that’s all she needed right now. As she ate, her body began to relax, her muscles unwinding as the warmth of the food seeped into her tired bones. She felt the weight of the previous night’s chaos start to lift.
After finishing, Hayley leaned back on her stool, rubbing her stomach. She was full and felt slightly less drained, but there was still the matter of the hotel room. She’d need to shower and sleep soon—maybe a nap before she made any decisions about her next steps in the treasure hunt. There was still more to do, but she could afford a moment of respite.
“Thanks,” she said to the waitress as she slid the plate away.
“You’re welcome, hon. You want dessert? We’ve got a fresh batch of apple pie from the bakery today,” the waitress offered with a smile.
Hayley shook her head. “I’m good for now. Just need to get to the hotel.”
The waitress nodded, her smile warm. “Take care, sweetheart. We’ll be here when you’re ready for round two.”
Hayley nodded, standing up and leaving a few credits on the counter for the tip. The crowd in the restaurant hadn’t thinned much, but it didn’t matter. She had gotten what she needed for now.
With a small sigh of contentment, she pushed open the door, stepping back into the bustling streets of Fire-Town. She had a hotel to get to, a bed waiting for her, and a few hours of peace before the hunt continued.
---
The Parkview Hotel stood like a tired sentinel at the corner of the street—its four-story frame a mix of faded red brick and peeling paint, offering a glimpse into a time long past. The neon sign flickered intermittently, barely clinging to life, but it still managed to cast a tired glow over the surrounding sidewalk. The building wasn't glamorous or high-end, but for Hayley, it would do. She wasn’t looking for luxury tonight—just a place to rest and recharge before diving back into the chase.
Hayley pushed through the revolving door, the faint jingle of a bell ringing above her head. The lobby was modest, with a worn carpet and old leather chairs lined up against the walls. The reception desk, manned by an older man with a tired face and gray hair, looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years. The faint smell of old wood, stale cigarettes, and a hint of mildew lingered in the air. But at least it was quiet. And it had the one thing Hayley needed: anonymity.
The man behind the desk looked up as she approached, his expression neutral. His eyes were tired, but they had a sharpness to them that told Hayley he had seen more than his fair share of people come through this door. He didn’t say anything at first, just waiting for her to speak.
“I’ve got a room reserved,” Hayley said, her voice steady but not too loud. She didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. Her eyes scanned the lobby quickly, taking in the other patrons lounging about—some were talking quietly, others glued to their phones. No one seemed to notice her yet, and that was exactly how she liked it.
The man didn’t respond immediately. He turned to the computer, his fingers tapping the keys lazily as he brought up her reservation. Hayley tapped her fingers against the counter, the weight of the day still pressing on her shoulders. She needed sleep, but she knew better than to let her guard down.
“Name?” the man asked, his voice gruff.
“Hayley Chonlan,” she said, watching him as he entered the information. He paused for a second, his eyes flicking up to her face, then down at the screen again.
"Room 218, right at the end of the hall on the second floor. I have your key card right here?" He said, already grabbing it from a stack behind the counter.
Hayley, her mind already working on the next step. She had already paid for the room, so there was no need for small talk. She just wanted to get to her room, lock the door, and let the weight of the day fall away. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene or stick out.
“Here you go,” the man muttered, handing her a key card with a dull look in his eyes. “Elevator’s over there.” He gestured to the far corner of the lobby, where an old elevator stood with a scratched metal door. It was the kind of elevator that creaked when it moved, the kind where you prayed the cables didn’t snap before it reached your floor.
"Thanks," Hayley replied, slipping the card into her pocket. She turned and walked toward the elevator, the soft click of her boots echoing in the silence of the lobby. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the weight of the man’s gaze as she left the desk behind.
The elevator was old, its brass buttons scratched from years of use. She pressed the button for the second floor and waited as the elevator groaned to life, slowly ascending. The ding at the second floor was almost inaudible. Hayley stepped out into the narrow, dimly lit hallway, the walls lined with cheap paintings that probably hadn’t been updated in decades. The carpet was threadbare in places, worn down by the countless feet that had walked its length.
Room 218 was at the very end of the hall. Hayley walked toward it, her footsteps soft against the faded carpet. She felt the key card in her pocket, the weight of it a reminder that for the first time in a while, she would have a moment of peace. At least, that’s what she hoped.
Reaching the door, she slid the key card into the lock, the light above the handle flashing green. She turned the knob and entered.
The room wasn’t anything special. It was small and utilitarian—two twin beds covered in plain white sheets, a small desk, and a dingy bathroom off to the side. The air was stale, but not unbearable. The curtains were pulled shut, letting in only the dim light of the streetlamps outside. The television on the wall was small and out of place, a relic from a time when people still watched steaming service. Now it was Coalition Approved Broadcasting.
Hayley kicked the door shut behind her and dropped her Go Bag by the bed. She took a deep breath, scanning the room one more time. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t safe. But it was hers for the night.
She tossed her jacket onto the bed and peeled off her boots, wincing slightly as she rubbed the ache from her feet. Her mind started to race again—plans, strategies, the hunt for the treasure, but the exhaustion from the day crept in quickly. It had been a long, violent day, and her body was ready to shut down.
The room was quiet, the only sound being the soft breeze of the air conditioning. She moved toward the bathroom and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired from the fight with the Crazy man, but they didn’t matter right now.
She turned on the shower, letting the water warm up before stepping in. As the hot water hit her skin, the tension of the day slowly melted away. She closed her eyes, leaning against the wall, allowing herself to drift for just a few moments. Her mind quieted, and for the first time that day, she felt something close to relief.
When she finished, she wrapped herself in a towel and moved back into the room. The bed was calling her now.
She climbed in, pulling the covers up, her body already starting to relax into the softness of the sheets. Her eyes fluttered closed, but before sleep could fully claim her, her mind wandered briefly—just enough to remind her that tomorrow would be another long day.
But for now, she could rest.
The sun had barely risen, but Hayley was already making her way through the winding back alleys of Chi-Town Burbs. The city’s streets were a mix of old, decrepit buildings and newer, sleek corporate storefronts. The stench of rust, garbage, and something else—something metallic—hung in the air. But Hayley didn’t mind.
This was the Downside.
The underbelly of the city where things like the law didn’t matter, where the Black Market thrived, and where people like her could make a living—or at least survive.
The Cyber-Clinic.
It was a dirty hole in the wall, tucked away behind an unmarked door in a narrow alley. A place where people went to get their bionic limbs or implants, or where they went to sell stolen parts. The kind of place where trust was a luxury and transactions were made with a mixture of desperation and grim pragmatism.
The Cyber-Doc’s name was Dr. Z. Or, at least, that’s what he called himself. No one knew his real name, and most didn’t care to. He was known for two things: his sharp skills with installing upgrades, and his sharp temper when it came to payment. He was part surgeon, part businessman, and all about profit. He had a reputation for getting what he wanted—and for keeping things quiet. That was all Hayley cared about today.
The head of the Crazy man she had fought tonight was still in her Go Bag and slung over her shoulder. She could already picture the bionic part she’d seen embedded in the man’s skull. It was something too advanced to be found in the hands of the average street thug. It was definitely worth money. More than money—it could be the ticket to a bigger payoff.
She stopped in front of the nondescript door of Zee’s, a grimace crossing her face.
The place didn’t inspire confidence—there was no sign, just a door with a single cracked window. She knocked once, and the door creaked open just enough for her to see a bloodshot eye peering through the crack.
“You got something for me, or are you here to waste my time?” the voice rasped.
Hayley nodded, her gaze locking onto the eye. “I’ve got a head for you. And a deal if you’re interested.”
The door opened just wide enough for her to slip inside.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and old metal. The clinic was cramped, lighting was bad, and filled with rows of mismatched surgical tools and out-of-place medical equipment but at least the beds looked clean. The walls were lined with cabinets and drawers filled with odds and ends—strange mechanical parts and what looked like human limbs, neatly stored away. A faint sound of a machine running in the corner added to the eeriness of the place. A cold, clinical atmosphere that barely masked the underworld of the Black Market.
Dr. Z stood behind a rusted metal counter, wearing a stained lab coat and rubber gloves over his cybernetic hands. He was older than Hayley had expected, his face lined with age and the weariness of a man who had spent too many years in this profession. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his bionic eyes never left her.
“Let me see what you got,” he muttered, clearly uninterested in pleasantries.
Without saying a word, Hayley laid out the decapitated head. The once-vibrant face of the Crazy was now pale and slack. She placed it on the counter, pushing the head forward with a sharp tap.
Dr. Z didn’t flinch. He eyed the head for a moment, inspecting it closely. His fingers traced the edges of the implants, the eyes narrowing. “Oh, this guy,” he said flatly, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. “He was just some crazy bastard who liked to kill people.”
Hayley, her voice was calm, “You know how this works. I’m looking for credits.”
Dr. Z grunted, leaning in closer, he tilted his head slightly, examining it from different angles. “You think I’ll pay you upfront for something like this?”
Hayley leaned forward slightly, her eyes steady. “I’m walking out with money, or you’re going to have a problem.”
Dr. Z tapped a finger to his chin. He was clearly a businessman but even he had limits. He nodded after a moment. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll hold onto it for now. You get your credits when I sell it. But don’t expect me to babysit you. If you want it quick, you’ll have to take the chance of going through someone else. There’s always a risk in this business.”
Hayley didn’t flinch at his words. She knew the game. “Deal. And, I don’t want to have to track you down.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll find you when the time’s right.” Dr. Z smirked, wiping his hands off on a rag. “And if I don’t, well... you can always come back here. There’s always someone looking for something.”
Hayley didn’t respond. She simply turned and walked toward the door, her steps lighter, one less burden.
Outside, the air felt a little fresher, despite the stink of the city. She had handing over the head of a psycho for some unknown future payment. But in a world like this, risk was what kept everything moving. And Hayley was always ready to bet on herself.
---
Hayley’s stomach growled as she stepped out of the Cyber-Doc’s dingy clinic, the sharp smell of antiseptic and machine oil still lingering in her nose.
Her body ached—tired from the fight, the healing, and the constant sense of danger that seemed to hang in the air.
She needed food. And she needed it fast.
She was drained—physically, emotionally, and mentally—and the thought of food was her only immediate priority.
A quick glance at her surroundings revealed the familiar hustle of Chi-Town Burbs. The streets buzzed with activity. People coming and going, vehicles speeding past, the sounds of factory workers winding down their shifts filling the air. In the distance, she saw the glowing neon sign of Park Place Restaurant. It was one of the few places in the area that offered decent food without the threat of undercooked meat or a sudden robbery.
Besides, it was close, and she was too tired to wander too far.
As she approached, the chatter and clinking of plates greeted her, a welcoming din from the bustling, packed dining room inside. The Park Place was always alive, especially during peak hours, its location making it a hub for the local residents, workers, and even the occasional wanderer from Barter's Square. The restaurant was right on the main strip—next to the pharmacy, a stone’s throw from the mini-shopping district, and just a quick walk from the Parkview Hotel, where Hayley had booked a room for the night.
She could already feel the weight of the day beginning to lift. She just needed a quick meal to settle her mind.
The restaurant was bright, almost annoyingly so, with its glaring fluorescent lights overhead. The smell of cooked food filled the air—meats sizzling on the grill, the tangy scent of tomato soup, and something sweet, likely from the Park Lane Bakery. The tables were packed close together, filled with a mix of factory workers grabbing a quick bite, families having dinner, and travelers who had nowhere better to go. The din of conversation and clinking cutlery was like a living heartbeat to the place.
Hayley maneuvered through the crowd, easily slipping between bodies and over cluttered chairs. She didn’t want to waste time; she was hungry, and food was her only priority. The friendly waitress—an older woman with graying hair and a genuine smile—spotted her immediately.
“You look like you could use a seat, sweetheart,” the waitress said with a chuckle, her voice warm. “How about a table for one?”
Hayley nodded gratefully. “I’ll take a seat at the counter, if you don’t mind. I just need something quick.”
“Of course, right this way.” The waitress led her to the counter, where a few empty stools sat, offering a view of the sizzling grill and the busy kitchen in the back.
As Hayley settled onto a stool, she rubbed her eyes, letting the exhaustion take hold for just a moment. She could hear the sounds of the chef shouting orders, the clatter of pots and pans, and the hum of the restaurant. It felt good—comforting even. The kind of noise that meant life was happening—and right now, that was all she needed.
A brief escape from the chaos she had been facing.
“What can I get you today, honey?” The waitress was quick with a menu, laying it in front of Hayley.
“Just something simple,” Hayley said, her voice low. “Maybe the meatloaf, and some fries. Nothing fancy.”
The waitress smiled knowingly. “Meatloaf it is. It’s a good choice if you’re hungry.”
As Hayley leaned back slightly on the stool, she couldn’t help but notice the two distinct atmospheres in the Park Place. The lower floor was for the everyday folk—the ones who worked hard, the ones who needed comfort food, and the ones who didn’t mind a little noise with their meal. But the second floor—she knew all about that place.
The Park Gentlemen's Club—the so-called G-Club—was a completely different world. Up there, the elite came to mingle, the suits and ties (or the equivalent of expensive fashion) rubbing elbows with business owners and the city’s wealthy. She had never been up there, but the rumors were all the same. The G-Club was a high-class operation—a place for the rich and powerful to blow off steam after a long day of deals and backdoor negotiations.
But Hayley didn’t belong in that world. Not now. She used to be interested in the G-Club. Wanted to dance there. Now, all she wanted was food, a room to sleep in, and a few hours of rest before the next part of her fortune hunting.
The waitress returned quickly, setting a steaming plate of meatloaf and fries in front of Hayley. The smell alone was enough to make her stomach growl louder. The meatloaf was perfectly cooked, a deep brown glaze over the top, and the fries crispy, golden, just like she liked them.
“Here you go,” the waitress said with a grin. “Eat up, honey. You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
Hayley didn’t argue. She dug in, savoring each bite as it hit her taste buds. The meatloaf was hearty, the seasoning just right. It was simple, but good. And that’s all she needed right now. As she ate, her body began to relax, her muscles unwinding as the warmth of the food seeped into her tired bones. She felt the weight of the previous night’s chaos start to lift.
After finishing, Hayley leaned back on her stool, rubbing her stomach. She was full and felt slightly less drained, but there was still the matter of the hotel room. She’d need to shower and sleep soon—maybe a nap before she made any decisions about her next steps in the treasure hunt. There was still more to do, but she could afford a moment of respite.
“Thanks,” she said to the waitress as she slid the plate away.
“You’re welcome, hon. You want dessert? We’ve got a fresh batch of apple pie from the bakery today,” the waitress offered with a smile.
Hayley shook her head. “I’m good for now. Just need to get to the hotel.”
The waitress nodded, her smile warm. “Take care, sweetheart. We’ll be here when you’re ready for round two.”
Hayley nodded, standing up and leaving a few credits on the counter for the tip. The crowd in the restaurant hadn’t thinned much, but it didn’t matter. She had gotten what she needed for now.
With a small sigh of contentment, she pushed open the door, stepping back into the bustling streets of Fire-Town. She had a hotel to get to, a bed waiting for her, and a few hours of peace before the hunt continued.
---
The Parkview Hotel stood like a tired sentinel at the corner of the street—its four-story frame a mix of faded red brick and peeling paint, offering a glimpse into a time long past. The neon sign flickered intermittently, barely clinging to life, but it still managed to cast a tired glow over the surrounding sidewalk. The building wasn't glamorous or high-end, but for Hayley, it would do. She wasn’t looking for luxury tonight—just a place to rest and recharge before diving back into the chase.
Hayley pushed through the revolving door, the faint jingle of a bell ringing above her head. The lobby was modest, with a worn carpet and old leather chairs lined up against the walls. The reception desk, manned by an older man with a tired face and gray hair, looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years. The faint smell of old wood, stale cigarettes, and a hint of mildew lingered in the air. But at least it was quiet. And it had the one thing Hayley needed: anonymity.
The man behind the desk looked up as she approached, his expression neutral. His eyes were tired, but they had a sharpness to them that told Hayley he had seen more than his fair share of people come through this door. He didn’t say anything at first, just waiting for her to speak.
“I’ve got a room reserved,” Hayley said, her voice steady but not too loud. She didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. Her eyes scanned the lobby quickly, taking in the other patrons lounging about—some were talking quietly, others glued to their phones. No one seemed to notice her yet, and that was exactly how she liked it.
The man didn’t respond immediately. He turned to the computer, his fingers tapping the keys lazily as he brought up her reservation. Hayley tapped her fingers against the counter, the weight of the day still pressing on her shoulders. She needed sleep, but she knew better than to let her guard down.
“Name?” the man asked, his voice gruff.
“Hayley Chonlan,” she said, watching him as he entered the information. He paused for a second, his eyes flicking up to her face, then down at the screen again.
"Room 218, right at the end of the hall on the second floor. I have your key card right here?" He said, already grabbing it from a stack behind the counter.
Hayley, her mind already working on the next step. She had already paid for the room, so there was no need for small talk. She just wanted to get to her room, lock the door, and let the weight of the day fall away. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene or stick out.
“Here you go,” the man muttered, handing her a key card with a dull look in his eyes. “Elevator’s over there.” He gestured to the far corner of the lobby, where an old elevator stood with a scratched metal door. It was the kind of elevator that creaked when it moved, the kind where you prayed the cables didn’t snap before it reached your floor.
"Thanks," Hayley replied, slipping the card into her pocket. She turned and walked toward the elevator, the soft click of her boots echoing in the silence of the lobby. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the weight of the man’s gaze as she left the desk behind.
The elevator was old, its brass buttons scratched from years of use. She pressed the button for the second floor and waited as the elevator groaned to life, slowly ascending. The ding at the second floor was almost inaudible. Hayley stepped out into the narrow, dimly lit hallway, the walls lined with cheap paintings that probably hadn’t been updated in decades. The carpet was threadbare in places, worn down by the countless feet that had walked its length.
Room 218 was at the very end of the hall. Hayley walked toward it, her footsteps soft against the faded carpet. She felt the key card in her pocket, the weight of it a reminder that for the first time in a while, she would have a moment of peace. At least, that’s what she hoped.
Reaching the door, she slid the key card into the lock, the light above the handle flashing green. She turned the knob and entered.
The room wasn’t anything special. It was small and utilitarian—two twin beds covered in plain white sheets, a small desk, and a dingy bathroom off to the side. The air was stale, but not unbearable. The curtains were pulled shut, letting in only the dim light of the streetlamps outside. The television on the wall was small and out of place, a relic from a time when people still watched steaming service. Now it was Coalition Approved Broadcasting.
Hayley kicked the door shut behind her and dropped her Go Bag by the bed. She took a deep breath, scanning the room one more time. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t safe. But it was hers for the night.
She tossed her jacket onto the bed and peeled off her boots, wincing slightly as she rubbed the ache from her feet. Her mind started to race again—plans, strategies, the hunt for the treasure, but the exhaustion from the day crept in quickly. It had been a long, violent day, and her body was ready to shut down.
The room was quiet, the only sound being the soft breeze of the air conditioning. She moved toward the bathroom and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired from the fight with the Crazy man, but they didn’t matter right now.
She turned on the shower, letting the water warm up before stepping in. As the hot water hit her skin, the tension of the day slowly melted away. She closed her eyes, leaning against the wall, allowing herself to drift for just a few moments. Her mind quieted, and for the first time that day, she felt something close to relief.
When she finished, she wrapped herself in a towel and moved back into the room. The bed was calling her now.
She climbed in, pulling the covers up, her body already starting to relax into the softness of the sheets. Her eyes fluttered closed, but before sleep could fully claim her, her mind wandered briefly—just enough to remind her that tomorrow would be another long day.
But for now, she could rest.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The "Glass Wall" an iconic skyscraper that once stood.
The Glass Wall was a state of the art building built in 2098 before the great cataclysm. Once-towering, it’s fall reflected the fall of the once great civilization of humanity.
The supposed glass is called AM-III, developed by Chinese scientists at Yanshan University on the other side of the world at a place called China. The glass is as hard as diamonds and can scratch them. 113 gigapascals (GPa) in the Vickers hardness test, compared to natural diamonds which typically score 70-100 GPa.
Damn, school learning got to me again.
Looking out at the skyline here Hayley saw the jagged, punctuated by the skeletal remains of towering skyscrapers. These glass-and-steel giants had stood reflecting technological progress, but now, they were nothing more than reminders that no matter how great a civilization, some day, it will all come crumbling down .
The sun cast long, thin shadows as it began to dip below the horizon, and the air in the Glass Wall was dirty.
Quickly I raced to clean off the glass before I lost the sun. I looked behind me as the sunlight began to reflect.
The crumbled sidewalks were littered with forgotten debris—scraps of old advertisements, shredded papers that fluttered like ghosts, and bits of discarded trash that no one bothered to pick up anymore. In the fading light, the towering structures cast warped, elongated shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement, creating a patchwork of dark and light.
As the sun sank lower, something shifted in the way the light interacted with the remnants of the buildings—something deliberate, like the dying embers of a forgotten fire.
As the last rays of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a strange pattern began to form on the sidewalk. It wasn’t a trick of the light, or some random quirk of the city’s decay. No. This was intentional. The fading sunlight hit the jagged edges of the ruins, causing a series of glass panes embedded in the cracked ground to glint.
Now, these panes lay scattered in a deliberate pattern—a pattern that began to emerge only as the sun set.
Hayley recognized the configuration. It wasn’t just random glass fragments reflecting the light. It was geometry, the lines forming the same geometric shape that had been etched in the water-proof notepad.
The shape was unmistakable—a series of interconnected triangles and lines, their sharp angles pointing toward a specific direction. The drawings in the notepad had mirrored the same design, and now, in the fading light, it became clear what she needed to do next. The pattern on the sidewalk wasn’t just a clue—it was a map that would lead her forward.
As Hayley moved closer, the pattern on the ground seemed to come alive under her feet. The glass panes shimmered, almost as if they were responding to her presence, their reflections creating a halo of light around the shape. Her breath caught in her throat as the pieces clicked together.
Her mind raced as she mentally traced the lines of the shape. The triangles pointed toward an alleyway between two of the tallest remaining skyscrapers, their glass exteriors shattered and the remains of their skeletal frames leaning toward each other as if in some twisted embrace.
Hayley’s footsteps slowed as her eyes locked on the geometric pattern that had revealed the path forward. The glass shards reflected the last vestiges of light, drawing her deeper into the eerie space between the skeletal towers. For a moment, she felt the thrill of discovery, the excitement. She was so close—just a few more steps and she would follow the path into whatever secret lay ahead.
But then, a chill ran through her spine.
A sinking realization that hit her all at once.
She was alone.
And this part of the city? The Glass Wall? This was no place to be alone—especially not at night.
Hayley paused. Her breath hitched slightly as she scanned her surroundings, the weight of the silence pressing down on her. The once-bustling district had fallen into a quiet, ominous lull. The only sounds now were the creaking ruins of the old skyscrapers.
The shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally long, dark corners lurking at the edges of her vision, where figures might be waiting. She could feel the unease creeping in—sharp, subtle, but unmistakable.
This isn’t safe, her instincts whispered. Not at night. Not here.
She had been so focused on the credits, so consumed by the hunt that she had let her guard slip. But now, as the cold air prickled her skin and the moonlight bathed the ruins in a ghostly glow, the danger of her surroundings became clear.
The Glass Wall was a forgotten part of the Burbs—a place where the homeless and desperate roamed. D-Bees, or “D-Beasts,” as they were sometimes called, lurked in the shadows, their bodies and morals scared by years of hardship, their desperation more lethal than their appearance.
At night, this place had only D-Bee scavengers and the drifters.
And here she was—alone in the dark.
The homeless D-Bees didn’t care who you were. They didn’t care if you had money, if you were armed, or if you were dangerous. They just saw predators and prey. And here she was, standing in the middle of this forsaken place, a perfect target.
You’ve killed before, a cold, rational voice inside her reminded her. You’ve fought for your life and you don’t regret it.
Her fingers tightened on the knife she carried, and the weight of her 9 mm handgun pressed against her side. She knew she could handle herself in a fight, but this—this wasn’t just a random mugging or a skirmish with a lowlife.
Her chest tightened as the reality of the situation hit her.
She could fight. She could kill if it came to that—but was it worth it?
Was walking into this worth the risk of taking a life tonight or dying? Was it worth the chance that the situation could spiral out of control, that she could end up like some of the others she had heard about—the victims of ambushes, rapes, and attacks that were all too common in places like this?
For 300,000 credits. YES! Now that that is settled let’s be smart about this Hayley. What do I need to do here that I can’t do during the day? And with some hired muscle…
Tonight, I need to leave before someone tried to rob me, rape me, or worse. You aren’t afraid. Just smart enough to know that it wasn’t the right time. The money would still be there tomorrow. If it waited all this time, it can wait one more night. But for now, you need to get you butt back to the safety of the hotel and rest.
And so, she walked swiftly, her footsteps echoing in the quiet.
She turned on her Psionic Invisibility to influence anyone to ignore her while she walked away.
The Glass Wall was a state of the art building built in 2098 before the great cataclysm. Once-towering, it’s fall reflected the fall of the once great civilization of humanity.
The supposed glass is called AM-III, developed by Chinese scientists at Yanshan University on the other side of the world at a place called China. The glass is as hard as diamonds and can scratch them. 113 gigapascals (GPa) in the Vickers hardness test, compared to natural diamonds which typically score 70-100 GPa.
Damn, school learning got to me again.
Looking out at the skyline here Hayley saw the jagged, punctuated by the skeletal remains of towering skyscrapers. These glass-and-steel giants had stood reflecting technological progress, but now, they were nothing more than reminders that no matter how great a civilization, some day, it will all come crumbling down .
The sun cast long, thin shadows as it began to dip below the horizon, and the air in the Glass Wall was dirty.
Quickly I raced to clean off the glass before I lost the sun. I looked behind me as the sunlight began to reflect.
The crumbled sidewalks were littered with forgotten debris—scraps of old advertisements, shredded papers that fluttered like ghosts, and bits of discarded trash that no one bothered to pick up anymore. In the fading light, the towering structures cast warped, elongated shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement, creating a patchwork of dark and light.
As the sun sank lower, something shifted in the way the light interacted with the remnants of the buildings—something deliberate, like the dying embers of a forgotten fire.
As the last rays of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a strange pattern began to form on the sidewalk. It wasn’t a trick of the light, or some random quirk of the city’s decay. No. This was intentional. The fading sunlight hit the jagged edges of the ruins, causing a series of glass panes embedded in the cracked ground to glint.
Now, these panes lay scattered in a deliberate pattern—a pattern that began to emerge only as the sun set.
Hayley recognized the configuration. It wasn’t just random glass fragments reflecting the light. It was geometry, the lines forming the same geometric shape that had been etched in the water-proof notepad.
The shape was unmistakable—a series of interconnected triangles and lines, their sharp angles pointing toward a specific direction. The drawings in the notepad had mirrored the same design, and now, in the fading light, it became clear what she needed to do next. The pattern on the sidewalk wasn’t just a clue—it was a map that would lead her forward.
As Hayley moved closer, the pattern on the ground seemed to come alive under her feet. The glass panes shimmered, almost as if they were responding to her presence, their reflections creating a halo of light around the shape. Her breath caught in her throat as the pieces clicked together.
Her mind raced as she mentally traced the lines of the shape. The triangles pointed toward an alleyway between two of the tallest remaining skyscrapers, their glass exteriors shattered and the remains of their skeletal frames leaning toward each other as if in some twisted embrace.
Hayley’s footsteps slowed as her eyes locked on the geometric pattern that had revealed the path forward. The glass shards reflected the last vestiges of light, drawing her deeper into the eerie space between the skeletal towers. For a moment, she felt the thrill of discovery, the excitement. She was so close—just a few more steps and she would follow the path into whatever secret lay ahead.
But then, a chill ran through her spine.
A sinking realization that hit her all at once.
She was alone.
And this part of the city? The Glass Wall? This was no place to be alone—especially not at night.
Hayley paused. Her breath hitched slightly as she scanned her surroundings, the weight of the silence pressing down on her. The once-bustling district had fallen into a quiet, ominous lull. The only sounds now were the creaking ruins of the old skyscrapers.
The shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally long, dark corners lurking at the edges of her vision, where figures might be waiting. She could feel the unease creeping in—sharp, subtle, but unmistakable.
This isn’t safe, her instincts whispered. Not at night. Not here.
She had been so focused on the credits, so consumed by the hunt that she had let her guard slip. But now, as the cold air prickled her skin and the moonlight bathed the ruins in a ghostly glow, the danger of her surroundings became clear.
The Glass Wall was a forgotten part of the Burbs—a place where the homeless and desperate roamed. D-Bees, or “D-Beasts,” as they were sometimes called, lurked in the shadows, their bodies and morals scared by years of hardship, their desperation more lethal than their appearance.
At night, this place had only D-Bee scavengers and the drifters.
And here she was—alone in the dark.
The homeless D-Bees didn’t care who you were. They didn’t care if you had money, if you were armed, or if you were dangerous. They just saw predators and prey. And here she was, standing in the middle of this forsaken place, a perfect target.
You’ve killed before, a cold, rational voice inside her reminded her. You’ve fought for your life and you don’t regret it.
Her fingers tightened on the knife she carried, and the weight of her 9 mm handgun pressed against her side. She knew she could handle herself in a fight, but this—this wasn’t just a random mugging or a skirmish with a lowlife.
Her chest tightened as the reality of the situation hit her.
She could fight. She could kill if it came to that—but was it worth it?
Was walking into this worth the risk of taking a life tonight or dying? Was it worth the chance that the situation could spiral out of control, that she could end up like some of the others she had heard about—the victims of ambushes, rapes, and attacks that were all too common in places like this?
For 300,000 credits. YES! Now that that is settled let’s be smart about this Hayley. What do I need to do here that I can’t do during the day? And with some hired muscle…
Tonight, I need to leave before someone tried to rob me, rape me, or worse. You aren’t afraid. Just smart enough to know that it wasn’t the right time. The money would still be there tomorrow. If it waited all this time, it can wait one more night. But for now, you need to get you butt back to the safety of the hotel and rest.
And so, she walked swiftly, her footsteps echoing in the quiet.
She turned on her Psionic Invisibility to influence anyone to ignore her while she walked away.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: A Bar
The air inside the bar was thick with the smell of alcohol, stale smoke, and the faint odor of sweat. The clinking of glasses, muffled conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter or shouting that filled the space. Neon lights buzzed above, casting flickering colors onto the tired faces of patrons who were looking for a drink, a distraction, or simply a place to forget the grind of their lives.
Hayley leaned against the bar, scanning the room. She had seen the looks before—the rough, the hardened, the ones who wore their scars and pasts like badges. She wasn’t here for the regulars or the casual drinkers. She was here to find someone who she needed. And she knew exactly who to look for.
Juicers.
Her eyes moved over the crowd, stopping briefly on a group of mercenaries laughing at a table near the back. They were the usual types—rough, brash, not the sharpest tools in the shed. But they weren’t what she needed.
She needed someone specific.
Someone who didn’t just look tough, but lived for the fight. Someone who could survive it, and someone who might be desperate enough to sell their services to someone like her.
And that meant finding a Juicer.
She spotted him across the bar—standing at the far end, leaning casually against the wall. He was big, taller than most, with a thick, muscular frame that seemed almost unnatural. He had a certain quiet aggression that only someone who had been through a life of constant battles would carry. The way he surveyed the room was like a predator looking for its next meal.
He wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t laughing or playing the part of the charming mercenary. He was simply waiting. And that made him perfect.
Hayley walked toward him, her boots clicking softly against the floor. The closer she got, the more details became clear. His eyes were cold and too sharp for someone who had been around this long and survived. His face was a little worn, his skin toughened by scars and sun exposure, but he still carried that cocky, self-reliant attitude—the hallmark of a Juicer. His clothing was minimal, just a tight, worn shirt and pants that showed the wear and tear of someone who had seen more than their fair share of combat.
She stopped just short of him, standing still for a moment as he turned his head slightly to glance at her. His eyes narrowed, sizing her up. There was a long pause as the two of them assessed each other.
"You look like you’re here for something other than a drink," he said, his voice deep and rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His tone was dismissive.
Hayley had dealt with enough men like him to know that they respected one thing above all else—confidence. She leaned in, her voice low and direct.
“I need someone for a job,” she said, her blue eyes locking with his. “Someone who won’t blink when things get messy.”
A small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sounds like you’re looking for more than just a bodyguard, sweetheart.”
“I need muscle,” Hayley replied, unphased. “And I need someone who won’t die on me halfway through the job. I’ve got credits. But I need a real warrior.”
His expression shifted slightly, the smirk fading as the words registered. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew what she was talking about. He knew exactly who she needed.
His words rolled off his tongue with a hint of pride, “I don’t do anything that isn’t worth my time.” He glanced her over, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
Hayley kept her face neutral, hiding the flicker of admiration she felt for the way he spoke. Juicers weren’t known for their subtlety, but there was something about this one. He exuded the kind of energy, a cocky arrogance, but with experience and HUGE muscles.
“How much?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. She had a number in mind, but she wasn’t going to show her hand too soon.
He smiled, the kind of smile that hinted at the madness behind the muscle. “You want me to put my life on the line? I’ll need 50,000 credits up front. Another 50 after the job is done. You don’t like the price, there’s a dozen other bodies in here who would gladly take your money. But you want the best? You’ll pay for it.”
Hayley closed her eyes for a moment, her mind working quickly. 50k, I haven’t got that kind of money. And it’s ridiculous. I’m not paying for a hit. I know Juicers don't come cheap, but this guy thinks I’m a desperate pushover, and he wants me to offer up sex as part of the payment.
She didn’t flinch as she opened her eyes again, her gaze steady and unwavering. "You know I didn’t bring 50k in here with me. And, IF I had 50k, I wouldn’t give it to you up front. I can find 10 mercs to work for an entire month for that," she said, her voice calm but cutting.
She paused for a beat, studying him. The look on his face was unreadable, but she could feel his eyes sizing her up.
“500 credits. Plus 500 credits a day. And 10 percent of the spoils, if there are any. The job shouldn’t take more than two days."
The Juicer’s deep, guttural laugh echoed through the air, a sound that was equal parts mocking and amused. “You don’t tell me how to do my job, sweet cheeks. But, for 500 a day, I’ll take your money and babysit you while you do all the talking, and I’m the big tough guy who stands beside you.”
Hayley didn’t flinch at his crude tone or the insinuation. She held his gaze. The price wasn’t ideal, but it was far better than his first offer. She wasn’t desperate for a bodyguard—she was just being practical. If she was going to be taking on dangerous jobs, it helped to have someone like him around.
She let the silence linger for a moment before answering, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Deal."
He extended his hand, his grip firm and unyielding, a silent acknowledgment of the agreement. “Name’s Rook,” he said with arrogance.
“Hayley,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly. There was no need for pleasantries. They both knew this wasn’t going to be some partnership built on trust—it was a business arrangement.
Rook gave her a brief nod, his smile almost predatory, before turning away to grab his drink. "I'll meet you tomorrow. We'll figure out where we’re headed."
As she turned to leave the bar, she felt a strange mix of satisfaction. She had what she needed—muscle to back her up, and a payment plan that suited her.
---
The street outside the bar was quiet now, the neon lights flickering weakly as Hayley walked through the emptying streets of Chi-Town Burbs. Her mind was racing, each thought tangled up with the next as she replayed the conversation with Rook in her head.
Can I trust him?
That was the question. I don’t trust anyone. No, I trust Jenni. Well, Miss Evelyn too, and Artemis.
I can count them ALL on one hand.
Can I trust Rook?
The question lingered, a shadow in the back of her mind as she walked, her footsteps the only sound in the cool, late-night air. She’d hired him, but the real test came when they found the Coalition credits—the money that could change everything.
What if Rook saw the money?
What if he realized she had 300,000 credits and he killed her for it?
It was more money than either of them had seen in a long time, and Hayley didn’t kid herself—Rook would see it as an opportunity.
She clenched her fists, her thoughts tightening into a knot. I’d rather have half the money than none of it.
That was the thing. Half a fortune was still a fortune. But the idea of handing over even a portion of the money to someone like Rook? That didn’t sit right with her. The whole reason she was doing this alone, was because she was alone. She saw the world as it is, trust is a luxury few could afford.
But she also knew the truth. The moment she found the credits, the target on her back would get a hell of a lot bigger.
The city had its own way of finding weakness.
I’m afraid someone will try and rob me as soon as I have that money.
And then what?
What would stop some hungry gang from taking it all?
Or worse, what would stop someone like Rook from taking it?
After all, he was a Juicer. Stronger, faster, harder to kill. And with that kind of power, he wouldn’t think I could stop him. He’d have 300,000 reasons to take the money.
Maybe I’ll need him. Maybe I won’t.
She didn’t know the answer. And that uncertainty gnawed at her. She didn’t want to need anyone. She never had before. Hayley had spent years surviving, with Jenni. Then after Jenni left.
She didn’t rely on anyone except herself. She had gotten used to the idea that the world didn’t owe her anything, and certainly didn’t owe her protection. If she wanted something done, she did it.
But even in her most self-sufficient moments, Hayley couldn’t deny the usefullness of having someone who could watch your back. Someone who could intimidate others before a fight even started. It was something she had learned in the gang.
She’d been with a crew, and while she had never truly trusted them, Hayley understood the unspoken value of having someone around who could act as a deterrent. Someone who could drive, hit, lookout, and shoot when you need someone to do just that.
I can fight. I’ve fought before. I’m not afraid to fight.Not anymore. Not after everything I had been through—whether it was defending myself on the streets or getting my hands dirty when I had to.
But the money? That was the kind of prize that turned friend into foe in the blink of an eye. Trust was a fickle thing, and she had learned that lesson well.
Experiences had taught her that friendships were easy to fake when money entered the equation. She could count on one hand the number of people she had trusted before—and even fewer who had proven trustworthy. When one person had money and the other didn’t, expectations crept in. Those with money started to feel entitled to something, something that could sometimes be more than just gratitude. And the poor person? They felt resentment, even if they didn’t show it. Hayley had seen it happen too many times in the gang, too many people turning on each other when the stakes got high.
Artemis would know what to do.
The thought hit her like a wave. She regretted, for a brief moment, that Artemis wasn’t here—someone who had always been trustworthy. Artemis had given Hayley this mission, after all, and the reward would ultimately help the orphanage they had both once called home. She also had the ability to weigh risks and rewards with a measured mind, without letting paranoia or desperation cloud her judgment.
But Artemis wasn’t here.
I can’t trust Rook, not in the way he thinks.
Hayley slowed her pace as the thought settled into her chest. She wanted Rook for one thing: protection. She didn’t want him as a friend. She didn’t want his company or his sense of camaraderie. He was a tool—nothing more. She would use him for what he was good for and keep her distance.
But the real question was: Would Rook play his part, or would he play her?
She could sense that this job—this treasure hunt—would test every ounce of her cunning. And trusting someone like Rook could either be a stroke of genius or a mistake that would cost her everything.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. I don’t know if I can trust him. But I can’t go through this alone.
It was a hard pill to swallow, but there was no denying it. She would need to keep her guard up, always be one step ahead of him, and watch her back. The money would come, but so would the danger. There is no business without risk. And is this business, those who never took a chance, never stood a chance.
Rook was a necessary risk—a gamble she had to make. She wouldn’t let him surprise her.
With that thought, Hayley squared her shoulders and quickened her pace, heading back toward the Parkview Hotel.
---
The morning air in Chi-Town Burbs was crisp, the city already alive as Hayley stepped into the street. She had spent the night thinking through every detail of what needed to be done. The plan was simple—confront Dr. Z, get her money, and walk out with everything in hand. But she was no fool. She knew that this wasn’t going to be a straightforward negotiation.
That’s why she had Rook.
The Juicer was coming for intimidation. He was the kind of muscle that made people think twice before pulling any funny business. Hayley didn’t expect Rook to do much more than stand there—his mere presence was enough to make anyone rethink crossing her. But she knew the truth: the real test wasn’t about whether or not Rook could break someone’s bones—it was about whether or not he could keep his cool.
Hayley had spent her life making sure she didn’t rely on others. But today, she was going to use Rook, not just as muscle but as insurance—testing him, testing his ability to do the job without getting emotional. She needed to know that if things went sideways, he would follow her lead, not his own instincts.
She dialed Rook’s comm number on the way to the Cyber-Doc’s clinic, the click of the call ringing in her ear. After a few moments, Rook picked up.
“Yeah?” His voice was a low growl, clear and sharp.
“I need you,” Hayley said, her tone all business. “Meet me at Dr. Z’s in an hour. Don’t be late.”
“Right,” Rook replied, the sound of him shifting—probably adjusting his gear—coming through the line. “I’ll be there. And I’m bringing me, in case that’s what you want."
“I don’t need anything extra,” Hayley answered. “Just show up, and don’t make me regret it.”
With that, she ended the call.
The walk to Dr. Z’s clinic was quick. She passed by the usual sights of Chi-Town Burbs—the street vendors, the lingering aftershocks of night shift workers heading home. But her focus was solely on the task ahead. The last time she had seen Dr. Z, it had been a simple transaction. She’d handed over the head of the crazy man, the Crazy, in exchange for a promise of cash when he sold the M.O.M. within it.
Today was her day to collect.
As she arrived at the clinic, the dingy, forgotten place didn’t seem any different. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the small bell above ringing in protest. But something about today felt different.
Dr. Z was behind the counter, tinkering with a piece of machinery. His eyes flicked up as she entered, but there was no immediate sign of recognition. He wasn’t surprised to her, but he was surprised to see what she had brought with her.
Behind her, the door swung open again, and Rook stepped inside.
At 1.9 meters (6'3"), Rook was a walking wall of muscle, his body enhanced by chemical augmentation that made him look like he could tear a building down with his bare hands. His tight black shirt clung to his muscles, the tattoos on his arms visible beneath the fabric. He moved with the fluidity of someone used to carrying heavy weight without effort. His gaze looks SERIOUS, as though the world had to slow down for him.
Dr. Z’s eyes went wide as he took in Rook’s presence. He flinched—he knew the kind of man Rook was. But he sure as hell didn’t look pleased.
"Well, well," Dr. Z muttered, wiping his hands on his coat, clearly sizing up the Juicer. “Didn’t expect you to bring a Juicer with you, Hayley.”
“I like to have a little insurance," Hayley replied smoothly, keeping her tone casual as she made her way to the counter. "You didn’t expect me to come alone, did you?”
Dr. Z’s lips curled into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his attention to Rook, who was standing flexing his big muscles, his eyes scanning the room, an obvious hostility in the way he looked at Dr. Z.
There was no need for words. Rook didn’t have to say a thing.
Dr. Z muttered to himself. “It’s always the big guns, huh?”
Hayley, ignoring the comment, "Where's my money."
Dr. Z crossed his arms and leaned back, eyeing her carefully. "You didn’t mention a Juicer. This changes things."
Hayley held her ground, refusing to let her voice falter. "I didn’t bring him for you, I brought him for me," she said. "If you want to pretend you forgot our deal, we can settle this a different way. But I’d rather just get what’s mine, and leave."
There was a flicker of something in Dr. Z’s eyes—doubt, maybe, or something akin to recognition. But whatever it was, he knew this wasn’t a fight he was ready to start.
"You think you can just waltz in here and threaten me?" Dr. Z chuckled. "You might have your muscle here, but that doesn’t mean anything, Hayley."
Just then, the door behind him opened with a soft creak, and a bulky figure stepped into the clinic. It was Dr. Z’s “backup”—Headhunter, his cybernetic limbs gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his mechanical eyes glowing faintly red. The cyborg stood with his arms crossed, a quiet but obvious threat.
Rook said, his voice low, the words thick with mockery. “You bring your little toy out to play, Doc?”
The cyborg didn’t respond. He was here for business, not banter.
Hayley turned to face Dr. Z, who still hadn’t moved or provide her payment.
“My money,” Hayley said, her voice calm but firm.
Dr. Z studied her, and then he finally said, “Let’s go see how much you’re really worth.”
As Hayley followed him to the back, Rook stayed close behind her, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. The cyborg kept pace, his metal legs tapping softly on the floor as the two mercenaries watched each other carefully, like two predators sizing one another up.
The pissing match between the Juicer, and Cyborg wasn’t just about who could intimidate whom.
It was about who controlled the situation.
Dr. Z led her to a small, dimly lit room where a steel table stood with a large metal container on top. He opened it revealing the decapitated head still intact.
"You want this?" Dr. Z said, his voice surprisingly businesslike now. “Here it is.”
"I want money, NOT a severed head," Hayley said. "But your not the only Cyber-Doc in the Burbs."
Hayley reached for the head, but before she could make contact, Dr. Z’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“I’m not going to give this to you without a little more... negotiation.”
Her stare locked onto Dr. Z eyes with a quiet fury. “Negotiate? What negotiation? What is there to negotiate?” she said, her voice carrying an edge. “I gave you the head to sell the M.O.M. inside. I imagined that you would get a customer to buy it from you or pay you for it and install it in them. Instead, you escort me back here and show me the head I left with you on consignment. Then you tell me, ‘I’m not going to give this to you without a little more... negotiation.’”
She crossed her arms, not backing down as she stared at him down.
Dr. Z’s eyes flickered for a moment, his lips twitching into a tight smile as though he found her directness amusing. He was no stranger to tough customers, but there was something about this situation that seemed to be testing his limits.
The Cyber-Doc leaned against the edge of the table, casually running his fingers along the edge of the metal container that held the head, his eyes narrowing. “What I mean, Hayley,” he said slowly, his voice dripping with condescension, “is that while I may have agreed to sell this little trinket for you, the reality of the situation is a bit more... complicated.”
He took a step closer, a self-assured swagger in his step. “The Black Market doesn’t work on promises, sweetheart. You don’t just leave something like this in my hands and walk away with a nice tidy payout.” He paused, glancing at Rook, who stood silently in the corner. “You think I don’t have my own costs, my own... business expenses? It’s not just about finding a buyer. It’s about making sure the buyer doesn’t come back and take the whole damn shop down because they got a faulty part.”
Hayley didn’t flinch. She knew the game well enough. She had worked with criminals, thieves, and lowlifes—she wasn’t going to be fooled or intimidated by Dr. Z’s theatrics.
“You’re telling me that I have to negotiate with you just so you can get a little extra off my head?”
She took a step forward, her gaze never wavering from his. “I gave you the head to sell the part and get me my money. Simple as that.”
The Cyber-Doc’s smile slipped slightly as she pressed him. But he recovered quickly, adjusting his posture with a slow, deliberate movement. “Look, Hayley, I didn’t ask for the head either. But I’m in the business of making deals. You don’t walk into a shop like mine and expect to walk out with money, no questions asked. Not without a little... adjustment to the terms.”
He glanced at Rook again, his eyes briefly lingering on the Juicer. “And now that this is here,” he continued, nodding toward Rook, “it’s not just a matter of buying and selling parts. It’s about protecting what’s mine. You get that, don’t you?”
Hayley’s eyes flashed as she cut him off. “I didn’t bring Rook here to make sure you stay safe. I brought him because I’m not leaving here empty-handed. The money. Now. And if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit here and let you walk all over me, then you’ve misjudged your position.”
The silence in the room grew thick. Rook remained silent, his cold, unwavering gaze fixed on Dr. Z, while Hayley stood her ground. Her heart was steady, her mind focused. She wasn’t going to be bullied into a deal she hadn’t agreed to.
Dr. Z’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like he might push back, but instead, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, seemingly resigned. “Alright, Hayley. You’ve made your point. I’m not here to waste time. But understand this—no one gets away without paying their dues in my business. I’ll give you the money. But don’t think for a second that you’re walking out with it without some kind of consequence.”
Hayley leaned in, her tone icy, but composed. “Is that a threat? Doc?”
Dr. Z hesitated before answering, his voice quieter now, more measured. “I get a cut, of course. Fifty-fifty. Right down the middle. And we can consider the matter settled.”
Hayley’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “HALF! I’m not in the mood to haggle. You’ll get 10 percent, and not a credit more. You can take it or leave it.”
There was a long pause before Dr. Z broke the silence with a laugh, sharp and brittle. “You really think you can walk in here and demand terms like that?”
Hayley’s eyes flicked to Rook, who was still standing motionless. “I don’t think you want to find out,” she said quietly. “Because if you don’t hand over the money, then Rook might get very creative with his... methods. And as tough as your cyborg is, he can’t get to the Juicer, before the Juicer gets to you.”
The Cyber-Doc’s face paled slightly as he looked back at the towering Juicer. For the first time, a flicker of hesitation passed across his face.
“10 percent, then,” he muttered, finally conceding.
Hayley smiled, the victory as sweet as the moment of relief that followed. She stepped forward, taking the credit chip Dr. Z slid across the counter, but not without one last parting shot. “Smart.”
Dr. Z didn’t respond, but the look he gave her was one of quiet disdain.
As she turned toward the door, Rook followed her without a word. She knew the deal with him wasn’t over. But for now, the money was hers. And that was a good start.
---
The heavy door to Dr. Z’s clinic slammed shut behind them as Hayley clutched the credit chip in her hand. She glanced at Rook, her pace quickening as she turned toward the exit.
The money was in her pocket, and she was ready to move on. But just as she stepped into the hallway, a sudden clang from behind them stopped her in her tracks.
Dr. Z’s cyborg—massive, hulking, and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights—stepped forward, his metal feet clanking on the floor. The cyborg had been lurking in the background, silent and patient, but now he was moving toward them with a purpose. His eyes, glowing a deep red, fixed on Rook. A predatory gleam reflected in the polished surface of his cybernetic body.
Rook turned slowly, cracking his knuckles as he eyed the cyborg. His lips curled into a grin, but there was no humor in it—just the readiness of a fighter. “You want some of this, tin can?”
The cyborg didn’t answer. Instead, his bionic arm—a thick, reinforced metal limb—moved quickly, like a blur, and a powerful punch aimed straight at Rook’s chest missed.
Rook was fast.
The Juicer ducked and sidestepped, using his enhanced agility to avoid the blow by a fraction of a centimeter. His own fist connected with the cyborg’s exposed jaw, but the strike barely made an impact against the armored head.
The cyborg let out a mechanical growl and straightened, his expression blank. “You’re mere flesh. I am superior,” he said in a mechanical voice, laced with a strange arrogance. “I don’t need to worry about what you can do with your weak human hands. I have no vulnerabilities.”
Rook smirked, sweat already beading on his forehead from the effort of dodging the cyborg’s attacks. His enhanced strength might not be enough against the cyborg’s bionic limbs, but his speed—his speed was unmatched.
The cyborg took another step forward, the sound of his metal foot grinding against the floor echoing in the small hallway. He threw a wide punch toward Rook’s head, but Rook was already ducking under the strike and following up with a series of rapid punches to the cyborg’s midsection. The cyborg’s armor absorbed the blows, but Rook was landing enough hits to shake the cyborg’s focus.
The cyborg growled in frustration, its bionic eyes flashing. With a snarl, he swept his leg low in an attempt to trip the Juicer, but Rook jumped back, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to avoid the attack by a hair. His fists and feet blurred with the speed of someone far faster than a normal human, landing strikes and dodging in a seamless dance.
They were a blur to Hayley
And the Cyborg was losing patience.
Rook moved in for another blow, but the Cyborg’s arm shot out like a whip, its metal hand gripping Rook’s wrist in a vise-like hold. Rook snarled, twisting to break free, but the cyborg’s bionic strength was overwhelming. For a brief moment, Rook’s advantage in speed seemed irrelevant. The Cyborg was too strong.
“You don’t learn, do you, Juicer?” the cyborg said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ll never win with just your body. Flesh and blood were made to fail.”
Before Hayley could shoot, Rook’s eyes flared with rage, and in an explosive motion, he broke free, throwing the Cyborg off balance. He followed up with a flurry of knives, slashes, landing strikes to the Cyborg’s chest. But the Cyborg wasn’t helpless. With a sudden, jerking motion, he swung his fist down, knocking Rook backward.
For a brief second, Rook was off balance, and the Cyborg seized the opportunity. His metal hand shot toward Rook’s head, aiming to deliver a crushing blow. But Rook, ever the acrobat, dropped low, his body spinning in the air as he performed a backflip to avoid the strike.
With a roar of frustration, the Cyborg stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing. He was getting tired of this. No more games.
In one smooth motion, the Cyborg drew the weapon and aimed it directly at Rook’s chest.
Hayley’s heart raced as the situation was escalating fast, and there was no way she could let this go any further. She was just about to make a move when the Cyborg’s voice cut through the air.
“Time to end this.”
The gunshot rang out, the sound echoing violently in the small clinic. Rook barely had time to react—he leaped to the side, but the bullet missed him by 2 centimeters.
Another shot followed, and Rook’s eyes widened. He was fast, but not fast enough to dodge every shot.
He sprinted toward Hayley, grabbing her by the waist just as the next bullet whizzed by them, slicing through the air. With his Juicer strength, he hurled them both into motion, darting toward the door.
Hayley gasped, clutching onto him as Rook powered through the clinic’s hallway door. Wood exploded around her and flew through the air.
She could hear the Cyborg’s footsteps pounding behind them, but Rook was too fast, too agile. He leaped over a nearby car parked on the street. The momentum carried them both as Rook soared through the air, landing heavily on the other side.
Hayley gripped his shoulders, trying to steady herself as he moved with a blur of speed, jumping over obstacles, dodging between parked cars, and leaping over concrete barriers like they were nothing.
His legs, like springs, carried them faster than any normal person could move, his Juicer body pushing him to the 9 meters he could leap.
Behind them, the Cyborg continued to fire, his shots hitting the pavement and the walls around them. The bullets were close, but Rook’s leaps and dodges were enough to keep them from being hit.
Hayley’s heart hammered in her chest.
Rook is faster, but not invincible. She knew that in a firefight, the cyborg had the advantage with his armor, Rook had not brought enough firepower.
Rook leapt over a low barricade, landing in a side alley that provided temporary cover. He didn’t stop. He pushed off again, his speed unrelenting, his path taking him in a zig-zag pattern to make himself harder to target. His body moved like a rabbit making his getaway run.
Rook’s voice was low, his breath quick as he gritted his teeth. “Stay down. I’ll get you out of here.”
Hayley barely had time to process his words before Rook had leapt over another car, taking her with him. With Rook jumping and running Hayley could not get the Cyborg in the sights of her gun or psionic powers. She could, however, feel the adrenaline racing through her veins and dizziness in her head as they cleared the last block, leaving the threat of the Cyborg behind them—at least for now.
Rook’s stamina had appeared limitless that minute felt like 10 minutes.
The next thing Hayley knew they were in the Park Place Restaurant. Rook was ordering the family meal for four for himself.
Rook, “You better order now, if you are going to eat, this place gets busy.”
The air inside the bar was thick with the smell of alcohol, stale smoke, and the faint odor of sweat. The clinking of glasses, muffled conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter or shouting that filled the space. Neon lights buzzed above, casting flickering colors onto the tired faces of patrons who were looking for a drink, a distraction, or simply a place to forget the grind of their lives.
Hayley leaned against the bar, scanning the room. She had seen the looks before—the rough, the hardened, the ones who wore their scars and pasts like badges. She wasn’t here for the regulars or the casual drinkers. She was here to find someone who she needed. And she knew exactly who to look for.
Juicers.
Her eyes moved over the crowd, stopping briefly on a group of mercenaries laughing at a table near the back. They were the usual types—rough, brash, not the sharpest tools in the shed. But they weren’t what she needed.
She needed someone specific.
Someone who didn’t just look tough, but lived for the fight. Someone who could survive it, and someone who might be desperate enough to sell their services to someone like her.
And that meant finding a Juicer.
She spotted him across the bar—standing at the far end, leaning casually against the wall. He was big, taller than most, with a thick, muscular frame that seemed almost unnatural. He had a certain quiet aggression that only someone who had been through a life of constant battles would carry. The way he surveyed the room was like a predator looking for its next meal.
He wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t laughing or playing the part of the charming mercenary. He was simply waiting. And that made him perfect.
Hayley walked toward him, her boots clicking softly against the floor. The closer she got, the more details became clear. His eyes were cold and too sharp for someone who had been around this long and survived. His face was a little worn, his skin toughened by scars and sun exposure, but he still carried that cocky, self-reliant attitude—the hallmark of a Juicer. His clothing was minimal, just a tight, worn shirt and pants that showed the wear and tear of someone who had seen more than their fair share of combat.
She stopped just short of him, standing still for a moment as he turned his head slightly to glance at her. His eyes narrowed, sizing her up. There was a long pause as the two of them assessed each other.
"You look like you’re here for something other than a drink," he said, his voice deep and rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His tone was dismissive.
Hayley had dealt with enough men like him to know that they respected one thing above all else—confidence. She leaned in, her voice low and direct.
“I need someone for a job,” she said, her blue eyes locking with his. “Someone who won’t blink when things get messy.”
A small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sounds like you’re looking for more than just a bodyguard, sweetheart.”
“I need muscle,” Hayley replied, unphased. “And I need someone who won’t die on me halfway through the job. I’ve got credits. But I need a real warrior.”
His expression shifted slightly, the smirk fading as the words registered. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew what she was talking about. He knew exactly who she needed.
His words rolled off his tongue with a hint of pride, “I don’t do anything that isn’t worth my time.” He glanced her over, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
Hayley kept her face neutral, hiding the flicker of admiration she felt for the way he spoke. Juicers weren’t known for their subtlety, but there was something about this one. He exuded the kind of energy, a cocky arrogance, but with experience and HUGE muscles.
“How much?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. She had a number in mind, but she wasn’t going to show her hand too soon.
He smiled, the kind of smile that hinted at the madness behind the muscle. “You want me to put my life on the line? I’ll need 50,000 credits up front. Another 50 after the job is done. You don’t like the price, there’s a dozen other bodies in here who would gladly take your money. But you want the best? You’ll pay for it.”
Hayley closed her eyes for a moment, her mind working quickly. 50k, I haven’t got that kind of money. And it’s ridiculous. I’m not paying for a hit. I know Juicers don't come cheap, but this guy thinks I’m a desperate pushover, and he wants me to offer up sex as part of the payment.
She didn’t flinch as she opened her eyes again, her gaze steady and unwavering. "You know I didn’t bring 50k in here with me. And, IF I had 50k, I wouldn’t give it to you up front. I can find 10 mercs to work for an entire month for that," she said, her voice calm but cutting.
She paused for a beat, studying him. The look on his face was unreadable, but she could feel his eyes sizing her up.
“500 credits. Plus 500 credits a day. And 10 percent of the spoils, if there are any. The job shouldn’t take more than two days."
The Juicer’s deep, guttural laugh echoed through the air, a sound that was equal parts mocking and amused. “You don’t tell me how to do my job, sweet cheeks. But, for 500 a day, I’ll take your money and babysit you while you do all the talking, and I’m the big tough guy who stands beside you.”
Hayley didn’t flinch at his crude tone or the insinuation. She held his gaze. The price wasn’t ideal, but it was far better than his first offer. She wasn’t desperate for a bodyguard—she was just being practical. If she was going to be taking on dangerous jobs, it helped to have someone like him around.
She let the silence linger for a moment before answering, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Deal."
He extended his hand, his grip firm and unyielding, a silent acknowledgment of the agreement. “Name’s Rook,” he said with arrogance.
“Hayley,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly. There was no need for pleasantries. They both knew this wasn’t going to be some partnership built on trust—it was a business arrangement.
Rook gave her a brief nod, his smile almost predatory, before turning away to grab his drink. "I'll meet you tomorrow. We'll figure out where we’re headed."
As she turned to leave the bar, she felt a strange mix of satisfaction. She had what she needed—muscle to back her up, and a payment plan that suited her.
---
The street outside the bar was quiet now, the neon lights flickering weakly as Hayley walked through the emptying streets of Chi-Town Burbs. Her mind was racing, each thought tangled up with the next as she replayed the conversation with Rook in her head.
Can I trust him?
That was the question. I don’t trust anyone. No, I trust Jenni. Well, Miss Evelyn too, and Artemis.
I can count them ALL on one hand.
Can I trust Rook?
The question lingered, a shadow in the back of her mind as she walked, her footsteps the only sound in the cool, late-night air. She’d hired him, but the real test came when they found the Coalition credits—the money that could change everything.
What if Rook saw the money?
What if he realized she had 300,000 credits and he killed her for it?
It was more money than either of them had seen in a long time, and Hayley didn’t kid herself—Rook would see it as an opportunity.
She clenched her fists, her thoughts tightening into a knot. I’d rather have half the money than none of it.
That was the thing. Half a fortune was still a fortune. But the idea of handing over even a portion of the money to someone like Rook? That didn’t sit right with her. The whole reason she was doing this alone, was because she was alone. She saw the world as it is, trust is a luxury few could afford.
But she also knew the truth. The moment she found the credits, the target on her back would get a hell of a lot bigger.
The city had its own way of finding weakness.
I’m afraid someone will try and rob me as soon as I have that money.
And then what?
What would stop some hungry gang from taking it all?
Or worse, what would stop someone like Rook from taking it?
After all, he was a Juicer. Stronger, faster, harder to kill. And with that kind of power, he wouldn’t think I could stop him. He’d have 300,000 reasons to take the money.
Maybe I’ll need him. Maybe I won’t.
She didn’t know the answer. And that uncertainty gnawed at her. She didn’t want to need anyone. She never had before. Hayley had spent years surviving, with Jenni. Then after Jenni left.
She didn’t rely on anyone except herself. She had gotten used to the idea that the world didn’t owe her anything, and certainly didn’t owe her protection. If she wanted something done, she did it.
But even in her most self-sufficient moments, Hayley couldn’t deny the usefullness of having someone who could watch your back. Someone who could intimidate others before a fight even started. It was something she had learned in the gang.
She’d been with a crew, and while she had never truly trusted them, Hayley understood the unspoken value of having someone around who could act as a deterrent. Someone who could drive, hit, lookout, and shoot when you need someone to do just that.
I can fight. I’ve fought before. I’m not afraid to fight.Not anymore. Not after everything I had been through—whether it was defending myself on the streets or getting my hands dirty when I had to.
But the money? That was the kind of prize that turned friend into foe in the blink of an eye. Trust was a fickle thing, and she had learned that lesson well.
Experiences had taught her that friendships were easy to fake when money entered the equation. She could count on one hand the number of people she had trusted before—and even fewer who had proven trustworthy. When one person had money and the other didn’t, expectations crept in. Those with money started to feel entitled to something, something that could sometimes be more than just gratitude. And the poor person? They felt resentment, even if they didn’t show it. Hayley had seen it happen too many times in the gang, too many people turning on each other when the stakes got high.
Artemis would know what to do.
The thought hit her like a wave. She regretted, for a brief moment, that Artemis wasn’t here—someone who had always been trustworthy. Artemis had given Hayley this mission, after all, and the reward would ultimately help the orphanage they had both once called home. She also had the ability to weigh risks and rewards with a measured mind, without letting paranoia or desperation cloud her judgment.
But Artemis wasn’t here.
I can’t trust Rook, not in the way he thinks.
Hayley slowed her pace as the thought settled into her chest. She wanted Rook for one thing: protection. She didn’t want him as a friend. She didn’t want his company or his sense of camaraderie. He was a tool—nothing more. She would use him for what he was good for and keep her distance.
But the real question was: Would Rook play his part, or would he play her?
She could sense that this job—this treasure hunt—would test every ounce of her cunning. And trusting someone like Rook could either be a stroke of genius or a mistake that would cost her everything.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. I don’t know if I can trust him. But I can’t go through this alone.
It was a hard pill to swallow, but there was no denying it. She would need to keep her guard up, always be one step ahead of him, and watch her back. The money would come, but so would the danger. There is no business without risk. And is this business, those who never took a chance, never stood a chance.
Rook was a necessary risk—a gamble she had to make. She wouldn’t let him surprise her.
With that thought, Hayley squared her shoulders and quickened her pace, heading back toward the Parkview Hotel.
---
The morning air in Chi-Town Burbs was crisp, the city already alive as Hayley stepped into the street. She had spent the night thinking through every detail of what needed to be done. The plan was simple—confront Dr. Z, get her money, and walk out with everything in hand. But she was no fool. She knew that this wasn’t going to be a straightforward negotiation.
That’s why she had Rook.
The Juicer was coming for intimidation. He was the kind of muscle that made people think twice before pulling any funny business. Hayley didn’t expect Rook to do much more than stand there—his mere presence was enough to make anyone rethink crossing her. But she knew the truth: the real test wasn’t about whether or not Rook could break someone’s bones—it was about whether or not he could keep his cool.
Hayley had spent her life making sure she didn’t rely on others. But today, she was going to use Rook, not just as muscle but as insurance—testing him, testing his ability to do the job without getting emotional. She needed to know that if things went sideways, he would follow her lead, not his own instincts.
She dialed Rook’s comm number on the way to the Cyber-Doc’s clinic, the click of the call ringing in her ear. After a few moments, Rook picked up.
“Yeah?” His voice was a low growl, clear and sharp.
“I need you,” Hayley said, her tone all business. “Meet me at Dr. Z’s in an hour. Don’t be late.”
“Right,” Rook replied, the sound of him shifting—probably adjusting his gear—coming through the line. “I’ll be there. And I’m bringing me, in case that’s what you want."
“I don’t need anything extra,” Hayley answered. “Just show up, and don’t make me regret it.”
With that, she ended the call.
The walk to Dr. Z’s clinic was quick. She passed by the usual sights of Chi-Town Burbs—the street vendors, the lingering aftershocks of night shift workers heading home. But her focus was solely on the task ahead. The last time she had seen Dr. Z, it had been a simple transaction. She’d handed over the head of the crazy man, the Crazy, in exchange for a promise of cash when he sold the M.O.M. within it.
Today was her day to collect.
As she arrived at the clinic, the dingy, forgotten place didn’t seem any different. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the small bell above ringing in protest. But something about today felt different.
Dr. Z was behind the counter, tinkering with a piece of machinery. His eyes flicked up as she entered, but there was no immediate sign of recognition. He wasn’t surprised to her, but he was surprised to see what she had brought with her.
Behind her, the door swung open again, and Rook stepped inside.
At 1.9 meters (6'3"), Rook was a walking wall of muscle, his body enhanced by chemical augmentation that made him look like he could tear a building down with his bare hands. His tight black shirt clung to his muscles, the tattoos on his arms visible beneath the fabric. He moved with the fluidity of someone used to carrying heavy weight without effort. His gaze looks SERIOUS, as though the world had to slow down for him.
Dr. Z’s eyes went wide as he took in Rook’s presence. He flinched—he knew the kind of man Rook was. But he sure as hell didn’t look pleased.
"Well, well," Dr. Z muttered, wiping his hands on his coat, clearly sizing up the Juicer. “Didn’t expect you to bring a Juicer with you, Hayley.”
“I like to have a little insurance," Hayley replied smoothly, keeping her tone casual as she made her way to the counter. "You didn’t expect me to come alone, did you?”
Dr. Z’s lips curled into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his attention to Rook, who was standing flexing his big muscles, his eyes scanning the room, an obvious hostility in the way he looked at Dr. Z.
There was no need for words. Rook didn’t have to say a thing.
Dr. Z muttered to himself. “It’s always the big guns, huh?”
Hayley, ignoring the comment, "Where's my money."
Dr. Z crossed his arms and leaned back, eyeing her carefully. "You didn’t mention a Juicer. This changes things."
Hayley held her ground, refusing to let her voice falter. "I didn’t bring him for you, I brought him for me," she said. "If you want to pretend you forgot our deal, we can settle this a different way. But I’d rather just get what’s mine, and leave."
There was a flicker of something in Dr. Z’s eyes—doubt, maybe, or something akin to recognition. But whatever it was, he knew this wasn’t a fight he was ready to start.
"You think you can just waltz in here and threaten me?" Dr. Z chuckled. "You might have your muscle here, but that doesn’t mean anything, Hayley."
Just then, the door behind him opened with a soft creak, and a bulky figure stepped into the clinic. It was Dr. Z’s “backup”—Headhunter, his cybernetic limbs gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his mechanical eyes glowing faintly red. The cyborg stood with his arms crossed, a quiet but obvious threat.
Rook said, his voice low, the words thick with mockery. “You bring your little toy out to play, Doc?”
The cyborg didn’t respond. He was here for business, not banter.
Hayley turned to face Dr. Z, who still hadn’t moved or provide her payment.
“My money,” Hayley said, her voice calm but firm.
Dr. Z studied her, and then he finally said, “Let’s go see how much you’re really worth.”
As Hayley followed him to the back, Rook stayed close behind her, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. The cyborg kept pace, his metal legs tapping softly on the floor as the two mercenaries watched each other carefully, like two predators sizing one another up.
The pissing match between the Juicer, and Cyborg wasn’t just about who could intimidate whom.
It was about who controlled the situation.
Dr. Z led her to a small, dimly lit room where a steel table stood with a large metal container on top. He opened it revealing the decapitated head still intact.
"You want this?" Dr. Z said, his voice surprisingly businesslike now. “Here it is.”
"I want money, NOT a severed head," Hayley said. "But your not the only Cyber-Doc in the Burbs."
Hayley reached for the head, but before she could make contact, Dr. Z’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“I’m not going to give this to you without a little more... negotiation.”
Her stare locked onto Dr. Z eyes with a quiet fury. “Negotiate? What negotiation? What is there to negotiate?” she said, her voice carrying an edge. “I gave you the head to sell the M.O.M. inside. I imagined that you would get a customer to buy it from you or pay you for it and install it in them. Instead, you escort me back here and show me the head I left with you on consignment. Then you tell me, ‘I’m not going to give this to you without a little more... negotiation.’”
She crossed her arms, not backing down as she stared at him down.
Dr. Z’s eyes flickered for a moment, his lips twitching into a tight smile as though he found her directness amusing. He was no stranger to tough customers, but there was something about this situation that seemed to be testing his limits.
The Cyber-Doc leaned against the edge of the table, casually running his fingers along the edge of the metal container that held the head, his eyes narrowing. “What I mean, Hayley,” he said slowly, his voice dripping with condescension, “is that while I may have agreed to sell this little trinket for you, the reality of the situation is a bit more... complicated.”
He took a step closer, a self-assured swagger in his step. “The Black Market doesn’t work on promises, sweetheart. You don’t just leave something like this in my hands and walk away with a nice tidy payout.” He paused, glancing at Rook, who stood silently in the corner. “You think I don’t have my own costs, my own... business expenses? It’s not just about finding a buyer. It’s about making sure the buyer doesn’t come back and take the whole damn shop down because they got a faulty part.”
Hayley didn’t flinch. She knew the game well enough. She had worked with criminals, thieves, and lowlifes—she wasn’t going to be fooled or intimidated by Dr. Z’s theatrics.
“You’re telling me that I have to negotiate with you just so you can get a little extra off my head?”
She took a step forward, her gaze never wavering from his. “I gave you the head to sell the part and get me my money. Simple as that.”
The Cyber-Doc’s smile slipped slightly as she pressed him. But he recovered quickly, adjusting his posture with a slow, deliberate movement. “Look, Hayley, I didn’t ask for the head either. But I’m in the business of making deals. You don’t walk into a shop like mine and expect to walk out with money, no questions asked. Not without a little... adjustment to the terms.”
He glanced at Rook again, his eyes briefly lingering on the Juicer. “And now that this is here,” he continued, nodding toward Rook, “it’s not just a matter of buying and selling parts. It’s about protecting what’s mine. You get that, don’t you?”
Hayley’s eyes flashed as she cut him off. “I didn’t bring Rook here to make sure you stay safe. I brought him because I’m not leaving here empty-handed. The money. Now. And if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit here and let you walk all over me, then you’ve misjudged your position.”
The silence in the room grew thick. Rook remained silent, his cold, unwavering gaze fixed on Dr. Z, while Hayley stood her ground. Her heart was steady, her mind focused. She wasn’t going to be bullied into a deal she hadn’t agreed to.
Dr. Z’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like he might push back, but instead, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, seemingly resigned. “Alright, Hayley. You’ve made your point. I’m not here to waste time. But understand this—no one gets away without paying their dues in my business. I’ll give you the money. But don’t think for a second that you’re walking out with it without some kind of consequence.”
Hayley leaned in, her tone icy, but composed. “Is that a threat? Doc?”
Dr. Z hesitated before answering, his voice quieter now, more measured. “I get a cut, of course. Fifty-fifty. Right down the middle. And we can consider the matter settled.”
Hayley’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “HALF! I’m not in the mood to haggle. You’ll get 10 percent, and not a credit more. You can take it or leave it.”
There was a long pause before Dr. Z broke the silence with a laugh, sharp and brittle. “You really think you can walk in here and demand terms like that?”
Hayley’s eyes flicked to Rook, who was still standing motionless. “I don’t think you want to find out,” she said quietly. “Because if you don’t hand over the money, then Rook might get very creative with his... methods. And as tough as your cyborg is, he can’t get to the Juicer, before the Juicer gets to you.”
The Cyber-Doc’s face paled slightly as he looked back at the towering Juicer. For the first time, a flicker of hesitation passed across his face.
“10 percent, then,” he muttered, finally conceding.
Hayley smiled, the victory as sweet as the moment of relief that followed. She stepped forward, taking the credit chip Dr. Z slid across the counter, but not without one last parting shot. “Smart.”
Dr. Z didn’t respond, but the look he gave her was one of quiet disdain.
As she turned toward the door, Rook followed her without a word. She knew the deal with him wasn’t over. But for now, the money was hers. And that was a good start.
---
The heavy door to Dr. Z’s clinic slammed shut behind them as Hayley clutched the credit chip in her hand. She glanced at Rook, her pace quickening as she turned toward the exit.
The money was in her pocket, and she was ready to move on. But just as she stepped into the hallway, a sudden clang from behind them stopped her in her tracks.
Dr. Z’s cyborg—massive, hulking, and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights—stepped forward, his metal feet clanking on the floor. The cyborg had been lurking in the background, silent and patient, but now he was moving toward them with a purpose. His eyes, glowing a deep red, fixed on Rook. A predatory gleam reflected in the polished surface of his cybernetic body.
Rook turned slowly, cracking his knuckles as he eyed the cyborg. His lips curled into a grin, but there was no humor in it—just the readiness of a fighter. “You want some of this, tin can?”
The cyborg didn’t answer. Instead, his bionic arm—a thick, reinforced metal limb—moved quickly, like a blur, and a powerful punch aimed straight at Rook’s chest missed.
Rook was fast.
The Juicer ducked and sidestepped, using his enhanced agility to avoid the blow by a fraction of a centimeter. His own fist connected with the cyborg’s exposed jaw, but the strike barely made an impact against the armored head.
The cyborg let out a mechanical growl and straightened, his expression blank. “You’re mere flesh. I am superior,” he said in a mechanical voice, laced with a strange arrogance. “I don’t need to worry about what you can do with your weak human hands. I have no vulnerabilities.”
Rook smirked, sweat already beading on his forehead from the effort of dodging the cyborg’s attacks. His enhanced strength might not be enough against the cyborg’s bionic limbs, but his speed—his speed was unmatched.
The cyborg took another step forward, the sound of his metal foot grinding against the floor echoing in the small hallway. He threw a wide punch toward Rook’s head, but Rook was already ducking under the strike and following up with a series of rapid punches to the cyborg’s midsection. The cyborg’s armor absorbed the blows, but Rook was landing enough hits to shake the cyborg’s focus.
The cyborg growled in frustration, its bionic eyes flashing. With a snarl, he swept his leg low in an attempt to trip the Juicer, but Rook jumped back, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to avoid the attack by a hair. His fists and feet blurred with the speed of someone far faster than a normal human, landing strikes and dodging in a seamless dance.
They were a blur to Hayley
And the Cyborg was losing patience.
Rook moved in for another blow, but the Cyborg’s arm shot out like a whip, its metal hand gripping Rook’s wrist in a vise-like hold. Rook snarled, twisting to break free, but the cyborg’s bionic strength was overwhelming. For a brief moment, Rook’s advantage in speed seemed irrelevant. The Cyborg was too strong.
“You don’t learn, do you, Juicer?” the cyborg said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ll never win with just your body. Flesh and blood were made to fail.”
Before Hayley could shoot, Rook’s eyes flared with rage, and in an explosive motion, he broke free, throwing the Cyborg off balance. He followed up with a flurry of knives, slashes, landing strikes to the Cyborg’s chest. But the Cyborg wasn’t helpless. With a sudden, jerking motion, he swung his fist down, knocking Rook backward.
For a brief second, Rook was off balance, and the Cyborg seized the opportunity. His metal hand shot toward Rook’s head, aiming to deliver a crushing blow. But Rook, ever the acrobat, dropped low, his body spinning in the air as he performed a backflip to avoid the strike.
With a roar of frustration, the Cyborg stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing. He was getting tired of this. No more games.
In one smooth motion, the Cyborg drew the weapon and aimed it directly at Rook’s chest.
Hayley’s heart raced as the situation was escalating fast, and there was no way she could let this go any further. She was just about to make a move when the Cyborg’s voice cut through the air.
“Time to end this.”
The gunshot rang out, the sound echoing violently in the small clinic. Rook barely had time to react—he leaped to the side, but the bullet missed him by 2 centimeters.
Another shot followed, and Rook’s eyes widened. He was fast, but not fast enough to dodge every shot.
He sprinted toward Hayley, grabbing her by the waist just as the next bullet whizzed by them, slicing through the air. With his Juicer strength, he hurled them both into motion, darting toward the door.
Hayley gasped, clutching onto him as Rook powered through the clinic’s hallway door. Wood exploded around her and flew through the air.
She could hear the Cyborg’s footsteps pounding behind them, but Rook was too fast, too agile. He leaped over a nearby car parked on the street. The momentum carried them both as Rook soared through the air, landing heavily on the other side.
Hayley gripped his shoulders, trying to steady herself as he moved with a blur of speed, jumping over obstacles, dodging between parked cars, and leaping over concrete barriers like they were nothing.
His legs, like springs, carried them faster than any normal person could move, his Juicer body pushing him to the 9 meters he could leap.
Behind them, the Cyborg continued to fire, his shots hitting the pavement and the walls around them. The bullets were close, but Rook’s leaps and dodges were enough to keep them from being hit.
Hayley’s heart hammered in her chest.
Rook is faster, but not invincible. She knew that in a firefight, the cyborg had the advantage with his armor, Rook had not brought enough firepower.
Rook leapt over a low barricade, landing in a side alley that provided temporary cover. He didn’t stop. He pushed off again, his speed unrelenting, his path taking him in a zig-zag pattern to make himself harder to target. His body moved like a rabbit making his getaway run.
Rook’s voice was low, his breath quick as he gritted his teeth. “Stay down. I’ll get you out of here.”
Hayley barely had time to process his words before Rook had leapt over another car, taking her with him. With Rook jumping and running Hayley could not get the Cyborg in the sights of her gun or psionic powers. She could, however, feel the adrenaline racing through her veins and dizziness in her head as they cleared the last block, leaving the threat of the Cyborg behind them—at least for now.
Rook’s stamina had appeared limitless that minute felt like 10 minutes.
The next thing Hayley knew they were in the Park Place Restaurant. Rook was ordering the family meal for four for himself.
Rook, “You better order now, if you are going to eat, this place gets busy.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Hayley's Hotel Room
Hayley lay on the bed of her hotel room, her door securely locked behind her with her chair blocking it as an extra barrier. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of a neon sign outside the window. Her mind, however, was somewhere else entirely.
She placed the electronic data storage device on her stomach, a small, innocuous black cube. The device supposedly contained movies, but who knows for sure unless you look for yourself what's buried deep within its digital layers. She didn’t know what was on it, but she knew it might be worth a few credits.
Having no computer and not wanting to pay for one, it was best to use her psionic powers to probe inside. A computer hacker, or even a nerd in an internet cafe could help her but then the hacker would know what was on the memory device also, and Hayley didn’t want to share or take the chance them might make a copy or pull something fast or tricky.
Her hand hovered over it, feeling its surface.
Hayley closed her eyes, letting her body relax into a trance. Her breathing slowed as she drew all her focus inward. The room around her seemed to fade, becoming distant. The weight of the world fell away as she centered herself in her mind, her psychic abilities taking over.
In a few moments, her psychic consciouness enter the data storage device interfacing with digital systems without needing a physical connection.
It wasn’t something she could control at will—she had to feel it, to let her mind merge with the device. This wasn’t a typical hack or digital intrusion. No, this was a mental dive into a world that didn’t exist—one built entirely from the electrons of computer code and the electrons of her own mind.
Her eyelids fluttered as the world around her dissolved. She was no longer in her hotel room. She stood in a wide six sided corridor made of gleaming white tiles that stretched out like a maze. The architecture of the virtual world is like something out of a futuristic space station: walls with neon lights casting bright flickering glows that reflected off the smooth surfaces. It was beautiful and unsettling all at once.
Hayley walked forward fully immersed in this digital world as if her actual body were there now. She knew she wasn't literally in the storage device but her consciouness was. And she knew, in this place, time moved differently. She could read, hear, and see the data faster than she would in the real.
It felt like the entire world was unfolding before her. As she moved down the corridor, making a map on her arm with a digital marker of the route she was walking with her Psionic Power of Total Recall on.
Suddenly a strange feeling overtook her—her Sixth Sense was tell her she wasn’t alone. Her eyes scanned the empty hallway, but the digital world had its own rules, its own layers of interaction.
There could be guardians here, digital manifestations of the device’s security—programs, defenses, designed to stop intruders like her. She wasn’t just accessing files. She was navigating through a living, breathing code, and it wasn’t interested in letting her pass unchallenged.
She turned a corner, and there it was: a Bi-parting sliding door in front of her. The door was adorned with digital code in Tech-Can. She could read it: "Directory."
Hayley stepped forward, her hands instinctively feeling the door. The door was locked. If she could break, hack, or pick the lock, she could get inside and access the files. But there was no handle, no obvious way to open it. Instead, she could hear a set of metallic gears clicked into place, and from the door emerged a humanoid security borg emerged.
"Password."
The figure was an abstract manifestation of the code itself—designed to protect the data, to stop intruders.
"Open Directory," Hayley replied.
"Invalid Password."
Hayley's mind raced. I can't bluff the guard. It has no human gullibility or weakness. It has no feelings I can influence with psionics. It will never take a break, a drink or a p!ss.
I guess there is no avoiding this...
Hayley manifested her Psi-Sword in a digital knife form behind her back. Approaching the doorman and stabbed it.
The Doorman felt no fear, pain or surprise and it had no vital body parts or blood so it did not matter where she struck the program.
The digital Doorman swung at her with terrifying speed.
She leapt backwards, her legs carried her in a fluid motion, dodging the first swing, and she delivered a quick knife jab to the Doorman's side. It felt like striking a straw man. 8-Bit cubes of code flowed out of him like squares of gello.
The Doorman swung again, its sharp fist cutting through the air like a buzzsaw.
Hayley ducked and rolled, and came up with a series of rapid strikes to the Doorman’s neck. She could feel her knife connecting with it, sending ripples through the digital body.
Finally, with one well-placed thrust, pierced the Doorman's armor. He crashed into the wall of the corridor, dissipating into a cloud with particals of code float until the burst.
The Doorman was gone.
Hayley walked up to the door and felt it again. At the seems she attempted to pull it apart and could feel it almost giving in. Tired. Heylay stopped. Studying it and looking around her she thought.
The Doorman came from the door.
She picked up an 8-bit of the jello like substance on the floor and pressed it against the door. The door unlocked.
As the door slid open, she stepped inside. This space looked like a library, but everything inside was fragmented.
Holographic books floated in midair, their covers shimmering with flashing lights. Video screens hovered, displaying strange images and titles that didn’t make sense. Some of them were distorted, like they had been corrupted, and others were pristine.
Picking up one of the floating books. The holographic cover displayed a title that made her pause: "Banned Films: Coalition's Forbidden Cinema." The title glowed with a blue hue, a remnant of digital firewalls that still clung to the program. Hayley opened it, and in an instant, the pages shifted to reveal film stills and text from movies banned by the Coalition—obscene material, controversial documentaries, and films deemed dangerous by the government. These were the kinds of films that had been buried and hidden from the public eye, outlawed by the Coalition.
Picking up one of the floating books. The holographic cover displayed a title that made her pause: "Banned Films: Coalition's Forbidden Cinema." The title glowed with a blue hue, a remnant of digital firewalls that still clung to
As she processed the images and text, another virtual door opened, revealing a new set of data—this time, interactive programs that looked like simulations. A few of them were adult entertainment programs, others were strange, sensual virtual experiences.
The one that caught her attention was a virtual tour of a Waukegan Coalition Fortress City—an interactive simulation of the inner workings of one of the most fortified cities in the Burbs.
Hayley moved closer, trying to focus on the specific data. She glanced at a few more files: war footage, unseen footage of Coalition executives. This was the kind of information she had been looking for—the things the Coalition didn’t want her to know.
But as she started to dive deeper, the data started to glitch. Another figure appeared in the distance—a twisted creature, its glowing eyes locked on her. It was a virus, a corrupting force within the system, its limbs malformed like something straight out of a nightmare.
The figure loomed at the edge of the fragmented library, its limbs elongated and distorted. Its body flickering—glitching in and out of reality. It was fast, far faster than a human could process, and it wasted no time in attacking.
Without a sound, it lunged, its body rippling as it shot toward Hayley, claws extended like digital daggers.
She rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the swipe of its claws. The ground where she had been standing splintered into shimmering pixels, the data collapsing where the virus’s claws had struck. Hayley pushed off the ground with a burst of speed, flipping back to her feet in a smooth, fluid motion.
The virus reared back, its body twisting as it reformed, its face a jagged mess. It hissed again, and its claws extended, becoming longer and sharper, like the talons of a demon. The virus lunged once more, this time aiming directly for her chest.
She sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the claws sliced past her, missing her by centimeters. She thrust her knife toward its face, the force of the strike connecting with its faceplate. There was no satisfying spray of blood—just the feeling of her blade meeting digital material.
The virus recoiled slightly but quickly recovered. It raised both of its claws, now forming a jagged cross and swung them down in a vicious arc.
Hayley ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the attack that would’ve shredded her if it had connected.
The virus hissed again, its body crackling with static as it charged at her once more. She moved to meet it head-on, her blade raised in one hand, poised for the strike.
She dodged its claws with a swift sidestep, spinning on her heel as the virus lunged at her. With a fluid motion, she brought her blade down, slicing through the virus’s arm. The digital creature screeched as its arm splintered apart, pixels disintegrating in the air like dust.
But the virus flared up again, its body becoming more distorted as it rapidly regenerated, its form becoming jagged.
“Not good enough,” Hayley muttered under her breath.
She could sense its weaknesses, its flickering. She could see the corrupted code in the virus, the distortions that made it vulnerable. The Psi-blade in her hand, Hayley saw her opportunity.
The virus swung again, its claws moving with brutal force. But this time, Hayley didn’t dodge. Instead, she stepped forward, her body moving faster than the virus could react, and thrust her blade directly into its chest. The blade sank deep into the center of its form, piercing the corrupted data and causing it to shudder violently.
The virus let out a series of digital screams, its body convulsing in a burst of violence as its form began to unravel. The pixelated limbs twitched erratically, and the glowing red eyes flickered.
Hayley, twisting the blade, pushing deeper into the creature’s core. With a final scream of frustration, the virus exploded into a cascade of corrupted pixels that scattered into the digital ether.
The virtual world around her began to collapse as the virus was destroyed, and the space around her shifted, slowly returning to its neutral state. The white tiles on the floor flickered before fading into the dark background.
The library had began to reset itself, the walls now pristine, the shelves neat and organized, waiting for her to navigate through the information it held.
Taking a deep breath, Hayley moved, walking effortlessly through the rows of digital bookshelves, her hand brushing against the glowing edges of the books as she passed. Her mind filtered through the hundreds, maybe thousands, of files stored within this library. Each book, each folder, represented a program, a file, a pic, a song. Some were small, some were vast, but every single one held data—some important, some trivial, and some forbidden.
The file names came into view as she moved closer. She could read them instantly, processing them in a blur of data. The titles ranged from films and documentaries that had been buried or hidden from public access. Hayley’s heart skipped a beat as she skimmed through the files.
Each title presented itself with almost tactile clarity, images, and text flashing into her mind like it was playing out on a screen—words and images moving faster than any human could absorb, but she glimpsed them all. Some files were grainy, corrupted with missing parts of their data, but others were pristine, their contents sharp, crystal clear.
She passed through the rows, sorting and organizing the information as she went. She quickly scanned a few, mentally pulling out the ones that were of interest to her.
Hayley organized them in her mind, picking out the most valuable. Some she might be able to use for blackmail, others for leverage. There was information about underground operations and military experiments that could change the course of the fight against the Coalition. But the most tempting ones were the films—the ones banned by the government, the ones that had been hidden from the public for years.
One of the titles caught her attention. It was a documentary she hadn’t expected to see here, and it sent a chill through her. The Hidden Secrets of the D-Bees: Human or Monster?
She stopped and reached for it, the file materializing in her hands like a physical book, though she knew it was just code. Her fingers brushed across the holographic surface, and she quickly flipped through the pages. The file was a mix of images and text, revealing disturbing experiments and the brutal treatment of D-Bees—creatures forced into military servitude, experimented upon to discover thei abilities and limits powers. There were testimonials of escapees embedded within the file, with testimonies from former soldiers involved in the operation.
She pushed that thought aside. Focus, Hayley. Get what you need and get out.
Continuing to browse, she moved past files on virtual reality entertainment tours, some adult programs, and interactive combat simulations. She tapped them quickly.
With a blur of motion a training bot swung its digital claws toward Hayley's face.
She ducked, the claws passing over her head by mere milimeters, the air crackling as the virtual claws sliced through the space where her head had been.
She darted forward, threw a quick punch toward it’s exposed side. Her fist collided with its digital form, but it didn’t feel like striking solid matter. Instead, it felt like slamming into a shifting cloud of pixels, the force causing a ripple to pass through the bot's body.
The program swung back, its claws tearing through the air like the talons of a beast. Hayley parried. Then it blocked her strikes with ease, its body flickering and re-forming, harder to predict with every passing second.
The fight became a blur of motion—Hayley dodging and striking, the virus countering, the sounds of distorted digital claws scraping the air echoing in the virtual world. The programs’s form grew more unpredictable. Its claws struck out in every direction, faster than Hayley could process, but she kept moving, her body a blur of agility and speed.
She sidestepped another swipe, feeling the wind of its claws against her skin, and countered with a low spinning kick aimed at its midsection. Her foot collided with a mass of shifting pixels, and the virus’s form flickered, its body fragmenting as the attack landed. It let out a distorted sound, its form reassembling itself.
The program was back, but Hayley kept attacking, her blade flying in rapid strikes—all aimed at its body. But each time she landed a strike, the program simply re-assembling its pixels without much of a dent in its form.
This wasn’t working. She needed something different.
In a split second, she saw the opening. Without hesitation, Hayley shifted gears. She leapt with her Psi-blade and left it inside the programs construct as it reformed. As soon as it moved, the programs’s form shattered like glass, the digital fragments scattering in all directions, disintegrating into the air.
---
The library vanishes, replaced by the vibrant, yet structured environment of a fortress city. The air is cool, the lighting perfect sunlight LEDs.
Standing in the heart of the city, surrounded by towering structures that stretch up like monumental columns of modern design. The buildings gleam with sleek metal and glass, their facades lined with lush green walls—rows of climbing ivy, flowering vines, and patches of moss that seem to breathe. These living walls filter the air, providing both a visual break from the utilitarian architecture and a necessary function that sustains life within the enclosed world.
Above her, the sky flickers into existence. The artificial sunlight shines down, an illusion so well-crafted it almost feels real. The horizon glows with a soft, golden hue, though she knows it’s merely a projection, a hologram layered over the immensity of the fortress city’s dome. Around her, towering residential buildings stand like silent sentinels, each housing hundreds of families who live in their private high-rise apartments.
She moves forward, guided by a soft, gentle prompt from the VR system. As she steps, she feels the sensation of walking down one of the city’s wide, tree-lined walkways. The artificial trees, tall and perfectly spaced, sway slightly in the simulated breeze, their leaves shimmering under the glowing lights. The sound of running water catches her attention, and soon, she sees a beautiful decorative waterfall cascading from one of the buildings. It’s serene, the water’s rhythmic pattering almost hypnotic as it flows into a pool below, the water clear and sparkling despite its artificial origin.
The plaza she walks toward is massive—an open area framed by colossal columns. Flags flutter above, their Black and White colors vibrant in the simulated sunlight.
The overwhelming presence of the 120 meter tall statue of the Emperor Prosek stands proudly at the center, looking over the plaza. The statue’s face is stoic, yet the intricacy of its features gives it an almost lifelike quality.
Hayley’s heart beats a little faster, the symbolism of its presence reminding her of the power the leader holds over the city and its people.
As she moves deeper into the plaza, banners unfurl before her, celebrating the Coalition’s latest achievements. News broadcasts flash across smart surfaces embedded in the walls—messages about national triumphs, speeches by the Emperor, and updates on the latest developments.
Hayley steps to the side, where a large screen hovers in the air, showing Emperor Prosek in an impassioned speech. His voice is clear, his words unwavering in their praise of the people’s obedience and unity.
A group of figures in the virtual world move past her—citizens, heads bowed, dressed in uniforms, their faces expressionless. They’re heading to a social event, she realizes.
She watches them disappear into a large gathering area, a spacious dome where an official ceremony is taking place. The atmosphere is militaristic, with the people standing in rows, awaiting instructions. Flags are raised, oaths are sworn. The crowd’s movements are synchronized. There’s no room for rebellion here—only unity, only pride in their government’s ideals.
Hayley moves on, stepping into a smaller park-like area where people are exercising. There are large, open spaces for group athletics. She watches as citizens partake in military-style physical training push-ups, sit-ups, sprints—all designed to maintain the physical prowess required of the state’s citizens. Some are rewarded with small, holographic medals that briefly hover above their heads, each a marker of achievement. It feels like an unspoken reminder of the constant need to prove one’s loyalty.
Hayley navigates the program to visit the magrail station. She arrives in a sleek, modern hub, the train platforms gleaming. AI-controlled system is already at work, routing people into different lines, adjusting the pace of movement to ensure everything runs on time. The trains are streamlined, metallic, and swift, their glass-like exteriors reflecting the order of the city. No one is rushing. Just the smooth, quiet flow of people as they go about their daily lives, all under the watchful eye of the state.
As her virtual reality continues, she sees the tight, seamless integration of technology and order. The city is alive with its systems, its structure, its purpose. Everywhere she looks, from the monumental buildings to the green walls, to the screens showing government messages, there is no escaping the constant reinforcement of the Coalition’s ideals. It’s a world designed to be perfect, to be efficient, to be loyal.
The program begins to end, the digital holographic illusion slowly fade away, leaving her in the quiet solitude of the digital library. But the images remain, etched in her mind, a reminder of the world she will never live in—a world where the Coalition’s ideals are both seen and unseen, where life is shaped by a singular vision of it’s leader.
Then the lights began to flicker...
---
Hayley hears music in the background and finds herself in a bedroom with tie down straps and mirror on the ceiling.
Before her are a variety of provocative partners.
An automated female voice begins:
"Welcome. As a reminder, you are in total control here. If at anytime you want to leave say the 'Safeword' you pre-regestered. You may now make your selection (from amongst the virtual sexual partners) and desired role of dominant or submissive. As it is all virtual, there is no chance of harming yourself or the program you select.
"Ha ha... Ha," Hayley laughs to herself. "Hayley, how do you gets herself into this."
---
Location: Hayley's Hotel Room
Hayley slowly came back to herself, her breath deepening as the world around her came back into focus. The hotel room, dimly lit by the faint neon glow outside, felt quiet, familiar, and grounded. Her eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, everything felt distant—like she was floating in a space just outside reality, her body still tingling from the effects of the Machine Ghoast Psionic trance.
The sound of the city outside was faint but constant. She could hear the soft click of the air conditioner cycling in the corner, the gentle rustle of the curtains from a slight breeze. The room was hers—secure and locked, with no one else inside.
Her body was still in bed, where she had laid down when she began the trance. The electronic data storage device rested on the bed her, its surface smooth and still, as if nothing had changed. But Hayley knew differently.
She could feel the remnants of the experience lingering in her mind and body—the strange, dissociative quality of having engaged in something so physical yet detached, so immediate but without the weight of reality.
She blinked a few times, rubbing her temples to clear away the last fog of the psionic trance. The experience had felt like an hour of time moving in an instant, an immersion that seemed more real than she had expected. But now, with her mind returning to her control, she could feel the emotional separation settling back into place.
She rose from the chair, her limbs slightly stiff, and stretched her arms over her head. The muscles of her body were still relaxed, but in a way that was neither good nor bad—just present, like the aftereffect of something that had been temporarily satisfied.
She walked toward the bathroom. The mirror reflected her—tired eyes, a face that had seen too much, too young—but the flicker of self-assurance. The Virtual Reality had been a brief, private release, a way to disconnect from the world’s weight. It had served its purpose.
She met her own gaze in the mirror and stood there for a long moment, just looking at herself, assessing.
It was simply a tool. I used it for physical release, and it had worked. Physical satisfaction without any emotional consequence.
It was exactly what she had wanted.
Control. That was what mattered. And she was still in control. The program had been predictable, impersonal. She had used it for what it was designed to do, and in the end, it hadn’t asked anything from her.
She reached for the sink and splashed cold water on her face, letting the sharpness of the sensation ground her. The clarity she needed to keep going—focused, driven, unburdened by distractions—was something she valued deeply. She knew herself, knew what she needed, and in moments like this, she could separate her desires from her emotions. It was one of the few things she trusted herself to do.
Her reflection looked back at her. She had taken what she needed. She had no regrets.
Hayley lay on the bed of her hotel room, her door securely locked behind her with her chair blocking it as an extra barrier. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of a neon sign outside the window. Her mind, however, was somewhere else entirely.
She placed the electronic data storage device on her stomach, a small, innocuous black cube. The device supposedly contained movies, but who knows for sure unless you look for yourself what's buried deep within its digital layers. She didn’t know what was on it, but she knew it might be worth a few credits.
Having no computer and not wanting to pay for one, it was best to use her psionic powers to probe inside. A computer hacker, or even a nerd in an internet cafe could help her but then the hacker would know what was on the memory device also, and Hayley didn’t want to share or take the chance them might make a copy or pull something fast or tricky.
Her hand hovered over it, feeling its surface.
Hayley closed her eyes, letting her body relax into a trance. Her breathing slowed as she drew all her focus inward. The room around her seemed to fade, becoming distant. The weight of the world fell away as she centered herself in her mind, her psychic abilities taking over.
In a few moments, her psychic consciouness enter the data storage device interfacing with digital systems without needing a physical connection.
It wasn’t something she could control at will—she had to feel it, to let her mind merge with the device. This wasn’t a typical hack or digital intrusion. No, this was a mental dive into a world that didn’t exist—one built entirely from the electrons of computer code and the electrons of her own mind.
Her eyelids fluttered as the world around her dissolved. She was no longer in her hotel room. She stood in a wide six sided corridor made of gleaming white tiles that stretched out like a maze. The architecture of the virtual world is like something out of a futuristic space station: walls with neon lights casting bright flickering glows that reflected off the smooth surfaces. It was beautiful and unsettling all at once.
Hayley walked forward fully immersed in this digital world as if her actual body were there now. She knew she wasn't literally in the storage device but her consciouness was. And she knew, in this place, time moved differently. She could read, hear, and see the data faster than she would in the real.
It felt like the entire world was unfolding before her. As she moved down the corridor, making a map on her arm with a digital marker of the route she was walking with her Psionic Power of Total Recall on.
Suddenly a strange feeling overtook her—her Sixth Sense was tell her she wasn’t alone. Her eyes scanned the empty hallway, but the digital world had its own rules, its own layers of interaction.
There could be guardians here, digital manifestations of the device’s security—programs, defenses, designed to stop intruders like her. She wasn’t just accessing files. She was navigating through a living, breathing code, and it wasn’t interested in letting her pass unchallenged.
She turned a corner, and there it was: a Bi-parting sliding door in front of her. The door was adorned with digital code in Tech-Can. She could read it: "Directory."
Hayley stepped forward, her hands instinctively feeling the door. The door was locked. If she could break, hack, or pick the lock, she could get inside and access the files. But there was no handle, no obvious way to open it. Instead, she could hear a set of metallic gears clicked into place, and from the door emerged a humanoid security borg emerged.
"Password."
The figure was an abstract manifestation of the code itself—designed to protect the data, to stop intruders.
"Open Directory," Hayley replied.
"Invalid Password."
Hayley's mind raced. I can't bluff the guard. It has no human gullibility or weakness. It has no feelings I can influence with psionics. It will never take a break, a drink or a p!ss.
I guess there is no avoiding this...
Hayley manifested her Psi-Sword in a digital knife form behind her back. Approaching the doorman and stabbed it.
The Doorman felt no fear, pain or surprise and it had no vital body parts or blood so it did not matter where she struck the program.
The digital Doorman swung at her with terrifying speed.
She leapt backwards, her legs carried her in a fluid motion, dodging the first swing, and she delivered a quick knife jab to the Doorman's side. It felt like striking a straw man. 8-Bit cubes of code flowed out of him like squares of gello.
The Doorman swung again, its sharp fist cutting through the air like a buzzsaw.
Hayley ducked and rolled, and came up with a series of rapid strikes to the Doorman’s neck. She could feel her knife connecting with it, sending ripples through the digital body.
Finally, with one well-placed thrust, pierced the Doorman's armor. He crashed into the wall of the corridor, dissipating into a cloud with particals of code float until the burst.
The Doorman was gone.
Hayley walked up to the door and felt it again. At the seems she attempted to pull it apart and could feel it almost giving in. Tired. Heylay stopped. Studying it and looking around her she thought.
The Doorman came from the door.
She picked up an 8-bit of the jello like substance on the floor and pressed it against the door. The door unlocked.
As the door slid open, she stepped inside. This space looked like a library, but everything inside was fragmented.
Holographic books floated in midair, their covers shimmering with flashing lights. Video screens hovered, displaying strange images and titles that didn’t make sense. Some of them were distorted, like they had been corrupted, and others were pristine.
Picking up one of the floating books. The holographic cover displayed a title that made her pause: "Banned Films: Coalition's Forbidden Cinema." The title glowed with a blue hue, a remnant of digital firewalls that still clung to the program. Hayley opened it, and in an instant, the pages shifted to reveal film stills and text from movies banned by the Coalition—obscene material, controversial documentaries, and films deemed dangerous by the government. These were the kinds of films that had been buried and hidden from the public eye, outlawed by the Coalition.
Picking up one of the floating books. The holographic cover displayed a title that made her pause: "Banned Films: Coalition's Forbidden Cinema." The title glowed with a blue hue, a remnant of digital firewalls that still clung to
As she processed the images and text, another virtual door opened, revealing a new set of data—this time, interactive programs that looked like simulations. A few of them were adult entertainment programs, others were strange, sensual virtual experiences.
The one that caught her attention was a virtual tour of a Waukegan Coalition Fortress City—an interactive simulation of the inner workings of one of the most fortified cities in the Burbs.
Hayley moved closer, trying to focus on the specific data. She glanced at a few more files: war footage, unseen footage of Coalition executives. This was the kind of information she had been looking for—the things the Coalition didn’t want her to know.
But as she started to dive deeper, the data started to glitch. Another figure appeared in the distance—a twisted creature, its glowing eyes locked on her. It was a virus, a corrupting force within the system, its limbs malformed like something straight out of a nightmare.
The figure loomed at the edge of the fragmented library, its limbs elongated and distorted. Its body flickering—glitching in and out of reality. It was fast, far faster than a human could process, and it wasted no time in attacking.
Without a sound, it lunged, its body rippling as it shot toward Hayley, claws extended like digital daggers.
She rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the swipe of its claws. The ground where she had been standing splintered into shimmering pixels, the data collapsing where the virus’s claws had struck. Hayley pushed off the ground with a burst of speed, flipping back to her feet in a smooth, fluid motion.
The virus reared back, its body twisting as it reformed, its face a jagged mess. It hissed again, and its claws extended, becoming longer and sharper, like the talons of a demon. The virus lunged once more, this time aiming directly for her chest.
She sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the claws sliced past her, missing her by centimeters. She thrust her knife toward its face, the force of the strike connecting with its faceplate. There was no satisfying spray of blood—just the feeling of her blade meeting digital material.
The virus recoiled slightly but quickly recovered. It raised both of its claws, now forming a jagged cross and swung them down in a vicious arc.
Hayley ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the attack that would’ve shredded her if it had connected.
The virus hissed again, its body crackling with static as it charged at her once more. She moved to meet it head-on, her blade raised in one hand, poised for the strike.
She dodged its claws with a swift sidestep, spinning on her heel as the virus lunged at her. With a fluid motion, she brought her blade down, slicing through the virus’s arm. The digital creature screeched as its arm splintered apart, pixels disintegrating in the air like dust.
But the virus flared up again, its body becoming more distorted as it rapidly regenerated, its form becoming jagged.
“Not good enough,” Hayley muttered under her breath.
She could sense its weaknesses, its flickering. She could see the corrupted code in the virus, the distortions that made it vulnerable. The Psi-blade in her hand, Hayley saw her opportunity.
The virus swung again, its claws moving with brutal force. But this time, Hayley didn’t dodge. Instead, she stepped forward, her body moving faster than the virus could react, and thrust her blade directly into its chest. The blade sank deep into the center of its form, piercing the corrupted data and causing it to shudder violently.
The virus let out a series of digital screams, its body convulsing in a burst of violence as its form began to unravel. The pixelated limbs twitched erratically, and the glowing red eyes flickered.
Hayley, twisting the blade, pushing deeper into the creature’s core. With a final scream of frustration, the virus exploded into a cascade of corrupted pixels that scattered into the digital ether.
The virtual world around her began to collapse as the virus was destroyed, and the space around her shifted, slowly returning to its neutral state. The white tiles on the floor flickered before fading into the dark background.
The library had began to reset itself, the walls now pristine, the shelves neat and organized, waiting for her to navigate through the information it held.
Taking a deep breath, Hayley moved, walking effortlessly through the rows of digital bookshelves, her hand brushing against the glowing edges of the books as she passed. Her mind filtered through the hundreds, maybe thousands, of files stored within this library. Each book, each folder, represented a program, a file, a pic, a song. Some were small, some were vast, but every single one held data—some important, some trivial, and some forbidden.
The file names came into view as she moved closer. She could read them instantly, processing them in a blur of data. The titles ranged from films and documentaries that had been buried or hidden from public access. Hayley’s heart skipped a beat as she skimmed through the files.
Each title presented itself with almost tactile clarity, images, and text flashing into her mind like it was playing out on a screen—words and images moving faster than any human could absorb, but she glimpsed them all. Some files were grainy, corrupted with missing parts of their data, but others were pristine, their contents sharp, crystal clear.
She passed through the rows, sorting and organizing the information as she went. She quickly scanned a few, mentally pulling out the ones that were of interest to her.
Hayley organized them in her mind, picking out the most valuable. Some she might be able to use for blackmail, others for leverage. There was information about underground operations and military experiments that could change the course of the fight against the Coalition. But the most tempting ones were the films—the ones banned by the government, the ones that had been hidden from the public for years.
One of the titles caught her attention. It was a documentary she hadn’t expected to see here, and it sent a chill through her. The Hidden Secrets of the D-Bees: Human or Monster?
She stopped and reached for it, the file materializing in her hands like a physical book, though she knew it was just code. Her fingers brushed across the holographic surface, and she quickly flipped through the pages. The file was a mix of images and text, revealing disturbing experiments and the brutal treatment of D-Bees—creatures forced into military servitude, experimented upon to discover thei abilities and limits powers. There were testimonials of escapees embedded within the file, with testimonies from former soldiers involved in the operation.
She pushed that thought aside. Focus, Hayley. Get what you need and get out.
Continuing to browse, she moved past files on virtual reality entertainment tours, some adult programs, and interactive combat simulations. She tapped them quickly.
With a blur of motion a training bot swung its digital claws toward Hayley's face.
She ducked, the claws passing over her head by mere milimeters, the air crackling as the virtual claws sliced through the space where her head had been.
She darted forward, threw a quick punch toward it’s exposed side. Her fist collided with its digital form, but it didn’t feel like striking solid matter. Instead, it felt like slamming into a shifting cloud of pixels, the force causing a ripple to pass through the bot's body.
The program swung back, its claws tearing through the air like the talons of a beast. Hayley parried. Then it blocked her strikes with ease, its body flickering and re-forming, harder to predict with every passing second.
The fight became a blur of motion—Hayley dodging and striking, the virus countering, the sounds of distorted digital claws scraping the air echoing in the virtual world. The programs’s form grew more unpredictable. Its claws struck out in every direction, faster than Hayley could process, but she kept moving, her body a blur of agility and speed.
She sidestepped another swipe, feeling the wind of its claws against her skin, and countered with a low spinning kick aimed at its midsection. Her foot collided with a mass of shifting pixels, and the virus’s form flickered, its body fragmenting as the attack landed. It let out a distorted sound, its form reassembling itself.
The program was back, but Hayley kept attacking, her blade flying in rapid strikes—all aimed at its body. But each time she landed a strike, the program simply re-assembling its pixels without much of a dent in its form.
This wasn’t working. She needed something different.
In a split second, she saw the opening. Without hesitation, Hayley shifted gears. She leapt with her Psi-blade and left it inside the programs construct as it reformed. As soon as it moved, the programs’s form shattered like glass, the digital fragments scattering in all directions, disintegrating into the air.
---
The library vanishes, replaced by the vibrant, yet structured environment of a fortress city. The air is cool, the lighting perfect sunlight LEDs.
Standing in the heart of the city, surrounded by towering structures that stretch up like monumental columns of modern design. The buildings gleam with sleek metal and glass, their facades lined with lush green walls—rows of climbing ivy, flowering vines, and patches of moss that seem to breathe. These living walls filter the air, providing both a visual break from the utilitarian architecture and a necessary function that sustains life within the enclosed world.
Above her, the sky flickers into existence. The artificial sunlight shines down, an illusion so well-crafted it almost feels real. The horizon glows with a soft, golden hue, though she knows it’s merely a projection, a hologram layered over the immensity of the fortress city’s dome. Around her, towering residential buildings stand like silent sentinels, each housing hundreds of families who live in their private high-rise apartments.
She moves forward, guided by a soft, gentle prompt from the VR system. As she steps, she feels the sensation of walking down one of the city’s wide, tree-lined walkways. The artificial trees, tall and perfectly spaced, sway slightly in the simulated breeze, their leaves shimmering under the glowing lights. The sound of running water catches her attention, and soon, she sees a beautiful decorative waterfall cascading from one of the buildings. It’s serene, the water’s rhythmic pattering almost hypnotic as it flows into a pool below, the water clear and sparkling despite its artificial origin.
The plaza she walks toward is massive—an open area framed by colossal columns. Flags flutter above, their Black and White colors vibrant in the simulated sunlight.
The overwhelming presence of the 120 meter tall statue of the Emperor Prosek stands proudly at the center, looking over the plaza. The statue’s face is stoic, yet the intricacy of its features gives it an almost lifelike quality.
Hayley’s heart beats a little faster, the symbolism of its presence reminding her of the power the leader holds over the city and its people.
As she moves deeper into the plaza, banners unfurl before her, celebrating the Coalition’s latest achievements. News broadcasts flash across smart surfaces embedded in the walls—messages about national triumphs, speeches by the Emperor, and updates on the latest developments.
Hayley steps to the side, where a large screen hovers in the air, showing Emperor Prosek in an impassioned speech. His voice is clear, his words unwavering in their praise of the people’s obedience and unity.
A group of figures in the virtual world move past her—citizens, heads bowed, dressed in uniforms, their faces expressionless. They’re heading to a social event, she realizes.
She watches them disappear into a large gathering area, a spacious dome where an official ceremony is taking place. The atmosphere is militaristic, with the people standing in rows, awaiting instructions. Flags are raised, oaths are sworn. The crowd’s movements are synchronized. There’s no room for rebellion here—only unity, only pride in their government’s ideals.
Hayley moves on, stepping into a smaller park-like area where people are exercising. There are large, open spaces for group athletics. She watches as citizens partake in military-style physical training push-ups, sit-ups, sprints—all designed to maintain the physical prowess required of the state’s citizens. Some are rewarded with small, holographic medals that briefly hover above their heads, each a marker of achievement. It feels like an unspoken reminder of the constant need to prove one’s loyalty.
Hayley navigates the program to visit the magrail station. She arrives in a sleek, modern hub, the train platforms gleaming. AI-controlled system is already at work, routing people into different lines, adjusting the pace of movement to ensure everything runs on time. The trains are streamlined, metallic, and swift, their glass-like exteriors reflecting the order of the city. No one is rushing. Just the smooth, quiet flow of people as they go about their daily lives, all under the watchful eye of the state.
As her virtual reality continues, she sees the tight, seamless integration of technology and order. The city is alive with its systems, its structure, its purpose. Everywhere she looks, from the monumental buildings to the green walls, to the screens showing government messages, there is no escaping the constant reinforcement of the Coalition’s ideals. It’s a world designed to be perfect, to be efficient, to be loyal.
The program begins to end, the digital holographic illusion slowly fade away, leaving her in the quiet solitude of the digital library. But the images remain, etched in her mind, a reminder of the world she will never live in—a world where the Coalition’s ideals are both seen and unseen, where life is shaped by a singular vision of it’s leader.
Then the lights began to flicker...
---
Hayley hears music in the background and finds herself in a bedroom with tie down straps and mirror on the ceiling.
Before her are a variety of provocative partners.
An automated female voice begins:
"Welcome. As a reminder, you are in total control here. If at anytime you want to leave say the 'Safeword' you pre-regestered. You may now make your selection (from amongst the virtual sexual partners) and desired role of dominant or submissive. As it is all virtual, there is no chance of harming yourself or the program you select.
"Ha ha... Ha," Hayley laughs to herself. "Hayley, how do you gets herself into this."
---
Location: Hayley's Hotel Room
Hayley slowly came back to herself, her breath deepening as the world around her came back into focus. The hotel room, dimly lit by the faint neon glow outside, felt quiet, familiar, and grounded. Her eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, everything felt distant—like she was floating in a space just outside reality, her body still tingling from the effects of the Machine Ghoast Psionic trance.
The sound of the city outside was faint but constant. She could hear the soft click of the air conditioner cycling in the corner, the gentle rustle of the curtains from a slight breeze. The room was hers—secure and locked, with no one else inside.
Her body was still in bed, where she had laid down when she began the trance. The electronic data storage device rested on the bed her, its surface smooth and still, as if nothing had changed. But Hayley knew differently.
She could feel the remnants of the experience lingering in her mind and body—the strange, dissociative quality of having engaged in something so physical yet detached, so immediate but without the weight of reality.
She blinked a few times, rubbing her temples to clear away the last fog of the psionic trance. The experience had felt like an hour of time moving in an instant, an immersion that seemed more real than she had expected. But now, with her mind returning to her control, she could feel the emotional separation settling back into place.
She rose from the chair, her limbs slightly stiff, and stretched her arms over her head. The muscles of her body were still relaxed, but in a way that was neither good nor bad—just present, like the aftereffect of something that had been temporarily satisfied.
She walked toward the bathroom. The mirror reflected her—tired eyes, a face that had seen too much, too young—but the flicker of self-assurance. The Virtual Reality had been a brief, private release, a way to disconnect from the world’s weight. It had served its purpose.
She met her own gaze in the mirror and stood there for a long moment, just looking at herself, assessing.
It was simply a tool. I used it for physical release, and it had worked. Physical satisfaction without any emotional consequence.
It was exactly what she had wanted.
Control. That was what mattered. And she was still in control. The program had been predictable, impersonal. She had used it for what it was designed to do, and in the end, it hadn’t asked anything from her.
She reached for the sink and splashed cold water on her face, letting the sharpness of the sensation ground her. The clarity she needed to keep going—focused, driven, unburdened by distractions—was something she valued deeply. She knew herself, knew what she needed, and in moments like this, she could separate her desires from her emotions. It was one of the few things she trusted herself to do.
Her reflection looked back at her. She had taken what she needed. She had no regrets.
Last edited by darthauthor on Sat Jun 21, 2025 2:18 am, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
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- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Hayley’s Hotel room
The faint glow of the neon sign outside flickered in through the blinds, casting soft, fractured light across Hayley’s desk. The hotel room was quiet, the hum of the city outside her window the only sound breaking the stillness. Her room was a sanctuary of sorts, but even here, the weight of her decisions pressed on her.
She sat at the small desk, a pen in her hand, the tip hovering over the blank page of her leather-bound journal. It was a habit she had picked up recently—writing, though it had never been something she’d done much of before. But now, as the flickering city lights cast shadows on her walls, it felt necessary, like a way to process what had happened before she decided what to do next.
“Dear Diary,” she wrote, the pen gliding smoothly across the page. “I used to think I could live without distractions, that Jenni and survival was the only thing that mattered. But I’m starting to see how wrong I was. I don’t know if I’m just using this to escape or if I’m truly processing everything that’s happened. Either way, the thoughts are here. I need to get them out.”
She paused, glancing at the digital memory storage device that sat quietly on her desk. It had come from the data storage device filled with files and movies—some banned, others historical, some darkly seductive. The first time she’d plugged it into a makeshift device, the screen had flickered to life, revealing things she’d never seen before.
She had grown up without television. In Lazlo, things were different. Movies played in public, people watched them in theaters without a second thought. There, the idea of watching a movie was a casual thing. In Chi-Town Burbs, the situation was much more dangerous, and the films that had been outlawed were considered precious commodities. In Lazlo, they were accessible, a normal part of life. But here, they were black market treasures.
As she pondered this, Hayley’s eyes lingered on the device again. She guessed the banned films might be more profitable here in Chi-Town Burbs—the underground movie scene was thriving, as illegal as it was. She didn’t have a network, nor the proper equipment to run her own underground theater, but the potential was there. The movies, once shown, could fetch credits and things of trade. People took a risk to watch them. But the greatest risk would be her’s and the people who trafficked in it; punishable by execution if caught. Yet, the demand was undeniable, making them a lucrative business for those with the resources to sell.
The sound of the pen scraping across the paper snapped her out of her thoughts. She had written more than expected.
“The M.O.M. implant… It’s incredible what some people will do to get that power. For a little piece of technology smaller than a pea, people would give up their sanity.
I didn’t plan on getting involved in this black market mess, but I’ve come this far. Selling the M.O.M. was worth a lot, 70,000 credits. And the 10% cut to Dr. Z... I hate that I had to pay him. I’d imagined as soon as he found a buyer or a customer he’d make a quarter of a mil. But that’s what happens when you deal with people like him. He wanted 10% (7,000 credits), and I had to agree to it. Even with the money I made with the Juicer, Rook, it still doesn’t feel like enough. I agreed to give him 10% of what I earned, another 7,000 credits, plus a thousand for his ‘services.’”
Her fingers clenched the pen tighter as her thoughts darkened.
“I could’ve handled Dr. Z better, though. I don’t like how he handled me—like I was a mark, a pawn in his little game. Part of me wants revenge.
He’s dangerous.
But if I let him walk away, if I let him get away with this, then what does that say about me? I’ve always been about survival, doing what’s necessary to come out on top.”
Hayley’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the lights of the city glinted, far away, distant. The choices before her seemed infinite in possibility, but the stakes were clear. She clenched her jaw, thinking of Dr. Z’s smirk, the arrogant way he dismissed her, how easily he had manipulated their arrangement. She wanted to make him pay for that.
But then, there was the 300,000 Coalition credits—that had brought her to Chi-Town Burbs in the first place. That kind of money could change everything.
“Do I take the risk of seeking revenge now or focus on the treasure? I can’t do both at the same time. Revenge might feel good, but is it worth losing the prize I came here for? My gut tells me to act now, to strike first, before Dr. Z or anyone else has the chance to hit me back. But another part of me says, ‘Get the money.’ Then, maybe, I deal with Dr. Z. I know he won’t just let it go.”
She paused, the pen hovering over the page as she stared into the blank space. Her instincts screamed for action—revenge was survival, after all.
“Survival comes first, then the money. I can’t spend if I’m dead. Of course, I could lay low and hide. But, on the street, that means I’m weak. And, I would not be able to hunt for the 300k I came for. Nah. I’m not doing that. I’m getting what’s mine. Z and his Tin Can Man are going down.”
She set the pen down, breathing a little easier now that she had written it out. The weight of her thoughts was lifted for the moment, but her mind was still restless.
The faint glow of the neon sign outside flickered in through the blinds, casting soft, fractured light across Hayley’s desk. The hotel room was quiet, the hum of the city outside her window the only sound breaking the stillness. Her room was a sanctuary of sorts, but even here, the weight of her decisions pressed on her.
She sat at the small desk, a pen in her hand, the tip hovering over the blank page of her leather-bound journal. It was a habit she had picked up recently—writing, though it had never been something she’d done much of before. But now, as the flickering city lights cast shadows on her walls, it felt necessary, like a way to process what had happened before she decided what to do next.
“Dear Diary,” she wrote, the pen gliding smoothly across the page. “I used to think I could live without distractions, that Jenni and survival was the only thing that mattered. But I’m starting to see how wrong I was. I don’t know if I’m just using this to escape or if I’m truly processing everything that’s happened. Either way, the thoughts are here. I need to get them out.”
She paused, glancing at the digital memory storage device that sat quietly on her desk. It had come from the data storage device filled with files and movies—some banned, others historical, some darkly seductive. The first time she’d plugged it into a makeshift device, the screen had flickered to life, revealing things she’d never seen before.
She had grown up without television. In Lazlo, things were different. Movies played in public, people watched them in theaters without a second thought. There, the idea of watching a movie was a casual thing. In Chi-Town Burbs, the situation was much more dangerous, and the films that had been outlawed were considered precious commodities. In Lazlo, they were accessible, a normal part of life. But here, they were black market treasures.
As she pondered this, Hayley’s eyes lingered on the device again. She guessed the banned films might be more profitable here in Chi-Town Burbs—the underground movie scene was thriving, as illegal as it was. She didn’t have a network, nor the proper equipment to run her own underground theater, but the potential was there. The movies, once shown, could fetch credits and things of trade. People took a risk to watch them. But the greatest risk would be her’s and the people who trafficked in it; punishable by execution if caught. Yet, the demand was undeniable, making them a lucrative business for those with the resources to sell.
The sound of the pen scraping across the paper snapped her out of her thoughts. She had written more than expected.
“The M.O.M. implant… It’s incredible what some people will do to get that power. For a little piece of technology smaller than a pea, people would give up their sanity.
I didn’t plan on getting involved in this black market mess, but I’ve come this far. Selling the M.O.M. was worth a lot, 70,000 credits. And the 10% cut to Dr. Z... I hate that I had to pay him. I’d imagined as soon as he found a buyer or a customer he’d make a quarter of a mil. But that’s what happens when you deal with people like him. He wanted 10% (7,000 credits), and I had to agree to it. Even with the money I made with the Juicer, Rook, it still doesn’t feel like enough. I agreed to give him 10% of what I earned, another 7,000 credits, plus a thousand for his ‘services.’”
Her fingers clenched the pen tighter as her thoughts darkened.
“I could’ve handled Dr. Z better, though. I don’t like how he handled me—like I was a mark, a pawn in his little game. Part of me wants revenge.
He’s dangerous.
But if I let him walk away, if I let him get away with this, then what does that say about me? I’ve always been about survival, doing what’s necessary to come out on top.”
Hayley’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the lights of the city glinted, far away, distant. The choices before her seemed infinite in possibility, but the stakes were clear. She clenched her jaw, thinking of Dr. Z’s smirk, the arrogant way he dismissed her, how easily he had manipulated their arrangement. She wanted to make him pay for that.
But then, there was the 300,000 Coalition credits—that had brought her to Chi-Town Burbs in the first place. That kind of money could change everything.
“Do I take the risk of seeking revenge now or focus on the treasure? I can’t do both at the same time. Revenge might feel good, but is it worth losing the prize I came here for? My gut tells me to act now, to strike first, before Dr. Z or anyone else has the chance to hit me back. But another part of me says, ‘Get the money.’ Then, maybe, I deal with Dr. Z. I know he won’t just let it go.”
She paused, the pen hovering over the page as she stared into the blank space. Her instincts screamed for action—revenge was survival, after all.
“Survival comes first, then the money. I can’t spend if I’m dead. Of course, I could lay low and hide. But, on the street, that means I’m weak. And, I would not be able to hunt for the 300k I came for. Nah. I’m not doing that. I’m getting what’s mine. Z and his Tin Can Man are going down.”
She set the pen down, breathing a little easier now that she had written it out. The weight of her thoughts was lifted for the moment, but her mind was still restless.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Tree
Knight Three opened his eyes, his mind racing with the memory of his youth, and the choices he had made that brought him here. The Tree wanted more.
The memory of his childhood felt distant, then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back into the past, to the sterile light of the NGR’s hospital where it all began. The rhythmic sound of hospital instruments, their sounds are soothing to him.
The memories of Knight Three childhood were perfect in The Trees relieving of them.
He feels the cold touch of the nurse's hand as she conducted the first tests. They examined him for genetic markers, scanning for physical potential and intelligence, as they did for all children born in the New German Republic.
As a child, he didn’t understand the weight of it all. He just knew that his every movement, every moment, every thought was being guided, shaped by unseen hands—hands that wanted him to be a flawless product of a nation that valued discipline above all else. His mother, a strict, proud woman, often spoke of the state's expectations with reverence, reminding him that everything he did reflected on the NGR, that the state’s success was his success.
By the age of three, he understood what it meant to belong. His early years were a blur of structured play, where every action—every game, every exercise—was a step toward molding him into a disciplined, effective machine of society. He remembered the physical drills, the exercises that taught him coordination, and teamwork. No room for rebellion.
At six, the structure intensified. He began formal education, learning to read and write—though what he was taught was a carefully curated history of the NGR, its triumphs, and the collective good. His world was one of duty. He remembered his lessons in language, mathematics, reading, and computer skills, the kind that would prepare him to wield the might of technology in service of the state.
The physical training was equally grueling, his body hardened under constant drills. Hand-to-hand combat—he became stronger, faster, more capable. Each task felt like a test, a challenge to see if he could live up to the legacy of his predecessors. The state, the military, he was one cog in a great, indomitable machine.
He would serve, just as everyone else did. He remembered the unity of it—the feeling of marching in perfect formation, the clack of boots in synchrony, the pride in knowing that each step forward was for the greater good.
But what stood out most in those early years were the stories of military heroism—great generals, perfect soldiers, and machines that served the NGR’s military might. These were not mere anecdotes—they were the ideals he was to emulate. Knowledge became a weapon, and every piece of information was another brick in the wall that separated the NGR’s vision from the individual’s desires.
Yet even in the rigid atmosphere, something peculiar began to stir within him. The need to understand. His intellectual abilities set him apart. He devoured his books with a hunger that surpassed even the curriculum’s demands. By the age of eight, his psionic abilities began to manifest, but in a way that only further pushed him to distinguish himself from his peers.
The first manifestation was subtle—a peculiar feeling of clarity whenever he opened a book. At first, he dismissed it as coincidence, but the clarity became undeniable. He could speed read through pages at a rate no one else could match, devouring knowledge with an unrelenting speed. Thirty pages a minute, with every detail retained. It wasn’t just fast reading—it was as if the words had imprinted themselves directly onto his mind. But it wasn’t only the written word that filled him with such intensity; it was the world of memory—his psionic “Total Recall.” He could remember everything, even the smallest details: the exact words from his history books, the lines of military strategy his teachers had presented, the technical blueprints of machinery. His brain retained it all. His mind became an impenetrable vault of facts, filled with the precise details of every interaction, every event, every learning moment.
By the time he was ten, his role in society was clear: military service or technological innovation. His world was a narrow channel, and he was on course to follow it. But even then, in those early formative years, there was a crack—a tiny fracture in his perspective.
Then by a chance encounter, he found a book that had fallen behind a shelf.
The works of the Unmutuals for Free Thought.
It presented a philosophy that struck him deeply. Their message was clear: individual freedom, the right to self-expression, and a rejection of the authoritarian structures that dominated his life. But to someone like Knight Three, who had spent his entire life absorbing facts with little space for personal thought, it was like a spark in the dark.
He approached the Unmutuals' ideas with logical. His ability to process and recall information allowed him to deconstruct their arguments with precision. He saw the logic beneath their critiques—how the NGR, despite its technological marvels and military might, suppressed the very essence of what it meant to be human. He found himself drawn to the concept of personal freedom, the idea that each person should be allowed to define their own path,
It was like a spark in a dark room, too small to see, but powerful enough to feel. His intellectual curiosity, coupled with his aptitude for analysis, led him to spend hours poring over their writings, examining their critiques of the NGR’s authoritarian rule. It made sense to him—far more sense than the suffocating principles that had defined his upbringing. He began to question the very ideals he had been taught to revere: duty over self, obedience over freedom, the collective over the individual.
He thought of the faces of the D-bees—the non-human beings that the NGR saw as lesser, inferior. He had always been taught to believe they were subhuman, to be kept in check, exploited for the benefit of the state. But the Unmutuals spoke of respect, equality, and the inherent value of all sentient beings. The logical part of him that allowed him to see the inherent flaw in the system—the fear that fueled the NGR's treatment of these creatures, the misunderstanding of their potential.
His intellect had always been his greatest asset, but now it was both a gift and a curse. He began to see the world not as a machine of simple parts, but as something more—a web of choices and possibilities. Each idea from the Unmutuals challenged him to think critically, to break free from the rigid structure of the NGR’s system.
He had never been prepared for this, never trained to question his country, his purpose. And yet, that was exactly what he was doing now. His mind was opening doors he never thought to explore. And with every new idea, every new piece of knowledge, an awareness grew within him—between loyalty to the NGR that had shaped him, and the growing realization that his nation had been shaped by its war with the Gargoyle Empire and supernatural forces doing what was natural for them conquest and domination.
But the Unmutals, their philosophy—it was the freedom they spoke of. The freedom to think for oneself, to exist outside of the suffocating order the NGR demanded. It was this freedom that fascinated him, made his mind race. But it was also what terrified him.
He thought back to his lessons in the NGR’s history—the glorification of military might, the technological advancements, the strength of the nation. The idea that the state’s needs always came first, seemed so certain. Yet, the Unmutuals challenged this certainty. They spoke of the worth of each individual, not as a tool for the state, but as a being with inherent dignity. They spoke of choice—real choice. Something that Knight Three had never been allowed to contemplate.
The Unmutuals’ vision of a world where freedom was the right of those brave enough to fight for it, where individuals who had the power could not be stopped from charting their own path.
It was through the Unmutuals that he was introduced to a foreigner. A visitor to German who was looking to recruit students who wanted to 'study' abroad. He saw potential in Knight Three and made him and offer. The Order of the Mystic Knights would transport him to the North American continent to study. In exchange for contract and oath to serve the Order he would get the chance to learn how to both fight and cast magic spell. IF he graduated he would become rich and powerful.
It was a promise of self-determination, but it came at a cost: he would have to leave his homeland, abandon the strictures of his birthright, and embrace the unknown. It would mean committing to a life that was no longer defined by duty to the NGR, but to something far greater—his own potential.
The decision was not made lightly. He had never truly questioned his loyalty to the NGR, but the idea of the Mystic Knights and the offer they made was too great an opportunity to ignore. In his mind, the path was clear. Adventure, exploration, freedom, the pursuit of knowledge and power—these were the things that called to him now. Not the oppressive weight of the NGR’s ideals.
Before he knew it, he stood an older man with a long white beard and robes. His eyes were the color of shifting storm clouds—sharp, piercing, and full experience. Knight Three had been prepared for many things, but the sheer magnitude of the ritual before him was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
The mage’s hands rose, and the air seemed to tremble. “To journey through the Rift is to leave behind the world you know for the one you don't,” the mage’s voice reverberated through the cavernous space. “You will leave behind the systems that held you back, and enter a realm of possibilities. It is a commitment. Will you accept it?”
Knight Three’s mind raced. He had always been logical, analytical, and meticulous. But this—this was a leap of faith. He wasn’t certain of the full implications, but his psionic abilities were reaching out, responding to the power.
“I accept,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart beat faster than he had expected.
With those words, the mage raised his hands.
A ripple surged through the air, followed by a rush of energy that knocked Knight Three back on his heels. The Rift opened, swirling with vibrant hues of gold, white, and violet, and beyond it lay an unknown land—a place of adventure and potential, but also danger and uncertainty.
Knight Three stepped into the Rift, his senses assaulted by the rush of unfamiliar sights and sounds. The passage was brief—merely a flicker of time before he was spat out into a sprawling, open landscape. The wind smelled of something earthy, unfamiliar—a stark contrast to the sterile, controlled atmosphere of the NGR. His eyes scanned the horizon.
As he approached the gates of a castle, the first thing he noticed was its sheer functionality. It was not a place of political intrigue or lofty ideals. There were no ornate marble halls—this was a House of work, of purpose. The color scheme was simple: gold and white, the banner of a gothic eagle symbolizing strength, nobility, and vigilance.
The House was a sprawling compound of stone buildings, housing not just the Knights, but also the engineers, pilots, scholars, and other experts who supported the Order.
As Knight Three walked through the entrance, he observed the varied figures that made up the House’s membership: non-humans mingled with humans, creating a diverse and functional community. They were technicians, doctors, field mechanics, medics—everyone working together to support the Order’s military might; like the German people do for the NGR military’s war against the Gargoyle Empire.
Knight Three opened his eyes, his mind racing with the memory of his youth, and the choices he had made that brought him here. The Tree wanted more.
The memory of his childhood felt distant, then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back into the past, to the sterile light of the NGR’s hospital where it all began. The rhythmic sound of hospital instruments, their sounds are soothing to him.
The memories of Knight Three childhood were perfect in The Trees relieving of them.
He feels the cold touch of the nurse's hand as she conducted the first tests. They examined him for genetic markers, scanning for physical potential and intelligence, as they did for all children born in the New German Republic.
As a child, he didn’t understand the weight of it all. He just knew that his every movement, every moment, every thought was being guided, shaped by unseen hands—hands that wanted him to be a flawless product of a nation that valued discipline above all else. His mother, a strict, proud woman, often spoke of the state's expectations with reverence, reminding him that everything he did reflected on the NGR, that the state’s success was his success.
By the age of three, he understood what it meant to belong. His early years were a blur of structured play, where every action—every game, every exercise—was a step toward molding him into a disciplined, effective machine of society. He remembered the physical drills, the exercises that taught him coordination, and teamwork. No room for rebellion.
At six, the structure intensified. He began formal education, learning to read and write—though what he was taught was a carefully curated history of the NGR, its triumphs, and the collective good. His world was one of duty. He remembered his lessons in language, mathematics, reading, and computer skills, the kind that would prepare him to wield the might of technology in service of the state.
The physical training was equally grueling, his body hardened under constant drills. Hand-to-hand combat—he became stronger, faster, more capable. Each task felt like a test, a challenge to see if he could live up to the legacy of his predecessors. The state, the military, he was one cog in a great, indomitable machine.
He would serve, just as everyone else did. He remembered the unity of it—the feeling of marching in perfect formation, the clack of boots in synchrony, the pride in knowing that each step forward was for the greater good.
But what stood out most in those early years were the stories of military heroism—great generals, perfect soldiers, and machines that served the NGR’s military might. These were not mere anecdotes—they were the ideals he was to emulate. Knowledge became a weapon, and every piece of information was another brick in the wall that separated the NGR’s vision from the individual’s desires.
Yet even in the rigid atmosphere, something peculiar began to stir within him. The need to understand. His intellectual abilities set him apart. He devoured his books with a hunger that surpassed even the curriculum’s demands. By the age of eight, his psionic abilities began to manifest, but in a way that only further pushed him to distinguish himself from his peers.
The first manifestation was subtle—a peculiar feeling of clarity whenever he opened a book. At first, he dismissed it as coincidence, but the clarity became undeniable. He could speed read through pages at a rate no one else could match, devouring knowledge with an unrelenting speed. Thirty pages a minute, with every detail retained. It wasn’t just fast reading—it was as if the words had imprinted themselves directly onto his mind. But it wasn’t only the written word that filled him with such intensity; it was the world of memory—his psionic “Total Recall.” He could remember everything, even the smallest details: the exact words from his history books, the lines of military strategy his teachers had presented, the technical blueprints of machinery. His brain retained it all. His mind became an impenetrable vault of facts, filled with the precise details of every interaction, every event, every learning moment.
By the time he was ten, his role in society was clear: military service or technological innovation. His world was a narrow channel, and he was on course to follow it. But even then, in those early formative years, there was a crack—a tiny fracture in his perspective.
Then by a chance encounter, he found a book that had fallen behind a shelf.
The works of the Unmutuals for Free Thought.
It presented a philosophy that struck him deeply. Their message was clear: individual freedom, the right to self-expression, and a rejection of the authoritarian structures that dominated his life. But to someone like Knight Three, who had spent his entire life absorbing facts with little space for personal thought, it was like a spark in the dark.
He approached the Unmutuals' ideas with logical. His ability to process and recall information allowed him to deconstruct their arguments with precision. He saw the logic beneath their critiques—how the NGR, despite its technological marvels and military might, suppressed the very essence of what it meant to be human. He found himself drawn to the concept of personal freedom, the idea that each person should be allowed to define their own path,
It was like a spark in a dark room, too small to see, but powerful enough to feel. His intellectual curiosity, coupled with his aptitude for analysis, led him to spend hours poring over their writings, examining their critiques of the NGR’s authoritarian rule. It made sense to him—far more sense than the suffocating principles that had defined his upbringing. He began to question the very ideals he had been taught to revere: duty over self, obedience over freedom, the collective over the individual.
He thought of the faces of the D-bees—the non-human beings that the NGR saw as lesser, inferior. He had always been taught to believe they were subhuman, to be kept in check, exploited for the benefit of the state. But the Unmutuals spoke of respect, equality, and the inherent value of all sentient beings. The logical part of him that allowed him to see the inherent flaw in the system—the fear that fueled the NGR's treatment of these creatures, the misunderstanding of their potential.
His intellect had always been his greatest asset, but now it was both a gift and a curse. He began to see the world not as a machine of simple parts, but as something more—a web of choices and possibilities. Each idea from the Unmutuals challenged him to think critically, to break free from the rigid structure of the NGR’s system.
He had never been prepared for this, never trained to question his country, his purpose. And yet, that was exactly what he was doing now. His mind was opening doors he never thought to explore. And with every new idea, every new piece of knowledge, an awareness grew within him—between loyalty to the NGR that had shaped him, and the growing realization that his nation had been shaped by its war with the Gargoyle Empire and supernatural forces doing what was natural for them conquest and domination.
But the Unmutals, their philosophy—it was the freedom they spoke of. The freedom to think for oneself, to exist outside of the suffocating order the NGR demanded. It was this freedom that fascinated him, made his mind race. But it was also what terrified him.
He thought back to his lessons in the NGR’s history—the glorification of military might, the technological advancements, the strength of the nation. The idea that the state’s needs always came first, seemed so certain. Yet, the Unmutuals challenged this certainty. They spoke of the worth of each individual, not as a tool for the state, but as a being with inherent dignity. They spoke of choice—real choice. Something that Knight Three had never been allowed to contemplate.
The Unmutuals’ vision of a world where freedom was the right of those brave enough to fight for it, where individuals who had the power could not be stopped from charting their own path.
It was through the Unmutuals that he was introduced to a foreigner. A visitor to German who was looking to recruit students who wanted to 'study' abroad. He saw potential in Knight Three and made him and offer. The Order of the Mystic Knights would transport him to the North American continent to study. In exchange for contract and oath to serve the Order he would get the chance to learn how to both fight and cast magic spell. IF he graduated he would become rich and powerful.
It was a promise of self-determination, but it came at a cost: he would have to leave his homeland, abandon the strictures of his birthright, and embrace the unknown. It would mean committing to a life that was no longer defined by duty to the NGR, but to something far greater—his own potential.
The decision was not made lightly. He had never truly questioned his loyalty to the NGR, but the idea of the Mystic Knights and the offer they made was too great an opportunity to ignore. In his mind, the path was clear. Adventure, exploration, freedom, the pursuit of knowledge and power—these were the things that called to him now. Not the oppressive weight of the NGR’s ideals.
Before he knew it, he stood an older man with a long white beard and robes. His eyes were the color of shifting storm clouds—sharp, piercing, and full experience. Knight Three had been prepared for many things, but the sheer magnitude of the ritual before him was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
The mage’s hands rose, and the air seemed to tremble. “To journey through the Rift is to leave behind the world you know for the one you don't,” the mage’s voice reverberated through the cavernous space. “You will leave behind the systems that held you back, and enter a realm of possibilities. It is a commitment. Will you accept it?”
Knight Three’s mind raced. He had always been logical, analytical, and meticulous. But this—this was a leap of faith. He wasn’t certain of the full implications, but his psionic abilities were reaching out, responding to the power.
“I accept,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart beat faster than he had expected.
With those words, the mage raised his hands.
A ripple surged through the air, followed by a rush of energy that knocked Knight Three back on his heels. The Rift opened, swirling with vibrant hues of gold, white, and violet, and beyond it lay an unknown land—a place of adventure and potential, but also danger and uncertainty.
Knight Three stepped into the Rift, his senses assaulted by the rush of unfamiliar sights and sounds. The passage was brief—merely a flicker of time before he was spat out into a sprawling, open landscape. The wind smelled of something earthy, unfamiliar—a stark contrast to the sterile, controlled atmosphere of the NGR. His eyes scanned the horizon.
As he approached the gates of a castle, the first thing he noticed was its sheer functionality. It was not a place of political intrigue or lofty ideals. There were no ornate marble halls—this was a House of work, of purpose. The color scheme was simple: gold and white, the banner of a gothic eagle symbolizing strength, nobility, and vigilance.
The House was a sprawling compound of stone buildings, housing not just the Knights, but also the engineers, pilots, scholars, and other experts who supported the Order.
As Knight Three walked through the entrance, he observed the varied figures that made up the House’s membership: non-humans mingled with humans, creating a diverse and functional community. They were technicians, doctors, field mechanics, medics—everyone working together to support the Order’s military might; like the German people do for the NGR military’s war against the Gargoyle Empire.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: House Isen of the Order of the Mystic Knights
Knight Three and the other recruits passed through the gates with the sigil of a golden eagle.
The heavy Ironwood oak doors creaked open with a deep groan as Knight Three entered the Hall with the other recruits. Their boots echoed on the polished stone floor as they walked across it. Their faces were a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and anticipation.
As they entered, the sound of murmurs echoed through the vast, shadowed space, its high vaulted ceiling stretching far above, a distant labyrinth of beams and stone. It was a hall unlike any he had seen before. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries of golden eagles, the emblem of House Isen. The faint smell of polish and old wood hung in the air. The walls were lined with portraits of past leaders.
The recruits—new faces, eager and uncertain—stood in neat rows across the floor, awaiting. The atmosphere was quiet anticipation. Some recruits stood tall, their posture confident, while others shifted restlessly, their eyes darting nervously between their comrades.
Knight Three’s boots clicked sharply against the stone as he walked forward, and looked at the other recruits around him. Some were clearly from prestigious backgrounds, while others, like him, seemed to be newly forged from the heat of ambition.
A voice from an intercom spoke aloud, "Introducing, Lord Isen. Master of House Isen."
At the front of the hall, the Lord’s boots thudded against the stone as he stepped forward, the sound of his steps echoed in the silence until he stopped. His eagle helmet concealed his features but not the sense that he was sizing them all up. He stood draped in flowing gold and white robes, with the gothic eagle insignia emblazoned upon his chest.
“Today marks the beginning of your journey,” his voice rang clear and unwavering, echoing through the hall. “You’ve been chosen because we see potential in you. The Order of Mystic Knights needs new recruits who will rise to meet its challenges, who will push the boundaries of what it means to be a Mystic Knight.”
He paused.
“In the coming days, weeks, and years, you will be tested. You will face challenges that will make you question what you are doing here. You will encounter hardships that will either break you or make you stronger.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air, his eyes piercing. “But make no mistake,” the Lord Isen continued, his tone shifting, becoming more deliberate, more cutting. “You are not here because we owe you anything. You earn your place here. Every day. Prove you are learning, prove you are loyal, prove you worth. There are no handouts in the Order. You will not be spoon-fed your place. You will earn it or be thrown out.”
He took a step forward, his gaze never leaving the recruits. The entire hall felt like it was holding its breath.
His voice low and stern, “I was once where you are. A new recruit. I am going to tell you what Life taught me. Life is a competition. First to survive. Next to shape our life to our liking."
Cedric Isen’s voice rang out again, louder this time. “Look to the person standing next to you. The competition is not against the person next to you. A mistake I made when I was your age. Here your competition is against the past you’ve come from, against the identity that has been forged by the world before you. You will break through limitations others have placed upon you. You will leave behind your old self. Your true competition lies with your past self. The only boundaries that exist are the ones you believe in your own mind.”
Knight Three stood unmoving, his mind processing the Leader’s words. This was not the NGR’s regimented, social indoctrination where conformity ruled. This was something entirely different—a test of character, a call to transcend the self. For the first time in his life, Knight Three could feel the stirrings of excitement—not from the promise of loyalty, but from the promise of power.
"You will be trained in what it means to be a Mystic Knight. You will wield magic, technology, and steel. But first and foremost, you must understand this: You must be loyal to the Order. If you are not loyal, you do not belong here. Loyalty is the foundation of our Order. Without it, you are a liability.”
A subtle tension filled the room as Lord Isen’s gaze sharpened, sweeping over them all. His words meant to strip away any illusion that might have remained.
“The Order’s training methods are secrets we swear to protect. You will swear an oath. You will sign an agreement. The knowledge and the power you will gain here are not for free nor to be freely shared or sold to those outside the Order. If you betray the Order, if you break your oath—we will hunt you down, and kill you.”
There was a pause, and for the first time, Cedric’s eyes softened ever so slightly. “But...if you earn our trust, then you will be adopted into the family.”
Knight Three’s pulse quickened. Betrayal...death. His life had always been governed by order, by rules, but this was something different. A choice that came with consequences, one that stretched far beyond anything the NGR had ever imposed.
Lord isen's continued, his tone unwavering. “If you cannot, or will not, pass the trials to become a Mystic Knight, there will still be a place for you in our Order. We discard the incompetent. We execute the disloyal.”
Knight Three felt a knot form in his stomach.
“Understand this, so long as you are both loyal and useful, you will stay a member, a non-knight member, but a member still. You will earn your wage and retire with a pension, as a support personal. The House of Isen is renowned throughout the Order for our ability to support the Houses campaigns. We build the bombs, maintain and repair the vehicles and weapons, breed and care for the hounds and steeds. We are the engineers of victory.”
Cedric’s voice dropped low, and the weight of his words pressed against every recruit in the room. “You will earn everything. But the rewards are worth it. Power, the power to shape your body, your fortune, and your future into what you will it to be. The Mystic Knights do not follow anyone else's rules—we make our own. The more power you gain, the fewer people you will need. And then, you will decide how to use power. For your own gain, for the good of others...or for something else entirely. That choice is yours.”
The room was deathly quiet. Cedric let the words hang in the air for a long moment before continuing, his voice softer now but no less commanding.
“But understand this: If you leave, you are no longer welcome. The Order sheds weakness, not welcome it back. Rewards are what drive us, not good intentions or ideals like the Cyber-knights. And what we offer you is the chance to achieve power of your own. Your power will belong to you. But only if you earn it. The only limitation is your desire to reach for it, and the resolve overcome all that stands in your way to it. So, now, the choice is yours. Stay and earn, or leave and beg the world for charity and opportunities. ”
Knight Three’s gaze swept over the recruits beside him. Some were tense, others appeared resolute, but no one made a move to leave. The speech was meant to break down any illusions they might have had about the ease of the path ahead. It was a test of resolve.
Lord Isen, standing tall, waited in silence, letting the moment stretch, his eyes sweeping over the gathered recruits. His sharp gaze was unsettling, like a eagle surveying its prey, and yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper in his silence.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, "You are new. All of you. And I do not expect you to make an immediate decision after what I just told you. Instead, I will give you a day to think what I am offering you. And, something more, a choice.”
He stepped forward slowly, the sound of his boots reverberating against the hall’s high ceiling. His gaze lingered on each recruit, his words sharp as they cut through the stillness.
“I offer you this, 30,000 credits,” he said, pausing for effect. "To take with you. No strings attached. No service required. You can leave House Isen today, and the money will be yours. Walk out, and never look back."
The recruits shifted uneasily, the weight of his offer hanging in the air like an invisible fog.
Lord Isen’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he raised his hand, the smooth golden ring on his finger gleaming as he spoke again.
"But understand this: If you choose the credits, you leave. Forever. You will not be part of this House. We will give you your credits, for not wasting our time, and you will walk away forever. We will not chase you. You will not be made to feel guilty. You will not be hunted. It is simple. The money is yours to take, and with it, you take your leave."
He paused, letting the recruits digest the offer, allowing the tension to build.
He continued, his tone shifting slightly, "if you stay, you will be required to swear an oath of loyalty. You will pledge yourself to the Order of Mystic Knights. You will work. You will train. You will give everything you have, and you will be tested. The House will teach you everything you need to know. In exchange, you will have the opportunity to grow, to learn, to rise. But this is not a decision to be made hastily."
Lord Isen’s eyes gleamed with a touch of something dangerous, something far more calculating. "I have no doubt that, one day, you will encounter someone, perhaps someone you want to impress, who will offer you a better deal. A bigger paycheck. A more comfortable life. Greed is a strong motivator, and I know it well. Perhaps they will offer you more than the thirty thousand credits I offer today. But you must ask yourself this: What is more important to you? The satisfaction of gold in your pocket now, or your place here? Because, in the long run, the true power lies with those who know that patience is worth more than the quick pull of a purse."
His voice grew stronger, his words more deliberate. "House Isen finds it cheaper to pay recruits to leave than to waste time training those who are not suited for this life. But I do not consider this a loss. No. You are not mere tools to be discarded—you are investments. And you will either earn your place here, or you will walk away. But if you stay, if you accept the oath, know that you are committing to something far more valuable than what the world offers. Greed may drive us all, in the moment, but loyalty and dedication will define who you become."
He straightened, his tall form casting a shadow over the recruits, and for a moment, it felt as if the entire hall held its breath.
“You have twenty-four hours to decide,” he said finally, his voice steady and final. "Tomorrow, the offer will expire. You will either take the credits and leave, or you will take the oath and stay. Do not rush this decision. Think it through. We will not look down upon you if you choose the money. But remember, this is your first test: What kind of future do you want for yourself?"
Lord Isen stood watching as the recruits processed his words. He turned on his heel, the rustle of his robes the only sound in the stillness. As he walked away, his voice echoed one final time in the vast hall, "The choice is yours."
And with that, the recruits were left alone, the weight of their decision hanging like an anchor in their minds, as the clock ticked down on their time to choose.
Knight Three and the other recruits passed through the gates with the sigil of a golden eagle.
The heavy Ironwood oak doors creaked open with a deep groan as Knight Three entered the Hall with the other recruits. Their boots echoed on the polished stone floor as they walked across it. Their faces were a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and anticipation.
As they entered, the sound of murmurs echoed through the vast, shadowed space, its high vaulted ceiling stretching far above, a distant labyrinth of beams and stone. It was a hall unlike any he had seen before. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries of golden eagles, the emblem of House Isen. The faint smell of polish and old wood hung in the air. The walls were lined with portraits of past leaders.
The recruits—new faces, eager and uncertain—stood in neat rows across the floor, awaiting. The atmosphere was quiet anticipation. Some recruits stood tall, their posture confident, while others shifted restlessly, their eyes darting nervously between their comrades.
Knight Three’s boots clicked sharply against the stone as he walked forward, and looked at the other recruits around him. Some were clearly from prestigious backgrounds, while others, like him, seemed to be newly forged from the heat of ambition.
A voice from an intercom spoke aloud, "Introducing, Lord Isen. Master of House Isen."
At the front of the hall, the Lord’s boots thudded against the stone as he stepped forward, the sound of his steps echoed in the silence until he stopped. His eagle helmet concealed his features but not the sense that he was sizing them all up. He stood draped in flowing gold and white robes, with the gothic eagle insignia emblazoned upon his chest.
“Today marks the beginning of your journey,” his voice rang clear and unwavering, echoing through the hall. “You’ve been chosen because we see potential in you. The Order of Mystic Knights needs new recruits who will rise to meet its challenges, who will push the boundaries of what it means to be a Mystic Knight.”
He paused.
“In the coming days, weeks, and years, you will be tested. You will face challenges that will make you question what you are doing here. You will encounter hardships that will either break you or make you stronger.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air, his eyes piercing. “But make no mistake,” the Lord Isen continued, his tone shifting, becoming more deliberate, more cutting. “You are not here because we owe you anything. You earn your place here. Every day. Prove you are learning, prove you are loyal, prove you worth. There are no handouts in the Order. You will not be spoon-fed your place. You will earn it or be thrown out.”
He took a step forward, his gaze never leaving the recruits. The entire hall felt like it was holding its breath.
His voice low and stern, “I was once where you are. A new recruit. I am going to tell you what Life taught me. Life is a competition. First to survive. Next to shape our life to our liking."
Cedric Isen’s voice rang out again, louder this time. “Look to the person standing next to you. The competition is not against the person next to you. A mistake I made when I was your age. Here your competition is against the past you’ve come from, against the identity that has been forged by the world before you. You will break through limitations others have placed upon you. You will leave behind your old self. Your true competition lies with your past self. The only boundaries that exist are the ones you believe in your own mind.”
Knight Three stood unmoving, his mind processing the Leader’s words. This was not the NGR’s regimented, social indoctrination where conformity ruled. This was something entirely different—a test of character, a call to transcend the self. For the first time in his life, Knight Three could feel the stirrings of excitement—not from the promise of loyalty, but from the promise of power.
"You will be trained in what it means to be a Mystic Knight. You will wield magic, technology, and steel. But first and foremost, you must understand this: You must be loyal to the Order. If you are not loyal, you do not belong here. Loyalty is the foundation of our Order. Without it, you are a liability.”
A subtle tension filled the room as Lord Isen’s gaze sharpened, sweeping over them all. His words meant to strip away any illusion that might have remained.
“The Order’s training methods are secrets we swear to protect. You will swear an oath. You will sign an agreement. The knowledge and the power you will gain here are not for free nor to be freely shared or sold to those outside the Order. If you betray the Order, if you break your oath—we will hunt you down, and kill you.”
There was a pause, and for the first time, Cedric’s eyes softened ever so slightly. “But...if you earn our trust, then you will be adopted into the family.”
Knight Three’s pulse quickened. Betrayal...death. His life had always been governed by order, by rules, but this was something different. A choice that came with consequences, one that stretched far beyond anything the NGR had ever imposed.
Lord isen's continued, his tone unwavering. “If you cannot, or will not, pass the trials to become a Mystic Knight, there will still be a place for you in our Order. We discard the incompetent. We execute the disloyal.”
Knight Three felt a knot form in his stomach.
“Understand this, so long as you are both loyal and useful, you will stay a member, a non-knight member, but a member still. You will earn your wage and retire with a pension, as a support personal. The House of Isen is renowned throughout the Order for our ability to support the Houses campaigns. We build the bombs, maintain and repair the vehicles and weapons, breed and care for the hounds and steeds. We are the engineers of victory.”
Cedric’s voice dropped low, and the weight of his words pressed against every recruit in the room. “You will earn everything. But the rewards are worth it. Power, the power to shape your body, your fortune, and your future into what you will it to be. The Mystic Knights do not follow anyone else's rules—we make our own. The more power you gain, the fewer people you will need. And then, you will decide how to use power. For your own gain, for the good of others...or for something else entirely. That choice is yours.”
The room was deathly quiet. Cedric let the words hang in the air for a long moment before continuing, his voice softer now but no less commanding.
“But understand this: If you leave, you are no longer welcome. The Order sheds weakness, not welcome it back. Rewards are what drive us, not good intentions or ideals like the Cyber-knights. And what we offer you is the chance to achieve power of your own. Your power will belong to you. But only if you earn it. The only limitation is your desire to reach for it, and the resolve overcome all that stands in your way to it. So, now, the choice is yours. Stay and earn, or leave and beg the world for charity and opportunities. ”
Knight Three’s gaze swept over the recruits beside him. Some were tense, others appeared resolute, but no one made a move to leave. The speech was meant to break down any illusions they might have had about the ease of the path ahead. It was a test of resolve.
Lord Isen, standing tall, waited in silence, letting the moment stretch, his eyes sweeping over the gathered recruits. His sharp gaze was unsettling, like a eagle surveying its prey, and yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper in his silence.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, "You are new. All of you. And I do not expect you to make an immediate decision after what I just told you. Instead, I will give you a day to think what I am offering you. And, something more, a choice.”
He stepped forward slowly, the sound of his boots reverberating against the hall’s high ceiling. His gaze lingered on each recruit, his words sharp as they cut through the stillness.
“I offer you this, 30,000 credits,” he said, pausing for effect. "To take with you. No strings attached. No service required. You can leave House Isen today, and the money will be yours. Walk out, and never look back."
The recruits shifted uneasily, the weight of his offer hanging in the air like an invisible fog.
Lord Isen’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he raised his hand, the smooth golden ring on his finger gleaming as he spoke again.
"But understand this: If you choose the credits, you leave. Forever. You will not be part of this House. We will give you your credits, for not wasting our time, and you will walk away forever. We will not chase you. You will not be made to feel guilty. You will not be hunted. It is simple. The money is yours to take, and with it, you take your leave."
He paused, letting the recruits digest the offer, allowing the tension to build.
He continued, his tone shifting slightly, "if you stay, you will be required to swear an oath of loyalty. You will pledge yourself to the Order of Mystic Knights. You will work. You will train. You will give everything you have, and you will be tested. The House will teach you everything you need to know. In exchange, you will have the opportunity to grow, to learn, to rise. But this is not a decision to be made hastily."
Lord Isen’s eyes gleamed with a touch of something dangerous, something far more calculating. "I have no doubt that, one day, you will encounter someone, perhaps someone you want to impress, who will offer you a better deal. A bigger paycheck. A more comfortable life. Greed is a strong motivator, and I know it well. Perhaps they will offer you more than the thirty thousand credits I offer today. But you must ask yourself this: What is more important to you? The satisfaction of gold in your pocket now, or your place here? Because, in the long run, the true power lies with those who know that patience is worth more than the quick pull of a purse."
His voice grew stronger, his words more deliberate. "House Isen finds it cheaper to pay recruits to leave than to waste time training those who are not suited for this life. But I do not consider this a loss. No. You are not mere tools to be discarded—you are investments. And you will either earn your place here, or you will walk away. But if you stay, if you accept the oath, know that you are committing to something far more valuable than what the world offers. Greed may drive us all, in the moment, but loyalty and dedication will define who you become."
He straightened, his tall form casting a shadow over the recruits, and for a moment, it felt as if the entire hall held its breath.
“You have twenty-four hours to decide,” he said finally, his voice steady and final. "Tomorrow, the offer will expire. You will either take the credits and leave, or you will take the oath and stay. Do not rush this decision. Think it through. We will not look down upon you if you choose the money. But remember, this is your first test: What kind of future do you want for yourself?"
Lord Isen stood watching as the recruits processed his words. He turned on his heel, the rustle of his robes the only sound in the stillness. As he walked away, his voice echoed one final time in the vast hall, "The choice is yours."
And with that, the recruits were left alone, the weight of their decision hanging like an anchor in their minds, as the clock ticked down on their time to choose.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Mess Hall
They sat around a large, polished table in the Mess Hall, the aroma of expertly prepared food filling the air. The atmosphere was lively, with the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation as the recruits enjoyed the lavish meal laid out before them. It was their first day in the Castle, and the social event provided an opportunity to bond with one another.
Knight Three, Calle, Janet, and Robin were seated together, their plates piled high with delicacies. Janet and Robin were quietly discussing the food, marveling at the quality.
Knight Three, a quiet and observant figure, sat at the edge of the conversation, his eyes flickering between his fellow recruits. Calle was grinning as he devoured a plate of roast meat, his eyes alight with a mischievous energy that contrasted with the more serious atmosphere around them. Janet picked at her food, her mind clearly elsewhere, while Robin, a sharp-witted recruit, leaned forward, speaking with an ease that came from having dealt with situations before.
Calle (leaning back in his chair, smirking), "So, I’ve been thinking. Thirty thousand credits. That’s a lot of money. Enough to live comfortably for a long time. And no need to prove anything to anyone. I’m starting to think the smartest thing to do here is just take the money and walk out."
Knight Three (pauses, chewing slowly before responding with quiet certainty), "Look around you. The Order is financially successful. What am I going to do with 30,000 credits? That money will be gone in a couple of months. And I’ll look like a quitter to my family. I go back now, and I’ll have to serve in the military, like everyone else. I ‘graduate’ here, and in a couple of years, I can go back richer and a warrior who can fight Gargoyles like I never could before."
(He pauses, his voice taking on a sharper edge.)
"Gargoyles. They are learning. New tactics for them. Using technology. It’s new for them. We have to learn too. Innovate. If the NGR keeps fighting the war the same way, we will eventually lose more fights than we will win. It’s smarter to change before we need to, than to wait until after we’re losing battles and the lives of my countrymen."
Calle (laughing lightly, his voice dripping with sarcasm), "Real patriot, aren’t you? Signing up with the Mystic Knights. Taking an Oath of loyalty. Tell me, how does that work if your only loyalty is to the NGR?"
Knight Three (his tone level, unwavering), "I didn’t say my only loyalty is to the New German Republic."
Calle (mocking, leaning forward), "Serving two masters? No one can serve two masters. Sounds to me like you’ll inevitably be disloyal to one or the other."
Knight Three (with a slight smirk, unfazed by the challenge), "You’re quite the instigator for someone who says they’re going to take their money and leave. But to address your concerns about my loyalties, let me ask you a question."
He leans in slightly.
"Tell me, are you loyal to your mother?"
Calle (eyes narrowing, but with a hint of defensiveness), "Of course."
Knight Three (calmly), "And your father, are you loyal to him as well?"
Calle (his posture stiffens, but he nods), "Yes."
Knight Three (pausing, then speaking with deliberate care), "Now tell me, are your loyalties to your mother and father in conflict? If you serve one faithfully, must you betray the other?"
(Calle goes silent, his gaze flickering as he processes the question. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.)
Knight Three (his voice steady, no sign of impatience), "There is no conflict for me between my loyalty to both my mother and father. So too, there is no conflict between my loyalty to my Fatherland, Germany, and the Order of the Mystic Knight."
(He pauses again, as if the analogy has settled.)
"Lord Isen himself said that after I graduate, I can leave as long as I pay my tithe to the Order. The Order is essentially a military contractor company. There is nothing disloyal about working for the NGR military as a contractor."
Janet (smiling as she watches the exchange), "You make it sound almost too easy, Knight Three. Loyalty to two, or three, or more... I get it though, in theory."
Robin (joining the conversation), "Yeah, but it’s not always about just loyalty, is it? It’s about what you want to achieve. If you’re always playing both sides, are you really ever fully committed to either one?"
Knight Three (glancing at Robin, then back at Calle), "Loyalty doesn’t mean I must be disloyal to everyone else. I’m here to learn, not just to serve one master over another. If you can use what I learn for both, why not?"
(Calle sits back, clearly caught off guard by the quiet certainty in Knight Three’s words. He doesn't immediately respond but lets out a soft chuckle, trying to regain composure.)
Calle (still smirking but with a touch of respect in his tone), "Well, well. Maybe there’s more to you than I thought. But tell me this—when the NGR comes knocking on your door one day, demanding you turn your back on the Order, what will you do then?"
Knight Three (his gaze sharp, steady as ever), "I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Right now, I don’t see a conflict. The future isn’t set in stone, Calle. You can’t predict everything. But I know where I stand for now."
(Calle leans back in his chair, considering Knight Three’s words. The tension between them lingers, but the conversation has shifted into more reflective ground.)
Calle (grinning), "Well, I guess we’ll see. In twenty-four hours, I’m taking the money, and I’ll be out of here. You can keep your Oath, though. I’m not buying into the Mystic Knight hype."
Robin (glancing at Knight Three, then back at Calle), "You don’t think that’s a bit... easy? I mean, taking the credits and leaving."
Calle (laughing lightly), "Sometimes the easiest answer is the right one. No commitments, no strings. Just me and my 30,000 credits."
(The conversation dies down, the recruits contemplating their positions. The two posters on the wall remain as silent witnesses to their words: one urging loyalty and honor, the other declaring the Mystic Knight’s true allegiance to the Order. The recruits exchange glances, each wondering what their decision will be.)
Knight Three (quietly, almost to himself as he looks at the posters), "Maybe the real question is not whether you can serve two masters... but whether you can serve yourself, without losing who you are in the process."
(As the conversation continues to shift, the food remains untouched by some, while others dig in, distracted by the weight of the choice ahead.)
They sat around a large, polished table in the Mess Hall, the aroma of expertly prepared food filling the air. The atmosphere was lively, with the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation as the recruits enjoyed the lavish meal laid out before them. It was their first day in the Castle, and the social event provided an opportunity to bond with one another.
Knight Three, Calle, Janet, and Robin were seated together, their plates piled high with delicacies. Janet and Robin were quietly discussing the food, marveling at the quality.
Knight Three, a quiet and observant figure, sat at the edge of the conversation, his eyes flickering between his fellow recruits. Calle was grinning as he devoured a plate of roast meat, his eyes alight with a mischievous energy that contrasted with the more serious atmosphere around them. Janet picked at her food, her mind clearly elsewhere, while Robin, a sharp-witted recruit, leaned forward, speaking with an ease that came from having dealt with situations before.
Calle (leaning back in his chair, smirking), "So, I’ve been thinking. Thirty thousand credits. That’s a lot of money. Enough to live comfortably for a long time. And no need to prove anything to anyone. I’m starting to think the smartest thing to do here is just take the money and walk out."
Knight Three (pauses, chewing slowly before responding with quiet certainty), "Look around you. The Order is financially successful. What am I going to do with 30,000 credits? That money will be gone in a couple of months. And I’ll look like a quitter to my family. I go back now, and I’ll have to serve in the military, like everyone else. I ‘graduate’ here, and in a couple of years, I can go back richer and a warrior who can fight Gargoyles like I never could before."
(He pauses, his voice taking on a sharper edge.)
"Gargoyles. They are learning. New tactics for them. Using technology. It’s new for them. We have to learn too. Innovate. If the NGR keeps fighting the war the same way, we will eventually lose more fights than we will win. It’s smarter to change before we need to, than to wait until after we’re losing battles and the lives of my countrymen."
Calle (laughing lightly, his voice dripping with sarcasm), "Real patriot, aren’t you? Signing up with the Mystic Knights. Taking an Oath of loyalty. Tell me, how does that work if your only loyalty is to the NGR?"
Knight Three (his tone level, unwavering), "I didn’t say my only loyalty is to the New German Republic."
Calle (mocking, leaning forward), "Serving two masters? No one can serve two masters. Sounds to me like you’ll inevitably be disloyal to one or the other."
Knight Three (with a slight smirk, unfazed by the challenge), "You’re quite the instigator for someone who says they’re going to take their money and leave. But to address your concerns about my loyalties, let me ask you a question."
He leans in slightly.
"Tell me, are you loyal to your mother?"
Calle (eyes narrowing, but with a hint of defensiveness), "Of course."
Knight Three (calmly), "And your father, are you loyal to him as well?"
Calle (his posture stiffens, but he nods), "Yes."
Knight Three (pausing, then speaking with deliberate care), "Now tell me, are your loyalties to your mother and father in conflict? If you serve one faithfully, must you betray the other?"
(Calle goes silent, his gaze flickering as he processes the question. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.)
Knight Three (his voice steady, no sign of impatience), "There is no conflict for me between my loyalty to both my mother and father. So too, there is no conflict between my loyalty to my Fatherland, Germany, and the Order of the Mystic Knight."
(He pauses again, as if the analogy has settled.)
"Lord Isen himself said that after I graduate, I can leave as long as I pay my tithe to the Order. The Order is essentially a military contractor company. There is nothing disloyal about working for the NGR military as a contractor."
Janet (smiling as she watches the exchange), "You make it sound almost too easy, Knight Three. Loyalty to two, or three, or more... I get it though, in theory."
Robin (joining the conversation), "Yeah, but it’s not always about just loyalty, is it? It’s about what you want to achieve. If you’re always playing both sides, are you really ever fully committed to either one?"
Knight Three (glancing at Robin, then back at Calle), "Loyalty doesn’t mean I must be disloyal to everyone else. I’m here to learn, not just to serve one master over another. If you can use what I learn for both, why not?"
(Calle sits back, clearly caught off guard by the quiet certainty in Knight Three’s words. He doesn't immediately respond but lets out a soft chuckle, trying to regain composure.)
Calle (still smirking but with a touch of respect in his tone), "Well, well. Maybe there’s more to you than I thought. But tell me this—when the NGR comes knocking on your door one day, demanding you turn your back on the Order, what will you do then?"
Knight Three (his gaze sharp, steady as ever), "I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Right now, I don’t see a conflict. The future isn’t set in stone, Calle. You can’t predict everything. But I know where I stand for now."
(Calle leans back in his chair, considering Knight Three’s words. The tension between them lingers, but the conversation has shifted into more reflective ground.)
Calle (grinning), "Well, I guess we’ll see. In twenty-four hours, I’m taking the money, and I’ll be out of here. You can keep your Oath, though. I’m not buying into the Mystic Knight hype."
Robin (glancing at Knight Three, then back at Calle), "You don’t think that’s a bit... easy? I mean, taking the credits and leaving."
Calle (laughing lightly), "Sometimes the easiest answer is the right one. No commitments, no strings. Just me and my 30,000 credits."
(The conversation dies down, the recruits contemplating their positions. The two posters on the wall remain as silent witnesses to their words: one urging loyalty and honor, the other declaring the Mystic Knight’s true allegiance to the Order. The recruits exchange glances, each wondering what their decision will be.)
Knight Three (quietly, almost to himself as he looks at the posters), "Maybe the real question is not whether you can serve two masters... but whether you can serve yourself, without losing who you are in the process."
(As the conversation continues to shift, the food remains untouched by some, while others dig in, distracted by the weight of the choice ahead.)
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: House Isen
Knight Three’s Journal Entry on House Isen
As I continue my training at House Isen, I find myself becoming more attuned to the structure and purpose of this academy. On the surface, it is a place of immense beauty, inspired by the designs of old yet crafted from materials we use today.
The Castle itself stands like a fortress from a storybook, with towering turrets and battlements. There’s an imposing grandeur to it, not just in its architecture, but in the way it exists. But these structures are more than ornamental; they are modern fortifications built to withstand modern weaponry.
The first thing that strikes you when you approach the Castle is the wall. It’s tall, imposing, rampart and constructed with reinforced concrete, decorated with elements that give it an air of ancient stone battlements, but everything about it is modern, built to withstand the kind of threats we could face in the world outside. It’s clear that this wall isn’t just for show; it’s a first line of defense, part of the military-grade infrastructure that protects everything inside.
The space between the wall and the Castle is wide—open for training, tactical exercises, or just as a buffer zone to make sure nothing gets too close without being noticed.
Beyond the wall, there’s a peaceful contrast: rows of fruit-bearing trees and fields that stretch far into the distance. The orchard and crop fields are carefully maintained, providing food for everyone inside the Castle. It’s almost strange to see such tranquility on the same grounds that house such a fierce training academy. It’s a reminder that self-sufficiency go hand-in-hand here at House Isen.
The Castle itself is a blend of the old and new. On the outside, it evokes the regal presence of a fortress. The turrets rise sharply, giving the place the feel of something out of an ancient tale, but it’s the materials that tell the true story. Concrete, steel, and specialized ceramics form its bones. The mix of polished ceramics with textured concrete gives the place an almost sculptural elegance. It’s strong, and undeniably powerful, but it’s also beautiful in its design.
Beneath the surface, the Castle is more than just a collection of stone and steel. It’s built into the earth itself, with deep underground sections housing critical infrastructure. Some D-Bee or mining Borg must have built it long ago with underground architecture in mind. The hidden bunkers, maintenance areas, and command centers lie beneath our feet, ensuring that in the event of a threat, House Isen’s operations can continue in secret and safety.
There’s something unsettlingly powerful about knowing that the place where we sleep, train, and eat could, if necessary, turn into a hidden stronghold.
Inside, the Castle strikes a balance between warmth and function. The Great Hall, where all visitors are greeted, is magnificent—high stone walls adorned with the history of House Isen. The room has a large fireplace that crackles during colder months, giving it a comfortable warmth, despite its imposing design. It’s a place for meetings, ceremonies, and celebrations, a reminder that, at the core of this mercenary House, traditions still matter.
The Grand Library is my sanctuary. Its wood plank floors absorb every footstep, and the towering shelves are filled with centuries of knowledge. Books and scrolls on everything I’ve poured over and still not finished.
There’s something about the quiet in there that helps me think clearly, almost as if the knowledge within the walls seeps into my mind. Every visit reminds me that being a Mystic Knight is not just about physical prowess but also about understanding the world we aim to decide our place in and shape our small corner of it according to how we envision it.
The Museum within the castle houses artifacts, trophies, and historical pieces related to House Isen’s legacy. It serves both as an educational resource and a tribute to the achievements of the family and its predecessors.
The Mess Hall, across from the library, serves as the heart of our House. It’s where we gather to eat, talk, and relax. Long tables stretch across the room, where apprentices like myself sit with their mentors, sharing meals and ideas. It’s always bustling, filled with conversation and laughter, a far cry from the intensity of the training sessions that take place outside.
Training here is never easy, and there’s no shortage of facilities that reflect the rigorous demands placed on us. The Firing Range, where we practice marksmanship. The targets shift and reset on their own, providing us with real-time, challenging situations to hone our skills.
The Obstacle Course, a sprawling setup filled with various challenges, pushes us to our limits—agility, endurance, and speed. It’s here that I’ve realized how far I can push my own body, testing my ability to move quickly under pressure. It’s not just about physical strength; the course requires mental toughness, an ability to think through the challenge while in the midst of it.
The Gym and Melee Fighting Spaces are the arenas where I truly test myself. The gym is always filled with the sound of metal weights clanking and the rhythmic sound of running feet. But it’s the Melee Fighting Spaces where my real growth has occurred. I’ve learned to fight with my hands, my fists, and my feet. The boxing ring, the sparring dummies—everything here is designed to push my limits, and I embrace every moment of it. Each session feels like a new chance to prove myself.
The Armory and Maintenance Center are an absolute marvel—stocked with everything from traditional swords to advanced modern weaponry. I’ve spent hours here, learning how to maintain, repair, and modify weapons. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that, when the time comes, I can not only wield these tools but keep them in peak condition.
Then there’s the Motor Pool and the Livery Stables—both integral parts of our training. The vehicles we use, from jeeps to combat vehicles, are kept ready at all times. And the horses... The stables are a place where we practice horseback riding, learning how to care for them and train them for battle. It's not just about owning a horse; it’s about understanding how to work with them in combat scenarios, something I’m still getting the hang of.
Away from the action, the academy provides a peaceful Meditation Space for students to unwind and reflect. It features minimalistic design elements, comfortable seating, and soft lighting, with views of the surrounding grounds to promote mental clarity and focus.
One of the things I’ve come to appreciate here is how sustainable the Castle is. Solar panels and wind turbines are dotted around the grounds, ensuring that we maintain energy independence. I’ve seen the solar fields firsthand, and it’s clear that House Isen doesn’t just focus on military strength but also on maintaining a forward-thinking approach to energy. The Water Tower, an iconic structure on the grounds, ensures we have a clean, reliable source of water, and it also serves as a vantage point—giving us a high view of the surrounding areas.
The Social Center is another important space, one where apprentices can take a break from the intensity of training. It’s a place to unwind, play games, or even listen to music after a long day. I’ve spent time there with my fellow recruits, just talking and enjoying the respite from the demanding schedule.
House Isen is a place that feels both ancient and modern at once. It carries the weight of tradition, but it embraces the future—whether in terms of technology, sustainability, or military defense. The academy pushes us to be both resouceful and forward-thinking, repeating a quote of Julius Caesar that emphasizes the engineering aspects of achieving victory:
Without training, they lacked knowledge.
Without knowledge, they lacked confidence.
Without confidence, they lacked victory.
Knight Three’s Journal Entry on House Isen
As I continue my training at House Isen, I find myself becoming more attuned to the structure and purpose of this academy. On the surface, it is a place of immense beauty, inspired by the designs of old yet crafted from materials we use today.
The Castle itself stands like a fortress from a storybook, with towering turrets and battlements. There’s an imposing grandeur to it, not just in its architecture, but in the way it exists. But these structures are more than ornamental; they are modern fortifications built to withstand modern weaponry.
The first thing that strikes you when you approach the Castle is the wall. It’s tall, imposing, rampart and constructed with reinforced concrete, decorated with elements that give it an air of ancient stone battlements, but everything about it is modern, built to withstand the kind of threats we could face in the world outside. It’s clear that this wall isn’t just for show; it’s a first line of defense, part of the military-grade infrastructure that protects everything inside.
The space between the wall and the Castle is wide—open for training, tactical exercises, or just as a buffer zone to make sure nothing gets too close without being noticed.
Beyond the wall, there’s a peaceful contrast: rows of fruit-bearing trees and fields that stretch far into the distance. The orchard and crop fields are carefully maintained, providing food for everyone inside the Castle. It’s almost strange to see such tranquility on the same grounds that house such a fierce training academy. It’s a reminder that self-sufficiency go hand-in-hand here at House Isen.
The Castle itself is a blend of the old and new. On the outside, it evokes the regal presence of a fortress. The turrets rise sharply, giving the place the feel of something out of an ancient tale, but it’s the materials that tell the true story. Concrete, steel, and specialized ceramics form its bones. The mix of polished ceramics with textured concrete gives the place an almost sculptural elegance. It’s strong, and undeniably powerful, but it’s also beautiful in its design.
Beneath the surface, the Castle is more than just a collection of stone and steel. It’s built into the earth itself, with deep underground sections housing critical infrastructure. Some D-Bee or mining Borg must have built it long ago with underground architecture in mind. The hidden bunkers, maintenance areas, and command centers lie beneath our feet, ensuring that in the event of a threat, House Isen’s operations can continue in secret and safety.
There’s something unsettlingly powerful about knowing that the place where we sleep, train, and eat could, if necessary, turn into a hidden stronghold.
Inside, the Castle strikes a balance between warmth and function. The Great Hall, where all visitors are greeted, is magnificent—high stone walls adorned with the history of House Isen. The room has a large fireplace that crackles during colder months, giving it a comfortable warmth, despite its imposing design. It’s a place for meetings, ceremonies, and celebrations, a reminder that, at the core of this mercenary House, traditions still matter.
The Grand Library is my sanctuary. Its wood plank floors absorb every footstep, and the towering shelves are filled with centuries of knowledge. Books and scrolls on everything I’ve poured over and still not finished.
There’s something about the quiet in there that helps me think clearly, almost as if the knowledge within the walls seeps into my mind. Every visit reminds me that being a Mystic Knight is not just about physical prowess but also about understanding the world we aim to decide our place in and shape our small corner of it according to how we envision it.
The Museum within the castle houses artifacts, trophies, and historical pieces related to House Isen’s legacy. It serves both as an educational resource and a tribute to the achievements of the family and its predecessors.
The Mess Hall, across from the library, serves as the heart of our House. It’s where we gather to eat, talk, and relax. Long tables stretch across the room, where apprentices like myself sit with their mentors, sharing meals and ideas. It’s always bustling, filled with conversation and laughter, a far cry from the intensity of the training sessions that take place outside.
Training here is never easy, and there’s no shortage of facilities that reflect the rigorous demands placed on us. The Firing Range, where we practice marksmanship. The targets shift and reset on their own, providing us with real-time, challenging situations to hone our skills.
The Obstacle Course, a sprawling setup filled with various challenges, pushes us to our limits—agility, endurance, and speed. It’s here that I’ve realized how far I can push my own body, testing my ability to move quickly under pressure. It’s not just about physical strength; the course requires mental toughness, an ability to think through the challenge while in the midst of it.
The Gym and Melee Fighting Spaces are the arenas where I truly test myself. The gym is always filled with the sound of metal weights clanking and the rhythmic sound of running feet. But it’s the Melee Fighting Spaces where my real growth has occurred. I’ve learned to fight with my hands, my fists, and my feet. The boxing ring, the sparring dummies—everything here is designed to push my limits, and I embrace every moment of it. Each session feels like a new chance to prove myself.
The Armory and Maintenance Center are an absolute marvel—stocked with everything from traditional swords to advanced modern weaponry. I’ve spent hours here, learning how to maintain, repair, and modify weapons. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that, when the time comes, I can not only wield these tools but keep them in peak condition.
Then there’s the Motor Pool and the Livery Stables—both integral parts of our training. The vehicles we use, from jeeps to combat vehicles, are kept ready at all times. And the horses... The stables are a place where we practice horseback riding, learning how to care for them and train them for battle. It's not just about owning a horse; it’s about understanding how to work with them in combat scenarios, something I’m still getting the hang of.
Away from the action, the academy provides a peaceful Meditation Space for students to unwind and reflect. It features minimalistic design elements, comfortable seating, and soft lighting, with views of the surrounding grounds to promote mental clarity and focus.
One of the things I’ve come to appreciate here is how sustainable the Castle is. Solar panels and wind turbines are dotted around the grounds, ensuring that we maintain energy independence. I’ve seen the solar fields firsthand, and it’s clear that House Isen doesn’t just focus on military strength but also on maintaining a forward-thinking approach to energy. The Water Tower, an iconic structure on the grounds, ensures we have a clean, reliable source of water, and it also serves as a vantage point—giving us a high view of the surrounding areas.
The Social Center is another important space, one where apprentices can take a break from the intensity of training. It’s a place to unwind, play games, or even listen to music after a long day. I’ve spent time there with my fellow recruits, just talking and enjoying the respite from the demanding schedule.
House Isen is a place that feels both ancient and modern at once. It carries the weight of tradition, but it embraces the future—whether in terms of technology, sustainability, or military defense. The academy pushes us to be both resouceful and forward-thinking, repeating a quote of Julius Caesar that emphasizes the engineering aspects of achieving victory:
Without training, they lacked knowledge.
Without knowledge, they lacked confidence.
Without confidence, they lacked victory.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: House Isen of the Order of the Mystic Knights
The recruits stood in the grand hall, a tense silence hanging in the air. It was the final moment, the 24 hour period that had been set aside for them to decide: take the 30,000 credits and leave or stay and swear the Oath of Loyalty to the Order of the Mystic Knights.
Each recruit had their own reason for being there. For some, it was a desire for a better life. For others, it was the lure of power. But now, as the clock ticked away, the choice had to be made.
Knight Three stood among the recruits, his posture steady and composed. He had not wavered since Lord Isen’s offer. He had already made up his mind.
One by one, the recruits made their decision. Some hesitated, glancing nervously at the others before stepping forward to take the thirty thousand credits. Others stood resolute, their eyes unwavering as they swore their loyalty to the Order. When it came time for Knight Three, he stepped forward without hesitation.
"I swear my loyalty to the Order of the Mystic Knights, and to House Isen," he said firmly, his voice strong, yet calm.
Lord Isen stood at the front of the hall, watching each recruit. He gave a slight nod of approval when each person swore their Oath. The recruits who had chosen to stay now stood together.
Then they were escorted out of the hall and down a series of stone corridors with plank wood floors, the heavy echo of their footsteps filling the air. Until they eventually entered a chamber.
Before them stood a fully armored Mystic Knight.
"Your apprenticeship at House Isen is structured to take five years," The Mystic Knight’s voice boomed across the room. "Although, some of you may be able to learn parts of it faster, it is not about speed, it is about mastery. Years of practice will make it so you can perform what you learn in battle and high-stress situations. You won’t just be learning skills, but building your body and mind to perform the skills with confidence and ease from doing them every day; as routine as getting dressed."
Knight Three stood in the back. They were all here for the same goal, but each with their own personal reasons—though none of them knew yet the true cost of the commitment they had made.
"Pick up your chisels," the Mystic Knight commanded, his voice firm as he stood before the gathered recruits. Knight Three had complied without hesitation, taking the chisel in his right hand, the metal cool against his palm. It was heavier than he had expected, the weight unfamiliar, unfamiliar in a way that was almost disorienting.
"You will carve your name into this stone," the Mystic Knight said. "Not because it’s a rite of passage, which it is, but because you will learn to shape the future with your own hands. Your name will be etched in stone, the same way we will carve our future into the world."
The Mystic Knight continued, "A spoken vow or signature on a piece of paper means nothing in the face of temptation and risk of injury or death. But carving your name into stone, the work requires strength, stamina, patience, and the precision of your hand. This will be your mark on this place, a true seal of your commitment to House Isen and the Order of the Mystic Knights."
Pausing
"We are different from the other Mystic Knight Houses in that we place great pride in our ability to build and repair," the Mystic Knight continued, pacing in front of the recruits. "As a requirement for graduation, each of you will learn to master tools, and forge or jury-rig many of your own under field conditions. You will make your own armor and weapons. You will understand what it costs if you allow them to be destroyed, lost, or stolen. And, you must be able to repair or salvage what you can from what you have around you."
The idea of crafting his own armor, weapons, and survival gear seemed... basic. Why not leave it to specialists? The task seemed simple, even trivial in comparison to the larger battles he imagined himself fighting against the Gargoyle Empire.
Knight Three had raised his hand, his curiosity still stinging with the freshness of the lessons.
The Mystic Knight nodded to him, a sharp look in his eyes that made Knight Three’s throat tighten.
“If House Isen has our own support personnel who specialize in scrounging the battlefield for what is worth salvaging, shouldn’t we focus on the science of fighting war instead?” Knight Three had asked, feeling a sudden rush of confidence. It was a reasonable question, in his mind. Why bother with scavenging if they had people trained specifically for it? Why not just focus on being the best fighters they could be, on mastering combat?
The Mystic Knight paused for a long moment, as though considering the question. The room had gone silent, all eyes turning to Knight Three as he stood there, waiting for the instructor’s response. The weight of the question felt heavy, but not nearly as heavy as the Mystic Knight’s gaze.
"IF you find yourself cut off from support or are the only one alive or operational,” the Mystic Knight finally said, his voice low but firm, “your life, and the lives of your surviving squad, might depend upon your skills to repair your gear and weapons. History proves that more have died from disease, the elements, famine, and injuries than anyone’s arrow, blade, blast, bomb, or bullet killed immediately.”
Knight Three had stood in stunned silence, the full weight of the Mystic Knight’s words slowly settling into his mind. This wasn’t just about fighting, it was about being able to adapt, to fix what was broken, to make do with what was available. The true test, would not come in the midst of battle but in the moments afterward—the moments when everything around them had fallen apart, and they had to rebuild from the scraps.
"Battle is not JUST fought on the front lines—it is fought with every decision, every scrap of metal, and every ounce of energy. War is expensive," his words cutting through the air. "And it is not a REAL victory unless we BOTH survive and profit. A 100,000-credit contract is a financial loss if it costs you 200,000 to fulfill it."
pausing.
The way of Mystic Knight is power. Not JUST the power of the Martial Arts and Magic or psionics but the power of mastery as well. Master your skills and you will master yourself. Master yourself and you become your own master. Only then will you the power to choose how you live your life."
Knight Three picked up the chisel, feeling its weight in his hand. It was heavier than he expected.
"We will teach you the techniques but it is up to you to practice. This is the safest place to practice and make mistake. You can try and fail but you must not fail to try. Making mistakes, here, are a mark of action, a step towards your goal and the cost of progress. If you make a mistake, we have Earth Warlocks who can mend the stone, and you can start over."
Pausing.
“On the battlefield, mistakes will cost you your profit if not your life, and the lives of your sqaud.”
The recruits stood in the grand hall, a tense silence hanging in the air. It was the final moment, the 24 hour period that had been set aside for them to decide: take the 30,000 credits and leave or stay and swear the Oath of Loyalty to the Order of the Mystic Knights.
Each recruit had their own reason for being there. For some, it was a desire for a better life. For others, it was the lure of power. But now, as the clock ticked away, the choice had to be made.
Knight Three stood among the recruits, his posture steady and composed. He had not wavered since Lord Isen’s offer. He had already made up his mind.
One by one, the recruits made their decision. Some hesitated, glancing nervously at the others before stepping forward to take the thirty thousand credits. Others stood resolute, their eyes unwavering as they swore their loyalty to the Order. When it came time for Knight Three, he stepped forward without hesitation.
"I swear my loyalty to the Order of the Mystic Knights, and to House Isen," he said firmly, his voice strong, yet calm.
Lord Isen stood at the front of the hall, watching each recruit. He gave a slight nod of approval when each person swore their Oath. The recruits who had chosen to stay now stood together.
Then they were escorted out of the hall and down a series of stone corridors with plank wood floors, the heavy echo of their footsteps filling the air. Until they eventually entered a chamber.
Before them stood a fully armored Mystic Knight.
"Your apprenticeship at House Isen is structured to take five years," The Mystic Knight’s voice boomed across the room. "Although, some of you may be able to learn parts of it faster, it is not about speed, it is about mastery. Years of practice will make it so you can perform what you learn in battle and high-stress situations. You won’t just be learning skills, but building your body and mind to perform the skills with confidence and ease from doing them every day; as routine as getting dressed."
Knight Three stood in the back. They were all here for the same goal, but each with their own personal reasons—though none of them knew yet the true cost of the commitment they had made.
"Pick up your chisels," the Mystic Knight commanded, his voice firm as he stood before the gathered recruits. Knight Three had complied without hesitation, taking the chisel in his right hand, the metal cool against his palm. It was heavier than he had expected, the weight unfamiliar, unfamiliar in a way that was almost disorienting.
"You will carve your name into this stone," the Mystic Knight said. "Not because it’s a rite of passage, which it is, but because you will learn to shape the future with your own hands. Your name will be etched in stone, the same way we will carve our future into the world."
The Mystic Knight continued, "A spoken vow or signature on a piece of paper means nothing in the face of temptation and risk of injury or death. But carving your name into stone, the work requires strength, stamina, patience, and the precision of your hand. This will be your mark on this place, a true seal of your commitment to House Isen and the Order of the Mystic Knights."
Pausing
"We are different from the other Mystic Knight Houses in that we place great pride in our ability to build and repair," the Mystic Knight continued, pacing in front of the recruits. "As a requirement for graduation, each of you will learn to master tools, and forge or jury-rig many of your own under field conditions. You will make your own armor and weapons. You will understand what it costs if you allow them to be destroyed, lost, or stolen. And, you must be able to repair or salvage what you can from what you have around you."
The idea of crafting his own armor, weapons, and survival gear seemed... basic. Why not leave it to specialists? The task seemed simple, even trivial in comparison to the larger battles he imagined himself fighting against the Gargoyle Empire.
Knight Three had raised his hand, his curiosity still stinging with the freshness of the lessons.
The Mystic Knight nodded to him, a sharp look in his eyes that made Knight Three’s throat tighten.
“If House Isen has our own support personnel who specialize in scrounging the battlefield for what is worth salvaging, shouldn’t we focus on the science of fighting war instead?” Knight Three had asked, feeling a sudden rush of confidence. It was a reasonable question, in his mind. Why bother with scavenging if they had people trained specifically for it? Why not just focus on being the best fighters they could be, on mastering combat?
The Mystic Knight paused for a long moment, as though considering the question. The room had gone silent, all eyes turning to Knight Three as he stood there, waiting for the instructor’s response. The weight of the question felt heavy, but not nearly as heavy as the Mystic Knight’s gaze.
"IF you find yourself cut off from support or are the only one alive or operational,” the Mystic Knight finally said, his voice low but firm, “your life, and the lives of your surviving squad, might depend upon your skills to repair your gear and weapons. History proves that more have died from disease, the elements, famine, and injuries than anyone’s arrow, blade, blast, bomb, or bullet killed immediately.”
Knight Three had stood in stunned silence, the full weight of the Mystic Knight’s words slowly settling into his mind. This wasn’t just about fighting, it was about being able to adapt, to fix what was broken, to make do with what was available. The true test, would not come in the midst of battle but in the moments afterward—the moments when everything around them had fallen apart, and they had to rebuild from the scraps.
"Battle is not JUST fought on the front lines—it is fought with every decision, every scrap of metal, and every ounce of energy. War is expensive," his words cutting through the air. "And it is not a REAL victory unless we BOTH survive and profit. A 100,000-credit contract is a financial loss if it costs you 200,000 to fulfill it."
pausing.
The way of Mystic Knight is power. Not JUST the power of the Martial Arts and Magic or psionics but the power of mastery as well. Master your skills and you will master yourself. Master yourself and you become your own master. Only then will you the power to choose how you live your life."
Knight Three picked up the chisel, feeling its weight in his hand. It was heavier than he expected.
"We will teach you the techniques but it is up to you to practice. This is the safest place to practice and make mistake. You can try and fail but you must not fail to try. Making mistakes, here, are a mark of action, a step towards your goal and the cost of progress. If you make a mistake, we have Earth Warlocks who can mend the stone, and you can start over."
Pausing.
“On the battlefield, mistakes will cost you your profit if not your life, and the lives of your sqaud.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The House of Isen
The soft chime of the wake-up call sounded through the quiet dorm room, rousing Knight Three from his deep, focused sleep. His eyes snapped open, the grogginess evaporating as his mind immediately began to clear. He didn’t need an alarm to tell him when the day started. His body had become accustomed to the rhythm of early mornings, long before the academy had ever come into the picture.
He rose from his cot with mechanical precision, stretching his limbs and adjusting the simple bedding with the same care he gave to every small task. A quick glance at the clock showed 5:30 AM.
The first thing he did was use the literine.
Next, to center his thoughts, meditation, the cornerstone of his discipline. Focusing on his breathing and pushing away extraneous thoughts. He sat cross-legged on the heated wood plank floor, eyes closed, and inhaled deeply, his mind aligning with the calm of the academy’s early morning stillness. Each breath felt like a reset, a moment of clarity before the storm of challenges ahead.
By the time he finished, the initial wave of calm had settled within him. He rose, not a single bead of sweat on his forehead yet, and moved to prepare for the physical conditioning session ahead.
His uniform was neat, ironed to perfection the night before—he moved swiftly, not hesitating to tie his shoes and grab his water bottle.
The academy's walls were still cloaked in the gray of dawn, but the day was about to begin. He stepped out into the cold air, inhaling the scent of the earth and the lingering dampness of morning fog.
The others were already gathering in the courtyard, their eyes tired but alert.
Physical conditioning started promptly. The other recruits had gathered, some excited, some grim-faced. Knight Three didn’t waste any time on unnecessary thoughts. His mind was already calculating the most efficient way to run the perimeter, calculating how much effort each part of the route would require, adjusting for terrain, and planning for the next hour. He moved into the pack with the steady pace of someone who had trained for this very moment.
When the run began, his legs quickly fell into their rhythm. While others panted and stumbled, he kept his breathing steady, his thoughts clear. His stamina had been conditioned for moments like this, and though the others fell behind, he felt his body gliding effortlessly through the exercise. Not once did he feel winded; his mind wasn’t on his body’s limitations—it was already thinking ahead to the next challenge, already reviewing how he could make the next station more efficient.
The rest of the exercises passed by in a blur of calculated precision. Push-ups, pull-ups, core work—each task was an obstacle he viewed as a mere puzzle to solve. Knight Three breezed through it, mentally noting the places he could improve his form, even though his performance was already exemplary.
Once the physical conditioning ended at 7:30 AM, they filed into the Mess Hall for breakfast. The usual clatter of trays and silverware filled the room, but Knight Three remained focused. His eyes scanned the room, mentally assessing each person’s energy. He didn’t care much for small talk; what mattered was how they would measure up during the challenges of the day.
Chaz Montgomery IV caught his eye, as usual, lounging at the far end of the table, looking utterly unconcerned with the gravity of their training. He leaned back, with the effortless charm of someone who never had to fight for anything, and Knight Three couldn’t help but notice the subtle smugness radiating off of him. Elara Grayson was sitting near him, looking slightly out of place, as if this world of luxury and formality wasn’t one she’d chosen but one she had to endure. Knight Three didn’t waste much time on them—he had already calculated their roles in the academy and the interactions he might need to navigate.
Breakfast was served in silence for Knight Three, his mind reviewing the day's schedule. Weaponry training at 8:00 AM. Sparring sessions at 9:30 AM. He had a plan for each event, from rifle practice to close combat drills. He even thought ahead to the paramedics training at 2:00 PM, already anticipating the nuances of trauma care and how it would affect his mental clarity in the field.
At Weaponry Training, the room was filled with the scent of oil, gunmetal, and steel. Knight Three worked with the same precision he applied to everything else. Disassembling, inspecting, and reassembling rifles in record time, he moved through the stations without missing a beat. Some students struggled to keep up, fumbling with the complex mechanisms. He observed them—Jules Everhart, standing quietly in the corner, clearly waiting for an opportunity to cause some chaos, and Ellie Grayson, who handled her rifle with awkward precision, though her stance hinted at untapped potential.
The morning’s sparring session brought even more faces to his attention. Jules challenged Knight Three with a grin, throwing out a few quick jabs, his movement erratic, but not without purpose. Knight Three predicted the trajectory of each strike, countering with controlled swiftness. Each time their swords met, Knight Three’s calculated precision was clear, parrying with exactness. But when Jules raised an eyebrow at him after their match, Knight Three realized: Jules was enjoying the chaos, not the technique.
Ellie, on the other hand, was a mystery. She fought with determination, her swings not always perfect but filled with raw energy. Knight Three noted her adaptability and curiosity. It was rare to see that kind of intensity from someone who wasn’t a natural competitor, and it intrigued him.
The afternoon was filled with practical work. As he molded and sharpened knives, made arrows, and worked with materials, Knight Three’s mind was already working through the logistical intricacies of the exercises. He didn’t just follow instructions; he understood the mechanics behind each task, observing the connections between design and function. The more he learned, the more he saw how interconnected everything was, how one piece of knowledge could lead to another, and another, and so on.
By 3:00 PM, he was exhausted, but his mind remained clear. During the combat simulation, where they practiced land navigation and tactical breaching, Knight Three found his rhythm again. The simulations were chaotic, but he thrived in them, quickly adjusting to the unpredictable changes. His sharp instincts kicked in, and his ability to think on his feet made him a natural leader within the group. He set traps, directed the group, and breached the enemy position with calculated precision.
The day ended with another round of endurance training, and while his legs felt the strain of the laps around the school’s perimeter, Knight Three’s mind remained sharp. Even as exhaustion gripped his muscles, his focus didn’t waver. This was the grind. This was where his mind and body had been trained to succeed.
Finally, at dinner, as the recruits relaxed, Knight Three took a seat in the Mess Hall. It was time to socialize—something he didn’t particularly enjoy, but it was necessary to understand the people around him. As his peers discussed the day’s training, speculated about upcoming tests, and shared their experiences, Knight Three listened more than he spoke, gauging each of them, storing away their mannerisms, their speech patterns. Information was power.
As the day closed, Knight Three returned to his room, where he studied schematics and diagrams, reading the plans for future training. By 9:30 PM, he was meditating once again, reflecting on the day’s lessons and his performance.
Tomorrow, he will tackle a new "box." A bigger box. But for now, his mind was calm, knowing that he had taken another step toward mastery.
The soft chime of the wake-up call sounded through the quiet dorm room, rousing Knight Three from his deep, focused sleep. His eyes snapped open, the grogginess evaporating as his mind immediately began to clear. He didn’t need an alarm to tell him when the day started. His body had become accustomed to the rhythm of early mornings, long before the academy had ever come into the picture.
He rose from his cot with mechanical precision, stretching his limbs and adjusting the simple bedding with the same care he gave to every small task. A quick glance at the clock showed 5:30 AM.
The first thing he did was use the literine.
Next, to center his thoughts, meditation, the cornerstone of his discipline. Focusing on his breathing and pushing away extraneous thoughts. He sat cross-legged on the heated wood plank floor, eyes closed, and inhaled deeply, his mind aligning with the calm of the academy’s early morning stillness. Each breath felt like a reset, a moment of clarity before the storm of challenges ahead.
By the time he finished, the initial wave of calm had settled within him. He rose, not a single bead of sweat on his forehead yet, and moved to prepare for the physical conditioning session ahead.
His uniform was neat, ironed to perfection the night before—he moved swiftly, not hesitating to tie his shoes and grab his water bottle.
The academy's walls were still cloaked in the gray of dawn, but the day was about to begin. He stepped out into the cold air, inhaling the scent of the earth and the lingering dampness of morning fog.
The others were already gathering in the courtyard, their eyes tired but alert.
Physical conditioning started promptly. The other recruits had gathered, some excited, some grim-faced. Knight Three didn’t waste any time on unnecessary thoughts. His mind was already calculating the most efficient way to run the perimeter, calculating how much effort each part of the route would require, adjusting for terrain, and planning for the next hour. He moved into the pack with the steady pace of someone who had trained for this very moment.
When the run began, his legs quickly fell into their rhythm. While others panted and stumbled, he kept his breathing steady, his thoughts clear. His stamina had been conditioned for moments like this, and though the others fell behind, he felt his body gliding effortlessly through the exercise. Not once did he feel winded; his mind wasn’t on his body’s limitations—it was already thinking ahead to the next challenge, already reviewing how he could make the next station more efficient.
The rest of the exercises passed by in a blur of calculated precision. Push-ups, pull-ups, core work—each task was an obstacle he viewed as a mere puzzle to solve. Knight Three breezed through it, mentally noting the places he could improve his form, even though his performance was already exemplary.
Once the physical conditioning ended at 7:30 AM, they filed into the Mess Hall for breakfast. The usual clatter of trays and silverware filled the room, but Knight Three remained focused. His eyes scanned the room, mentally assessing each person’s energy. He didn’t care much for small talk; what mattered was how they would measure up during the challenges of the day.
Chaz Montgomery IV caught his eye, as usual, lounging at the far end of the table, looking utterly unconcerned with the gravity of their training. He leaned back, with the effortless charm of someone who never had to fight for anything, and Knight Three couldn’t help but notice the subtle smugness radiating off of him. Elara Grayson was sitting near him, looking slightly out of place, as if this world of luxury and formality wasn’t one she’d chosen but one she had to endure. Knight Three didn’t waste much time on them—he had already calculated their roles in the academy and the interactions he might need to navigate.
Breakfast was served in silence for Knight Three, his mind reviewing the day's schedule. Weaponry training at 8:00 AM. Sparring sessions at 9:30 AM. He had a plan for each event, from rifle practice to close combat drills. He even thought ahead to the paramedics training at 2:00 PM, already anticipating the nuances of trauma care and how it would affect his mental clarity in the field.
At Weaponry Training, the room was filled with the scent of oil, gunmetal, and steel. Knight Three worked with the same precision he applied to everything else. Disassembling, inspecting, and reassembling rifles in record time, he moved through the stations without missing a beat. Some students struggled to keep up, fumbling with the complex mechanisms. He observed them—Jules Everhart, standing quietly in the corner, clearly waiting for an opportunity to cause some chaos, and Ellie Grayson, who handled her rifle with awkward precision, though her stance hinted at untapped potential.
The morning’s sparring session brought even more faces to his attention. Jules challenged Knight Three with a grin, throwing out a few quick jabs, his movement erratic, but not without purpose. Knight Three predicted the trajectory of each strike, countering with controlled swiftness. Each time their swords met, Knight Three’s calculated precision was clear, parrying with exactness. But when Jules raised an eyebrow at him after their match, Knight Three realized: Jules was enjoying the chaos, not the technique.
Ellie, on the other hand, was a mystery. She fought with determination, her swings not always perfect but filled with raw energy. Knight Three noted her adaptability and curiosity. It was rare to see that kind of intensity from someone who wasn’t a natural competitor, and it intrigued him.
The afternoon was filled with practical work. As he molded and sharpened knives, made arrows, and worked with materials, Knight Three’s mind was already working through the logistical intricacies of the exercises. He didn’t just follow instructions; he understood the mechanics behind each task, observing the connections between design and function. The more he learned, the more he saw how interconnected everything was, how one piece of knowledge could lead to another, and another, and so on.
By 3:00 PM, he was exhausted, but his mind remained clear. During the combat simulation, where they practiced land navigation and tactical breaching, Knight Three found his rhythm again. The simulations were chaotic, but he thrived in them, quickly adjusting to the unpredictable changes. His sharp instincts kicked in, and his ability to think on his feet made him a natural leader within the group. He set traps, directed the group, and breached the enemy position with calculated precision.
The day ended with another round of endurance training, and while his legs felt the strain of the laps around the school’s perimeter, Knight Three’s mind remained sharp. Even as exhaustion gripped his muscles, his focus didn’t waver. This was the grind. This was where his mind and body had been trained to succeed.
Finally, at dinner, as the recruits relaxed, Knight Three took a seat in the Mess Hall. It was time to socialize—something he didn’t particularly enjoy, but it was necessary to understand the people around him. As his peers discussed the day’s training, speculated about upcoming tests, and shared their experiences, Knight Three listened more than he spoke, gauging each of them, storing away their mannerisms, their speech patterns. Information was power.
As the day closed, Knight Three returned to his room, where he studied schematics and diagrams, reading the plans for future training. By 9:30 PM, he was meditating once again, reflecting on the day’s lessons and his performance.
Tomorrow, he will tackle a new "box." A bigger box. But for now, his mind was calm, knowing that he had taken another step toward mastery.