NationStates Jolt Archive

DS1 didn't work very well . . . primarily because I was too tired to make anything of it . . . this is a major event in the development of Weyr, and a follow up on the High Guard restructuring (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=340340).

This is a controlled RP, so you can join with any -human- character; but remember that the storyline is essentially set..
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IC:

Kilometers of desert wasteland rolled past the window of the speeding steamer, more kilometers than Renkis J. Harlford could count. The steamer's dual cycler engines hummed their tune, sending waves of thaumaturgic power through the train.

The PA system crackled and screeched: . . .ren . . . aition . . . ext . . . ints. What it meant was only discernable to those who rode steamers all their life.

"Nar-Renju," blue-haired Lena li'Wye sighed from the bench across from Renkis. "Think it's gotta decent place to rest'least?"

"Dunno," Renkis shrugged. He wasn't even supposed to have been here, on a steamer bound for the western frontier. He was supposed to have been working on the Thor's Hammer project.

"What's up wit you? You been like this ever since we left."

"Nothing."

"Look," Lena sighed, leaning towards the gloomy alchemist. "You ain't always gonna get what ya want. And BattleSpire's the biggest thing since the 'net. C'mon, let's see wut they got to eat," she said, lightly getting up and pulling Renkis along.

"Right," the alchemist nodded in a resigned tone.

"Oh, don't be a bore," the elf, Lena, grinned, sweeping back her blue hair with one hand, while lugging the reluctant alchemist out of the compartment and down the corridor.

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"Strange, ain't it?" Lena asked, swallowing a mouthful of something meat-like.

"Hmmm?" Renkis asked, looking out the dining car window.

"I mean . . . c'mon, we're sitting in a flying train car that rides invisible lines of power that've been 'ere since forever."

"Yeah," Renkis sighed.

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Evening was falling, glancing off the steamer's tinted windows as it sped southwestward, its azure-gray bulk a caterpillar on the face of the great western wasteland.

Rash watched the steamer move closer though his binoculars, for a time, standing perfectly still as darkness descended. Finally, he turned to the sound of footsteps.

"Luss?" Rash asked without turning. Tomorrow, they would strike against these fools who meddled with powers that should have been left to the gods.

"Yes, m'Lord," the youth bowed at the waist. He was arrayed much the same way as Rash -- loose pantaloons and tunic hidden underneath cloak and robe.

"We move at first light, alert the men," Rash said by way of command. "The blood of the profane will water the earth tomorrow."

'Yes, m'Lord," the youth bowed, retreating quickly. Best to leave the Lord alone, he thought, He has much on his mind.

Should you ever find a place to hide,
run there until you loose your fright:
holding the forbidden torch up high.
--jom'd'Alai traditional, origin unknown

The first duty of an Alchemist is to the People.
--Gerand Ren, first Grand Alchemist of The Tower

Act 1: The Alchemists

It was one of the more unnoticed attacks in Weyrean history.

The azure-gray steamer train hovered perhaps a meter above the parched earth, shielding the station platform from the morning sun. Beyond the platform and crumbling station house were a dozen carriages and sedans, waiting for a prospective customer. Beyond them stretched the old desert city of Nar-Renju.

Beggars begged, thieves cut purses, old women hawked their wares, half-naked children ran too and fro, and thus everyone did their job, including the four jom'd'Alai who were speaking with the stationmaster. Presently, all four turned, looking pleased, and disappeared into the winding city streets that dated back a thousand years.

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"C'mon, I want a shower, and then something decent to eat," Lena said, dragging Ren[kis] along through the sandy city streets. She had no idea where to go, but how hard could it be to figure out where the nearest hotel was...

They didn't have far to go. 'That looks like a good place," Lena exclaimed, pointing towards a derelict three-story building painted a lurid sort of yellow that was barely discernable underneath the layered coat of grime and dust and sand. Several camels and desert haweyrs were tied to the railing of the building's porch.

Nailed to the crumbling plaster above the door was a sign proclaiming The Flying Camel.

"Um, Lena," Ren intoned.

"What?" the blue-haired elf asked, stopping right in front of the swinging doors.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Don't be a bore, it's fine," Lena grinned, barging straight into the dimly lit bar room.

#tagged... Damn't Weyr stop with the damned Downward Spirals!?!

#tagged... Damn't Weyr stop with the damned Downward Spirals!?!
No. Care to Join?
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"You were saying?" Lena asked Ren as the barkeep sent a pair of large tankards shooting towards them from the other side of the bar counter. This feat was possible mainly thanks to the awesome amount of grease coating both the flagons and the counter wood.

"Well . . . I suppose it's not that bad," Ren conceeded, catching his flagon. This was actually turning to be a good day. Yesterday's steamer-induced headache was past. Perhaps it would be good to go somewhere new for a change.

"Told ya. That dude still eying my ass?" Lena inquired quietly, siping her drink.

"Probably," Ren shrugged.

<Southport, Beggar's Quarter>

Moving in a half-crouch Sergant Sothila carefully edged around the corner. Another two squad members sprinted to the other side of the alley mouth, ready to cur down anything that moved. Sothila waved an all clear, his eyes still scanning the alley. The alleyway was a dead end, with a single half-open iron door.

Something had the tankers spooked, so much that they refused to move up until Sothila's platoon swept the area. Two Mark III tanks lost to enemy fire in two days was not common, even for this quarter of the city.

Sothila signaled for first and second squads to advance. Dust and gravel scrunched lightly underfoot as the sixteen soldiers advanced in silence. Beggar's Quarter was unusually silent, a part of Sothila's mind noted as he himself ran hugging the wall, advancing towards the half-open door.


<Nar-Renju, Western Frontier>

"Any good?"

"Nope," Lena replied, shrugging. They were standing outside the inn, whose foor and drink were better than the steamer fare, though not by much.

"Well, let's go then." The phone was probably fried because of the heat, Ren thought, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

"Can't you fix it?" Lena asked.

"Er . . . I'll try," Ren said dubiously.

***

A flash of azure light that marked a transmutation reaction briefly appeared in the street outside the tavern/inn.

"Try it," Ren said, meaning the old public phone attached to the crumbling wall of the inn.

"'k," Lena nodded. it didn't -look- different. The blue-haired elf picked up the receiver, and heard the unmistakable 'dial' tone.

<Southport, Beggar's Quarter>
"Sarge, you might want to take a look at this," one of the privates hailed Sergeant Sothila as he came down the sitars. The entire building seemed to be abandoned, just like the other six that his platoon had searched. One glance at the private told the sergeant that it wouldn't be pretty. The kid seemed to be ready to puke then and there, judging from his color.

"Show me," Sothila said.

"Ah, downstairs, ser," the private said, indicating the darkened stairway leading into the basement. Sothila gave the private another look, and decided against ordering him to go down first.

What the sergeant found downstairs was worse than he could have imagined. Upstairs, the private’s breakfast C-rations hit the floor with a splat.