Weyr
20-08-2004, 23:36
OOC:
Is my writing really that bad? Ah, well. Let's try this again...
Act 1 :: Opening Moves
Opening moves determine the game. This is the first lesson you must learn.
~J. W. Gibbs, memo to Alicia
Ran drummed on the grimy window glass, making ancient frames groan beneath the fury of the wind. In the apartment of the High King, a solitary figure paced around the tiny study, pausing at times to reread a crumpled sheet of paper.
The young woman whose apartment this was, was not remarkable by any means. Shoulder-length raven hair, a face that only a rare few would have ever described as beautiful, a slender figure hidden beneath baggy clothing, such were the features of Weyr's High King.
Rain beat against the glass; the young woman paused. Did she really have a choice -- the deaths of millions versus a single life -- did that really require a decision.
The receptionists at the desk in the lobby of the spire that was the Tower of Kings did not even look up as a cloaked figure exited one plain elevator and exited into the rainy day, her feet somehow missing the sakura blossoms that came from the many trees of Cloudrest park across the street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~The next day~~~~~~~~~
Ash sped down the highway, the repulsor field of his hoverbike scattering water streaming off the darkened permacrete. A motor lorry passed by, then a passenger car. "Damn you," he muttered, wiping a few raindrops that snuck beneath the rim of his helmet.
A pause at a way station gave him a small ray of hope. A woman with the same description had stopped here a few hours ago. Ash hacked the security system on the road, but the person in question was not caught on trideo.
The massive Northpass Bridge was come and gone. Dark river water churned beneath the twelve-lane structure.
The 'net radio spoke of demons and insurrection in the south. People died, the war went on. A week, and the Kingdom was in the throes of a civil war. Ash sighed, muttered a curse not used in a thousand years. Lightning and thunder reflected his gloom.
Night came and went. Brown grasslands gave way to desert wastes. The rain stopped; the sun blazed down in its stead. Another way station waitress told him the woman in question was only an hour away.
A roadblock. They were uncommon in Weyr. Clans kept roads and steamers as safe zones; no one wanted to incur the wrath of the clans.
Ash pulled his bike a few meters short of the guards. Machine gun barrels glinted in the sunlight.
"Road's closed," a burly man, the leader of the group, called out. A wide-brimmed hat covered his face in shadows. He was not from here, Ash could tell just by the short-sleeved shirt. Locals wore loose robes and cowls that protected them from the sun and heat. The leader eyed Ash warily. Ash looked back through the darkened faceplate of his helm. His hands were loose and ready beneath his gray cloak.
Ash was on the road again. The men were fast; they were not fast enough for the last Eternal Lord. The leader's arm tattoo bore the mark of Krim, pierced with a flaming sword. Ash reloaded the six-shooters he carried, steering the hoverbike with his knees. His gray cloak billowed behind him.
Dor'nar'Echel, Soldier's Grave. The market was covered in multi-covered awnings and carpets suspended on rickety wood and metal poles. Ash made a few inquiries; all pointed him to the way station on the outskirts of town. Hooded men and covered women moved out of his way.
He left the bike on the curb. A pair of hardy haweyrs eyed him for a moment, then went back to the water trough. In a place where even the best vehicles broke down from sand and heat, Haweyrs and camels were the best way to travel. The way station was a squat, two-story building. Yellowish paint peeled off the door and narrow window frames. The place had not changed in its centuries of existence -- it was the same den of thieves, cutthroats, and heroes. The owners were different, however.
Ash had not been here in ages; he inquired for the person he was seeking of the man at the bar. The same lines:
"A smallish young woman, raven hair, piercing almond eyes, goes by the name of Alicia."
"You gonna order something?"
"Half-liter of beer," the money was placed on the grimy counter.
"Maybe I've seen someone like that," the bartender said.
Is my writing really that bad? Ah, well. Let's try this again...
Act 1 :: Opening Moves
Opening moves determine the game. This is the first lesson you must learn.
~J. W. Gibbs, memo to Alicia
Ran drummed on the grimy window glass, making ancient frames groan beneath the fury of the wind. In the apartment of the High King, a solitary figure paced around the tiny study, pausing at times to reread a crumpled sheet of paper.
The young woman whose apartment this was, was not remarkable by any means. Shoulder-length raven hair, a face that only a rare few would have ever described as beautiful, a slender figure hidden beneath baggy clothing, such were the features of Weyr's High King.
Rain beat against the glass; the young woman paused. Did she really have a choice -- the deaths of millions versus a single life -- did that really require a decision.
The receptionists at the desk in the lobby of the spire that was the Tower of Kings did not even look up as a cloaked figure exited one plain elevator and exited into the rainy day, her feet somehow missing the sakura blossoms that came from the many trees of Cloudrest park across the street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~The next day~~~~~~~~~
Ash sped down the highway, the repulsor field of his hoverbike scattering water streaming off the darkened permacrete. A motor lorry passed by, then a passenger car. "Damn you," he muttered, wiping a few raindrops that snuck beneath the rim of his helmet.
A pause at a way station gave him a small ray of hope. A woman with the same description had stopped here a few hours ago. Ash hacked the security system on the road, but the person in question was not caught on trideo.
The massive Northpass Bridge was come and gone. Dark river water churned beneath the twelve-lane structure.
The 'net radio spoke of demons and insurrection in the south. People died, the war went on. A week, and the Kingdom was in the throes of a civil war. Ash sighed, muttered a curse not used in a thousand years. Lightning and thunder reflected his gloom.
Night came and went. Brown grasslands gave way to desert wastes. The rain stopped; the sun blazed down in its stead. Another way station waitress told him the woman in question was only an hour away.
A roadblock. They were uncommon in Weyr. Clans kept roads and steamers as safe zones; no one wanted to incur the wrath of the clans.
Ash pulled his bike a few meters short of the guards. Machine gun barrels glinted in the sunlight.
"Road's closed," a burly man, the leader of the group, called out. A wide-brimmed hat covered his face in shadows. He was not from here, Ash could tell just by the short-sleeved shirt. Locals wore loose robes and cowls that protected them from the sun and heat. The leader eyed Ash warily. Ash looked back through the darkened faceplate of his helm. His hands were loose and ready beneath his gray cloak.
Ash was on the road again. The men were fast; they were not fast enough for the last Eternal Lord. The leader's arm tattoo bore the mark of Krim, pierced with a flaming sword. Ash reloaded the six-shooters he carried, steering the hoverbike with his knees. His gray cloak billowed behind him.
Dor'nar'Echel, Soldier's Grave. The market was covered in multi-covered awnings and carpets suspended on rickety wood and metal poles. Ash made a few inquiries; all pointed him to the way station on the outskirts of town. Hooded men and covered women moved out of his way.
He left the bike on the curb. A pair of hardy haweyrs eyed him for a moment, then went back to the water trough. In a place where even the best vehicles broke down from sand and heat, Haweyrs and camels were the best way to travel. The way station was a squat, two-story building. Yellowish paint peeled off the door and narrow window frames. The place had not changed in its centuries of existence -- it was the same den of thieves, cutthroats, and heroes. The owners were different, however.
Ash had not been here in ages; he inquired for the person he was seeking of the man at the bar. The same lines:
"A smallish young woman, raven hair, piercing almond eyes, goes by the name of Alicia."
"You gonna order something?"
"Half-liter of beer," the money was placed on the grimy counter.
"Maybe I've seen someone like that," the bartender said.