NationStates Jolt Archive

The wind buffeted the helicopter as it glided through the air, its powerful engines pushing forward against the roaring gust. On board, several of the men shivered. "Catch yer death of cold, eh, Legionnaire Malktenov?" The Comissar snorted, watching one of the men carefully.

The man lowered his arms and tried to follow the Commissar's example, sitting ramrod straight. "When I signed on, I thought I'd be going to postings in Micronesia or the Jungle... why are we heading up to Zemlya?"

In response, he got boxed around the back of the head. "Yer'll go where His Most Worthy Lordship the First Marshal wants you to go, soldier!" The commissar growled. "And if he wants us to go to the end of the Earth, to one of the coldest hell-holes under His Divine Imperial Majesty's dominion, then so be it!" Not being a noticably cruel man, though, the Commissar cracked open one of the supply boxes and started passing around military greatcoats. "Here. This should keep that virgin skin of yers nice and warm, Malkentov."

There was a comm. from the pilot. "Commissar, we have a situation... the base is up ahead, but there's no radio traffic. Also, I...yes...I believe the flag is upside down. I repeat, the flag is upside down."

The Commissar wrenched the speaker from the wall and growled back into it, "take us down, pilot." He turned to his men. "Suit up! Lord knows what we'll find down there."

~~

The armed men leapt off the copter and onto the tarmac, submachine guns at the ready. The Commissar shouted out to any listeners, and grunted when there was no reply. "Keep together, men..." he warned.

One of the soldiers spotted something shimmering in the weak evening light. He reached down to pick it up, and then retracted his hand in revulsion. "Ich... what is that?"

The commissar grunted once more and picked the shimmering object up, steeling himself not to feel disgust. "Whatever it is, I don't like it..." the medallion had a twisting design on one side. On the other, though... he couldn't recognise what the thing was. Some sort of one-eyed dragon with tentacles for teeth. Only not. The medallion felt strangely oily to touch, and the creature was disturbingly realistic. He pocketed it, sure it was important.

They all turned around at a loud scream echoing from one of the open doors of the fort, where one of the other soldiers was investigating. Activating their weapons, the men ran for the door, only to skid to a halt. One of them fainted, and even the commissar turned pale. The man who had seen it first gibbered alarmingly, crouched in the corner away from the horrific scene.

The fort was a charnel house. Blood hung and dripped from the walls, organs decorated furniture. But most horrific of all was the far wall, where someone, or something, had written, in blood and other, even more horrific, liquids, unknown words using an unknown alphabet.

The Commissar managed to regain control of his facilities, and snapped, "Someone... sketch...sketch those things down... then take a photo, and..." he narrowed his eyes, "burn...burn the bodies... we'll say a Soldier's Mass back at the capital. But..."

The men, grateful for direction, hastened to comply.

Hm.

His Most High Grandoiseness, The Most Eternally Worthy Grand First Marshal of His Divine Imperial Majesty's Legions, tapped his chin thoughtfully. "An entire fortification in the Northern Divine Commonwealth emptied of men, and the only clues we have to go on are a fairly unpleasant medallion," the other Marshals shuddered as one, and even the First Marshal allowed himself a momentary blink of disgust, "and these diagrams." He threw the sketches onto the table in front of him. They had all seen the evidence, none of them had any solutions. "For the last time, Kybar, are you sure your Legionnaires were telling the truth?"

The Marshal of the 7th Grand Army blinked and gave a sharp nod of his head. "Of course! Legionnaires do not joke, my lord First Marshal. And we have yet to be able to raise Novaya Alkanya on radio. Did you forget?"

The First Marshal himself nodded. He had forgotten. "Of course not. I wanted to make sure." He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "Out of our hands. I've arranged for the responsibility for this investigation to be handed over to the DBI. One of their Shadow Angels will be placed on this immediately. At any event, whatever did this is a threat to the Imperium's National Security. We don't have the materials in our own intelligence department to deal with this."

The men around the table grunted their assent. "And of course, we will all do our best to co-operate with the Investigating Agent, right?"

The Marshal of the 2nd Grand Army raised a hand slightly. "Do we know who the investigator is?"

The First Marshal checked his notes, and then looked up. "Yes. A young man, of fine family background and good name. One we can rely on to be sound. Not to divulge information to the press. His Lordship, Baronet Simon Octavius Darquis the Third, second son of Grand Duchess Elizabeth Darquis."

The 3rd Marshal spluttered, "An aristocrat? Are you mad? If anything happens..."

"It will be Merkenoff's head that will roll," The First Marshal replied, naming the hated Director of the DBI, "not ours. Anything else?" No one answered. "Good. Then we shall conclude with the National Anthem..."

Simon Darquis inspected his appearance in the mirror. Whistling, he picked up a hair-tie and swept his black hair back into it, knotting it behind his head. He then finished towelling himself dry. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he then walked out into his flat's central living space, heading for the package on the table. Grabbing a letter opener from its case, he sliced the box open and spilled its contents onto the table. The immediate image he got was one of evil. He shook his head, concentrating.

The image did vaguely resemble a dragon, as per the briefing. But he had a feeling that the medallion was part of something else, some of the edges being strangely... artificial, as if they were meant to connect to something else. The longer the young noble studied the thing, though, the more he felt that he himself was being studied.

It was with a feeling of relief that he slid the object aside and pulled forward the sketches and photographs. 'Now, let's see...' something about the designs tugged at the back of his memory. He had seen something similar at one point. And even if he was wrong there, he was sure that he knew someone would have the answers...

~~

Thus it was that in less than an hour, Simon found himself standing in the central foyer of the Jesuit College of Religious Studies in the Divine Academy.

Brother Darfael gave a slight gasp of alarm as he rounded the corner and saw the Baronet standing there. 'Oh no...no no no no!' Plastering a smile on his face, he walked forward. "Sir Simon, what a pleasant surprise... you haven't changed a bit! How can I help you?"

Simon flashed his badge. "Darfael, I hereby order you, in the name of His Divine Imperial Majesty, to take me to Father Tarengov."

Darfael gave a meek grin. "Just like old times, then..."

=========

Tarengov shook his head. "I'm sorry, my son, but I don't recognise either the designs or the...creature."

Simon sighed, and collapsed back into the chair. He had been so sure... "Are you positive? Try harder... two hundred men died, and these have something to do with it."

The Jesuit Abbot shook his head. "As I said... wait." the man shuffled through some papers on his desk, and pulled out an address. "As I said, I can't help you... but I know someone who can. Here." He passed the paper across the desk.

Simon glanced at it. "Dr. Wilmarth, Masters of World Folklore and Esoteric Studies from the Academy of Altara... current place of residence is WhitePort?! That's a three hour flight..."

The Jesuit made a consoling noise. Then he said, "But can I get you some tea?"

OOC: TAG for a later post, after more of the plot is fleshed out.

Simon whistled tunelessly in the Departing Lounge of the Tarnaqin Regional Airport. Distracted, he barely noticed when someone slid down next to him. 'A curious pattern... a strange beast... two hundred dead men...' he closed his eyes.

Then he felt a gun pressed against the back of his head. "Don't move, Stormtrooper..." a growling voice said. "And don't open those eyes, I'd hate to have to shoot you. Growl if you understand."

Simon complied, and the voice continued. "You look like a fine, upstanding lad. So... how about you give me the medallion, and we all walk out of here. What do you say, Stormtrooper?"

Simon gave a little half-smile. "Da svidanya, tovarisch..." the Shadow Angel suddenly dropped off his seat, rolled forward and leapt into a standing position, drawing his own gun. He stopped, though. "What the blazes..."

There was no one there. Simon looked around, trying to establish where on earth the man could have escaped to. '...great. Son et Lumiere. Or, I'm going crazy.'

"Mind putting the gun down, Simon?" A familiar voice asked from just behind. "I'd hate to have to start this by braining you with my hammer." As Simon slid down into his seat, Darfael followed, sitting down next to him. "I've been told to renew my...friendship...with you." The monk sighed, depressed.

Simon chuckled, still on the look-out for his mysterious attacker. "Am I that unpleasant to be around?"

"Not at all... but back at the college, everytime we went anywhere together, I was the one to get caught for breaking the rules, and I was the one to get caned. Knowing my luck, this time some multi-tentacular entity from the void will break through just for the purpose of eating me." Darfael pulled a large shiny metal hammer out from behind his back. "Well, I have a titanium hammer this time, and I'm not afraid to use it..."

Simon politely arched his eyebrow, and then took the hammer out of Darfael's hands. "A titanium...hammer?" Simon sighed. "You know, Prince-Regent Alexander Black had a diamond-edged steel rapier. My grandfather owned a bow carved from a single yew-tree. The Tsar, long may he reign, has people manufacture titanium bullets for him..."

Darfael sighed. "I can hear a 'but' coming."

"However, the major difference between all those people and Brother Tylan Darfael of the Jesuit order is that they can afford to do things like that, and that a hammer is generally meant to be made out of a heavy materiel." Simon looked at Darfael amusedly. "In short, they saw you coming."

Darfael snatched the weapon out of Simon's hands and held it tightly to him. "Simon Darquis, if there are no witnesses on the flight you'll see how heavy this hammer is..."

Darquis laughed, vaguely. "I might just... I've never seen a plane to Whiteport be so empty. I can only hope they serve meals..."

((Ooo, most interesting. Good writing, per usual, as well. I'll try to join as soon as I concoct some way to wheedel into it.))

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Simon cursed as he stepped out of the plane and into the bitter cold of Whiteport. "I hate this city..." he grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring through the mist. "It's summer, why on earth is this place so cold..."

Darfael, however, was in his element. "We're almost across the Arctic Circle here... in the major cities of the Imperium's mainland, only Novaya Archangelsk and Alaitoc are further to the North." He pointed out over the tarmac and towards a veritable sea of mist. "Out there is the White Sea, and on a clear day you can see Weshield and the United Kingdom."

Simon gave a mocking laugh. "Just as well it's misty, then. I just had lunch." He sighed and once more looked out to the distant and mist-shrouded land. 'Someday...'

Darfael coughed. "Simon, now would be a good time to tell me what it is you're investigating..."

The Shadow Angel nodded. "I will once we find a private place to talk."