NationStates Jolt Archive

"Móli, etkui!"

As always, Aislinn was woken by the booming voice of the overseer on the loudspeakers, and was up and moving through the showers before concious thought had time to assert itself. Out of the showers, she dressed and moved on to the mess hall of the slave barracks with as little thought; it was habit, ingrained with the grime of years into every pore of her skin.

The man on the other side of the mess counter was half-elven, his cheek branded with the half-mólimtengu that proclaimed him a vassal; still mólim, but far above the human slaves who bore the full mólimtengu. Aislinn, who was one-eighth of the High Blood, bore it. She recieved her morning bread and hurried past as quickly as possible; a vassal might breed down but never up, and it wasn't good to attract the eye of that vassal in particular.

Erik was sitting at a table across the other side of the mess hall, stuffing bread into his grease-blackened face like he couldn't get enough, which he couldn't. Population rose faster than farm-caverns could be set up, so there was never enough food for the móli.

The boy stank, as usual, of kálámor and oil and other scents of the machine. Aislinn sat down next to him, shoving him along a bit to make room.

"You ran through the showers again, didn't you?"

Erik shrugged a sort of affirmative, and wiped a dripping nose on the back of his hand. "They don't care."

"They may not, but I do! I have to work with your smell hanging around my nostrils!"

Then, repeating the old refrain; "Cleanliness is next to healthiness, Erik. If you don't stay clean you won't stay healthy, and if you don't stay healthy you die, and they won't care overmuch about that either. You've what, five years now? Six? And that's too young to die."

Though children died all the time at such ages, and especially in the labour Erik did; he shrugged again.

"Dunno. Who counts it?"

Aislinn did, and knew she was somewhere around twenty-two years old; that was old for a slave, though an elf of similar age would still be a child. She sighed, and put the crusts of her bread in a pocket for later; waste not want not, after all.

"Come on, then. Let's get to work."

The assembly-yard where they worked was just below the surface; once every few weeks, when a war-engine was completed, the great doors in the ceiling would open up, and a crane would lift the completed angasloké up into the air, giving the slaves a brief glimpse of sky - blue or grey or, once, a brilliant orange-red sunset.

But it meant that there were wardens on the doors, and they had to give their names and be checked off to be let in. The guards were full-blooded elves, clad in black kálámor and laquered steel, and carrying shock-wands alongside their swords; as the representatives of the Mornatári and Mornatáro in the depths of the slave warrens, they were the most impressive sight Aislinn knew - save, perhaps, the angaslokí, or the open blue sky.

"Garrahan, Aislinn."

"Checked. Go through."

"Haraldsson, Erik."

"Checked. Go through."

And they went through the doors, and into the assembly yard proper, where the air was redolent with grease and oil and steel.

The individual parts of an angasloké, an iron-drake, could be run off the manufacturing-lines in their thousands (although, as with all things, they were better when made with elven hands and elven craft), but an angasloké assembled by such a means would be little more than metal and wire; to make it work as a whole, as it was supposed to, it had to be put together with the magan, the craft; and that meant slaves with the High Blood, at least in part.

Halfbreed slaves were common enough, but the magan was not, and Aislinn with her eighth-blood had more ability in it than the sour-faced mess-hall cook with his half; thus she'd been assigned to the angaslokí yards at five years old, apprenticed to a grim old man in much the same way that Erik was now apprenticed to her. It occured to her that the old man hadn't been much older than she was now.

So they put together angaslokí, from frame to final kálámor skin, with Erik working in the small spaces - the legs and tail, mostly - where Aislinn was too big to fit. This one was nearly complete, awaiting only some sections of the skin (which would have been done several days back, save for an unforseen shortage in wing-plateing) and the magan-rich heart that would complete it. Aislinn treasured completion, for it meant that the great doors would open, and the sky would be, briefly, revealed again.

Neither kálámor plates nor magan-heart were there, as they should be, when they got to the work-bay that held their angasloké, so they had to look busy as best they could by checking and double-checking what they'd already done.

As she worked, Aislinn's fingers often brushed over the glyph for alvinth, stamped into every piece of the angasloké. It was one of only two she knew, the other being the mólimtengu branded into her cheek, and meant fade not. As a child, she'd wondered about the elven obsession with fading (or rather, with not fading), and wondered if the yard-wardens might someday fade away to nothingness before her eyes. It hadn't happened, and later she'd learned that this was because of the Mother of Night, the great sorceror-queen who'd died thousands of years ago to shield them from that fate (whether the Mother of Night had shielded the mólim too she didn't know, but nobody she knew had faded, so maybe She had).

Around mid-morning the plating finally arrived, carried on a little electric cart steered by an elf who offered no explanation whatsoever for his tardiness; not to móli. They secured that in place over the frames of the wings (which was difficult work, as kálámor was almost as flexible as cloth), and were almost done when the heart arrived.

This was delivered in an electric cart identical to the one which had brought the wing-plates, but it was escorted by a pair of elves armed not with stun-wands alongside their swords but needleguns. Aislinn didn't know what might warrant such an escort between the workshops of the magan-smiths and the assembly-yards of the mólim, but there they were.

The heart itself was a sort of discus-shape plated in radial segments of laquered black steel, with a circular plate in the center which hid the activation device. It fitted securely into a slight depression in the "chest" of the angasloké, and over that the final chest-plate was attached, so that the activation-plate showed through.

Fitting that, Aislinn noticed that the clasps holding the activation-plate were loose; she reached up to fasten them, and the whole plate came off in her hand, revealing the glinting depths of the heart itself within.

This she'd never seen before, and it was almost as beautiful as the sky, all gems and silver filigree and other things she couldn't name; and in the middle was the outline of a hand. Without much concious thought, Aislinn reached up, and placed her own hand over that outline.

Greetings, túri. I am a Mark Three kuissé variant Anárkuár-class angasloké, build number 1,529. Please give your name.

The words burned straight into her mind, harsh and powerful as an electric shock, and left her gasping in pain and awe. The thought arrived quite lucidly; The elves are going to kill me, after this.

"Aislinn Garrahan," she whispered. "My name is Aislinn Garrahan."

OOC: If anyone's read this far, this is, obviously, the first post of the RP. It serves mainly to set up what follows - there will be another post or two after this, and then the RP goes wide open (within reason, of course). I hope you enjoy reading it; I enjoyed writing it.

Accepted, Aislinn Garrahan. Please provide me with a name.

Again the force of the angasloké's speech sliced into her brain - perhaps a little less severe this time, due to experience or the angasloké itself moderating it's voice. Her left hand, spasming helplessly, brushed the alvinth glyph stamped into the chest-plate.

Aislinn's master, when she'd been an apprentice, had been called Alvin; and though Aislinn had felt no particular fondness for him, then or now - Alvin had been a harsh and occasionally cruel teacher - the name suggested itself. Alvinth, Alvin.

"Alvin," she said.

Accepted, Aislinn Garrahan. I am Alvin. You are cleared for command access, túri.

While she shook, Alvin's voice coursing through her, Erik emerged from the other side of the angasloké.

"Aislinn? What are you doing?"

The boy's eyes grew round as he saw just what she was doing, and the light now glowing in the angasloké's eyes.

"Oh, no," he wailed, "You're going to get us in trouble! With them!"

Aislinn, in the throes of that glorious, terrible voice, didn't hear; Alvin's neck and jaw opened, like the petals of some strange flower, and the pilot's chair descended. Aislinn knew that chair, had assembled and installed it herself, and it seemed only natural now to seat herself in it, and be borne up into the skull of the great drake.

Beginning uplink procedure, Aislinn Garrahan.

Pain, then, as something - the uplink jack, she recalled vaguely - spiked itself into the base of her skull, and twin needles like scorpion's tails stung her wrists. And the world changed.

Aislinn was Alvin, seeing through it's eyes (and infra-red sensors, and radar, and laser rangefinders), moving with it's legs, it's wings, and the feel of the air upon kálámor skin felt as natural as flesh.

By now Erik had attracted the attention of the assembly-yard overseer, who called the yard-wardens from their posts by the doors (Elves running! I never knew they did that...), who ran to the telephone in the overseer's tiny booth.

That could not be allowed; they would take her, and tie her, and rip her from her body!

"Stop them, Alvin!"

The angasloké knew immediately what she meant, and a targeting grid appeared over her vision, annotated with glyphs she couldn't read.

Kriktano-class kinetic missiles read unloaded, túri. Keh-class autocannon read unloaded. Glaia-class ultraviolet laser ... charging.

"Quickly!"

Glaia charged. Fire?

"Fire!"

Telephone, guards, and overseer's booth all vanished in a bright flash, molten metal splattering across the assembly-yard, and the móli ran shrieking. Aislinn watched it all unfold dreamlike around her.

"I want to fly, Alvin. Can you open the doors?"

Flying was what angasloké were for, after all. Aislinn felt chair and head tip backwards as the neck craned to face the great doors in the ceiling, and the targeting grid reappeared.

Glaia charged, túri. Fire?

She'd been hoping for some less destructive way, but the sky was the sky, waiting just on the other side of those doors. "Fire!"

The doors vanished, and above her was the sky, grey and overcast; snowing, in fact. Aislinn watched, fascinated, as snowflakes began to land upon her wings and her great upraised head, melting almost as soon as they touched.

"Let's fly, Alvin!"

The great wings beat the air, and the angasloké leapt upwards, through the hole in the roof of the assembly-yard, and into the wide open skies. Beneath her, the snow-muted shapes of further yards stained the ground. People ran frantically around the hole she'd rent; from up here, it was impossible to tell whether they were human or elf.

To her right, black stone punched upwards from the ground, a massive spire like a tower grown from the rock; that must be Ornatarost, the great tower above Mornagroth itself. Buildings clung to it's base and some way up it's sides - she caught a glimpse of steep slate roofs, even someone leaning out of a window and pointing as she soared past - but stopped shortly.

Flying was as effortless as walking, with Alvin's help, and she spiralled up around Ornatarost. There were windows, occasionally, in the rock, and buildings again, suddenly, as she neared the top; things hanging seemingly precariously out over a five-hundred-span drop. Proximity sensors voiced their alarum, and she dodged a sort of pier jutting from the rock out into the air, with an airship bobbing at it's end. There were eight of them, spaced around the spire.

Above the air-piers, Ornatarost rose another fifty spans or so, the buildings atop it growing in steep-gabled grandeur as they rose. Finally it was crowned by one rambling, snow-clad structure, rooms stacked in a crazy complexity of angles and gables and, at the very top, a flagpole from which a black flag fluttered; the alvinth glyph in blue and gold rippled in the wind.

Aislinn Garrahan, receiving radio transmission. Shall I reply?

"Yes."

The voice which crackled in her ears was startlingly loud, but it was not the sparking brilliance of Alvin in her mind; cultured and precise, this was some elf-lord from far up Ornatarost, maybe even the palace at it's top.

"Mól Garrahan, that is quite far enough, we believe. Unfortunately, all flights of fancy must come back to earth eventually. Return to land immediately, and we shall be as lenient as Mornagrothim law allows."

"Ni abár á, uruch!"

A sharp withdrawl of breath on the half of the elf on the other end of the channel.

"So be it. Mól Garrahan, you will find that there is no place to which we cannot track you, no height we cannot match. Our offer of leniency is withdrawn; the alternative, when we catch you, we leave to your imagination."

OOC: Well, it looks like this got finished earlier than I expected. Another post and Aislinn will be out of the country; then the fun can really begin!

*tags and waits patiently*

Hmm intresting tag ... verry much tag hmm i wonder if your haveing people join this rp ? )

OOC:
Exquisitly crafted - RPers of such calibre are all too rare a prize, me thinks; I doubt I myself could match such quality with days to weave the tale.

Oh, and of course, *tag*

I'll have to see if I can dig something up to get involved with; alas, I fear my terrestrial military has been utterly gutted in the last 500 years, but I'm sure a stratocarrier battlegroup can be found.

OOC: Thank you all for the tags (and thank you for the compliment, Kanuckistan!). Yes, I am having people join this RP, but it really depends upon geographical location as much as anything; Mornagroth and the surrounding tree-clad, snow-bound wilderness are in Tareldanoré, and I've already had some offers off-thread from Tareldanoré people to take her ... so we'll see where it goes.

I would prefer to keep the spacefleets out of it, though; after all, Mornagroth doesn't have any! This thread may venture up into space later, I don't know ... as I said, we'll see where it goes. :)

The third post will be coming soonish - I can't say exactly when, as right now my brain is fried, but soonish.

OOC:
I need not but a convenient bit of international water or an overland crossing open to air traffic in general; just a way to justify being in the area, and I can put something there.

And my stratocruisers are basicly flying ships, not spacecraft.

((OOC: *tag* This shows a lot of promise- all too rare around here =p. I look forward to seeing where this storyline goes and to perhaps participate if allowed. I wonder how one of your angaslokés compares to an Elite Victory gravetic fighter in overall performance? Just how large are these devices, anyway?))

Túri, I read multiple incoming hostiles. Display?

"Yes, do that. Display."

Circular insets appeared on either side of Aislinn's vision, ringed around with the unreadable glyphs denoting distance, speed, identification.

Oh Mother of Night, there are six of them!

"Can we shoot them, Alvin?"

Glaia ultraviolet laser ... charging. I advise against this, túri - you are severely outnumbered.

"Just because I can't read doesn't mean I can't count, Alvin. Get us around and let's shoot them!"

Aislinn screamed in exhilarated terror as Alvin promptly flipped and twisted in midair, and suddenly the six angaslokí were straight ahead. The targeting grid appeared superimposed on her vision, red now instead of blue - they were still to far away. Aislinn hurtled towards them, and was met with a hail of stinging wasps - the same Keh-class autocannon shot that she didn't have.

But now the targeting grid was blue again, Kehi or no, and Aislinn fired with a feral grin ... at an angasloké that suddenly wasn't there. The tracking insets showed that it had folded it's wings and dropped several hundred spans, and was now circling around Ornatarost to strike her from the rear.

No time now to recharge the Glaia - Kriktano-class missiles were whizzing by dangerously close from the other five angaslokí - and Aislinn flew on. If she couldn't kill them all, it might be just as good to get out of here. The angaslokí gave chase.

"Alvin! How do I stop them following me?

The angasloké's reply was typical; Destroy them.

"But there are too many, I can't do that!" Help me!"

Suddenly she was falling towards the dark forests far below, the same dodge that the angasloké she'd fired at had performed. But two of the angaslokí were spiralling down after her at breakneck speeds, while the other four circled lazily above. Alvin spread it's wings and arrested their descent at the last moment, skimming low above the dark angataur pines.

Aislinn knew nothing of geography, and in any case was running away from Mornagroth and Ornatarost, not to anywhere else. There were, supposedly, other tarosti and grothi out there somewhere, so she wanted to avoid those; but as to where they might be, she had not a clue.

In any case, the immediacy of the aerial fight put aside any thoughts of later. The two angaslokí who'd dropped to meet her were following, kriktanoi spitting from their bellies. Aislinn pulled up sharply, and was bracketed by missiles from the angaslokí above her; she pulled her rise into a roll as Alvin had done, and shot out behind them. Rolled again, and fired. One of the angaslokí spasmed and fell, a smoking hole gaping in it's back. The dirty burst of fire as it hit the trees was very satisfying.

By now she was beginning to get a feel for her advantages; she recognised the models shooting at her, had build many of the same in the assembly-yard. These were Barasianno-class angaslokí, probably soth or turuma variants; bigger, heavier, with more kriktanoi and more launchers for them, but less manoeuverable. Alvin might have only the Glaia laser, but she could perform these rolls where the Barasianno angaslokí couldn't.

Alvin was above and behind the remaining five angaslokí now, and unless they dodged her shots again, they were at Aislinn's mercy.

Glaia ultraviolet laser ... charging.

The pilot of the angasloké she was aiming at must have felt the whisper-thin brush of her targeting lasers; he dropped to avoid her fire, and slammed hard into the forested hills. Where had those come from? There were mountains off to the west, now, rough grey things cloaked in snow. Mountains meant borders meant freedom, hopefully. Aislinn didn't dare hope, but she headed that way; it was a direction as opposed to none.

But the four remaining angaslokí were still on her tail, as the howl of kriktanoi reminded her; she pulled up again, trying to regain that killing height. The angaslokí rose too, trying to mantain it.

Alvin flipped and, hanging upside down, Aislinn struck one of the four with the Glaia. Sped on, flipped again, and hit another. She could fly rings around these slow Barasiannoi! Below her, the one she'd first hit limped off to the North; the second was a blazing rose in the foothills. Two to go.

These two, however, were determined to show her the advantages of the Barasianno class; circling up behind her, they let loose a barrage of kriktanoi. The steep mountains loomed to her left, and were too close to drop as she had before. Besides, there were kriktanoi aimed below her, too. That way was out.

Aislinn pulled up desperately, and got her left wing scored by the Glaia of one of the Barasiannoi. The Anárkuár class was fast; perhaps she could outrun them, if not outshoot them. She continued to climb, leaving the Barasiannoi behind. The mountains grew closer, larger. Maybe this would work...

A cleft in the mountains opened onto a cirque on the far side, and further down onto a glacial valley; Aislinn flew low down it, and was passing over a short glacial lake, blue with icemelt, when the Barasiannoi crested the ridge in pursuit.

Ahead, Aislinn could see the shining blue fingers of the sea. Freedom, if she could reach it; too long in the air and the Barasiannoi would have to return somewhere to recharge and repair. Being lighter than them, Alvin could go further before Aislinn would have to land. With luck, she might be able to find an island, or head back in to the coast after losing them.

Sure enough, the Barasiannoi peeled off soon after she left the fjords and reached open water; maybe they'd call out something with a longer range, maybe not. Either way, for now she was safe.

Aislinn flew on, with grey skies above and grey seas below.

OOC:
Kanuckistan: That's ok, then. Although in Tareldanoré you can most likely expect to be buzzed by someone or other...

Reploid Productions: I couldn't say, but probably not very well. An angasloké could be outmanoeuvered by a helicopter, and outrun by a jet fighter. However, neither of those are quite so cool.

The Mark Three kuissé variant Anárkuár-class angasloké build number 1,529 "Alvin" is about ten meters long not counting the tail, with another ten or fifteen meters counting it. Wingspan is thirty or forty meters; I don't know what's appropriate there.
The Barasianno-class angaslokí are a bit bigger, particularly in the body, and noticeably slower.

Well, I hope I haven't bored you all too much with all that dogfighting; I don't know much about it, so I had to play it by ear. I fear I've created a reputation to live up to now, aieee! Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!
Given that this post took several hours to write, future things will very likely be shorter and less quality, especially when the interactive RP starts.

Which is now, by the by. I predict that this will rapidly become a very crowded bit of water...

Commodore Alexander Whet stood overlooking the primary Theatre Display onboard the Flag Bridge of the StratoCruiser KGV Absoloution, his vulpine Flag Captain, one Adea Kidd, at his side with the morning breif.

"What's the status of the fleet?" he queried, absently watching unknown contacts on the display's fringes.

"The usual, sir," she replyed; the normal paperwork would be on his desk, then.

"Contact?"

"No radio or laser whisker directed at us, sir, atleast thusfar. The usual long range radar and LiDAR contacts, along with some fairly eccentric native aircraft, but nothing apeared odd," the fox woman continued, turning to a secondary screen and starting a queued up vid, befor steping out of his way "until..."

As Whet steped up to the screen, what he was suposed to see became clear; a long range, 3D sensor recording, displaying five dragon like aircraft - aparently already mid-combat when they entered detection range. Noting the display's time-lapse indicator, he watched as the slightly smaller contact quickly, atleast from his perspective, dispatched two of it's foes befor fleeing towards the ocean. Then it clicked...

Turning back to the Theatre Display, his eyes quickly found those same three dragon-like contacts closing with his command, tho a good distance out; a quick query tagged their ETA at just under half an hour.

"We we know anything about these people?" he mused.

"KOE's still digging through their databases, but aparently not, sir," Adea replyed.

"Hurh; not suprising. You've already advised the fleet?" She couldn't order the other Captains to raise their readiness...

"Yessir; the fleet's warm."

Taking his armoured duty station, a glance at his tactical repeter indicated that was indeed the case, "Very well, Captain, thank you. You're dismissed."

With a crisp "Yessir," she turned towards the rear door and left for her own command center and the second half of her shift.

A minute passed as he considered the situation; mutually-hostile unknowns closing with his small Carrier Battlegroup... they probally didn't even know he was here yet, his own sensing devices augmented with those satalite-borne. What to do...

"Bring the fleet to Beta Alert; when contacts N4251, 4, and 6 come over the horizon, I'll want a radio uplink ready."

A hale of "Aye"s and "Yessir"s followed.

Completely oblivious, a Yotaka unmanned attack drone laden with sensory equipment instead of bombs follows its preprogrammed flight path, holding a steady altitude some 50,000 feet above sea level. This particular drone bears the insignia of the Arpean Thaumatology Institute on its excessively wide wings, and is part of a large-scale project to 'map' the thaumatological topography of various regions of the world.

As such, it is loaded with some of the most sensitive magitech detecting devices the ATI has developed, and even at some distance, the angaslokí and their dogfight light up its electronic eyes like a fireworks display, and it reports the information to ATI headquarters, who in turn relay it to the nearest mobile research team.

Said 'team' consists of a single Ryuusama model reploid dragon, by the name of Skygrasper, who is sumarily dispatched to the area the drone reported. They must have picked up something really odd to dispatch a mobile team to scope it out. The big blue and white reploid muses to himself as he stretches his wide wings to glide for a few miles. He grins, showing his metalic fangs. I wonder what it is?

Flying over open ocean, the reploid drops low to the water where there is less resistance and picks up speed toward the location given by the drone high overhead. I suppose I'll find out!

((OOC: Skygrasper Ryuusama is a Ryuusama model reploid dragon- fifty feet long from nose to tail tip, with a wingspan some sixty-eight feet maximum. He is a military model, so he does carry some built-in weaponry- Fangs, tail mounted multi-tool, claws, mouth-mounted heavy laser cutter, head-mounted battering ram. He could carry more weapons on various hardpoints on his legs and body, but since he's a researcher and not a soldier, he's got scientific gear on those points instead. I'll not presume that he finds anybody since he's got a lot of ground to cover- maybe he'll dumb luck upon Aislinn =p))

The type five repair and maintenance drone was a rather simple thing. It was to all intents and purposes, a box, with four wheels, and a small collection of multi-purpose appendages, and a number of glowing green sensors. They also had the tendency to annoy anyone who had to work with them, and of course, right now, that was just about everyone. Beeping and bumping, one of them managed to hit the back leg of a necrontyr engineer by the name of Arnkedar. A moment later, it was borne high into the air, by virtue of the not-so-amused engineer.

Placing it on the panel, he waited while the annoying little thing tried to get its bearings and punched a button. With a sharp pop it disappeared, and instantly there was a tinkle of shattered components hitting the floor. He peered into the other booth of the displacer test chamber and his lips turned up in a grin, “So, remote field projector still out of commission,” he said, observing the pile of components and shattered carapace that used to be the repair drone. He wasn’t at all saddened. The little buggers had been getting in his way for weeks. Payback was fun.

Not that this kind of thing was common. Once a displacer was operational they usually ran for many years without problems, but tuning them was quite difficult. Arnkedar was stirred from his reflection by the sound of his comm. unit beeping. “Yes?” he asked impatiently.

A feminine voice came back “do you have that displacer operational yet?”

“No,” he snapped, “not even close.”

“Well then, you’re meant to be some kind of expert in foreign ship designs, yes?” He replied in the affirmative, and the woman said, “Right, get over to the nearest panel, recall display one four nine, and try and figure out what this thing is. It appears to be headed out over the ocean I no particular direction...”

He did so, and seemed taken aback – “It’s some kind of flying dragon-plane,” he said, “no, I don’t know its origin, I suggest you ask it where it’s going. Oh, and try Quenya, this is Tareldanorë after all.”

Greetings, this is the C’tan city-ship Isasrach, could you identify yourself please? We have no vehicles corresponding to your design on record…

There was a baleful red glyph blinking away, up on the right-hand side of Aislinn's vision. Alvin said it meant it's fuel-cells needed recharging, but where in all this water could she do that? Returning to Mornagroth was not an option; they'd shoot her on sight, surely, even if she wished to, and she'd rather fall beneath the waves than that.

And now the radar was pinging, lighting up spots upon the angasloké's-eye-view of the sea all around, and one particular spot was flashing.

Túri, I am receiving a radio transmission from Point Three. It is in the Quenya tongue of the Northron kuinni. Would you like me to translate?

"Yes, do that, Alvin." Aislinn could no more speak Quenya than she could read.

Greetings, this is the C’tan city-ship Isasrach, could you identify yourself please? We have no vehicles corresponding to your design on record…

She had never heard of the C'tan, or Isasrach, or city-ships, and such things were not in Alvin's databases. But then it was an angasloké and not a library.

"Should I reply to it, Alvin?"

The angasloké didn't reply; it's advice was limited to warfare. Aislinn decided that it might not hurt; the city-ship was distant, and even if it was some part of the Edeli domains, she could avoid it at this range. It had said "We have no vehicles corresponding to your design on record", but that could be a lie. It could easily be a trap.

"Garrahan, Aislinn." the name fell easily into place; it had been given and checked off every day for seventeen years. "This is, uh, Alvin. It's an, uh, Mark Three kuissé variant Anárkuár class angasloké, build number 1529." that, too, came easily. "Uh, who are you?

Can you translate that to Quenya, Alvin? And send it back?"

Yes. Translating ... sending. Message sent, túri.

Well, that was that. If they were Mornagrothim Edeli, there'd be angaslokí heading up soon, and the blinking red glyph of charge low wouldn't matter.

OOC: C'tan gets the angasloké-shaped animal biscuit, for being the first person to actually contact Aislinn / do something that she can detect as more than a radar ping.

"Commodore," a voice sounded from Fleet Ops, arousing Alex from the tedium of paperwork, "Sir, at out present altitude, the forgine craft will be coming over the horizon.. presently."

Commodore Whet closed several windows on his work station, bring up the tactical repeater, and from that a contact readout; data refined from their continuous scans of the aircraft - it's persuers having broken off shortly after his first breif, presumibly nearing their own point of return or simply giving up on the aparently faster craft.

"The transciver is configured," he asked, needlessly, studing the readout while contemplating what he would say.

"Yessir."

-------------------------

"This is Commodore Alexander Whet of the Kanuckistani Gaurd Vessel Absoloution, to unknown aircraft," the message, carried upon a narrow-beam radio 'stove pipe', began in somewhat Canadian-accented english, "You are currently on an intercept course with our StratoCarrier Battlegroup; please identify yourself and your intentions... Do you requior assistance? End Message."

OOC: Tagged with a Class-1 golden hook...

Mornagroth, I'm not sure if you actually are new to NS, but if you are, you've already got my admiration for your writing skills. Keep it up!

In fact, this thread has proven to be quite enticing, and might convince me to join up. However, I don't normally employ technological gagets in my RPs such as flying ships. I was wondering if it would be a problem to bring a character in through other means? If this is allowed, then this will be the first time I've RP'd with this lot on NS, and I hope it'll prove worthy of memory...

(OOC: A little tag and a question, Mornagroth, you wouldn't mind me joining with a trio of my atmospheric craft, right? And nice work, insofar.)

Túri, I am receiving another transmission, from the collective group designated Point Two; language is unknown. Would you like me to play it?

"Yes, Alvin."

Another transmission, so soon after the first, and in another tongue that was not the núralambé of Mornagroth? Aislinn had no idea what to make of it.

"This is Commodore Alexander Whet of the Kanuckistani Guard Vessel Absolution, to unknown aircraft. You are currently on an intercept course with our StratoCarrier Battlegroup; please identify yourself and your intentions... Do you require assistance?"

It was gibberish to Aislinn. "Can you translate it, Alvin?"

Language is unknown.

So that was a "no". Well, Point Two, like Point Three, was still far enough away to avoid if need be.

OOC:
Sorry about that, Kanuckistan, but the angaslokí really don't have English-to-Núralambe translation programs. A fighter shouldn't really even have Quenya, but that would be squishing the RP a bit.

Tarlachia: If you don't have shiny gizmos, you may find it somewhat difficult to participate, although I suppose as long as you've got at least some technology you might be able to. It's just I don't think you'd be able to participate very well if all you've got is clippers and mail riders. Telegram me with whatever ideas you have, please?

Five Civilised Nations: It depends, really; what, precisely, is an "atmospheric craft"? A giant turtle for riding on could fit that definition ... it also depends on whether you'd be usually having them tootling about Tareldanoré. I don't want to restrict the RP to just people from that region, but the natives would definitely get a bit upset if every man and his flying dog suddenly appeared off the coast. Drop me a telegram, please.

OOC: TAG.

Very interesting indeed.

Again, oblivious, Skygrasper continues his low-altitude flight, following his directions from the drone far above, sighting land unexpectedly in the distance. That's odd... records don't show any landmasses in this area? Fractal reality at work? That wouldn't be what set the drone off.. it detected smaller contacts, with larger ones farther off. A reality break would show up like a blasted nova. Man, I hope I don't cause an international incident here!

The blue reploid dragon carefully climbs to a higher altitude as he nears the coast, keeping alert and hoping most ferverently that he's not getting into trouble over his head. He'd been often lectured that being too curious would land him in hot water eventually.

Wow... maybe I'll make first contact with a new nation... or even species! How cool is that?

"Uh... Sir? We got an unidentified object flying in quadrant II at about oh... section 3A5."
"Well don't just stand there yakking, check its dimensions with the records!" yelled Loci.
"Sir we identified it. It's a Anárkuár class angaslokí. However, it seems to be a variant not in our records. I'll check with the mainland."
"Good job Lonca." said Loci. He walked towards the view screen. "Computer, bring up the angaslokí on screen." The screen showed the angaslokí and also pulled up a list of ships. Loci easily narrowed the search down to the angaslokí designs and discovered Lonca was right. Hmm... He looked around to make sure no one was looking. Let's see now. Open this. Enter this. and Voila! A message started appearing on screen. ACCESS DENIED. Aw man!!! He quickly closed the window. "Lonca! What's the news?"
"HQ says the ship type is classified and we shouldn't even know what he know." He snorted when he said this. "They also say to transmit this message to them."
"Go ahead. And make sure to use núralambe as it seems to have come from Mornagroth."

Important Message
Please state why you seem to be fleeing from Mornagroth. We wish to help you in any way we can.
Ageaol

OOC: I was thinking I'd use one of my characters, Sigrun Greenwood, an Elf of mine who's proficient in magic use. However, I can alter my RPing to include a single ship or something. I don't know what region you're in, so I can't TG you. I was hoping to maybe use Sigrun to kinda bum off rides from others in the RP, sort of a free-lancer right now. If you'd TG me in my region 'Fatal Terrain' that'd be great, then I can add you to my dossier and make communication easier to do. Thanks.

"Any response?" Alex asked the on duty comm tech, not bothering to look away from the Theatre Display he now stood befor.

"Neg, sir; least not yet. Tho we've picked up some other comm traffic to and from her."

The Commodore bit a sharp reply off short of his tounge, befor slowly asking, "And what did they say?"

"Erm, unknown, sir; we couldn't translate... KOE database did identify it as something called 'Quenya', however; we're pulling a translation program from their systems back home now."

Commodore Whet sighed aloud, "When you have it, get me translations of those messages, and resend my query in that language."

A yessir followed, befor, "And have the Preserver ready a flight of air-supe UAVs for possible interdiction."

-------------------

"This is Commodore Alexander Whet of the Kanuckistani Gaurd Vessel Absoloution, to unknown aircraft," the message, once more carried upon a narrow-beam radio 'stove pipe', repeted itself, only this time in Quenya, "You are currently on an intercept course with our StratoCarrier Battlegroup; please identify yourself and your intentions... Do you requior assistance? End Message."

I don't know what region you're in, so I can't TG you.

OOC:
Go to your nation page, at the bottom is:

Want to show a friend your nation? Send them the link below
[ http://www.nationstates.net/cgi-bin/index.cgi/target=display_nation/nation=your_nation_here ]


Copy and paste the URL into a browser's address bar(or right click and open it in a new tab or window, etc), then replace the nation name with the one you want to see stats on or TG.

OOC: Thanks Kanuckistan! *Hmm...why haven't I seen that little handy link ever before??*

Lady Sirithil, as it happened, was aboard Isasrach at the moment... she was touring the city-ship, inspecting its facilities, and had found them... well, satisfactory would be the understatement of the Age. Its name meaning 'place of great power' in the tongue of the reborn Necrontyr race, Isasrach had a purpose, a great purpose... as for what that purpose is, you'll all just have to wait and see.

She was relaxing now in rooms that had been provided for her, high in one of the central towers... the city-ship was basically hexagonal, with offshoots from each corner that ended themselves in roughly hexagonal sections, and it looked from above as a great snowflake... it was, other than that, not entirely unlike Vinyatírion itself... great spires rising above lush parkland and expansive public squares - except Vinyatírion didn't also have the underlying infrastructure of a spacedyship and was not carried by one of the largest gravitic drives ever built.

Unrelated business it was on which she was here, but she was here nonetheless, at the beginning of something... else?

Her comm beeped... she glanced down at it... 'twas someone aboard Gilthoniel, which was docked with the city at one of the offshoots; in fact, she could see her destroyer from here. The comm beeped again, and she answered.

"This is Sirithil, what is it?"

"Milady, we've caught sight of an unknown craft incoming, about the size of a aerospace superiority fighter or an interceptor. Similar in basic form to a Silmellon silmerámë - that is, draconic - but different. Matches nothing in our warbooks. The city authorities are apparently bringing it aboard. Just thought you should know."

"Interesting," Sirithil answered. "I'll touch base with them, then. This seems an interesting diversion."

OOC: A note for the 'everyone and his flying dog' that seems to just happen to be in the area - while Tareldanorë does not (yet) have a regional defense initiative, the vicinity is somewhat thoroughly patrolled by the fleets of Menelmacar and most of the other local nations. Unless you've got a flight plan filed in advance with Menelmacar or other regional nations (as would be the case with, say, civilian airliners or gravitic freighters or the like) it's unlikely you'd be allowed to be just hanging around in our sky without so much as a Who-goes-there. Not trying to squelch anyone's RP, but please do try to keep such in mind in future.

Also, Kanuckistan, I consider you ignored based on your antics at Lavenrunz's Winter Ball, where I'm not sure how you posted without having to clean your keyboard at least hourly.

OOC: Also, Kanuckistan, I consider you ignored based on your antics at Lavenrunz's Winter Ball, where I'm not sure how you posted without having to clean your keyboard at least hourly.

OOC:
I was expecting those mooks to kill my guy there when I posted his actions; I aparently over-estimated their compotence. My actions were also tied by the character's personality and kit that had been determined befor I knew that it was anything more than a simple ball; I simply had brought too much kit for the RP, not knowing of your plans, and had given it to a character that was too impulsive not to use it.

There is no need to resort to personal insults; I'm suprised you'd hold such a grudge this long after such a tentative encounter.


Also, my taskforce here is also just passing through, at the edge of international waters; should you still wish to take issue with their presence, those ships are hundreds of years old and their crews' training is hardly exempliry, so they should prove fairly easy meat to any decently-equiped large force that decides to pick a fight. I'll even relocate spaceborne assets to prevent orbital support.

OOC:
Tarlachia: I replied to your TG. Sorry about that.
Menelmacar: Uh, 'tis not on board quite yet...
Kanuckistan: Please don't be doing the arguing here ... I'll have for you an IC reply in my next bit of IC stuff. Probably waiting on the C'tan for that.
Ageaol: Uh, let me see. You've claimed various knowledges of my nation and so on that I dislike somewhat, given that Mornagroth has not yet emerged into the public eye. This makes me unhappy. Save it for later, OK?

OOC:
Menelmacar: Uh, 'tis not on board quite yet...
OOC: I know... 'are bringing it aboard' was more in the context of 'intend to bring it aboard'.

OOC: *sigh* ok then...I'll just keep reading this thread for interest sake only. BTW, I sent another TG to you Mornagroth.

The city’s central control room was abuzz with activity. As most of the intended population was not there yet, and further, as those that were there were overseeing final systems checks, Edward Weir, the man who’d overseen the construction of the city stood in for its to-be-elected governor.

“Right,” he said, after a moment, tugging at his collar, “ask them what they’re doing around here.”

At the expansive main communications board a young female elf pressed down on a button, and began in Quenya once more; “Aislinn Garahann, This is the city-ship Isasrach, representative of the Eternal Necrontyr Empire of The C’tan. If you wish, you should be able to see us from your current position by deviating from your present course by twenty degrees to the west, and holding that course for three minutes. May we ask what your destination is? It seems unlikely you have sufficient fuel to reach anywhere on that heading.”

As she took her slender finger from the button, Weir commented, “A bit voluminous wasn’t it?”

The elf looked at him and smiled mischievously, “True… but she did ask about us before.”

Túri, Point Two is transmitting again. Shall I translate?

"You can translate it now? Do that."

"This is Commodore Alexander Whet of the Kanuckistani Guard Vessel Absolution, to unknown aircraft. You are currently on an intercept course with our StratoCarrier Battlegroup; please identify yourself and your intentions... Do you require assistance?"

Intercept course? Where are they?

"Alvin, can you show me Point Two?"

Yes, túri. Now displaying.

One of the little circular portals snapped into existence at the edge of her vision; in it, a collection of vessels hung motionless in the winter sky. One was flashing, marked with a series of incomprehensible glyphs.

I wonder how they do that. "Alvin, why is it flashing?"

That vessel is the originator of the message, túri; it has identified itself as Absolution of the "Kanuckistani Guard". The Kanuckistani Guard is not in my databases.

"I want to reply, Alvin. Can we do that?"

Yes.

"Uh, túro Veth, I'm sorry to be going in your way. I didn't mean to, truly! I won't go any closer to your ships."

In her anxiety about those ships hanging in the air, Aislinn forgot entirely the portion of Whet's missive regarding herself.

Receiving a second transmission from Point Three, designated Isasrach; this one is also in Quenya. Translate?

"Yes."

“Aislinn Garahann, This is the city-ship Isasrach, representative of the Eternal Necrontyr Empire of The C’tan. If you wish, you should be able to see us from your current position by deviating from your present course by twenty degrees to the west, and holding that course for three minutes. May we ask what your destination is? It seems unlikely you have sufficient fuel to reach anywhere on that heading.”

There was the C'tan again, and the city-ship, and an Eternal Necrontyr Empire, whatever that might be.

"Alvinth," she said to herself - whoever they were, they too must put much import upon not fading.

And you also, túri. Alvin startled her with the reply, a simple politeness, but still ... were angaslokí supposed to do such things?

"Can we see the Isasrach from here, Alvin?"

No, túri. To detect it with optical sensors you will need to fly for three minutes on a bearing twenty degrees to the west.

Well, that was what the C'tan had suggested, too, and it would take her out of the way of the Kanuckistani Guard, whoever they might be. Aislinn turned the angasloké, and soared off west.

"Uh, I don't really have a destination, really. Just wherever. And, uh, yes, Alvin is telling me I'm low on charge... I'm coming to look at your city-ship now. I hope you don't mind."

-----

The millenia since Númenost's founding had brought little more eventful than storms and fish, which was precisely how the Eledi of the West-fort liked it; exiled from the hurry of Ornatarost and Mornagroth, the lords of the citadel and their retainers had long since settled into their provincial post.

Now, however, the radar systems mounted at the peak of the spindly mooring mast detected something flying where something should not be; although they'd sent out a few unmanned scout-blimps to hunt the fugitive earlier in the day, whatever it was was now well within the radar perimeter of the citadel. A fugitive slave-girl with a stolen angasloké wouldn't do that.

Although the duties apparent for such a situation did not require it, Ostáro Mikralas came up the cliff to the communications station himself, to peer annoyingly over the operators' shoulders and, when it was decided that a message should be sent out, to speak it.

"Unknown aircraft, you're not on our scheduled arrivals for today; is there some emergency at Ornatarost? Please respond."

... I guess I am making first contact with a previously unknown country. Skygrasper blinks as his comm unit buzzes. Too bad it sounds like it's in some language I don't know. It sounds like some variation of one of the elvish languages... most likely asking why the hell I'm violating their airspace. Probably. Hrm... I ought to respond before somebody there gets all OH-EM-GEE ENEMIES! But do they know English? If it is an elvish variant, they might understand Quenya. Man, it's a good thing ATI personel are required to know a whole slew of languages.

The big blue and white drake pulls a bit higher into the air to get a better look around, considering his response briefly, double checking his translation from English to Quenya. "Ah... many pardons, but I cannot understand your message. I'm assuming I'm being asked to identify myself, in which case I hope my response is understandable. I am ATI Mobile Phemonena Research Team Unit Zeta-Nine, presently investigating an unknown contact that was sighted departing this region." Skygrasper pauses for a moment before thinking it wise to add, "If my presence is unwanted, I will be glad to depart peacefully- I was unaware there was anyone here."

Message sent, the reploid nods to himself. Not a bad bit of diplo-stuff, if I do say so myself. Grasper, my good dragon, you rock!

"We've got a reply from the unknown, táro - in the Northron tongue. Quenya. Running it through the translation systems now."

Unlike the systems aboard angaslokí, angamorochi, and other AI-interface hardware, the programs in Númenost's databases were less effective, but possessed a wider range of possible languages, and it took several tries to get the foreign tongue into something meaningful.

Ostáro and radio technician looked at each other in perplexity - whatever was an "ATI Mobile Phenomena Research Team Unit Zeta-Nine", and what did it do? Whatever it might be doing off the coast, "presently investigating an unknown contact that was sighted departing this region" sounded very interesting indeed.

Mikralas and his retainers might have been exiled from the Tarondhi, but the Iéndomén still demanded their respect, and even in distant Númenost the will of Kalariel Iéndomé was done.

"Unit Zeta-Nine" - it comes out as "Unith Setanienn" - "I am Ostáro Mikralas Smalthákuár of Númenost. Please, do not depart - I wish you no harm, and your "unknown contact" may in fact be a vessel we are currently seeking. Please, can you tell us more of it?"

Mikralas glanced at the radio operator, who nodded, and ran their own message through the translators. With a little luck, it might even emerge intelligibly at the other end.

Okay, a response... hopefully in something I can translate... It takes Skygrasper a few minutes to make out anything intelligible from the reply message. Whew... not a perfect means of communication, but at least something we can make some sense to eachother in. Definately sounds like I've blundered upon some non-Menelmacari elvish offshoot. So I better keep it real polite. Don't wanna make my country look bad and stuff!

The big reploid decides it would probably be a good idea to hold to a circling pattern before progressing any further into unknown airspace while he cross-checks data from the high altitude drone that is now several miles away. "Ostáro Mikralas Smalthákuár of Númenost... ah... please pardon my likely butchering of the name. I have not sighted the contact at this time, so I would not know if it is this vessel you are seeking or just some paranormal anomaly. My data would indicate that it has probably left the area if it was a vessel, or dispersed otherwise, and I have been unable to pick up its trail again."

That much was the truth, since the drone's preprogrammed flight path was taking the aircraft in the opposite direction the unknown contact was last sighted going in. "If I may ask, what does the vessel look like, so if I do see it I will know it?

If the programs translated that correctly, Mikralas thought, This "contact" must have been little more than a blip on Setanienn's radar. A pity.


"The craft we seek is a Mark Three kuissé variant Anárkuár-class angasloké. In the likely event you don't know those names, it resembles an iron dragon - hence the name - some twelve spans from point to flukes, with a wingspan of approximately sixteen spans.

"The Anárkuár-class may be distinguished from other angaslokí by it's simple forward-mounted weaponry - a pair of autocannon and a pair of missile-launchers mounted in the "chest" area, as well as an ultraviolet laser under the point.

"Does that help you?"

Mikralas returned the craft registers - a thick tome, detailing every aerial vessel to come from the assembly-yards of Mornagroth - to it's shelf. This copy might not have the latest and greatest creations of the weapons-smiths, but it sufficed to help a provincial lord speak knowledgeably about a subject he wasn't personally familiar with.

'Uh, túro Veth, I'm sorry to be going in your way. I didn't mean to, truly! I won't go any closer to your ships.'

The Commodore sighed as he listened to the translation; the voice practicly that of a scared child, he thought.

"Sir," the comms tech interupted his thoughts, "We're picking up more coherent comm scatter; looks like she's transmitting a to what we've tentitivly identifyed as the city-ship Isasrach[i]."

Alex nodded, recalling the quick review of other traffic after they'd obtained the translator.

"Lets hear it."

[i]'Uh, I don't really have a destination, really. Just wherever. And, uh, yes, Alvin is telling me I'm low on charge... I'm coming to look at your city-ship now. I hope you don't mind.'

A glance at the Theatre Display confirmed the change in heading. With this new information, his offical concern was technicly over, but something paternal gnawed at him...

"Translate and reply with the following..."

--------------

"You missunderstand; we are simply wondering what you're doing out here. Do you requior assistance?"

OOC:
Sorry; when someone makes a desparaging remark regaurding me in front of others, I find it difficult not to address the matter when I belive it deceptive or untruthful. I've trouble turning the other cheek, as it were, and I apologise for cluttering your thread with such.

After the promised three minutes were up, Alvin provided an image of Isasrach in one of the circular inserts - a kind of metal (http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/city.jpg) snowflake (http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/city2.jpg) floating upon the water, thickly forested with spires and domes. It did not look so pretty as Ornatarost and the Tarondhi, but then it was not an Edeli city, and it was pretty in it's own chunky sort of way.

I have received a third transmission from the Kanuckistani Guard vessel Absolution, túri; this one is also in Quenya. Shall I translate?

"Yes, Alvin. Don't ask me before translating messages."

As you wish, túri.

"You misunderstand; we are simply wondering what you're doing out here. Do you require assistance?"

That "charge low" glyph was still blinking, but Aislinn liked the look of the city-ship more than she did the Kanuckistani battlegroup, hanging there uncannily without rotors or gasbags. Isasrach had no obvious weapons.

"Uh, I'm, uh, running away. From the Edeli. Please don't tell them, they want to kill me! Uh, I'm fine. Really."

OOC: Sorry about that, Kanuckistan; it's just easier for me to land on Isasrach. I guess you could send down a representative or something, although that's the C'tan's call.

OOC:
Heh; knew I probally should have used the term taskforce instead. Just glad my Strato fleet uses more 'mundane' names than the High Gaurd(tho it would have been amusing to see her reaction at being addressed by the KHGV Devourer of Wayward Souls or the KHGV Jagged Razor of Methodical Dismemberment).

As for sending a rep, I can't really justify that ICly, atleast not unless you give me something juicy that'd get my folks back home interested in interfearing in your nation's internal affairs(assuming you wouldn't OOCly mind me trying that). Not enough thus far to justify Whet deviating quite that far from his orders, or calling his boss over the matter; just a run away forginer.

Just a quickie for now; time's a little too finite at the moment.



IC:

"Affirm;" the reply began, "Please advise if your status changes befor we move out of the area; our carriers' decks are open if you need them..." A short pause, then, "Could you elaborate on who these Edeli are? I'd rather any information than none if we run into any of their forces."

Skygrasper blinks at the description. A big metal flying dragon, huh? Shoot, glad we aren't in visual range, or I coulda almost been mistaken for the thing at a distance. In any case, it ain't here, and my last data had it going in another direction. I should stop chatting up the natives and get back to work. Leave the rest to the DipCorps.

"I will keep an eye out for it. If it has weapons, I would assume it is hostile, presumably stolen by an enemy? In any event, it is not here, and I must attend to my duties, since I am a scholar, not a diplomat." The blue reploid wheels about to return to international airspace and follow the contact's last known heading. "So I guess this is farewell or something. My thanks for your hospitality regarding my unannounced arrival, good luck finding your lost angasloké, and... ah... Peace in all things. I guess."

The reploid dragon beats the air steadily with his wide wings to gain some altitude. Hrm... odds are that the contact may be their missing thingie. I wonder why or how it got taken? Ah well... just fly around for awhile, see if I pick up anything, and report back to HQ that it's a bum lead. Kinda disappointing. I'd like to see what one of these angasloké thingies looks like.

“I’m getting the feeling…” said someone in the control room, “that they wish to land here…”

After a moment, the other sensor operator leaned over… “Yes…” he said, “I think she does…” he said, standing, walking over to Edward and whispering into his ear. After a moment, he nodded.

Another message was sent “Are you planning to land? If so, you’re welcome to land on any of the flat areas around the edge of the city…” There had been a brief debate about asking the pilot to put the vehicle down in one of the VTOL bays, but they did not know if the vehicle was capable of such landing, or for that matter, given its size, if the pilot was capable of landing it in such a confined area. Thus they’d asked the girl to put the dragon down on the side of the city – alternately docksides – as one could see from the Gilthoniel docked at their side, and common areas for the populace to use much like the streets and squares of a normal city. As one approached them one would notice subtle colourings in on parts of the ground. They’d not nearly completed such murals yet, the artwork and decoration of the city was not nearly completed yet.

Laurélen Iéndomé was not the eldest of the Iéndomén - that was her sister Denetaré - nor the most politically powerful - her sister Kalariel Iéndomé was Mornatári of the Alvínthádorén, the Unfading Lands - but of all the eight she held the greatest portion of her mother's true Power, and was keeper of the artefacts.

Thus it fell to her to go down to the tomb of Glaianáro, the deepest point in Mornagroth, and consult the Book.

The Mother of Night had made a great many magan-things - swords which spoke, rings of power, mirrors of farseeing - but of them all none was as useful, or as immediately dangerous, as the Book of All Things; for the book could tell the future, or futures ... assuming that it's shifting words didn't drive the reader mad first.

Heavy bookmarks indicated the place beyond which it was unwise to read, and the place beyond which it was dangerous; however, at most times Laurélen found the initial chapter - the one describing the now - most useful.

Aislinn stands unsteadily on the deck of Isasrach, Laurélen read, only a little way into the future, With the sea breeze blowing in her hair and the hot sun bright in her eyes, and is greatly pleased to be free of the Edeli. Whoever the C'tan may be, she thinks, They cannot be worse than the Mornakuissi.

In the dark crypt beneath Mornagroth, Laurélen smiled slightly, thin lips twitching. She might not approve of some of her sister's methods, but one thing was certain - security would increase in the slave barracks, after this. She didn't need the Book to know that.

-----

"A renegade, a fugitive," Mikralas agreed in reply. "Be wary of it; I cannot tell the pilot's state of mind. Be successful in your pursuits, and alvinth, Setanienn."

-----

Aislinn stared, incredulous, at the little insert of the Kanuckistani battlegroup; how could anyone not know of the Edeli?

"They are the Eldest, the First-Born before the rising of the Sun," she replied, confusion evident in her voice, "How can you not know of them? The Mornakuinni* rule us all."

She turned the angasloké to circle wide around Isasrach, and shortly Alvin spoke again;

[i]Túri, message received from the city-ship Isasrach;

"Are you planning to land? If so, you’re welcome to land on any of the flat areas around the edge of the city…”

She'd been hoping they'd offer but had been afraid to ask, and it was a great relief when they finally did; that "charge low" glyph was growing larger and more ominous.

"I'd, uh, like to, if you don't mind."

Aislinn pulled Alvin into a tighter spiral, shedding height, and Isasrach grew larger beneath her. Some of those towers looked like they might possibly equal Ornatarost in height, and even if they didn't there were so many of them!

As the C'tan had said, though, there were wide flat areas all around the edges of the city-ship, and Aislinn aimed in on the closest, angling down to land. It was a narrow margin - sea on one side, city on the other - but with Alvin's help she managed a textbook landing, backwinging to drop neatly onto the deck.

Alvin's wings folded carefully back against it's body, and the angasloké relaxed into it's stationary position.

"I want to go out now, Alvin," Aislinn said.

As you wish, túri.

The needles withdrew from her wrists, and the uplink jack from the base of her skull. The jaw and neck of the angasloké unfolded as it had last done in Mornagroth, and Aislinn descended in the pilot's chair.

She stood up shakily, blinking in the bright sun - a too-thin girl in tunic and pants brown and grey with old stains of grease and oil, hair that might have been red under the dirt (for there was never enough time to wash one's hair in the showers of the slave barracks, not if one wanted breakfast), and skin black with ingrained grime.

It was the first time she had ever stood under the open sky, and it was wondrous.

Whoever the C'tan are, they can't possibly be worse than the Edeli.

Whet was standing befor the Theatre Display watching Aislinn's craft land when the translation came through. 'Sounds like elves' he mused internally, half jokingly, thoughts sheilded from the handful of psionics onboard by the ship's ASPEW feilds, which rendered such things physicly impossible; there would be no need now, it seemed, to have the Preserver drop coverage over the forward flight decks, as precaution on behalf of the fleeing girl.

He'd noticed a pointy-eared ensign stir upon hearing the girl's reply; his presence the likly reason no one else gave voice to thoughts similar to his own.

"Sir, she apears to have disembarked." The update drawing him out of his musings.

"Keep an eye and let me know if she reembarks befor we leave the area; In the mean time, I'd like to have a look at what she's fleeing; I want an observation package with flake drones on the AWACS drone matched with the Preserver's preped UAV wing. Have them launch and back-track the.. refugee's course."

The usual corus heralded his crew's compliance.

-------------

Five minutes later, a dozen winged figures left one of the two StratoCarrier's flythrough middecks; eleven 6 meter long dagger-like swept-forward wing air-supremicy UAVs, each carrying a dozen dual-role active RADAR/IR/LiDAR medium range missiles, the twelvth a flying wing massing almost as much as the entire escort formation, providing advanced sensing and electronic warfare coverage in addition to it's observational package.

Angling towards the mainland and Mornagroath under remote guildance from their quantum-entanglment datanodes, they throttled up their AIEMA drives to a cruising speed of point-eight Mach; gradually climbing to, then maintaining an altitude of 5 kilometers as they closed with the forgine coast.



OOC:
AEIMA, or Atmospheric Electro-Ionization and Magnetic Accelleration; basicly a solid-state, eletricaly driven jet, and typicly extreamly quiet. My own creation.

Sirithil emerged from the tower at almost the same time the angasloké set down lightly on the city perimeter... seeing it touch down, the same craft her ship had told her about, she broke into a run, approaching it.

Meanwhile another small delegation was making their way from a door at the side of the platform. Unlike Sirithil and those who were with her, they were human. To an extent at least. They were longer lived and wiser than the base species, but other than that effectively human. There was an elf among their number, a tall and slender woman, but from the way she lagged behind it was clear that she was not in charge her.

“Very young she looks,” the elf whispered to the tallish man in the lead, “an achievement to fly at that age. Even if it is mind machine interface controlled,” she added. Weir nodded briefly in return to her comment, “Yes,” he said, nodding to her. She was a sorcerer by the name of Airaheri, which is not to say much in comparison to the sorcerers seen in many other nations, but still, currently in the city overseeing certain things to do with the magical warding of the installation, something not done out here yet.

Wier waved a little, quite suspecting that she didn’t speak the local language, annoyingly. He looked at the elf woman behind him, “You sure this spell of yours works?” he asked, referring to something he’d had her try on them as they were in the lifts, which was supposedly able to deal with the language distance they suspected existed due to the delay in their communications. The red haired (a rarity) elf nodded, “Oh yes, always worked in the past. Mind what you say though, whatever language you try to use it’ll be comprehensible to her,” she looked a little apologetic at his look, “it’s the way it goes,” she said, “You want to understand whatever language she uses and be able to talk to her, you have to live with her understanding you.

He looked back at the former ‘mól’ and smiled, noting her very tattered clothing and generally… lacking physical condition, “Hello,” he said, “my name's Edward Weir - I’m in charge here…”

Kauách was not a good name to have, in Ornatarost or Mornagroth; thousands of years might have passed, but the elves remembered the name and the deeds of the infamous Kauách Silimo. In the other towns and citadels of the Alvínthádorén, though - populated by the White Crow's supporters, long ago exiled from the delvings and the spire - Kauách's name still held a measure of respect.

Thus Kauách Sarnadaiondh found himself unofficially grouped with the exiles, excluded from the society of the capital. He didn't particularly mind; Kelunrossén might not be so great as Mornagroth in it's industry, or so refined as Ornatarost in it's art, but it did well at both.

Numénost, where he was stationed in the rámakosi, was a different matter entirely; Kauách found the Ostáro Mikralas a naïve provincial lord - the same Mikralas Smalthákuár who had moved so cunningly through the court of the Tarondhi in the days before the regicide! - and his court equally small-minded and petty. A provincial citadel like Numénost offered few opportunities for Kauách to take to the air, and he'd rapidly grown bored.

So it was a great relief when the word came through from the capital; loft and chase and find and capture! Kauách was a little worried - with no time to bring a suitable courtier or noble scion out from Ornatarost, he would have to negotiate with foreign barbarians himself! - but not greatly; the sky called, and he answered eagerly.

His big Arathsianno-class gunship-angasloké might be much slower than the smaller, lighter Anárkuár-class he was hunting, but it was also much more heavily armed.

"Incoming!" his gunner Káláringo called, and Kauách called up the radar displays to see what he'd spotted.

Craft unidentified, túroi, the angasloké told him. Kauách frowned. Whatever they were, they were too small - only three spans long - to be manned, too fast to be angaslokí (and he'd know, were any other craft on patrol out here), and too slow to be projectiles. The big craft behind them could possibly be some kind of angasloké, but it, too, was going too fast.

"No point in inviting trouble, 'Ringo," Kauách said, and shed altitude to fly nap-of-the-earth (or wave, rather), just a hand of spans above the sea. The Arathsianno-class was too large to do it easily, but it managed. Kauách didn't particularly want to get shot out of the air just because some weapons-smith from the capital hadn't notified the rámakosi of his flight testing.

-----

To Aislinn, the approaching humans looked almost as - more! - impressive than the weapons-smiths or the guards who worked among the móli of Mornagroth. What manner of people were these C'tan?

She was startled to find that the man spoke núralambe, and realised suddenly that whatever it was he was speaking, it wasn't núralambe - but she could understand it as if it was.

"Hello..." she replied apprehensively, and spotted someone else running towards her - someone with pointed ears. Now she looked, she noticed the pointed ears of the tall woman standing behind Edward Weir, and froze in shocked betrayal.

"Edeli!" she cried, and dashed back to Alvin. The pilot's chair descended for her and lifted her up into the cramped cockpit of the angasloké.

"Fly, Alvin!" Aislinn begged.

Charge insufficient.

They tricked me, they'll take me back to Mornagroth, they'll kill me!

"Fly, Alvin! Please!"

Charge insufficient.

In the close darkness of the cockpit, Aislinn put her head in her hands and sobbed. It was over.

OOC:
Or was it? :)

Kanuckistan: Sounds like one of those lifter doohickies.
C'tan: "MIU"?

A note on the etymology of "army", in case anyone's interested...

This is hossë or maybe hossï in Quenya, and it doesn't seem to have evolved from Primitive Quendian rimbê (host). I couldn't find the original word when I went to make a word for the Mornagrothim airforce, so I tried working backwards from the Quenya. This gives me possible original words of khossi, khorsi, hossi, horsi, 3ossi, or 3orsi! These would give me kos, kors, os or ors in Núralambé; I picked kos, simply because it seemed to go well with ráma (wing), and got rámakos, wing-army. I then added a nice plural ending -i, and had my airforce.

OOC:
AEIMA drives are actually the 'lifter doohickies' that keep the StratoCruisers aloft; powered by air-breathing fusion reactors, they're quite efficent. An older tech from back befor I had inertial direct drives or gravitics.

I should probally look into marketing it, actually.


BTW, is that Arathsianno-class headed on the same course as the runaway? IE headed for my battlegroup? I've two seperate reactions planned depending on if this is true or not.

IC:
"Sir, she's reembarked."

The anouncment drew his attention away from the Theatre Display; another, larger dragon-like aircraft had been spotted diving down to sea level a few minutes prior, not too far off of the UAV flight's course - the distance and angles conspired to hide it amoungst the waves, save for the occasional tentitive contact. Orbital assets were being queried, and should soon reaquiored it on IR - however, it seemed to be maintaining it's course; hopefully not a concern, then, tho it could be worth a closer look. But first...

"Translate and send her the following message; 'There were several worls, probible names, that we were unable to translate; I can tell you that our nation is ruled equally by it's people and Emperor, and it has been this way sense our founding over six hundred years ago,'" - a vast oversimplification, and in some respects, an outright lie, but Whet felt it close enough to the truth; she needn't a history lecture, afterall, "Whoever these Mornakuinni are, I doubt their place in the world at large is nearly as grand as you've been lead to belive."

OOC:
I should also mention that I've personally got nae clue when it comes to elvish tounges.

Airaheri frowned at the reaction of the little girl, and mused, “You know, I’m hurt…” she said aloud, to no one in particular. Wandering over to the landed vessel she smiled as best she could at the girl, calling out loudly, “What’s wrong? We’re not going to hurt you…” she said, hoping she could be heard in there.

Weir nodded a little, suspicion forming in the back of his mind. He raised his hand to his lips, and spoke briefly into the communicator on the inside of his cuff, “Control. Any anomalous readings?”

A moment later a reply came back, “Yes sir. Nothing headed our way at this time sir.”

“Get back to me if anything changes.”

“Sir,” was the reply, sounding affirmative.

“Good.”

OOC: ‘S an acronym, though I forget what it was precisely, Mind interface unit or some such. Edited to be more comprehensible anyway.

Also, Kanuck, you're over the horizon for Isasrach. It's a bit much to know when someone enters and leaves a plane landed on it...

OOC:
Also, Kanuck, you're over the horizon for Isasrach. It's a bit much to know when someone enters and leaves a plane landed on it...

OOC:
The last bit of my first IC post in this thread mentions that the Battlegroup's remote sensing systems are tied in with and augmented by orbital assets; basicly, there's a satalite watching her, as she's in the open.

The transmission itself would be either bounced off the upper layers of the atmosphere or, if that's not feasible with current weather conditions, relayed by satalite.

Skygrasper ponders his brief conversation as the big reploid climbs to a higher altitude to make better use of his limited long-range sensors. Are there any other Yotakas within useful range? And if the stolen angasloké was stolen by a fugitive... a murderer? Or something else?

The blue dragon finally gets high enough to detect other contacts several dozen miles away in two main groups, one of which appears to be quite close to the last projected route his unknown contact was last following. Wonder who that is? Ah well, it's in the right direction... might as well go get an ID and if they're friendlies, ask them if they saw it.

With an easy familiarity, Skygrasper circles lazily around to the correct heading and starts for the single contact that he didn't yet know was the city-ship Isasrach, loudly humming to himself over the wind as he tosses in a few dives and loops and other extranious manuvers, simply enjoying the air on his paneled wings and the sun on his hard armor. Even if I don't find anything, it's a damn fine day for long distance flying. Was getting sick of being cooped up at that station. I could go for a good hard flight like this.

Sirithil frowns as the girl panics and veritably dives back into her (quite fascinating!) craft... she slows to a jog and finally a walk as she covers the last few feet to reach the group of Ctani personnel, unsure what to make of the girl's reaction. She does not, after all, know the nature of those from whom Aislinn was fleeing.

Túri, I am recieving another transmission from Point Two.

"There were several words, probable names, that we were unable to translate; I can tell you that our nation is ruled equally by it's people and Emperor, and it has been this way sense our founding over six hundred years ago. Whoever these Mornakuinni are, I doubt their place in the world at large is nearly as grand as you've been lead to belive."

Do you wish me to prepare a response?

"No!" The Kanuckistani, too, must be lying to her, must be puppets of the Mornakuinni just like the C'tan.

Outside the angasloké, someone - the elf-woman - called something. Muffled by the steel and kálámor of Alvin's skin, Aislinn couldn't make out the words.

OOC:
C'tan: Ah, that explains that then.
Kanuckistan: It's headed towards Isasrach, which is not exactly the same. Aislinn crossed the mountains somewhere south of Numénost and headed out to sea, and which point she was headed for your battlegroup. She then turned "twenty degrees to the West" and headed for Isasrach, which is over the horizon from the battlegroup.

Kauách is heading towards Isasrach, but he left from a point some way further North, and is going straight there. So no, 'tis not really headed for your battlegroup.

Sirithil stepped forward a little, coming in front of the group, taking a few tentative steps towards the angaslókë, though not too close. She undid her sword-belt and let it fall to the ground, and held her hands out to the sides, to show she was unarmed; then she reached out with her thoughts, to speak directly to the girl's mind. Her voice is kind, warm, and gentle; her words based partly on some educated guesses, in turn based on what she's seen so far.

Greetings, child... do not be afraid. I don't know what you went through, or how you suffered, but I mean you no harm, and nor do my friends here, and we will not send you back. My name is Sirithil, I'm an Elf of a realm well to the north of here. Please, come out? Tell us your name?

She gestures to the others to drop anything they might have that could be considered a weapon, since she already knows the girl is unarmed, and figures if her craft could fire any weapons it might have, it could easily have already done so.

"Sir, we've reaquiored tentitive contact," the icon reapearing upon the Theatre Display even as the crewman spoke; nearly a kilometer from it's presumed position, now clearly enroute to that Isasrach thing. A mixed blessing; they'd have to sortie a UAV to get a closer look, rather than letting it come to them, but their disposition and identity would remain unknown, lest they chose to give it. Plausible deniability was always conforting to have.

"Alright," Alexander Whet half-mused, half-ordered, "I want to get a good look at that dragon aircraft; have Preserver sortie a single air-supe for a close fly by - EW pods on internal racks only, no missiles. IF engaged, she's to withdraw with full haste."

As the echo of 'aye sir's died, a single forward-swept wing fighter, identical to the others save it's empty hardpoints, departed one of the Battlegroup's two carriers, enroute to an intercpet point some distince shy of the floating city. Accellerating to point-nine mach, it maintained the one-point-five kilometer altitude of it's launching craft as it sped towards it's encounter with the dragonesque gunship.

Meanwhile, the first flight continued upon their journey towards Mornagroth...

With a slight grumble of dissatisfaction from Weir, the others obeyed Sirithil’s gesture, reaching into pockets and throwing down some moderate armament, a pair of pistols and something more exotic that looked like a ring from one of them, even a dagger from Airaheri. There wasn’t much choice in the matter; she was after all the head of state of the Empire’s closest ally, and though the Emperor was aboard, he wasn’t around, thus there wasn’t much option but to obey Sirithil’s instructions.

“Sir,” came the voice of the sensor operator.

“Yes?” asked Weir, bringing the comm. to his mouth, “What is it?”

“We have a contact,” he said.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, turning sharply and walking off, leaving this situation to the elf, for now.

Aislinn shrieked in terror as the Edeli's voice echoed in her head. It was a gentle, friendly voice, but then the air traffic controller at Ornatarost had had a pleasant and cultured voice too. Edeli could not be trusted.

My name is Sirithil, I'm an Elf of a realm well to the north of here. The rest was lies, must be lies. Had to be, for she was human and Sirithil, elven.

But they had dropped their weapons... Or at least some of their weapons. I can't trust them, not a finger's worth!

"You're lying," she said aloud, "You're lying to me. All of you."

-----

Having avoided the first flight of strange craft, Kauách gained altitude once more, and flew onwards for a short while before Káláringo reported another blip on the radar; another of those little three-span craft, and headed purposefully towards Kauách in the Ramino.

"Whatever it is, it's senders want to find out who we are," he said.

"Do you think they're a threat?" Káláringo asked, and Kauách considered that for a moment.

"No," he replied finally, "If they were going to attack they would have done so already, when they outnumbered us. Clearly they're in the area for some other purpose. There's nothing of import they can learn by a flyby - we'll leave them alone for now. If they want to talk to us, I'm certain they shall."

OOC: The other twelve UAVs are headed off south-east, and if they don't move any from that course will probably go right through Mornagrothim territory without being noticed; Aislinn did veer about a bit on the other side of the mountains before being picked up by Kanuckistan on the Western side of them, after all.

Sirithil blinked, unsure of how to proceed. She decided to put the ball back in the girl's court. How can we show you we mean you no harm? she sends. How can we prove we're not lying to you?

Aislinn blinked, startled into silence. The Edeli was asking her, a human, a question?

Maybe ... no. She lies! But maybe...

The question was a hard one to answer; how could the elven woman prove her innocence, if she was innocent? She's not.

There was a riddle Aislinn had never heard; "I am a Cretan, and all Cretans are liars." She had, however, heard an oft-repeated quotation of the Mornatáro Eldrach Kithdaiondh; "The human is the natural born enemy of the First Born."* The counter to that must surely be that the elf was the natural born enemy of the Second Born. I must not trust this elf-woman.

OOC:
*Adapted from a quote by some South African Premier during the Apartheid years, I think.

Siri sighs softly. Well... you think about that, then, she sends. She turns to one of the others nearby. "Could someone get me a comfortable chair, please? And maybe something to eat and drink? Bring more than enough for two." The girl would have to come out of there sometime, and now Sirithil was quite determined to make a connection with her. It was, if anything, a personal challenge, and the Noldo is more than a little stubborn.

Weir turned to look at the elf queen, his look was hardly amused, “I will have someone forward your request to your servants aboard your ship, your majesty,” he said, looking rather irate. He was none too amused about being usurped here. He walked off, and the other four remained where they were, quietly talking amongst each other as he departed into the building, punching a few buttons nearby to activate the transit system to take him back to the control centre.

Appearing there a few moments later, he demanded, “Right. What is it you’ve detected?”

(Right Rep, you’re up. What precisely does a reploid appear as on advanced sensors?)

Sirithil sighed again, feeling vaguely bad for upsetting Weir. She'd have to find him later and apologize. For now, though, she contacted the Gilthoniel herself, amending her request so that the other four folks could have comfy chairs and good food as well.

It was all brought down by shuttle from the ship shortly thereafter... within about half an hour. There was nice soft chairs and a table, and some wine and an assortment of delicious-looking elven cuisine, and Sirithil made a point of setting an extra place. The sea air and the sun were warm, the breeze was gentle, and it was a plenty nice day to relax on the deck anyway.

Sirithil looked over at the angaslókë, and she sent to Aislinn, I can't possibly know what you've gone through, but you're welcome to join us whenever you like.

I must not trust this elf-woman.

The food, though, looks maddeningly good, especially since she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Although she was usually happy if she could get a few slices of bread in the morning and a bowl of soup in the evening (with enough crusts to keep her going throughout the day), the long flight from Mornagroth had been enervating, and she had no crusts left.

I wouldn't know how to eat that fancy food even if I went down to try it. Which I won't.

Aislinn's resolve, however, was slipping as time wore on, and the elves and humans showed every sign of enjoying the repast set out for them. Although she couldn't smell it (Alvin's "olfactory" sensors were limited to fire and chemical weapons) she could see it, and it made her mouth water terribly.

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Alvin, let me down."

Dutifully, Alvin opened again to extend the pilot's couch down to the deck, and Aislinn stood shakily, muscles tense to bolt if need be. She stepped carefully over to the chair left for her, and perched tenatively on the edge of it.

Hesitantly, she reached out to take a pastry from the plates on the table (her fingers seemed so grubby compared to the spotless white cloth laid on it!), and brought it up to her mouth. If it contained some kind of poison the rest of them had an antidote to ... well, there was no going back now as she bit down.

It was suddenly, shockingly sweet, almost sickeningly so - elves might dine on such fare every day but humans didn't, and even the idea of sweet food was exotic to her. The pastry fell to her lap, and Aislinn blushed in embarrassment.

What am I doing? I'm no fine Edeli lady!

Though that said, the other ‘humans’ there seemed to be having no problem with eating the food. ((I leave a more detailed reply to Siri))

Sirithil watches the girl emerge from her craft, and make her way over to the table... just the slightest, most imperceptible limp in her step. An old injury, perhaps? She files this away, and watches her sit down.

She does not laugh when Aislinn drops the pastry, simply smiles kindly, seeming to understand. "It's all right," she says, her voice sounding just as it had in Aislinn's thoughts. "Here, try some of the chicken..." She takes a plate of chicken legs, delicately seasoned and exquisitely moist and tender, and holds it out, offering.

Is she perhaps trying to poison me?

Nervously, Aislinn took a leg from the proffered plate, tasting it carefully - and finding it good. Fingers trembling now with hunger more than fear, she pulled the tender meat from the bone and stuffed it into her mouth, licking her fingers after swallowing.

Drumbone in one hand, she reached for another leg with the other, and stopped, returning her hands to her lap.

I am being such a pig. I have to be well-mannered, or she won't let me have any more, for certain - not such a fine Edeli lady! Besides, all that meat could feed dozens of people! They eat well, here, or at least their lords do.

Sirithil sees Aislinn's hesitation, and chuckles softly. "Don't worry about it, take as much as you like. There's plenty here for all, and more where it came from." She refills her wineglass. "So... what's your name?" she asks.

Aislinn wondered about that - whatever slaves worked in the depths of this floating city could certainly not be included in that "all" - but it was chicken, it was tasty, and she was allowed to eat it; her finely-honed instinct for self-preservation took over, telling her to eat as much as she could while she could get it.

She fell to doing that with a will, stripping meat from the bones and swallowing it down with barely a pause to chew.

"Aislinn Garrahan," she replied, pausing to answer the elf-lady's question, before returning again to the chicken.

“Ah, yes,” said Airaheri, recalling being told that she’d used that term before, “We’re all quite pleased to meet you,” she said happily. One of the women next to her nodded her agreement to that. Both did their best to seem reassuring and safe…

Appearing there a few moments later, he demanded, “Right. What is it you’ve detected?”

(Right Rep, you’re up. What precisely does a reploid appear as on advanced sensors?)

((OOC: Eek, sorry for the slow response! A reploid of Skygrasper's size would probably register on advanced sensors a lot like the craft Aislinn came in- they are of a comprable size and shape, after all. Grasper is probably loudly pinging off anything that checks for active sensors, since he's got his going full-tilt.))

The second UAV 'flight', if a single craft could warrent the name, continued on it's intercept towards the dragonesque gunship, adjusting to a paralell course befor to pulling up along side - close enough for Kauách to have read the numerical markings stencled upon it's air frame with the unaided eye(to say nothing of the two megajoule-pulse partical beam turrets sitting one below the nose, the other above the tail assembly, and both docked neutrally forward) - all the while it's arrays of sensing devices peered and strained to take in every observible detail, catalog every emmission.

Two minutes would pass, befor the craft would pull above, repete the procedure, then again below, all the while matching the gunship's course - unless it should take purposeful evasive measures - befor accellerating ahead, pulling a 20-gee nose-over-tail and barrel roll, then taking off in the general direction of yet another flying dragon recently spotted by Commodore Whet.


OOC:
The first UAV flight will likly deviate to check out any urban- or industrial-looking areas closest to it's flight path; the entire area would have been mapped by satalite, tho not at resoloutions much beyond 'street map' usefulness.

The flake drones are basicly quarter-sized micro-camera/microphone+fisheye-lense+burst-transmitter; they free fall in 3s and 4s to scope out areas of interest, broadcast their data back encoded to look like little bursts of static to an observer, and burn out after a few minutes. They don't show up on RADAR, are small and light enough to have a very low terminal velosity in free fall(hence they're harmless and can survive 'landing') and are(hopefully) too small to be of any note dirtside, atleast not befor the launching craft is gone.

Their exact course depend on what's there and what they find, however, so I'll leave it up to you, as what they'd fine is your call anyway.

Whoever that craft hails to, they have no concept of ettiquette whatsoever. Quite rude.

"Are you certain you don't want me to shoot it?" Káláringo asked, "The Rámakosi would understand, surely - it could be threatening us."

It was very tempting to give in, to tell Káláringo to open fire, but the Ramino didn't report anything actually hazardous - rude and unwarranted snooping, yes, but Kauách didn't want to get the Alvínthádorén into a war with Mother-knew-what.

Thankfully, after a while it sped off ahead, quickly disappearing from Kauách's sensors ... on the same heading as the Ramino, however. Well, if it turned up again, maybe he'd let Káláringo shoot it then.

OOC: Unfortunately for the first flight, the Alvínthádorén are trackless wastes of old-growth conifer forest, and pretty much *all* the habitation is underground ... there'll be a tower here and there, and a few square kilometers of developed land, but none of it on their flight path. However, if you've already mapped the place from orbit you can probably spot where the citadels are; Ornatarost is some way to the south of your flight path.

OOC: Unfortunately for the first flight, the Alvínthádorén are trackless wastes of old-growth conifer forest, and pretty much *all* the habitation is underground ... there'll be a tower here and there, and a few square kilometers of developed land, but none of it on their flight path. However, if you've already mapped the place from orbit you can probably spot where the citadels are; Ornatarost is some way to the south of your flight path.

OOC:
The entire planet is mapped atleast once every year or so to 'street map' resoloution for scientific, commercial, and strategic applications; somewhat similar to modern initiative, tho done repeted because NS earth tends to geogaphicly change frequently.

So go ahead and assume that they shifted towards Ornatarost.

Hurn.. can't really see how I can stick an IC post in here just yet; that lone UAV is headed towards Skygrasper, BTW.

Skygrasper flips another lazy loop, maintaining his heading toward the floating city, though still unaware the contact on his limited sensors was quite that large. A closer contact pings his sensory gear, and the big drake pauses midair, fluttering in an awkward hover for a second. Lively day... am I being followed?

The reploid resumes his course, not overly worried. S'long as it leaves me be, I won't bother it. S'not like I've got any Oh-Em-Gee top secret stuff on me. If somebody wants to come check out my lovely metal figure, s'all cool.

The lone UAV fighter, once reffered to as 'Bob' by an engineer, continued on it's intercept course with the reploid dragon at point-nine mach.

As it neared, UAV Bob once more matched course with it's objective, reducing speed as it neared; once again attempted the same observational methods as it had with the elven gunship not so long ago.

Of course, being able to see the dragon means the dragon will be able to see it, and Skygrasper regards his new flying companion oddly. Huh... looks military. He flashes what he guesses would be the cameras a great big fanged grin, waving at the drone in between his cavorting around. Hm... I think I'm about an hour out from that other contact. Wonder who it is, anyway?

Sirithil smiled, and took a sip of her wine, before offering to pour Aislinn a glass. "Aislinn Garrahan... that's a very pretty name," she said.

Well, she was thirsty as well as hungry, and the dark red juice looked tasty ... Aislinn let the elven-woman pour her a glass. "It's the only one I've got," she replied simply; how pretty it might be had never occurred to her before.

Sirithil smiled. "True, true. Well, you must be very curious about many things." She poured the glass, and set the bottle aside again. "Ask me a question. Anything you like."

Aislinn frowned; as a matter of fact she wasn't all that curious; what happened would happen with little imput from her. So it had been all her life. "I - I don't have anything to ask, túri," she replied nervously, cringing a little.

"Not where you are, where you've found yourself? What this place is? What my realm is like? Hmm. Well, that's all right, of course." Sirithil reached for the bowl of salad and refilled her plate.

"That's all right, of course." Did the elf-woman have any idea how strange that sounded? She hadn't done as she'd been told, and the elf brushed off the misendeamour as if it were nothing?

Aislinn frowned, confused. "I'm on Isasrach," she replied, "It's a city-ship. I know that."

"I suppose you do." Sirithil smiled. "Since you don't have any questions, I guess that means I can ask you some. So, where are you from?" she asked.

"Mornagroth, túri. Barracks Twelve, Assembly Yard Eighteen."

"Barracks?" Sirithil asked. "You're a soldier?" She peered at Aislinn a little. "You don't look like a soldier."

Is she joking? Humans can't be soldiers! Everyone knows that. "I'm a worker," she replied. "A master assembler."

Sirithil nodded. "A master assembler? What do you assemble?" She sips at her wine, and takes a bite of salad. Of course, the Elentári has no idea Aislinn was a slave.

"Angaslókí, túri! Like Alvin." she pointed to where the angasloké sat crouched on the deck.

"Angaslóki?" she asked... and she looked over at Alvin. "Iron dragon... so that's what that's called. It's beautiful. I've never seen anything quite like it before."

"I assembled Alvin myself," Aislinn replied shyly, "It must be the ... twentieth? Twenty-first Anárkuár-class I've put together. There are hundreds more like it."

Sirithil nodded again. She pondered a moment. "So... what are you running from?" she asked, softly.

Aislinn stared incredulously at the elf. "From - from the Edeli, túri! I didn't mean to but the plate came off and Alvin talked to me..." her eyes welled up with tears. "And now they, they're going to kill me!"

Sirithil leaned over and drew Aislinn into a gentle, comforting embrace. "It's all right, child," she said softly. "I won't let anyone hurt you... now, who are these Edeli?" she asked. One of the words different enough she didn't recognize it, probably.

Aislinn froze in shock as Sirithil put her arms about her. She's going to throttle me! she thought wildly, pulling away desperately. But her words ...

"The First Born!" she said. "Like - like you, túri."

Sirithil blinked, letting Aislinn pull away - partly out of surprise at her answer and partly out of not wanting to force herself on her. "Elves?" This surprised her... though it seemed obvious in retrospect, given the elvishness of the term angaslókë. Yet, it didn't seem to make sense... though, she didn't want to presume based on Menelmacari culture - Elves varied in outlook almost as much as humans did, really. "Tell me what happened," she said softly.

"I, I ... the control core for the angaslókë gets installed last, it's got this plate over the activation panel to keep it safe for the, the designated pilot" - Aislinn waved to Alvin, which had a blue glint where that plate should be - "But the plate came off when I installed the core, and it was so pretty... I put my hand in the core - like a pilot would, you see? - and Alvin, it spoke to me and then I was the pilot and I shot through the doors and flew out and they chased me and, and I shot them and then I came here." The tale is greatly reduced, but it's there in essence.

Sirithil nodded a little. It all seemed like an accident from her point of view, and she didn't get the impression Aislinn was lying to her. "So it was basically all something of an accident?" she asked.

"An ... an accident?" Aislinn repeated. "I guess so..."

Sirithil nodded. "Well, you didn't mean to do it, and I suppose once things had started you didn't have much choice from then on." She fell silent for a moment. "How's the wine?"

Aislinn looked at the glass and found it empty. "Good, I suppose ... I've never had anything like it before."

"Never?" she asked. "I suppose that surprises me. Since you came from an elvish nation, I mean." She poured Aislinn another glass.

"I'm not Edeli, túri!" taking the glass, Aislinn drank deeply - she was thirsty, and the wine was cool and delicious in her throat.

Sirithil blinked. "Does that matter?" she asked. In Menelmacar it didn't.

"Does that matter?" Aislinn repeated, amazed. "Of, of course it matters!"

Sirithil was likewise amazed. "Um... why?"

Aislinn frowned, attempting to explain the foundations of society. "It's the way it is! The Edeli tell us what to do and we do it and they give us food and shelter and clothing and, and everything but there wouldn't be enough of everything if everyone ate like the Mornatári, surely?"

Sirithil frowned. She looked Aislinn over. "Well... you don't look like you get enough food," she said. "Where I come from, almost everyone has enough food, and anyone who can pay can buy wine and fine clothing and just about whatever they wish." She pondered a moment. "They tell you what to do and you do it.... are you slaves? Móli?" That was one word that hadn't changed in the least.

Aislinn nodded solemnly. "Móli."

Sirithil nodded a little. "I see... that's not right, child. Everyone should be able to work at whatever job they wish, and to be paid for their skills and effort and time."

"But, but, they feed us and, and stuff! If they didn't do that we'd starve, or freeze, or something! ... paid? What does that mean?"

"Well," Sirithil tried to explain, "it basically means that for each hour you work, you get a certain amount of money, and then you can spend the money on whatever you want. Shelter, food, clothing, whatever."

Money was another difficult concept. "But we get that already!"

"Well, different jobs tend to have different pay, usually based on how difficult it is or how many people are available that can do it well. So, a janitor would be paid less than, say, a healer-mage. Or, for that matter, a master assembler." Siri smiled, and refilled Aislinn's wineglass.

"But then ... the people with all the money would get everything and there'd be nothing left for all the other people!" Aislinn frowned. Pay seemed like a madman's dream. "And then they'd starve anyway!"

Sirithil chuckled softly, slightly amused by Aislinn's simplistic outlook, though not contemptuous of it in the least - one could not expect more of the girl given her background, after all. "You should come to Menelmacar," she said. "You'd be surprised... more salad?"

"I could? I mean, I don't mind the city-ship..."

"You've only seen this tiny corner of it so far." She dished out more salad for Aislinn. "Menelmacar is like a much bigger version of this cityship. Except it doesn't fly. And there are great mountains and lush forests and islands and warm seas."

"Seas aren't warm," she said, "They ... it flies?" she looked about wildly, half-expecting to see giant wings unfurl, or a gasbag, or something.

"Menelmacari ones are," she said. "And yes, it does. It flies by the same technology as does my ship, or the shuttle that brought the food." She pointed over at Gilthoniel, hovering over a dock not very distant.

Aislinn stared, amazed. "How does it do that?"

"Well," she said, reaching for an apple in a bowl of fruit, "All things are pulled down to the earth by a force called gravity." She tossed the apple straight up, and caught it in the same hand a moment later. "If not for gravity, the apple would have continued straight up at the same speed forever, but instead it was pulled down to my hand. Menelmacari ships can manipulate gravity in order to fly and maneuver. I admit I'm not entirely sure just how that works."

"Oh." It seemed rather complicated - how could an apple falling to earth make something else not fall to earth? - but it was as good an explanation as any; Aislinn had been looking for invisible gasbags.

Airaheri’s eyes narrowed as the conversation went on, and she stood up, looking at Aislinn with a little smile, “If you will excuse me,” she said, turning and walking away from the table, headed after Weir.

Minutes later, on the large balcony overlooking the city’s central control room, she was in a heated dialogue with the governor. “Apparently she’s from a slave-owning elf nation to the east of here.”

He nodded, “I see,” he said, a little disbelieving.

Airaheri glared at him, “I assure you, she was not lying.”

“We shall see,” he said, “Launch sensor drones, see what you can find out to the east of us. I’m going to consult Lord Asirnoth on this,” he added, he hadn’t been planning to make policy on such a scale after all.

From buildings cunningly worked into the base of the city, dozens of small metal shapes shot, curving off and heading to the east, in the general direction of Mornagroth. Aboard them were any number of instruments for measuring population density, energy sources, movement, and any number of other variables.

The first thing the Kanuckistani UAVs detected, flying South towards Ornatarost, was the great spire of rock rising from the surrounding forest. It is very obviously not a natural feature.

Closer, and the buildings on the spire become visible; the long air-piers with their attendant buildings, the shining black of the kálámor envelopes of the airships there, and the rambling mass of the Tarondhi atop it all.

Of course, when the UAVs could see the spire, the spire could see them...

Ornatarost flight control was located in a rambling warren of rooms, with it's front located under the East pier and extending backwards into the rock with little sense of order; size, shape, and floor level varied, but the spaces fitted together naturally, with an Elven sort of graceful disorder.

Barasákugan Gairéión had never flown anything more aerodynamic than a desk, and did not expect to. Nevertheless, he was an officer of the Rámakosi, and the radar blips now resolving themselves on his screens closely resembled the ones pilot Kauách Sarnadaiondh (Horrid name, he thought, How could anyone name a child that, in these past ten thousand years?) had reported.

Barasákugan rubbed his forehead, wondering what to do about them. Sarnadaiondh had said that they were harmless enough, if nosy and somewhat rude; but there was a great difference between a Tarsianno-class out over the water and Ornatarost itself. The Tarsianno didn't have a palace full of nobility atop it.

"Scramble a flight of Anárkuár," he said into the intercom, deciding. "If those things start to shoot, I want to be able to down them before they hit the Tarondhi. And in Her name, ready the anti-aircraft batteries!"

Neither precaution had ever needed to be taken before - although the Mornagrothim might worry about the exiles up North in Kelunrossén, they stayed clear of violating the Ban, and sent their taxes to Mornagroth readily enough, if grudgingly. Now ... well, who knew where these things came from?

UAV 'Bob' continued it's mindless survey of the Reploid befor once again departing at near-Mach; it's heading this time one fourty degrees south from it's mothership - a token attempt to conceal the Battlegroup's location.

Meanwhile, Flight One continued on it's survey, cameras and the like probing the forgine structures and populace, while the ocasional handful of coin-sized flake drones - mostly plastic; invisible on RADAR - were droped over any targets of particular interest.

And off the coast, analisysts both computer and flesh - and sometimes both at once - began examining sensor data, while Commodore Whet contemplated a response for if - when, the natives whose airspace they were so blaintently violating got on a radio and started squaking at them.

"Yes?" asked Asirnoth, turning away, from a table upon which was a table upon which was a collection of alien parts and components lay., sharing it with a small battery of necrontyr tools and computational devices. Most of the specimens were rather sophisticated but ultimately, curios only.

Edward Weir smiled, having evidently had the fortune to contact the Director in one of his better moods. "Sire, I have received disturbing news."
"Oh?"
"Yes sir. It appears we have found a human-enslaving Tareldanorë Quendi state."
"I see," said the Dragon, and the Great Wyrm shrugged his scaled shoulders, looking at the hologrammattic human with annoyance seething from his cold black eyes. "Suppress the information and do your best to give them a favourable impression of us."
"But-"
"Listen," the Dragon interrupted, "I'm going to give you priceless advice. Never let your morals get in the way of doing what's right..."


Airaheri gaped at Weir, "You want me to what?"
"Cover it up," he said matter-of-factly, "if this information gets out it could harm the reputation of elves everywhere, and this is a problem. We'll work on changing things slowly."
The red haired elf frowned, nodding, "I suppose that makes some sense," she said, "but I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it, just obey, don't mention the Mornagrothim to anyone without clearance."
"Yes sir," she said, "If I may be so bold, what is to be done about them?"
"The basic idea is to help their slaves by more subtle methods than the ones you are obviously contemplating."

Airaheri pouted, crestfallen and infuriated, she ran her graceful fingers through her hair, dislodging the leaver of her elaborate 'do. Weir relaxed, she was clearly unhappy, but she would also clearly accept the decision. "Good," he said, "now, see about getting that aircraft stowed."
She nodded, turning and leaving the control centre.

Unfortunately for Commodore Whet, the Mornagrothim were waiting for the insolent intruders to start "squarking" and explain themselves ... eventually, they'd stop waiting and start shooting. And with a full flight of twenty Anárkuár-class angasloké circling the intruders, plus a pair of artillery airships floating above, Barasákugan felt assured that they'd win.

-----

"...Whoa. Sweet Mother that's big!"

Kauách agreed with Káláringo; seeing Isasrach, there wasn't much else to say.

And this mól, this Garrahan girl, is on board there, a guest - willing or no - of people who can build something like that monster. Ai, Mother! I don't think they're going to give her back willingly.

"Keep an eye open, 'Ringo," he said, "They might start shooting the moment they see us, if the mól's been filling their ears with lies."

Though some of the things one hears out of Mornagroth ... well, they must be lies. We are not the Enemy.

OOC: The Enemy = Morgoth/Melkor, of course. He's called Belekor in the núralambe.

Sweet Goddess Shimeki-! Small wonder my scanners picked it up- missing something that big would be damn near impossible. Now what is it- Skygrasper reigns in his more exuberant manuvers as he approaches the city-ship. And what is that below-? Whoa, now THAT looks cool!

Since the drake was approaching the city from roughly the same vector as the gunship, it was inevitable that they should spot one another. Those guys on the comms described their runaway as a big metal dragon. Is that it? But that wouldn't fit- they're behind me, the contact I'm chasing was last seen ahead of me.

Skygrasper opts to maintain his heading for the city-ship, waiting either for some sort of "Who the hell are you?" hail, or the multitude of little contacts he'd detected not too long ago.

((OOC: For the record, Skygrasper might show up at a distance on radar looking a lot like the angasloké- from what I've been told, the reploid is comprable in size to the runaway craft, and at a distance, well, a dragon is a dragon is a dragon ^_~ Remember- he's NOT military, but he can and will fight if he has to.))

“This is insane.”

“It’s not as if we’re actually saying we’re an… elfocracy. But you can’t deny it will almost certainly be best if they assume that we are,” Weir said, glancing around the control room, currently devoid of ‘humans,’ but for himself and a few other stragglers. He’d ordered them all to head off to the lower, less glamorous levels of the city.

Gesturing for the other few to head off into the lift he smiled, a little annoyed that they still hadn’t got the displacers online, forcing him to use the much slower system. As the doors closed he grinned, “Enjoy… Governor Airaheri.”

The elf glared in annoyance and strode over to a large chair at the side of the room, exuding a confidence she didn’t feel, “Well, here goes nothing” she muttered in her native tongue as she say down in it. Extending her hand to a panel on the armrest, she pressed down, resulting in the air in front of her shimmering as the two intruders appeared in three dimensional vision, crisp as if they were there in front of her. Zooming in and rotating the holograms she contemplated their design for a moment. Another mental command and she transmitted her voice, in quenya once more, “Attention incoming vessels. Identify yourselves.”

"Kauách, we've got a return up ahead on the radar - looks like an Anárkuár."

Kauách said something that was not, etymologically, descended from any Elven tongue, and brought up the radar displays.

"Looks like it. I'm going higher for a better look."

He sent the Ramino circling higher to catch up with the other craft. "Looks like it's not our quarry, actually. I don't know what it is. Hail it?"

"Opening radio link - waitamoment, we're being hailed already. By the city-ship."

"Well, put it up - let's hear this..."

"Translating now. It's in the Northron."

"Quenya? So many Golodhi, so little time..."

"Ha ha. Here it is; "Attention incoming vessels. Identify yourselves."

"Well, she certainly doesn't waste time on pleasantries."

Kauách found the radio protocols and rattled off a quick response before running it through the Ramino's translator programs to send back;

"City-ship, this is Pilot Kauách Sarnadaiondh of the Mornagrothim Rámakosi, piloting the Tarsianno-class angasloké "Ramino". We are currently hunting a dangerous fugitive, recently escaped in a craft somewhat similar to our own; have you seen anything of that nature?"

Whoops, there's the hail. Skygrasper glances back over one shoulder, noting the other craft steadily climbing to match his altitude. What to reply, what to reply?.... Well duh, ATI idents and the like,

Despite the other craft gaining, Skygrasper switches to a vaguely circular holding pattern. No sense in flying right on in and getting mistaken for an attacker, after all. A quick mental translation, and he responds to the curt demand for identification. "Sorry to so rudely show up. Th'name's Skygrasper Ryuusama from Arpean Thaumatology Institute, mobile research unit Zeta-Nine, presently looking around for some weird contact that pinged off our thaumatometers." Another glance at the bigger metal drake closing in on his position. "It was last seen heading this way, and there's another contact showing on my scanners that seems to be similiar. I dunno if it's hostile or not. It's bigger than the one I was told about. Any chance this reploid could cruise in for a bit and rest his wings? I've been in the air most of the day, and am getting rather tired of looking down at water." The communication ends on a dry chuckle. "By the way, might there be some other language we can communicate in? My Quenya's not the best."

Unfortunately for Commodore Whet, the Mornagrothim were waiting for the insolent intruders to start "squarking" and explain themselves ... eventually, they'd stop waiting and start shooting. And with a full flight of twenty Anárkuár-class angasloké circling the intruders, plus a pair of artillery airships floating above, Barasákugan felt assured that they'd win.


As the UAV flight continues on it's survey, Whet started to become concerned; those drakes tailing the formation not helping the matter. If they started shooting.. well, UAV's may be expendible, but they certaintly weren't cheap, and he knew the Gaurd's budget was tight enough as it was. Analisys guestimated that the UAVs could win, but there was nothing to sugest that those dragon-planes were unmanned; returning fire - the number chrunchers had actually sugested firing first - would in all liklyhood result in lives lost.

'Maybe they're transmitting some way the drones can't recive?' he mused; better say something befor they start.

------------------

"Uh, this is flight three-two-one-eight-seven-four of the International Amospheric Geo-Magnetic Survey to.. whoever's in charge here," the message began, translated to Quenya befor relayed zero-point to the UAV AWACS for transmission, "We have yet to recive contact from local air traffic control, or any local assets, for that matter; are you or they transmitting via non-radio methods?"

Airaheri had little difficulty targeting the two vessels with their own narrow cones of transmission, centred on them so that one could not intercept the signal destined for another. The reploid was first to receive a reply, “Certainly,” she said, having quickly put that spell back on, though still speaking in her native tongue, “I suspect that you have the appropriate interpreting programs, so if you’d care to land in VTOL bay seven on this map,” a mental trigger sent the appropriate basic map of the city’s landing areas. “Incidentally, your ping is causing a bit of a stir around here, so if you could wait to be briefed, it’s a bit politically sensitive if you catch my meaning. Incidentally, we’ve probably screwed up your sensors royally. Busy with assorted thaumatology around here today.”

Then, activating the transmission to Kauách, she smiled, he’d hopefully be surprised to hear her speak in his own tongue, after all, “We haven’t seen a dangerous fugitive, no, but if you would care to land I believe we may be able to help you. Anywhere on one of the flat areas around the edge of the city,” she said, having just given orders for someone to ask Sirithil and her guest to adjourn up to the elf-queen’s quarters in the city’s central tower, “would be fine for now.”

Skygrasper blinks and banks sharply out of his circling pattern to head for the bay he was instructed to. "Mucho thanks, and I'll be a good guest, not to worry. Am I to assume that the unknown contact I first ws tracking has been intercepted by you guys?" The drake pauses for a moment, another consideration coming to mind. "Ah... I also don't know how accustomed your landing deck personel are to outlandishly non-human things, but you might want to warn them that they've got a sentient inbound who's larger than some combat mecha."

The last time anyone had met a Northron elf, to the best of Barasákugan's knowledge, had been several hundred years ago, away up north of Kelunrossén, unless the Exiles had been lying about it, which was entirely possible. Bunch of crazy political idealists, the lot of them.

Still, while he himself had all the Quenya of a rock, the translation programs in his databases worked perfectly.

"Flight Three-Two-One-Seven-Eight-Four, as you can most probably tell, you are, unfortunately, not on our registered flight schedule, and thus I must ask you to depart restricted airspace for wherever you are meant to be. Thank-you."

-----

"She speaks the núralambé!" Káláringo exclaimed, suprised. For that matter Kauách was too, although he remained silent.

"Thank-you," Kauách sent in reply, "We will be setting down shortly, in that case. You speak the núralambé - are you one of the Exiles? I was not aware of a citadel out here on the waters, let alone one so grand."

With that he brought the Ramino down to land, steel claws gripping the deck, wings folding neatly along the angasloké's back. The big dragon's neck folded open and Kauách emerged, followed shortly by Káláringo.

"Flight Three-Two-One-Seven-Eight-Four, as you can most probably tell, you are, unfortunately, not on our registered flight schedule, and thus I must ask you to depart restricted airspace for wherever you are meant to be. Thank-you."


Whet had expected something of the like in response, and so his reply was only moments in coming; the UAV's, meanwhile, maintaining their survey.

"Negative; we are where we're suposed to be. We are conducting an indepth survey of fringe elements belived to be contributing to a larger magnetospheric anomoly in the planet's upper magnetic feild that is posing a substantial hazard to our sponsors' trans-orbital activites.

Normally we would contact local authorities to secure over-flight clearance, but we were unable to locate international contact information for your government, and the tight nature of our schedule prohibited the dispatch of an envoy prior to scheduled activities.

If you will permit our craft passage, they will be done and gone with as little fuss as possible, and an envoy will be along in the next few days to see to any necessary compensation for our intrusion, as well as a formal apology."

Airaheri contemplated it for a while, "Yes," she said. The next part of the reply to Skygrasper was a little amused, "Oh don't worry, it's all automated. So long as you can fit through the entrance, it should all be fine...You can fit through the bay doors can't you?" she added with a hint of geniune concern. Replying as the Mornagrothim visitor landed, "That will be explained later," she said, standing from the chair and gesturing for two others to follow her out to the deck.

Stutting across the deck, looking somewhat impressive as the cool sea breeze ruffled her clothing, she smiled, a thin viel over a deep well of contempt for thier latest visitor, "I am Airaheri," she said, "governor of Isasrach. Welcome..."

OOCL Apologies for the lateness and shortness. :(

Skygrasper finds his way to the bay he was instructed to land at and squeaks his large frame through the doors with a touch of tricky manuvering, setting down with the clank of metal on metal as he backwings to a landing. "Ah... good to touch down on something solid at last!"

The metal plates of his wings make a minimum of noise as the reploid furls them tight against his back and arcs his neck to survey his surroundings. "Whew... nice digs. Seems kinda silly to put the whole thing in the air though. Ah well."

With a releaxed sigh, the reploid lies down so his head is more level with whomever will be coming to brief him on the situation.

"Negative, Flight Three-Two-One-Seven-Eight-Four; you are not supposed to be here. We care nothing for your "magnetospheric anomaly"; be off with you, Northron. Our craft will now escort you back the way you came."

-----

"Thankyou, Governor Airaheri," Kauách replied, bowing politely, "Your city is most impressive. We must talk - I have a fugitive to track down, and if you and yours can assist, I and the Rámakosi shall be most grateful."

That is not a Mornagrothim name, he thought, And that is not a Mornagrothim face. I know of nobody looking like her in the Alvínthádorén - is she lying? And if about this, then what else?

OOC: 'Tis okay - just keep them coming and I'll be happy.

"Unacceptible," the reply was cold, almost mechanical; a drastic contrast from only moments ago, "Please be aware that our craft are armed and will defend themselves with excessive force if engaged; if you succeed in interdicting our craft, a follow up flight will be requiored to complete their task with a mandate of proactive threat neutralization, including a heavy ground-strike loadout. The losses to your people would be regrettible, but you are a minute power and of little concern beyond the maintaince of our timetable within and beyond this endevor."

And with that, ECM both AWACS and fighter based awoke, attempting to jamm and spoof native sensors, while the cannons within each fighter rapidly charged; their turrets not yet tracking, while fire-control remained passive - no need to spook pilots into starting a firefight when you were trying to bluff their superriors into backing down.

Below Isasrach’s outer towers, a team of researchers began their analysis. Floating in mid-air near them was Aislinn’s vehicle. White cloaked figures moved around it as if in a surreal dream, waving bits of equipment at the angasloké, murmuring their observations in voices they didn’t seem to expect anyone but one another to hear. “The hull definitely seems to be made of galvorn,” said one.

“I agree,” said another, “I’ll see about getting the slow cutting tools.

“Good,” said the first speaker, “but let’s hold off on that, and run a non-invasive systems probe first, I want to see how it functions from a computing standpoint.”

----

Airaheri meanwhile, smiled, and gestured toward the way she had came, doing her best to seem friendly to Kauách, “Alas,” she said, “I fear that the limits of the assistance I am able to provide to you will be to save you some wasted time.”

Now to see if he’ll swallow our little forgery, she thought to herself, if not, this’ll be very difficult to explain. “We detected another vessel like your own, though if I recall correctly, it was somewhat smaller, some time ago, passing nearby. We tried to make contact, but failed. After continuing to monitor it for some time we observed that it ditched into the ocean.

We’ve already sent probes out to the appropriate spot looking, but we found nothing. Thus I fear, the most I can do is save you a fruitless search for a fugitive who is, in all likelihood, drowned. I imagine he was not a professional pilot…”

She allowed her voice to trail off for a while, before beginning again with renewed vigour. “In any case, you asked earlier how I spoke your language. I’m afraid to say, it’s a little ‘magic’ trickery really, rather than linguistic skill,” she smiled a little at that, “in any case, I must confess, my real reason for wanting you to land was curiosity, can you tell me, where do you come from precisely? We’ve not have many contacts with the land to the south of here...”

----

Meanwhile, with nothing else to do, the real governor went to see Skygrasper, accompanied by one of the engineers he’d picked up, Arnkedar, to run a little monitoring on the things that were going on up above.

“Sir?” he said, “communications now report that they are intercepting signals from nearby, a group called Kanuckistan, talking to the Mornagrothim…”

“I see…”

“They appear to be brewing a confrontation.”

“Idiots,” he said, opening the door to Skygrasper’s bay, “anyway, see if you can’t have someone give them an earful.”

The necrontyr underling nodded and left Weir alone with the reploid. He smiled somewhat at the rather draconic looking creature, “Hello…” he said, “you’re Skygrasper, yes? Edward Weir, pleased to meet you…”

The big drake nods, looking down at the much smaller biped. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weir. Yup, Skygrasper Ryuusama, from the Arpean Thaumatology Institute. Thanks for lettin' me land, by the way, I really appreciate it."

The reploid shifts slightly. "So... what exactly is the situation? I saw another one of those weird flying craft while I made my approach, little bit bigger than I am, heading in roughly the same direction. Those guys with the weird language I spoke with briefly mentioned a dangerous fugitive, but given all the hush-hush and contacts I was picking up, I'm guessing there's a bit more to things than that?"

Mother of Night, this is a pretty pickle, Barasákugan thought. Time to talk to the Powers That Be.

Switching his headset to the local lines, and then to the offices of his immediate superior.

"Yes?"

"We have a problem, sir."

"Yes, I've been watching. I'm passing it up the line now."

Waitaminute ... that means ...

"Good afternoon, Barasákugan Gairéión."

"Uh ... good afternoon, Iéndomé Denetaré. Uh, yes. We have a problem, my lady."

"I am aware of that, thankyou. They are preventing our sensors from getting a lock on them?"

"Uh, yes, my lady. They are."

The Iéndomé uttered a word descended from a human tongue. "Stand by to transmit a message, Gairéión."

"Yes, my lady. Immediately."


"Secondborn have died for lesser words than those, Northron, and you are clearly no First Born or descendant of the First Born. Your blood is tainted, your power is neglible, and your words do not sit well upon the ears of the Edeli, your natural born superiors.

We say again; be off with you, else we shall be forced to cast you from the skies. Is your "magnetospheric anomaly" worth the price of war, children of the Enemy? Get ye gone.


OOC: Yes, Denetaré is a really bad person to be sending a reply - she's the most xenophobically racist of the Iendomén. There are nicer elves in Mornagroth, but most of them are outside the capital, and of the ones in the capital most of them just think what Denetaré actually says... In any case, on with the other bit.

"I see," Kauách replied, frowning. This was not a good answer to recieve (OOC: receive? It looks wrong...). "Have you recordings we might examine? I do not mean to question your word, Lady, but this is of great import."

Ah. So she is indeed not of the Exiles. Still, if she does not know us, why should she lie?

"Ah, luktié. That explains it. Of us? We are from the Alvínthádorén Mornagroto, the Unfading Lands of the Delving; I myself am from Kelunrossén, while Káláringo here is from Numénost."

OOC: Poor Kauách is too trusting. I suppose I should do something for the angasloké too...

Alvin watched, and Alvin waited, and the evidence accumulated slowly towards danger. The angasloké's magan-heart, running not on silicon circuitry but upon what primitives might term soul, was poorer than it's silicon cousins at more linear work, but unlike them, it could make intuitive leaps, of a certain limited quality. It was, perhaps, as intelligent as a chimpanzee.

Chimpanzees did not have to worry about having their systems hacked, but angaslokí did, and their makers knew very well that there were only two kinds of paranoia. Alvin readied it's countermeasures, and continued to wait.

OOC: Don't be kicking the puppy, you. Ack, that post was not exactly quality, but I got it out. Joy.

“Of course,” Airaheri said, hoping that that the forged records of Alvin’s descent into the ocean had actually been completed (oddly enough, I did consider it in advance, hence; ‘heir ‘little forgery.’ Go me. *pulls a muscle patting himself on the back* ) she found it unlikely that they hadn’t, but was worried about the possibility that they had not nonetheless. Stepping into a lift, rather utilitarian in its design – one would either use stairs or displacers on Isasrach under normal conditions – of unpolished but smooth steel, she keyed in the appropriate button for her destination, memorised, rather than taken from the illuminated display on the wall that gave an interactive listing for the likely destinations in green characters in the northron elf dialect no less, and then the access code – one eight four five nine – for entry to the control centre, and the doors slid shut in front of them.

“May I ask,” she said, “what precisely this fugitive was fleeing from?” Her expression concealed her suspicions, though she was still open to having her mind changed, the girl had put on a rather impressive show before, with the food. “and where, as well,” she asked, tone curious but polite.

-----

Edward Weir smiled at Skygrasper, “Well,” he said, “we picked up this fugitive; oh I think it’d be a couple of hours back now, headed in our general direction, and let her land here. I don’t think dangerous is the word I’d use, at least, she didn’t seem dangerous on her own. Girl, about six, she claimed to have come from, well, those guys. Apparently they keep slaves, and she fled in a stolen… Angaseker or whatever they’re called… Angasloké, that’ it. Anyway, we’ve got her stashed in one of the central towers, with her ladyship the Elentári of Menelmacar,” he seemed to say this without the sarcasm one would expect from his wording, perhaps he even meant it, “and her vessel down in a research bay somewhere, while my counterpart pumps them for information to back up her story. Suffice to say, it’s a tricky situation. We’re especially bothered as these guys seem to be elves racially oppressing humans, which is a departure from the norm I must admit, and we’d like to keep that nice and quiet, last thing we want is everyone and their dog using it to justify elf-abuse,” he said, “on the off chance it’s true, we’ve got one of my pointy eared friends pretending to be governor here, and the rest of us staying out of the way of our guests upstairs.”

----

Meanwhile, in the heavily shielded research room the Angasloké was held in, the assorted personnel attempting to take a look at the thing sat behind consoles in the next room as they began the scan – they’d had things explode on them when subjected to scanning, so it was general procedure to keep the heavy blast door between the white sample bay and the grey analysis room closed, once procedures had begun at least. This was no exception. “Extending the probe,” the first speaker said, watching as a diagnostic display showed the elongated shape of the probe move toward the prone vehicle, small beeps coming from it as it stopped about an inch from the iron dragon’s skin. A small hologram in the grey room began to build up, showing the area nearest the probe first, layer after layer of translucent holographic materials. Like building a miniature copy, but building it in the same way one would burn it if it were made of paper. “Curious,” someone said, watching, “it’s a complex and yet crude construct. I want one…”

Good natured laughter came from her colleagues at this.
----

OOC: Receive. And, kick the puppy! How would you feel about some Riadh posts?! :P And besides, the quality was fine.

Kauách shrugged eloquently, unwilling to go into detail. The Exiles might hear rumor from the capital, but they themselves were forbidden to go there ... and even the rumor out of Mornagroth was somewhat unpleasant.

"She was a human," he replied, "They do not love us over much, I fear, and in Mornagroth they do little to ... encourage such love. The Iéndomé remain embittered at the loss of their Queen, and that they can rightly lay at our door, misguided though it may be."

---

In the research bay, Alvin sat and waited. It was not insensate to the scanning going on, but it remained very low on power; unless it was physically attacked, action must be postponed.

OOC: Ack. Rather shorter than it should be, and far, far later than it should be ... but it's there.

You're right. Twenty two. I've been thinking of her as much much younger. I looked back for the age, and saw "you've got five five years now? Six?" and the old French lessons came back. Eeep.

Skygrasper whistles appreciatively. "That is a sticky one. Wow... elves oppressing humans. Scary concept. No offense, but I don't envy you the task of dealing with it." He tips his head slightly. "And I assume that the others I detected before landing are probably stirring things up themselves? I got scoped out by some military-lookin' drone on my way in."

Weir smiled, “It’s hardly the job I signed on for, but anyway…” he blinked, “Oh yeah, those guys. We’re letting them wander around but if they start shooting we might be forced to put them down. It’d be a shame though, not least because it’d bust up whatever secrecy we’ve got going here.

“Still, if they insist on acting like idiots, well… Let’s not go there.”

Skygrasper bobs his huge head. "Yeah, seems to me the military types are usually... ah... less than subtle." He glances in the direction of the closed landing bay doors. "And the bigger the guns, the less subtle they even try to be."

The big mechanoid looks down at Weir. "Wish I could help, but I'm not really in any position of authority. I'm just a thaumatology researcher, despite all my sharp pointy bits." The drake taps one of his massive metalic talons on the floor for emphasis. "I would love to see the craft the girl flew in on... I saw similar on my way in, and they look quite fascinating... though their combat ability against similarly sized fightercraft I suspect is less than stellar."

Airaheri smiled as the doors of the lift slid apart. The control room was expansive, and though it seemed to be surrounded on three sides by windows, it was in fact buried deep within the lower sections of the central tower of Isasrach. White-metallic pillars spanned the room from ceiling to floor, containing numerous displays of countless details, diagrams of power output and utilisation, and stylised representations of the city and its key systems.

Walking down the two steps around the edge of the room, Airaheri walked over toward a large table that had a raised edge almost like a hexagonal pool table. In it was a miniature model of the city, floating on water like that of the sea outside. She looked at Kauách for a moment and smiled, “From here I can retrieve the relevant records,” she explained, pressing a few buttons, and scrolling down a list of events – in necrontyr – after a moment she smiled, “ahah,” she said, “here you go.”

The ‘model’ dissolved, for a moment seeming to melt, but then exploding into a fine spray of glowing motes of holographic dust that fell into the suddenly inert white table’s surface. “This,” she said, “is the city,” indicating a green symbol in the centre of the table’s surface. “And this,” she pointed to a blue glyph, hovering in the air, “is your contact.”

A tap on the controls made the ‘recording’ run, the hovering blue glyph passing over the table, growing increasingly unsteady, before eventually its erratic flying caused it to plunge into the table and disappear.

“I can have a copy made up for you if you like,” she offered.

Meanwhile, the person he was looking for had the opportunity to view Sirithil’s quarters. They were quite frankly, vast. While they didn’t take up an entire level of the massive skyscraper, they took up more than enough of it. The richly appointed and sumptuous apartments were no doubt quite unlike what she was used to, especially the view. The sky was framed outside every window in glorious detail as the sun began to set in the west, the sky turning orange as fluffy clouds reflected the sun’s parting rays.

Weir nodded, “I think I can arrange that,” he said, “I’ll check,” he gave the reploid a brief nod and left the hangar to converse with his associate.

Kauách watched the blue glyph disappear into the ocean. Well, that was that ... wasn't it?

"Have you no visual records?" he asked, frowning. "Glyphs on a display are all very well, but I do not think that my superiors would accept them as evidence." The lords in Mornagroth certainly wouldn't.

OOC: Over-late and over-short ... becoming a bad habit.

Airaheri humed quietly, and looked over the controls, "A few logs of it in flight," she said, bringing up genuine footage of the dragon shaped aircraft in flight, "That's the first one," she said, truthfully, "If we skip forward a few minutes," she did something else, moving along, to a superbly forged rendition of the holographic angasloké plunging into the ocean, oddly like a gannet as it plunged to its 'doom.'

Well, that was that; proof even the Iéndomén would have to accept.

"Yes. Copies of that would be most appreciated."

OOC: Ack, even worse! Clearly I need to read the Silmarillion or LOTR again to get the feel for it again.

Airaheri nodded stepping closer to Kauách and smiling, quickly putting an arm through his, "Of course," she said, "now, if I could press you for some more details about your homeland... It seems odd that you've managed to keep yourselves hidden away down there for so long unless you're deliberately isolationary..."

(Bah! You're doing fine!)

Kauách disentangled his arm somewhat stiffly. "Lady Airaheri, I would be happy to answer your questions ... we do not seek isolation, but what is there outside the borders of the Alvínthádorén that we could want? We have all the land we need, and our factories and farms beneath it supply all the goods we require, and we are content."

She frowned a little, unable to tell if he was spoken for, merely formal, or if she was just not interesting him. Not that it particularly bothered her, but she would have liked her efforts at charm to work. "Well," she said, smiling, "for a start, foreign trade. Certainly you may have everything you supply, but I imagine there must be something of interest that your people," she said, thinking your slaves, "do not or cannot make."

"Not that I can imagine," Kauách replied. "If we wanted it, we would make it, no? We have that ability."

She smiled, "Ah, but," she said, "things from distant lands are often different and interesting in themselves. I am sure, for example, that your people cannot grow every kind of fruit or vegatable, nor rear every animal on the face of the earth. Though, if you can, I'd be very interested in how you do it," she grinned, joking - to an extent.

Are any of the people who were playing in this RP still here? This is a pretty story, and I've re-read it quite a few times over the past three years.

(Sorry. I won't pull something like this again.)

OOC: All of us are. But I wouldn't be holding my breath for a continuation, for various reasons. If you've more questions, it's probably best to send them via Telegram.

OOC: Normally I get irritated by thread-necromancy, but I very much enjoyed this RP myself, and rue the lack of chance to continue it. Thanks at least for giving me the chance to read it again.