NationStates Jolt Archive

"I am not without mercy..." Thundered he who was notoriously without mercy.

His brow was creased, his neck bent beneath the weight of the slim iron crown he wore, its surface burnished bright as silver, unadorned save for a single chunk of raw, black diamond. The coronet gave his face a thin, severe look as he gazed down from his elevation atop the Seastone Chair.

A handful of well-dressed Lords and their Ladies stood, recieving the full brunt of the Lord Reaver's fury. A few trembled, a few wept. More stood in solemn anger, their heads high and their eyes on that of warrior king who had slapped down their savage rebellion and placed chains upon them, rather than a the mantle of Lord or King...

Almost six months since his brother Bastien's fall from grace, and still members of the Cowards Council evaded him. He heard whispers, to be sure, yet they seemed only so much chaff: The Lords hid themselves in Crimmond, eager to use the brewing hostilities there to hide their whereabouts, they cowered in hovels and shacks in Arda, they feasted nightly with the whorish elves, and they whispered sweet lies into the ears of Pantera's staunchest allies. So many rumors and so much shit... He thought.

Still, the fact was that he had won. He sat the Seastone Chair and now all of Pantera paid homage to him as Lord Reaver. He ruled from the stony shores of southron Gade to the thick black loam and rolling hills of the Vale, all the way to his frozen northern hell of Toke, and his Seastone Palace.

Yes, he ruled, but still his enemies lurked, evading him and biding their time. Well, he would surely remedy that this evening.

Rising, he resumed where he left off,"No, I am not without mercy... Yet, where was this 'mercy' when my brother, the Lord you bend knee to, wailed and screamed... and died? Where was mercy then?"

Even after so long, his brother's death still pained him, yet he forged ahead, his anger growing by the moment,"Mercy..." The word sounded near a curse on his lips,"A vestigial word for an act and emotion that has ceased to exist, or at least, we have lost sight of its true meaning.'

"I have called you here tonight to inform you that the time for 'mercy' with me is gone. I have called you together to let you hear it first, you, who have forced me down this path."

Rising, the Evenstar came to his full height, his indigo-colored eyes blazing in the bright lights of the Great Hall as their gaze cast about the huddling group.

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International address of Lord Reaver Dayne the Evenstar, Toke, Pantera:

"This is the final warning. This is the final opportunity to submit to justice, and mercy. To those members of the vile Cowards Council still free of my hand, I say return, and face your death as men, or surely those dear to you will face the Fires of retribution in your place...

To those who would harbor my enemies, I say this: Prepare yourselves. They, and you, may have fooled me for awhile, but the time for retribution is near. The final, cowering members of the Council will soon feel the iron bludgeon of My Justice, and those who would harbor them... Well, they shall surely be scorched from the earth as well.

There will be no further negotiation. This is the end of an era of what could have been peace, and the beginning of an era of Blood, Fire, and Vengeance.

Dayne the Evenstar
Lord Reaver of Pantera
Drag the Waters of War"

{{OOC: I'll go ahead and leave this open, as I'm looking to get something started with a few{possibly, hopefully, new} nations that I've never RP'd with before. Please, serious roleplayers only...

If the above post makes no sense to you, please telegram me with an MSN name and I can fill you in on the past year in Pantera, the Seastone Council, and where I plan to go from here.

Now, DISCLAIMER: By getting involved here you must take full responsibilities for your actions. I don't plan on genocide or a mass invasion of any kind, but don't push me. My Evenstar is very, very angry with the fled members of the Council, and those who harbor them are in the same, sinking boat. Other than that I hope a few new 'friends' turn out for this, as I have big plans for it if it gets going...}}

The man was incredibly uncomfortable. His hands fiddled nervously with the hem of his formerly fine and currently frayed silk shirt. His eyes flicked from side to side as he babbled and he tossed his head slightly when he chanced to lift his eyes to the stern scowl of the Evenstar's face,"Truly, M'lord I tried! We know nothing... The other Councilmen have scattered to the Four Winds while we have been here... imprisoned..."

It was true, Dayne knew, but it still grated. He wantd to kill the man and be done with it, but the spectacle of the death of all of the remainder of the Council would win him much support among those Panterans who still questioned his succession. He ruled Pantera, but Pantera was not easily held without the support of the populace. He held the hearts of most Panterans, but there were a few who resented his handling of the rebellion.

He had planted the sniveling traitor in the midst of the prisoners, to listen for word of the Council's wherabouts. The dog had been eager enough to betray his companions, in exchange for his life. Dayne had no intentions of allowing the man to live, but there was no reason for the man to know that... He was not one to break an oath, but he needed the heads of those Councilmen who still evaded him... He could not abide their survival, for he did not have the peasantry fully in his grasp.

He had always been loved by the smallfolk. His father had groomed Bastien to rule, and he to lead. He had won both tourney and war at an age when most boys still dreamed of wet panties and booze, rather than blood, steel and smoke. One of the youngest men to ever be named 'Reaver', he had won glory and fame before his eighteenth nameday. When his father had died he had taken the sword to Ryam Redeye while Bastien lay wounded, this only increased his fame...

He had hated it. All he wanted was to serve Bastien, quietly. To defend Pantera when he needed, and to enjoy the long summer of his youth with a bottle and a breast, rather than swords and armies...

But, with Bastien dead and gone aftrer his father, Dayne now courted that fame that he once shunned. He and the Eurydian, Beowulf, had waged the lightning campaign of the Summer Storms and had pulled Pantera from the blackened ashes of rebellion and pieced it back together, and in doing so secured the faith of many of the smallfolk.. The savage brutality he used in supressing the rebellion was not lost on the rest, however, and still many wavered...

If any of the Seasone Council returned, he knew that many would rise against him. Seeing these rise would give heart to more, and it would be the Red Rain all over again, ten years of horror and blaack rebellion...

He knew that Pantera could not survive another dance of blood and fire...

(OOC: Interesting... This is not a very well disguised TAG and a possible placeholder for myself...)

A -Tag- for me as well.

Frustrated, Dayne listened to an aide's report on the afternoon's raid. It had, apparently, gone terribly wrong.

Acting on a tip from an informant among a few of the Council's remaining loyal legions, he had sent in a fist of his own Reavers to burn out a house in the South of Pantera that was suspected to hold one of the craven councilmen.

The Evenstar's own Reavers had been led into a trap, apparently. As they stormed the building they met only token resistance, and their commander had ordered the building swept. They soon found out why enemy fire had been so light. Almost thirty good men had died in the treacherous gout of flame that took the house, and three more later as they fought the fires that the explosion had spread.

Grinding his teeth angrily, Dayne swore vengeance for the hundredth timeand ordered the informant siezed and scourged, but he already knew that the man had already fled beyond his grasp.

Mechanical clamour was the first sign that Aeron was awake. The entire hull of the construct rapidly accelerating away from Pantera was rising out of the water, the immense strain it was putting on the hull easing rapidly. As the steel adjusted to the new stresses put upon it. Thuds of footsteps above and below shown that the crew were returning from the small mess hall aboard to oversee the engines, making sure that nothing went wrong. Not tonight. Aeron Damphair was one of the council members who had arranged to be retrieved by a Jordaxian vessel. Not standard procedure by a long way, but these were felt to be special circumstances. The small Orca Ekranoplan picked up speed, edging above 120mph. As The Panteran Coast began to shrink into the distance, a strong sense of regret crossed Aerons mind. A Panteran Councilman had no task in fleeing his home. But he had no choice. Dayne was Lord Reaver, there was no point in crossing someone so powerful. So exile was the only choice available to him, and he had managed to secure passage for Jorah Stackspear and Bregon Nightsong. Something could yet be salvaged, some day. Such thoughts were frivolity for now though. His regret and sorrow merged with his thoughts as he contemplated the future.

On the Bridge of the IJN Tamerlane, Private Andes, Private Elliot, and Private Gibb were assembled. the three Jordaxian Infiltration and Recce Corps operatives tasked with securing Aeron were discussing what would happen next. There would be no medals given out, that'd be for sure, and likely no official, or unofficial records of such a mission would exist. They didn't dwell on the two other JIRC privates brought with them, tasked with infiltrating the Panteran military and governance structures to whatever extent possible, in order to keep a close eye on what the Lord Reaver would do to track down these escaped Councilmen. That tasked was infinitely more dangerous than pulling out three people in a fractured nation. Uncertainty was prevalent throughout the bridge, almost a fourth tangible presence. The three JIRC operatives were not to reveal themselves directly to the evacuees, and so were wearing the slacks of the engineering crew. The IJN Tamerlane was under the nominal Captaincy of Captain Pauls, who believed that they were bringing authorized humanitarian aid to the Panteran shore. All that he had left so far were two operatives, and unmarked bags of polystyrene. Undaunted by the vast dark of the ocean, Tammerlane plunged on.

In the City of Chambers, which had recently been opened for settlement, the Jordaxian Emperor, Michael Elswith slept undisturbed by events happening in what may as well have been the other side of the world. The retrieving action had been authorized by him, technically, but it had been masterminded by shadowy JIRC elements who run much of Jordaxia. Army Chiefs, as well as Airforce and Navy heads all had JIRC connections, because without JIRC connections, they wouldn't be in office. A late night assembly was taking place in a nondescript building in the southwest of the city, near the military compounds dedicated to guard the Emperor. in attendance were admiral Johnson, General Tims, Private Marshall, and Commodore Williams, all of which could lay claim to be the true rulers of Jordaxia. Admiral Johnson was the newcomer to the group, in place of the previous admiral, Admiral Franks. The Admiral and General Tims were required to be there, simply because securing resources were more difficult without their assistance. This was a small meeting of the group Hephaestus, officially formed to take extra-governmental actions that would be difficult to explain away. No records existed of any of their meetings, no way to prove anything that they decided upon. However, their actions were real. They (or rather, Commodore Williams) had orchestrated the evacuation, using Admiral Johnson, General Tims, and Private Marshall to secure a ship, JIRC operatives, and army resources required to pull the retrieval off.

Commodore Williams leaned back in his chair, significantly more expensive and luxurious than the others plain wooden backed seats. He breathed in theatrically, stared in turn at each, then breathed out again.

"Gentlemen, I believe that is another successful "mission" under our belts, wouldn't you agree? On his way now should be Councilman Aeron Damphair, one of the more important, and recently, hidden, people in Pantera. Quite an occurance, even in our event-filled history. I believe this is cause for a celebration."

He reached down below the chair, and pulled up several brandy glasses, along with a large bottle of vintage brandy. He poured a glass for each of the men in attendance, and leaned further back in his chair. Private Marshall immediately placed his glass on the table, and spoke up.

"Commodore, I am aware that the second part of our plan was to insert to JIRC operatives into Pantera, in order that we may see what changes are taking place, with direct relevance to us. But I have to ask. Why? I asked you this before the mission took place, but you sidestepped the question. We have had no contact with this nation previously, why suddenly the interest?"

Commodore Williams leaned forward, the leather creaking as he adjusted his weight.

"Private, it is always prudent to have eyes and ears wherever you can. I would expect you to be familiar with The Art of War. In it, Sun Tzu says "Whether the object be to crush an army, to storm a city, or to assassinate an individual, it is always necessary to begin by finding out the names of the attendants, the aides-de-camp, and door-keepers and sentries of the general in command. Our spies must be commissioned to ascertain these." Surely you can see why it is necessary for us to know everything about the Lord Reaver, in case it becomes favourable for us to... approach this situation from a different angle. Surely you can see that?"

Private Marshall leaned further forward, elbows laying on the table.

"So, you mean to say that you intend to kill the Lord Reaver?"

Commodore Williams tut-tut-ed noisely, waving his finger at Private Marshall.

"I don't intend to say anything remotely like that at the moment."

With that, Commodore Williams lifted up his Brandy, and sat back in his seat, saying no more on the matter. As the night wore on, the small gathering eventually trickled to nothing, leaving Williams in his seat, contemplating the further action.

{{OOC: Since I posted this thread I've gotten a tide of IM's and telegrams welcoming me back to the forums and asking about the status of my baby. Instead of writing 100 emails and tellies, I'll just say here, since everyone seems to be reading anyway, that yes, it is very good to be writing again, and yes, my girlfriend did give birth to a beautiful baby girl, Brooklyn Faye Cox. She was born at 1:10pm September 19th and weighed 7lbs 3.8oz. Blonde hair and blue eyed like her daddy, with her mommies dark brown skin. Gorgeous. So, thanks to all who care and bothered to inquire. I meant to let eeryone know, but things got crzy for a week or two and... Well, you understand. Please, don't spam this thread with congratulations and other OOC remarks... This is an RPing thread, so if you must praise my verility, do it in a telegram, email, or IM. Word.}}

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IC:

"Yes, M'lord. Though we don't know to where he fled, we do know that he is gone, and taken the Stackspear and that dog Nightsong as well, fled. My informers are listening, but whoever helped them tucked it nicely... The aide swallowed, as if nervous that he would be punished for bringing ill tidings.

The grinding of the Evenstar's teeth was audible as he watched the man. Damn them! He thought angrily...

Giving a toss of his great head, his twin braids swinging about his shoulders, the Lord Reaver rose and began to pace, his mind racing. If he was aiding a coup in some other land, how would he do it? He would be eager to abscond with a few highly praised rebels, to be sure...

But what else? And who? Pantera had no shortage of enemies, fresh hatreds grew and old feuds still lingered, but who? Melkor? No... That was not the Imperium's style. The bloody Elves? No, they were too craven... Imitora or perhaps Crimmond? Region mates they had been, but grudging ones. Still, the whole situation smacked of a treachery that they were unlikely to bring.

Who, damnit? Who...!

It came to him then, clear and crisp. Not the who but the how of finding out.

Barking an order, he sent for his Hound, and in a little less than an hour, he arrived, grizzled, old, but above all, cunning.

Caval the Warhound was at least sixty, wrinkled, grey, but not tired, no. He had served Bastien and their father, Valanus, and even his father before him, so long ago. Now, and for the past twelve years, he served Dayne as his swornsword, and Justice.

"I have a task for you, my Hound." Dayne offered, smiling.

The Hound himself offered no smile, or empty courtesy. He never had, and never would. To him, Dayne was not the Lord Reaver, only the boy who he had thrashed for bedding the serving girls, the boy who he had taught to wield a sword, the boy who he had fought too many wars to count with,"That so? And what sort of task is that, Evenstar?"

Quickly, Dayne explained the escape of Damphair and his toadies, and his reasoning behind the how of finding those who had helped them.

"So you see, Hound? They managed to steal the pie, but they -must- be cautious of the cook, no? They planted someone, or a few someones. That is what I would do.... Stick a few informants in the enemy force and learn their intentions, eh?" Pleased with himself, he watched his old friend.

The Hound only scratched at an ear and grunted,"An' you want me to sniff out these bastards? The Hound to track the listening hares, no?" For a long moment he only watched, but then he spat and nodded, saying,"Aye then. I'll play your detective, an' woe t' the fucks if they think they can fool the nose o' -this- sniffin' Hound."

The Evenstar smiled a pleased smile. They were his, now.

The two operatives left behind on the beach had vanished two days ago. Cloaked in black they stalked the shadows, making no sound or whisper. Private Alex and Private Erick were venturing towards the heartlands of Pantera. They had nothing to go on bar instinct, as any attempt to perform recce of the area was disregarded as being "too risky". They had nothing barring their wits, 2 days rations, two rifles and some expertly forged documents to infiltrate the Panteran military and political structure. Their plan was basic in an attempt to cut out complex failures. Under the pretence of being transferred from some obscure region of Pantera due to an attack by unidentified forces, and being the only survivors of their respective squads, there'd be no-one to verify any aspects of their story that didn't match. They were hoping that the simplicity of the plan would cover any gaping holes that might emerge from a more complex strategy. Their adopted personas, Reaver Derkenbane and Captain Reaver Darkthorn were intended to allow them access to valuable information, whilst not risking themselves too overtly. Reporting back was another problem. They had to survive long enough to make a clean break for it. another Orca was going to pick them up in a month, where they were to report back to the Commodore directly. They walked along together silently, lights of settlements giving the sky a dull glow.

Back in Jordaxian City of Chambers, the IJN Tamerlane was pulling into port after picking up Aeron and his lackeys. Commodore Williams was standing next to where the Ekranoplan settled into the water, mist rising up and dissipating into the night. A gust of wind caught the Commodores coat, sending it billowing up into the air, snatched down by gloved hands. The three JIRC operatives brought out Aeron Damphair and his companions, who were quickly escorted away to the airport, where they would be transferred out to one of the tiny islands that made up the archipelago. As Aeron was seated in the estate car, Commodore Williams followed behind in an identical car. There was no other cars on the road, given that the island hadn't been inhabited for centuries, aside from the Emperor himself, figurehead though he was. There were two other people in the car along with Commodore Williams. One of them was dedicated Hephaestus member Simon Robertson, prominent member of parliament, with major connections in the underworld, corporations, and other politicians. He had wormed his way into Hephaestus by making himself to valuable to leave out. His death would be specially suspicious, even if the circumstances were entirely ordinary. A paranoid by nature, usually spending his time on his computer in some old abandoned radar facility hidden away in the dense jungles of the archipelago. He was brought along because it was his "home" that would be the residence of Aeron Damphair whilst Commodore Williams decided on a course of action that would best use Aeron, whilst not making it obvious to Aeron himself. The other companion was General Impson of the Jordaxian air force. He had appropriated the stealth craft that would be used to make the journey to Oracle, Robertsons home. The situation that the two JIRC operatives had been dropped into flickered through Williams mind briefly, before he blinked it away. Such matters didn't, couldn't concern him. If he considered the human cost behind all of his actions, he would be a mass murderer one hundred times over. Besides, he didn't know their status. They could have successfully infiltrated, gathering all sorts of knowledge that Robertson would kill to know.

In the front car, Aeron Damphair sat in the full seats, a comfortable change from the dank cabin aboard the Tamerlane. He knew that he was being escorted to a place called Oracle, but no more. The driver hadn't said a word, nor taken his eyes off of the road since the journey began, and the three Tamerlane engineers were sitting beside him, and in the front seat, oily slacks slipping on the seats, marking a vague human outline. Jorah Stackspear and Bregon Nightsong had disappeared to another car, he had no idea if they were being taken to Oracle also, or if they had a different destination. The lack of cars or nightlife didn't go un-noticed. Not commonplace for a capital city, it appeared to be totally empty, more like a ghost town. A classical victorian style predominated, though the buildings sometimes reached as high as twenty floors, reaching a visual crescendo in the middle of the island, where a vast white fortress towered, a monument to imperial pomp. In the fortress tower, the Emperor slept.

On Oracle, the security cameras swept the island, and nothing changed. Inside, the noise and light of a massive installation were obscenely apparent, almost as if they were ripped from the set of an old science fiction show. Several of the monitors were displaying their screensavers, and more still were simply off. On one of them, a program searching for some obscure key-words compiled its data. On another screen, Japanese Hentai downloaded onto the multiple terrabyte hard-drives. Classical music was playing, Mozarts Requiem, Lacrimosa.
IFF gun turrets began their hourly sweep of the island, though they had been emptied of ammunition, just to be sure.

The stealth aircraft was brought out of its hanger as the estate carrying Aeron arrived. The brakes whined slightly as it stopped, doors unlocking and opening in a unified display. Discreetly, the second estate also stopped, Commodore Williams and his two cohorts stepped out following loosely behind. A second stealth aircraft was parked at the opposite end of the installation, ready to take off once the first had reached a comfortable distance.

Several hours later, the first aircraft landed at Oracle like a scene from Thunderbirds. Sheer cliff opened up and a runway extended. The aircraft landed, and was swallowed whole by the island. 30 minutes later, the scene repeated. Soon Williams and Aeron would meet.

The Hound had set to his task with the familiar determination and ferocity that the Evenstar loved so well.

With him he brought his Rigante the tribal death-legions of the Lord Reaver and his Justice, four thousand strong. Fierce men with great, shaggy beards and cold, emotionless expressions. This stoic demeanor was merely a facade, though. Beneath the cool exterior boiled a cauldron of berserk fury and hatred. Merciless and without remorse, they possessed the very qualities the Hound savored in his men: Cold calculation and wild, red rage.

He was sure that those Reavers who still harbored loyalties to the Councilmen would quickly rethink once the Rigante descended upon them. The whispers of these men would, in turn, reach the ears of foreign informants within Pantera, and hopefully startle them into action. Rushed actions bred mistakes, the Hound knew, and by their smallest mistake would give themselves over to his mercy, and his Justice...

The Hound's days following Damphair's escape were filled with screams and the stench of scorched flesh. He found out much that was of interest to him, minor plots against the Evenstar and the like, but nothing that concerned the rebel Councilmen.

It chafed at his nerves, the waiting, but he knew that in time his methods would produce results. So the burning, stretching, and slicing continued. His Rigante were methodical in their work, and soon tales of the horror they brought spread through the ranks of Reaver and citizen alike. A few murmered fearfully, a few thought to flee, and a few, perhaps, would make the mistake that would betray them, and their countrymen, to an agonizing end...

Dawn broke over Oracle, temporarily whiting out cameras until they adjusted a few seconds later. The clouds of the night were gone, replaced by golden sky. The five star accomodation afforded to Aeron, polished to a shine, reflected dawns brilliance. Though Aeron was not yet awake, Commodore Gabriel Williams was sitting in one of the full backed chairs, long black coat swallowing the light. Theatrics were something he particularly enjoyed, even if it was only for the look on the persons face.

In Pantera, the two operatives were nervous following spreading rumours of the Rigante. The JIRC operatives knew to expect harsh measures taken to track them, should the Panteran high-ups suspect infiltration, but this was too much. Cold waves of panic swept over them, and they agreed to meet. They had only gathered a small amount of inconsequential information, but any would be better than to be caught and tortured. The night after they heard enough of these rumours to confirm its truth, they met.
Private Alex opened the door to Private Ericks room slowly, as if to remain inconspicuous. Ericks looked up, relief washing over his face. Candles on either side of his desk dimly lit the room, giving it an almost medieval atmosphere. Alex sat on a seat, which creaked slightly under her weight. Erick grimaced at him, closed the document, and stood up. Walking over to a table, he opened one of the drawers, pulling out a barely assembled radio transmitter, wires hanging loosely, leds flickering on and off. Alex visibly recoiled at its sight. Not because it was grotesque, but because of its implications, and the risk it brought, simply by being. Ericks sat back down, and looked, deadly serious, at Alex.

"You have heard what has been happening?" He asked her.

"I have, and that's exactly why I think you're insane. What if they catch us? What if they detect the transmission going out? Have you any idea what they'll do to us? I can't go along with this, Erick, it's mad." Alex was nearly breathless with worry, combined with the threat of the Rigante, it was utterly visible on her face.

"What do you think they will do when they get round to us anyway? You've heard what is happening, they're interrogating everyone regardless, and these people are spilling what they know, even if it doesn't matter? We have to at least try to get out, or we seal ourselves in that fate. What do you propose to do when you're taken away to be "interviewed"? This is our only alternative to that."

"There's got to be something else. We could hide until Tamerlane comes back to pick us up, that way we'd not be risking anything." She responded.

"That'd never work. What would we do for food, for shelter, even? And they'd ask where we went to, even if they don't suspect us, they'd be curious if we just disappeared, wouldn't they? We'd blow our cover out of the water, and be stuck in the Country for a month. That's no better than trying to escape now."

"We could contact someone, buy our way out, back to Jordaxia." Alex was clutching at straws, and she knew it.

"Don't be stupid. Who do we know that we could contact? We'd only be caught faster. This is our only option. We need immediate extraction, and we can't rely on anyone but ourselves, and the Tamerlane to do it."

Grudgingly, Alex nodded her head in approval. Erick flicked several switches on the makeshift transmitter, started flicking a switch up and down, morse code. He repeated the process several times, then switched the radio off.

" "This is covert team 7, needing urgent evacuation, pick us up on infiltration beach in 3 days prompt."

"That's not very subtle. If they pick that up and trace it back they'll be over us instantly." Alex said.

"I don't think we can afford to be subtle at the moment, we don't want them to make any mistakes. And if it's intercepted, it's not going to do much good being cryptic. It wouldn't take a genius to figure it out."

"Hmmm. I suppose. I think it would be best if we didn't meet again until then." Without waiting, Alex left the room in a hurry. Over the course of several hours, Erick retried another four times, each time increasing the risk of being caught. But that message needed to be heard. He couldn't risk them not hearing it.

Over Oracle, dawn had broken completely, and the sky had reverted back to a pure blue. Commodore Williams noted that Aeron did not sleep soundly at all. Not a good sign for the mans health. There must have been more than he was informed of. He sipped his drink, and stared out of the window, waiting for Aeron to wake so that he could complete his understanding of the situation.

It was almost too sweet. The rabbits had been flushed by the Hound's sniffing, and all that was left was to gather their carcasses. For the first time in months, Dayne was in high spirits. Although the message was rather vague, he knew he had them.

His orders were simple: To allow the approach of an extraction vessel before apprehending the agents, and to then take the vessel as well.The where of the plan was a problem, but in the end there were only a few places to allow for a nighttime, seaborn extraction, all on the inner curve of the great crescent that was mainland Pantera. It was essential to everything that at least one prisoner was taken, preferrably more. They could not be allowed to escape again, or to be destroyed. Doubtless the nation in question would be smart enough to strip their insignia and markings before entering Panteran waters, but a live prisoner meant rue answers, and those he would have. He had to be careful not to kill them, but it would be tricky to bring more than a few out alive.

Still, the Blood Bay was filled with trenches and watery defiles where a fleet of subs could, and would, hide. They would be deployed within the hour, to take position at silence and wait until the moment came. When it did arrive, they would come to arms and hail the foreign vessel while a team ashore would sweep down and take the informants still on the beach. If the ship refused to yield, it would be fired upon, but his captains had orders to take her a prize if possible. The agents ashore would be taken unharmed if possible, but if they tried to run he had given permission to wound them.

It was a good plan, he felt. Soon this shadowy nation that fostered discontent inside Pantera would feel his fury, and soon the final members of the Council would scream their last, wailing breaths...

TAG - maybe I'll post something later.

He had been there when Aeron woke suddenly, surfacing from sleep. Gabriel Williams had said nothing at first, allowing Aeron time to collect his thoughts. Then he began his informal interview.

"Aeron Damphair. I've been looking forward to meeting you for a few days now. You wouldn't believe how difficult it was to secure transportation. But still, I managed it, and I doubt it's to your interest. However, what you can tell me is of a great interest to me. We recieved a communication a few hours ago from some people we sent to leaf out some more general information on Pantera. It seems they're in a spot of bother. Normally, we would extract our friends without hesitation, after all, these are professionals. If they risk their security this much, then we can be sure they know something. But something strikes me as odd. They've only been there one or two days, and they were intended to remain for as long as a month before being removed for a more relaxed debrief. Why are they so obviously terrified that they cannot stay any longer?"

Aeron sat up straight, looked Williams in the eye, and answered him.

"Dayne is using The Hound, whos methods are fearsome, to say the least. Most likely, there will be an abundance of rumour spreading of some liberties that The Hound has taken in order to secure information from among the Reavers. Such methods, whilst extreme in themselves, would only be worsened by the rumour. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it has scared them enough that they'd risk everything in order to get out. It's not as stupid as it may seem, as they would undoubtedly be caught up in these interviews that have been conducted, revealing what they know, and what they're doing. I wouldn't doubt that they are doing what they believe is the only option they have."

Williams nodded. This confirmed what he suspected was happening. They would have to be retrieved, and there was no way to return a message along a more secure channel. But if they were retrieved, it opened up the possibility of a trap. More ships would have to be sent. No, he wouldn't be able to secure the ships at such short notice, the Tamerlane would have to do. Extra soldiers? A delaying action at best, and the more troops involved, the more troops could be captured, and the more troops would tell the Panterans everything. No, the initial plan is the only option.

"Could things be as bad as they believe?" He asked.

"It's entirely possible" came the reply.

This put a nasty spin on things. He had intended to have a long time with which to work details through with Aeron. He should have remembered
that no plan ever survives first contact, no matter how covert it was, and how little the enemy did to prevent it. He had no choice now but to wait.
He continued with more trivial matters, his concentration had been broken when his fears had been confirmed.


Three days later, the Tamerlane approached the Panteran shore at several hundred miles an hour, high pitched whines of the jets piercing the night, drizzled rain splattering off the rough hull. It slowed as it approached further still, splashing into the water, throughing thousands of gallons into the air with the sudden displacement. Two figures were barely visible on the beach, making no movement. Time would tell how this would pan out.

The great craft had almost touched shore when the first flare brought the shadowed beach into a world of crimson light. It's burning radiance arced high before falling into the waves beyond, it had barely been snuffed by the salty waters of the Blood Bay before another took is place, and another, and another. Soon the sandy strip of beach was bathed in the soft, bloody glow of the flares.

"Foreign craft, this is the Panteran sub Seadown. You have violated Panteran waters and condemned yourselves as enemies. Power down your ship and prepare to be boarded by surface craft. I repeat, power down and prepare to be boarded. You have been surrounded above and below the waves, in the air and on the shore. There is no escape, but should you choose to surrender peaceably you may see your homes and families again."

The hail of the sub must have come as a big suprise, though not so startling as a score of Reaver subs emerging from the chill, black chasms of the Blood Bay. The shock must have continued as from north and south came fists of warships, each of them twenty strong. High above Reaver jets screamed overhead as they shut down the skies over Pantera.

On the beach the Hound himself waited, watching from afar as a squad of his Rigante swept out of the shadows and into the glare of the flares. Rifles at the ready and steel near to hand, they advanced on the two figures on the beach,"On the ground! Get down now, or I will be forced to put you down!" The Reaver Captain in charge of the squad fired a burst from his rifle, peppering the ground about the men with fire as he charged...

Now came the most critical moment. Would the foreigners submit and surrender, or would they condemn themselves to a screaming death?

The screams of the jets brought Private Andes back to reality. The ships alarms began their chorus into the night, banshee wails. All too apt he thought. The crew of the Tamerlane were rushing to their weapons lockers, but there was no way that one ship could hold out for any length of time. From the bridge, he could see the two figures glance about uncertainly, before flattening themselves on the ground, visibly terrified, even from such a range. He waved his hand at the troops getting rifles from the cabinets. Dejected, they dropped them on the ground, heavy clunks as they hit the ground. They knew the futility of the situation just as well as Andes did. He took up the ships loudspeaker, and flicked it on.

"We surrender. Standing by for boarding parties." It was all he could summon up the will to say. He had been trained for this moment for almost his entire life, but he never expected it to come.

The whine of the engines died at that point,its noise disappearing, not that it could be heard particularly above the alarms, and the aircraft passing overhead. Private Andes sat back on the Captains chair, and waited for the Panteran troops to arrive. Hopefully they'd be true to their word.

On shore, Privates Alex and Erick coughed sand out of their mouths, and rubbed it out of their eyes. Both had felt that this would happen. The presence of the ambush was unmistakable to them, they had been trained the same as Andes and the rest of the JIRC. Selected from birth, left out in the jungle for a night. If they survived, they were JIRC material. It would be their life from then on. The Spartans of the Isles, they had nicknamed themselves, given the stark similarities between themselves and their ancient counterparts. Their lifelong conditioning to war didn't make them brave though, just experts at supressing their fear until it didn't matter. Nothing could disguise it this time though. Trapped like animals, with no fight left, and nowhere to flee, they collapsed when instructed.


In Oracle, Gabriel Williams made some French Toast, along with a cup of Earl Grey. He had been leafing through the daily newspapers, from the tabloids to the financial papers. All of it would be inconsequential soon. The thought imposed on him. The fact that it was all his fault was pushed resolutely out of his mind. What could he have done when presented such an opportunity? He thought. He had no choice. No choice.

OOC: Apologies on being so scarce. My computer has been a skitz the past few days, and my modem is still shitting out every few seconds. So, it may be tomorrow or the next day before I get up a quality post. I'm trying to borrow my dad's laptop, or at least get a repairman out here, but both options are looking grim at the moment. I'm trying, just bear with me please.