NationStates Jolt Archive

Preface to the Naval Officers Course Handbook,

Ns is a big world.
Huge even.
And, given it's extrapolation from the old pre-reality break Earth, it's surface area is mostly water.
Millions of miles of water, crossed and quartered by the lifeblood of the modern nation state, trade.
However, given the frequent instability of Ns governments and rulers, and the transitory nature of many of the states present on our world, failed states are common, most of the time, the populations of these collapsed nations are absorbed into others.
However, a significant portion of these populations go "rogue", and given the highly militarised nature of Ns, are often well equipped and ideologically opposed to peaceful endeavours.
Hence, Ns's oceans are home to a thriving and heavily-armed pirate niche whose equipment can range from attack submarines to supercarriers, willing to assault the shipping of all but the most powerful nations and alliances.
These pirate flotillas and fleets are of immediate concern to the Kingdom, surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean, it's reliance on imported petroleum, foodstuffs and textiles and it's presence at the end of a long and vulnerable oceanic supply line.
Thus, the Royal Navy's historic anti-piracy campaigns, rigourously carried out all over the globe, tied to it's patrolling of oceanic routes of interest to the Kingdom, the number of these routes growing as other nations, generally those of a Liberal-Democratic bent, realised it was easier to allow Kingdom ships to patrol their sea lanes than establish and maintain heavy global naval presences of their own.
This means that the Royal Navy has grown by geometrically as the years have passed, a profusion of routes and networks needing to be patrolled, merchantmen to be shepherded through the dangerous waters of our world and identified pirate nests to be shattered by the Navy's guns and missiles.
The grey and white camouflaged hulls of the Royal Navy have thus become a familiar sight across the world, a byword for security and stability.
It is our charge to maintain and expand this security ever further...

Port Terring Naval Base, Home Port of His Majesty's Navy.

Lindor FitzWarwick adjusted her hair, ignoring the coldness of the bollard she was perched on soaking through her thick pants, pursing her lips at her compact as she noticed the pointed tips of her ears turning blue.
"Lin, you ready yet?" trilled her camera-woman, camera bobbing over her shoulder, red lens following the head motions of it's Ch'taht* owner.
She looked up at the other woman, who's cheetah shaped face masked her thoughts. "I don't want to have blue ears on camera, can't I put my hood up?" she said, twitching the furry hood of her parka.
Aleep N'keek wrinkled her nose, displaying a quick glimpse of impressive fangs. "You'll look silly. Can't have the first shot of the documentary featuring you looking silly. Mind you, you hairless types look silly all the time anyway."
Lindor blew a raspberry at her fur-covered companion. "Bah, smartarse cat!"
Aleep grinned, human style, rounded ears twitching in amusement. "C'mon, up and about it, my feet are freezing."
Lindor hopped off her bollard, looking at the multiple pairs of socks the shorter Ch'taht was wearing, most in the black, white and red of the Royesse Dragons ice hockey team. "So stylish you kitties."
The Ch'tahts ears twitched again, but she said nothing, turning and heading down the dock the two'd alighted from their cab on, towards the heavy concrete gate complex leading into the naval base.
Lindor strode after her friend, longer legs allowing her to catch the trotting Ch'taht.
They strode along, enjoying the crisp, sharp morning, the salt air blowing off the Crescent Bay and the visual spectacle of hundreds of the Royal Navy's ships moving around the vast anchorage.
Arriving at the gate, Lindor fished inside her parka, and pulled out an identity card, PRESS written on it in bold red letters and handed it to the Marine guard, genderless and featureless inside the blue powered armour of the Corps, the only concession to individuality a fairly accurate rendering of the Edinburgh Nova RFC's logo on one knee-plate.
A red laser played out from one eyeslit in the helmet, flickering over the card.
The Marine nodded, returning Lindor her card then took Aleep's card, repeating the process, then pausing for a moment, the gates beginning to grind open, gendered at last by his pleasant tenor. "You can go right on through ma-ams, Ensign Fitzroy is waiting for you on the other side."
He returned Aleep her card, then stepped back, dropping into parade rest as the two journalists moved past him, towards where a young dwerry woman in the black coveralls of the navy was hopping from foot to foot, blowing on her gloved hands, ensign's insignia twinkling in the early morning sun. She noticed them, stopped hopping, and attempted to assume a more dignified stance as the twosome reached her.
"Ms. Fitzwarwick, Ms. N'Keek, welcome to Port Terring and by extension, to H.M.S Warspite herself!" This all came in a rush, the young woman painfully sincere, eyes huge as she examined the exotic looking, blue-haired elf, and her Ch'taht companion.
Lindor nodded politely. "Thank you Ensign." Then, grinning slightly, "Cold isn't it?"
The Ensign blushed. "Yes ma-am. Um. Commodore McMahan wants to see you first, before we do anything else."
Lindor nodded, "It's Lindor, and alright, I suppose we'd better not keep him waiting."
The Ensign nodded, spinning and scurrying off in towards the warships clustered along the vast concrete caissons forming the landscape, offices and warehouses further back.
Lindor and Aleep followed the girl's energetic progress, avoiding passing trucks, personnel, Aleep's camera gawking at the energetic chaos of it all, here cranes lowering anonymous supplies onto the huge warships, there a red-flakvested M.P. trotted along with two hungover-looking dwarf sailors following desultorily behind, here an ammo cart with a cheery looking kobold driver beeping the cart's tinny horn at the civilians, waving enthusiastically as it passed.
The walk's weaving progress took long enough for the women to be glad it was over, as they reached the gangway of a truly monstrous ship, Raven Ensign flicking idly in the sea breezes, sailors crowding up the gangway onto the big vessel.
Fitzroy looked back. "Here we are Ma-ams, the Warspite."
Lindor and Aleep considered the big grey and white-painted vessel. The Warspite was the class ship of the most common warship in Kingdom service, the Battleship. She measured nearly twelve hundred feet from bow to stern, weighing in at a hundred and two thousand metric tonnes fully loaded, as she was now. Her towering superstructure reached high into the air, the the three massive turrets housing her nine 20" gauss guns were dusted with frost, making her look slightly less deadly than usual. As they watched the enormous gun barrels in her aft turret began to rise as someone inside her armoured hull ran final tests before this morning's intended leavetaking.
Individually the Warspite Class wasn't meant to be a match for the truly vast NS superbattleships, the three million tonne Yui class of GMC, or the equally vast Floating Fortresses of Eurusea, but to combat these vessels when gathered in groups. The size of the Warspite, and it's sisters however, was enough to allow them to be both inherently more powerful than the Iowa battleships in service with many nations, and still have more hulls and thus more flexibility than the monster-ship navies.
The two journalists were broken from their absorption of the spectacle the Warspite presented by Fitzroy quietly clearing her throat, looking apologetic.
Lindor's mouth twitched wryly. "Thank you Ensign. C'mon Ally. We've got a Commodore to meet."
The Ch'tahts ears flipped wryly, saying nothing as her camera dived back to her shoulder, and they followed the younger woman up the gangway, into the armoured hallways of the ship, wending a roundabout course deeper and deeper into the big vessel's steely bowels.
They at last reached a hatch marked with the single horizontal bar under the Raven insignia of a Commodore, a female dwarf Marine, blonde hair peeking out from her beret, in the blue coveralls of her service stood next to the hatch, idling chatting with a ginger-haired male of her species wearing Navy service blues who was seated behind a pseudoplastic desk. The two looked up, the male nodding expectantly. "The Commodore is waiting, go right on through." He tapped a button on his desk and the hatch ground open.
Fitzroy nodded her head and excused herself and the two journalists moved into the Commodore's ready room, the hatch cycling shut again behind them.
The ready room was a change from the steel and grey paint of the corridors they'd so far been shuttled through, walls clad in a soothing pale blue pseudoplastic, a pleasing match with the pale wood of the Commodore's heavy looking desk, bolted visibly to the carpeted floor. McMahan himself was a sandy-haired man in his late 30s, looking up from the reports on his desk's built-in viewscreen, smiling pleasantly. "Ah, Ms FitzWarwick, Ms N'Keek. Good Morning to you both." He pointed to the corner of his room, where a tea urn sat on a small chest of drawers. "Be my guests if you want a cup." Aleep smiled, fangs flashing here and then gone, "Don't mind if I do."
The C'taht moved over to the urn as McMahan waved Lindor into one of the chairs facing his desk, waiting for Aleep to rejoin them, then speaking, finger tips pressed together under his chin.
"So. Welcome to the Warspite and her squadron. I hope you'll enjoy your tour with us and not get too bored with miles and miles of ocean between now and when we get back." He smiled, pale brown eyes twinkling, "And that you won't get too bored with the company of myself and my people and slander us horribly in the press."
Lindor grinned back. "Commodore, I shall endeavour to maintain my journalistic impartiality, come what may."
Aleep slurped her tea. "Hey, if worst comes to worst, Lindor is bribable with ear rubs. She's like that Menelmacari bint that way."
Lindor blushed and McMahan laughed. "I shall certainly bear that in mind Ms N'keek. But in all seriousness, it's a pleasure to have you aboard, it's always nice to have people show an interest, especially when one of them is the Queen's sister."
Lindor grinned impishly. "Arwen has actually sent me as a spy Commodore, I'm going to have to report back I was found out almost immediately. But yes, the Navy and it’s place in Kingdom society is interesting. It's fascinated me since my sisters and I were rescued, even more so since I met Pendragon at Arwen and Owen's wedding."
McMahan nodded. "Yes, young Pendragon is fascinating, and,"
Whatever the Commodore was about to say was interuptted by a buzzing from his desk. He looked mildly affronted at having his thought broken, but tapped the screen anyway, and a 3 inch hologram of a an other sandy haired man, looking a lot like the Commodore, but slightly younger and his hands clasped behind his back popped into existence above the screen.
"Ian, we've completed the loading, we'll be leaving in a few minutes."
McMahan nodded. "Thank you Craig, carry on by all means."
The holograph nodded, saluting, then vanishing.
McMahan looked back to his guests. "Craig Mawson, he's the Warspite's Captain. Heh. And my cousin, hence our rather obvious family resemblance. Anyway, yes, I'm sure you'll want to film the squadron leaving the harbour, so I'd better let you head to your quarters and get back to the coalface myself."
Aleep opened her mouth, but Ian forestalled her with a raised hand "Your equipment was brought to your cabin Ms N'keek, with due care and attention, I had it handled by the Red Pills** crew, and I'm sure you'll join me in agreeing they're unlikely to be sort who drop things."
Lindor and Aleep nodded.
McMahan mirrored them, and then clapped his hands forcefully. "Right, well then." His eyes went absent, what Lindor and Aleep were to learn was the sign of someone using a military "toot***" to communicate, and the hatch hissed open, the dwarf Marine stepping through and saluting. "Sorr."
"Lindor, Aleep, this is C.P.O* Ironaxe, she'll conduct you to your cabins, and the good Ensign Fitzroy, who'll be looking after you for the rest of the voyage." He paused, and then resumed speaking "I'm having dinner with the Fleet's officers tonight, I'll be pleased if you both join us."
The two females murmured acceptance, to McMahan's "Excellent." then stood and followed the dwarf off into the bowels of the ship.
McMahan, having stood as the women left, resumed his seat, and spoke into his toot again, "Blain, you can tell Lieutenant Jones I'm ready to see him now..."

*Ch’that: Native species of the Dardanelle Continent, 5’8” or so bipedal cheetah with opposable thumbs. Speak with a squeaky voice and are just beginning to become a part of Kingdom society.
**Red Pills: Nuclear (warhead) shells.
***Toot: Small, implanted, computer that fulfils the role of a radio, database browser, with various specialised functions depending on what the user needs from their toot. Military ones co-ordinate MilSpec medical nanos.

Fantail of the Warspite, heading past the Muir Island Straits’ Customs Base

Aleep sneezed violently, the water beading on her whiskers arcing out into the sunlight illuminating her perch on the fantail like a spotlight. She sneezed again, tail lashing, muttered a string of swear words in Hansa’Ch’that and huddled down, so the wind and spray of water arcing up from the tossing sea didn’t get her any wetter.
Lindor, huddled down next to Ensign Fitzroy, who’d now donned a thick great coat, virtually buried in it’s enfolding warmth, tutted at her camerawoman.
“Aleep, such language in front of the Ensign. I’m shocked.”
A fresh string of swear words came, and the Ch’that scuttled across the wet steel of the deck to join them in their shelter in the lee of the helipad. Fitzroy, such as was visible of her outside the coat, was looking faintly concerned.
Aleep scuttled over to where the other two were huddled in the lee of the ship’s shuttlepad, a UC-4 Greyhawk chained there even now and shook herself irritably, water flying from her fur, annoyance clear from her still lashing tail, gradually fading as she looked back past the end of the ship, where her camera bobbed in the air, diving and flicking from side to side, manoeuvring for the best shots of the rest of the Warspite’s squadron as the other twenty five ships paced along at the 25kt cruising speed of the Royal Navy.
Furthermost back, barely visible in the spray and distance, but relayed clearly through the camera’s image-enhancement, were the three Warrior Class Heavy Cruisers, HMS Centurion, HMS Optio and Praetor.
Forward of them, and towering into the sky was the massive, globular, honeycombed frontal-superstructure of an Imperator Class Super Carrier, in this case HMS Vespasian.
The massive carrier, more than twice the tonnage of even the Warspite, odd shape designed around the Navy’s strike craft being totally VTOL, allowing them to be launched from their section of the comb without ever touching a runway. However, the Imperators’ design also included a conventional runway behind the honeycombed frontage for the huge E-1 Albatross AEWACS to launch from, and for resupply aircraft to land on.
Clustering protectively close to the monster carrier were four Myth Class Missile Cruisers, the “AEGIS” equivalent of the Royal Navy, but with a far greater strike capacity in their own right than any of the old Ticonderoga Class they’d replaced, missile battery on missile battery tracking and panning around on the long nose of the vessels, sniffing the air even in within Crescent Bay’s secure environs.
Taken all together they were an impressive group of warships, even without the four Hunter Class Frigates, HMS Owl, HMS Raven, HMS Cheetah and HMS Wolf sniffing ahead for submarines, but they were still only escorts and supporting vessels to the Vepasian and the strike section of the squadron, which forged ahead of the Warspite.
For the strike section of the squadron the roles of anti-aircraft and anti-submarine duty were filled by the six Katana Class Destroyers that were just visible slicing through the waves, the epitome of fast ships, looking very much like the weapons their class name so clearly named them.
The destroyers forged out in two lines of three, HMS Katana herself leading the first, the Mace and the Rapier flanking her, with the second threesome of HMS Kukri, HMS Spatha and HMS Gladius forming the second line, buffering the mighty ships which formed the heart of this squadron, the Warspite and her two equally powerful sisters, HMS Shadow and HMS Wraith, flanked by their lesser cousins the five Victory Class Battlecruisers.
The Strike Section would forge ahead of the slower Vespasian and her escorts in the days to come, hunting for pirates while the carrier cruised sedately along the shipping lanes, providing a very obvious symbol of power.
Lindor considered the panorama, which was also being relayed to her toot, adding subvocalised notations to it as the pictures flowed to her. She’d refine her commentary later, but it was always nice to have impression to base things on.
They continued gathering footage of the squadron, the ships dominating the out-going lanes of the straits, civil vessels carefully herded to one side by Inshore patrol craft, the little vessels blasting across the waves, twin water-jets propelling them at tremendous speeds past their civilian charges like sheep dogs around elephants.
The squadron passed Muir Island it’s self just as a Vasa Class Revenue Cruiser nosed out of it’s berth, off to cruise the coastlines of the Kingdom, both guarding and serving the fisher-folk dotted up and down the coasts, as H.M. Customs was responsible for both Coast Guard and Customs duties, the Vasas were well loved by civilians, their old fashioned super-structure a sign that help had arrived in any disaster.
Aleep turned to Lindor, flicked her head, sending a few crystals of spray arcing, then hissed like a kettle as a chance gust blew even more water at her. The Ch’that’s large eyes narrowed expressively and her tail flicked ever swifter.
“I think we have enough footage now, plus I’m bloody freezing. C’mon Lin, lets go inside.”
The Ch’that doing just that, leaving the Ensign and Lindor standing, followed this statement.
Lindor shrugged helplessly at the bemused looking Fitzroy.
“She’s always sort of grumpy at the start of an assignment, I don’t think the cold water is helping. She’ll cheer up once she gets used to it. Or I’ll cut her kibble with laxatives.”
This last, delivered with a deadly straight face brought a bemused giggle from the younger woman and Lindor smiled, then draped an arm round her shoulders.
“So whilst my comrade sulks Ensign, what say you show me around the Warspite so’s I know where to go when I need to?”

Meanwhile...

(Former) People's Democratic Republic of Panmure, Secured Zone.

Scrritch. Scrritch.
Malthus Walker considered his face in the mirror, scraping the razor down his other cheek.
Malthus, who's name was the result of one of the Nuns who'd administered his orphanage having been a philosophical scientist in a previous existence, tended to regard shaving as a quiet time to gather his thoughts and mull over whatever he felt he needed to mull over.
Not today however.
Today, he winced, there was an interruption to his musings.
"Captain Walker are you even listening to me?"
Walker swallowed a sigh.
"Yes Ma-am. I am aware that you're not pleased with Bravo Company at this juncture, unfortunately, I didn't really have much choice in the matter."
The Regimental S-3, who was currently chewing Walker out, nearly foamed at the mouth.
"You destroyed a multi-million realm installation! You-!"
"With all due respect ma-am, it wasn't our installation to begin with, it was tactically necess-"
"I'll have your bars for this you stupid soldier boy ape! KMI had placed an extemely high priority on the.."
The S-3 paused as she became aware Walker wasn't looking at her anymore. She looked over her shoulder into the calm, indigo eyed face of a pretty honey-blonde with Utlanning insignia and a lieutenant colonel's Ravens.
The woman grinned, gesturing with a folio she carried.
"So Major, you were elaborating on the commercial interests of Kipling Massiv Industries and how they pertain to the operational actions of the Raven's Own?"
The S-3 swallowed unhappily.
"Ah well ma-am, you see that I...um."
The Lieutentant Colonel smiled more than a little predatorily at the S-3.
"I think you've wasted enough of Captain Walker's, mine and his Majesty's time. Go."
The S-3 snapped a salute and scuttled out of the Captain's quarters.
Walker quietly went back to shaving, as the Utlanning woman took a seat on the closed toilet and began to leaf through her folio.
Scraping at the foam under his nose, watching the Lt. Colonel stretch through the mirror, he tried to think of any specific god he'd annoyed recently. Regimental commanders don't wander into the bathrooms of company commanders from different units and then say nothing for good reasons.
"Captain Malthus Walker. Bravo Company Commander, 2nd Battalion, the Ravens Own. You've held your command, what is it, eighteen months or so?"
Walker started to sweat. Not my company!
He replied, voice hoarse. "20 months and two days ma-am." He scraped the last shaving foam off, rinsing his face.
"Mm, yes. Succeeded to command on the death of your company commander and his X.O in..."
The Utlanning's eyebrows quirked.
"Hrmm. I hadn't known we had troops there."
"It was a quiet deployment ma-am." Walker towelled his face dry, and looked round for his uniform tunic, realised the Lt. Colonel was sitting on it, and winced, dropping into parade rest as she talked on.
"Hrm. This is interesting. Joined the Own directly out of O.T.C. Oh. Raised by the Little Sisters of the Immaculate Razor*. That would explain your recruitment by the Own then."
"Yes Ma-am."
"No family to speak of, very committed to your men and with promising fitness reports."
She looked at Walker, dark blue eyes curious.
"No attempt to join the Utlanning? Most people in 12th Division feel the urge to try at least once..."
"Don't want to leave my men ma-am."
The woman smiled again, an opaque smile, which could've been of contempt or of approval, it was impossible to tell.
"An admirable attitude Captain. Very admirable."
She stood lithely, handing Walker his tunic as she did.
"Thank you for your time Captain. It was...useful."
Walker blinked slowly, holding the body-warmed tunic, then came to himself and saluted.
"Uh, yes ma-am."
She smiled again, a brief flash of teeth, then flowed out of his quarters as quietly as she'd entered, leaving Walker gaping and holding a uniform tunic which now smelt slightly of vanilla.

Outside, the Lt. Colonel was joined by a tall man with a sergeant major's chevrons and raven. Well, the Sgt. Major was man-shaped at least. At the moment.
"How'd it go ma-am?"
Pulling gloves out of her pockets and grimacing at the unpleasant, sapping cold that was omnipresent in Panmure, the Lt. Colonel, who answered to the name of Elizabeth Golightly, grinned.
"Very solid type our Walker. If he wasn't in the Own I'd have said "stolid." But with his record and their typical choice in officers...well. I'm pretty certain he's the one we want."
Golightly pursed her lips thoughtfully.
"And good-looking too, dossier photos are so unflattering."
The Sgt. Major nodded.
"Yess ma-am, you should ssee mine sometime. Exsstremely unflattering."
A grin showing perhaps more teeth than most people's would followed.
"Yes well, there's photos and then there's photos D'healk."
"Very true ma-am, very true."

* The Little Sisters of the Immaculate Razor are one of the Kingdom's monastic orders, and administer several orphanages in the Warwick province. The Raven's Own frequently recruit directly from the Little Sisters' orphanages.

The Crown and Raven, Secured Zone, (Former) PDR of Panmure

"Who could be the boss, looking to the land of the lost.."
"So I says to her, "Touch me baby, I'm an Ultramarine!" and she slaps me, the fuck's with that?"
Malthus sipped his rum and coke and listened to the various conversations swirling round the bar, snatches of music floating through as a dwarf wider than he was tall stabbed at the jukebox bolted to the wall with a sausage-thick finger.
He leaned back into the thickly padded wall of the booth and swirled the ice in his drink around.
"So yeah. That's it, A'Kheen."
His drinking companion hissed thoughtfully, a forked tongue flickering into his own drink.
"The Colonel would be Golightly, assss for what ssshe'd want witthh you..have you pisssed anyone off reesscently?"
A sardonic grin, which displayed a set of really impressive teeth accompanied the sibilant words.
Malthus grinned quickly, the expression flashing onto then off his features.
"S'what I thought too."
He looked rueful.
"Maybe it was just something to do with the S-3 working for KMI on the sly. I shouldn't worry."

A week later, East Lebtuckanistan.

Malthus stared thoughtfully at the holotank Golightly had just finished using as a prop in her briefing, then turned around and glared at A'Kheen, who was nonchalantly buffing the silver ankh pins on his tunic and studiously not making eye contact.
"So that's the mission while we're here, any questions?"

O.O.C Incidentally, Britmattia is ranked 402nd in the world for defence spending.</gloat>

Ginhalla, East Lebtuckanistan

Clang!
The trooper Malthus had just slapped on the back of his helmet jerked the trigger on his missile launcher, the projectile burping out of the tube like a lance of fire, stabbing into the APC below.
The heavy vehicle rocked onto it's left tracks, hung angled for a moment, then ponderously rolled onto it's side, crushing it's turret against the hull.
Beside Malthus troopers began pouring fire into the belly of the overturned vehicle, the heavy rounds easily punching through the thin armour.
Troops scrambled out of the smoking vehicle, scampering away, the Britmattians concentrating their fire on the APC as the enemy forces clustered into the shot-out front of a cafe next to where their vehicle had overturned.
Malthus beckoned to the squad's sergeant, the man snaking over on his belly, it was unlikely the rifles of the troops below could pierce the Kingdom troops armour, but it never hurt to avoid being shot in the first place.
"Sergeant, keep firing around the building, if anyone exits...well."
Malthus shrugged.
"I have to hope no one gets out before I can collect the man we want."
The sergeant gestured with his rifle at the now burning APC below.
"Well they're not going anywhere now sir."
Malthus nodded, then vaulted easily out of the shattered window, artificial muscles compensating for the heavy weight of the armour, catapulting the Captain smashing through the wall of the building where the enemy had retreated.
Rolling neatly back onto his feet, Malthus levelled his side arm at the stunned troops, sweeping his heavy power-sword out and pointing around the room with it, the targetting optics in his helmet scouring surprised faces.
As the optics scrolled Malthus cleared his throat.
"If you gentlemen would drop your weapons and surrender, that would be much appreciated."
The enemy went absolutely still for a moment, then things exploded into action as the men in the urban camo went for their weapons and Malthus, having verified the man he wanted wasn't present, and his audio sensors telling him there were other troops upstairs, started to spin, the quiet hum of his power-sword turning to a crackling sizzle as he buried it in the skull of a helmetless enemy, his heavy sidearm crashing in his hand, the massive slugs lifting the men up and hurling them at the walls.
The lighter rounds of the enemy's assault rifles pinged off the Captain's armour as his pistol spat death and his sword shattered rifles lifted to block it's descending arc.
As quickly as the fight had begun, it was over, and Malthus trod heavily up the stairs, mag-sealing his sword to his back, his still-smoking pistol remaining drawn.
"Come out, come out where ever you are.."

H.M.S Warspite, Northern Patrol Path.

"So what is it we're doing here exactly Commodore McMahan?"
The sandy-haired commodore, seated behind his desk, looked grave.
"At the moment Ms. FitzWarwick, Zvarinograd is involved in internal strife, with it's factions fighting a fairly bitter civil war. As they're as close to neighbours as you get this high in the world, we've been patrolling along the edge of their E.E.Z. since the conflict began, at first with some co-operation with the democratic government, but lately the fascist faction has been gaining ascendancy in the ocean, and hence their vessels have been engaged in some fairly aggressive brinksmanship."
Lindor, who, along with Aleep, was seated on the other side of McMahan's cleared desk nodded, invisibly to the camera hovering beside Aleep.
"So, what has been the Royal Navy's response to this brinksmanship, if you don't mind me asking Commodore?"
McMahan frowned uncomfortably, fiddling with a fountain pen on his desk.
"The Kingdom is not in a state of war with the fascists at the present juncture, so we've been avoiding contact. Not to the extent of changing our patrol routes, but if there's fascist warships in the area, we've been avoiding them. Unfortunately, they now seem to have taken up a policy of aggressively approaching Kingdom vessels, even though we've been backing off from conflict. Not something His Majesty's Navy likes to do."
A knocking came on the heavy door of the Commodore's office, and the three looked round.
"Come." was McMahan's response, and Ensign Fitzroy stuck her head around the hatch, a worried expression on her young face.
"Sir, we've got radar contact with a small group of vessels. The recon drone we sent out to take a closer look confirms them as Zvarinogradii, and they've moved towards us at what the ONI says is full speed for their type."
McMahan's face twisted.
"Damn. Keep the recon drone on them, bump the squadron up to full alert and tell Captain Lilean to get her people ready to launch."
"Sir."
Fitzroy ducked back out the hatch, and McMahan turned to Lindor and Aleep, looking apologetic.
"I'm afraid I've got work to do now, so you'll have to excuse me, Ms. Fitzwarwick, Ms. N'Keek.."
"Of course Commodore."
Lindor stood lithely, Aleep summoning her camera back to her shoulder.
McMahan rose, following the two out the hatch, heading towards the bridge, all around him the Warspite's crew running to their battlestations as the battleship got ready for the possibility of combat...

Royal Britmattian Military Intelligence Headquarters, Lloyd Island, Northern Britmattia.

Malthus plucked at his shirt cuff again, absently sawing the button back and forth within the hole, the white cuff stark against the black sleeve of his dress uniform tunic.
The tall and dark-haired young man was currently sitting outside the office of the head of the 12th Division's nominal commander, the Honourable Baroness Jenny of Lloyd, who had command of the 12th via it's role as the armoured fist of semi-covert Kingdom foreign policy.
Why Malthus was outside had yet to be revealed to him, on completion of his assignment in Lebtuckistan he and Bravo Company had been ordered back to the Kingdom with virtually no explanation.
On arrival he'd barely gotten his armour off before being summonded to Lloyd, for reasons so far unrevealed.
And he'd now been sitting outside this office for about fifteen minutes worrying, senior officers summoning him to places had been a worrying trend of late, the more so due to the senior officers being spooks.
The Own, whilst being part of the 12th Division, the "Special Tasks" Division, were not spooks however, more tasked with a pathfinder role, a strike force shaped and tempered in a hundred tiny wars fought under the radar of the international community.
To be in the Own was to be a member of a dedicated elite, nearly four fifths of whom would be recruited from the various Capitulus Bellorum* scattered around the nation, and 99.7% of whom would remain in the army for their entire working lives.
A proud and capable unit then, for all it's small size, a mere three thousand men and women, a drop in the bucket to most Ns forces, but some of the finest troops on God's green Ns.
And Malthus Walker commanded a Company of them.
He consoled himself with this thought as he waited on the drably upholstered bench, hands busy with his cuffs.
Just as he pondered re-reading for the third time the issue of Sword & Shield** which was the only reading material in the outer office, the heavy door of the inner one opened and a grey-haired woman stuck her head out.
"Ah. Captain Walker. Do come in."
Malthus stood, scooping up his peaked cap from where it had rested next to him, crossing to the office in a few easy strides, then taking a seat in a heavy wooden chair across from the tastefully carved desk the Baroness seated herself behind.
The Baroness shuffled a thick paper file, eyeing it distastefully, before crossing her arms over it, palms pressed together, examining Walker through brown eyes.
"Lieutenant Colonel Golightly speaks highly of you and your unit Captain."
Walker, carefully staring at a point six inches to the left of the Baroness's right ear, gave a polite "Yes ma-am".
The Baroness smiled, one hand plucking at the sleeve of her tweed coat.
"As do your senior officers, with the exception of your former S-3. Your ability and drive is much admired, and you're expected to go far, and not just within the Own."
Walker gave an other non-committal "Yes ma-am", the image of the reticent King's officer, face expressionless and green eyes professionally blank.
"Which leads us to your company, where your prowess is reflected by the men and women you command. However Captain, there is a but."
Walker's eyes swivelled to lock onto the Baroness's face.
She smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes, which were now as hard as agates.
"They told me you'd jump as soon as I mentioned Bravo. Things are going to change for the Own, Captain, and we'd like you to be on the forefront of those changes, along with your company."
Agate eyes lock with green ones which are colder than ice.
"What changes ma-am?" Walker's voice betrays nothing more than professional interest, but his face is no longer expressionless, a unconcious scowl marring it.
"The Utlanning project was a success for us Captain, so we've decided to expand it's scope."
The Baroness leaned back, arms folded beneath her tweed shrouded bosom and stared at Walker thoughtfully.
"You see Captain, while the Utlanning are very successful at what they're designed for, their augmentations are designed for covert operatives, stealthy, subtle, limited by their very nature. They're not frontline soldiers and were never intended to be."
The Baroness folded her hands under her chin, elbows resting on the arms of her chair.
"You and your men on the other hand are frontline soldiers, excellent ones, limited only by the frailty of your own bodies, not by your willpower. We propose to eliminate that frailty from the The Raven's Own, and we'd like Bravo Company to be the first in this endeavour, this recreation of the men and women who guard our nation!"
Her last ringing words looked to have surprised the normally restrained Baroness, and she continued somewhat more quietly.
"It's not a project without risk of course. Or sacrifice. What you'll become will arguably no longer be human."
She looked uncomfortable.
"I ask you this because you're the best man for the job Captain, but it's not an order. I'll understand if you don't want to give up...well, your life. The Army will understand, and a refusal won't affect your career in any way."
Malthus's face was unreadable again and he was silent for a long moment before speaking.
"Ma-am..."
He turned the brim of his cap around, passing it through his hands as he struggled for words.
"It..I...Ma-am my whole life has been dedicated to the Kingdom, to serving in His Majesty's finest regiment. What sort of man would I be to abandon it now? I would be honoured to accept this responsibility and all it entails, whatever my King asks of me, I will do."

"Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain." - Motto of the Capitulus Bellorum.

*Capitulus Bellorum = "War Chapters", the pan-theism religious orders dedicated to providing soldiers for the Kingdom's armies.
** Sword & Shield = Britmattian Armed Services magazine. A publication designed to keep the services informed about the services.

0815 Zulu
Far North Patrol Group
International Waters, Arctic Ocean
IDS Rapax

The cold arctic morning had begun with a beautiful sun rising into the bluest sky one could imagine. The water of the northern ocean sparkled with the early morning light, looking very inviting despite their frigid nature. It was one of those morning with which you know good things are to come of the day. It is unfortunate to note that on this day, such was not the case, for very shortly thereafter the sky that was once blue had turned a dirty grey with the smoke of battle.

http://www.royal-navy.mod.uk/data/[(1157)-18-02-2002]T45.jpg

The Imperial Drakonian Ship Rapax, an Advanced Missile Destroyer, and her support ship, the frigate, IDS Fear Bringer responded to the distress call of the Netherstates Freighter Northern Caller, exactly an hour after sunrise. They had discovered the bulk freighter in flames and slowly sinking, with a small group of privateer warships moving away. The situation had degenerated from there.

"Sir, the Fear Bringer is taking on water!" the Ensign yelled over the sound of the ships forward gun battery firing.

Maxwell Aurelius, the destroyer's captain, had no time to respond to the Ensign’s announcement. A mighty quake shook through his ship as another shell slammed into it, followed by yet another marked by the equally powerful explosion of one the destroyer’s missile magazines. The violent shaking and the sound of the explosion were all but overpowering, it was all Captain Aurelius could do to stay on his feet. Some of other bridge crew were not as lucky and found themselves sprawled across the deck.

The Captain was again yelling orders before any of them could get back to their feet. "Bring us around, we can't take another one of those broadsides," he commanded. "Maintain Cannon fire, and launch whatever missiles you can. We've got to even up this fight!"

Much like the Britmattian Royal Navy, the Imperial Drakonian Navy had a long and proud history of actively working to the keep the great oceans of the world clear of the ever-present threat of piracy. In fact, the common practice of assigning vessels on deep sea patrol was more tradition than doctrine, and the standing Deep Sea Patrol Protocols were to prevent all acts of piracy, robbery, and violence (excluding wartime contacts), while offering any and all assistance to those in need, all while upholding sentient rights and liberties. It was something Drakonina Naval Officers took very serious. And thus the two Drakonian ships had ordered the pirate vessels to stand down, and thus battle had ensued.

"The cannon's damaged; missile batteries inoperable, Sir!" It was the worst reply possible.

Captain Aurelius stared out over the waves as the ship came around. The pirate cruiser was obscured by the smoke billowing off the burning freighter. Still he could see two of the enemy frigates visibly supporting the cruiser by staying in close formation. The entire group was continued to be perpendicular to the now turned destroyer. And there amongst them marking the cruisers conning tower a white dot, a white flag with a skull in its center, the pirate's flag.

He had to consider defeat now, but the enemy was not taking prisoners, the fires of the freighter told him that. With only the three remaining Twin-Gatling Turrets, designed to take down enemy aircraft or missiles, at his disposal, there really was not much he could do. Still desperate plans flashed through his mind. He could get in close and strafe their decks with the gatling guns. The 30mm shells could be deadly to the enemy ships at that range, causing much damage. Or...it was crazy, but it just might work.

"All ahead full," he order, his voice carrying across the ships bridge like the clarion call of a trumpet. "Give me everything you have got!"

Despite all their dread at the possible defeat, and worse possible death, the crew rallied to his orders. "All ahead full, aye," the Engineering Representative replied.

"Weapons, have the Gatling Guns target those frigates." He knew what he had to do now. His duty was clear. "Strafe their decks!"

"Aye, Sir," the reply was full of youthful vigor and an unhealthy joy at enacting retribution.

Selling ourselves dearly, the Captain thought as the whine of the gatling cannons turned into a mechanical rattle.

"Sir," the Captain's First Officer spoke up, his hand holding a rag to his forehead where it was clear a bleeding head wound was concealed. "We are heading straight for the pirate cruiser; if we do not turn we will hit them."

Maxwell Aurelius only nodded his acknowledgement of the comment. He turned straight toward the enemy as the destroyer picked up speed. "All hands," he ordered. "Brace for ramming!"

There was an echo of his order across the ship's bridge and then the roar of the pirate cruiser's cannons drowned it out. The whining of the shells sailing at the Drakonian warship could be heard alongside the explosion of the far side of the command bridge as one shell slammed into it. Confusion and disorder gripped the bridge as part of it collapsed in on itself. Someone was screaming in pain, others calling out attempting to restore order and through it all, the Captain watch the enemy ships.

Too late the cruiser's commander realized the Rapax's intentions. Too late he called his engines to full power to move out of its path. The collision was met with a mighty sound of girding steel and tearing metal. Then one explosion and another rocked both vessels. In all the resulting smoke it hard to see their fates.

Finally, it cleared. A twisted and torn hulk was all that remained of the pirate cruiser, a mighty indentation marking the point at which the Drakonian destroyer had rammed it. And there damaged, but with its hulk mostly intact sat the Rapax, floating, operational, having survived.

How had the ship survived? Drakonian warships on patrol often spend long periods of time at sea, and when engaged by pirates or other hostiles they are generally outnumbered. For this reason, the vessels of the Imperial Drakonian Navy are built to extraordinary standards and much attention is paid to strengthening the vessels armor and hull. Special care is also taken in the construction of the forward section of the warship as much of the abuse a ship take is there. And while uncommon and generally archaic the tactic of ramming has been known to be used by Drakonian commanders. It is in preparation for such a situation as befell the Rapax that special care is taken with the forward sections of Drakonian warships, so that they might be prepared to ram an enemy.

With all the smoke of the battle finally clearing, one could see the only remaining pirate vessels, three frigates, two of which had been strafed by the Rapax's gatling guns, the other having been damaged battling the sinking Drakonian frigate, IDS Fear Bringer, all fleeing.

The Rapax had lived up to its name this day, for in Drakonian the word "rapax" means "rapacious" and if nothing else could be said for the ship and her crew, they were rapacious in their battle with the pirates.

Birmingham City Naval Yards, Birmingham Duchy, the Kingdom.

McMahan, hands clutched over his ears, sprinted the last dozen yards between himself and the yard chief's sound-insulated shack, the howl of grinders and sparking hiss-pop of welders a deafening cacophony striking the Commodore with an almost physical force.
He ducked inside the little office, acknowledged the burly Lt. Commander's salute whilst shaking his head, try to dispell the stunning effect of the racket outside.
The other man grinned, unsually for someone in heavy industry he was human, if nearly as thickly bearded as the traditional dwarf would have been.
"Certainly packs a wallop doesn't it sir?"
McMahan thumped his palm into his temple. "Ugh. Certainly does at that. Still, necessary noise for what we need getting done..."
He cast a hopeful look at the man, who combed work-roughened fingers through his black beard, a rueful look on his face.
"Aye well, done is what we're not, sad to say. T'Vespasian certainly isn't, the damage to the hangars that got hit was pure murder."
A frown. "Those sealed bays stop damage going further in, but the contents are always buggered to below when they take a hit."
McMahan nodded. "Fucking fascists."
"Aye, Mithras refuse their souls." The man sketched the horns in the air before continuing.
"So aye. The carrier's not going anywhere, as for the rest, the Katana and the Mace are shot to shit, but most o'the damage was t'modular sections and easy enough fixed, especially with t'Mace. We can slot a new turret in within the month, but no sooner, sorry sir."
McMahan waved his hands appeasingly. "Not your fault Chief. Guess I'll have to get used to the noise in the interim then."

Later.

"Ah the excellent Ms. FitzWarwick."
Lindor smiled at the comconsole. "Hello Commodore, what can I do for you?"
McMahan smiled back, somewhat sadly. "More what I can do for you Lindor."
"Oh?"
He shrugged. "We're going to be in Birmingham for longer than anticipated. A month, at the least, so, instead of having you waste your time hanging around aboard ship, I thought I'd suggest you have a wander around the town, see if there's anything worth journalising."
Lindor pursed her lips thoughtfully, index finger absently stroking indigo hair back from a pointed ear. "Not trying to get rid of me art thou Ian?"
She smiled winsomely. "I am trying I know, and the cat worse."
A sock bounced off her head, thrown by someone offscreen, and McMahan laughed.
"Oh no Lindor, I was going to beg the favour of accompanying you, in dock there's remarkably little for me to actually do."
An other smile, and a curl of blue locks around a slender a finger. "I don't see why not Ian, I don't see why not at all..."

GreerCorp Biological Laboratory Four, Birmingham City, The Underlevel.

The Underlevel. Also known as the Duchy of London, but for those enclaves under the major cities of other Duchies. The Kingdom's conquered and constantly-attacked portion of the Underdark. Vast armies move beneath the land above, horrific battles fought against monsters in the dark below, marauding species beaten back from the Kingom's territory and pursued into the abyssal plain that lay beyond those borders.
Within Kingdom territory however, the Underlevel was a useful and well populated portion of the nation. Heavy industry and Dwarven accomodation seeped into every nook and cranny, above, the Kingdom remained a green and pleasant land, while below an industrial giant was secure and nicely out of the way. There were inevitable difficulties with being underground, but most of the Kingdom's heavy industry was owned and run by Dwarves, for whom the minor inconveniences were just that, no reason at all to move above ground.
And for those human entities with a stake in the Underlevel? Well, there're many things a corporation may wish to hide under the concealing earth, even or especially from CentGov.
That was especially the case with GreerCorp's latest biological project, as most assuredly Edmund Greer did not want CentGov looking upon his works...

It's dark in BioLab Four. Always. And lab is a misnomer really, given that it is essentially a vast cavern, simple huts clustered in it's defensible spaces. Outside those huts lie armour and weapons. A discerning observer, one who can see clearly in these low-light conditions might notice that the armour and weapons would not fit human hands and forms. Of the owners there is no sign. There is however, scent. A sharp, almost unpleasant musk hangs in the air, reminscent of the den of some large predator, an impression heightened by gnawed bones outside some of the huts, discarded carelessly on the rough wooden tables that pair each hut.
It's quiet, the only sound the soft sussuration of thousands of beings breathing. And then the silence is broken by the discordant tone of an alarm and the cavern flares into torchlight illumination.
Within moments of the alarms discordant pealing the huts are opening up and spilling out their inhabitants.
Inhabitants who are uniformly unhuman, if not not uniform in shape, hulking beornings, wolflings, the whip-like forms of mustelidae crossed with men, flat-headed and snarling wolverines, carnivora in all it's shapes, growling and snapping at each other as they spill out of their huts and gather up their weapons, then, disconcertingly, falling into disciplined ranks upon ranks of heavily armed and armoured beast-men. Silence falls.
On a viewing platform far above the packed mass of animal-soldiers, Edmund Greer, wrinkled and old, liver-spotted hands clasped behind his exoskeleton-supported back, smiles down and thinks mad and bloody thoughts of destruction, revenge and the death of Kings.

ΒΦ38-34 licks a fang thoughtfully, staring up the tunnel to the soft light at it's end, clenching clawed fingers on the solid handle of his pick-axe, growling softly in thought as eyes designed to function in the low light of the Underlevel adjust to the brighter light spilling through.
The hulking badger-man turns to the smaller figure standing at his side, who twitches whiskers at him, webbed hands combing them nervously.
"How many?" rumbles from 38-34's chest.
The slighter creature, an otter-form, shys away nervously.
"Four. All weasels..."
The badger-man growls again, causing the otter to eel further back as the bigger creature smashes it's pick-axe into the tunnel wall.
"Stupid. Very stupid. Do they want to get caught?"
The otter essayed the twitch of it's body that passed for a shrug.
"It was ΜΦ63-21's lot, they've been rabid to get out for.."
Brown eyes blinked in the face of the cold stare from 38-34.
"What?"
"ΜΦ63-21 is rabid to get out because he wants to taste manflesh. Any manflesh. And now he's loose with three of his fellow idiots Up Above."
The otter swallowed.
"Oh."
"Quite."
38-34 pulled his deeply-embedded pick-axe out of the tunnel wall without apparent effort.
"Get me some wolflings. We're going to need to chase those fools down before they bring the guards down us."
38-34's face, as much as the muzzle of a badger allowed a face, worked as the otter scurried off to do his bidding.
"The guards, aye, and the city above besides." whispered the badger-man as he stared up at the tunnel's light.

Up above, the city is relatively quiet, the industrial areas of the Underlevel situated below the towers of the commercial districts, deserted as the inhabitants flooded outward with the falling of night.
Still, empty or not, the streets are patrolled by Interior Forces, the red and blue uniformed guards trotting throughout the silent commerical areas.
Patrols move past the Greer towers, fade into the distance and then are gone.
Figures move out from the shadows, not the mustelids, who's flowing gait is unmistakably different.
These, when they move into the light, are identifiable as Lindor, Aleep and the redoubtable Commodore McMahan.
Scuttling back into the shadows around the tower's base, the three pause to consider their next move, McMahan mock-scowling at the blue-haired elf.
"When I suggested you go journalisting in the city I didn't really intend for you to break into the premises of commercial entities. I was more thinking human interest pieces."
Lindor grins back, eyes bright even in the dark, but says nothing as she cups her hands to boost the Commodore over the wall they're sheltered against.
McMahan sighs, and accepts the boost, dropping to the other side, in a careful crouch.
Lindor joins him, her landing smoother, Elven grace more than a match for rough ground and darkness.
Smoothest of all is Aleep's landing, as she leaps the wall from a standing start, the explosive, springy power of a Ch'taht's limbs more than a match for the height Lindor and Ian have scrambled across.
The three begin to edge across the open ground beyond the wall, skirting the pools of light security lamps blaze out, but are halted by a hissing snarl.
Moving out of the darkness come four figures, the fluid, serpentine grace and sharply pointed skulls no species of anthropomorphic McMahan recognised, at least in the few seconds he had to consider before the things snapped forward, snarling, fangs agape.
The Commodore pushed Lindor behind him, even as the lead weasel smashed into the human, spilling him to the ground, claws scraping across the tough materials of his uniform, snapping jaws and needle teeth too close for comfort.
The beast was stronger than it had any right to be, but McMahan was heavier and stronger still, flinging it away and rolling to his knees.
The other creatures circled Aleep, who's lashing, fluffed-to-twice-normal-size tail and bared fangs seemed to be keeping the creatures back from her and Lindor for the moment.
Ian shook himself, groping for the automatic holstered at his belt, before a huge, clawed hand pushed his shoulder down.
McMahan stared up, into the glowing green eyes of an impossibly large, impossibly shaped figure, clad in plate armour that wouldn't have looked out of place in a tournament, the black and white muzzle of a badger snarling instructions to the loping wolfen figures surging past it to tear into the weasels.
The badger, glaring down at the Commodore, spoke in a softer tone.
"No guns. The guards'll come if they hear a shot, and I misdoubt you want that more than we do."
Before the Commodore can do more than gape the weasel he'd hurl away surges back, leaping and clawing at the impossible badger-man, drawing a line of crimson blood across the gleaming white of it's opponent's fur.
The badger-man snarls back, massive paws, hands plucking the snarling weasel away, ignoring the claws skittering across it's armour, even as arms as thick as McMahan's leg brace the snarling creature against a broad armoured knee and flex.
The smaller creature writhes until a damp "pop!" comes from it's hideously over-flexed spine and it's movements stop abruptly.
The badger-man drops the corpse disdainfully, looking over to where the wolves have finished with the other weasels, considering the still snarling Ch'taht and stunned looking elf, then back down the Commodore at his feet.
"Hrn. Well. You'd better come along with us."

o.o.c. massive continuity disjunction on the grounds that the concept driving this and Redemption Song was somewhat overly ambitious. So, we're skipping to the end and I'll add in extra plot details for both at a later time that will probably be never. ho hum. MOVING RIGHT ALONG.

The sky shrieks and the ground ruptures, dark earth vomiting into the sky, leaving a steaming crater from which a dark figure strides, each step taken with the careful restraint which powered armour teaches its users.
A cloak hangs from the coal black armour, the only light a cold blue from its eye-sockets and a slight brighter, but obscured, glow from its hands.
It considers the frozen group, calm, implacable and cool.
"Missster Greer. I might have known."

The voice buzzes, machine-distorted, but still recognisable with a moment's thought.
McMahan, pistol not moving from its one-handed aim, red sight-dot exactly centred on Greer's head, grins weakly.
"Majesty. I apologise not for my discourtesy, but.."
The armoured figure cocks its head, then shrugs.
"I think we can let it slide this once Commodore. Is my kinswoman in any immediate danger?"
The naval officer adjusts his grip, clutching the unconcious journalist to himself tighter.
"No Sire."
"Excellent work then."
"She lives on my sufferance, Warwick."
"Really? From here...it looks as though the Commodore has you dead to rights. Or am I missing something?"
McMahan grimaces.
"He's armoured sir. Magic. And..the sword."
"Indeed, the sword. One could hardly miss it. Is it..?"
"Yes Warwick. It is. The Sword of Kings, I found it and it serves me now. It's mine."

The King reaches down and flicks a bit of sod still stuck to his armoured leg away, before raising back up.
"Oh I think not. You see, I know its name. Justice, come."

The sword ceases its tooth-grating whine and rips from Greer's fingers, thumping into the King's upraised hand.
Light bursts from the blade, not the sooty, strained gray of before, but pure and glorious silver, the blade sings, the very air vibrating with its joy as it fits itself to the hand of the King.

"Ah...now that's a thing."
The armour cocks its head at the stunned Greer inquiringly.
"I don't suppose you'd care to surrender now, allow yourself to go to your grave reasonably intact. If you resist, I can't promise anything..."
The Greer draws himself up and spits at Owen, the globule of liquid sizzling as hit an invisible energy field surrounding the armoured King.
"Fuck you Warwick. Fuck your whore of a mother and weakling of a father. I curse your entire benighted house."

The King sighs, flipping the sword down to lean on it, the point sizzling slightly as it sinks into the night-damp earth.
"I should have executed you along with your son. Your malice drove him then, just as it drives you now. Enough. Captain Walker, deal with him now please."

Darkness ripples, and a larger, less ornamented suit swirls out of it, the helmet truly faceless, without even the vague nods to humanity the King's has.
"Aye Majesty."
"You'll not dismiss me like a drudge Warwick, you'll pay, you'll pay now!"
The traitor shrieks in a grating tongue, and a column of flame snarls from his out-flung hand, wreathing the King in crimson, before dying back to reveal him unmoved and unmarked.
"The petty bile of traitors discomfits me not, Edmund Greer. With Justice in my hand, I am both the thing and the whole of the thing. I fear not because I am just, I am just because I do not bow to fear."
"No! You are a liar, a cur, a-"
His rant is cut-off in midword as Captain Walker blurs up to land a punch that flings him a good dozen metres down the shattered gardens.
Owen sighs and waves after the aristocrat's form.
"You'll probably need to kill him fairly thoroughly Malthus, return when you're sure you're done. For now, Commodore McMahan and I have to see a badger about working for a man, apparently. Hum. There's probably an irredeemably filthy limerick in that. I wonder what Arwen will make of it."