NationStates Jolt Archive

Protests against Metus, after a disputed treaty
Wye City, Terra
WN3

As protesters continue to gather outside the main gates of Council Hall, filling Sakura Square with anti-Arda posters and placards, another kind of debacle continues in the Council Chamber itself. Having approved the treaty to join Arda, the Council has found itself at the center of a fury of opposition from Prefectoral Councils. "The High Council is required by law to make sure all prefectures approve a treaty before signing it. This is a blatant disregard for the few laws we have left," stated Margrave Artur na Aeldred (Marché) in a brief statement from his office in Istel.

Not all share the Margrave's sentiment. Many opposing to the treaty believe that closer political ties with Arda will prevent furthering of relationships with other states. With increasing interest in commerce with non-Weyrik states, and with many Sol states hostile towards Arda, this treaty is seen as a threat to many corporate and phyle interest. A spokesperson for the li'Illorin clan has claimed that "Arda is an anti-elven alliance. It goes against everything the Kingdom stands for. This .... treaty is utter idiocy. We won't support it. Ever." The Neo-Alician phyle has declared it will not recognize a Arda-Weyr treaty.

Despite widespread protests, which have thus far remained peaceful, the Council has thus far not overturned the day-old treaty. The growing crowds in Sakura Square, and in other parts of the Kingdom, have received strong backing from numerous phyles and clans, with the makings of a solid infrastructure to support the protests.

***

“Two score years ago, our forerunners came to this world, dreaming of a world free of the violence and injustice prevalent across much of the Kingdom. We have stayed with the Kingdom through the years, but we have also worked to become something apart from the chaos of Weyr and of Sol. Today, the Kingdom still maintains its position as the most despised and unstable state in the universe. Today, the Mark has a populace with the same dream that started it all.

“It is the Home Guard that keeps our borders safe, people who have chosen to dedicate their lives to fight not for money, or for glory, but for their loved ones, against the Erhelm raiders that still plague the Line, despite all the promises of the Star Guard. It is our merchants and our people who traverse the galaxy in search of markets, despite complaints from the corporations on Paradigm. It is our farmers who feed the worlds of the Line in return for little more than gratitude, despite cries against subsidies that keep a hundred million from starving in the hands of capitalism. We have become the last light of the Twilight at the edge of the world, and we will not be pulled back down to the cesspit from whence we arose by warmongers and fools. This realm will endure; will carry the dream with which it was conceived, with or without the Kingdom.

“Tomorrow, I will request that the Burghs vote on a resolution to secede from the Kingom of Weyr, and the United Weyrik Prefectures. The Kingdom is not what it was hundred years ago; it is no longer a place of peace and prosperity; it is no longer a place we can be a part of.”

--Margrave Artur na Aeldred li’Istel

***
Istel
Marche II
Prefecture of Marche

”Alchemist,” Artur li’Istel inclined his head, rising from behind his heavy desk. Sunlamps glowed slightly, despite the faint cloud-filtered sunlight coming through windows behind him.

”Margrave,” Kira grinned, bowing. ”Thanks for accepting me.”

”Thank you for coming,” he resumed his seat. ”I hope your quarters have been satisfactory.”

”Yes,” she nodded. ”So what’s this about?”

”I am not allowed to find out how an honored guest is treated?” Artur tried to sound surprised.

”Dude, you suck at lying,” Kira looked at him, striking green eyes flashing. "What’s this about?”

”Alright,” the Margrave assented. ”There will be a celebration in two weeks, formally making the Mark a separate state...”

”Wait,” Kira interrupted. ”So you’re serious about this?”

”Yes,” he looked down for a moment, at the papers arranged on the wide desk. Streaks of sliver shone in his hair for a moment, making the Margrave look much older than his forty odd years. Forty wasn’t really old for a Noldo, Kira knew, but Artur was not truly an elf. He didn’t look as androgynous, nor was he as immature as an elf of only two score years. ”The Kingdom isn’t what it was. Speeches aside, it’s going to fall, soon. I do not know when, I do not know how, but it will, and I do not want anyone to be dragged down with it. It has made too many enemies inside. I assume The Tower will back me, since you haven’t yet been called back.”

”Look, I’m, not friggin’ going back,” Kira responded tersely. ”So what’s the celebration?”

”Fireworks, drinks, food, and hopefully national leaders who might give us some credibility,” Artur looked back up.

”Hell no,” she shuddered. ”I don’t dance. Ever.”

”Yes, you do,” the Margrave responded. ”Madame Requardé will give you lessons for two weeks. Find a good tailor, have him make you a suit that actually fits, or a dress. Something. And consider longer hair,” he smiled wryly. ”The last one’s from my protocol officer. You can tell him he is an utter idiot. Now, how’s life?”

She sighed, brushing back a strand of crimson hair. He was learning, and earning too fast for her tastes. ”Fine. Except I got to go to this dance and meet boring idiots who think they’re too important for the world…”

"I could say the same about you," Art intoned.

"And you're an arrogant bastard," Kira grinned. "You got something to drink?"

***
Battlespire
West Desert Waste
Earthbound Prefecture
Terra

Spectrum Alchemist Ren li’Wye, of no relation to High King Alicia, knew another batch of demons were coming through a gate. It was the fourth gate, he knew, from the little icon that began flashing on one of his persCom’s projections. He shrugged. The building shuddered. Massive cannon on one of its faces opened up in a spectacular flare of subEtheric death, shells shrieking towards the twisted black shapes coming through the stabilizing forty-meter portal. Hopefully, the issue would be dealt with before people started coming.

The black spike rose above the bleak desert plain, a perfect octagonal base tapering, then branching into a three-peaked crown. Great cannon studded its eight faces, barrels pointing at each of the eight portals. Ren was here when the Spire had been built, to link the scattered outposts of the Kingdom. It still linked them, the fastest and cheapest from of travel between two points across the world, assuming you could cover the initial costs of setting up a dedicated portal.

A steamer shot over the desert, through the portal linking Terra to the Battleplain. Of course, many thought you could just walk into the Battleplain. The result would be that you popped out on the opposite side a few seconds later. The Battleplain could only be entered from a location via that location’s gate. Of course, anyone who wanted to come through the Battlespire, like…say…a foreign dignitary…would get an escort who would know such things. In this case there were even escort parties in Wye Int’l Skyport for anyone interested, not to mention at the Spire gate itself.

Of course, a person could just take his personal ship onto a hyperlighter, get dropped off at Paradigm a week later, then use their own drives to get to Marché, but that was not nearly a fast as a short trip through a pair of gates.

OOC: Of you haven’t figure it out by now, this is the death-stuff-something of Weyr. Basically, everyone who cares can come. Other side of the galaxy, so either find some way of getting there, use the Battlespire, or charter a Weyrean starlighter to Paradigm and use you own ship for the journey to Marché.

tag

(P'tum, P'Tum, P'Tum. I'm not going to write about my people got to Marche ICly, but I will explain OOCly. Jaime Coldfist, one of my three 'ambassadors,' was previously stationed on Calirnevris, the big space station part of the RSN's Sol Station. Meaning that Arden (The Captain) brought his shippedies to Sol to pick up Jaime. So...if anybody needs a ride to Marche from Sol, drop me a TG and we can retroactively work something out. Or catch me on IRC. or whatever. Anyways.)

Transcendant Drive was a rush. Always a rush. Arden loved it, even when he wasn't in his command chair. Arden also loved his fiance. Combine the two and life was damn-near perfect for one Captain (Senior) Arden Velisuar.

Jess was a warm presence up against his chest, her head resting on his right arm, her gentle breathing matched perfectly her sleep pattern...so he was alone, more or less.

Harm Coldfist had briefed him on Weyr...and the briefing had made him want to dance. A nation self-destructing itself...a splinter group of elves...beautiful. Couldn't be better. Chaos taking its course, hoo-wah.

Harm had also directed him to stop by Sol and pick up his son. So Jaime was onboard, too. Which didn't make him feel much better...but the other individual they'd picked up most certainly did.

Caspian Del'Riva. Yes, That Caspian. He'd just finished up some sort of op in Sol that Arden didn't want to know about. But his presence made Arden feel safer and grin sinisterly all at the same time. It was well known that Caspian Del'Riva was Knight-Commander of the Changerguard...and the nine individuals in black cloaks that had walked onto Arden's ship along with Del'Riva indicated that he was acting in that capacity.


ETA six hours...

Arden smiled and closed his eyes.

System Traffic Control
Marche System

Early warning beacons doubled as traffic control scanners in the Mark, partly because Istel could not afford a better system, and partly because an early warning beacon was damn good at detecting ships from far, far away.

"Revenian diplomatic craft, please be advised of increased traffic conditions over Marche II at the moment. Standby for updated traffic column stream. Crystal Landing is rated for standard landing craft, be advised."

***

Separation Gains Favor Along the Line
Starhavven, Paradigm
WN3

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v485/Weyr/Bdmt.jpg
A general meeting of the Outrealm Prefectures, concluded yesterday, has shown that while dissolution may not gain the support necessary to become reality, separation is a strong possibility. With the High Council refusing to terminate the Arda membership, Prefectures are seeking to distance themselves from a government that has been called 'tyrranical' and 'warmongering'

For states along the Line, the choice may be between the lesser of two evils. With Erhel raidships an ever-present threat, the Star Guard's albeit limited protection is often the only thing stopping a general invasion. Conversely, that protection may prove to be an illusion in the coming years. For many, an alignment with Arda, however thin, may result in both loss of trade partners and in potential allies. For the Noldorin fringe groups, especially Marché, an alignment with Arda is culturally repulsive, and violence has erupted between Ardan supporters, who favor a powerful ally, and anti-Ardan protesters, who oppose any links with a body that has proved to be fully capable of committing wide-scale atrocities.

A speaker for the Outrealm Prefectures has stated that while no official agreement has been reached regarding future action, there is no doubt that the Prefectures will not remain on the sidelines of what is the latest in a series of Council-Prefecture conflicts to plague the Kingdom since the Regent Victoria li'Paradigm retired six years ago.

***

Clan Violence Escalates
Wye City, Earthbound
WN3

Shells continue to fall in the Shadowside sector, as clan forces continue to fight for control of the long-disputed piece of strategic real estate. Overlooking Tirfel and Blood Rise, the Shadowside sector is a perfect staging point for pushes into these predominantly elvish areas. All three zones are controlled by the li’Illorin clan, which has thus far managed to hold against a coalition of five clans. Losses suffered by both sides are reported to be in the low thousands, and may soar if either side decides to use colourbomb weaponry. With the front stagnant after three weeks of fluctuation across three blocks, both sides are looking to break the stalemate.

Colourbomb weaponry stockpiles are illegal under the Common Economic Protocol, and any evidence of their use could lead to severe repercussions from signatory states and from The Tower. Nonetheless, it is suspected that most clans and at least some phyles possess these weapons. If either side in the Shadowside chooses to use a scorched earth policy, colourbombing would prove to be an effective and devastating technique.

Neither side has thus far called for a diplomatic resolution, each demanding the other cede Shadowside. Fears of racial reprisals may be at the root of the continued hostilities.

Locals have dealt with the fighting by staying indoors and stocking up on supplies. Many have sent their children to relatives in other parts of the city. Tourists have been advised to take precautions when passing through the Shadowside Sector.

Limited street fighting has been reported between elven, weyrean, dwarven, and human militias. Casualties are estimated to be below one hundred.

Despite li’Illorin efforts to limit civilian casualties, artillery shells have thus far wounded at least two hundred and killed twenty-three in both Shadowside and Marlow, the main staging area for the current push against the li’Illorin. More casualties are expected before this conflict, the latest in a series of clan military engagements, draws to a close.

Arden was relaxing in his command chair when the message came in, and he nodded...

"Begin ship separation..."

The two Outrider class Escort Carriers, two Slayer class Battlecruisers, and two supply craft of his Jump Squadron detached themselves from the Remembrance

"Take us into orbit, Helm."

And the massive two-kilometer super-dreadnought and her consorts began a-moving. They would find the proper orbit, and then an assault shuttle would launch, flanked by a pair of GS-11 Blood Elf vertigravs. The shuttle would land at 'Crystal Landing,' while the Vertigravs would peel off and return home.

The ramp would lower and the delegation would march out, escorted by Caspian Del'Riva's black-cloaked Changerguard. In the lead was Caspian himself, followed by Arden who was arm-in-arm with Jess. Taking up the rear was Jaime Coldfist.

Arden and Jess would have that distinct look of two young people in love. Caspian would be looking...like Caspian...and Jaime would be looking particularly annoyed to be here...his platoon needed him. Not some stupid elf party. ugh.

OOC: Tag. Remember me? I'm not going to bust in if this is supposed to be a peaceful RP, but I'll be on hand if a fight should develop. Orkish Tachyon (Improbability) drives make distances not mean much.

OOC:
Greenskinz: didn't we nuke and/or occupy a good chunk of your worlds a few months ago? Anyways, if you have a lausible reason to be on the far side of the galaxy...

Istel
Marche II
Prefecture of Marche

Tench-hut! Grenadier-3 armored suits snapped to attention, four on either side of the landing ramp, rifles and mitaril-steel plate catching the last rays of twilight. Might as well give them the full honors, someone had probably decided, since those four soldiers were the entire garrison of Crystal Landing, a small permacrete field near the center of the city, flanked on three sides by eight and ten-story buildings and on the fourth by the transparent mass of the Crystal Palace. In reality, Crystal Landing had been decommissioned months before,with the intent of makig it into either a park or a business district, but with the amount of expected and incoming traffic the Margrave figured it would be a waste not to use the available space, especially when that space was right next to the Crystal Palace.

Judging from the sounds around the field, the celebrations may have started slightly early. Escort squad, ready! as always, without any spoken sound, not with internal uplinks. "Welcome to the Marche Prefecture, part of the Kingdom of Weyr until midnight Istel time.” Someone, probably the soldier with the two bars on his shoulder, announced.

It may have been impressive, were there a full company and not a squad, and were there not an alchemist twenty meters away arguing with a pseudo-intelligence droid, or the somewhat inebriated group of elves, humans, Weyreans, and some other species goading her on.

***

Anonymity was something he never really seemed to grasp, Gibbs thought, finding himself surrounded by half a dozen sycophants and twice as many potential enemies. Moonlamps and sunlamps hung from the clear, vaulted ceiling, still only half-lit, letting the last of summer sun's rays touch the building unmolested. In the middle of the city, it was surrounded by a small expanse by green grass, now filled with countless elves and Weyreans, among others.

Transparency, the idea that government should be visible to the people, that was the thought behind an administrative center made entirely of diamond and glass, thought the Consul-General. Interesting use of space. Interesting, where the Kingdom had gone, and where it was going, where this part of it was headed. HE would have to speak to the Margrave later.

He turned back to the small crowd, brushed his beard, as though finally having an answer to the question, the answer he had made in his mind as soon as the inquiry was made.

OOC:
Greenskinz: didn't we nuke and/or occupy a good chunk of your worlds a few months ago? Anyways, if you have a lausible reason to be on the far side of the galaxy...


OOC: You blew up my homeworld, broke the back of the Orkish fleets, and scattered us across the stars. Unfortunately for the Universe Orks are surprisingly resilient. Now instead of one big Empire theres a bunch of small ones which occasionally band together. As for location, Orks primarily make a living as raiders, and their Improbabilty drives give them tremendous range. Of course my ships do turn into links of sausage at an alarming rate.

Caspian exhaled idly as he looked the Grenadiers over.

"This the best you Elves can do? Ah well, not surprising." He thought for a moment and pulled a few firebirds from his pocket. "Here, take these and go get drunk. Nobody should have to be stuck escorting foreigners during a party. Especially this foreigner, who doesn't want or need an escort. Incidentally, that fancy power armor your wearing won't stop a warblade with a live slice-field, and I am reputed to be quite the sociopath, isn't that RIGHT?"

At that statement, the rest of the party nodded emphatically.

Caspian smiled, "So take off, Tinmen. If I catch you outside of a bar, I'm going to shuck you on the spot, beat you up, leave you bleeding in an alley, then go see if I can find a Weyrean who can digest Eldensteel."

With that, he made a hand-signal and the group of Revenians scattered. Lord alone knew where those black-cloaked Changerguard went, thems was sneaky bastids.

Jaime, Arden, and Jess were headed to the actual party, Jaime for the sole purpose of getting drunk off his ass and hopefully waking up the next morning with a couple of attractive women in his bed.

Jess because it was her job, and Arden was her fiance...and thus wasn't about to leave her. Obviously.

As for Caspian, well...he was going to meet up with a buddy of his. Who had arrived a couple of hours earlier and was already on planet with a few packages for the man who some called 'Soultaker.'

So he was gone between blinks. Amazing how he could do that...well, not really. He was still there, you just didn't realize it. Came with his amazing 'you can't see me' abilities. He could blend into anything at anytime...

Seriously. It was amazing, and nobody knew how he did it (Including the writer,) but most people were pretty sure that he had hidden in more than one girl's locker room as a teenager...

not that he was a pervert, just that he liked a challenge. 'n he wasn't gay. So seeing naked male teenagers going through puberty wasn't his idea of fun. OKAY?!?!

Don't like it? Take it up with him.

Because...
Good,
Bad...

He's the one with the Warblade.

The squad really didn't seem to care. Subtle motions were not the strong suit of a Grenadier armor. Rigt, you could stab through it, sure. They weren't about to debate that. The trick was to get through the sword and shield of the grenadier in question. They just stood there and did nothing.

****

She, was pissed. Very pissed. Pissed enough that she wanted to set things on fire. Fire was good. She took a deep breath. The droid was very annoying. Droids were annoying. The melting point of steel was too high to achieve this late at night. Idiots cheered. Someone was passing around a few cases of what was alchohol with the consistency of paint remover. Traiditional booze, yes.

"Entering a dilomatic immunity zone without a state passport is strictly prohibited under Common Economic Protocol regulations," the drone said for what was possibly the hundredth time. Drone, really a keg with a pair of legs and four arms. Somewhere inside a speaker tried and failed to imitate a Neo-Alician accent.

"Dude, I'm not part of the damn CEP," Kira sighed.

"Entering a..."

She muttered one of those profanities that supposedly were known by only the most hardened sailors.

"Sock it!"

That did seem like a good idea. Damn, those fumes were strong. Must be the extra strength version, she thought briefly.

"Loitering on the..."

Art was so gonna get it. She sighed. He really should've checked what he was buying. And she was almost late; almost. A whirl of motion, blue streak covering a quarter meter distance, and the droid was so much slag. She really hated energy displacement. three...two...one... a ring of hot air sent everyone around her sprawling. Right on time, she chuckled silently. Elves groaned, clambering to their feet, except for those alreay too drunk to get up. Kinda embarrasing, considering there were pased out Quendi and assorted races at the front entrance to the Crystal Palace. People began to applaud.

Jaime was just about to wander inside the Crystal Palace when he spotted a drone molesting a somewhat attracting elf-chick with rather large ears...

then a blue streak and the ring thing...which failed to knock -HIM- flat on his ass. Because his rather nice (so everybody said) ass came to rest on the rather large belly of some fat rich lady. Which pissed him the hell off.

She was shreaking, he was pissed...and his pissed-offedness won out. So after elbowing said broad in the face and relieving her of her cash, cards, and jewels...he was inside. Duelling scar, trench-coat and all...

'n if anyone had a problem with that...well...

Jaime Coldfist was not in a good mood. 'n he was HEAVILY armed. Plus he was a biokinetic. Which meant that altogether YOU DID NOT WANT TO SCREW WITH HIM.

'n there was that crazy alchemist elf-chick. Scary...but not a bad rack, really. In fact, she was pretty attractive, if you ignored the OMG HUMONGOUS ears.

Which he could do, most certainly. After a few drinks.

Jaime smiled and pulled a bottle from his attache case, bit the top off, spit it into some old dude with a wig's eye and drained it dry. Then taking a stumbling-whirly spin he hurled the empty bottle into the nearest approximation of a fireplace. If there weren't any near approximations to a fireplace, then he sent it with unerring accuracy to wedge itself between some broad's sweater cows.

Nothin' like good old Northfell Grain Alcohol...

Jaime smiled and started on his second bottle...
---

Caspian wandered along whistling...it shouldn't be long now...

She adjusted her tie, already moving past the small pile of steel that was a few moments a go a rather cheap security droid. White shirt, dak blue jacket with the insignia of The Tower, loose trousers, half-skirt, black military boots, all made life a bit easier out here on the edge, where alchemists were still somewhat respected.

"Gibbs," she stared. You couldn't miss the consul-general if you knew who he was. There were only so many Weyrin who preffered to look their age. She cleared a way through the chattering crowd, mostly Quendi and Weyrin in informal dress. "You."

"Me," he considered the girl for a moment. "You've grown."

"Just noticed," she commented sourly. "Shouldn't you be decomposing?"

"Not yet," the consul-general chuckled. "Ah, I apologize. This is Sir Rollins of Fyre, and this is Lord Baldr of Azure Skai," the two quendi inclined their heads.

"Milady Ocre of Azure Sea has been delayed," Baldr stated simply, armor plate silently sliding back into place. Azure Skai was on the fringe; the armor was definitely functional, considering the well-concealed patches and hammered-out dents; the plate was probably there to make a statement. "Paper Alchemist Kira li'Starhavven."

"Please," the crimson-haired alchemist looked revolted. "Kira. Just Kira."

"Kira, then," Baldr agreed. "I hope you will visit us some day. The Skai has started an alchymical university, and your input would be most welcome."

"Sure," she grinned. "Can't refuse an offer like that. Can't have you torture poor kids the way they do it at Wye."

Jaime yawned and stomped his way into the party. You didn't want to get in the way of a six foot two inch 178 s.pound Halfling-Ascended. ESPECIALLY not when said Halfling Ascended went by the name of Jaime Coldfist. Yet more so when he was in the process of getting drunk off his ass.

(This is where I start taking liberties.)

He smiled and elbowed his way past a pair of point-eared haughty aristocrat types. The male of the couple took offense to this. Jaime learned this when he founded a raging elf screaming into his face, globs of saliva flying every which way...

Annoying.

His bottle was in his left hand, his right hand was free. He balled that hand into a fist and drove it forward into the elf's solar plexus. The inevitable reaction occured...

Both in the elf and in Jaime.

That being that the elf double over at the waist gasping for breath and Jaime drove his elbow down into the small of the elf's back. Results were best simplified as one Jaime Coldfist stepping over the prone body of one arrogant elf.

'n anybody who had a problem with it could take it up with the AFESSR.

At any rate, Jaime made his way inside without further incident. Or if there was incident, it didn't last long. Whatever. Moving on.

Jaime took a pull from his bottle and smiled. He was dressed as he preferred to dress when he wasn't in uniform. Specifically, he wore a tight black shirt that displayed his rather...toned...physique. A physique gained through the grace of three years of Fleet Marine PT.

Accompanying the shirt was a pair of purpose-fitted blue jeans, designed to be tight in the right areas while still allowing maximum flexibility for any acrobatics one might need to pull. Then we had a pair of black boots.

Finishing the ensemble was the belt with the steel buckle and the black trench coat that fell to about ankle length. Yes. Add to that the obligatory arsenal of weaponry concealed within the trench coat...oh...and the friccin' sunglasses. Yeah. The mirrored black shades. Add that and we're set.

Well, except for the silver-blonde hair in the pony tail. Anyways, add -that- and we're set. So. Onwards and upwards.
---

Caspian smiled idly as he heard a distinctive screeching noise from around the corner. He whistled to himself as he approached the corner and turned it...

A dark shape sat in a dark open-topped vehicle shape.

"Took you long enough, Soultaker."

"And speak of the devil, the Revenians are here," Gibbs sighed. "Lord Baldr," he turned away from Kira.

"Duty calls," the quendi smiled ruefully. "Maybe we will meet again later, Kira. Yes," he turned to the consul-general. "We will be staying out of this whole mess. There are enough problems in our little corner of the world; meddling in Terran affairs is not in the best interests for anyone..."

The crimson-haired alchemist got the cue, or thought she did. It was hard to tell with these guys, who spent lifetimes just talking to each other about absolutely nothing, or something, depending on the matter. She shrugged, pushed through the crowd to get a drink from one of the free dispensers -- no laden serving tables here, only vending matter compilers. Except that there was the bastard from before in her way. To squeeze past, put foot to crotch, or ask him to move. Decisions, decisions...

Jaime whistled to himself as he finished off his bottle. For some odd reason, he returned -this- one to his attache case. His hand came out holding a fresh one and he sunk his canines into the cork-like cap and popped it off...

He spat the cap away and took a pull from the bottle...annoyed. On his third bottle and he wasn't even buzzed yet. 'n this was one-ninety proof grain alcohol. Admittedly, the bottles weren't -that- big...just ten ounces...but...-sigh.-

It was a Revenian thing, yeah. He was a lot heavier than he looked...but it was also a biokinetic thing. But mostly it was a Jaime Coldfist thing. He just didn't get drunk easy...it was a goddamn bitch.

Now, to a human, drinking what he was drinking...straight...woulda been lethal. But like the man said, he wasn't human. Any Revenian could take the kind of alcohol he was drinking...but it was the Ascended who drank it regularly. Because very little else could get them 'drunk.'

Sure, they drank other things socially...but when the idea was to get drunk off your ass...it was 190 proof grain alcohol.

At any rate, he felt somebody stir behind him and turned...and noticed...

The alchemist from earlier. He raised an eyebrow out of idleness...she'd be a prize. He was a foreigner, she carried no stigma in his eyes...being able to work quote magic unquote was nothing special. He was a biokineticist himself, after all...

Thoughts flicked through a brain that was still painfully sharp...and the decision was made.

"Heya. Jaime Coldfist. Suppose I'm in your way. Whatever. Don't kick me. Care for a drink?"

He offered her the bottle. It was un-labelled and pretty much opaque. Couldn't see the stuff inside, at any rate.
---

Caspian smiled.

"Traffic is a bitch. You got the stuff?"

The dark shape laughed...

"You can bet your ass I do..."

Accept or not accept. Well, he seemed friendly enough, and the stuff in the bottle was probably strong enough to get started. Kira had an hour to achieve her goal of absolute inebriation by the end of the day.

"Sure!" she grinned, grabbed the bottle in both white-gloved hands. Whoa, she sputtered. This is...wow... Maybe taking those six ounces in one go hadn't been a good idea. "Good stuff," she gasped. Somewhere along the line she dropped the bottle. "Got any more?"

Well. That was unexpected...but...

He grinned as he pulled another bottle from his attache case. Good thing he'd packed it full...He bit his lip for a moment, then shrugged and handed her the bottle. Presuming she accepted it, he then withdrew a bottle for himself.

His teeth sunk into the cork-like cap and he twisted his head slightly, drawing it off. He spat the cork into his hand, this time, and tossed it over his shoulder...he really didn't care where it went. The idiot things degraded in fourty-eight hours if they weren't stuck in a bottle-neck...

He looked down at her, smiled, and downed about half of the bottle. He felt the grain alcohol burn its way down his throat...and smiled a seemingly satisfied and somewhat masochistic smile...

"Pain is weakness leaving the body..."

"Riiiiight," the crimson-haired alchemist's fingers sparked. Whatever alchymical bits happened are best left to the imagination, since the important thing was that the cap fell off the bottle's mouth, falling to the eternastone floor. If there was any art to getting drunk, then Kira was ignoring all of its rules, assuming that those rules did not include pouring a bottleful of nearly pure alcohol down your throat and seeing how fast you could take it down.

Jaime whistled appreciatively, and tensed himself...

"Careful, Girl. You just downed ten ounces of one-ninety proof grain alcohol on top of the...call it six you downed earlier."

He finished off his bottle and let it fall, so that he'd have both hands free...just in case. His reaction time was superb, he could catch her if he had too, but he somewhat hoped he wouldn't. After all, if she passed out, he wasn't getting any action...

Which annoyed him.

"Heh," she rasped, dropping the bottle, a trickle of the substance running down her chin.

If that bottle was too much, she wasn't showing it, she hoped. Burning and all, it was all good.

"I say," Kira wiped her mouth. "We find someplace quiet to finish that case," she glanced towards the...thingie...he was carrying. "Thataway looks good!" she pointed at a nearby transparent wall and, without waiting, walked through the few people keeping her from it, walked into it, stepped back, turned it into so much dust. "Coming?"

She inquired. It wasn’t really

"Hell yes."

He followed her closely, keeping an eye on her gait...movements, so forth. No real way he could mess with her biokinetically...the only biokinetic technique he knew that could influence other people involved reducing them to a gray sludge...

Which was less than useful in this situation. Anyways..

"Lead the way, babe. Lead the way."

[[OOC: If you don't mind a goblin or two...]]

The Combine ships (slid is too delicate a word) clanged out of SupaSpeed in something that vaguely resembled a formation with one cruiser flanked on each side by a pair of frigates. Each ship was heavily armed, armoured and shielded to an extend that would have done any vessel thrice their sizes proud, although Goblin accuracy meant that in most cases the ships would come off worse than their foes. The great strength of the Collective was its numbers, the expression "quality over quantity" did not apply to the CGC.

A hailing message was sent out from the central ship by voice only (the camera was currently buried under a pile of take-away boxes), the Goblin speaking sounding very nervous indeed - probably due to the BladeGoblin, over twice the speaker's height, standing over him.

"Errmm.....is dis da Pweefektoor uv March? Dis iz da Brite an Shiney carryin' da mozt exsellint Prinz SlashinGrab frum da Combined Goblin Collective fer da party"

The comms clicked off and the Goblin smiles tentatively up at the slender BladeGoblin.

"Did Oi do guud?"

The small Goblin breathed a sigh of relief at the BladeGoblin Duke's nod and glanced over at the tense navigator - so far the five ships had travelled to Io, Sol, the Crab Nebula and even another galaxy before the daft little Cunnin'un has managed to sort out where they were going. Needless to say the Prince and Duke were not best pleased, although it was fairly typical of the number of stops most Goblin navigators took to actually reach where they were going.