NationStates Jolt Archive

Fox Mountain, Laneria

The Commonwealth of Peoples was aware that its several billion inhabitants shared a multiverse with genocidal aliens, star gods, dark Vala and all sorts of other paranormal threads which could not be effectively combated by the conventional Commonwealth Defense Force or even necessarily by the Danaan, Lanerian or Nabarran nuclear arsenals. Correspondingly, the Commonwealth had a number of agencies designed especially to deal with such unusual threats. The most conventional, but by no means least effective, was the Commonwealth Special Command headquartered deep in the all but impregnable Fox Mountain, hundreds of feet below even the maximally secure Vasconian Combined air Command, a Commonwealth Defense Force command base charged with the defense of the continent of Vasconia.

Captain Anne Hill was the third ranking officer in the Commonwealth Special Command and, from ten at night to six in the morning on the night of 20-21 November 2006, she was in command of the base. Most nights were fairly routine. Hill was used to sitting at her desk looking over reports from around the Commonwealth and even the world and formulating appropriate plans of action. Around midnight, she was just looking over a report on increased potentially hostile activity in Earth orbit when the red alert started blaring.

The central feature of the Commonwealth Special Command Command and Control Room was a large screen which normally showed a map of the world. By the time Hill rushed through the door, however, the image had been changed to show a map of the Lanerian State of Kenai where the city of St. Alexandra was marked by series of concentric red circles which were moving outwards a short distance before disappearing, a standard symbol used on the screen to show a disaster area. “What happened?” Hill asked, her mouth tightening as she saw the screen.

“Kenai was hit by an unknown paranormal force. Our satellites have no clear visual on the source of the attack. The Governor has declared a state of emergency and both State law enforcement and conventional Lanerian military forces are on the scene. They estimate casualties at around twelve hundred. The city’s infrastructure is largely decimated.” reported a young lieutenant, intense training keeping his voice calm despite the circumstances.

“Get me in touch with the Order of Steel and the Order of the Falcon. They might be able to help. Get some of our people on the ground there as soon as possible. Contact the Menelmacari, the Sakkrans, all our allies with experience in this sort of thing. Notify them of the situation. Do not, however, formally request any external assistance at this time.” Hill ordered as she settled into the large chair in the center of the room. This wasn’t going to be such a dull night after all.

Commander Phouush Parthaa sat in the chair of his M.C.U. pod on the surafce of Sslaa I. Radioactive winds whipped at the pod, which was moored down with anchoring struts buried deep in the crust of the planet. His purpose was to oversee the HazEnv training of the newest batch of recruits for the rangers.

The brief from the Danaan Commonwealth came in through the PsiRelay network, displayed on the cyb-organic system. "I see. How old is this report?" He turned to his aide, a Grass Walker, much like himself.

"It is estimated to be approximately 1 cycle old." Her dual-sets of eyelids closed and opened slowly. "Should I send a response?"

Phouush fingered his chin with a very delicate looking claw, bird-like whistlings ascaping from his nostrils. "I do not like the nature of this attack, if that's what it is. If it is an accident, that is a different story. But somehow I do not think it is. Yes, send a response through the PsiRelay network, and have the final receptors make it a mundane communication. The message is as follows ...."

******************************************************

::Secure transmission::
::Sol Ranger Station::
::Comm. Phouush Parthaa::

Good cycle,

I have recieved your message concerning what has occured recently. As this did not come with an aide request, I will assume it is not needed at this time. Should this change, contact the Ranger Base in High Sol Orbit, and the appropo aide will be given. We will, of course, need to be apprised of any intel you may have on the nature of this occurence at that time.

Comm. Parthaa
::Close Transmit::

Athabaska Province, Nabarro Abarca

The last day had been nightmarish for the people of Kenai. The Kanei National Guard, the 108th Lanerian Airborne Division and even a ground deployment from the Commonwealth Special Command had all failed to stop or even concretely identify the threat. However, what was clear was that whatever it was was moving towards the Nabarran border. Kenai, a sparsely inhabited sub-artic peninsula, was a continental but non-contiguous Lanerian state separated from the rest of Laneria by hundreds of miles of Nabarran territory. Its only border was with the Nabarran province of Athabaska and that border was now swarming with Nabarran and Commonwealth troops, Imperial Mounted Police, the Order of Steel and the Order of the Falcon.

It was along this border that two Fae, a Troll and a Nocker, both in the full Sidhe plate worn by most members of the Order of Steel, stood atop a small hill and stared off into the distance. Their eyes seemed to glow with a strange light and they didn’t speak to any of the soldiers or police swarming around for several hours. It wasn’t until night was approaching that the Troll turned and walked towards the nearest IMP, equipped with a modern radio. “Mr. Burbins and I have finished our Kenning. We have definitely identified three Fae as being responsible for the damage to St. Alexandra and the casualties suffered by police and military forces since that time.”

“Only three?” the man asked.

“Only three.” The Troll confirmed. “The use of Draocht can, in a master, produce some very devastating effects. However, I think the Order should have no trouble stopping them once they reach this point.”

New Amsterdam, Laneria

Anthony Walker, the Lanerian Secretary of Defense, had just spent several hours briefing the Commonwealth General Assembly on the attack in Kenai. Of course, someone had had to fill in for the Hipolitan representative, Princess Damia, who was also a member of the Order of the Falcon and thus busy trying to handle the situation more directly. Walker envied her. He, on the other hand, would have to spend the crisis worrying in Worthington and New Amsterdam. And he was worried. The Commonwealth, as it emerged onto the international stage, had seemed almost to casually sweep aside previously serious conflicts in Finara and Marlund. This bizarre incident was the first real threat the Commonwealth had faced and Walker knew that the people of the various member states would judge the organizations effectiveness largely by how this situation was handled. He also knew that he wouldn’t have a large role to play in things. It was, after all, a Commonwealth affair.

Having little else to do with his time, Walker found his way to one of the diplomatic sitting rooms in the Unity Building, settled into one of the comfortable chairs and poured himself a glass of brandy. He wasn’t really content sitting and waiting and nursing his drink. However, there was little else for him to do, at least at this juncture.

Secure Transmission to Sol Ranger Station

Good cycle,

Thank you for your offer of assistance. The Commonwealth is pleased to be able to rely upon true and faithful friends such as the Sakkran people. However, we believe the present situation can best be handled internally. We have identified the source of the attack as a small group of Fae possessed of highly advanced Draocht. Their specific identities remain unknown, although it seems likely that they are somehow connected with the pre-Shattering terrorist known as Sebben ap Balor.

Sincerely,

Brig. Gen. George Mason
Commonwealth Special Command

Secure Transmission to Sol Ranger Station

Good cycle,

Thank you for your offer of assistance. The Commonwealth is pleased to be able to rely upon true and faithful friends such as the Sakkran people. However, we believe the present situation can best be handled internally. We have identified the source of the attack as a small group of Fae possessed of highly advanced Draocht. Their specific identities remain unknown, although it seems likely that they are somehow connected with the pre-Shattering terrorist known as Sebben ap Balor.

Sincerely,

Brig. Gen. George Mason
Commonwealth Special Command

The message is received at the Ranger Station, and an encrypted copy is rifled off to the Commander. The top officer at the station, Sub-Comm Ghokk, look over the message in his office. Mouth-plates gnash together absentmindedly as he reads in his oppresively (by human standards) humid chambers.

"Magic-using Fae and reference to old person on records as being naughty entity." His steel chair creaks a bit as he gets up and exits his office, adjusting his sash with the tiny manipulator fingers on his claws as he adresses his aide. "Get records of Sebben ap Balor. Need prepare in event we called on. Return comm confirming message received." The aide nods silently as Ghokk stalks off, filling the hall with his 6 foot wide frame.

************************************************

::Secure transmission::
::Sol Ranger Station::
::Sub-Comm. Ghokk::

We have received your message, and will stand-by until such time as we are called on. We'll keep eyes on your locale in this time from here.

Office of Sub-Comm. Ghokk

::Close transmit::

Athabaska Province, Nabarro Abarca

Colonel Nick Martin of the Commonwealth Special Command, Princess Damia of the Order of the Gryffon, Sir Bellomar ap Gwydion of the Order of Steel, Commander Dudley Harper of the Imperial Mounted Police and Lieutenant-General Roméo Asselin of the Imperial Army stood together, knee deep in the seemingly endless snowdrifts which covered the Athabaskan plains in November (and for most of the year).Despite being on the front lines, Harper and Asselin were increasingly feeling the same sort of impotence Secretary Walker was feeling hundreds of miles away in New Amsterdam. It was clear this would be a Commonwealth affair. It wasn’t a Commonwealth affair because the New Amsterdam Treaty stripped the Imperial Mounted Police or the Imperial Armed Forces of their authority along the border or because it stripped the Lanerian Department of Defense of any of its authority regarding the defense of Kenai. It hadn’t. It was a Commonwealth affair because it was becoming apparent that none of the “mainline” nations in the Commonwealth had the ability to handle this kind of threat on its own. Exactly what this meant for the Commonwealth and for the individual members who made it up wasn’t exactly clear but no one doubted this incident would have serious repercussions in the near future.

“This is just three of those damned things?” Martin asked, ignoring Sir Bellomar’s slightly arched eyebrow. “No wonder Danaan humans weren’t able to hold their own before the Shattering. It’s a miracle Lacau managed to govern.” Martin was dressed in a heavy winter version of the Commonwealth Special Command’s dark uniform. A small Lanerian flag sewn onto his sleeve showed which Commonwealth member he hailed from. He hadn’t shaved for three or four days and rough stubble marked his chin. He had a long scar just over his right eye from an old combat injury. He seemed to perpetually have a cigarette in his mouth.

“I would estimate that fewer than one in every million Fae possesses Draocht on this level.” Sir Bellomar commented. A blonde Sidhe, eternally youthful with timeless eyes, dressed in full Sidhe plate which shined like a radiant star and yet impeded his movements not at all, looking like the fairy tale knight that little girls dreamed of and little boys dreamed of being, Bellomar stood out among the much more down to Earth defense preparations of conventional military and law enforcement forces and even of the Order of the Gryffon.

Asselin, a middle-aged professional officer with features typical of Francohone Nabarrans, brought the binoculars he wore around his neck up to his eyes for what must have been the hundredth time. “I think I see them.”

Worthington, Laneria

Matthew Holt had been the subject of countless human interest stories in countless newspapers throughout Laneria and the Commonwealth. While he knew they were well-intentioned, he found most of them unbearably patronizing. They read as if it were amazing that a blind man could do anything sometimes. Holt, on the other hand, didn’t find anything special about himself. He was just a man who worked hard at what he did. What he did for a living was law and he had also managed to make something of a name for himself as an amateur gymnast, learning how to perform with his sense of touch and balance after he was blinded in an accident when he was nineteen.

“Mr. Holt?” Holt didn’t recognize the voice interrupting his daily walk home from work. It sounded like the voice of a Euro-Lanerian man in his early thirties and in good physical shape. He was jogging slightly to catch up with Holt.

“May I help you?” Holt asked simply.

“Yes, my name is Captain Stephen Martin. I’m with the Army.” The man began. “I guess you’ve heard about what’s happening up in Kenai.”

“Yeah.” Holt answered. “Something to do with a Danaan terrorist named Sebben ap Balor. The Commonwealth’s fighting him now. By the end of today, the whole crisis will be over. He isn’t anything the Commonwealth Special Command, the IMPs, the Order of the Falcon and the Order of Steel can’t handle together.”

“No, he isn’t.” Martin responded. “But he was more than Laneria could deal with. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I don’t see what I have to do with any of this.” Holt said with a slight frown. “I’m a lawyer, not a soldier or a politician.”

“We can’t talk about that out here.” Martin answered. “But you’re more than that. You’re a symbol of how the human spirit can overcome adversity. You’re…”

“Don’t talk to me or about me like that, please.” Holt said, a note of distress in his voice. “I’m a man. I’m not defined by my disability. I’m not a human interest story. I’m not a tragedy. I’m a man with a life. So lay off.”

“Sorry.” Martin said. “I’m not sure exactly the right way to say things in this … this type of situation. But at least talk to me somewhere more secure. Kenai.”

“Yeah.” Holt answered. “Something to do with a Danaan terrorist named Sebben ap Balor. The Commonwealth’s fighting him now. By the end of today, the whole crisis will be over. He isn’t anything the Commonwealth Special Command, the IMPs, the Order of the Falcon and the Order of Steel can’t handle together.”

“No, he isn’t.” Martin responded. “But he was more than Laneria could deal with. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I don’t see what I have to do with any of this.” Holt said with a slight frown. “I’m a lawyer, not a soldier or a politician.”

“We can’t talk about that out here.” Martin answered. “But you’re more than that. You’re a symbol of how the human spirit can overcome adversity. You’re…”

“Don’t talk to me or about me like that, please.” Holt said, a note of distress in his voice. “I’m a man. I’m not defined by my disability. I’m not a human interest story. I’m not a tragedy. I’m a man with a life. So get lost.”

“Sorry.” Martin said. “I’m not sure exactly the right way to say things in this … this type of situation. But at least talk to me somewhere more secure. Your country is asking for your help.”

“I’ll hear you out.” Holt conceded. “But no promises.”

Athabaska Province, Nabarro Abarca

A handful of dead and wounded men were scattered across the snow, being hurriedly tended to by the emergency medical teams. Cir Lor-Ban, herself a being of substantial power, lay in a semi-conscious daze, her blond hair matted with blood from a number of fairly deep wounds. Lieutenant-General Asselin was dead. Commander Dudley Harper was dead. Sir Bellomar ap Gwydion was dead. Princess Damia, barely kept alive by the Coari technology which had held up even against the Daleks, wasn’t conscious as her muscular form was loaded into a field ambulance. Fortunately, most of the rank and file had survived and, most importantly, the Commonwealth’s line had not been broken.

Colonel Nick Martin, not only alive but conscious and unhurt, was surveying the damage. He had made use of everything at the Special Command disposal but the main contribution of his forces to the fight had been some specially made cold iron harpoons mounted on helicopter gunships. Because of the primitive nature of cold iron and the unpredictable winds of Athabaska, cold iron harpoons which could be aimed effectively here were a much more complicated affair than most would think. It was something which had required Special Command’s equally special resources and personnel. Still, what he’d seen from the Order of Steel and the Order of the Falcon had overwhelmed him. They’d thrown everything into fight: The special abilities of some non-human races, metahuman special powers and abilities, advanced and alien technologies and a few things even Martin didn’t have a name for. “What kind of world is it where three people can do this shit?”

“At least there aren’t any more like…” a soldier started.

“Bull! There’s those damned balrogs in the Five Kingdoms, Melkor, his supposedly reformed lackey Alkanphel, our buddy Mephet’ran, Sirithil, possibly Bridgette Iesus although she plays mundane and we have no real evidence, Sauron, … Do you want me to go? Hell, even that freakishly powered Zutern farmgirl out there … if she ever went over to the other side, we don’t have a thing in Special Command that could stop her. Not a thing, although we’d sure f*ck*ng try.” Martin said irritably, his gaze resting on the medics who were just now getting to Cir Lor-Ban. “And where are the enemy?”

“Sir?” the soldier asked.

“I don’t see any enemy bodies. I got a definite ID on them in the fight. It’s Sebben, Aoife and Emeril. But I don’t see any bodies. We’re going to have to piece together everyone’s report to be sure what happened but I’m pretty sure we didn’t get them.” Martin said. “He always pulls shit like this. It’s his MO. Big horrifying attack, seeming defeat and then back again next week.”

The Ranger station kept an eye on the doings in the Danaan Commonwealth through hacking (very discreetly) the web-work of various communications and spy satellites of various nations throughout the area. They even dispatched a modified Brilliant Pebbles torpedoe to act as a planetary thaumaturgic sensor. The semi-sentient missile zeroed in on places in the highlighted areas of it's mission programming where magical activity spiked, and relayed the encrypted info back to the station.

The SattHandlers at the station tried putting all the information gathered into a coherent package, but more often than not were found scratching their heads. What information they could gather was shunted up to Sub-Commander Ghokk's office. After receiving it, and conferring with his subordinates, his lobster-like claws clacked together in irritation. "Don't like. Standard means of combat non-effective against these. Traditional magic methods had unknown effect. Assume those responsible are still at large?"

The lieutenant before him nodded his head slowly. "That's what we can assume. Danaan Commonwealth seems to be having a tough time of it. Quite a fight, and no enemy counts to mention of."

"Hrrmmm..." Ghokk seemed to lose himself in thought a moment while he looked at the info before him. "We will need to send an observer. See if their foe is threat to Herp Empire, yes? Maybe send Orderman in, skilled and knowing of this matter."

The lieutenant nodded after thinking a moment. "It's a sound idea. Might give them a different perspective on this. If it comes down to it, the Order always has their trump card, right?"

"Right. Lieutenant, need you go to Order. Get their help on this." He brought out an old-fashioned well of ink with a sheet of old-style paper, that being the shed skin of the one writing the letter. Ghokk dipped his manipulator finger into
ink well and began writing. "Sending letter of marque with you. Will clear you with Ordermen. They will know we mean business. Go to Temple Whispering Savannah. One we need is there now." After writing, he fixed his seal on the letter and handed it to the lieutenant, who stood up, saluted and left. Then he got his aide on the line. "Send message to Danaan Commonwealth Special Command Office, with the following...."

********************************************************
::Secure transmission::
::Sol Ranger Station::
::Sub-Comm. Ghokk::

Good cycle, Brigadier General Mason

We've been keeping an eye on what's been happening in your territory, and feel perhaps sending someone in an observational capacity might be of help. Should you agree to it, this person will not interfere with your operations or personnel, but will gather data and such to see if any assistance we could give would be worthwhile, and if so in what form. If asked, he could also be able to dispense advice if you request it.

::Close transmit::

-- Fëanor Palace --

Sirithil sat cross-legged on the garden balcony, listening to the waves far below and the shrill cries of the Birds of Ossë, several of which were perched nearby, looking at her in a wistful manner – she often fed them – although she couldn’t see them at the moment, as he eyes were closed, her face showed an expression of utter serenity.

She could see things far and near, many months into the future, and into the past. It wasn’t the most formidable farsight – temporally at least, the nation’s seers were generally better, and there were the Yvressi farseers, as well. To do what she was doing, she was almost ‘dead’ in fact, though it was a relative term for the Quendi; more, out of her body, to a degree, though not completely.

The Lady’s sight ranged far, touching places, and more importantly, people, that she had an interest in, and in the case of the latter, that had an interest in her. She didn’t necessarily ‘hear prayers’ directed at her – and certainly didn’t presume to think of herself, as many others did, as a God, a term for which there was only One worthy, though in some languages, the concept was confused – but nevertheless, she could, when she wished to, see such things, they served as a focus for far-sight, indeed Sirithil was often aware of such things, and when she desired, time and space could become irrelevant, for Perception, at least.

She was with one of her ‘followers’ on a battlefield somewhere, she supposed that the woman must be Allanean, as they were the only sizable groups of such believers currently fighting (well, they were continuously fighting something. She moved her sight forwards a touch, and saw her being shot, twitching and dying; a moment of study found the moment that could best be affected, and an impetus of thought – a moment of thought transmission, something easy to do with such ‘worshipers’ due to their belief in her authority, bur rather more difficult with anyone else – twisted that future aside, toward a new and preferable one. Almost no time elapsed as she did this, high Art made time pass as slowly as she wished, for her Fëa, at least, if not her body on this occasion. Of course, one couldn’t step outside of time entirely, or at least, elves couldn’t (Men, on the other hand: Did, but it was rather one-way) but making it flow differently was not only possible but eminently achievable with conventional technological means.

She moved her foresight to one side, another such person, with a rather lesser quandary, she nudged him towards the correct thought on the paper, and moved on, inwardly laughing as she ran across one of her ‘flock’ betting on a horse race, she skipped forward in time, and found that her intuition was correct; his wasn’t, she skipped forward, decided that it wasn’t worth bothering with, and moved on.

She didn’t truly perceive these things in the same way she experienced other things, but rather as a sort of detached meditative trance or reverie, she was aware of what she did, but didn’t have to experience it except in the loosest sense – or she’d never complete it. It was akin to the way her husband answered millions of letters daily; indeed, she did the same in this manner, using the arcane technologies of interface that MIDF vessels did to record such daydream-musings. Though it was somewhat harder to receive a reply from Sirithil than it was to receive one from her husband – she received more fan-mail that simply had an automatic, and courteous response.

She could remember what she’d done and learnt afterwards, and although it was tiring, it wasn’t the same as doing things in real-time.

A seagull twisted its neck, glancing up at the second elf stepping onto the balcony. Serendis stepped lightly over to the Elentári, sitting back on a padded bench, legs crossed up to one side, head lain on a padded armrest.

“Are you awake?” she asked, leaning over the back of the bench, arms lain across it. Sirithil didn’t reply, so Serendis leaned down and tickled the tip of her upward facing ear.

Sirithil moaned softly, and twisted her head to the other side, letting Serendis switch to the other ear. “Ahh, fine,” she said, at last, “I’m awake. What brings you here at this time in the morning, anyway?”

“We’ve received word of something interesting happening out in TRD.”

“Interesting how?”

“Interesting as in ‘Arrrgh, murderous rampaging nasties’. Our intelligence sources think it might be that Sebben fellow back again.”

“Ah,” Siri murmured. She paused, and thought a moment, before continuing in a remarkably casual tone. “Go send Glorfindel to kill him. Try to bring me his head,” she added thoughtfully, closing her carmine eyes again, and adjusting her hands on her lap once more, contemplating how best to giftwrap a severed head.


-- Orbit over Menelmacar --

Glorfindel watched the screen patiently as they passed the buoys marking the staging area where various ships from the fleets parked around Menelmacar assembled for missions. The majority of ships at rest were in geo-stationary orbit thirty six thousand kilometers high, or hovering a few dozen kilometers above the ground, or even landed at spaceports or in the seas of Menelmacar, or other associated states, such as the (former) FMSA. This earth-sphere predeployment area was about mid-way between, and as such, its orbit wasn’t stable at all. Of course, in an age of gravitic drives, this wasn’t a problem, and the buoys that marked it out stayed over Menelmacar quite easily.

The graceful shape of an Egalmoth class destroyer, the almost-invisible tengwar written upon its side reading ‘MIV Aredhel Ar-Feiniel’ flanked on either side by the compact, slightly dated, now, frigates Rómendacil II and what was widely accounted to be one of the most intimidating ship names in the Menelmacari fleet, Denethor II.

The Mornahossë drop-ship holding him and his bodyguards, a black sweeping vessel, with blue-white lightning bolts zigzagging across its ventral side and a stylised pattern of ‘stars’ of the constellation of Telumethtar – Menelmacar, in other words, or Orion, in English – as seen at a rather high precision, slid into the ventral bay of the Aredhel, and landed silently.

The door slid down, and Glorfindel stepped lightly down the ramp, nodding as the ship’s master bowed to him, and biting his lower lip as the captain, one Aegnorcil Nuorne, enthused at him. “I’m sure,” Glorfindel murmured, “yes,” he added, to another question, “delighted,” at an invitation, and “Certainly. Now, if you don’t mind, best get this up to the hangar deck. There’s more coming.”

“More, sir?” Aegnorcil asked.

“Quite so. Forty more Mornahossë should be coming over from the transport Elfy Virtues presently. The ship itself should be joining us shortly.”

“Err. Sir, we’ve not exactly been ordered to do anything but head on over yet…”

“Quite, but if we’re needed, I want to have backup, so, forty Narserkë won’t go amiss,” Narserkë was a term for a semi-official Mornahossë sub-group comprising those seconded to “army” units, and consequently, those of the Mornahossë with the least tact in their favored methodologies, and the largest tendencies towards destructiveness, compared with the Lomothar – the most prominent sub-group, or at least, the most obvious, who preformed special operations where subtlety and deniability were required. There were others, of course.

“And the troopship?”

“I like having a lot of backup on call. The kind of backup that comes with tanks.”

-- MIV Elfy Virtues --

Laureäure wasn’t part of that army, but rather, one of the hundreds strong crew of the Elfy Virtues, a battleship-sized troop carrier that replaced a large portion of its armament with armor-plated passenger quarters for ten thousand soldiers, and most of its hangar bays with equipment stowage – though it had additional hangars that allowed it to launch hundreds of dropships at once, of course.

Sitting behind a desk in one of the larger armories on the ship, the Master-at-arms blinked, and brushed some of her hair back from her face. “What’s this?” she asked, as a large crate was unceremoniously dumped on the floor beside her. The crewman who had done so shrugged, “Don’t know. New ammunition to be given out immediately.”

“New ammunition? For what? On whose orders?”

“Gravbolts, and Lord Glorfindel’s, I’m told,” he said, and shrugged, tossing her a data slate before turning and leaving as another two crates were stacked up by the door by some malicious looking co-conspirator.

“Is this some sort of prank?” she said, reading the slate. She checked for a moment, and found that it wasn’t.

“Great,” she said, and punched a manicured finger to a button on a communications panel, inwardly debating chewing the obstreperous bearer of bad news out for his insubordination (it was obvious without bothering to check that he wasn’t from her ship) and eventually deciding not to bother. She was about to be far too busy.

“Get me some help up here. We’ve got to give everyone gravbolters and new ammunition.”

---

To: Captain Anne Hill/Brigadier General George Mason, Commonwealth Special Command, C.D.F.
From: Orotur Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Master of the Mornahossë (Located MIV Aredhel Ar-Feiniel)
Re: Recent intrusion in Nabarro Abarca

Apologies for the delay in our response, it was rather early morning here and someone didn’t give your missive the priority it deserved. We thank you for the notification, and offer our services in combating this threat, as well as what counsel we are able to provide on this matter, which is regrettably little, as we have not previously encountered these particular enemies.

This ship and a small flotilla are currently headed towards international space in the general area of this attack, and we are able to respond with any degree of force you wish us to bring. In the meantime, we await further information or requests.

OOC: Co-written with C'tan.

OOC: Ahem. Will there be a reply? I'm eager to do the next Menelmacari post here...

To: Orotur Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Master of the Mornahossë
From: Brigadier General George Mason, Commonwealth Special Command

Thank you for your message of friendship. Although we are not requesting any military aid at this time, we do have one request which we believe Menelmacar might be in a position to grant. Because of recent unexpected injuries to certain members of the Order of the Falcon, we require a special set of Mithril surgical tools capable of cutting largely impermeable flesh. We would be willing to pay a reasonable price for such a set.

Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

Brigadier General Tasha Norland was about seven feet tall with blue skin. She was almost always rigorously formal and, if her facial expressions ever conveyed much emotion, only her husband and a handful of other people could read them. Even her speech, known among her troops for its lack of contractions, was unusually formal. It would have surprised most people who knew her to see her relaxing at home, looking content and rather domestic.. But that was exactly what she was doing now. The Trolless was curled up on the couch in t-shirt and panties, smiling lazily at her husband tucker as she flipped through the channels on their television It was nice to be home and relaxing.. Her life had been rather stressful over the last several months. She had been attacked by a mysterious Troll with greater power than a Troll should have and taken a severe pounding. After that, she’d joined with Marian ni Eiluned, a Danaan and Pantocratorian countess, to try and investigate the mysterious incident and the aftereffects of the Shattering. It had been a fruitful endeavor whose results had been reported to the Governments of three countries and to the Order of the Falcon but Tasha was just glad to be home now. She smiled over at her husband, a soft little smile which consisted of little more than a gentle upturn of the corner of her left lip. And then the television news caught her attention. Tasha’s contentment evaporated almost instantly. She shot straight up and studied the report with an intense scowl.

“…autopsies indicated deaths from fire, cold, exposure, blunt trauma, electricity, drowning, suffocation and a wide variety of diseases. Several victims were literally turned inside out while a number seem to have simply died without any discernable cause. Another woman’s blood was turned to boiling oil and a young child seems to have been stung to death by a swarm of hornets. All of this represents an unprecedented display of power, never before seen in an individual F…”

Tasha stood up and walked to the phone. “I might have to go out of the country again, Tucker. This is much worse than Marian and I thought it would be and we might be able to assist the Order of the Falcon. I still have a few weeks of leave time yet. Of course, I will have to contact the Order directly rather than through the Commonwealth Special Command. That is the way … after the research I did with Marian, I am coming to understand the odd logic behind how these things are handled.”

MIV Elfy Virtues

The recreation hall of the Elfy Virtues was a hundred meters wide, and over thirty in length, spread across three decks, with talan and mezzanines suspended from wide canopied trees, elms of various compact types from the orient and temperate zones alike, and from dangerous looking staircases with fragile-seeming slender banisters of silver. Aside from the trees themselves, most of what was in the hall could be removed should it be needed for some other purpose.

But for now, it was thronged with thousands of elves, stepping lightly across fluted stone balconies illuminated by lanterns that shed a pale blue light, hanging upon golden chains, before high windows of great thickness that looked out into space over a curving plaza of golden hull and scores of light guns that clustered upon the ventral surface, where the ‘engine’ was.

The ship was similar to the Valarauka battleship, but where that vessel mounted an impressive arsenal of super-heavy guns the size of frigates, this ship contained expansive landing and storage bays for entire arsenals of tanks, drop-ships and armoured vehicles of other types. Overall, it actually massed less, despite having a larger displacement from structures built onto the basic design.

Glorfindel, recently arrived, walked beneath the silver lanterns looking out over the stars – he knew they weren’t, in fact, but merely distant satellites; the stars couldn’t be seen from space on the day-side of the planet save by significant effort, but nonetheless, they were calming. Nearby several of the crew saluted him before returning to lounging, discussing something among themselves; elves were able to go without sleep as they chose, instead depending on something most simply described as ‘rest and deep thoughts’ to fulfil the same function; unusually, he’d ordered all those aboard this ship and the others to do so. It wasn’t something that was likely to have much effect, but given the link of the fae to dreams, some had speculated that it might be a beneficial procedure in reducing the overall effect of their powers. Glorfindel doubted it – but it was a worthwhile effort regardless, as it made deployment quicker.

He tugged a device from his pocket and read the message on it for a moment, before stepping to one of the controls discretely embedded in one of the fluted columns that held the canopy over his head up. “Hangar chief,” there were in fact, several, of various ranks, assigned to the extensive hangars of the virtues, but Glorfindel didn’t know them, and was in too much of a hurry to concern himself with specifics, a rudeness of urgency, “this is Glorfindel, I will require a shuttle ready on the main landing deck in five minutes,” he said, and stretched a little, before changing channel and issuing another instruction. That done, he walked along the bridge at a faster pace, silvered robes fluttering behind him as he did so, stepping into one of a multitude of lifts along its edge, beyond the great windows. The doors shut behind him, and he whispered a Sindarin instruction to take him to port hangar area twenty-four.

The lift dropped like a stone, and whistled along the near-solid metal support pylons holding the outer ‘flight pod’ to the vessel. A moment later, Glorfindel stepped out into the upper level compact area where two folded Mornahossë dropships sat like hunched, star-speckled crows, along a narrow railing, and into the back of the vessel, discarding his robes as he did so, standing instead in something that seemed composed of quicksilver. The ‘bodysuit’ was the current inner layer (excluding some fairly extensive implants, of course) of most MIDF body armour, and his own was similar to that of the Mornahossë in general, around an inch thick, covering everything below the neck. It was designed primarily to provide a comfortable layer, as well as NBC protection and a degree of strength enhancement. On the hands, this layer was reduced in thickness considerably, of course.

He attached the combat-heat sink and shucked a long hauberk of white scale-mail over this, and fastened it over his chest. These were a ceramic layer that was rather better than the other materials at redirecting heat, but they also served to balance the overall weight of the outfit, and provided a complimentary look. The next layer of Mornahossë armour was generally heavily enchanted, and consisted of flexible layers of galvorn, and integrated force field generators. Glorfindel however, preferred a more archaic design, of Mithril and starship material breastplate encased in its own fields, and flexible layers of more recent materials. Sitting on one of the benches and fastening the last of his greaves, he looked about for where his sword should have been, and remembered that it was with the Virtues’ armourer; that had been the reason he’d come over in the first place.

Shrugging, the elf pulled his long golden hair back, fastened it into a ‘magical’ hair-ring and picked up his plasma pistol, which came to life in his grip, and checking the ammunition and safety, harnessed it at his side, before twirling an emerald cloak with the same colour and glimmering-consistency as the ruff feathers of a pigeon or of light shining just right on oil or pearl. Clad more appropriately, he walked out of the dropship to see if his equipment had arrived.


Laureäure frowned a little as she took the grav-bolt apart, setting the end-piece down with her heavy, protective gloves, and reading the tiny, stamped inscription on its inside. “That’s odd,” she murmured. It bore the stamp of khazad-dûm, rarely seen on the weapons of the elves – for the most part, ammunition such as this was far too cheap for the naugrim to bother with, and their marks were mostly seen on the axes favoured by the Sindar in the MIDF, for elves had never yet quite equalled their skill in the making of such weapons. Instead, most of what was found in Menelmacar bearing such marks was jewellery of the highest quality. Clearly these new projectiles were wrought at considerable expense. Taking tweezers, she teased out the inside of the casing, like a miniature shell. Normally, grav-bolts were merely shells for a self-destructive motor unit and simple sensors and guidance systems, but in this case, there were other things.

She teased out these new additions, and frowned. The casing was a millimetre and a half thinner than it should have been, and instead, within, was a cylinder of plain metal, braced by rings and supports that seemed to be inserted with strange art, later in its forging. The inside was ridged in such a way that when subjected to the explosive force of the motor detonating, it would shatter into hundreds of razor-edged fragments. It would be fiendish, if the casing didn’t already generate shrapnel like that on the ‘frag’ setting.

“And why get the dwarves to make it?” she muttered.


Glorfindel stooped, stepping into the shuttle, as the door closed behind him, and it shot along between the two bows of the ship, in a gap that ran for half of the Virtues’ length, lined with magnetic and gravitic accelerators, intended to be easily converted into a mass-driver of staggering power, should the need arise. Protrusions on either side encased a glowing yellow area even Glorfindel didn’t know the function of, lined with point defence guns. Spars of solid metal above and below reinforced the structure and were designed to be tempting targets, even though they were entirely redundant, despite the fragile look.

The earth rose up beneath, and Glorfindel opened the plain, dark lebethron-wood box he’d sent for from his home. Inside were several layers of surgical tools, dwarven-steel and Mithril edged pieces, with cutting surfaces of a crystalline material.

He took a long scalpel, and held it up, within its blade, held by steel that passed through its structure, and between slender wires of Mithril that were graven into it, the light of Eärendil shone from within, dimly, at the moment. The crystal was a substance akin to silima, of incredible value and rarity, by far, harder than diamond, which it resembled, and essentially imperishable. Sheared with great effort down to a perfect edge, and then patterned to something fewer still understood, a ‘fractal edge,’ the entire device had other ways of inducing cutting worked into its handle, from power fields to stasis fields, to the phase-shifting of the C’tan (a recent addition) and enchantments of the Eldar that made force applied magnified by the power that was in the blade. It was one of the most magnificent tools in Menelmacar, for Glorfindel had long had an interest in herb-lore and medicine, and even surgery, and had received them as a gift some centuries ago, and kept them maintained at the cutting edge.

The Norland Home, Citadel Excalbia

Tucker Norland sat at a small table building a small wooden replica of a sailing ship. It was almost a laughably stereotypical hobby for a navy man, but he had found in recent years that the fine detailed work served both to relieve the stress of his duties and keep his fine motor skills well-honed. He looked up and smiled at his wife, Tasha, as she flipped through the channels on the satellite TV.

Suddenly, his hands froze as his ears focused on the news report Tasha was listening to. Tasha stood and walked towards the phone. “I might have to go out of the country again, Tucker. This is much worse than Marian and I thought it would be and we might be able to assist the Order of the Falcon. I still have a few weeks of leave time yet. Of course, I will have to contact the Order directly rather than through the Commonwealth Special Command. That is the way … after the research I did with Marian, I am coming to understand the odd logic behind how these things are handled.”

Tucker carefully placed his tools on the table. He stood and caught up with Tasha before she could dial. “Tasha, I know you have to do this, but I can’t bear the thought of you going off by yourself again. I want to go with you.” Tucker looked down at his aging frame, dwarfed beside his seven-foot tall wife. “I was never a James Bond-kind of guy, but I’m certainly proficient in side arms and am a pretty good brawler. And I can make a pretty good sneak when I have to…”

Ministry of Defence, Citadel Excalbia

The simple fact of the room’s existence was code-word protected compartmentalized information. Buried deep beneath the Ministry in the bedrock of Citadel Island, it was part of the Ministry’s strategic command centre, yet separate.

The people gathered inside – Imperial Intelligence Director Rev. Jacob Donnelly, Military Intelligence Chief RADM Anda Sidrane, Chief of Staff Lord Admiral Derek Kunle and AzIntel’s Chief Technologist Dr. Felix Chandra – were among the small number of people, no more than a dozen, holding the Empire’s highest security clearance – Ultra Majestic.

“So, now the machine is calling meetings on its own authority?” RADM Sidrane looked about, her mouth set in a disapproving frown, with a just a twinge of anxiety in her eyes.

“When he,” Dr. Chandra emphasized the masculine personal pronoun, “says it’s important, I’ve learned to listen, Admiral.”

Sidane’s planned retort was cut short as a build-up of static electricity seemed to raise the hair on the back of everyone’s neck. Suddenly, a young boy, looking to be about nine or ten, stood in the midst of the locked room.

“Hello, everyone,” the DAIN Seven said with a cheery smile. The holographic boy sat on a chair. “Thanks for coming. I’ve been monitoring international communications and analyzing news reports – that is my day job, after all,” he grinned mischievously, “and I’ve seen something of concern. Something of an alarming supernatural nature seems to be going on Laneria…”

“None of our business,” Sidane interjected. She spread her arms. “The Danaans haven’t asked for our help, nor will they; they know as well as we do that we are not equipped for this kind of thing and they have other allies who are…”

DAIN Seven smiled serenely and waited for Sidane to stop. “You think I don’t know that?” There was a distinctly sarcastic tone to the boy-computer’s voice. “What is your business,” he emphasized the possessive, “is that Brigadier-General Tasha Norland is going to be joining the Danaan effort to deal with this crisis.”

“How do you know that?” Lord Admiral Kunle leaned over the table towards the holographic boy.

The boy shrugged. “Bits and pieces of things I hear in international phone calls and knowing her. My predecessor, DAIN Six, counted her as a friend and he downloaded to me his knowledge of her and his feelings of warmth and friendship…”

“General Norland has been carefully scrutinized by military intelligence,” Sidane interrupted, “as would be any foreign-born officer. She is completely loyal. I don’t see what this is about…”

“It isn’t a question of loyalty,” Lord Admiral Kunle said, “even acting on her own, even on leave, she is an Excalbian officer; her actions could involve us, whether we want to be involved or not and whether we are prepared to be involved…”

“My Lord, Admiral Sidane,” Rev. Donnelly spoke up, “apart from arresting her, how can we stop her? Perhaps it might be better to…”

Suddenly, the smiling boy seated at the table changed into an old schoolmarm, complete with a high collared black dress and gray hair done up in a tight bun. DAIN Seven cracked a holographic ruler on the table and the recorded sound of wood cracking filled the room. All eyes turned to the holograph, who morphed back into the image of a mischievous little boy.

“Now that I have your attention,” the boy said, “let me finish. I do not see any chance that Tasha will behave in a disloyal fashion or do anything to draw Excalbian into a conflict it isn’t prepared to deal with… However, she could find herself in trouble and she is an Excalbian officer, as is her husband. And both are on leave. And I just thought you should know…”

Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

Tasha smiled faintly as she wrapped an arm around her husband and leaned down to give him a light kiss. In the abstract, she was aware what an odd couple they must seem to other people. While she was actually the older of the two, she looked substantially younger. To the extent her appearance could be compared to that of a human, she looked to be thirty at the oldest. That, plus the difference in size and species, stood out to most people. Tasha, however, had honestly stopped noticing at some point. The relationship was too familiar now to spend much time on how others must see it. Still, this sort of situation drove home how different their backgrounds were.

“I know I cannot say anything to prevent you from coming, Tucker, but it does worry me to see you expose yourself to this danger. Look at the report. Proficiency with firearms is a small protection against the kind of power Sebben now seems to be wielding. He put Princess Damia in a hospital and she has been in hand to hand combat with Daleks and lived.” Tasha frowned a little, just hugging gently on to her husband thoughtfully. “I love you.”

The Norland Home, Citadel Excalbia

Tucker lingered in Tasha arms as he returned the kiss. They might appear an odd couple to some, but Tucker felt as if they had been made to be together.

As Tasha drew away slightly, he could see a mix of emotions playing across her face – worry, determination and perhaps protectiveness. Other men might have felt threatened by a wife who was clearly the physically stronger partner, but Tucker was old enough to be comfortable with who he was – for better or worse. And from the moment he had met her, Tasha’s strength was part of what attracted him to her.

Tucker listened silently as Tasha laid out the dangers he would face if he went with her and with it her concern over his safety. He returned his wife’s hug and held her. “I love you, too,” he said softly.

When they finally separated, he sighed. He knew he was unlikely to be of any help to her, but he could not bear the thought of waiting around to see whether or not she would come home at all; after all, she was placing herself in danger by going on this mission.

“I know I don’t bring much to table in terms of combat skills, Tasha, at least not compared with the forces Sebben can muster.” He shook his head. “And I know you have to do this; it’s who you are.” He looked up at her and half-smiled. “I just don’t want to sit around here feeling like I’m doing nothing. Perhaps I can come along for now; maybe there will be something I can do.” He looked down. “But the moment you think I’m putting you or anyone else at risk by making you worry about protecting me, I want you to tell me.” He looked up, his face hard. “And I mean that. I don’t want to endanger you because you feel you have to protect me. When you see that point coming, tell me and I’ll get myself to safety as best I can. OK?”

Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

Tasha nodded just once. “If you insist.” She then broke the embrace and picked up the phone, dialing quickly. “Yes, hello, this is Brigadier General Tasha Norland. I was wondering if you could put me in touch with someone from the Order of the Falcon…Thank you…”

Tasha spoke for a few minutes, telling whoever was on the other end what her intentions were. When she finally hung up, she turned back to her husband. “We have a flight to New Amsterdam tonight.” She gave a small, joking smile. “Now, I suppose I must do something you will rather object to before we go…”

The Norland Home, Citadel Excalbia

Tucker listened to his wife’s phone conversation at a discreet distance, trying desperately to look as if he were not worried. As he listened, he began a mental list of everything he would need to pack – a first aid kit, his semi-automatic pistol, a few good knives…

When Tasha turned to him, he blinked and nodded. “Yes, New Amsterdam. I’ll get packing them.” He started off and suddenly. He turned back to Tasha. “What? Object to what?” He stood, relived to see Tasha smile, but at the same time anxious as to what she might to do that he would object to.

Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

Tasha smirked slightly. “Well, Tucker, I am going to have to get dressed.”

Cantar, Nabarro Abarca

In the town of Cantar, in the province of Athabaska, in the region of Donnacona, in the Commonwealth member state of Nabarro Abarca, in the Commonwealth of Peoples, they were expecting Glorfindel and the needed medical supplies.

Dr. Kieran Canavan, the director of the Royal Hospital in Cantar, stood on the tarmac with the mayor, the commander of the local garrison, the police chief and other dignitaries. It had been decided that a man of Glorfindel’s status in the Eternal Noldorin Empire needed some sort of formal welcoming party and this was the best one could get in the way of dignitaries and formality in the frozen and sparsely inhabited northern parts of Donnacona.

Dr. Canavan, an aging, plump man with glasses who tended to keep quiet most of the time, it was more than enough. He had patients who were seriously wounded back at the hospital. He was here to get the tools he needed to treat them. While he was grateful to the Menelmacari for supplying the tools, he was content to leave all the diplomacy to the mayor and other local officials. They certainly seemed to be enjoying. It wasn’t as if they often got to receive foreign (or even Commonwealtyh) dignitaries.

“What’s taking so long?” Glorfindel asked, leaning into the forward compartment of the shuttle, “I could get out and jump and be there faster.” That was entirely accurate, and he might have considered actually doing so, except that doing so would have made the box he was meant to be delivering immolate itself, rendering the entire exercise futile.

The pilot frowned, “Sorry sir, there’s some confusion over ATC, it seems. We should be down in a minute or two now.”

The Tercáno class shuttle was actually a rather compact design that lacked the wings common to most Menelmacari flying craft. Instead, it was mostly cylindrical, tapering slightly at one end, with a door at the rear. Both armed and – like this – unarmed variants existed, and they were intended to be capable of fitting snugly into most other craft, and as such, they were designed for both rugged workhorse durability, and a compact shape. The recommended maximum passenger load was ten, and unlike some of the other small craft that Menelmacar employed, it was very difficult to actually fit more in – as it wasn’t intended to deliver troops into combat, it wasn’t designed to be easy to get in and out of the ship under fire, so much as it was for riding around in it for some time to be comfortable.

This white craft dropped down in the vicinity of the hospital without fuss: Or rather, the shuttle did so without fuss, despite being a non-combat craft, it was still rugged enough to put down pretty much anywhere, in this case, a few adjacent spaces of the hospital car-park.

The side door popped open, and Glorfindel bowed as he stepped out of the craft to avoid the top of the door, golden hair being immediately caught in the breeze. He winced inwardly but said nothing as he spotted the mayor and other local officials, putting the box under his arm and striding over towards them, looking for and momentarily finding the person waiting for them. There were a few instructions to give on their use, which he had already thought of, some of the equipment was more complex, but for the most part, he didn’t expect the doctors to be using that equipment – though some of it might make things much easier.

Cantar, Nabarro Abarca

The mayor, a portly man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in a rather heavy coat for protection against the borderline Artic weather rather than the suit a man in his situation might have worn in warmer climbs, stepped towards Glorfindel with a polite smile. “Welcome to Cantar, Your Lordship. I only wish your visit could have come under more fortunate circumstances. I’m Jeffrey Macdonald, the Mayor of Canta. This is Chief of Police James Mackenzie, Judge Guy MacDonald and Dr. Kieran Canavan. Dr. Canavan is the administrator of the Royal Hospital where Her Highness and Miss Lor-Ban are being treated.”

As he introduced them, Macdonald gestured to each member of his party. They all looked like hardy, somewhat gruff types, the sort of men you would expect in a small town straddling the Artic Circle. Dr. Canavan stepped forward as soon as the introductions were over. He really found this whole ceremony tedious and rather irresponsible when lives were in immediate need of the medical tools Glorfindel carried. “Your Lordship, if you’d like, I could take you to the hospital now. I presume you’ll want to speak with the ladies after the surgery is complete?”

The elf nodded now and then, but didn’t in all honesty, say much. It wasn’t that he was taciturn or quiet normally, nor that he was particularly adverse to these things, but rather that he was actually uninterested in the formality on this occasion. It was something of a relief when the director got around to asking him to visit the hospital. He hadn’t been anticipating going there, but rather simply dropping the box off and leaving – or possibly being apprehended by the local dignitaries for some interminable formality.

“I suppose so, it may prove to be helpful,” he said, holding out the box in a silver-gloved hand, “and I may be able to be useful in some capacity. I am fairly knowledgeable in matters relating to more esoteric injuries.”

Cantar, Nabarro Abarca

Mercifully, none of the dignitaries, such as they were, attempted to accompany Dr. Canavan and Lord Glorfindel to the hospital. The hospital was, well, a hospital. It wasn’t deficient in any way. It was sizable, clean and seemed to be staffed by competent people. Neither was it massively impressive. The halls weren’t filled with medical geniuses, nothing was gleaming, nothing was especially huge. It was a hospital in a small town which effectively met the needs of its community and it was nothing more and nothing less than that.

Dr. Canavan led the elf through the corridors to the room where the two women were lying. Damia seemed to be recovering rather nicely. Her left leg and her right arm were in slings, her face was bandaged and what could be seen of her left arm showed bruising but that was the extent of her visible, bodily injuries. Cir, on the other hand, looked horrible. What could be seen of her body was a mass of bruises. Her pretty face was twisted in an expression of pain. Dr. Canavan didn’t waste any time. As soon as the special instruments arrived, without much chit chat, Cir was rushed off to surgery, leaving Glorfindel temporarily alone with Damia.

The Hipolitan princess, unable to sit up, smiled faintly at the elven lord. “I really appreciate you visiting us like this, Lord Glorfindel. I know this must be a hectic time. Sebben is certainly a dangerous man but…from what they show on the news here, half the world is falling into chaos right now.”

Cantar, Nabarro Abarca

Two young women, one blonde and slender, one dark-haired and athletic, stood beneath the hospital wall. They were dressed inappropriately for the cold air. Neither wore a jacket. Both wore sleeveless shirts. The brunette was even wearing a skirt which ended just above her knees. Yet, for all that, neither showed the least sign of being chilly. Both merely looked concerned. After glancing briefly around to make sure no one was looking, they began to float off of the ground. The girls floated upwards until they were level with Damia’s window. They paused in the air when they were just outside, trying to peer under the blinds. “I can’t see anything, Ainia.” The blonde said quietly.

“Shhh…” the other girl said. “I think I can see them. Cir’s gone. Damia’s talking to someone… I… I think it’s an elf. It might be… Is it really Glorfindel?”

“I think so.” Her companion answered, still speaking in a hushed tone. “He sure is hot. Lucky Damia. I guess she’d rather be meeting him in different circumstances though.”

“Focus, Cleite.” Ainia said. “He’s not here about that sort of thing. He’s here to help us fight Sebben. I bet he could slay him too. They say he can fight Balrogs. Sebben can’t be stronger than a Balrog, can he?”

“God help us if he is.” Cleite said. “I doubt it though. He got killed by Prince Brendan last time he was in the Waking World and Brendan doesn’t have any sort of special powers.”

“He seems more powerful now though.” Ainia said. “We’ll have to see what happens. Now quiet down before they see us.”

“Disorder is always rampant I’m afraid,” the elf-lord said, “I’m not aware of the world being any more chaotic now than it usually is. Sebben appears to be the biggest challenge to Menelmacari interests around at the present. Besides that, it’s probably where I’m most beneficially employed.”

He leaned back against the wall and reached down to delicately adjust her pillows a touch; unable to resist the temptation of meddling, and as he did so, his silver-white gloved hand brushed against her shoulder, but rather than be uncomfortable, his touch seemed to bring a strange and easing warmth and sensation with it, similar to the release of an over-firm grip. Nonetheless, it was only the briefest of touches, and many would perhaps miss it.

He took a seat beside her, “So, what’s troubling about the outside world?” he asked, diplomatic enough to avoid immediately pumping Damia for information about Sebben.

Damia smiled slightly at the all too brief touch. "Well, there is war between Prussia and the Reich, war in North America, still troops out in Sslaa although it's been quiet recently. It seems like a great deal at once."

Glorfindel smiled a little, “You know, I’d pretty much put the Antarans out of my mind. And yes, I suppose it’s worrying what the Californians are up to, we were planning to try and open a dialogue with them this month, it shall irritate us if first they’ve gotten themselves into a war,” he said, with a jovial tone that belied his words, “Fortunately, I imagine they’re going to have more sense than to start shooting. Wishful thoughts, perhaps, alas,” he said, “but I do not believe so,” he added, “I can see,” and he meant it, he was widely known to be gifted with a measure of foresight, “that the Reich war will be over soon enough, with less damage than there could be. And it though the Allaneans and their friends will fail spectacularly, greater good may yet come of the matter.”

Glorfindel leaned back in his chair, and momentarily seemed as though he’d dropped some concealing cloak, his presence seeming more immediate and strong, a force of personality that gave him wisdom. His voice, as well, became more musical, its tone, already much as one expect, had a special resonance and even more commanding quality, not hollow and echoing, but strong and carrying. His face seemed free of all fear and the shadows of care that had come over it moments before, and without the eponymous shadow of doubt.

A shaft of sunlight stabbed down through the windows to where Glorfindel sat, scintillating through his hair as if reflected, and moisture on the windows disappeared on the inside of the pane, and traces of frost vanished from the outside. Beyond, clouds billowed from the sky, disappearing as they suddenly warmed into a more diffuse mist moment by moment, to show a warming springtime sun, and the shoots of new leaves burst onto naked trees plants and flowers around the hospital at a rate that was best described as impossible. Withered plants – though not dead ones – grew hale again moment by moment, and some hardier breeds burst into fragrant bloom. Trodden grasses grew straight and tall and proud once more, and what songbirds braved such climbs called out joyously.

“Would you care to have me try to do something to speed your recovery? I’m hardly the best, but I do enjoy the opportunity to practice,” he said. This was true, though it suggested he was more amateur than he was, there were many healers in both Menelmacar in general, and the military in particular – even the Mornahossë – who were more skilled, and he had considered bringing them, but perceived that it would be unnecessary; probably, though he had them ready regardless, should they be asked. He’d offered before, and presumed that the hospital director was aware of the offer, though it now occurred to him to check, and he tapped a jewel built into his armour, speaking rapidly in a language that sounded greatly like welsh, though with a different vocabulary.


OOC: *Abuses fluid-time to actually write foresight! Huzzah!*

"I'll stop worrying about the Antarans when the Hipolitans in the Commonwealth Space Force come back to Sol." Damia protested, although she seemed to relax. Her smile at the offer of healing from Glorfindel was almost girlish, a sort of infatuation from that one brief touch. "I think, sir, that I would very much like you to speed my recovery."

Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

Tasha smirked slightly. “Well, Tucker, I am going to have to get dressed.”

Tucker Norland gave his wife a lopsided grin. Even in such circumstances as these her sense of humour shined through.

He looked at her half-dressed and momentarily gave up on his mental packing list. "How long do we have before we have to leave?" He asked as he took a quick stride to Tasha's side.

"We have a few hours, I suppose." Tasha said with a growing smile as she felt Tucker eyes moving over her figure. "Whyever do you ask?"

Glorfindel smiled, and leaned over to her, either he didn’t notice the manner of her smile, or he was used to it, or both. He rested on one arm, and reached over, holding her hand once again, peeling the silvered glove from his hand. The effects of his touch were as before, no greater, no less, at least until he began to speak softly, under his breath, a few words here and there such as ‘Narthurin’ and ‘Nesta’ were more prominent than others as he did so, and though the sensation didn’t change, the bruising on her arm was affected slightly, retreating in on itself to become normal skin, though the process appeared slow, it was of course, rather faster than natural healing.

Meanwhile, the pilot of the landing craft almost-jogged, not quite, but almost, across the car park of the hospital, to check with the hospital authorities that no further help was necessary.

"We have a few hours, I suppose." Tasha said with a growing smile as she felt Tucker eyes moving over her figure. "Whyever do you ask?"

Tucker slipped his hand into Tasha's and gently led her up the stairs. He smiled at her. "I think you know," he said.

* * *

Later, as he stood beside the bed throwing a few things into a bag, he began to think about Tasha's comment about proficiency in small arms not being of much use in their quest. He glanced over at his mobile phone, then turned to Tasha.

"I think I can find some more useful tools for us," he said as he picked up the phone and dialed the armory. If a handheld microwave could bring down Maans, then some of the Holy Empire's more advanced weaponry might be of some use.

And so everyone was now ready. Princess Damia and Cir Lor-Ban had been healed. Admiral and Brigadier Tucker had arrived from Excalbia with advanced toys and Troll powers respectively. Glorfindel had come from Menelmacar with Elven arts and with advanced Menelmacari tech. Between the five of them, it didn't seem like Sebben would stand a chance once they caught him. Of course, the question remained as to where exactly Sebben was. He seemed to have attacked and then vanished just as quickly into hiding.

The rented conference room in which Her Highness, Lor-Ban, the Tuckers and Glorfindel now sat around a wooden conference table was the nicest in Cantar, which didn't really mean all that much. It was, however, as good a place as any to discuss the next move. Damia spoke first. "The authorities haven't been able to find any clear link between St. Alexandra and Sebben prior to this attack. I don't think that the attack on St. Alexandra was his primary goal. I've taken the liberty of asking the relevent agencies for information regarding any other unusual events." Damie gestured to the large stack of papers in front of her. "I guess we should discuss these one by one?"

Interestingly, (if one was interested in writing implements at least, otherwise, deathly boringly, but that’s not as aesthetically pleasing) Menelmacar didn’t really make ballpoint pens. Not because of some shiny, funky, super technology.

They simply didn’t look that good when writing tengwar…

So instead, Glorfindel took his copies of the papers, and began notarising it with a peacock patterned fountain pen with a nib a little wider than normal, worn to a slight angle. “Okay, first we have…” he asked, leadingly, leaning back in the swivel chair and trying to adjust it a little, sliding down without much dignity, and extending his feet under the table. His sword now hung sheathed from his belt, and, were it drawn, would now gleam just that little less readily.

"First we have a little boy in New Amsterdam." Damia said grimly. "He was seven years old. He died under mysterious circumstances while a 'faith healer' was attempting to banish his 'demons'. Local authorities believe but have not year proven that the death results from denial of medication by his parents for his epilsepsy, which they also believe to explain the perception of the faith healer that he was possessed by demons in the first place."

Lor-Ban frowned a well. "Only seven...He truly is a monster."

"If it was Sebben." Tasha pointed out. "It is quite possible that events did in fact occur as local authorities assume. We have a great many strange cases and only a few of them will be the doing of Sebben."

"It sounds like him." Damia said. "The religious element, the infernal flare, the reliance upon well-meaning but gullible human agents to do the actual killing for him."

Alas, Glorfindel wasn’t omniscient, and while he did have access to strange means of gathering knowledge, it was far too troublesome and time consuming to be used here. He wasn’t quite ready to ascribe such a tragedy to paranormal forces either, human incompetence could explain a great deal.

It wasn’t complicated by the fact that he believed in demons himself – for good reason – and while possession wasn’t exactly as common or likely as many religions imagined, that too was a reality in his experience.

Of course, the number one rule which would be, were he to write a book on the topic underlined many times was that one should always exhaust more conventional alternatives first. He wrote again by the ‘case notes’

It was a note to himself, if and when he found the time, to investigate and probably ruin the career of a likely charlatan. “Okay, what else?” he asked, flicking on.

"We have a robbery at an archeaological dig in Shieldcrest." Damia continued. "The contents of the dig were believed to relate to ancient fairy matters of possible interest to Sebben and to possibly have mystical properties."