NationStates Jolt Archive

'We fought far under the living earth, where time is not counted. Ever he clutched me, and ever I hewed him, till at last he fled into dark tunnels. They were not made by Durin's folk, Gimli son of Glóin. Far, far below the deepest delving of the Dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things. Even Sauron knows them not. They are older than he. Now I have walked there, but I will bring no report to darken the light of day. In that despair my enemy was my only hope, and I pursued him, clutching at his heel. Thus he brought me back at last to the secret ways of Khazad-dûm: too well he knew them all. Ever up now we went, until we came to the Endless Stair.'
- Gandalf the White, 4,754


---

Khazad-dûm, 31,875


Bár wandered out of the seventy-ninth hall, he was an old dwarf, or at least, a relatively old dwarf, tough it didn’t show as much as it might have in a man. Most of the ancient dwarf mansion was rebuilt, but these lower dungeons weren’t used, save for storage. Although the dwarves had great income from the value of Moria-silver, they reproduced only slowly, and though the upper halls, old and new, were full again, some, deep down, such as these, were unoccupied by the dwarves because their kind only reproduced slowly, and never intended these halls for permanent inhabitation in any case. Bár was the warden of many of these lower halls, a task that essentially consisted of occasionally inspecting them for damage and intrusion. He carried a heavy axe, on which he leaned as he walked the great stairways away from the modern lifts of the mansion.

Nevertheless, Bár’s job wasn’t easy of late. There was not much to do, but here and there, there had been tremors and damage that could not be accounted for by natural processes. Some suspected that vandals or saboteurs were about, though none had seen them, and where there had been collapses, none had gone of late. It was curious, perplexing, and even worrying, to Bár. His own halls hadn’t been affected, yet, and he had installed small cameras in all of them, to espy any strange doings that might happen.

It was as he was thinking of this, walking through a narrow, turning corridor, that he heard a thunderclap echo down the hall.

---

Fili, another dwarf, younger, and with a great ginger beard, hummed to himself softly, running his wide fingers through that beard, “No one in here?”

“No,” replied Bár, “not this time. But there is something unusual,” Bár said, clambering up onto a spur of rubble for a moment, looking at the remains of the seventy-ninth hall that had been cleared so far.

The hall had been a moderately sized one supported by a central row of five pillars. At the level above it, stood another hall of much the same size, though crossing perpendicular to the one below. The roof had fallen in, leaving it open to the hall above, and it was possible, by peering down the gaping hole left in the upper hall’s floor, to see how the damage had been done.

Bár, like all dwarves, knew much of stone, and thumbing his beard thoughtfully, he looked at the remnants of the five pillars in amazement. They had been raised so that any could fail and the hall would not founder; even two or three – provided the three weren’t adjacent – could collapse without bringing down any part of the roof.

Here, though, each pillar had been cut through as though sword’s blow had cleaved them diagonally, all five, it seemed, at once, had been subjected to a single sheering force on one plane, slightly twisted to one side.

---

Alduentulessë School, Taur Lalvenath, Western Menelmacar

“There have been three forms of ‘gravitics’ used industrially in Menelmacar; the first and least flexible is what a lot of groups call ‘repulsorlifts’ – they generate a force and project it simply in one direction, sometimes imposing limits on the materials that can be used to build them, The obvious advantage of this approach is its simplicity, it’s easy to understand the physics involved at a general level, and once you have the trick of it down, it’s easy to make them really robust. There are some enthusiasts that swear by them, and even make starships with them.”

“And orbital diving,” said one precocious elflet.

“Yes Mornayávë, It’s usually used for that. Anyway, repulsor-equipped craft maneuver in atmosphere either by using older jet engines and similar things attached to it,”

“Sails!”

“Yes, Mornayávë,” the teacher said; the class was only four strong, and there was a degree of pampering in the raising of Menelmacari children that would utterly horrify many foreigners. Menelmacari being elves, children were not particularly common, and were cherished accordingly. Likewise, class sizes could be very small and education resource-intensive. “Though, most air-ships use other types of gravitics too. Anyway, a variation of the principle results a sub-type that nullifies the effect of gravitons on an object. This is what the Yvressi and their cousins generally use, hence the twin-engine system many of their vehicles use.

“A more recent applied principle is the effective generation and direction of gravitons, which suffers from the problems of gravity in itself being an extremely weak force. Needless to say, this is power intensive, and harder to work with, and consequently, considerably rarer.

“Modern gravitic devices, introduced with the great explorer-vessel Randir, tend to work by inducing the base shape of space, and thus creating the effects of gravity, without actually involving the force itself directly. Exerting forces without intervening effects…”

---

Khazad-dûm

It was clear, now, that recent incidents had been generated artificially, and the mansions of the dwarves were in something of an uproar. Although the standing force in Khazad-dûm was thousands strong, the armaments and war materiel in the mountains was far greater, and most of the dwarves went about armed and armored in reaction to rumors of threat.

It wasn’t long before analysis of the planar cuts in different halls revealed something interesting. Each individual attack so far had conformed to the same pattern, slices through rock on a single plane While they were not all on the same plane, they were all from a common source; it was found that they intersected at some point deep below, About five kilometers below the mountains, in fact.

The first effort at reconnaissance wasn’t successful; indeed, the dwarves had already taken the time to investigate the depths of the mountain, based on a single report from the best part of thirty thousand years ago. But in the depths of the earth, each of the automated probes that had been dropped from the bridge of Khazad-dûm had met with inexplicable fates. There was malice beneath the dwarves, that much was certain, and measures had already been taken to keep the lowest dungeons secured watchfully.

But they had seemed entirely futile, and some had explained away the menace.

It seemed they were foolish in doing so.

---

More attempts were made; with sensors of every type, magical scrying with everything from palantíri to the most modern and powerful devices and methods, to technological and gravitic methods, drones of every size from sensor-dust through to objects the size of large grav-cars.

They worked, to a degree. They confirmed the rough extent of the change in rock density, and that there were anomalous areas of energy density deep under the earth, beneath Khazad-dûm, but beyond that; nothing. Sensor-dust burnt inexplicably, drones crashed as their guidance systems were inexplicably rewritten, or control telemetry blocked, scrying showed only darkness or twisted back to show the viewer, starship sensors landed against the mountain-side failed to penetrate, for no apparent reason.

More counters and sensor systems were devised, and hundreds of Menelmacari experts in sorcery, art and technology called in to analyze the problems that had been encountered. Supposedly they were making progress, but it was far too slow for many, and eventually the leadership in Khazad-dûm, chief among them Lord Khalinikhas Zorkher, and a younger dwarf popularly known by the ancestral name of Durin, decided to take a more risky option.

The depths of Durin’s Stair were opened, and drones sent down it suffered the same fate. In time, an expedition of dwarves, heavily protected against the adverse conditions, was sent.

They reported much of the base of the stair; a broken door beneath those newly erected, and deep dungeons, scattered with Menelmacari-designed drone weapons, that still worked, untouched, and deeper tunnels, that lacked the sure stability of the crafting of the dwarves.

Then, there had been a loss of communication, save one, that only told of enemies and death.

Another team, more heavily armed, was sent, and found nothing, retreating after a time. A more diverse group was sent next to gather information on the nature of the threat below, including both dwarves and elves from the forces rapidly assembled nearby in preparation.

These forces were great indeed, not least including one of two ‘Joint Strike Platforms’ with over a hundred thousand elves on board. But what could be done was not yet certain.

The third expedition did not report back at all.

A new approach, it seemed, was needed.

---

Rumors circulated, as they occasionally did, from Menelmacar. Everywhere from Mars’ dust swept plains to the more anarchic and deprived holes on Earth, to further out in space. Anyone with a few key characteristics could find lucrative (an understatement, given some of the figures bandied about) employment with the Menelmacari government, for a time, provided they were lethal as sharks, able to take orders to a degree (which meant; not surly ingrates that thought too much of themselves), able to work in detached operations requiring stealth, and with skills or experience relevant to work in deep-underground environments, or involved in fighting strange life forms, or relevant ‘magical’ skills. It was simple; be there in two to four days (accounts varied).
More formal requests dated 15th Quellë 31,875 of a similar though less mercenary nature could also be found decorating the desks of many of those who were thought by the architect of the next operation, somewhere in Menelmacar’s lonely coasts, to be suitable sponsors of operatives, allies and just reliable people alike.

It remained to be seen if this ‘fishing’ arrangement would provide a more successful group than the previous ones. But there was something of an insurance policy in the works too.

---

OOCness: Co written with C’tan and J.R.R. Tolkien (couldn't resist saying that).

Basically this is one of those dang character things, where one’s expected to send one or two characters into some laughably dangerous situation, where they promptly have adventures in the style of most films. I’m after about eight people here.

The horrid gnawing things of the abyss are mostly C’tan’s domain, the setup is mostly mine, but depending on who has the time to spare, we’ll aim to be generally prompt in replying to it.

Anyone going, either sent by governments and such or just turning up on mercenary greed, would be met in Menelmacar, so to count yourself in, you really only need to post a bit of character background, or for that matter, some OOC details of whom and what you’ll be playing. There'll be some opportunities for introducing character details and such before the characters leave for the mountain, anyway. So... Who's up for something horribly dangerous?

This was a unique opportunity as far as Galdern was concerned, the Mines of Khazad-dun and the mysteries below them where well worth investigation. It practically called to him, the chance to walk amongst such mysteries, and to perhaps find whatever was blocking the magical examination of the Menelmacari. That was his lives work, his reason for existing, to understand how the various Xeno’s approached the mystical arts, and through it find new approaches to the immaterial, he could no more ignore this than he could choose not to breathe.

His only problem, in truth was in convincing Iyanna to allow him to go, this was a critical time in Yvresse history, they could ill afford to lose a Farseer at such a juncture, but in the end, she had to grant her permission, it was either that or watch Galdern go anyway, it was the man’s nature after all. Still she insisted that he would take an escort, Hopefully if he makes it too big they will refuse him

As he sat in consideration of his options within his small ‘Palace’ on earth he went through the list, a few Ranger’s where currently staying on the Island, enjoying being close to their kin, if only for a while. Looking over the names of those present he smiled, she’d do nicely. One of Iyanna’s favourites he recalled, she’d gone on some hunt with the High Farseer a while back, and certainly Iyanna could not complain if he included her in his escort. Another look through his options left him with far too many choices.

Here at his Island he had open to him the smaller Assassin class Wraithguard, a smaller older model of the ancient machine, it had languished in storage upon Yvresse but the preparations for large scale military movements had led to them being dug up. Galdern had requested a few for testing of a few theories he was working on, it left him a few examples of the chassis. Then again a Scorpion would be useful in the mines of Khazad-Dum, someone to handle things that surprised them…

Then of course it might be useful to have someone who was more adaptable, a Dire Avenger, the Aspect was noted for its flexible stance, and for its more ‘noble’ baring. It was the classic warrior, the knight errant, the champion of the people, opposite the Scorpions stalking silent fury. After a few minutes, his divinations proving fruitless, he wasn’t having anymore luck than the Menelmacari it seemed on that front, he was left to ponder.

A chuckle came a minute or so later, the Scorpion it would be; still the tools of the Avenger would not be left behind. ‘His deliberations complete a message was sent out to the Ranger Bel-Shanaar that she was wanted in the Farseer’s chambers.

***Later***

She hadn’t cleaned up much despite her stay at the military base, she still looked more like a person used to living rough, sleeping in the wilds. Her rifle was a lot cleaner, it was apparent she had taken the opportunity to have it cleaned, and their was a slight twinkle in her eye, for the last few days she’d been enjoying a minor dalliance with one of the other ‘guests’ on the Island. Nothing that would be the stuff of legends but she went to bed satisfied, but well she was growing bored. Summons’s by a Farseer where always promising, they generally had a task for the Ranger’s. A chance at adventure, or just a new place to see, she didn’t really care either way, as long as it was something new.

‘Ah Bel-Shanaar, I have a task for you, I require your skills.’ His tone for a moment was to the point and then a mischievous look entered his eyes, of all the Farseer Galdern was the most volatile, he could go from almost genial to vicious, and cruel, with no warning. He was both the most tolerant of the other species and the most disdainful of them, he studied them daily and was fascinated by them, yet often his investigations became painful experiments. ‘The Menelmacari seem to be having a spot of bother out in a little place called Khazad-Dum, I want you to accompany me there and find out exactly what is going on. I hear it could be a little… violent.’

The look that crossed Bel-Shannar’s face was one of pure joy at the concept, this did sound promising. She didn’t need to give her agreement with the order the look on her face told Galdern all he needed to know. ‘Excellent, oh before you go, I have requested a few extra pieces of equipment for your use on this journey, feel free to keep them when we are done, I’ve taken the liberty of having it delivered to your quarters. We leave in an hour; I assume you’ll be ready by then?’

It was almost an insult, Bel-Shanaar never bothered to unpack, she lived from her kit, so with a nod she stood and left the rooms, as the door closed behind her the grin grew and a chuckle escaped her lips. This was why she’d spent so long at the Island, at last the Farseer’s had found her a little excitement, already her dalliance was forgotten, this was going to be a lot more fun.

The last person on Galdern’ list was the Exarch, a Scorpion, the hunter, the stalker a predator, they where the stalking terror of the Yvresse Aspects. A pitiless killer, it was a very different presence therefore that entered his chamber’s as Bel-Shanaar left. Where Bel-Shanaar had been almost a warm presence, at least for now, Addolcarrec was cold, and where she had chuckled he stood and listened. No smile escaped his features; they barely changed, except in acknowledgment of the hunt, of the job, and of the promise of the upcoming battle.

***Departure***

The Eldar’s outpost on Earth was remarkably close to Menelmacar, indeed it had been acquired from the Menelmacari government some time ago, and so the actual trip was rather short. Galdern’s personal craft launched with it’s three passengers, a small flight of craft escorted it to edge of Menelmacar airspace before turning round and flying back home, after that the rest of the trip was fairly routine, after landing at the, always, impressive Vinyatírion, (And after Galdern Ensured the appropriate authorities knew of his entourage, that of a Exarch on guard duty) his small entourage made their way to the requested government building to register. Well that is Galdern made his way to register; his associates had other priorities, even here in the heart of an allied state Addolcarrec kept his guard up any approaching the Farseer was viewed as a potential hostile and looked over. In turn Addolcarrec was, discreetly, monitored by a member of Mornahossë security.

Bel-Shanaar on the other hand just kept looking around, stopping at a few shops to admire the windows contents, before hastening after the Farseer. After a while she couldn’t help herself.
‘So the Menelmacari did say this was a paid job right? I’ve heard good things about their CelebHwesta, thought I’d give them a go sometime. Although by all accounts they let the car do the driving.’ as she spoke her voice trailed off, she didn’t understand that part of it, why would they switch to auto-pilot? Where was the challenge in that… This went on for the entire trip throughout the city, both her companions seemingly ignoring her.

Galdern on the other hand was taking advantage of the situation, yes relations with the Menelmacari where strong and they had observed the Noldor many times in many situations but Vinyatírion was different, it was a melting pot of races, of various peoples. Sure the Keigh of Noldor and its related species where the majority but here and there others could be spotted. For someone of Galdern’s interests this was an opportunity not to be missed and he intended to observe every moment of it, for later analysis.

Eventually through the group made it through the city, despite the draw of Vinyatírion Galdern felt a stronger call, to Khazad-Dum, and he would not be distracted by the sights for too long, nor would he allow Bel-shanaar to be.



OOC details

Farseer Galdern of the Farseer Council of Tor-Yvresse.
Quick bio:- perhaps the longest serving member of the Council, certainly the longest who has had no unexplained absences. Responsible for the Xeno’s Studies conducted by the Yvresse, initially it centered on the Religious side of the Humans since it seemed to drive several different hatreds of the Noldor, the Yvresse’s allies and so understanding this aspect of humanity seemed vital for continued actions within Sol.

Since then the religious department has been downsized in importance but the studies of the Magical/Supernatural communities of Earth has grown in importance, this is Galdern’s main love and he will do anything, risk anything to gain a better understanding of the various forms of magic to be found within Sol.

Skill Set: - He’s a Farseer. The use of the Warp as a source of magic is an addiction to him.

Ranger Bel-Shanaar.
Quick-Bio. Unwilling to take a path after completing her last one, she left Yvresse as a Ranger and an Outcast, forbidden from walking its halls again until she selects a new path; she spends her time wandering from place to place. She is an adventurer, a sniper and a scout. Most importantly through she is looking for sensation, experience and fun. As all outcasts she often has no separation between whim and action, and can seen random, her emotions are not fully under control or rational and she can swing without warning from content/optimistic to despair and back again.

Skill Set:- Stealth, equipped with a Camo-Cloak she is a skilled scout, tracker and sniper. She has also been given special equipment by Galdern for this trip.

Scorpion Exarch Addolcarrec

Quick-Bio

The thirteenth person to wear this suit, and to adopt the personality of Addolcarrec he has seen and taken part in, hundreds of years of war. He wakes thinking of battle and sleeps planning his next one. All he wishes is to make himself the perfect expression of his Aspect, of the scorpion. Outside of this he speaks little and shows no interest.

Skill Set… Stalking his prey and killing it.

(Part the First, The Brief)

This Brief has been prepared for your consumption by Senior Aislynn Brecht of the Bonding Authority. The contents are presumed confidential between the Bonding Authority and the Client. The individuals herewithin have been notified of the request and should arrive as specified within twenty-four hours of receipt of this Brief. Transport is via the Bonding Authority Fast Transporter Filthy Lucre.

Name: Shayrathar "Shay" Aaron Callahan
Age: {Suppressed}
Occupation: Security Consultant
Race: Halfling Ascended
Notes: Capt, Ebon Seraphim, {suppressed} to {suppressed}. Left service to pursue career in sculpture. After finding that a block of stone remains a block of stone, no matter how you whack it with a hammer, was recruited into the Directorate. After {suppressed} years with that organization, again returned to civilian status, wherein he has spent the last year or so designing security systems for various corporations. Shay Callahan wears a Swordsworn Pin. Shay Callahan is a Devilrunner. Effective rank at last retirement: Light Colonel.
Expected Kit: Prototype SORA II Partial Powered Armor, AMT AR-36 Weapons System, RevTek APSP, RevTek Dart Shooter, various knives, GT-pattern Warblade.
--
Name: Kathleen Bernice Orani
Age: ~230
Occupation: Bodyguard
Race: Veliki
Notes: Master Sgt, Ebon Seraphim. Attached to Shay for various reasons. Little information is available, as the Bonding Authority lacks access to the records of the Veliki Survivalist Council, and Master Sgt. Orani's military and directorate records are classified.
Expected Kit: Veliki Class A Assault Armor, AMT M3 'Harbinger' Heavy Weapons System, RevTek APCP, big knife, Veliki Warblade.
--
Name: Joachim Davis Barth, "Joe"
Age: ~45
Occupation: Drifter
Race: Humanoform Sentient
Notes: Joachim Barth is a mystery. His origins are unknown, but his skill with firearms is acute. He's big, mean, and has blue skin.
Expected Kit: "Shades, stompin' boots, handcannon, Minigun, other minigun, rocket launcher, spare rocket launcher, rifle, really big knife, case of cigars."

Of the three individuals detailed, Shay Callahan is a Class A Operative (Class A - Godlike: This individual is a living weapon of mass destruction. You dare defy the God of War?) Kathleen Orani and Joe Barth are both Class B Operatives. (Class B - Elite: This individual is exceptionally skilled at kicking your ass.)

This concludes the Brief.

(Part the Second, The Long)

Shay Callahan rose stiffly from the jump-seat he'd spent the last twelve hours in. It was an unusually uncomfortable jump-seat, which were very uncomfortable in general. The end result was something utterly horrific. Nice thing about the Revenian Embassy, though, was that A. it existed (there were only three on Earth, one each in Royesse, Griffin, and Vinyatirion) and B. it had its own landing pad. Which meant that the annoyingness was skipped.

Still, Shay limped out of the shuttle, down the ramp, and out in front of the embassy itself before he bothered to stretch, not unlike a cat, his exquisite musculature made painfully obvious by the tight-fitting T-shirt he wore. In fact, he was somewhat under-dressed, lacking the usual jacket that most Revenians wore...unknown reason. Unarmed, too, apparently, which was odd. Presumably the missing kit was in the large duffelbag he carried so easily.

Kathleen followed her friend out onto the street, stretching similarly, and, if anything, more impressively. She was, after all, a Veliki, and thus well over seven feet in height, with black skin and golden eyes.

Finally, Joe Barth made his entrance. Barth was notable immediately for the tone of his skin -- light blue. Otherwise he appeared to be, well...Duke Nukem. In point of fact, he had Duke Nukem's head tattooed on his bicep. One generally did not ask. Such a thing was wise. Very wise.

Kathleen looked down at Shay, who had just finished working the kinks out of his back in a suitably impressive manner.

"So. Where do we go to do what?"

Shay shrugged. "I dunno. We're supposed to get contacted here, I think, whether by the Authority or the Employers I dunno."

Kathleen nodded, "Fair 'nuff. You feel like stretching again? I was enjoying the view."

Shay snorted, "You would."

"Damned right."

He falls brilliant as a star into Terra's azure skies. The blue world's gravity clutches at him, and the repulsor-unit on his back flares brighter as it brakes his fall. Somewhere above, the dropship is already departing. Somewhere below, his employers are waiting - but what care has a true Knight for wealth? Not on Earth or Mars can glory be bought, or honour restored with gold. Valour is a coin that does not tarnish, the one true worth in this world or the next.

Karchist Gen Murhani has served the Broken Table for ten years of Mars, bringing swift death to the foes of the Kaia-i-Kaasei, the Heart of the World. In far lands where a multitude of suns shine upon barren wastes, or blighted reaches where darkness shrouds fervid jungle, he has stood against the enemies of honour and righteousness. His place at the apex of the Knight-Errant's art has long been assured.

In the palaces beneath the Mountain there are women of such beauty the outlanders cannot imagine who would gladly throw themselves at his feet - but their pleasure cannot suffice for glory, and a true Knight grows tired of their charms.

Thus Karchist Gen Murhani falls upon Menelmacar; dark things gather beneath the fastnesses of the Earth, and the call has gone out for those with the will to cleanse them. He steps lightly from air to ground, the brilliance of the repulsor-unit fading as his armour takes up the weight. Earth is a world nigh thrice as weighty as Mars, but what of that? A Knight's armour can withstand greater things.

"What ho, o scions of the Eastern Shores!" - so they name the Eldar, in the Heart of the World - "Karchist Gen Murhani is come with fire and blade, to drive the fell beasts from fabled Khazad-Dum. Let us go forth!"

OOC:
Kaia-i-Kaasei: Literally "Heart of the World", this title applies both to Olympus Mons and it's High King.

Karchist Gen Murhani is a Knight-Errant of the Order of the Broken Table - think of him as an Arthurian knight in power armour and you won't be far wrong. He's armed with a great big gun, an even bigger sword, and multiple smaller examples of both. His skills include killing things and breaking people, but do not include philosophy or the science of deduction.

Alliances being what they are, and ties being what they are, and the general nature of the Federated Segments' governmnent being what it is, it should probably come as no surprise that the archetypical do-gooders have to send somebody. The Scolopendran Intelligence Section being what it is, and its very close relationship with MISSION being what it is, perhaps the FSS has a slightly clearer picture of what's going on than mere rumor. They know it's big. It's really big. It's bigger than the Mobile Infantry, it doesn't fit SMISO's mission, it's vaguely like what the Office of Psionic Operations would do, and it's right up HELLSING's alley. Of course, HELLSING is off fighting the War on Fracticality on enemy ground at the moment and doesn't really do well in the 'working with others' department.

Well, cooperation is the key to airpower and what organization in the Federal government values international cooperation more than the International Relations Section? Essentially, scene: Advisor Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq's open-space cubicle, her sitting behind a desk with a not-so-puzzled look on her olive face while she looks over the monocle-visored and charcoal-uniformed Agent Simmias of OPO standing in front of her desk, the afro'd sports-coat wearing Intelligence Advisor Janus Garbo leaning against the frame of the next cubicle over, and the grim-looking square jawed office pariah that is Foot-to-Ass Advisor Lance Hawke.

"There's only one reason you three would congregate around my desk," she says, twitching one corner of her lips up in her usual citizen-regal fashion. "You need him, don't you."

"Yup." Garbo shrugs nonchalantly, just like he always does. "Looks like our dwarven friends of elf friends and undead robot elf friends need someone with his, ah, special attributes."

"And he answers to me too," Agent Simmias notes quietly, respectfully, and most of all, as if he's not there. Once surprisingly young and boyish, he's allowed his job to grey himself a bit. Now he looks a touch older than even Jack Kerrigan, the new guy, despite being younger. Garbo has it on good information that Simmias dyes his hair.

"Oh, I know. He's honestly more useful to you all. Speaking of 'honestly,'" she chuckles quietly, "it's not like he's a secret agent anymore. He has his own comic books. His latest action film premiered at number three. He quite literally works for me on a consultant basis now, not like he needs the money. I'm quite certain he does it just so he can continue to annoy me, the flirtatious old lech. He certainly doesn't need the money."

"'Old?'" This from Hawke. "He's only, what, forty-something?"

"Not enough days in the year, persref. I say that man is living Mercurian years, and I mean that in terms of relation to relativity, time periods, and traits similar to a mythical Grecian deity."

"Eh, things work just fine as they are," the not-as-old-as-he-seems OPO chief says with a shrug, "and he probably banks on it. It's a wonderful open secret joke. Can we have him?"

"I'm basically saying: do you need to ask?" Nadjiba shakes her head and waves the three men away. "Now begone. I have paperwork to do."

* - * - *

Hesche Homestead is a nice little rural place on the Ring, not particularly far removed from the urbanized area of Erelflo, where three smaller cities grew together into one large bit of what could be called suburbia if there was a proper metropolis to play the part of urbia. The tallest building is eight stories tall, and there's only one of them; still, it's the hip urban center for the relatively backwater sticks that surrounds it with surprising suddenness. That Hesche has a quarter-square kilometer ranch here is actually well within the means of a middling civil servant, and his two-story three-bed three-bath hacienda is by no means palatial. The stables, on the other hand, require a bit more wealth to maintain, but not outside the realm of reason for the O-9 civil servant Hesche technically is.

Essentially, from the simple wooden fence through the overgrown grass in the field to the well-cared for Art Deco-ish geometric blue house and stables, there's nothing to suggest that Magnus Hesche sits on scads and scads of wealth and continues to make more, no matter how charitably he gives. The royalties alone from Magnus Hesche Versus The Reichmuffin and "Q" Is For Magnus Hesche alone could fund a small country. Erelflo passed a local law actually limiting the amount Hesche could spend in the town so as to prevent inflation. This legislation eventually ended up being seconded not only by the Ring Segment's legislature but the Legislative Unit of the Federal government as well, albeit in proportionally greater denominations. Magnus Hesche's obligatory education, defense, and infrastructure taxes make up a single line item in the executive summary of the Segments' revenue report. Not because it's really that large, but because a Magnus Hesche: Envoy to New Worlds comic book fan in the People's Monetary Office decided to put it in there, added to the legend, and it stuck. Fans (usually foreign ones) regularly camp outside the fence (sometimes inside, when Hesche is throwing a party) to get his autograph as he commutes to work or go grocery shopping or whatever. This is not exactly a good idea, as Hesche Homestead is surrounded by proper Ring wilderness.

Which is why Magnus Hesche, Envoy to New Worlds, is shooting a compound bow from sleipnirback into a pack of wild velociraptyrs that decided to try and make a free lunch out of the inattentive foreigners. Wind blowing through his rugged blonde hair, the fringe of his leather riding chaps, and his red flannel shirt; the eight hardy hooves of his steed kicking up the dirt; he draws a yellow-tufted steel-barbed arrow up to his eye and lets go. Fifty meters away the lead velociraptyr, green-scaled and breath steaming, tumbles backwards as its legs fly out from under it, its long sinuous neck pierced right through.

The crowd stops running for a moment, then cheers in a dozen different tongues.

"Keep running, you idiots!" Magnus roars as he notches another arrow, guiding his monstrous Octoclydesdale mount with his feet to come alongside the dinosaurs, pulling back his string and letting fly with the thwip of cut air hissing back into place. Another dinosaur falls, pierced through both eyes, in one and out the other, causing it to faceplant into the macadam road and skid to a flailing halt in the gravel. The two remaning raptyrs turn to try and close with their assailant, but another arrow through the throat of the leader causes the last to decide discretion is the better cause and turn on its clawed toes, bolting into the deep underbrush across the street.

Slowing his steed to a trot, Hesche comes alongside the flailing hissing green blur of claws and teeth and scales. Drawing his tri-barreled turbopistol from its holster at his hip, he wastes no time in taking aim and putting the gengineered thunder lizard out of its misery.

"Bloody pests," he mutters.

It's a small wonder then that he doesn't notice his phone ringing back at his house.

* - * - *

With two raptyrs slung across the back of the sleipnir and Magnus carrying the last over his broad shoulders, he returns in triumph to the stables. Well, actually, he returns quietly, but the foreigners just followed along and are acting like they (well, Magnus) just took Jerusalem and knocked over the Berlin Wall simultaneously and Hesche just doesn't have the heart to shoo them away.

This is when a blonde-haired blue-eyed girl, obviously in her mid-teens, hops out of the front door of the house and skips over to the person she's obviously related to. Not to say that she has a diamond-crushing chin or anything like that, but there's an obvious resemblence in that Aryan superhuman recruitment poster sort of way. Rather than sharing her dad's Red Ryder fashion sense, she's in the current fashion of the day, which happens to be a sky blue Cretan Revival bodice with glitter along the side laces and black hip-hugger jeans that flare mid-calf. No stockings, and geta wooden sandals. "Hiya, Dad." She frowns momentarily at the dead reptilians. "What's the story?"

That girl is far too pleased with herself. Not put off quite enough by dead lizards. "They fired first, Bahiyya. You know, the usual." He cants his head over towards the foreigners. "Probably going to be velociraptyr for dinner once you get home from school, assuming there's any left once these folks are done with it."

"Blech." The girl sticks out her tongue. "You know how I feel about that, Dad."

"And you know how I feel about it. Not these poor saps fault that the foreigners don't have the smarts to build bonfires," he says quietly in Arabic. "Just imagine it's chicken." Looking down, he points at the bodice. "You going to be okay in that? Cold front's coming in."

"Dad, I think I can handle a few degrees difference between morning and afternoon. I got a slick just in case it rains. I'm not stupid, you know." She grins broadly.

Her father grins broadly right back. "Oh, I know, Rhi. Get on to school before you're late." He turns to leave, daughter already taking the opportunity to run for it, before turning back and calling after her "And don't scare that bully again, at least not so they start calling me looking for 'demons' and such!"

"HE HAS IT COMING, DAD--JUSTICE WILL BE DONE!" She calls back over her shoulder, and she's gone.

Yup. Far too pleased with herself.

* - * - *

Hours later, Hesche sits down to a steaming peppered velociraptyr whitesteak with his daughter just when the phone rings. Sighing, he excuses himself, steps over to the phone, and picks up the receiver in one broad hand. Yes, it's a standalone phone with a receiver. The rich can afford such oddities, especially when they're trivially inexpensive. "Hesche Homestead, Magnus speaking."

-Agent, it's Simmias. Where the hell have you been?-

Hesche glances at his daughter, gives her the 'it's business' look, raises one blonde eyebrow at the huge grin she gives in reply before diving into her steak, and frowns. "I've been here all day. What, you need me?"

-I called this morning. Yes, we need you. I called your portable every hour on the hour afterward. Did you turn it off?-

"No, actually, I've been looking for it..." Glancing back at the table, he watches as the apple of his eye pulls out a bricklike object from her backpack: part phone, part PDA, part music player, part omnitool holder, part AR rig, and all Scolopendran standard issue communicator. "Aaand I've just found it. Seems the family is getting kind of unruly."

Rhiannon giggles.

-Fine. Whatever. Magnus, we need you to go to Menelmacar. Something's brewing.-

Hesche grins. "Squid-flavored?"

-Maybe. We don't know. We can't crack it, and the pointies can't crack it either. When millenia of experience fail...-

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll take the first shuttle out... or, let me guess, there's been a Loki on hot alert all this time?"

-With a jump pod.-

Magnus whistles. Puts two and two together. Frowns. "I'll be at the airbase shortly. Out." Hanging up, he puts his arms akimbo, glaring not exactly maliciously at her daughter. "Okay, out with it."

"I took the call, Dad, and I'm coming with you." She says it with a firm little nod.

"Oh, you are, are you?" Doesn't miss a beat. "We've been through this before--"

"And it's still not fair that you won't let me serve my birthright. This is what I was hatched to do." Her voice remains firm, not whining in the least, but not happy either.

"Look. You're eight. It's not sidekicking, it's child endangerment."

"The number of years don't matter, Dad, you know that. It's hardly a one-to-one ratio we're talking about, here. You've still not let me go out with--"

"On that. You'll miss school."

"No, I won't. I arranged the bookwork with all my teachers today, for two weeks' absence. Got all the homework and did it after school."

"Okay... which explains why you actually had homework. You usually do it in class." Magnus frowns. "Band practice."

"Two weeks leave. Family emergency."

"Le Parkour team."

"Same."

"Volunteering at the orphanage."

"Same."

"You didn't even go to the orphanage today!"

"I called from the school office," Rhiannon says with a nod of her head.

"Rhiannon Xiphilina Hesche, you didn't--"

"Of course not, Dad. You're on call, you haven't arranged any friends to look after me--as if I couldn't look after myself, hmpf--and apparently there's a hot jumpLoki waiting for you."

"Damn your ears," Magnus says without heat. "Football team."

"Same."

"Pack your bags. You're out of here in ten or not at all."

"Already done." Hesche's adopted daughter grins far more sharply than any human has a right to.

"Well, you've your orders, Miss Hesche, get on the bounce!"

And Rhiannon skips away to grab her things while Magnus smiles, shakes his head, shrugs and goes for his ready-duffel. I teach her too well.

* - *- *

Secure Quantum Communications
POINTER (SIS -> MISSION) Encoding

Routing Code 00.00.00.01 (TOP PRIORITY, TOP URGENCY)
DisClass: ULTRAVIOLET (Director, MISSION)

//This message is to be read solely by Director, MISSION and divulged solely by operational need as authorized by and until duly declassified by Advisor, SIS. Divulgement without authorization will be considered a breach of the MISSION/SIS Intelligence Unity agreement and prosecuted as described in MSIU Article Nine.//

Yeah, yeah, the usual. This is who we're sending. The one on the top is sort of a last-minute addition, but she's clear and knows her stuff, so Agent Simmias says.

--Advisor Garbo

P.S.: this is pretty much a direct scribe of the paperwork they filled out, and we left the commentary in.

//NEW DOCUMENT//
OFFICE OF PSIONIC OPERATIONS PERSONNEL
http://dagobah.tchmachines.com/~tpjzdd/albums/randomocity/rhiannon_hesche_biopic.jpg
NAME: Rhiannon X. Hesche
RANK: W-1, Office of Psionic Operations
AGE: This line left intentionally blank.
EYES: Blue
HAIR: Blond
SEX: Female. Please excuse my father, he inevitably put something witty here.

SKILLSET: Animal Riding, Shooting (pistols), Archery, most Scholastic things. Seriously, what do you expect me to put down here?

SPECIAL SKILLS: Pyrokinesis, flight, a little bit of telepathy, a lot of passive resistance to a lot of things. I'm honestly coming to terms with all of it, really.

STANDARD EQUIPMENT: Standard issue powergun pistol. Well, so they say.

//NEW DOCUMENT//
OFFICE OF PSIONIC OPERATIONS PERSONNEL
http://dagobah.tchmachines.com/~tpjzdd/albums/randomocity/magnus_hesche_biopic.jpg
NAME: "The" Magnus Hesche
RANK: O-9, International Relations Section
AGE: 47
EYES: Blue
HAIR: Blond
SEX: Not on the first date without extenuating circumstances... er... Male.

SKILLSET: Shooting, Archery, Martial Arts (name one), Flirting, Fisticuffs, Snatching Victory From the Jaws of Defeat, Acting, Diplomacy (same thing), Spying (same thing), Animal Riding, the Ability to Use My Brillianty White Teeth as a Signal Mirror, the Power to Move You.

SPECIAL SKILLS: Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, cryokinesis, telepathy, mind-reading, tarot reading, guessing the number you're thinking of right now (86), making you think the number I guess before I even know you're going to read the report, teleportation, breathing water, breathing vacuum, healing, shielding, nullifying, conjuring... some more... wow, I know a lot of stuff. Whatever gives the most plusses, eh?

STANDARD EQUIPMENT: A debonair attitude, a sense of adventure, a set of rugged clothes with lots of pockets, and my trusty three-barreled turbopistol powergun what I bought last week because it was COOL. Normally a rocketship, but they wouldn't let me bring it.

//END DOCUMENTS//

Yeah, they're on the jumpLoki inbound as this message is coming in. Sorry for the delayed response, seems there was a bit of communication trouble on our end.

So, anyway. How's the horse? Doing better? I never get why you pointies always have to be running those poor beasts so hard, no matter how much they like it or how good your vets are. One of these days you'll break your neck, you know; I don't think you're all immune to that.

No, that's not some sort of weird spook threat. It's honest friendly concern. You know me better than that.

Oh, and Queen takes Rook. It's your mate in four turns but I'll make you bleed for it.

--Advisor Garbo

//This message is to be read solely by Director, MISSION and divulged solely by operational need as authorized by and until duly declassified by Advisor, SIS. Divulgement without authorization will be considered a breach of the MISSION/SIS Intelligence Unity agreement and prosecuted as described in MSIU Article Nine.//

Communication ends.

Place: Ana Jaguar-Kissed Flower sits cross-legged on the glassy black sphere, blood trickling slowly up into the cubist-fractal runnels that adorn it. Her brothers and sisters are scattered around the sphere, pain and blood flowing into it.

Perspective: Fifty-meter sphere floating above chaotic machinery, beneath glass and sun, surrounded by chained humanoid shapes. Gravity pulls their blood to the surface. This is the least of what it can do.

Vision: Ana's skin is silk not armor, and the surface below her is a scaled, glowing red. And she is not alone; a woman stands before her. Pale and slight and wearing white to Ana's muscled brown nudity.

"You intrude," Ana murmurs with deliberate rudeness.

"I stand here in fine robes, haughty, clad in armor of might," replies the woman. That is beyond rudeness, but as Ana begins to unfold she is stared down. "Your sister and mother and lover sent me, and I've little time for Burning Mountain wordgames, little flower. She sent me because she knows I can rip enough pain from you to let you leave here and not hurt the snake, whatever that means."

In the mindspace, the other's nails turn surgical steel. "And because she wanted to give me a present."

Also, because sending Servalan to pry Ana loose of the project that nests in the reshaped wreck of Industrial Carcinoma Three in Territory Mars will scare La Tigra's arrogant lieutenant into doing her job without too much intrigue and bluster.

Hours later, mission parameters and history and ravings of underground wanderers written into mind-skin layer by layer, a combat mechanoid lifts Ana up off the black sphere, leaving cubist-fractal patters of blood and blue fire behind. In another perspective, a white-robed angelic figure carries her gently into a bower.

Still later, a blade-covered Firefly transport clears atmo, gravity well, interdiction, space. Then back into space, and soon the red-and white tigerstripe craft with its garment of charred skins and skulls settles onto Vinyatírion tarmac like a scalpel parting skin.

Chiba City University; Chiba City; The Hack

Spring break had arrived once again. While students streamed out from their final classes and soon from their dorms for a week of debauchery. Or whatever the Hell this kids do. Me? I went hunting on a cursed mountain. Professor Daniel Moran would say he was in a rare mood, but he knew better: it was the same mood he'd been in for the past several months. He'd been stuck at the university, actually teaching his classes, instead of out in the field where he belonged.

Not that it was without reason, of course. His last adventure had ended badly, to be charitable. To be honest, it had been an unmitigated disaster. Moran had endured his fair share of trouble and blood-soaked adventures, but he didn't even remember the last one. At least, nothing after boarding the plane to go. To have a three month gap in his memory (and some interesting new scars) was bad enough. To wash up off the coast of Grafton's Isle gibbering mindlessly and screaming about "tri-lobed bats" was just embarrassing.

He'd been all but strapped to his chair after his recovery. The University sure as Hell wouldn't fund any trips, and neither would his usual corporate sponsors. Not much point in forking over millions of chits on the promise of one hell of a book if the author goes mad and can't write a damn thing. Actually, he wasn't too keen on going out again after the whole mess, but he certainly wasn't going to admit it to anyone. What would the proverbial neighbors think?

Thus, it came as no small surprise when he opened the creamy white envelope that had been plunked down on his desk while he was out and saw that someone was wanting him to go on an expedition. A grin slowly spread across he features as he read the letter; it was like the good old days all over again. Strange, unmarked envelope? Check. Impossibly impeccable handwriting? Check. Light on the details? Check. Something undeniably sinister? Oh, you betcha. And, most importantly, a fat check? Boy howdy.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand though his prematurely white hair, staring at the letter and the check. He wasn't sure if accepting was particularly wise. After all, that last trip had been a real close shave (What trip wasn't?), and chits were worthless if you were dead (It is a lot of zeros, though...).

He poured a slug of bourbon.

"Fuck it." He shoved the check and the letter in his pocket and left a voicemail for the Dean saying that something had come up and that he'd be away for the rest of the semester. He smiled; there was something rumbling deep under the earth, and he was going to check it out. It sure was the good old days again.

The Lord of G'harne was a fat sack of crap that needed to be put down. Wait. Perhaps it wasn't him. After all, these were dwarves. He shrugged. Flaming demons, burrowing wormy monstrosities, whatever. Both hate water. Probably. And if it was something else, well, what else was new? One didn't sell their soul to Saint Toad and expect to live a normal life.

Besides, he had more pressing concerns. Like booking a flight to a different reality. Damn fractal universe.


[And now, the OOC: Daniel Moran is an old skool Call of Cthulhu investigator with a healthy dose of Indiana Jones tossed in. I'd really rather not go into more detail OOC, though. 'Tis tacky. Besides, you know how to reach me.]

In the grim darkness of the far future there is only War.
However, in the here and now, there isn't. Instead, there is training, endless and constant training.
Brother Phenix is was as close to being sick of training as it is possible for one of the Emperor's Finest to get, which admittedly, isn't very.

Still, limited or not, his frustration was there...which is why he'd agreed to the numerous and pestiferous conditions that jumped-up little pipsqueak Falco had set.
Those conditions had mainly revolved around "No killing people, or those who may or may not meet your definition of people Veteran, but are nominally so. Are you listening to me? Because if you're not I have some Probationers who need the steady guidance of a First Company veteran. Do I make myself clear?"

So, Phenix, at his full eight feet and ten inches, scowls down at Menelmacari customs agent and, with some effort, doesn't squish the pointy abhuman beneath one massive foot before the 'man' can ask difficult questions about machine guns and big hammers.
Instead...

"Go right through sir. We've been ordered to help you in any way possible in reaching your destination."

Phenix blinks and Sergeant Moses, brown face split in a cheerfully scarred grin, claps him on the shoulder.
"See now Phenix. I told you these Menel-whatsits were reasonable for a bunch of muties."
He bestows the searchlight grin on the customs man, who smiles back uneasily. Moses is even bigger than his colleague, and as noted, scarred impressively, both with tribal markings, and the legacy of half a millenia of beating the Emperor's enemies into a pulp with the thunderhammer slung at his hip.

The huge man steers the now lost-looking Adun past the customs man, smiling all the while, the effect something like a mobile lighthouse made of basalt, heading determindly for the worried looking 'man' in an M.I.D.F. uniform, even as the last member of the trio, Veteran Sergeant Timothius steps past, giving the customs agent a polite nod, the effect made somewhat unnerving by the red glare of his bionic eyes.

As they're led to whatever transport awaits, Phenix reflects for a moment, deciding on balance that not killing these abhumans is probably the best choice, from the strained expression of their guide, whatever awaits is probably more in need of purging.
And well, at least it's not more sodding training.

++Vox Message Begins++
++Thought for the Day : Without Him there is Nothing++

Sir,
As requested, I have dispatched some of my best men to further cooperation with this "Yut" entity you're so enamoured of.
As the Primarch feels it best to continue with your policy of cooperation and integration, I will not raise objection to the profligate expenditure of centuries of training and experience these three represent.
Instead, as you also requested, I have prepared a brief overview of their particular skills, service histories and equipment.

Starting with Brother Phenix, the junior member at four and a half centuries subjective age, and ending with Sergeant Moses at nearly a millenia, all three enjoy levels of combat experience unrivalled outside our ranks.
Certes, the immortal abhumans and xenos so prevalent in this benighted system may have enjoyed longer military careers, but assuredly none so full.

Brothers Moses and Timothius were present when the Emperor was reunited with our Primarch on {SEALED TO THE AQUILA}, being immediately accepted into his personal guard, both excelling at the close-range combat favoured by our Lord.
Pertinent to this, Brother Phenix also enjoys enviable close-combat skills, but his personal choice of weaponry, one of the new "assault cannon", allows him perhaps more time to engage, reflecting his less-polished skills.

Whatever their differing levels of experience, all three men are master tunnel-fighters, as was requested, notably, Sergeant Timothius shepherded his squad without loss through the Genestealer infestation of Daedalus IV, unfortunately losing both eyes in the process.
This injury precipitated a shift in his combat style, his former adherence to the slow-but-powerful powerfist moving to the acquisition of a lightning claw, Chaplain Locke reporting that the Sergeant expressed regret at "not being fast enough" with a fist.
Versus a genestealer, I can only express doubts on any speed being enough, but the Sergeant has proven the claw's effectiveness many times since.

For the first among equals in our trio, this mission will be Sergeant Moses's first since his awakening, but given that he has served since the first awakening of our Legion, I have every confidence his thunder hammer will crush many enemies of Man yet.

~ Dispatched by Brother Captain Tash'a'dar, Captain of the First.

Given the normally very close interaction between certain nations, it should come without surprise that, well, Kajurmani would find _someone_ to send, and even possibly multiple persons, if they were that lucky. Fleet Intelligence (Which is to say, Central Intelligence, though Fleet implies something about it being offworld) has been rather abruptly quiet as of late, and while what's described can be bent to loosely fit What They Do, the quiet little fact of the matter is that when it comes down to it, only very certain parties within the Kajali organization have any real experience when it comes to these things at all.

This has streamlined selection somewhat, even if the list has gone from about thirty-aught to seven to ten, mostly from Mars, and some slightly less sane than others.

Of course, despite whatever persons or departments are required, the Combined Federal Services is left with the allmighty rubber stamp. Central Intelligence recommends sending this person over here, while the Department of Extrasolar Affairs wants this other operative...

Somewhere, the brass decides to shuttle all responsibility in this matter to that faceless organization named for the more stable of Mars' moons, DEIMOS, and they quietly make selections and forward personnel briefs to the relevant authorities.


http://palara.sularan.net/ierenn.jpg
Name: Ierenn Savaal
Rank: O-5, Combined Federal Services, DEIMOS Subsection
Age: 2018
Eyes: Cerulean
Hair: Brown
Sex: Male

Skillset: Shooting (Pistols, Carbines, Rifles, Anti-Tank), Archery, Martial Arts (Varied Kajali, Terran), Swordfighting (Varied Kajali, Terran), Meditation, Yoga, Haiku.

Special Skills: SYSNET Access, Dual Existence Equivalency, Metabolic boosting and suppression, exergy management, Stealth, Assassination, Espionage, DEIMOS "Dark Hand" Certification.

Standard Equipment: Adventurer's Clothing (Black), skinsuit (Resistances to sudden changes in pressure, temperature, acids, bullets, teeth), Katana and Wakizashi, standard issue powergun pistol, model XR58. LR80S Sniper Carbine, when required.

http://palara.sularan.net/seraal.jpg
Name: Seraal Kavaan
Rank: O-3, Combined Federal Services, Intelligence Subsection
Age: 803
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Sex: Female

Skillset: Shooting (Pistols, Carbines), Martial Arts (Kajali), Espionage, First Aid.

Special Skills: Telekinesis, Telepathy, Gymnastics, Passive Resistances (Temperature, Pressure), Mind Control (Cleavage).

Standard Equipment: Standard issue powergun pistol, model XR58, utility/survival knife, rugged jumpsuit with pockets and zippers, skinsuit (Resistances to sudden changes in pressure, temperature, acids, bullets, teeth).

from the Khrrck Special archives: timestamp XX-XX-XXXX

Agent Name: Thomas Carnesîr
Agent Species: Homo sapiens sapiens + Declined to state
Agent Rank: 1st Lieutenant
Agent Profession: Sonomancer/Spatiomancer/Geomancer
Agent Equipment: Agent will be arriving with standard-issue shotgun, ammunition, set of light armor and standard mage's toolkit.
Agent Experience: Agent has distinguished himself in multiple CQC situations in and around the Mages' Guild tunnel system. Agent is also experienced in situations involving spatial rifts and/or possible extraplanar invasions, as well as situations involving demons and other possibly supernatural entities.

bio ends[/i]

******

Thomas Carnesîr scowled at the poorly copied document in his lap.

"I always hated official biographies, you know."

"C'mon. Don't hate yourself for being awesome."

"But I'm not. Half of Special is more qualified than me. What have I done? Stabbed a few demons, opened a few holes. Nothing special."

The ancient, turboprop cargo aircraft chuckled at him.

"Shut up, kiddo. You don't give yourself nearly enough credit. There's a reason I suggested you specifically."

"What reason?"

"See if you can stop hating yourself long enough to figure it out. Now strap in and get ready. We're coming in to land."

******

The customs agent hardly gave Thomas a glance as he walked through the terminal. Possibly he had grown used to the heavily-armed foreigners passing through - or, more likely, Thomas was simply so much less imposing than his predecessors as to be almost invisible by comparison.

He was not well-muscled, heavily scarred, or bearded. His hair was a nondescript dirty blond, and was neither short nor very long. His uniform was a light khaki shirt and pants, with his only insignia a white star and three-colored bar (aquamarine, black and brown) on his left shoulder. He carried no obvious weapons, only a medium-sized hiker's backpack.

The agent who escorted him to his transport seemed almost disappointed.

Out at the shores of Wyrmspine Isle, a gathering of waistwrap-clad fishermen gathered of a variety of species. Silver Tooths were held in a large bag, with much clamoring coming from the mouths of the assembly.

"Two to one he snuffs it."
"I'll take that. 100 Tooths that he sees victory."
"I'm in on that! 70 on defeat!"
"Me too! 150 on victory!"

They silence as one a casual eye would call a leader blows on a shrill whistle and speaks.

"No more wagers, no more wagers. Mirrk has located the target at 120 fathoms." The target in question was a particularly ornery Spineback. It's a species of fish known on Sslaa V for being the doom of the fisherman as they capsize boats and eat their occupants. At a length of 40 feet and weighing in at 5 tons or so, they're tough opponents.

10 minutes pass with an eerie silence, the only noises heard are the sound of waves crashing on shore and the calls of seabirds on the wing. A slight disturbance on the water's surface is greeted by a shout from the bet-taker. "Something's happening!"

An ash-grey head covered in what looks like armor-plating breaks the surface slowly as it heads towards the shore. The rest of the body soon appears until the 10.5 foot frame of the Deep One known as Mirrk comes out up to his waist. Large, heavy ropes trail behind him as he hauls something closer to himself. Lobster-like claws clasp onto something, and he hoists the head of the Spineback aloft, eliciting a mixed reaction from the crowd.

"Ha! I knew it! Pay up!"
"Dammitall, the wife'll have my head for this."
"You shouldn't make bets you can't win!"
"Shuddup. Get your winnings and be off with ya."
"Alright! Anniversary present, here I come!"
"My hatchlings are gonna love the dinner i'll make for them tonight."

Mirrk looks around as he drags the head to the bet-taker, and drops it in the water in front of him. Overhead a collection of seabirds wheels and soars, waiting to dive on the spoils below. "Inspection." That's the only word coming out of Mirrks armored jaws as the bet-taker clasps one of Mirrk's claws in his hands. A deep puncture in the eye and through the top of the spineback's skull is measured and compared to the Deep One's claw, and the bet-taker seems satisfied. "It's official. The spineback had been killed by these claws in one on one combat. Tell the fishing companies that it's safe to work again."

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

A few hours later, Mirrk steps out of the oilbath in his modest home. He sits on a steel chair and begins his meal of a single tentacle from a creature the resembles a deep-sea squid. His irisdecent red-eyes constantly scan the corners of the room. "Appear and speak."

Like some kind of spectre, a shape coalesces and wavers into that of a Skeen agent in chamo-web armor. "Your senses are as sharp as ever, Mirrk. How did you know?"

A large chunk of tentacle is ripped by the plated mandibles around the Deep One's mouth and held in place while he chews. "Can hear you breathe. Work on that some. Lunch?" A lobster-like claw neatly cleaves a section of tentacle off with a snipping sound.

The agent waves a hand dismissively. "No thanks. I have a mission from the Director to you." A datapad is placed on the table. Mirrk eyes it a moment while he chews his smelly repast, and a manipulator on the inside of his claw presses some keys on the pad. The briefing details him going into Menelmacari land to assist in investigating something that has caused massive deathcounts.

He looks over all the data available so far including departure times, payment and such. His eyes seem to brighten somewhat. "Sounds like good challenge. Would do for free, but not accepting gift is rude." He keys in his acceptance along with his SigIdent, which is immediately uplinked to the SkeenComm Station in orbit, and relayed to the appropo Menelmacari officials.

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

*Details*

Age: 200 human years
Height: 10'6"
Weight: 1100 lbs
Resitances: Cold, pressure, illusionary magics
Occupation: Officially a fisherman. unofficially a Skeen Cleaner
Notes: The eyes of a Deep One can see into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. Hearing is acute into the ultasonic and subsonic ranges. Sense of smell is sharp but not exemplary. Sense of touch is dulled due to natural armor plating on the majority of his body. Can communicate in subsonic frequencies.
Mirrk is a Deep One, or beings of the Sakkran genotype who are amphibious. Before working with the Skeen, Mirrk was inducted into the Order of Rragg. He learned how to use and amplify his body and mind's natural strengths to an abnormal degree. However, his methods and mannerism were deemed to be to brutal for the Order's needs and he was cast out. Since working with the Skeen, he's been beneficial in suppressing uprisings, removing sentient and non-sentient threats to the Empire and 'cleaning' up failed operations.
Weapons kit: Nothing. His own natural and augmented abilities are more than enough for most work.
Supply kit: Food. Medical symbiotes. Booze. More booze. Skin moisturizer. Henna dye kit.
http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/Character/mirkk.jpg

School of the Arts - Valley of Dragons, Northern Aquamarine

It was a pleasant morning in the largely inaccessible Valley of Dragons. The wind had died down overnight, and the day had dawned bright and with only a hint remaining of the overnight chill. Dew sparkles on the grass that blankets the valley floor, the moisture making the buildings of the school shimmer in the daylight.

And then something exploded.

Now, given this is a school for the magical arts, and not Camp Restricted, something exploding does attract attention. Quite a bit of it, in fact, as several people rush to the source of the blast, one of the small courtyards open to the sky. A lone figure stands in the center of the courtyard, the scene almost straight out of an old cartoon about a coyote.

The lone occupant of the courtyard is standing, apparently stunned. He is a tall Nekoite, and he is covered almost from head to toe in soot. His amber eyes almost seem to glow in comparison to the jet black powder that covers him. The sleeve of his jacket has been ripped to shreds, one hand still extended as though he had been holding something.

"Tal-Lynta Amahira, what in Her name happened in here?!" One of the senior staff members of the facility demands.

"I'm... not exactly sure." The neko replies, ears flattening back as he comes out of his initial stupor. "I think somebody overcharged one of the capacitor stones."

"Good Goddess man, are you alright?" One of Tal's contemporaries in the Arpean Thaumatology Institute asks.

"Oh, I'm fine." Tal starts to shake and brush the soot off. "Just lightly scorched."

"Does anybody else smell fried cat?"

Tal laughs with the rest of the gathering as he runs a hand through his hair. That proceeds to break and fall to the floor as a fine ash. Then he stops laughing.

"Eep."
---

Later, Tal is called up by Pirika Drakos, the diminuitive head of the ATI. By now the neko has had time for a proper shower and to assess the extent of his humiliation. Only the very end of his tail was spared scorching, leaving the appendage bare aside from the poof of fur that survived. His unruly brown hair, long a source of personal vanity however, has been scorched clean off. Even the poor guy's cat ears are now bald, the finer fur there having been the first to crisp in the explosion. In short, the catboy looks more like a chihuahua-boy than anything.

"Well, I've got an assignment for you." Pirika declares, tactfully not making any mention of the neko's de-fuzzy status. "Word's trickled in of strange and potentially thaumaturgic goings on from Menelmacar, and we'd like to stick our noses into it and see what we can sniff out."

"I read the report." Tal replies, all business. "And from the sounds of things, it's a hot area. I can handle minor thaumaturgic work myself, but isn't this a little beyond my league?"

"That is why Lady Pirika has requested my presence in this operation." A heavily accented voice notes from the doorway.

The newcomer looks younger than Tal, perhaps in his late teens. However, it is common knowledge that the copper-scaled half-dragon is the oldest person in the room at just over two millenia. He is Oduh, one of the Keepers of the Goddess Blades, magical artifacts from the distant past. Despite his formal speech, his golden eyes are bright with excitement, and he fidgets anxiously from one clawed foot to the other.

"Whoa, isn't that a little overkill?" Tal raises one hairless eyebrow at the Keeper.

"Considering the number of folks who've gone missing, not really. I would send Najoedo, but the Eldest is occupied with his travels." Pirika replies. "Tal, you're to be the brains, while Oduh will be on hand to offer his insights on magical mayhem as well as heavy firepower if the need arises. Our role is primarily research, but as we've all learned the hard way, research often crosses paths with general badness and other unpleasantness insofar as thaumaturgic stuff is concerned. Are you up for it?"

"Hell, why not? Bring on the nasties and what-have-you!"

"I would prefer less of that and more exploration." Oduh responds, quirking an eyebrow at his new partner.

In due order, the information is prepped and beamed off to the appropriate places.

Name: Tal-Lynta Amahira
Race: Nekoite
Age: 29
Eyes: Amber
Hair: Brown, once it grows back
Sex: Male

Skillset: Cooking, cleaning, speedreading, linguistics, Martial Arts (basic self-defense), Shooting (pistols), basic first aid.

Special Skills: "Explodology" thaumaturgic talents, basic thaumaturgic capabilities, uncanny resistance to heat damage.

Standard Equipment: Standard ATI kit (utility knife, handgun, portable thaumatometer, thaumaturgic capacitor stones of various caliber, emergency medical gear)
---
Name: Oduh
Race: Keeper (Xeco Rcuto ev kxo Wectod Edo)
Age: Approximately 2,000
Eyes: Gold
Hair: Brown
Sex: Male

Skillset: Martial Arts (various), Swordplay (various), Archery, cooking, medical aid, linguistics

Special Skills: High-level thaumaturgic abilities, flight, telepathy ("speech of souls"), foot claws that can gouge 3-inches deep in dense wood.

Standard Equipment: Xeco Rcuto ev kxo Wectod Edo (magic sword)

“It sounds like suicide,” Nathicana mutters, looking over the information skeptically. “Not to mention, again, rather out of our ken.” Granted, they had their areas of study, but for now, it remained a quiet side project, and one they had yet to officially ask for assistance with from more knowledgeable allies. Plenty of information was out there in the public eye so to speak, but that didn’t do much for folks without the means to reproduce or effectively stifle for the most part.

“Still … money’s good. Damn good.”

She looks over curiously at the unexpected comment, arching a brow. The man responds by kicking his heavy-booted feet up on the corner of her desk and blowing out a slow stream of clove-scented smoke without removing the cigarette from his lips, and looking completely unrepentant.

“You can’t be serious, old man. You’ve no idea what sort of monstrosities they might have down there. Is your plate so empty these days you need to go thrill-seeking like this for some filthy lucre? Christ, if you need a job, I’m sure I can find a better use for you and your team,” she says, frowning a bit at his usual audacity, not to mention the smell. He was worth the irritation, and then some, and he knew it.

“Damn right I’m serious, girl. Y’know the twinklies are good for it. Got money comin’ out their pointy lil ears. An’ it ain’t just the money,” he continues, furrowing his brows as he looks over the offer again, giving the scar running at an angle across one side of his face a more sinister twist.

Nathi narrows her eyes as she studies him more closely. “Not just the money? What have you been adding to your smokes old man, because that does not sound like the Jas I know.”

“Cut me some slack, girl. I got my standards, always have. Y’know we don’t just take any job fer just th’ cash. ‘Sides, like you said, this is dif’rent. How often is this sort o’ thing gonna come ‘round, I ask you? With th’ big payoff? It ain’t like we’d be all on our lonesome. Money says there’s gonna be ample firepower. Christ, for this sort o’ cash, there’s gonna be power hitters from all over gunnin’ for a shot at whatever beasties they’ve got to toss at us.” It was clear there was more to his argument than he was letting on, what with the increased pace of his smoking and his contemplative expression.

“Alright, so what else then?” she asks after a moment, her own expression softening to one of concern.

He scowls at her all the same before answering. “Lookin’ for a challenge. Getting’ on, girl. Same old jobs just ain’t got the same thrill. I got th’ biz all arranged, taken care of. Capable crew, everything settled fer worse case bits. Ain’t got a death wish, but damned if I wanna go out with doubts. Wanna live it while I got it. An’ if I can make a damn fine haul whilst doin’ it, so much the better. Not gonna sit there an’ tell me you’d be content t’ play it safe for whatever ya got left, go quietly in yer sleep at a ripe old age. Know you better than that, girl. Y’know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think, old man,” she snaps irritably, the conversation now going places she has no intention of illuminating for her old boss. “But yes, I understand what you’re getting at. Another hunt for the old wolf, then? If you’re going to go out, go out legendary?”

“Somethin’ like,” he grumbles, shifting the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, accompanied by another trail of smoke.

The silence hangs heavily between them, he smoking quietly, she settling back in her chair, sipping her water, each studiously avoiding meeting each other’s eyes.

“Don’t want to lose you, old man,” Nathi finally says softly. “And not just because you run a reliable business.”

“Well, with any luck ya won’t have to,” he replies, smiling wryly around his cigarette. “Do me a fave, an’ write me up a letter o’ reference for th’ gig? I’d be much appreciative. Besides, ya owe me.”

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

“I’m going with you.”

Her Russo-accented voice is soft, yet confident, and the tone allows for no argument, as much as she expects one. Jas looks up from his packing, then simply nods before getting back to it. Reihana blinks in surprise, then takes a half step back, hands on her slender hips, pale features reflecting her confusion.

“That’s it, then? No argument, no reasons why I shouldn’t?”

“Nope. Figured it’d be up your alley, what with all the …” Here he makes a vague gesture with one hand, then wriggles his fingers a bit.

Reihana nods slowly and lets out a slow breath, resigning herself further to this course of events. “It would seem my ‘talents’ might be of some use, yes. And in the company we’re likely to keep, they are unlikely to so much as raise a brow, for a change.”

“Chance to cut loose, see what yer capable of, Rei?” the older man asks, giving one of his guns another once-over for good measure.

“And the money. Further studies require further funds. It seems a unique opportunity. And if I am unequal to the task, my problems will be over,” she answers smoothly, moving to begin packing her own bags from the Company supplies.

“Hasn’t been easy for ya, I know. Done a damn fine job of making the most of it though, gotta say. Got guts, Rei. You’re still one of my best. Changes just added to yer already impressive repertoire. Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Jas insists gruffly, checking the condition of two of the Treznor stealth suits, one for each of them.

“Perhaps. It has still set me apart from the others, regardless of how well they’ve adapted.” A specialized rifle case is opened, and it’s contents examined with an expert eye, fingers trailing lightly along the barrel, almost lovingly.

“Nothin’ wrong with being unique.”

“So they say, boss. So they say.”


http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v213/Nathicana/NationStates/Characters/Agents/Jacobian.jpg
Name: Jacobian Sanguinus, aka Jas
Rank: Commander
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Hair: Black, peppered
Eyes: Grey
Weight: 210
Height: 6’5

Skillset: Demolitions, Firearms, Gunnery, Armed and Unarmed Combat, Negotiations, Tactics, Leadership Skills, Interrogation, Communications, First Aid.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v213/Nathicana/NationStates/Characters/Agents/Reihana.jpg
Name: Reihana (no other given)
Rank: Captain
Race: Metahuman, Homo sapiens nobilis
Sex: Female
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Green
Weight: 130
Height: 6’2

Skillset: Firearms, Sniper Specialization, Armed and Unarmed Combat, Archery, Negotiations, Interrogation, Various Vehicle Operation - land, air, and sea-based, Navigation, First Aid.

Special Skills: Magically Active, emphasis on combat-related abilities.

Standard Equipment: Listed for both as ‘whatever is needed for the job’. (Guns, knives, basic survival kits, stealth suits, climbing equipment, demolitions supplies, communications eq, standard Black Company base kit – clothes, etc.)

The letter is offered only if required, and carefully tucked away if not.

To our Honorable Menelmacari Allies:

I regret that we seem to have no qualified volunteers to assist with your recent troubles. However, if I may offer my personal recommendation for the hiring of one Jacobian Sanguinus and any additional members of his Company that he chooses to accompany him. His record is impeccable, both in success ratings, and in the professional manner in which he handles business. You will find him to be an honest businessman, and one who is willing to face the risks of the job, unfalteringly. I hope that you will find his services satisfactory, and see your way clear to allowing him to join you on this recent endeavor. Best of luck to all of you.

--Nathicana D’Aquisto

When the news of the odd happenings in Moria reach Cetaganda, it comes to the attention of the leaders of the top metanormal organizations, and is quickly handed to the Association for the Defense Against Entropy, the nation's premier group for dealing with supernatural threats and disasters (as opposed to mere crime or medicine). After a brief discussion and a review of available people and resources, it's decided to send a high-ranking wizard named Aral Naismith, who had worked with international groups on previous incidents such as the incident with the thing that tried to kill Firefury Amahira. He's respected, and has some experience dealing with Magnus Hesche, which is viewed as a plus for not having the agent go insane due to exposure.

Unfortunately, due to a clerical error and some divine meddling, the name on the final order is that of Naismith's youngest brother, Evan.

Evan has only just graduated from university, and most of his experience is in disaster mediation for large-scale psionic incidents, as opposed to dealing with evil warlocks or eldritch horrors. He's not even an actual wizard, but instead a sorcerer, which is a small difference but potentially important one. However, by the time the the mixup was noticed by someone, he was already at the designated site, not even realizing what he'd gotten into, feeling a bit grumpy from being pulled on his normal work and shipped to bloody elf-land and from the jetlag caused by the trip on the ADAE fast courier.

Also, the stupid voices in his head won't shut up.



Name: Evan Naismith
Race: Human
Age: 24
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brownish
Sex: Male
Rank: ADAE W-2, Sorcerer (T7, 6.5/6.8/7.4), Licensed Necromancer, Licensed Demonologist

Skill Set: Shooting (Rifle & Pistol), Self-Defense (Quarterstaff), Cooking, Coffee Making, First Aid

Special Skills: Counter-Possession Training, Field Revivification, HELLSING-approved “Knowing The Enemy Is The Key To Psipower” Course, magical self-defense training, general reality-bending wackiness

Equipment: handgun, flashlight laser, wand, staff w/knob on end, psi matrices, various spell components, computer, standard field kit and uniform

A Conversation

"Another opening?"

"Yes, but we believe this one to be.... chronologically older."

"What race formed it? Surely the Nova did not."

"We believe it was they themselves who did so. The dark ones."

"This is greatly troubling. Could it not have been done by some creature with the same capabilities as ours?"

"It could; or perhaps there was one kind among the dark ones that was capable of creating openings but is now no longer existant; or time for them is different than it is for us, and passes for them more slowly."

"Nonetheless, this merits an investigation. Can we send one of the folk of Carpedia?"

"We cannot; the estimated distance would take a hundred and forty-one thousand years for Carpedia's fastest ships to span, which exceeds the lifespan of those folk. Simply transporting one there would require much more power than we are currently capable of. We will simply have to watch and wait."

"What folk reside around the opening? Are they similar to the Carpedians?"

"Not that I can tell. Some of them are radically different; some differ only in terms of height, skin type, or ear shape, but even minor differences such as this can be problematic."

"Well, in that case we shall watch, and learn what manner of folk these are in the process."

"Excellent. Although, in the case of a catastrophe, I request the ability to choose an Envoy."

"I will submit your request to the Nova at large."

"Thank you."

[The Envoy has tagged this thread]

Rain drummed against the corrugated steel roof, making the company command building sound like a bad percussion band gone mad. Someone had put a bucket by the door, and Alice took a moment to squeeze out her waterlogged beret, before squelching down to the commandant's office, adding another trail of muddy boot prints to the floor.

"Good morning, alchemist," Captain Black looked up when she entered. "Make yourself comfortable."

Alice sat down, but wasn't comfortable. The Old Man's tone was the same, but he had only called her 'alchemist' when she screwed up something bad. There was a fat manila envelope on his desk with her name on it. He didn't talk about it, and instead walked over to the coffee machine and drew two cups.

"Thank you, sir," though she didn't like coffee, no-one refused the Old Man's hospitality.

The captain took a sip. "I have your orders," he said.

"Sir?" she almost spilled her cup in surprise. A post with the Self-Defense Forces was permanent by tacit agreement with The Tower at Wye, barring extraordinary circumstances.

"Are you quite suicidal, alchemist?"

"Not at all, sir," she almost laughed, then realized there was not a hint of humor in the Old Man's tone. "Haven't killed myself yet."

"You very well may yet. You are," he handed her the thick envelope. "Assigned to the Menelmacari government."

It took a few moments for the words to sink in. "In temporary and supernumerary function," Alice said, the envelope in her hands suddenly feeling much heavier.

"Yes," he agreed, and added while she pulled out the documents, "Moria."

"Fuck," she muttered, then turned scarlet. "Sorry, sir."

A single glance at the cover sheet was enough to confirm the Old Man's words. She was getting sent on a Quest, and the reasoning behind the decision was transparent. A knight company, built to counter the supernatural, was hugely expensive, in training and equipment unmatched by any in Weyr. As a result it could only function with the support of countless technicians, operating at the tip of a vast logistics train spanning international borders. An alchemist, on the other hand, could always eat her belt.

"Alchemist," Captain Black said. "You don't have to answer this question, but is there anything I should be aware of?"

"No, sir."

"Let's see if I understand this correctly, then. I'm losing the best damn locat in the corps to some pointies. Don't play games, Katsuko."

"Not at all, sir," Alice said. There was nothing to say. A Quest was how The Tower got rid of what it considered undesirable elements. Some ranking alchemist had decided she was trouble, for whatever reason, and decided to eliminate her. It was all nice and official; probably her personnel file was already on a desk somewhere in Menelmacar, along with a formal letter of acceptance and perhaps even a suggestion that should she die, the Menelmacari need not bother with recovering the remains. "If that will be all, sir?"

"You have your orders," the Captain Black said, and Alice wondered if there was a hint of regret in his voice. She dismissed the thought -- the Old Man surely had other things to worry about.

OOC: Apologies for the crappiness. *Blames three months of inactivity* Next post will fill in the blanks left by this post. Alice Katsuko is your run of the mill alchemist, except that she got a well-paying job with the Weyr Self-Defense Forces. A Quest is the official term for an assignment given to a new alchemist; it's almost always nearly impossible, so the life expectancy of an alchemist on a quest is around three weeks.

The Tower at Wye has a de-facto monopoly on all things magical, by virtue of being the largest [and only] organization of professional thaumaturges in Weyr. It would be fair to compare it to the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter, save that The Tower at Wye is not part of the Weyrean government.

MISSION, or as it was more properly known, the Menelmacari Imperial Secret Service Intelligence Operations Network and as it was archaically known, the Handë, a name that had largely been relegated to be of very little usage even internally, due to it sounding a little silly in English (MISSION, of course, also sounded silly, but it was amusingly and knowingly silly), watched the arrivals.

It quietly arranged for permits to be made up in advance, and for those precipitously arriving from orbit not to be shot down. From its various bases of operations, both secret and obvious, operatives directed both machine and human surveillance in keeping tabs on those that had answered the call, and compiled profiles on most of them for review. There were exceptions.

Hesche was the first to be waved through, if only because the MISSION mission handlers knew him already. Rather than being expected to land at a civilian facility and wait to be contacted, he was waved right through to an MIDF ship, with all the typical glitz that involved, and through to a small shuttle, which descended to a northerly part of Menelmacar, coastal, pressed up against a small peninsula with a ridge of prominences that straddled the line between hills and mountains…

http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/glorfindelhousebar.jpg (http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/glorfindelhousefull.jpg)
The House of the Golden Flower, Manor of Lord Glorfindel - clicky for a better view.

The arrival of the Knight of the Broken Table, also, was a little out of the norm, just because of his method of arrival. He didn’t get to land in the cities, but rather closer to the destination the others would arrive at. Looking down upon him from a wide flet, a platform in the trees, an elf frowned at his address.

“Khazad-dûm you say?” the black haired elf sat up, “That’s a long way from here. But I think that you seek Lord Glorfindel, he’s away that way,” the elf, sitting cross legged now, and looking down from what appeared to be something between an ammunition workshop and a bookstall, whatever the elf was out here for it probably wasn’t just the air.

He pointed in the direction of rising, coastal prominences of rock, dotted with marble and other stone constructions, on two sides of a river that flowed out to sea. “There’s no way up good sir,” the elf said, eyeing the armored figure, “or at least, no conventional way up. But I’m sure they’ll send something for you if you’re expected…”


Glorfindel watched from a small covered balcony, miles away, as Karchist spoke with one of the occasional residents of the forest nearby. The place had a semi-permanent population of elves who’d decided to go for a very rural existence for a while. For the most part they lived by hunting and gathering, it was a way of keeping woodland skills in practice, and more to the point, it was a nice getaway from the concerns of the world.

He looked down at the files regarding those concerns that were concerning him now. Files on the various groups of… mercenaries wasn’t the word, perhaps they were best described as warriors… both the files that MISSION had for them, and the files they themselves sent.

He flicked through them in rough order. One of the Yvressi leaders; foolish of them, and an escort, he approved it with a raised brow. Next, Shay Callahan, it sounded, in contraction, Gaelic, among other things, Glorfindel was fluent in both Irish and Welsh Gaelic languages. The former was oddly similar to one dialect of the language of the Yvressi, and the latter used in The Resurgent Dream. Shay, from Séaghdha, meaning ‘admirable’ and ‘hawk-like’ and Callahan, from Ó Ceallachain, heir-of-war, it would need to be a fitting name, Glorfindel thought. With that, and a brief flit over the pictures and notes taken so far, he approved that group too.

When Karchist Gen Murhani arrived, he would find a shuttle waiting for him; well, one said shuttle… Glorfindel made a call, on observing the size of the armor, to have it changed to an open-topped skiff.

Magnus Hesche and his companion were due to land shortly.

Ana Jaguar-Kissed Flower. To say that Glorfindel had his doubts about that one might be an understatement. Nevertheless, there was no doubting the skills (well, there was, but no official reason) on display, so he decided to let her come as well, and hope she wouldn’t be too troublesome with regard to actually working with everyone else.

Daniel Moran. Compared to the others, he seemed to be distinctly under armed. Perhaps moronic, or perhaps he was simply one of those lucky men who seemed to face perils without problems. Again, despite reservations, Glorfindel tagged him for an invite too. Perhaps he’d get sensible and not go.

Dawn Paragons Marines: All the subtlety of a brick wrapped up in a sock, wrapped up in another brick. The potential for trouble with them was great indeed. Hopefully they’d be wise enough to actually not attack anyone, but they did give Glorfindel considerable pause. He eventually added them to the list, too, on the principle that he’d rather have them where he could see them, or deep underground, than wandering around Vinyatírion growling about ‘abhumans.’ Charming people.

Ierenn Savaal and Seraal Kavaan, the Kajali had a lot in common with the necrontyr, but one difference; the Kajali certainly loved their double letters. It was surprising they didn’t call themselves Kaajaalii. Nonetheless, they seemed like one of the better groups, with regards to likelihood to get on with others, at any rate.

Thomas Carnesîr, now that was more like it. A single slightly unorthodox and presumably somewhat manageable adventurer, one Glorfindel didn’t have to worry about the diplomatic implications of sending on a suicide mission.

The Sakkran was next. Big, burly, dangerous. He’d do.

Tal and Oduh seemed to be an odd combination, until Glorfindel considered the possibility of a master-apprentice arrangement. This, while it wasn’t mentioned, did seem to be probable. He approved them.

Jacobian Sanguinus. A bloody interesting name, he thought. Reihana’s name was rather puzzling too; a moment’s thought gave the common usage of ‘Homo sapiens nobilis’ and it seemed suddenly less interesting. They went on the list.

Twenty two respondents… Added to the Menelmacari group, that made twenty six in all. Glorfindel smiled. “Well, at least there’s not too few…”


Those who landed in Menelmacar in general, In Vinyatírion, and other cities, found themselves, after a length of time varying between a few minutes and a few hours, approached by elves; this wasn’t unusual, of course, there were lots of elves in Menelmacar, after all, along with humans, Ravenspire foxgirls, necrontyr, and all sorts of other, stranger creatures. The elves that approached them, though, were dressed in uniform. The uniforms of the MIDF were fairly varied, and were more of an ‘approved wardrobe’ than a uniform in a… uniform… sense, there was considerable variation in color and trim, with only a few elements – rank pins, that showed status and branch of the Menelmacari Imperial Defense Forces they belonged to. All of these were diamond-pins, which to those in the know, denoted members of the Mornahossë. And they all, in short order, directed the ‘guests’ to transports, that would take them to the same destination as Hesche… soon it would be time for the briefing to begin.


OOC: This post was written last night, before Weyr and Ceta posted... and then I fell asleep. So Weyr, Ceta, your guys are approved too.

"Lo, e'en now I spy a vessel approaching from yonder citadel!"

Sunlight ripples in a blinding arc as Karchist waves eight feet of gleaming battlesteel to attract the helms-elf's attention.

"A good day to you, then, noble tree-dweller -" with no hint of effort the Knight sheathes his blade and swings his armoured bulk into the waiting skiff - "And to you, noble helmsman. Let us away to yonder fastness, and the Lord of that house."

The Olympian rests one power-armoured gauntlet on the rail of the skiff, observing the approach upon Glorfindel's mansion much as would any traveller upon the seas of Borealis or godless Hellas step out to take the sea air. The palaces of the Eldar lack the rugged grandeur of the citadels upon the Mountain, and the cliffs lack the sheer scale of Olympus' great scarps, but so must all things fall short of the glory of the Heart of the World. It would be churlish to rub it in.

So the bare metal and green-liveried AeroSpace Directorate jumpLoki is immediately intercepted by a red-and-gold MIDF cruiser, told to dock, and prepare to transfer passengers. The Loki crew, operating on Paroo and catnaps for the past ten hours for the sake of two, count them, two passengers suppress a sigh and follow as directed. The Loki docking mechanism, adopted from earlier universal DropShip collars, is by necessity an ungainly thing and so it's somewhat interesting to watch it fold out from the elven ship, standard tinkly overengineering so their precious smooth lines need not be scarred by anything that looks vaguely functionally ugly. And at least the docking is automated, so other than being kept on hot alert for far too long for these two Aryan propaganda pieces, there's nothing really worth complaining about.

Magnus, shouldering his ready duffel, and an apparently fifty percent older Rhiannon, with her own hiker's backpack stuffed to the brim, pass through the airlock, the first as a matter of course, the second with a moderately disguised sense of wonder. Magnus wears, as advertized, rugged clothing from combat boots to explorer's field jacket, essentially pockets from the neck down. The only suggestion of officiality are the three silver triangles forming half a hexagon on his jacket's epaulettes. His daughter, all grown up, wears standard issue Scolopendran fatigues, which means a digitized smoke-cloud pattern, carbon rich smoke given the charcoal color the Office is so enamored of. Her red fabric circles, one on each shoulderboard, carry yellow fabric bulls-eyes.

The elves are, as expected, quite courteous. Perhaps not so expected, they're almost friendly, albeit in a most professional manner. Small talk gets eschewed for the sake of time in the transfer to the shuttle, just as much a work of art as the WarShip carrying it, and it's only there that the younger Hesche gets a moment to breathe.

"Everything seems to be going, ah, smoothly," she says, scratching her head due to both the unusual feelings of having her hair up in regulation and wearing a slighty tight-by-design BDU cover. "I honestly expected a bit more bureaucracy... sir."

"All the bureaucracy was on our end, Bahiyya, what with having to get you inprocessed in short order. Never mind the customs and courtesies." Magnus grins. "Besides, I've worked with MISSION before. They know me."

"I remember you telling me..." Rhiannon sighs and shrugs.

"You're not missing the adventure of paperwork, are you?" Magnus grins more broadly, and gets a curt look for his troubles.

"It just seems like we're rushing things. Cutting corners."

"Not doing things the way they should be done?" He laughs quietly. "Someday you'll learn that the regulation method occasionally need not apply. Often not, actually."

"You're just a shameless cavalier," Rhiannon grumbles.

"A shameless cavalier, sir, to you," Magnus says with that indefatiguable, smug, and yet somehow self-effacing grin of his. "Remember which one of us is the flag officer, my dear little Warrant Sergeant."

His daughter growls with far more depth than anyone would imagine possible from the athletic but not quite lithe frame of a woman of twenty-seven years, then she looks out the window and forgets to hide her sense of awe. "It's better than the travelogues." No need to wonder what Magnus fills his bookshelves with.

"Places usually are," he says casually. "Beautiful country. Beautiful people... half of them, at least."

"That's what you say about most everywhere," Rhi snaps.

"Daughter of Lakhmesis you may be, but you're my daughter too, at least how nurture goes. I saw how you looked at that tall drink of charged water," Magnus teases, referring to the particularly pleasant-looking-but-not-quite-effeminate Noldo officer that escorted them to the shuttle. "I figure you'll pick up that phrase soon enough."

"Never." Firm scowl, no matter the sense of humor behind it. "It's unfair to the other half."

"I knew you were pondering about all those magical changes that come with the budding of pubescence," Magnus says very quietly in Arabic, "but I never thought that you'd be considering in experimenting in--"

Rhi turns beet-red and slaps Magnus hard, but without malice, across his broad bicep. "DAD." She coughs, wills the blood out of her face, and needlessly adjusts her hair--which, perhaps unsurprisingly, has her father's tendency to fall just right, even if regulations demand it to not look fallen at all--as she looks out the window. "Shameless."

"You know it. Hey, you want to be sixteen, well, I can play that game too. My mom, rest her soul, told me my first dirty joke around that age--" He grins broadly, but something in the eyes suggests that for once, it's a cover for perfectly understandable fatherly concern.

"Not here, not now," Rhi growls in a voice two octaves deeper than her usual. "There's a time and a place for everything--"

"And you're not in college yet." He nods firmly.

"By the gods, you're just as bad in real life as you are in the movies."

"I thought you already knew that, Bahiyya." Magnus grins. "Sure, I shielded you for long enough but then you decided to go"--he takes on a falsetto voice--"'oh, wow, I'm a teenager'"--back to normal--"and, well, sorry shug but this is the consequence."

Rhiannon pointedly ignores her father as she looks out the window, then manages to forget to be angry once Glorfindel's crib hove into view on the coast. "Wow. They don't make it like that at home."

"Well, they do, in the Menelmacari expat exclaves. I should go take you to see Curuvar's place sometime. He's a decent guy. Anal retentive and always stuck on doing the proper thing the proper way." Magnus grins. "You'd like him."

Her retort, mostly having to do with how cruel and unfair it is of him to tease her about that when he won't even let her go out with any of the mundanes at school is cut off by the shuttle's landing, not because it does anything so gauche as actually pretend like inertia exists and have a momentary reaction-acceleration due to coming to a full and complete stop but rather because that's when the door swings soundlessly open and the ambient light levels change to be just a little brighter. Not too blindingly bright, of course, but even the Noldor can't be perfectly in tune with nature. Not when they fly starships and blow up hydrocarbon atmosphered planets just to see what would happen (something the Galaxy Exploration Command is still of two minds about).

Stepping out and looking around, Rhi fails completely in repressing the sense of awe unavoidable in the young, but there's something more behind it. Something old, thinking, categorizing, and... criticizing, in an artistic sense. "It's a lot more... Byzantine than I would have expected. Doric columns, Orthodox domes, right down to the cupolas on their domes... I'd almost say a basilica basis, but the tendency to follow the pattern of the domes is more akin to the tower churches of Muscovy. That and the vertical emphasis from the points, even when they're coming off of the vaguely Corinthian butresses." She checks herself in midstream, speaking quietly to herself all the while.

"Were you expecting something a bit more rococo?" Hesche grins.

"Well..." Rhiannon shrugs. "Honestly wasn't expecting classicism, of all things."

"If it makes you feel better, the points are completely nonclassical." Magnus quietens up after an elbow in the ribs from his daughter, as someone's walking up. Probably someone important.

Evan may count as important, or at least the various pointy-eared minions seem to think so. After all, with such a sparse dossier, clearly there must be huge parts classified, no doubt full of multiverse-saving hijinks. Thus it is that he finds himself disembarking a fancy shuttle as well at around the same time, not too far from Magnus and his daughter. He's wearing a standard Cetagandan field jumpsuit plus a long cloak, decorated only with his last name and a few small unit insignia. Much of his gear was squirreled away by the elves, pending his final decision as to what he actually needs to carry, so he only has a small bag over his shoulder and a few tools on his utility belt.

He spies the other two, and figures that if they were landing at the same place, they were probably here for the same thing – whatever that was. For a moment Evan thought he recognized the man, but it couldn't really be Magnus Hesche, could it?

“Well, whoever he is, he certainly looks nice, doesn't he?” says a female voice from inside his frelling head.

Evan sighs internally as he approaches. “Shut up.” Sometimes he really hated his life. This sort of crap never happened to anyone else he knew.

Putting a grin on his face, he waves. “Morning, sir, ma'am. Evan Naismith, from Cetaganda. You here for the weird under-mountain thing?”

Nothing was exemplary in his departure. The cover story that the Skeen Agency fabricated and snuck into the Customs database held water. "Ah, sirrah Mirrk. Going to Menelmacar for oceanographic survey and classification? Luggage scans show nothing out of the ordinary. Why go there?"

Mirrk's ash-grey plates seem to almost emit a sound whenever he moves, like metal grinding on stone. "New fish species. Must ascertain edibility for us. All facts should be there."

The Customs agent looks over the data, cross references it with the luggage scan, and seems satisfied. "Yes, so it is. Good voyage to you, sirrah." The agent bows slightly, and Mirrk returns the motion and heads toward his departure gate to the Reptavian civ-mod transport.

The reptavian shuttle rotates it's thrusters, VTOLs up and out of Sakkran territory in the Sslaa system, and enters subspace via harmonic drive. After a two hour trip, it re-enters real space just outside of Earth orbit. Gaining the appropriate clearances, the shuttle lands at Vinyatírion, where it discharges its sole passenger before taking off again.

As the uniformed M.I.D.F. officer approached, with what Mirrk assumed was a standard escort compliment, he prepared his papers with his tiny manipulator fingers from a pouch hanging off the dull-brown sash that served as his sole form of clothing save for his large satchel and a few canisters hanging off the spikes on his shoulders. Greetings are exchanged, a brief itinerary of the transport schedule is given, and Mirrk is escorted off the shuttle tarmac.

During the trip, Mirrk is silent and still. Incapable of fitting into one or even two standard-sized seats due to his tail length, as well as his body-spikes probably ruining the seat itself, he sets himself crosslegged in the aisle. Looking out the window of the transport, he could see that others have already made their way here. Of course, he also sees the castle that would be his destination.

"That is big dwelling!" His mouthplates start to grind against themselves in an absentminded fashion. The Emperor's compound isn't as spacious as this. You could fit the subsection of Guaah Bordertown in here. The shuttle lands without a jerk or any other inertia-induced hint of arrival. The hatch opens and Mirrk makes his way out, stopping after exiting fully to allow his eyes to compensate for the light change. He sniffs the air deeply and walks away from the shuttle a few steps.

The departure of the two Kajali was, well, discreet. There was, of all things, not even a particular pass through Customs, of any sort, primarily due to DEIMOS supplying, of all things for transport, a small corvette.

It was, essentially, a stripped-down gunship, retaining the turreted arms but lacking entirely in missile compliment and all associated subsystems, rendering it quite lighter than compatriots of the class.

Now, a degree of that mass had been replaced with a transit drive, of course, which facilitated the travel of the craft to Earth, and upon arrival, it elicited a quiet approval from specific authorities before setting down not at any particular civilian airstrip, but instead an area specified explicitly by MISSION.

They didn't have perhaps the same history with MISSION as a certain Mr. Hesche, though what history was there included some rather high profile incidents.

Savaal and Kavaan disembarked quietly, and left the obsidian black craft in the care of their hosts, transferring aboard the same shuttle that everyone else had been directed to. Glorfindel's massive establishment elicited a slight reaction from Kavaan, of course, though Savaal was relatively unimpressed, though the manor itself was similar in scale to the old Winter Palace, still occupied up in the hills in the northern provinces back on Kajal...

Ierenn is silent as the two disembark, and Seraal quite lithely follows in the same silence. Logic dictates the others present have been invited for the same mission, and the two join the group.

"I am Ierenn Savaal, Combined Federal Services, DEIMOS subsection. This is," He says, gesturing towards Seraal, "Seraal Kavaan, Combined Federal Services, Intelligence subsection."

And then the two are quiet, at least until spoken to again. Ierenn's eyes wander over the majority of the group, and the surroundings in a way barely noticeable - as he does this, whatever public profiles can be located are acquired and examined within the nanoseconds spare between tasks. It's assumed the others have had similar access to his own file, or those that exist publicly (which are, to say, quite few...), and the entirety of his little acquisition and examination is completed within milliseconds.

Data is recorded and stored in varying locations, and locked away under heavy encryption. It wouldn't do for information on the other agents, nor any mind states to become corrupt or stolen.

Further unused milliseconds are used in examination and comparison of architecture between Kajali and Menelmacari locales.

Putting a grin on his face, he waves. “Morning, sir, ma'am. Evan Naismith, from Cetaganda. You here for the weird under-mountain thing?”"Evan Naismith? Brother of Aral? Hey!" Magnus slaps a broad plowsman/steelworker/lumberjack's hand on the Cetagandan's shoulder with a force that could splinter a small tree, assuming it was dried out enough. "We got to talking about you after the Firefury thing. So you're adventuring too, eh? Excellent." He grins his signal-mirror grin. "Oh, sorry, where's my manners--my, how Nadjiba'd have my hide if she saw me greeting people in such an unprofessional manner. I'm the Magnus Hesche--"

Rhiannon sighs audibly.

"And this here is my daughter, Warrant Sergeant Rhiannon Ecks"--looking at her daughter, he gets grinned at with teeth that for an instant look far too sharp--"Hesche, Office of Psionic of Operations. I figure some good old-fashioned rooting out of lurking evil under gigatons of rock is a great way to cut one's teeth on adventuring, so this is her first outing."

"Dad," she says under her breath before noting (as if it were possible not to) the giant grey lobster crab lizard. "Good morning, sir;" this directed towards Naismith.

Magnus waves at the Deep One. "Hey, the party's over here! Oh, hello," as the dual-voweled Kajali introduced themselves. "As you may've just heard, Magnus Hesche and Warrant Sergeant Rhiannon X. Hesche."

"Good morning, sir, ma'am," Rhiannon says with a polite little bow. In her head she starts a uncannily accurate stopwatch as to just how long it will take for her father to hit on and or tease the owner of Mind Control (Cleavage), as the frizzy-haired one is the only other person here with the kind of curves Magnus would appreciate.

Moran waved his invite at an appropriate-looking person, and found himself on his way to the overengineered manor. It was nice, sure, but when you spend your life picking around desolated ruins, most everything seems "overengineered". He relaxed a little on the way there, thinking back to when he left Chiba to go on this fool errand.


He had always been an early riser, so it was no surprize that Tara was still asleep when he stopped by her place to say goodbye to his student-turned-lover. He let himself in with his key and left a note on her nightstand, explaining, in brief, where he'd be.

After watching her sleep for a few moments, he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek and whispered a few words in her ear, her sleepy murmur and smile enough to make him smile himself.

Of course, notifying Enuti, the other person in the world that he would even consider a friend never dawned on him. Scatterbrained until the end.


He wandered into the hall, giving his thanks to the servents for their assistance, a dufflebag slung over his shoulder. He looks decidedly unimpressive (not counting the aura of MANLY ADVENTURER eminating from Hesche), and likely doesn't have a reputation to preceed him. After all, much of his trips were solo, and many of his works were shoved into fiction, because nobody would believe eldritch horrors romping around in cyclopian tombs of blasphemous intent. Still, despite the unvoiced concerns of Glorfindel, he was a priest of Tsathoggua. Not something one advertises, but this wouldn't be the first subterranian beastie he's delt with.

And, hell, this time he'd have backup, artillary, and cannon fodder. He was actually starting to like his odds.

“Christ on a cracker, ‘ats one helluva crowd we got going,” Jas mutters, hefting the large black duffle bag he has cast over his shoulder, readjusting the weight as he steps off the transport, balancing out the large squarish bag gripped in his other hand, hanging down at his side. “You ready, Rei?”

Reihana soon follows, similarly laden, nodding and offering a short ‘yes’ in answer as she takes in the area and people with a careful eye. Each are dressed in unadorned matte black, slight variations on a basic theme – sturdy combat boots, multi-pocketed cargo pants, BDU shirt over a basic tee, and web harness complete with hydration system and various pouches. Jas’ glasses are tucked in a front pocket, the edge of the round wire frames peeking out the top. Reihana wears hers, a simple oval-framed style, the dark lenses hiding her eyes well. She also wears a black headband, keeping any potential stray hair from her simple low ponytail out of her face, covering the upper halves of her ears.

Jas’ rough, angular features couldn’t be more different from Reihana’s practically perfect porcelain ones. Though one might say she was quite beautiful, she didn’t act as though she noticed. Her quiet, business-like mannerisms, and mildly aloof nature are readily apparent, as is the fact that she is not some delicate little flower, in spite of her pretty face. They walk together at a confident gait towards the gathering group, each taking note of who’s who, for those they catch, and in the case of Hesche, exchanging quick questioning looks between them.

“G’morning, folks,” Jas says, swinging his bag off his shoulder and setting both down before reaching into a front breast pocket for his smokes and distinct silver lighter. “Jas, Rehanna. Pleasure to find ourselves workin’ with ya.” He lights up and takes a contented drag, making certain he’s downwind enough from his new companions so as to not intentionally offend, twisting his head slightly to exhale away as well.

Reihanna nods to the group overall in greeting as well, setting her bags down carefully, standing slightly apart from Jas, though closer to him than anyone else. “Indeed,” she says simply in agreement, studying the group further from behind her dark glasses – eyes shifting appreciatively back to the rather intimidating Sakkran several times. She’s certain Jas is thinking along the same lines she is.

Glad he’s on our side.

Yes, the Deep-One. While Moran would never admit it, the reptillian mountain caused him more than a little bit of concern. While he knew it wasn't a 'real' Deep-One, he couldn't help but be unnerved by the naming coincidence. Mercifully, it didn't look like the blubbery frog-like worshipers of star-spawn octopods best left unnamed. It was certainly going to be an interesting trip.

He took a moment to glance at the newcomers, placing them within the rough mental hierarchy he was creating. Front line, certainly, but not fodder. No, the male was too old to be fodder, and he carried himself with a simple casual confidence. His read was a little weaker on the woman, Rehanna, but he was never good at reading women. As you made abundantly clear in the cave.

A mental shrug and he nodded to the Dominars, "Nice to meet you, too; Daniel Moran from the Hack." He ran a hand through his shock of white hair and grinned a little, "Certainly an... eclectic group so far, hmm?"

"Huh. Pretty. Looks sort of like, whatsit, Ultramar. But with more muties."
Timothius winces genteelly at Phenix's opinion, the blonde Marine's usual voice coming in at a subsonic rumble, the word 'muties' had to have been audible for yards.
Both Sergeants scowl at the younger man, and he hunches a bit under the brown & red glares.
"Remember what himself said before we left, do you Phenix?"
"Yes, bu-"
"But me no bloody buts my son. Himself specifically said that we weren't to mention the terms "mutie", "abhuman" or "witch" while we were down here. Yes, fine, they look like damned dirty xenos, they're not, they're a stable and apparently loyal abhuman breed. So keep your bloody idiot trap shut."
Moses ratchets up the intensity of his glare until the blonde nods jerkily.

Making an effort to move on from the by-play, Timothius gives the crowd a once over, muttering to himself as sophisticated bionics tell him who's what, or at least, who's not.

Moses moves up next to him, right hand reflexively polishing the massive, skull-embossed head of his thunder-hammer.
"What do you see?"
Timothius continues to scan, but gives a brief and succinct description of the so-far assembled, tone neutral and professionally flat.

Moses listens, grunts and shrugs.
"Reasonable. Note out any with T.Y.C.S.-specific insignia, them we're to keep alive up to Beta priority. As usual, mission completion is Alpha."
Timothius raises an eyebrow, an interesting effect given the lack of eyes beneath, and Moses shrugs again in response.

"We're at Ceta ourselves. Everyone else..is expendable. Now smile Timbo, we're going to go be personable and talk to the nice people, maybe have a word with that Sakkran. Scipio says they're fairly useful types in a scrap. Certainly better than the rest of these squishies."

He pauses for a moment, then scowls at Phenix.
"Oh, and don't call the Sakkran a sodding xeno P, or by himself's sword, I will make you walk back to Mars."

The trio drop into a loose triangle and amble towards the talkative group, Timothius and Moses doing their best to smile, Phenix managing to convey the impression of a sulky teenager even with his massive stature.

Despite the almost challenge offered by Addolcarrec to the Mornahossë officer at his approach things went relatively peacefully and now they where on their way to The House of the Golden Flower. It was in all fairness an impressive sight, few individual residences in Yvresse where as large, space being an important constraint in the ancient vessel; still it drew a few comments from the three. From Bal-Shanaar the comments where mostly about it’s appearance and the sense of peace it generated. From Addolcarrec it was a matter of military function, some where positive comments others more negative. Mostly Galdern listened and nodded, seemingly considering other things.

As they approached the others that had already gathered Galdern drew a deep breath, Adeptus Astartes, joy, whoever had decided this group’s makeup had a sense of humour it seemed. It was hard to miss the mammoth form of the genetically altered supermen; they drew unsurprisingly the full attention of the Exarch in their number. Silently he veered towards the three marines, sizing them, and the other humans, up as he approached. His mind racing back over several hundred years, to the last time ‘he’* had met Marines in combat.

For now the Farseer and the Ranger watched the others at their gathering, after a few moments his eyes coming to rest on the deep one, a species he was unfamiliar with… staring for a second his mind cataloguing it he needed to observe that creature a little more. Bal engage that Lizard thing in conversation, interact with it, I want to see how it responds to your ‘unique’ stimuli one of the advantages of being a Farseer was the ability to avoid embarrassing conversations such as this, and simply send the message direct to the intended recipient.

With a Shrug Bal wandered over, taking her time, to ensure it wouldn’t look too obvious she circled the group flittering between conversations before ending up besides Mirrk. For a second an honest look of distaste crossed her features before she smiled, looked up and nodded. ‘So you’re certainly large, and oh naked… I tried that once, didn’t work so well. Got things everywhere, it was uncomfortable. Do you ever have that problem?’

*Terms such as ‘he’ take on an unusual favour with Exarch’s the current wearer of the armour has never met Marines in battle. However Addolcarrec has

Magnus is, as could be expected, broadly outgoing and gregarious to everyone, waving hello and looking thoroughly in his element socially. He is, of course, sure to introduce himself as 'the' Magnus Hesche to everyone, and his daughter--in a much more official voice--as "Warrant Sergeant Rhiannon X. Hesche." She certainly could be his daughter, if he had a kid back when he was twenty or so; the family resemblance would be uncanny were there any reason to suspect otherwise. Meanwhile, Rhiannon is not introverted so much as she is as formal as her father informal; always with the polite Scolopendran bow and the regulation customs-and-courtesies, putting her about on par with Reihana. Good morning, sir, good morning, ma'am, although the latter happens to be much less common.

Neither boggle at the Deep One; he's a Sakkran of a kind they've seen and talked to before. They are Yut abhuman-lovers, after all. Moran's unassuming facade simply leads Magnus to be even more jovial, on par with Naismith, who he has already dubbed "Kid." The Dominioners are, well, Dominioners. The Eldar, are, well, Eldar, and one's conversing with Mirrk while the other stands back and looks mysterious. Telepathy, obviously, and it would be rude to listen in.

Then there are the Space Marines, the only humanoids so far that have Magnus dwarfed. Oddly enough, this just leads him to be even more jovial. "Ah, Veteran Brother Marines!" IntRelate dossiers on ranks and uniforms are always helpful reading. "This must be quite the situation indeed if we rate such support! I'm the Magnus Hesche, and this here is my daughter, Warrant Sergeant Rhiannon X. Hesche."

She bows politely, but looks a bit surprised at discovering not just someone taller, broader, and generally more meaty than her father, but three of them. What's even stranger is that one has a look on his face that would be more suited to one of her classmates--but no matter, this is a social situation and it has its own rules, rules which must be followed. "Good morning, gentlemen." She glances back at her father, deferring conversation to her superior officer as is meet and proper and right, and which also allows her to collate in silence.

Magnus, however, doesn't say anything further as the Exarch has wheeled in. Better to stand prepared to negotiate from the side than necessarily between two groups who don't tend to like each other.

Moses and his brothers share a look of brief suprise at being both greeted cheerily and accurately by the cleft-chinned one, Timothius smiles politely, Moses beams, and Phenix manages to lose the sulky scowl, replacing it with a look of appraisal cast over the two humans, noting the Yut insignia.
He has no idea who they are of course.
Phenix doesn't read briefings mostly. Technical manuals yes. Chapter propaganda yes. Briefings, no.
Timothius and Moses however, do, meaning they're in two minds about the situation.
Hesche, and presumably his daughter, will be undoubtedly be effective in whatever situation, but then the man is a witch. And he's a movie star. And in comicbooks. The two ultra-professionals reserve judgement onto whether he's equally professional, where upon he'll probably be treated like one of the Emperor's Hands or whether he's some sort of diletantte amateur who'll need to be sat in order to be kept safe.
As for his daughter, Timothius scowls around his bionics.
While the bewildering variety and diversity of species and augmentations in this system meant that usually bio-readings weren't as exact as could be expected in the Imperium, at least usually they were a definable type. Rhiannon's readings, however...wavered.

However, before his irritation can blossom into suspicion, the Eldar's approach brings all three Paragons to a sort of wary readiness, heightened as soon as the distinctively dark green-armoured Scorpion begins to move toward them, Moses grabbing Phenix's arm pre-emptively.

The Paragons, back in what most of the originals still think of as the "real" universe, didn't have much contact with the Craftworld Eldar, there'd been a few, inevitable clashes, the occasional ship to ship brawl, but no campaigns, nothing that'd created any sort of lasting enmity, other than the innate xenophobia that was part of the Adeptus Astartes programming.

So, while the trio move carefully into combat stances, shading a little distance between themselves and the (ab)humans around them, as superhuman giants tend to need a lot of room when it comes to fisticuffs, they're tense, ready to fight, but not looking for one.
Moses, feet apart and hand loosely coiled around the base of his 'hammer's haft, ready to flick the weapon into his hand, should it be needed, nods fractionally.
"Exarch."
Phenix and Timothius move out around him, the motion careful and slow, but they're definitely more than ready to hit Addolcarrec from three sides if it comes to it.
Their main weapons are still sealed in their armour sarcophagi of course, lightning claws and powerfists not being in the least 'dressy', but the duo do both have a Paragons standard combat knife scabbarded at their respective waists...which to anyone not eight feet tall would be a short sword.
A short sword, which, given they're being wielded by people who are eight feet tall and weighing around six hundred pounds, makes for a startlingly effective weapon, should they be drawn.
Of course, whether that happens depends on Addolcarrec's next move.

Ahh, to be again amongst the innocent. Refreshing. It was a thing, to be sure, but the blatant way in which they were met certainly did something to settle Shay's doubts about various aspects of the present contract. For all that he retained the skills, he was no longer in the employ of the Directorate. It had been a relatively permanent parting, words had been said that could not be unsaid, so on, so forth.

The approaching individual had been swiftly intercepted by an embassy guard, or, well, at least, someone who had the -appearance- of an embassy guard, but was in fact the on-station Devilrunner, which explained how the action was arranged without any prior contact between the three mercenaries and D'rayne Neviros, the aforementioned Devilrunner.

Roughly a minute and a half of stalling ensued, then Shay would re-emerge from the embassy in proper attire, which is to say, having dressed his station -- that being the brother of the Duke of Twilight and the Baron of Darkfalling in his own right, namely the black shirt, black trousers, black boots (polished, safety toed, with spurs,) black dueling jacket (with proper lapels, so as to display the Swordsworn flash and the solitary silver planet of a Light Colonel) black cape, and one solitary silver stud in the left ear. The sword completed the ensemble, being distinguishable as a Guardian Temple pattern warblade primarily due to the length of the blade, somewhere around three feet, as well as the slight curve at the end.

His companions were more plainly dressed, Kathleen in a sort of dark gray bodysuit that would be recognizable to the initiated as a VSF (Veliki Space Force) Class B All-Purpose Skinsuit for use with the Class A Multi-Environment Assault Armor. Joe in a clean t-shirt and khaki cargo pants with only one, rather large, pistol holstered at his right hip. Which was about as dressy as he got.

Duffel bags in hand, the trio would then allow themselves to be led by the undoubtedly by-this-time exasperated elf-in-uniform wherever it was they were going.

Thus it was that when they finally did enter, Kathleen leaned over and murmured the obvious into Shay's ear.

"Looks like we're a tad late, boss."

Shay nodded ever so slightly, "Not that it matters."

Kathleen giggled, which was a sight. Kathleen Orani, as a Veliki, stood a few inches over seven and a half feet tall...and she was short for a 'lik. If she was not nearly as muscular as a Space Marine (which is to say that she looked tall rather than being tall but looking squat,) the (not inconsiderable) muscle mass she did possess was more efficient than a similar amount on one of the Space Marines -- present theory placed the Veliki as an offshoot of the Ascended 'race,' in effect the Ascended physique on a larger scale, though the various and sundry 'psionic disciplines' that the Ascended enjoyed were lost in the trade-off. The end result was that the absolute 'strength value' of a given 'average' Space Marine and a given 'average 'lik were roughly equivalent. Which was very interesting and all, and surely of interest to some academic somewhere, but was hardly of consequence to any of the three Revenians present in any truly significant manner.

Initial surveys were promptly completed and discussion began, making use of the Authority-standard implant comms that all Bonding Authority mercs were required to have as a baseline -- superior internals superceded that requirement. This meant that the only Revenian with a standard Bonding Authority implant comm was Joe Barth...which presented no problems whatsoever, as Shay's Devilrunner Comm-Suite didn't sacrifice basic functionality amongst its various doodads and advanced functions and Kathleen's Directorate implants minor inferiority to the Devilrunner system was purely in the 'just-in-case' category. For example, her implants lacked burst-trans, meaning she was limited to communicating with individuals in the same star system without some sort of external aid. Crippling.

-Local SubNet Accessed. Current Operator: 'Shay.' System: Silver Covert Client V4.0-
Shay - 'About what we expected.'
Kath - 'About.'
Joe - 'Anyone we need to worry about?'
Shay - 'Just us, as far as I know.'
Kath - 'Even if someone here was on your dratted list -- I know you still have that damned thing, Shay -- you're freelance now.'
Shay - 'You may be, doll, but the Pin says I'm not.'
Kath - 'Fuck the Pin.'
Shay - 'It's a bit pointy for that. I think it'd hurt.'
Kath - 'Bah! So, do you have any IDs yet?'
Shay - 'Sure, but I didn't think you'd care.'
Joe - 'She doesn't. I do. I like to know the people who may be in positions to shoot me in the back.'
Shay - 'Fair 'nough. I'll just send the file.'
Joe - 'No shit. Magnus Hesche. He was great in 'Magnus Hesche and the Ice Moon of Vega''
Shay - 'Wasn't that the flick with the green women?'
Joe - 'Yeah.'
Shay - 'And the gladiators?'
Joe - 'Yeah.'
Kath - 'I never got how he defeated that one...large...fellow. I mean, sure, Hesche's a big guy...but...one punch?'
Shay - 'Oh, it's possible. Haymaker. Look it up.'
Joe - 'Heheh! Yes!'
Kath - 'Scary. 'n he brought his daughter with him. Anyone else we need to worry about?'
Shay - 'Mm. I'm not sure. I've got names to go with faces, but none of those names mean anything to me. Chap in green pointy armor over there presently engaged in looking belligerent is an Eldar, one of their 'Striking Scorpions,' and, I think, if I remember my briefs right, one of the higher grade.'
Joe - 'For those of us without Directorate databases in our head?'
Shay - 'It means that he's about as nasty as his kind can get.'
Joe - 'Which means? Gimme something to compare with.'
Shay - 'Seraph.'
Joe - 'Fuck. I don't see him lugging around one of those monstrosities that you drop commando types call a 'rifle,' though.'
Shay - 'Yeah. Well, he's more specialized than a Seraph.'
Joe - 'Uh-huh. That it?'
Shay - 'The rest of 'em? Our information on the Sakkrans has always been utterly trash, we've never risked going beyond the most basic level of infiltration with the Dominion, the male Kajali over there is more than he seems, and the rest...I'm not sure.'
Joe - 'Mmm. You're implying that that may change?'
Shay - 'Quite. As I get more data, the queries can be made more specific.'
Kath - 'I wonder what the others think we're doing, clustered over here in this corner staring blankly off into space.'
Shay - 'You two are staring blankly. I can multi-task.'
Kath - 'You're a Devilrunner.'
Shay - 'I am.'
Kath - 'Bah!'
Joe - 'You two done?'
Shay - 'Yes.'
-SubNet Connection Terminated

Joe produced a flask from one of his various pant pockets, popped the cap, and took a short pull. He offered the flask to Shay, first, who shook it off -- he wasn't a terrible fan of the taste of what probably served dual-purpose as a general cleaner and an intoxicant, then to Kath, who accepted it and took a pull herself, then passed it back, her wide grin showing rather large teeth, gleaming white against the blackness of her skin, then passed it back.

“I, uh, wow. Pleasure to meet you both.”

Jesus Allah Buddha, it really is the Magnus Hesche. Who apparently had talked with his brother about him and remembered his name. Evan can remember Aral telling him about working with Hesche (“He's actually not an asshole like you'd expect.”), albeit only vaguely because he was still out of it from spending more than a week on suppressant drugs. Apparently it hadn't been anything too embarassing, but then, Magnus Hesche, Man Of Action, probably wouldn't have the bad manners to bring it up. Evan really hoped the Duck Incident hadn't come up.

“Oh, yes, this should be lots fun, won't it, dear?”

Huh? Wait. If Magnus Fucking Hesche is here, along with an increasingly large and muscle-bound mass of people, what exactly is this situation he's here to help with? “What the hell have you gotten me into, Cloacina?”

”Just a pleasant vacation. It's been so long since I've had one.”

He's so completely fucked. Evan knows he should probably talk with whoever the hell is in charge about the fact that he's likely completely, utterly unqualified to be here, but he decides against it. On the one hand, he's not a coward, and he already agreed to do it. On the other – lurking evil under the mountains? Christ. (”He won't do you any good, lad. Lazy bastard, that one.”) But on the gripping hand, working with Magnus Hesche was a sure-fire way to get your named recognized in the field of supernatural field work, and possibly even some small part based on you in a movie.

Evan shrugs, and follows Hesche's example by starting to circulate among the crowd. He spies the Dominioners and Moran, who at least look normal, and sidles over to them.

“Hi there. Evan Naismith,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, although his body language betrays just how nervous he's gotten.

Mirrk (http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/Character/mirrk.jpg) approached the collecting mass of people, but kept a slight distance from them. It wouldn't do to have someone accidentally impaled on his body before anything got started. He noted Magnus Hesche there. Aside from the standard data-feed broadcasts of his movies, his previous briefing from Director Thress listed him as a noisy existence, but the noisiness had a purpose, so don't get annoyed. With a clattering of his claws and mouthplates grinding together, the translated message read as "Good cycle, Sirrah Hesche. May your species not be destroyed." He appeared to have his hatchling with him, and noted the furtive glance she gave him. Not going to approach her; she may spook at that. Let her go at her own pace.

Aside from that, there seemed to be an interesting collection of humanoids gathered. Varying shapes, sizes, colorations and smells kept his mind occupied as he discerned who gave off what scent. Hints of subsonic speech bounced on his tympanum, but he paid it no mind since it wasn't Sakkran speech. He noted what appeared to be an armor-clad human from the Dawn Paragons ambling his way around the group and on an intercept course.

At the same moment, he noted a female from the recently arrived group of Tor Yvresse also on an intercept approach. She managed to make it to his side before the Dawn Paragon individual did, and her questions to him made him pause a bit as he wondered how to respond in a way that would cause no misunderstanding.

Mouthplates grinding, tympanum wavering and his massive claws clacking and gesticulating get translated through the symbiotid around his neck. The translated voice sounds like a landslide, for lack of a better way to describe it. "Large status is not noticed by self. All like me are as large or larger, some smaller but not by much. Nakedness is not noticed. HUmanoids wear clothing to protect genitalia for most part, yes? All of self's extremities are tucked away inside self. Wear sash for place to put Yut markings and such for others to know. Other than that, no need for clothes."

At least it's a polite monster...

"...brought here, my presence requested and required, to scent the air of ancient woods and walk the fractal halls of the deep, of the forgotten, of that which may not be comprehended."

Then, the voice does come from a mouth that looks a bit like a beartrap, lower part of a flat mottled-gore armorplate of a face. The guest is all segmented armor and fluid grace as she rises from where she'd been waiting, kneeling by the distastefully-decorated craft.

"I am at your disposal, noble soldier in shadows; I thank you, for you will let me do the bidding of La Tigra."

She's half covered in softly glowing marks weakening the impression that she's bathed in half-dried gore. Abstracts, symbols, figures. Plated back encrusted with technology. She bows Prussian style, spear-like object held at ease in her left hand. You'd expect her breath to be rotting flesh but there's just a sugegstion of sping and cinnamon.

He simply gestures for her to follow. A brief dance, that, as she matches him grace for grace. Unwilling or maybe unable to resist a challenge? That does fit with Menelmacari experience of Tigrans even when they looked like Territorials and walked Earth rather than Io.

She plays it cool as they walk the tarmac, but a sense of awe is apparent as they fly. When she thanks her "soldier in shadows" escort for showing her moments of beauty there is a sense that she's not just being respectful, diplomatic.

She? Well, he supposes so. Not that it's very visible.

Allowing the Exarch a moment to size up the Marines and for them to respond in kind, he did eventually through Galdern intervene. A simple command and then he turned to look elsewhere. Ease Addolcarrec, we are not here to fight the Losseainn nodding slightly the exarch gave one last look to the Marines, made to turn and leave before looking back at them. ‘Listen well Losseainn, I have fought your kind before, and I have enjoyed those battles. As much as any of your kind, you give a challenge and force me to reach higher to better myself. For that I will honour you, but understand the Idainn if you should harm him, or through inaction allow him to come to harm, I shall kill you three. Afterwards I shall remove the Progenoid glands, those that are located in the rear of your neck and deep within your chest cavity, and burn them.’ With that he backed away, never once turning his back on the three, in a way it was meant as a complement.

The threat was not exactly an idle one, oh Addolcarrec didn’t think for a second he could get the drop on three Terminator veterans, fully armoured, at least not all at once. Nor did he think he’d survive every fight with the Three. He simply knew that he’d make it his goal to kill them, and every Eldar who wore this suit would have the same goal, the same mission. It changed the odds somewhat.

Nodding at the creatures words Bal laughed a moment at the comments on clothing… ‘Oh sometimes we wear them for protection, but sometimes we wear them because they are just so much fun to take off… I heartily recommend you give it a try sometime, find a nice young female,’ Pausing for a second as if for once some doubt entered her mind before she continued, ‘erm… Mon-Keigh, and well undress her.’

All in all Galdern had to think things where going remarkably well, for any meeting between his kind and the servants of the Cripple, was often fraught with difficulty. Yet that one had passed without anyone shooting at the other. Already it seemed Bal had opened the unusual new creature up and might eventually gain an insight for him into its people

Now might actually be a good moment, he considered, a large number of the people to go into the Mines where gathered, things seemed to be calming with the Astartes, it was time to open himself to the Immateriam and look at the future of the group before him. First he opened his belt pouch and removed a few Runes, the first his personal Rune, a single eye glittered on its surface, next came Bal’s Rune, and Addolcarrec’s. Joining his own and raising into the air as they floated around him. Now to get a feel of his new companions, the Marines where first, simple minds forged by countless years of training made it easy to get a feel on them, they where moulded to set standards all he had to do was feel out the differences from the standard, the imperfections.

Next he turned to look at the one being introduced as ‘the’ Magnus Hesches Daughter, and he blinked, at the flare of energy, as if he had stared into the Flash Grenade, he was thrown back at the unexpected intensity of it. The Runes clattering to the floor… As he stood to clear his head, shaking the pain away, he smiled. Now, she is interesting

Magnus, being ever so slightly prescient, winces. Underneath the sleeve of his explorer's field jacket, the metallic tattoo that looks just like silver thread integrated seamlessly with his skin in arcane patterns starts to glow. Local constants of reality change ever so slightly, mostly causing sound waves to go ninety degrees to normalcy and be replaced with an obviously dubbed voice, which sounds like Magnus Hesche except with his voice thrown an octave higher, and speaking out of the side of his mouth like a bad ventriloquist. "Honorable defenders of Mankind, while I've had my differences with you in the past I look forward to working with you in this endeavor. We shall crush the ruinous powers that threaten both our kinds without pause or mercy, together, as it should be."

Reality bending what it is, this dubbed sound is unidirectional--towards the marines. The Exarch should still hear himself saying what he had to say and stalking off, but if his suit receptors are particularly keen, he should be able to hear the reflection off of the Marines... but dully, as they're in robes and whatnot. Magnus is just glad that he doesn't have to start screwing with light too and deal with making the Exarch's lips synch up; that would be tricky at the very least and probably not even worth the effort.

Rhiannon simply stares at her father in what can only be described as a mix of emotions, primarily negative. "Certainly you're just trying to smooth things out," she says quietly but in English--using Arabic would be offensive to those who don't understand it--"but censorship? Dad--sir--that's completely against everything we stand for."

"Right now, I stand for squishing eldritch evils, Bahiyya," Magnus says with a grin. If the Marines or the Exarch happen to look at him, he just shrugs and grins.

The 'Exarch's bizarre speech, accompanied with his oddly defensive posture completely confuses the Paragons.
Watching him back away, Phenix turns to his seniors, expression almost plaintive.
"What in the blue bloody blazes was that about?"
Moses shrugs helplessly back.
"The ways of the xeno are strange and endlessly depraved. That's why we inherited the galaxy after all. If they weren't all mad, they wouldn't be in their current position."

Timothius, however, is staring at Hesche thoughtfully, reaching a hand up to move a small slide on the side of his head behind his left eye.
A moment's intense concentration later, and his expression clears, breaking into a small, wry smile, before the red glare of one eye fades out for a moment, just long enough to notice, then it's back.

Moses, still looking bemusedly after the exarch , turns to his colleague, not noticing the by-play.
"What do you think Brother?"
Timothius cocks his head and shrugs his massive shoulders, palms up, almost exaggerating the gesture. Then he jabs a thumb over his shoulder back towards where the three massive sarcophagi containing the trio's armour have been secured, before flicking a finger between Moses and Phenix, raising an eyebrow interrogatively.

Moses smiles, the scars on his face crinkling in basalt-gargoyle cheer.
"Probably a good idea my friend. Come Phenix, let's go get while Timothius holds down the fort here."
Phenix grunts, then trudges after Moses obediently, while Timothius turns back to Magnus, hands opening in a "well?" motion.

Magnus first shrugs and grins, then winks back. "I suppose there's no hiding anything from you, Sergeant. Let's just say that perhaps we should save the violence for the asses what we came here to kick rather than going about picking fights. Like your comrade in arms said, 'the ways of the xeno are strange.'"

By this point his daughter is boring a hole straight through his head, assuming she had laser vision or the like, which given the group probably wouldn't be that much a stretch. He looks over at her. "What? I'm certain we can trust the good Brother Sergeant to keep things nice and orderly."

"Then why not tell him what was said?" Somehow, it doesn't sound like a question. Also, if Magnus threw his voice up half an octave to dub the Exarch, her voice has gone down two or three to a grating-rock bass almost on par with Mirrk's.

"Because we may as well let bygones be bygones. The essence was 'don't start no trouble, there will be no trouble,' and now we have politely passed that along in a way that won't needlessly incense. Besides, it wouldn't be right if suddenly a fight amongst peers-in-cause broke out and the cleaning staff would have to mop up all the blood due to a few insensitive words, hmmm?"

The woman glowers but says nothing further.

Going from combat in the skies over Germany circa nineteen fourty four to landing yourself in a foreign land-not by geography, but by reality within a matter of hours, is certainly a life changing happening.
Most of the 'Hawks had embraced it however, Trevor's opinion being that their new 'Home' wasn't anywhere near worse than the last, and that if this reality happened to return them to their own anytime soon, their old friend Kreiger would be in for a bloody great surprise.

By sheer luck, they were based out of a place with the capability to maintain their machines, indeed, Lyle now had legions of people as grimy and dust covered or more so than him coming to him for advice-and he liked that very much. The only one of the group at all surprised that noone here seemed to think their ..special assortment of aircraft was at all out of place, at least compared to some of the other arrivals, was Pauline, and she owned a B-17!
Customs, particularly on this day, would probably be completely unimpressed by them, relative to the others.


Their skills were perhaps..less super, than some of the other entities, all of them being veteran pilots rather than spacefaring supersoldiers or rather dashing(in Pauline's opinion) comic book hero's.

Owing to their years of experience, and recent crash course in modern aviation, though, all were supremely skilled in various areas, and all possessing of reflexes that would shame various kinds of snake.

Individually, though, things were more..varied.

Trevor's the group leader now, rather than the ranking member, though he still has all the leadership skills and 'been there, done that' life experience.
Though they all carry survival gear that would make Crocodile Dundee look like a newborn child, Trevor in particular carries enough weaponry and equipment to ensure the moment that the pin drops, the words 'air support' would be burned into the skulls of the dark and terrible foes they suppose they will encounter-one does not expect them quite to grasp the mechanics of underground dwarven halls and worse.

Rorke is behaving as you would expect an assassin evaluating a target to, constantly keeping an eye on everyone and everything, ensuring the survival of the group, being perhaps a little more on edge than normal, being the only one in this little gathering not recognizably wearing nineteen fourties flight gear and assorted accessories.

Pauline is carrying supplies, and despite her relatively inferior official rank-she's treated as the lord savior in most cases, possessing all of the groups alcohol and tobacco. Gazing at her gear you generally get the feeling that that antiquated looking long, snaking white tube isn't just part of the standard equipment.

Chase is the only American of the group-initially thought to be just another talentless Yank he proved himself to all in the skies over everywhere from Dunkirk to the Russian snows. He views life more carelessly than the others-but after spending so long in the air-and occasionally in flames rushing to the ground-he has had to adapt.

Chase is the first to notice the alarmingly growing gathering of people even they recognize as possessing unusual 'talents', beyond merely the personal skill and equipment of the 'Hawks. He gestures to the rest of the group, and Trevor gives the signal to simply move in and observe-The Dashing Man being more of a concern than the giant blocks of what may or may not be flesh that are the Marines.

Lyle stays back more for personal safety rather than anything else-his gear when put under life threatening pressure tends to explode in dramatic fashion.

Overall? The impression one gets is that the group has just stepped off a flight direct from the nineteen fourties with a dash of indulgence in 'advanced' technology hiding under the leather and cigars.
They're not magical in any way-hell, they're not even possessed of any powers beyond Pauline calling Chases's plinking skills 'inhuman'...

For Thomas, the trip to the gathering area was uneventful. Then again, that was to be expected from the Menelmacar. On the other hand, once the unimposing mage stepped into the vaulted meeting place, things started to seem a lot more interesting.

He took a moment to look around. Nobody seemed to have noticed him as yet - what with the hulking Space Marines and plated Sakkran, not to mention - was that the Magnus Hesche? Dear gods. Someone had really called in the big guns on this problem, whatever it was.

Keeping his left hand at waist-level, he surreptitiously folded his fingers into the correct position and twisted his wrist a half-circle, flipping through the various perceptual spells he always kept running.

Psychic activity seemed to be rather low to nonexistent - then again, passive stuff didn't tend to show up very well. There seemed to be something going on around the Magnus Hesche, though - not that he was going to ask what.

Energy, on the other hand... well, through that filter, the place was positively lit up. Almost everyone in the room seemed to have some kind of high-powered technical gadget, not to mention the Christmas-tree appearance of the Space Marine power armors. In fact, it was bright enough to make Thomas wince and switch filters quickly.

Magic was low, spatial disturbances also. Thomas didn't bother with the rest of his filters - there was time enough for that in the tunnels. In the meantime, he found an unoccupied corner, sat down, and checked the contents of his backpack while he waited for instructions. If someone wanted to converse with him, they could come and talk to him - he wasn't going to try and strike up a conversation himself amidst the general chaos.

The house of Glorfindel was indeed peaceful, with an air of tranquillity, only broken by the occasional screech of great albatrosses, which could be found in scattered colonies across the islands of Menelmacar, in great proliferation. Smaller seabirds were in evidence too, some of them no less noisy for it. Thousands of years ago, the place had been a fortress that had served as a regional base for the Menelmacari military, and it shared the name of Ambohópas, hill-haven, even though, now, the harbors and original fortress were long gone, destroyed by a sequence of fires, both created by an orcish force, and simple misfortune. The place had been left as a ruin for many millennia thereafter, until, in the first century of air travel, Glorfindel had adopted it and rebuilt it in a New-Númenórean style, now with no way up from the ground, and with considerably less defensive value.

Of course, this was all irrelevant to the events playing out within it. A single clear bell rang out in the distance, harking back to old Quendi traditions. Heavy brass doors swung as lightly as thought they were paper, leading from the hall onto yet another open air balcony, this one covered, but its lack of windows suggesting that it qualified nonetheless as a balcony. It was wide, and with about forty chairs arranged in an almost complete circle.

The Lord of the house stood before a seat of mahogany, no higher or grander than the others; indeed, many were grander, to support the varying weights and sizes represented. It was remarkably prescient, in fact; it wasn’t obvious, even under a microscope, but the larger seats were hastily synthesised; still warm in fact, but all the others were likewise heated by the sun streaming down onto the balcony. He was dressed in a silver headband and a set of dark green robes, rather similar to the military uniforms, with a cloak that wrapped around his shoulders and hung about his feet from golden leaf pins. With him were two dark haired Noldor, one female, dressed in tremendously simple, by elven standards, almost austere, grey robes, whom the astute may have known as Míriel nos Fëanor, and a taller male elf with a lofty circlet of true silver, and a cane, who, again, would perhaps be known to some as Celebrimbor.

And further, in declining order of fame, to his left, was a tall figure with a cascade of gold – actual, metallic gold – hair, and golden eyes set in necrontyr blue-grey skin, with him, a Mornahossë officer whose rank pins in diamond and gold indicated a rank equivalent to Major. Though there wasn’t really any discernable physical difference (and less so in Menelmacar) Idhrindiel nos Fithurin classed herself as Avarin, for she was indeed a distant relative of the defense prefect.

On her left, a little taller than her, but dressed almost identically though with insignia a touch less elaborate, was Nárlanyo, one of the few elves who’d fought alongside the Sunseti to ‘cleanse’ Khazad-dûm of goblins in the first place. To those who knew, again, his insignia would denote him as a dedicated ‘mage.’ He had long anticipated a return.

And with them, were dwarves. To many, dwarves tended to look very similar. Short, obviously, stocky, bearded and armored. Where Eldar (in the Menelmacari sense) armor tended towards a light and slimline appearance, the dwarves favored heavier gear, which tended to take the form of bulky hauberks of chain in ceremonial instances, with, the inevitably observant guests could glimpse, power suits of some design underneath. They were, also, more obviously armed than the elves, ranging from gilded pistols to heavy axes and rifles, whereas most of the elves present stopped short at a sword and pistol.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old,” Glorfindel said, bowing deeply, as his words carried on the fresh sea breeze that blew through the balcony, “You have been asked here to answer an ancient threat, and I thank you both for your alacrity, and simply for your presence. Please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs, “be seated…”

Ana takes in the scene, turning away from the landscape outside with a mental wrench. The halls are beautiful for sure, but she misses the technology-cluttered metal and stark crackling power of Burning Mountain. And there aren't really any mindscapes, just the handshaking crackle of comms relays. She resists opening a quantum pipe to make things feel more like home. Appreciate the beauty that is.

She enters the hall, gore-colored glow-encrusted spear-carrying monster radiating all manner if augmented reality cues showing her as a dark-skinned, sleekly muscular near-woman with a spear. And to more spiritual eyes, a red-eyed white ghost of that woman, bearing a staff of bones.

The monster and the woman move with stately dignity, approaching the sparkling knot of Marines and Exarch and Hesche and glory. The ghost quivers with barely-restrained rubbernecking.

Then Glorfindel enters, visibly impressing the ghost and maybe another presence as well. She finds a seat, but remains standing until Glorfindel sits.

The one dull-red eye on the side of Mirrk's face that was towards Bal leveled downward at her after she made her statement. "Mon......keigh. Mon..keigh. Not familiar with that term...ah, yes." His mouthplates clicked in a staccato rhythm as he turned the word over in his head until he remembered another elven race that also used that phrase to describe the humans.

A smell jet of steam issued out of the nostrils on top of his head as he uttered a loud 'CHUFF'. "That would be difficult for many reasons. Procreative activities not practiced for liesure or pleasure by my people. Physiological differences in genitalia would kill any human. Too fragile to survive our mating rituals. Also, mammals of any specie do not appeal to our tastes. Too much hair and fur. While the idea can pique curiosity, the actuality would be messy, confusing and unsatisfying."

Mirrk eyes the other Yvressi who came with Bal, and utters a low, deep rumble from the vocalizing sack in his throat. "Feels almost like you are scout, or perhaps you lost wager?" He notes the arrival of the Lord of the House, and attempts a whisper. "Perhaps best to continue later? By your leave..." He bows slightly to Bal, and steps slowly into the hall, taking in the architecture as he does. His movements are slow, methodical and cautiously placed. Not only to make sure no-one gets injured by him, but also to test that the flooring can handle his weight.

Entering the hall he looks towards the Lord of the House, his escorts and the assembly of dwarves. A short bow of the head is given to each in turn before he makes his way towards one of the more appropo-sized seats (preferably backless) for his frame.

Seraal and Ierenn remain largely silent, though about the only thing they do, at all, is directly related to Seraal and her hair, in as much as she appears to smooth it out with her hands briefly.

This has, possibly unexpectedly, a slightly more dramatic effect than one might think, as, in fact, her hair type itself appears to change. The former frizzy mass retains length, but otherwise has become apparently bone-straight, and without any further momentary distractions, is tied itself into a tight bun and moves little, if at all.

They are, of course, each in their full gear, and Seraal's appearance, given the dull red coloration of her skinsuit and varied equipment, is similar to that of a villainess of a certain science-fiction franchise...

Of course, with Glorfindel's entrance, the two locate appropriate seating, and remain silent, sitting only after Glorfindel does so.

There is, of course, undoubtedly further time with which to bond and acquaint oneself with the others present. It simply seems likely that, for the moment, this will be the last opportunity to do so under the watchful gaze of the sun.

Recovering quickly enough to assure Addolcarrec that despite his obvious, temporary discomfort he was not under any attack, but not so quickly that it didn’t distract Addolcarrec from the fact that his threat to the Marines had been tampered with, things went rather calmly. Galdern had decided it would be best if he approached the daughter himself to gain a better understanding of what had occurred, which would allow Bal to continue her encounter with the creature from Sakkra. Which was proving entertaining at the least, and indirectly informative of the new, to the Yvresse, species.

Indeed the answers from the creature where amusing the Ranger, and she was pleased that he picked up her job, and purpose here. She would have to keep an eye on the creature; it made for an interesting experience after all, a fine pet to keep around, at least for now. As the door’s opened and their hosts emerged through Bal-Shanaar saw a sight she thought never to see, not the glowing man, or the other impressive elven figures, but the Dwarfs she couldn’t help herself and exclaimed loudly. ‘By the Mother, Squats I thought they had all been eaten!’ fortunately for now, most of that phrase was spoken in Eldarin only the word Squat being identifiable to those not able to speak the ancient language.

Galdern meanwhile had been facing a small problem, the daughter, he wished to approach the young woman but was aware from his studies that such things where often delicate amongst the humans. Who, like any mildly sentient species where highly protective of their young. This Hesche individual, from what he understood, was unlikely to be any different. If he was to simply walk over to the young woman it would look strange, but he needed to speak to her before they began their task.

It actually came as some irritation therefore when their hosts made their appearance, but it seemed he would have to wait… although perhaps not. It would take some careful timing on his part but if he could arrange to take a seat next to the girl it would look a little less strange if he spoke to her. It could potentially open a dialogue, which he could extend later. Of course it seemed such an arrangement would be difficult, the father seemed popular and outgoing, and it was likely he would find the people choosing to sit near the man a lot more than normal for such events.

(OOC Note: Backlash and Italics shall be used to indicate SubNet chatter. Italics alone indicate emphasis...or something like that.)

/Joe - Please be seated, eh? I remember my damned briefings, what do we do?
/Kath - Use your eyes. Follow the leader.

Kathleen's long stride rapidly caught her up to Shay, who had already headed towards the nearest chair-like object that looked about the right size, made likelier by the presence of a 'lik sized chair to its right. Joe had to put a little bit of pep into his step to keep up, lacking Kathleen's magnificent legs. Still, they managed to make it so as that when Shay's buttocks touched the seat of the chair, their own were mere instants behind.

The hesitance was quite natural. It was general policy for Revenians visiting other nations to stand, as most chairs were not constructed to handle the deceptive weight of the average Revenian. On the other hand, Shay apparently knew what he was doing. Maybe.

/Joe - 'n I thought you were over-dressed, Boss. Little did I know...
/Shay - Don't worry about it. You don't have to play a part. I do.
/Joe - What? Nobody has even so much as glanced at us, Boss. I've been watching. What the hell kind of part do you have to play where you aren't even noticed?

It was relatively muffled, the backhand, but it was still audible. It was a thing of precision and control, obvious because Joe kept his seat. The iron-like hand that clamped down over his mouth a half-instant after the back of same hand had collided with Joe's head prevented any further continuation. It was, on one level, a dominance ritual. On the other, it was...playing a part.

An icy glance delivered, Shay let his hand fall back into his lap. Joe was perfectly silent. Some things had to be done the old fashioned way...

/Kath - was that perfectly necessary?
/Shay - One.
/Kath - Right, right. Who're the point-ears?
/Shay - People of sufficient significance that when they ask for hired guns, they get them? I knew something was fishy about this. The Authority wouldn't normally send someone like me to some place like this. Somebody called in a lot of favors, and it wasn't yon Tinklies. No, I think that we're somebody's failed gesture of friendship. Hah. Go figure.
/Kath - How bad are we talking?
/Shay - Bad. Real bad. The RASP Op in me smells a set-up, but...well...the rest of me can't believe that. I'm not important enough for that.
/Joe - But, Boss, you're a noble and stuff...
/Shay - Yes, I am. In Revenia. Here? Nothing. 'n you don't know who the point-ears are. I do. My ego isn't big enough to believe that this was for me. No, we just got screwed over...
/Kath - So, what do we do about it?
/Shay - Well, I'm going to break an arm, Joe's going to have an allergic reaction...and you're going to carry him back to the embassy.
/Kath - I notice you're breaking an arm and staying? No. I'm not leaving you to die, and fuck the contract.
/Shay - You don't have a choice. I don't have a choice. SOP for the Bonding a merc of my level is Blood Oath. I quite literally cannot breech this contract.
/Kath - So? So send Joe back by himself. I'm staying.
/Shay - No, you're not. You couldn't increase my chance of survival by your presence, and I won't have to worry about you, which means I can spend more time worrying about me which actually increases my chances of survival. You are going to tell Finlay about this, and Finlay is going to talk to Harm and Dysaryn and Sero, and Revenia is going to become even more isolationist. Which is a shame...but. But, the way it is.

Shay had remained emotionless throughout, externally, he appeared quite intent on whatever it was his hosts chose to say. Internally, his stomach felt like a pit and it was a testament to his willpower that he was not presently rolled into a ball and crying. Such things were not done by Ascended nobles. Other things, too, such as taking the easy way out. He could at least get Joe, who, for all of his bravado was relatively innocent, and Kathleen, his oldest and loyalist friend, out. Safe. Maybe. Damn-it-all. This shouldn't have happened. By the creator, this should not have happened. But it had, and now Shay's universe had simplified considerably -- he merely had to sell himself so dearly that the price, if paid, would make his death worthwhile. Possible death, anyways. Potential of death. Something like that.

Still, really, really sucked.

Karchist has fought alongside strange allies in his time, but never so eclectic a group as this. Flashing before his eyes all too often are the red glyphs of "no information"; many of these bold warriors are unknown to his suit computer. On appearances alone many of them appear positively frail, although the Knight knows that appearances can be deceptive; the scions of the Western Shores are rich in unseelie powers. A warrior is skill and will and valour, and these carry themselves with the bearing of warriors.

... Save, perhaps, the young priest.* There is a place for priests in battle, true enough, but usually they are warrior-monks. This one, not so much.

"It shall not be said that the Heart of the World is silent against the forces of evil!" he replied to Glorfindel with booming good humour. "Tell us of this darkness from the Earth's far depths, and how best it might be smote."

He reaches up, disconnecting the helm of his armour, and deposits it with a resounding clang on the table before him; revealing a face as angular and sharp as any of his blades. Bronze hair, tied back in a thick braid and shot through with short ivory rods; bronze skin, tattooed in the loops, whorls, and jags of formal calligraphy, announcing his name and clan to any who can read it; and jagged teeth, filed to points, bared now in a razor-sharp grin.

OOC:
* Evan Naismith. Olympian priests bear a staff as a sign of office, and a wizard's staff (even with the knob on the end) is close enough to confuse the two.

Evan ends up sitting next to Karchist, and while he politely refrains from staring, he does keep glancing sideways. He'd run into all sorts of odd people and creatures, even in his relatively short span of experience, but Karchist was certainly one of the more interesting-looking ones. The man also looks like a reliable meat shield, which was something he's fairly certain that casters in adventuring groups are supposed to have. He isn't entirely sure about that - maybe he needs to download Adventuring for Dummies while he still has a reliable connection - but staying near someone seemed like a good idea and Karchist was as good a choice as any. He knows Hesche is a definite bullet-magnet, and most of the other gigantic warrior types look a bit too stupid or arrogant for his taste.

After he takes out his perscomp to take notes on, Evan offers his hand to Karchist. "Evan Naismith, sir. Pleasure to meet you," he says while the others are still sitting down. Politeness is the key to psipower, or so he's been told.

A quick flash of hand signals from Reihana results in a subsequent grin from Jas.

Here I thought the teeth, the hair, the persona were movie fluff. And he’s reproduced.

The fact she’s impressed with said daughter’s demeanor goes without being said – she appreciates the professionalism with a respectful nod and returned greeting accompanied by a soft, rare smile.

Now that their hands are free, when Evan approaches, each offer a hand in greeting in turn. “We seem to be taking part of something … monumental,” Reihana observes to him, gesturing slightly to the growing group. The more she spoke, the more clear it became that she was no Dominion native, even if one discounted the pale complexion and features reminiscent of Eastern European heritage, for those familiar with that sliver of fractal reality.

“Ya think?” Jas chuckles, exhaling away from present company again. “Glad to be on deck with ya, Mister Naismith. Here’s to hopin’ this’ll all be a bit of overkill.” He too lacked both the typical Dominion accent, and usual sense of style, what with his gruff demeanor and undefined style of speech. “Even managed ta draw out the Paragons. Huge bastards, eh?”

“Didn’t Angelico …” Rehana began, trailing off as she glanced at the marines.

“Yeah, he talked about it, but somethin’ tells me they’d be expectin’ more than ‘I wanna blow shit up while wearin’ fuckoff-huge power armor’ outta their recruits,” Jas replied, grinning around his clove-scented cigarette, which never left his mouth, then nods in the direction of the La Tigran. “There’s somethin’ ya don’t see every day, too. Trip’s already full o’ surprises.”

“Impressive,” Reihana says softly, deciding the potential gains are worth the inherent risks of shifting perception to look at the party in a different way, starting with Ana. “Very impressive.” She masks her surprise well, aside from the slight gasp that escapes when she looks at the younger Hesche. As the meeting is called to order, she nods respectfully to their hosts, one brow arching in interest as she looks them over as well. “We are definitely amongst those of tangible power, Jas. Some moreso than any we’ve gone up against by several magnitudes.”

He nods curtly, choosing a seat next to her, both taking a seat as directed. “Understood, and expected, all things considered,” he replies under his breath.

Each makes quiet notes of potential problems – such as the tension between the Yvressi and the Paragons, those who were less sociable, showing a lack of team cohesiveness, adding things up with what they know of the various races by word of mouth, by experience in having spent time in several of the nations, and those they were familiar with from intel reports.

“Honored to be here, Lords and Ladies, all,” Jas says simply to their Elven and Dwarven hosts, knowing full well who the former at least were. Oh yes, it was going to be one hell of an outing, no doubt about it.



ooc: As far as the dual perception goes, not going to make any assumptions aside from what's been aluded to, discussed, etc - feel free to let me know if there's anything Reihana would see or sense in checking folks out. Not all systems work the same, and I'm sure there's folks capable of ample masking.

Like Hesche, Karchist's teeth can also be used for a signal mirror - if the signal you want to send is "Tremble, foes of righteousness!" He turns it now on Evan for full effect. The Cetagandan's hand disappears within Karchist's massive, power-armoured gauntlet, and is shaken with evident care. Nobody needs to lose a hand here, after all.

"A good day to you, sir Naismith. Karchist Gen Murhani, at your service and that of Victory."

Well, at least the elves aren't beating around the bush. Hesche's friendliness and Naismith's unnervedness were a little surprising, but he found he couldn't really blame the young mage. Hell, Moran still felt uncomfortable in things like this. He was never big on mixers.

If he notices Reihana looking him over, he certainly doesn't show it, instead taking an available seat and waiting for the briefing to begin. What she sees in him is likely to be wholly unimpressive: he looks like a completely normal human; no added hardware, no psychic powers, no augmented anything. It's enough to make one wonder why the hell he's here. The only thing out of the ordinary -- and the only thing anybody checking him out supernaturally would notice -- is a strange darkness, for lack of a better word, swirling strangely about him, almost as if in an embrace. Likely as not, it's not quite like anything seen before; not quite possession, but not completely dissimilar.

He turns his attention to Glorfindel, waiting for the briefing to begin in earnest.

The formalities aside, Evan asks the question that's now pressing on him. "So, sir Murhani, if you don't mind me asking, what the teeth?" He waves vaguely in the direction of his own mouth.

"Reminds me of those, hmm, whatchamacalits," remarks Cloacina.

"Egyptian weirdos, like Anubis?"

"Exactly, thank you, miss." It takes Evan a moment to realize that there had been a second distinct voice. Well, crap.

Tal-Lynta and Oduh are among the last to arrive, primarily due to a mishap in the ATI arranging a transport for the scorched-bald neko and the lithe Keeper. Indeed, the pair slip into the gathering almost exactly as the meeting is called to order.

The pair couldn't be more opposite if they tried. Tal stands a few inches taller than Oduh, his catlike ears perked up and twitching as he tries to hear everything that's going on. Betraying his own nerves about possibly dealing with eldritch horrors, his tail (bald except for a truly absurd fluff of unscorched fur at the very end) twitches side to side. He's clad sensibly- heavy-duty jeans, hiking boots, utility belt and backpack with his kit. Certainly no warrior, but definitely an explorer of the archeological sort.

Oduh, on the other hand has a greater presence despite being slightly shorter than his companion. Like all the Keepers, his face has a slightly ageless quality, though he looks like he's barely out of his teens. In place of human ears, a set of delicate looking fin-structures shift and twitch as he tries to pick up as much conversation as he can. His brown hair is pulled back into a topknot, revealing clearly the small pair of horns jutting out of his head. He looks human otherwise, until one looks at his back and lower torso. A pair of coppery wings are furled close against his back so as not to crowd anyone, and a scale-covered tail swishes behind him as he walks to aid his balance. From the stomach down however, one quickly grasps that Oduh is not entirely human- his lower body covered entirely in coppery scales that glimmer nearly gold in the right light, his legs resembling those of a great raptor, with three toes each ending in large talons.

Unlike Tal-Lynta, Oduh wears very little- primarily a strange chain mail armor arrangement made so as not to interfere with the man's wings, and a sash bearing the insignia of the Arpean Thaumatology Institute as well as the Shogunate's insignia and a small rendition of the distinctive Yut logo. Still, it looks like it must be a hassle to get in and out of, and probabably explains why he has nothing covering his lower body, although he has no visible genitilia. The only item he carries is a large sword slung carefully across his back, the blade burning silver even low light, the weapon's design quite ornate with runes covering the blade. To those able to sense such things however, both the weapon and the Keeper light up psionic and thaumaturgic sensors. While Tal is only marginally capable in thaumaturgic work, Oduh is a rank expert on the subject. He may be the youngest of the Keepers (excluding Kiara Alson, the most recent addition), but like the rest, he has had battle experience and carries himself with the silent, confident tread of a veteran warrior.

The two survey the room as they slip in, and Tal nearly does a double take when he spots Hesche in the crowd. The Magnus Hesche? They sent him in on this? Sweet Goddess! Are the movies really like what happens around him? He manages not to stare at the famous Scolopendran, but still has to suppress a dopey grin. Darn, I should have brought some of my comic books!

Oduh has the presence of mind to take note of everyone in the room, gold eyes wide, drinking in the sights with an eager curiousity. He's familiar with the Sakkran Deep-Ones, having been on Titan during the Awakening, but the eccentric mix of humans, non-humans, and assorted variations thereof is positively thrilling to behold.

There's no real signs of concern in the 'Hawks body language now as they settle into their seats, Pauline a little closer to Hesche than the others, but one can tell their thoughts by their actions. Rorke isn't exactly acting shady, he's just being cautious, no doubt planning for the inevitable trouble Chase's going to cause. Trevor is sitting back calmly, nipping at a fine cigar, raising an eyebrow at Seraal's hair, and thinking to himself that she'd not be out of place in certain establishments back home.

Looking at Chase you get the odd feeling that you can still smell the oil and remains of aircraft fire about him, as he kicks back and tries to enjoy himself, still wishing to be back in the air and up against a worthy foe. Lyle is fiddling with the detonator of a large amount of the explosives he's carrying, switch, switch off. Lyle never had the resources back home that he has now, and it looks as if he could put together half the aircraft of the RAF with just what he's got on him at the moment.

Pauline is casting small glances at Hesche, while still reflexively flipping open and closing a small lighter. She absentmindedly adjusts her goggles again, and gives Lyle a swift kick to the leg for his reaching over and trying to take some of the groups Rum from her pack.

Chase leans over and mentions to Trevor that this will be nothing like dogfighting with TwoSixTwos over the Vermork plant, with Trevor simply remarking that any of the mythical monsters here aren't going to have Kraut insignia.

Local SubNet Accessed, New User entering. System Reset. System Reset. SubNet Protocol Engaged. Current Operator: Durandal. System: Fatum Celer V1.0

/Durandal - You've really got to ask yourself...
/Shay - What?
/Durandal - Whether or not you're really trying.
/Shay - Of course I'm trying. You know me.
/Durandal - Do I?
/Shay - No.
/Durandal - You're poking at shadows.
/Shay - I know. I can't help it.
/Durandal - He's disappointed, you know.
/Shay - Who?
/Durandal - You know who.
/Shay - Screw you, and screw Him. I don't see Him out here!
/Durandal - Do you really believe that?
/Shay - ...No.
/Durandal - Ask yourself, then. Ask yourself: 'Why'
/Shay - I don't know.
/Durandal - You don't know, or you don't want to know?
/Shay - Fuck you.
/Durandal - Thought so.
/Shay - Is there a point to this?
/Durandal - But of course...

SubNet Terminated. Resuming prior SubNet operation. Current Operator: Shay. System: Silver Covert V4.0
/Shay has returned.
/Kath - Shay? Where the hell were you?
/Shay - That is not dead which can eternal lie
/Joe - I think Bossman failed his SAN test.
/Shay - Not too damnably likely. Just gimme a second. I'm busy

SubNet Suspended. Engaging Subjugator Protocol. Accessing RevNet Network Node Calirnevris Alpha. Burning. Burning. Accessing Nexus SysNet. Connection Established. SubNet Connection Commenced. Opera----System Reset. System Reset. Hostile Intrusion Detected. SubNet Connection Established. Current Operator: Durandal. System: Fatum Celer V1.0

/Durandal - You didn't really think that your little protocols could match me did you?
/Shay - Not really. But I got your attention.
/Durandal - Indeed. What?
/Shay - You Win. You tell him that. What was that line, though? You know the one.
/Durandal - I do, and you do. So, you'll do it? Remember. We switched your armor. The SORA II prototype went with Carrion. You got the Cata. I'll tell him, though He knows it. He always wins. It's who he is.
/Shay - The Cata? Yeah. That'll do it. That will certainly do it. So. The line?
/Durandal - I know it. I said it. You know. I won't say it again. But I've got one that works just as well.
/Shay - What's that?
/Durandal - You'll know.
/Shay - Is there a point to this?
/Durandal - You tell me?

SubNet Terminated. Re-routing. Engaging prior operation. SubNet resumed. Operator: Shay. System: Silver Covert V4.0

/Shay has returned.
/Kath - Damnit, Shay. Stop that.
/Shay - Yes.
/Kath - What?
/Shay - Ne Cede Malis.
/Joe - ...Damnit, Boss.
/Kath - Is there a point to this?
/Shay - Yes.

Rise, Robot. RISE!

Thomas settled himself into one of the chairs in the back row, dropping his backpack on the floor beside him. For the first time since his arrival, it clanked, giving some hint to its contents.

From his nicely inconspicuous seat, Thomas glanced over the warriors in front of him, paying special attention (and using several of his filters) on the newest arrivals. Particularly interesting was the catboy/half-dragon team that came in a few moments before the meeting was called: through his filters, they had the first noticable glimmers of magic that he'd seen so far.

Other than that, nothing much seemed to have changed.

Glorfindel sat. He’d been expecting most of the others to sit first, but apparently some of them were waiting for him. He turned to look at Karchist, “Very well,” he said, nodding, “but I am not the best to tell of this…” He gestured to a dwarf on his left, who wore the same armor as the others, and a flat helmet with angular carvings upon it, with heavy cheek guards that covered his bushy grey beard that extended to his waist. Some plugs attached to the helmet, and the glimmer of glass suggested it was more sophisticated than it looked, but for the most part, it looked as distinct and ‘cultural’ as dwarves’ armor ever had.

He rose, leaning on a waraxe as long as he was high, “This is Khamandas,” Glorfindel introduced him. It was, like almost all dwarf names, not his true name, which Glorfindel indeed did not know, for the dwarves kept their own tongue... if not secret, then limited. Few knew it, even amongst the Wise. Of those present, only Celebrimbor knew enough of the language of the dwarves to speak it, for his father had been one of the few who had learnt it, as indeed had he, long ago. “A dwarf from the great city of Khazad-dûm…”

Khamandas spoke, and he spoke with an unsurprisingly gruff and gravelly accent. “Thank you Lord Glorfindel… I shall start from the very beginning of the great story of Khazad-dûm. In Elder Days…”

Idhrindiel gave a look that seemed to say ‘By Eru, the windbag is going to give us the whole damn lecture.’

“…When Durin, the re-incarnating father of the race of dwarves came upon the lake of Mirrormere, hard against the mountains of Redhorn, Cloudyhead and Silvertine…” Idhrindiel seemed to give a ‘deer trapped in the headlights’ look, and gazed longingly at a table of refreshments nearby. “…and there he founded the realm of Khazad-dûm in the caves above the lake, and slowly, over thousands of years, his people prospered and dug into the rock, until it grew to a width of fifty miles, encompassing the whole mountains, from the high tip of Silvertine to incredible depths. Into the very roots of the mountains where could be found gold and silver and beryl and opals and even strange pearls of great size, and every other workable metal and pleasing gemstone. And mithril, shining mithril… the greatest mines of it ever delved, productive to this very day. As it was dug, the wars of the elves in the north raged.” He glanced at Glorfindel, who closed his eyes for a moment. “And finally the Dark Lord was overthrown by the army of the West in the War of Wrath, and his greatest servants scattered, great dragons and demons, the greatest of which were called Balrogs.” Glorfindel gave a noticeable twitch, the first break in his previous mask of absolute graceful repose.

“But this did not trouble the dwarves for a time, and as the realm of Eregion was founded, upon the west side of the mountains by the elves, a great friendship and trade of ideas was established between the two realms.” The oldest Eldar of Menelmacar, had of course, come from Eregion, but this was not explicitly mentioned, as even Khamandas seemed to assume that all present would know that, and no one wanted to say anything that might result in his speech becoming longer. “But when Eregion and the armies of the dwarves were destroyed by the second Dark Lord...” It was Celebrimbor’s turn to wince, this time. “Khazad-dûm closed its doors, not realizing that the greatest peril lay beneath. Yet there was another moment of glory when the dwarves of Khazad-dûm fought against Sauron in the army of the Last Alliance and made siege upon his citadel, for almost two thousand years there was a peace of isolation in Khazad-dûm, until deep delving awoke the menace that slept beneath the mountain, the last of the Balrogs, Durin's Bane.” Glorfindel shot Khamandas a curious look, but didn’t interject.

“It slew the fourth incarnation of Durin, and then his son, and then drove out the dwarves from under the mountains, and the reborn Sauron sent a great host of orcs and other fell things to dwell in the city of the dwarves. Though it was slain by Mithrandir...” Again, no explanation. “...many long years after, these persisted for many millennia, until twenty years ago†, when we of Liang...” Yet again, no explanation. “...with aid from the realms of Menelmacar and Sunset, drove out or destroyed the interlopers in the mansions of the dwarves, and reestablished them.

“And though the realm of Liang has since perished in unspeakable circumstance, Khazad-dûm once again prospers as a Menelmacari protectorate...” That was something of a simplification too; it was also, for some reason, a C’tan ‘protectorate,’ and the workings of the links at a governmental level were too complex to be related in any great detail at such a council. “...and is now home to a hundred million dwarves.” Fifty miles in diameter; the mansions of the dwarves were about the size of several New York Cities‡ stacked against one another, and considerably more vertical. “And now we come to the immediate problem.

“Deep beneath the earth, Mithrandir, countless centuries ago, discovered another network of tunnels, not built by the hammers of dwarves, in which the Balrog of Morgoth had long roamed, and which he said were home to other things, though he would not speak of them, for the time when they would become known had not yet come.

“When we retook Khazad-dûm, some of us were eager to root out this menace at the roots of the mountains and confront it.” One of the dwarves nearby fidgeted a little. “But events elsewhere distracted us, almost as if they had been arranged to do so. But perhaps it was merely coincidence, and the halls of Khazad-dûm filled with a great throng of refugees.

“We think that this time has come at last.” And so he began at last to come to the point at hand, talking about how the dwarves had found themselves subject to unexplained incursions, and how every expedition they had launched into the depths, by gravitic drone, by magic, or simply by things as basic as cameras on long leads, had failed, and how they had lost three expeditions so far, beneath the deepest door, of dwarves and elves alike.

“And that is why you have been asked here,” Glorfindel said. “We know next to nothing about the presumed foe, save that it must be formidable. Oroturcáno...” The ground-specialty rank equivalent to ‘O-8’ or major-general to most people, “...Yulmëindo sent a Roquen...” Army-captain. “...Ítanér, who’s been known to be quite capable, with the first group. This is the only message we got back from them.” Glorfindel looked up at the ceiling of the balcony, and a hologram of an armored elf appeared, white as a sheet, and even visibly trembling as he spoke.

It was a cliché of a message. ‘We’re surrounded!’ ‘So many of them!’ and a crackling motion-blurred cut off as the transmitter failed and the figure ran from the image-capture field. Everyone present had probably seen the same kind of thing in at least a dozen movies. Of course, this was reality… There was a twist to that that none present knew, not even the elves, but for now, it was possibly the second most clichéd thing on the balcony, the first being Magnus Hesche’s teeth.


OOC:
† Adjust to your own timeframes as appropriate, indeed, normally I’d say more time has passed since then, but it’s related to a sub-plot thing… Isn’t fluid-time fun!
‡ In the RL sense, not the NYNJ sense. That’s a very rough and ready number, too…

With the perpetual war between the Warriors of the Emperor and the Eldar averted, albeit in a way completely incompatible with the rules of polite discourse, fair play, and freedom of speech, the Hesches follow along into the great hall and take 'their' seats at the table, Rhiannon still steaming quietly to herself, although she turns her eyes along with her father's to watch the Territorial. For once, mayhaps, Magnus is not simply looking at something feminine (and, besides, bearplay and gore had never been his things), and Rhiannon is not simply absorbing a new oddity... at least, not one on the physical plane. They both see the astral ghost, and, as incongruous as it is with the physical image and more so with it being intentional... well, that has to say something of some sort.

On that note, Magnus by experience has a little bit of astral masking up. He's a psionicist, as anyone who reads his comic books would know; his mind imprints on the reality of things and he sees what others would call 'magic' in the same light--the imprint of thought on the skein of existence. Rhiannon, on the other hand, is much more the classicist, and far less experienced. Certainly she has her outside masked--she no longer looks sixteen, for one--but she hasn't the experience to realize occasionally deeper masking is useful, and this being her first outing, her cover is only skin deep. Hence her bioscans making Timothius' bionics go all squiggly, her 'glory' being readily apparent to the Territorial, and that same 'glory' making Timothius' bionic scouter read, if not nine thousand, probably some inordinately high and thoroughly incongruous number. Perhaps it's just broken, because either his is or Thomas' is; she's definitely got a signature and making no effort to hide it. Ah, the innocence of youth.

Anyway, back to 'their' seats. The not-quite Brownian motion of everyone sitting down, each one with their own interests in mind, happens to make two seats available between Pauline the bomber pilot and Galdern the socially retarded pointy (although he could be forgiven; the Yvressi were never known for tact and, indeed, they would be less metal if they had any). The Hesches make their way to these seats, with Magnus about to sit next to the male Eldar and Rhiannon next to her female elder, but they see glances, make completely passive reads that have nothing to do with powers of the mind or spirit, look at each other, and consciously switch chairs before actually sitting down.

When it comes to the briefing, Magnus mostly concentrates on the mentions of menaces and perils and Balrogs, listening to the backstory only as a means of connecting pieces in his mind and associating vague 'hows' and 'whys' as to his connecting foot to lurking ass, beyond the overriding 'why' of 'because it is the right thing to do, to save the world and have a rollicking good adventure in the process.' Rhiannon, on the other hand, listens just as intently as she does in school, although she knows the basic outline of the story already from her reading. She does a lot of reading. A lot. Eyebrows had been raised at the Erelflo library, and her YutLink access to some of the most comprehensive collections in the multiverse did not go to waste. For example, she recognizes Glorfindel, knows who he is, what he did, and begins to comprehend just how important this whole thing is. She knows what Khazad-dûm is, could place it on a map before the briefing, and knows (at least the written histories of) what happened there.

She realizes this is a really big thing, and glances at her father. He looks back with the usual paternal concern, and a conversation happens. A perfectly normal, human conversation, the kind common between family, one made entirely of subtle facial gestures. At the end of it, Rhiannon merely watches the 'cliched' deaths with a firmer resolve, and while Magnus' face still shows a bit of concern not a whit related to himself, he also seems just a touch more relaxed.

Still, they ponder, and, probably unsurprisingly, they ponder along the same lines. No real forward intelligence. Nothing useful to go on, although the transmission is rather clear about enemy strength being a number greater than one and probably closer to 'lots.' The mention of 'Morgoth' brings up requisite national grudges, which are unimportant but add personality to the problem; this is somewhat worse than all that. The more pressing matter is that there's at least a hundred million people immediately at risk and certainly more should this be left to fester further. The duty is clear.

Magnus doesn't grin, and his daughter is glad for it; it wouldn't be appropriate. If it could possibly surprise, he looks deadly serious... just like in the movies. He is, once again, in his element. "Well, if that's all we have to go on, we may as well get on the move. Just in case, though, do you have anything else that could narrow down the kind of threat we're looking at, or give us a narrower search volume than 'under Khazad-dûm?'"

This is where he cracks a smile. "Work smart, after all."

Tal pays close attention to the story, though being a researcher into thaumaturgic phenomena he has at least a brief understanding of the underlying history already. Unfortunately, at the confirmation of lots of unknown nasties, the neko pales. He's seen the movies. He knows what sort of trouble the combination of the Magnus Hesche and unknown terrors from Below often means. Assuming of course, that the movies are entirely accurate, which he reassures himself can't possibly be the case. Right?

Oduh listens intently, not yet entirely up to speed on world history since the Keepers came out of hiding. He connects the historical dots however, noticing a trend of major events in the world at large lining up to all the times he was the only of the Keepers sleeping in the Luco ev Hojk to awaken for no immediately apparent reason. And anything that could shake the life of the world enough to roust him from so far away must be great indeed.

While the Keeper is aware that there is a great deal of "the Arts", as his kindred called mystic energies in the room, something keeps tweaking at his sixth and seventh senses. The sixth is more often known simply as intuition or empathy- and Tal sitting next to him is radiating a mix of excitement and worry. The seventh is more difficult to describe; just as the eyes detect light, the ears detect vibrations that in turn are called sound, and the skin (even skin protected by sturdy scales) reacts to the things it comes in contact with; it is a sense that 'hears' the Arts. A form of second sight that while it may not be as precise as giving numerical values for the energies it senses, it serves on a more primal level; this thing is powerful, while this is not. This thing is dangerous and a threat, while this is passive and benevolent.

Which probably explains why he keeps glancing in the direction of the Hesches, particularly the younger, confusion flitting momentarily across his face.

They really should have sent the Eldest. He has more experience than the rest of us combined. Oduh grouses to himself.

Ana briefly meets Rhiannon's and Magnus' eyes as they regard her. Her look for Magnus is appreciative, even her physical look. Her eyes may be glowing with reflected light under armored coverings and her face may be a plate, but there is a surprising wealth of expression in stance and movement, at least for the extraordinarily observant.

She bows her head to Rhiannon, and there are obviously reasons for that.

But before she can engage anyone in conversation, Glorfindel enters and she finds a seat, avoiding the shadow of the excessively tall. Then she gives full attention to the briefing and the briefed.

It was kinda weird, watching somebody go a minute and a half without blinking. Then again, considering it was Shay...maybe not so weird. Probably had some kind of membrane thing that kept such irritants as dust, harsh air, and tactical nuclear warheads out of his eyes. Wouldn't be surprising 'tall.

/Joe - Can somebody summarize that? I lost them at that funny word..Kh...whatever.
/Shay - Free Translation: We don't know what it is, but it ate somebody, and now you get to kill it.

New User identified. Bob has entered SubNet
/Bob - THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!
Bob has left SubNet

/Kath - What the hell was that?
/Shay - Hope.
/Joe - You're getting all mystical again, Boss.
/Kath - Normally I wouldn't agree with Joe, but...he's right. You're creeping me out, Shay.
/Shay - Whatever do you mean?
/Kath - You're horrible...
/Shay - Do you really think that?
/Kath - Of course not.

Shay's right hand gently caressed his warblade's pommel-wheel. Maybe a tick, maybe not. Probably insignificant.

/Kath - So. How is this going to work.
/Shay - It isn't. But that's irrelevant. Consider the allergy thing on hold, too.
/Kath - Thank the Pancreator...
/Shay - No, thank me for remembering that Joe can't act worth shit.
/Joe - Hey!
/Kath - If nothing else, we have our 'corders. We should at least be able to send back plenty of footage.
/Shay - I will, anyways, as my comm suite isn't hindered by however many thousands of feet of rock between it and the surface. You'll be constrained to local comms, if I'm not mistaken.
/Kath - Damnit. Yes, probably.
/Shay - Seeing that combined with other...recent...developments...I'm not sure I'd count us out yet. Hmm...Joe. You weren't planning on bringing those rocket launchers, were you?
/Joe - What rocket...oh. Right. Yes, I suppose I was.
/Shay - Excellent.
/Joe - What? Damnit. Stop confusing me!
/Kath - Joe...that's impossible.
/Shay - Play nice, Children. Just because we handle death with laughter doesn't mean that others do. One peep real-time and it's wigs on the green.
/Joe - What the hell does that mean?
/Shay - Think about it.
/Kath - You're getting mystifical again.
/Shay - No I'm not. You're just getting slow in the head.

Shay's lips curled into a sort of odd smile. A bizarro smile, if you will. It was almost a smile, but not quite. Even more curious was exactly what the hell he was smiling about, considering he had just watched -- sort of -- the deaths of a number of people.

Ierenn and Seraal are, perhaps unsurprisingly, seated only a few seats away from the Magnus Hesche and his daughter, with the bomber crew in between. Seraal more or less devotes her attention to the briefing, having to cope without the luxury of being able to pull the entire breadth of archives concerning the subject through Yutlink at will, while Ierenn can be seen nodding knowingly at points that are known, while the segments where explanation is not given involve some more diving and retrieving whatever comes up and examining it for consistency. Unlike some others there are no massive reams of paper scattered about some dwelling, nor even SYSNET, for that matter.

Of course, some others in the room appear to have similar capabilities, and this does not go unnoticed, especially in the case of the two that seem to be staring off into space, utterly ignorant of everything around them. The third seems to be able to actually pay attention at the same time, though this is fairly rare even in Kajal at levels comparable to Ierenn's equipment. Augmented reality, of course, remains, but it isn't really the same as it's just an overlay, and the user still has to focus on specifics.

Ierenn, on the other hand, has somewhat more ability to operate with the two streams, and it goes without saying that he is quite able of noticing the transmissions between the three Revenians, despite whatever security or masking they may have in place.

Given Ierenn's relative independance from "real time", in as far as hw he is mromaly operating on a level that brings it to a near standstill, there's even a chance he could crack the protocol and barge in on the three, were he so inclined.

Of course, given that he can already _see_ them, it's largely unnecessary. Still, a little poking or prodding about the relative inferiority of their gear can't hurt all that much, and given that he's familiar with a great deal of methods of communication, including, of all things, a form of hand signals that they all ought to know, the needling is likely to get through, and at the very least the expression he wears will signify it as a sort of friendly, knowing needling.

Somewhat obvious with them, isn't it.

Of course, receipt of the message may be slightly dependant on the intended person recognizing it as such and reading the symbols at a rate somewhat faster than usual...

Reihana and Jas both look thoughtful throughout, the latter’s eyes narrowing at certain points as if trying to piece things together from what he knows, and what’s being revealed, obviously taking careful note of it all. He lets out a slow breath with a final exhalation of smoke, again directing it away from neighboring folks. Exchanging meaningful looks with his partner, he nods in agreement with the ‘lets get to it’ comment, while Reihana takes the opportunity to take another look around with a passive astral scan, keeping things dual again, checking out more carefully those who’d joined just before the meeting began.

“Beggin’ yer pardon,” Jas begins, taking a small metal box from one of his pockets, crushing the remnant of his cigarette in it after opening, then shutting it away without leaving any mess for their hosts. “In addition to Master Hesche’s question, is anythin’ known about the effectiveness of weapons, what types r’ best, an’ the same bits fer more ah, mystical means against these things? It’d be helpful ta’ have an inkling o’ what bits to load up heaviest with, if possible.”

Mirrk listens to the backstory intently without making the slightest noise. When the dwarf gets to the point of the meeting, both his eyes focus on the visual record. The creates a sort of tunnel vision and allows his eyes to see beyond normal spectrums, but the quality of the recording doesn't allow him to make any sense of it. The elfen ones pride themselves on appearing unflappable. Surely to make one seem that all blood has been drawn out of him....hmmmm....

His mouthplates clack together against the sides of his jaws, creating a low staccato rhythm like ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku. Hearing the statement of Hesche and the Dominion representatives, Mirrk wonders what they'll be facing, and how much the skulls of whatever it is could fetch. He brought his glyphing supplies with him, as well as several thauma-containers from the Order. "May need a moment to prepare myself."

It might seem surprising given her behaviour so far, yet somehow; Bal-Shanaar sits quietly throughout the majority of the briefing, staring intently at the speakers, listening to the tale, trying to stifle her disappointment at one point. Oh so not a Squat, parallel evolution or whatever, much like with our close likeness to that of the Noldor and kin. for a second she felt genuine disappointment then it passed, it was not as if the rest of this place was dull. Plenty of things to do, people to see, new places and experiences, and her new ‘pet’.

After a while they reached the moment of the previous groups’ death and tears appeared on her face. A few of the Yvresse still had problems with the Council’s decree about the Elves and their status as Keigh, not Bal-Shanaar; she saw the reasons and accepted them. Seeing one in such terror and fear filled her to a deep rage. It likely didn’t help that she was an outcast, such emotions often threatened to overwhelm her kind.

For a while she swung between rage, and grief, and then she seemed to move on, it was a strange thing to see, one moment tears tracked down her face, and her hands where balled into fists and then… Nothing, she was smiling again.

****

Hesches question allowed him an opportunity, caught by surprise once he hadn’t reopened himself to the mystical realm too much since then. It simply ticked around him as a dull background hum, he was aware of it, as he always was, it would be impossible for him to cut himself off from the Immateriam it would drive him insane with need, but he hadn’t focused on it.

‘I could try a sideways look, if we are all agreed we are going down there, then I could try looking at our futures. I cannot promise any results however, I have tried to look at the place myself to no success, but, well this place, this room bristles with fate. It drips off the ceiling, it clings to certain people here, as does energy…’ he paused to look at the girl beside him, a strange glimmer in his eye, before he continued. ‘In some it hangs in a most unexpected manner, in others well, time seems truly bent.’

His tone seemed almost wistful as he spoke, perhaps with a hint of longing inside it. ‘I can peer at what may befall us in that place, what we may face. If we are being blocked from a direct divination, our foes may not think too block this approach, or may not even be able. As I said fate and power hangs around this room, around the people gathered here.’

****
Addolcarrec, liked briefings, he understood briefings, what he didn’t really like was briefings that seemed to come down to… ‘We don’t know anything.’ He’d been in countless campaigns, on countless worlds against numberless foes, and yet never once had he been at a briefing with so little information. (Of course those campaigns at some level having all been planned by Farseer might help explain his somewhat lucky position on this front) He had a few questions of his own, but they would wait, for now it seemed the focus of the room was on one matter already. Perhaps by waiting a few of his doubts would be laid to rest.

Unlike many others, Moran was positively delighted by the lack of intelligence on what particular brand of beastie(s) they'd be facing. This was like the good old days. Actually, this was more information than he was used to; usually the diabolic slayers of reality were a complete surprize. Open the wrong chamber, and dammit, a haunting horror is trying to suck your brain through your eyesockets. At least this time, he knew there was something that wanted to gnaw on the remains of his soul. Much more would almost be like cheating. There's no sport in hunting deer with tactical nuclear warheads, and there's no sport in hunting mind-bending terrors from beyond when you have a full dossier.

An insane attitude, perhaps, but it came with the job, really. Questionable sanity aside, the man wasn't stupid, so he paid close attention to the video (no mystical help here, but years of experience), watching for strange shadows, distortions in the air and various other hallmarks of lurrkeing monstrosities. Sadly, even the best video degraded sight and sound (and eliminated scent and tactile impressions), so he didn't expect much. He also listened to the questions asked. Again, insanity is different than stupidity; he may like having no intel, but he wasn't about to ignore it.

Trevor continues calmly nipping at his cigar, and watches as Chase plonks his gun down on the table with a resounding thunk, purely for Rorke's benefit in gauging the reactions of the people in the hall. Ana, in particular interests Rorke, the odd, 'just strange' look, at least to someone from an entirely different time and reality. He taps Trevor on the shoulder, and gestures in Ana's direction.

Trevor lightly taps his cigar, and merely mentions "No different from others here, I'd be more worried meself about the ones with the sodding great symbols carved into them." Rorke grins. "The fodder or the one with the bloody huge hammer?" "Just keep an eye on them, Rorke. We'll have more to worry about soon than whether or not someone is going to grow a mustache and invade snowy countries." "Right, Boss." And so Rorke returns to keeping an eye on all of the others, rather than one or the other.

Chase simply takes a long, measured time loading and otherwise preparing his gun, Pauline still fending off Lyle's Rum thieving efforts and gazing wistfully at Hesche, causing Rorke to smack her over the back of the cap with a rather yellowing comic book. "Just go and talk to 'im, Pauline." "Not on your life, and if you aren't careful, you're not getting your drink for the day.", the reply.

Glorfindel nodded to Nárlanyo, and the wizard-elf stood, leaning slightly on his Airëavandil, the white greatstaff that traditionally marked the mages of the Menelmacari armed forces. Each such staff was grown in secret, in guarded and hidden groves of white trees of the distant lineage of Gondor, and Númenorë before that, and Valinor before all, tended by ents and strange cadres of elves. Each staff was unique, created from a single branch, and grown with intent by the tree from which it came for a single bearer. Though they were smoothed out, and often trimmed and decorated, they were nonetheless, whole branches, and many years would have to pass for one to gain such a staff. As one might expect, there were perennially more battle-mages than staffs to equip them, and the waiting list was a long one. Nárlanyo’s was smooth in all respects, save that it was capped with Mithril at each end and banded about every foot or so of its considerable length with gold.

The elf was tall, which was no surprise, and he was indeed, one of the tallest elves present, close to seven feet in height, about the same height as the Necron lord beside him stood. Nárlanyo seemed to be the very epitome of an elf – though this was less pronounced in the presence of Glorfindel – he wore upon his fingers a number of rings, and carried at his side a long tapering sword. His dress was, for now, of deep red and black, with deep green traceries.

“In answer to the question, there is little that is known or even suspected about the things beneath the mountains, save a few scattered reports from long ago, and occasional encounters with similar things in more recent times. First off, from one encounter with the creature that lurked outside the west gate of Moria…” as Nárlanyo spoke, he took up a book from the rail of the balcony, which was wide enough to serve as an impromptu table, his steps over to it accompanied by the tap of metal upon stone, like a hammer ringing in the deep.

He laid the staff down for a moment, and opened the book that stood there, with a ceramic frame with iron traceries about its very edges, and a cover of perfectly set slices of garnets, a golden dagger-star upon its cover, and Fëanorian characters graven into it, and highlighted with white paint.

Taking a green ribbon from the bottom of the book, he opened it part of the way through, “This is a gestalt account of the last time such a creature – or what we believe was one – was encountered at Khazad-dûm. There are a few other mentions of it in some documents of interest, calling it the Watcher in the Water, as it dwelt in a lake hard against the mountain’s western slope, for a time at least,” he gave no explanation of characters, nor their significance.

The others swung round and saw the waters of the lake seething, as if a host of snakes were swimming up from the southern end. Out from the water a long sinuous tentacle had crawled; it was pale-green and luminous and wet. Its fingered end had hold of Frodo's foot and was dragging him into the water. Sam on his knees was now slashing at it with a knife. The arm let go of Frodo, and Sam pulled him away, crying out for help. Twenty others arms came rippling out. The dark water boiled, and there was a hideous stench.

‘Into the gateway! Up the stairs! Quick!’ shouted Gandalf leaping back. Rousing them from the horror that seemed to have rooted all but Sam to the ground where they stood, he drove them forward.

They were just in time. Sam and Frodo were only a few steps up, and Gandalf had just begun to climb, when the groping tentacles writhed across the narrow shore and fingered the cliff-wall and the doors. One came wriggling over the threshold, glistening in the starlight. Gandalf turned and paused. If he was considering what word would close the gate again from within, there was no need. Many coiling arms seized the doors on either side, and with horrible strength, swung them round. With a shattering echo they slammed, and all light was lost. A noise of rending and crashing came dully through the ponderous stone.

They heard Gandalf go back down the steps and thrust his staff against the doors. There was a quiver in the stone and the stairs trembled, .but the doors did not open. ‘Well, well!' said the wizard. ‘The passage is blocked behind us now and there is only one way out – on the other side of the mountains. I fear from the sounds that boulders have been piled up, and the trees uprooted and thrown across the gate. I am sorry; for the trees were beautiful, and had stood so long.'

‘I felt that something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched the water,' said Frodo. ‘What was the thing, or were there many of them?'

‘I do not know,' answered Gandalf, 'but the arms were all guided by one purpose. Something has crept, or has been driven out of dark waters under the mountains. There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.' He did not speak aloud his thought that whatever it was that dwelt in the lake, it had seized on Frodo first among all the Company.

For those familiar with Menelmacari legend, such as Rhiannon, the last line would have more importance. “The same creature, or what we take for it, was seen briefly on my last trip to Khazad-dûm, and fired upon, though the results were unclear. What we did get was enough to confirm a previous suspicion that it was at least close kin of creatures occasionally used by Morgoth in recent yéni,” he snapped the book shut, and put it down, taking up his staff once again, “designated ‘Krakens’ by that enemy, they were notably introduced to Mars before the Enemy was run off that planet, and have been used in place of submarines before…” he said, and raised his hand.

To Ana, and anyone else looking for transmissions, the room would suddenly glow with a thousand sources suddenly coordinating with one another, as tiny holographic generators harmonized and produced an image once again. It was of a creature, somewhat like an octopus, but far uglier than any octopus, with small black eyes, almost vestigial, and a score of slender tentacles, in a mottled green-black color, and a strange mix of beak and gaping wolf mouth.

“Those we have encountered haven’t been that tough, as you’ve heard, they can be damaged by knives, if not seriously, and while they have considerable strength, those we have encountered have no special protections save being large beasts with dense musculatures. We’ve never really taken one apart, though, and can’t say much about their internals; they’ve generally been ‘torpedo on sight.’ Magically, we know next to nothing about their resilience.

“What’s more,” Nárlanyo continued, “one thing that we do know – looking into the past isn’t nearly as difficult as looking into the future where this area is concerned, and no ‘krakens’ have emerged from the area for millennia – is that they’re not necessarily the same group as Morgoth used in this age, nor, to our knowledge, have such things been used by him in earlier ages.

“It isn’t the actual physicality of the creatures that concerns us; it is the apparently organized nature of their concealment and the sophisticated nature of their apparent attacks that provides the immediate concern.

“Though again, I must caution that we don’t actually know what we’re dealing with, and even if our suspicions are correct, it has been tens of thousands of years since any substantial encounter with this enemy has been recorded, and in that time, they may well have changed beyond all recognition,” he glanced at the Eldar group, considering how different even they would have been twenty seven thousand years ago…

"Hm. So we may be up against an over-standard sea critter and its derivatives. I'm forced to say 'derivatives,'" Magnus says with a wry but humorful smirk, "because unless Old Tentacles there had a nasty habit of being amphibious it's hard to imagine him and his buddies surrounding anyone on dry land." It's sort of a nice way of saying 'thanks for nothing,' but that sort of thing is expected from military intelligence. Folding his arms, he leans back in his chair and looks at the image thoughtfully for a few moments before continuing. "If there is a relation, at least it is vaguely squid-shaped and so you called the right man. Perhaps men, even," he says, tossing a smirk down Moran's way.

Yeah, Rhiannon knows that story, but the connection of the thing in the water outside the gate hadn't quite clicked until it was pointed out in the direct reading. It was something of a random monster event, really, and not one resolved at all. Running off the assumption that it could be the same critter (extreme longevity being a more natural assumption to her by birth and given the mode of a lot of the people here, as compared to her father), and the tendency of such creatures in the story to just get worse... Well, she figures her adopted father has a point in that there still at the very least a lot of these things, or worse, scurrying about. Or, she continues to think, maybe only the equivalent thereto... all of which is purely speculative at best at this point.

"Sir, may I make a comment?" This much addressed to Nárlanyo, and acknowledged with a polite nod. "While there's quite possibly a connection here, and it does establish a lurking evil left to lurk, I do think my father Senior Agent Hesche brings up an important point. It would be hard for only one of these 'Krakens,' even if a very old and powerful one, to do what little we've heard them do: primarily encapsulation of highly armed and not necessarily concentrated forces, sir. It, or its descendants, could certainly be related to the threat but I'm afraid it's all sounding very conjectural at the moment and we may as well be served taking a look for ourselves."

She thinks for a moment, and in her reading of various Scolopendran Military Services regulation books she figures she needs another one of the seven basic statements: "Sir, may I ask a question?" Once acknowledged with another nod, albeit one which may be a little more quizzical this time, she continues. "Is there any geological indication that the pool beside the western door extends to any sort of underground aquifer that could either service the tunnel complex underneath Khazad-dûm, or directly extend underneath or through said complex, sir? I remember looking at public-source geological data maps but I never event thought to bother to memorize them," sounding slightly self-reproachful for a moment, "but that water is down would almost have to be a given, or else Khazad-dûm would've never been founded in the first place as there's no evidence of large scale irrigation or aquaduct systems operating off of things like mountain runoff and the like. The vault had, has to get its drinking water from somewhere."

Magnus nods. Perhaps a bit too bookwyrmish an approach for his tastes, but it was still an intelligent way to try and collate the information offered with the very small set of data properly known... except that it could lead to unnecessary and frankly dangerous preconceptions of the threat. Well, that's just something people have to learn through experience. In one of these nods he notices Pauline sneaking a glance at him; he just grins momentarily in response before going back to his quietly happily excited businesslike air.

"The first divide between a Knight and a lesser man is the endurance of pain," Karchist explains to Evan. "Thus when I reached my ninth year and came of age the Lords of my Clan took the file to my teeth; that all might know I would be a Knight."

He turns to Nárlanyo. "There are many foes on Mars, but these I do not recognise. No matter; the enemies of Righteousness are never still in their machinations - and may still be smote by the servants of the God.

"Less I misunderstand your thoughts, noble Glorfindel, having now been met with force and greater force, whatever blasphemous Master commands these foul beasts will now forsee himself met by greater force again - and thus a smaller group, less in numbers though not in Valour, may enter unnoticed the depths of his lair where a larger force would be struck down."

The alternative - that the foe who has so far managed to see and smite even the least of the sensors the Menelmacari have sent may see and smite this party with equal ease - doesn't seem to bother him. Even in death there is Glory, after all, and the smaller group has yet another advantage over the armies of dwarves and elves who have gone before - they didn't have an Olympian Knight.

The three Paragons, Moses and Phenix now clad in the hulking edifice-shrines that formed Tactical Dreadnought Armour, Timothius still in Paragon dress uniform, share blank stares.
The Paragons are the professional military formation, they are concerned with literally nothing else, and the paucity of this briefing has left them rather disquieted.

Moses turns a vague smile on the elves, hands clasped on top of his door-sized storm shield.
"So, as far as I can make out...sir, whatever is down there has managed to destroy several formations without revealing any details about itself. At all. And as Mistress Hesche has stated, any link between your enemy and this 'kraken' is presently just conjectural?"

His smile is now an almost entirely humourless grin.
"I see that it's obviously been very difficult to obtain concrete data, and if I may make a slight suggestion and guess, our expedition down there will be in the order of confirming what a reasonable level of response is, rather than a solution to whatever the problem is? In which case, I must echo the gentleman with the interesting teeth's statement, less is more."

A pause, and the Sergeant gives a wry look at the table, attempting to do something he's not really had much practice with, that is, be polite.
"Indeed, I would, casting no aspersions on the skills of various individuals here, recommend that the majority of you remain above, or, if for honour's sake, you feel you must deploy, then do so in a manner where you can seek egress easily. Especially those of you who might be...less than committed to the mission."

This last is accompanied with an opaque glance at the Eldar, who's presence is, to the Paragons, almost certainly part of some machination to further the goals of their species, as is traditional for that particular breed of Xeno.
"With that said, I must press for haste. Remaining here longer does not gain us additional information or preparedness, but it does allow the lurking dark below to gather more strength and deepen its' evil."

'...but are you man enough for two?'

Soft giggling laughter quietly marked the arrival of two more latecomers. A quick glance might have mistaken them as twins: Female, both with significant asian ancestory, and dressed in the textured charcoal and sable camoflage light powered armor (http://www.sunsetrpg.com/images/SDFLPAa.jpg) favored by the SDF's intelligence services. Those who had spent some time in the embassy halls of Khazad-dûm might have recognized the two and possibly excused their tardiness. Serving as the security section, intelligence section, and gossip section of the minor Sunset embassy there they had been present for the recent ruckus.

'Looks like we missed the introductions...'

Sun Yi (Mu, from the nametag on her breast) took a seat with the slightly slighter Yari (Also Mu) taking a seat on her lap. They sat quietly though their previous conversation continued privately.

'Magnus Hesche, the Man of Action huh?'

'Mmm, yep, I'd definately take some of that action...'

'If you know what I mean?'

'Maybe I should offer him the ambassador suite back at the mountain...'

'Why don't you just tie a bow around your chest and have yourself delivered to his quarters...'

/Kath - Squid?
/Shay - Squid. Kath, tell me you remembered the tracers.
/Kath - I remembered the tracers, and I mean that, for once.
/Shay - Excellent.

Shay's left hand, previously resting on his warblade's pommel-wheel, was now resting on his thigh. His right hand had dropped to rest near his holstered Northfell Armory Model VII Combat Pistol chambered for .45 MMC. It was quite obsolete when compared to the RevTek APSP variable 10mm gravdriver in his duffel...but. But the APSP lacked the...presence...of the Model VII, the unsurpassed craftsmanship. Logic didn't enter into the equation.

He was, by nature, a patient man...but that did not mean he enjoyed having his time wasted. Which, presently, was exactly what was occuring. He even allowed a small amount of this irritation to show throw on his face. Viewed absolutely, it was an almost imperceptible change. However, considering that it was the first emotion of any sort that he had deigned to show...

His left hand crossed to lift his right off of his thigh, then began to rub the right index finger gently, gently. His right hand was dominant -- his sword hand. The right index finger was his trigger finger. It was necessary, you see, to ensure that one's tools were in working order.

(OOC - In reply to Olympus Mons' bit below - What? I'm afraid I've missed the point. Not to say that I'm unaware that I am at the very least referencing if not ripping directly from Marathon within the majority of my posts in this thread -- the character of Durandal, references to a large number of level titles, The BoB saying 'They're Everywhere!,' and within this very post, the .45 MMC. If there is a legitimate complaint, I will very willingly remove not only those elements from my posts, but the posts themselves.

That said, I am more than a little bit personally insulted by Olympus Mons' player's action, and thus would very much like to ask what specifically prompted it. It seems to me that I must have done something extremely wrong or violated some sort of unspoken law unawares. If it is, however, merely in reference to the above unoriginal elements...I suppose I will withdraw from this thread, as it would seem very much to me that the flaw is not in the reference or influence or whatever the term you wish to use, but in myself, as there seems to be no objection to the use of Space Marines or Eldar or the works of Tolkien. I sincerely hope that this is not the case, as even if I haven't exactly been at the top of my form thus far, do hope that I can get there eventually. However, my own wishes are relatively minor in comparison...

The prior undoubtedly seems rather disjointed and nonsensical, and I apologize for that...however, I feel very much as if I been gut-punched...

-Rev)

Mirrk allowed the limited information to flow around in his head. At the same time, a tiny trickle of salivary fluid was trickling from the side of his mouth. If we're going to go against that, I wonder what it would taste like. It looks .... delicious.

But his vocalizations took a different tone. "It seems that there is little known about what is there. Creature described in book resembles creature self hunts at home. Maybe distant relative, but very doubtful. If it is similar in some ways, preparations will be needed by self. As earlier stated, no new information is avilable, yes? If not, perhaps best to make ready and offer prayers to appropriate deities before departing, unless self is mistaken."

Evan frowns, and thinks over the reports so far. The fact that these things had taken down several armed teams before was a cause for some concern, as was the apparent organized nature. Still, organized didn't necessarily imply truly intelligent. He raised his hand up a bit to catch Glorfindel's attention.

"Pardon me, Lord Glorfindel. I understand the reasoning behind sending down a smaller and better-equipped force for scouting. However, is there any particular reason you haven't just shoved a few approriately-sized nukes or gravybombs down the hole and vaporized the greeblies? Sure, there could be fallout, but I understood that Menelmacari technology could easily deal with that sort of thing."

Tal gawks at the Cetagandan rather openly for a moment as the suggestion of overkill use of force is made.

"Actually, I kinda agree with 'im." The bald neko agrees with just a touch more enthusiasm than is strictly called for. "I mean, you'd probably need some kinda continent cracker from orbit to do it the fastest way, but there's gotta be some way to get something a little more precise down there and smoke the buggers out, right?"

Oduh raises an eyebrow at his companion. "Tal-Lynta, I may be inaccurate in this, but these tunnels lie beneath a large city in the caverns. Would not an indiscriminate use of explosives potentially jeopardize everything above them?"

Now things are beginning to get interesting.

Thomas leans forward, studying the image of the kraken. He's seen this kind of thing before, of course - but only in the Guild archives, and never in such holographic detail. But it's the implication that worries him more. He waits for a pause in the conversation before speaking.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but don't demons tend to enjoy manifesting as tentacled horrors? Some of them can even resemble krakens when viewed from the right directions. And some of them can be rather nasty - I don't know if you're familiar with the names of the greater demons, but Cthulhu is the one that comes to mind.

"Are you sure that this is just a normal kraken we're dealing with here? This and the record you showed us earlier seem to me like they could be part of a major invasion - staged by demons or things stranger than demons."

Great. I've been sent to kill fucking Cthulhu. What's that bloated bastard doing in this reality? Moran sighed softly under his breath, at least it's in my wheelhouse. But, oh, people were talking again.

Hesche's smirk caught him slightly off gaurd, but he shrugged in a way that said 'Yeah, I'm a weirdness magnet too.' Of course, probably not to the extent of Hesche. After all, his title was 'professor' as opposed to 'The'. Still, the fact that The Magnus Hesche was (at least) familiar with Moran and his work was refreshing.

His attention turned to the massive man in the power armor. That is, the massive man in the power armor with the pointy teeth. "There's something to be said for stealthy recon, but there's also the problem of the fact that this... beastie... has already made quick work of substantial forces. A small group may also be eaten quite quickly, thus leaving us with fewer people to form a large force with." The unspoken continuation being: and if all the artillary is destroyed, we'll really be screwed.

Looking over at the denuded kat and the wizzard, "While there's something to be said for engaging in a spot of overbombing, there's the problem of the surrounding structure. Hucking a nuke down there might very well kill the whatsit, but it might collapse part of the mountain. Natural caves can be resiliant, but this is a mine, remember. They tend to be more... delicate.

"Besides, there's critters out there that don't much concern themselves with nukes. Chopping off a tentacle doesn't necessarily mean anything, after all. Sometimes they grow back. Sometimes it's not a matter of killing but of banishing," He nods to Thomas with a hint of irritation, "As was just bluntly mentioned."

"Come on, this is Menelmacar. They have flying super-battleships, how hard is protecting some mines from minor blast effect?" Evan considers Moran's reply for another moment, then concedes, "Although the reforming thing is tricky."

At this little tidbit by Moran, Trevor spews the last of the cigar into the air, and taps Chase on the shoulder. Chase then looks up and taps Pauline on the shoulder in turn.

Trevor coughs for effect, as if to get everyone's attention, not that the Marines or Karchist would ever notice, and lets out a stern, authoritive, but never insulting "..No insult meant to our generous hosts, 'ere, but I get the feeling we're all getting a little antsy waiting, lack of information or no..." He looks at Karchist and the Marines. "...And a warrior needs 'is battles, after all. Needs 'is worthy foe, and we're not getting 'im sitting around here. Give us the basics, because frankly, even if we're walking into the deepest dark filled with evil and sorrow, if we wait much longer, some of us might disagree a little too pointedly with certain others here." He's talking in general, though obviously the Eldar and Marines are a concern.

Chase finishes with his rifle, Pauline snaps to from her Hesche-involving fantasies, and Rorke stands to, leaving Lyle the only one not expecting any real get going from this.

Trevor looks a little sideways at Chase, and Chase gets the hint, remarking
"I don't know about you, but we came here prepared. History lesson and lack 'o information or no, I'm sure we're all quite individually capable of handling ourselves, don't you think?"


He casts a glance at Lyle, as if expecting something.

"Even some of our desire for overkill can be dealt with, but standing around here innit helping."

Hesche merely offers a disarming grin to the Marines, and a sort of an 'aww-the-innocence-of-youth' look towards Naismith. "Well, I can quite understand, Veteran BrotherSergeant, your interests in keeping the group small and professional. No offense meant to be taken, but given your own line of work I can expect that your definition of 'professional' is probably pretty small and, well, I can understand that too. I don't think you have to worry about that, really; everyone here is dedicated to the tasks at hand, or some segment thereof, or else they wouldn't be here."

He shrugs and smiles in a way that's more self-effacing than usual. This doesn't mean it looks humble in the least; he's still almost hopelessly self-confident but for once his attitude has changed to the point where 'smug' wouldn't actually be the first thing to come to mind. "Take me, for example. I'm a professional, and I've been dealing with weird things like this with no real data on them forever. But, in the public eye, I'm a movie star and a comic book character and all sorts of other things. I agree, real actors are next to positively useless in a scrap. Really, though, I'm not an actor; I always play myself and I do all those honestly silly things for the same base Randroid reason I'm here, doing this: I enjoy it.

"I got sent here because my government knows I'm good in dealing with these things... and I can actually work together with othes, which is something HELLSING sort of lacks. Rhi is here," he says, canting her head, "because I've been training her from day one--intentionally and accurately--how to do the things that I do and, for once, the student surprised the master. I quite literally couldn't keep her away from this thing in good conscience, and have been waiting for the day I couldn't with a grin." He grins. "I done raised her right." At this he ruffles his kid's hair with one broad hand, crushing the cap that only momentarily provides resistance; Rhiannon squawks and lets out a mild curse before swatting away his arm and getting herself back into regulation prim-and-proper.

"I just can't take you anywhere, Dad, even when you're trying to be halfway decent," she grumbles under her breath. Certainly the acoustics in the room allow her to be heard; her voice carries pretty well for a young pretty thing.

"No, you can't, bahiyya." Magnus grins and gets back to the point. "So yes, I play myself in movies. That's because, well, I can deliver lines maybe seventy percent of the time and ad-lib the rest to work out just fine. I am me, after all. The Eldar over there, well, they've got fellow pointies to look out for, and I'm sure they're just as committed to the mission." Menelmacar and Scolopendra have enjoyed a long and prosperous relationship; should they somehow still get offended that 'Pendrans casually use racial slurs in common speech, no matter the ethnicity, well, tough. "We've got a collection of ass-kickers, reality-benders, and overall hardcore heroes here, and all we gotta do is go down there and get the job done."

Finally, he gives a grin to all the ladies in the room. Quite literally, all of them. Special and unique and interesting to look at in their own ways, ranging from the healthy sturdily-built worker's frame of Pauline ('proletarian' sums it up, although Magnus really doesn't like the additional connotations) to the Seraal of the supermodely Mind Control Cleavage. "And I've always said I like a job well done... especially when I get to work with so many others."

Rhiannon remains in a quietly angry folded-in posture in her chair; like nearly all teenagers, she cannot avoid being completely and utterly embarrassed by her father. Even if her father is The Magnus Hesche, considered by many to be the coolest man alive. She has the sort of glowering looking-at-the-table look where one would expect a little dark raincloud to appear over her head and rain down a bit, to emphasize the fact that She Is Displeased.

That there does actually appear to be a tiny little puff of smoky air above her crumpled BDU cap is probably just some sort of weird coincidence. Menelmacar is all magical and elfy and whatnot, after all. Mildly weird stuff has to happen on a daily basis, doesn't it? Yeah, that's the ticket.

Bal-shanaar tried not to feel what was likely a common reaction to being under that grin, she did try, but for a second she had to smile back and even preen a little, before catching herself. The man may be a legend, but he was still a Mon-Keigh. Well maybe not a Mon-Keigh perhaps just a simple human, yes that would do, he was worth more than mere extinction, there she had settled it in her mind, honest no lingering crush here Denial is so easy to fall into.

As for Galdern the meeting seemed on the verge of breaking up and he had yet to speak to the woman beside him, which had been his goal from the start, and now she appeared to be sulking. Which definitely seemed about on course for the Adolescent human Teenager she appeared to be, which would have been fine but her aura was very different. He had never come across a human with such energy at such a young age.

Ah well time to try and break the ice a little, leaning over he nodded slightly. His studies of the humans had taught him a few things, firstly while teenager‘s may rant and rave about their parents, they also would not take kindly to strangers criticising them so he would try the placating approach. ‘He may be a little over-bearing, but he’s done the trick. Bal-Shanaar for example over there was on the verge of starting a screaming match with the Astartes, at the implied insult that we would be less than upset at the death of our brethren, now she’s trying to convince herself she isn’t developing a small crush on a alien. Others who might have had their feathers ruffled from the blunt, if honest dismissal from the Astartes, are likely preening as well, and yet he has managed to do all this without insulting the Astartes.’ a hint of admiration entered his voice, some of it was even genuine.

‘And a father is allowed to be proud of their offspring after all, especially one so, gifted. I have been rude through, may I introduce myself. I am Farseer Galdern of Yvresse.’

Nárlanyo looked at Rhiannon, “It seems incredibly unlikely that there’s only one creature of concern here, yes. It is a conjectural link, but it is also the only clue there is as to what’s being dealt with. He smiled a little, “Yes. Both Mirrormere and the other side of the mountains have some connection to the deep, however, at present there is no direct link that appears to be navigable for such a creature… There is considerable water beneath the mountain, too, not least a large lake or inland sea beneath the bridge of Khazad-dûm. There are an extremely large number of internal watercourses too. Any more detailed question would probably be best answered by my friends here,” he gestured to the dwarves.

He stood aside, and let Glorfindel have the attention again; “That was my intention, yes. But it must be remembered that the first group we dispatched was also small, and they do not seem to have been able to sneak past. The size of the response,” he looked around, “has been a welcome surprise to me.

“Options involving bombs and piercing plasma have been considered, but our lack of intelligence in this situation means that before we are able to do anything like that, we must have successful reconnaissance of the area to at least give us a clue what to shoot for, unless we want to move the entire mountains, which is an idea that is… not entirely without merit, but would take so long to do safely that we may have nothing left to move by that time.

“Our only other option would be to fill the caverns with gas, and again, that is a very hit and miss idea. For now, what I want from you is a report on what’s down there, preferably how many there are, what they’re up to, that sort of thing.

“You all know most everything we do, now. You know the stakes, and the problem. Who among you will stand to decide the doom of Moria?”

Mirrk clacked his mouthplates quietly, pondering the options presented. I agreed to this because of the chance at a good hunt. It may spell my death, but I simply can't pass up the chance at a new delicacy.

His clawed arm lays out on the table, clacking erratically as his translator kicks in. "Self will do this. Desire to see what the target or targets have to 'offer' greater than survival instinct. Self agrees to perform task to best of ability."

Trevor grumbles a little. Wordlessly, of course. He tips his cap, adjusts his gear and rises to his feet like he has so many times before, a practiced effort, born of so many such(though usually airborne)challenges met and overcome. He retrieves another cigar from one of many pockets and calmly lights it. One puff, then "As eager as we are to get moving, I can personally assure you not one of us will show the first bloody streak of cowardice here, nor shall you hear the first squeak of not wanting to do our just and right duty from any of us. That I swear.", giving a short and sharp, but obviously sincere salute to his host. And probably appropriate, too, given the probable relative rank difference.

Rhiannon listens to the explanation politely, even if the dark little smoke puff still ruins things a bit, then realizes that she's showing her (emotional) age when Galdern leans over and is, quite honestly, being rather rational. The topic, and the easy-going rationality behind it, makes her remember to get in character cat-quick. Somehow, the little black cloud disappears with a barely audible 'pop,' which may convince people that it either wasn't their imagination or that they need to lay off the hooch. "I understand fully, sir," she says, all professional woman (albeit perhaps a little too much so), "and I can't deny he gets results. But my dad... well..."

She knows he's sitting right next to her and can hear every word, even if he's giving his very best smile to Bal-Shanaar. He doesn't care, and neither does she. "It's simply embarrassing, sir, being treated like a child in public, and it violates the basic precepts of polite formal convention." Rhiannon makes it sounds like the latter is the greater social grime. "As for that, I am Warrant Sergeant Rhiannon Hesche, Federated Segments of Scolopendra Office of Psionic Operations." She offers a hand in greeting.

However that turns out, Glorfindel decides to go for a little bit of the bombast and put the declaration forth for heroes. Synapses click, duty and destiny go traipsing off into the deepest parts of the cornfield after a quick minigun spray by Cupid, and before she really knows what she's doing she's on her feet. "My duty to protect the innocent demands my action. I will go."

Magnus looks up at her daughter, chuckles quietly, and stands up with a quiet, affected little groan of age. Any woman who catches his eye in this process gets a wink for her effort. "Well, that sort of thing is supposed to be my line. Getting upstaged by my own daughter... I 'spose that just means I'm teaching her right. There's a lot of people in danger that need saving, and there hasn't been a dark foe yet that could stop me. Let's finish this lurking evil once and for all."

From experience, he stands a little more heroically, yet naturally--arms just slightly bent and vaguely suggesting a Superman akimbo stance, legs parted slightly with the right in the lead, looking straight ahead with piercing blue eyes at Glorfindel--and a little breeze comes in through the window to ruffle through his blonde hair. The spitting image of an inspiring recruitment poster, except not quite overdone.

Rhiannon, in the meantime, is standing at a sort of less-rigid attention. She glances at her father, sighs, and mirrors his stance. It looks good on her, and somehow the breeze manages to ruffle the stray locks of golden hair that peek from under her no longer field-training-regulation-perfect BDU cover. She is a Hesche, after all.

Exchanging looks, and several subtle hand signals, the two mercs come to a final agreement on it all. Satisfactory arrangements had been made, the terms were more than acceptable, bordering on the obscene, and the risks were determined to be worth it all. All this aside from the personal reasons of each for taking on an unknown of this magnitude.

“We’re in,” Jas says simply, with an affirmative nod from Reihana. After the display of Heroic Might, intentional or not from the Hesche clan, there really isn’t much more to be said.

The elf lord nodded strangely, as one of the dwarves stood up. Thankfully, it wasn’t the loquacious Khamandas. This new dwarf stood tall for his kind, and he seemed younger, with more vivid colour in his ginger-brown beard, with hard blue eyes that stared out from under bushy brows and a heavy utilitarian helmet. He leaned on a weapon, a great axe that backed onto an oblique surface that was almost hammer-like, so that the weapon could be wielded as a mace, as well. Apparently keen on the stereotype, from his hefty armor there hung a two more axes, one across his back, and one, much smaller, from his belt, written in the strong runes associated with dwarves, and slightly luminescent in a way that didn’t quite gel with its environment; the light fell upon it wrongly. Also from his armor hung blocky weapons which could just be recognized as Menelmacari gravbolters, but squared off and produced to a different, more Scolopendran, aesthetic. Upon his finger he bore a strange ring of rubies.

“This is Graziknas,” Glorfindel said by way of introduction, the word jarring a little with his accent, “A dwarf of considerable renown at home, known for his journeys into old ways and dangerous areas, both within Khazad-dûm and abroad, whose footing is second to none.”

“Aye,” he said, “I’ll go with you. Can’t entrust something this important to elves,” he said wryly, with evident humor, “they’re all too flighty by half.”

Glorfindel smiled, just a little, at the apparently hostile comment, and nodded to the next few that stood, “Idhrindiel nos Fithurin, one of my Mornahossë, and one of the best,” she nodded, “And Nárlanyo, whom you know already,” he rose, as Glorfindel said it, as did Idhrindiel, and leaned on his staff a little, taking a bow.

Kathleen and Joachim seemed to emerge from a trance, their faces becoming fully animate again. They would then turn their heads inward to look at Shay, who appeared to be deep in thought. For all of, oh, say...twenty seconds. Then something that might have been decision but looked a little more like 'what the hell' came over him.

So he stood, and as he stood, his...associates...rose themselves. It was an odd sort of ripple-effect brought about by Kathleen and Joe having even less experience with 'foreigners' than Shay himself did. Or maybe it was just that they couldn't hide it as well as he did.

"...Already here, might as well go the rest of the way, I suppose. Guess we're in."

A far cry from what would've been expected, but, then, Shay was a far cry from a proper Ascended nobleman, no matter how much he looked the part. He wasn't perfect, for one.

Taking Rhiannion’s hand as it was offered Galdern continued to listen to the conversation around him. Surprised at the woman’s sudden standing he sat back to watch others stand and offer their services. For a moment he considered his options, this was his last chance; a part of him recognised he was being selfish by going. The council was needed at full strength for the coming days, it would be better for all Yvresse if he stayed on the surface, yet… Why do I lie to myself, I am going. Ahh it seems that denial is catching. Still he did not stand right away.

Addolcarrec glanced a moment at the Farseer before standing, and after removing his helmet adding his presence to those agreeing to the cause. His features seemed out of place on the man that had stood before three first company veterans and threatened them. He seemed almost carefree; certainly it seemed unlikely he had seen the battles he had claimed earlier. No scar marred his features, still there was if one was too look close enough a darkness about his eyes, a coldness of the soul. He didn’t speak he simply stood.

After a moment Bal-shanaar stood, trying her hardest to appear solemn, then a vicious look broke out over her features, for a minute she appeared the reflection of Addolcarrec, then if anything she got colder. ‘You want to know if I want to go down there and kill those things… then the answer is no. I want to go and bathe in their viscera; I want to string them up as a warning to others of their breed that they don’t touch Keigh. I want to play with them.’

As she spoke she licked her lips, running her hands down her body as if she was actually bathing, she even shivered in seeming bliss at the pictures in her mind. Then she simply took her seat again, the look on her face vanishing, replaced so suddenly with the smiles and carefree look from before that it was almost hard to imagine it had ever been there. Yet deep under all the smiles the coldness lurked hidden in her eyes.

With that out the way Galdern now stood. ‘I guess I might as well go, if only to keep an eye on our Outcast there.’ nodding his head to Bal as he spoke, his tone was reproachful every thing about him carried that same air of disapproval, yet somehow it rang a little false, as through he was merely going through the motions for the comfort of the rest of the room.

Oduh rises from his seat with a paced, deliberate motion. Without preamble, he unslings his sword and hefts it to arm's length, the weapon's tip pointed to the ground in what is obviously some form of salute. "It is only one of the twelve, but you have all the strength of one of the Keepers of the Goddess Blades to command."

Tal glances at the formal display, quirking an eyebrow at the Keeper naming what he is in the modern language and not the archaic language that's the primary tongue of all but the youngest of the Keepers. "I'm s'posed to be mostly representing the ATI, but hell, I'm in."

Another Conversation

"Well?"

"It worked."

"And?"

"Let's just say.... it's not very pretty."

"I can imagine. Is the rift whole?"

"Fortunately no. From what we observed, anything else trying to come through there would end up in a slightly scrambled form."

"Would that impede the creatures?"

"I should imagine so. Their molecules could be rearranged in a way that does not support life, preventing them from surviving. Nonetheless, the existing ones appear to have.... reproduced."

"What else have you observed?"

"From communications, we understand that a diverse group of alien life-forms is preparing to enter the general area of the rift."

"Communications? What manner of communications are these that we can intercept them?"

"Radio and equivalent frequencies; indeed highly similar to those in use by the folk of Carpedia."

"This makes matters easier. These alien life-forms -- I gather they are sentient -- are they aware of the creatures they may face? By our experience the dark ones are only defeatable by the Nova ourselves, though we know not what manner of creatures may have encountered them elsewhere."

"We're not sure.... we're getting very mixed signals. Each one has a different mental image of the beings; that would seem to imply that they do not know, as a group."

"Can we help them in some way, then? Perhaps by sending a transmission through the rift?"

"Such a transmission would be not only garbled, but there is no guarantee that their senses would be able to detect or make sense of it. The Nova, for instance, cannot without technology detect electromagnetic waves above the frequency of ultraviolet light and below a certain radio frequency; other life-forms may be even more limited."

"Is there any common ground?"

"In the range of certain frequencies.... termed 'visible light' by the Carpedians.... we believe they all overlap to some degree. We can attempt a message of that sort."

"Try it."

[Mind-picture]

For much less than a nanosecond, one may clearly see some kind of creature; one with no apparent analogue in the world of normal thought, as though it evolved independently of the universe. Minds may not recognise this new picture; after all, that is only how the creatures are perceived by the Nova themselves, and may appear differently to every organism. Then it is gone, and the mind may struggle to recapture it; it may be written off as a mass hallucination, or simply ignored, or perceived only by the subconscious; in short, it has either been of paramount significance or of no significance at all.

[End mind-picture]

"Well, that certainly worked....."

"At very least, they will have a faint memory of a picture in their minds if they confront the creatures."

"With all due respect, how do we know they even will confront the creatures?"

"We know because we are the Nova. And it is the Nova's business to know."

End Conversation (quit: The rest is silence)

Evan isn't terribly surprised that his 'nuke them all' solution is set aside for good old-fashioned adventuring. Still, it was worth a try. Besides, it gave him a distraction from the fact that the two women in his head were apparently discussing time-share options and varieties of mosses, lichens, and molds.

After a few moments, he stands up slowly, and shrugs. “It's the assignment. I'm in.” He quickly sits back down, and mutters to himself, “I damned well better be getting hazard pay for this.”

/If you do die, rest assured we'll wreck terrible vengeance upon your superiors./

“Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better. I'm sure it will be completely ineffective, as usual.”

Moran watched the slow, patchy wave form as people stood. Granted, he had already been paid by the people who sent him, so it wasn't like he really had an option here. To be honest, he hadn't expected there to be a requirement to declare one's intentions to go. Why bother coming here otherwise? Then again, this could be some strange elf ritual. He could look it up when he got home.

He stood without flourish and nodded, "Yeah, I'm in." Propaganda posters weren't his idiom. Unflinching and unflappable acceptance of the inevitable was.

Thomas stood like all the others, nodded and said his part, then sat down again. He briefly pondered some kind of impressive gesture, but the only thing he'd really mastered along those lines was fireworks - and fireworks did not seem appropriate at this point.

Ierenn and Seraal stood, yes, though they didn't exactly say much... A nice, curt little "We're in" from Seraal followed by a wink at Magnus, and Ierenn just stood slightly off to the side behind her, looking, well...

Whatever it was he usually looked. Detached, but heroic? Almost as if his sheer apathy of the moment would clear the way of monsters.

Of course, really, he was getting tired of waiting, and simply nodded affirmative when appropriate.

Now, of course, his ice blue eyes... themselves already unusual given even natural rates of occurance... they looked, well, determined.

Moses sighs.
"This is foolishness. But yes, the Adeptus Astartes will accompany whatever expedition travels below."
A pause, and Moses examines the crowd seated around the chamber and frowns.
"One further thing that gives me pause against this grouping, how are they to be supplied below? I do not think they dare trust the water, nor can food and ammunition be readily re-supplied to them, given the probable conditions in the caverns. What is to be done for them? I trust that your solutions are already prepared."
The last comes out as more of an order than a question, and Timothius raps him on the leg, Moses looking down to his seated, un-armoured brother, grimacing, and resuming his seat, expression as patient and hard as the mountains beneath which they would soon descend.

Moran had to grin a little at the massively armored marine, "How are people usually supplied while rooting around in caves? You strap the essentials to your back, carry water purification tablets, and try to keep from being down there too terribly long. And since this is a mine, there should be a place for a base camp for restock." He paused a moment and shrugged, "As for ammunition, there's something to be said for making every shot count."

Mirrk looks at the armor-clad and rather large (for humans) being with one dull-red eye. "Can not speak for others. Things as ammunition and food are not concern for self. These....." And he clacks his rather over-sized claws together. "...can not hold weapons, but are weapons. For food, self is certain there will be plenty to be found in battlefield. Keeps self's kit light for other things. Water is no problem either. Body can hold several cycle's worth of water."

OOCness: NovaCarpeDiem: Do you understand that the area in question is many thousands of miles away from Casa de Glorf, (let alone how far away you are) and your chances of reaching anyone there are minimal at best? That's even assuming you can somehow intercept signals that aren't anything like you seem to think they are, decrypt those that are internal, and work out where the council is taking place, and somehow find out what's happening within it, without being detected, despite considerable precautions being taken.

I'm going to be, as said, running the cthonic horrors for this thread, and I can tell you now, they're not what you think they are.

Karchist surges to his feet the moment Glorfindel says "doom of Moria".

"A man's Fate is a thing he makes himself," he declaims, "So that when he comes at last before the God, he may be judged according to his Deeds. It shall never be said that Karchist Gen Murhani was ever Craven. The fell beasts arraigned against us may be many, but a Knight does not turn aside from Glory for mere numbers! The armies who have gone before us are vast, but a Knight does not fear to tread where other men have fallen. I shall go down, and add there to the ledger of my fate" - and he grins that terrible, gleaming grin - "In your reconaissance."

Trevor grins, knowing what's coming next, given the various supplies strapped, tied and pinned to Pauline's gear. Pauline smirks, reaches into a bulging pocket, and retrieves what looks like something that may or may not have been a solid loaf of bread in the past. She looks at the Marines, holds it in the air and waves it about a little in a 'I'm being a smartarse but there's more than enough for all' manner before slipping it back into the same pocket.

Chase only gingerly points at Lyle, as if the very act would cause something to catch fire, as various explosives, lengths of fuse, ammunition belts, clips and magazines of a great many sorts are strapped to him in the same manner as the supplies are to Pauline.

Another puff of the cigar from Trevor, then a rather amused gesture in Moran's direction.
"He's right, you know. Simple as that."
Trevor's no great adventurer, but he damn well knows survival.

Ana acknowledges each response with a slow and formal nod. Perhaps a bit more than that at the mentions of sound logistics, and of bathing in blood and viscera. And then she rises. Slowly. Formally. Moving with inhuman precision, a smell of cinnamon and iron on her breath, to stand head downcast.

From her looks you might expect a voice like steel on steel screaming murder and defiance, not a happily gurgling spring brook.

"I come from the burning land where flame curls for ten thousand miles, past the world of war, to this world, this great and beautiful tree, and I hear there is vermin gnawing at its roots. I came as scholar, for I study the twists of the world. I came as a priestess, for it is necessary. I came as a warrior, for I am of La Tigra Blanca's tribe.

"And I stay to see the sunset from the fairest coast I have ever seen, and maybe see the sea flash green. And so I may as well stay. And learn. And strive. And fight."

A runnel of blood escapes from one of the sawteeth of her beartrap mouth, and she looks up.

"And tell, and succeed, and win. And so I offer my eyes," Glowing eyes challenge from under armored lenses. "And my arm," She flourishes her spear. "And my blood." She cups her free hand and fills it from a bloody, bitten tongue, and hurls the blood to the floor; wide, hyperbolic spatter. She regards it intently.

Whatever she was about to say, she doesn't. She sits. Quietly. There was nothing good there for an augur to see.

Rhiannon frowns a bit at Bal's... well... excitement. A bit too chaotic for her tastes, really, but so long as it serves the good... and she frowns a little more deeply at the Burning Mountainer's blood-auguring. It's a firm, businesslike frown, not so much at distaste as a sort of challenge to her sensibilities, and it really does match the sort of expression one would see on her father. Auguring isn't really something she does, so the pattern of blood doesn't mean anything to her beyond what she's read in criminal forensics textbooks.

"Excuse me, ma'am," she says, politely but without a hint of shying away or cringing, as one might expect from addressing someone so bug-blasted bonkers, "but would you like something done for that tongue?"

Magnus looks down at his daughter. He knows this particular subset of the Territory. Purposely biting one's tongue is equivalent to hopping in a door, flaring one's leather jacket, and going 'ayyyyyyy.' Still, it's not like this is totally expected and he's not going to stop her. Being only mildly prescient himself, the bloodspatter means a bit more to him, but it doesn't tell him he didn't already expect anyway. Besides, he doesn't believe in prophecies or the rigid future of a clockwork orange.

The gore-colored apparition leans slightly forward in a sitting bow, turning its head to Rhiannon. "I offer you thanks, respect, supplication for your offer, and decline. For what I did there is a prize in pain and blood, and though it is not great it must be paid." She bows her head.

The dusky shadow bows her head.

The ghost kneels and bows low.

Rhiannon Hesche blushes subduedly, nods, and replies before she bows a bit deeper and leans back into circular formation with her father. "Ah, yes. Sorry, ma'am, I didn't understand." Whatever's going on it has its reasons, and while she momentarily tries to look small and unnotable (which, given that she's a tall statuesque woman of rather comely appearance, is rather difficult, even if her father's height, breadth, and presence advantage gives her a better chance) she quickly levels herself back out to appropriate heroic attention, only staying red just around the ears.

She's twenty-seven, she has to remind herself. Twenty-seven and knowledgable in the ways of others, and able to take correction like a duck to water. Not some sort of know-it-all sweet sixteener who's read far too many books for her own good. The blood was necessary, for some weird social reason, probably--it certainly made a statement--and she didn't offend, and so no harm was done. No matter how she tries, though, the bowing and scraping certainly comes off as odd to her. Now why on earth...

Looking over to her left, she notes the Farseer again, and her ears redden just a touch more. Damn it all, she'd been rude. "I'm sorry, sir," she says, "but I got caught up in the moment." She speaks sotto voce, but anyone who really would care to listen in to her could. She speaks quietly not to hide anything; she speaks quietly just because it won't distract everyone else unless they choose to be distracted. "Certainly an... interesting group we have with us, don't you think, sir?" She glances over warily towards the Ranger again. "I don't mean to be rude, sir, but, ah, does she do that a lot? Enthusiasm is the key to diplomatic power and all, as my father likes to say, but... hm. Seems to be moderately improper to be that open about it." She rambles, but just a little.

Meanwhile, Magnus smiles disarmingly at Sergeant Moses. He likes the guy. He really does. Plus that armor, while it has all the grace of a fist in the face, is cool. Maybe partially because of the self-same lack of grace. "I'm pretty sure we all packed box lunches, at the very least, good Veteran Brother Sergeant, and if all else fails I have enough Y-Rations to feed a platoon for a week in my duffel." A Scolopendran Y-Ration is a brick of condensed nutrition about the size of a pack of playing cards that contains all the calories and nutrients to sustain a large man through a full day of strenuous activity. Now what Hesche certainly doesn't say is that the Y-Ration was particularly designated with that letter by the Military Services to stand in for 'why would you ever eat such a thing?' It has the consistency of toy soldier plastic and a delicately overpowering spinach flavor to ensure that troopers would only eat it if they had absolutely no other recourse--otherwise, one could easily get fat off a diet of these things.

"Y-rats?" Evan says, somewhat dismayed. Anything would be better than those. "I'm sure we can come up with something else. Anything. Like lemblas or a mini CHON processor or something. Best to save the rations for an emergency." Maybe he could look up a few food-conjuration spells. He'd never been good at them, but still, nothing could be worse than Y-rations.

/Perhaps we can help!/

"What? No no no. No need for help, Cloacina. Not from you. Or you, ah, other person."

\Of course, my friend. We'll find someone else!\

For a Farseer Galdern was positively cordial and polite to Rhiannon. ‘Oh I took no offence, I can quite understand such a feeling the thought of what awaits us distracts me at times. So many long buried secrets, a chance to uncover a facet of unknown Mon-Keigh ‘magic’s’ is something that should distract.’ He seemed to consider his words for a moment and then chuckled slightly under his breath. ’Although that may just be me, if you where to ask Addol over there what ’excites’ him about this trip, he would tell you something else entirely. After spending a good long time remembering what the concept you where asking him about meant.’ He paused and left the statement hanging in the air, the girl was curious and so he would not give out all the answers at once.

‘As for the gathered group, I would say it was almost monumental you have soldiers of the crip…‘ stopping himself he coughed as if slightly embarrassed before continuing ‘Excuse me I mean of course, Losseainn, about to go into battle besides Xenos breeds. You have a room filled with arcane energies from dozens of different sources. Yes this is quite the interesting group.’ Catching the direction of Rhiannon’s eye he smiled.

‘Ah Bal yes, right now she can be over-enthusiastic I suppose, but can I let you into a secret…’ He leans over a little as if imparting some hidden knowledge, ‘she can be a lot worse. An outcast is best taken as they appear; accept that she is a little crazy, a little touched. It’s not entirely accurate of course, but not entirely inaccurate, she is unprotected here,’ he gestures to where, at least on a human the heart would be as he speaks. ‘And here’ now he points to his head.

‘She is the product of a harsh society, one that asks her to act against the genetic instinct of our species, and yet is necessary due to the historical legacy of a mistake that Must Never be allowed to be repeated or forgotten.’ He shrugged ‘I make no apologises or excuses for the Kionash way of life, we are harsh, the Path system is harsh, and it is natural for a person to at some point rebel against it, and seek escape. In time she will return fully to us, and retake her place aboard Yvresse. Until then be wary around her, but remember she choose, even in her rebellion, the call of duty she serves as a Ranger.’

"Sure," Alice half-shrugged, standing up from her seat like the others before her, and added, more quietly. "Wouldn't have come, otherwise."

With the top of her dark blue beret barely coming up to Brother Moses' armored elbow, she wanted nothing more than to quietly leave. She did not have a choice in the matter; no alchemist did. Arda would sooner challenge Yut than The Tower would change its decisions because of one small alchemist's misgivings about the situation she was made part of. So she stood up like the others, said she'd go like the others, and then sat back down into a chair made for a taller person, feeling decidedly out of place among all the embodiments of heroism, in a standard-issue, oversized, over-padded uniform that would not have looked out of place on an officer in late nineteenth century Europe.

"Whenever we are ready," Yari rose and indicated the assembly before sitting again, "We are ready."

Any excuse to return to the field was worth it no matter how risky. The Mountain had not been their posting as a reward and the sharp end it was certainly not. Now that it was, despite their casual demeanor, they were yearning to put their skills on display once more.

'Course, last time it was putting our skills on display that got us sent here, wasn't it?' Sun Yi thought over their tac-net.

'Hmm?'

'Just thinking we need to keep this hands-on and hands-off...'

'Boring! Just a little...'

'No. Not unless there is a sudden need to seduce the monster with two lesbians. Since this isn't Der Angst...'

Yari sighed inwardly and moved down to sit on the ground in a lotus position in front of the chair they had been occupying. She popped two solid shiny black balls from their sockets on her armor and began spinning them noiselessly through her hands like meditation balls while they waited. Sun Yi simply watched and filled out requisition orders for various kit the embassy didn't have on hand.

Rhiannon seems to consider what Galdern says carefully, maybe with a deliberation a little beyond her years. On a completely unrelated note, easily detected by the conspiratorial closeness, is that she smells just a bit like fresh rain. Could be the latest in Scolopendran preferences for perfume, whatever. "I will keep that in mind, sir. Far be it from me to assume my sense of propriety allows me to dictate your culture to you. I just hope that you're right and she gets better, imnshallah."

Well, the thing about adventures is that you can't predict them to any real degree of accuracy, and they tend towards the unexpected. She sort of expected that her first proper adventure in the mode of the Hesche family trade would be amongst a varied party of folk against some sort of harsh reality, but she honestly expected it to be more of a Seven Samurai down-to-earth adventure, something a bit more knight-errant and small rather than a platoon of superheroes going kilometers underneath the surface of the Earth to fight lurking evil which may be the sort of sanity-stripping horrors her dad told her about once she got tired of more conventional bedtime story fare.

On another unrelated aside, Magnus was honestly kind of saddened when Rhiannon grew out of The Cat In The Hat and Wise Grandma Duck when she was about three months old. My, they grow up so fast.

Then again, she muses, she is a Hesche and therefore extraordinality, especially to an absurd degree, is perfectly normal. Now ponder this pebble. And she does.

“Some here speak of supplies,” Míriel spoke up, and rose. She was, like all elves, possessed of a certain grace, and dressed in grey raiment that hung from her shoulders in the form of gossamer cloaks and thicker, almost concealing robes. “And that is part of why I am here. You spoke of lembas,” she nodded to Evan, stepping over to him, her dark hair and grey robes fluttering lightly as she did so, and she took a steel framed aluminum box from under her cloak, upon which were engraved runes of finding and holding, simple enough, but enough to ensure that it was next to impossible to lose the box without deliberately making it lost.

A press and it opened, one side of the almost-square box, which made a prism about the size of a hand or a paper-backed book. “I give you a gift from the Elentári herself,” within lay three packages of light brown bread within golden-brown mallorn leaves, each sealed with white wax and stamped with the personal seal of Sirithil: an eightfold depiction of a Silmaril, afire, radiating eighteen spokes to the edges of the circular device, upon either side of which were two trees above an ocean. “The authentic article, which has only been given to those who aren’t elves thrice before, and is most rarely used even by ourselves.” The elf spoke truthfully; while there were other ‘forms’ of lembas – they were used occasionally by the military, and even sold in some circles – but while they were efficient (often not unlike ‘Y-rations’ themselves) and often magical, they were not quite the same as the definitive article, which was reserved as a gift of the queen, and had been as long as it had existed.

She closed the box and passed it to Evan, “As a rule, one bite provides nutrition for a day, and gives a benefit in… mastery of the body, too. Its effects are greater the more you rely upon it, though it does not quench desire for other taste as well as it could. Should you, or anyone else, want something else, we have alternatives available…” She glanced at the space marines, expecting them to distrust such witchery. “…as well as water from similar sources, and of similar potency. Also…” she gestured to her father, whose dark hair hung over his shoulder in twin ponytails banded with silver rings, who stood.

“I have also been asked to give you these, again, to those who will take them and have use for them.” Celebrimbor took from a table outside the empty ring of chairs a mahogany box, which he opened, inside, in formed padding, were forty-eight rings, each crafted from intertwined silver and bronze, and bearing a narrow strand of a blood red and pink agate between the strands. “They will fit any hand, and protect those without armor from heat, cold, lack of oxygen and most other environmental hazards. As well as this, they will ameliorate the need for nutrition, though they will not remove hunger.” The reason neither did that was because although it was possible, elves did not generally compel the body of another without exceptional cause. “However, they will take most of the night to become effective, especially on those who differ substantially from elves, and will need the same period again if they are removed and put on again…”

He put the box on one of the tables, where rings could be taken from it as the ‘adventurers’ left.

“There will be more of the lembas bread waiting, of course, if any of you wish it… Is there anything else anyone wants, in terms of weapons, ammunition, supplies, and so on?” he asked. “Some time will also be provided for preparations of your own, if you so require.”

"The extra supplies are good news." Tal speaks up, eyeing the rings with the sort of intense curiousity of a researcher. "Anything has got to be better than ATI away rations."

Even Oduh makes a grimace at the mention of the emergency rations that were part of their kit. "Indeed. Most anything is more palatable than those. I for one will gladly accept the offer. My kindred do not require food or water as often as some, so I will not require much."

"Speak for yourself!" Tal is one of the first up for the magical rings. He knows he is badly outclassed by nearly everyone else in the room. Any extra help he can get is a boon, and even more so if it means he gets to play around with Menelmacari mystical trinkets. "As for prep time, I just need to tidy my gear, and I'm good to go."

"As am I." Oduh agrees, eyes glittering with his eagerness. He is by far the most impulsive of the Keepers, the youngest, most curious, and most eager to dive into things; but he is still some 2,000 years old, and the time has at least drilled some semblance of manners into the copper-scaled mystic. "I would assume we depart at daybreak, once everyone has made ready?"

The three Paragons stare at the rings like they're so many vipers, Timothius's fingers twitching on the grips of his storm bolter, hissing through his teeth.

Phenix is no-where near as restrained, rising abruptly, the surging power of the movement unnerving when combined with his massive size, in tactical dreadnought armour Phenix is not just huge but truly monstrous, looming like the Angel of Death he is over the inevitably-startled group, stunned by the swift shift from docile statue to near-ogre.
Bulky or not, Astartes are fast.
"Tools of the Ruinous Powers! Heresy!"
"Phenix! STAND FAST!"

Moses's deafeningly-boomed order halts the blonde battle-brother half-way into a movement that would have flicked the table out of the way, preparatory to crushing Miriel with the powerfist now clenched crackling over the table.
"Go and wait outside Phenix."
The assault-cannoneer doesn't move, scowling at the elf, pale with suspicion and rage.
"Now, Phenix!"

A growl of frustration and the massive Astartes stomps out of the chamber, even as Moses turns a carefully blank look to Miriel.
"I am going to assume that given the overt nature of your offer, the...magic...these rings contain is benign and not connected to the Ruinous Powers, meaning that Brother Phenix's reaction was...excessive."

He grimaces, scars stretching horribly.
"However, we will not be accepting them and I would appreciate, for your peoples' sake, as well as that of the mission, if you didn't spring surprises like that on us, working in this..."
Timothius murmurs something.
"Yes, thank you Brother, the "eclectic milieu" as Timothius puts it, is not easy and it would be best for somewhat more subtle thought to be put to avoiding accidents, yes?"

Timothius murmurs something else, and Moses grimaces again, face contorting into gargoyle harshness, massive hands clenching with irritation.
"Of course if anyone else wishes to avail themselves of the witch-rings, the Astartes will not halt them. Each man's soul is his own to lose after all."

All three of Ana are on their feet like flowing light, looking for the threat that triggered Phenix' reaction, weapon at low ready and attention sweeping the angles not immediately covered by allies.

Her stance now isn't really that different from her stance when she walked in. She waits for a target.

When none is forthcoming, she listens, and then speaks.

"Learned hosts, noble star-knights, there seems to be a power in these rings. Though benign, friendly, watching only over a traveller's wellbeing, might it also shine like a beacon in the dark for eyes malign, unfriendly, hunting the traveller's life?"

Far to late for that, marine. Still, voluntarily taking a magic item runs against every experience in Moran's life. Usually, these sorts of things either did nothing, or they caused your face to melt off. He wasn't much worried about the bread, though. That was easy enough to mentally spin as a matter of densely packed nutrients. Of course it didn't fill you up; that would violate the laws of physics. Largely why nobody ran around eating pills instead of food, even in the future.

Subtly, he glanced over at the crispy-Kat, to see what the ring did to him. Seemingly nothing. That was positive. With only slight trepidation, he grabbed a ring and some bread for himself. If nothing else, it would be rude to refuse.

Yeah, that's the ticket...

Magnus sighs audibly and rubs his temples between the thumb and forefinger of one broad hand. That could have gone better. Gone a lot better. Cripes. Having already defused one fight between the Astartes and someone they would have gladly beaten the tar out of, then the Menelmacari, the damned pointies who pride themselves on diplomacy, good bearing, and on occasion tact, had to go off and say 'Hey! Magic!' Just thank the gods that Moses and Timothius have cooler heads on them than the obviously junior Veteran Marine... who, of course, happens to be the one responsible for having the biggest gun.

There Ain't No Justice.

"Wise counsel, Veteran Brother Sergeant," he says politely (albeit tiredly) to Moses, still full of inherent respect for the coolness of Terminator Honors. "Fortunately, I've dealt with the Menelmacari and their magic for quite a long time and no, it has nothing to do with fell lurking horrors from beyond reality unless tampered with or used to ill ends. Rings of protection and, well, ramped-up rations are far from it." His voice returns to its usual dashing derring-do self. "That being said, well, I'm already a witch of sorts and not concentrating on the environment will keep my mind clear to do the service I was called here to do." Boyishly light on his feet, he bounces up, takes as much stuff as is offered like any reasonable adventurer (you never know when that bit of string will come in handy), and goes back to his spot. Indeed, in the confusion, he swipes just a few more magic rings than he's entitled to, just in case: there's no reason to let people spontaneously combust because they refuse to wear protection. Once the distraction has died down, he plucks the one ring he's supposed to have, and examines it carefully, completely ignoring the fact he has a small handful already stashed.

It is notable that he pockets the ring, rather than actually putting it on. Rings and elves are, well, mixed blessings, and he'll have to vet it for himself first.

Rhiannon, on a similar but slightly different tack, also accepts the gifts. "It's only polite to accept gifts offered in free conscience," she says in deference to the Marines, "and, as my father said, we do lack your armor. Depending how far down we're going, the heat and pressure really will become too much for baselines. I really do hope you understand." After accepting the gifts with appropriately sincere but formal courtesy, she looks at the proffered ring, weighing it a bit then follows her dad's lead and pockets it. It's not like she needs to be protected from the environment right now, and there's another consideration, too. If Ana is right, and these things do transmit to the enemy, well... that will ensure that the fight against evil is done fairly, as is only proper and right, without skulking around like murderers and thieves in the night. Unlike her father, Rhi moves with gravity and purpose, like someone at church. This is a Very Important and Big Situation with Very Important and Big People, and so it is absolutely vital that she carry herself with the necessary bearing to best represent the Segments as a people worthy of such a challenge.

All this, of course, elicits a gentle head-shaking grin. Which gets him a momentary glare from his daughter. Incorrigible, and he's the senior diplomat and ranking officer who everyone recognizes, making his duty to show the Segments in a serious light all the more important... and here he is grinning like a schoolboy. There Ain't No Justice.

Lyle almost falls off the chair giggling at the little spectacle involving the Marines, prompting a quick and simple gesture from Trevor that indicated to those familiar with such things that Trevor was pulling rank and flat out ordering Lyle to sit down properly and shut the proverbial fuck up, and indeed he did, almost making a mockery of statues. Pauline, Chase and Rorke all look sour faced, Chase sniffing a little as if he'd smelt a burning aircraft engine.

Trevor raises an eyebrow at what he sees of Ana, and once again, he feels compelled to agree with another of the group, strange though her speech is to him.

As if out of absentminded thought he reaches slowly for his gun, patting it as if reassuring it that it would see use soon.

"Right, I'd think we agree with 'er, given the circumstances. And these 'eyes' we'd rather avoid having such an advantage over us, if ye don't mind."

‘Ahh I am afraid I spoke a little harshly, I was not presupposing you where, I can understand your concerns when it comes to the Outcast, I simply wished you too understand her a little….’ He might have gone on, and certainly he intended too when Phenix made his little scene. It tended to focus the Farseer’s attention a little, not least because Addolcarrec made to rise and impose himself in front of the violent Marine, as was his calling. With a shake of his head, and a small gesture Galdern had him retake his seat. He doubted the Elves needed his ‘aid’ and adding Addol to the mix would just be asking for trouble.

‘Ahh this will be interesting, the Marines and their hatred for the mystical, I did wonder how long they would be able to hold it in.’ He was almost disappointed by the end result, a small temper tantrum by Phenix, and Moses little remonstration and assurance to the room. Sighing he stood, cast a short look at Bal and Addol before making his way over.

Bending slightly he took a look at the rings and nodded, before reaching in and taking one of the rings carefully, after a moment he removed a glove, and gingerly placed the ring upon his finger. ‘I thank you for this gift. And I thank the Elentari for her gift.’ Nodding momentary to Miriel he retook his seat.

Moments after Galdern had taken a ring Bal moved, it was almost a leap, as she grabbed a ring for herself, and cradled it a moment. ‘Oh this will be useful, unlike some of us, I’m a scout, and I don’t have massively thick armour that makes me into a mini tank, nor can I eat dirt, so I’m happy to take one.’ She paused turned to look at the Elf and smiled, a slow lazy, smile, coyly tucked a hair behind her ears and appraised him. ‘So I hear this is, in some cultures, a way to propose marriage, give a person a ring… Well I’m sorry but while you’re cute and all, I’m not ready to settle down, but if you’re free later on…’ she licked her lips a moment, turned and walked back slowly to her seat.

After a moments thought Addolcarrec stood and strode forward, taking a ring himself a moment, he too removed a portion of his armour. This took some time, first came off the claw, which encased his hand, lowered reverently to the ground, then the gauntlet underneath. There was an audible tearing sound, and for a second he winced, as a layer of his skin was removed along with the Armour. He slipped the ring over the raw flesh and rearmed himself. ‘I accept that this ring will improve my time in combat, and thank you for this gift, honoured Autarch.’

Bowing to Celebrimbor he turned and strode back to his seat, casting a disdainful eye on the Astartes as he did so.

The Mu's, being the atypical citizens they were, didn't really believe in magic. For them everything was explainable by science if one took the time and put enough power though the main sensor array. Still jewelry was jewelry. Sun Yi rose and looked through the collection until she found two that, to her eye, matched more than any other two. A compartment in her armor opened and the two rings disappeared inside, as did a portion of the lembas. Bowing to Celebrimbor in thanks she returned to her seat where she withdrew one ring and passed it to her partner.

"They are very beautiful..." Yari tugged off an armored glove revealing a delicate hand covered in what seemed to be metallic circuitry tattoos that disappeared into the cuff of her armor. Sliding the ring on she held it up to the light where it sparkled for a moment before she began to replace the glove. "A perfect fit. That part of the magic is certainly working."

Sun Yi smiled. "Very nice. Someone once said though that when magic fails rely on three feet of steel and a strong right arm. I'm ordering swords. Big swords."

Karchist chuckles. "A Knight is heralded by Glory; his name and his Deeds go before him. Do I fear that the foebeast shall know of my coming? Let them know! Let them tremble!

"Much is written of the skills of Celebrimbor and the crafts of the Eldar. I shall not refuse such a gift, freely given as it is and without obligation."

The emphasis on those words might seem strange; but while much is said of the Eldar in the halls beneath the Mountain, not all of it is accurate. The forearm of Karchist's armour detatches with a click; the Knight's fingers are incongruously slender, like those of a surgeon or a pianist.

One of the rings slips onto his finger, and is held up to admire; being a Knight, this inevitably looks like some kind of grand gesture. Or it would, were the ring not on his middle finger.

Ring and hand disappear again within the armoured forearm.

"My thanks, noble shieldmaiden. Forever shall this gift be held within the vaults of Clan Murhani."

There’s a lot to take in, between the presentations, the connotations thereof, and the various reactions of the recipients, and so the two mercenaries take the opportunity to continue to stand quietly, observe, make note, and silently exchange thoughts with a subtle flash of nimble fingers.

Elven rings, from Celebrimbor himself no less. And the offering of lembas as well. Kingly gifts.

No doubt. Handy. Risky. You up for it?

I would sooner cut off a finger as pass up such a rare opportunity, regardless of risk. We came this far, yes? Think you we weak-willed enough that rings of protection as opposed to rings of power will dominate our minds? I believe our hosts to be sincere.

Right then. Just don’t let being surrounded by all this magic go to your head, Rei. Temptations come in many forms.

“We are honored by your gifts,” Reihana says softly with a slow nod of her head, though her eyes remain on their hosts. She gingerly selects one of the rings, examines it for a moment, then removes her glove to slip it onto a finger with deliberate slowness, as Jas accepts the lembas with a gruff nod.

“Much obliged.” He too selects a ring, taking off his left glove and sliding it onto his finger, then making a fist and looking at it curiously – of course, in the process, trying to figure out just how much such a thing is worth, and weighing whether it was worth the risk of swiping another since it seemed some were opposed to their use. Of course, he was under contract, and right now stealing from his employers, who were powerful enough that they could really make life ‘interesting’ should they choose, didn’t appeal half so much as the potential riches. Besides, the take on this job was enough to make heads spin as it was.

Each replaced their gloves, Reihana looking thoughtful as she idly toyed with her new possession. Clearly this was going to be one hell of a show, whatever the outcome. The party had its strengths and weaknesses, and already several were earmarked in their minds as fodder, others power hitters, still others unknowns. And then there was the political issues. How to properly keep them separated while managing to work together remained to be seen. At least it wouldn’t fall to them to play referee, from what they’d seen so far. So much the better.

Ierenn and Seraal are already wearing armor, of a sort, though the extra protection offered certainly is appreciated. For all the wonders of nanotechnology, there are, at the end of the days, some things that are better stopped by a plate of metal, and of course, neither of the two are wearing such things, even if their skin suits are rated to withstand blows in a way not unlike mithril chain mail.

Of course, there had been some opportunities wherein DEIMOS had been able to examine such. For now, they were lacing things with their own version, which was, of course, engineered.

The presentation of the lembas more or less literally surprises Seraal, especially because of it being the genuine article, and she's had plenty of time to read up on Menelmacari history. Ierenn remains, well... stoic, though he also examines the rings, and the lembas, and comes away with a ring that was, if possible, the manliest looking one on the table.

"We are grateful, and honored to receive your gifts of protection/warding." Ierenn said, and Seraal simply nodded behind him, pulling one of her gloves off in the process. Once they had each acquired a ring, they were discreetly slipped onto fingers, and once the gloves were replaced, they seemed to adjust to fit beyond the simple mechanics of materials like spandex, whereupon the seam between the suit's arm and the glove also disappeared.

Then, of course, Ierenn had a question. He had brought with him a few firearms, though nothing particularly large, even if the pistol and carbine were both devices that released exquisitely deadly beams of plasma.

"I presume that thou," Ierenn used the word perhaps incongruously, "...are familiar with some Kajali weapons, and the devices used to power such. If this is so, I believe/require that there will be need/want for more ammunition than I myself have brought... And, perhaps, if any other weapons similar/likeness are present, that my colleague shall obtain/acquire one."

Seraal had, of course, not actually brought with her the carbine rifle that Ierenn had, which was itself capable of causing large explosions in its own right, when properly configured.

She did, of course, have a somewhat impressive array of blades.

Evan accepts the lembas with thanks, and also snags one of the rings, studying it for a bit before slipping it into his pocket. Even from an ally it's best to do a few tests first, and a few hours shouldn't hurt. He has his own protective equipment, after all, but stacking effects are the key to psipower.

“I can think of a few minor things, but I can have those shipped down from one of the orbiting warships if you'll simply allow a shuttle to land.” He had spotted a high-priority requisition authorization attached to his orders, but hadn't brought much more than his usual equipment. He could use a few extra power packs and such. Evan even briefly considers trying to get real power armor, as opposed to the all-purpose enhanced jumpsuit he already has, but discards the idea it because it would interfere with his casting ability, not to mention he didn't know how to drive damned things.

Oduh outright glares at Phenix and his display, gleaming eyes narrowing to wary slits as his hand goes to the sword across his back at the marine's display of temper. As a Keeper, his life is dependant on magic, and on such things that seem to greatly offend the armored marines. To the more observant of the gathering, it is clear from the Keeper's stance that he has taken a disliking to that group, Phenix in particular.

Tal lays his bald ears flat to his head, having seen demonstrations of the magical feats the Keepers are capable of. There is an old saying from the Shogunate's history, that empires rise and fall on Keepers' wings. "Ah... y'know... um... no offense, sir-" He glances at Moses. "But is it really a good idea to have somebody with such... ah... passionate distaste for thaumaturgic stuff going underground with a group so heavily laden with it? I mean, we're all gonna hafta work together after all."

Oduh is far less tactful than his companion, something of a reversal, one that clearly indicates that the copper-scaled man is of a fiery disposition himself. "One such as that-" He veritably spits the word. "-has no business judging those who use the Arts, if he cannot tell the difference between the life of the world and foul powers."

Tal actually steps back and away from his companion, starting to worry that this entire mission might go completely pear-shaped before they even get to the greeblies underground.

The whole fracas with the Marines doesn't really interest Mirrk. From them bolting up at the sight of the equipment to the bellowing of their apparent leader, he sits looking over the materials before them.

Mirrk looks over the lembas that was offered, and decides to pass it up. "The offer is gracious, but self cannot chew this. Wrong consistency. And the rings look like they may not fit. But self will take one as precaution."

As gingerly as he could manage, Mirrk uses his manipulators to pick up a ring. A cursory inspection with his eyes is followed by him placing it in one of the small containers hanging off his shoulder-spikes. "Self only hopes it will not interfere with own abilities."

Mirrk then rises, looming over the gathering like a solar eclipse, and eyeballs Miriel with one eye on the side of his head. "Serrah Miriel, self takes it there is shoreline with seawater access nearby? Self needs to make preparations there and commune with the patron Scion."

Thomas selected a ring from the box and looked over it curiously. Apparently finding it adequate, he slipped it onto his finger, then collected his ration of lembas.

The offer of additional supplies seemed to interest him more.

"I don't suppose you would happen to have any old-fashioned projectile rounds on hand? Specifically shotgun shells? I have some already, but I could use as many as you can spare. The caliber doesn't really matter, but larger gauges would be best."

OOC: Don't you mean smaller gauges? Or were you wanting small rounds?

Moses stares at the copper-scaled abhuman for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his cheek at the mutant's effrontery.
"Thank you, Keeper, I believe your title was? The next time I find myself needing to consider a mu-"

Timothius thumps the side of his fist on Moses's purity-seal bedecked shoulder, holding a finger to his lips in the age-old "shh" gesture, ignoring the scowl his Brother turns on him with complete equanamity.
Moses holds his glare for a moment, then shakes himself with a whir and hiss of servomotors.

The Sergeant turns back to the Keeper, lip curling with disdain, but with his irritation under better control, the sibilant sarcasm faded into colourless irritation.
"Phenix will be on the mission, regardless of your opinion, he is a tried and trusted member of the Astartes, that he distrusts the Empyrean even more than a rational man should will have no bearing on his ability to carry out our task."

Moses pauses, scowling thoughtfully at the 'Keeper'.
"I reserve judgement on what you consider 'magic', but make no mistake, no-one who deals with the Empyrean should regard it as anything but implacably hostile to all that lives, whether actively through the lurking menace that is the Ruinous Powers, or passively through the horrifically dangerous conditions it presents to anyone paddling in its' deadly shores. If you don't think the Warp is deadly, then you're a fool as well as a abhuman."

He turns and bows to the elves.
"As it seems this group has little better to do than confront us with its' ignorance of danger, Phenix and I shall wait apart until we are needed."
The massive superhuman rises and stomps from the room, leaving a rather worried looking (only by Astartes standards of course) Timothius to hold the fort.

He could not help himself really, it was a part of his studies, and even as he admitted to himself that the Astartes would not listen or care he spoke. ‘You know ignorance is dangerous, as is a mistaken belief in your own knowledge. The Honoured warriors of the emperor show both.' His tone dripped with sarcasm at the last bit. 'The Quendi magic’s are not those of the Kionash they do not touch on the Warp. I say this as an expert on the Immateriam, and a student of other mystical arts, and I assure you all, that he is mistaken. Yes all Magic’s must be carefully approached, and dealt with, we deal in a realm of power that is ever shifting, and not bound by the constraints of the world around us, but to apply the same rules to different sources is foolish, and the mistake of ignorant children.’

[OOC: By "larger gauges" I mean larger shells, not larger gauge numbers. Seems less confusing than "smaller gauges", although I'm not sure if it's the proper term.].

/Joe - Rings?
/Shay - Your eyes work. Go ahead, if you want. Grab some pointy-crackers, too, if you want. Same for you, Kathleen, I guess.
/Kath - And you?
/Shay - Can't. Lembas doesn't agree with me, or anything with Ascended heritage, really. You two are safe, but I'd just throw the damn stuff up and break out in hives. Besides, I brought my own food.
/Kath - So did I, but more is always better, right? Even if it alone wouldn't maintain me at full fighting, 's better than starving, right?
/Shay - Right. But I'll take pie over Elfcracker any day.
/Joe - You brought pie?
/Shay - Nnnhmm...

Shay didn't bother explaining why he would refrain from taking a ring, but it was for much of the same reasons. Incompatibility. He was only a Halfblood, true, there were only a handful of full-blooded Ascended around these days, but the Ascended part of him was dominant and fully integrated...and generally objected violently to competitors. To speak the truth, Shay only had a very vague idea of how the whole thing worked...which was why he didn't bother going into detail.

It was for similar reasons that he didn't announce in any way his issues. He was, after all, a professional, and thus had brought with him everything he'd need, more than likely, and what he didn't have, he could improvise.

So it was that the Kathleen and Joachim went to avail themselves of the offered supplies...and Shay stood and hefted his duffelbag. It would take a particularly discerning eye to note the way he gritted his teeth and lifted with his legs. Very few would connect that with the fact that Earth's gravity was significantly lighter than that of his homeworld, meaning that whatever it was he had in that bag...it was heavy as hell.

Of course, the bag was rather cleverly fitted with gravitics that helped to neutralize some of the weight. Otherwise, even considering his rather impressive strength -- Devilrunner and Ascended -- he wouldn't have been able to carry a Cataphract prototype around the way he was.

Magnus sighs some more and, for once, just watches things evolve. It's not like there's much he can ethically do, after all, and Moses is right, speaking from his own background. "People, people," he says to the crowd in a voice suggesting calm without condencension, "the lurking evil we're supposed to send back to the hell it came from is down there," he points towards the floor idly, "not in here. All of our old grudges will still be around when we get back, but for now we should either play together or take our leave. It's all been optional up to this point, as far as I can tell."

Looking over at Timothius, he offers a wry smile. "Your efforts and, well, exemplary control of your prejudices really are appreciated, Veteran Brother Sergeant. I'm sorry you're in such a tight spot diplomatically--your brother-warriors are... honest in their opinions, but not exactly fair. You really must trust me when I say I've dealt with the Warp and, well, I know they're perfectly right about it. I also know what I can do and what it derives from, and the two are completely different. Same with our Noldorin friends here: witchery it may be, but nothing to do with chaotic powers from beyond hell." Then to the elves offering equipment. "Apparently this turbopistol thing doesn't actually require ammunition, at least according to the nice Chinese gentleman (who always dissembles when I ask his name) that I bought it from. Rhiannon here is loaded with enough powergun charges to engage a small division."

The young woman certainly shares her father's annoyance at all of this petty bickering and insults and stomping off, and shows it with a bit more zeal. Her opinion of Galdern drops a few points at the 'ignorant children' remark, which is unfortunate, because he really did seem so nice. Still, she has nothing in particular to say at this juncture that hasn't been already--eventually, the truth will out and those who choose to see it will and those who don't won't.

"Do not presume to instruct me like an ignorant child." Oduh sneers right back as Moses departs, showing his fangs. "For I have been dealing with the Unexplained and the Arts since time you cannot hope to fathom!"

"Oi!" Tal gets his nerves up and swats the Keeper upside the head. "Cool it, would ya? Like people are sayin', the bad guys are underground. Don't let the overcompensating baboons get to ya."

The bald neko's words do little to soothe the agitated Keeper, leaving one with the decided impression that if Oduh was in truth a dragon rather than merely looking like half a dragon, he would be clawing at the floor and hissing flame. As it is, he's barely restraining from putting gouges in the flooring with his feet.

"Muo ak ro kxuk Jxo Nxe Jooj Ucc jxenj tajfcoujiho uk oeih awdehudso, oei xucv-rhuadot jed ev u jculo nxeho!" Oduh spits in his native tongue, leaving Tal at a loss, not being fluent enough in the ancient language to decipher more than just the gist of the words. "I have no mind to meekly accept judgement from those who couldn't tell a tomed from the talado. If any need me, you need but call."

With a last indignant shuffle of his coppery wings, Oduh strides from the room, spreading his wings as soon as he won't hit anybody, and flies off, catching a thermal and spiraling skyward to vent his agitation. Tal glances at Timothius with a helpless shrug, sympathizing with the man's plight at playing peacekeeper in a room full of hotheads.

"Ah... sorry 'bout that."

Moran quirked an eyebrow slightly, but ignored the exploding dracon. He was far more interested in plotting where he was going to stand so he didn't get mowed down by 'friendly' fire. He certainly didn't know these people well enough to assume they wouldn't take advantage of confusion to settle ancient scores. Frankly, it bugged the hell out of him. There were more important things to worry about than who had the better magic, or which magic was evil and which was okay, or whatever the hell they were bickering about.

Besides, he knew where he stood, and he was pretty sure it wasn't on the 'proper' side.

He mentally ran through the items in his kit back: cerimonial dagger, fetch-stick, and a couple extra boxes of ammo for his revolver. He was pretty sure he wouldn't need the dagger or the fetch-stick (he hoped to hell he wouldn't need either; nobody would be likely to approve), but he decided to take them along anyway. Better overprepared than under.

Taking advantage of the lull between shouting, he glanced up towards their hosts, "I always carry extra ammo, so I'm good." While there was something to be said for having extra rounds, he could only use so many speed loaders.

Celebrimbor barely reacted to the outraged reaction of the Paragons, for he was wise enough in the ways of Men to know their kind as religious fanatics who were best not reasoned with; they were impervious to it and would only be infuriated by the effort. When the Eldar Farseer spoke up Celebrimbor raised his hand in slight redress, though. “True, though discourteous your words are,” It was a subtle reprimand and insult, one that would surely not be lost on as astute and emotional a being as an Eldar. “if truly he fears what your kind term JiorQuas, he had best look to the dangers of his own starship engines, not anything that the Quendi would give him. Indeed, while the rings are distinctly neutral, I would expect lembas to be inimical to the creatures he thinks upon,” Then he turned his attention to Ana, thinking highly of her question, and more highly of her because of it (being able to see her ‘ghost’ form helped too) as it was a question he himself had given much thought to over the years.

“The question of visibility or noise is a more interesting one, for it is true that those of us who are so inclined can find even small objects such as these from many leagues away; these have been designed to minimize such visibility, though, and as such, in analogy, they only use energy when they actually perform a task, rather than being passively powerful. As such, they will likely be visible, but only if you do something drastic, such as setting your clothes alight or having a block of ice cast about you. I would be far more concerned about either the spirits or body heat of some here giving you up than I would about these rings, and even then, the proximity of Khazad-dûm will likely supply some cover simply due to quantity of noise, for a time at least.”

Celebrimbor sat, and Glorfindel stood in his place, as Oduh left, “I think that is everything that we wished to say to you, unless there are pressing issues and questions anyone else wishes to take up, I shall send for ships to take you to Khazad-dûm. There is but one remaining matter, and that would be in the vague matter of leadership. I say vague because this group is so fractious that I’m sure some object even to a notional leader, but nonetheless, I expect the authority of this leader to be acknowledged by all, if not for his appointment, then for his considerable experience in both this field and many others,” He gestured to Arnran, “This is Arnran Selvaran, one of the most senior and canny of Necron lords,” The word choice was a good one. “who has lead many wars and campaigns of various sizes, always, in recent times, with success.”

Meanwhile, Graziknas the Gonnhir gave a strange and inscrutable look to the Space Marines from under his helm, a gaze that seemed as though he were contemplating the best way to chip at slate, a look that he then turned on Galdern. Míriel, meanwhile, gave an answer to Mirrk, “The sea here is warm and comparatively quiet, though somewhat rocky…” this could indeed be told simply by looking out of the window, after all, but she didn’t wish to ignore him. The rings, of course, had a strange property of, like the Great Ring of old, adjusting their diameter to fit the bearer, though these did not appear to do so immediately, he would soon find it adjusted, and these were not treacherous in the same manner.

Another elf seemed to be making notes of the equipment requests, dressed in black clothes under a dark green cloak, with the emerald rank insignia of the ground forces sub-division. Apparently, from the device he carried, and his quiet and calculating manner, he was a logistics officer, one of many who would doubtless be concerned with the expedition. He would, soon, make a point of asking for confirmation from every guest to ensure that they had all that they wanted or needed.

The necron lord stood. While in many ways, he was entirely mechanical; he did not appear to be such at the moment, as the metallic skeletal frame he used in this form was substantially cut down, and integrated with layers of living flesh about an inch thick at most, with blue blood running beneath white skin – like humans, when exsanguinated, necrontyr would turn white – giving his skin a blue-white coloration, that ranged in necrontyr from an ashen grey to a vivid grey-blue. He was closer to the latter end of the spectrum, though unusually, he bore distinct external differences from the genetic heritage of the necrontyr in the form of startling, metallic gold eyes and hair.

As he stood, he held a war-scythe, a phase-weapon of some distinction but less traditional importance than the badge of office of the necron lords, the staff of light. A slight indication that he almost expected not to return, or at least, to face stiff resistance, when swung, the weapon could pass through even the stoutest matter without resistance, being optimised to cut nerves, or blood vessels, or circuits, or bone, only, and not harm surrounding tissue. Even at its most blunt it was an impressive power weapon.

“I hope you don’t mind some forthrightness, but I will now ask for any other questions, else, we should probably go to Khazad-dûm with haste. We must leave in the morning there, and it is already evening on the mountains.”

Magnus nods firmly. "Yessir. I think it'd be great if we at least got to somewhere vaguely near the evil disturbance before we start killing each other. I packed everything I needed,"--he pats some of his many pockets knowingly--"so I won't be requisitioning anything."

Momentary pause, and then Rhiannon looks up from the side table, where she's been nibbling all the various dainties that were set up for the guests and promptly ignored. Lack of rank occasionally has its privledges, and hey, it's there to be eaten and she's doing it with an almost Pantocratorian daintiness. She quickly swallows whatever nibble of the weird fishy concoction on a cracker she has in her mouth and covers up unpreparedness with professionalism. "I'm certain with a group this big everyone will have plenty of tools to cover most things, sir. Both my father and I have standard sensing and communication gear, some emergency medical kits, and other incidentals. We won't be bringing any sort of powered armor, so batteries or power units and the like aren't a concern."

MIrrk looks out the window indicated. "Indeed it is. Good. Now to make preparations." He then turns towards Arnran Selvaran, and gives a slight bow. "Sirrah Selvaran, self requires one hour in order to begin preparations, and if self is not incorrect, this Khazad-dûm lacks a shoreline. If this is allowable...." The remainder of his statement is left hanging as a question.

He bristled for a moment; under what he felt was an unfair rebuke, but kept silent. Later perhaps Galdern would remonstrate with his host. Bal too made to stand and say something but again a curt gesture from Galdern silenced her. The comment was too subtle for Addolcarrec, who would need to be hit over the head with such matters before he caught on. So they sat watching eventually Galdern spoke.

‘I made this offer before and I make it again, I am going to read the future of this group if some object, they can stand away.’ He paused long enough for those who where against the idea to move away, he fully expected the Marine to be one of them.

After a few moments he settled down carefully and the Runes began to rise around him, slowly they shifted in the air, more and more joining them. The writing on each Rune shifted for a second, and then to the careful gaze something strange occurred, each changed to become his personal rune. That of a single eye watching unblinkingly, hundreds of them floating in the air around Galdern, as perspiration broke out on his face.

Under his breath he began to mutter in Eldarin, something about who was it, which blocked him and then the Runes tumbled and fell from the air onto the floor. For a second he sat recomposing himself and then he stood. ‘I have one final thing to add it seem. We are not blocked by vagueness, or by chance, we are being deliberately blocked in our scrying, by an intellect this is no accident, it appears our foes have a plan.’ with that he began to collect his Runes, keeping the final part of what he had seen private.

He had seen himself.

“Our thanks again for your hospitality, and your continued patience,” Reihana replies, with another glance at Jas to make certain all had been conveyed that need be conveyed between them. “I believe we came as prepared as we could be, and could not reasonably carry more than we’ve brought and remain effective. Hopefully it will be sufficient. We will be pleased to have an experienced leader for our expedition.”

She curiously samples some of the refreshments that had been made available, now that business had been, it seemed, taken care of for the most part. Jas meanwhile approaches Timothius and speaks to him quietly.

“Seein’ as you appear to be the most steady o’ yer group in the face o’ the unknown, and seein’ how y’all tend to react to things arcane in nature, I’d appreciate it if you could pass on to yer boys there that my companion is capable of a few tricks that might not sit too well with ‘em. She’s no damn witch, an’ sure as hell not some agent o’ evil. Couldn’t ask for a more steady teammate, or a more reliable friend when yer back’s to a wall. Lets just say I’d be mighty put out if someone were ta take offense at the lass and get some funny ideas about ‘purging the xenos’ in the heat o’ battle, if ya take my meaning. I’d take it mighty personal, in fact. So now you and yours won’t have to be surprised if an’ when the opportunity arises for her to lay it down with more than her big guns, right?”

He offers the big man a hand, one with an unnaturally strong and unyielding grip one might notice should it be accepted. “Hope we can work together here to get rid o’ whatever beasties be mucking about in th’ depths. Hear you folks are capable of some damn impressive things when ya set your minds to it. Look forward to seein’ you in action.”

Timothius looks down at Jas, nodding thoughtfully as he speaks, bearing in mind Magnus's admonishment on the difference between Empyrean, Magic and Sorcery.
Tugging at the high collar of his uniform, it becomes clear that whatever took his eyes out also got his throat with it, where a normal man's Adam's Apple would be is a shaped and burnished gorget, an Imperial aquila over what looks like a small speaker.
Stooping, he begins to speak through it, the rasp of his voice barely more than a whisper.
"That should not be a concern for you. It's understood that there are varying levels of acceptable contact with the Empyrean, and derivatives thereof."

A slight smile, and Timothius shrugs.
"If your companion has, as you say, some tricks, that should not be a problem as long as Phenix remembers the lecture Brother Moses is undoubtedly giving presently.

The hulking man pauses, rubbing his chin in thought before continuing.
"We're not uncomfortable with the Uncanny for no reason sir, but from millenia of experience of the unpleasant consequences of its' use and abuse by those who can't be trusted with it. The profligacy of the 'elves' with sorcery triggers any number of, by our standards, sensible prejudices. I'm aware they're less relevant here, as do my brothers. But being aware of and knowing something are two very different things."

A shrug of massive shoulders, and Timothius continues his sotto voce explanation.
"So. It's not unreasoning, but I thank you for your warning. That others are too blind to understand their peril is regrettable, but your friend will not be in danger from us and your implied threat is both unnecessary and unimpressive."

He frowns at the smaller man for a moment, before his expression lightens and clasps the Dominioner's hand in one hubcap-sized hand, shaking it firmly but carefully.
"However, concern for one's friends is a worthy motive and you may live, this time. Have no fear, however, that we will place our prejudices over the mission. We are the Adeptus Astartes, and we are the finest soldiers Humanity has ever produced. We will complete the task assigned us."

"Good to hear. Apologies if it came across a bit worse for wear. Ain't no threats here my friend, just simple statements o' facts. Not much I do take personal when ya get right down to it, but that little lady's well-being there's one of 'em. 'Preciate the assurance - we'll do our best not to provoke in any case. S' understandable ta have dif'rent takes on things after all. Perception is reality, I've heard said, right along with th' old bit on there bein' but two kinds o' paranoia - absolute, an' insufficient. Think we'll work this out just fine. Honored ta be on board with you an' yours," Jas replies in kind, then takes his leave with a respectable nod to go join Reihana in tasting a bit of the goodies laid out.

Glorfindel nodded again, and the bell rang out once more, “If any would like to leave, they may do so now,” he said, as a Tercáno transport shuttle, a tapering, vaguely cylindrical craft, appeared, coming in low over the mountains, before setting down on one of the round uncovered, colonnaded stone circles nearby. Graziknas was on his feet right away, and striding manfully towards the doors and casting them open, eager, it seemed, to be away.
The dwarf was followed out by the other dwarves and down a flight of stairs, to where the dropship sat upon the stone. He bounded almost youthfully up the ramp and into the interior of the Menelmacari vessel, which had a number of seats arranged on either side of a small aisle, against windows on either side. To look carefully one would notice that the seats could be re-arranged or collapsed to suit different frames, as was indeed evident when Graziknas adjusted one down a touch without any particular coyness, putting his arms out onto high armrests like some enthroned statue, and relaxing.

It came on him, as the shuttle took off, having waited for more people to board, that he should perhaps try a human joke…

He looked around, and alighted on whoever had been lucky enough to sit next to him. “Why did the goblin cross the road?”

[OOC: A quick fast-forward to departure, since most everyone seems ready to go.]

It doesn't take Tal long to flag Oduh down to load their gear, and the copper-scaled man seems to have come to some conclusion about dealing with the source of his earlier outburst.

He pointedly ignores the marines.

That in itself could set things up for further trouble underground, but at least for the moment Oduh doesn't seem inclined to nearly start a fight with the easily offended armored men.

Oduh glances at the dwarf once the Keeper has settled into a seat clearly modified to deal with his inconvenient anatomy, a confused look on his face. "Goblin? What road?"

Tal elbows the confused swordsman and grins at Graziknas. "I dunno, why?"

Evan boards the transport and drops into one of the appropriately-sized seats. e'd spent much of the afternoon and evening carefully selecting what equipment he would end up taking along. He had managed to get a few things shipped down to him, although apparently one did in fact need some sort of certification before SurTac would let you use a suit of assault armor. No matter. He has all the essentials, even if he is carrying an crapload of utility spells of questionable value in combat (and hey, you never know when you might need Feather Fall, especially in Moria.)

“To get to the other side?” he says cautiously to the dwarf. For a moment he wonders if this is a male or female dwarf, but decides it doesn't matter.

Shay had eyed the dropship with no little suspicion, then finally given in and boarded. The others followed. Lucky thing that the point-ears were a tall bunch...

Kit was secured, then secured again, then seats were chosen. Shay had detached his cape and removed his jacket before boarding, which slimmed him down considerably. Silence was maintained, there wasn't really anything to talk about, as yet. It was simply...easier...to keep to themselves.

Probably not exactly the best course of action, but...certainly the least irritating one, and the safest, as it didn't give anybody a chance to infringe upon anyone's prickly honor.

"Goblins are cowardly and honourless beasts," Karchist says, "And ever they flee from valourous combat. Doubtless there was some defender of Righteousness on the other side!"

That this is a joke doesn't seem to register on him; English is not his first language, after all ... and it's not a very good joke.

After taking a moment to grab a few more delicacies for the trip, and checking her kit one last time, Bal quickly made her way aboard the waiting transport. she arrived just in time to hear the knight’s response to the joke and chuckled widely to herself.

After a moment she was followed by Addol who lingered briefly when he noticed the Farseer still sat in his seat, but a simple look had him follow the other aboard without a glance back. As for Galdern he sat unmoving apart from that singular glance as the others boarded the vessel awaiting a moment for a queit word with Celebrimbor.

((OOC just a quick post. The convo with Celebrimbor is whenever Siri can fit it in. So I thought better to post this now.))

The Hesches, already carrying everything they intend on bringing, board and sit in their assigned rows with perhaps a slight bit of fatalism. There's something to be said for the whole... meme of ADVENTURE and ACTION! being lost in the transition from a COUNCIL OF GREAT MINDS to... well... commercial air travel. Certainly it's elfy commercial air travel and very very nice, with lots of leg room and seatback consoles for all sort of inflight things, but if there's one constant in the universe it's that inflight magazines suck on toast and if there's another it's always that any seat designed with comfortable leg-room while in its upright and locked position becomes some sort of medieval torture device for the person behind when tilted back, which of course forces them to tilt their seats back, and so on and so forth.

Still, neither one looks particularly pleased with this development, and look like they're taking it about as well as most people take a trip to the doctor's office: not exactly unpleasant, but mildly bothersome and simply something to get over with. There's a quick dispute in Arabic as to who gets the window seat: Magnus pulls rank as father and thus declares that his precious beautiful daughter, in so many words, gets it; in the face of such a decree, all attempts at courtesy become discourteous and disrespect to an elder's reasonable wishes, and so Rhiannon acquiesces with a gracious huff. The dispute is quickly forgotten once they get in their seats, though; with Rhi looking out the window at the countryside whilst nibbling on some goodies requisitioned from the meeting and Magnus thumbing through the emergency procedures card, occasionally holding it sideways as he tries to decipher the lowest-common-denominator pictograms trying to describe complex concepts such as "do not use an exit if it is blocked by jagged metal, thick smoke, or surrounded by Communists" in a single picture made by a poorly paid graphic artist.

"I wish I could've brought my rocketship," he grumbles good-naturedly.

"I wish I could just fly there myself," his daughter says wistfully, idly tracing the mountains and the sea with her blue eyes. "It's a beautiful country, and it'd be nice to get a look at some nice tall mountains that aren't Ring spillways."

"Yes, well, that's air traffic rules for you." Magnus grins. "I doubt you've got a legal transponder. Plus the whole history thing would be an issue, I guess."

"Nothing like Cetaganda, no." Rhiannon sighs. "Still, from their histories, I guess it makes some sort of sense."

"You do have an assigned Segments tail number, at the very least," Magnus says with a grin.

"Dad," the daughter hisses with a sharp glance from the window.

"What?" Complete innocence. "You do. Not my fault that in a moment of 'teenage rebellion' you decided that--"

"It's clearly in the Eff-Ess-A-Ess-Arrs, Dad, that all registered aircraft have a permanently affixed tail number! Teenage rebellion be damned, I can quote you part, chapter, paragraph, and line..."

Before embarking on the transport, Mirrk takes a moment at the seashore. He unloads his kit bag and spreads its contents in an orderly manner on a stretch of hide. These include his henna dye setup, several dozen semi-precious stones of amethyst, aqua-marine and turquoise. To the side of these things are two heavy chunks of obsidian. He then sits cross-legged and with his arms at his sides while his head tilts nose-up. It is then sub-sonic chanting from him begins.

After some time, a slight churning from the water in front of him starts, and the wind seems to whorl around it. The head of the Scion of Waters, a serpentine countenance atop a long, sinewy neck, makes an appearance. The head itself is comprised entirely of water, and yet it still speaks.

"Servant of the Seas, you have requested my presence. To what end?"

Mirrk keeps his eyes closed while his tympanum keeps wacering in a chant. "Dactuuss Ssarall, Scion of the Waters, self requests guidance, and a mote of your power to aid in self's quest. Self will journey to unknown place to battle unknown servants of Non-Path. Dangerous for myself who has much still to do in this existance." Mirrk bows low at this. As low as his body would allow, at any rate.

The silence lasts for a moment, but only that. "It is as you said. Normally I would deny that request and take your eyes for troubling me. But these beings will most likely trouble the Pantheonic Subjects in the future. This is not allowable. And so I will aid you just a little, but only that. After this, you must succeed on your own. Or you must perish. The Pantheon decides your fate in this, but it is you who will make that decision, one way or another, reality.

With that, hands with long clawed fingers and arms made of water scoop up the stones, and the chunks of obsidian. The Scion breathes on them, water droplets forming on the scooped objects. if one notices, they seem to waver and shimmer like something being seen in a reflecting pool. These are then placed back on the hide.

"It is done. As payment, you must bring us proof of your victory, should you live, and offer it as tribute at the Temple Shrine. It must be a suitable tribute, or there will be problems for you of a great scale." At that, the watery shape seems to waver and ebb. Mirrk pipes in with "It will be as you say" as a splashing sound comes from the place where the Scion once was. Mirrk picks up his kit and returns it to the container, and returns from the direction he came from.

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

In the transport, Mirrk fits himself into the passenger area in whatever spot will accomodate his bulk. The heavy chunks of obsidian are brought out, and one by one each semi-precious stone is produced and laid on one of the chunks. For those that can sense magic, or its derivatives, the stones smell of latent power. The other piece of obsidian is laid on top of the stone, and a slow, circular grinding begins while Mirrk seems to chant under his breath. Several small marble bowls are arranged under the lower obsidian piece, where finely ground pieces of the stones are kept.

The two mercenaries join the others on their designated transport, taking seats wherever seems best to take them, not making any effort to avoid, or deliberately sit by anyone in particular – fitting in wherever they fit. The Dwarf’s joke elicits a grin from Jas as he gets settled in, chuckling at the various answers.

“’Cause there wasn’t a Dwarf on the other side, no doubt,” he says, making sure his luggage is secure, while Reihana does rather much the same, albeit quietly, her expression once again thoughtful, though not really relaying much of said thoughts running beneath it. She glances once or twice at the Hesche party, one brow twitching in an expression of guarded curiosity. As her eyes pass over Ana, she pauses, and if eye contact is made, she nods respectfully. Mirrk's activities give her pause, and she stops for a moment to watch silently, tensing slightly as she tries to passively get a better sense of what he's doing. She watches to completion before continuing on with her preparations before taking her seat, again adjusting unspoken calculations in her head, also giving him a respectful nod, should their eyes meet.

The Marines, inevitably, move to the back of the shuttle, both from a desire for physical isolation from the rest and from the practicalities of Tactical Dreadnought Armour, the sheer massiveness of it demanding even more room than the Sakkran, even more so with three suits of it crowded into the shuttle.
Once ensconced, careful vox discussion ensues, the fact that all three have now donned their helmets making them as silent and immobile as statues, even though the discussion is tending towards the irritable at times.
"We should leave now. The Abhumans are obviously plotting something and even the humans are mostly witches. There's no reason for us to be engaged here."
"Your opinion is noted Phenix, but there's no evidence the Abhumans are plotting anything, indeed up until you started ranting about witches things were calm except with the Eldar, who's perfidy is known even to these innocents. If you'd just managed to keep your mouth shut.."
"Quite, Moses. As it stands I have to remind both of you that we were briefed on the differences between the various shades of supernatural powers available and that both of you ignored said briefings completely in contravention of both orders and training."
A pause ensues on the little vox-net, then a sigh from Moses and a grunt from Phenix.
"True enough Brother. We're both on punishment detail when we return to the Deeps Phenix, understood?"
"Yes Sergeant Moses. Thank you for reminding us of the mission Sergeant Timothius. I can offer only my natural revulsion at the Abhumans as mitigation, but I make no excuse and think it best if you take tactical leadership for now, as Moses and I are obviously unsuited for decision-making in this situation."
"Agreed, I defer to your judgement also Brother."
An other pause while Timothius considers, before vocalising his decision.
"Alright. We'll continue on with the mission as pulling out now would damage us even further. Priorities remain as before but I want minimised contact with that lizard-thing, Phenix I don't want you speaking to any of these people alone I'm afraid. I don't really see what other damage control we can do. For now, we'll stick close to Hesche, I'm proceeding on the assumption he knows what he is doing, and has some concept of the capabilities of Astartes. Thus, we will act as combination body guard and heavy firepower for him. Agreed?"
"Agreed/Agreed."
Plus, thinks Timothius, if I stick close long enough, perhaps I can figure out what the blazes his daughter is doing to my bionics.

Things seemed to be going pretty well for Thomas, so far. The supply officer had managed to find a good haul of ten-gauge shells, which the unimposing mage had wedged under his seat (with some difficulty). It was somewhat unclear how the man was going to carry the things, but it seemed that he knew what he was doing.

He had chosen a seat as far away as possible from the Paragons, which put him in the front of the shuttle. He chuckled a little at the dwarf's joke, but otherwise remained silent. Instead, he began pulling pieces of armor from his pack and strapping them on. Anyone who was paying attention would notice that the pack contained rather more than it had any right to.

The armor itself seemed to consist of light ceramic plates, shaped in such a way as to leave the joints free and unobstructed. This resulted in large gaps between the plates, of course, but they would at least offer some measure of portection. The detailed gold-wire patterns inlaid across each plate hinted at more arcane protective measures, as well.

The last thing that Thomas retrieved from his pack was a mean-looking combat shotgun, built from black metal with intricate silver inlay. The mage checked it expertly, flipping the safety on and off and giving it a pump to verify that all of the internal parts were working correctly. Apparently satisfied, he nodded and placed it on the floor, within easy reach.

Ierenn sat quietly, and Seraal took the window seat beside him. She appeared to be concentrating on something. Ierenn had requisitioned two additional power cells, these of the high capacity variety, and they had actually been able to provide them without incident, and so they found themselves stored appropriately with the others. The clothing of the pair was slowly changing, as well. The baggage that they had already brought with them contained a variety of pieces of armor alongside other items, which attached itself to their suits without any directly visible means.

Seraal was reciting a sort of chant in riikan, known by some as an incantation believed to grant increased mental fortitude - considering the situation down below, it seemed appropriate. Her own gear had been further examined and added to her attire, and the effect was one of somewhat less low-profile armor, for the both of them, with ferroceramic plates attached to their skin suits in various places, also providing attachment points and holsters for their weapons.

As for their flight, the craft was... generic, as far as they could tell, and they were perhaps content that the mission was actually going to start before someone was shot on Glorfindel's property.

"As much as such devices fascinate me-" Oduh sighs, looking out the window. "-Flight through such means offers little of the satisfaction. The modern language lacks the words to describe the pleasure of the wind in one's face, the sun warm on the wings."

"Yeah, but y'gotta remember, wings ain't all that common outside of you folks or the reploids." Tal pats his companion on the shoulder. "So the rest of us hafta make do with what we got."

"Or don't have, in the case of your hair." Oduh quirks an eyebrow at the bald neko.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Tal protests the teasing. "It's not my fault that capacitor stone exploded!"

A moment of silence passes between the two before Tal lays his ears back and lowers his voice to a whisper with a bare nod in the direction of the marines at the back of the shuttle. "So... uh... you aren't gonna flip on those guys again, are you?"

One can almost feel the temperature drop as the Keeper responds quietly in a frigid voice. "I will no longer trouble myself with them. They may thrive or perish of their own accord, and I do not care which will be the case."

Translation: "I'm not going to flip out on them, but if they get into a tight situation, I'm not going to help them either." Tal guesses to himself with a frown. Things are boding real well for that whole "teamwork" thing, ain't they?

He decides to socialize however, and grins over at Evan. "Hey, I'm not the only scholarly type on this thing, huh? Name's Tal-Lynta Amahira, Arpean Thaumatology Institute. Most folks just call me Tal."

The doors sighed shut on the Tercáno shuttlecraft and it flitted into the sky like a bird, there was indeed a feeling of acceleration pulling the passengers into their seats, barely discernible though, as the tapering gravitic craft pulled away from the house and into the blue sky, turning away toward the north and firing its engines with an invisible pull of acceleration, banking slightly although this particular craft lacked wings, as it did so.

As a rule, each of the shuttles could have about ten passengers; they were fairly flexible, but that was the maximum number of elves. Fortunately, what it did have was a high roof, big enough for Karchist to stand in. He didn’t get a seat, per se, so much as what was meant to be a table. Between him and of course, Oduh, the first shuttle was quite cramped. Fortunately weight wasn’t an issue, as one of the things that the craft had been designed for was hauling bulky things around. Indeed, there were still a few small boxes left at the front of the shuttle, up on either side of the connecting door to the cockpit. If one were nosy, one could find a box of bits and pieces like rope, boxes of some kind of soap, high quality lenses in various diameters, and a box full of smoked cod. Each had descriptions in Sindarin written on them, colour codes that presumably denoted ‘perishable’ ‘hazardous’ and so forth on bands beneath their white lids, and some sort of port for changing data.

Throughout it was silent as the craft broke the ‘sound barrier’ and then made a complete mockery of it, systems on the trailing edges of its distorted hollow point bullet shape smoothing the air around it, expending egregious amounts of energy to ensure that the birds and fishes below heard nothing of the tumult of its passing.

“A fine answer,” the dwarf said, “I was going to say; To flee from the might of the dwarves, but it did him no good!” Graziknas tapped his axe against the smooth metal floor of the vehicle and grinned. It wasn’t quite clear how seriously he took that joke’s tone.

He seemed to be listening to the conversation of Magnus and Rhiannon behind him, regardless of their language, or at least, paying it a degree of interested attention. He gave a little hum, and reached into a deep pocket to rub something, as if an aid to thought.

Meanwhile, behind, waiting for the next transport, the Eldar Farseer could see Celebrimbor sitting back, apparently deep in thought. One of the famed Noldorin smith’s eyes opened after a time, and fixed with an almost dragon like glance upon Galdern “You wish to speak with me?” he asked. It wasn’t much of a question.

The shuttle seemed to slow as normal frames of reference slipped away and the vessel flew high above the atmosphere and into orbit, or at least, something like it, passing an anchorage consisting of bright points of beacons and a number of industrial looking cargo craft moving this way or that in the space above the dwarf city. From the distance they looked as though they were made of painted wood, in red and grey, with occasional other colors. It was only when one noticed that each of the dozens of tanker sized containers they sported had several windows that it became clear that they were actually a considerable distance away to either side of the shuttle, and that the illusory effect would look very different close up. These were Vingilot freighters, each two kilometers long, on their way to and from Khazad-dûm.

More shuttles alighted, taking the other groups, as they were ready, to make the same short trip. Two of them were much plusher than the others, being personnel shuttles, rather than transport vehicles, and consequently having more luxurious seats arranged around a single table; the disadvantage was that the larger members of the group couldn’t fit into such craft at all. Well, not without sitting on those tables.

The shuttles came from the complement of two destroyers sitting on a landing pad in a deep ravine in Menelmacar’s southern continental territory, at quite short notice, hence the shuttles that had been in use at the time had been hastily and incompletely emptied to make space.

The shuttles came down into the atmosphere once again in a frozen northerly latitude, its harsh appearance exacerbated by the snowy peaks that rose up to greet them. However, there was a sudden break in the vista, as fields of cleared stone greeted them…

http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/eastgatebar.jpg (http://www.necrontyr.plus.com/images/eastgate.jpg)
Clicky-clicky for a better view!

The cleared area extended, from the east gate, for miles of steel and stone landing pads, crowded with food transports, passenger ships, the occasional military craft, and broken here and there by towers ascending skyward for loading or unloading goods or moving disabled craft.

To and from these goods, on gravitic lifts denoted by rows of shining white paint over the actual mechanisms, moved to the great east gate, where a multitude of dwarves mingled, either taking the sun on high spurs of rock that looked more like fortifications than a trade artery, or in the great first hall that was illuminated by vast windows above the great doors themselves, wide and high, to accommodate the practicalities of what was essentially a motorway passing through them; despite this, around the doors themselves, goods disappeared in shrouds of invisibility, enough to make one wonder what else the great gates might conceal. Towers that sported great pennants fluttered gaily in the breeze, as the shuttles put down in cradles reserved for urgent business nigh against the ornamented stone spurs of the gate itself and its majestic marbled steps.

Above, as the ramps descended, the snows of Celebdil the White shone above like silver and glass in the evening light, as the sun marched towards them, slowly turning some of the snows in the mountains different hues of gold and oranges.

The sky above was dark in the east and red over the mountains.

Evan looks at the admittedly impressive area surrounding the gate. Something seems off somehow. Maybe it was the rather inefficient-seeming entryway, or...

"Is it just me, or does it seem like there's enough superdreadnoughtfreighters flying about that they probably outmass the entire mountain by a fair bit?" he idly comments to the others with him.

Tal glances around with an appreciative whistle at the scenery. "Got me. Maybe they're gettin' ready to evacuate. Y'know, in case we do somethin' a la Outsets or Valley of Dragons and wake something nasty and unfun up?"

Oduh stretches as he steps lightly down from their transport, wings stretching briefly to their full length before snapping back shut against his backside. "Do not remind me of Xefo. I would pass my blade on and gladly if I never have to partake in a battle such as that again. I thought he and the Eldest were going to bring the entire mountainside down on everyone."

Mirrk departs from the transport. His grinding up of stones had been completed, mixed with seawater and stored in small containers hanging from his shoulder-spikes. He looked around at the area, the freighters entering and leaving, the activity in what one would assume was a trade-point of some manner.

He decided it best to step to the side so the other members of the group could disembark unhindered. His head tilted back as he breathed in deeply of the air. Nothing was offered except for an audible grunt, with a jet of steam issuing from the top of his head where the nostrils are.

As promised, it hadn't taken Moran long to get ready. Slip on a tec-vest with a flashlight, strap the ridiculously over-sized revolver (http://www.lasc.us/SW50CalRevolver.jpg) to his leg, and reshoulder the bag. He also took a moment to slip the ring on his finger. Why not?

He whistled softly as they disembarked and he looked at the massive structure before him, "Build 'em big, don't'cha?" He started to wonder why dwarves always built such high arches and big doors. Not only why, but how. Perhaps they used trampolines. He bit back a chuckle at the thought of scores of dwarves bouncing on trampolines to whack at the ceiling with a hammer, slowly chipping out the vault.

He coughed softly and just hovered with everyone else. It was all build up anyway.

Magnus steps out, takes one look around, and throws diplomacy to the wind. "Wow. It looks like they rammed a giant stone monorail into a gothic cathedral and David the Gnome is their patron saint... well, a tougher, more badass David the Gnome, one proficient with a hammer."

"Dad," Rhiannon growls. She's getting really tired of that being her primary interjection. "How... rude. Admittedly it's a strange blend of Gothic, medieval fortress architecture, and... well... I suppose that 'monorail' has suggestions of Googie, Raygun Gothic, or perhaps Postmodern to it." She pauses and looks up at it critically, momentarily forgetting to be angry. "It really does look like a monorail. Still, that's no call to be rude. What if someone said that about the styles we prefer in the Segments?"

"Then they'd probably be right," her father says with a shrug. "I really can't see most of our bunker-philosophy buildings winning any awards for innovative artistry in their architecture. But nevertheless," his voice gets a bit louder, "it sure does look solid, and I wholeheartedly approve of that!"

His daughter bristles. "How's the old saying go? Dress you up, can't take you out anywhere?"

"Hey. I ended on a good note." Looking over his shoulder, he discovers that he now has a retinue consisting of Dawn Paragon veterans encased in boxy Tactical Dreadnaught Armor. Which still strikes him as pretty damn keen. Okay, so they're racist, xenophobic warrior monks who have a distinct problem with anything out of the ordinary...

...which makes him wonder exactly why they seem to be collecting around him and his. He's a witch and so is his daughter, and the one with the bionic--Timothius?--seems to be glancing at her more often than one would expect, at least as far as Magnus can tell. That could become problematic. "Hello, Veteran Brother Marines. Can I help you?"

At the sound of Magnus's voice, both Timothius and Moses look up, sigh and exchange a long-suffering look.
At least they both assume it's a long-suffering look, facial expressions not being the easiest things to read when they're inside a helmet.
"Phenix when I said stick close I didn't mean quite that close."
Phenix gives his sergeant a wounded look, again hindered by the encasement of his head inside shiny metallo-ceramics and moves back from his looming position over the two Scolopendrans.

Meanwhile Moses, being the only one allowed to/capable of, talking, explains.
"Ah, Sir Magnus.."
Enormous fingers tap nervously on the edge of a shield ornate enough to make a Pantocratorian ceiling look restrained and tasteful as the Sergeant tries to explain himself in a vocabulary which hasn't had anything bar orders demanded of it for millenia.
"It's like this. As it stands, our presence here, to be blunt, is to further positive relations with the T.Y.C.S. and its' parent organisation by showing willingness to work around Imperial doctrine. Unfortunately, this has proven more difficult for us than anticipated and the group here more.."
"Eclectic."
"Eclectic! Than anticipated, meaning we experienced more clashes than expected, leading Sergeant Timothius to conclude we would be best served by both limiting our objectives and, for the time being, sticking with you."
The flat, doglike terminator helmet cocks itself at Magnus.
"Frankly Sir Magnus, as an obviously Sanctioned Psyker you're the best of a bad bunch. Most of them aren't even human, much less soldiers. We're not adjusted to the tactical situation sir."

Phenix snorts a harsh laugh, the sound a flat bark of disgruntlement.
"Exactly Sergeant, and frankly sir if that golden scaly bastard scowls at me once more I am going to go and bash his head in unless an officer orders me not to. We need direction. An important part of being a member of the Astartes is about knowing your limitations and we have hit ours in the decision-making sense. You know what to do, so tell us to do it."

Just as this is all starting to get somewhere towards resolution, Phenix and Moses staring down at Magnus like particularly depressed and martial-looking Newfoundland hounds, Timothius rasps a (politely-toned) query at Rhiannon.
"Excuse me ma-am, but are you aware that you're not entirely human?"

"Best of a bad bunch, hmm?" Magnus grins, then laughs. "A bit backhanded, perhaps, but a backhanded compliment from a member of the Adeptus Astartes is worth the high praise of a thousand normal men." Magnus may not have anything particularly polite to say about the architecture, but he hates when what are generally decent (if extremely flawed) guys are nervous and out of place. Watching someone fidget whilst in assault armor is almost always a pitiable sight, and so a little bit of overstatement to help them feel more at ease can't hurt. "I can expect how it would've been quite the shock. I remember reading the reports--from our viewpoint, of course--the shock when we sent a Sakkran over to your keep as part of the liason squad. Yeah, things change quickly and I guess we're not giving you much time to adapt, but so it goes..."

He shrugs. "I guess, to you, I qualify as a Sanctioned Psyker, even if the title's not exactly accurate. I'm no psyker--they're crazy, and, I agree fully, what they fiddle with is some dangerous stuff. There's actually no proper psykers here except for that Eldar Farseer. The rest of us with weird powers do it through entirely different methods, none of which have to do with the field of fracticality." From how he says it, the Marines can probably tell it's his local translation of 'the Empyrean.' That being said, just suggesting such a connection hasn't really made you all too popular, as you can tell. The Keeper over there"--he indicates Oduh with a slight cant of his head--"certainly isn't a psyker, although he's also certainly not human. I know Keeperspeak, and he had nothing nice to say. I'll see if I can smooth things over, but I can't make any promises."

Sighing, Magnus runs a hand through his blonde hair and shakes his head. "Seriously, the pointies should've put a little more thought into the possible team dynamics. Anyway, if you need me to fill the role of officer, then I'm honored and will do my best. First order of the day is if you don't have anything nice to say, it's better to say nothing at all." He segues into a quiet yet secure command tone of an officer with perfect naturality. "Consider yourself ordered not to do anything so rash, Veteran. Oduh may throw dirty looks, but he doesn't have eye-beams or hex-powers and so that's all they are: dirty looks. I think it would be fair to say that you can handle the occasional dirty look, no? The last thing I want to do is break up a fight between someone with a minigun and a two-millenia old weilder of a magic sword. No matter how good it would look dramatized."

While her father has Phenix and Moses thoroughly distracted, Rhiannon blinks with surprise at Timothius. Knowledgable she may be; properly intelligent too; but her experience is lacking. The question stuns her for a moment, but then she recalls the Marine's glassy red marble bionics, and things fit together. "Actually," she says, leaning in conspiriatorially so she can whisper just as softly, "I do, Veteran Brother Sergeant. I just don't feel comfortable talking about it right here, if you understand. Please, come with me." She takes Timothius gently by the elbow and guides him over to the side, which has to be a sight--she's by no means a short woman, perhaps a little over six feet tall, but the armored Marine still dwarfs her, of course. She mutters softly to herself in Arabic--"nek ni"--and then, once she's got him safely out of earshot to a quiet conversation, she presents herself again.

This time, through bionics, her organs, heat signature, and all that fun stuff look like they should have looked all along. The sort of odd fuzziness associated has dissipated, just a bit, as if masked but not perfectly. No fuzzier than Magnus, in that regard. "If you don't mind me saying so, you seem the most reasonable of your party and so I have... less qualms confiding. I'm bound by my personal ethics not to lie, though, and you asked directly, so you'll get an answer. No, actually, I'm not human, at least, not physiologically. Dad... er... Magnus is my adopted father; he's taken care of me and taught me all I know about... well... those sorts of weird psychic things." She suddenly seems a lot younger than she looks and has been acting up to this point. "That being said--and I understand the culture you come from, I've read a lot on it--please trust me when I say that I'm wholeheartedly dedicated to protecting the innocent and ensuring that good and law win the day. That much is how I'm... hm... wired, and questing like this is what I was... er... hatched to do.

"So, yes, you could say I'm hiding what I really am, and I've done it for about eight years now." She sounds quietly bitter about it, as if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "Who I am, though, that I can't, mustn't hide and haven't hidden. I am indeed Rhiannon Xiphilina Hesche"--perhaps the only time not on a form she's used her full name, including absurd middle--"daughter of Magnus Hesche, even if by adoption. It's just... tough when my chronological age is nothing like my emotional age, and even my emotional age makes me unable... giving the surrounding culture... to do what I'm supposed to do." She stops herself, partially realizing that she's babbling because Timothius has been the first person to offer himself as a sort of confidant when there's been nothing but... distasteful trickery and sneaking about, and partially because she's already outed herself as a xeno--already quite possibly certain to offend sensibilities--and if she goes any farther, she may truly say something the Marine would rather not know.

Still, she is her father's daughter, 'true' origins be damned. She grins, scratches the back of her neck under the rim of her BDU cover, and manages to look slightly sheepish. "Well, I guess I've answered your question and thensome, but I don't want to tell you any more than you really want to know, Sergeant." Nevertheless, her attitude suggests that she has more to say, but is being a mixture of polite and cautious.

Looking over at the esteemed Noldor, Galdern nods in reply, as if thinking about something, in the end he pulls out the ring offered before and places it on the seat next to him. ‘After I have said what I wish to say, it is possible I may give offence, if so, you may wish to reclaim your gift. I leave it there until that time.’ He fell silent again for a moment.

‘I have been thinking about what to say, I have waited till the Mon-Keigh had left, since this is between Keigh. The Quenya have oft made alliances that make the Kionash and the Exodites nervous, in the past this has proven to the benefit of the Kionash and Exodites, so I will not hold that right of yours against you. Yet I wonder.’ He paused for a moment drawing a breath. ‘I wonder if we had made alliance with Orcs from Morgoth, and brought them to a meeting such as this, if they had ranted in the ways the Astartes ranted, and you had been there I wonder if you would have kept quiet. I wonder if facing an ‘Angel’ of a religion that preaches the extinction of your race, and calls for your personal death if you could have kept silent, as you seem to have think I should have done. I wonder and find myself in doubt.’

Standing now he bowed formally and stiffly. ‘I question not the worth of the Astartes in this endeavour; they will likely save lives and help greatly. I do question your belief that I acted in some way that was shocking. You said I was discourteous to them, perhaps I was. I was discourteous to them the day I was born, for I went against their religion, I am rude to them with every breath I take.’ For a moment his tone took on a sarcastic tone as he continued ’Some of us are not so lucky as to be acceptable Abhumans, some of us must look upon a man, and know this; if he knew the location of the Exodite worlds we in Yvresse protect, he would go to them, and slaughter the children and the young. As has happened, and will happen, for tens of Thousands of years. The Astartes, the Losseain are not, misunderstood gentlemen. Nor are they reluctant follower’s of a religion, observing it more in the breach than in the act. They are beings that revel in the religion that calls for the extinction of races, and the slaughter of children. They are not forced into this life, they aspire to it. They aspired to be the inspiration to the creed that says ‘Suffer not the Alien to live’’

Looking now at Celemrinor he shook his head. ‘I say this now to make you understand, truly understand, the rage that boils under the surface. We Keigh are not wholly innocent in this rage, we accept that we have likely played our part; we certainly treat their kind with Disdain and as beings with little worth. Yet I am not the inspiration behind a faith that preaches their extinction.’ Sitting down once more he looked almost sorrowful at the end ‘I have said my piece.’

OOC the other twos reaction to the Halls is coming soon;)

Celebrimbor smiled at Galdern, and said nothing to him for a time, until he was finished, “I am sure you understand, then, that the minds of the Space Marines have a certain childlike quality about them, as you indeed said.

“Like children, it is not always wise to correct them in a confrontational manner. More to the point, as you stand above them in our reckoning, you should only expect a higher standard of maturity to be anticipated of you than of them in return, and learn to handle them as you would a determined child of your own race. Avoid arguing with them whenever possible, simply guide them. Arguing against a fundamentalist’s beliefs cannot achieve anything; their behavior will only be modified by their own experience.”

He demonstrated the same handling in speaking to Galdern, too, he didn’t correct the Eldar on his numerous mistakes, nor did he mention or allow to show on his face that while the Marines may inspire the creed he spoke of, the Eldar had caused it by their own insouciance. Nor did he chide Galdern for his petulant statements regarding angels.

After all, Galdern was an unstable fanatic too.


----


At the East-gate of Khazad-dûm, a party of dwarves approached the disembarking adventurers and spoke a formalized greeting to Graziknas.

“Welcome Graziknas, ranger of the north drifts,” the leader said, and gave a curt bow.

“I have longed to return,” Graziknas replied.

“Good!” the lead dwarf said, “Come. Let’s go,” he said, and turned in his furred and insulating-plastic clasped overcoat, striding towards the great doorway.

‘You are perhaps correct although I think you are wrong on some fronts. I do not think the Astartes will ever change, I do not think they can change. I think they are trapped via their own indoctrination, an indoctrination that does not take place in the rational consciousness.' A slight flash of embaresment crossed his face as he said the next part.

'I was wrong, however, to call them Children as you have shown me. To call them Children was to forget the nature of the Astartes, the Iron Warrior. Like Iron, once forged they cannot be changed, without starting again. To change the Astartes one must felt melt them down and start the forging process again. You cannot take a Marine as they are and alter them, you have to break it apart, melt it down and start again.'

Pausing he considered some more before speaking again. ‘Rest assured however that my behaviour here on the surface will not reflect what will occur in the depth’s of Moria, I suspect in that place, we will not have the time for even the most deep rooted of grudges to rear it’s head. Our focus will be on other matters.’

looking almost wistfully at the ring he smiled a moment. ‘I leave the choice as to the rings fate in its crafter’s hands. Remember this, if you feel any lingering ill-air remains then I suspect it best it remain here. You and I are influential to our people, if I where to die down there, with bad air between us, and word of such was to reach the Council. It might strain matters somewhat. The ring would be sufficient to counter such things I suspect. If it where to remain here, if not then I will be glad to carry it, although I cannot promise you once the job we go to complete is done it will remain, untouched and unexamined by my people, or by myself.’

He almost laughed as he spoke, ’Perhaps that alone may be reason enough for you to wish to keep a hold of it, as one keigh to another; I tell you in all truthfulness I would very much like to understand how the ring works, how you forge such items, and how it may be modified by my own skills.’

Making as if to gather his kit he gave the Elf a moment to consider the matter.

To say that some of the 'Hawks feel out of their depth is more of a cataclysmic mistake than an understatement, but as always, Trevor is the one to silence the groups doubts all through the flight and even when they hit the ground and disembark from the flyingthings.

He takes a long, sideways look at first the Marines, then the Eldar, then Rhi and Hesche.

In a drawn out whisper, "Lyle, the ones in the tin cans. Rorke, cover the pointy ears, Pauline, the err..woman next to Magnus. He is my concern. Chase, the others, and do try to avoid gunfire this time."

Chase grins, as looking forward to this as he is to any other adventure.

"Yes Boss."

"Sir. And keep yer bloody voice down, speak only when spoken to, and that's an order for yer own bloody protection."

"Pauline?" "..Yes Sir?" "Keep Lyle from saying anything foolish, would you?" "Sir."

They take their positions, keeping safe distances from most of the others. Chase perhaps seems a bit more annoyed than the other 'Hawks, conducting himself in less of the manner of a professional soldier than a man after a particularly unsuccessful night out.

"Bloody woman, bloody vinegar.."

Trevor would silently nod to Magnus if noticed, appearing to be more laid back than he actually is, feeling more of a duty towards this mission than he had previously...

Another drawn out whisper. "Distances, people, remember that."
And the rest of the 'Hawks in unison "Sir."

“Now y’see there Rei, this is the sort o’ shit that almost makes me believe that whole theory on meshed worlds and diff’rent realities getting all thrown together somehow. I mean ya just don’t see this sort o’ thing in yer usual regular places,” Jas says to his companion as he gets off the transport, looking at the impressive architecture, keeping less politically correct thoughts of size and compensation quite firmly to himself, smartass though he was.

Reihana gives him one of those looks anyway, knowing well enough what sorts of things may well be going unspoken. “Are you ready for this, Jacobian? We’re past the initial introductions, we have what we’re going to have going in, we aren’t entirely sure what we’re going up against though we know it’s going to be one hell of a fight, and already we have tensions and dissention within the party. This will be no easy task, and we will have to adapt more than usual.”

“I know, Rei. I know. But then we knew it was gonna be a right pain in the ass to begin with, eh?” he replies, pulling a fresh cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket and lighting up. “Not having second thoughts, are ya?”

“No, I am committed to our course. This is something I need to do, and not just for the money.”

Jas nods, letting out a long trail of smoke as he again takes in the place, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fair ‘nuff. For what it’s worth, feel much th’ same. We got some steady folk with us, an’ some right solid pieces of work, regardless o’ politics an’ the other bullshittery. If nothin’ else, we’re gonna be testing our limits, an’ at this point in my life, I figure that’s gonna be what’s needed. Let’s catch up – gonna get our sorry asses left behind.”

They stride purposefully to the doors, doing what they can to catch up to the established group leaders, hefting their gear with a practiced air.

For once Bal and Addol had remained rather quiet as they left the transport and mixed with the others, both kept a eye on the paragon’s until it was clear they where going to spend their time following the Hesche’s for now, and then the two promptly ignored the Marines. This state of, hopefully, mutual ignoring meant that Bal soon had to fixate on something else, which made the attentions of Rourke well timed.

She could hardly fail to notice the man who seemed to be keeping an eye on her, Bal may at times appear flighty, well she was flighty, she was also however a scout, a Ranger used to operating in hostile environments. She had, despite her outward actions a good sense of situational awareness, and well knew that itch that signified someone watching her. So as she was watched she returned the favour scrumptiously, and decided two things.

Firstly the man was watching both her and Addolcarrec, and if she had noticed she damn well knew he had, and he wouldn’t like being watched, and two, for a human he was decent enough. Since the idea was to avoid conflict, and staring at an Exarch was a sure fire way to set them off, especially when they where already tense from the presence of a Marine. She slid her way over, and allowed a sensuous smile to cross her face as she looked at Rourke. ‘Well, you are cute, and a little shy, I saw you watching me, if you want to have some fun, all you have to do is ask.’ As she spoke her hand slowly trailed across the man’s face.

Pausing to examine the mans Moustache she looked intrigued… leaning over she whispered in his ear whatever it was, was highly suggestive, but for now it was between her and Rourke.

Thomas was one of the last to leave the shuttles, having taken some time to wedge the case of shells into his backpack. It was fairly obvious by now that the backpack was a Bag of Holding or some related item, as he was now carrying it over his shoulder with no sign of strain.

He looked around, not attempting to disguise the fact that he was impressed by his surroundings. He was no stranger to tunnels and stonework, of course - his biography had said as much - but Khrrck's architecture tended to be a little more "functional" than "impressive.".

Thomas allowed himself a good thirty seconds to look around at the scenery before following the others towards the great doors.

Unless I get lucky, it might be the last time I see the surface for a while.

Rorke looked the picture of professional conduct standing there, till the moment Bal actually ran her hand across his face, then it became more personal, Rorke replying wordlessly by forming signs for 'my', 'aircraft', 'after $quest_mission_task'. Trevor then of course glancing rather sideways and raising an eyebrow at Rorke, but saying nothing, giving no order, implying his acceptance, given Rorke was far from the womaniser Chase always is.

The others in the area that knew said basic signs would of course recognize what he just said if they were paying attention, but beyond that moment, beyond that very act, Rorke returned to perfectly ignoring Bal, past any obvious Eldar witchery.

Every other 'Hawk is paying attention to their order, sans Chase, as he's distracted momentarily by Rorke's signs, before Trevor gives the all purpose 'Task. NOW.' gesture.

All in all, the 'Hawks are being perhaps quite too serious for their normal selves, sans Pauline, who seems to be trying to retrieve a biscuit that has grown legs and walked out of her carry bags and down her leg.

Yari and Sun Yi stepped off the shuttle and walked over to lean against a convenient bench. This was their home turf, or had been for the last couple years, and awe-inspiring was now an overstatement. Kicking back and balancing on the bench Yari looked at Magnus until she caught his eye.

"So, are we gonna get started right away or just stand around? Cause if we are just gonna stand here I've got some cleaning to do. In the bedroom. Or maybe the shower. Oooph..."

Sun Yi withdrew her elbow and moved in front of her partner, "Or we could just pick up our stuff. No need for unnessecary distractions right? We've got an unknown evil to face!"

For his own part, Magnus doesn't miss a beat--how could he, given how he's known for being equally bare-faced shameless--but he does hope that usually he comes off as just a little more suave than essentially 'grr, Ugh want copulate now.' "I'd be delighted, but I don't think the local custom would appreciate it too much. Rain check, perhaps?" Winning grin.

Of course, this is distracting him from dealing with the Paragons, and now may not be the best time to look like Magnus the comic book action movie hero as opposed to Magnus, the Real Sanctioned Psionic Officer. Ah well. He waits for the inevitable grumble, sound of discontent or disdain, or sharp snap of Rhiannon chastizing her shameless father, then wonders when he doesn't hear a peep out of her.

That's when he notices she's lead Timothius off by the elbow, talking in low tones.

Oh my. He simply grins and shakes his head. She could do worse... but that doesn't mean he doesn't watch. Oh no. Sixteen gets you twenty, and eight gets you shot for being a sick bastard. Not like anyone else here has a right to know that, but the mere thought gets the parental blood up to a proper temperature.

Timothius looks down at the young...woman for several moments, part of being a capable combat soldier is the ability to absorb and to process information very quickly if need be but here Timothius both has and needs the time for some introspection on what Rhiannon has just explained to him.
Reaching a decision, he reaches up and unlatches the dog-faced helmet, manouvering it carefully around the bionics socketing into it and considers Rhiannon a moment, the unblinking red glow of his bionic eyes as calmly blank as his expression below.
"Ms. Hesche, Rhiannon, I have been a soldier my entire life. I mean that in the most literal possible sense, I went from the vat to the battlefield. I know what it is like for your experiences to be overwhelming when contrasted with the scope of your life itself. I also understand what it is to be born for a purpose, and how overwhelming that can be, the responsibility of what you were born to be versus what you're sure you can do."
He grimaces.
"The Astartes know no fear Ms. Hesche, but after the events of the Heresy we assuredly understand doubt."
Timothius sighs.
"Well. As for my question and your response...we Astartes must learn trust somewhere. I chose to start here. Your..unique heritage is something I'll keep to myself as I believe you would not be comfortable with the information's diffusion?"
For a moment he pauses, looking almost sad.
"It must have been quite a tale, how you came to have the estimable Sir Hesche as a parent."

For the briefest of moments, a look of something almost like pity flashes across Rhi's face, before being swallowed up by an unaffected look of near-kin respect. "I'm glad you understand," she says softly, putting one hand gently on the Terminator's massive vambrace in an obviously consoling gesture. "Even if the cause is noble, but we wouldn't be... human if we didn't doubt. You've had to sacrifice more in mind and body," she says, again noting Timothius' bionic eyes, "but should you wish a sympathetic outside view..."

One strange quirk of human nature is that, sometimes, people offer others what they themselves are quietly asking for. "We're a team. Dad would go on about being bound by duty and honor if cameras were rolling, and he'd be right"--she smirks--"but it's the closest thing to family we'll have when things get rough.

"Thanks for keeping my confidence." She glances over at Oduh specifically, although it's not like Phenix hasn't gone off in one form or another on half of the aliens in the room. "I don't like keeping secrets, but I think it'd be better this way, at least until I've proven myself true enough for your comrades to trust. Which, damnably enough, this 'disguise' actually helps... and it's not like this isn't me either, just another form..." She shakes her head, sighs, and looks up at the Marine with a wry but girlish little smirk. "'O, what a tangled web we weave' and all that, especially when it's not really deception as trading one natural honest mask for another." Something dawns on her, and she continues to connect dots with surprise but not heat. "Damn, I'm more of a stereotypical superhero than my dad. I at least have a secret identity of sorts."

She pats the vambrace at Timothius' sigh, then steps back to give the Marine his room. "I swear on my mother's memory I'll tell you more if you're willing. It is quite a tale to hear Dad tell it; I wasn't around at the time 'cept in the shell. Like most of his exploits it got fictionalized but I was conveniently left out of it so I could have some semblance of a 'normal' life." She glances towards the air in thought for a moment, tweaks an eyebrow, and smirks. "It worked too, more or less, despite everything I've done that could throw it off. Especially dealing with that punk bully. Still... thank you, again, for your discretion. If there ever happens to be anything I can do to return the favor, just let me know."

Meanwhile, Magnus focuses his attention on the other Dawn Paragons so they don't divert their attention towards their battle brother and his daughter. Downside, he can't quite make out their whispers. Deep down, he gets the hunch it's perfectly innocent and meaningless, but he wouldn't be a mildly overprotective father figure if he didn't worry at least a bit. "Well, to end the briefing-slash-order session on a high note, I do think you guys bring quite a lot of heavy firepower to the group. We've got a lot of tunnel rats, but this is dwarf country and so they have to build everything big, you know. May as well take advantage." Winningly bright white toothy grin, brain working out ways on how to continue drawing attention in a constructive fashion. "Question, being the outsider stepping in--I assume you all have fought together; what formation do you prefer and how can I as psionic fire support fit into that? Also, anything else you need of me, just ask--'s what the officer corps is for."

"I assume that we are meant to begin as soon as possible." Oduh muses, belting several small pounches around his waist and tail. With the wings, a more traditional backpack would be quite impractical.

"Yeah, probably wanna get going and commence all the heroics and stuff." Tal shoulders his backpack and glances at the rest of the group. "Heh, man, with the Magnus Hesche on board... y'think they'll make a movie about this?"

"I suppose that may depend on what transpires underground." the Keeper responds. "And it would not surprise me if it was a comedy or a tragedy."

Tal pauses, ears flattening back against his head at the Keeper's casual insinuation that they could all get slaughtered. "Yeah.... y'really know how to get the party morale up there, don'cha?"

"I prefer to be realistic." Is the copper-scaled half-man's response as he looks toward the apparent leaders of the adventuring party.

Addol’s reaction upon seeing the Halls was different from many it seemed, he looked upon the home of the dwarves with, approval. Unlike the Elvin palace they had just left it still retained it’s military strength in his eyes, despite the ornamentation that had been added, the builders had never forgotten that primary they where building a fortress. In side they may have dug too deep once but here at least they had kept their eye on the target.

His eyes cast about picking places to make a stand, ambush foes as they attacked, or of course places where he might make his own advance on an assault. He counted steps between various areas of cover, calculated how long it would take him to move between those areas, and through the many kill zones, and was impressed. Overall he could spot only a handful of places throughout the entire entrance where he was not exposed to at least one wall, another handful where he was able to gain at least some cover, but they where always spread out, always an attacker would be slaughtered as they attempted to storm the place.

As for Bal she was at first confused at the strange human males hand gestures, but eventually she worked out the gist of it, and was pleased. Satisfied that she had held the man’s interest long enough for now, she slipped away with a wink. It was she decided highly unlikely she would wait till they where back to call in that interest, but for now she would leave him to his illusions.

Mirrk looked over his kit, taking stock of needed supplies. He made sure the containers with the crushed and liquified semi-precious stones were fastened securely, and his satchel had the appropriate materials in it. He took a small empty ink-vat from his satchel, added a pinch of brown powder to it, and took a small bamboo stick out, holding it in his manipulators.

One of the containers lashed to his shoulder-spikes was removed, and it's liquidy-goo contents emptied into the vat. This was stirred for a moment while Mirrk's tympanum wavered in a sub-sonic chant. The resulting gooey substance was globbed on the end of the bamboo shaft, and Mirrk then seemed to paint an intricate series of patterns and glyphs on his claws and arms. As they were painted, they seemed to glow with a dull light, and then fade out in his armored skin to look like nothing more than an amethyst-colored tattoo.

After he had painted both arms and sets of claws, he capped the vat and replaced it in his satchel. He begun the process again with a different container and a different vat. This time his legs and feet were painted. And so on until his entire body was covered with the tattoo-material.

It had to have been some kind of record.

Shortest time to put on a suit of powered battle armor, specifically. Because, really, you could probably get a jacket on that fast, but...power armor? Not very likely.

But Shae Callahan did it.

Of course, he was aided by the fact that the prototype Cataphract suit he was wearing was designed for rapid...deployment. The fact that it was also rather sleek (compared to the average Revenian design, which were pretty sleek in the firs tplace,) and low-profile added to this. One began to wonder exactly how...protective...it could really be, especially in comparison to the massive suits of armor favored by individuals such as the Space Marines.

Also odd was where he did his dressing, because it certainly wasn't on the dropship, but it also wasn't...anywhere else, either. What it was, was confusing as hell. Which was probably the idea...

Still, he probably wouldn't have bothered yet if the Cataphract suit wasn't as...sleek...really is the best word...as it was, to the point that he simply put his jacket on over the armor -- and it didn't look odd...then checked his sword and holstered .44 MMC, now in a shoulder rig, of sorts. Added to this was an AR-36 in carbine configuration, slung over the shoulder, and an APSP and Directorate dart shooter in the suit's integral thigh holsters, such as they were.

Shae would smile lightly as he seemingly...stepped back into phase with the other two members of his little sub-party who were making their way towards...whatever it was they were supposed to be making their way towards.

Then he would produce a cigar, trim it with the retractable battle klaw on his left gauntlet, set it to his lips, then light it with the right gauntlet's integral flamer. Always fun.

The two Kajali have been more or less out of sight since disembarking from the shuttles, but now they seem to have appeared directly behind the Scolopendrans. Given that they've acquired a retinue of space marines, this places the Kajali somewhere behind them, far enough back as to not get stepped on or shot by the Paragons and close enough to still constitute part of the group.

Looking around at the halls, they're compared mentally to piazzas and massive open spaces back in Kajurmani, though none of those are nearly as ancient and instead tend to the futuristic modernism that seems so prevalent in large cities these days. As it is, the positively baroque by comparison architecture here is a sort of refreshing change, even if all the same devices are embedded in the masonry as everywhere else.

Ierenn had been carrying his headgear for a while, though when he actually clicked it into place it'd lock and there'd be a brief hissing as it sealed to the rest of the suit. The technology that allowed this also allowed the suit to produce air as necessary, without exposing the wearer to any contagions. Ser had a similar headpiece, though it was notably different as it was engineered to amplify psionic capability, at least as well as the Kajali could, given their understanding of such.

And with that, they head off with the rest of the group, looking more like androids than actual people.

Celebrimbor shrugged, a gesture that seemed incongruously crude. “You may take or leave my offering as you like.” It was unclear if he spoke of his counsel or of the ring – probably both. “It is common enough, and of no great import to me or my people. It will perhaps keep you safe in the near future if you use it, though…”

----

The halls of the dwarves were as one would probably expect, upon entry, both grand and grandiose, with thick, solid building work and thick stone walls reinforced with a shimmering black-green metal that glimmered strangely at the guests. Great doors of wrought metals and the same armor plates and stone backing that was deepest black, ensorcelled strangely by crafty masons in some unimaginable way.

Beyond these two outer doors was a great hall bisected by another laid atop it and cutting through its roof. Railings and bridges ran across this upper hall, and graven stairs stuck out of the walls perilously to lead travelers up to them, if they wished.

An aisle was slightly lower than the rest of the first hall, and at either side of the step, at regular intervals, white lights shone, glowing crystal that covered gravitational motors that lifted the constant processions of goods that entered and left via the central doors. They ascended into the upper part of the first hall, where numerous dwarves seemed to work supervising the white crates as the serenely glided through the air.

These came and went through round passageways on either side of the upper chamber, protected by ornate portcullises, that led to sizable outer vaults and waiting areas, and intangible gravitic passages across the great moria that was beyond.

The entrance hall itself, the more martial guests would notice, was completely barren at ground level but for the stairs, which were retractable although they looked as if they were as permanent as the mountains. Above, on the arched ceilings that topped both sections, gold glimmered. Although invisible, there was the sense that should the dwarves wish it, infantry and vehicles alike would regret entering the first hall.

The inner door of the first hall led to a long flight of stairs, capped with elevators on either side, and it was down these stairs that the guides lead the party, into a greater hall, long, and high, its ceiling was of glass stalactites that shone in the evening sun, and channeled all the light of the great windows above into columns where the light seemed to burn the diffuse dust in the air brightly, vertical white beams that descended, even as the light was enhanced by magic, into five great pits that were railed off by cut stone balconies. These light wells, if one dared put one’s head through them, shone just as brightly beneath, where more crystals reflected and refracted the light into optical cables that brought natural – originally at least – light throughout the great city. This wasn’t the only light-well chamber, but it was the only one so open, and the largest, for its glimmering light was as much about defense as it was about comfort. As much as the previous chamber, this room was a trap for would be invaders, yet subtler, by which they would be lured into strange routes that led nowhere.

But that was not what the dwarves had in mind for their guests; they were led into another great hall beyond, or at least, part of one. For it seemed as if the hall had been broken off, the only clue to its intent was that it was carved to give maximum field of fire on any in it, from beyond the narrow stone bridge that spanned the black abyss that yawned as though the mountain had been pulled into pieces by an angry god long ago – as indeed, it might have been in the depths of time – tearing apart the hall.

Beyond, a number of chambers opened up onto one great one that looked onto the bridge of Khazad-dûm from numerous balconies and mezzanines as well as arched doorways, all of which seemed to be fitted, the quick eye could see, with concealed doors that covered a multitude of weapons.

The guests were led over the bridge, still, despite the size of the settlement, only wide enough for one man to pass across, and it lacked rails. This was in part because while freight embarked and disembarked at the eastern gate, the dwarves themselves, customarily entered and left in the west, consequently the bridge was primarily used by those who had specific business with the freight handlers or the great port outside. It was also in part because long ago when the bridge had been built - and then broken by the Balrog's fall, and then built again - the precarious single-file nature of the bridge made it a nearly impenetrable chokepoint for defense of the city.

Beyond was the city. The area they moved into was rugged and industrial, with workshops of every kind. Hammers and machines rang from all directions, but the sound was not overwhelming or deafening, not even uncomfortable, for the acoustics of the industrial spaces within the city were designed by dwarves who could best be described as ‘pedantic audio engineers.’

There was a spur of more presentable areas where quieter craftsmen such as jewelers – the keening of drills and hiss of gauss cutters aside – practiced their arts.

Beyond this, were more recreational areas, and it was to such a hall, low compared to some of the greater ones, with many high and broad doors leading into suites of rooms, that the guests were brought. At a long table were steel platters of roasted meats and foods of all varieties, ranging from vegetables – including a strange root vegetable that tasted a little like sweet, soft bread. There were also great tankards – it was almost as if the dwarves were compensating for their stature – of ale and other drinks ranging the whole palette of taste and inebriation to be found.

There were no dwarves there save Graziknas and the party that had led them into the mountain to be seen, though, and the doors for the rooms off the hall each had the names of the person they had been intended for, arranged around the room in the same order as they had sat in the council. Whoever had set the feast – still warm, and indeed, food would not cool or loose its freshness while on the great oaken table – up was nowhere to be seen, at first at least. However, the dwarves who had led the party to this chamber made it clear to any who would listen that if they wished anything – ‘within reason’ was left unspoken – then it would be brought presently.

The Knight of the Broken Table speaks little but looks much, as the party moves through Khazad-Dûm. Emerald eyes, as hard and bright as any gem, analyse the mansions of the Dwarves; and see, behind the extravagant architecture and the darkly glinting gold, the hidden lines of fire and the traps.

The Bridge is something Karchist approves of; simple, efficient, a natural chokepoint where a few men of Valour might hold off an army. In like manner are all the gates of the halls beneath the Mountain made; the Heart of the World has many foes.

"It is much like the fastnesses of great Olympus," he says finally, "- Only smaller, of course."

Mirrk looked around as they walked through the cavernous expanses. His ears kept listening to the clanging sounds in the distance, and he seemed to enjoy p;aying a mental guessing game with himself as to where the sounds were originating from.

When they were brought to the room with all the names on the separate chambers, and the massive oak table laden with food, Mirrk kept eyeballing the tankards. I may not have to eat much, but I really shoulldn't pass up this chance. And the wine tankards smell tempting.

He bows to the dwarves who led the grouping here. "Gratitude is given by self. Will make good use of tankards. Will try to not impose self on hospitality." He bows once more, and goes to take position at the table, much like the position he took at the council room, and grasps a tankard with his manipulators. he wauts for the others to sit, however, before partaking of anything.

Yes, Rhi thinks, in front of her father when it comes to the one-by-one bridge, the travelogues and histories didn't do this place justice. Still she has the natural disappointment of it not quite living up to her imaginings of it, at least as she was poring through hardcopy printouts of scans of ancient books sitting in some Menelmacari library somewhere. How it could have been more epic is hard to say, but she was a young girl at the time and, well, a Hesche. A sense of the epic comes naturally to her, even ignoring the fact it's in her blood.

Meanwhile, Magnus decides that the Scolopendrans are pikers when it comes to designing for defense. Skyscrapers intentionally designed not to offer much protection to enemy infantry on the street pale in comparison to forcing people to walk single file over a stone bridge. With the balance of a cat himself, he looks back with concern at his Marine friends practically heel-toe-heel-toeing their way along the path. He taps his daughter on the shoulder, tilts a bit to the side--over the chasm--for her to get the hint, and she nods. Problem resolved.

Still... fishing around in his pockets, Magnus produces a smooth, flat stone he picked up somewhere not too important. He was going to save it to skip it over some lake somewhere, but this is the here and now and there's no point in saving 'till tomorrow what can be done today. Looking over the side curiously, he idly drops the rock down into the darkness like any schoolboy testing the depth of any well.

The probable lack of a noticable 'clunk' when (if?) it hits bottom just causes him to whistle, grin, and carry on. Carry on to a feast. Now this is a proper adventure. All we need are some Freodians and we're set. Beer and meat, just what people need to get enough in the adventuring spirit before setting out.

And there's so much meat, too, and so many different kinds of everything. Rhiannon stares wide-eyed, quickly noting most everything in short order. "Um, yes, sir, I have a question." Fooooooooooood. "When's dinner?"

Pausing only to take the ring Galdern was more than happy to have left the room, and to be on his way. In the end it didn’t really matter overly much what was said there, the two could disagree over the issue as much as they liked. It was hardly going to change the world.

Back at Moria Addolcarrec made his way through the chambers with a silent step, casting a very appreciative look across the chambers. In his mind he was picturing a battle for this place, he was picturing storming it, or defending it and he was very appreciative of what he was seeing. Everywhere his gaze turned he saw choke points, and kill-zones. Traps and false passages, it was pleasing.

At last he reached the great tear and smiled at the sight of the Bridge. A perfect last defence; a place well suited for a last stand, before the city proper. Of course the modern age had likely lessened to some extent the usefulness of such a defence, but it still had its place and likely always would… He watched as the human Hesche started to cross and waited for the Marines to follow him, blocking the way to Bal’s passage until they had started, there was no way either of them would get close to a Marine on such a place, he didn’t trust them at all.

Once they arrived at the place put aside for them he merely nodded to the others and taking some food made his way into the room put aside for him. Once inside the door closed what he did inside the room would remain a mystery, although for a while it seemed he was dragging things about and re-arranging furniture. When the door opened the next day, it would become apparent that he had indeed done this, as everything in the room was now pushed up against a single wall, leaving a clear space in the middle, large enough for a few lesser dills.

As for Bal-Shanaar she moved around the table sampling the food happily, it was never exactly clear when she picked up food, and when she ate it, but she did so, with the enthusiasm of a person who perhaps went long periods of time with less well prepared fare.

Jas and Reihana follow their hosts in relative silence, making a brief comment now and then concerning their new surroundings, and the rather sturdy construction and defensiveness thereof. Jas walks confidently yet with care across the narrow bridge – being comfortable with heights is one thing. No need to get cocky about it – that leads to mistakes.

For her part, Reihana takes a moment to absorb the atmosphere before crossing, quietly letting her perceptions take in more than the usual casual glance allows. The place has an uncomfortable vibe to it. Given what she knows of the history of the place, having done some homework ahead of time, it’s no surprise. Wars had been fought, many had died over the years. Evil had by all accounts taken up residence in the depths and walked the now lit halls in times of darkness. With a slight shiver, she gingerly makes her way across the rock walkway.

Never one to pass up a free meal, Jas waits for Reihana to catch up, then they drop their gear inside the rooms designated before joining others at the huge table. Jas takes a seat to the left of Mirrk, with Reihana sitting to the left of him.

“I believe, Miss Hesche, that dinner is now,” Jas says, offering the young woman a nod and a smile before helping himself to the fare at hand, offering to serve up for Reihana as well for things just out of polite reach.

Thomas had never particularly liked heights. In fact, he positively abhorred them. Needless to say, the bridge of Khazad-Dûm did not sit well with him.

He peers cautiously into the abyss, from a safe distance.

"Yeah. When I signed up for this I expected depths, not heights."

He takes another step towards the bridge, sways ominously, then steps back, letting others go ahead of him. "Screw this. I'm not crossing that."

He closes his eyes and concentrates. His outline begins to blur, become indistinct. "Let's see... haven't done this in a while. Something's not quite aligned right down here... Aha. The other side is that way."

He points in an eye-watering direction, and follows his pointing finger. He becomes a plane, a line, a point, winks out. A small number of seconds elapse.

The process repeats itself in reverse. A somewhat winded-looking Thomas materializes on the far side, some small distance behind Hesche and the Marines. From there, he falls back into line and tries to look nonchalant - while surreptitiously checking to make sure that all of his organs are still in their proper places. He's had a few bad experiences with that before.

******

Thomas is fairly quiet for the rest of the trip, paying little attention to the surrounding scenery. Instead, half the time he appears to be staring fixedly at something only he can see. Given what he's just done, that probably is what he's doing.

When dinner comes, he chooses a quiet seat and serves himself, choosing an assortment of small, nutritious items. He doesn't do much in the way of starting conversation, but neither does he shut himself off from the others - he's approachable, if a little distant.

The Mu's slipped into seperate chairs and dug right in. They might not have been as well read as Rhi but they had certainly read the Hobbit and this was in a sense...

"...a hobbit's revenge. Though I doubt we can eat everything in the larders of the Dwarves." Yari grinned and tore a hunk of bread from the massive slice that dominated one side of her charger. "We don't have twelve doughty warriors but we have wizards aplenty. Possibly even a few thieves or at least those who consider their hands nimble and quick."

Sun Yi grinned wide as well and stood. "A toast!"

"Yes, a toast!" Yari stood as well and hefted her tankard high. She waited a moment while all who chose stood as well and Sun Yi digested her words carefully.

"To our fine dwarven and elven hosts, to what is unknown and will be uncovered! To adventure! May it find us lacking not courage nor readiness nor will but filled with the joy of a voyage well taken and a rest well deserved at the end!"

Steins clonked together and liquid sloshed over to drop onto the massive table. One by one they sat and Yari leaned over to whisper with her partner. 'Quite the toast. What's got you all inspired?'

'Perhaps it's the mead. Or the Magnus is rubbing off on me.' Sun Yi shrugged and turned back to her plate. "Either way we should eat. It might be a while before we get a chance to feast like this again."

"S'true enough. Just not too much feasting - I can feel this going straight to my hips." Despite this Yari laughed and grabbed another lamb shank. She dug in and Sun Yi turned to whoever was on the other side of her and stuck out a hand. "Sun Yi Mu, oops..." Pulling the hand back she wiped it quickly on a napkin then resumed introducing herself with a laugh. "I'm probably one of the thieves..."

Bal-Shanaar felt that at the moment it seemed she was the Kionash representative at this feast, possibly not one not one of the best choices she mused in a rare introspective moment but then with a shrug she rose to clash her glass with the others. (Not one for drinking heavily she had chosen what appeared to be the least alcoholic of the drinks on offer, whatever was in her drink smelt lightly spiced, and delicate in flavour, which was almost certainly a good thing.) For a moment her eyes came to rest on the Hawk who had watched her before, then on the Mon-keigh she had spoken to first, before she shrugged. The tribal markings he had painted on himself looked interesting and she wondered if he would take it as insulting if she was to ask him about them later, maybe get him to mark her as well.

Pulled out of her musings by Sun Yi Mu Bal spent a second looking at the offered hand then shrugged a moment, extending her own. ‘Bal-Shanaar.’ pausing a moment to consider the woman’s comments, she shrugged, ‘Guess I’d be a thief as well.’ nodding her head towards the knight from Olympus Mons ‘Assuming folks like him are our warriors.’

As she spoke she too was grabbing food from the table, and smiling at the tastes that assaulted her mouth. Altogether quite pleased at the moment. ‘So that guy, the one whom the Astartes seem to be treating as the Emperor reborn or something… who is he?’ Her question carried a strange mix of interest both professional and that little something more, spoken about by Galdern previously. ‘I know I’ve seen him somewhere before but I can’t place it.’

****

As for Galdern he was a little behind the others and taking his time in any case in no rush to join a host of the Mon-keigh and the Astartes, even in his curiosity, e had just reached the bridge when the toasting had begun, and Addol-Carrac had just about finished his redecorating.

Rather than walk across the narrow bridge, Oduh takes the far more expedient route of taking a great running leap off the brink and flying across; the Keeper thoroughly impressed with the sheer scale and sturdy design of the place. Tal-Lynta mutters something about being a show-off under his breath, and files across the stone bridge with the others. He lacks the military training or experience to appreciate how the fortress is built to direct intruders into deadly crossfires, but the researcher has the good intuition to be suitably impressed with at least the scale of the place.

Once they get to the feast, Oduh's face lights up with a huge, even goofy grin as he takes a seat and particpates in the toast, adding an enthusiastic cry of "Muo Jxo Nxe Jooj Ucc xocf ij ke jmako kxejo nxe neict effejo Xoh!" Judging by his tone, one can assume the archaic sentence is an entreaty to the divine to ensure the adventurers kick suitable quantities of evil ass. It's perhaps the most relaxed the winged man has been since his spat hours ago with the Marines.

Tal politely clinks his tankard at the toast, eyes open wide at the sheer amount of food. It's not that the cat-eared researcher isn't well fed normally; but one does not often see such vast amounts of quality food on a researcher's paycheck. While his partner digs right in with all the delight of a child in a candy store, the Neko takes a more sedate pace and selects small portions of a wide variety of the available goodies. He glances up at the jovial conversation about RPG parties and grins.

"So if you're the thieves, then they-" Tal gestures at the knight and the Sakkran with a turkey leg. "-have to be the party tanks. And he-" Now the turkey gestures at Oduh, who pauses with a mouthful of bread. "-is the party spellcaster. And THEY-" Vague wave of the turkey leg in the direction of the Hesches. "-are the super-secret hidden characters that are awesome at everything that you usually have to jump through all sorts of hoops to unlock."

"That bridge.."
"I know."
"It's supporting everyone else and obviously has done for a long time. The Squats seem perfectly happy with it."
"But they're little and runty. You can't trust them, it's not natural to hit your head on door handles."
"Phenix."
"Yes Brother Sergeant?"
"Shut up and cross the bridge, there's a good chap."
"Yes Brother Sergeant."

***

With the bridge-crossing done and dealt with, the trio continue trudging along behind Magnus, taking in the sights, inevitably with an eye to the superbly defensive nature of the mine, while doing their level best to keep Phenix from speaking his mind.
"That's a crapload of Squats."
"Dwarves. And yes, but if you say that out loud I'm going to shoot you and we need you for the mission. Don't make me shoot you Phenix."
"I will endeavour not to, Sergeant."
"Good choice that man."
Fortunately for the Sergeants' sanity, the arrival at the mess hall arrives soon enough, allowing the three Paragons to experience more culinary variation than they have in quite a while. Marines don't need to eat much, but the Paragons have feast-day traditions, which, given the Legion's long history have conspired toward giving the older Brothers a rather disconcertingly choosy alcohol palette, as well as making them rather dedicated epicures.
In this case, that ends up leading to the novel picture of Phenix enjoying his food while his seniors argue the merits of the various beverages available.
They seem to be enjoying themselves, and are perhaps presenting a rather more jovial face than is to be expected, but they're men, not stereotypes.

Though Ierenn doesn't seem awed by the amount of food (or anything else, for that matter), he certainly does help himself to his fair portion of it. Seraal looks shocked for a moment, and she's still stuck to Ierenn's hip, even seated at a table.

Ierenn seems to gaze intently into his drink for a moment, while Seraal practically downs it in no time flat at the toast. Ierenn can concentrate and reconfigure the liquid into something else entirely, were it required, while Seraal can only fight off the effects of alcohol for so long.

She mutters something before she starts eating, which echos an earlier sentiment. Hips be damned, though, you can't go hunting ancient evil on an empty stomach.

The Black Company representatives respond to the toast with a soft but firm ‘Budmo’ from Reihana and a gruff ‘Kampai’ from Jas, each taking a healthy swig of their preferred drinks. They chuckle a bit at the titles being tossed around, with Rei giving her partner a sly wink at ‘party spellcaster’ comment. It was clear they weren’t considered among the more accomplished, viable, or threatening – at least to the monsters – of the group, but that didn’t really bother them. A job was a job, and they were here to fulfill their contract to the best of their abilities.

“I’ll warrant we have ‘tanks’ aplenty, all things considered,” Jas observes. “An’ no few spellslingers to boot, one sort or other. Prolly a good thing there’s a plethora o’ talents an’ skills assembled. Seems we’ll be in need ‘fore all’s said and done.”

“I suppose you could call us ‘hands-on entrepreneurs’,” Reihana says with a quiet sort of smile, delicately sampling the contents of her plate. “Or spec-ops for hire, if one wishes to be more blunt. But whatever the title, or niche we come to fill in our merry little band, I believe we shall fill it well.”

Sun Yi looked a bit suprised at Bal's question. That a Wanderer had not heard of Magnus Hesche...

'Though perhaps this one does not wander the civilized places...'

"That is Magnus Hesche, or The Magnus, or any one of a number of titles. One of the most visible and... glamorous... members of the 'Pendran Office of Psionic Operations. I guess you could call him the James Bond of the psi-spy world."

"Star of stage and cinema too. Got his own comic book too." Yari interjected. "You've never seen any of them? 3-2-1 Magnus Hesche? Oh Crap, It's Magnus Hesche?"

"Camp Psi-Spy at it's best. Always gets the girl, girl is always built like a Barbie doll..."

Sun Yi looked around as the Farseer entered the room. "So where's your other friend? The violent looking one?"

As she listened to the explanation of who Hesche was it was clear when the recognition came to her ‘Oh, he’s real then, I thought it was a…’ for a moment it was clear Bal really wanted to say something else but managed to just about hold back, ‘erm, human myth.’
Turning to apprise the man in question again she smiled gently, her mind wandering a little. ’So, not a myth then, oh the Idain really did find me a fun little task, it already promises to equal hunting with an Yngir.’

When the Exarch was mentioned Bal shrugged in answer before pointing roughly in the direction of his rooms. ‘I expect Addol-Carrac is in there, going through a light training session, by now I expect he is going through a few of the’ looking as if she was searching for the right word for a moment before eventually nodding, ‘yes kata of his Aspect. The Exarch’s are a dull lot socially, he’s had his briefing, so now he withdraws to his room to continue to practice.’ shrugging again in explanation she reached out to grab some more food, after taking a quick bite she went on.

‘Likely for the best, in truth, an Exarch and three Losseainn, sounds like either a recipe for disaster or the start of a bad joke.’

Evan had remained mostly quiet through the trip over the Bridge and through dinner, although as he got some food in him he started to live up again. He nudged Tal, and said jokingly, "I guess I must be the party band-aid - whoops, cleric. Sorta." Cleric of entirely useless gods, that is.

“Yarrrggggh!”

Graziknas roared heartily in affirmation to the toast, raising his stout dwarvish tankard of carved stone high, losing a small amount of its contents. He tipped it back as it practically catapulted to his face and he downed the contents with all the speed of the cup being poured into a bucket.

One of the other dwarves had simply nodded at Rhi when she’d asked about permission. As time passed, occasional music could be heard; contrary to stereotypes, the dwarves didn’t entirely favour plainchant (though their halls had the acoustics for it) and practiced a fairly wide variety of musical forms, some had instruments in common with human and elven cultures – the keening of harps, for example, could be heard. It would also surprise few indeed that the dwarves had a wide variety of percussion instruments, some like tubular bells, and even a form of piano unique to themselves. Working as it did by essentially hitting a harp with hammers, dwarves had a certain affinity for the instrument, and had a version that combined the characteristics of a guitar with the internal arrangement of a piano, producing an ability to alter the sounds of notes as they rang. It was bafflingly complex internally; which was just how the dwarves liked it – straight workmanship was for practicality; complex work was for entertainment.

“What do you get,” he decided, after several beers, “when you cross a goblin with a wraith?” His answer was, “An abomination that should be destroyed on sight, not allowed to live.”

After a few hours, he rose to his feet, turned, and ambled off to his room, apparently thoroughly inebriated.

Idhrindiel disappeared into her rooms likewise, about fifteen minutes later, as did Nárlanyo. Arnran, the Necron, took longer, ‘sleeping’ or whatever it was his kind did, in a room next to Idhrindiel’s.

---

The morning after, as the sluggish sun crept up between the mountains, the Menelmacari contingent of the party returned. They were all dressed in a form of mid-profile armor common to the Mornahossë, even Arnran, despite not actually being a Mornahossë, had a suit, apparently having commissioned it privately. The armor consisted of a bodysuit layer of living metal material from the neck downwards, an inch thick or more, which made a noticeable difference to physical stature of course, under a layer of dedicated ceramic materials in a sound-deadening coat of white ‘scale mail.’ Over this were multi-millimeter armor plates of a black, metallic but flexible material – galvorn - these were primarily designed to deal with blunt force trauma, and were capable of spreading impacts out over most of the body.

Nárlanyo, of course, had the same staff as before, and had acquired a short, carbine-style gun that fired projectiles of some sort. There were other devices that could be weapons of some sort, or more obscure things. Arnran carried a lofty staff with a single, menacing blade, and a pistol that seemed to be made of ice, depicted through a negative film, and encrusted with a prodigious amount of gemstones. Idhrindiel seemed to favor a more ‘advanced’ plasma weapon than Nárlanyo, and also carried her Mornahossë-issue sword and protocaster. And then there was Graziknas, who, if he’d seemed like a walking arsenal before, appeared now to be weighed down with pouches in webbing over his armor, and numerous guns of different types. Whenever he twitched, there was a metallic rattle from somewhere on his person.

“People!” Arnran said, when he was satisfied that everyone was up, “I think it’s time for us to be going…”

---

The route deeper into the mountain was fairly uncomplicated; for there was a massive network of lifts that served as public transport, traveling a network of horizontal and vertical tubes that could probably reach to the moon or further if laid out straight. In areas, these lifts actually flew; the main such area being the pit of Khazad-dûm; as some had noted, the bridge was an impediment to day to day operations, and for that reason the lifts could pass over the pit on the narrow rails and gravitic fields that supported cargo transport.

There were other lifts, too, for more industrial uses, purely vertical in most cases, square platforms that ascended and descended great cuts. One of these, slower, but more direct, was the way to the deepest point of the inhabited city, a level of dust and cobwebs, where wardens patrolled uneasily.

On the slower lift, there were stacks of crates, ammunition in every size in use, guns of numerous diverse origins – the Yvressi might even recognize some of their own shuriken rifles, similar with the Kajali and Scolopendrans – and the supplies of lembas and other foodstuffs. Silvered flasks embossed with the same seal stamped onto the lembas, and with glass grooves that allowed one to measure the contents remaining, contained a clear, fragrant liquid called miruvor, with properties broadly similar to lembas. As well as this, there were other foodstuffs, ranging from compact nutrition pills to clear distilled water.

The logistics officer from before, and several others, waited, swiftly answering any questions and finding most anything – survival equipment, foods, weapons, ammunition, and so forth – that was requested of them as the lift descended.

---

The lower levels were mostly sealed off, and as Graziknas led onwards, the group began to pass increasing numbers of turreted-weapons affixed to floors, walls and ceilings, some of them in the open, some concealed from casual view.

They came to a chamber that was an almost solid mass of guns, watched over by a company of dwarves in the room itself and the guardroom nearby. These saluted Graziknas gruffly, and opened a heavy pair of double doors.

“Behold,” he said in a hushed voice, “Durin’s Stair.” The spiral stairwell had ceilings about thrice the height of a grown man, and steps enchanted so that they did not wear from use, around a great central column. Two men, even two terminators, could easily stand abreast within it. “In going down it, we shall pass beyond the control of the Realm of Khazad-dûm. Be on your guard…”

Tal swallows nervously, looking like something of a cross between a fidgety nerd and Rambo, with belts across his shoulders containing some sort of "ammunition"- thaumaturgic capacitor crystals actually, the favored psionic/mystic implement of the Shogunate's magic-fueled technology. It's well known from studies at Camp R that the stones become volatile when charged beyond their capacity, making the little things useful flashbangs or worse; as evidenced still by the Neko's lack of body hair. He's got his pack of research supplies and rations and some light body armor he got somewhere (probably from Oduh.)

As for the Keeper, he stares down the stairwell with a grim expression, trying to sample the ambience via sixth and seventh senses. He's been getting increasingly concerned the lower the lift went, a sense of unease that's only heightened by the abundant security measures. He wears very little clothing- just a breastplate engraved with runes in his native language and cleverly worked to buckle in place without hampering his wing movement. Otherwise he's wearing a multitude of belts and pounches holding his supplies. Oduh's sword, Jneht ev Sxuej, the holy blade of the Golden One and the sign of his status as a Keeper is slung in its sling across his back.

"Muo kxo jkhodwkx ev Jxo Nxe Jooj Ucc cawxk eih nuo udt jxockoh ij vhem kxo jxuten." He murmurs quietly. "May the light of the All-Seer illuminate the darkness."

Yari scooted back from the edge where she had knelt for a better look. Both of the Mu's were in their armor again though she had removed the stone-textured helmet-mask for a quick look into the depths.

"I sure am glad two of their abreast," she nodded at the Astartes, "Isn't two of my abreast."

Pulling her helmet-mask back on she grabbed the handle of a floating crate that was their only luggage besides their backpacks and numerous pouches. It's contents were unknown but the stenciled 'COMPENSATION' across the top was a broad hint. Both also had carbines on chest slings and their sidearms as well as half a dozen grenades of various types hooked onto their armor.

'I'd suggest we should rope ourselves together but if one of them trips I think we'd all...'

'Whooosh! Splat! Yeah. No ropes.'

"Onward I guess. Adventure awaits."

One hand on the central column the two began trudging down into the darkness and quickly disappeared around the curve. The cat, which had re-appeared at their morning gathering along with a pair of kittens, padded along the outside edge of the stair while it's wards stuck to the safer inside. Quickly one became distracted by something - a bug, some dancing dust, or the like - and drifted to the rear of the party where it just managed to keep up. The other moved ahead of the Mu's where it was constantly staying on the edge of the darkness whiskers wide as it nosed into the unknown.

As they reach the armoury Galdern nods a moment to Bal-Shanaar who in response roots around her pack a moment before withdrawing ten gemstones wrapped around Wraithbone, passing one of the stones to Galdern and a second to Addol-Carrac, she turns to examine the rest of the group. ‘Well there are more of us than we thought, and to be honest ten is the limit anyway, but prior to departure the Idain arranged for me to take possession of a device mostly used by the Dire Avenger’s. For protecting a squad, it’s basically an energy field, projected by this…’ As she speaks she appears to fix a small device to her arm, at first she appears a little uncomfortable by the new weight but quickly adjusts.

‘Basically as long as you are in range, and have these fitted to your person, the field should protect you against slow moving Kinetic damage, such as oh a mouth descending upon you to rip you apart, just as an example.’ Looking around the assembled group she shrugged ’So if anyone wants one, just ask.’

As she said this both Addol and Galdern took care to gather some examples of Lembas at last, and to check their ammo before leaving the area.

****Durin’s stair*****

At the declaration and with the two women from sunset seemingly ready to depart already Bal waited a second before pulling her cloak around her, and slowly fading into the surrounding scenery. ‘Well I guess we scouts have to go earn our keep?’ With a slight giggle she made to go on ahead. For a second Addol seemed torn, between staying with the Farseer and joining Bal in scouting ahead, after a moment he seemed to decide to stay with the main group. The party seemed well equipped with scouts as it was, at some point too many scouts, especially on such a narrow stair case, would just start tripping over each other.

As for Galdern he took a moment to admire the stairs and the region one last time, before closing his helmet, readying himself for whatever was ahead.

Ierenn and Seraal have, for all intents and purposes, become virtually indistinguishable from each other under the armor they wear. There's a dull red glow coming from what would appear to be some sort of eye-shaped sensor, and the helmets themselves had a hawk-like profile. On the interior, they provided all sorts of view modes and data, of course, and Ierenn's readout was likely almost entirely internally generated, relying on the suit's sensors only for data collection.

Seraal, on the other hand, would have the basics up and not too much else, having been trained in an entirely different manner. Like the Keeper, she had an increasingly disquieting feeling about the depths, and the numerous visible weapons emplacements do nothing to particularly quash it.

They always said to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Seraal, however, would be more comfortable first knowing who those enemies were. Without that luxury, the two had no choice but to proceed downwards with the rest of the group, weapons at ready, and a further assortment of numerous, deadly instruments attached to their suits.

Karchist regarded the turret emplacements of the lower levels with an Olympian's eye for martial detail. Here at last was an antechamber worthy of the Heart of the World; no technological trickery but merely weapon upon weapon, multiplying into fields of fire that would shred any attacker.

It spoke clearly of where the concerns of the dwarves lay; not with the skies above, protected by Elven hegemony, but with these dark reaches beneath the Earth. Durin's Stair, and not the gates above, was the true entrance of Moria, in the Martian's eye; the gates in the mountains were merely exits, boltholes from which to retreat from the terrors below.

"Great and terrible must be the fell things that crawl in the darkness beneath the Stair," he said, regarding his companions, "But great and terrible also is the company assembled against them! Let us go down, and teach these things what it is to die!"

"Perhaps those of you without armour should take the Eldar's weirding stones," he added, "That you may have some better measure of protection. For myself, I shall trust in the manufactories of the Heart of the World."

OOC: I've been reading (and watching) the Fellowship for inspiration, of course!

Evan felt a bit out of place as he walked down the stairs in the middle of the group, given that so many of the others seemed to have gone with various sizes of heavy armor, while he only had basic low-profile impact gear, not to mention the fact that he was wearing a backpack (well, ok, a backpack of holding) like a this was any regular caving expedition.

Deciding that noise discipline obviously wasn't an issue, what with all the tromping of armored boots, he asked any who cared to listen, "Does anyone know who made this and why? I mean, it's Durin's Stair, but why would the guy have dug all the way down here where unnamed horrors apparently lurk?"

On the one hand, Magnus, true to form, parties it up with little prompting. Dwarven table etiquette suits this Senior Diplomatic Officer just fine, and he knows enough bawdy jokes, tales, and songs to keep up with the best of them. That being said, he still somehow manages to retain a sense of class throughout all this--the jokes are more subtle, the nuances more refined, the drinking more moderate, or at least seeming so. Debonair pulpiness is a way of life to the man, and he exemplifies it in full, hitting on everyone with the right curves save his daughter in a joking and not at all serious sort of way. It's just what he does.

On the other hand, Rhiannon does not quite follow her father's example--but that she would do so even in the slightest measure may come as a surprise to those who've been watching her closely and having pegged her as a polite stickler for rules and forms, probably closer to the stereotypical diplomat than her theoretically diplomatic dad. Well, when the laws become lax, she's more than content to be lax with them so long as nothing in her personal code gets crossed. She's not as ribald or suggestive as Magnus is, if at all; still, she shows that she's perfectly capable of being coarse and telling long-winded stories when the situation demands. And she eats, quite literally having more than a taste of everything on the table. She eats like one, or maybe two, of the Marines. She really must have a hollow leg somewhere, if one wants to do the volumetric analysis.

The next day, the Hesches are ready and raring for action. Magnus is as bright and chipper as he always is, and Rhiannon looks as if she hadn't drunk a drop the night before, never mind that by all rights she should be dead if going by alcohol consumed by volume. Provisioning and equipping them is astoundingly easy, as they packed everything they expected to need. Evan doesn't stand out too much because of them; Rhiannon is in everyday charcoal-tinted fatigues and Magnus has his field gear of many pockets. Never mind the low-vis plating concealed inside and powered armorpoly suits underneath each. Their web-belts on each hold several braces of weapons, once they realized they could grab a few recognizable homegrown weapons from the Menelmacari; still, out of the usual powergun pistols Magnus' new turbopistol stands out, primarily in that it has three barrels and no discernable form of ammunition. The weird Chinese guy whose shop always seems to move around and occasionally disappear said not to worry about it. Neither one accepts the Eldar offer, although they decline politely and gesture subtly towards the Marines--given that they've been adopted, there's no reason to offend the sensibilities of their bodyguards any more than they do by just existing, by dint of the elder Hesche being a witch and the younger a witch and... well... a whatever-else-she-is.

"Clearly it's because Durin had a well-honed sense of adventure and exploration," Magnus says from as close to point in the marching order as he can get. One hand rests easily on the grip of his turbopistol; the other remains free, but never swings too far from the distinctive tube of a variable sword. A shoulder-lamp produced from one of his pockets lights the way in front of him, because it's really less dangerous than using a monocle display. "Besides, someone had to do it, and they may as well be recognized for their efforts."

"Or it could be because the Durins formed a Dwarven dynasty and mining veins of mithril and other minerals meant they kept going down," Rhiannon replies with a shrug. "That the Durins were also possibly reincarnations of each other doesn't hurt either. They were in charge and put their name on everything, especially after Durin IV was killed by Durin's Bane." She keeps her blue eyes carefully scanning, but otherwise looks at preternatural ease.

"See, adventure." Magnus smirks.

"Profit isn't adventurous," Rhi says with a raised eyebrow in her voice.

"The questing for it often is," Magnus counters.

"Doesn't make your answer any less wrong, Dad. The Dwarves dug this deep to exploit resources, no more and no less."

Magnus sighs theatrically. "Inspiration need know no truth, bahiyya."

"That's when it becomes called 'propaganda,' Dad."

The heavily defended nature of the path down to the Stair is noted and ruminated on by the trio, who approve of the amount of weaponry, but wonder again at the sense of so many unprofessionals being loosed in such a manifestly dangerous area.
However, upon reaching the stair, that concern is banished, it's irrelevant now, all those continuing are committed in the worst possible way.
The Paragons thud down the stairs in a loose arrowhead aimed towards the wall the stair curves around, a > shape with Moses well forward, as close to being the group's point-man as he can get, a logical enough stance for someone who's weapons rely on being within arms-length of the foe.
As well allowing him to close quicker, it's also a position chosen with an eye to improving the odds of those nearby, if worst comes to worst they can hide behind him, the best case of course is whatever is present attacking the biggest target first.
Phenix and Timothius are further back, Timothius the upper edge of the arrowhead, securing the rear with silent efficiency, while Phenix trudges along as close to the Hesches as he can manage, assault cannon raised to aim at the stair's roof.
All three are accompanied by a small, oddly electronic noise, sounding something like a "voip...voip...voip". If pressed, they'll inform questioners it's a motion-sensor/echo-locater, not pausing in the constant reappraisal of surroundings, the red-lensed targeting lasers mounted on their armour swiveling constantly, sweeping hither and yon.
The trio are the picture of combat readiness, furthered by the fact all three have activated their power weapons, so in addition to the motion-trackers, there is the crackling hum of fist, claws and hammer dripping sparks, as well as the faint "whirrr...chunk...whirrr...chunk" sound of Phenix's assault cannon on stand-by mode.
The journey continues...

Mirrk awakes the next day after gorging himself on food to capacity. His rousing is a touch slower than normal due to the unfamiliar environment around him. But rouse up he does, and duly follows the others already on their way.

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

Down, down and down again they go. It seems to Mirrk they'd pop up on the other side of the planet if they went much deeper. But then, shambling horrors rarely lurk within a convenient area. Regardless, he listens in with a casual ear to the conversations going on around him, and pays attention to the acoustic properties of their surroundings. Mirrk decides it best to take up the rear for the time being so he doesn't obscure everyone's vision.

The weapon emplacements are noted with passing interest, but Mirrk takes this time to paint in his mind's eye who the softest targets are. Those not bearing some esoteric energy field or body armor are given protective priority. Evan, for one. Magnus, maybe; Rhi, most likely not. She had a strange effect on his sensitive eyes. And at that moment they were being used mostly for scanning light frequencies both visible and otherwise. Adjusting for infra-red would be bothersome right now, so he stuck with the ultraviolet spectrum for the most part. Everything had a blue-ish tinge to it as a result, but he's used to that. His claws seemed to almost be in a constant pose of some manner of salute. In actuality, it was so none would be accidentally swiped by them. Also, it kept his manipulators close to his primary defense-glyphs located on his chest. A quick stroke done the right way and they would become active. What it would do is yet to be revealed, but those with mystic sensing abilities would notice a sharp spike in power from his body.

The stair seemed to be new in most areas, though here and there were signs of damage to it. Here and there, the braced walls on the outside of the spiral gave way into little rooms cut into the rock, apparently for rest along the route. Graziknas shook his head at Rhiannon, “This is a long way from the mines, and even then, there would have been no use in extending the stair to the peak of the mountain, unless you wanted to trade with eagles, and even then it would be a little pointless. The actual purpose of the stair was to provide a main route for expansion of the city up into the mountain as well as down; most of the newer levels are arranged in concentric rings around it; especially the ones we have built in the last few centuries. If you’re interested in mining, it pays to be a little west of here. You can get down as far by the mines, we think, but this route is easier to get back up, and it’s quieter.”

He suddenly went quiet, hefted his axe, and bounded down the unworn stairs again.



The stair terminated in a large room, where multiple buttresses extended for dozens of feet away from its base, the gaps in most of these were filled with baked clay bricks to form a tight area with one corridor leading away. Those who’d chosen to go ahead could see a rusted portcullis ahead, that had apparently been made of iron bars as thick as one’s arm once, but had been whittled and rusted away by thousands of years in a damp environment. The portcullis was broken anyway, even though whatever mechanism had been used to open it when it was built had been rotten away.

It looked as though a fist had punched through its rusted surface, breaking it into pieces.

Beyond, the corridor opened up into a large but low chamber, a touch less high than the stair itself had been, on either side of the room were cuttings barred by similar rusted portcullises, beyond which two sets of stairs identical to those that they had descended could be seen. These portcullises were, however, intact.

Between the stairs on either side, and the entrance they’d come through, stood statues that had been melted. Originally of granite shod in bronze, most of the bronze had run off them, and their limbs and heads smashed away in defacement.

On the far wall of the room, broken plinths for more statues stood, as did three doorways, two small, one large. The small ones seemed to be less elaborate and more hastily dug than the main route, as though afterthoughts. The greater doorway stood without any barrier on it, although hinges indicated it had once had double doors, and beyond, the sound of running, dripping water could be heard in the darkness of a corridor that extended out ahead of the stair-room.

Rhiannon nods, not minding being corrected--or even being wrong--in the least. She's certainly a know-it-all, but at least she's an honest one. "Hm. That means that some sort of colonization happened before the incident with Durin's Bane probably closed up the lower levels, no? I'd always thought it was mining exploration that hit its hiding place, not actual living-space expansion." She gets the hint from the silence, though, and follows along, remaining alert. Magnus also goes silent and keeps hands on weapons but not weapons ready. He does move his left hand from the variable sword over to a pocket, from which he slings out a set of wraparound sunglasses he promptly dons. They look completely opaque, and they are. It's just an artificial vision enhancement system so he doesn't have to concentrate on any psionic mind-tricks just to see; for now, the shoulder-lamp seems to be doing well enough while near-IR LIDAR maps those bits that he can't readily see out in redlight.

Rhiannon doesn't do anything similar, and looks at the defaced statues curiously, without any sort of visual augmentation, no matter how the light flits (or not) over them. Half of it is innate curiosity; half of it is trying to figure out what may have caused the damage. Stepping carefully across the broken iron, more for noise discipline than anything else, they scan the doorways and portcullises. Magnus does a quick check with one gloved hand to see if they may have been opened any time in recent memory, checking for grooves worn into the rusted metal and general solidity.

One big door (ajar) and two smaller ones. Out of sheer habit Magnus tests the closed doors first. No one said he was in charge, nor does he think he is; he's simply doing what comes naturally to him. Meanwhile, Rhi listens to the water to make sure nothing's moving in it. The briefing did mention the Watcher, after all.

Once he was sure the immediate room around the stair’s base was empty, Graziknas continued in a soft whisper, “In no small part, the Forgotten Stair was built simply for the grandeur of doing it; this area here is where it breaks into an underground cavern. The reason it was considered to never have been made by some dwarves during the exile was because it was largely a folly, like the Colossus of Rhodes; something without definite purpose. Its use was primarily to allow access to Durin’s Tower at the peak of the mountain; and to explore deeper under the mountain.

“We dwarves know little of the time it was dug, but I should say, at a guess only, mind, that breaking into this area came as a surprise, and that here they stopped and consolidated for a time, working on new, auxiliary routes upward,” he nodded, “Around here, there is little carved by dwarves; we instead reach a different and older set of tunnels and caverns that are at least partly natural. Evidently they were not completed… But Durin’s Bane reportedly came from elsewhere, though it knew this area well enough to flee to it… By the time of its death, it had likely explored much of the tunnels beneath the mountains.”

There was, in the gap before he spoke, nothing much to be heard in the water; the sound of dripping didn’t change.

Meanwhile, the portcullises crumbled a little in Magnus’ hand, but didn’t move; they’d long ago rusted in place, anyway, but it would, even by hand, be possible to deal them considerable damage if he’d had a mind to it. The other, smaller doors led to unevenly floored chambers that served as firing slits into the main corridor, and rusted ladders led to murder holes above.

Idhrindiel and Nárlanyo busied themselves as they arrived, too, the mage making a brief circuit of the base of the stair, around the outside of the ring of bricks that reinforced the base; there was little of interest to find, though, a guardroom suitable for five or six, and a strange vertical channel that appeared to run inside the stairwell’s huge central buttress. Idhrindiel stood by the doorway leading out, looking down it for a moment, and then stepping aside, checking communications reception. “Radios are working still,” she said, quietly, “though the reception is poor…”

'...and shares in GKA fell nearly twenty points on news that the company has been forced to sell substancial real assets in order to reduce it's debt load...'

"I'm still getting MNN. My daily news fix is assured! What do you think Yari? Main entrance and...?"

Sun Yi looked over at Yari who was busy rummaging through her pack. There were lots of little bits and bobs inside and as she poked through it a green plastic tetrahedron tumbled out and rolled across the floor. Immediately one of the kittens jumped on it and began batting it around the chamber until it wound up under someone's feet.

"Oh, put one on the central column facing the main entrance. We don't have too many of them."

"Right."

Sun Yi went over to the central column of the stair and placed a flat, flexible patch on a convenient area that faced the main entrance. A touch to one corner and it shifted to match the stone.

"Multi-spectrum passive sensor," she explained aloud as she moved around the stair to look up into the central shaft. "What do you suppose that's for? Maybe a lift of some kind?" She only looked for a moment though before walking back across the chamber to the main doorway. Carefully at first to test the stonework then quickly as she established it's stability she climbed up towards the peak of the arch. A second strip was placed and she climbed back down until she could safely drop to the floor.

"What's the range on that shield of yours Bal?" Yari asked without looking up from her bag. "I might hang one on Dusty's collar if you have spares."

The Deep One looked about the chamber as the group entered it and began exploring the area. Although it was dimly lit, his eyes picked up light frequencies from the other's targeting sensors, cameras and various forms of illumination. He moved over closer to the pool with the water dripping into it, but kept one eye on the doors, He was readying himself for action from wherever it came, but he had a bad feeling about water that was that still.

Moving slowly, he positioned himself between the group and the still pool. His manipulators on his claws maintained their positions, making his claws look like they were crossed over his chest.

Thomas had kept his silence as the party descended the stair. He kept a wary eye on the Marines ahead of him, and his fingers twitched at irregular intervals, flipping though the various modes of vision at his disposal.

He also extended other, subtler senses. He became aware of the rock around him, its mineral-rich granite hardness slowly shading into softer limestone. He felt the bell-bright touch of mithril veins, complimented by the softer colors of silver and gold and underlaid with the dull roar of iron.

Then they dropped even further down the stairs, and everything faded to cold, dull limestone.

******

Thomas tensed when he saw the wrecked statues. For the first time, he was actually seeing some real, concrete evidence of the enemy they were facing. And the evidence did not bode well.

He ran his fingers over the melted statue, and spoke for the first time in a long while.

"I'd say that this is more evidence that we're dealing with demons. Demons are often depicted as living on the more firey, infernal planes, and consequently many of the more powerful ones are associated with great heat - such as the Balrog that broke the bridge of Khazad-dûm. I would suggest that you prepare any protections you have against magical heat. The rings we were given may not be sufficient."

He then sets about following his own advice. A quick gesture, some mumbled words, and a snap of the fingers. A brief shower of golden sparks spin and then fade into the golden inlay on his armor, leaving a quiet amber shimmer along the intricate patterns.

"Oh, come on," Evan said, rolling his eyes. "Demons? I could think of a dozen things the could could produce that kind of damage without throwing hellfire about. Various cthonic stone-shapers, for example. Don't assume that going down automatically means hellish conditions, either. There's supposedly a pretty huge lake somewhere down here."

He walked about the room, inspecting it, then added, "There's also no telling how old it is. Was all this in this condition when the dwarves first returned, or is it recent?"

When the two mercenaries joined the group the next morning, they were decked out fully in the gear they’d brought. Body armor of indeterminate origin, matte black to avoid any shine, looking as though it had been custom built for each of them. The rest of their equipment was packed neatly into various pockets and their mil-grade packs. As there’s no point to subtlety, their various guns and clips are all within easy reach in holsters and the like, knives as well, should the occasion call for them. Jas and Reihana each carry a larger weapon of choice, he with a heavy machine gun that looks to be modded to some degree, and she with an assault rifle. In a sheath fitted between her back and the pack she wears is a curved sword, though only a peek at the hilt and the tip of the scabbard can be seen.

With additional help offered for shielding from the Eldar they figure every little bit counts, each accepting one of Bal’s gems with a respectful bow and word of thanks. “We appreciate your assistance, Bal-Shanaar,” Rehana adds, offering the woman a quiet smile, the unspoken message being that should the occasion arise to repay the group for the added protection, the two mercenaries would not be forgetful.

They accompanied the rest of the party in relative silence, taking a place alongside one another where it seemed best they ought be placed for now, there seeming to be no stated marching order. Taking in their surroundings with watchful eyes, they made their way carefully down the winding stair, noting what conversation they could hear concerning the history of the place and their destination. It was a unique experience, there being no handy floor plans one could abscond with of the place, not to mention the underground location. It wasn’t as though they’d never dealt with various aspects of the endeavor, but there was no mistaking this job would be nothing like what they’d faced in the past. In spite of their more professional demeanor, there was a tangible aura of expectation between them, each looking forward to the challenge for their own reasons.

"Well, 'spose we could blow it," Jas observes, scanning the gateway. "Noisy though."

Reihana idly reaches down to scritch the kitten behind its ears before batting the toy further along the floor, and out (for now) from being underfoot for it to continue playing. With a thoughtful look she too goes over to inspect the gate, gloved fingertips tracing over it slowly.

“I don’t imagine we’d wish to destroy it, should we have a cause to want a barrier of sorts between us and … something else, unless there’s no other way, no? As for demons, well ... what they're called matters little in the end, so long as we have a solution for dealing with them when it comes to it.”

Bal happily gives the two from the Dominion a stone and returns the bow, in a strangely formal manner for the ranger. ‘The Idain provided the equipment, I am merely the operator, but I accept your thanks anyway.’
In fact she was pleased very pleased, for no real reason other than the fact that she was being appreciated, and the excitement was closer now than it had been for sometime, the danger was upon them, and it was moments like this she enjoyed the most.

Turning to regard the strange kitten she shrugged, ‘I cannot be certain, the local environment may interfere somewhat. The device was designed to be operated on a squad level, so at most we are looking at a few City Blocks in range, maybe a cavern or so, but the weight of the reception devices would seem to be well within what the creature would be able to take without any real negative impact so I see no reason not to attach it anyway.’ Moving closer as she spoke to the kitten she reached out a hand slowly, ‘I assume it is a replication, but is it safe to stroke anyway?’

Throwing caution to the wind she didn’t wait for a final answer and give it a quick stroke and scratch, few races it seemed are immune to a cat or a kitten’s charm.

As for Galdern he listened to the talk of demons with an interested ear but in the end had to give his disagreement. ‘Indeed, it appears far too soon to consider this evidence of demons, many things could do this, and the understanding of the nature of such creatures is limited. I am sure we all, well all the ‘mages’ here, have some experience of such creatures, and if we where to pool our respected knowledge we would end up with more contradictions than areas of agreement.’

All in all despite the lack of anything tangible it had been a good trip so far, Galdern had discovered, if not answers then even so early on interesting questions. ‘Indeed the damage to the statues might well have been caused by the creature we all ready are aware of, and that we are sure is dead, the Balrog Durin’s Bane.’

As for Addol-Carrec he spent a moment inspecting the areas that had been damaged, but had to agree with the overall consensus that enough was known. ‘If it comes to it, I can destroy any barrier of stone or rock, along with metal without the need of explosives, such are well within the tolerances of the claw Yet I agree at the moment we are likely better leaving it as is, although we might want to look for a way to reinforce it should the worst occur and we are forced to withdraw. If we are right in supposing that what did this’ Gesturing to the damage around them ‘is linked in some way to the threat, then that gateway in it’s current state of repair seems unlikely to provide too much impediment to a pursuit.’

Once they reach the chamber, Tal scurries into action, pulling a wandlike device out of his pack and pacing the room, mumbling to himself as the thaumatometer reads the local ambience. Meanwhile, Oduh quietly requests one of those barrier objects from Bal-Shanaar, motioning to Tal-Lynta with a whisper of "He's more likely to require the help than I am, though the offer is appreciated."

"I'm reading a higher TU count near those busted statues than near the staircase." The bald Neko declares. "I'd need more time to do a more thorough analysis, but whatever did this has got some sort of magic to it. Whether it's demons, rogue Keepers-" Oduh snorts at that. "-the bloody Guardian, or something else entirely, I can't tell."

"All twelve of the Blades are accounted for." Oduh retorts. "And to be honest, I would welcome the interference of the Four-Winged one. As for these... there is a foul stink of the dark Arts. I do not think it is too recent, but I fear it is not ancient either."

"In other words, it wasn't five minutes ago, and it wasn't a thousand years back." Tal translates. "Which means we don't know when this damage occured."

Arnran shook his head, “I don’t think we’d want to stay here anyway. Full day ahead of us, and this isn’t the most defensible position,” he eyed the main door, which consisted of practically nothing now. The necron lord hefted his flickering staff and stepped through the doorway.

The corridor beyond was short, leading into a chamber of stalactites and stalagmites that has in some areas grown into great pillars that soared from floor to ceiling. Great stone blocks that glimmered with racing green and red reflections in the darkness solidly fortified one wall. Some of these had been toppled, but the re-growth on the stalagmites that had been attested to how long ago that had happened and how rarely frequented the area was.

The rocks sparkled with scintillating light wherever it hit them, but they weren’t of any particular value, rather, reflecting the unusual mineral composition of the rocks under the mountains.

At the edge of the half-cave were two distinct tunnels. They lacked ornamentation, and could just pass for natural. Yet there was something wrong about them. Dwarves didn’t carve them; who favoured stout, strong architecture with ornamentation tacked on, with straight lines, following the Golden Ratio a lot. Nor could the passages be called natural, rather, they were rounded and smoothed like the passages of some insect colony. Here and there, they had been worn, and at the top of the left passage could be seen slight soot deposits.

Magnus has seen similar organic rounding and smoothing before, back in the Aelosian Craftworld. Rihannon's been there, too, but she was certainly too young to remember it now. Lakhmesis claimed Tyranids were responsible for those tunnels; if we have something like that as a lurkking horror right now we should drop the H.P. concentration and go straight to atomic hand grenades. He grins. Although that does have an appeal all its own. Still grinning, he looks over at Rhiannon until he catches her eyes, then does a few hand signals: hands flat, vertical, fingertips towards the ceiling, palms opposing each other just more than shoulder width apart, sliding away from his face; bringing his hands back in, two index fingers, pointing up, a little closer to each other, agan sliding away; finally, a quick point down the hallway Arnran's decided is the way to go.

Someone has to lead this shindig, and it may as well be our undead robot elf... elf? Naw, undead robot friend. Sure beats us all puttering around in each room going 'okay, what do we do now?' With Arnran clearly taking lead, if not point, the Hesches decide to take left and right wings, tracing along the halls in their usual alert but not weapons-drawn stances. They do, still, keep their hands near their weapons just in case, and stick close to whatever Paragon becomes their wingman... but not too close. It's never wise to stay too close to any sort of assault armor. They're very massive, and massive things whipping around in surprise tend to hurt at the very least.

Bal nods at the gesture and wonders a moment ‘If you want I can slip one on him if he is the proud stubborn type, not given to accepting, or taking aid?’ at this point she leans in a little to whisper her reply, and taking a moment to slip one of the ‘gems’ being discussed into the palm of her hand. ‘Unless that too is likely to be a problem, don’t know much about him so he might be the super-self aware type after all.’

***On the move***
Addol for a second seemed to hesitate then he strode forward with a deal of haste, ‘A moment honoured Autarch Arnran if you would, to speak in private.’ The equipment within Exarch Armour was compact containing many different means of communication, and so it didn’t take Addol long to find someway to speak with their leader on a private channel.

‘Sir, as the designated Autarch of this expedition, it is imperative that you not take point, that is what scouts and other such individuals are for sir.’ for an exarch his tone was rather worried, which meant there was some emotion actually present in his voice.

Bal took a rather more direct role in this, slipping ahead of the Necron Lord and pulling her cloak around her with a slight toss of her head as she did so. Really if there was trouble ahead, the guy was shining a torch that might as well have said ‘Here we are come eat us.'

She and the others like her in this little group did not need that sort of attention at all.

"Yep. I just got it last week. The dwarves don't seem to like 'fake' pets that much so I had have it shipped. Got a good deal on it too."

Yari scooped up the calico kitten and it's toy tossing the latter into her pack while craddling the kitten in her arms. Taking one of the charms she leaned down and clipped it onto the dusky-gray cat's collar. Aside from a pretty little mouse name-tag it glittered with shiny black half-spheres which were possibly sensors of some kind.

"And they come when called and don't scratch up the furniture."

Dropping the kitten to the floor she picked up her end of the crate and moved on with the others. Carefully they stepped over and through the gate before moving to the junction of the two passages.

"Do we know which passage the dwarven expeditions took?" Sun Yi directed this at Arnran while putting the crate down again and hefting her carbine. The cat, which had hopped on top of the swaying crate during their short walk, curled up for a nap while the kittens raced down the side passage to wind their way through Rihannon's legs to peer into the darkness.

Silent as the 'Hawks have been so far, all through the walking, the talking and the speeches, preparation never left much time for idle chatter. All of them, even yes, eternally mad scientist thinking Lyle are as honed on the task at hand as their name suggests, now in a practiced and routine formation, weapons and equipment reflecting nothing but an evident skill and seriousness.

For a group that looks as if they are nothing but straight out of a certain time period's comic book material, they seem to be far more aware of their surroundings and the very area itself than mere experience would suggest, as a low humming from Pauline's direction hints at. Trevor, gun at the shoulder, looking far too much like an ancient Sten to be a coincidence, noticing something that causes him to signal to Lyle, a hefting of a weapon that is much too cooled and frosted for it to be the antique it at first glance appears to be.

Chase, ever the heroically brave(at least to him, that is) one keeps his firearm at the ready. Or at least, one of them, the other(s) strapped, pinned and latched to pockets, side and legs. Rorke and Pauline compliment each other in stance, Pauline tapping the side of a leather strap bound metal box about the size of an old style biscuit tin tied to her leg. Worn and faded, almost glaring at the viewer angry looking symbols informing one that this box would likely spring legs and devour you at second glance.

Rorke is out of routine rather than orders observing each and every one of the group here, skipping over Bal perhaps a bit too swiftly, though for all others, it's a guarded, but assessing look...

“Made arrangements earlier?” Jas murmurs as they march along, eyes sharp.

“Two and two,” Reihana replies with a short nod and a wry smile. “Earth and fire seemed appropriate, all things considered. Those and the usual locks, all in place. How about yourself? Everything oiled and primed?”

“Smartass. Yeah, everythin’s in working order, as usual. No untowards effects from the ring on your end?”

“None whatsoever, nor so far from the Eldarin gem. I believe we chose well in accepting the assistance. We’re decided on the lembas as well, then? Given the explanation on it, it seems the appropriate approach. Our rations will keep fine in the meantime.”

Jas nods thoughtfully. “It’s an odd sort of thing, but yeah. Makes sense. I’ll never get how you folk do what ya do, I admit, but I’ve seen enough to know it works without having to understand all the whys of it. When it comes to the tricksy bits, I’ll follow yer lead, no worries.”

“Given the magical support we seem to have at our disposal, not to mention the technological aspects, I’ll be playing things close for now. It’s … uncomfortable here looking on both sides, and I’d rather not get blindsided by some unknown force right off the bat. Once we get a look at some of what we’re up against, I’ll have a better feel for things. In the meantime, standard MO, as we’ve been doing, just as discussed,” Reihana replies, nodding again in acknowledegment to her partner.

They hadn’t intended to stop at the base of the stairs, but had been looking forward a bit, for if or when they came back this direction. If it was decided such a barrier wouldn’t be needed, so be it. There were other ways of blocking entrances and exits if it came to it in any case, especially with the crew they had available here.

Weapons out as they had been since they began the descent, they followed the lead of those who’d chosen to go on ahead, always keeping relatively close to one another while trying to do their part to be on the watch for anything out of the ordinary, while being mindful of the other party member’s positions.

Thomas fumed a little at Evan's rebuke, but kept his reply civil.

"With all due respect, the few things that we know have come out of here were quite dramatically firey. That doesn't meen that what we're going to meet will turn out to be demonic in any way - I'm just saying that the chances are high and that we should be ready."

"Well..." Oduh peers into the darkness. "We could split into groups and check both routes. However given what little we know, dividing our force would likely be ill advised."

"Yeah, genius tactics right there." Tal waves his thaumatometer in the direction of the passages. "For what it's worth, I vote we go whichever way the last group didn't go."

Arnran watched the two doorways carefully, and the group’s reaction to them. They did indeed look a little unusual, like insect burrows, perhaps. As usual there was no illumination save what the group brought with them, and Arnran could see almost nothing in the reflections beyond. A search of internal memory suggested that the last group had gone left.

“In that case,” he said, “We’d be going right.”

Of course, just because the last group went a given way, wouldn’t mean that was the wrong away to go.

Arnran glanced at the Striking Scorpion, and opened a private communication, as he gestured towards the Eldar scout, who seemed to want to be first in, after all. Eldar had reasonable dark-vision even without equipment, and were fairly observant. He picked out a few more – two of the Revenians, they weren’t actually covered in clanking armour – of the more lightly armed, gestured for them to go with her and then waited a moment before following.

“I would rather lead from the front now, rather than let anyone here bicker about my decisions,” he sent privately to the scorpion, “for now I am in little danger, it seems, and in any case, I’m considerably tougher than I look.

He glanced up at the sheer wall of the dwarfish outpost, and then followed the Eldar outcast and other scouts into the narrow tunnel beyond.

Nothing seemed to stir in the tunnel beyond, which took a sharp turn upwards and to the right. A lot of the floor had a soft muddy texture, as though it were an emptied pipe where some detritus and muck had been left behind.

Shay nodded to Kathleen and made a vague hand maneuver, then brought his AR-36 up off of its sling and advanced towards where the Elf-lord-necrontyr-thing had headed. The overtake was relatively quick -- even without running, Shay's regular long stride let him cover ground quickly, and Kathleen, with her long, long legs, didn't even have to walk fast, really...

She also didn't bring her Kinslaughter battle rifle up off of its sling -- Kathleen had always preferred to seem 'unready,' for whatever little surprise effect it might yield. Her quicksilver reflexes were possibly even better than Shay's own -- she'd never been caught with her rifle down, to his knowledge.

Shay let his suit's sensors play about -- the locale wasn't making things easy for them, but every little bit helped. The suit's FM drones floated about him like some odd variety of robotic pets, their lethal weapons invisible behind concealment panels.

And Shay was priming himself to drop the rifle back onto its sling and retrieve a tracer grenade from the dispenser. The movement would take less than a second, as his record would tell...but a second was a long time, really...

For Addol the explanation left a bitter taste behind but he could see in part it was correct, this group was not what he was used to, and it was made up of adventurers and loners in large part, not military men used to following a structure. In any case, he had made known his objections, and the superior had over-ruled them, for now that was all that mattered, simple discipline cuts both ways, he felt the right to question privately but once done so, it was not his place to continue the argument. So he merely gave a nod of assent and retook his place by the side of Galdern.

Bal in the mean-time was happy to take point, slipping deeper under her cloak and merging as much as possible with her surroundings, before cautiously entering the indicated tunnel, slipping ahead a little before moving next to a wall and falling silent, simply scanning the area first. Eventually she lay down in the muck and set up, at some point in this little adventure she was going to get muddy, she might as well get it over with. As she did so, the small cap tucked into her belt slipped out a little, when she stood as the other joined them it might actually be visible, it was very definitely not Eldar in make, and seemed similar to the ones the two of the hawks wore.

Addol and Galdern waited until Hesche and the Marines had gone before them, it would be nice to say this was simply a tactical decision, Terminator Armour being the best suited to protect the wearers in case of an ambush, but this wasn’t really the case, simply put they where unwilling to let the Astartes get behind them.

Mirrk continued bringing up the rear in order not to get in anyone's line of fire, stopping now and then to get a good look at the walls around them as well as providing cover for those unable to keep up the pace the point-men have set. Looks insect-like indeed. Like the burrowed tunnels the Resin Beetles leave behind, except these are far larger in span.

His night-sight is quite keen, perfect for the deep-water work he normally does, and it serves him well here. For the moment, it allows him to keep track of who is where. If someone stops for a moment, he'll know and will await them to resume moving before he continued on.

Unfortunately for the Eldar's sensibilities, the Marines remain in their arrowhead formation, so unless the duo wish to walk behind the rest of the group entirely, they find themselves flanked by Phenix, who is more interested in providing ranged cover for Mirrk than molly-coddling the paranoia of the Eldar.

For their part, the sergeants ignore the rear of the formation, being more concerned with the logic of taking this path, being somewhat troubled by the conclusion that in order to establish what is below, the group should head down the path that is not definitely home to whatever may be below.
As no one else seems pre-disposed to note the illogic of this, the two veterans give a mental shrug and keep moving.

The brief squabble between the mages does have some effect though, Timothius closing up to Magnus, ducking a bow and rasping an interrogative.
"What precisely do the little not-quite-witches mean about Daemons, I really do not wish to be told that the squ-dwarves, had truck with the Ruinous Powers..?"
His speaker-transmitted voice is quiet, albiet still loud enough to be heard by those near Magnus, and there's none of the twitchiness an agitated human would display, but a hint of strain does percolate through the electronic rustle that serves the Veteran Sergeant for a voice.

"Different ruinous powers, my good Veteran Sergeant," Magnus replies equally quietly, looking positively at ease. Alert, but easily so. He's in his element, no more and no less. I doubt we'll be seeing any Warp-based critters, as this isn't quite their style... instead, they're discussing more alternate-plane demons from Hell and fractal entities. The only relation there'd be to what you're thinking would be a mildly tangential one in that they're all rather bad, either from being properly evil, like the hellspawn, or just too alien to ever coexist with, like any cthonic or related non-Euclideans."

An easy grin, and the area around him lights up just an infinitesimal touch more, like if someone suddenly exposed a mirror. "But no, I don't think we'll really need HELLSING-scale evil-crushing instruments. As far as I know, the Dwarves haven't had any sort of special congress with evil or whatnot. Rhiannon would probably know better than me, what with how much she reads."

It didn’t make a lot of sense to them that in order to find the beasties they would turn away from the last place they’d been seen, but perhaps different information would be found along the other path anyway. The leader of the expedition had spoken, and this time at least, they wouldn’t speak against it. Exchanging glances, they continued along the designated tunnel, hanging back just in front of Mirrk, having long ago decided that should the mutual agreement to work together shifted, it was best keeping out of the most likely crossfire.

That the Marines continued to forge ahead to the front was no surprise, nor was it a problem, given their obvious suitability as large walking shields with a serious kick. And what the Eldar chose to do in response to that was their own business. The additional magical shielding they’d offered was not out of range, so all was well.

Reihanna attempted to get a feel for what might have created the tunnels, gently running a gloved hand along it, carefully reaching out with her heightened senses and perception.

Jas quirked a brow as he too looked around, trying to keep a weather eye out for any signs of a problem with his partner. There had been rare occasions where she had been the first one hit by forces unseen while probing for more ethereal information, and given the chatter that had already gone on concerning demonic forces and the like, he didn’t want to take any chances.

“You watch yourself now, Rei. Don’t be takin’ chances,” he muttered, peering ahead through the party in between themselves and the lead. “Good to know we’ve got someone solid at our backs, Mirrk. Much appreciated,” he added to their large, silent companion. “You let us know how best we can assist if you need, neh?”

Reihana had the momentary impression that some of the shallow grooves in the walls might have been cut with teeth, but beyond that, there was nothing particularly special about contact with the walls, they were a little damp, and yet surprisingly warm. Nárlanyo tilted his helmeted head to one side, and quietly tapped the end of his staff to the wall, and then closed his eyes, looking as if he was searching his memory.

The sounds of water became a little more pronounced up ahead, dripping and a soft gurgling sound.

Up ahead, the tunnel twisted again, it seemed as though either the tunnels had been made with no actual geography in mind, or that they’d been made for some very alien creatures. It went to the left a little way, and branched again, upwards and onwards. No light shone from above, but water trickled down the sides of the tunnel and dripped down onto anyone who stood under the tunnels’ edge. The tunnel beyond sloped down, and where the last one had been perfectly round, this one was a little more worn by the water, which pooled and flowed along, like the roadsides of many a city in a wet autumn day, carrying browned leaves to pile up in tiny, golden dams at sewer grates.

Ahead there came the faint sound of something moving in the water, a soft splash splash splash noise that stopped after a moment and wasn’t repeated. The intervals suggested something moving with human like feet, trying to keep out of the water as much as possible, and evidently failing at it. It wasn’t far from the scouts, and they could probably see that the tunnel leveled off into a small chamber up ahead…

Idhrindiel was a slight way behind the marines, too, a two-tone penguin-like figure under her grey cloak, which had blended to match with the dark rock around them. She toyed with a set of grenades on her belt. The design of these was probably familiar to the Marines: they came in a dispenser, and were generally coin-sized, but as well as simple fragmentation or anti-armor grenades were a number of other dispensers. Stasis grenades were popular with the Mornahossë, as were gas grenades, though there were none here. Idhrindiel, and Graziknas, were careful to move from rock to rock, like a pair of proverbially sure-footed mountain goats, rather than step in the water.

Mirrk broke from his investigations and musings about the nature of the cavern they were traversing at the moment at the mention of his name. A small whiff escaped his nostrils as he spoke quietly. "Only makes sense. Armor at front, armor at rear for capsule formation. Some cannot see through self, and self doesn't like idea of slugs in the back from trigger-happy. If something comes and flanks, others won't have to turn and align selves for firing arcs."

At that, one reddish eye sweeps behind the group. A proverbial look over the shoulder, one could say. His tympanum waver a bit as he sends out a low-level subsonic pulse in an attempt to get a sense of a crude sonar going. "If self requires fire-cover, would be glad to accept it."

Coming to the differently-angled tunnel, he stops and waits to see what the vanguard does. He can hear the sound of gurgling water in the distance, and the slight sound of splashing causes him to snap to attention. A low gurgling rumble comes from his throat, the front of his neck pulsing with it.

Karchist throws up a hand in warning. "Hark! I hear a foeman's tread!"

In seconds he has his shield off his back and in his hand, and one of his twin handguns (so named more by association; the blocky, stubby weapons are, of course, scaled to fit the rest of his oversized arsenal) in the other hand. His visor slips down, a regal mask smiling an Akhenaten smile.

"Forward!" he says, pitched now to carry no further than the Revenians and Eldar at point. "Tell us what manner of foe awaits our blades!"

"I wouldn't really call that a tread. More of a splash. Not even a particularly scary one, considering who we've got with us."

Thomas slung his shotgun into position and chambered a shell. The sound it made was eerily loud in the enclosed space, and little green sparks raced over the gun's inlay before vanishing. He didn't bother to avoid the water, but instead made a few splashes of his own as he proceeded forwards.

"My bet is that the point men are going to take the thing to pieces before we even get to see it. Afterwards there won't be enough left to positively identify, much less interrogate."

Nonetheless, Thomas let go of his gun's foregrip long enough to make a complicated, three-dimensional gesture. Nothing obvious changed, but those who posessed more arcane senses would see a parabolic field forming behind him, tuned to reflect and concentrate any sounds that might come from ahead.

With emergency cut-outs built in, of course. Thomas wasn't particularly interested in permanent hearing loss, whether it came from a misplaced yell or Space Marine gunfire.

The dull glow of the sensor of the helmets both Ierenn and Seraal wore cycled from the usual dull red to similarly dull purple, blue, and green, before moving back to the purple. It was, itself, an odd sort of sensing, forming an image from the sounds and attempting to composite them with data yielded from sensors normally able to penetrate rock. The composition of the environment was such that this mode would not normally be optimal, though it was certainly passable.

The two Kajali thusly raised their weapons, proceeding forward with nary a sound, as of yet unable to do anything more, seeing as they hadn't actually _seen_ whatever it was that made the splashing sound, of course.

Aural systems did, of course, also jump in sensitivity as required, which presented, or would have, to most people, a most confusing sensorium.

In the darkness of the cavern and the relatively low fidelity of low-light enhancements, one could think that Magnus doesn't respond at all to the splashing. Looking closely, though, one could see the tips of his lips twitch up slightly even as his face hardens just a bit; less of a grin and more of a smile of concentration. His thumb shifts with an easy conservation of motion, flicking open a catch on his turbopistol's holster... something probably not all too common on holsters nowadays, but this one is decidedly and very intentionally less secure. It also happens to be made of leather, and not the tanned-black kind. The stitching, while conservative, is rather elegantly done. With his other hand, he reaches up and idly turns off his shoulder lamp with a soft click.

One moment, Rhiannon is walking normally; the next, she has one of her powergun pistols out in a modified Weaver grip and down at low ready, with an associated sound of her hard plastic shell holster releasing its contents rather rapidly, but not inhumanly so. The motion is practiced, but not exactly natural; perhaps rote textbook learning applied. She still neglects to wear any sort of low-light gear, but that doesn't stop the young woman from stepping around rocks on and over depressions in the stone floor.

Neither one makes much noise, although Magnus heartily approves of the futuristic knight's attitude.

'Could be a survivor from the dwarven expeditions...'

'...or it could be a demon from the Abyss that's turned invisible and is about to drop a fireball on us.'

The two moved forward, having found themselves in the middle of the pack, carbines held loosely. The momma cat still slept on the crate but her kittens roamed about carefully staying out of the water but still jumping back and forth over it.

Evan froze, then quickly killed his flashlight laser before dialing it up to a lethal setting and slipping it back into its holster on his belt. He flicked his left wrist slightly until one of the charms on his bracelet was facing upwards, and whispered under his breath, "Shield spell, general purpose, skin tight. Force barrier, one way, two meters." A slight shimmer appeared briefly in the air before him as a barrier was created, wide enough that it might shelter others behind him.

He extended his right hand forward with his wand, the last syllables of a readied cellular disruption spell on his lips.

The thought that teeth had been used, at least in part, to carve out the tunnels they were going through, sent a slight chill through Reihana, and she made a brief sign to Jas, passing on the information in brief. Both give a brief affirmative to Mirrk just as the sound of splashing footsteps is heard ahead, causing them to stiffen, bringing their weapons to the ready.

“We offer to scout ahead, unless someone else insists,” Jas says, just loud enough to reach those in front. “No sense blowin’ the fuck outta a friendly, an’ between the shields and such up, we’ll be able to fall back well enough if it ain’t so friendly.”

Shae frowned, and managed to restrain himself from flitting back and gagging the other members of the party. So much for stealth, hmm? Ahh, well.

He dropped his AR-36 down onto its sling, then drew his APSP and warblade. Ambidexterity was a wonderful, wonderful thing. After all, it wasn't like he'd be able to nick up on whatever was up ahead, thanks to -- no, better not to think about it.

Hard to make hand gestures when both hands are holding weapons, however. Ah, well -- Kathleen would know what to do. Not like there was much in the way of 'an elaborate plan,' anyways. Still...

"Ahh, what's the line...bad movie. Very bad movie. Kathleen?"

The 'lik grinned her killer's grin, the visor of her battle armor presently turned up.

"Suppose we should go in and say hello?"

Shae smiled beneath his helmet's facemask, "Close enough, I think. Three!"

Then the advance began -- they were still moving relatively slowly, but...meh. Such is life. No need to rush things.

Tal hangs back in the middle of the group, well aware that his role is more of an observational than a combat one. Taking cues from the increasing silence of those around him, he turns the sound off on his thaumatometer, directing the device's short sensor wand around in the direction of the walls, the splashing, and up ahead. Charred-bald or not, he is still a catman, and he steps silently from dry foothold to dry foothold.

Oduh is nearer to the front, and dead silent. Partly from practice, and partly by careful application of a tiny bit of the Arts, his footfalls are completely silent though his talons ought to be clacking on the floor. He keeps his wings furled tight against his back to protect the delicate appendages since there isn't enough space to make using his wings and providing cover from above a viable option. His sword has been unholstered from its sling since they reached the bottom of the stair and is gripped in a ready position in one hand. He creeps along, bent forward slightly at the waist with his tail slightly rigid behind him as a counter-balance.

The Keeper has no problem with letting the armored Marines take point. In his mind, they are little better than meatshields, and he's already resolved that it will be no great loss to the world should they fall. But then after his initial impressions at the briefing, Oduh has little care for them.

Ahead of the Revenians, the side-corridor the sound apparently – though underground environments did play tricks on even the best ears – came from curved upwards, cool and dry, with, more interestingly, signs of some mining activity that hadn’t been completed. Stone had been cut out of the walls with some crude mechanism, and there was a little scree nearby.

The gradient became a little steeper, and a few stagnant pools of water occupied divots in the ‘ground’ – as much as these round tunnels could be said to have any defined floor. As the group went deeper into the tunnel, it became a little shorter and less worked, as though it were almost becoming a natural fissure.

A creature sat there, though it would have almost filled the close, confined tunnel if it had stood erect. On its head was a bony, fish-like surface, with vacant eye-holes, and keen looking pin-prick eyes glowered out from under the bony protusion. Around its head it wore a dull, rusted metal helmet that seemed to be worked to a distinctly bizarre and menacing aesthetic, in the form of a fish-like jaw.

It stood, growling, in the feeble reflections of the light from behind, its hunched form seemed to fill the corridor as it moved with uncertain indecision.

Mirrk looked past the heads of the assembled group with his crude sub-sonic sonar, getting the outline of the creature ahead without much in terms of details. He could read it moving, but that's about it. Okay. It seems one of the locals didn't expect to see anyone here, judging from its movements. I don't recognize it from anything written or talked about back home. His arms didn't move as of yet, since he didn't want to trigger some imprompt response from the creature until he figured out exactly what it was.

He also didn't know if talking was a good idea either. Some creatures he tangled with in the past took it as a signal to attack, and not knowing the nature of the beast, it wasn't a gamble he wanted to take. Where there's one, there's usually more anyway. He sent out another sub-sonic pulse to try and ascertain if there was anything else nearby.

Shay looked at the creature and thought for a few moments, then shrugged and brought his Tangler gun on line -- aiming was simple, just pointing his left arm, presently holding his APSP, at the creature. Firing was even simpler, relayed through his NI-jack to the armor's subsystems.

The Tangler gun was rather quiet in operation, just a very soft 'thung,' and then a capsule flew from his arm towards the creature. Once proper distance was reached, various cables emerged from said capsule, wrapping around the creatures torso and -- in an ideal situation -- arms, presuming a bipedal critter. All things considered, it was a crappy shot...but the Tangler projectile was also fitted with hundreds of tiny micro-injectors that promptly delivered their payload of tranquilizers and paralytics.

The close confines made employing the weapon properly impossible, so he'd had to delay the projo's 'detonation' to prevent fouling of the cables, which meant that there hadn't been enough spin for a proper wrap...but it was good enough. The cables annealed to themselves when they crossed, and they were...very, very strong. Strong enough to restrain a Nightside Devilmorph, which was capable of tearing a tank in two without much issue...

Shay grumbled, then, and brought his pistol back into battery. Stupid caves...

As for Bal at the sight of the creature she froze as still as possible, taking her time, and simply observing, slowly her hand made it’s way towards her belt, and pulled out a small capsule, which was inserted into the Rifle she carried. Then she began to sight up the critter, taking her time taking in the creature, a helmet, that was not a good sign, if something chooses to wear a helmet it understood basic concepts, even if its resources seemed limited. Couple this with it’s presence near to one of the main potential entrances to this realm and you had a sentry.

Now she began to move edging slowly away from the other two scouts with her, not leaving the area, or falling back merely ensuring if whatever that weapon was failed for some reason the inevitable response wouldn’t catch her up in it, leaving her free to make a shot later. She also sent a signal back to the main group, although it seemed some of that force was closer than was really necessary, making the concept of scouts seemingly superfluous. ‘We have a contact, the others have engaged.’

To the Sakkran, there seemed to be the creature pinned up the tunnel didn’t account something nearby that for. A distant echo of movement, of something considerably larger than what was caught, which struggled back from the tangler gun’s projectile, stuck to it, and then over the web itself, rolling on the floor for a moment and then righting itself a little way with a loud shriek of terror as chemicals flooded its bloodstream and it sunk to the floor.

It was a loud scream.

A tremendously loud one…

"Oh, for the love of god, what the hell did they do?" Evan said from his spot, before starting to walk slowly forward until he could see the screaming creature. "Great going, you idiot. Why don't we broadcast our location on a loudspeaker while we're at it?"

He took a second to toss a generic zone-of-silence spell onto the creature, which at least shut it up, not that it would probably do any good at this point.

“Well, that’s torn it,” Jas mutters, quietly cursing to himself about damned unfriendly blowhards bungling their way straight into trouble without so much as a word to anyone else – in fact, he nor Rei had seen or heard the group so much as acknowledge the existence of the rest of them. “Might as well leave ‘em out front. If nothing else they’ll make good bait.”

Reihana simply nods sharply, the both of them turning to sight back down the way they came from, seeing as there was plenty of firepower to the fore. No point leaving their flank open now that the sirens had effectively gone off.