NationStates Jolt Archive

Alessa yawned and fiddled with the string that seemed to be her constant companion these days. She hated attending these events. The Archchancellor, Kouran, was sitting next to her and murmuring in her ear. With an effort she turned her attention away from her cat's cradle game to pay attention. "We've had a really good group of graduates this year, your majesty." He told her. "I believe you'll be pleased."

Behind her, Grand Vizier Daray Karon was keeping a close eye on his magical scanner, looking for promising recruits. Alessa shifted in her seat and looked up, smiling. Daray smiled back, an expression that froze when he realised she wasn't smiling at him. He looked behind himself. "Radmiel."

"Daray." The Chancellor took his assigned seat, glaring at his enemy. Radmiel made a distinct contrast to the other, more handsome, Roanian. Where Daray was slim, perfectly proportioned and delicate, with an air of the old aristocracy about him. Radmiel, however, was less than beautiful, with scraggly black hair and a lined face that showed evidence of his troubled upbringing, hiding in the forests and peasant villages of Rudan's far north.

The former cleric growled under his breath, showing his fangs. "Radmiel."

"Daray."

"Boys." Alessa growled, her eyes flashing to red momentarily. The two of them quailed and sat next to eachother, curling up slightly so as to avoid any contact between their limbs. "That's better."

The Archancellor continued, blissfully unaware of any problems behind him. "Ariel, class 5... Marzel, class 1..." Then, suddenly, he rose to his feet. "Here she is! One of my star pupils!" The old mage pointed at a beautiful woman striding comfortably across the floor. "Naija the Turqouise. Class 30. She defeated her master last week and has taken his rank and title."

"Well." Alessa focussed her eyes, and then slowly rose to her feet herself. Behind her, Daray and Radmiel jostled for space in order to stand. "Naija! Stand and face me!" The Mage-Queen slowly levitated from her seat and crossed the floor to stand before Naija. Naija stood her ground and looked up at her Lady. Their eyes flashed as some communication passed between them, and then Alessa smiled and reached up to put her hands on the other woman's shoulders. "Welcome to the council of wizardry, Countess Naija the Turquoise."



"Enter." Daray said as he finished tidying up his paperwork for the night. "Ah, Radmiel. You came." He reached under his desk and grabbed one of his wands. "Excellent."

The scruffier Roanian crossed the floor. "I am not your lapdog, to come when called, Daray." The male snarled, fingering his own wand hidden in his cloak.

"And yet, here you are." Daray dove to the side as Radmiel opened fire with his wand, shattering the air of the room with a loud bang as flames shot from the tip, crackling against Daray's magical protections. Daray returned fire, a shining bolt of blue launching against Radmiel, whose own shield protections held up. The two Roanians circled one another, drawing closer and closer, wands pointed at their opponent's head. "Now, get down and beg for mercy like a dog," Daray hissed.

"I'll get down on my knees to deliver the killing blow, worm." Radmiel snarled back. Then, suddenly, he lowered his wand and hurled a bolt of lightning at Daray from his free hand, a bolt Daray deflected. The former seminarian retaliated with a green energy flare that rattled off of Radmiel's own shield.

"All right, so we tried." Daray moved across the room and sat behind his desk again. "Now. Suggestions on the Naija crisis?"

"I recommend we kill her and eat her liver." Radmiel hissed, licking his fangs. "Then her strength will flow into me!"

"I'm afraid that will not do." Daray distastefully rolled his eyes. "No, we need a more...elegant solution." The two of them stared at one another. "If we do not strike against her, she will strike against us." The prince examined his delicate fingernails and the rings that decorated them. "But I suppose it was wasteful asking you in here, you backwoods savage."

Radmiel slammed his palm down on Daray's desk, the claws digging into the woodwork. "Don't underestimate me, worm." He hissed, his fangs flashing in the light. "You need me now. What stops me from running to Alessa and sharing everything you just told me?"

"I do no more than state the truth." Daray delicately brushed the wood shavings off his desk. "You are from the backwoods, and you are a savage." The Grand Vizier steepled his hands. "I would say, first off, that I have a recording device embedded in my desk that recorded your little 'cannibalism' idea, and second of all, that that would just remove the only person in the council willing and able to work with you against our little 'Class 30' problem. If I go down, you go down with me, 'friend' Radmiel."

The more brutal Roanian paused and considered this. "You might be a treacherous worm who served the church and ruined the lives of hundreds of your fellow mages, but..." Radmiel paused. "No, you're just a treacherous worm." His other hand slammed down on the desk, digging another furrow into it. "What do you want from me, then?"

"We need to work together." Daray said, dismissing the damage of his desk from his mind with the certain knowledge Alessa rarely checked the budget outlays. "Only together can our forces thwart her before she builds her own forces and gains even more of our queen's attention."

Radmiel sat on Daray's guest chair and summoned a lit cigarillo into his hand. Blowing some smoke into the Grand Vizier's face, the chancellor hummed thoughtfully, ignoring Daray's own tightening smile. "All right. Let's do this thing."


Naija barely knew what hit her. One moment she was magically transporting all of her goods from the academy to the place, and the next thing she was hit from out of the blue. The wind was knocked out of her by a bolt of magic, and before she could even retaliate there was the feeling of a cold chain being dropped around her neck and a gag being thrust into her mouth. Her fangs instinctively bit down, and her eyes widened when she couldn't withdraw them. "Mmph!" Magic fled from her mind the harder she tried to reach for it.

Then there was a solid blow to the back of her head, and everything went dark.


The masked figures dropped her into the back of their transport. Their leader opened up his personal comm, holding it up to his cowled face. "Mission accomplished, boss. What's your next order?" The transport soon took off down the street, holding its precious package.

"Be on your guard for security forces, then report to Light's Edge and pick up those prisoner's designated for removal. We will meet you at the ruins of Mikah. Until then, do not contact us on this transmission." The communication cut out.


Mikah had once been a center for contemplation, relaxation and philosophy. The mages of that old world had been at the forefront of magical studies in the old empire. Now, though, it was little more than a blasted wasteland, the atmosphere bitter with ten thousand years of both magical failures and bitter hopelessness. Only a few dozen lightyears from the current, much-shrunken, Empire, the planet might as well have been in another universe altogether.

"What a dump." Char Kalyn muttered distatefully, taking a long drag from his cigarillo. "I can't believe Master Radmiel sent me here." The apprentice kicked a rock idly, watching as it went flying across the ground and into a ruined sign. "What are you all whimpering about? You're not being paid to complain!"

"We shouldn't be here!" The leader of the desert-kin, his hands gesticulating from within his all-encompassing robes. "The men, they are scared of angry spirits. I try to..."

"You should be more concerned with my anger than that of any ghost." Char snapped in retaliation. He dropped his old cigarillo and drew a new one from his black vest.

"We are not being paid enough to enter these buildings, Lord Char! This place is unholy, man!"

Char's eyes narrowed. "I. Am Not. A 'man'." He rose to his feet and pointed at the unfortunate mercenary captain. "Incendia, pareo meus vox!' The wind kicked up around him, and then the cigar suddenly became a raging torrent of fire. Char directed the flames up and down the captain's body, laughing maniacally as the man screamed and fell to the ground in a bubbling pool of disgusting juices and cooked meat.

"I knew it was a mistake to expect your master to teach you restraint." A voice murmured, coming from out of the lab. A female left the building and rested against the wall, studying the tableaux. The ice-blue clad figure shook her head. "Who was his second?" Another desert-kin lifted his hand from where he had been clearing off the old landing pad. "Excellent. You've been promoted. Now finish setting up the auction hall. Char, come with me. While we're on Mikah we should at the least see what items remain after a thousand years of scavengers."

The male followed her, mouthing insults about females getting above themselves all the way.


Naija slowly woke up. Her mouth was still filled with the disgusting gelatin thing that locked her fangs in place and the collar was still around her neck. Her breath caught in her nose and she started to choke until she managed to control her breathing again. There was an IV needle stuck in her arm, hooked up to some sort of nutrient-supplier. Her eyes quickly adapted to the dark. 'Where am I?' She questioned, rising to her feet and touching the bars in front of her. Slowly, her situation established itself in her mind and she began to cry.

Dériver sans but dans le vent solaire le yacht stellaire ‹ Huit Faveurs › a rebondi du courant au courant dans la couronne extrême d'étoile de Mikah. Les banderoles ont palpité et fouetté le long de son équiper comme l'équipage est allé de leurs affaires avec un air désinvolte. Le Seigneur du bateau a marché le pont aussi bien qu'il était surtout imperturbable avec le travail est fait autour de lui. Sa Dame a marché à côté de lui - c'était presque inouï pour une femme de système d'exploitation Sanglants pour aller à la mer - mais ceci était un yacht et elle avait insisté. Pendant que le voyage profondément dans l'espace avait été agréable c'était nullement pour le plaisir seul et ceci était qu'ils ont discuté comme ils ont marché.

“...And quel s'ils ne nous vendront-ils pas Eloi?"

"Notre or est aussi bon qu'autre. Je ne sais pas pourquoi ils ne font pas. A moi c'est plus une question de combien ils coûteront. La lettre est tout à fait spécifique."

La lettre dans la question s'asseyait sans accident dans sa poche liée fermée avec un ruban noir. Il avait demandé non seulement à autant de de l'offert être acheté comme possible mais a autorisé aussi le Seigneur de Pirate pour servir de l'agent d'un compte numéroté particulier. Le compte a été tenu par un Pilonese endiguant l'inquiétude mais au delà de ce Eloi de Seigneur a su petit de qui il travaillait pour.

"Calme," Il a continué, "Ce serait agréable si nous avons su qu'ils cherchaient. Nous pourrions l'acheter alors et la feuille. Les affaires entières. ..”

"Oui, tout à fait répugnant. Nous faisons ce que nous parce que nous pouvons."

La paire a continué sur, regardant hors aux étoiles et les mondes au delà de pendant qu'attend les citation pour les enchères pour commencer.

Daray's apprentice moved down the rows of cells. She stopped and checked her list. "What have we got?" She demanded from a whimpering felinoid who was finishing his polishing of the old wooden furnishings.

"M-mistress Amara." The Felinoid cowered before her. "In the cells are, err..." He led her along the path between the cells. Two large salamandri were held by magically enhanced chain to the walls. They snapped insults at her as she passed, insults she ignored save for magically tightening their chains. They both shrieked in pain as she walked by.

"Excellent." She marked them off on her checklist. "Who's in here?" She peered inside, and then smiled. "Ah, good."

"Err..yes. Err..." The felinoid peered in and looked at the nagas curled about one another, huddling desperately for warmth. "We might want to...err...turn on more heat, mistress?"

"Nonsense. They won't be here long enough to stay in torpor beyond their maximum." Amara checked them off too, walking along the line of cages. Suddenly, she was called to the side.

"Mistress! Mistress, please! I don't deserve to be here!" A voice called from the side. "There's been a terrible mistake!" One of the three elves trapped in a cage threw herself against the bars, hitting against it and trying to reach out for Amara's cloak. "Please!"

"Who is this?" Amara demanded from the felinoid, who anxiously flipped through his notes.

"I'm Ailisyn Elenara! I was... Augh!" Ailisyn fell back, clutching her face. Blood welled from a new scar along her cheek.

"I did not ask you." The Roanian returned her whipdagger to its sheathe. "Well?" She demanded of the felinoid.

"Ailisyn M. Elenara." The felinoid mumbled. "Former ambassador to the Duma, convicted on the charge of taking bribes. She was sentenced to life in perpetuity on Star's Edge."

"I'm innocent!" Ailisyn shrieked. "Please... I'm innocent..." Amara spun on her heel and shot lightning through her fingertips at the elf until she fell down, squealing and whimpering.

Satisfied, Amara moved on. "Who's in there?" She tried to look over the edge, and then fell back. "Grr..." She wiggled her fingers and prepared to think of a spell, then suddenly changed her mind and grabbed the felinoid, tossing him hard onto the ground and climbing on his back. She jumped back, shrieking, when a hideous spidery-face looked up into hers. "AUGH!"

"I did try to warn you, mistress!" The felinoid protested as he stood up, only to be slapped hard across the face. "Sorry, mistress. Thank you for correcting me, mistress."

"You're welcome." Amara took a deep breath and adjusted her robes, then walked along to the final two cages. She took a long, hard look at the Roanian sitting huddled in the one on the left. "How the mighty have fallen." She said, growling and opening the cage, pulling out her knife.

Naija looked up, her eyes red from tears. 'Don't do this.' She begged.

"You should have thought of this before you stole my lover at the academy." Amara grabbed Naija by the hair and pulled her back. "Now... how many cuts should I make..." She pushed the dagger against the younger woman's face. "I think I'll take your eyes, to go with your voice."

'He never loved you.' Naija returned, her thoughts steady, looking up into Amara's hatefilled eyes.

"You lie. You lie! He loved me! And then you stole him from me!"

"Enough!" Char ordered. "Don't break the merchandise, dear Amara." He sent her knife flying from her hand.

'Please...I am one of you... don't do this to me. Don't break the Law. If not for me, then for yourselves... release me, I won't reveal anything!'

"You're not one of us! You're never one of us!" Amara shrieked, trying to move past the immovable bulk of Char. "You're a freak! You should never have been accepted by the academy!"

"Enough, Amara." He shoved her outside. "We'll be rid of her soon enough. I don't think your master would approve of your lack of self-restraint." He said with a deliberate, pleasant finality. "Now go and make sure the desert-kin have the launchpad finished. I'll set up in here."

Amara opened her mouth, but then, with a final glare at Naija, composed herself and left. Char smiled as she left, and then turned to Naija. "Such a shame you never surrendered yourself to me while we were waiting for her, beauty. Such pleasures you might have known." Char shrugged and spat. "Suit yourself. You. We're short a slave to make this a profitable movement. What do you recommend?" He pointed at the felinoid.

"Well...er...maybe you could...uh... enslave the desertkin?" The felinoid inquired, nervously. "I mean, we have enough of everything else..."

"Not quite everything." Char said, smiling sinisterly. Then, with a quick spell, the felinoid was tossed up and over the other cage wall, landing inside with a number of his kin. "Sit. Stay. Good kitty. And now, we wait."

Nothing but a silver streak in the endless void, when you got right down to it -- elusive as a whisper in the night, not quite entirely there. A dream, if you will...

Well, on the outside...inside, it was quite solid.

Jev'ran Morekath lounged in his command chair, having little enough to do. Dire Wind could manage itself well enough without his interference for the time being, and Svanhild was at the auxiliary flight console. She wasn't a terrifically good pilot, but she didn't need to be -- Dire Wind was more than capable of responding as necessary to nearly any circumstance, with an organic 'ok,' thus the girl.

Of course, for the tricky stuff, he'd have to actually do something...but the tricky stuff was pretty damned rare, which was, of course, the idea, as it allowed him to concentrate on doing his job.

Jev'ran was an Acquisitions Officer, imbued with all the wide-ranging powers that that office held, which explained his surroundings well enough -- he was, naturally, the only male on the ship. It was a...thing...associated with the Old Lines, in general. Outside of direct combat, two Sentinel-Knights in close proximity who weren't the very best of friends tended to get on each others nerves, and as a result...well, we needn't go there.

Jev'ran was tall, six foot four inches as Earthlings measured height, and powerfully built, slightly exceeding two hundred pounds, with decidedly scant body-fat. He was handsome -- always had been, one of the things he was known for. Long, platinum-blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, and a good face, a strong face...

He bit another chunk off his supplement bar. Normal meals were quite good, but they had to be supplemented...and the bars were the same as ever. There were experiments in flavouring them, but most of them only ended up making the things taste worse than the original. Which was 'peanut butter.' Whatever the Hell that was.

Finishing off the bar, he lay his head back, yawned, and closed his eyes, though of course he did not sleep. He seldom did...

As always, winds swirl and howl around the CentGov Spire, the enormous black ziggurat stabbing into the sky above Royesse, a monument to the arrogance and power of Mankind.
Within, regardless of the miserable weather without, Owen's personal office is nicely warm, kept that way by cunning engineering and a really big fire.
Technically the fireplaces in the Spire were ornamental but all of Owen's worked. After all, he was King, if he wanted a damned fire, he'd have a damned fire.

Besides, it was almost impossible to plot in front of a radiator.

"So that's how this rather unfortunate woman came to be in her present situation."
The King leant back and looked at his visitor, who zipped from his glass, savouring the excellent Dwarven whisky Owen served to his guests, and nodded.
"And how did we find out about it?"
The King shrugs and twirls his fingers. "Oh you know. The amount of money we spend on suborning people I could tell you what the Grand Poobah of Bumfuckistan is having for lunch two weeks from now. This was major, splashy and therefore easy. So we know what's coming next."

He waits a heartbeat for the response before his visitor scowls.
"Coz, stop forcing me to ask leading questions and just tell me what you want." By the end of the sentence the usual urbane Multiversal of the Kingdom's aristocracy has abraded a little, a harder, flatter accent coming through.
The King raises an eyebrow.
"Alright then. We want you, with your impeccable connections, lineage and line of credit, to take a trip to darkest Roania, buy this woman from the slave auction the Roanians are flogging her off at and bring her back to here for complete debriefing. You'll of course enjoy a reasonable level of government support, but it'll be covert, deniable and will ideally not result in me having to explain to the Meneltyr why I'm incinerating one of their satellites."

Erik Bathame, son and heir of Vlad, Duke of Bathame, leans back on his cousin's extremely expensive couch, takes an other mouthful of whisky, muses a moment, then tips his head in a nod so louche his father would probably have disinherited him had he seen it.
"When do I leave?"

Hmm not worth my own attendance still… Ellyion smiled a moment, as she dispatched one of her more promising captains to the venue. ‘Bring me the Ambassador, and oh anything interesting you might see there, feel free to help yourself afterwards.’ Was just about the gist of her rather vague orders to the Captain of the Ilthimair’s Tale

The man a rather proud if excitable Eldar, was hoping to one day reach the heights Ellyion had achieved with his own fleet under him, titles to his name and glory within his grasp, but that was a long way off. Right now he was a mere Captain and had seen few raids, raids where rare these days and took months of planning, for a few hours of action. Still he had hopes, and plans. Captain Cerelan saw this as his chance.

So it was the Ilthimairs Tale slipped from the current home of Ellyion’s fleet deep within an Asteroid field to be joined by three smaller escorts, the Aithliam, the Baruth and a third vessel unfamiliar to Cerelan, this wasn’t a surprise, ellyion’s star was rising from Shadow Lady to Princess and this had led others to join her fleet looking for a share of that glory.

The Commonwealth could boast from its trade links to be the crap filter of the world’s countless societies, every no hoper, every vagrant vagabond, every man with a past he’d rather put behind could find anonymity amongst the countless masses of the great trade metropolises of the country. The vast teeming markets and taverns and brothels and other industries dedicated to easing the passage of men’s weary travels (and their cash) were however useful for more than just useful employment. Sailors talked, and in the grey areas of the docklands and harbours what they said was frequently interesting to those that watched and listened in the corners and the alcoves of the nautical haunts.

Word got around, it always did here.

“Jesus Christ.” Linda Matthews, the Freestian woman flicking away a lock of brown hair in frustration as she read over the forward case notes, or, rather, the lack of them. The sale was bookmarked by two separate agents, some more details came back from another, drunken cadet who had found himself suddenly whisked into the back, unrecorded offices of a Navarre police station. All in all not much to go on, but there was one big thing drawing their resources. It was Roanian. And there were xenospecies on the block.

“Yes, something the matter?” Muttered her companion, a tall lanky, bespectacled man with a streak of greying black hair christened with a crew tag bearing the name ‘Foster‘, stepping through the ovoid bulkhead hatch with two coffees in hand, placing one before Linda and then seating himself opposite her in the only other free seat in the room. The spacecraft’s decks and supports seemed to creak even in the vacuum of space, the complete blackness of the outside galaxy all that was visible in the realms between real space that the vessel pulled them through. Linda looked up appreciatively at the drink, despite its instant freeze-dried smell.

“Cover stories are through. Half arsed standard Midlonian slaver types. Usual fare. Targets include potential specimens of several species of interest, primary priority given is to be given to the Roanians themselves.” She took a sip, wincing at the taste, and continued. “Several other species of interest, namely their reptilian subjects, Salamandri. Opportunity for a physical assessment of them as well, especially in comparison to the ghoul standard.” She leaned back and sighed.

“I still have the marks from the last fuck-up. I do not intend a repeat of it.” She whispered, in stark contrast to her casual tone before hand. “We have a decent budget, and a team, if you noticed the crew, of Linerunners should things get interesting…”

Foster nodded, remembering the crew manifest, guessing from the athletic, uniform nature of the crew despite the attempts at casual wear that they were indeed brought in from the Aerospace Force. “So they’re taking it seriously?”

“WE" She looked up sternly at him "are taking it seriously yes, we appear to have some competition, mostly commercial I think. Well, I and head office hope anyway. There are those wonderful do-gooders around who like to make things wonderfully difficult for us.”

“So, primary usage of the goods in question?” Foster took a sip of his own drink.

“Not declassified, guessing the usual carrot and stick bollocks. Hopefully grabbing the Roanian and reptile thing will give us some political insight and contacts as well. At a guess anyway.” She tapped the edge of her cup as she ran through the identities sheet again. “Remind me to tell you one day how much I despise this job.” She muttered, technically to Foster but in reality to no one in particular.

“I will.” He replied back, equally distant.

A crimson bloom of light disgorged a long, slender, streamlined vessel, shimmer-black with elegant silver trim, into the void a few AU's out from Mikah. Not obviously a vessel of Menelmacari manufacture, the Daughter of Night was a fast and elegant but relatively spartan craft and suited 'Mierin Eronaile' just fine. That was of course not the woman's real name, but she rarely used her real name when away from home. One of the Mornarána, the 'rangers' of Menelmacar, Mierin was herself human, tall and of pale complexion, with long raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes.

She had worked this sector - the 'sectors' assigned to any given Mornarána ranged in size from one or a few earthside nations to an expanse of space a thousand or more lightyears across, and hers leaned more towards the latter end of the scale - for several years, and had built up an extensive network of contacts. This network had paid off once again, and she had been tipped off by a stationmaster aboard a pirate-run trading post three jumps from Mikah, about the auction to be held in a few days' time. This had been corroborated quickly with information from Menelmacari intelligence, and a little bit of follow-up investigation had shown possible connections to a disappeared up-and-coming Roanian wizardess. The descriptions of the merchandise certainly seemed to make a good match. It was all very interesting, and perhaps both justice, and Menelmacari interests, could be served at once.

So here she was, Mierin Eronaile, Mornarána, bearing down on a useless dustball of a world notable for relatively little save a violent history... the failures of several large-scale arcane experiments long ago had devastated the world, and even now there was considerable residual magic on the planet, its ley-lines periodically flaring up in dangerous storms useful only to the sort of mage that danced on the edge of madness - roughly the same sort of people who would not be deterred by the inhospitability of the planet itself.

Mikah's only other remaining use, Mierin had realized, was as somewhere to hide. Especially if one was hiding a mage. In other words, the perfect place for just this sort of thing.

Her craft descended towards the planet, and Mierin sent a tightbeam transmission to the ruins of one of the old magical academies on the surface that matched the coordinates she had been given, a suspicion confirmed by the apparent recent addition of various prefabricated facilities. She announced her arrival - and her desire to perhaps look over some of the merchandise before the official start of the auction.

Daryl Sharton was a trader in people. Pure and simple. He was one of several “Endentured service” companies and, no, I don’t mean he owned it, he was the company. Somehow he was able to keep all matters of his business empire in people personally in check with a minimum of personal staff.

This might have something to do with the computer embedded into his spine, but I digress.

Dropping a sugar cube into a porcelain tea cup with a pair of finely crafted silver tongues the Birchestese boy wearing a Victorian Sailor’s Uniform bowed as he handed the cup to the large podgy man in the winged comfy-chair next to a roaring fire.

Around him were various other people and species all dressed in the similar white sailor’s uniforms, a kokiri swabbing the floor, a goron moving a large machine along the corridor, a regular Midlonian dusting.

Only one noticeable figure was different in the scene, the armed sentry clad in a dark black and grey uniform with a circular helmet hiding most of his head. His role was mostly a formality. One thing Sharton was smart enough to do was to treat his “employees” relatively well while they were in his care. If they were sold on to another company, or even to the government itself they were no longer his concern.

Pausing to savour the rich blend of the “Business Tea”, which had slightly higher amounts of caffeine in it to reinvigorate board meetings, he purveyed the list of the latest potential acquisitions. Some unusual species that he was sure would fetch a very pretty penny over in Victoriana, especially the felinoids and the Roanians…

“Boy.” he muttered as the Birchestese child bent over to hear Sharton murmur. “How long until we get there?”

“Not more than an hour, sir.” replied Boy.

“Good good.” he murmured as he sipped his tea. “You can all leave me now, thank you. I would like to be alone for a while.”

Boy bowed and left quietly. Followed swiftly by the cleaner and then eventually by the Sentinel, who locked the large ornately carved wooden doors.

Sharton played with his mutton chop whiskers and sighed heavily.

His ship, the Marikay was over ornate, very much style over eventual function, subsequently it had allowed him to simply live here on his ship in exquisite comfort. But with this also came jealousy from certain anti-indenture parties within the Merchant fleets and even the armed forces. There were rumblings, and back home he was a very loud propagator against abandoning a rather profitable industry. Out here he was potentially vulnerable to those rogue elements and it concerned him.

The pitch black sleek aelosian vessel was designed more akin to the wretched appearance of the Dark Eldar corsair ships than to the more bright and colorful designs of the eldar and aelosian craft. Elegant and nimble, the form of the small shuttle descended upon the surface quietly, using inertialess drives to achieve a perfect landing manouver.

Over the bridge, Janaira Eöl smiled. She was known as a rogue trader that worked in the fringes of the rather strict aelosian law. Almost at the edges of both morality and legality, she was never caught openly breaking the codes of her people, and her activities, although usually despised, were at best tolerated. Her elongated fingers, covered in black velvet gloves, pressed a communication rune, and informed the roanian authorities of her arrival, and her desire to participate in the auction.

"Flesh commerce, then?", said Danthar Mablung, her bodyguard, as the delicate body of the captain rose from the control throne. Where the drow woman was thin, her caretaker was towering. Where she was agile and fast moving, he was lumbering and thickset. Where she was pleasant to the eyes, her gleaming ebony skin covering a rather attractive bone structure, and her white mane adorning a fine set features, he was hideous. At least the bodyguard had the sense to cover his charred body with the stolen armor of a Death Jester, inclusing the skull shaped mask of the previous owner.

Back in the good days, when Prince Ma´El waged war against the wretched eldar, some Harlequin troupe tried to cross the path of Janaira's father and his crew, after they raided several exodite outposts. They managed to kill everyone on board of the pirate ship of her father, until they found defending the bridge both her father and Danthar, back then a strong, powerful elf in the prime of his life, a renegade from the elite defenders of the Craftworld. Both elves fought the eldar clowns until they slew them all. However, the Pirate Prince died in the fight, managing to impale the leader of the dancers at the same time, and Danthar ended burned almost to the bone for standing in front of the wrong end of a melta gun.

Young Janaira inherited the vessel by right, and became a captain. Lacking a crew, and having as her sole companion the dying Danthar, barely kept alive using life support engines, she managed to pilot the ship to port. She was received by the ShadowPrince as a hero, and gave her all the support he could muster, including a new crew of corsairs, plus organic repairs on the poor Danthar, that although managed to recover his motion, lost all pain sense and every inch of skin over his muscles. Fusing the Death Jester suit over his flesh was his own idea, as to remind him everyday of who and what he had done. Harlequin Slayer, he called himself, to mock the dancing clowns of the eldar.

A change of administration forced a change of tactics and activities, and as the ShadowPrince Ma´El was ousted from power, she resorted to legitimate trade to avoid getting caught by the new admirals of the aelosian navy. Showing an outstanding talent for deals, pushes and forced takeovers, Janaira and her new crew enjoyed success, and managed to revert to the old pirate deeds of her father when they operated far beyond the long reach of the fleet of the aelosian empire, who usually turned a blind eye to her activities, always aimed at enemies of the sindar.

Together, they sacked ork ships, and raided colonies of those opposed to Aelosia, although never received support, help or acknowledgement by the Craftworld's authorities. Janaira always counted with the heavy and augmented hand of Danthar at her side, the burned elf never forgiving the fact that she saved his life when Janaira was just a little girl.

But those were just memories, and this was the present. The drow elf fixed the Harlequin Kiss taken from the body of the killer of her father over her wrist, ready to leave for the outside, and smiled at her steadfast guard. "Flesh trade, my dear Danthar. I heard the Cúthalions are opening a menagerie over Mars, let's see what we can get in that auction, so we can get a good price at the zoo. Plus, we can always recruit more crew amogst the sales. I also heard there are several elves involved".

"And what of the special assignment?", asked the bodyguard through his modified vox transmitter.

"For that, we have a special credit. Let's say Lord Lórindel have enough monetary power to back us in this. That is why I have the permission to get into these...morally questionable dealings", said the drow captain with a wink. "Now, open that hatch, it has been a long trip, and I want to see who else might be bidding here".

Nomarch Shezmu frowned, picking at his nails with a small file, with nothing better to do with his time on the long journey in the small cramped forward compartment of his ship than think over past pleasures and amuse himself with his ‘attendant’ and even that lost its lustre after a few days.

He drifted off to sleep, his feet up ‘on the dashboard’ of his Al’kesh, and was awakened by one of his jaffa warriors nudging his shoulder. “My Lord. We have arrived.”

He frowned once more, and pulled his legs from the console, shifting his moderate bulk forwards in his seat. “Ah!” he said, manipulating the magic-seeming tablet, “Excellent! Here we go. A little traffic there. We could get some good, high quality stock today!”

He reached forwards, sending a transmitter, “Greetings! I am Shezmu, Slaughterer of Souls, and Master of the finest slave market in the galaxy,” he didn’t mention that his official position was senior cook in Lord Atum’s kitchens, “And ‘Demon of the Wine Press,’” he laughed, that had always amused him, “I hear that there is some trade to be had! As such, I, Shezmu, am here to buy!”

He laughed gregariously, and could be heard gulping down wine, “I have many fine jewels and stones with which to pay!” he added, as he guided the thirty-six meter craft in toward a landing.

Le skiff a dansé en bas par l'atmosphère ruinée de Mikah comme une feuille longue tombée de l'arbre. Les voiles ont palpité de long en large comme il a traversé les courants et est dirigé vers une pièce ouverte agréable juste de la facilité d'atterrissage la Désert-Famille était érigé. Du mât principal a volé le drapeau de système d'exploitation Sanglants, le crâne traditionnel par-dessus les os traversés avec dégoutter de sang des os, et au-dessus de lui la banderole de Chartes de du d'Eloi de Seigneur a fouetté dans la brise.

Le penant l'a marqué comme le Maître d'un Bateau, et les quatre petites banderoles ont cousu soigneusement à lui l'a marqué plus comme le Seigneur d'une petite flotte. Même plus le nom 'les Chartes de du' l'a marqué comme un ancien habitant de la ville côtière martienne de Chartes qui a été juste localisée en face des grandes îles dans Nouvel ArAreBee. Il avait été une fois la capitale de la classe de banque d'affaires dans leurs terres maintenant divisées mais ceci était ni ici ni là-bas.

Ceux qui ont fait l'attention pourraient espionner quatre à bord du petit bateau – un marin à l'arc, un autre au jusqu'à, et le Seigneur et la Dame assise au centre du navire. Où les autres pourraient être placé il y avait un grands fer et une poitrine de limite de cuir, simplement paré mais l'agrafe avec une grande serrure ornée en forme d'un crâne. Tout à bord d'ont été garbed dans la robe du pirate avec les marins dans la trousse simple de matelots pendant que le Seigneur et la Dame s'ont été plus habillés pour une sortie formelle.

“Ahoy there! Hold fast!”

Le marin à l'arc a appelé à la Désert-Famille qui avait rassemblé environ et plusieurs a couru effronté juste dans le temps pour attraper la ligne lancée. Personne avait prévu avoir en fait à lier d'un métier et si après un moment de moulage de pour quelque chose convenable les créatures l'ont tenu juste fermement entre le trois. Le croisement de la douzaine de pieds finale au sol que le skiff est venu se reposer dans l'air une simple portée de main au-dessus de lui. Un des conseils déplacés par la poitrine ont été tombés par-dessus le côté pour former une allée rugueuse et le premier marin sauté par-dessus le côté pour pour l'obtenir.

Eloi de seigneur a tenu et a étendu sa main à sa Dame qui est augmenté gracieusement avant le Seigneur sauté par-dessus le côté aussi. Elle ri nerveusement, une main délicat couvrant sa bouche, et penché par-dessus prendre une ombrelle de la place à côté d'elle comme il a atterri avec le tintement de sabre et de chaîne. Il est allé à la base de la rampe d'autrefoise et a pris l'endroit du marin là-bas pour aider sa Dame pendant qu'elle a débarqué. Elle a élevé son ombrelle et souri à son Seigneur avant qu'ils aient aient joint des bras et marché loin.

La paire marchée vers le préfabrique des bâtiments comme les marins ont obtenu le bateau avec l'assistance frénétique de la Désert-Famille. Chaque a reçu une pièce brillante pour leurs efforts avant d'est renvoyé à leurs devoirs par les marins. Soigneusement ils ont déchargé la poitrine et, le portant entre eux avec le sabre se découvre dans leurs mains, ils ont suivi le Seigneur et la Dame à l'intérieur.

Une fois dans le Seigneur a marché effronté pendant qu'elle a abaissé encore son ombrelle et a donné un affront prospère l'arc.

"Je suis les Chartes de du d'Eloi de Seigneur, et ceci est mon Dominique de Dame, à votre service."

Il est arrêté et a commencé à chasser environ dans ses poches pour quelque chose. Il a été habillé dans une chemise de linge blanche, croustillante et formelle, un moitié-investit de soie noir, et une laine un bleue manteau long par-dessus les pantalon de laine bruns plissés dans les bords souples de son argent ses bottes de cuir noirs chassés. Il a été non armé seulement avec une grande quantité de poches mais aussi le sabre mentionné de même qu'un remontant de pistolets légers lancées avec désinvolture entre investit et revêt. Le pommeau d'un poignard lourd était visible dans sa botte gauche et ceci de même qu'une paire d'épingles d'association de l'épéiste en or l'a marqué comme au moins un homme raisonablement expérimenté.

Peut-être ceci avait été précédent dans la vie ou les regards trompaient souvent. Il n'était pas un homme trop musculaire et en effet porté peut-être quelques-uns kilogrammes supplémentaires. Les lignes d'âge commençaient à l'araignée leur façon à travers sa visage et, s'il était humain, il pourrait être estimé à quarante ou cinquante années majeures.

Finalement il a trouvé qu'il cherchait et il a retiré une lettre liée qu'il a délié ponctuellement et a déplié.

"C'est, m'excuse ici. J'apparais avoir trop de poches et aussi peu de lettres."

Il a tenu la lettre en haut et Dominique de Dame a marché effronté pour donner une révérence insignifiante.

"Ceci est de servir la notification que je sers de l'agent d'achat autorisé de numéro de compte cinq sept neuf trois abeille d'eh six neuf quatre, le propriétaire non révélé. Une affaires sales ceci, et quelques juste ne pas souhaiter souiller leurs propres bottes."

Dominique de dame a traduit pour Eloi de Seigneur, répétant soigneusement ses mots dans la norme galactique sans manque un mot.

“This is to serve notice that I am acting as the authorized purchasing agent of account number five seven nine three eh bee six nine four, owner undisclosed. A dirty business this, and some just do not wish to sully their own boots.”

Les marins ont marché effronté, posant maintenant la poitrine, et Eloi de Seigneur a pêché une clef du sien investit et est agenouillée l'ouvrir.

"Je suis sûr que vous aimeriez vérifier la qualité de nos fonds…"

Un marin a ouvert le couvercle pour révéler une poitrine pleine de gemmes dans les centaines d'a calibré, les coupures, et les couleurs. Le couvercle de la poitrine a été reflété qui a fait la chose entière paraît plus grand que c'était, mais il y avait calme que ce qu'est revenu à un le roi rançon dans les bijoux là-bas. Knelling encore il a tiré quelques gemmes au hasard de la poitrine et les a mis dans une petite poche et l'a tenu pour quiconque le prendrait.

"Essayer ceci si vous ferez…"

A part of him was decidedly tempted to arrive atarnback, for Ernie -- Eternity-of-Suffering, his Greater Tarn, had not flown for some time, couped up as she was in the Dire Wind's tarn bay, and letting him know through their link exactly how displeased she was at this state of affairs...but.

But he had a job to do, and while returning with 'the goods' would be possible via Tarn, were he only to return with a few pieces...transporting more than a few would difficult, though Ernie was quite large indeed...

He sighed and sent a feeling of regret Ernie's way, followed by imagery of sitting around on a cold concrete pad. Which served. Then he made his way to the boat bay...he'd take the damned cutter, because it was shiny...and shiny was good...for now.

----TIMEPASSES----

Jev'ran Morekath stepped onto solid ground again, his cape swishing dramatically behind him, because the trademark twin shortblades of the Morekath line prevented him from wearing the cape over one shoulder in the Sentinel-Knight manner. It was just one of those quirks.

Beyond the proper weaponry -- pistol on one hip, knife sheathed hilt-down on the strip of his kitback, dismount carbine mounted on the side of the Rider's Kitback, longsword on the other, whipknife on his left hip, opposite the rider's prod. He carried a steel hardcase in one hand, and had a large black bag slung over his shoulder, his arm obviously strained to take the weight -- it appeared excessively heavy...

OOC: This post has been RPed between me and Roania, and then touched up by me. Of course, for reference, 'Selene' and 'Mierin' are the same person; I don't want anyone to be confused.
----

Mierin frowned a little as she waited for the response to her message; a smile crossed her face when at last it came: "This is the auction post. Land on the indicated landing post and await greeting." Within moments a single figure was standing on the ruined and cracked shuttleport, holding aloft two beacons and indicating where she should be landing. "Our Master and Mistress shall be present soon."

Mierin nodded, simply replying, "Acknowledged. Arrival in ninety seconds." And precisely in a minute and a half, her vessel set lightly down on the fractured landing pad indicated by the figure with the beacons. She rose from her seat and moved to the loading ramp to meet her hosts, and was already dressed for the occasion, in an elegant white dress that hugged her figure. It shimmered when it caught the light, and there was silver traceries all over it, and a silver belt about her waist in a moon-and-stars motif. Over the gown she wore a white cloak about her shoulders, with a hood drawn down somewhat to partially obscure her face, though her beauty was evident regardless. Silver embroidery in the same moon-and-stars pattern of her belt ran along the edges of the cloak and the hood.

She was carrying her weapon, of course; it was a Scolopendran powergun, wholly out of sorts with the elegant image she was portraying, but it did the job and was not linked to Menelmacar, and she would most likely not have to bring it out anyhow. It was tucked away into an enchanted pocket within the cloak, where the weapon's bulk and weight would not be at all apparent. She also had a small device the Mornarána used to obscure their own magical prowess (or, in some cases, lack thereof), making it difficult for others to estimate her level of ability - she was moderately skilled, but who needed to know that, really? The device's effectiveness would only be amplified by the ambient magic of the environment.

By the time she had disembarked, the Roanians were both awaiting her, the fire mage dressed in his red outfit and the ice mage in her blue one. Char got on one knee and bowed low. "Greetings, most illuminated one. I am Chariel Nicaen, most eminent mage of the academy." Amara growled, but curtsied as well, her eyes flickering at the presence of another, more beautiful, woman. she grudgingly introduced herself as well: "I am Amara Aislinn. Welcome to Mikah."

Mierin smiled as she looked over her host and hostess. "A pleasure, I am sure. An interesting choice of locale," she mused, looking around at the scenery, "but I suppose it's necessary. I am Selene," she said, introducing herself with yet another alias.

"A lovely name! Just lovely!" Char said enthusiastically, his glamour at full power as he rose to his feet. "I will be glad to show you around prior to the event." The male shoved Amara away. "You better hurry up and go finish setting up."
Amara scowled and walked away. "Just don 't let her wander off."

'Selene' smiled, and chuckled softly, pouring on the charm herself; she certainly knew of the Roanians' glamour, and had had training in resisting such - pretty much a prerequisite for operating in this region. On the other hand, her own more conventional wiles seemed to be working extremely well. "I won't go anywhere, I assure you," she called after Amara in a sing-song voice as the frost-mage stalked off. Then she looked at Char. "A bit oversensitive, isn't she, dear Chariel? At any rate, I can't wait to see what you have on offer."

"She's just jealous of your obvious beauty." The Roanian bowed again, as if his waist was hinged. "Please, do follow me. What would you like to see first? I believe you received a manifesto of our stock."

"Please, allow me to explain," Selene/Mierin mused, gliding elegantly after him, smoothly as a cloud. "I serve as seneschal to a particularly wealthy noble; in the name of discretion, I'm sure you understand, I cannot reveal who or of where. My lord has certain proclivities, however, for which he... pays well. He particularly favors women who have... fallen," she says, choosing the word carefully, "from high places. If you catch my meaning."

"Ah, of course," Char replied with a nod as he opened the door and ushered her inside, briefly checking her arse out from behind before he strode back in front of her. "Well, while we're walking there." He clapped his hands together, and a large staff appeared in them, which he slammed against a cage. Two unfortunate faces popped up and pressed against the narrow wall. "In here we have some naga, for those of lords with...serpentine tastes. Perhaps he'd be interested in these?"

The Ranger followed him into the prefabricated building, and drew out a small device resembling a PDA, though one of its functions is a magical scanner similar to that used by Daray in the original post, though obviously of different manufacture. She glanced down at it as if consulting her notes, and then looked over the naga. "They're certainly... different, though probably not what my lord has in mind."

"Ah, of course not." He slammed the staff against the wall again and walked off down the road. "Reptiles, no.... hmm. Ah! Perhaps you'd like..." He opened another cage and reached inside, grabbing a shivering and sobbing young elf. "This is Ailisyn. Say hello, Ailisyn." Char threw her to the ground before Selene and smiled.

Ailisyn curled up even tighter, gripping her knees and curling into a ball. "Hello..." She looked up, sobbing, her appearance broken, a far different person to the haughty Ambassador she had once been. Char grinned and grabbed her by her long hair, hauling her up to her feet. "Ailisyn used to be Ambassador to the Duma on Mars, didn't you? But then you took some money from someone you shouldn't have."

Ailisyn's eyes closed tightly. "Yes, master." she whimpered, reaching up with her hand to cover the scar on her face. "I'm sorry, master." Char thrust her inside, tearing off the robes she was wearing to leave her just in her underclothes. "Get yourself ready for your auction," he ordered. "Maybe someone will be distracted by a pretty body and ignore that nasty scar on your face."

Mierin certainly pitied the elf before her, and, of course, had recognized who she had been before Char revealed this, but she could not give such an impression now, not if she valued her cover. So instead she affected the stern, appraising gaze of Selene, who would not be a stranger to the buying and selling of slaves. "Certainly a candidate, yes," she said as coldly as she could manage, watching Ailisyn carefully to see her reaction. "What happened to her cheek, Chariel?"

Ailisyn was well past the point where she felt anyone, even another elf, could offer her pity or sympathy, and simply fell back, curling up again against further punishment. Chariel frowned and looked down the hall of cages to where Amara was working. "Amara happened," he mumbled, a little lamely.

Selene nodded a little, and sighs, glancing down the row of cages at Amara. "Pull her up again, let me look her over and see if there's any more... damage to the merchandise."

Char pulled Ailisyn out again and made her stand up again, spinning her around, then shoving her over to Selene to stand. "As you wish."

Selene nodded, taking a firm hold of Ailisyn. "Hmmm..." She turned her about, being rough with her but not overly so, looking her over carefully. "She seems... adequate. As I said before, a possible candidate. Do ensure your partner doesn't damage things much more, yes?" She gave Ailisyn a shove back towards Char and the cage. "What else do you have?"

Char did not answer Mierin's chiding, but frowned again as it hit home. He locked Ailisyn away again, composed himself, and walked off down the hallway. "Let me see. Some felinoids, you probably don't want those..." He hit the cage with his staff anyway, and walked to the last door. "Here. Naija, stand up and let the dear lady look at you."

Naija slowly rose to her feet. She had been stripped of her wizard robes by an angry Amara, their remnants hanging around her body as rags. "This is 'Lady' Naija, formerly the Turquoise. Just the thing for your lordship's love of 'valuable' girls. Naija, show her your wings." Naija looked away, her eyes closed. There was a tight red bit in between her teeth.

Selene looked Naija over... she glanced quietly down at her device again, its readings confirming her suspicions, even though Char had been less than subtle about Naija's identity. She tucked her scanner away inside her robes, looking the imprisoned mage over. "Well, isn't she lovely. Come on, girl, do as he says! Show me your wings." She gave Naija that ice-blue stare, and spoke in that same cold voice as before.

Naija quietly shifted slightly, and her glowing gold wings shot from her back and flapped slightly, setting off her beautiful body to perfection. Yes, Mistress... She thought, sadly.

Selene smiled, and applauded a little. "Mute, is she?" asked the Ranger. "But telepathic? This is actually quite an endearing touch." She smiled a little, not kindly, but not unkindly either.

Char shrugged. "If you say so. I believe she claims to be. Does she meet your approval for your lordship? Very nice curves, won't you agree?"

"I most certainly do," Mierin replied. "I am sure she will meet with his...approval. How are you keeping her restrained? She is after all a sorceress, is she not?"

"The collar around her neck," Char explained. "Naija, show the mistress your collar." Char clapped his hands together. The unfortunate female slowly lowered her wings again and moved her arms down, showing the tight iron choker she was wearing. "See? And we keep her from biting by locking her fangs in place. Would you like a closer inspection?"

Mierin nodded with a smile. "Please, show me."

Char grabbed Naija by the hand, dragging her out to lean before Selene. "Don't touch it," he warned. "It'll sting." Naija nodded, whimpering a little in her mind.

Mierin took Naija's hair firmly in her hand, tugging her head back to look over the collar. "I presume it comes with her? Along with however it is opened," she asks, turning Naija about somewhat roughly to examine her more thoroughly as she had done with Ailisyn.

"Of course, but we'd recommend you didn't." Char yawned and checked his watch. "Anything else on her you want to see?" He asked, leering a bit.

"Naturally... No, that will do for now, thank you." She debated consoling Naija via telepathy, but two realizations stopped her. One, she didn't know if Char or Amara were also telepathic, and if they were, whether they could overhear. Two, there was a possibility Mierin might lose the auction. So there was no point in getting Naija's hopes up now.

Naija started to cry quietly and looked away, blushes of humiliation appearing on her cheeks.

"All right, then I believe that's enough handling of the merchandise." Char said, firmly.

The Ranger nodded. "As I said. I'm satisfied. Unless you've anything else that would interest my employer."

"I'm afraid I cannot think of anything." Char said, gently taking Naija away from Selene and shoving her back into the cage. "Shall I show you to your seat, my lady?"

"Please do. Thank you very much for your excellent customer service, Chariel, it has been an utter pleasure." Mierin smiled winningly, hooking her arm through his.

He smiled and walked her past the cages where several felinoids and other women sat in despair, their eyes covered. The Roanian ignored them all and led Selene out the door, leading her along the ancient path towards the ruined lecture hall serving as the auction house proper. Along the way he passed Amara, who he leaned over to and whispered to go meet the guests from Os Sanglants; the other mage huffed, but obeyed, turning to return to the shuttleport. Meanwhile, Chariel brought Selene directly to her seat. "I'm afraid I must see to the arriving guests, but perhaps I might meet you after the auction...?"

Mierin gave another warm, musical laugh. "Normally I would wholeheartedly agree. But you must understand that I must return to my lord as soon as possible afterwards. Things have just been so busy of late. But I'm sure this will be a smashing success and you will have many more auctions."

Char nodded, hiding his disappointment well. "Very well, my lady; the auction will begin soon. Best of luck to you." And he turned and left.

Amara came running up to the Os Sanglantsi as the chest was opened, holding her robes up in order to avoid tripping on them. "Get away, get away!" She ordered the mercenaries who had greeted them. "It is an honour, a true honour, most noble lord!" She exclaimed. "Oh, go away!" She snapped once more at the desert kin, who finally retreated. "No, wait. Go help him!" Amara pointed at the lone sentinel-knight before turning back to the Os sanglantsi lord. "My Lord and lady, I am Lady Amara." She curtsied. "Please, we have been expecting you. If you and your entourage will follow me, please?"

The young mage reached forward and ran her fingers through the gems, a pleased smile on her face. "This will do nicely. Follow me. Yes." Her eyes kept flickering to the shiny jewels until slowly she managed to draw them away. "Yes. This way." She coughed and took a deep, cleansing breath.

She slowly walked them through the cages. The women had all now been stripped and forced to wear either the rags of their old clothing or just their underclothes. As the pirates walked by, Ailisyn and the other humanoid females pushed their arms through the cages, imploring the pirates to save them. Amara occasionally reached out and rapped them with her staff.

The salamandri, meanwhile, seemed to bear this shame with equanimity, merely leaning against the wall and sighing at their unfortunate fate. The felinoids, though, sat their clumsily, occasionally lolling about or sulking.

And at the very end, Naija, almost completely undressed and in a humiliating position though she was, sat there, trying to project as calm an aura as possible. Amara smiled and indicated the seats designated for the Os Sanglantsi and their entourage. "Please, take your seat. And good luck, my lord and lady."


Jev'ran's goods and credentials were checked by the designated mercenaries without fuss. "thank you, step this way, sir." They led him along the same line, stopping in front of the salamandri, felinoids, 'sex-slave' and 'soldier' lots to allow him a quick inspection, before they showed him to his seat. "Good luck, sir." And then they left him to his own devices. Behind him, a few desert-kin were hard at work setting up a small concession stand and bar.

The Freestian craft, unmarked, drifted slowly through the atmosphere, its distinctly un-aerodynamic form doing it no favours at it shook and jolted as its pilots brought it into the land. Just over a hundred metres in length and massing a couple of thousand metric tons, the ship was heavy and sluggish on its fusion engines as its came into land at the remains of the spaceport below, occupied in one corner by the small contingents that had already arrived. The Cordial Intent manoeuvred almost haphazardly before finally coming to ground heavily, its landing struts straining under the force as the momentum was drained away in the dampeners and shock absorbers.

Linda put her face in her palm as her other hand grabbed the nearest bulkhead. Dressed in the formal attire of Midlonian business people, with a few small additions comprised of an oxygen tube shoved unceremoniously up one nostril and a silenced pistol sitting hidden beneath the trim jacket she wore over the dress. Hair touched up into a neat bun with a few flirtatious lose hairs and a generous if natural application of makeup gave her a decent and professional look. Foster meanwhile looked good enough for a formal dinner, he carried a similar weapon and tube and also what looked liked a PDA strapped to the belt. Both beneath the suits, invisible to most, wore a black, lightly armoured skinsuits, useful for keeping cool and comfortable in the weird atmospheric conditions but too lightly protected to be of any use save for heat deflection.

The ramp lowered and they stepped down towards the auction’s representative. Foster stepped forward and bowed slightly before offering a hand.

“Sir! Mr Norman Jamieson and Mrs Julia Winthrop of Ramsbottom Recruitment, Midlonia’s and indeed the galaxy’s foremost investors in people. It is a pleasure to be here.” He spoke in his finest posh Freethinker accent, nigh on indistinguishable from the Midlonian equivalent, an after effect of the taste for Midlonian boarding school as the choice of Freethinker parents with money to spare. Hopefully in this remote location it would fool enough without too much effort. Just so long as a native didn’t turn up…

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

“Arse” muttered Captain Verechek as he handed yet more Mintels to his subordinate, who took and pocketed the money with sadistic glee. The huge ghoul, seven foot tall and nearly as wide sighed as he resigned himself to losing the money and rose from the crate, moving back to the wall of monitors that occupied one edge of the small troop compartment. “I say again you are a cheating little shit Ramel.”

Private Ramel grinned, and the eight other occupants of the room chuckled, the others finding much amusement in their CO’s misfortune. All were tense now, hidden in a protected cabin off the main cargo area, the only bit of the ship it seemed not dedicated to engines, ECM, boosters and other shit designed primarily to let the craft hightail it out of trouble. Course, the soldiers within had a role to play in that too, and the power armoured giants sat, despite their flippancy, ready to swing into action at a moments notice.

Of course, if it all went to plan they wouldn’t need to leave their seats.

They didn’t bet that way though.

Jev'ran barely even bothered to look over the flesh -- a cursory glance told him all he needed to know, namely that rehabilitating ninety percent of the specimens would be a lot of work on his part. Goddamn Amateurs. He didn't bother with a more significant examination not because the mercenaries weren't interested in allowing him such a luxury -- apparently due to his insignificance, which would have been insulting, was insulting...but...okay, he was insulted.

But he didn't care, because he didn't need a more significant examination -- he knew what to look for, and all the signs were there. Amateurs.

He let his sack drop -- clatter -- whatever sound several hundred kilograms of precious gems (Ed: They tinkle, apparently) made when dropped a foot or two to the ground -- and sat down. The bag was damnably heavy, but the locals had wanted precious gems, so precious gems they got. Most of his regular sources preferred trade in illicit substances, so his precious gem supply went largely untapped, and he still got his allowance...so the damn things kept piling up. He couldn't have physically carried the entire load with him, so he'd left onboard the Dire Wind, loaded half onto the cutter, and took a sample with him in a sack. Go figure...

Noting his proximity to what appeared to be a bar, he turned his head to the whateveritwas bartender, snapped his fingers to direct eye contact...annnd...

"Do you understand Trade English? No, Don't answer, I don't care. Scotch. Ice. Glass. Now."

He placed an electrum chit on the bar and left it there. The things were lower currency, and he had a hold filled with them, but they should serve well enough to provide him something to take the edge off, which he severely needed...

Because otherwise he was liable to shoot something if it annoyed him any further...which wouldn't do him much good, especially considering he hadn't missed a target since he was three...

And he was only an average shot amongst his Line. His specialty had always been with his blades -- The Sentinel-Knight longsword, the Morekath needleswords, his fighting knife...whatever. That and speed were all he'd had going for him, and were directly responsible for his assignment as an acquisitions agent...

Go figure.

It was, of course, rather hard to hide an active, three-kilometer-long Coreship anywhere, and some deals might be bad for public relations; the Combine bought, or sold, or made, anything for anyone, but even so some of their customers occasionally had ... qualms. So the Combine Star Ship Sliver of Infinity had deviated slightly from its usual trade route a day or so ago, dropping out of fold-space just long enough to release a System Cruiser on an inbound course, bearing a Combine negotiator to Mikah.

Sergei Constantine was a relatively minor member of the Family, far removed from the great palaces orbiting Fenris, far away in the home system. Victor Constantine might not even have heard of him, as he sometimes worried; but then, the Old Man heard everything, sooner or later. Which was something to worry about in itself. The Old Man had dominated Fenris, the Sigma Draconis system, and local space in turn by never, ever, offering second chances.

Still in his youthful first hundred years, Sergei cultivated his appetites as any young Family member was supposed to. There would be centuries after, when it came time to retreat permanently into his cybernetic palanquin, to grow cold and ascetic and cultivate the appetites of the mind. Youth was a time for the pleasures of the flesh, and the Combine did a lucrative trade in that product even internally. The external trade, of course, dwarfed the Family's internal dealings. So here was Sergei, a true connoisseur, on a little jaunt to hopefully pick up a few of the rarer delicacies the galaxy had to offer.

His implants reported that the cutter was ready to depart for the surface, and he settled into his palanquin, allowing the shell to fold around him. One day the palanquin would close in on him forever, sealing him for a long immortality, but for now the floating vehicle was comfortably appointed, a deep chair upholstered in red velvet and gold. The exterior, of course, was faceless and forbidding, black iron and curlicues of gold shrouding starship-grade armour, studded with optical ports and hanging manipulator arms. It had been a gift at his coming-of-age from the local Family head, of course, and it would attract negative commentary from that notary were Sergei to replace it with the more ornate shell he felt he deserved. He was not, after all, one of the great Lords above Fenris - yet, at least.

His implants linked with the palanquin's systems - a subsonic buzz, a half-heard, half-thought click - and his senses unfolded throughout the electromagnetic spectrum, widened to surround the full exterior of the palanquin. He thought himself forward, and rose, and moved swiftly to the cutter. Already there was Ilya, his seneschal, and the pair of bodyguards his Family status warranted. Like the palanquin, Ilya, a young man from somewhere on one of Sigma Draconis' inner worlds, had been a gift from great-uncle Fyodor, properly conditioned and trained to manage his affairs.

The bodyguards ... well, there was no way to disguise their low numbers, but they were the best (or nearly the best - who knew what the Old Man kept for himself?) boma droids to come out of the Combine's factories. Even by Family standards they had been expensive, but Sergei had felt it worth it; nobody else in his immediate branch of the Family had boma - Bionic Optimized-Myomer Automata - so good as his. Their hair was silken, their curves extravagant, their smooth, glossy skin sheathed in smooth, glossy plastic. And beyond being merely nice to look at, they were killing machines unmatched by anything mere flesh, or even cybernetically-augmented flesh, might do.

The cutter came down upon the dusty, ruined spaceport landing strip, and they exited the vessel; the two boma first, followed by Ilya in his neat black coat, like some ancient Christian priest; and finally the great black-and-gold bulk of Sergei's palanquin, floating serenely a meter or so from the ground.

[OOC Edit:]Tor Yvresse, the Coreship only popped into the system for long enough to release the system cruiser, then it popped out again. So it was only in the system at all for a few minutes. The system cruiser will have taken a couple of hours to get insystem from where it was dropped off, so by the time it arrived in orbit the Coreship would be far away. The system cruiser is about three hundred meters long, and the cutter is about seventy-five meters long. [/edit]

The small group slipped out of the web and set sail for their final destination, aboard his ship Cerlean watched reports coming in, sensor reading scans of the surrounding area. He was above all, after all a Pirate, ad so he couldn’t fail to spot the Three-Kilometre Long vessel that just appeared, in an empty area of space launched something and… well, it was interesting. Something that size likely thought itself invulnerable was confident its mere presence would scare off the threats in the area, but he knew of ways to remove it. It might be the biggest Fish in the sea, but that didn’t matter.

‘A Target for another hunt, I think, mark its location and type, when the sale is over I want a way ready to track it when it leaves this area. When we return to Ellyion I have every confidence she will be pleased, and the Blood Star shall stir. ‘The crew nodded their agreement, and gave cheers to future glory.

Then at last the three vessels drew closer to the planet Mikah, at last Holofields dropped and the three vessels stopped trying to hide themselves, the Shadow Cruiser looming over its escort. ‘Well time to get into character I think, hmm the arrogant or flamboyant, oh never mind, both.’ with a curt gesture he opened a channel. ‘Greetings Mon-Keigh, well it would appear you’re having a little party, and my Lady simply couldn’t deny the chance to have a look at your wares, so here I am. I shall be landing in moments. Out’

With that he stood and left his bridge, pausing only long enough to change into something a little less comfortable a lot more, colourful. Long robes and fine silks, covered him now. A sign of his status was mixed within it all, he could have been higher, but he did command a Shadow Cruiser, he was no mere underling, but one day he hoped to be more prominent. In any case the sign was well hidden; only one who knew where to look would know the truth of it.

As he strode through the vessel he paused besides two female crew members and smiled a moment. ‘Ahh you two will do perfectly, would you care to attend the little function below, we have an image to maintain after all.’ The women paused in thought, this wasn’t an order, or even a request that would be better to accept, this was an option for some entertainment. After a moment they nodded and joined him.

The Landing craft of the Cruiser was for all intents and purposes a pleasure yacht, used by many citizens of Yvresse for simply enjoying the freedom of the depths of space. It was nimble and fast but carried little in the way of weapons. It was also expensive Cerlean had, had his decked out in gems, and other items inside was a bed, a bar, and other luxuries, a man could spend many a week onboard this craft alone and not feel deprived of anything, he knew because he had done so.

As he entered a few other items where placed with him, goods for barter and sale, gemstones, and knick knick-knacks from his life as a Pirate and from ellyion, to act as surety. Eventually he departed for the surface and approached the ‘port and the gathering.’ With the grace of most such craft it could have reached the surface simply but… well he had a character to play after all, and it was fun. So he made a few passes closer to a few towers than necessary, he made a few turns sharper than was actually really needed, and yes he showed off. For a man who came from a race that flew closer to its own buildings than this for fun he was taking it easy, but still.

Eventually through he landed, and strode down of the boarding ramp of his craft, behind him his two crew members followed, in far looser clothing, and very little of it, at a respectful distance. Between them they carried a few cases. Carved boxes of wood and Wraithbone. Not pausing as he approached his greeters he removed his gloves and tossed them to the first person he saw. ‘Ahh good well I assume boy you want to check my credit? Well get too it, the ladies there have them.’ not pausing as he spoke he continued on.

((OOC edit, if Amara meets him his reaction is different otherwise it doesn’t matter who.))

It wasn't long before Mierin caught sight of the bar being opened, so she rose, and walked towards the back of the large chamber, taking note of the other participants as they filtered in. The ice-blue gaze of 'Selene' swept over the chamber, missing not a detail.

There was of course the swashbuckling Sanglanti pirate lord and lady with their entourage. The new arrivals, too, a remarkably over-the-top procession: first the two 'women', obviously droids from their artificial 'plastic' appearance, almost certainly combat models of at least decent quality. Then there was the fellow in black, who was likely an aide or seneschal - the very same role 'Selene' herself filled - to the mysterious noble in the gravitic palanquin. And who would that be, Mierin wondered? Obviously sufficiently brazen and scofflaw-ish to appear here in person, yet not confident enough to emerge from his (her? who could tell? though her magic-honed intuition strongly suggested a male) armored shell. Perhaps a crime lord of some type? She could do nought but guess.

She ordered a fine white wine from the bar and swept the crystalline glass up into her elegant hand, leaving a Menelmacari credchip - it would raise no eyebrows, the credit was a widely-accepted trade currency, and had been known to turn up on worlds the Menelmacari themselves had not yet visited - in its place in the same smooth movement, continuing her appraisal of the others here. There was the brooding, vaguely barbaric-seeming bear of a man with a cloak and a lot of swords, gripping a mug of scotch in one hand and the mouth of a sack in the other, a sack that tinkled and jingled as it moved. Mierin could but arch an eyebrow at the notion of a sack that seemed to contain three or four times her own weight in gems, and wondered if there might be more where that came from.

A glance out the window confirmed what her ears had already told her, that traffic was picking up and more ships were beginning to arrive, guided to designated spots by desert-kin pressed into service as impromptu ground controllers with their hand beacons. And, approaching the auction hall, led by <will edit this in after Roania posts for Tor Yvresse> was.... elves? No no, a closer look told her otherwise. Eldar, for certain, given away by a number of features, not least the build that was slender even by the standards of elves. That they were Yvressi was her guess, as few other Craftworlds so freely associated with 'mon-Keigh'.

It was a short time later - she still nursed the first glass of wine - that she got a chance to approach them. Her trained eye had picked out the corsair's mark amidst his robes. She sashayed elegantly over to Cerlean; the insignia he wore matched that of the corsair band of the pirate princess Ellyion, indeed of Tor Yvresse. Eldar Corsairs ranged from pirates at one extreme to patriots at the other; most were privateers somewhere in the middle, but Ellyion was known to be well to the latter end of the scale, and it had been rumored she would be operating much more widely in this sector soon. This was fortuitous indeed! for Cerlean's presence here served to confirm those rumors. An Eldar corsair band would be an extremely valuable contact and ally to be able to call on. Things just kept getting better and better for Mierin Eronaile, Ranger of the Mornarána.

"A lord of Tor Yvresse, so far from home?" she asked with a genuine smile as she approached. "A pleasant surprise indeed...." With that she put forth some of what power she had, and drew some of her magic about herself, twisting her words. To all who heard her, she would seem to be speaking in the Eldar tongue, a language she actually knew very little of herself, and which would certainly be unknown to everyone else. Fortunately, the same enchantment would also translate his words for her ears. Then she continued, her voice dropping to the level of a quiet conversation whose content she had no need to advertise to the surroundings.

"Or, not a lord, but a corsair of Ellyion? A cruiser captain, if I know your runes well enough. What brings you so far out this way? Do you have interest in any particular lots in this auction? There is one I must acquire; I am here on the business of the Elentári of Menelmacar. Perhaps we might come to some arrangement."

----

OOC: Naturally, the bit in italics, seeming to be spoken in the Eldar language, would be clear as day to Tor's characters and utter nonsense to everyone else who doesn't know it (i.e. just about everyone).

Softly-softly catchee monkey.
Or so to speak.
Erik finished removing the nomad-mercenary's scruffy robes and wiped sweat away from his forehead, rolling back to lean against the battered plaster of the grotty lean-to he'd appropriated on arrival.

A sense of curiosity bobbed to the surface of his mind, yet it was not his own, disquieting sensation to say the least, but one he'd been experiencing long to be comfortable with.
Nothing doing V'neer. I nearly got nabbed by the Roanian second-banana, not knowing what I was supposed to be doing. From the sounds of things though...we've got competition. Lots of it.
A sense of disdain comes back and Erik scrubs his hand through short hair the colour of straw, chuckling slightly.
I know. But still. There's at least one other professional here. Got a bit of a look at some black-haired piece who's apparently working as a procurer for an unnamed lord. If she's what she says she is I'm a damn dwarf.
The young man lets his head thud against the plaster, eyes closed while he thinks.
I don't know what our next move should be. Given there's at least two pro's here, including me, plus sundry scum, I think this little affair is going to be a bit more intricate than my dear cousin's intelligence people have lead him to believe.
Wordless irony comes back and Erik barks a laugh.
Inevitable, I know. Back to work now though.

The other presence slips from his mind and Erik rises to his feet, flicking dust and cobwebs from an immaculately tailored, red-trimmed gray tunic, not even needing the stylised bat on one breast to mark him as a member of House Bathame to anyone who'd matter.
He scowled briefly at the scuffs on what had been remarkably well-polished half-boots till arrival, then shrugged mentally, checked his exit, then ducked calmly out of his lean-to, moving smoothly toward both ersatz bar and the Roanian...traders.
If they're busy, a polite nod as he moves past to the bar, if either of the pair is free, a polite(r) bow and a winning, lips-closed smile, accompanied with presented, written credentials.
The Kingdom always has believed in documents you can touch, after all.

Janaira smiled as she entered the bar, closely followed by the towering figure of the hunching Danthar, alongside two other members of her crew, who were clad in salvaged suits of plain grey wraithbone, their features covered in black eldar guardians' helmets. Her tiny figure slip alongside the other visitors, for sure pirates and crime lords of different nationalities. She got a catch of the weird elf dressed woman, and made a mental note of not approaching anyone present until forced to do otherwise, to avoid questions that were better left unanswered.

Her slim body, covered in a pair of skin tight black pants, a silk blouse and knee high velvet boots, found a nice surveying spot at the end of the counter, where she took a seat, soon surrounded by Danthar and the two other corsairs. She placed aside her long purple cloak, placed the augmentic scanning lens over her left eye, and ordered a glass of lemonade with lots of sugar to the bartender.

Not too soon after, her violet eyes catched a view at the eldar corsairs, and made a link from her scanning device to the database stored in her ship, a modified Hellebore Class frigate named "Morality Rift", hovering some place above, most of its systems depowered to avoid detection, and to help the mimic engine to cloak the vessel from unwanted attention.

Two minutes afterwards, she got the information she needed. The corsair band of the pirate princess Ellyion, from the Craftworld of Tor Yvresse, in command of a more than capable starfaring flotilla. Cerlean, the name of the captain, a nice looking handsome fellow, for an eldar, that is. Loyal to the lies spawned by the farseers, and steadfast enforcer of the will of his masters, she thought after taking a look at the data. That meant bad news and mean troubles. The fact that the strange, nimble looking female elf-human approached them to have an idle chat meant more bad news and worse problems.

She looked for likely allies in her traditional despise of the eldar, and found none. Not too far away, were some droids, useless to try a bargain or bribe or convince them, plus the palanquin they were escorting was menacing enough as to force her to stay away from it. Far beyond, an entourage of archetypical human pirates, only lacking the parrot to fit the historical view. Another stereotypical rogue trader drinking that stinking piss humans called "Scotch", showing a lot of wealth in a den of star wolves. He was either too confident and foolish, or too damn dangerous to care about threats. Given the atmosphere, the place, and those present, Janaira went for the first option, unless those jewels were fake, and even in that case, she couldn't find what was the reason behind taking such risks.

No friendlies, and not easily manipulated fellows. That meant Janaira and her crew were alone in this booby trap. "Danthar, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut until I give you a signal. Boogey men in the bar", said Janaira pouting with her lips pointing at the gathered eldar corsairs. The hunched Harlequin Slayer just nodded at her signal, and turned to silently look at their two companions, who just nodded again at the captain in return.

With some luck, one of those responsible for the auction would start the proccess before any of the eldar noted her and her entourage. Then she could do business, and depart peacefully. For the first time in decades, she thought it was a bad idea to bring Danthar with her. Playing a bit with her white hair, and taking a sip from her refreshing drink, the attractive and fit drow shipmistress waited until the situation developed, her eyes fixed in the Harlequin Kiss device fixed to her wrist...

Sharton had to take the smaller shuttle-skiff down to the planet itself. Something he was not most pleased about. Accompanied by one of his Sentinels and the Birchestese slave “Boy”.

The Shuttle itself was sleek and angular, it utilized the latest generation of gravity engines and provided a smooth and unruffled ride down to the planet itself.

Sharton was dressed in a neat tweed suit. He’d affixed most of his data into his monocle, which continued to scroll small amounts of blue text as he moved around. His hair had been neatly combed back and formed into a short ponytail, which reached as far as his shoulders. Carried with him was his chrome and gold cane. A rather mundane and highly functional cane that allowed him to move around a little easier in his old age.

Wearing a small filter-mask as he stepped off of the craft, he simply tapped the end of his cane on the deck of the space port itself.

“Sharton, Daryl. The Greater Kingdom’s foremost investor in people for indentured service.” he said with little more than a slight nod as manners for his arrival. “I would like to get inside and settled as quickly as possible, the atmosphere disagrees with me and my entourage highly.” he motioned to the Sentinel and “Boy” behind him.

He merely took in some of the craft as they moved inside, one thing he did note was a rather ramshackle affair that was unceremoniously plonked on the deck itself.

“Bloody cheapskates, probably some pissheaded anti-slavery mob bidding ‘for freedom’ or some bloody cheap indenture-agent like Arnold Waithray.” he half murmured to himself.

Taken aback only briefly by the greeting Cerlean bowed deeply before taking the hand of Mierin. Purposefully his next words are spoken just loud enough to be overheard but low enough to be mistaken for simply the arrogance of a very self assured man. ‘Not half so surprising as for me to find such a gem of beauty in such a place!’ laying a kiss for only a second upon Mierin’s hand he had after all a role to keep up. His next words slipped of course into his own tongue and where spoken at more reasonable tone for such things, just quiet enough to avoid being easy to overhear while hopefully avoiding the suspicion of a conspiracy.

You are observant madam, indeed the Princess Ellyion sent me here, to acquire one kin lost amongst the wolves, and any others that might catch my eyes. I would dislike returning to her empty handed on this matter but other than that my services are at your disposal, as Kinship would ask. I had planned on taking the Ambassador and then casting a wider net but… I see the future of those I leave behind clear, as clear as the Asuridain receives her visions, and find myself far more limited in my choices.’

For now he might be forgiven for missing the sight of the Aelosian and her… companion his attentions focused on Mierin, but his companions did not, able to hide behind his more flamboyant persona their eyes missed little and what they saw, severely displeased them. One who was not of the three, wearing the armour of a Death Jester, offending twice, once for taking the armour of a Harlequin without the right, and for desecrating the bones of the dead that adorned that armour.

One thing was certain at some point a reckoning would occur.

Amara frowned and studied the credentials of the Midlonians, and then smiled brightly. "Oh!" She looked around the shuttleport, and then pointed vaguely along the line to where (to her mind, at least) the other Midlonians had parked. "Well." The Roanian apprentice considered carefully and then smiled again. "We're delighted to have two representatives of such a fine nation attending our little auction. My aides are already showing your counterparts from Ramsbottom Recruitment along the lots to their assigned seating place. we've placed yours next to them, we hope you don't mind."

Amara gave no sign that she'd care one way or another if the humans minded or not. Another second or two followed, and then she flounced off again. "Well, go on in. Remember to stay with the guards at all times and don't go wandering off on your own. Parts of the building are not...entirely secure."


Char checked his chronometer and rose to his feet. A small burst of fireworks shot from his staff into the air, drawing the attention of all in the room. "In approximately twenty minutes, the auction will commence and you will no longer be able to walk along the lots. We would like to take this opportunity to remind all of you that this building is not secure, and wandering too far away from the auction-room might result in injury, death, or catastrophic magical event. We would also like to remind you that excessive drinking prior to an auction might lead to overbidding, and that all bids made will be taken seriously." He checked his list. "We would like to remind all our patrons that smoking is discouraged inside this building, as... oh, darkness."

Char took a final puff on his cigarillo and then dropped it to the ground, grinding it underneath his heel. "For those interested in a final tour of the slavelots, please see the mercenaries at the information stand. I'm sure they'll be perfectly happy to answer any questions you might have. And remember. Have fun."

Eloi de seigneur a ri chaleureusement au conseil de Roanian et a renversé sa bouteille de maintenant-vide pour laisser une chute de baisse seule au plancher.

"Je semble être dans l'infraction de ce conseil particulier, cette droite cher?"

"Oui, mon Seigneur...” Dominique de dame a répondu et a pris une autre petitee gorgée de son port. "L'un peut vous blâmer à peine bien que. C'était tout à fait impoli pour ne pas fournir quelque divertissement avant le début. Peut-être une exécution ou quelques interprètes de rue."

"Un mime peut-être?"

Un des marins se sont penché en avant, le pied a renforcé en haut sur la poitrine, et a pris une autre lampée de rhum.

"Oui. Alors ils auraient pu l'exécuter!"

"Mais Anatole, un mime est une chose terrible à gaspiller!"

Les deux marins ont ri à cette plaisanterie terrible et à Eloi de Seigneur a fait demi-tour pour regarder l'étape avec un soupir.

~

Note de joueur : A partir de, n'importe quoi important sera traduit par Dominique de Dame. Tout est d'autre le parfum donc si vous voulez le lire vous le traduirez.

Linda and Foster had made only the briefest of surveys, merely standing back and scanning the figures to ensure their checklist was complete. Neither touched the bar, surprisingly and running against every stereotype Freestians had. Which given they weren’t meant to be Freethinkers was not a bad thing. The data matched up with the list the CNIO head honchos had said. The Trade Act was meant to bring these things nearer to home, something which had not panned out as expected, but nonetheless it had at least allowed news of such events to reach the ears of those interested in such things

They took their seats early on, espying the other arrivals and making notes, the huge inflow of persons arousing as much interest as the slaves themselves, a lot more people than expected had arrived, and it was a significant cause for concern. “Pointies”, muttered Foster, looking at Linda who’s facial expression seemed to indicate a similar feeling of shocked annoyance. The flamboyant pirates and other assorted characters were probably genuine, but elves and eldar were in the eyes of Freestian operatives something to be cautious of. Some benevolence really didn’t lend itself to the successful completion of questionable operations in the name of national security. The human woman in discussion with the slender elven aliens was, simply put, concerning.

Linda flipped the stylus on her PDA, opened a secure O-T-O text, and began writing. Foster meanwhile looked over his shoulder at the latest arrivals. His mouth opened aghast, then his elbow prodded Linda in the ribs rather unsubtly. She stifled a yelp and glared at him.

“What?” She growled angrily. “Jesus that hurt!”

“Worst Case Scenario?” Linda registered the words in a moment.

“What, here?”

“Yep, bona fida Midlonian.”

“Oh,” she whispered in her finest upper class Midlonian accent, “…Cock”.

********

(A little sideline goodness)

Verechek tapped the monitors and read through Linda’s note. He grumbled, hating having to send one of his out already. A request to check out and tag the surrounding, crowded landing area was dangerous at best, but the list of potential targets informed perhaps that there was more at work here than met the eye and so had to reluctantly agree with Linda’s request.

“Cora, got a job for ya!” The young Freestian female, short for a ghoul but startlingly tall by most species standards (putting in a respectful 6 and a half feet), looked up from the novel she was passing the time, and stood to attention behind him. A brief explanation, orders to prep for a solo run and a trip to the armoury later, she walked back in with a bodysuit of camoform, extraordinarily expensive stealth suits that represented a not inconsiderable portion of the mission’s operating budget. She started to undress her main uniform as Verechek filled out the requisite form and usage notes. This had better be worth it in the eyes of the budgetary committee.

Stripped down to her skinsuit, Cora donned the camoform and zipped up. Tighter and less armoured than the bulky powered armour of normal Linerunners, it was designed primarily to allow the greatest flexibility and range of movement and reducing the overall size of the trooper to sight and target. Her athletic form filled the gear nicely, and even Verechek watched momentarily as she stretched her chest out as she put her arms in the stretched material. She rolled her eyes when she saw him and he turned back grinning.

Equipment was next, carried in external pouches made from and linked into the same material, containing the bug layer, a pistol like device that fired a ball of nanobotic spray that latched onto the hull of a ship and provided the power and reflection for the microscopic transmitter and passive scanner at the centre of the round. Once attached to the hull of a spacecraft, it would turn nigh on undetectable save for the most surest of sensor scans. Built from imported technologies, it was about as high tech as things got in the CNIO. It was probably a child’s toy in most other nations represented here. But still, they had to try, and Cora and her fellow Linerunners were at least ingenious in the use of what they had.

Cora activated the suit, and with several companions moved into the main areas of the ship. She moved slowly, the suit was exceptional at hiding signatures but the processing power requirements meant it could only work with slow body movements. Considering the Desertkin were in their element here, it would be an interesting but brief foray were she to fail. The rear ramp of the Intent descended into the ground of the pad, and two other Linerunners, in civilian crew dress, the two smallest members in fact as to not draw attention, walked down the ground, the sound and sight of them chatting and lighting up hopefully distracting from the near invisible shadow of Cora as she moved into the clustered shadows of the other landed craft.

She found the desired target after a few minutes and more than few close encounters with the Desertkin. Cora found she was far more agile than she remembered, and disciplined enough to remain deathly still as the guards passed by on all sides. She made it to the side of the Daughter of Night in good time, hoping none of the passive sensors had picked her up, but privacy was generally considered etiquette in these sorts of places.

She lifted the snub nosed pistol slowly and fired. Invisible and silent, the nanobotic spray powered forth from the gun only to glance against the shields of the craft, sparkling in mid air as the nanos shorted and fell to the ground, mercifully fading into the sand. Cora froze awkwardly, her basic scanners having not picked up the field, and she stayed still for several moments hoping the system was merely a standard defence as opposed to an alarmed one. Nothing seemed to come of it, as she moved slower. Thankfully the small flash had attracted little attention, and the single patrol interested couldn’t see anything more than a momentary reflection. Cora moved round, slowly scanning, trying to find a cargo or service entrance, but finding nothing save the two primary doors.

Only the aft door seemed available as an entrance. Its exterior locking mechanism sat temptingly in the open. Unsecured relatively it seemed, either the owner was stupid (extraordinarily unlikely) or a deliberate trap. Or, on the same line of reasoning, a decoy for those hunters such as herself to ward them off such an entrance on the basis of it being an obvious trap. Cora weighed her options. An exterior shot wouldn’t work with the shields, so she had little option but to try.

The lock succumbed to a micro-burst, the circuitry fizzing and the door opened in response. Cora gave one last glance around, and wandered inside, praying on the fact she could get in quickly enough to lay the bug and then get some Desertkin into an incriminating position inside. She was optimistic was nothing at first seemed to react, and a blast from her pistol melded into the interior of a bulkhead with no protest, electronic or otherwise.

In retrospect, she had never been paranoid enough for this job.

Sharton sighed slightly as he spotted the Ramsbottom Recruitment entourage. He simply nodded to Boy who went to the bar to get a drink. He then nodded to his Sentinel who then sat on a chair, unspeaking and arms folded, his head concealed by the helm he was wearing.

Scratching his nose and lighting a thick cigar he sat down next to the “Midlonians”.

“I wasn’t aware that Ramsbottom Recruitment had decided to expand into interstellar service matters.” he casually remarked, scratching his chin. “Last I checked you folks were rather Earthen-bound with little in the way of getting about.” He took his drink from Boy’s outstretched hand and took a sip before motioning to him to also sip and take a drink.

Glancing around the hall he merely noted that this was quite unusual. After all, such previous auctions were never this busy. It seemed that a sizable number of slave-traders and “indentured service providers” had turned out to this.

The Sentinel merely sat stock still, unmoving as though the guard had simply shut down, or gone onto standby.

Mierin smiled to the 'eccentric, flamboyant playboy' - a cover that Cerlean was playing to the hilt, well enough to lead her to wonder if there wasn't more than a little truth to it.

"Interesting... I had noticed the ambassador. She has been harmed, and there is a nasty scar on her cheek which will require attention. I shall leave her to you then. I myself am most interested in the young sorceress, but we will see if other things come up which require my attention."

She frowned a moment and continued as if she had remembered something.

"Oh, yes. No doubt you will at some point notice - if you had not already - the curious origin of the armor worn by a member of the Aelosian delegation. I would respectfully request that they be unharmed at least for now. I understand the gravity of such matters to your people; track them if you must, and reckon with them later, but both our matters of interest will go more smoothly if there is not violence here. In return, I have come upon a considerable opportunity that we can discuss later, which will be of substantial mutual benefit to us both."

Nods at the report of the ambassador’s condition and shakes his head grimly. What most disturbed me, was he willing acceptance of… her fate, she appeared broken and I fear what methods where used to make her so. Cerlean paused confused at the mention of the Aelosians until one of the two women behind him made a almost casual cough and a slight nod towards the group.

The rage was for a fleeting second almost palatable on his face Bad enough they take such a armour but a Death Jester, that is two affronts in one! Pausing only to draw breath he eventually nodded slowly. Still you are correct, violence here would gain us little, and if he gained that armour in battle maybe even less than little, or nought. No better they suffer an ‘accident’ after leaving this place.

With that he spent a second appearing still in conversation with Mierin but in truth it was directed at the two women behind him. Find out how that group got here, and where they are hidden in orbit. When this little affair is over…

All smiles he turned back to the issue at hand. I apologise madam, as I said they will not be touched while this event occurs, but the moment that vessel leaves orbit… but in any case you spoke of potential opportunity, the Princess would be most pleased at such, life gets so dull these days. Unlike the previous generation piracy takes far too long to commit.’

'Selene' grinned, and replied, "Well, I assure you that this opportunity should not carry with it the reprisals of fleets, either." Then she laughed musically, as if he had said something both flirtatious and amusing, and she switched back to Galstandard West. "Oh, my dear man, you are indeed too kind. I will take you up on your offer, then, I am sure we can find time to... talk about things after the sale," she said with a wink and a smile, as if they had spent the last several minutes flirting, and nothing more, while at the same time setting up their later meeting. "Don't forget, now." She grinned, and turned to sashay gracefully towards the seating area.

----

Cora was right - she wasn't paranoid enough. She certainly wasn't as paranoid as Mierin Eronaile. And now she was in real trouble.

The Daughter of Night was not so easy a nut to crack after all, and the aft hatch swung closed once again, the control panel flickering back to life, and resetting to a considerably more... robust security protocol. It had been tricky but no means impossible to set the computer to 'simulate', at least to external eyes, the 'expected' effects of an EMP when one was applied to it. It would be difficult to short out the circuitry normally, as it was optronic rather than electronic - using pulses of light rather than electricity to carry signals. After about ten seconds, the system had been set to return to normal. The idea being, of course, not only to protect the ship, but catch in the act anyone seeking to compromise it.

This might have set off some warning alarms for the Freestian but there was not time to react regardless. There was a faint hum as something in the ship's machinery cranked up the gravitics centered on Cora's location, rooting her feet to the floor, making her pistol very nearly too heavy to lift, and her arms feel like lead. As if this was not enough a shimmering forcefield snapped into place around the woman, leaving enough room for her to sit down - which would likely be more comfortable than remaining standing. It would not shock or cause pain if she touched it, but it would stop her from using any more 'conventional' munitions she might have for the pistol. The field seemed as unyielding as warship armor, and she could lean against it if she decided to sit.

----

Inside the auction hall there was a satisfied *pleep* from Mierin's palmtop computer. She glanced down at it, smiling with satisfaction as she saw the automated alert that had been sent from the Daughter of Night. Things were getting better and better indeed. She leaned back a little in her chair, and sipped at her wine.

OOC: Cora's capture was OOCly arranged in advance with Freethinkers.

Linda smiled her sweetest smile at him, eyes cocked in a flirtatious and curious expression. Inside her mind was panicking. Shit Shit shit shit shit repeated endlessly on a loop, though professionalism prevented anything from escaping in her tone of experience. Foster just laughed as his own gesture.

"Well, given the current market conditions and increasing costs at home for quality merchandise," she began, "we felt to compete we needed to follow our competitors in searching farther afield. Built up an impressive list of contacts out here." She shock her hand around. "Funny what turns up in these places."

Meanwhile!

"Shit."

There was, perhaps oddly, almost no surprise when something went wrong. The beeping got her first, then turning only to see the hatch close behind her, only in the same moment to find herself literally stuck to the floor, well, things could be going a lot better for her. She was stronger than most of course, through biology she beat even heavily augmented humans, and she fought as she could against the grvaitic systems, trying to pull her legs up, the ship seeming to compensate no matter how much strength she found. Her sole smacked back down into the deck as the vessel won out yet again.

The shield's appearence didn't help either, and given she wasn't going to risk a ricocheting shot all she could do was thump the wall with his leaden arms, each pitiful blow doing nothing but causing a slow, gradual ache to form in her hands. She leaned back against the shield wall and stared up. Wondering if only she could reach that far up if the shield covered the top of the forcefielded cage. It was at this point a rhetorical question.

And she began to wonder just how deniability was going to kick in. Options were very limited now, and her only hope was to overpower the craft's pilot when she returned. Though in reality she doubted she would get the opportunity to.

This wasn't going to end well.

Char checked his timepiece. With a decisive nod, the mage once more shot several balls of fire into the air. "If you'll all care to take your seats?" His magically amplified voice crisscrossed the hall, ensuring no one could possibly avoid hearing him. "My comrade Amara will be leading this auction. I expect you all to give her your full attention." With that he vanished in a cloud of darkness and smoke, reappearing on the shuttle pad to await any late arrivals.

Amara took her stand on the podium after everyone had sat down, flanked by two desert-kin. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the First Annual Mikah Slave Parade. We have some special treats for you today, but first, some house-keeping." She held up her wand and pointed down the hallway to her left. The internationally recognised symbols for the watercloset appeared over the door. "Restrooms are through here." Another row of lights appeared over the back wall. "Through the rear door, one of my aides will be selling equipment, such as whips and shackles."

"Now, will all of you please take out the numbers under your seat?" Under each seat were what appeared to be small table tennis rackets with glowing numbers on them. "Should you wish to place a bid, please raise these over your head and clearly state the bid. Your price will be recorded on my ledger in front of me." Amara checked through her notes. "Now, in order to establish a base currency worth, desertkin troopers will be going through with scanners in order to establish a base worth in your gems. Shall we start the bidding?"


OOC: As decided, with advice from other players, the auction will be a typical auction fare. Everyone will be allowed to make one round of bidding at first. Bids will be on a point system. Everyone will start with 1000 points (where 1000 is 'an absurdly high number of gems'), from which you can place your bid as fairly as possible. Barring some unforeseen event, the auction will be conducted, again, as fairly as possible and few starting numbers will be above 75.

IC:

Amara whistled shrilly, and three guards hustled on stage, holding a limp felinoid. While ordinarily the catlike beings were dirty and mangy, this one had been scrubbed up nicely. Amara gripped it by the scruff of the neck and held it up. "For my first sale. We have plenty felinoids in the stock, going in lots of 1-9. A felinoid is a useful creature, with many wonderful traits and features. To demonstrate!" She dropped it to the ground, where it sat. "Clean my boots." She ordered, placing her best foot forward.

The spineless creature began to lick around her boots with its raspy tongue. Amara then kicked it away. "Now, jump up and down." She commanded. The felinoid nervously began to jump up and down again, its tail flopping up and down. "Move that box!" The felinoid hurried to comply with her instructions, shifting the box she pointed at from its current location along to where she wanted it to be. "No, not there, there." Without complaining, the felinoid moved the box to where it had first found it. "Now, get down on your hands and knees."

Once this instruction was obeyed, Amara leapt onto its back, eliciting a meow of discomfort, but no attempt at resistance. "The uses, as I'm sure you can imagine, are infinite." She said from her new, higher perch. "So long as you feed it and don't kill it, you'll have the perfect servant for all your household needs. You can even put them to use in the farms or in factory yards, under observation, of course." She held up a booklet, entitled, Your New Felinoid and You.. "This booklet will be on sale at our shop, of course, detailing all you need to know. Do I hear one point?"

"Peut-être ce serait meilleur si vous étiez de placer les offres, ma Dame...”

"Certainement mon Seigneur."

Dominique de dame a pris le levier de sous sa chaise et l'a élevé et a appelé dans la norme galactique claire:

"One!"

"Really?" commented Sharton, glancing at the Freestian. "And what about the Dwali tribes over in Eastern Montmarte? Last I checked they were still going quite cheaply. Seems a bit odd to come to an interstellar auction like this with the aim of cutting costs. These are... exotic slaves. Surely. A little out of your league I think." he pursed his lips and then took another sip from his drink.

The Sentinel still stood stock still, unmoving, un-talking, while the slave, Boy, was apparently playing a game on a small device he carried with him.

"Diversify or die, diversify or die." Linda nodded. "We cannot be seen to be letting opportunities like this to pass. The Dwali tribes have been drying up as a source for us." She tried to look authoritative, and glanced at the Midlonian's expression to see how well her bluffing was going on the pretext of being flirty. "I...we believe the market itself is shifting and demand for the exotic is increasing, after all."

She turned to the auctioneer. "Two!"

He turned to the Auctioneer, hiding his face while she spoke of the Dwali's. "Four gems." and then turned back, a slight twinkle in his eyes.

"I would most certainly think the Dwali Tribe has been drying up as source. What with them all being gone over 3 centuries ago. Only tribe in the entire GKM to be dismantled and bred out by the Slave-Companies. Any slaver from the GKM would know of that Miss, it's the reason the Slaver Acts were implemented." He simply lit a thick Birchestese Cigar and took a draw. "So, not knowing that which is known to most Slavers. I would suggest you're probably not from R.R. Or you're brand new to the job. Which by my reckoning wouldn't see you here on such a prestigious job." He then looked at her, boring into her eyes. "So, where are you from really? Hm?"

The Sentinel had moved, only slightly, it had gone from it's still stance of crossed arms, to placing it's hands calmly on it's knees. The head, covered by the round helmet, hadn't moved. Boy continued to simply play on his device.

Linda turned grim for a moment. "I believe I misheard you." She pondered for a moment, then sighed. "Let me be very brief, Mr Sharpie, whatever your name is. I will not tell you who we are save for the fact we are not here to be nice and gentle in getting who we want."

She did her best to look intimidating. Foster rolled his eyes. "I will however warn you not to try and interfere with our concerns here. Understand? There are some very big gho...guys on my command ready and waiting for shit to kick off." She leaned in closer and brought her voice down to a whisper. "Do. Not. Try. To. Be. A. Prick. You. Will. Not. Win." She prounounced every word that one could amost hear the full stop itself being pronounced.

Back at the ship Verechek sunk his face into his hands as Cora's signal went dead. Between that and the glowing alarm from Foster's PDA this was not going spectacularly well.

In the aisle seat of the row behind "Selene" simply chuckled softly to herself, listening as the auction proceeded - as did the delightful interlude between Midlonians and "Midlonians". She had suspected she wasn't the only professional here and this confirmed it. She wondered where the Ramsbottom group had really come from, and if they had anything to do with whoever had fallen into the trap Mierin had set aboard Daughter of Night.

The Ranger glanced up briefly as Amara called for five points, and soundlessly raised her paddle to make the bid.

Sharton turned "Six!"

"My dear, in all honesty you should have perhaps considered that out here in the dark dark edge of civilized space you should have brought your freind with you. After all, I could cause a commotion and have you thrown out. Or..." he snapped his finger and a hand shot between himself and Linda. The Sentinel had moved.

Very, very quickly.

A single black gloved hand had moved between Sharton and Linda's face.

"You see madam. You are not the only one with Gho-Guys. I am not stupid. You are possibly the worst dressed Midlonians I have ever seen. Which, I must say, leads to a slight conclusion."

He leaned a little closer, smoke drifting gently from his cigar as he took another draw, blowing it through his nose he sighed and whispered. "You're not from my parts, mi duck."

Amara looked up from where she was tabulating the votes and holding a small discussion with a group of desertkin. "Do I hear 10 for 5?" She called out, her voice carrying to the end. Then she frowned and rolled her eyes, the idea of just giving the felinoids away crossing her mind. Then she caught sight of the confrontation between the Midlonians and the 'Midlonians'. "Is there a problem?" She called out, narrowing her glowing red eyes.

If Cerlean spent more than a second or two admiring the view of ‘Selene’ leaving well, he could justify it as all part of the masquerade, honest, oh who was he kidding, he was just admiring the view. Sometimes the Flamboyant ‘act’ had its distinct advantages and this was one of them, he could stay in character and watch the ladies.

Still he did have more important things to worry about such as the auction which it seemed had at last gotten started, and he spent sometime considering the Felinoids, as the bidding started he smiled to himself. It seemed an inexpensive moment to maintain the act, and the brewing argument between two of the groups of Mon-Keigh provided him an ideal moment, he didn’t truly care, and he did debate a moment the benefits of trying to have at least one of them thrown out, on the one hand it would lower the number of potential competitors, on the other it would mean less people to draw funds away from the others, in the end he decided against it.

‘I don’t see any problem miss, I think we merely have two people who have let the spirit of competition get the better of them for a moment, still, in the interests of getting this auction back on it’s feet, hmm I believe the current bid stands at six, well I shall double it too Twelve. My Princess would adore such a cute helpful Mon-Keigh.’ He voice came as booming as he could make it, as joyful.

'Ils sont insensé ? Douze pour un chat quand il y a beaucoup plus être eus à moins?'

'Peut-être il y a le spécial de quelque chose de ceci l'un,' Eloi de Seigneur a examiné à où le Midlonians avait une empoignade. 'A traversé des épées ne peuvent pas être extrêmes.'

'Si nous ne savons pas de c'est des qualités spéciales, pourquoi devons-nous soigner d'eux?'

Dominique de dame a abaissé son levier pour attendre l'article prochain sur le bloc.

Jev'ran eyed the...cat-things being paraded about with nothing but scorn in his eyes -- such things were without value to him. A waste of organic matter. A living target. Knife-work, as they weren't worth a bullet or the effort and honor of the sword.

As such, he drank his sub-par booze, not the Scotch he'd request, at all, which was annoying, but lended credibility to what was now becoming obvious -- these 'Roanians' were new to this...and not very good at it.

He tossed off the last of the alcohol, mindless of any potential effects the liquor might have on him...largely because there weren't any, unless he wished them. Part and parcel of the Sentinel-Knight augs. Discarding the glass, and he cared not at all for where it ended up, he produced a dagger and cloth and began to gently polish the blade...

Linda narrowed her eyes further even as the bodyguard split caused her to pull her face back. She gritted her teeth, and dropped her voice and accent entirely, eyes closing and brow furrowing for the briefest of moments before eyes opened wide again.

She whispered through the hand. "Learn your place you slaver scumbag." Slaver in this context being the generic Freethinker slur against Midlonians. The irony of its usage here was ignored. "Know from the off that you are dealing with far bigger players than yourself and you would do extraordinarily well to remain happy and dumb."

"Nothing is the matter" she called out calmly, turning back into her seat. "Just discussing the finer aspects of felinoid after-market value."

Meanwhile!

Cora punched the field again. Again little effect, and the blows were doing little save tire her out more against the increasingly heavy gravity field. She slumped down further onto her knees and breathed out slowly, even struggling now to keep her head up, though whether that was from the field or fatigue it was hard to say. It was looking bleak.

"Aaaah, so a Commonwealth citizen. I am sure folks back home will be most displeased to hear of our allies of all people mascarading as our buisnessmen. Hmm?" He simply chuckled and switched positions. His Sentinel now taking his seat.

"15 for five!" Sharton called.

Amara shrugged and inspected her nails. "Well, I wouldn't think they're worth that much. But I intend to call an end to this auction before things become too silly, so, this lot of felinoids goes to the fine representatives of Daryl Sharton. Congratulations, you've made..." Her command of Galstandard failed her for a moment, but then she rallied. "An excellent purchase! Now, the next lot... you know what? Forget the next lot. I have so many felinoids, I'm going to give them away for the prices you declared. Obviously, the most..." She paused and took a deep breath. "Obviously, the best will go to our Midlonian friends, but the rest of you surely deserve something as well."

She clapped her hands and two desertkin rushed off to arrange things. "So, if the four of you would care to stop by the pens on your way out, we're certain your felinoids can be arranged." She took another breath and clapped her hands again. "Our next material, my...friends, is a mighty creature. Capable of horrible feats of strength, agility, and terror." She turned and beckoned beyond the curtains. "Bring him out, worms!"

A huge cage was slowly wheeled onto the podium. Within, a brooding reptile sat, its scales dirty from its imprisonment. The desertkin backed away in a panic and fled as the salamandr rose to his full height and gripped the cage's bars with its clawed hands. He turned its head from side to side, feeling the air with its tongue, and then it lashed out against the bars with its spiked tail. "This cage will not hold me!" He roared. "No pinkling bars can hold the great Chief Sar of the Black Fang!"

Amara continued, as if she had no interest in events behind her. "As you might be able to see, this Salamandr is a rather... independent creature by nature. Attempted to lead a rebellion against Her Most Radiant Majesty, and that's how he ended up here."

The cage exploded, and Sar crossed the podium at quick pace. He was within four feet of his claws grabbing Amara when she lifted a remote control and pushed it. He fell to his knees, screaming in pain and rasping at the ground. Amara continued to talk. "The control collar will, of course, be part of the sale."

"Damn...you all... this is...monstrous..." Sar muttered through the pain, his claws digging into the podium. Amara put her boot gently on the back of his head and pushed it down into the ground.

"Shall we start the bidding at 15?" She enquired, pleasantly.

"Selene" blinked delicately; apparently, she'd just bought herself five felinoids at one point apiece. Well, that had certainly been unexpected. And it was a complication. Did she even have room aboard Daughter of Night for five felinoids? That was probably not so much of an issue. Felinoids were spineless, Mierin could tell them to stand in a corner like sardines and not make a sound and they would obey. After leaving here she could return to the pirate base where she had heard of this auction to begin with, and unload them there. Perhaps even turn a profit.

She watched as the next lot was brought out, the huge salamandr apparently named Sar, and gasped when the cage was rent asunder. She rose and her hand went for the powergun secreted in her cloak. She had her fingers around the grip to pull the weapon free when Amara shocked the beast into submission. With a brief sigh of relief she returned to her seat, wondering if perhaps this opening bid had been set too high. Sar, it seemed, would do everything in his power to make life difficult for a prospective master.

Erik, having been amusing himself observing the hissed by-play between the nominal 'Midlonian' and the rather unpleasant but probably real one, has his attention diverted by the hulking, enraged Salamandr, the plight of the monstrous lizardoid triggering a burst of quickly suppressed rage-not-his-own, the emotion bubbling up from the omnipresent link to his partner.

Allowing no hint of the dragon's feelings, nor his own disdain, to show, Erik raises his rather ridiculous paddle, accompanying the motion with a shrug.
"I'll give you twenty. One can always use a manservant who can double as a garbage disposal."
He smiles, the expression calculated to disarm, and indeed, he looks the picture of a fop, lacy white shirt under embroidered waistcoat and duster, knee-booted legs crossed and stretched out, rapier completing the frontier-Byronic picture.

And yet...there's something wrong. The smile is pleasant, open and inviting, yes, but still, the more insightful would note a slight leakage of malevolence through it.
Erik is playing his part but it's just a part and the steel is showing, if you know how to look.

Still, he is what he is, and what he is is not immune to distractions, and his attention slides from the auctioneer to the woman who's charms, and probable career he'd noted earlier, and he grins, a rather more genuine expression, even it does bring attention to the harsh features common to the House of Bathame.
"I doubt you'll need that Miss. Yet, anyway. Still...nice reflexes."

The new item certainly peaked the interest of the Freethinker delegation even with Sharton's observation. Linda merely gave the Midlonian a 'shut up, crawl away and die' expression, hoping that the threat had registered at least enough for him to decide the risk wasn't worth it. The attempted escape was eye raising, though the two did little mroe than grab the edge of their seats. Linda wondered if she should have had a disguised Linerunner up with her given the creature being sold.

She instead rose her paddle with a smile on her face, and spoke clearly 'Twenty-two'.

Foster meanwhile merely held his own computer in his hand, scanned the material damage and the seeming composition of the bars into what looked like a simple calculator program. He typed a few things, pondered, typed some more frantically, then passed the pad over to Linda who glanced briefly at the screen whilst putting the paddle down. It merely read;

H5 Easy. Your call.

Linda blinked and an 'Oh shit' was muttered under her breathe.

Shezmu drank deeply, his wide golden cup spilling red wine over his chin on either side, dribbling down to stain his sequined white shirt, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to keep an eye on the bag of gemstones the hosts had given him. He wasn’t spending them, mind, they were of exceptional quality, and could be sold for a great amount on Mnewer; if nothing else, the guild of stone cutters would pay good money just to take a look at them.

He’d sold the pride of his current stock here; a dusky-skinned pointy-eared man who’d been caught trespassing… somewhere. Shezmu didn’t much care. They couldn’t be used as hosts, which was the only reason they’d been sold as slaves; this one had been sold and then sold back to them a few months later; having displeased someone. He’d been a tall male who called himself Illose, and had gone with a mere six human male slaves who had for whatever reason been sold from the reject stock of the last implantation.

He laughed, burbling into his drink as the giant lizard… thing… broke free. “He’ll mashke an amushing show forsh arena. Shwenty Five…” he said, one of the armoured man at his side raising his paddle – with one hand on his cup, and another on his drink, Shezmu wasn’t really up to waving it. The jaffa warrior, leaning on a metre long metal stick with a fork at the base, rolled his eyes, seeming to look up at the inverted A shape tattoo on his forehead. He didn’t seem terribly impressed with the whole affair. “Alsho! You need wideh sheats!” he dropped his head back, and snored.

Given that the jaffa, when leaving the great seminary of Edfu, could keep a straight face no matter how ridiculous their commander’s accent, the fact that this stoic even betrayed any reaction was presumably a result of having had to put up with Shzemu on the trip from Atum’s distant holdings.

Erik sighs, mentally reviewing the likelihood of being able to afford the Ambassador, versus the probability that bidding for the Salamandr would increase, reaching a decision in short order.
"Twenty seven for the lizard."

Mierin glanced across the aisle at the comment, giving Erik Bathame an enigmatic smile. "Thank you," she said, not having actually drawn out the weapon at all. She let her cloak fall back against her body; from the outside one would never suspect the presence of the heavy pistol, even if one patted the Ranger down. Had he been watching her? It certainly seemed so, and she could only conclude he was likely in a similar line of work to her own, or had some other reason to be interested in her. This bore some watching. She readjusted herself in her seat, watching the progress of the auction, noting with some internal amusement that her first assessment of the bidding on this lot had been mistaken.

The notes moving between the pads was quite telling.

L: H5?

F: Without a doubt. I'm trusting Red One perhaps but not any of the others. We got similar assessments from the EBGs in the last coalition operation.

L: How much do you honestly think its worth?

F: Depends, one of them coming up was a secondary priority, mainly for physical study. One in open rebellion could either be a pain or an opportunity in the future. Containment will be hard, negiotiation at this stage is gonna be tough. As noted, your call.

"Thirty" Linda called out with her paddle raised. She bit her lip. This was it.

"Thirty one, can I have him gift-wrapped?"

Well he’d just bought five cat things it seemed, what exactly he would do with them he wasn’t sure but… well in the end they would make decent enough gifts. A Felinoid for his Princess one for the Farseer Iyanna, eventually, it was always good to give gifts to the leader of ones nation, and well three left over. Then the bidding for the Chief began.

He could see himself getting slowly whittled down but, well, the creature before him was quite a catch, and he could see it leading his Boarding crews in future actions, it would certainly make him a little more respected. Besides it seemed this creature was popular so it might well be that a bid now would get out bid swiftly and, well if that should be the case he would benefit still.

‘Forty. No need to gift wrap.’

Linda turned, and glared at the Eldar.

"Forty-one" she called out, still staring at the previous bidder. Foster did the honours of raising the paddle.

Sharton simply cleared his throat gently.

"Forty Five." he said while Boy raised the paddle.

Linda's view shot to the Midlonian. Her voice lowered again, though she made no move given the bodyguard between them.

"Listen you sod, what did I say to you before? You fancy a ghoul headache cure?"

She raised her voice again and turned her head forward.

"Forty-Six." She raised the paddle herself this time, her grip tight on the handle.

"You don't know what you have next to you do you, smarmy little girl? I've been around long enough to not be scared of some meddling spook like you." He murmured back.

"Forty Seven!" he barked out.

"I see a stereotypical Midlonian, Mr Sharton, loud, fat, obnoxious and completely out of touch with reality." She had her lowered voice on again. "There will be consequences, and you will have no one to blame but yourself." She paused. "Or do you honestly believe a bunch of suped up bikers are really gonna protect you from what I have to fall back on?"

Turning yet again to the front she raised and lightened her tone. "Forty Eight!" She called, a brief turn and smile to her mulling opponent over the impassionate bodyguard, before turning her head in the opposite direction to speak to Foster in a sickeningly sweet voice.

"Be a dear hun, and go check with the crew that all necessary arrangements can be made for our cargo and see to other matters that need sorting." Foster looked unsure, but Linda felt safe in the knowledge even Sharpton wouldn't try anything in public and create a commotion. After all, she had twelve guys capable of uprooting trees if need be. She could afford, it seemed, to feel supremely confident. "Don't worry. Nothing bad is going to happen."

“Depends. You see the chap sitting next to you isn’t really a suped up biker or anything rather drole as that. I’d show you, but then my ability to carry out this auction would be unable to continue because of the rest of security. But that’s how it goes I guess. Gathering from you being a Freeble though I gather you wouldn‘t have something like a Vamp with you, but probably some half-breeds instead, hmm?” he grinned showing a couple of golden teeth with a diamond encrusted in them.

He tapped Boy on the shoulder. “Order the Skiff down, we can take the Felenoids onboard now, do it in dribs and drabs instead of all at once.” He then took the paddle off of Boy and held it up. “Fifty!”

Boy stopped playing with his small machine and instead got out another, smaller more refined machine. It was almost as thin as a playing card, he slotted in a piece of glass from a small carrying case and rapidly tapped out a new order for the Skiff that was attached to the Marikay’s underside. Contained within was another pair of Sentinels, a handler, and a pair of more mundane security personnel with Friction Powered Rifles.

Erik sighs. Plainly the toad-like little man and the hissing woman had lost track of the actual worth of the unfortunate lizard-man, subsuming it in their own debate.
He leant back in his chair and shrugged mentally. A thousand credits left rather lot of room to play with and there was always the possibility of a little covert murder later.
Hrm. Is it still murder when I'm doing it in the persona of a duly accredited agent of the Crown, to whom slaving is a capital crime?
The Heir of Bathame scratched his chin thoughtfully, then shrugged mentally again.
Sod it.
"One hundred. And if the Midlonian contingent wouldn't mind, the rest of us came here to purchase, not to squabble."
He accompanies this with an insouciant grin and hooking his thumbs into the armpits of his waistcoat, beaming insincerely at Sharton and Linda.

Well that me out, of this bidding real shame too. Still I need to save the Gems for the Ambassador, I hope they bring her out soon, so that I can actually buy something else after her. Bowing to Erik he smiled pleasantly. ‘Hmm that’s me out sir, well bid.’ Motioning to one of his companions he whispered in her ear, before nodding towards the arguing ‘Midlonians’.

With a slight wink she stood and almost slid over to them, setting herself neatly behind or between the two before quietly whispering. ‘You both should know, neither of you have the biggest baddest back up. We came with three vessels capable of levelling this entire structure single-handedly. So if you continue to act this way and disrupt this gathering, well, imagine what they can do your vessels. Now shut up and bid…’
Standing again she winked at the ‘Midlonians’ one last time, turned and slid out of the chamber, she had a few messages to send.

"Well." Amara said, after a moment of trying to avoid laughing. "I believe that the handsome man with the large axe has won the bid." She pressed a button, and the Salamandr fell limply to the ground once more. "Here you are, sir. One Salamandr." She snapped her fingers and the reptile slowly trudged across the room, a dismal expression on his face.

"Sir. You seem an honourable being." Sar whispered as he passed, walking out to the shuttlepad. "My people will pay for my return." The Salamandr then vanished into the hallway.

Amara, meanwhile, had vanished, and Char had replaced her. The male Roanian was standing there, holding a microphone indolently by the hand. "Well, that was certainly dull. Females, huh?" Char rolled his eyes. "Well, I know why you're really here, gentlemen. And those ladies who serve gentlemen of certain taste, of course." He nodded to Selene. "Well, now I'm here to solve that." He clapped his hands, and a desertkin walked out, shoving along a figure underneath a large burlap sack. "Release her!"

The desertkin pulled the sack off with a flourish, and Ailisyn fell to the ground, covering her breasts and groin with her hands. A crimson blush lit her face. "H-hey!"

Char walked over to her and gently stroked a finger through her hair, pulling it back over her pointy ears. "Shhh...shh... you're beautiful, you know, Ailisyn..." He murmured, gently running his hand over her face. "Don't you want to show it off?" He began to inject a calming note of glamour into his voice, and despite herself she began to relax.

"Uh huh..." She closed her eyes slightly, and then they widened as he pulled her up, locking her hands behind his back. "W-what are you... oh!" Her blush deepened as he ran his hands up and down her body.

"As you can see, everything is all present and correct." Char said, smiling slightly. "This subject, a former ambassador to the Duma, is a ready and willing participant in anything you might want of her, aren't you, Ailisyn?" His hands expertly moved across her bodice and waist. When she looked away, embarassed, they gripped down tighter, eliciting a surprised gasp in pain. "Aren't you going to be good?"

Ailisyn nodded, tears of shock and humiliation pouring down her face. "Yes...I...I will be good..."

Char nodded. "Very good then." He released her, letting her flop defeatedly down to the ground. "Shall we start the bidding at 50?"

Linda, now alone next to the balding Midlonian, was now strangely quiet as she realised just how vulnurable she seemed in the room.

"Fifty," she called out, paddle raised, hoping Foster would be back soon enough.

*****

Foster himself though was strangely relaxed, glad to be out of the auction room with a cup of coffee in hand, standing behind Verechek as he checked the audiofeeds and scanned the data coming in from both the ship's own surprisingly decent sensors and the various comm links coming from Linda back in the auction hall.

"She's gonna be pissed." Muttered Verechek as he saw the last bid by the axe wielding maniac. "One of the more urgent bids we were meant to win, I thought?"

"Yeah, though to be honest he would have been a bastard to bring aboard."

"Coulda had him anyway. Thats what we are meant to be here for anyway." Foster raised an eyebrow at Verechek's comment.

"Seriously", the human remarked between sips, "the guy broke his goddamn cage..."

"And? See the shit we have to do in basic? Well, no, you wouldn't would you?" Foster shook his head at Verechek's dismissal of him.

"Any word on Cora?"

"Signals still out. Turns out her shorting...wasn't. Amateurish really. Pointy ship, they dropped electronics for fibrop a loooong time ago. As in literally I don't think in our recorded history they used such things. Obvious trap of course. Shoulda been able to punch her way out of there by now though. Gravitics. Fucking tricky bastards."

"The eldar you mean?"

"Nah, one of the humans. The pointies have got a few proxies for such times as these. Too well done up for a private gig I reckon. Been trying without much look to see what communication streams are going out. Meant to be radio silence but I *think* not everybody listened to that instruction."

"And back to Cora?"

"She'll be alright. If worse comes to worse we can run in there and grab the pilot and get her out, but that would not exactly work well for subtlety." Verechek muttered thoughtfully, his voice dropping as he watched the monitors.

"No, no it wouldn't."

Carefully fixing a lecherous look upon his face, he had an image to uphold after all, Cerlean managed to look disdainfully at Linda. ‘Please shall we get serious here? One Hundred and Fifty and would you please refrain from… marring the woman’s flesh before we get a chance at enjoying it?’

Time to show he was serious about this particular woman, perhaps such a large opening bid would scare off the competition and leave him some money to spend later.

Cerlean turns and gives the late comer a nod, Hmm that’s new looks almost kin-like but… not quite, fallen, no not one of those either ahh well, a mystery for another day.

‘Why certainly sir, I merely wanted to get rid of the boredom of dealing with the speculators, so we could get down to the serious matter, with that shall we say One-Eighty?’ raising his paddle again to confirm yes that was his current bid.

As he placed that bid the companion who slipped out before returns taking her place beside him with a slight kiss on his cheek and a, little, running of her hand down his spine. ‘Really do we need another companion for the bed my lord, sometimes…’ Her whisper was a little loud, perhaps for something secret between the three of them still they chuckled and he shrugged.

Jev'ran set his dagger to spinning on his fingertip -- the wicked sharp blade drew a bead of blood as it bored through the skin. He didn't wince, so much as smile in a particularly grim fashion. Then he flicked his hand upwards, sending the blade spinning up, to be caught with his off-hand, behind his back, because he was stooping to retrieve the ever-so-daft paddle-stick-thingus.

Raising the paddle, his sharp, precise voice lashed out in a manner similar to the lethal seven-inch blade affixed to the tip of his whip-knife, "Let's make this exciting. Four Hundred Fifty. And if there are any...impurities...in the subject, there will be repercussions."

He wasn't expecting to win the bid, though he wouldn't mind if he did...the creature in question was sufficiently exotic to that he could front-line her and fill out the rest with a mass load from one of his regular sources...but, for the most part, he wanted to see responses...

He set the paddle on the ground again and produced a second knife, and a third, beginning to juggle them slowly. If anyone had cared to look, the slight wound the dagger had made on his fingertip had healed over entirely...

"Four Sixty." barked Sharton before flicking his ponytail slightly. His monacle had scrolled again, it was storing information up on the details of the Freestians next to him, the cool blue text rapidly folded away as he finished. As soon as he was clear of orbit it'd be sent back to the Third Fleet out at Neptune, who would hopefully be able to relay the details back to the M.A.N command and intercept the false Midlonians.

INTERESTING?! this is insane, at this rate I’ll have nothing left for myself, by Khaine I’m a Pirate I could just take the damned winners ship before they can get away... No too risky in this age of instant jumping ships and, ah forget it.

None of his internal monologue showed on his face as he smiled warmly at the rapidly increasing bidding. ‘Well then if we want to keep it interesting why not say Five-Fifty?’ And again his paddle rises to show he was not jesting.

"Five sixty" Called out Linda, who looked, well, to put it bluntly astounded at the price. She grumbled, typing in more stuff on her own PDA, noting on her peripheral vision the Midlonian doing the same. She looked around for Foster, annoyed he hadn't returned, and sat back into her seat, numbers revolving in her head as she tried to figure out how much she had left to get the mage. It wasn't a comforting figure.

If this woman doesn’t give up soon I’m going to... well, argh why won’t she get the hint?
It was taking a real effort to keep his flaying temper from showing on his face as he raised the bid again. Again going over the top in the hope she, and the others here, get the point.

‘Six Hundred!’ and the paddle rose, this time while he leant over to kiss one of his two companions, and run a hand over her, in an attempt to look almost bored. Really it was to keep the grimace hidden.

"Six eighty." spoke Sharton again quietly. Boy at this point stopped playing with his device, looked up at Sharton who was simply staring resolute at the current item being bid.

He blinked and raised the paddle again, closing the small device with a quiet click. He decided to give this some attention.

"Ils sont pourquoi si fou par-dessus la fille d'elfe ? Il y a beaucoup d'elfes hors là-bas..."

"Peut-être ils souhaitent élever avec elle. Elle est plutôt prochainment. Ajouter luxueux un tiers ma Dame?"

Dominique a rougi réservément et a élevé sa main pour cacher son sourire. Derrière les deux un des marins a donné un coup petit du coude à l'autre et ri silencieuxment.

"Non, ma Dame ? Vous ne souhaitez pas apprécier les plaisirs cachés de la course aînée et leur connaissance secrète ? J'entends ils sécrétent un hallucinogène puissant apprécié par le Sakkran. ..”

"Mon Seigneur!" Dominique de dame a rougi plus profond et a tourné d'Eloi de Seigneur. "Vous sont sûr vous pas encore avez eu assez à boire?"

"Non. Peut-être je dois avoir un autre. Mais et l'elfe ? Devons-nous placer peut-être une offre ? Si ces sont s'intéressé peut-être nous pourrions le vendre et fait encore un profit significatif pour nous."

"Mais aurions-nous alors assez pour les autres ? Les enchères semblent monter, et les spécimens les plus valables seraient probablement dernier."

"Si nous gagnons, nous pouvons le vendre sur le côté. Si nous ne faisons pas, nous le faisons plus dur pour les autres à acheter que nous voulons. Nous ne perdons pas."

Dominique de dame a hoché son consentement et a élevé son levier.

"Seven hundred twenty."

Great 720 this is getting insane quickly... but I really don't have much choice right now although that raiding the winner option is looking more and more tempting in fact Another whisper and the same companion as before giggles and stands bowing to the room before leaving. Having other options is always good.

'Shall we stop playing games folks? Seven-Fifty, actually no make that Seven-Sixty.' And again the Paddle rises.

"A wise decision." Char said, with a roll of his shoulders. "I'm calling a halt. The eminent captain wins the prize, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for bidding." He tugged Ailisyn to her feet and gently prodded her down the stairs to where Cerlean was waiting.

She skidded to a halt and tried to curtsey, a difficult feat when one is, in fact, wearing almost no clothing. "Thank you for buying me, master." Ailisyn said, bitterly. "I await your first order."


Meanwhile, Char checked his notes and frowned. "Next... is... Lot #32!" He clapped his hands. "Lot #32!" The desertkin started to walk outside the door carrying a leash, but then dropped it. There seemed to be a quick, if silent, conversation of handgestures and growls, and then the desertkin backed away. "Yes, Lot #32!"

Several desertkin quickly marched out with four beautiful dusky maidens. The women were dressed in classic harem gear; even slimmer, in its way, than the clothing Ailisyn had been wearing. "These fine pinnacles of the female form come from the land of Desefica, and have already been trained to assist their master in any way required." Char grinned and stroked a hand along one's hair. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Absolutely, Trader Char." The woman said with a smile. "How shall we show our abilities?"

"Oh, I believe a dance would do quite well." Char stepped back and held his wand to his lips like a flute. Arabesque music filled the air and the women began to dance, gliding easily across the stage, their bodies flexing and twisting back and forth. Their small tops barely contained their generous assets, though hold them they did. Char grinned widely as the dance came to an end, and sat back on a seat that materialised underneath him. "I believe we can start the bidding at 100?"

Mierin breathed a sigh of relief as Ailisyn went to Cerlean. Things continued to go as planned. She watched the next lot brought up, and watched the dance, applauding at the end. The Ranger smiled, raising her paddle. "Oh, aren't they precious! My lord would love them. One hundred, then."

"One fifteen." Sharton merely nodded and sighed a little.

(Bad news is after this I am likely offline till wed, so...)

Thank Khaine, well that took quite the bite Seven sixty hmm well... that leaves me next to nothing, but, it’s done. Then Ailisyn was standing beside him and curtseying to him, with the fact he had pretty much been ordered to secure her no matter the price, he could assume the orders came from perhaps even higher than the Princess wouldn’t be the first time after all.

With that in mind, and surrounded by so many... people of disreputable character it would be perhaps sensible for him to skip a few lots, after all it seemed unlikely he would be able to keep up with the bidding as it was. ‘Well then dear, I think my first order is for you to accompany me back to my ship, where I can get a better idea of what makes you worth such a hefty sum...’ With a flourish he stood and bowed to the room, before starting to turn and leave, Ahh wait do I spot, yes I think I do... a chance maybe later to look closer into this mystery... and reassert my little image. making a slight detour towards Malus and Haulcir. Bowing slightly he quite publicly handed over a small collection of gems, (roughly Twenty Two points worth)n ‘I feel a little kinship with you sir, so for you and your comrades amusements tonight, may I make a small donation?’

Then that sorted he slipped from the room and towards his vessel, to educate the Lady Ailisyn as to her fate..

(When I return I will post the fate of the young ambassador etc. and then return to the auction, till then carry on folks).

A greasy eyeball hinged open slowly. Shezmu watched the ‘very public’ handover “What in the name of Seker!” he roared, filled with red-faced rage, “First his retinue turns up late, brings more money on the quiet, then that prancy moron in the tights gives them yet more crooked money! What insanity is this…” he was of course, in no small part furious because he was looking for something special and the only reason he hadn’t bid by now was in order to try and ensure that he had an advantage later on. He burped loudly, “If this absurdity is allowed to continue, then I shall be forced to make a protest!” he jutted his chin out firmly, and looked as threatening as his (to put it charitably) portly frame could manage.

"Vous fermer la vache corpulente," Eloi de seigneur a claqué, "La seule protestation que vous pouvez faire est quand vous trouvez le nourrit le sac vide!"

Dominique ri nerveusement derrière son levier et l'a élevé juste assez pour offrir.

"One hundred twenty..."

Examiner à Eloi de Seigneur elle a continué en français, "Peut-être au lieu de trois?"

OOC: People, I am aware that I seem to be losing control of this thread, but allow me to prove otherwise. Violence will be met with violence, in a both disproportionate and entirely fatal fashion that would probably lead to consequences beyond just those directly involved. Let's try to prove the NRA right when it says an armed society is a polite society, right? :)

IC: Char winked at Shezmu, and nodded, as if to say he had a plan. Inside, his mind was spinning as he worked through several at once. On the outside, though. "I hear one fifty, do I hear one seventy?"

His eyes wandered across the room to try to catch Selene's attention, and he shook his head slightly, as if telling her something...telling her what? Maybe that other items were waiting for her, and she should back down over this one. "One fifty... going once... going twice..."

He paused, and then hit the table with his fist. "Sold! To the gentleman over there! Ladies?"

The dancing girls grinned and filed down to Hauclir, talking above his head. "Ooh, look at him." "Isn't he cute?" "We live to serve, master!"

Char sighed. "All right, then, I believe we'll now have a ten-minute recess. Tours of the pens will start in five minutes." He tried, once more, to catch Selene's eye and gesture to the side room. Then, after a second, he vanished in a puff of smoke.

Mierin blinked a little, and she looked around for a moment as everyone else (presumably) got up and milled about. She rose elegantly from her seat, and slipped into the side room, lightly closing the door behind her.

"Good." Char considered, smoking a cigar. "Tell me, Selene... how much would you say Naija is worth?" His eyes seemed locked on Mierin's chest.

She gave him an elegant smile, and a just-stood-up sort of stretch, and the right sort to accentuate her curves, at that. "Oooh. You're direct. I like that. Now, I'm sure we can come to some manner of arrangement..."

"Yes, I believe we can," Char said with a smile. "I'm sure you know what I want for Naija, Selene." He blew a smoke circle from his mouth. "Question is, what are you willing to offer me?"

"Are you propositioning me?" she asks in a voice that suggests she really doesn't much mind at all. "Indeed I'm quite aware of what you want from me... and while it wouldn't be ...appropriate to settle such an exchange here... I'm sure squaring up later is ...well within the realm of possibility." She grinned meaningfully at this.

"Oh, perish the thought!" Char murmured, a little grin appearing on his lips. "Perish the thought indeed. However, I believe that you might very well be the best person to release my dear friend Naija to. Which is why... I... took a little liberty. I hope you don't mind."

Mierin quirked an eyebrow. "Liberty?" she asked, curiously.

"Of bringing Naija here." He tapped on a wooden crate that appeared next to him with a puff of smoke. "See?"

Mierin laughed musically, looking over the rather large crate. "She's in there, is she?" She knocks lightly on the crate.

Naija's thoughts burst out of the crate. Miss Selene? She thought, nervously. Char said he was going to arrange for... Char hit the crate with his foot. "None of that, thank you." He said, firmly. "Now, Selene... how do you want to do this?"

"Now now, Chariel darling, don't interrupt the dear girl..." She smiled kindly. This seemed to vindicate her earlier worry that Char could overhear the telepathy.

Naija was quiet for a moment. Don't give him what he wants! She thought. Please... I've never begged in my life, but I don't want to be a plaything for some rich lord...

Char rolled his eyes. "See? They're always like this. She should have thought of that before she..." He clammed up.

"Yes?" Mierin asked softly. "Go on."

He shook his head, and then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I want free passage," he murmured, deliberately. "I'm for better things than this... distasteful business, Selene. And for running around as the underling of a brute and a sadist." He looked over his shoulder. "And after this, I intend to be wealthy enough to be my own master."

Mierin pursed her lips, and nodded at this. "I assure you that can be arranged. It would be no trouble at all, you have my word on that."

"Unfortunately..." He paused. "Unfortunately, my...partner... does not agree with my position. Far from it. So... I've had to take some actions that some parties might not approve of." He held his hands up. "Cards on the table. In exchange for Naija, as... pleasant as the other possibilities you offer might be, I want transport to Sol and an amnesty from your Lord for any crimes I might have committed. In exchange, I can also split..." He made a face. "A quarter of the sums of money I've just taken custody of with you personally."

The Ranger pouted. "Come now, Chariel, but a quarter?" she asked in a sultry voice. "You wound me. I am sure a third share would be more reasonable. It is a fair price for living long enough to spend the rest, is it not?" She smiled winningly, and stretched her arms out luxuriantly for good measure.

Char grumbled at this, unable to take his eyes off her. "You.... you strike a hard bargain, woman."

Mierin pondered. She spoke next honestly, resting her hands on her hips, "I cannot promise my Lord would grant such amnesty..." she mused. Menelmacar probably would, as doing so would more or less mean it had Char in its pocket, but it was still not a promise she could make on her own authority. "...as such decisions are far above one such as myself. But resources can certainly be put towards rectifying any consequences of such actions with such parties, to your benefit." That much, she could promise. "Of course, I will with all sincerity take up your amnesty request with my Lord and he will give it due consideration. He will likely grant it, I can simply not make the promise on my own authority."

"Excellent." He smiled, relieved. "Now, how would you like me to move Naija?" Char inspected his nails in a civilized fashion. "You must think me a hard male, Selene. I know our dear friend in the box does." He knocked on it gently.

"Hmm...... I'm not sure. You have your hard parts, but you're certainly more... nuanced than your partner." She pondered this... "Let's see... how long is this break? If there is time, we could move her to Daughter of Night before the auction resumes..."

"Oh, that... might be difficult. I'm going to be trying to bring Amara to my point of view, and that could prove difficult if she knows I'm giving Naija away for free." Char paused and contemplated his nails for a little while longer. "But I believe I could send the felinoids out to carry the crate and leave it there..."

"Can your nomadic friends out there be trusted to ensure the crate remains at the ship until my departure?" she asks.

"Ah..." He paused. "They'll all be fired." He said after a moment. "Their replacements, though..." He frowned, suddenly. "Wait, how do you know they're nomads?"

"It seemed a reasonable guess." She shrugged. "I mean, look at them."

"Right," he said, distantly. "All right. Well, yes. They'll take care of it all. Now...I'd like to caution you not to bid on this next item."

"Unless it's the Kajali, I think I can avoid it." She winks.

"Splendid. Well." He looked her up and down, considering every curve of her body quite openly. "I believe I should get ready to prepare things. Good luck, milady."

"You too, dear Chariel. Give me a moment before you start things again, as I do believe I'll fetch another drink." She gave him another winning smile, and turned to sashay off in the direction of the bar.

(( OOC: Another co-op post, me and Roania. ))

Char reappeared exactly five minutes later in a flash of clouds, light and smoke. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you're all enjoying yourselves?" He bowed low. "Well, good. As you know, now come the more exciting bids." He clapped his hands. "Now, if you'll all return to your seats, we can get this evening's main event under way."

A spotlight appeared above. Around the back and sides of the room, rather than the desertkin that had been used prior to the break, there appeared several large, smouldering forms that appeared to be little more than black rock until they moved, revealing the cracks and glowing red fragments of intense heat underneath. "You might notice some changes. Rest assured that these are all entirely in order for your continued safety and security. Now, to begin."

A bound and gagged figure, trapped under a huge black canvas, floated across the stage to where Char was standing. It landed, as Char stretched his arms behind his head. "May I present, ladies and gentlemen, your erstwhile hostess..." He pulled the black canvas off, revealing the beautiful and stunning... "Lady Amara! And isn't she beautiful, dressed in absolutely nothing!"

"I'll kill you for this!" Amara shouted at Char, trying to free her hands from where they were bound behind her back. "Do you hear me?!" Then, slowly, she looked around, and realised she was the center of attention. Slowly, she looked up at Char. "Y-you...you aren't..."

But he had already looked away. "Note the, ah-heh, obvious firmness of her breasts, and the perfect, heart-shaped hips. Delightful, right? Observe, too, if you will..." With clear delight he continued to discuss her charms, totally ignoring the squirming and embarassed woman next to him. "And, of course, she's a mage." He tapped the collar around her neck. "As such, this null-collar comes standard."

"So, not only do you get one of the hottest pieces of ass this side of Sol," He winked and a bolt of flame appeared on his open palm, "And believe, me ladies and gentlemen, I know my heat!" He caused the fire to vanish, and then tapped his wand, shooting a row of lights into the air that coalesced into a number. "But you also get a mage! Start the bidding at 500!"

Linda had sat through the sideshow without a word, silently seething at the pointless distraction and the casual dismissal of the Midlonian beside her. She did her best to contain her as she could, but not only had her bids so far been unsuccessful, the opportunities to correct her failures had yet to come up.

“500!” She yelled, raising the paddle high in the air.

And now the Midlonian had started typing anew, and in his visor she saw pictures flash beneath impossibly fast lettering. Pictures of her and Foster, scanned, full on and profile shots from his seated angle. He may be civilian, but her data on record like that would only have one destination for the Midlonian, whether for reasons of spite or profit. He had blown her cover too easily, far too easily, and that had placed yet another problem. One solution, sadly. She typed something quickly and hit the send button on her PDA.

The Sentinel next to her turned its head a fraction, unnoticed by either.

Back on the ship, Foster and Verechek read the communication with gaping mouths, followed by a not inconsiderate amount of face palming and general voiceless motions of agitation.

"540!" Sharton barked back. He had also noticed Linda moving around, typing on a PDA. as such his Sentinel had moved slightly with him.

A second code was also sent, this time to the Marackay.

Scramble, scramble, scramble.

A second Skiff found itself hurtling at the planet just a few scant moments later. The Sentinels were remarkably quick. Or they had been on standby for just such an event. He could never truly tell. He smiled slightly and waited. The excuse fired to the "authorities", such as they were, were notified that the second skiff contained additional goods that he may wish to pull upon should the voting max out.

This was all perfectly true. But inside were several more of the Sentinels. Sometimes backups had their own rewards. He may gain more items out of this.

*Onboard the Private vessel of Cerlean*

Throughout the walk throughout the site of the auction he acted as was pretty much expected of him, he leered at his purchase, admired her, and otherwise acted as a man who had just bought a very attractive woman at a slave auction. It was only when the Four of them where safely hidden aboard his vessel that his stance changed. Gone was the open admiration, although it lingered a little behind his eyes, even as the woman knelt and asked him what he wished he merely shrugged and made his way into the cockpit, transmitting a small message back to his ‘fleet’ well the three vessels he had arrived with. Package secured, inform the Princess, have any of you located the Slayer’s vessel yet?

After a few moments he returned to the ‘bedroom’ and took a seat.

‘Well my dear, for a start, you’ll be happy to know, I won’t be forcing my attentions upon you, although I hope in time you might consent to, well… never mind. I’m sure your wondering as to your fate.’ He grinned broadly now. ‘Well relax, your, well not exactly a free woman, your too high profile to just let go, but life is a lot better for you than it could have been. My Princess has a few questions for you, well no, in truth I suspect those questions come from a higher source, your about to debrief us on Roanian society, and your home world, everything about it we need to know. Then well, welcome to the life of a Pirate my dear.’ standing now he swept his gaze over the ship, ‘I know what your thinking, work! A woman like you hasn’t likely had to work in a long time; well I’m afraid that’s the short term future, hard work for a fair share of the profit. In time through, when your name is forgotten, we’ll put some of those… diplomatic skills to work, you’ll find us targets, and buyers, you’ll socialise with the people I need to contact, and you’ll live a good life.’

Settling back down now he looked almost apologetic before continuing. ‘Now I am afraid we can’t provide a change of clothes, I might have you accompany me back to the others, and so, you need to look, well, the way they expect you too look, but until then relax have a drink and a bath. I’ll leave you to the care of my companions while I take care of other business, and make it seem we have spent a little more time here than this.’

Jev'ran caught his knives with an enviable amount of skill, if one were prone to envying someone who juggled knives well. Of course, if one cared little for skill at knife-juggling, then one would be unlikely to envy Jev'ran his skill at said amusement.

Of course, juggling was just one aspect of a greater mastery of the knife... not that he really expected to have any chance to demonstrate the greater forms. Obvious, seeing as how the knives were returned to their sheaths. If he'd been planning to use them, he wouldn't have put them away, hmm?

Instead, he picked up his paddle, chewed his lip for a moment -- a 'mage,' was it? Fascinating. Utterly fascinating...certainly spinnable into a centerpiece, yes....though liable to take some work, and not the kind of work that was either easy or fun. The reconstructive kind of work. But that was do-able, too.

"Six Fifty. Vn'drra."

Shezmu smiled, this was more like it. Wings! A lot of mid-ranking goa’uld would pay handsomely for this specimen, even with the risks implicit in it… “Six seventy five…” he said. Still, the bidding was rather hefty…

"700." Sharton barked.

Jev'ran mumbled something beneath his breath, then lifted the paddle from the floor with his foot, kicking it up where he caught it with his hand. Coordinated, our Acquisitions Officer was, indeed...

Paddle went up, wave-wave.

"Eight Hundred Nineteen."

He looked as if he'd bitten into something moderately unpleasant for a moment, then his expression settled out to a calmer grin.

Mierin had just finished getting another drink when she turned around and saw the show on stage. She couldn't help but laugh at Amara's fate, it truly was ironic. She sashayed back to her seat, and elegantly sat down, sipping at her wine as she watched the bidding rise.

"830." Sharton sighed as his own paddle waved.

Jev'ran let his eyes drift across the item at bid, considering...then he raised his paddle up and waggled it back and forth, sighing.

"Nine hundred fourty six."

The paddle drifted back down, and Jev'ran let his eyelids flutter shut for a moment, then open again, blue-gray eyes remarkably still, considering the amount of fundage he had just put up. Rather odd, really, he seemed to be rather pleased...

Indeed, if one looked close enough, he seemed to be fighting to keep a laugh down...

"950!" Linda yelled, her thumb gripping the handle of the paddle and waving it in the air indiscriminately. How much more did she actually have?

Meanwhile, her other hand, cushioned in her lap, pressed a single finger down on a displayed icon.

Jev'ran shook his head, then, once, and let his paddle fall to the ground by his feet. It wasn't that he wasn't willing to go higher, so much as it was that he'd just gotten tired of the whole thing. It was the waggling, really, and 'mage' or not, the female wasn't worth more of it. Especially considering the little irritants flying about, tattling on their originators...

He scrunched his nose for a moment, then slumped back into his chair with an audible thump. He was neither laughing nor grinning, now. Instead, he just sort of stared off into space, letting his eyes unfocus to some extent -- doing so was only a minor risk -- he relied very little on his eyes for general detection purposes -- they were precision instruments.

His lips formed two words: 'Krr'a Fach,' though he barely even breathed sound behind them.

His hand dropped to caress the wrapped grip of his whip-knife, aimlessly.

"952." Sharton sighed. There was very little left, but if he took such a mage back to Midlonia then he'd be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams....

“I fucking hate you, Miss Mathews.” The last words uttered by the seven and a half foot armoured giant moving down the gangway with, for his size, surprising quiet. The abandonment of the launch area by the Desertkin on their master’s bidding, save for one unfortunate man sitting near the craft doing the final watch before his comrades returned, had given Verechek and company a nice window of opportunity to get down and dirty and start breaking things. Unable to be silenced, the rifle across his back lay dormant, instead withdrawing the Cleaver, a two and a half foot blade slowly unsheathed and brought up to eye level as he moved.

Behind him, more figures moved into the air, like the first clad in black and armoured, though there was power assisted mechanics to lift the gear. No matter. These guys could challenge gorillas to bear hug competitions and you wouldn’t bet against them to win.

They stood where the craft around them still covered in the dimmed light. Verechek meanwhile spotted the guard, hunched over, rifle over shoulder and next to the fire. He crouched, magnified the image in his visor, and brought the blade up.

“Target confirmation sir?” He whispered in the commset. Fosters voiced crackled through, low but clear.

“Target one is the Midlonian skiff, capture and hold. Other craft are secondary should the situation deteriorate further.”

“Pointies moving across the yard. Got one set of goods with him.”

“Leave him. We have bigger things to worry about.”

“Most of the ships have active monitoring, you still want to go ahead?”

Foster let out a tired sigh before answering. “Do it. No one has the capacity to respond as far as we can see. Try and be as clean as possible.”

“Will do sir.”

“Happy hunting.”

A pause.

“And Cora?”

“We’ll go have a word about that too. Silence people, move out, and good luck Verechek.”

Verechek switched the comm unit off, his men, all eight of them, did similar. Hand signals told them to halt. One kill was needed.

The Desertkin saw nothing as Verechek swallowed the fifty odd yards between them in about four seconds, unable to do much as a fist the size of the poor creatures head shattered its body and tore the poor thing in two. Somewhat overdone for purpose, Verechek looked down at the horrifically snapped body with a quiet, unemotional glance. Dead, certainly, and not even raising an alarm. Of course, some of the more decent monitoring equipment may pick it up, but even so this shouldn’t take long.

The Midlonian skiff sat out the tarmac behind the larger Freestian vessel. Its crew inside for the moment, Verechek did his best to dump the body amid its tatty camp beneath abandoned storage cases, and signalled for his squad to follow. Two teams of four descended the ramp as Verechek rushed over to meet them, eyes and sensors scanning for anything else moving. Nothing save the eerie magical anomalies off in the distance.

More hand signals, of directions and affirmatives, and the two squads advanced forward on the skiff, two men moving, two covering, darting in the dull light in a slow but methodical manners, exceptional in execution but sadly their tactics were woefully out of date. Things would be learned in hindsight, but then to be honest this mission had been one long Charlie Foxtrot from start to finish.

**********

Linda sighed, but at least appreciated the irony of Sharton’s bids. Perhaps as well in the knowledge of what was about to happen to the poor man in her opinion, she held her board high again.

“955”.

“What’s going on out there?”

One of the… alarmingly many… jaffa warriors left on board the Al’kesh said, watching the Freestians leave, dispatching a nearby guard, “Damnit. I was just out for a smoke with him!” another said from nearby.

The first jaffa, this one’s head tattooed with the ambiguously representative symbol of Atum, stood, walking away from the windows, and towards the control console, “Let’s see… What have we… Four life signs. Let’s send a squad of our warriors to board it…”

The ship’s ground level hatch way opened, and ten figures in hawk-helmets leapt the short way to the floor, having eschewed large weapons in favour of smaller, crooked pistols that they kept in two handed grips, tucked in close to their bodies, helmets providing a light amplication version of the pale starlight, a row of crimson eyes bobbing in the night, beaks glistening as their angular heads swept from one direction to the other, ducking under the ramp. “Ka’nan, Vrin’da, stay here, shoot any returning warriors,” the leader said, as the remaining eight leapt into action, agile-ly and rather unnecessarily pulling themselves up, practically leaping onto the ramp, moving in groups of four that covered one another as they advanced into the menacing, alien, ship, deactivating their bulky-head-dresses as they moved into the light.

“975.” He barked back almost immediately, raising the board himself this time.

*****

The skiff itself simply began to bloop gently as the Freestians approached it, the ramp to the fore of the skiff hissed gently down to a stop, just an inch or two above the ground.

Walking down the ramp came the two Sentinels, These ones, unlike the one with Sharton were all white, more in keeping with his other crewmen.

Both stopped at the bottom of the ramp, arms crossed, they didn’t move.

Even as the ramped moved, both teams came to a quick and sudden halt, the bulky forms slinking behind cover leaving nothing exposed. Verechek breathed out slowly as he checked over there positions, then, removing an eyepiece from the helmet he lifted the tiny camera to peer over the rotten timber boxes at the Midlonian ship.

The Sentinels simply remained unfazed and unmoved as the ramp behind them hissed closed again, the blooping sound still echoing gently around the landing pad.

"Two targets. More of those Midlonian mercs. Foster reported them as exceptionally fast, don't look particularly tough though." Verechek whispered to the next solder along, a shorter, stockier H5 with half his face covered in burn scarring. "Two shots, you reckon?"

"Got the right one."

Verechek nodded, and lay down prone against the floor, shuffling in the shadows alongside his companion until the Sentinels came into view. He brought the sights up, flicking through spectrums and magnifications in his helmet until his gun, a massive battle riffle the size and weight of a man, centred directly in the middle of the creature's torso. He breathed out, and squeezed the trigger.

A twenty milimetre gyrojet round, tipped with a boron-nitride penetrator blew from the tip of the rifle at high subsonic speed, accomponied by a companion from Verechek's comrade.

Now the Sentinels reacted. But in a rather understated way. Both moved in the blink of an eye away from each other by a step or so, and their hands had bolted out to the side. At the same time both moved the shells they had caught up in front of their faces, before looking rapidly over to where the shots had come from.

Casting aside the bullets the Sentinels lowered their stance a little, from their wrists on both arms short blades shot out and began to arc with electricity. One started to run straight at the crouching ghouls behind the boxes, while the other leapt up ontop of the skiff, before leaping and turning in the air to land behind one of the squads.

"Holy..." muttered one of the men in the second team before a blade slashed his throat out.

"Shit. Contacts in melee. Get active people!" Verechek bellowed, rising and drawing his Cleaver anew. Rifle shots punctuated the air but mostly splayed harmlessly around, the horrific grinding noise as grenade met bulkhead adding to the chaos of the scene as ghoul and sentinel intermingled.

Unlike the screaming and shouting of orders from the Ghouls the Sentinels remained eerily quiet, the only sounds from them coming from the clanging of boots on hard surfaces and the crackle of the electricity from their blades.

One of the Sentinels leapt through the air again before clashing blades with a cleaver, spinning and smacking the ghoul back with the flat of the blade, rather than the point instead.

Verechek barely moves, reacting more to avoiding the blade in what seemed like slow motion against the movements of the Sentinel. He swings again, even as another team member is chopped down, first his waist, then his neck shorn through in a shower of blood before him. Verechek roared, deep and guttural, and charged again.

The Sentinel turned towards Verechek and then jumped, span and kicked him in the back before trading a series of furious blows with the Ghoul Squad Leader. Each time The Sentinel was on the offensive, causing the Ghoul to move back. It was at this point a cleaver from another Ghoul pierced the side of the Sentinel. An electronic scream echoed from the helmet as wires and a piece of metal plating came out with the cleaver.

Verechek turned, and beared his fangs. The Sentinel still moved, quickly, but now awkward and jerky rather than sublimely graceful, moving towards the large ghouls in fits of brilliant speed. The blade smashed forward, and the Freestian slide to the side, the electricity arcing through and tearing into the armour and grazing the skin beneath. Then his cleaver came down, slicing the entire forearm of the creatures off. The limb.

The limb fell in a spasmodic, sparkling mess to the floor in a shower of blood or circuitry, and the Sentinel coiled away, another scream breaking the air.

Verechek moved in for the kill.

The Sentinel still had a lot of speed, but it’s co-ordination had become frantic, it slashed with it’s one remaining short-blade rapidly and wildly, attempting to catch the Ghoul with an electro-blade.

Another cleaver blow, and the Sentinel dropped to one knee, pain wracking its body. The Ghoul towered up, an abolsute hatred welling behind the visor, and he placed his hands on either side of the helmet, and squeezed. The sound was as terrifying as the result, showering the two remaining Freestians in a stream of electronic and fleshy gore.

The Sentinel simply twitched and fizzed, the helmet having been half-blown off as a result of the Freestian’s actions. It showed a relatively thin face, with a fang. All across the face were metal parts and pieces, the eyes having been replaced with optical lenses.

Verechek peered over the mutant visage, then dropped the corpse with little further ado. He made a mental note to drag the corpse back later as he turned to see how the other team was handling, still locked in melee with the other Sentinel. He wiped off his blade, and moved to jump in the fray, only to be interupted by the arrival of another ship appearing in the skies above.

"Oh no...oh piss off. Give us a fucking break today!"

The second skiff blared a two-chime whistle as it turned to land near to the other Sharton Skiff, it’s ramp was already beginning to open from the sleek body of the craft, a glaring spotlight showed the outlines of half a dozen more of Sentinels.

"Oh god..."

Verechek took a step back, and indeed even the other team disengages from the bleeding but still active Sentinel. Just five of the ghouls now stood for the cost of one attacker. The odds suddenly did not look good.

Back on the ship, a spray of coffee erupted from Foster's mouth. Eyes scanned over vital sign reports and the sudden arrival of the additional craft.
"I am going to fucking kill that woman", he whispered to no one in particular.

Behind them came a crisp and clear voice, accented slightly to denote that it was from Birchester.

“Drop your weapons and give yourselves up!” it rattled as a short female figure walked forward on the Sentinels, cradling a Pericles-Type A2 Plasma Rifle.

Verechek glances towards the other ghouls, helmeted visors look up at him, some cracked plate and bleeding arms cradling stained Cleavers, the ground around them littered with shell casings and the sidearms abadnoned in the melee attack.

"Men..." He pondered, blaze of glory? What chance would they have of rescue out here? But then again, slaving circles and all, could they soon be picked up? And the one image that entered his mind was the mental figure of the completely stupid human who had sent them on this retarded mission in the first place.

"You know what. Fuck dying." He turned to the woman. "Under the condition of fair and humane treatment under the law of reciprocity, I fully intend to accept your offer. I'm fucked if I am dying for idiots."

He turned and glanced round the scene. "And I think I can say the same for my men too."

Azriel Sharton grinned. “Smart man.” she replied. “Not often somebody goes up against one of MIRA’s toys and survives.” The skiff began to land and she jumped from the craft as it was a few feet above the ground still. “I think you will find out quarters on the ship fairly comfortable. Sharton has always treated guests and assets quite well.” she turned to the Sentinels who had now leapt from the skiff also. “You lot, escourt our guests onto the ship and place them in the comfortable cargo cells.”

The ghouls just shrugged, to a man dropping their held weapons and letting the Midlonians take the rest without resistence. Verechek looked around, his heart hitting his mouth again. "And my dead?"

“What about them? They’re dead.” Azriel replied shrugging, flicking some dark black hair from her brown face. “If you want to bring them with you, carry them on yourself.”

Verechek leaned back. "Men, prepare the dea..." Explosions and gunfire erupted from the Freestian ship behind them as a few hundred yards away the Jaffa tried their luck against the Freestian defenders. "Well thats that." His voice fell again. "Men, prepare the dead and move them out." His voice dropped lower, and sadness entered it. "Bastard humans."

Azriel moved over to the damaged Sentinel and simply pressed a button on a small console on her wrist. The body began to burn up until there was nothing left but dust. “Much better.”

******

"A thousand", Linda practically yelled across the room.

Sharton merely twitched a grin as a status report slid in from the side into his monacle.

Next to him, after one brief glance on her PDA, Linda started trembling.

Sharton lazily took off his monacle, breathed on it and began to clean it as he moved to swap seats with the Sentinel again.

She turned to Sharton, a suddenly high pitched tone entering her voice.
"So, those thre...err..no hard feelings, right?"

He leant over slightly as he fixed it back, smiled and whispered. “Check Mate.”

He turned back to Char. “Oh, I’d like to top that bid.” he spoke mockingly, glancing at Linda.

“I bid, all the credits I have left, and the lovely Linda here. Seeing as she just tried to attack my assets, and all her credits would be included in the price.” He grinned widely.

Char's eyes widened a little, and he looked over the quivering little human. "Well..." He said with a smile, looking down at Amara, who was quivering as well, but with rage. "Your ego is salved, I hope, my dear? You're worth more than several countries." He clapped his hands, and there were two puffs of smoke. One next to him, and one next to Sharton. "Sold! To the enterprising gentlemen in the fancy outfit!"

Amara blinked as she found herself in Linda's robes. Or, rather, within Linda's robes, as the garments hung rather limply over her and revealed about as much of her torso as not being dressed at all would be. She bunched her shoulders up to try to work the robe over her breasts a bit more, and then glared at Sharton. "If you think I'm going to call you master, you've got another thing coming, human." Her eyes narrowed and she bared her fangs. "But I'll play along with your little game for now."

Linda, however, found herself dressed in nothing but her underwear, standing on the stage next to the pyromancer. With a shriek she covered herself as the clasp of her bra was burnt away. "You can't do this to me! My government will get you both for this, you bastard sons of bitches!"

Char checked his watch as she continued to rant on, and then began to file his nails. "You done?" He said after a minute. She opened her mouth to snap at him again, and then a big pink ball appeared in between her teeth. "Yep." She tried to hit him, but then he calmly directed a gaze at her, and slowly she sank to her knees, uncovering her breasts, her eyes curiously unfocussed. "Splendid. Now, our next item appears to be the unfortunate winner of our last auction. Her charms are, I'm sure, obvious, and I believe she's a highly ranked person in...wherever she comes from."

He stared at her for a long, slow moment, and then his lips curled up in a triumphant smile. The gag disappeared with a flash of light. "I'm from the Commonwealth of the Freethinkers, master Char." She said, slowly and simply. "How may I please you?"

"Mmm. I could think of all sorts of things you could do to please me, my delightful litttle dear, but for now, just spin in a circle and let them see you." She complied, and he smiled at the crowd. "Isn't she a darling? Let's start at 50."

Mierin Eronaile watched all of this, finding it all quite entertaining, really. This was the most fun she'd had on an op in a very long time. She smiled brightly as the unfortunate Freestian was brought on stage, remembering the other who had stumbled into the trap aboard Daughter of Night. How lovely! She could have a matched pair of Freestians. She raised her lil' paddle dealie. "Fifty."

Erik's pose of studied relaxation falls away immediately, replaced by a furrowed brow, half reaching up to his neck, then turning the motion into a scratch before asking in a determindly calm tone..
"I'm a little puzzled by this...turn of events. Are we all likely to be offered for sale, should we be unable to fight off those of our competitors acting more like bandits than civilised sophonts?"
He rubs his neck again, the gesture jerky, like the substitute for an old and familiar habit, but still, the blonde man's face is open and, if not guileless, at least smiling in his prodding.

Meanwhile, aboard Erik's Private Space Vessel, a delivery has been made, the ship's 'automation' dealing with the arrival of a spittingly enraged lizard man with suprising ease.
Because it's not automation.
A snarl like steel tearing doesn't disturb the individual pottering about the flat gray ship, it does disturb the felinoidal stowaway incarcerated next to him, but then felinoids are easily worried.
The potterer, or, as it is properly termed, M.I.R. 07011980, looks back at the pair and smiles.
Sort of. M.I.R's don't really have mouths, just a holographic line which fills the emotion-projection job.
"So, do either of you meatbags have any objection to the taking of sentient life? Just as a random inquiry."
Sar roars again, rattling the bars of his cage.
"Let me out and I'll show you, creature!"
The M.I.R. leans back, tapping fingers together with the clunk of an expensive car door closing, folding one leg over the other and trying as best to look relaxed as something eight feet tall and built of metal and guns can look relaxed.
"So you're for it, but aimed all wrong. Alright. What about you fuzzy? You keen for a bit of the old ultra violence? Bit of gory justice against the man-apes who done you wrong?"
The felinoid huddles against the far edge of its cage and essays an ingratiating smile, causing a gusty electronic sight from 07011980.
"Alright, that'd be a 'No Mr M.I.R. I'm a damn organic wuss, look at me being all biological and organly.' Damn organic wimps. Anyone would think getting body parts blown off actually hurt."

A mental pressure fills the cabin, the M.I.R. feeling like the sinuses he doesn't have are blocked and a rumbling, hissing voice sounds from nowhere.
"I'm almossst sssertain Erik would not want you urging thessse two to commit murder."
"Nonsense. Why do you think he bought the lizard? We're going to tool the short-arse pseudo dragon up and send him off to destabilise this nasty little polity for King and Country. That or the Bathamer is going to turn him into shoes. They're weird bastards them Bathamers. Even by human standards, so I'm picking shoes. And even the fuzzy might be of some use if I'm allowed to skin him and use him as an armour buffer."
"You're a sssssycopath."
"Exactly the way they coded me. C'mon you big wuss. You can't tell me you're not looking forward to the inevitable denouement when we get to start setting things on fire and shooting them."
A silence follows, broken by a draconic snigger.
"Alright, you may have a point robot. That doessssn't mean you should be encouraging thesssse two to kill thingsss on a random basssiss."
The M.I.R. shrugs and falls silent for a moment, before Sar raises his head and stares at the hulking robot.
"You intend to release me?"
"For sure. Well. Barring an accidental firearms discharge brought on by meatbags causing an inadvertent electro-spasm in my trigger impulse. But yeah, the meatbag-in-chief certainly will urge it."
The lizard man mutters to himself for moment, before giving a jerky nod.
"Then yes. I will fight for you."
"Splendid. It's always nice to have might as well as right. Though one meatbag isn't particularly much more might."

V'neer's voice and presence returns, dry as dust.
"Well I'm glad you've worked that out amongsssst yoursssselvess, unfortunately it seemsss that thingsss are about to go completely to Ashes."
"I thought that had happened when the meatbags started killing each other, which I note they've already done and contrary to the pool started before this mission it was nothing to do with me. You're all my witnesses, I want that fucker 11092001 to pay up."
"Yesss, yess, fasscinating that it isss that you haven't ssshhot anyone yet, given your previous record, but now they might sssstart ssshhooting at my 'meatbag', and I don't like that sort of thing."
"So noted."
The M.I.R. reaches up to the banks of switches mounted above the control console and toggles a half dozen, then stabs one more glowing blue button which, upon stabbing, sinks down with a click and goes black.
"Solitude is primed. We launch once Erik gives the word."

Mierin glanced down at her own PDA, and then over towards Erik. "Unlikely... according to my ship, the woman's group just tried to take the Midlonian ship, and it didn't go well." She looked down again at the PDA, briefly, before returning her attention to the auction.

“Well, this is going about as well as expected.” Foster just face palmed again as he watched the monitors, sitting in one of the pilot’s seats on the flight deck, the other occupied by a young ghoul with the frightfully normal name of Private Jamieson, who idly ran his hands over the control columns and flittered his eyes over various readouts, as if ready and waiting for something to flash out in anger or break. They might, after all, have to get out of here quickly.

The capture of the ghouls and the…well, loss of communication from Linda’ PDA pretty much meant the same thing. The mission had approached Allanean levels of mission efficiency and competency. In fact it was just plain godforsaken awful.

And it appeared to be getting worse.

*********

Ramel and his companion had drawn the short straws to stay aboard. It seemed somehow bitterly ironic that now they were getting the worse action of all. The news from the bridge had been terrifying, in all honesty, and though they had wished to be out there now alongside their comrades the attention towards the combat and the dangers it brought reared their ugly head.

“Eight targets confirmed, covered forward push up the main cargo chute.”

Ramel nodded, and the two ghouls hunkered down behind the clamping locks of the bay, peering in the blackened area forty yards away as dark shapes appeared silhouetted in the dull light. There was no artificial lighting inside the cargo area itself, the ghouls relying on their helmet mounted visor equipment.

“Right old boy. Time to single-handedly restore the reputation of the Freestian military.” He slung the huge, thick barrelled energy weapon down beneath him and watched as the enemy boarded the craft, hiding as best they could behind the few bulkheads and cargo moving equipment in the mostly empty bay.

“Watch and learn.” He whispered.

The lights ignited brightly, going from absolute blackness to blinding light in seconds. The ghouls, behind visor and their own inbuilt organic blacklids barely noticed. The Jaffa, well, depends how quickly they adapted.

And if they could, they would notice a slight shift in the shadows, the vaguest form of two silhouettes rising, and before they could even comprehend, there was a loud dull crack, followed by a horrific white glare as massive arcs of bluish beams intermingled with lightning tore into the Jaffa ranks…

Sitting onboard a ship making it look like you’re enjoying your new asset leaves a man a lot of time to observe. To observe for instance the fighting going on around him, several vessels seem to be being attacked, not surprising really considering the company they where all keeping but, well, he felt a little left out. Here he was a Pirate and apart from a little investigation into some of the other guests what had he done, not much. He was actually behaving himself while those around him, shot and stole from each other, this was… intolerable, he had three ships in orbit, and enough men to well, make a splash.

‘You know, I think we’ve been going about this all the wrong way, why simply buy a few slaves when we can make a profit? Some of those ships look like they could fetch a pretty prize or two… so..’ Winking at one of his companions he smiled leaned over casually and flicked a switch or two.

Message follows spoken in Eldaran.

Prepare the men, I want them ready to debark and storm some ships at a moments notice, and keep an eye on things, let me know if anything kicks off that might provide an opening.

Message ends

It might come to naught; he still had that individual to deal with after all, but, to return home with the subject and still make a profit… That would see his fame rise, fast.

The blue-white waves of the sea of stars brushed past the ship’s outer surfaces, watched by a dark haired woman in an elaborate headdress, yawning lightly as she listened to her ‘husband’ talk at length about the locking-algorithms and voice-recognition systems he’d devised for the future cities of the world of Hokat, “I think,” she said, “that we can rely on them to design all this themselves.”

“Oh very well,” he said, via the long-range telecommunications device floating over her work-space, “moving on, we’ve had near complete success with the nanocytes so far. Of three point six million test subjects in their initial release, we’ve had four cases of rejection. Our dependency is lacking, though. Of three thousand we brought beyond transmitter range, the desired symptoms were only induced in only around one thousand. I think we will need to upgrade the next software upload to count immunity factors in the general population.” Thoth continued in this vein, listing naquadah infusion in the water supplies, too, and brain chemistry readings, giving a more promising forty seven percent reaction under limited laboratory conditions.

Several other spherical communications devices floated by them, showing Sheshat and Nehmetawy, Thoth’s other two ‘women’ and several, in smaller spheres, Lesser Underlords of Thoth’s court tasked with implementing the education policies Ma’at had devised. One of these, Fabulinus, gave a brief report, “Transferring the amount of information we want done is proving difficult. It works best with younger subjects, though.”

“Lord Atum has given me some key details on how to build an elementary device to impart information. That could potentially be replicated, and solve this problem, but we would still need to decide what went into it…” Thoth said.

“Interesting,” Ma’at said, “we could probably then simply implant a great deal of what we need…” to the goa’uld’s parasitic mind, the idea had great appeal.

“It’s slow, though. I believe Atum himself is working on trimming the goa’uld genetic memory appropriately. Sia and Hu were experiments in that direction. If…” he caught himself before he questioned the dreaded lord’s ability “we were able to do that, then we could insert our own technical knowledge into the hok’tar sub-species without any of our own direct memories or character.”

“Of course, this means we’ll need to come up with a mighty good encryption system for the control system. Even if we only have rebellious reactance of a tenth of a percent, we’re talking twenty thousand hok’tar with the access to our genetic memory…”

“Well, they don’t need to know everything, merely enough for them to operate as a universally goa’uld standard technology society. Just as the naquadah levels in their bodies won’t be enough to operate a ribbon device…”

“I would like to be able to advise there…” Ma’at said with interest, “unfortunately, this Shezmu business is an irritating distraction.”

“Indeed,” said Sheshat, “I think we can spare you for a few weeks though.”


Flaring, intolerable incandescence scythed through the first group of jaffa, blasting into bloody hunks of flying meat and broken armour that clattered and sloched around the cargo bay.

The remaining four immediately turned and ran; still effectively blinded by the light involved, away down the ramp…

Char sighed, his expression turning bleak for a moment, before he remembered himself and pointed at Mierin. "Well. Sold, to the charming woman in the beautiful dress!" He tapped Linda on the head. She dazedly looked up at him, then followed his hand.

The Freestian dazedly began to walk across to Mierin, stumbling down the stairs and only catching herself at the end. Char caught himself admiring her gait as she did, and then shook his head. With a wink and nod at Mierin, he held his hand up and blew some red dust at Linda. A small, very tight top appeared on her torso.

Linda didn't notice, though, as she slowly reached Mierin and very, very slowly saluted. Char seemed to be doing some mental arithematic. "Sold for 33... I'm sorry. Sold for fifty points!" The Roanian tapped his wand on his hand, and there was a cloud of smoke.

A very attractive Kajali male was standing there, the eyes equally blank. He was dressed in nothing but a thin loincloth. Char's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked around the room, frowning just slightly as he did so. "Well. That hardly seems appropriate garb." He tapped his wand once more and a very, very thick and all-covering robe appeared around the elf. "Good." He said in a way that made it seem he had reasons besides his prickly masculinity and desire to remain the most attractive male in the room. "Now, this male appears to be a Kajali. He wasn't on my original bill, of course, but he does look like he's known some hard work. And, of course...he's..." Char growled under his breath. "Mildly attractive, one would suppose. The ideal gift for the palace harem of that Sultana in your life. Shall we start the bidding at 40?"

Mierin directed Linda to kneel next to her chair for now, and of course she did. She'd have to pester Char to reverse whatever he had done later; it simply didn't make things as much fun! In the meantime, though, the Kajali had come up for bid, and she still had most of her money. She smiled glowingly up at Char again and raised the paddle. "Forty."

Char sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Anyone else? Anyone at all? No? 40 going once... going twice... sold to the charming, beautiful and sexy woman in the back." He snapped his fingers, and the Kajali elf appeared on the ground next to Mierin, dropping down none too gently. The Roanian smiled at the elf, a little concernedly, and then he checked his watch slowly. "Well, a couple of lots, my dears. I'm selling off a couple more Roanian prisoners. One male, one female. Both pretty, both charming, of course. Shall I hear 100?"

Jev'ran peered at the newest items, considered for a few moments, particularly considered that his reason for being hear was primarily to free up storage space, then raised his placard.

"One hundred."

The goa’uld nomarch smiled, this was more like it, and there didn’t seem to be too much interest from other parties. These were not the prize stock, obviously, but they were good enough to meet his needs; they had those spectacular wings, any self respecting goa’uld would want one; either as a host, if they were over ambitious, or simply as servants – or for that matter, pillows – they were so beautiful. Perhaps even Atum himself, or the exalted lady Tefnut.

He waved to his attendant, who sighed sadly, “One hundred and… seventeen,” she said.

Jev'ran sighed, shooting a...significant...glance in the direction of the corpulent worm-carrier, then tossed his placard up into the air, caught it, and declared, in a flat, tone-less voice that was utterly inadequate to the task of repressing sheer menace...

"One hundred fifty."

Shezmu gave an expert condescending sneer in return, seeming utterly un-intimidated. He twitched his hand with the practiced idleness of an over indulged noble.

“One hundred sixty seven,” the attendant said quietly, seeming rather more intimidated than her master.

Jev'ran sighed, balanced the placard on the tip of his nose, then flicked his head up, launching the thing up a bit, to fall behind him, where he caught it without bothering to look. His other hand drummed absently against his thigh.

"One hundred ninety six."

Shezmu pulled himself up straight, "Three hundred and fifty."

Jev'ran sighed and settled back into his chair, his placard resting idly in his hand...

"Take the money, my son, praising Allah..."

The placard went up.

"Four hundred ninety."

The kid was ordained to be sold...

Shezmu reconsidered, for a moment, the worth of the two, spectacularly beautiful by dint of their race, Roanians before him. They were pretty, prettier than any human he had ever seen, and among the court of Atum, that was saying something indeed.

“Seven hundred and fifty…” he said, as his (also spectacular looking) servant waved the little placard again.