NationStates Jolt Archive

Kosse was a world of the Chronosians now. Countless years under the bootheel of Chaos had made it strong, twisted it into something beyond the comprehension of other cultures. Great towers of steel, vast Hive-Manufactoria contributed to the mighty armies of the Imperium, its people conscripted and debased, serving in warzones across the galaxy. The Sovereign Chronosian World of Kosse, a title specifically chosen to amicably offend the Republics honor, lay in the void like any other world, its harsh atmosphere not truly revealing the horrors that took place within.

Now it was being prepared. The vast Citadel, an immense Chronosian fortification said to have been forged by the hand of the Primarch Aesri himself, dominated the landscape and was even now being readied to recieve guests. Banners were held aloft by crowds of screaming, self-flagellating acolytes, each one desperate for the favor of the Gods. From one of the highest points in the citadel, Remiel himself leant forth, surrounded by black robed cultists and adepts who whispered and planned and plotted. Masaki had eluded him, fled like a coward into the void, and so he had taken time here to mark a new age, to further mock the honor and supposed dignity of Taledonian and Dratherian alike.

It pleased him to see the unworthy squirm before him. He let a chuckle slid from his lips, lightly drumming his fingers against the stonework. The invitation had been sent forth, his intentions had been relatively laid bare. Now he only needed to wait, and see what the Republic did.

The victorious youth that was Germanicus was still far off making the final arrangements for properly garrisoning Dratheria and preparing for his return to Taledon, so it was was not he who attended. No, in absence of the general it was the Consul Pratus, co-leader of the Republic, who travelled in luxury and pomp within one of the most powerful vessels within the Republic: one of the Travellian battleplates named Aristedes. His partner, Gracchus, had remained in the Republic, since both Consuls being away wouldn't sit well with the Senate or the people.

When the craft appeared suddenly within striking range of Kosse, it easily dwarfed everything else in the system, including the rather small planet. It commanded respect and obedience, and the Chronosians would know this due to their many allies in the ESUS. It was for this reason that such a warship was chosen as a diplomatic vessel, so that Remiel de Drakan, the bastard child of the Warp made great solely due to the fact that he had the blood of the god Kellerman infused within him, would be humbled. Pratus was proud, too proud, arrogant even, and he would not let it sit that he was to be mocked on a former world owned by his people. Yes, he knew his history, and he knew exactly how to deal with these clever and persuasive beasts. To begin with, he would simply let his titan hover above the so called "Sovereign Chronosian Planet of Kosse," and await their hail instead of issueing his own.

The Chronosians were never a race to be easily overawed or impressed by shows of martial power. Imperial adepts would later record that the immense vessel they brought forth spoke either to a deep seated fear of the Chronosians that bordered on the fanatical, or a desire by the Consul to compensate for his less than impressive endowement.

The Chronosians, who knew that the Taledonians owed their miserable survival to the blood of the De Drakan line that had mingled with the pitifully mortal blood of the Kellerman lineage, in a once binding pact of loyalties. The daemonic blood of Marcus had touched the sluggish fluid of Kellerman, and Remiel had never once traded blood with such sallow patrons of heathenism, a blessing some might argue. This had, of course, been after the Imperium had brought the wrath of countless down upon the Republic, shattered many of its members and taken Kosse from them. The Sovereign Chronosian World of Kosse had been transformed, remade into a bastion of Imperial might that put others to shame.

Such precautions were necessary next to such a heathenous entity as the Republic, worshipping as it did false idols, profaning themselves for the benefit of an absent creator. Where the Chronosians revered Gods who heard the prayers of their faithful and blessed them accordingly, the Taledonians as the Dratherians deluded themselves with absentee deities, deaf to their prayers.

Heathen killing heathen was still such a pleasing conceit. Too pleasing to avoid congratulating.

Unfeasibly large vessel. This is Remiel De Drakan, Emperor of all Chronosia, Master of Mankind, Scion of the Gods, Everchosen of the Profane Powers. I could go on. I welcome you to the Sovereign Chronosian World of Kosse, made greater still than ever it was by the prescence of my supreme majesty upon it.

Since your unfeasibly large Battleplate is too large to land upon the Sovereign Chronosian World of Kosse, rendered with dwarfism by many years of Taledonian abuse, I would ask that you come down upon the Sovereign Chronosian World of Kosse by some shuttle. Perhaps a less compensatory vessel, yes?

I look forward to once again being in the company of Republican friends.

Yours, Remiel De Drakan.
Emperor of all Chronosia, Master of Mankind, Scion of the Gods, Everchosen of the Profane Powers.

Unfeasibly large was an understatement. Most battleships within the galaxy were unfeasibly large, whereas battleplates were just plain rediculous. Still, they made an impressive show, especially when you saw what looked like a dust speck in comparison descending towards the planet below.

The shuttle was silver, and gleamed in the hazy, ominous skies of the destroyed world. It was interesting to see, however, how close the cultures of chaos and those of the Imperium of Man were to each other. The only variations being in the different runes and glyphs on each, one speaking of some telepath as the master of the universe, while the others spoke of bloodthirsty beings who sat on thrones of skulls. Had to be uncomfortable.

Steam shot out of the vent ports as the shuttle made groundfall, its engines rapidly cooling and ending the howl that they emmited. It had been debated whether the Consul should descend in an arce, the flying fortresses of the Neo-Romans, but it was more sensible to come in a more lightly armed transport. And just as any Taledonian would do, for they insist on tradition, Pratus descended the ramp in his senatorial garb. The red tunic he wore underneath was most comfortable, and the white toga with the embroidery of crimson on the edges hung elegantly from his shoulders, mixing with the golden braces he had on his wrists. Behind him came senators Pugnax, who was also the Aedile, the elderly Thorqumada of Dracious, and a contigent of honor guards whose armor had not been modified since previous encounters with Chronosia, so they knew very well what the soldiers looked like.

OOC: The singular is arx, plural arces.

The dark void around the Chronosian world reeked with the energies of Chaos. The wards built into the Dragon's Pride were flickering as they repelled those machinations of the Chronosian fiends. Aboard Mercer stood cloaked by deep robes his personal bodyguard surrounding him. Underneath the glimmering form of the Phantom Armor was barely visible with the brilliant form of Kusanagi resting at his side. He looked out across at the world known as Kosse. He had spent many hours assembling a dossier on the world and it's history little was known of it's current conditions. Standing silently behind him was Sister Kristi of the Sisters of Silence and Tara of the Venenum Temple they were his personal bodyguard. He stepped forward and looked down at the world below.

His eyes crackled with mysterious lightning and secrets too delicate for any human mind. He looked to his helm officers and said, "Pull alongside the battleplate and keep all weapons powered down. However I want shields to full power."

Dwarfed by the ships that surrounded her, Brain Jar decloaked just long enough to let everyone's sensors know she was there, and for the ships of the Republic to identify her. Her skipper, a cyborg known as the Metal Man, was known to the Republic as an ally. They would not fire on him or his ship.

The flying saucer was a mere hundred meters across--on the outside. The 12-kilometer battle plate made her look like a minnow sitting next to a whale. Yet, the tiny ship had vast energy reserves, multiple propulsion systems and information technology that The Republic still had not managed to match--and the Metal Man, a consummate engineer, was constantly coming up with new designs for things.

"Stuck up, isn't he?" the cyborg asked.

"That's an understatement," replied Pete, the AI that controlled most of Brain Jar's functions. Pete had started out as an emulation of the Metal Man's mind--even to the point where his name was a variation on that of his creator, Pierre Gilbert. "I can smell that one!"

"Well, let's hope that the government types don't screw up this time, and we don't have to get involved. These guys are Chronosian-influenced--religious whack jobs backed up by superbeings that call themselves gods. They don't just use torture, they enjoy it."

"Who knows--maybe Pratus can reign them in."

"Don't count on it."

(OOC: Looks like the whole gang is showing up. And thanks, Roma, I shall remember that. Arx. Anyways, your move, Chron.)

Mercer and his bodyguards approached the planet in a sleek black Thunderhawk. As it touched down to the surface it's landing ramp came down with a hiss. Stepping forward he looked at the diplomat from Taledonia with a mixture of contempt and distaste. Stepping forward Mercer's armor seemed to absorb the light around it similar to the armor worn by the assassin and Sister who were his bodyguards. A mighty death skull emblazoned on a glyph rested at the center of his chest. The glyph was but a single 'I' which was a symbol of his office and power. He simply stood there waiting for their escort to arrive.........

"I can't pick up that Battle Plate's telemeter. Do they have any markings, Pete? Can you distinguish the vessel's name?"

"Sorry, boss. No can do."

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OOC: Uh, Tal...what's your ship's name?

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IC:

"Oh well. We really should let them know why we're here. Decloak again. We'll just have to let them hail us--besides, we could stand to use a little less power anyway."

"OK--but I'm going black again the moment that any of those ships so much as charges one single weapon to hit us with."

"No problem."

Brain Jar faded back into view, between the mainline Republic ship and the Dragon's Pride, but a bit farther out from the planet than either of them.

(OOC: If you would read my posts in their entirety, you would see that it's name is Aristedes. N00b, pay attention!)

IC:

Brain Jar may have expected to be hailed, but no such message would come from the Republican battlestation. The Metal Man was regarded as a sort of rogue, popping in and out of situations seemingly at random, and while this never posed any problem(infact he was quite helpful in alot of cases,) the officers made no move to find out his intentions. Perhaps if he moved to the ground to join the discussions, however, then Pratus would announce surprise(and most likely displeasure about not being informed.)

The moment the ships touched down, the air was fileld with the mournful wail of horns, great booming echoes from the walls of the citadel setting birds to flight. Great black sillhouettes appeared, elephantine figures with the horns fused to their mouths, curving about their body as they gripped it with extra sets of arms, fingers playing over the intrumentation, milking music from the torturous instruments.

The great doors slid back, steel pulled aside to reveal warriors in gilded ornamentation that would put any honor guard to shame. They wore expertly artificed and fully practical armor, encrusted with gold and gems, rippling with seals and oaths. Here was one that spoke of battle against the heathenous forces of Dratheria, the dead mericlessly counted and displayed. From another hung a chain, laiden with guard dog tags. Bronzed skulls hung from belts, alongside Space Marine helmets dipped in gold. Others bore great banners that spoke of other campaigns, other triumphs. Kosse, Azaha, testament to dozens of wars and black crusades in the names of Gods and Men.

At their centre, dwarfing even such a vaunted gathering of well-practiced and prideful warriors, came Remiel. The plate he wore glimmered in the light, throwing off a thousand reflections from gold, silver, glass, bone. He stretched a hand out, brushing back the hair from his face with a grace that befitted a dancer, yet hid the strength of an angry god. His gauntleted fingers were ornamented with countless rings, a vast abundance of war trophies hung from his belt. Skulls sat alongside the finger bones of defeated foes, or some nameless writhing sliver of flesh. Where there was beauty, he contrasted it with horror, where there was power he backed it with a singular might.

"Welcome, my humbled guests, my friends..." He paused, smirking with wry amusement at the Dratherian delegation "Perhaps even my prodigal brothers." He smirked. Did the Dratherian think a single Sister could stand against a being such as him? Before the roaring torrent of psychic might that Remiel was, the rutting mutant was nothing but a flicker of darkness, drowned out by light much as the heathenous creeds of his foes were shattered by illumination.

"In the name of the True Gods, I bless you. And welcome you to Chronosian space."

Pratus smiled, his eyes darting back and forth between all the figures that had arrived, all of whom bore horrid trophies and ornaments of flesh and marrow; great depictions of cruelty and barbarism. Still, a philosopher might counter with the fact that the rituals to the Gods were full of blood and death as well.

"Thank you, Remiel." he said back, then, lifting his right hand upright in an outward salute, he greeted in turn. "On behalf of the Senate and People of the Republic, I, Consul Gnaeus Tulius Pratus, greet you with warmth and respect befitting the master of a proud and warlike people. I see that our subjects have also arrived. I do appologise for their shabby appearance."

"In the Imperium, serfs are dressed as befits their rank, on the discarded fineries of their betters. In most cases these are the cast-offs of whores and thiefs, but the Dratherians are little better. They prop up their profane little tribute on stolen glory, sullying the dream they claim to uphold. We are what we are, we acknowledge the vice of our devotion, but we do not pretend to be one thing and sully its memory with xenotech and deceit." He chuckled lightly, bowing his head lightly to the Consul, towering over the man.

"I greet you in turn, with the respect deserved of old friends and worthy enemies, as befit the masters of the Republic, the Founders who have secured their place among the stars."

OOC: Taggery.

Mercer smirked, "Well Remiel you forget I am different......I am older than the entirety of the human race." Kusanagi pulsed with visible power at Remiel's presence and Mercer glanced at it thoughtfully, “My rune blade remembers you as well Remiel.” He looked to Kristi momentarily as she quickly signed to him. He returned a series of hand gestures and turned his attention back to Remiel and the delegate fro the Republic, “And of my shabby appearance I am an Inquisitor of the Imperium and this is a sign of my office. Had you wanted a more formal dress we should have met on a more neutral world. You will understand my misgivings with the Ruinous Powers as our feud is many millennia old.” He looked back to Remiel and gave a formal bow of respect, for as much as he hated and reviled the Primarch he still strangely respected him as a superb warrior. Looking to his guard he smiled knowing that the appearances of both were deceiving. They were but tools to his power. He had gained much during his time trapped in the timestream. Again he spoke to Remiel, “So what do we do now?”

Aedile Pugnax had to admit it: he was impressed. It was not often that one got to see a civilization so utterly unique and alien, so brazen in its might and its defiance of all else that existed in the universe. The old Neo-Roman soldier and Senator remained in place a little behind Pratus, his craggy features remaining stern and closed - Neo-Romans were masters of the poker face - and let the Consul handle the preliminaries. Pugnax was more interested in observing and getting a better sense of these dark cousins of the Dratherians than he was in the political niceties.

"My point exactly, Mercer. You are a sign of the weakness of your Imperium, a sign of compromise to the forces of the unhuman. You are an inhuman breed, one who will not bend knee to the true powers, one who claims to stand for the purity of Mankind." He tittered lightly, almost absently. "Still, such things are behind us now. You are subordinates of worthier beings, that commends you a favor greater than once you had. Lifesbane and Worldrender remember you, John Mercer. Just as they remember Marcus De Drakan or Daniel Masaki. Lives tasted and bled dry, souls sampled and subjugated."

He gestured lightly around him. "You can see what I've done with the place, of course. A vast improvement over the old order, a much more productive bent to it I think. Dinner comes next, I'd imagine. Dinner and drinks in the citadel. There's a few people I'd like you to meet, after all." He did not turn, not showing his back, not compromising himself with any subtle show of weakness, simply the projection of power and the having of it. He let a smirk cross his features, almost jovial in his defiance, resplendant in his verbal duelling, comfortable in mockery.

"Shall we?"

"But of course, my good man, I would very much like to taste what Chronosia has to offer in the form of drink. Lead on!" He paused for a moment, a bit of confusion on his features, mixed with a hint of fear. "I do hope, however, that your food is not in the same manner as your dress?"

A strange figure appeared in their midst. About two meters tall, it was basically spherical, and dull green in color, with a pair of column-like legs descending to tank treads on the ground that supported it. The body was covered in weapons, to the point where it was difficult to determine just exactly what was what--though there was a small missile launcher plainly visible on the right side. In the front, a small, circular piece of shiny metal reflected the light as no other part of it did. At its top, two red spots glowed from within a small, hat-like projection.

If Remiel, the Dratherian Sister, or any other psionic sensitive were to come close to him, he or she would find that his psionic abilities were lessened. A powerful adept such as Remiel, however, would also be able to sense an aura of chaos, pure and untamed, beneath this. None would be able to read his mind. If he was careful, Remiel would also be able to sense that what he was looking at was not precisely a robot, either--there was a life form within the machine. It would feel similar to, but not exactly like, a human.

"Forgive me for coming unannounced," it said in a synthesized voice, "but I was afraid I'd miss the party. I'm the Metal Man, and I'm working on behalf of the Republican Province of Marionetonia."

Having cloaked sometime ago and descended through the atmosphere, Brain Jar hovered silently nearby.

In line with my earlier observations, the Metal Man said to himself. Either these--whatever they've become--are extremely arrogant, they're extremely fearful...or both.

Remiel laughed gently. "Oh nothing to fear, our food is quite palatable. My legion and myself crave only the finest things for ourselves, indulging our basest pleasures. There are food and women here in abundance, pleasures and splendors you've never dreamed of, gifts from the Prince of Excess" He bowed his head in worship before turning swiftly to the robot, a smile breaking across his face as he regarded the anomoly.

"Not at all. All are welcome here. Have I not opened my halls to old enemies and new friends? Come, Metal Man, I'm sure we can accomodate you." Remiel radiated power, a strength gifted by the Gods who had remade him, who had blessed him with their glory, to do their work. It was not fear that drove the gears of Chronosian power, slicked with the blood of the unworthy, it was the yearnign for power, the pulsing of a darkly zealous heart, nestled in the mechanisms.

Mercer smiled almost softly, Sister Kristi was currently keeping her powers in check for the moment. She was one of the highest ranking Sisters achieving an Inquisitorial ranking as an Omega-class Psyker falling into the name of Untouchable. Many of her sisters were this way but she was….different. She had been modified and enhanced by arcane researches done by the Culexus Temple and the Mechanicum themselves. He looked delicately at Remiel following him with confidence knowing that if Remiel wanted him dead here he would have done so already. The thing that drove Mercer was the knowledge of power and more importantly his mission to save humanity. He may not be completely human but he still would not falter in his endeavors to aid them.

Thorqumada’s old face showed nothing as he surveyed the planet he now found himself on, such was one of the skills he had mastered in his centuries of life. Thorqumada was indeed ancient by Dracian standards but the wrinkles that crept upon his face had yet to dominate his features, his long white hair waved around in the wind, and he walked unsupported by any device dressed in the senatorial garb of the Republic. Thorqumada stood almost eye to eye with the space marines but he found himself shadowed by the towering Remiel.

Thorqumada found the scene before them a point of interest as well. He felt as if he had been flung into one of the ancient legends or arcane tales. It was unlike any human world he had ever seen. But with this came mostly revulsion. He knew the Chronosia men before had some roots with the augmented space marines and the others such as the musicians where defiantly altered as well, though Thorqumada suspected arcane influence not that of machinery. The Metal Man’s appearance was also an oddity but not entirely unexpected to Thorqumada. All together this would defiantly make for an interesting visit though in what way would have to be determined.

"I am glad for your hospitality," the cyborg replied. With calculated ease, he joined the others.

He did not see this planet as chaotic--rather, he found it tyrannical. It was all so completely ordered--it was just that it was not the standard order that he found elsewhere. Still, he would not allow himself to live on a planet governed as this one was--he was too likely to fall in badly with the local tyrant--but neither would he attempt to wage war here, just yet. Instead, he adhered to a basic component of the Code of Respect that he practiced: do not force others to live by your ways unless they first attempt to force you to live by theirs. Violence only after peace has been stripped away.

Remiel moved along with those other guests as they made their way towards the imposing mass of the Citadel, a vast symbol of Chronosian glory. Murals covered the walls as they passed within its gates, displaying the great fields of combat which had raged as the Imperium had pryed the world from Taledonian hands. Here was the might of the Republic cast down, as enemies circled about, snarling daemons at the gates of Taledonian power. Others showed the hands of Chaos descending to save Kosse from itself, to remake it as a world of strength and power. Runes and sigils danced across the floors, walls and ceilings, ablaze with a brilliant intensity.

"I cannot fault my sibling in his construction, nor in his devotion to the art of siege and fortification" Remiel spoke, as though seeking idle conversation with his guests, gesturing as he did to the Silent Castellans. They were Terminator armored Astartes, cloaked in the colors of the Steel Fists, Legion of Aesri. Remiel chuckled lightly. "He insists on forging a new group of them for each of his achievements, and tasks them to protect me. As though I could not protect myself." He drummed a hand reassuringly onto one of his Honor Guard's shoulders. "Or that Turel here could not defend me"

The Marine nodded, if he was awed or grateful for the confidence he did not show it. Instead he continued to walk as Remiel stepped into a vast room, long tables laiden with food, glittering with elegant glass and gilded finery. He paused to snatch up a thin glass of nameless spirit, throwing it back with contemptable ease. "Welcome now, to my hall. We prepared it for quite a few, but none should go to waste. I'm glad that some of you would show your face. I think it's time that we had a talk, for our...Organisations, as it were, to meet and discuss."

The Optical Scanners registered the works. If the Metal Man's suit had had a head, he would have shaken it. If he had a mouth, he would have laughed. Typical totalitarian, he thought.

In a truly chaotic world, there would be no government of any kind. There would be no strongman capable of asserting his will over all others. There would be no unity such as was presented here. Rather, there would be constant strife. It would make the slave society of the Taledonians seem mild by comparison.

Then again, in some ways, this strongman already did.

Whatever else they did, the pictures did not inspire any faith in their patron's diplomacy. In fact, it served to increase the paranoia that had been a part of the Metal Man ever since an unknown species had decided to kidnap a young man named Pierre Gilbert and slice away most of his body while he was still conscious. The shock set the venom.

Whatever Remiel may have had in mind, the Metal Man was certain that this was not just another social call. Once again, he thanked his foresight that he had eschewed a humanoid contact suit in favor of one with better defensive capabilities...and for the esper-damping that had been a part of him ever since Pierre Gilbert had become the Metal Man...and for the fact that his friend Pete was still hovering invisibly nearby.

The place reeked of conflict. The cyborg's every sense told him that there was one nearby. Either Remiel was in conflict with some third party, or he had the intention of coming into conflict with the Republic and its many friends and allies. Neither possibility particularly excited the leader's most recent guest. Hopefully, he had underestimated the Metal Man's ability to defend himself as badly as he had misunderstood the cyborg's culinary habits. He "ate" heavy water.

Enjoying the mosaics and alien decorating of the citadel, the Consul moved forward, only slightly behind his host to show respect. After all, it WAS Remiel's house, and there would be no breach of social protocal here.

"My history may be a bit hazy, Remiel," he said in response to the chit-chat that the Chronosian Emperor was making, "But I believe your artists exagerate in their depictions of the fall of Kosse. You have quite the force rallied against your men, when, if I recall from history classes, we had garrisoned but a few legions on Kosse. Three at the most. And in those times, before the reforms, that made hardly a force to equal the size and strength of the Azaha swarm along with your armies of darkness."

As they entered the banquet hall, a smile crept across Pratus' face, his eyes glittering with delight. It was one of the things that Taledonians and Chronosians would always have in common: A desire for every pleasure available. Both pantheons of Gods worshipped by the two peoples demanded it from them, and thus it was a common sight at political parties within the capitol.

Making a point of sitting right beside Remiel, who had without surprise taken the head of the table, he took a more modest sip from his goblet than his host had. "Well, this is rather exquisite! If anything else, I must secure import rights for this. It's almost as good as the top Sarian vintages."

Mercer sat as his bodyguards stood behind him. He looked over at Remiel and tried to glean some of his thoughts through the Warp but the foul gods of Chaos had blessed him with too much protection. Looking carefully at the wine in his hand he took a sip. His tastes were anything but refined having spent the span of eons visiting strange exotic cultures. His distaste for the foul Chaos worshiping scum of Chronosia would not sour his manners. His enhanced physiology allowed his body to break down every chemical in the draught as he sipped it. He spoke almost cautiously, "So Remiel what have you called us here for? I imagine it must be good for you to have called an Inquisitor.....especially one as hated by you as myself."

Remiel leant forward as he took his seat, laughing jovially at the conversations that ensued, letting his senses run to riot as he plucked a sliver of sweet meat from a plate, popping it swiftly into his mouth. "Perhaps we have provided the scene some of our own artistic liscence, true. But too the victor go the spoils and the writing of histories, do they not?" He smiled lightly. "I'm glad that you approve of our selections, the finest harvests of many worlds, the greatest spoils of countless victories. I'm sorry if this proves ill-fitting for your associate, I never expected that a thing such as he would come." He let his words be directed to the consul while idly gesturing to the Metal Man, turning to offer it a brief smirk. "What can I get you?"

He paused at the Dratherians words, taking a moment to sip from another goblet before letting his smile return, and laughter drink from his lips. "I do so love when you refere to yourself as such, Inquisitor Mercer, it always tickles me pink. Makes it so very obvious how far your kind has fallen to name one such as you Inquisitor. There'll be daemons running the Ordo Malleus, I'd imagine and Genestealer Cults overseeing the bureaucracy of the Hereticus. And you, well you must be Xenos, must you not? To complete the mockery of your society?

But you're right, as much as you are wrong as a culture, there is most pressing matters to be discussed by us. I am the Scion of Chaos, the very chosen of the Gods. I who returned from beyond the veil to make their will manifest throughout Chronosia. To shatter my fathers realm and reforge it, to make all see that their prattling and whimpering as warbands and adversaries served the Gods, but not as much as we could together. I was the voice of the Undivided, the Marked of Chaos Ascendant, that I might bend the forces of the Gods, all the Gods, to my service. By the blood of my father the Imperium was cleansed, and in my ascendancy I tore asunder entire worlds, burned whole systems, brought so many cultures to their knees, always with the singular message. Convert to the glories of Chaos, or be destroyed.

You might wonder, Consul, why with all our martial might, we do not savage the Republic. The truth is that my father was weak in regards to you, always impressed by the line Kellerman and the blood that surged in its veins. It may surprise you to know that I share my fathers respect of what you have accomplished, especially to see you conquer two great enemies of the Gods. You have slain the soulless fiends of the Star Gods, and you followed on from that to humble the Dratherians, as we have done before."

He paused, his voice had been soft, yet filled with power, now he paused to drink again. "I have brought you here to congratulate you, Consul, upon your victory over Death, and your victory over those who are heathens even by the laws and structures they claim to venerate. I have come here to once again reiterate the Chronosian respect for fine enemies, enemies who do not rely upon trickery and deceits as the Dratherians, or some Sithspawn might. No, we congratulate you simply upon being warriors, with a strength that would please Khorne, and the love of the finer things that must surely bring a smile to Slaanesh.

This, Consul, is for you, and all your people...And it stands as a sign that the Imperium and the Empire that it..." He paused, chuckling as he considered his words. He was not some errant lapdog of the Empire, he controlled its armies, he sent its soldiers forth in bloody war while the Sith tended to their politics. "The Empire that it supports and jointly leads, wish to offer their hand in congratulations, thanks and mayhap even something far more formal." He sipped lightly, letting his gleeful smile return as he let his eyes settle upon Mercer.

"Everything to your taste, I take it?" His voice boomed, directed at all gathered.

Mercer simply smiled watching Remiel bask in his own self-proclaimed glory. Even as Remiel made eye contact with Mercer he would see the burning sign of the thunderbolt in his eyes. Remiel had not been the only one to return from the veil. Mercer had died once before as well only to return blessed by the Emperor. Later again in combat he met an ill fate as he was cast through the STC. Even now his veins coursed with the power of the timestream. It seemed to amplify his psychic powers and gave him a better understanding of his surroundings.

He looked directly at Remiel and simply laughed, "I will not lie that this food is quite delectable however a bit overly indulgent. Of course this is to be expected. Well you are wrong in assuming I am xenos. In fact my genetic material is much the same as a humans I only carry twenty-five pairs of chromosones, making my gene-sequence only slightly different than that of a human. Of course you aren't exactly human either are you Remiel, no Primarch is."

He looked down and smiled softly yet again before speaking, “I am an Inquisitor, yes but I rightly earned my title. My experience in battling your kind is much needed in these times. And you would do well to remember that we have drawn each other’s blood in the past. I seem to remember you being bandaged up for weeks because of that where I healed in only hours.”

"Oh but it makes you so more and less, Mercer. A single extra chromosome can render a promising child retarded. Why, even Chimpanzees have an extra chromosome compared to their human cousins. What does that make you, John?" Remiel met his gaze with no hint of fear. The Dratherians could often talk a good game, but did they honestly think they could make a difference, especially now that they had been so deliciously neutered. "A monkey? Or an imbecile? Or just another aberrant species, so different to the basic man? I am different, true enough, I am venerated upon the altar of genetic glory so that mankind might live, more free and better provided for than your archaic institutions."

He chuckled. "I bear my scars proudly, Mercer. I don't rely upon tricks and ever more exaggerated abilities to do my job, to redeem the fractured shards of mankind. But then you've never really appreciated subtlety have you? I simply wait for the day when the next fortuitous occasion reduces you to nothing more than mewling spawn. A single being, after all, can only take so much before it over-exerts itself. One can be a Master, as I am, or one can attempt to be a jack of all trades, and command nothing but their own inflated sense of self worth" Remiel tittered lightly. "Luckily I am a generous God to forgive you for your aberrance."

(OOC: And you will insist on quoting 300)

IC:

Taking the hint from Remiel, Pratus sampled the meat that his host had taken. It was an interesting taste, different than domesticated meat, suiting more the flesh of wild game. Still, it was fair enough, but perhaps one of the other selections would agree with the Consul more.

"Well I thank you for your praise, my good man, but really you inflate things once again. Those machines that popped up in our research facility weren't much of a problem once we got the proper soldiers there. The guards scientists take are rarely that experienced, but they refuse to take Republican troops. Probably because Marionetonian mercenaries are cheaper, as the Metal Man can tell you."

He nodded to the Metal Man at the comment, including him within the conversation. "And the Dratherians, well. I will not comment on that too much, for I am no great friend of our victorious general that subdued them, but I will agree that it was done very well. I mean, look at this Inquisitor. He is very proud, and even though you may dispute it, he is a warrior. But that is all he is, he has no tactical sense. Any fool can see something wrong when an invasion force strikes at the area with the largest concentration of resistance possible, tying up their forces so that other forces could move in and conquer. They then made the mistake of attacking us. The late Consul Yaltar made the mistake of removing the Loriiean garrison, which gave our former foes the ability to destroy our innocents, but such is war.

"Now then, what is this 'more formal' issue you wish to bring up?"

This was why the Metal Man tried to stay out of politics. Take a room full of overfed, overprimped crybabies, add a lethal dose of testosterone and mix in a good round or two of wars that have moved on, and you end up having to listen as they waste their every minute bragging about themselves and insulting each other.

It really got the cyborg's goat. War injuries? None of these children knew the meaning of pain! Chromosomes? Racial purity? Family lines? What utter nonsense! You are what you are, and none of your ancestors can change that fact, no matter how they try.

Oh, the Metal Man was involved in the Dratherian conflict, alright. His people had been tending the refugees that none of these infantile ubermensch-wannabes could spare so much as an afterthought for! Even now, should he broach the subject, the cyborg was certain that they would unreasonably regard these innocent people as beneath even their contempt. How little they knew or cared of what they did.

That was why the Marionetonians put him here. Even though they did not share his sensibilities, they felt that he might be able to exert some influence to prevent these people from extending their folly. He was the antithesis to the others' thesis--the balancing point--and it didn't really matter to him that they were using him as such for ends quite different from his own.

Still, he held back his words, even though they burned in his mind. If he spoke as he wanted to, it would only inflame their already-oversized egos. No good could come of it. Prateus had already cleared away enough of the affects of his testosterone poisoning to ask a reasonable question--the first reasonable words in quite some time--and the Metal Man really wanted to hear its answer.

Mercer inwardly smiled, If only they knew what was really going on....of course without having been a part of that most secret meeting they would have no clue. The Taledonians had wondered how the Imperium had known when to come to aid them. It was all a ploy that Mercer, Peras, and Kivpa had been behind. The whole war had been orchestrated by them. Mercer's knowledge of the STC had allowed him the means to enact his plan. This war would set mankind back onto track with his destiny. The Valley of Tears would sire a new race of psykers which would be under his watchful gaze. It was in fact a combination of Taledonian technology and Dracian sorcery that had caused this. Of course Peras and his Legion had aided the process. It was in this Valley that Kane would be born and create his manifest destiny as the Master of Time.

He looked to the over confident Remiel and almost laughed. To Mercer he seemed to be too much so considering he was cowed by Mercer once before. He looked him up and down and noticed the changes to his Warp presence but it would still not be enough.....not yet at least. Remiel had a portion to play in the coming battle as did the Consul. All the Primarch's would come to play their part in due time. He looked to Remiel, "And my people were created in man's image and modified to be their Guardians for all of time. Which is why we are eternal."

"Created in mankind's image when you pre-date mankind, really John you have to sort out that story of yours. People might start talking." Remiel smirked, "Nothing is eternal, little man. Nothing but the Gods, who in their glory have blessed me with a part in their grand plan. Humanity is nothing but the tool of the Warp, the great weapon to be wielded, the very instrument of damnation." He smiled. "But there are more pressing matters than the ascendancy of my Gods and the fate of the galaxy. I did call you here for a reason, well, not you Mercer. I just enjoy seeing you so..." He gestured to the Consul, "Whats the word? Whipped? Broken? Subjugated? Subservient! That works. It's good to see you so subservient, so humbled.

I have called you here, representatives of the Republic, their allies and their vassal-slaves, to propose an alliance. A great war draws to a close. With the eviction of the Coredians from Jurai, the rebellion is reduced to a nomadic fleet of refugees and military vessels. Once they are found, the Coredian scourge and their terrorist associates swatted from the void, then that portion of our operations shall be at an end." Remiel sipped lightly at his wine, pausing for a moment, allowing these facts to sink in.

"The Galactic Empire has always stood for peace in their own sphere, while utilising the unique talents of the True Imperium to hamper their foes and spread their influence, tempered with my own. The Empire finds its worlds oddly afflicted with the effects of our faith, with the whispers of our creed. This pleases us, and while it cannot last it certainly provides us with an amusing distraction on which to feast our attention.

I am here to suggest that the Republic and the Empire know peace. Who better than we, who have honored our agreements and our pacts and yet proven our martial worth? Who better than I, leader of armies and men, to set down the words that will bind us." He paused, letting his sardonic gaze drift, dripping dark amusement, to Mercer. "As brothers."

When serpents bargain for the right to slither. There was so much about which Remiel was misinformed that the cyborg didn't know where to begin. He would start with a simple question.

"And if we should refuse to be bound?" the Metal Man asked.

He was tempted to lose his temper and point out that Remiels' gods were no more eternal than the Metal Man himself, and that, the last time that they had met in combat, he had walked away and Khorne had not. He still controlled himself, though. If the situation was as he foresaw, there would be plenty of time for attitude adjustment later.

Remiel had simply smiled as he turned to face the Metal Man, truly not caring what the thing thought or didn't think. He shrugged lightly. "If you are not bound, then you are not bound. These are not chains that I offer, but rather the Empire's friendship and assurances. The Taledonians know our intentions, they've dealt with us as both friend and enemy. You, on the other hand, know relatively little of us."

He paused, almost contemplating his words. "You mistake my gracious offer for some trick to ensnare the Republic. Why would this be so, when all the Empire desires is peace? The chance to settle its society. I think the Emperor finds himself rather annoyed by the spread of my faith and finds the need to reshuffle, to set his house in order as it were."

"You know even less about me," the Metal Man replied. "Particularly, you have absolutely no understanding of the workings of my mind. I presume nothing. I admit that I find your arrogance repulsive, but that holds true for the other so-called leaders in this room as well. If it were a dieing sin, none of us would be in this room. If I handed out lessons in manners to every child who crossed me, I'd be no better than a child myself. I used harsh words to test the peacefulness of your intentions. Over the millenia, I have heard countless offers of peace that were little more than thinly-veiled threats of war. I had to know which this was. As you spoke, I not only took in your words, but measured the stress of your voice. Either you were telling the truth, or you're one of the best liars who's ever lived. I conclude that your ego hasn't totally overridden your intelligence, and that your offer is genuine. We can work together."

"I never let my ego color my intelligence, Metal Man, nor do I allow my arrogance to cloud my judgement regarding those who deserve my respect. You are right, I don't know you, but I know that you are as ingrained in the Republic as the Taledonians, and so I suppose deserve a measure of that self-same respect." He bowed his head lightly. "I'm glad you can see that we can work together, that my intentions are true" He raised a hand to his lips, coughing lightly.

"And that I ask so very little in return."

Peace. It was a vulgar word. One passed around lightly and symbolised a type of weakness. Peace was a hault to conquest, and as such it was as if a roadblock to the much more desired meaning of the word "order." Still, like much in the strange tongue of the universe that has been adopted by all without resistance, it could mean other things. It could mean the same as order, or it could simply mean friendship. Or even still, it could mean sitting undisturbed by a pond, a fishing line slipping discreetly below the glossy surface.

"Personally, Remiel, I see nothing that would prevent this action. I know that our two peoples have not always seen eye to eye, but in my lifetime the Empire, and the Imperium for that matter, has always been neutral to us." The grapes were large and juicy, just right to complement the poultry he had stolen to his plate. "And it is sensible that two great powers such as ourselves should make friends. I can think of no other who could stand before us if the Republic and the Empire were working together."

Raising his fork to place a polite cut-off of the chicken into his mouth, Pratus chewed with ease before swallowing. It was quite well done, this feast. Dignified and delicious; a festival fitting for a delegation from the Senate. "I do wonder, however, how commited you would be to this arrangement. Our records state that you are apart of the rather powerful country club known as the Extra Solar Union of Systems? They have the reputation as being the strongest force that can assemble, and they would have the power to crush both the Empire and Republic, if they willed it. Now, hypothetical question, my good man, but if a war were to break out between the Republic/Empire and the ESUS, who would you side with?"

"Such is the universe, such is war that any such occurence would be wrought with mitigating factors. Those would each have to be considered in due time, of course. One cannot simply pledge himself to many powers and be expected to fight himself as a result. No, that would depend on the circumstances." A circumspect smile as he glanced about the table.

"Now, am I right in assuming that the Republic can appropriate any resource it so wishes from its vassal, that might aid or better engender the future of the Republic?"

"That is correct," Pratus stated with no limit of pride. "The ressources of Dratheria are at our disposal, however at the moment we see but the ability to recruit auxiliaries. Their economy is a bit in shambles at the moment, and recovering only with the help of Republican companies. Through them we can acquire anything we wish, or we could simply demand it of the government should the businesses demand a high price. Market economies, no?"

OOC: the rather powerful country club known as the Extra Solar Union of Systems

xD Thats going on the forums.

"We ask but one thing in return for this declaration of peace and prosperity. The Republic will provide the Imperium with 5% of all Dratherian gene-seed samples, since they have taken them from the shared legacy that is the old Imperium." Remiel chuckled lightly.

"The Dratherians are little more than scavengers, graverobbing from our shared heritage. With far more power and far more claim to the old legacies, we see it as our just right to profit off of the Dratherian spoils, to benefit from the defilement of an old corpse, as they have done. Not that they stick to the singular, infested as they by multitudes of vile technologies, beset by manifold heresies.

Can you provide this, Consul?"

Mercer simply stood up and looked Remiel in the eyes, "With no disrespect to the consul he cannot and will not supply these things. There are few in our government who know of the location of our gene-seed stores. Furthermore it is our understanding in the agreement signed between our two nations that sovereignty is to be maintained with the oversight of the Republic. I will also cite the non-interference clause with our nation's religion and to attempt to seize gene-seed from our reserves would be in direct violation of the treaty signed. So if the Republic wishes to maintain their honor and integrity they would do well to abide to their end of the agreement as we have done to our end." Kusanagi thrummed with audible power the mighty rune blade exuding it's aura of strength around Mercer.

He looked to the Consul and spoke in a very civil tone especially considering the circumstances, "It will also be noted that the stores of gene-seed do not singularly belong to the Dratherian government but is shared by the Imperium of Man. So to try and take gene-seed would cause a mess of political problems with a number of nations. Seeing as the appropriation of all gene-seed is decided by the High Lords of the Imperium and the Space Marine Legions. Also the companies you speak of will soon be off of contract. We will handle the military rebuild personally. We only needed some assistance in the rebuilding of the civilian populace." He reached into a satchel and pulled free a copy of the treaty signed between the two governments. He looked directly at Remiel his piercing eyes boring into the Primarch's blackened soul, "You would also do well to show political courtesy in not defiling the name of our Imperium with such wild accusations." Looking to the Consul he said, "With all due respect Lord Pratus this is not up for negotiation for they wish to defile our most holy warriors. We have agreed to aid you in any way possible however this is just one way in which we cannot help."

"I would state again, Dratherian that we have as much claim to it as you. We are brothers, with as much claim to the glories of the Old Imperium as you have, if not more. We are a singular power, who deserve a token of your generosity here and now, to secure the very future of those you serve." He sighed, as if genuinely agrieved by the situation.

"I tell you what. 2% of all existing stocks, and we shall call it a deal. I have no wish to defile anything. I wish to assess for myself the genic validity of the Dratherians. Such a race that engages in technological heresy must have little or less regard for their own flesh, or for the hallowed mysteries of the Gene-seed. For all I know, the Dratherians spit on my legacy as keenly as they do their own.

You have stolen from the graves of greater men than you will ever bem, Dratherian. Are you afraid to hold yourself to account, Inquisitor?"

The Metal Man couldn't help but laugh.

"Next," he said, "I suppose you'll be asking for the genomes of my various internal organs. Though individually different, they are all, after all, irrevocably human.

"I have a counterproposal--one that all parties are free to accept. In return for the digital mappings of the five percent of Dratherian gene-seeds, which can be used to recreate them in exact detail, the Chronosians will supply the technology used to...modify...the musicians we saw earlier. I have a genetic editor, but it is clumsy to use and can easily kill those whose genomes it alters. Is your technology any safer?

"We will save for later argument about the hypocrisy of irrationally holding the human genome above all others while simultaneously altering the genomes of some to cause them to become...other than human."

Mercer looked to the Metal Man with fire in his eyes, "No such thing shall be done.....I have a more acceptable proposal." He looked back to Remiel, "You will get 5% on this condition. The Repleetah System is a neutral system between our territories in the Centurion Galaxy. There we will pick a planet and the Republic will be allowed to build the necessary genetor laboratories. Here our genetors and your genetors will be allowed to stringently test the gene-seed of our Legions. Then we can make sure that all you are testing for is the purity of the gene-seed. There will be no alternative. Now it is your turn to hold yourself to account." He stared Remiel dead into his eyes like he did when he first measured Remiel for what he was.

"Gene-seed is more than simple genomic information. It is the vector by which men are transformed into Astartes, by which mere mortals become the perfect weapons that the Dratherians and I rely upon." Remiel sighed as he slipped another treat from a plate to his mouth, drumming the fingers of his other hand lightly against the table.

"As to you, Mercer. That's not really me getting it, is it? That's you waving it under my nose in the presence of others, trusting sacred gene-seed to the eyes and senses of foreign powers, and having it under your thumb that you might tamper with the process.

My genetors have served well since my father first liberated the Chronosian people and led them to the stars, championing the dream that you mock with your attempts to replicate it. You make a mockery of the dead dream that you seek to perpetuate. You have defiled the corpse of the Old Imperium, dragged bones from the ground and sought to prostitute them as your own, defiling them with your manifold heresies.

I make no excuses as to what I am, I have nothing to be held to account for. You are an abomination, and it is only fitting that we too profit from your crimes. A single tithe measure, and the Republic is secure in the knowledge that it shall know only the friendship of the Imperium and the Empire. Your play-Imperium has no such assurances, does it?"

"Come now, you cannot be that stupid?" Pratus scoffed at Mercer. "Even if you cancel the government contracts, those companies are already too deeply rooted in your nation to get them out. Thus is the benifit, and they will stay within our first colony, and shall spread to the others when we make them. Your economy is tied to ours now, whether you like it or not."

He sipped the wine, ate some cheese, and let out a small burp. "Oh, excuse me. Anyways, you are also wrong. The terms given to you by Germanicus clearly state that you are subject to the will of the Senate, and as I represent the Senate here, I can demand anything I want of you. Do not forget your place, and do not attempt to tarnish our honor."

"I will agree, however, to having a joint research facility.
administered by the Republic, of course, and used by all three of us. That way, we all benifit, nay?"

"Gene-seed is more than simple genomic information. It is the vector by which men are transformed into Astartes, by which mere mortals become the perfect weapons that the Dratherians and I rely upon." Remiel sighed as he slipped another treat from a plate to his mouth, drumming the fingers of his other hand lightly against the table.


"And this is relevant BECAUSE...? It matters little what it is used for if it can be recreated from the information given. I merely sought to give Mercer a method by which he could satisfy your request and yet not lose any of this substance that he seems to find so precious." "Perfect weapons," he chortled at the lower limits of his audio volume. "That's what they said about me once. How pathetic."

"As to you, Mercer. That's not really me getting it, is it? That's you waving it under my nose in the presence of others, trusting sacred gene-seed to the eyes and senses of foreign powers, and having it under your thumb that you might tamper with the process."

"You were the one who spoke of brotherhood and trust," the Metal Man reminded him.

My genetors have served well since my father first liberated the Chronosian people and led them to the stars, championing the dream that you mock with your attempts to replicate it. You make a mockery of the dead dream that you seek to perpetuate. You have defiled the corpse of the Old Imperium, dragged bones from the ground and sought to prostitute them as your own, defiling them with your manifold heresies.

"I make no excuses as to what I am. I have nothing to be held to account for. You are an abomination, and it is only fitting that we too profit from your crimes. A single tithe measure, and the Republic is secure in the knowledge that it shall know only the friendship of the Imperium and the Empire. Your play-Imperium has no such assurances, does it?"

"I beg to differ," the Metal Man replied. "You speak as if the means that others employ are heretical, yet you use the same processes yourself. You speak of the trust of others as if it were a requisite, yet you will not extend that trust yourself. You talk of friendship in the same breath that you use to refer to your 'friend' as an abomination.

"Your contradictions haunt you, Remiel. If you want to be a negotiator and a maker of peace, be that. If you want to be a conquorer and a maker of war, be that. You cannot be both."

"The Dratherians are a debased culture who care nothing for the purity of their own technology, let alone the purity of such a precious resource. They cannot be trusted to see to the legacy of the culture whose memory they cannibalise, no more than a child can be trusted with it's fathers gun. Between Mercer and his contradictory existence and you, the once and former perfect weapon, I wonder if I am ever to be surrounded by short sighted failures." A sigh of perfect exasperation slid from his lips. Let this cyborg think what it wished, it did not understand the cultural enmity which defined Chronosia and Dratheria, nor the importance of the currency they dealt in.

"The trust of others is required. I have had many favorable dealings with the Taledonians down through the years, I cannot say the same for their oddities nor their pets. You speak of men of peace when you come in the garb of a machine of war, rather than something befitting of human purity. You come as a thing amongst men, and seek to lecture me on what I am?

You know nothing of me nor what I have created save the surface impressions whatever optical sensors you possess in lieu of eyes have taken in. I will not be judged by an ignorant trash-can, holding whatever remains of your mortal form."

He turned from the Metal Man to the Consul, a relaxed smile flowing back onto his features. "You understand what I ask, Taledonian, you understand what is at stake here. Ever have we had an understanding, each open to the others culture. You even hold a token of our grace and our splendor, the articles of our faith by which exalted Daemons might be imprisoned in flesh.

Perhaps having such a facility would be...Agreeable. Assuming that we can retain a single sample in each case, after the tithe volume has been suitably analysed to our satisfaction. I do look forward to examining your vaunted genetic histories, Dratherian. It will be most illuminating."

You know nothing of me nor what I have created save the surface impressions whatever optical sensors you possess in lieu of eyes have taken in. I will not be judged by an ignorant trash-can, holding whatever remains of your mortal form."

"You cannot escape this, any more than I can escape being judged by an arrogant, bigoted hypocrite," the Metal Man replied. "Tell again how my appearance defines me while you talk of surface impressions, oh he of the perfect self-consistency.

"Don't play word games with me, Remiel. You will not win."

He turned from the Metal Man to the Consul, a relaxed smile flowing back onto his features. "You understand what I ask, Taledonian, you understand what is at stake here. Ever have we had an understanding, each open to the others culture. You even hold a token of our grace and our splendor, the articles of our faith by which exalted Daemons might be imprisoned in flesh.

Perhaps having such a facility would be...Agreeable. Assuming that we can retain a single sample in each case, after the tithe volume has been suitably analysed to our satisfaction. I do look forward to examining your vaunted genetic histories, Dratherian. It will be most illuminating."

OOC: I need to stop this. All this phony anger is affecting my mind, leaving me too drained to tend to other business.

(OOC: Aren't politics fun, Mar?:D)

IC:

"Then I believe we are all agreed. Mercer, I expect the name of another of your worlds to set up our next enclave. Preferably one close to where you keep your gene-seed that we will be researching, and close to other scientific capitols within your nation as well. We will be sure to construct it large enough so that the Chronosian and Dratherian sections of the research area are seperated well enough..."

Sitting out of thought and mind of those arguing in the chamber over the future course of the Dratherian gene-seed, a man wearing a light field-gray uniform and polished jack boots of a Fleet officer. His slicked back hair was the color of steel and his eyes icy blue. He sat in a large plush chair decorated along the lines which most Chronosians considered in good taste, meaning it was articulated with figures of demonic entities spilling their intestines to please one perverse god or another. The man listened quite intently to the conversation.

While the Empire of Thrashia had lent hardly any aid, and it was hardly needed, to the Chronosian war effort against the Dratherians, his Excellency had seen fit to send an envoy to observe the end of the bloody affair and to judge aright the course which Thrashia should take in helping Remiel in his efforts to assuage the wounds of war and see how the Empire could benefit as well.

While he would have liked to barge in with a riposte to the 'Metal-Man' who seemed to believe himself the avatar of moral dignity, Moff Alec stayed silent. Better to watch and let Remiel handle them himself.

Mercer seemed to relax momentarily, “Well Consul I am sorry to inform you that much in the same way as our ‘capitol’ you will not be permitted to be near the main stores of gene-seed. Those rest in only two places in the entirety of the Dratherian territory and both locations are kept top secret. Also out of the gene-seed that will be sent to the genetor labs to be constructed on Repleetah V you will only have access to gene-seed samples from eighteen Legions. Additionally an Inquisitor and their chosen retinue which is to include genetors from both nations is to be present at the close of each day to take visual stock of each sample of gene-seed. At no time is the gene-seed to leave the laboratories for another location. You should understand that however Chronosia and the Dratherian government share similar roots that the collective unity of the Imperium of Man sought out this gene-seed we now use. Also know that we spent hundreds of years to produce these Legions and that if the Chronosia government wishes to use the gene-seed for any other purpose they can seek it out themselves. As for the Inquisitors from Dratheria they will be hand-picked by me from the Ordo Malleus. This will meet the wishes the Chronosian government has to test the purity of our gene-seed. Unless you have another reason for wanting it Remiel?” Then turning to the Consul he said, “Your next enclave is to be built on the world of Eterra. It is a paradise world in the Shuvian System not far from the headquarters of the Departmento Munitorium. However I suggest the enclave be kept small as to preserve the beauty of the world.” He pulled out a data slate and put it on the table, “If you will both sign then we shall conclude our business regarding the sacred gene-seed…..”

A scowl crossed Pratus' features, and he stared at his Republican fellows, sharing his disgust with them. Turning back to Mercer, he almost exploded. "How dare you say what we can and cannot do! We are the Republic! You are but a vassal, and as such we shall do whatever the bloody hell we want! By the Gods, slaves demanding things of their masters!"

He downed the rest of his goblet, which until now he had been sipping lightly as to be polite, and called for another which he drank quickly as well. "I will conceed, however, that a rather untouched world of natural beauty may be more appropriate for a research center and light colonisation. As for the question of what gene-seed we shall see, that is another thing you should not presume to order us around with. We shall see any that we so desire upon request, as it is ours by right of conquest. Besides, what problems will you have sharing your information with your new allies. For if the Chronosians are pronounced friend, then you shall treat them as such as well."

OOC: You're right, Thrashia. He DOES think that of himself. Too bad it's not true, isn't it? :) :) :) That's what I like most about RPing. You get to give your characters cute little flaws.

I'm surprised that Remiel didn't come down harder on him. He deserved it.

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

IC:

They had come to an agreement. And, as his suggestions had served to render theirs less outrageous, the Metal Man had actually helped the process along--though he was sure that no one else in the room would have admitted it.

He was sure that Remiel would be looking into him now--and finding out that Khorne had placed a bounty on his head (though he technically did not have one) after the self-styled god's embarrassing defeat, and that there would, sooner or later, be a great deal of trouble from his rantings, but, if it helped to make an alliance, even of serpents bargaining for the right to slither, to work, then it was worth the effort.

His guard would not falter.

"Sacred enough to be prostituted from the dead, of course." Remiel leant forward, fingers coiling about the dataslate as he slid it from Mercer's hand into his own. "Sacred enough to be forced together to create the abominations that the people of Reken truck with, yes...You have done your due dilligence, and abused it most regally, just as you continue to abuse the very notion of Imperium.

The Emperor would weep to see your work, Dratherian. I at least bring succour and shelter from the storm, I offer humanity that chance to endure and prosper in a universe doomed to stagnation. He would weep too to see common human purity debased by association with xenos and sub-human fiends." He chuckled, inscribing his name with well-practised ease, before tossing the slate back to Mercer.

"I am touched by the Consul's ready acceptance of us. We are drawn together by a shared sense of schadenfreude over the deserved fate of the Dratherians, and yet...I cannot help but think that this little exercise shall unite us as brothers." He tittered lightly, following the Consul's example as he drained his glass. "Of course, there are other matters to attend to. Kosse has been nurtured into a ripe garden of flesh, my friends. Would you appreciare sight of the spoils?"

This was a little bit off the given path. By now, Remiel would know how the Metal Man would feel about what he was proposing. The only practical value it would have would be to allow him to scout potential weapons to be used against him. Unless...

If this was a trap, the Metal Man would spring it.

"Pete," he sent, "please prepare for an emergency evacuation."

"You want out?" the AI asked.

"Not yet," the Metal Man replied.

"OK. I'll keep the matter transmitters hot 'n' hummin'."

OOC Thrashia the war was between me and the Republic. Not between Chronosia and myself.

IC
Mercer picked up the data slate, "Remiel I do tire of squabbling with you over which one of us is more fitting with the Emperor's vision. As for Reken what they did was out of desperation. As for combining gene-seed you should look to the subsequent foundings after the Great Crusade." He looked to the Consul and spoke in a calm tone, "Consul, with all due respect do not call us slaves. We are a protectorate of the Republic. There is a significant difference. You dishonor the lives of the soldiers that died on both sides. The hard fought battle on Aquaria ended in a treaty. I remind you that you conquered no world nor any system. I also remind you that it was noble Germanicus who lead the war campaign. I am not showing any disrespect but I am going to state the facts so that you better understand our viewpoint. And if you are truely secure in your 'victory' then you will embrace these facts as well." Listening to Remiel he merely nodded and watched for the reactions of the rest of the individuals seated around him.

"I never tire of persecuting the unworthy, Mercer. As an Inquisitor you should be used to the joys of ones singular occupation. You speak of desperation, and you compare your little Legions to the Chapters after the victory of Chaos? Yes, you're quite right. They're all pathetic and small; shadows of the glory they once commanded, fettered by chains of fear, by lesser men. I would never hold my Legions back from their goal and their appointed glory.

The betterment of mankind through prolonged martial strife, the expunging of those who would not bend knee to the true Gods and the consecration of Mankind to its true purpose. Veneration eternal, servitude absolute! Salvation and succour through their might and their will!"

A grin, feral and capricious danced across his face, his fingers trumming with a jaunty beat, drumming against the table as he chuckled his contentment. This was his turf, the Dratherians were on the backfoot, making excuses and clawing for the high ground as always.

"The Taledonians secured a mighty victory. It takes an honorable people to prosecute well by their own rules of war and yet still offer the defeated a position as slaves and vassals, rather than annihilation. You and your civilisation would have lain in ashes and ruination, blighted by rot and foetor had it not been for the generosity of your masters, Dratherian.

I would not belittle their triumph. They won their own war, you won nothing. In the end it was you who bent knee, and offered a sign of weakness, a willingness to capitulate and surrender. Were it I, I would not have been nearly as light. I would not have suffered your insolence. I would have started at the top and replaced it all, after a healthy purging with fire.

Security in victory, you will find, means that you get to say what you like. History is written by the winners, which is among the many reasons that we have so many publishers and so few forests." He tittered lightly, more pleased with milking the raw wounds of the Dratherians than his own attempts at witicism.

"Perhaps not slave, you are right, but servants to us. And in my eyes, I see them as the same. You both do our bidding when we command. Our victory is secure, and your people defeated. Do not seek to make yourself triumphant with words, instead attempt to change your barbarous people. Help our people make you a hallmark of civilisation, just as we are. Perhaps one day you shall attain the glory that is the Imperium...then maybe you can be the shadow of the Republic!"

He smiled at Remiel when he made the joke. The very notion of Dratheria being as grand as Chronosia was absurd! "I'm sorry, Remiel, but I would not have the time to see the 'wonders' of Kosse. As Consul, I always have pressing matters to attend to."

After making the appropriate changes to the document, Pratus signed the databad as well. With a bow, he left the room, followed by the other Republicans. The Metal Man was left, however, perhaps he would be interested.

Mercer simply ignored Remiel looking on the proceedings debating his own next move. He needed only a minor amount of time for Tara to complete her scans of Remiel. New information on his recent transformations was needed desperately by the Malleus. Their fight against Chaos was never ending and they must be prepared for any eventuality. He eyed Remiel cautiously as he exuded damnable power. Instinctively he reached for his sword only to stop his hand inches from the hilt. He looked at Remiel with utter and complete contempt and steeled himself against his urges. As he was an Inquisitor it was necessary for him to keep his calm resolve.

This changed things. There was no one to protect, and no major battle to head off. Since things were going peacefully, the Metal Man would be needed elsewhere. He had long ago lost his taste for dealing with the High and Mighty--so arrogant, so irresponsible, so unwilling to repair the thousands--or more--of lives that they shattered.

"If no one objects, I, too, have other business," he said. "Someone has to help tend to the refugees on Dratheria. The Taledonians tend to count the spoils before the people. I've got a shipment of food aid to secure."

Mercer nodded to the Metal Man and said, "Thank you they will most assuredly need your help on Aquaria." He gave a brief smile before turning back to Remiel, "Unless you care to discuss anything else I shall be taking my leave as well Remiel."

Remiel nodded to the Metal Man. "Nothing wrong in taking pride in the victory and the spoils of war before the serfs. I'm sure you can find your own way out." He turned his attention back to Mercer. "A pity, I thought you would be interested in seeing how a true bastion of Imperial might behaves, Mercer." He chuckled lightly, spearing a sliver of fish on a delicate silver instrument, raising it to his lips with satisfaction.

"The fates watch your vassalage with great interest and amusement, Dratherian. Our scrutiny is likewise upon you. We shall meet soon to settle the matter of the worthiness of your inheritence. I look forward to it."

Mercer looked to Remiel with power burning behind his luminous eyes, "I look forward to the same. However I must also tell you that I look forward to the day our blades meet again." Mercer stood quickly rising to his feet as Kristi and Tara took positions behind him. He looked to them and gave a curt nod signing quickly to the both of them. As he stepped forward his armor seemed to bulge with his every movement. On his belt rested Harconan and Angelus his twin semi-automatic handguns that were so much more than they appeared. Beside Harconan rested the rune-sword Kusanagi forged many millenia before on Holy Terra. Opposite those rested seven different colored adamantium syringes inside each was true and complete power. Elsewhere clips of ammunition and various other weapons of a Daemonhunter rested in pouches and containers. He continued to walk till he was all but a meter from Remiel and gave a curt formal bow. As he rose from the bow his eyes pierced through Remiel relaying the simple message, Soon.....

A few minutes later the delegation from Dratheria had boarded the Dragon's Pride once more and prepared to make a Warp jump. Mercer sat quietly in the command chair of his mighty battleship. He spoke almost casually at first, "Make way for the Victus we must be ready for our meeting with the Rekenians."

The communications people relayed a message to Mercer from The Metal Man, sent from Brain Jar.

If you desire help in what is to come, contact me. I am renowned for my loyalty as an ally.

By the time he was ready to go, however, the little ship and its skipper were already underway. In a few days' time, it would reappear in their radar screens, ferrying food and medical supplies to the hardest-hit parts of the Dratherians' holdings.

The commitment never ended.