NationStates Jolt Archive

"... all known activity from the Iraqstan region has dropped off. It's entirely possible that they've dropped off the face of the planet due to a fractal shift or something." Secretary of Defense Leona ticks off, pacing before a holographic screen displaying satellite images taken of the nation in question. "From a military standpoint, everything is, I dare say, peachy. I'm going to go on a limb here and speculate that maybe the Triumvirate has simply been around for so long that nobody in their right mind is gonna try anything against Yut members."

"Yes, on a national scale at least. Hostilities aren't an attractive option when you can be easily glassed from orbit before breakfast." Secretary of Foreign Affairs Tsume agrees, the mechanical drake nodding slightly. "But that isn't going to deter rogue elements from attempting things, or even trying to set up another nation. Look at how difficult it's been for us to track down members of M.A.N. for prosecution. Worse yet, haven't there been some signs of fractal instability among some of the Triumvirate nations?"

"... Some, yes." Leona admits after an uneasy moment.

"It's an issue that needs to be addressed." The reploid dragon presses. "Certainly alone, the Shogunate is a powerful nation, but there is little doubt that much of our diplomatic security has been thanks to the efforts of the TYCS. Much as I hate to even imagine the possibility, it bears discussion; what does the Shogunate do if, Goddess forbid, the Triumvirate falls apart or most of the members disappear for whatever reason? We've been fortunate so far, despite the troubles stirred up by Angelus' reappearance and then apparent dissolution."

"Oyie, don't remind me about the Angelus fiasco. I dunno if Nathi's going to ever completely forgive my role in that one." Firefury complains in a general way, the Lady Shogun's big armored feet propped up on the meeting table, her chair tipped precariously back as she oversees the meeting. "But Tsume does have a point. We've been pretty quiet on the world stage ourselves for awhile, content to just let everything run through the Trium. Times change, nations come and go... and we've been sitting pretty letting it pass us by."

"Time for a Trium party then?" Tsume guesses. "Some shindig in orbit? Maybe in Dosei over on the Ring?"

"Nah. I mean, sure, our allies oughta be welcome, but I think it's about time we tested the waters and see what else is out there with a more general event." Firefury muses. "We made alliances and pacts with nations outside the Triumvirate before, there's no harm in seeing what else is out there."

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: All nations
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Firefury Amahira - Shogunate of Reploid Productions

Greetings!

In assessing the Shogunate's place in the international community, it has come to my attention that we've been lax in our participation on the world stage. I would like to rectify this problem and provide an opportunity to explore and forge new diplomatic ties; and refresh old pacts with our friends.

Thus you are cordially invited to attend a casual luncheon in our capital city, Arpia at $time on $date. Following the gathering, all are welcome to tour the city and some of our better known national landmarks and attractions at your leisure.

Overnight lodging and other such necessities can be arranged for those who wish to extend their stay, and we have landing fields capable of accommodating fairly large air and spacecraft.

If you have any special needs or preferences, please let us know in advance.

http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/furyavatar.jpg
~Firefury Amahira
~Lady Shogun Eternal Under the Wings of Chaos
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions

<<END TRANSMISSION>>

((OOC INFO - PLEASE READ BEFORE POSTING:
-This is a character RP that could lead to national-scale relations. Please keep this in mind when deciding whether or not you want to participate.
-Please limit personal security details to 2 guards per attending dignitary. The event will be guarded and carefully monitored by my security, and dignitaries may request additional security resources from my guys if necessary.
-If you're going to just waltz in and try to assassinate somebody, please do not participate. This is supposed to be a social thing, and violence is not going to be permitted unless you can give me a damn good reason via telegram for it before you do it. (IE, if you and a friend are both attending, and want a place to set up for hostilities between your own nations or something.)
-The Shogunate is a future-tech nation that includes sapient machines (called reploids), as well as elves, nekos, and a handful of other humanoid/non-human citizens. Human is the predominant race, but only by a slim majority. If you're uncomfortable with RPing alongside 6-foot long mechanical dragons, social spaceships, demi-human species, and so on, you may want to avoid this one. :)
-Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, have fun! I've been out of the loop for awhile, so I'm hoping to maybe stir up some new activity and get to know some of the newer players, or nations I otherwise haven't had the chance to meet.))

Official Reply from the Allanean Department of State

Dear Lady Amahira!

We in the United States have been much honored to receive your invitation. Should it apply to us as well, we would like to know if we are allowed to send the Secretary of State, Maverick Monningham, rather than the leader of our nation, who is currently on a long-term, extended vacation, off doing bizarre and crazy stuff in obscure corners of the world as he's wont to.

We hope that you will not see the fact that the person we send is not our nation's leader but rather a 'mere' secretary of state an offense to your honor and to the honor of your nation. Should we be allowed to attend, Mr. Monningham will arrive promptly with his wife and two assistants (no guards, as we trust fully in the Shogunate's own security).

Mr. Monnigham will arrive by the usual means of a Standard Allanean Diplomatic Seaplane, Gravitic, if that is not a problem. There is no need to prepare a body of water specifically for the contraption, but if one is available, the SADS-G will probably set down on it where permitted.

Sincerely yours,
Rick Norris, Junior Clerk with the Allanean Department of State

"First reply already!"

"Good to hear. From what nation?" Tsume peers over the shoulder of one of the Diplomatic Corps techies.

"State Department of Allanea." The techie frowns. "... Don't they have... um... something of a... ill reputation with the Triumvirate?"

The mechanical drake contemplates the remark. "I do recall there have been issues in the past. But let's recall what Queenie's goal is with this entire affair; testing the waters and meeting with new people. It's just a party, after all. If things don't work out, no one is committed to doing anything."

"Hey, think the Techcorp sells any omni-directional- Ow!" Another lackey starts to quip before getting bopped on the noggin by Tsume.

"Whoops, my hand must have slipped." The drake notes with a pointed look. "Open up the broadcaster and stand by to send."

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Rick Norris/Allanean Department of State
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Greetings!

It's certainly understandable that not all nations invited are going to send their national leaders; we rather expect a good deal of diplomatic personnel and other similar representatives. It is not a problem and no insult for Mr. Monningham to attend in your leader's stead.

In regards to your transport craft, if it can handle touching down on solid land, the landing field at Arpia Int'l Aerospaceport is the closest location. Otherwise, the port city of Nekoa Bay should have ample space on the water to accommodate the SAD-GS, and we can arrange transport from Nekoa Bay to the capital easily.

Best wishes,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions

<< END TRANSMISSION >>

Official Reply from the Allanean Department of State

Dear Secretary Dragonis!

I suspect seriously that 'Dragonis' is not your true surname; yet my database has been neglected for some time, and bears little information (which, we all know, is a polite term for 'not a clue) regarding the proper terms of address in the Immortal Shogunate. I hope you forgive me for any transgressions I may have unwittingly allowed.

At any rate, technicians that maintain the SADS-G tell me that the best thing to do is for my craft to set down in Nekoa Bay. This is what I will do, then. I am told that the bay view is utterly spectacular, and therefore I will take a great pleasure at visiting it.

I am not precisely sure of what forms of clothing are preferred in the Shogunate, and therefore I will affect my grey suit. My assistants will wear the uniforms of the Allanean Foreign Service, which are a form of paramilitary uniform, normal in all respects except for being equipped with a large hat.

I hope this is satisfactory.

Sincerely yours,
Maverick Monningham,
United States Secretary of State

Tsume tips his head to one side as he surveys the latest missive, the expression the drake's equivalent to a cocked eyebrow.

"What's with the funny face?" Firefury peers over the reploid dragon's arm at the datapad, the Lady Shogun bursting into a fit of giggles as she reads it. "Not your real surname? Oh yes, I can imagine it! Tsume Dragonis... alias Tsume... um... Sharpclaw, former leader of the nefarious band of- Ack!"

The "ack" is punctuated with the clang of metal impacting against metal, the orange-armored reploid being introduced to the floor by a well-placed thwack of Tsume's tail.

"Queenie, not funny."

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Rick Norris/Allanean Department of State
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Greetings!

In fact, all reploids technically lack any sort of surname, so we take our model designations in place of one. Since I was built as part of the Dragonis line of reploids, thus I take Dragonis for a surname. As for address, "Tsume" or "Secretary Dragonis" or similar will suffice.

In regards to attire, our nation is relatively liberal. The intended setting is business-casual, but in the streets you may very well run into people wearing most anything... or nothing. So the suit and uniforms you've proposed should be fine.

As for your craft, I'll alert the Nekoa Bay traffic control to ensure there is adequate space for arrival, docking, and departure.

Best wishes,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions

<< END TRANSMISSION >>

((OOC: Man... anybody else wanna jump in? =< ))

With the development of newer, faster, and cheaper Class IV and above hyperspace engines, Earth and it's affiliated systems were now within reach. For good or ill, the long isolation was over.

"Are you sure this is the right thing to do, Jay?"

James Starky smoothed back his hair before answering. "I'm very sure," and he bent to kiss Helen in the neck. "How do I look?"

"Videogenic as the day you were born."

"I had to give press conferences back then, too."

She smiled. It was nice to have moments like these... unscripted. Always watched, even now - but there was a fine line between being watched by elite security agents, and being watched by billions of viewers.

And the moments didn't come that often. He smoothed his hair back again (it was his only outward sign of anticipation or nervousness), went to the door, took a deep breath, and went to announce his announcement.

http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk173/clomata/wulfhelmseals2.jpg
Office of Foreign Affairs


To:
Firefury Amahira
Lady Shogun Eternal Under the Wings of Chaos
Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions

Your Excellency, Greetings:

This message is in response to your transmission regarding a cordial invitation for lunch in Arpia. I am very pleased to announce that, with the approval of the Office of the Chief Directorate, the Wulfhelm Star Empire shall accept.

The Hon. Ambassador Tomas Krell will be in attendance. It is our hope that just as the long period of isolation between the spheres of Sol and Wulfhelm ends, so will a new era of peace and mutual prosperity begin.

Respectfully,

Director Gregor Nicholas
Office of Foreign Affairs
Wuflhelm Star Empire

Kritislik’s nostrils flared as his lungs took a great long breath and drew the shimmering snuff of grounded Warpstone deep into his twitching face. As a Seer Lord and particularly aged Skaven - both impressive achievements respectively, he had long since learned to suppress the urge to squeak and screech the agony and exquisite pain that always followed ingesting the crystallised form of chaotic magic.

The Lord of Decay - one of thirteen making up the Council - absent-mindedly raked a claw across his snout and wiped the blood weeping from his nostrils as his vision began to swim and colour. The floors and walls of the drab stone-cut chamber soon dissolved and shattered into a million shards of spectral light that changed colour twice a second a million times over. Kritislik noticed without truly caring that his paws had dissolved into nothingness in front of his glassy eyes.

The door to the chamber creaked open slowly as the long, pointed snout of a man-rat hesitantly pushed itself between frame and door and regarded the chamber; dried, caked blood that marked Warpstone visions decades and years old, heavy shackles peppered with rust and used to hold down the Skaven who had neither the willpower or the strength to resist smashing their limbs during particularly delirious experiences.

“My Lord?” The dirty, brown-furred rat squeaked as the Servant crept through the door proper and fixed its eyes on the equally dirty, white-furred Grey Seer whose face was obscured by the bucket of bloody water it had submerged its head into and now bubbled sporadically. Breaking into a sprint the lesser Skaven hauled the snout of the Lord of Decay from the blissful drowning and set it back against the bloody, stony, floor. The rat squealed in pain as a shackled paw flew out and deliriously struck the servant under the jaw.

Kritislik’s head lolled, his bright blue eyes opening slowly, as slits. “Blessed is the Horned One for he shows many things …”

Unfastening the shackles, the Lord of Decay rose unsteadily to standing and reared himself to the maximum of his limited stature. “To your feet Curz,” He hissed whilst lapping half-heartedly at the mixture of blood, sweat and water dripping from his soaking snout. “More of the Top-World presents itself. We must prepare a message …”

The Servant Skaven nodded mutely as it pulled a handful of loosened incisors from its mouth and scattered them to the floor regretfully.







To new Men-Who-Dwell-Above!

Blessed is the Horned One who guides all ways and fates, and has seen fit to give knowledge of you to us once more. Humble congratulations we extend to your great nation and people who have endured such hardships, so well!

Fine cities and rolling green landscapes are yours, and further we wish prosperity and ever-peace upon you. Your return to the world presents new trading opportunities and as the interpreter of the will of The Horned One (Blessed be his glory and his power) I believe the Clans of the Skaven peoples would be eager to offer their services to you as well. The Council of Thirteen is on a permanent quest for certain commodities you may be in a position to offer us.

I look forward to our correspondence. As always, The Shogunate prevails!


http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v228/NSIndy/Skaven/Seerlord_Kritislik.jpg

Grey Seer Kritislik - Seer Lord and Lord of Decay, Interpreter of the Will of the Horned One (Blessed is his name)

"Hey, Queenie, if you can stop giggling about my alleged dark secret past and real surname-" Tsume rolls his eyes as he bops the Lady Shogun over the head with the datapad to get her attention. "We've got some more responses. Should be interesting."

"Okay, okay. Fire away." Firefury kicks her feet up on the table.

"The first comes from the Wuflhelm Star Empire confirming they will be sending an ambassador to attend. DipCorp doesn't have much information on them, and MilIntel even less. But from what we do know, they're extra-solar in origin."

"Hence why we don't have much info, given how little we do anything beyond Sol." Firefury points out. "I mean geez, only a few of our space assets even have any sort of FTL engine on 'em! Anyhow, who's our next contestant?"

"Ah... yes." Tsume falters for a moment before handing over the datapad. "A rather interesting one, though I have my own personal reservations given... well, read the missive and see for yourself, Queenie."

The reploid accepts the gadget and rapidly skims the contents, one eyebrow making a steady climb up her forehead. "'Our return to the world'? Okay, I'm no expert, but I'm gonna guess fractal weirdness, since I doubt DipCorp or MilIntel has anything on these Clans of the Skaven or anything. So, what's your problem with 'em, Tsume?"

The black dragon slaps one paw to his snout in disbelief. "If you'll excuse my rare display of being judgmental, seriously Firefury. 'Lord of Decay'?"

"A title apparently given to a member of a humanoid race that bears some semblance to rodents of unusual size, if the picture is any indication. Seems a sensible enough title." The orange-armored reploid chides the Secretary of Foreign Affairs. "Given the emphasis on the blessed name of their Horned One, seems they're probably a deeply spiritual people or some sort of theocracy, maybe big on the thaumaturgic weirdness. And the contents of the message itself are nothing short of pleasant and diplomatic. We can't expand our diplomatic horizons if we spaz out about a culture that, Shimeki-forbid, differs drastically from ours."

"You make unusually good points, Queenie." Tsume laughs slightly. "I suppose then I'd better get to my duties and reply to both then."

"You got it!" Firefury grins.

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Director Gregor Nicholas/Wuflhelm Star Empire, Office of Foreign Affairs
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Greetings, Director Nicholas!

It would be our pleasure to host Ambassador Krell as your representative to the Shogunate for Lady Firefury's event. I must confess a lack of information given our general lack of extra-solar activity, and do not know if your craft will require any special accommodation, or other such matters regarding docking and transport to or from the surface. While some of our spacecraft are built for trans-atmospheric flight, I know well that is not always practical for all ships, and if necessary we can arrange transport from orbit to the surface if required.

It is always a pleasure to establish and strengthen new ties with other nations, and I look forward to seeing what may result from our meeting.

Best wishes,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
<< END TRANSMISSION >>


ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Grey Seer Kritislik - Seer Lord and Lord of Decay, Clans of the Skaven peoples
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Greetings, Grey Seer Kritislik, Lord of Decay,

First and foremost, my apologies in advance if I unwittingly cause offense, as I am shamefully unfamiliar with your peoples or customs. If there is some other proper form of address you wish me to use, by all means please let me know.

The Lady Shogun Firefury has expressed considerable interest in your message, and hopes that you will be able to send someone to meet with us at the diplomatic party. We can most assuredly discuss formal arrangements and trade prospects as well. Please let us know if anyone representing your people will be attending, and if you require any special accommodations or other assistance for such a trip.

Best wishes, may the blessings of our gods and yours grant prosperity and peace to all,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
<< END TRANSMISSION >>

The message sent out had not gone unnoticed by the Federation, and peaked the interest of several key officials...

State department office, New Earth 0800 hours..

“I don't see the need to send him in when a normal diplomat can do the job just as well... albeit without the intelligence gathering” said an older man with a wrinkled face, and balding gray standing at the side of a holographic monitor that depicted a map of the alpha quadrant and a snippet about the ENOD (Evil nation of the day) Several others including two females were in the room, most sitting down at the elongated metal oblong table facing the screen.

A middle aged man with short salt and pepper hair responded leaning over the table crossing his hands together.

“Look, we don't know anything about these people, I agree with Mr. Addams worries we need to learn more about them, but in a way that doesn't harm any future relations with them, They have never met the Federation before so how would they know Marcus is an intelligence officer as well as a diplomat?”

The one named Mr Addams responded quickly leaning back on his chair at the head of the table, his blue eyes piercing in to the monitor ahead, and his toned hands over his chin.

“ He is to be sent in on a single unarmed executive shuttle, The State department will send a message before hand to make sure we don't get in to any issues. Mean while we will get sensor feeds from the shuttle and we'll run every possible search in our databases to see if these guys mean trouble, If not we can gain vital information on them if they are truly sincere no issues with us, but if not then this could prove useful.”
The old man sighed and shrugged saying in response with a tired voice.

“If we're going to send him in make sure its under the best possible circumstances and not under an espionage circumstance”

The mood in the room became somewhat stale after he had said that, they thought another debate on the ethics of first contact would ensue. Thankfully Addams disengaged from any form of possible debate by offering a reassuring look and saying with a soft voice.

“Relax old man, we're not going to be actively attempting to spy or down load any information, this is merely observation and talking.”

Then with a quick wave of a hand he said.

“Meeting dismissed”

---------
Transmission from the Terran Federation State department:
To: The Shogunate of Reploid Productions.

To whom it may concern:
The Terran Federation would like to welcome you to the galactic community. We wish to inform you that we will be sending a single representative to your conference to establish hopeful peaceful and productive relations with your people.

Thank you
Signed Bester kayborn Chief of state

---
1000 hours Roanoke station four light years from earth…
Marcus Alexis Xavier stood on the observation deck of the massive station, his brown eyes locked on to one of the many long spires running in to nothing from the body of the station, their tips illuminated every few seconds by red running lights. He was in a trance his smooth hands were to his side, and his suit was black and well pressed.

Suddenly a holographic panel popped up flickering on in a blue hue at first then changing to a face, a soft well rounded female face. It was the station avatar and it spoke to Marcus making him snap out of his trance.

He was shaken back to reality as he heard these words.

“Mr. Xavier Your shuttle is ready in docking bay four ...”

He sighed, his face smooth his dark brown hair semi long yet well groomed. He responded to the avatar waving his hand.

“All right, on my way...”

with those words he turned around walking through two disintegrating doors that promptly reassembled as he stepped on the other side of them, he walked through the long winding holo panel lined wide halls of the station, passing various people on the way, it was loud in the hall and even cramped at some points there were so many people , he flipped out a pair of sun glasses from his right hand pocket and put them on his face, from his left he took out a case of cigarettes.

the case had the emblem of Tyrian on them, he flipped the case open and took one out promptly putting it in his mouth with a single motion he closed the case and put it back in to his left pocket. He lights the cigarette with a well decorated gold lighter that had engravings of flowers on it.

Marcus humpfhed a bit finally making his way through a crowd of people to docking bay four, he walked in to an empty docking port the doors sliding closed behind him.

Smoke billowed from the red hot tip of the cigarette as he stepped through another pair of doors on to a spacious executive shuttle.
He promptly made his way to the middle of the somewhat luxurious shuttle sitting down on a soft white couch that hugged a corner by a window.
A holographic monitor popped up with another avatar it spoke saying.

“Welcome to Union Star lines, I am your captain Trisha, our departure point is Roanoke station, and our destination is sol, our flight time will be fifteen minutes and forty seconds. Please have a safe trip and enjoy your flight.

Marcus grumbled to himself he was annoyed by happy go lucky AI’s at times.. it seemed creepy to him but he coped, he knew the mission, he knew what to do He was going to put his game face on and smile for the cameras or whatever these things are.

The shuttle detached from the outer docking ring of the massive station, it turned around its small grey and sleek body glinting in the slight light coming from the station and space itself. It began to accelerate opening in front of it a bright blue and green portal that crackled with arcs of energy out in to space. The shuttle entered it the portal closing behind it as if it was never there.

Marcus longingly stared out of the holographic window his brown orbs watching the passing colors; he planted his feet on another sofa and took another drag of his ever shortening cigarette, relaxing he laid back, just waiting.


Thirty two minutes later, a few million kilometers displaced from the space above were ever the conference was being held was ripped open with a similar portal, the small un armed shuttle racing through it came to a dead stop.

An automated signal was sent to the appropriate authorities requesting docking permission.


Marcus was a man of few words outside of business, but those few words were often important, and did build good relationships, he was an orphan, his parents killed in a shuttle crash ever since he learned of what happened to them he’s been on a quest to find out who they were and what they did. But nothing much was present in the data bases especially about that shuttle. He was often lost in thoughts of what if’s, what if he chose to live another life, a merchant, a doctor and teacher. He laughed at himself thinking He’d never make it as one of them; he was to complex, too secretive, and to self absorbed. Marcus often hurting the ones he loved or cared for because he lost sight of what was really there, the best agent in the FIA and highly empathic, he sure did know how to screw up relationships, even some plutonic ones. He finished his cigarette, he sighed again flipping the case open again and taking another out lighting it up.


The Federation had a keen interest in establishing good ties and peaceful ties with other nations emerging in to the galaxy. It was all part of President Logan’s new policy and as it was an election year he needed one, his approval while up significantly still reflected some doubt, and a bid for reelection would not be easy with war caused by interventionist ideals constantly looming over his head.


Marcus felt he was some sort of pawn in this now as he was being sent in to god knows what. He thought to himself once more that it could be worse, he could still be rotting in that pirate hell hole, if it wasn’t for his quick thinking and skill as an Intel officer he would have been toast and then some.
But for now he would have to wait to see what he’s getting himself in to at least until the shuttle gets docking rights, if it’s not blown out of the sky first.

(OOC: let me know if I jumped to far or any thing so I can make the appropriate changes)

Information had been passed through many channels, rumour and hushed whispers about the Shogunate. Most people knew that the 'Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions' existed but no one had met or directly knew anyone who had directly met one of these reploids until now.

This owever no any reploid this was Firefury Amahira herself, The shogunate.

"Gentlemen, We have recieved a general message from the Immortal Shogunate and Associated Territories of Reploid Productions." Trevor Desorté, the CEO of the Corporation that was The Garbage Men addressed the other members of the board, it was an important matter, a matter that needed to be put towards the entire board.

"From the Shogunate herself, a member of Triumvirate of Yut and potentially a great business opportunity and possibility for an entrance into the markets of the other Triumvirate members. As such, I will be heading a delegation towards the shogunate. Of course this will all have to be set up but I don't see that as problem, which means I will be unavailable for standard duties, but I have already alked with Robert here, our CMO and he will fill in for these duties. As for my representative on the board, You all know my PA, Joan. She will act on my behalf while I'm away."


To: Firefury Amahira, Shongun of the Immortal Shogunate
Subject: Re: Casual Luncheon
From: Trevor Desorté, CEO of The Garbage Men
Encryption: Standard Diplomatic

I would like to thank you for the offer of hospitality of the Shogunate, and I am pleased to indicate my wish to be present at this event. I have only one requirement, I have an allergic reaction to plants of the Allium genus, that is particularly Onions and Garlics.

Transportation and lodgings will not be required and I look forward to meeting you in person.

It was the first time that Wulfhelm would initiate contact with a foreign power, in the true sense of the term. As such, things were somewhat in the air. Politics had always dealt with factions who, however different, were still descendants of the Original Colonists. There hadn't even been an Office of Foreign Affairs til just this year. The government had known peripherally of 'neighboring' spacefaring races and nations long before society at large had fully grokked the idea. And it was only within the last five years that any sort of routine contact could be considered.

Now the profits of years of FTL research had paid off, and the crown-piece, a type 2 Ossar-class Explorer, was now used to ferry their first ambassador. The WSS Elene had a Class VII hyperspace drive rated to over 403 GW, and made the long journey in less than 3 days; it wasn't too long ago that the same trip took the better part of a year. Not including the Fold Incident, but you never included that.

So it was that Tomas Krell thought he'd be living in somewhat grand luxury - naively. Other ambassadors, now sector governors, had gotten such lodgings. But soon he realized that in this case, the luxury was that he could travel a significant length of the galaxy in just a few days, not that the lodgings were particularly great. In fact, they were cramped, ultra-efficient, and uncomfortable. There weren't even more than a few dozen crew, but space was at a premium anyway - presumably for some FTL physics shipbuilding limitations which he couldn't begin to fathom.

It was a relief after the time was up. How little accustomed he was to space travel revealed itself when the aerospace transport - a 'lander,' he heard it being called colloquially - proved even more uncomfortable and cramped. The ride became bumpy in the atmosphere, and as gravity reasserted itself after the brief absence he could see how some people would get nauseous. He was merely in pain from being jolted and jostled around, as if he were nothing more than a few irrelevant tens of kilograms aboard a massive chunk of flying metal and polymers. That being true just made it sting harder.

Ahead of the Elene, a transmission had been sent:

Office of Foreign Affairs

To:
Tsume Dragonis
Secretary of Foreign Affairs
Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions

Greetings,

With regards to your last transmission, Mr Krell will be transported to orbit via the WSS Elene, and thenceforth to the surface in a trans-atmospheric shuttle. Detailed communication and maneuver protocols shall be transmitted as appropriate. I hope this will be of use in clarification, and look forward to the opportunity to establish a dialogue between our two nations.

Warmly,

Director Gregor Nicholas
Office of Foreign Affairs
Wuflhelm Star Empire

"Good morning, Your Majesty."

His Royal Majesty, By the Grace of God, Staff Sergeant (ret.) John II of the House of Leyden, High King of Vojvodina-Nihon, Protector of the Void, Lord of the Thousand Islands, Master of the Space Colonies, Supreme Commander of the Interstellar Armed Forces, Destroyer of Worlds, M.S. (Chadwick, class of '67), Ruler of Earth, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera -- the three et ceteras are standard issue -- looked up rather blearily from his morning coffee. “Ah yes, the tireless Mr. Vanorten. And what nefarious group of high-society cutthroats are you sending me to address today?”

Mr. James Vanorten, appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs, dropped into a chair with a certain formal nonchalance, if such a thing is possible. Mr. Vanorten was always extremely formal, even when he was making an effort to be casual; but that was acceptable, because he was a diplomat, and diplomats like things to go as planned.

“Ah yes, very amusing, sire,” said Mr. Vanorten. “As it happens, there is an unusual diplomatic opportunity available, if you would choose to accept it, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed the Puppet Monarch glumly. “Wait, let me guess. I’m being sent to suck up to a mysterious and massive nation with hundreds of capital warships at its disposal, for some economic aid.”

“Your Majesty—” Mr. Vanorten leaned forward across the table carefully, in a discreetly aggressive fashion— “you must understand that your role in the enduring prosperity of the Vojvodina-Nihonian nation is as vital as any of ours, even though you hold little executive power yourself. Your presence at important public ceremonies and political events is an enormous morale boost to the citizens, and of course you are excellently suited to diplomatic negotiations, although you may deny it sometimes. With all due respect of course, sire."

"I understand," said John II with a sigh. "And surely you understand that I'm only free to talk like this with you, and my family. Even to the other Ministers I present the Kingly Mask."

"We have known each other for some time, of course," said Mr. Vanorten smoothly. "Moving on: We've picked up an open communication from the Shogunate of Reploid Productions. You may have heard of them -- if not, I've included plenty of information on the briefing sheets. They've sent out a general invitation to a luncheon in their capital."

The Puppet Monarch accepted a sheet of paper and began to read it, scrolling down with a finger as the text ran off the page. At length he looked up again. "I'll go," he said. "The family hasn't had a good outing in awhile now." He stretched and yawned. "And the last time, we were almost eaten by giant bugs. I told those guys that naming their planet 'Paradise' was just asking for it."

Mr. Vanorten raised himself from his chair as discreetly as possible. "Very well, Your Majesty. I'll inform the Shogunate at once."


Dear Lady Firefury,

As a representative of the Holy Jingoistic Federation of Un-Aligned Nations of Vojvodina-Nihon, I have been authorized to inform you that the High King, John II Leyden, shall be attending the diplomatic luncheon in Arpia you have recently publicized.

Like your own nation, the Federation has recently fallen diplomatically out of sight, although presumably unlike yours, this was due to the Vojvodinians' loss and subsequent re-discovery of hyperlight travel. During this time we lost contact with all of our former allies, so His Majesty's presence at this occasion will also serve as a means for Vojvodina-Nihon to reconnect with the international community. We will be transmitting his and the royal family's transportation information upon receipt of a positive response.

Cordially,
James Arthur Vanorten
Minister of Foreign Affairs to His Royal Majesty, By the Grace of God, John II of the House of Leyden, High King of Vojvodina-Nihon, Protector of the Void, Lord of the Thousand Islands, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera

"Queenie, think you could cut the joyride short with the rest of the wing and get back down here?" Tsume's voice crackles over the gravetic fightercraft's comm.

"Aw, now what?" Firefury responds distractedly, most of her attention on chasing down the other six pilots from her former military unit formally tagged as the 337th fighter wing but better known by the monikers of the Queens of the Sky, or more simply, the Queen's Wing. "Alright girls, form up, I'm out!"

A chorus of confirmations follows the distinctively orange and yellow colored craft down to a gentle landing at the palace's small airfield, and after a moment for the main engines to power down, Firefury climbs down from the small ship's cockpit to join the black mechanical dragon. After she's offloaded from the craft, the canopy hisses shut and the ship lifts into the air again seemingly of its own accord and softly maneuvers its way to the enclosed hangar with a soft whine of gravetics at work.

"... Damnit Queenie, that still creeps me out whenever you do that. Half the time it's just weird, the other half I wonder how the hell you manage to carry on a conversation without crashing the thing." Tsume notes wryly. "It's one thing for somebody like Zeroel or Shodey, but you're not built for that sort of multitasking!"

"Yeah yeah, got it." The orange-armored reploid blows off the comment. "So what's so important you had to call me and my bird outta the air for?"

"The most gracious hostess has got more replies regarding the party." The drake retorts, forking over the now-familiar datapad. "Looks like we can also expect a representative from another extra-solar nation called the Terran Federation; the CEO of what DipCorp and MilIntel believe is one of those corporate-nation entities called The Garbage Men; and an extra-solar monarch from Vojvodina-Nihon who's got more titles than your full formal set."

"Oh, I'm sure if I tried at it, maybe got Najoedo's help, I could cook up a few dozen more since he started tacking on that -Uccjooh suffix whenever he addresses me."

"Yes, well unexplainable thaumaturgic strangeness aside, shall I confirm our latest batch?" Tsume sighs, not particularly fond of thinking about that 'thaumaturgic strangeness' that had left the orange reploid mysteriously incapacitated for several days leading up to a confrontation between some paranormal entity, Firefury, and several members of the HELLSING organization from the TYCS.

Even if it had been unusually memorable seeing THE Magnus Hesche getting slapped upside the head by a multi-ton combat aircraft.

"Sounds like a plan to me. How's Leo coming along with the security operations?"

"While perhaps not as absolute as something Siri's people might cook up, Leona told me the security detail is coming along well and should be more than sufficient." Tsume replies easily.

"Cool, good to hear it, especially since less bulletproof heads of state are apparently gonna be joining us."

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Bester Kayborn/Terran Federation State Dept.
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

It is always a pleasure to meet with others of peaceful intentions; particularly such distant neighbors. I look forward to meeting with your delegate and furthering our diplomatic contacts.

Sincerely,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >
ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Trevor Desorté - CEO of The Garbage Men
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Dear Mr. Desorté,
It will be our pleasure to host your visit, and I similarly look forward to meeting with you at the party, as does Lady Firefury. I shall be certain to inform our chefs of your issue with onions and their ilk; I'm certain they can concoct something satisfying without them.

Until then,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >
ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: James A. Vanorten - Minister of Foreign Affairs
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

Dear Mr. Vanorten,
It is a pleasure to hear from you, and I am pleasantly surprised at your missive. As can be expected, we will take all appropriate precautions to ensure the safety of the High King and his family for the duration of his stay; as well as appropriately appointed lodgings at the palace in Arpia.

We don't often have contact with extra-solar nations due to our own lack of extra-solar activity and general disuse of FTL technologies, so this is a rare opportunity that both I and Lady Firefury are looking forward to.

Sincerely,
http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >

Arrivals! - let's all give a cheer for fluid time!
((OOC: Just moving ahead a little to the first arrivals since TFU and Wuflhelm have already written of their guys being en route. It's not too late for people to jump in, just let me know with a quick RSVP post or something before popping your guys in. :) ))

As Mr. Xavier's shuttle makes contact with the Shogunate's aerospace traffic control to confirm route, approach vectors, and the other minutiae of landing, it's quickly apparent to a passive scan that the Shogunate has a considerable space presence; many of the military vessels docked or in the space near the massive Tengoku station are warships of various sizes, though most are relatively small carriers and fast response gunships as befits the general philosophy of defending the home turf rather than flattening somebody else. Civilian spaceliners and bulky cargo craft also share the station's many docking spaces, alongside smaller shuttles coming in and out of the small craft deck at the top of the station. Perhaps the most ominous of the spacecraft visible in the distance is one of the fleet flagships, a 2-kilometer long battleship clearly boasting several massive cannons; the HoG-class, and a weapon deployed thankfully only twice in the nation's history.

Of course, turnabout is fair play, and the shuttle is on the receiving end of similar unobtrusive surveillance as it comes in on its assigned approach. From one of the smaller carriers, a handful of fightercraft launch, quickly broadcasting to the shuttle their purpose as escort and protection for the final leg of the voyage, the black and orange gravtic craft forming a defensive perimeter around the civilian craft at a respectful distance. Other than that, there is little activity from the warships; just regular patrol duty. But then, it has been an awfully long time since the Shogunate had to muster the fleets against a hostile nation.... and Iraqstan had long ago ceased their militant posturing toward the Shogunate.

Similarly, the Elene and its lander are watched but otherwise not interfered with, the shuttle receiving directions and escort to the landing field at Arpia Int'l Aerospaceport, while the Elene is invited to dock at the Tengoku orbital station so that the ship's crew might get to relax and enjoy taking in the sights on board the orbital port and transit hub.

Once through the atmosphere, the lay of the Shogunate's land becomes more clear, a varied terrain ranging from high mountains in the far north to the rolling desert and plains to the south, cut by smaller chains of low mountains and valleys. The 15-mile long "Space Taxi" mass-driver in the southern part of the continent is visible even from orbit, the primary conduit for launching small spacecraft and cargo into space.

Before long, the landing craft are coming in over the capital proper, Arpia looking from the air much like any normal metropolis, albeit the streets are considerably wider and skyscrapers are more spaced out to accommodate the largest reploids; the giant Ryuusama and Ryuujin model types, the larger mechanical dragons visible occasionally either strolling or gliding through the wide streets and looking quite out of place compared to the majority of the more manageable-sized pedestrians.

Soon after, the open expanse of the aerospaceport comes into view, and the craft are directed to their landing places, where a contingent of diplomatic personnel are ready and waiting to greet the arriving diplomats. Chief among them is the unmistakable six feet long, black and purple armored bulk that is Secretary of Foreign Affairs Tsume, the mechanoid standing calmly and as relaxed looking as a reploid originally meant for combat can. Most of the other Diplomatic Corps personnel appear to be human, or some human-derivative; while a few are human in shape but have the unmistakable metal plating of various reploid types. And of course, standing at attention an unobtrusive distance away, the security detail, keeping alert for any signs of trouble or threat to the delegates.

"Tsume Dragonis, Secretary of Foreign Affairs under the Lady Shogun Firefury Amahira, at your service." The drake introduces himself simply, with a sinuous bowing motion accompanied by a slight spread of his wings to emphasize the greeting gesture. "And it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Shogunate."

As the Terran Shuttle Touched down, Marcus felt a sense of tightness come over him, it was time to put on the face of diplomacy. He thought to himself hopefully this would be easy, and things would go well for all parties involved. He stood up from the chair as the shuttle competed its landing check list, its Satiny unsubdivided body reminiscent of a high tech culture The engines of the shuttle shut down, the white and blue hot streams of exotic particles that garbled the space around them dissipated harmlessly.

Marcus took his sunglasses off as the door to the shuttle dissipated open disassembling metal retracted in to the sides leaving a wide opening in to the shuttle. Marcus slowly emerged, his suit well pressed his hair well kept. A diplomatic smile came forth on his face, as he walked up to the greeting delegation. He said with a noticeable friendly tone in his voice.

“On behalf of the Terran Federation I greet you, its been so long that a Terran has set foot in this system, let alone this world. And I must say you have excellent taste”

As Marcus observed the people that had come to greet him , a wave of comfort went through him, The Terran Federation had half of its human population Cybernetically enhanced, and the other half genetically engineered, though the Cybernetics in his people were much less obvious than here. His eyes focused on various things including the scenery and people, he was trying to sense any hostility or any thing from any one. His chest expanded slightly as he took in fresh non artificial air spending years in space it was some thing he had missed especially a class M planet.


The shuttle it self had been equipped with a QE feed link to the state department and FIA , who had implanted in Marcus a monitoring device, to be used on missions this was meant for observation and security, the small device was built in to the shuttles command console deadlocked behind several CM thick Tri-Strotoruim Boruim security hatches.

Martha Mackall the Head Director of the Federation Intelligence agency, sat back on her hovering leather like chair inside her plain white and steel teamed semi dark office, the only light coming through a small holographic port behind her. She watched the feed from Marcus with interest , her soft white hands folded on the desk as her blue eyes priced the screen enthralled with the scenery and strange beings. Martha had been promoted just recently over former director Paul Cunningham , she was the FIA’s top field agent even better than Marcus. But she was reduced to a desk job After a forced field retirement due to an incident gone personal on one of her missions. She hated the desk job but she got used to it. She un folded her hands and place them flat down on the desk.

A spike of white and blue energy appeared to the right side materializing a plain metal cup of hot coffee, she grabbed it with her right hand, grasping the smooth metal Handel and placed the cup to her face sipping the warm liquid. For now nothing interesting was going on from the feed, she placed her left hand on a holographic control panel, and pressed the split screens button. The screen fluctuated and changed , then extended to fit several screens. Ranging from news to direct intelligence feeds, to frontier reports from all over the federation. How ever Marcus’s feed was still in the center.

Roanoke station was the closest Terran Federation asset to sol, four light years rim bound it was directly 0 degrees from sol, it was the trade hub, military hub and intelligence hub of that sector , while more stations similar to the massive Roanoke station were planned around the area, the federation wanted to know if the investment in resources and time were worth it, and for that they would need to establish some relations with the local groups of nations.

((OOC: I see a lot of potential for good development here cause and effect type stuff... ))

Finely manicured hands run through professionally-styled brown hair, then pat it back into place. It wouldn't do for a man who has made his living--and finally found his calling--in selling products and initiatives in terms of image and style to have a hair askew. It especially wouldn't do right now, Hieronymus Styger, masjon of the vesh, notes to himself.

The vesh had been quiet for quite some time, as far as the international scene was concerned. The cleanup and modernization of Cvechiokal, his historic homeland, took longer than expected. The Cetagandans, despite initial successes, had shown inherent resistance to the Gift. Not that Mater could complain; even a foothold was an expansion of the Family-Empire and being friends is nearly as good as being family.

Styger lets Mater's quiet assistance soothe his mind. No need to let adrenaline and negative emotions take control, especially when the problems are beyond his control. The technicians--the human ones--and their related Rayverr cakjonlo would fix the jet. It would be delayed, certainly, but this could not be helped and the hosts would be understanding.

Probably.

To whom it may concern:

I am dreadfully sorry, but the technicians are telling me the official jet has suffered a tire puncture and it will take some time to repair, meaning I'll be slightly later than previously planned. Hopefully this will not be a problem?

With the deepest respect,

http://www.weirdozone.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/spokesman.gif
Hieronymus Styger, masjon of the vesh pij verr

It was a standard corvette on the outside, though on the inside it was really a luxury transport vessel for the CEO of The Garbage Men, Trevor Desorté (http://www.nswiki.net/index.php?title=Trevor_Desort%E9). It contained a small vessel, essentially the space equivalent of a small dinghy.

Trevor and his Personal Assistant would be the only ones attending this diplomatic gala. A ring glistened on his hand, it was an engagement ring, the newly engaged man was fiancéd to the Empress of Tanara, Dominique Ryder.

The corvette entered into a stable orbit following any traffic control instructions before deploying the 'Space Dinghy'. It piloted towards the aerospace port with the CEO and his Personal Assistant in tow. She was talking on a communicator trying to find a list of relatively small list of people for the wedding but she was starting to find just how daunting a task that was, she might have to redefine the english language just so that national leaders could have a 'small' wedding.

Trevor on the other hand was calm, and was himself on a bit of a high from the acceptance of the proposal. This should be a standard diplomatic event, the chances to hob nob, develop friendships, contacts and perhaps most importantly open up more business opportunities.

Eventually the 'dinghy' landed and the airlock opened, Trevor exited first followed by the PA still on the communicator.

The air flashed a brilliant blue that dissolved the outlines of the grimy, oily engineering section into a blinding mass of colour - the rolling thunder clap that followed seemed to rend the air itself apart and the sickly smell of ozone permeated between the stink of lubricants and the muskiness of fur slick with sweat and blood. Tendrils of incandescent lightning bounced against circular containment metal marked on all surfaces with gouged script of protection and wards of restraint.

At the centre of the protective bonds black, glassy chunks floated serenely despite the terrible energies arcing about the superstructure - the coruscating lightning never illuminating a facet of the apparent source of the powerful scene which remained as dark as the most moonless, clouded night. What empty space remained apart from the pulsing core was dominated by an insane network of pipes and conduits grouped together in haphazard, asymmetrical paths. Some were fractured and spilled their coolant, or oils or sparking cables to the grating that formed the “Deck”.

There was no single deck - the layout of the skaven ship ignored such limitations as floors, ceilings and walls; each side covered in a rusting metal mesh that provided a climbing frame interrupted only by the eruption of piping and engineering equipment that weaved chaotically about the damp chamber. Clambering about the section as quickly as their bruised limbs and bowed heads would allow men and women toiled under the chattering snouts and cruel whips of the senior Warlock-Engineers of Clan Skryre.

Haalesh’s snout sniffed at the pungent air and ducked with a practised and almost lackadaisical ease as a fork of uncontrollable energy escaped the restraint rings bound around the Warpstone Core and arced through the air and across where he had stood a moment before. One of the Skavenslaves - a woman whose own name she had long ago forgotten and her Rat Overseers felt no compunction to learn was neatly vaporised from the waist upwards and returned to the “floor” grating as a fine shower of red.

Pressing an ear towards a series of tubes that terminated in wide horns connecting the various parts of the landing ship to the engineering section the Warlock strained to hear the high-pitched and obviously irked squeaks filtering down from the cramped bridge several “decks” up.

“The thrusters aren’t firing evenly!” Haalash snarled as he uncoiled the brown-stained-black whip at his side and directed its displeasure at a group of Skavenslaves huddled around the dozens of gauges, nozzles and valves that controlled the starboard retro-rockets. On a larger ship he could at least count on skaven underlings from his own Clan to feel the pain of his irritation but puddle-jumpers used when it was necessary to be in the Above-World for only a short time were limited to slave workers.

Annoyed at the inefficiency of it all and praying The Horned Rat would give him the patience not to slay the entire wretched group the blood-stained whip lashed out a second time and despite the lack of high-pitched squeaking from the bridge--indicating a level ascent--Haalash inflicted a third and fourth whipping because he simply didn’t like Humans. He didn’t like them at all.









Lord Kritislik, Head of all the prophetic Grey Seers as Seerlord - one of the thirteen Lords of Decay and occupying seat one on the Council of Thirteen to the immediate right-hand of The Horned Rat’s symbolic thirteenth position climbed to his feet, Smearing a rag across his bleeding snout and shaking off the final vivid colours of the Warpstone snuff that had occupied him in delirium for the entirety of the flight. A great thud struck the door twice in quick succession.

“Come Forward!” The albino-furred skaven screeched as he fumbled for his symbol of office - a gnarled wooden staff bearing three carved, bleached bones in an upside-down triangle that stood as the symbol of The Horned One - all glory and power ultimately being his and for which the entirety of Skavendom worked to please. Kritislik absent-mindedly noticed the black fur of the bodies that stood at the open doorway awaiting him.

Without glancing in their direction the ageing Grey Seer busied himself in picking at the blood that had dried on his purple overcoat and begun to flake off. Like all skaven the elite guards of the Council of Thirteen, the Stormvermin and the expert Gutter-runners of Clan Eshin were biologically prone to making their emotions and feelings clear in the form of scents and musk unconsciously generated which to those capable of reading them - like the Grey Seer - provided an instant revelation of their temperaments. Kritislik was pleased to note that even to his fine senses, augmented as they were by the blessed gifts of The Horned Rat, no scents other than his own sense of excitement that he freely flaunted were detectable.

Two members of the Stormvermin accompanied the Lord of Decay on this jaunt to the Above-World; standing a foot taller than the albino skaven and sporting fur as black as the tunnels of Skavenblight. Each one was clad in bone-white armour inscribed with the scratched shapes of the Rat-People’s language, Queekish and wore a shaped helmet that extended forward to protect the top and sides of the snout. Underneath the armour plates hung a loose robe of blue which ended in thirteen points representing the holy number of The Horned One. Each carried a glaive and a small number of bladed weapons alongside a Warpstone amulet worn as a metallic glove on one paw.

As Stormvermin, they were officially the protectors of the Thirteen Lords of Decay making up the Council of Thirteen - as much protectors against internal threats from other power-hungry skaven as to external ones. Impartial to the affairs of the individual Clans the elite skaven that constituted the Stormvermin were single-minded in their duty and the fixed, somewhat vacant gaze held by each of the four confirmed that they had little interest in anything he had to say beyond anything affecting his safety.

The Seerlord had always suspected that the Stormvermin were also tasked with eliminating any Lord of Decay who became forgetful that The Horned One never bestows unlimited power on any one skaven, only the thirst for it. Since not even a rarely-unified Council would give them such an objective Kritislik assumed the Stormvermin had appointed themselves to the task - he cared little for if it was so, then it was the will of the blessed Rat and by proxy, his will also.

The remaining skaven was somewhat harder to describe because his very function usually demanded absolute secrecy and invisibility. On this occasion however his purpose was somewhat more political and obvious and so his ability to slip between the shadows and the real world were rather secondary. Garbed from top to bottom in a hooded robe of midnight blue only the end of the Rat’s snout and his tail protruded.

The Seerlord did not need much more information to identify the greatest purveyor of Clan Eshin’s beautifully perfected art of the silent kill - Deathmaster Snikch, the most successful and able Assassin in Skavendom and second in his Clan only to the mercurial Nightlord of Clan Eshin, Lord Sneek.

The dipped snout of Snikch rose upwards to regard Kritislik with an almost imperceptible nod and for the first time the Seerlord could see that even when what slight light the overhead lamps provided fell upon the Deathmaster’s visage his face was hidden behind green fabric that wrapped about his snout and left only his eyes and snout-tip uncovered and his jaw unbound.

The albino skaven felt the Grand Assassin’s presence on what was a simple diplomatic entourage utterly needless and without base - there would certainly be no stealthy killing, not with premeditation at any rate. Since their hosts, the “Shogunate” as their short-form was could hardly be expected to recognise a member of Clan Eshin so obviously visible, Kritislik was forced to draw the uncomfortable conclusion that Snikch was in fact here to watch him and not the Reploids or their other guests.

While he accepted that all things were the will of The Horned Rat and that the blessed god of all that was took delight in intrigue and plot and fate and cunning, sometimes the ageing skaven wished the eleven other Lords of Decay shared such acceptance and ceased their constant and interfering habit of having Kritislik watched at every turn.

A hard jolt ran through the chamber and though the “floor” of the chambers was mere grating and provided an excellent securing point the Lord of the order of Grey Seers had allowed his internal monologue and musings to distract him and it was with little grace that he fell backwards with a squeak to land on the grating, on his rear end and tail unceremoniously. The static Stormvermin uncoiled their tails from the wall grating they had used to secure themselves and silently pulled Kritislik back to his feet.

Snikch remained still.

“We’ve landed then!” The Seerlord chattered excitedly as he gathered his staff and on three free paws bounded to the chamber’s circular door which stood barely two feet high. “Let us see what The Horned Rat has deigned to show us in the Above-World!”

Snikch and the two Stormvermin bowed their snouts in momentary acknowledgement of the skaven’s supreme deity. Though his mind was now shifting to thoughts of creatures called “Reploids” and their ilk, Kritislik allowed his maw to twist into a smile at the knowledge that for all their division and acrimony, the Skaven as a race were ever-loyal and bound to The Horned Rat and his blessed vision of a world. A world dominated Above and Below by Rats given the intelligence of Man and the cunning of Animal.

First impressions...

He'd been briefed, but nobody had really known what to expect, and the sight of the non-humans was a bit of a shock. He thought to imitate the bow, and numbly spoke his reply: "Tomas Krell, Ambassador of the Wulfhelm Star Empire. It's good to be here."

Tomas Krell stood tall and slender, with graceful hands and long fingers that might have belonged to a talented pianist. He thought briefly about extending a hand to shake - is that what they do in their society, in greeting one another, or is it archaic or alien?

Now he found himself looking into the face of the Reploids - staring up from about twenty inches below, that was - and awkwardly wondering what to do next.

((OOC: Sorry for the long silence guys. I got kicked in the face with a real ringer of a head cold, and between that and final exams I just couldn't muster the effort to reply to this thread. ^^; ))

"Well, well, there's a name we haven't seen in awhile." Tsume chuckles, forking over the datapad. "Remember the Rayverr?"

"The tripeds with the funky not-quite hive mind thing going on?" Firefury snags the device.

"Well, one of the human representatives of their collective. I'm pretty sure a few humans we've had working over on Machiavelli station were caught in that weird thing of theirs." Tsume rubs his jaw in thought. "At least as far as alien collective entities go, they're pretty friendly."

Firefury nods absently. "Well, as long as we can ward the area, I don't see why they can't come. Like you said, they are friendly and I'd rather be on good terms with alien species than on bad terms if we can avoid it."

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Mr. Styger, masjon of the vesh pij verr
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Tsume Dragonis - Secretary of Foreign Affairs

I'm sorry to hear of the technical problems delaying your arrival, but there is no need to worry; we're expecting other late arrivals as well. I look forward to our meeting and wish you a safe trip.

http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/tsume5.JPG
~Tsume Dragonis
~Secretary of Foreign Affairs
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >

Fast forward back to the arrivals and stuff!
Tsume chuckles at Tomas' apparent uncertainty and shifts his bulk so he's not quite standing so tall, offering a forepaw- the claws carefully blunted with rubber decorations- for a handshake. "Bowing is the most common way we handle greetings around here, Mr. Krell; if only because unless you're accustomed to it, most people are a bit leery about shaking hands with something that's covered in all manner of sharp bits."

The drake indicates one of the much larger Ryuujin model types assisting with aircraft loading at one of the other wings of the aerospaceport. "And handshaking is just a touch impractical with some of our larger reploid citizens."

As the Garbage Men and Terran craft touch down, Tsume signals other members of the diplomatic party to tend to the newest arrivals. Vumacetajij, one of the half-human Keepers of the Goddess Blades dutifully goes where he is assigned, clad in a somewhat archaic looking ceremonial robe that is clearly meant to be practical attire taking into account having a tail and wings to consider. The Keeper carries himself with the silent grace of a warrior; the claws on his reptilian feet barely clacking against the landing field's hard surface as he walks over to greet the Terran delegate, offering Marcus a bow in greeting similar to Tsume's wing-spread bow earlier.

"Greetings and welcome." The Keeper speaks formally and with a heavy accent, still more comfortable with his native, if horribly outdated language. "I am Vumacetajij, one of the Boofohj ev kxo Wettojj Rcutoj and entrusted by Firefury-Uccjooh to see that you are settled comfortably prior to the gala."

Meanwhile, the delegate assigned to Trevor's craft appears to be almost boringly normal in comparison to the mechanical dragon and the freaky weird looking half-human. This one, a woman perhaps pushing about 40 with badges on her Diplomatic Corps uniform denoting her service record offers a polite smile as the CEO and his PA disembark their craft.

"Mr. Desorté, I assume?" She inquires before introducing herself. "Sierra Menolimi, captain of the diplomatic carrier Zeroel. A pleasure having you join us today."

OOC: What time of day is it?
IC:

"Thank you for the Welcome, This is Joan, my Personal Assistant, It's good to be here." Trevor had a slight smile on his face as he bowed his head to around 90 degrees before returning to it's normal location.

He looked up into the sky and appreciated the view of a moment... Earth was something of a sort of spiritual home for humanity. "Hmmm..." he mused of it internally before turning his attention back to his welcome party. "Captain, do you know who's arrived yet?"

Marcus bowed as well, a smile came over his pale face as he reached a hand out to the delegate saying in response.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Friend, I am Marcus Alexei , how ever you may call me the former”

He paused for a moment looking over the creature with interest, he had never seen any thing like it, in his career any way. He looked at the reptilians face, and started to speak again in a professional diplomatic tone.

“My people are a curious one, and they wish to know every thing about every culture in every nation they can know, this country and nation seems to have a culture we would be more than willing to try to understand in every way, to foster friendship and peace, We’re a nation that grew up so to speak in a hostile galaxy so our nation seldom enjoys the opportunity to understand a culture.”

He stopped abruptly exploring with his eyes , the scenery once more. Marcus took a gander at the other delegates that seemed to be arriving as well, he took interest particularly in the non human ones, for they where rare dominated in a galaxy of human norms. This would be an interesting meeting indeed he thought to him self, one that would go In the record books.

The Terran Federation was curious about the sol nation coming out in to the general galaxy , if they knew about the Shogunate’s issues with FTL travel or any thing else, they would attempt to offer help in good faith, Marcus thought hopefully they could get to such a subject soon enough.

((Bleh Short post))

"I understand," Krell said absent-mindedly, staring at the Ryuujin model while Tsume's powerful hand elegantly enfolded his and pumped, along with his, as exactly as you might find in a business meeting.

"Well, practicality must surely come first, but I've always believed in overcoming superficial differences as a matter of principle. I'm sure anyone can grow accustomed to innovative body forms, with time and patience," he said, trying not to stare and wondering if he really believed it before deciding that he did.

"You truly have a magestic and extraordinary city," he said, gesturing in a vague sense to the entire world, or at least what he'd seen thus far. "I am honored to be here."

In the meanwhile, the SADS-G is making its way down through the atmosphere, setting up for landing upon the calm waters of Nekoa Bay. It circles the bay once, looking for an angle of approach, the pilot and passengers in awe at the natural beauty of the place.

They are not quite certain what the local etiquette is, but it appears that being sincerely polite will work here, as it works for Allanean diplomats in other Triumvirate societies. Of course, they could be wrong and end up beheaded by dawn, but these are the risks. At least it isn't a Havenic dictatorship, where noblemen often order diplomats shot before them for the slightest transgression.

Which is why Monningham regards this trip as a bit of a vacation. After spending the last few days dealing with an international crisis caused by a racist nobleman bursting into the Shansekian embassy and assaulting their ambassador with a cane, and five Haven nations being mature enough to deploy warships and threaten total war over the incident, a gala in a Triumvirate country is going to look like paradise.

The Standard Allanean Diplomatic Seaplane is, obviously, a gravitic craft. As such, it is perfectly quiet as it descends gently through the final meters of its trajectory. Only the sound of water rushing around its traditional skis is heard as it approaches the shore.

A door opens in the side of the craft, and there he is, Maverick Monningham, looking as if he were still in his fifties, absolutely dashing in his grey suit and beaming with pleasure at this mission.

A little late...

For a spacegoing power, the vesh is remarkably energy efficient. This isn't because efficiency is a particular value of the rayverr; it's more because efficiency is inexpensive and the scientists of Cvechiokal understand (while the mipjonlo and cakjonlo appreciate) airbreathing engines. This is why a Citation XLS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cessna_Citation_Excel) business jet, modified somewhat to run on hydrogen and painted in the royal purple preferred by the vesh, finds someplace convenient to land. "Someplace convenient" is, of course, defined by air traffic control in a most definite way, making it a somewhat limited set. All for the best.

Touchdown, ground roll, taxi, parking... door opening, Styger stepping out, and being met with inevitable diplomatic platitudes like "Good to meet you, what a beautiful country you have here..." And, of course, being a professional marketer Hieronymus makes it sound sincere. Actually, he may indeed be sincere. While rayverr physiology tends to make them look like they're constantly being sly, their human friends tend to seem sincere to the point of naivete, and project likableness to even the most cynical of professional manipulators. Odd, that.

((OOC stuff: I assume it's probably mid-morning or so if people are arriving the day of the luncheon. And a quick note about Vumacetajij (and really any of the other Keepers that may show up in the thread,) they aren't purely reptilian in appearance; I suppose one could describe them as a kinda freakish half-human, half dragonish hybrid. (http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/Najoedo-1.JPG)

Rodents of Unusual Size-?
Najoedo has seen many things in his travels that most people would consider strange. That he's meeting with what are apparently a race of oversized rats isn't that strange to him; the sight of their seemingly rickety craft in comparison to the spaceships he's seen, on the other hand, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end for no reason the Keeper can explain; at least not at an initial contact. There is something of the Arts at play here... or at least something similar. I see now why Firefury-Uccjooh requested my presence.

Unlike Vumacetajij's green-scaled lower torso, Najoedo's scales are a milky white, a sharp contrast with his tanned face and brown hair tied into a neat braid in the back. A quick glance would make most people think the Keeper is surprisingly young, when in fact he is probably the oldest living thing on the continent. Like the other Keeper, he's clad in a simple robelike affair with an ornate sword slung in between his wings as he waits for the Skaven diplomat to disembark the ship.

When they do disembark, it doesn't take Najoedo long to identify who is in charge of the delegation, or for the Keeper to offer the same sort of respectful bow of greeting that the mechanoids do.

"Lord Kritislik?" He assumes, given the albino Skaven has a staff and the others seem to be guards assigned to his protection. Unlike Vumacetajij, Najoedo's command of the language is flawless, with almost no trace of an accent. "I am Najoedo, Eldest of the Keepers in the service of the Lady Shogun. It is my pleasure to welcome you and yours as our guests."

Even as he makes his greeting though, the Keeper is still a warrior, and is discretely gauging what they might be capable of were hostilities to break out. That something about the Lord of Decay keeps pricking at his sixth and seventh senses also keeps the Keeper alert, though his manner is all diplomacy to any watching.

Trevor, Joan, and Sierra
At the question, Sierra consults momentarily with a small datapad held in one hand. "Let's see.... So far, aside from you, the representatives from the Terran Federation, the Wulfhelm Star Empire, and the Clans of the Skaven have already arrived, and the Allanean delegation is just touching down in Nekoa Bay. We're still expecting some other arrivals throughout the morning."

Vumacetajij and Marcus
"Willingness to learn seems to be a common trait among your people and our Eldest." Vumacetajij finally cracks an honest grin through his otherwise stoic formal attitude.

The Keeper motions Marcus toward one of a veritable fleet of limos waiting to transport the various delegates to their guest quarters to prepare for the luncheon. "The history of the Shogunate I am familiar with is likewise full of violence; and to hear the Lady Shogun tell it, after the Keepers went into hiding it only got worse with the creation of weapons to rival the power of our Arts."

The emphasis he puts on "Arts" carries an implication that he's not talking about paintbrushes, canvas, and sculpture type art; but something else entirely.

Tsume and Tomas
"A shame that said patience is all too often lacking and some people still take refuge in narrow-minded hatred." Tsume chuckles. "In fact, I'm rather surprised we haven't seen M.A.N. try to make an appearance to spoil the fun. I suppose Leona's security efforts have really paid off."

As they also move toward the waiting transports, Tsume chuckles at the comment about the city. "It probably helps that Arpia was essentially laid out from the beginning for aesthetics and functionality after the Dividing War. The wreckage of the old capital is about an hour's flight from here... and I dare say it's not exactly beautiful."

Nekoa Bay
The delegation waiting for Mr. Monningham is, given the location, substantially smaller than the main delegation greeting people in the capital. In fact, it consists mostly of a security detail, a reploid in black armoring wearing a pair of pilot goggles; and the actual diplomat.

Samantha Nemiség is, in a word, pretty. With a slender build emphasized by a sleek dark grey ladies suit, a lightly tanned complexion and blazing green eyes framed by dark brown hair well past shoulder-length, Sam could just as easily fit in at a corporate meeting or a diplomatic function.

After the Allanean craft comes to a rest against its assigned dock, Sam steps forward, matching Mr. Monningham's smile with a similarly dazzling grin. "Mr. Monningham, I gather? Sam Nemiség, Shogunate Diplomatic Corps. A pleasure to meet you on behalf of the head honcho back in the capital."

Sam offers a well-manicured hand to the foreign diplomat, indicating and introducing the assorted security goons standing at attention, all of whom offer wan smiles and nods. For whatever reason, the attention seems to put most of the security guards ill at ease, as they try not to stare straight down Sam's cleavage.

"-And this is our pilot for today, Midnight." Sam indicates the black-armored mechanoid with the goggles. "Shall we be off?"

Midnight offers a casual handshake as he motions to the helicopter waiting a short distance away. "Whenever you're ready, my bird's waitin' to fly."

Styger, the late arrival
Next to the various spaceships, the purple-colored jet seems almost out of place. Maybe not so much compared to the aerospaceport at large, since many airlines flying in and out of the place still use normal aircraft, but at the sectioned off part of the field where the delegates are coming in, a jet seems decidedly out of place.

While Sierra leads Trevor and Joan off , her usual companion watches the Rayverr transport come to a stop. Zeroel, the EI of the spacecraft of the same name, has yet to resume his usual spacefaring diplomatic duties since the shipmind and the captain are still breaking in a new crew, and the Arpean Thaumatology Institute is still conducting research aboard the ship.

So instead, the shipmind's reploid avatar is waiting on the tarmac when Styger steps down, nothing at all like Zeroel had been briefed on. He'd been expecting to see one of the tripedal Rayverr at least accompanying the human. Still, the man is friendly enough as the two join the group preparing to depart for the palace.

((OOC: I guess we can skip ahead to the actual luncheon shortly =p))

"Some people take refuge in the worst places," Tomas agreed with a laugh. "Still, I'm optimistic. Many of my countrymen had imagined that the Earth system would have been wiped out by now. I trust in the ability of sentient peoples to, eventually, do the right things."

He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "Planned cities are often the most beautiful," he agreed, still rather awed by the scenery.

He smiled. "I look forward to meeting the attendees, including, I hope, the Lady Firefury?"

OOC - Yes, let's to the luncheon! I look forward to a big feast with lots of wine and red-faced ambassadors laughing a bit too loudly and the frozen, wary stare at what the other races present have on their plates. :p

Caster Oblivion paced around his office in panic. Everything had not gone to plan! It was horrible, it was a disaster! He had lost horribly on the console game he played for ten years! Oh life was so horrible to him. Why should he continue to even exist if his skills as an elite player on Gun Madness were surpassed by a thirteen year old?! He slammed his fist on his desk, huffing and puffing in defeat. He threw the controller down and wandered over to his desk, sitting down and pressing a button that extended the flat screen and opened a portion of the desk near him with a flat keyboard.

The day was not over yet. If he could find those damn cheat cod-...wait, what was this? A nation long believed to not exist finally coming back into existence? He couldn't pass this opportunity up. He gazed around on his screen at the schedule, finding no one including himself capable of going to the diplomatic meeting. Once more he slammed his fist on the desk, this time in irritation. Sad as it was, Anagonia was far too busy with other matters to send at least one person to a delegation! It was pathetic, really. He sighed heavily, grabbing the glass of water that remained on his desk from earlier and taking a sip. Should he make a reply, or should he not? He played with the glass, watching the water slosh around in it.

Finally, after several minutes of debating with himself, Caster decided it would be best to reply. At least recognize the nation and respect its authority. Maybe they would send someone over to Anagonia, perhaps be interested in a nice ceremony? Surely he could convince the Chief Governor to slip away his plans for Caster and let him participate in that! He chuckled to himself, amused by his thinking. After taking another sip of the water he began to write his nations official reply.

From the Office of the Chief of Foreign Affairs and Activities
Representing the United Republic of Anagonia

TO: Firefury Amahira - Shogunate of Reploid Productions
FROM: Caster Oblivion - Chief of Foreign Affairs and Activities

It is with great honor that the United Republic of Anagonia welcomes you back onto the international scene. For long I have tried to garner the necessary support to allow one person to attend the diplomatic event. Unfortunately, there is much to be done here at home, and we but have no one to send to attend this wonderful event.

I beg you not to take this as a rejection, simply as a return offer. If any of your officials would come onto our shores, surely our Chief Governor would delegate and welcome you himself. I doubt this could happen, as I can tell you are well busy with greeting other respective members of the International and Worldly Community.

Therefore, in conclusion, on behalf of the People and Government of the United Republic of Anagonia and her Sovereign Semi-Protectorates, I send words of welcome and praise and the wish that your nation shall continue to thrive and have no issues whatsoever. Blessings be.

Thank You,
Caster Oblivion
Chief of Foreign Affairs and Activities
United Republic of Anagonia

From: Lady Irene, Queen of The Swarms.
To: Lady Amahira

Welcome back! I remember reading of your exploits in my history books. If it's not too late, I'd love to stop on by for a luncheon, me and my Guardian (Though he'll mostly stay invisible, he's a bit unsettling for most folk to look at.) (I'll have a bit of a different than normal appearance too, as in my normal guise, I'm a bit off putting.)

"Thank you, I'd like to apologise but there is alot to do when someone is getting married. I'm sure you'd understand." he briefly smiled as he and Joan followed Sierra to the Luncheon. Joan was still on the communicator though she soon wrapped it up saying that she'd get that list to whoever she was talking to the end of the day.

"Thank you, for this opportunity.. I've been been on a diplomatic mission before." Joan was slightly excited and extended her hand towards Sierra."Nice to meet you, I've been flat out recently organising with the Tanarans Trevor's wedding."

Trevor looked on, not letting the amusement of the slightly clumsy attempt by Joan show on his face, partly for Joan and partly for Sierra. To be honest Trevor didn't know much about Reploid greeting customs and though while Sierra certainly seemed human Trevor knew all too well just how much a nations society and culture play apart in the strange subject of manners. Was a bow the only accepted formal greeting? or was a handshake also accepted? perhaps the handshake would be accepted this once despite not being a traditional greeting or perhaps it wouldn't be accepted at all.

Trevor knew the importance of presentation and perception, though while he found it funny it could also have repurcussions for the formal relationships of the Reploids with the corporation.

Marcus walked to the limo, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what the other meant but he figured he’d understand in some way shape or form later on. Marcus looked toward Vumacetajij saying in a less formal more relaxed yet equally professional tone of voice.

“I have a feeling, that our two nations will learn much from one another in some way shape or form.” He paused for a second before adding on another line.

“The Terran Federation is a very open society, and liberalistic. Unlike most of the xenophobic powers that border us, we hope more people come to our nation of different races this we think would build a future of corporation. We also seem to be one of the few democratic powers in that part of space. Many nations think we’re to militaristic for a democratic state. How ever being bordered by chaos worshiping evil nations, isolationists and various standard expanding empires, will tend to make any nation a bit weary and militaristic I say.”

He stopped him self there before he would go on a rant that could obviously make him look bad, and cause concerns of his sanity from both the foreign delegates and his superiors. Marcus looked over Vumacetajij again asking politely as he took out another cigarette .

“ May I light one sir? I don’t wish to cause any one issue by my habbit?”

A charismatic smile formed on Marcus’s face. He began to think again, he knew he would meet some high ranking officials from various nations the Federation hadn’t made contact with and it would provide an excellent opportunity for both diplomatic contact and informal data gathering. He looked relaxed and mellow, even though his thoughts made him stressed on the inside a bit, he could pull off looking professional and cool in almost any situation. Like most diplomats could.

Skaven were not well known for their bravery in the face of adversity, and they were even less remembered for being willing to stand their ground on the chance adversity might be approaching. Stormvermin - elite guard for the Council of Thirteen, the elite members of Clan Eshin and the Lords of Decay themselves and their Grey Seer prophets aside were exceptions to this rule but by and large the teeming Rat-hordes beneath the collapsed cityscape of Skavenblight had nothing in the way of tenaciousness beyond self-preservation.


Despite being amongst the small number of the rat-people willing to stand their ground at the first hint of trouble, Kritislik struggled to resist the urge to take a protective step backwards in the presence of what he assumed was a Reploid that towered even over his Stormvermin escort and Lord Snikch. His snail swished violently from side to side before slowing to a gentle motion at his controlling will. As one of the Thirteen Lords of Decay he reconciled his fear with the fact that this trip was merely the latest in a long line of experiences and missions orchestrated by the will of The Horned Rat.


His lips drawing back to present a smile that on the snout of a Skaven merely resembled a snarl, Kritislik extended his paws outward, staff gesticulating wildly. “Najoedo, Eldest of the Keepers!” He greeted enthusiastically, as if trying the words out for size and adding a sibilant hiss. “I am Kritislik, Seerlord, head of the order of Grey Seers, one of Thirteen Lords of Decay! It is very good to see your place in the Above-World! I have many hopes that the Horned Rat blessed you and keeps you in wellness!”


Gesturing towards the Skaven clad in a hooded cloak, his snout bound in faded green fabric the Seerlord’s tail swished twice. “This is Snikch, Deathmaster of Clan Eshin and two personal guards, the Stormvermin.”


The smile-come-snarl widened slightly as Snikch nodded almost imperceptibly and the Stormvermin did nothing in acknowledgement of their mention. “Unfortunately they not as talkative as me but that is no matter for us. I am looking forward to seeing more of Above-World! It is very bright here!”

((OOC: Once again, my apologies for the delay ^^; ))

Replies to the latest batch of messages
ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Caster Oblivion - Anagonia
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Firefury Amahira - Reploid Productions

I can appreciate the concerns of tending the home turf; if you can't take care of your own home, you shouldn't be visiting the homes of others or somesuch similar old saying.

While at this time most of our diplomatic resources are currently engaged, I'm certain we can make arrangements after the current affair is concluded.

http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/furyavatar.jpg
~Firefury Amahira
~Lady Shogun under the Wings of Chaos
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >

ALTIMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: Standard
Broadcast type: Diplomatic
To: Lady Irene - The Eternal Swarm
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Firefury Amahira - Reploid Productions

Given our own range of species and mechanoid types, it generally takes quite a bit to offend Arpean sensibilities; and for security purposes, I would prefer that all guests at least be visible.

That being said, as long as we have an idea of what to expect, I look forward to meeting with you.

http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/furyavatar.jpg
~Firefury Amahira
~Lady Shogun under the Wings of Chaos
~Immortal Shogunate and Affiliated Territories of Reploid Productions
< < END TRANSMISSION > >

Trevor, Joan, and Sierra
Sierra spares Trevor further uncertainty about greeting customs and accepts Joan's offered shake with familiar ease. "Wedding planning's always a headache, I don't want to even imagine what it's got to be like when national leaders are involved!"

Apparently handshakes are just as good as the traditional bow that's prominent among the Shogunate citizenry.

Marcus and Vumacetajij
The Keeper nods in agreement. "We do not choose times of war; they choose us, and only one with little sense does not prepare for it."

When Marcus pulls his cigarette out, Vumacetajij smiles and raises one finger, apparently concentrating momentarily. A tiny flame appears above the raised fingertip, seemingly conjured from thin air and and hovering there without any substance to fuel it.

Grinning, he quips. "The phrase is 'Need a light?', if I am not mistaken?"

Kritislik and Najoedo
Najoedo hides a quirked eyebrow at the shorter rat's seemingly spastic enthusiasm. "Simply Najoedo will suffice; I find longer titles often an unnecessary drain on conversation."

The pale-scaled Keeper offers a polite nod in greeting to Snikch and the Stormvermin as Kritislik indicates and introduces his companions, waiting to get a word in edgewise.

"I hope that you will enjoy your time here. If you've any special needs or preferences, please do not hesitate to ask."

((OOC: Second post coming in a bit to move things to the actual luncheon, so standby! ))

Irene read the reply.
"Fine, I'll go in my normal form. I'll show them." She said.

Stepping into a Myscetic Hive Spore, a Guardian and Her fired off down to the surface.

This Hive spore dissolved away into nothing, leaving behind what could easily be mistaken for two monsters!

Irene was as she always was, purpilish skin, claws, wings (without the connecting membrane making it look like three long worm-like tubes on each side were sticking out) a head of hair, with each hair looking like the wings. She wore a thick insectoid Carapace that seemed to have sprang from her very skin! Her eyes appeared to glow yellow. Yet despite being so, alien, there was a mysterious seductive allure about her.

Her guardian was no more comforting, except it looked like an insectoid reptillian, and not at all human. It was clearly 13 feet tall, but hunched over to seven. Irene rested her hand on it's head. It had thick scales that were either reptillian scales, or Chitinous plating. It had a bio-plasma rifle physically attached to it's hip, not that it seemed to need a gun to be intimidating. It had that art down pat naturally without it.

"I did try to warn you we're a bit, unsettling." Irene said.

OOC: Screenshot! This is the best pic I've ever seen of Infested Kerrigan, who is of course, the basis for Irene. Have no idea what Zerg it really is though.
http://www.starcraft2.com/images/wallpapers/wall5/wall5-1920x1200.jpg

After departing the aerospaceport (or in Mr. Monningham's case, Nekoa Bay) the delegates are brought to the guest wing of the Arpean palace for a chance to settle in and take care of any last-minute cleanup prior to the event beginning. While the section of the complex Firefury and the rest of the governmental staff generally use is almost boring in simplicity, the guest wing is much more decorated if not overly ornate.

Staffers, both human and reploid are on call in case any of the delegates require any extra assistance or directions to the gathering hall once they are ready to go.

((OOC: At this point, no need to mess with RSVPs and stuff from late-arrivals. Just show up if you'd like; but please remember the rules I set in the first post! :) ))

Let's get this party started!
The setting for the luncheon itself is one of the large outdoor gardens, a light floral scent from the sculpted flowering bushes and trees drifting over the area. Tables and seating have been arranged beneath a large canopy, with several of various non-standard sizes and shapes to comfortably accommodate the unusual physiques of several of the guests. While the food has not yet been brought out, platters of various fruits, vegetables, and other assorted hors d'oeuvres are sitting on just about every table, along with colorful pitchers and glasses of ice water. For those who want something else, palace staff are easily denoted by their crisp white uniforms, ready to fetch drinks, snacks, and so on at a moment's notice.

The Lady Shogun Firefury herself is the first one there, the reploid's distinctive orange and black armoring freshly polished, though she's not wearing her usual helmet, allowing her short brown hair in a neatly done ponytail to be more visible. Other members of the Shogunate's diplomatic delegation are similarly ready to greet and mingle with the foreign dignitaries, while Leona roams the grounds, double and then triple-checking all the security measures.

Once everyone has arrived, or at least Firefury is fairly certain that the majority has arrived, the orange reploid gets to her feet and calls for everyone's attention.

"Welcome everyone, I'm glad you could all join us today." Normally she wouldn't be so formal, but Tsume had drilled it into Queenie's head that having her feet on the table and greeting everyone with a 'Hey all, s'up?' would not make for a very good first impression. "It's been way too long since the Shogunate has looked beyond its own borders, let alone participated on the international scene, and I hope that this gathering will be a successful first step in rectifying this. I look forward to meeting with all of you, and hope that this provides not only an opportunity for the Shogunate to expand its political horizons, but for everyone to meet with others that they may not have otherwise encountered. To all of the new faces and old friends here today, I hope at the very least you all have an enjoyable time."

((OOC: And here we go; the actual meal will probably be served up in a little while, but feel free to mingle with everybody or corner one of my guys if you like. The Shogunate delegation, just for quick reference, includes Firefury, Tsume, Sierra, Zeroel, Vumacetajij, Najoedo, and Sam. Leona is probably lurking somewhere, as well as the usual assortment of security folks. The garden area includes the canopy-covered area with the tables as well as several garden paths, fountains, and other such typical stuff if people want to break away from the main crowd.))

The Guardian quietly lurked in the backround, being far too large in it's own opinion to hover around Irene.

Of course, the Queen of the swarm didn't really need protection, being quite capable of killing all on her lonesome, but the overmind insisted, and what the overmind wants, the overmind gets.

Her claws were filed to their greatest sharpness, yet were as soft and delicate as silk. Her wing blades were neatly wrapped around her to consolidate the space she took, and her scorpion sting was similarly wrapped. she knew she was single-handedly the most alien looking guest among them, second only to her own guardian.

The Guardian, during all it's lurking, tried it's best to appear non-threatening, but knew that probably wasn't working too well. The Swarm was not built to appear welcoming, or inviting, which probably why it wasn't too renowned for it's social graces. Infact, the Guardian was highly tempted to start gnawing on the nearest tree, or organic substance of similar height. Even a tall person would do, but it knew eating people would not be taken too kindly.

Irene meanwhile sat with a grace and pose that could only have come from years of formal training, revealing traces of a life before the swarm. Patiently she awaited the inevitable questions about who and what she was, but more importantly, waited her chance to speak with the shogunate, and possibly ingratiate the swarm to her good side.

Kritislik had enthusiastically followed the much taller Reploid as the party had made its way across the expansive bridging and through the finely sculpted doorframes to begin their journey through the winding corridors of the Arpean Palace. Although he would never have admitted to any save The Horned Rat himself, the Seerlord felt a modicum of calm restored as the bright blue sky and its hated Sun disappeared from view and the Rat felt far more secure in the building than outside it.

The slightest relaxation of the Stormvermin’s shoulders confirmed their similar feeling though despite scrutinising the Deathmaster, second most influential of all in Clan Eshin, the Lord of Decay could not see any change in Snikch. Unsurprising.

It is with the slightest chirp of irritation that the Skaven end up outside once more - in an expansive garden whose air is thick and pungent with scented flowers and carefully tended shrubs. In all the Rats assembled - save Snikch once more - snouts wrinkle and Kritislik felt a deep sense of longing for the cloying mist, dampness, decay and smell of corrosion of Skavenblight.

“It’s very bright isn’t it?” The albino-furred Skaven says aloud to his party. “It is,” He replies almost instantly to his own question, “Very bright. Very bright under the light.”

The Skaven party indulge in their own bizarre version of Musical Chairs as Kritislik tries a variety seeking the one that is shortest and therefore closest to the ground. Happy with his choice he “sits” for only a moment before pushing himself up on to the table - hind paws parked on the very edge of the tablecloth, leaving black smudges from dirty pads on the pristine surface. His snout quivers as it passes over the fruit and turns upwards in an obvious sign of distaste.

The Lord of Decay’s bright blue eyes turn to see one of the Stormvermin’s snouts so far into a coloured pitcher that his tongue is able to lap at the glass bottom. Hissing loudly Kritislik’s tail whips around and strikes the elite guard on the top of the head. The black-furred Skaven reacts in alarm - jerking its head upwards with the pitcher still somewhat attached so that it is sent from the table to shatter on the floor and scatter a sticky, sugary liquid on the cloth, the Stormvermin, Kritislik and anyone too close.

“Show manners!” The Seerlord squeaked. Climbing forwards to leave a small trail of paw marks on the tablecloth the Supreme Prophet of The Horned Rat presents his rear to another coloured pitcher and using his tail to wrap around the handle carries another back to the Skaven party in a sloshing, messy manner.

Setting it down on the once crisp-white tablecloth, Kritislik makes a grand display to the rest of his party on the supposedly correct etiquette. By apparently consuming the entire pitcher at their seats, however messily, is infinitely preferable to doing it in the middle of the table. Plunging his snout into the sugary, coloured container the Seerlord’s white fur is quickly stained by patches of sticky dark splashes.

“Manners!” He squeaked between pulling his snout clear to breathe. “Very important for diplomacy!”

Somewhat more practised with the elements of Above-World society - all the better to kill them in their familiar surroundings where they are less alert - Snikch sources a glass with his tail and fills it in a bizarre aping of how one is supposed to obtain a drink.

The art of diplomacy often requires the artful practice of wasting time without simply standing around looking at the sky and going 'pfft' in the universal sign of boredom. The time between arriving vaguely anachronistically at the airport and the actual luncheon is most probably spent seeing the local sights that the official guides want Styger to see; this is a very famous monument, this is the palace, this is some history. Hieronymus, despite probably being a relative latecomer to being an important diplomatic personage, knows what part he has to play: oh yes, fascinating, most interesting indeed. He shows the mildly enthusiastic sincerity that anyone--at least anyone who can appreciate someone else's interest in any given subject--has the common decency to show when taken on a tour; therefore, it can hopefully be assumed that the interim passes without notable incident...

So many people to meet, so many different kinds of people to introduce to the vesh. Styger smiles to himself with the sort of quiet self-satisfaction one usually sees on monks, rather than something more artificial. Apparently, this is his sort of element, despite the fact that there are giant rats and bug-people running about. And robots. We mustn't forget the robots. Decisions, decisions...

Well, there are the Reploids. We know them, after a fashion, so they are at the moment a slightly lower priority. They're just a bit standoffish about the vesh, it seems; more's the pity. He knows that Mater finds the concept of intelligences incapable of receiving the Gift most sad, but it is a world of woe, as some poet somewhere must've said at some point in time. This is merely another unfortunate reflection of that fact. Then the rat-men demonstrate their table manners, or, to be more precise, almost complete lack thereof. Despite himself, Styger feels a revulsion that settles deep in his chest--somewhere around the diaphragm--and try as he might to reflect on the tenets of Universal Family he simply just can't feel a natural connection to walking vermin. I'll simply have to learn. Someday, they can be family too...

That leaves, immediately available, nasty mean death machine bug people. Styger has experience with nasty mean death machine bug people; one could argue that the tall, athletic, professionally-styled man works for nasty mean death machine bug people, although this would be a horrible mischaracterization of the Rayverr. They only look like nasty mean death machine bug people (or reptile people, depending on whom one asks), and Hieronymus takes this experience to heart as he walks fearlessly up to the Guardian, whom he assumes to be in charge of that particular delegation.

After all, the reason he's here is because he's human and humans relate to humans better than aliens; thus, the logic goes, if given a choice between someone alien-looking and someone human-looking, the human-looking one is probably just a proxy used for diplomatic purposes and as such is less likely to be the actual authority.

"Hello," he says with mildly sedate (read "polite") cheer, "my name is Hieronymous Styger and I'm the masjon--speaker--of the vesh pij Rayverr. I'm so glad our hosts decided to host this little function, aren't you?"

"Hello," he says with mildly sedate (read "polite") cheer, "my name is Hieronymous Styger and I'm the masjon--speaker--of the vesh pij Rayverr. I'm so glad our hosts decided to host this little function, aren't you?"

The Guardian looks at him strangley, confused. It gestured at Irene, who walked over.

"I appreciate the sentiment that perhaps I'm just a focus for the more alien looking, but in truth he really is only my bodyguard, and completely unable to speak. It can let out one hell of a scream though. I am Irene, Queen of the Swarm, servant of The Overmind. It is a pleasure to meet you." Irene said, speaking with the same neutral, polite, yet cheerful tone innate to any diplomat. Irene of course was trained from childhood, her very genes altered to the purpose of diplomacy and The Arts. It was the swarm who mutated her into something more.

Of course, one might wonder how Irene knew what he was thinking, but then one must realize that the Overmind is a psionic entity, comprised of the minds of the swarm. Thus the swarm was psionic in and of itself, and as their queen, it only stood to reason that Irene was extraordinarily gifted with Psyker powers, which she was. This gave her a practically unfair advantage, but she chose to only read surface thoughts*.

OOC: * Surface thoughts = anything written in italics, or otherwise noted as thoughts. These are the uppermost thoughts, and easily obtained, even in RL by careful observation of another, via the subtle movements of the body that give them away to a keen and intelligent observer fluent in body language. That Irene has Psionic power only makes them even more readily accessible, especially since surface thoughts are unwittingly broadcast, even by non-psionic entities.

Trevor smiled slightly with a closed mouth, "Thank you, Luckily all the big decisions have already been made, it's getting into the minute details now and that's the real scary part."

There wasn't really much else to discuss for now, Trevor made his way towards the luncheon following Sierra's directions. He preferred going on foot, he didn't believe there was any risk and he used the opportunity of not having his own personal security close by to endulge himself.

As he arrived he noticed the rat-things, but he was careful not stare or show too much of an interest, and then there was that half-bug,half human creature. A very interesting creature indeed, he'd have to talk with 'her', but it seemed she had already been claimed by a prospective diplomat. As for Trevor, Irene would not be able to read his surface thoughts, either as if there was a powerful mind that was able to properly defend against it or as if there was a psi-shield protecting him against psychic attacks.

That meant going back to the rat things... not that he'd call them that, either to their faces or behind their backs, the first lesson he learnt was that things you let out of the bag have a tendency to spread.

(OOC: I'm not quite sure on the height of your characters The Blessed Horned Rat.)

The first thing to do was to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible, using the fundermental inter-species diplomacy guidelines (produced by the Marketing Department) he approached carefully, slowly and deliberately. Careful and aware not to make any sudden moves, as he arrived, he tried to get his eyeline down to theirs. A height advantage no matter if it was 1 ft, or 4, could be very intimidating.

"I am Trevor Desorté, CEO and Owner of The Garbage Men... and who might I be speaking to?"

"Sorry, friend, excuse me." Hieronymus excuses himself from the Guardian and turns on his heels to face Irene with a short bow. Mildly unexpected. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am, and as you can read my intent I'll hazard you caught my name too." He grins good-naturedly, resorting to good humor to smooth over the minor faux pas of talking to the muscle. "Anyway, as a servant of one vesh to a servant of another, it's a pleasure to meet you too."

Apparently the thought of talking to a mind-reader doesn't bother him. It's not exactly a new experience for him, and he's not presently thinking about it. What would be noticeable, however, to the psychically-inclined is that his 'aura,' as it were, is not exactly limited to his person. His brain is certainly transmitting--quite healthily, after all--but besides that there is a sort of ethereal cloud of thought surrounding him, most powerful inside and less powerful without, with apparently a tendency to wisp away at the edges until it's too small to be sensed. It happens to be one of the reasons the Arpeans are wary about the Rayverr and their satellite nations, but it's certainly nothing Hieronymus has any control over, just like someone with a cold can't help being a host for rhinoviruses.

That being said, he's a happy sort--deeply happy in a fulfilled sort of way--and his bearing seems to make that happiness infectious, in the same way that other people might have infectious laughs or smiles. "So, shall I tell you of my masters first, or would you like to lead?" The word 'masters' is said with his proverbial tongue well in his proverbial cheek.

"You go first." Irene said.

A faint scent, like that of a gentle perfume began to waft about in the air around her. Those who drew in it's intoxicating scent would find themselves becoming more and more amiable towards Irene and her Guardian, finding them not really all that scary after all. Irene's Pheromones were her secret weapon in battle, but now, were just a pleasant bit of fluff, to make sure no one grew overly frightened of her.

"Oh, very well then." Just as cheerful as ever. "The Rayverr vesh is... hm, what's the best way to describe it? I suppose one could call it one very large family spanning a few species, but mostly Rayverr and humans like me from Cvechiokal and the other provinces of what once was The Sean Empire. Now that the former Empire has been brought up to speed, so to say, we're looking to make friends and build up trading relationships since we're finally capable of producing an exportable surplus. While the economy isn't my area of expertise, I'm made to understand that we're going to start with foodstuffs and light manufacturing and then work from there..."

Wandering off the point a bit... Styger chuckles, excusing himself with a polite wave of his hands while he leans over to take some unusually-colored juice from a table. He sips it experimentally, finds that it's good for wetting a throat slightly dessicated by speaking, then continues. "Anyway, the Rayverr are in charge, primarily because they're naturally good at it. There's a measure of local control through devolution of powers, but like any good constitutional monarch, Mater and her Daughters are there to make sure nothing gets out of hand. Beyond that, we work on the understanding that we are all akin to each other--a sort of universal family--and thus work as a functional family towards each other's betterment. Like any system it's rough around the edges but it seems to work well enough for us--we're happy, productive, and content, so there's not much more to ask."

If Styger happens to be getting more at ease with Irene and the Guardian, then the Swarmies would have to start feeling somewhat sympathetic to all this happy talk and curious to know more. It could, after all, be argued that a great deal of life for intelligent, feeling creatures is the pursuit of happiness, and Hieronymus is apparently onto something.

"Well, I suppose it's my turn. The Swarm, is, the voice of change. One large family, but with a single will, a single consciousness." Irene said selecting her words carefully.
"Crafted by the true masters of change, we travel from world to world, system to system, enacting change, for we have been blessed with the perfection of essence. The normal range of feeling does not exist for the swarm, not that we lack the ability to feel it, we simply have no need. Sure, some resist change, but we possess unrivaled powers of Genetic Manipulation, and epitomize evolution and Mutation at their greatest. I could, if I was so inclined give rise to a species capable of devouring rock, molten or cold, and have it transmute that rock into nutrition for other organic beings. Hey, that's not a bad idea. Pardon me for a moment." Irene said, she closed her eyes in concentration for a few seconds, and fired the idea off to the overmind for review.

"So, anyways, The Swarm is out looking for more worlds, and possibly to help others with their troubles, in exchange for more places to establish our Hive Clusters. I could single-handedly give birth to the entire swarm, were I to be the only Swarmling left alive, for we do not build as most do, we grow, evolve, and mutate into what we need."

"So, being kin to one another, is that through blood, or through spirit?"

"The latter, of course," Styger says with a chuckle, "as we're currently being hosted by... ah... non-organic intelligences and they've not a drop of blood, as far as I know. Besides that, there are plenty of organic possibilities which can't be related to each other, usually because their proteins are facing in opposite directions or something like that. No, we're all related because--as far as we can tell--all feeling creatures are looking for fulfillment. Happiness, nirvana, call it what you will, all species are driven towards some sort of purpose in a search for completion. These can be complex versions of biological imperatives, or complex philosophical concepts perfectly severed from the needs of flesh, but all species need a special something. Any species that already has it has nothing in particular to strive for. It's simply our philosophy that we help this striving as we can."

The tall man thinks for a moment, then glances quizzically at Irene. "I don't mean to sound churlish, but there seems a logical flaw in your description. If you have the 'perfection of essence' of change, then it stands to reason that you are perfectly in motion. However, you have a static form, like me. If you were to be the epitome of evolution and mutation, then it'd seem that you should constantly be evolving and mutating and changing form without maintaining any sort of homeostasis, as change and stasis are in diametric opposition and if one is to have an ideal form of one then one cannot have any of the other. Now, it could be said that you are constantly evolving and mutating while maintaining a static and purely linear continuity, and hence you don't change much from second to second... but that's true of any organism, even me. We are all in a state of change yet remain similar--static--enough from moment to moment to retain a line of continuity, remaining the same entity despite being different from one instant to the next."

He grins and shrugs. "My apologies, but I had a particularly clever philosophy teacher when I was studying to be a marketer. While I don't doubt anything you say, having sold things for a living in a past life makes me tend to look at rhetoric perhaps too critically."

While the Stormvermin had stayed with their overlord - having recovered from their earlier excess and mess - the Deathmaster Snikch, penultimate authority and power of Clan Eshin, had decided that for all his Warpstone-powered excess Kritislik could be replied upon to avoid bringing death to the city of Skavenblight and the Rats in general for a few moments at least.

Walking on his hind paws so to appear as tall as his five-foot frame would allow, the Assassin-turned information gatherer moved between the parties; black orbs passing over the diplomats and staff members from a snout almost entirely obscured by faded green fabric wrapped about black, furry features.

Eventually Snikch made his way to the side of the tent where the Rayverr representative was indulging in conversation with ... Something. With no system or reasoning more complex than Chaos Theory the Deathmaster paused a short distance from the discussion.

Of course, this distance for Skaven was practically shoulder-to-shoulder and so Snikch took up a position directly next to the Man from the Rayverr.








Kritislik's beady blue eyes remained fixed on the empty pitcher which his snout remained firmly within, a long black tongue pressing against the misting glass and the final drops of sugary water within. As the shadow of Desorté fell over the Seerlord the Albino-furred Skaven glanced upwards and with a moment of panic-turned-determination pulled the pitcher from his snout with his front paws and dropped it to the ground with a crash.

"I m Kritislik!" He squeaked cheerfully. "One of the Lords of Decay - Prophet and Seerlord of The Horned Rat! May he bless you and keep you tall and stop you burning in the light of the sky, Groundling!"

Leaping to the ground from the table top - and leaving a distinct mess of spilt drink, rejected appetisers and paw marks the Rat stretched to his full height of a little over three and a half feet. "Tell me of your Above-World Groundling! Does it smell like these flowers? I do not care for them. Smell like sugar but taste bitter like fruit!"

"Ahh, but you see, I can change, at whim, at will. I merely hold myself to one form, because I can, because I want to, because it makes me happy. The Swarm is continually evolving, always changing, never remaining static. Individuals, such as myself, Zasz, and Dangaloth might maintain a static form, but only because that static form serves the swarm best. Even if I were to die, it would be but a temporary setback, as I would merely be reborn into the swarm.

I find a flaw in your concept that something that has proteins facing one way, cannot be related to something that has proteins facing another. The sons of Khorne have Proteins that face, and revolve in a clockwise pattern circling their DNA. Meanwhile, the Children of Slaanesh have proteins that face and revolve in a counter-clockwise pattern, circling their DNA. Meanwhile, the sons of Tzeentch, who never maintain the same form from moment to moment, have proteins that do not revolve at all, and face both left, and right at the same time. The sons of Nurgle have no proteins at all! Yet all four evolve from the same Gauntlings, and thus are closely related to one another. That is why I find your statement to be false." Irene said, inadvertantly revealing the swarms close connection with The Gods of Chaos.

"Hm. As far as I understand, the handedness of proteins define how they can react. Left-handed and right-handed proteins can't interact because they can't fit together, or something. Not my forte, though, so I should probably leave it to the mipjonlo and the scientists." Styger shrugs. If it happens, then it can't be scientifically impossible. Biological chemistry was a long time ago... and isn't DNA made of proteins? Hrm. Oh.

Styger notices a big silent rat next to him. He can't be as impolite to ignore it, but the revulsion is still there... and the guilt associated with the revulsion. Ah well. Having been pressed--"Excuse me a moment"--he turns to the ninja-rat and offers his hand. "Ah, hello. I'm Hieronymus Styger of the vesh pij Rayverr and this is Irene of the Swarm." By performing introductions, he doesn't have to lie and say something banal like 'I'm glad you could make it' or 'pleased to meet you.'

Then back to the female from the Swarm. "Ah, but the fact that you maintain a continuity of personality is still a static form, and the presence of any static form keeps an entity from being pure change. I continue to posit that all living organisms must balance change and stasis as an entity that is pure change has no continuity and an entity that is pure stasis is dead. Of course, you've your rhetoric and I mine, so I suppose there's no call for me to be rude over it..." He smiles slightly--perhaps with just a touch of apology--before taking another sip of his juice. "I should stick to speaking for my vesh and not debating other cultures' ideas. Anyway, what's your attitude towards different cultures--particularly, do you believe it'd be profitable to enter a mutually beneficial discourse between our two societies?"

"One last note on our previous discourse. It is of course completly possible to maintain complete stasis, or complete change. We of course, must balance both to continue to exist, to live, to survive. But Holy Tzeentch is the embodiment of change the power of Syntropy, and all facets of his very being change continuously, the only permanence is in that he always changes. Nurgle Meanwhile, never changes, and embodies Entropy, stagnation, death, and disease. They hate each other with a passion, being each other's opposites, but they still exist, and still prove that it's possible to maintain absolutes in one path or the other. The Swarm follows all four, as is proven by the children of Chaos.

Now, as for other Cultures, it is of course, always possible. What did you have in mind?"

Snikch cocks his snout to the side, his black eyes staring out from underneath the frayed rim of his cloak's hood. With a fluid motion and without the paws - hidden in their sleeves and folded together - his tale thrusts upwards and pushes into the Rayverr representative's hand in a strange mockery of the traditional response.

The Deathmaster nods his snout almost imperceptibly, continuing to study the Man and the ... Thing next to him.

Kritislik's beady blue eyes remained fixed on the empty pitcher which his snout remained firmly within, a long black tongue pressing against the misting glass and the final drops of sugary water within. As the shadow of Desorté fell over the Seerlord the Albino-furred Skaven glanced upwards and with a moment of panic-turned-determination pulled the pitcher from his snout with his front paws and dropped it to the ground with a crash.

"I m Kritislik!" He squeaked cheerfully. "One of the Lords of Decay - Prophet and Seerlord of The Horned Rat! May he bless you and keep you tall and stop you burning in the light of the sky, Groundling!"

Leaping to the ground from the table top - and leaving a distinct mess of spilt drink, rejected appetisers and paw marks the Rat stretched to his full height of a little over three and a half feet. "Tell me of your Above-World Groundling! Does it smell like these flowers? I do not care for them. Smell like sugar but taste bitter like fruit!"

Trevor bowed slightly with his head towards Kritislik, acknowledging the blessing. "Thank you for the blessing Seerlord, but to answer you're question, no. The Headquarters where I make my home, has quite a neutral bland smell, faintly pleasing at first before becoming unnoticeable. Though as I get to Travel as apart of my job, I have smelled some truly remarkable smells, both extremely divine, and smells that would unsettle even the hardiest stomach."

He talked as an equal to the Seerlord, even though Trevor was perhaps a few rangs up higher on the ladder of position. It didn't really and perhaps would only give the Seerlord a positive view of Trevor and the corporation as a whole. They were after all a potential client just look at the mess Kritislik created on the table before them... especially... the half-eaten food.

"What do you do, monkey?" The Lord of Decay enthused as his tail swished from side to side and blue eyes darted from chair, to dirty tablecloth, to Stormvermin, to Diplomat and then back to Trevor. His paws flexed constantly as if of their own volition, and a black tongue ran along the toothy maw beneath his white-furred snout every few seconds.

Kritislik bared his fangs in a show of momentary irritation as a faceless member of staff walked in a direction his eyes did not follow and narrowly avoided stepping on the large Rat as she negotiated the room with drinks and conversation. "Stupid Upright! They walk on the ground but they never look there, do they? No they do not, Groundling. It is no matter! If they do not see us they will never worry, yes?"

The Seerlord clapped his paws together, pleased with his skilful diplomacy. "Monkeys are not as difficult to deal with as Pointies, no?"

Hand... tail? shake and a nod. Hieronymus can handle this and if the rat thing doesn't want to introduce itself, it's not his fault. The uncomfortable duty done, he returns to his more pleasant purpose. "As I intimated earlier, I'm only a Speaker--a mouthpiece--for the vesh and so it'd be inappropriate for me to discuss anything too binding without Mater's approval. Of course, it shouldn't be too difficult to first swap some general cultural materials and then, if relations allow it, exchange envoys? We can learn the basics about how the other does business and then work our way up from there, I figure."

"We would have to have a Hive Cluster in your nation to do anything. All things can be spawned from a Hive Cluster."

Hieronymus quirks an eyebrow. "Sounds like a large amount of infrastructure to do something as simple as trade cultural ideas and perhaps station an envoy. You're certainly capable of acting independently of a 'Hive Cluster;' would it be possible that your people have some sort of courier or envoy-form that could do essentially the same? Establishing a permanent presence, either in the form of embassies on our part or clusters on yours, would seem to be a rather daring first step."

It certainly wasn't the best diplomacy Trevor had encountered, in fact, he was doubting that it was diplomacy at all "Monkey?". Please it was almost as bad as calling Kritislik... a mouse, none of this showed on Trevor's face, it was still the soft warm smile that he wore like a mask so skilfully that you could not see where the mask ended and Trevor really begun. Something that could be only achieved through an inordinate amount of experience.

"I'm in charge of a vast inter-galactic corporation, known as The Garbage Men, I own and basically run it. With Billions of employees spread over countless worlds. We do everything from cleaning up after a party, to large scale waste collection, debris collection and processing to 2nd hand goods and terraforming."

Trevor noticed just how close the wait person came to treading on the large rodent, it would be sad if they actually stood on one of these things. Though whatever might of happened would of been their own fault. There is another one of those racial slurs... "Pointies?" now usually pointie's refers to Elves or other similar pointy-eared races (such as Vulcans), but not really seeing any here, nor any other race that could immediately stick out as the point of reference he could only make a general platitude.

"Worried? of course not... though usually I find each race needs to be treated differently. If you don't know how to treat one race and so treat them like another race that are perhaps similar, then of course it's going to be harder.

"Well, we could send a Swarmling Satellite with you which would extend the senses of The Overmind to your world, or wherever you placed it. We do not use technology, in any conception of the word. We use Organic ability, and so a Swarmling Satellite is a real living swarmling, whose very existence is to function as a satellite. It can send and receive communications, and is the only other viable alternative. There are only thee individuals capable of acting without the hive, and that is Zasz, Dangaloth, and myself, and all three of us lead three separate Hive Fleets. Without us, the Hive would go insane and kill itself, or whatever luckless entity happened to pass too closely. Even the Zealots and Prophets, individualistic though they appear to be, cannot survive without the hive. I can't survive without the hive for very long, nor can Zasz or Dangaloth. I can survive up to three months without a Hive nearby. Whether it is a Hive Cluster on a world, or a Hive ship in space.

So, as you can see, a Satellite is the best alternative. It feeds on Solar Radiation and has been specially adapted to long term survival without the Swarm, but it cannot withstand an Atmosphere, if it is placed under even the thinnest and weakest of atmospheres, it will be crushed to death under the weight of such."

"So, as you can see, a Satellite is the best alternative. It feeds on Solar Radiation and has been specially adapted to long term survival without the Swarm, but it cannot withstand an Atmosphere, if it is placed under even the thinnest and weakest of atmospheres, it will be crushed to death under the weight of such."
"Ooooonce it gets to that point, most certainly," Hieronymus says with a slightly ironic smirk, "but first maybe it'd be best if we transferred cultural materials in order to prevent any diplomatic errors. You wouldn't happen to make any history or sociology textbooks, would you?"

He pauses momentarily. "Wait. No technology. Of course you wouldn't. Hmmm." He rubs his chin. "Well, we do, so perhaps we could give you some books and whatnot on our culture, and then send some sociologists to learn about yours, and so we'd be the first to volunteer envoys. If that works out, then you can set up one of your Satellites."

"By set up of course, you mean grow. As the only Swarmling capable of reading, if you were to send them, you'd best send them with me. But as for textbooks and histories, we do not, as you've guessed, make any. All knowledge is stored within the overmind. But that does not mean there is nothing like what you are seeking. The Inter-Galactic Science Consortium finds us most fascinating and has been researching us for ages uncounted. You could find them and ask them for textbooks."

"Okay, I'll relay that. I'm afraid I don't have any appropriate books on me, so we'll have to catch up with you later on that regard."

Knowing he's in the presence of a reader, Styger refuses to add the numbers up right now and simply files this information for later perusal with some basic mental gymnastics. The rat will help. "So..." He turns slightly to Snikch in order to include him in the conversation. "Does your culture happen to have books?"

"We have bookssss ..." The Deathmaster replies as he cranes his snout upwards to look at the Rayverr representative. "Sssometimes we have illussstrations of what is happening in the ssstory ..."

Snikch glances at the Thing which may or may not be looking at him. "For thooooose that cannot read ..."

"Oh, how wonderful." Styger grins a little bit too broadly. "You wouldn't happen to have any on your history we could borrow, perhaps in exchange for some of our own?" I am going to get some agreement out of this shindig. "Not right now, of course, but sometime soon."

The ship coasting through hyperspace exchanged a brief burst of encoded telepathic data with the solitary permanent Vorlon outpost in the Sol system, a secretive installation buried beneath a Kuiper Belt Object, out in the frozen wasteland. The base had its own internal jump gate, and a cadre of battleships and support staff ready to act in the system if needed. The ship was old, and had been abroad many times, but it now bore a symbol that had hardly been seen at large in the galaxy for an aeon. The symbol of the Vorlon diplomatic grouping, which at long last was beginning to reclaim much of its original influence, of a time two million years ago. With the apparent quiescence of their chief rivals, the Vorlons had begun to feel safe once more, and with the obvious and distasteful chaos of much of the galaxy, they had begun to finally look at ways of engaging with the outside world.

Unfortunately, they had soon discovered that their existing structures were inadequate to interact with many of the cultures around now. They were simply not what those structures had been developed for, they made suppositions, that some of the elder Vorlons had always claimed were unwise, that limited the ability of the Vorlons to interact. Dishonesty, the elders had said, and secrecy was not the way.

It was a view that had gained newfound credence. And so, many of those inclined to interact with other races had begun to rejoin the small faction responsible for true diplomacy with other races, and the pilot of the ship was one of these.

Power corrupts, it was said. The opposite truism was apposite, the pilot thought, also had something to recommend itself; impotence, at least, compared to what they had been before #fractality#, was having a purifying effect.


The destination, the nation of Reploid Productions, had been chosen to be the first test of this new interaction policy, for the simple reason that the Vorlons, albeit from a distance, approved deeply of the Triumvirate of Yut. They approved of many such organizations, but this was amongst their favorites, in a galaxy they regarded as morally barren.

If they had to start anywhere, it was surely best to at least conceal – ages of scampering do not vanish overnight – their activities within the initiatives of others, seeking something similar, if with less internal lethargy to combat.


The ship dropped out of the higher domain hyper-space it was using, its pilot quite aware that she was late, but then, she had come most of the way across the galaxy. Despite its considerable sophistication, the transport augmented its gravitic engines with powerful reaction drives. The speed at which she had traveled through hyper-space meant that the most effective way to approach the Earth was with the nominal rear of the ship – although it had forward facing engines, these were less powerful overall – forward.

After this hard braking procedure, the ship angled itself toward its ultimate destination, sending yet another communication, this one ‘mere’ electro-magnetics, announcing its arrival and intention to land – a far longer range message had already been sent, regarding the intention to attend.


The vessel, when landed, appeared to contain three passengers that disembarked. On most occasions, the Vorlons traveled with humanoid aides for communicating with them, but the pilot wished as to test her ability to interact without such support. Instead, she came with two more of her own kind, in identical, purple environment suits. These were essentially members of the Vorlon military, though it was a military with no special discipline (the creatures themselves had more than enough) or official rank hierarchy. Nor did they visibly carry weapons. However, the suits that every Vorlon traveled in contained weapons, and personal shielding devices, as well as devices to resist sensors – they were nothing if not terminal paranoiacs. Instead of weapons, they focussed on the ‘telepathic’ abilities the Vorlons had long ago incorporated into their species; these were the equivalent of ground forces, and particularly potent because of it.

The ambassador’s suit was notably different from her escorts, but similar. It rose to around six and a half feet, wide, yellow-orange armoured shoulders surrounding a thin, monocular, head, and with the rest of its shape – which moved in an almost humanoid way – concealed beneath yellow robes. These robes, like the rest of the suit, could be altered in colour according to the whim of the occupant, but most rarely expressed themselves in this way, despite such a chameleon ability. On her chest, and those of her escorts, was what seemed to be a device composed of stained glass, in her case triangular and light, airy green, reflecting the colour of her solitary eye.

The Allanean was listening intently – it's the job of the diplomat to always listen intently. So he approached the Rayverr and the Hivebeing, and spoke up:

"Pardon me for overhearing you – but part of the reason I'm here is for establishing contact with new civilizations Allanea has never heard of before – we tend to be a bit provincial, sometimes. Can you … tell me more about these Hive Clusters?" – he asks the Swarmbeing.

"How big is one and can we get one established in Allanea?"

"Hive Clusters only grow, unless deliberately undernourished. They start at the size of a small house. As for getting one established, I recently birthed a small brood of Hyper Spawnlings, I could send one with you, and it will take care of the rest. A small hive like the one the size of a house, requires additional land around it, about a hundred feet or so, to spread what's known as The Creep. It is an ooze that stems from the Hive, and mixes with the topsoil of the planet to form a living skin that connects to The Hive. Upon this, neccessary buildings are added, and the space beneath the Creep used for burrowing tunnels. One such building is an alter, which allows the Hive to produce a breed of Swarmling known as The Zealot, and when the Alter evolves into a Shrine, Zealots can evolve into Prophets. Additionally, To keep the Hive Cluster in order, a Swarmling Satellite must be placed in orbit around the chosen world. It is through the Prophets and Zealots that you would communicate with the swarm, unless Zasz, Dangaloth, or myself were there. We love Biomass, if there is anything of an Organic nature that you cannot use, send it to the Hive Cluster, and we will."

Snikch's snout turned towards the smartly dressed Groundling who had entered the conversation with gusto and bravado and a shining cat's smile. Directing his black orbs back towards the Rayverr representative, the Deathmaster of Clan Eshin nodded slowly.

"There are bookssss that you could have ..." The black-furred Skaven replied with an ever-sibilant hissing. "However our sssssociety is sssssomewhat fragmented, especially in its hissssstory. What you learned would depend on what Ssssskaven Clan supplied you with the book ...

"The Horned Rat works in mysssterious ways. Clan Eshin, of my own, is probably the mossst accurate translator of the truth. You would of course have to learn Skritch. If you have any experience in the writingssss of the Dwarves you will undersssstand it all the more quickly ..."







"Very interesting Monkey," Kritislik replied with his snout pointed elsewhere and his attention focused on a passing waiter and the pitcher balanced on a polished silver tray. With a fluid motion possessed only of the truly rodent or stealthy the Lord of Decay's tail whipped upwards to snatch the glass from the tray with a slosh of sweet liquid and quickly delivered it to grasping paws.

Diving snout-first into the pitcher the Seerlord greedily began to drink. Pausing suddenly and pulling out of the pitcher his beady blue eyes returned to Trevor.

"Where are my manners Groundling!" Kritislik squeaked as his black tongue lapped at the dripping sweetness around his maw and snout. "Would you like some, yes?"

Tomas Krell (http://nd.blog.cz/t/tr-hleeck.blog.cz/obrazky/28605849.jpg) stood quietly and unassumingly, a drink omnipresent in his hand. Polite when approached, but seemingly uninterested in more than cursory conversation - which admittedly formed the vast majority today.

Some conversations were obviously of more importance than others. He stayed away from them, on general principle. Simply meeting all these representatives today would be quite a task, even were he truly prepared. Two of the non-human ones seemed, while superficially disturbing, rather popular amongst a cluster of other diplomats.

Others mingled freely. Tomas listened. Nodded. Shook hands. No, none of them had heard of the Wulfhelm Star Empire either. It was always good to meet new people from new places for the first time. Aren't these appetizers just perfect? Well, to each his/her/its own, naturally. Luckily, there seems to be something for everyone.

The truth was, he hadn't been prepared, nor his administration - they knew that centuries of isolation would end with something of a shock. They knew there were alien empires out there. But, how many! And he reckoned it a good thing - had FA really known, they would have sent a whole team of diplomats, none of whom would be him. Now he had a chance to shine.

He kept a discreet eye on the Reploid dignitaries. Ah, there was Tsume. And there, the true star of the event: Firefury Amahira, the impressively helmeted Lady Shogun. An autocratic head of state, and an empire with enough draw to - well, to draw old Starky, and his Empire out of isolation, anyway. A colorful, alien, yet human society.

Not too shabby. He sipped at his beverage. There was plenty of time.

"Very interesting Monkey," Kritislik replied with his snout pointed elsewhere and his attention focused on a passing waiter and the pitcher balanced on a polished silver tray. With a fluid motion possessed only of the truly rodent or stealthy the Lord of Decay's tail whipped upwards to snatch the glass from the tray with a slosh of sweet liquid and quickly delivered it to grasping paws.

Diving snout-first into the pitcher the Seerlord greedily began to drink. Pausing suddenly and pulling out of the pitcher his beady blue eyes returned to Trevor.

"Where are my manners Groundling!" Kritislik squeaked as his black tongue lapped at the dripping sweetness around his maw and snout. "Would you like some, yes?"

"Thank you, I'll think I'll join with you with a whisky." Trevor replied, careful not to give the impression that he spurned the offer, but also didn't want to drink out of the same pitcher that the Rat had, in addition to the fact that he preferred whisky.

He grabbed the attention of another waiter and ordered the Whisky, "Please continue, you look like you're enjoying yourself." The drink was in his hands just a few seconds after he finished. He raised the glass and said "Cheers" before taking a sip of the brown liquid.

((OOC: Quick correction there, Wulf: It's Firefury, not Firefly (for some reason it seems to be a common mistake, so no worries =p), and she's not exactly diminutive either (http://fc81.deviantart.com/fs14/f/2006/365/1/a/FFA_DevID_2007_by_FirefuryAmahira.jpg), standing probably about 5'7" tall including her helmet =p))

About the only thing that saves Tsume from making a thoroughly disgusted face when the oversized rats display their concept of... well, manners... is the fact his face is essentially a large solid metal plate, and he keeps careful control over his body language. A quick hand signal sends some staff into action to handle damage control and clean up the worst of the mess as unobtrusively as possible.

Though the mechanical drake does have to haul a few of them aside and remind them to watch where they're going because do they want to be responsible for starting an international incident by accidentally stepping on one of the Skaven?

Firefury doesn't seem overly bothered by the rats' messy behavior at all; but then again after her last magic/psyker/paranormal/Really Weird Experience involving decay demons and an astral beastie best described as a ghostly tentacle-cat octopus monster, the average muck and mess of the physical realm really can't quite compare. Heck, not even the thoroughly alien swarm Queen and her Guardian seem to faze the orange reploid too much, though some of the staff and security startle at their appearance until a quick word from some of the other Shogunate dignitaries alerts them that the new arrivals are guests and not intruders.

"Rather... eclectic bunch today, isn't it?" Firefury grins from her seat, where to Tsume's dismay she has kicked her large armored feet onto the table, tipping her chair backwards at a relaxed though precarious angle.

"Mmhm..." Tsume nods absent agreement while surveying the situation thus far and contemplating where to go first. "Though I suspect there's one or two that aren't likely to be invited back."

The two Keepers raise eyebrows at the more unusual guests and the rats' display, though Najoedo does a far better job at masking his own disgust than the younger Vumacetajij, who's face clearly registers some degree of outright disgust at the behavior.

More than the rats though, the two are fascinated by the various auras of many of the attendees, being naturally talented telepaths due to their origins as well as masters of the so-called Arts. Exchanging their own observations at the speed of thought - on a deeper, subsurface level, that is - Irene and Styger attract Najoedo's interest on a more academic level. Vumacetajij is more interested, and much more wary about the aural.. well, stink for lack of a better adjective that seems to surround the Skaven Seerlord.

Thus the white-scaled Najoedo snags himself a drink and wanders over to join that conversation, waiting for an opportune break in the chatter to make introductions; the usual spread-winged bow, name, Keepers of the Goddess Blades, and so on. Irene might notice, being psychically talented herself, that the dragon-human hybrid's thoughts are surprisingly clouded; ten-thousand years of experience lending the Keeper his own degree of skill in that area. Additionally, while both the Keepers have distinct, powerful auras, Najoedo's is by far the greater of the two, taking up a 'volume' several times his just-shy-of-six feet frame, perhaps implying that there is far more to his physical form than might be apparent at a glance.

"Quite an unusual assortment of people in attendance today, it seems." He remarks after introducing himself. "The infinite variation of life and cultures in the world never ceases to amaze. Everyone is enjoying themselves, I hope?"

Vumacetajij is intercepted on his way to join Kritislik and Trevor (or perhaps to spare Trevor from dealing with Kritislik by himself) by Sam Nemiség, the slender diplomat all smiles and good cheer and seemingly not at all bothered by the talking rat's mess or general lack of hygiene. Either Sam really isn't bothered at all, or the diplomat is just really, really good at hiding it.

"Ah, Mr. Desorté, Seerlord Kritislik, I gather?" Sam lifts a glass containing some sort of fruity concoction in greeting, apparently having already gone over the guest roster so as to recognize most of the guests by appearance alone. "Samantha Nemiség, Shogunate Diplomatic Corps. Most people just shorten it to Sam, if you'd prefer. I hope everything has been to your satisfaction so far?"

And those who can see/feel auras feel the power of Chaos stemming from Irene and her Guardian, more strongly from Irene, than the Guardian. Irene seems to be keeping it under a certain amount of control though.

"The Horned Rat works in mysssterious ways. Clan Eshin, of my own, is probably the mossst accurate translator of the truth. You would of course have to learn Skritch. If you have any experience in the writingssss of the Dwarves you will undersssstand it all the more quickly ..."
If one thinks about it, the art of diplomacy is a lot like dancing. Most of the time it's a rather stolid, organized affair with unwritten rules and well-defined protocols, just like a traditional waltz. Occasionally, however, it turns into an improvisational tango where partners get switched and opportunities are taken. With the arrival of the Allanean and the subsequent distraction of Irene, Styger uses a subtle movement of his body--no more than a pivot--to turn the four-person dance into two couples.

That his partner is some sort of doom rat is, well, the luck of the draw.

"Hm, yes, I think this can be arranged." We'll get multiple viewpoints anyway; it's not as if it's too unusual. "What would it take to arrange a cultural and historical swap, in technical and diplomatic terms?"

"Hive Clusters only grow, unless deliberately undernourished. They start at the size of a small house. [snip]"

“Ah, very well. So there's no way to limit their growth, ah? So how do we put one up? I mean, if we put one in a major city? I mean, it sounds like it'd end up spreading to the entire place... this does sound a bit uncomfortable. Now, we could feed you as much organics as you'd like, but it's the space requirement that I find... a limitation. On the other hand, I do think that a new civilization to deal with would be lovely. Perhaps my aid here, Kei, can come up with something? Pardon me... Kei, can you talk to this gentleman here about establishing a Hive Cluster in Allanea?”

“Kei is a go-getter. If you want something from Allanea, she'll help you figure out how to get it done.”

And, leaving the Swarmbeing face-to-face with a young and excited junior diplomat, Maverick turns his attention to Firefury herself.

“Greetings, Your Honor. I see that you have quite a party going here... seems much more relaxed than most of the diplomatic meetings where I'm from, I'm afraid.”

"He doesn't actually listen to anyone, does he? By underfeeding them, we CAN limit their size. I can keep the hive at it's base size indefinitely. It doesn't matter how much biomass you give us, it'll never grow. All Biomass is converted, and uploaded into The Warp to be used all over The Swarm."

Kei shrugs. "The sense I got from your explanation was that underfeeding the Cluster was a BAD thing to do. So we just put one up in, say, San-Nereiana? Would that sound good?"

"As long as you understand this shall in effect count as an Embassy exchange between both nations. Sending someone to the Swarm would be a tad counter-productive, as we do not normally maintain atmosphere inside our Hive Ships, or really stay in one world for too long. Within a month's time, A Prophet will exist at the Hive for all Diplomatic exchanges unless A Cerebrate or myself is present, and one can be requested at any time. The Swarmling Satellite will station itself in Geo-synchronous orbit, needing only to be guided to an acceptable level of high orbit outside of the atmosphere entirely.

Additionally, a small amount of interference may be detected from time to time, this is normal, and is a Manifestation of our Overmind, or an overflow of Chaos Energy. We will work to correct these issues. You may request an audience with The Overmind at any time, but stand the proverbial snowball's chance in hell of succeeding. This is not a reflection on anyone's attitude, but simply a reflection of the amount of work the overmind is under. We will consume your world at the rate of .0005% of it's resources per day, including Oceans and Atmosphere. As most worlds replenish themselves at a rate of approximatly 85% or better per day, and populated worlds who responsibly maintain their planets consume about half of that rate per day, we do not feel this to be a problem.

If this is ok, I shall need to know where your ship is so I transfer the Hyper spawnling. You will have one month to get it to it's destination BEFORE it dies. If it does, it shall not be viewed favorably." Irene said.

The Allanean chuckles. "Our homeworld is Earth. Feel free to put up a spawnling there. I'm sure you have plenty there - and I somehow doubt that Earth can ever be fully consumed by it."

The Allanean chuckles. "Our homeworld is Earth. Feel free to put up a spawnling there. I'm sure you have plenty there - and I somehow doubt that Earth can ever be fully consumed by it."

"I shall refrain from taking that as a challenge of the swarm's devouring might. Where is Earth?"

Snikch opens his toothy maw to reply and pauses, his ears twitching and pointing upwards so that the tufts of black fur on their ends rise upwards in a bizarre imitation of a set of horns. Turning towards the Allanean and the ... Thing, his sibilant hiss rises above the swishing of his white, patchy tail.

"You are on the Above-Earth," The Deathmaster replies without invitation and with an obvious emphasis. Perhapssss your Overmind should do sssssome more thinking, and sssssssome more reading."

Turning his snout back towards the Rayverr representative, the Ultimate Assassin of Clan Eshin nods as thoughtfully as a Rat is able to given its facial limitations. "You can be sssssupplied with many works of the Sssskaven. Perhapssss you would like to learn more about The Horned Rat? Though my skillsssss are not best used interpreting his will, but carrying it out."

"I did not asssssssk before - what is your Groundling name?"





Kritislik claps his paws excitedly, nodding his snout in an enthusiastic manner. "Dragon-Sam!" He squeaks thrusting the smeared glass pitcher up to the Reploid who towers over the tiny Lord of Decay. "You like the sweet water Blocky One? You would like some, yes?"

Seeing that Nemiség already has a glass, the Seerlord's tail is called into action and more quickly than seemingly possible the pitcher is hoisted upwards into the air with a sloshing spill to "fill" Sam's glass up, past full, and overflowing to the ground beneath their feet.

"Wonderful party!" The Albino-furred Skaven enthuses, toasting Trevor loudly with the haphazard tail-mounted pitcher. "Drink and be merry under the glory of The Horned Rat!"

"Hm, yes, and the vesh happens to have some interests there--which is here--too. We'd prefer it unconsumed, to be perfectly honest." Some things are just not done at these sorts of outings. Honestly...

"We're interested in learning about nearly everything, although our particular interest is in bringing the different peoples of the universe to a better and kinder understanding of each other. If the 'Horned Rat' is important to you, then it will certainly aid in our understanding of your culture... and my pardons, I am Hieronymus Styger, masjon of the vesh pij verr, or the Rayverr. I'm afraid that in our conversation I haven't gathered your name yet...?"

"That's right, Nice to meet you. Sam." Trevor extended his hand to shake Sam's hand with an accompanying soft smile.

The smile continued as he looked down rather bemusedly at the antics of the Kritislik, with the rat's determined efforts a mess on the floor was rather inevitable. Reacting himself much faster than he should of he dodged the splash back.

"Just imagine the comments if that got me, I couldn't even keep my suit clean, how could I help clean up worlds." Trevor chuckled, making a joke out of it, before he looked around for someone he could call over to clean up the mess from the floor.

"The Overmind is continually partaking of the interstellar communications, extending all it's senses, and learning much. However Earth has many references, and it does not know which is the right one, and it has found many earths, so it does not know where. That this is yet another earth does nothing to solve the problem."

Approaching the strangely warped human speaking to be what seemed to be a very large rat, from the entrance, sliding across the floor as if on wheels, the Vorlon trio’s leader cocked the long, head of her environment suit to the side, a somewhat translatable piece of body language. As she spoke, the iris, like that of a camera, covering the solitary green-glowing lens of the suit, swiveled open. Along with translating spoken words, the systems within her suit translated some aspects of body language into the closest approximation suitable for the audience. She spoke, a strange, half-whispering, half-chiming sound, that was apparently the creature’s speech, “It is the portrait to the copies,” came an English translation, in a faintly feminine voice, a moment later.

…at which point the Vorlon was (perhaps surprisingly) approached by a young Allanean lady in diplomatic parade dress uniform and the infamous wide-brimmed hat that the Allaneans always seem to insist on adding to their uniforms. She removed the hat and curtsied, in a mix of two gestures of politeness.

"Greetings, Your Honor. I am Sae Sousuke. I am a junior diplomat with the United States of Allanea. I apologize, but I have never heard of your civilization – mostly, no doubt, due to the extent of my own ignorance, rather than any deficiency of your civilization. I beg your pardon, but from where do you hail? I apologize if this question is considered impolite in your culture."

The lead Vorlon looked at the Allanean woman approaching her, and then looked away. Instead, one of her two escorts replied, its translated voice seeming masculine. “No,” it said. This was, in fact, in reference to her question about politeness. It was always easier for a Vorlon to answer a direct question, even if mysteriously, than it was to pare down their language to a single sentiment. It gave a nod, rather than a bow, in reply; though they didn’t look capable of it, they could bow. The translator systems tried to capture as much of the original layers of meaning and overtone when they did so, but it was rarely quite successful. His reply to the actual question was much more obtuse. “We come from the infinite regret of vanished dreams of innocence.” This was the closest possible to the English translation of their name for their world of origin. All of those present were old enough to remember the terrible years long bombardment of their original racial home that had rendered it completely molten. This one, in particular, had participated. But the phrase had other meanings, too, temporal as well as physical.

The young woman, of course, did not understand the full meaning of the phrase, but she understood enough She lowered her eyes. "I do not know what you mean… but I sense it that something horrible had happened to your people. I apologize for my rashness. After all – I am an Allanean. My people are… not very apt at diplomacy. Perhaps there is something more you can tell this humble apprentice – for that is what I am, an apprentice to Mr. Monningham – about your people?"

The Vorlon nodded to the young woman, “It is long past,” he said, “Ask…” normally he wouldn’t invite questions, and certainly not from someone whose empathic imprint was quite so… disordered… But the assignment was supposed to be diplomatic, so he was disposed to answer as truthfully as was possible and appropriate.

The Allanean nodded. "I do not know much about your people – but surely any civilization has art. We in Allanea hold a great interest in art – especially in poetry and fiction. What kind of art do your people produce? Statues, or music, or perhaps plays? And – I probably should have asked that first, but as you see I am quite clumsy – how should I call your people?"

“Vorlons,” he said, “We comprehend the work of others, but only make the patterns of coincidence…” the creature broke off from the little equidistant triangle formation, and moved closer to Sae. “You may experience, if you wish… They cannot be returned once given.”

Sae looks a bit frightened. "Sir... what is a pattern of coincidence? Is it something that... cannot be unseen? Pardon my Allanean - I mean, is it something dangerous?"

OOC: Allanea, you got an Embassy thread so I can go ahead and establish The Hive?

The Vorlon paused, “Reflection. Surprise. Introspection on the past. The emergent meaning of knowledge and data. It cannot be unseen,” he said, seeming to find the phrase adequate for his needs, with a little nod, the crimson glowing eye narrowing to a point, as he said that last bit. “Alien way of thought… very different from yours.”

OOC: Allanea, you got an Embassy thread so I can go ahead and establish The Hive?


OOC: No, just assume it's there - or start a new thread if you think it's going to be eventul. A response to the Vorlon is forthcoming.

Sae shook her head. "No, thank you very much. I'd rather not. I apologize for the inconvenience."

With that, she disappears in the crowd - after all, her reward is already won.

Marcus looked around the party full of foreign dignitaries his eyes staring across the cornucopia of foreigners in the area, he crossed his arms over one another sighing a bit. He walked over to the nearest cluster of delegates and spoke to them in a diplomatic and polite voice.

“Hello, My name is Marcus Alexi From the Terran Federation its pleasure to meet you”

Of course this was his first time being on earth, ever. And it was the center of all diplomacy Trade, and various other things. In fact the UTF it self originally migrated from earth more than eight hundred and fifty years ago. He stood there relaxed at the same time Enjoying the idle banter of the party, he cleared his throat after he spoke.

"Hello Marcus, I am Irene, Queen of The Swarms. It is a pleasure to meet you, too."

Ah, more people to meet! "Ah, hello. Hieronymus Styger, masjon of the vesh pij verr." If the Fedralite extends a hand, Styger grasps it and shakes it with the friendly confidence of a trusted car salesman or a good friend, depending on one's level of cynicism.

((OOC: I have no excuses. I'm just slow to post sometimes. x_x ))

Maverick and Firefury
"I've never been big on formalities, really." Firefury replies when the Allanean approached... feet still kicked up on the table as though this were some sort of backyard party and not an allegedly formal diplomatic function. "And please, just Firefury is fine."

At a few mildly distraught hand signals from Tsume, the orange reploid relents and gets her feet off the table, even if she's still rocking the chair backward precariously. "Too much formality makes these things just way too tense; how can anyone get to know anybody else when everybody's uptight about protocol and stuff, y'know?"

Kritislik, Sam, and Trevor
Sam does an admirable job of evading the worst of the drink splatter with a chuckle. "Simply Sam will suffice, Seerlord. The really blocky one is over there-" The diplomat gestures with one slender arm toward where Firefury and Tsume are, the two actual reploids a drastic difference in appearance compared to the diplomatic officer.

"I suspect that the Diplomatic Corps would probably have a similar reaction if I'd gotten this new outfit soaked." Sam accepts Trevor's handshake easily. "So, barring the information being wrong, you run some sort of corporate operation?"

Kritislik, Sam, and Trevor
Sam does an admirable job of evading the worst of the drink splatter with a chuckle. "Simply Sam will suffice, Seerlord. The really blocky one is over there-" The diplomat gestures with one slender arm toward where Firefury and Tsume are, the two actual reploids a drastic difference in appearance compared to the diplomatic officer.

"I suspect that the Diplomatic Corps would probably have a similar reaction if I'd gotten this new outfit soaked." Sam accepts Trevor's handshake easily. "So, barring the information being wrong, you run some sort of corporate operation?"

Trevor gently smiled at Sam, "Yes, that's right, The Garbage Men, a large inter-galactic corporation that deals with waste, refuse and pollution of all manners with various related ancillary services. Though to be honest, I came as an excuse for a bit of a breather from wedding preparations, especially for my Personal Assistant, it's been really crazy for her."

He pointed out Joan, his PA, who was just enjoying the relative peace and quiet of diplomatic affair. The communicator that had been glued to her ears was no where to be seen. She was getting herself a cool drink before retiring to a secluded area to just relax by herself.

Questioner dealt with, the Vorlon returned to his place with his fellows, listening as he did to the others speaking in the room. His narrow, monocular head turning to regard the latest arrival. He wasn’t entirely sure what should actually be said in this moment, and so he remained silent, but in that silence, he conferred with his ‘twin’ and the ambassador.