It's been two days since Grunt has experienced his little... forays... into an alternate timeline, and true to her word Juno has provided him with some special codes and left him the hell alone.  Like many other Dragon-Blooded Grunt is faced with downtime, as the front has been curiously quiet.  Oh, sure, there's stuff to prepare for, training to do, and the like... but all in all it's been like leave.

Until Grunt gets a message one morning.  He's to report to a briefing room immediately, full gear, for a potential action.  By the time he reaches the briefing room it's already half full.  Sunipa is there, preparing a powerpoint presentation and cursing under her breath as the room fills.  Some of the Maasai snicker as Sunipa continues to curse out the projector software.  Most of the people Grunt recognizes as Ilmorijo Maasai, armed with their shotguns and spears.  There's only one other Dragon-Blooded in the room:  Ibrahim Doyuz, 'Mastiff', an Earth-caste who enjoys his assault rifle a bit too much and was never on the best terms with Grunt.  The fact that they're assigned seats at the front implies it'll be a full elemental Circle going out on this mission.  He gives Grunt a grudging nod.

Some of the Maasai snicker as Sunipa continues to curse out the projector software.

Grunt had barely been out of full kit period for the last two days. It was an effort of will not to walk around in full armor with tactical gear at the ready. Yes, it was paranoia but dammit dead universes were unnerving. Couldn't drink, couldn't get stones, and way too tense for the usual stress relief.

So he's actually perversely glad for whatever hell warranted the formality of a full elemental circle.

He saluted Sunipa crisply when he entered the room, gave a more casual nod to his colleagues, and took an available seat.

"The others are on their way," Mastiff says after a few more seconds of cursing on Sunipa's part.

The first to arrive is pretty much an unknown to Grunt.  He's a teenager, barely old enough to have taken the Dragon's Breath, and by the ginger red of his very long hair and burning red irises he's got to be a Fire Aspect.  The kid is dressed in navy slacks and shirt with a bullet-proof vest and a single M1911.

Mastiff rolls his eyes when the teenager salutes him; but the teenager moves past him to salute Grunt and sit next to him.  "Hey I'm Chris," His voice is rapid, a bit clipped, too excited to finish a word.  "Chris Starkey.  Haven't met you yet!"

Grunt at least knows of the Starkey family.  They're mostly dead, lost covering an evacuation of the Mississippi delta.  A few of the youngest managed to get up to Chicago and were the first Dragon-Blooded aboard the Last Refuge.

"Grunt," he answered, deciding that for now it was a callsign sort of meeting, "Air Aspect."

Kid needed a knife, or at least a truncheon. Guns were of course very useful but their atmosphere was held in by something less durable than Lost Earth's gravity well. Firing inside was always a terrible idea.

"Which means we're waiting on the Water and Wood. Half expect it to be Scimitar for the former."

"Oh, uh, Flametongue,"  He says, hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand, "Right, I keep forgetting that... no it's not Scimitar, I think they said Wail and Algonquin?"

Mastiff manages to choke back a laugh at the kid's callsign.  The latter two are both helpful and worrying all at the same time.  Wail, the Wood aspect, works closer with the Voyagers than the Ilmorijo, which means someone's expecting hard vacuum.  Thankfully Wail's one of the most competent Dragon-Blooded Grunt has ever met, though way too much of a loner even by Dragon-Blooded standards.

Algonquin, on the other hand, is a Native American from the Great Lakes area.  While he may not be the most powerful Dragon-Blooded- especially given his advanced age- the man is exceedingly competent, an expert at improvisation, and a born leader.  It's clear who's going to be heading the team.  Algonquin isn't a person they'd be throwing out for just anything, especially not with a raw recruit on board.  He also has a pretty firm reputation for dueling Imperator sorcerors.

"I hear they're excellent and I can't wait to learn from them," Shit, how young is this kid?  "And you, I've heard about you a lot..."

"Better to keep your ears open and your mouth shut then," Mastiff grumbles.

"You have heard more scuttlebutt than I have it seems," Grunt told Flametongue, "Grab a seat and wait. No point in speculating when the slides are going to cover the same ground."

He gave Sunipa another three minutes before silently standing and helping her sort out the projector. It was best not to let the CO get too worked up before a briefing.

Sunipa ends up needing the help.  To be fair to her, the projector is a finicky model, but Grunt has used this kind before.  Soon he's got it up and running.

True to scuttlebutt, the other two are Wail and Algonquin.  Wail has a fresh new scar trailing down the left side of her face, pink and angry- courtesy of a demon starting trouble on the outer skin of the Last Refuge.  Algonquin, on the other hand, looks like he's been carved out of smooth oak.  He's gotten that curious age where his wrinkles have smoothed out and solidified, forming vast canyons across his face.

"Welcome, everyone,"  Sunipa starts the presentation as soon as they're seated.  "As you know, things have been quiet lately.  We've been making steady progress towards the next ventpoint with little interference from the Dead.  I can't tell you why this happened-"

A dozen eyes slide to stare at Grunt...

"- But the important part is that it means we're approaching some situations with a lighter hand.  Case in point, the Royet."

She flicks to the first slide:  a standard Mercury-class transport.

"There are no extant archival pictures of the Royet but it's built from the Mercury-class pattern.  The Royet is classified as a wildcat miner, working outside of the dedicated mining fleet.  We can thus infer it has some basic armament, specialized mining equipment that can double as armament, outsized engines, and an outsized processing and storage bay."

Flick.  A graph of mining targets reached.  Portions of the bar graph are highlighted in red- approximately 10% of the bar.

"For the new people in the audience, wildcat mining is prohibited by Core and the Last Refuge.  The chance for capture and infiltration by the enemy is too great.  Wildcats grab the resources they desire, smuggle it to the mining teams, sell it off for a tidy profit.  In theory wildcat miners are subject to prosecution but in practice we turn a blind eye to their shenanigans.  We get a substantial amount of rare raw materials from their forays into dangerous space.  The red sections represent 'gray mining', essentially materials we can't definitively track.  We can assume this is from wildcatting."

Flick.  Telemetry data from the picket fleet, one set from 2 months ago, the other set from this morning.

"The Royet departed from the fleet 2 months ago and returned this morning, about a standard interval for a wildcatter.  Unusually the Royet was found floating at the edge of our fleet instead of suddenly reappearing at our docks.  Not only was it found floating this morning, refusing to answer a hail, but it was covered with unusual rocky growths."

Flick.  A grainy picture of the Royet, twisted, covered in weird rocky lumps.

"It has not responded to hails.  The engines are dead.  Sensor scans show atmosphere but we can't tell if there's life.  We can safely assume enemy interference, but we're not sure about the degree of interference.  The usual response here is to splash the Royet.  Command has, instead, requested we recon the ship."

Flick.  A schematic, helplessly complex.

"The Royet is, in fact, a wildcatter but it's not entirely true it's without licensure from Core and Command.  The crew of the Royet have been caught before, and given the option to perform tests of a dangerous prototype instead of incarceration. Command has assured me that this equipment is completely mining-related and could not cause the damage or alterations observed on the Royet."

Flick.  A picture:  a mugshot of a gorgeous-yet-grizzled older woman with an eyepatch.

"To make matters particularly interesting, Captain Handall of the Royet is a personal friend of Journeys."

Flick.  Text.

"Our orders are as follows.  Approach the Royet.  Board it if possible.  Establish communications with the picket fleet once boarded.  Retrieve the mining equipment or any data related to the prototype.  Rescue any living personnel.  If possible, retrieve the body of Captain Handall.  Are there any questions?"

"What is the containment procedure for whatever rock they found that did that?" Grunt asked with a nod towards the Royet's picture, "And are we taking a boarding vehicle directly or leaving a vacuum gap?"

"We have a Nike-class cruiser nearby that will be taking you to the Royet.  This is the Quarantine Hauler Salk, a mostly hollowed-out ship fitted with special Essence fields and a loading bay.  That'll come into play if we need to contain it.  Otherwise we destroy,"  Sunipa tells him.  "You'll be boarding via the outer hull.  Wail will be in charge of taking samples out of the outside in case we take the destruction option, as well as piloting you to a few meters from the Royet and then opening up the hull.  The rest of you are to establish a forward base- Algonquin will be in charge of the overall operation, but Mastiff will be leader of Team A and Grunt will be leader of Team B."

"Splitting the party?"  Flametongue says out of line.

Sunipa shoots him a Look that quickly shuts him up, "The easiest way to enter is along the middle-spine of the Royet.  You'll effectively enter flanked.  Team A will head towards the bridge, Team B towards the engine, quarantining rooms methodically with salt, essence, and lead.  Flametongue, your job will be to assist Algonquin and to access the ship computer- I'm told you've got a talent for CompSci."

"I notice the communication array is missing.  Or removed."  Algonquin says in a reedy, quiet voice, "There's no tumor on it.  Wail will need to set up a temporary transmitter/receiver and wire it to us."

"That's correct.  Flametongue, you'll need to coordinate with Wail as well as assist Algonquin."

"That's a lot of work on a single point of failure and you're bringing a whelp." Mastiff grumbles.

"Unless Core really wants the data, the transmission array is down the list of problems to address. And we used to be the whelps, gotta grow out of it some time," Grunt told Mastiff with a frown before he nodded to Sunipa, "You want us to shut down the engines immediately or is the hope that this thing might be guided? I assume the Asset's databanks are about as forthcoming as usual."

"We immediately shut down the engines.  If we choose to keep it intact, the Salk will envelop it and then take up a holding pattern outside the fleet itself, near the ruins of the Asset.  Which, as you've so noted, has been very quiet lately." Sunipa tells Grunt,  "Reception/transmission is actually your first priority.  We want total, complete knowledge of what's going on inside the Royet at all times so C3 can make judgment calls if need be."

Command, (Fleet) Control, Core.  This is telling.  The bigwigs are taking personal interest in this if it proves interesting.

"If the crew is alive, your orders are to sterilize the rest of the ship and call for a medical tug before progressing further.  We'll have one nearby at the Salk but we're assuming no survivors."

"One.  Board.  Two.  Establish two-way comms.  Three.  Wail take samples, Team A towards bridge, Team B towards engine.  Wail take samples.  Algonquin and Flametongue access ship computers.  Quarantine, sterilize, extract.  Salk destroys or contains Royet.  Am I clear?"  Wail finally speaks up.

"That's correct."
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:36, Fri 21 Dec 2018.

"Understood," Grunt said with a nod.

"Mastiff, Grunt.  You'll have a squad composed of two fire teams of 4 men each."  Sunipa gestures to the Ilmorijo, "Mastiff, you have Turkwel squad.  Grunt, you have Mbagathi squad.  I suggest you check your equipment and meet with your soldiers.  Everyone, reconvene at Hangar 3 at 0900.  Fall out."

((Mechanically:  two groups of Rank 3 minions, both with Tactics specialties))

He stood and snapped a salute to Sunipa before heading out.

Grunt did the full pre-deployment rundown on both his own gear and the tactical team's, with an emphasis on making sure salt supplies and delivery systems were ready to go. Ship corridors meant a long knife, heavy pistol, and shotgun. No breaching charges this time.

Mbagathi Squad is headed by an Ilmorijo named- oddly- Frank.  Frank has equipped them all with boarding shotguns and spears, the latter slung over their back.  Three of them are also equipped with saltbags and have rocksalt rounds for their shotguns.

"Pleasure to work with you sir,"  Frank says as he checks his rocksalt rounds. "Any special equipment you'd like us to bring?"

"How are we on explosives and incendiaries? Ghosts are getting almost old hat but that thing looks a little too organic for my taste, be a shame to tussle with something our regular munitions couldn't penetrate," Gabriel asked Frank, "And I mean sustained incineration, not just a few grenades."

"Good question.  Kipkirui's our explosives and heavy weapons expert.  Kip?"  He asks a tall Maasai, "How are we doing for incendiaries?"

"Bad," He replies in excellent English, "We don't train as much.  Fire is good for ghosts but worse for the living.  Have not had enough Fire Aspects to help us control it.  Could get some Willy Petes if necessary.  How many we need?  Also maybe a flamethrower.  But only one, with so little time."

"Get the phosphorous. If we need more than two charges of it we should already be withdrawing," Grunt told them, "And if I thought we'd just have the usual haunts it'd be one thing, but there's a twitch in the back of my head that something interesting is going to crop up. Explosions in a standard hull aren't my thing."

"Any idea what that is?  See anything like that on the Asset?"  Frank asks him, "We haven't seen nothing from any captured materiel.  The fact we've even got it is pretty much only a bit beyond rumor at this point.  But we know it's around.  Getting towed outside."

"I think it's here as a distraction, so they can steal the big ship," Kipkirui says balefully.

"Well, that's why there are no Celestials involved, right?"

"Can't answer questions about tin cans that don't exist," Grunt replied, "But you're as briefed about what we're heading into as I am."

He frowned.

"And there's no Celestials because aside from Secrets and Brahe, neither of whom we want along, none of them can keep quiet or not draw inordinate amounts of attention."

"Well, I think we're going to make quite a lot of big bangs if this goes wrong.  The Salk isn't just a quarantine ship," A soldier pipes up, "I've served before.  Those essence containment shields can be focused at short range.  It makes a big ship-sized blow torch.  That'll get a lot of attention fast."

"Sounds like fun all around," Grunt replied, "But I'm not really the heroic type. If we can't go smooth then we take the Gordian approach. If that doesn't work we bug out and they can kill it however they like."

He looked around.

"Sorry, but I don't do the motivational, light a passion in people stuff. We're all professionals, stick to the plan when possible, fall back to your training when it isn't, and above all keep a cool head. In spite of what the civilian kibtzers say, C3 hates throwing away resources."

"Gordian, who's this?"  One of the soldiers asks.

"I think he's a God down on 5th Engine,"  Frank tells the other soldier.  "Good words Grunt, sir.  Since you're not normally attached to our squad we have a nonstandard code."

The other soldiers start nodding.

"You hear the word 'grapnel' it means start bugging out to a more fortified area but slowly, no causing alarm.  'Pivot' means the opposite, get ready for a sweeping aggressive advance.  No questions asked, no recriminations later.  We've survived some stuff in the past because of our gut instinct."

"Mine are standard. And Gordian is an old story about cutting through a knot," Grunt told them simply, "I lead from the front, first in each breach. Not a rock but tougher than most Air Aspects."

"Alright.  You're the pointman, then, and will take the brunt.  Suits us fine,"  Frank says with a nod, "Think we're gonna get along fine.  Alright everyone, lock and load, we're heading to the Salk."

Grunt is given one last chance to load up for anything he needs.

Knife, shotgun, the usual handful of breaching charges, a small collection of tools for getting access panels and such open... Grunt was as equipped as could be considered reasonable. The confines of the ship meant that big emplacement weapons were impractical.

So he finished the last adjustments and went to wait for the hard vacuum crossing, glad that at least that part was not his responsibility.

The Salk is a comfortable ship, as far as quarantine-ships go; a Nike class cruiser is by necessity designed for both form and function, and a comfortable crew is an efficient crew.  They're loaded into a medium-sized tug, big enough for all of them, which Wail is to pilot to get them closer to the Royet.  They load up on either side of the tug.

"Sensors on, engines on, essence shields minimal," Wail announces.  They all chuckle.  The minimum on a tug is also the maximum. "Departing hangar- I have sensors on the Royet.  Engaging thrusters."

They're quiet for some time,

"Sensors are detecting life.  Algonquin, can you take a look at this?"

Algonquin heads up to the cockpit.  He mumbles something in a hoarse voice, "Take readings of the engines.  Grunt, come up here too.  Does any of this look familiar?"

He's hardly an expert, but he'd seen some of the readouts of ONYX SPIRE and some Immaculate ships from the Konnidan and some of the Buchenwald before their tug was destroyed.

None of the engine readouts look familiar.  They don't look like a standard ship's, nor do they look like any of the Abyssal vessels he's seen.  Most importantly, he's pretty sure they don't match Immaculate records.

"I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like any of the weird shit I've seen before," Grunt said as he manipulated the display a bit, trying to get a feel for the thing. The life signs might change his tactics a bit once inside.

(Assessment of engines: 9, 7, 7, 6, 6, 2 & 2
Craft: 22 + 10 = 32
Tactics: 26 + 10 = 36
Float the 7s)

Grunt has no idea what the hell is going on with the readings.  The display shows those large rocky growth-tumors clustered around the engines, dark and heavy, like awful stony barnacles growing on a shell.

"Life signs are stronger there,"  Wail observes.  "Strongest near the densest conglomeration."

"Then the growths are possibly alive."  Algonquin says with a sour voice. "But the engines will output the most warmth.  It's possible survivors of the Royet could be holed up there as well."

"Life signs are pervading the Royet,"  Wail corrects him.  "There are some fluctuations.  It's not matching up perfectly with the tumors."

Grunt has seen something that would fit there- the flesh-walls of that horrific alternate reality- but this feels altogether different.  The flesh-walls were calculated cruelty, a last mocking laugh at life; this is something grown, which the Neverborn are quite unlikely to do.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and whatever that is happens to be benign," Grunt said dryly as he reset the display to the default, "I see no option other than up close investigation. My vote is treat as pathogenic for now, so no direct contact if we can avoid it and closed air supplies."

He checked the seals on his own suit with a nod.

"Okay, all signs point to this being weird and that means nightmarish. Business as usual, don't break line of sight or formation, and keep in communication."

And with that, he got on with it.

"My thoughts as well,"  Wail agrees, "But I don't want to get that close to the thing.  Void gap it.  Sorry guys.  But we're not touching it."

Algonquin purses weathered old lips.  "Have a bad feeling.  Personally... I say it should get blasted.  Here and now."

"That's not what the higher ups want."

"I know."  Algonquin grimaces.

"Seals up, everyone," Wail announces, "Prepare for a void gap jump.  I'm bringing us to a holding pattern."

They feel the ship shudder and shake as she burns retros, maneuvering them close enough to the ship that they can't accidentally jump, miss the ship, and end up in the void of space.

One of Grunt's men has a small pack on his back- a retropak designed to retrieve someone who goes flying.  All of his men are already suited up.  One of them, Grunt isn't sure who, gives him the thumbs-up as the O2 starts getting pumped out of the ship.

Grunt returned the gesture and took his place by the airlock. He gave the experts enough of a lead to do their job, then followed.

As soon as they were inside he switched over to tight beam communications. No point in going loud while they were all in sight of each other.

"No improvising," he told his unit dryly as they crossed the gap and did the first visual sweep of whatever this ship had become.

Teams A and B head out first, with Mastiff and Grunt following behind them.  They jump the void gap perfectly, landing on the middle-spine of the ship with care.  Team B has the torches:  they cut a hole in the spine slowly while Team A sets up a 'portable airlock', a cute little device that keeps the whole ship from explosively decompressing.

Mastiff is first in.  Grunt's job is to be in second.

When he steps into the ship his sensors go all screwy in an instant.  They have cut into a locked hull segment.

"Humidity 100%.  O2 is just above Earth normal, a trace less CO2.  Temperature is 31.7C,"  Mastiff announces into a recorder, his assault rifle hefted in his other hand.  "Doors are locked down.  Someone tried to compartmentalize the Royet and wasn't able to do so.  Vents are still open.  There's not enough room here for our teams, we'll need to open one of the sides first."

"May as well open the one we need to pass down first," Grunt voted as he looked around, "We have blasting charges, although a bit early for that."

He keeps his weapon at the ready, covering for Mastiff while the other Terrestrial is attending to the log.

"In agreement.  Mastiff to recon team.  Attempting to open aft hallway door."

Mastiff advances on the door, checking the keypad.  He frowns as he tries one of the passwords they'd all been given.

"Nobody from the Royet shut down this section of the hull.  It would've required a thumbprint or essence donation to activate the pad.  Ship's computer is reporting neither was used to isolate this section of the hull.  It's also pretty well locked down from the other side.  I'm going to need to hotwire."

He puts down his prized assault rifle.

"Grunt, when this thing opens, it's going to open quickly.  We may have to save those breaching charges, just in case.  I got a feeling we'll need it on the outer hull."

Grunt gave Mastiff an exaggerated nod so that is was clear through the environment suit. He moved slightly to the left, raised the stock of the gun to his shoulder, and insured that he had a line of fire with no friendly elements when the door opened.

"Agreed. I'll be much happier when we secure whatever system is running things," he said, glancing at where a security camera would be expected for a moment before bearing down on the task at hand.

"Alright... just a second..."  Mastiff works on the panel, "There, in three, two, one..."

The door snaps open.

The hallway leads to a broad open hull segment.  Most Mercury-class transports are capable of holding cargo containers- hence the name- and so they can be deceptively big.  The Royet, as a mining vessel, would have had a catwalk looking over multiple containers.

Instead there's... something else.  The containers have been opened, making the transport a giant open container- an easy modification for some water tankers, albeit a risky one.  The wide-open expanse teems with weird life, balls of flowering fruit raising from an unknown substrate, reddish trees swaying in the distance, unknowable fungoids growing from nothing.

"I hate when I'm right," Grunt said, eyes tracking the strange forms but shotgun held steady, "Tight beam this back to command, anything starts drifting close I'll try to move it back."

Yes, he wanted to destroy all of it but given how weird some spirits on their side were this might be benign.

"Assuming this is all new since they left the growth rate really is epidemic."

"This certainly shouldn't be on the Royet,"  Mastiff says dumbfounded, picking up his assault rifle. "This might need to be full quarantine.  Limit number exposed.  Potential mission scrap.  Your opinion, Grunt?"

"Working on setting up a comm relay,"  Flametongue's voice is a crackle, "We're seeing very limited stuff on your end... there's a lot of interference..."

((Wu Wei, 59 or higher))

(Yeah, Wu Wei came nowhere close. Float the 1-1)

Grunt froze for a moment.

"Snap a local picture and get out," he told Mastiff, clearly not a request, "Whatever this is we are not ready to recover."

"Roger that, taking pictures-"  Snap, snap.  There's a wind in the tunnel of the Royet, a soft sigh, and then they both hear their comms squeal with feedback.

"Tho- abort-" Algonquin's voice crackles, "-bisect-... airlock!"

They hear a snap, POP POP, as the temporary airlock does... something.  Mastiff is the first back to it.  He inspects it quickly, assault rifle pointed up.

"It's melted shut, Algonquin, do you copy?"

"---forg--- -cast-"

Flametongue's voice now.

"------ommspike ---thinner aft"

"Can you get this bulkhead closed again and try the other?" Grunt asked Mastiff, not wanting to think about what could have melted something that precise, that quickly, "Because if we have to blow into the void I'd rather we not be next to those...spores."

"Good thinking,"  He says, quickly working on the wiring, "I made certain not to stick it in place... alright..."

The bulkhead closes.

"Good news is it's closed.  Bad news is I can't keep it that way if something knows how to open the door.  I can repeat the process for the other one."

He heads over to the hatch, "At least this way we can get to the bridge.  See what happened." The moment he touches the hatch that leads to the bow of the ship the door sliiiiiiiides open smoothly, almost smugly.

"Fuck."

"Yep," Grunt drawled in answer before he looked at the camera, "Fine, lead us where you want us, but we will rupture the hull if you try shoving us into whatever that-"

He pointed to the just closed hatch.

"-is. No need for the dramatics."

"The hell is going on, Grunt."  Mastiff says to him, shouldering his assault rifle.  Ahead of them is a crew lounge, a circular room with a table, a circular sofa, and a half-finished game of chess.  White seems to be losing.  There are still a few drinks sitting around, including one stale bottle of beer.

Mastiff makes no move to go forward.

"We got played. Don't know who, what, or why. They want to just deal with us," Grunt answered, clicking the suit to tight beam communication just in case, "Have to play by their rules for now."

"Not the dead's usual MO." He observes after clicking to tightbeam, moving forward into the abandoned living room.  "Moving forward.  Sounds like Flametongue was trying to insert a commspike."

A common item for boarders, commspikes are one part spear, one part trans-bulkhead communication array.

"Now we can only hope they're going the right direction too."

One of the faucets is on, dripping water quietly.

"We're off the map," Grunt agreed as he moved to turn off the faucet. If any remote terminals are accessible he'll give them a Hail Mary pass but suspects the digital junctions will be as selected as the physical ones. "I suppose we just have to see how spooked they are. At least if they jump we won't have time to notice."

There's a single remote terminal at the side of the living room.  It's blinking, asking for an authorization code.

"And if they decide to cleanse us it'll probably be the right thing too,"  Mastiff says matter-of-factly, checking the room for anything that might be hiding.  "On the bright side.  If we survive.  We may have to start making a new manual."

((Hacking attempt via Wu Wei.  There are varying difficulties.  Getting under 20 is probably a bad thing.))

(10, 10, 8, 6, 5, 3 & 3
River: 1-1

Wu Wei of 30, will take Interesting Times)

"Pretty much. If we survive, or even just get some information to them, it's a bonus at this point," Grunt agreed as he moved to inspect the terminal and hoped it hadn't been kept up to date as he worked to pry his way deeper into things.

Most of the back protocols have been unfortunately updated, it seems by whoever was the sysadmin of the Royet.  But the old Dragon-Blooded passcodes still work, and he's in-

Wait a minute.  Someone else is using the system too.  He's got a shared desktop.

They've opened up a new word processing document.  He's no linguist.  But there's a thousand pages, or more, getting typed into the system and they're none the wiser.  There's no sense of punctuation or paragraphs, just... solid blocks of text.

I i'an su Bissphas I i'an suu Ars I uus ar i'ass si'as uhr asri'ahur I'n pharri'a phus ilai I ruu ssaiph ilai I'n pharri'a phus ilai I'n suhhu i'a ssi'auhr, I sass i'ass sussuhr' a nis rsui'an Ir su Ci'asi'asss si'arrus i'ars su sirsil thui'arr, i'ail I ruus zi'ar saas zuhs Ji'anur Dui'ar, is I u i'arphuhr' saiph Wuhs nil ni'ar Juhn Bui'an I rzuhrph saz suhhu i'a suhnz Bi'ash uhr uuhphsil-ruh, sur I zi'ar ruuuhr' i'a rsuhrh Bis raz I'n insu i'ars I si'ar arsil suhrh Aais Nuz Ossui'arr i'ars saru thina rsuhnz Sa i'arh ra wiursuharr i'ars I suss ra suhur I phas uhph ass zizuhsr i'ars saasras uilur I'n ar su suhrh, uh ilai hraz zi'as I nui'ar Ars su szusu-rsuz zsaphsi'an saissr's huuz nu ssui'ar  'Ci'airu I'n su Bissphas, ilai irsusrsi'ars Tu uhssuphuhsuhni'asu rar a ni'ar Tu T-O-P sa su D-O-G, as su P-O-T sa su G-O-D  Ars I'n ssuhzzuhr' Ur, i-i, ri'auhs I'n ssuhzzuhr' I i'an su Bissphas I i'an suu Ars I uus ar i'ass si'as uhr asri'ahur I'n pharri'a phus ilai I ruu ssaiph ilai  I'n pharri'a phus ilai A sas a zuazsu zahu ir i'ars si'as'r i'assuhphs Bis zur I rsi'ass zahuhr' i'ash suil phus i'ass izsuhphs i Yai si'ar's si'az zuhs su ni'arsus, rar Sa ruhs ilais i'arr sazr 'asu I si'ars ilai aru 'Ci'airu I'n ra phsui'aril ilai si'ar si'ass nu nis Ars I uus i'a suhsssu Hi'arh sirruhrph ssaiph nil saas I zi'arri'a saas su zasss zuhs nil szuhrsus saiphsr Yai si'ar uhs i'ass si'ail, is I si'ar's u aiphs U, sui'ah uhs iz, sus'r suhu aru ar I phassi'a phus rus sa pha i'ars sis su si'azr Sa I phsi'a nil Wi'ashni'ar is uasu I sis I pha uuhrs su phi'asi'aphu i'ars uhsu uhs iz 'Ci'airu I'n su Bissphas, ilai irsusrsi'ars? Tu uhssuphuhsuhni'asu rar a ni'ar Tu T-O-P sa su D-O-G, as su P-O-T sa su G-O-D Ars I'n ssuhzzuhr' Hi, i, ri'auhs I'n ssuhzzuhr' suhsr's ilai hraz? I i'an su Bissphas I i'an suu Ars I uus ar i'ass si'as uhr asri'ahur I'n asri'ahur Pr, ilai i'auhr's rasuhr' Yui'a, ilui'a, ilui'a Canu ar phus 'un iz Canu ar phus 'un iz Canu ar phus 'un iz I i'an su Bissphas I i'an suu Ars I uus ar i'ass si'as uhr asri'ahur, I i'an su Bissphas I i'an suu Ars I uus ar i'ass si'as uhr asri'ahur I phus i'a uusuhrph a zui'asu san i'a saz, rsaz uhph Ar I ruhs uhr nil si'auhs i'ars zi'ass suhu pha il Turu saiphsr I i'au, I si'ar's nass su rurru Tsaiph su asurs a nil nuhrs, suil'su i'ass zi'ars surru Basr i'ars si'auhrus uhr su aisus si'arsr Ars i'as suhnur ilai saiss ri'ail I'n ais a i'ars I'n uhr i'a i'ars a philzruhur, zu'su ar su sir Eusil suhnu si'as zi'azus uhsr nil sarphiu Ars ranusuhnur uhs ruunr ra ass Wur nil uuhrr i'asu zazzuhr' i'ars I'n assuhr' i'a ruhru I i'an su Bissphas, ilai irsusrsi'ars Ars usu uhr nil i'ars uhr nil ni'arsus zsi'ar, i I'n pharri'a phus ilai I ruu ssaiph ilai I'n pharri'a phus ilai I ruu ssaiph ilai
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:10, Sat 25 May 2019.

"Mastiff, I need a second pair of eyes," Grunt said, watching to see how quickly text was being added. The content made no sense but maybe he could get a rough gauge of when it started.

Going by the rate... maybe an hour or two ago.  The stuff is coming out slowly.  It is, for all the world, like someone hunting and pecking at a keyboard while running something through a translator.  This is arduous work but it's going at a pretty steady rate.

"Looking but priority's to watching our back,"  Mastiff tells him.  "Looks like a whole shitload of gibberish to me.  Not Dead activity."

This is well-known.  The Undead prefer to do their writing in Latin or English.

"Might be a tech-god going nuts.  Some of these ships have one bound to the reactors like the fighters do."

"So this started between one and three hours back. It's a shared desktop. If I do anything they'll know. Worth poking the face eating horror?" Grunt asked Mastiff, "My vote is 'yes' for the record but both of us in this particular mess."

"My default's shoot first ask questions later.  You're the expert at this stuff."  Mastiff tells him, "Just let me switch my bullets first to AP... anti-dead rounds ain't gonna mean shit."

Mags swapped and Mastiff gives him the nod.

"Well, here goes plan 'Poke it with a Stick'," Grunt replied as he interrupted the word processor with a 'hello' before trying to access any cameras as quickly as possible. Maybe he could get a look at this thing.

The word processing... whatever... stops abruptly.  In response to his 'hello'...

ussa
ussa
ussa
ussa
hello
hello
hello
ussa
hello
hello
ussa
hello
ussa
hello
ussa
hello

While it's typing he's able to flip to the cameras- he sees nothing in their room.  The cameras in the 'infected' portion of the Royet are completely dead.

"Knew it wouldn't be that easy," Grunt muttered, trying to see what systems he could control. The communication array would be excellent, or even just opening and closing hatches.

Still, he fired off another bit of text.

'Callsign, Grunt'.

Ci'assruhphr, Gsirs
Ci'assruhphr, Gsirs
Ci'assruhphr, Gsirs
Ci'assruhphr, Gsirs
Callsign, Grunt
Callsign, Grunt
Callsign, Grunt
Ci'assruhphr, Gsirs

... and so on.  While- whatever it is- types, he moves to Systems.  Hmm.  Communication array is down, and it's BEEN down, but there's a few A/V files that look like crew logs.  Hatches are open throughout the bow section of the ship, but everything aft- where the engines are- is locked shut.  Or the computer says it's locked shut.

As he looks he sees other little things going on in the background, not just the word processor.  Files are being created and deleted, mostly text files, with strange characters for titles.  They're getting deleted faster than he can click.

"Here goes nothing," Grunt muttered as he had the files sent to the terminal and opened them, working on a system reset command once they've been retrieved.

The system reset is stopped dead, something's already apparently tried that and got fried as a result.  But the system log starts...

The woman is identifiable as Captain Handall, a grizzled woman with a mohawk and eyepatch, six feet by his judge, and possessing the lovely sort of charm that would make Amazonian warriors champ at the bit.  Captain Handall looks exhausted, sweaty.  He sees the pressure marks on her face and upper shoulders:  this is a woman who'd spent far too long in an ill-fitting environment suit.  An older model, if he's any judge.

"Handall Log 39.  Spent all day working on that roid, getting it hooked up.  New drill would be awesome if they had half an idea of what we do out here.  Sure, it'll go right through a rock and get out all the fissionables in a few minutes, and that's better than hours, but we just spent SIX hours positioning the damn thing.  Going by our previous tests once we start drilling into this bad boy we're going to be 3 hours into the hole."

She runs a hand through her moppy mohawk.

"Victor was acting kinda screwy too.  Took him four of those hours to get the rod into place.  Weird part was he claimed he was only gone for something like 30 minutes.  Bullshit, I had to go over and do it myself.  I think we're going to have to cut this little foray short.  Core might be pissy at us but we're getting a bit of the space madness if Victor's any judge."

She kisses at the video, less a sexual thing and more like a tradition- like it was her way of showing affection to the ship.

"Another six hours and maybe we'll be all good.  Then I'll make dinner for the crew.  Hope they like reconstituted apple pie.  We could use the morale boost.  Captain Handall out."

"There's apple pie on the table, man."  Mastiff observes.

Grunt checked the time stamps then shut things down. Not much he could do with the terminal for the moment.

"Looks like the only way is forward for now. If we can reach an outer section we'll try to open this can with the breaching charges," he told Mastiff, "I take point, you keep anything off my back. If it looks like we're going to be overwhelmed, well, you can make your decision but I plan to make the biggest mess possible."

Timestamp was, as far as he can tell, 19 hours before the Royet was found by Fleet.  There's a lot more videos he can check- that was just the most recent.  Judging by the frequency of the time stamps they had been checking out an asteroid field for a few days before settling on their target, because at some point the logs are quite sparse.

"Roger.  Let's get out of here,"  He informs Grunt.

As soon as they step away from the terminal they hear a sound reverberate through the Royet.  It doesn't come through the speakers, no. No... it sounds like it's in the room with them.  A horn, if Grunt is any judge, blown for an inhumanly long time.

"The FUCK."

"I hate when they decide to be narrative," Grunt yelled as he started heading for the hatch, "Only reason to blow a horn is if you're hunting something and it's easy to guess which part of that equation we are."

He's decided to think while moving as quickly as the two of them can reasonably clear entrances.

"Fuck fuck fuck!  Go!"

((Go ahead and make 3 init rolls.  You're gonna want high init + CG.  Mastiff will make the same results, to minimize rolls.  These will be contested by the hunters.))

Grunt holstered his shotgun and focused purely on speed, which he was blessedly good at and left wakes in the air behind him from the spent essence.


Uses Supreme Burst of Speed each round, 4 chi each time

Init 1: 8, 5, 5, 4, 3, 2 & 1
Init: 25 + 10 + 10 = 45 + 20 = 65
CG: 31 + 5 + 10 = 46 + 5 = 51, empty River
FoB: 18 + 15 + 10 = 43

Init 2: 6, 5, 5, 4, 3, 1 & 1
Init: 21 + 10 + 10 = 41 + 20 = 61
CG: 25 + 5 + 10 = 40 + 5 = 45
FoB: 16 + 15 + 10 = 41

Init 3: 10, 10, 7, 6, 5, 2 & 2
Init: 22 + 10 + 10 = 42 + 20 = 62
CG: 20 + 5 + 10 = 35 + 5 = 40
FoB: 17 + 15 + 10 = 42)

((Hunters:
6, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1 & 1.
*Init 32 + Footwork 20 + AB 10 = 62
*CG 31

9, 8, 8, 7, 7, 5, 4, 4 & 2.
*Init 28 + Footwork 20 + AB 10 = 58
*CG 27

10, 9, 7, 6, 5, 5, 5, 3 & 1.
*Init 35 + Footwork 20 + AB 10 = 65
*CG Fails, but that doesn't matter...

Attack R1:
8, 8, 5, 5, 4, 3, 3, 1 & 1
*Break Cover Ground 28 + Strike 20 + AB 10 = 58
*Attack 25 + Strike 20 + AB 10 = 55))

They're through the first door almost immediately, and just in time.  The doors slam open, and a raging horde of... humanoids... in metal armor spill out with impossible fluidity.  They're thin, graceful, almost cat-like, riding horses with mouths too wide and teeth too sharp.

"THE FUCK!"  Mastiff fires off into the horde.  It stops some but doesn't do much; he then focuses on firing behind him as he takes off in Grunt's wake, using the Air aspect's draft to try to keep pace, burning a ton of essence in the process.  Shots taken behind him seem to do little to stop the tide.  They're quick, almost always on their heels, until eventually they reach the hallway just before the bridge.  The door is shut, slammed tight, and that's enough for the graceful humanoids to reach them.  They dismount, drawing thin sharp blades of brittle glass and laughing with alien chattering.

Before Grunt can try to key the last pad, one throws his sword through the control panel.  The other advances on Mastiff and Grunt, trying to catch both in one sword-stroke with an impossibly long and thin sword.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:58, Tue 25 June 2019.

Grunt swung around, switching position with Mastiff as they weather the first wave of strikes. He took some scrapes but between his gear and training he kept everything important guarded. Unlike most he closes in as near to the horde as he can, not giving them room to aim their strikes properly, his own chant to invoke the swarm of butterflies shaped from volcanic glass to fill the narrow corridor.

(Blossom Harvest, Unarmed

Defense: 6, 5, 5, 5, 4, 3 & 3
Float: 3-3
Block: 35 + 5 + 10 = hits with 5 left

Attack: 10, 8, 8, 7, 6, 4 & 4
Attack (DoOB): 28 + 10 + 10 = 48, better dodged
Disrupt Strike (Hardiness): 24 + 10 +10 = 44)

((Mastiff defense:
10, 9, 6, 5, 3, 2 & 2
*Defense vs Strike 22 + Block 15 + AB 5 = 42 vs 55, takes a Ripple- no RR

Hunter defense:
10, 9, 9, 9, 6, 3, 3, 3 & 1
*Defense vs Butterflies 39 + Footwork 20 = 59 - 10 = 49 vs 58 (+Fears/Laughs);  2 Ripples
*Defense vs Disrupt 33 + Finesse 20 = 53 vs 54 (+Fears/Laughs); takes Strike Disrupt

Mastiff attack:
10, 8, 7, 7, 7, 5 & 4
*2 Chi:  Strike +10
*4 Chi:  Secondary Strike, SS is AOE
*Primary Strike 18 + Strike 15 + AB 5 = 38, Dodge -10
*Secondary Strike 37 + Strike 15 + AB 5 + EKF 10 = 67, Dodge -10

Hunter defense:
7, 7, 7, 6, 6, 5, 4, 2 & 1
*Defense vs Secondary Shots 37 + Dodge 20 = 57 - 10 = 47 vs 67, 3 Ripples
*Defense vs Primary 26 + Dodge 20 = 46 - 10 = 36 vs 38, a Ripple

6/9 ripples suffered))

Though the two take a cut from the crystalline blade, it's not enough to really harm a dedicated Dragon-Blooded!  And just like that they can see the weakness and illusions for what they are; the nameless horde are just nine creatures.

The narrow passageway works to Grunt and Mastiff's advantage.  The ensuing Cloud of Butterflies sprays out, catching the hunters and cutting down two of them in one fell swoop.  While they reel from the attack Mastiff aims over Grunt's head, firing first a single shot at a leader and then a spray of heavy automatic fire that cuts down another four in rapid succession.  That leaves only three of the humanoids left.

"Buy me four seconds!" Grunt yelled at Mastiff as he yanked the blade free of the panel and grabbed the internals, electricity sparking off his fingers, "And hope this tub is as cheap as I think!"

That would either work or not, regardless he's wading into things as soon as the last connection is bridged, lashing out with his fists and knees in a series of strikes that'd break most mortals bones if they tried to copy them. It was simple and messy, at considerable speed.

These were just hounds, and they'd done their job. He wanted a bulkhead between him and the hunters.

Blossom Harvest w/Unarmed
Init: 10, 10, 10, 6, 6, 6 & 3
FoB: 16 + 15 + 10 = 41
Init: 13 + 10 + 10 = 33
Repair Panel (Craft Wave) = 30 + 10 + 5 + 10 = 55, Interesting Times
Asses Hounds (Wu Wei) = 26 + 10 + 10 = 46, just trying to get a rough idea WTF they are

Attack: 10, 8, 7, 7, 5, 4 & 1
Strike: 27 + 5 + 10 = 42
Strike: 23 + 5 + 10 = 38, 3 chi
Both strikes count as AOE against Minions

((Mastiff Init R2:
10, 10, 10, 9, 7, 6 & 2
*Float 0-0
*Init 19 + 5 + 5 = 29

Hounds Go Last

Interesting times accepted, take a ChivJoss

Hounds Defense:
10, 6, 6, 5, 4, 4, 3, 2 & 2
*Defense vs Primary Strike 26 + 20 = 46 vs 42 + Laughs 5 = 47, 2 Ripples
*Defense vs Secondary Strike 24 + 20 = 44 vs 38 + Laughs 5 = 43, no dice

Mastiff Attack:
6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 & 1
*2 Chi:  Strike +10
*Strike 21 + Strike 15 + AB 5 + Strike 10 = 51

Hounds Defense:
9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2 & 1
*Defense 35 + Dodge 20 = 55 - Dodge 10 = 45, 2 Ripples:  Gone))

The last connection bridges, alright, but it does so through Grunt's body.  The bulkhead shuts behind the remaining hounds and also arcs throughout the hallway.  Mastiff yelps as the shock goes through some of his clothes, singing him; Grunt is more or less immune.  The hounds are unprepared for the storm of fists.  Two go down just from the crackling electricity of Grunt's hits, with the last finally gunned down by a spastic burst of fire from Mastiff.

The purple and blue and green blood are all he needs to see.  Grunt, in earlier years, once trained against a few of White Arcing Lightning's goblins before in an ill-fated training exercise.  That little experiment had ended with more than the usual number of injuries and a fatality and was never repeated.  But he'd never forgotten the raw- if unrefined- power of her creations.  All strength, no subtlety, no flexibility... once their prey was cornered, the hounds had lost their strength.  Their point.

It's Fae.

"We are, literally, in a fairy narrative," Grunt told Mastiff as he worked on getting the door further in open, "Ever had to train for raksha?"

He'd give the bodies a quick search just because, depending on what this Story was, there might be a clue. Mostly this felt a bit less murder mystery and a bit more Masque of the Red Death but, hell, the damn things were crazy.

"... No.  SOP now is to immediately ring up Lucifer in case of mass-Raksha attack.  It'd mean WAL was starting trouble and would pitch a fit if we intervened too much."  He says uneasily, "That and the last one screwed up hard..."

He'd obviously heard of Grunt's interactions with them.

The bodies are designed for speed and harrying, all sharp angles and laughing lips and no strength.  Already they are beginning to unravel a bit at the seams. One thing's for sure, though, he'd fought goblins before and they don't seem to fit WAL's aesthetics.  It's not something he can particularly pinpoint but he knows a WAL-goblin when he sees one.

Also, the fact that not a single one has a weapon she'd use.  WAL preferred modern firearms, or Aztec-like stone-age weapons- hunks of obsidian hammered into bone or wood.  These are graceful, crystal European-style weapons.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:03, Sun 07 July 2019.

"These aren't from White Arc Lightning," Grunt told Mastiff, "And while I'd love to drop this in Lucifer's lap SOP is busted for now."

Mentally he started praying, although not to anyone specifically.

"Okay, we have to play our role until the climax of the story is close. Then we can try to force a change, which means we have to be stupid for a while."

And he went to move to the next door.

"How fucking stupid do we gotta be?" He asks as they open up the next door.  Well, they're headed towards the bridge, and here it is- a rather cramped affair even by transport standards.  There's a pair of crash couches, a viewscreen mounted on the front bulkhead where stupider people might put a windshield, and a wide variety of instrumentation panels.

Grunt knows this type well enough to know a dead bridge when he sees one.  There's a little light blinking on the left- the feed to the reactor's been cut.  Meaning all this time this section of the ship's been completely without power.

Grunt can hear a horn blast again.

"About as stupid as a given main character in a drama," Grunt admitted as he cursed, "No power, they must have been running it on their charms. We want control, we need power, which means we head to the reactor."

His head cocked at the horn and he set off again, this time trying to get into the bowels of the Royet. There'll be a perfect moment for the prey to turn and ambush the hunters but it wasn't quite yet. Not enough....drama.

"The reactor's merged with a god.  Either the god's dead or it's replaced it.  Pulled a trick like WAL's," Mastiff supplies. "I've got some skill in reactor maintenance but if the God's dead best I can manage is some internal power.  Not enough for a jump.  If the Fae's in there then we might as well be fucked."

He starts checking his armament.  "Got enough bullets, I think.  Push comes to shove I can make some more from scratch."

Back to the reactor means doubling back.  The bridge is more or less a dead end.

(You can try a Learning roll to recall schematics- 40 will get you a back door to the bowels of the ship)

(7, 7, 6, 5, 4, 4 & 2
And that's a nope, float the 7s)

"I don't know this model at all. We might be able to splice a few sections to my anima banner but that'll fry circuits quick," Grunt said, brushing off some of the debris from the hunters, "But we're not getting out of this without dealing with that fae, our best shot will be if it wears a mobile form. Not really equipped to fight architecture or, hell, the feeling of restlessness at the start of a vacation."

He headed for the door.

"Not sure if its is good or bad luck that neither of us are exactly the heroic type."

"Speak for yourself,"  Mastiff says as follows behind, "If you spot any loose bits of pipe let me know.  I may run out of ammo sooner or later and I'll need to switch."

The door slides open.  The corpses of the hounds are almost totally dissolved.  They can hear giggling from right behind them.

"Should we consider the original crew alive or dead?"

"I'd consider them bait. So alive," Grunt replied as they moved back into the corridor, eyes tracking. He makes a point of looking up as well as scanning the sides. "Only brought the one? Hopefully it won't come to that."

He tried to ignore the ambiance of things, particularly the laughs, whatever did this wanted them emotional. Theatrics were a cheap way to get them tired. Best to head towards the reactor and see what they could do in direct meetings.

"I have a few mags, and can generate more from Essence if necessary but that gets draining real fast.  No reason to spend Essence when you've got the physical wham-bam."
  He tells Grunt, "What I mean is, do we rescue them or do we pop them?"

Mastiff trains his gun up and to the left.  There are scratches on the ceiling ranging from the light touch of a knife to the deep gouge of a claw.  They all, rather predictably, lead to the ventilation shafts.  In a way it's almost classless, like, of COURSE they lead there, where else would they go?

What's not predictable is when he looks a little closer he finds a crystal rod jutting out of one of the ventilation shafts, the rod about the width of a broom handle.  It's just within hand's reach.

"We have to try to save them, unless you want to have C3 crawl right up our asses," Grunt admitted as he eyed the crystal rod warily. Which didn't stop him from trying to grab it. "But if it comes down to it we don't let this mess keep hostages."

"Yah, I read ya."

Mastiff almost says 'Don't touch that' but Grunt has already beaten him to it.  The crystal rod pulls and pulls, finally pulling free of the ventilation shaft.  It's a spear, much like what the hounds were using, complete with a long crossguard.  Someone's blood is at the end.

Mastiff sniffs once.  "Human."

Grunt nodded.

"And fresh enough that they had to be alive not too long ago. The SOP would be careful progress and securing everything behind us as we go," he told Mastiff, "Since that's off the table, we sprint and try to barrel our way through. Small fries are mine, bigger fish are yours until we can dog pile them."

There was the faintest hint of a grin on his face.

"And Control has to buy our drinks when we're out."

Into the breach, as it were, Gabriel jogged.

The next five minutes pass in a blur.

Grunt sprints ahead, Mastiff behind, and a world of creatures assails them as they rush through the halls.  He stabs and slashes his way through the chaff, small alien-like beings, elfin creatures with huge eyes.  A hulking monstrosity raises an axe to chop him to pieces when they reenter an engine room, and Mastiff puts it down with a burst of shots that hit it perfectly in each eye, not a bullet wasted.

With time they find themselves having burst into that initial room with all the fungus.  Time seems to come back to normal; the two are covered in strange blood, blood that isn't their own, not a scratch on their bodies.  The giggling is loud again in the room.  A long mushroom sways in the atmosphere, cloying and sweet to the tongue.

"Ugh... what was all of that?" Mastiff checks his bullets, "One mag down. Feels like everything was just a blur."

Far off, they can see a small lake shimmering purple in the artificial light-sun of the compartment.  The container seems larger than it was before, like they're not even on a ship anymore.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:56, Tue 20 Aug 2019.

"Waypoints, I think," Grunt told Mastiff as he looked around, "This place seems to be their welcome mat."

He looks around.

"We can probably forgo subtle, which means that lake is the first stop."

Then he yelled.

"You know, we could just talk, if you're interested."

The lake shimmers in front of them.  It's so far, but they can see it perfectly- and they can see the figure stepping out from lapping purple water on to the alien shore.  Tall, lithe, black of skin and gold of eye and fur, the Fair Folk man blinks at him with alien interest.  The form shifts, now an elegant woman, covered in moss and green and bearing a long bow.

"Ye who come to mine kingdom, being of mere flesh and bone, wilt thou give thine full name so that thou might enter mine halls?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:19, Mon 26 Aug 2019.

"The duties of a host and their guests mirror each other," Grunt replied, taking off his helmet with a resigned shrug, "I am named Gabriel but designated Grunt."

"Mastiff.  Ibrahim Doyuz."  His coworker gruffly responds, weapon still at the ready just in case.  He's obviously content to let Grunt take the lead.

"Mine name is TarotoraT, the third, shapeless Regent of the Third Kingdom,"  She says in her sing-song voice, "Thine presence is concerning, a shifting of the balance between me and mine of the First and Second Kingdoms.  I meet pledge peace between us, so long as thou lay an oath of peace alongside mine."

"We are vassals, of some rank true but not so highly placed that we might make such pledges upon our own remit," Grunt replied, sweat breaking out on his brow, "For such accords we would need to communicate with those outside this place. We might offer our personal parole while here, if you extend your kingdom's aegis over us."

"Alas, I do not understand," TarotoraT sings to him, "There is nothing outside of here, o stranger.  Thoust come from the void of the void, is true, but me and mine kin have no means to reach it.  That is also beyond a remit.  But mine power is not so small that I cannot offer thee safe passage if thou would only wear my torc."

"There is another of your kin in the void, kept safe in a shell like this but vastly larger," Grunt replied, "And we may be able to speak with them if you indulge our needs."

"Verily!"  Her eyes bulge, "We were created as the last!  To hold the last line, to keep the edges shut, to die as final sacrifices to the end of the timeline.  A fatal remit, and one most onerous.  Mine kin, do thou know the means of their creation?  From what sire/ess?"

"She is called White Arc Lightning and known to me only indirectly," Grunt replied, "Can the communications systems of this vessel be restored?"

"Thy question makes us, unsure," The fae tells him.  "The machinery of this vessel perplexes us.  The paths of electrons are not mine to travel.  The city of circuits cannot be breached without mine brother's approval."

"What is his name, and would he approve?" Grunt asked, eyes still tracking the....growth that had spread across the ship, "I am afraid time may be growing more precious than usual."

"He is Rafu, the Daimyo of the Electron, and his approval is... flexible.  He has no love for the macro,"  She tells him.

"Wait, what? Are you saying he's-"

"He dances upon the quarks; the circuits are his cities.  He guards the smallest frontier.  His goblin hordes wage war upon the mindless."

"So he hates, say, logic gates that only mechanically resolve math equations?" Grunt asked in resignation, "How may we speak to him?"

"Haven't ye done so already?"  She asks, "Back there, upon yonder machine?  Thy hands spake with his minions, tho little of much was likely said.  For they understand much but little at the same time, and he has vast hordes of them, marching upon circuit and wire."

"Afraid the text was less than enlightening. We'll need a somewhat more explicit exchange," Grunt told their host, pulling the communication headset loose from his helmet, "This does rather little thinking if he's amenable, just electrons and magnets at the base."

"Thy attempt may work,"  She admits, "For he can travel through the waves of reality, surf upon the frequencies."

"Shit,"  Mastiff mutters into his comm, "So he's probably already- ARGHGGH!"
 Mastiff screams in pain as he starts clawing at his helmet.  "MAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOP!"

"He does not approve of your companion." TarotoraT tells him calmly, "He never did enjoy being observed."

There's a faint whine coming from over the comm in his helmet, nothing at all horrific sounding- but as an Earth Aspect Mastiff's senses are quite sharp.
This message was last updated by the GM at 21:28, Thu 26 Sept 2019.

"It is rude to intrude on someone else's system," Grunt said into the microphone, "Especially when you were invited by another. Please stop aggrieving my colleague."


He put his hand on Mastiff's helmet and let his anima flux slightly, just enough to send a weak wave of electricity along the system. Their equipment was well insulated enough to take the rough housing.

The short zap of electricity that goes through Mastiff's suit stops his screaming immediately.  He breathes hard, fogging up his helmet, his hands balled up into fists before he stands up.  The man is INFURIATED.  Grunt has seen him like this before, usually just before a barfight, usually just before some sort of action that leaves someone bleeding and in dire need of medical care.

He uses hand-signs to Grunt.

"MDK"

"Weak creatures of the large world," The soft, sibilant voice echoes through Grunt's comm, at once clear as crystal and scattered as static, "I am Rafu, the Daimyo of the Electron.  My fiefdom is supreme, and I only let you travel upon it because you have news of a distant... cousin.  Tell me about her."

"White Arc Lightning? Restore the needed systems and you can inquire directly," Grunt replied dryly, "Or calcify with no source of essence to draw upon as things wind down. Attack again and this story will become exceedingly boring."

"If we do so, we will be able to communicate with her?" The Daimyo of Electrons asks.

"Mine brother is being remarkably civil,"  The other Fae observes, twisting her arm to and fro with mild bemusement.

((Awareness or Politics check.  Higher the better.))

(Roll: 10, 10, 9, 6, 4, 3, 2 & 2
Float the 2s
Awareness: 20 + 10 + 10 = 40, yes I went lower for IT)

"If she feels like communicating with you," Grunt answered, "Obviously my oaths aren't binding on a dream eater who owes me nothing."

((Take a chivjoss))

Grunt, the Daimyo of Electrons is eager.  He wants to open communications, it seems, quite a bit.

"The paths may be opened,"  He grants in a grudging show, "If you can convince my brother to give me access to the engine room.  I am cut off from his fastness.  My goblins have fought a war with his for many eons.  Would you cut a way for me?"

"As a rule I do not intervene in sibling squables," Grunt told the Daimyo, "But I will see about securing a corridor of safe passage for a time."

He looked at TarotoraT.

"Unless, of course, you'd rather we used our own equipment, but that would require a working airlock."

"Who controls the airlocks, would it not be you, Brother?"  TarotoraT asks the Daimyo.

"They are tools needed for the Guests and so they belong to our Brother- Bavian, the Grand Host."

"Ah."  Tarotorat frowns, her gracile form twisting to see Grunt.  "My friend, my visitor, Bavian, the Grand Host was the first of us to land on this fertile ground.  He welcomed the Crew of the Royet into his court, where they live in His luxury.  He is the Lord of Doors and Oxygen, Beds and Food.  He is also jealous of his Guests.  We are not to touch them, or speak to them, or interfere with them."

Mastiff just keeps watching, glowering intently at the Fae.

"How many guests does he entertain at present, and how many hosts do we find ourselves in the company of?" Grunt asked, oddly hopefully almost in spite of himself. While this could blow up in their faces, the addition of more raksha nobles might give the entire race to exit this reality a significant boost.

Or if it came to it, they might just feed the troublesome ones to WAL.

"How many are in the Royet's crew, oh Brother?"

"Sixteen."

By their reports, they were expecting something like 48.

"There is only the one Host, good Sir, and all other hosts must bow to him."  The Daimyo hopefully tells him.

"We seem to be standing in the domains of several. How many of your clan are present on board?" Grunt tried again, "And where do I go to speak with this host?"

TarotoraT and the Daimyo pause.  TarotoraT even looks in the distance.  Grunt gets the distinct opinion they're talking to each other, or at least exchanging confused glances.

"There are three of us.  Total," TarotoraT tells him, "We each control..."

"Ten million."

"He has ten million picogoblins.  I control a few paltry hundred thousand,"  TarotoraT tells him, "The Grand Host has his billions, and his fifteen slave-nobles, and of course his honored Guests?"
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 22:59, Mon 04 Nov 2019.

Shit.

"Then it seems best to speak with the Grand Host," Grunt agrees, "What is his preferred interface?"

"Dinner party."
"Dinner party."

The two Fae respond in tandem, TarotoraT nodding vigorously and smiling.  The Damiyo chuckles in his earphone, clearly echoing her sentiment.

"We can direct you to his lands, but once you pass those doors it becomes guest-right.  We will not be able to assist you,"  TarotoraT continues, "You will need to be calm of mind and strong of heart, o Travelers."

Grunt gives Mastiff a look of mute inquiry, knowing how grating the other operative had found their hosts so far.

"We're showing up unprepared for such things, I hope your associate is fond of improvising," he says at length.

Dragon-Blooded handsign is old, practically impenetrable, and beaten in to every young Dragon-Blooded from the moment they take their First Breath.  Half sign language, half shared idiom, if there's any mode of communication proof against Fae magic it'd be this.

Mastiff makes the signs, roughly translating to:

"Strange-wrong - unfocused - lead us to doom"
"Kill all - God sort out - including us"
"Bet others - already taken"
"No return - compromised"

"It is a poor host who cannot accommodate his guests,"  TarotoraT says smoothly, looking at the hand signs.  Mastiff's caution is proven correct by her next statement, "... What does Alabaster Shards - Atalanta Apple - Caudine Forks mean?"

That would be his first sentence.

"That our communications are too information dense," Grunt replied, "He is objecting to the order of things."

"Not-right - too strange" Mastiff reiterates, "Quarantine".

"I know my brother has made him upset, but please, accept my apologies on his behalf." TarotoraT genuflects at him, "What little I can provide to smooth your turbulent soul, I will!"

"I think we need to meet the host more than anything for the moment," Grunt told TarotoraT simply, "No point in negotiating with only some of the required parties at the start."

"Yes, of course,"  She says with honest smoothness, "Please, follow me."

"Adapting - language"  Mastiff signs to Grunt, "Inconsistencies."

The two are led through TarotoraT's garden.  The swirling purples and pinks hide little fairies who watch the two as they move past, clutching little weapons made from toothbrushes and screwdrivers.  One of them takes to flying behind the two as a sort of curious guard; TarotoraT pays her no mind.

Eventually they reach a set of double doors, tall as a skyscraper and as intricate as a circuitboard designed by ancient vikings.  TarotoraT gestures at the knockers.

Gabriel knocked, although the design was so archaic it took a few moments to puzzle out what the things were. Blessedly Young Frankenstein had been among the media saved when the Last Refuge fled.

The doors start gliding open- and about halfway through opening begin to creak ominously, like the hinges forgot the creak.  In fact, it sounds vaguely embarrassed about the whole affair.  Look, I know I was late, and I'm sorry, but things have been awfully hard at the office and my car broke down...

And then there's a thundercrash that occurs a few seconds after the last creak stops, also quite off in timing.  They smell freshly oxygenated air, the faint smell of a delicious feast that makes their mouths water, and a hint of enchanting music.

"Inside,"  She gestures to the pitch black, "I cannot follow you into my brother's realm."

Terminal Grenade he signs to Mastiff before walking through the door.

At least it seemed these rakasha had a basis in human stories, Grunt thought as he advanced, was that from the crew or earlier?

Mastiff nods once as they move through.

It's like walking into a darkened room and someone flicks on the lights for a surprise party.  They've walked directly into a courtyard full of villagers peddling wares, dancers, jugglers, streamers and banners flying everywhere, and fireworks across a black-and-green sky- that's nonetheless simultaneously bright as day and dark as night.  Guards dressed in heavy armor and flowers bow to them as they enter, all smiles.  It's like something out of a movie.

A gorgeous woman dances up to Grunt and places a garland of flowers around his neck, "Welcome to the party!"  She calls out, eyes alive and dancing yet also lacking something integral.  "Stay a while!"

((Feel free to take a Learning check.  Difficulty is 30.))

When in doubt, fall back on defaults. In Grunt's case, that meant a law enforcement officer's terse nod that implied, on balance, that it might be considered a good day by some people. He looks around, the place reminding him too much of how teenagers who had been born on the Last Refuge sometimes thought about how Earth looked.

(Roll: 10, 8, 7, 4, 1, 1 & 1
Learning: 31)

Wait.

Grunt has seen this before.  The symbols painted on the doors... the chalk drawing on the village square.  The appearance of the people, vaguely cartoonish...

He's seen it in a pre-Exodus movie.  There's a couple thousand DVDs of the damn thing scattered around the Last Refuge.  There was almost certainly one here.

"What is the celebration?" Grunt asked with the most poorly faked curiosity ever, his mind already judging the merits of his knife in cutting hair, "I've just arrived today."

"Why, good sir, a great prince is here from an outside world!"  The village girl laughs with happiness, another garland in her hands as she turns to Mastiff, "My lord!  We are so blessed with your presence!!?"

Mastiff's eyes somewhat glaze over as he considers the villager and the garland, but he keeps his wits about him and holds his hand up with a dark expression on his face.

"You are all most welcome, my Lords," She bows to each of them- the bow crude, wrong somehow, almost lascivious. "The village will do anything for you!"

"I think we should meet the local notables first, My Lord," Grunt told Mastiff, one finger running along the handle of his k-bar. He had never been sure exactly what metals would work, and everything on the Last Refuge was an alloy of one sort or another.

There should be a castle or palace somewhere in sight, and he'll chive his colleague towards that at first chance.

The castle is very much in sight:  looming over the village, towering inestimably high to eternity.  Mastiff needs very little encouragement to head to the castle, and the two are followed by throngs of cheering men and women.  The twin doors are shut and covered with garlands of flowers and tiled with smiling people's faces.  The door has only a single knocker, the face of a man with a big gritted smile and the knocker clenched between teeth the size of dominoes.

This actually gives Mastiff pause.  "The fuck, Grunt."

"We are approaching their festival with the flying lanterns and the lost child," Grunt told Mastiff amiably, "Surely you've heard the tales of Pixar? They're shockingly popular in our home."

He pulled the knocker back, letting out his call-sign in the process, and slammed it back so long as the thing didn't actually start talking. Rakasha, he thought with a mix of annoyance, dread, and the most pessimistic hope.

"Look, they're stories. Or parts of stories. This one seems to be taking some cues from an Earth movie. Which would be fine if there was any chance it would stick to the script all the way through. Bad news, you're more handsome than me so you're stuck as Prince Charming."

Unsaid is that no one had charms or special techniques for dealing with the Fae since, a few hours ago, there was only one of them and killing her would be catastrophically dumb.

"Always hated those movies,"  Mastiff finally says aloud, almost hopefully, looking about as if everything would just dissolve in a moment.

Oh, it doesn't speak.  It hums with unnatural happiness.  The eyes are unfocused, staring in two different directions once the handle is held.  The eyes focus again, pleading, please please please again...

Then the door creaks open.  The face looks frustrated.

"Oh, and don't think it has to be a person. This whole village and castle could be it. Or even just a floating idea," Grunt added wryly, "Well, be that as it may, we're on its turf and that means the rules are a bit different from usual."

He led the way through the open door, eyes peeled but this thing was keeping up appearances. There was probably going to be a quest. Or some pseudo-feudal protocols.

Misgivings aside he was going to be polite and quiet until they were deep enough in to pull any of the surviving crew out.

The two enter the castle to find a dining hall already set up for them.  A long table that stretches for infinity in every direction and up and around the top of the hall like a deranged Escher meets George RR Martin drips with roast turkey with glazed crackled skin and mashed potatoes the size of skyscrapers meet the broken remains of a spun-sugar sculpture atop a raven pie sitting next to gravy bowls dripping from the ceiling to just near his head.  The crew of the Royet are there, all sitting and eating their dinner from their impossible angles, sitting next to each other yet infinitely far away, their eyes glassy and manic.

One of them, a pretty young woman he recognizes from his files as a Kara Bradington, beckons him over.  "Welcome, come on over, eat, eat, eat!"

There's one he doesn't recognize.  The fae is 12 feet tall, with wings of some strange blue bird, a face chiseled from marble and the lewd dreams of a thousand teenagers, and eyes that are well and truly dead.  He stands like a spider unfolding itself,

"Welcome, honored guests!"
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:47, Mon 03 Feb 2020.

"Hello. Glad to have found the crew. Have you drained them enough to let us take them out of here?" Grunt asked the thing dryly, "Ah, and we are Grunt and Mastiff respectively. Your peers-neighbors?-seemed inclined to forge somewhat more diplomatic ties with the survivors of this universe."

Yes "they are, so we have heard that there are more of our number in space,"  The Grand Host responds, eyeing the two of them with unblinking eyes, "We are [most] anxious" to meet them!"

"Yes let's meet them,"  Kara Bradington answers happily.

From far, far away, an eternity away at the end of the table, Grunt can see the gorgeous Captain Handall busily eating away at a whole turkey, without regard to anything close to restraint.  Her nearest neighbor, who his files call James Plunger, stabs at his own hand with a fork.

"Are you going to release them or can we skip straight to the messy bits? I'm not authorized to negotiate with the three of you and if I try while you have the crew hear we'll all find out just what sort of toys the Labs have been working on," Grunt said as he walked over and pulled the fork away from James Plunger, "You are new to encountering humanity?"

"Release them when they are so happpy?"

Plunger's fork is ripped right out of his hand.  He looks at Grunt blankly, then grabs- flails, more like a toddler than anything else- for Grunt's knife.

"This cannot be our first time.  Who can speak to [us]?"  The Fae nobleman asks, eyes black and shiny.  Nearby Mastiff starts to sway woozily.  "Perhaps you can speak for us to them...!"

Another Gracious Host stands next to a fae that strongly resembles TarotoraT on one of the infinite staircases far away, smiling and waving.

Init : 10, 8, 8, 4, 2, 2 & 1
Shadow Catching w/Saber
Init: 28 + 10 + 10 = 48
Assess Fears : 22 + 15 = 37

Grunt had his knife out a moment later and darted towards their host, quite intent on stabbing the thing in the face. Maybe cold iron was needed, maybe not, but if it came down to it he'd beat the thing to death with his bare hands. With more backup he'd have kept trying to talk but Mastiff was already looking a bit odd and that meant the predators needed to be given pause immediately.

((Fae Init:
10, 9, 9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 4 & 1.
*1 Chi:  Reduce Shaping Wave penalties by 10
*5 Chi:  Craft Dreaming World 29 + Wu Wei 20 + AB 5 - Penalty 0 + IKF 15 = 69
*3 Chi:  If  Craft Dreaming World, AB increases from 5 to 10
*2 Chi:  +15 to a Shaping Wave
*Init 24 + Speed 10 + AB 5 = 39

Fears:  Balanced styles, old styles, those who believe in the falseness of the world

Grunt has init))
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:31, Sat 07 Mar 2020.

(Attack: 8, 8, 6, 6, 2, 1 & 1
Strike: 28 + 10 ES + 10 AB + 10 IKF + 5 (Fears, Old Style) = 63, 2 chi
Secondary Strike: 26 + 10 + 10 + 5 = 51, 2 chi
Disrupt (Footwork) Might: 21 + 10 + 10 = 41)

Grunt doesn't see a way to stop the fae in time, his own magics weren't suitable for use around this many unarmored civilians. So he goes with what he knows, slamming the knife into center mass and pressing it upwards even as his shoulder smashes into the thing's chest in an effort to bowl it over.

((Mastiff Init:  10, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3 & 2
*Gun is effectively Ranged+Flexible
*Init 17 + Speed 0 + AB 10 = 27

Fae Defense:
10, 9, 7, 5, 4, 4, 3, 2 & 1
*Defense vs Primary Strike 24 + Dodge 15 + AB 5 = 49 vs 63, takes a Ripple + Roll
*Defense vs Secondary Strike 19 + Dodge 15 + AB 5 = 39 vs 51, takes a Ripple + Roll
*Defense vs Disrupt 17 + Hardiness 5 + AB 5 = 37 vs 41, takes Disrupt

RR 1 on Fae:
*4 Chi on Chi Aura
*11 + Damage 10 - Toughness 0 - Chi Aura 25 = 0 damage

RR 2 on Fae:
*4 Chi on Chi Aura
*14 + Damage 10 - Toughness 0 - Chi Aura 19 = Trivial wound

Fae Attack:
10, 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2 & 1
*1 Chi for Quick Work:  Wu Wei on Grunt 22 + Wu Wei 20 + AB 10 = 52

Mastiff Attack:
10, 9, 9, 7, 5, 3 & 2
*3 Chi:  Strike +10, ignore 5 pts armor
*Attack 29 + Strike 15 + IKF 10 + AB 10 = 64, Better Blocked:  Dodge -10

Fae Defense:
10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 0 & 0
*Float 1-1
*Defense vs Strike 20 + Dodge 15 + AB 10 - Better Blocked 10 - Disrupt 5 = 30 vs 64, 2 Ripples + Roll

RR vs Fae:
*23 + Damage 15 - Toughness 0 - Chi Aura 0 = 38, a Minor Wound:  Chipped Kneecap, Action penalty to Dodge

Fae Init:
9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 2, 2, 1 & 1
*Float 1-1
*Advanced FoB Minor Action with 22 for 20 Chi- yes, 20 Chi
*Init 19 + Speed 10 + AB 10 = 39))

The Fae is lithe, graceful, superb- but it's also distracted.  And Grunt may not be able to stop the Fae from spinning its dream, but as an old Dragon-Blooded sage once said, "everyone has a plan until they're punched in the face".

The Fae had something sort of like a plan.

The Fae did not expect to be, well, punched in the face.

Despite its best attempts at throwing up essence and magic and dodging to the side, there's nothing like a good old-fashioned knife to the chest to really get the panic-juices flowing.  The Fae manages to divert the first blow of the knife, but not the second; and it certainly didn't expect a shoulder-bash.  The damn thing looks offended beyond contempt as it stands up, pointing a finger at Grunt, "HOW DARE YOU IN MY HOUSE YOU WILL BE EATEN BY SCORPIONS"

True to its word, scorpions appear from under the very tiles to swarm over Grunt.

But in the meantime, it's ignored the other threat.  Mastiff raises his assault rifle, aims, and fires.  The Fae has been spending Essence like candy, drawing upon the crew to fuel it; but at the moment it's out, no doubt because Grunt took up so much of its energy and attention.  This buys him the time to spray the thing with assault rifle fire, catching it in the knee and beginning the first step to hobbling it.  Mastiff looks grim.

((Defense: 10, 9, 8, 7, 4, 3 & 1
Quick Work: 52 - 19 = 32 - 10 Hardiness = 22 - 10 AB = 12, 1 chi on Chi Aura

Init: 9, 8, 8, 6, 5, 3 & 1
Shadow Catching w/Saber
Init: 28 + 10 + 10 = 48

Attack: 9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 2 & 1
Strike: 19 + 10 + 10 + 5 (Laughs: Higher Init) + 5 (Fears: Old Style) = 49 + 10 = 59, 2 chi Hou Yi's Arrows))

The thing about scorpions swarming him is that Grunt's in a pretty well sealed bit of armor and capable of gritting his teeth through most poisons. He takes it on the proverbial chin and keeps on top of the fae, dashing forward awkwardly with the damn bugs hanging off of him for another slice at the leg.

If they can immobilize it he'll back off and let Mastiff empty as many magazines as needed.

((RR on Grunt:
*18 - Chi Aura 11 = 7, a Trivial Curse

Mastiff Init:
10, 9, 8, 5, 3, 2 & 1
*19 + Speed 0 + AB 10 = 29

Init:
Grunt 48
Fae 39
Mastiff 29

Defense vs Grunt:
9, 7, 7, 7, 5, 3, 2, 2 & 1
*Defense 37 + Dodge 15 + AB 10 - Dodge Penalty 5 = 57 vs 59, a Ripple

Fae Attack vs Mastiff:
10, 9, 9, 6, 6, 3, 3, 2 & 2
*QW 26 + Wu Wei 20 + AB 10 = 56

Mastiff Defense:
8, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2 & 1
*32 + Wu Wei 5 + AB 10 = 47 vs 56, a Ripple
*Float 5-5

Mastiff Attack:
9, 7, 6, 4, 3, 1 & 1
*3 Chi:  Strike +10, ignore 5 pts armor
*Mark Target 21 + Awareness 15 + AB 10 = 46
*Strike with Flowed 25 + Strike 15 + IKF 10 + AB 10 = 60, Dodge -10

Fae Defense:
10, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 4, 3 & 2
*4 Chi:  Shaping Wave of 69 vs 60, Blocks

Grunt has init))

The Fae stands in place, whimpering as it retreats from Grunt's attempt at driving a knife into its chest comes short of drawing blood.  The scorpions try to flow over Mastiff but the Dragon-Blooded resists the urge to swat at them, instead letting bullets answer for a retort.  Unfortunately the Fae waves a hand and food from the impossible table falls in front of each and every bullet, stopping them dead.

"Any ideas, Grunt?!"

Init: 8, 7, 6, 5, 5, 5 & 3
Shadow Catching w/Saber
Init: 35 + 10 + 10 + 20 = 75, 4 chi

Attack: 9, 8, 8, 6, 5, 4 & 2
Strike: 28 + 10 (Strike) + 10 (2 chi) + 5 (Fears: Old Style) + 5 (Laughs: Got Init) + 10 (AB) = 68

"Yeah. Keep after the knee and I'll take him to the ground," Grunt growled, "Then spray both of us if you have to, I'm better armed and tougher than it is."

Guns had never really been his thing, living in a pressurized hull meant that most of the time any firearm powerful enough to put someone that wasn't mortal down was stupidly dangerous.

So he's entirely familiar with getting up close and personal in confined spaces, this time darting low along the ground and aiming for the thing's injured leg with his knife. If it had to hop all the prop manipulation in the world wouldn't save it.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:18, Fri 01 May 2020.