#eclipse squadron

[yogurtbluesideas]

mech pilot from moon team have a tendency to only go in public with a member of stars team because they have a “neural uplink backpack” to keep the withdrawals away, said backpack looks like one of the monkey ones for kids so you just get the absolute weapon of war and pinnacle of genetic alteration standing next to god’s most tired mechanic like

while the stars member is just like “two bacon egg and cheese mcgriddles for the pilot gremlins and a large coffee for me”

[jester-pressure]

**A very red expendable (/j its redy) waks into the room cuz uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh**

The Lieutenant marches through the room, looking side to side before looking forward and noticing the expendable.

He is quite taller then Redy, looking down at the expendable.

His axe laying on his own shoulder, and a riot shield equipped in his other arm.

-> ``Oh look!`` He says, lowering himself to the expendable's size. A smug, mocking smile on his face. ``One of the Death row idiot who came to risk their life to get a pardon! Rare seeing one alive!`` He mocks.

[eclipsedrawsthings]

Look, if Michael A. Stackpole didn’t want me to ship them, he shouldn’t have written all their scenes this flirty

Figuring out how I wanted Tycho’s hair to look was fun •w•

[bisexualwintermoon]

everyone should read the alphabet squadron trilogy btw. who what where and the oridol cluster and the temple full of ghosts and hera syndulla and the battle of jakku. its so good please read it.

[flufflepantsart]

Mocked up a fighting game character select screen using characters I've made

[jester-pressure]

-> ``Fuckin' Hell. ANGLER!``

The Person taps the side of his gas mask, a mechanical green filter passing over it. He then steps into the room, hiding behind the wall between the hallway and the room.

-> ``Angler coming in hot.``

The Person deploys a little gadget on the floor, the other members who were close sprint up to the device, the device making some type of green bubble.

-> ``Stay quiet lieutenant.``

The Person says with a commandative voice, doing so while their finger rest on their ear. The Lieutenant simply gives a hum of acknowledgement.

Ecoes in the hallways multiple footsteps, sounding like a group marching through. Income the squadron, heavily armed Urbanshade Group with five different members, and they seem to be looking for something.

One of the members diverges from the group, the taller one, wearing black armor with pink highlights, his dark hair also sharing those highlights.

The Person peeks its head onto one of the doorways, looking side to side inside the room, as the rest of the group keeps forward, diverging at different points to search other rooms.

-> ``Where is this bloody box?``

The person mutters to themselves, their voice annoyed at the whole mission. But little do they know, they are not alone.

-The Light behind The Dark, Squadron ECLIPSE (@jester-pressure)

**The lights flicker....too much**

**they suddently break, leaving the group in darkness unless any of them have brough a light source**

[soulsxofxwar]

Some Dragons!

Tempest: Tempest is a male Windreaper Wyvern bonded to Nova Fulgur, he is curious and hotheaded, though not necessarily reckless. He and his rider are part of the Rebellion.

Cassiopeia: a female Night/Snowreaper Wyvern bonded to a Aionios Mercenary named Auriga Blanche, they are part of the 3rd Wyvern Squadron and fight alongside the Aionios troops and Fulgur family. (Both Cassi and Auriga belong to @vincedmeat )

Thunderbolt: a female Thunderreaper Wyvern bonded to Aesir Fulgur, just like her rider she is harsh and unforgiving, especially on the battlefield. She and her rider are responsible for a lot of death and destruction.

Frostbite: a male Frost/Snow/Night/Bloodreaper Wyvern bonded to Aurore Duratus, he is the offspring of Aurore's parents dragons. Frostbite is considered to be among the most beautiful dragons ever seen by Dragon Scholars, no doubt thanks to his special heritage.

Skullcrusher: a female Magmareaper Wyvern, bonded to a man simply known as the Brute, she is feared and possibly the most dangerous and largest of the Aionios mercenary dragons. She has a severely scarred and injured lower jaw which was corrected with Dragonsteel, she’s a veteran and has killed many other dragons. Both are part of of Squadron 1.

Weepingsnow: a male Snowreaper Wyvern, hatched wild but later bonded to Skadi Duratus, named for his markings he is rather gentle, which common for his breed, and always hovering around his peculiar rider, however he is not to be underestimated.

Quickstrike: is a male Dune/Flashreaper Wyvern, bonded to another Ainoios mercenary named Lazuli, unlike most others, Lazuli has no real desire to fight this war, yet knows not what else to do and fears what may happen if she refuses. Quickstrike is often curled around his somber rider.

Nightshade: is a male Grovereaper bonded to a Forest elf Sentinel named Jade, he has rare markings and is a very proud dragon, often holding his head high and affectionately nipping at his riders arms.

Inferno: a male, Flameborn, Flame/Emberreaper bonded to Pyrrha Ardor, who is also a Flameborn. He is temperamental and stubborn, not unlike his rider, though he acts the ability to use sarcasm like she does. When angered enough his scales will shimmer blue and his fire too will turn a brilliant blue.

Veilwatcher: a male Ghost/Emberreaper, bonded to another Aionios merc named Vendetta, just like his rider, Veil is unpredictable and remorseless, snapping at allies too, though never even hissing at Vendetta, kindred spirits these 2 are, though he is much more mentally stable than his traumatized rider.

Geyser: a male Sea/Emberreaper, bonded to, again, a Aionios merc, Llyr is his beloved rider, often tugging her into water to play, Geyser is generally Curious and playful but mostly only towards Llyr.

Snowfall: a young female Snow/Frost/night/Bloodreaper Wyvern bonded to Aurore Duratus's younger brother, Aquilo Duratus, she is just about big enough to be ridden and both her and her young rider are mostly kept out of the conflict. She is curious and very friendly.

Sunbringer: a male, Sunborn, Lightreaper Wyvern, bonded to a Sunborn girl named Elaine Solar, both are beloved by their people of the Temple of Solis. Sunny is protective and intelligent like his rider.

Seastrike: a male Sea/Flashreaper bonded to a human/elf named Lepidolite, Seastrike's appearance is akin to that of an electric eel. ( Both also belong to My friend @vincedmeat )

Whiteout: a male Icereaper Wyvern, bonded to Gwendolyn Duratus, he is docile as long as Gwen is near, otherwise he becomes rather agitated. Their bond is said to be among the strongest, Gwen not even needing to utter commands for her dragon to act. His favored food is Sabertooth Salmon and he will pester Gwen until she takes him to the lake to catch some.

Eclipse: a female Light/Nighreaper, bonded to yet again, a Aionios Merc, Aurelius is a very competent fighter and rider, he is intelligent, snarky and passionate and yet very honorable. Eclipse is an elegant dragon and among the most beautiful, she is loyal and fierce.

Skyfall: a male Flashreaper, bonded to a member of the rebellion, Valkyrie Fulgur, Skyfall is clever and aggressive, incredibly snuggly when interacting with his rider though, he is Val's greatest comfort.

Silvermoon: a female, Moonborn, Nightreaper bonded to Moonborn Jericho Lunar, she is quick, clever and proud. Her rider is her priority and favorite thing in the world. The people of their temple deem her the most magnificent dragon in the world. Though it seems she has caught the eye of the beautiful Sunbringer.

Goldwing: a male Firereaper Wyvern bonded to Themis Ardor, Goldwing is clever and highly focused on Themis at all times, both he and his rider are younger twins. He is considered the Ardor's most beautiful dragon, many watch him fly just to see his wings catch the sunlight. Other than Themis's next of kin, he dislikes men to a degree of growling and snapping at them.

The Sea Ghost: a Wild, elder female Seareaper Wyvern, she is often spotted flying or napping near the south eastern part of the kingdom of Aura, she is docile and friendly, even letting children come up to pet her and feed her her favorite snack, mackerel. She is old, nearly a century old she was named for her pale scales.

Nightfang: a male Night/Bloodreaper Wyvern, bonded to a former Aionios merc, Jean Duratus is the spous of Boreas Duratus, together they had Aurore and Aquilo. Nightfang is very fond of Jeans children, and himself has fathered their dragons. He is quick and nimble yet a fierce fighter and very protective.

[blradley]

Sunday Snippet (from King of the World!)

Aka: 'is it a meet-cute when you're his mortal enemy who tried to kill him as a baby?'

Rating: 15+ (book is Adult) Warnings: murder, attempted infanticide, sex work, more attempted murder, suicide, and more attempted murder. All played for laughs.

The prophecy was simple.

One clear winter’s night some twenty-seven years ago, a boy was born beneath a very special star.

One clear winter’s night in the future, when that comet once more blazed across the sky, that boy – now man – would slay a dragon. Specifically, Malevoloth of Aurica, tyrannical ruler of Kraz.

Humanity would be freed. Azrael would humbly accept the crown, to a symphony of cheers that echoed across the kingdom; and (despite his dearth of political experience, fiscal acumen, or ability to listen to two lords bicker over which of them should finance their fourth cousins' upcoming nuptials without slaughtering the entire court) everyone would live happily ever after.

Except Malevoloth. Because he would be dead.

So you see, it wasn’t personal, when Malevoloth dispatched ever-stronger squadrons of demons to rid the world of his foretold foe, starting just hours after Azrael's birth. He hadn’t set out with the intent to raze Azrael’s quaint little village, scorching it (and Azrael’s parents) off the face of the earth.

Or rather – he had. He'd just hoped Azrael would die with them.

But prophecies were finnicky like that. Instead of being reduced to a puddle of grease and blackened bone, Azrael had been nabbed from his crib by a plucky young lass who fled the village as fast as her stocky legs would carry her, a cold eclipse falling over her back as dragon wings blocked out the sun.

Similarly, years later, when Loth set a Vellich on Azrael’s trail, the fearsome assassin had never reported back. After searching for him failed and torturing his family produced no leads, Loth had – out of sheer frustration – summoned his spirit.

It was then that he discovered his most loyal killer (whose blade had never faltered while piercing the heart of man, woman, or child!) had been overcome with teary-eyed reminiscences of his own newborn son, when his bright-eyed little target caught him looming in the shadows and invited him over to play knucklebones. Ashamed by his life choices, the Vellich had played three games, letting the child win each, before turning his destructive power on himself and erasing himself from existence.

Then there’d been the time Loth hired a succubus, presuming that – in the way of young humans – Azrael was governed by the direction of his bloodflow. It was ingenious. She would disguise herself as a human woman and infiltrate his group, earning his trust over a period of months. When the time was right, she'd let him tup her, moan and gasp, ooh and ah in all the right places - then introduce her claws to his throat when pleasure softened his guard.

Or so Loth had presumed. Two months later, the succubus had sulked back into his court, whinging that the teen had been honoured by her offer, but was (and she quoted verbatim!) saving himself for true love.

(She had demanded extra compensation for her wounded pride. Loth, teeth gnashing, had paid it, for if there was one clade of creature you never wanted to stiff, it was succubi (as illogical as that may sound). While their memories were long, their ability to hold a grudge was much, much longer.)

To top it all off, Loth had dispatched his youngest son three years ago under instructions to bring him Azrael’s head or not come back at all.

He hadn’t seen the lad since.

No – despite all of Loth’s efforts; despite the considerable time, energy and coin he had sunk into organising Azrael’s gory demise... the man just didn’t have the decency to die.

It was infuriating.

#

(Yes, Loth is going to be that true love. No, he will NOT be normal about this.) Anyway - do you like doomed enemies-to-lovers with lots of mutual yearning and oblivious idiocy? Do you like problematique villianous protagonists who are Very Shitty People, but loveable regardless? Do you like massive character growth? Then you should check out my current WIP - King of the World!

[eclipsenoir]

This AU is heavily inspired by many different little things (Armored Core and Nier Automata etc.) for @antiresolution

Mars. 25 years post the Great Destruction on Earth. 4 years since the second war began.

You have suffered too much damage. Breaking 40 km in altitude. Hull integrity at -23 and dropping fast, fuel cells at 10% and 12%, oxygen supply approaching dangerously low levels. Pilot, you must disengage. Pilot, you must disengage. Hellhound must turn back.

Skulls can host eclipses, too.

Taeil is just about fourty five kilometers above ground level when he finds out how.

His bare torso sags in on itself, air pressure contorting ink adorned shoulders against his seat as both of his eyes roll to the back of his cranium. Two eclipses happen at once, whites momentarily reaching for heaven. The longsword attached to the cold, hard mech of steel encased around his body slashes true and bright blue into the enemy unit that'd made it up with him. A last ditch effort that wins him the fight, before both their operating systems succumb to unresponsive pilots and their Cores begin their descent.

An infinite stretch of scorching red dust awaits him below. The unforgiving terrain stretching out dry as far as the eyes can see. Every now and again, large cracks in the ground adorn the bedrock like bleeding gashes across flesh-- some as great as ravines, fashioned as entrances and exits for manmade spacecrafts. If Taeil were to remain unconscious too long, perhaps he would be able to make a crate large enough to rival the awe of those sandy red chasms. Blood painting red on red.

But Hellhound is still running despite the syntax errors and partial disconnect with Taeil's spinal cord. Its peripheral scanner an erratic pendulum as it sways back and forth in search for the earliest signs of conscious eyes. All the while, the digital assistant's grating shrieks occupy the speakers.

Wake up, pilot. The Core is now 25 kilometers above ground. Probability of crashing at 60% and rising. Pilot, wake up. Hellhound is fast approaching 20 kilometers above ground. Pilot, wake up.

For a few agonizing seconds, all the urging and the beeping going on around him translate to a faint whirring in Taeil's ears. His brain and heart hit consecutive records of overdrive while he clambers to thrash less and finally reconnect with Hellhound. The only thing clear in the fuzz is a memory at the back of his head, something like a flashing mirage that doubles as a beacon of light. It's himself, seated on a bunk bed in the barracks back at the base. His bunkmate would've been there too, had he not been sent out to die the night before. Lucky him.

Disappear, thinks Taeil then and now. The only way to disappear from this hell is to die and never come back.

Oxygen floods his lungs first, slowly pouring from the back of his throat as he inches closer and closer to certain death. And then, it happens all at once; notably the system's rush for a generous deposit of adrenaline into his veins. The tubes connected to his forearms and obliques turn bright yellow.

The scanner holds his gaze again, reporting even a grainy moan and the curl of his toes when the new high blitzes past his brain stem.

Everything becomes too loud again. Too bright, too hot. Taeil grits his teeth so hard he tastes blood as he pulls Hellhound's reigns back into his purchase, just shy of Mars' barren surface. The thing sharply jerks upright in the air, crunching and groaning and smoking somewhere.

Two other Cores immediately find him below, one belonging to the squadron captain who's roaring through Taeil's speakers before any of them can land.

"Private Yu? Private Yu! Respond if you're still in there, son. You'd better fuckin' be in there."

"Yeah... yeah, I'm alive, cap. Still in here." Taeil reassures and deflects, just barely managing to steady his panting. Tattooed digits run through his sweatslicked hair so he wouldn't think about the thrashing in his chest.

"What's the situation looking like now?"

When the captain speaks this time, he sounds alarmingly apprehensive. Taeil turns to find the planet dust lifting and brushing past his jet black Core like a bad omen.

"A quick radial scan shows a hangar nearby and more enemy reinforcements approaching at twelve o'clock. Piloted. Got at least two augs amidst 'em. But we have lost all contact with our main base and more than half of our squadron to death in the process. And Yu..." A heavy sigh ends that sentence. "We can't keep fighting like this."

"No, I can keep going." Taeil hears the firm echo of his own voice vibrate through the comm speakers, fists simulating his bloating resolve as they tighten around Hellhound's steering handles. Disappear.

"And we're some of the best aug's out there. We can't just give up on our mission halfway."

Finally, the voice sealed within the third Core joins the conversation. "We weren't sent here to die either, dumbass."

A flicker of orange slices through the dust lingering between them, revealing Wenhan's longsword suddenly erect and pointing directly towards Hellhound's middle. A few good slashes of that could slice through an entire squad in seconds. And Wenhan never once missed the opportunity.

Upon careful inspection though, Taeil notices cracks embellishing the scorching blade. The message written in them crystal clear.

His lips find a soft frown, "So what? I have about 10% of fuel left, and oxygen doesn't really matter. And there's still three of us. We can take 'em if we're fast enough and worst case scenario, at least one of us can--"

"No. The edge seems to be gettin' to your head already, kid." Their captain steps in the middle, hoarse and hasty, "We retreat, now. Come on."

All ally Cores locked on by approaching enemy units. You are heavily damaged and outnumbered. Retreat advised.

"Hear that? Too late, cap!" Disappear. Orders mean nothing anymore. Taeil abruptly rips through the air towards the oncoming barrage of missiles, sweat building thickly on his browbone and cupid's bow. "They're already on us!"

"Oi, I just fuckin said--!"

The blaring around him swells densely enough for Wenhan's shouting to barely fit through the comm speakers, "I'm going to make sure you live so I can kill you myself after this."

Except Wenhan would never get that chance. Not now.

Together, Hellhound and Taeil's central nervous system impressively withstand two and a half rapid-pace engagements, aggressively fighting on the offensive as he's quickly running out of time to stay alive. Sometime after dropping to two percentage of fuel, his tongue grows heavy with an apology at the tip. One he spares no courage or oxygen reserves to say out loud.

All the mourning of what'll be lost to him has been done already, after all.

The emergency system kicks in a second after Hellhound falls to enemy blades. Flashing lights bathe Taeil in blood red as the battle suddenly turns inward. Inside the Core, with himself. Crashing a certain distance away from the still ongoing fight, he can only make out blurry, flashing lights-- the vibrant orange colour of Wenhan's Core's longblade keeping his eyes from rolling back into his skull far too fast.

........System rebooting in emergency mode.... All modifications in place.... Autopilot activated.... Destination: [Redacted].

—

Titan. 10 lightyears from Mars, 14 lightyears from Earth. 31 years post the Great Destruction on Earth. 2 years since the second war ended. 6 years after death.

Titan is known as the vampire planet. Home to one of the most neglected and ungoverned human populations to have ever colonized the galaxy post cataclysm, people usually come here for trouble or to pass on.

With the planet being largely uninhabitable because of the unceasing snowfall, and the terrain too dead to yield anything other than grave and junkyards, the locals have turned perpetually bitter and angry. Though not at each other. To them, every outsider is a red herring.

Frost solidifies the blood in Taeil's fingertips for ripping a poster off the bar door on the way in. He tightly crumples and pockets his own face, pace steady yet stiff as he brushes shoulders with warmth bathed in club lights and the strong, pungent stench of ale. A corpse doesn't belong on a wanted poster. Neither a bar hidden amidst a raging blizzard, though he's more than willing to debate on that front with any friendly drunk. If they existed.

The bartender expresses distaste at first, chin cocking upwards and nostrils flaring bright purple in the bar headlights. His gaze wanders, assessing for inferiority under a patched jacket until the total opposite is found. The outer corner of Taeil's left eye, where a series of glowing numbers that should've never been there glare right back at him. He visibly scrambles for Taeil's order, or perhaps a gun.

Taeil remains calm, dull nail scraping the worn bartop. Surprisingly, he's simply met with stinkeye and a tall glass of pale ale.

While highly possible that everyone in here has recently seen the face in his pocket somewhere, it's even more possible that everyone in here is merely pretending not to notice their target retreating to the bleakest corner with his head held down. Maybe he's too dumb to not be afraid, to sit there and not touch his drink or utter a word once.

If gone entirely unnoticed, the pager in his pocket will be the only thing that could get him up again. Or his right arm. But that's just the ideal; almost always just a wish.

The beer shivers and curdles to the music blasting through the speakers, foam disappearing as quickly as the whispers begin. Taeil compresses his lips tightly together, stare on the glass hard enough for him to believe he could rupture it.

What's an aug doin' in a place like this? I thought those guys were scarce nowadays... Should be. Corp's huntin' 'em down to the last of their corpses... Glorified half-robot junkies... Wanted.

Ten minutes pass, murmurs of hearsay making a proper round around the room before two men eventually approach Taeil's corner. They don't forget their blatant hostility on the way over, let alone the stench of booze. The one who speaks first clumsily draws his blade mid-sentence.

"Oi, you. You got business to take care of 'round here? How 'bout you take that hood off 'n let us see that pretty face of yours, eh?"

Within an instant the rest of the bar falls drastically silent, drunken chatter replaced by a mix of expectant stares leaving only the dull humdrum of background music.

Taeil's table jerks back and forth from the sheer force the man slams his pocket knife onto its edge with, intentions as clear as day. Were he any other ordinary man, Taeil thinks that would've been enough intimidation to subdue.

Yet the cloak of stillness he becomes while the blade man's friend puts out his burning cigarette on his left hand says entirely otherwise.

Inhale. Taeil counts to ten before finally raising his gaze for the first time in an hour. As it is in the poster, the serial number tented on the soft crest of his cheek twinkles to life. In tandem with the rage now blazing in his eyes though, it probably appears entirely irrelevant.

Exhale. The cigarette man's wrist is snapped backwards before he goes down with Taeil's pint of beer smashed to bits in his jaw.

"Satisfied?"

Knife man is surprisingly agile for a man in his predicament. Red rimmed eyes wide and swings swift despite him being obviously weighed down by arrogance and however many pints he's got sloshing in his belly. He matches Taeil's pace for half a heartbeat before all his coordination takes a backseat in favour of brute force. Nonetheless, Taeil is the much bigger beast. And that's with him hardly making use of his right arm.

Crossing limbs, atmospheric music and their synchronized panting momentarily turns their scuffle into a waltz on the dance floor, with Taeil in the lead and the one responsible for ending it all. Knife man all but sticks to the wall on the other far end of the bar when Taeil finally gets a good grip on him. Lucky ones duck in time while the less fortunate spill their drinks, or even find themselves pushed to the ground as the body flies.

A final, wispy grunt of defeat precedes the crowd's eruption into a rowdy bristle, though Taeil faces some trouble with solving who's mad at him specifically and who's more furious with the idiots who'd picked a fight with a monster and lost.

Naturally, just as Taeil's pager begins to vibrate in his pants, a third man emerges from the chaos. A phoenix out of fire.

First thing Taeil notices is that he's likely sober, or at least his steps are steadier and certain, like there's real purpose behind his intent. He's dressed differently-- proper for the cold, but his drapes fall smooth and gracefully on his frame.

Like he already knows what to expect, he instantly engages on the offense without speaking a single word. Much too hasty for Taeil's squinting to graze across his face, to check for digits that might reflect his own. Easily far quicker than the first two, he successfully throws Taeil's rhythm off, defense forcing him to barely tiptoe around the stranger's onslaught.

A familiar tingle begins in the back of Taeil's head, like the slow blossoming of a flower after winter. They clash like two bulls heavily on edge, neither seeing red yet but equally as determined to win. The bar is reduced almost to half capacity in the process, throng of bar-goers squashed against the walls as they shove around their drinks and cheer. Sweat builds so quickly underneath the layers Taeil is wearing that it almost feels like the beginning of drowning--

Third guy finds his nape and Taeil finally understands how burgeoning feels. Then he sees stars.

—

Same night, just four (?) hours later.

Taeil comes to amidst competing qualities of silence and darkness. Dizzy and temporarily stripped of his senses, a furious panic immediately slithers into his chest, so persistent it squeezes around his heart until he can feel the erratic leaps beating behind his teeth. Closing his eyes, he grits his jaw against his pulse until it hurts, so as to still the frenzy before he's not the only one in these shadows who can hear it.

In what feels like this tiny room, occupied mostly by the bed he's in and the nightstand next to it, Taeil meets eye to eye with fear for the first time in many lightyears.

The unfamiliar air sliding off the walls feels coarse in his throat and lungs, every breath more uncomfortable to draw on than the last. There's something abandoned about the way it tastes on the back of his tongue, like this cycle of air has been stuck in this same room for many centuries before him.

But Taeil endures for a moment longer, waiting for the moving shadows his dread conjures in the corners to pounce and tear his flesh open. Listening, specifically for the clicking of a gun.

Maybe the blizzard outside might even whisper to him his current coordinates, or tell a sweet lie about how the night will end.

Instead of any sound, comes a smell. Taeil shoots upright in the creaking bed as he recognizes that smell and the new layer of horror it sneaks between his sore ribs. Antiseptics and the tacky, strange odour of old bandages.

He lifts his right arm and though it responds by signaling a shard of pain to his brain, Taeil empties his lungs and does not inhale anymore. Thickset fingers stroke across his bicep, tracing what does not feel like the same haphazard technique he'd used to cover it up much earlier in the day. Tracing where there should be a small chip surgically installed beneath his flesh-- where it no longer is.

The bedroom door creaks open to the silhouette of a man who never makes it fully inside the room. Adrenaline and the inherent desperation for survival turn Taeil into an angry bull; lethal spring in his step and brunt of his physique prompting their crashing into the hall wall within a singular breath.

The other man, recognized by Taeil by all but his face, squares his shoulders and braces for impact with his arms protecting his torso. Effectively softening the impact of the punches aimed at his lower ribs.

Like this, they exchange the roles they both held back in the bar-- Taeil taking the offense and head start this time.

Somewhat larger and heavier than his opponent, he wields it to his advantage. Actively pinning his body up against the thick stench of cigarettes to keep those arms from getting loose or any slinking away from the corner they're in. His mechanically altered left leg locks into place behind him as it tanks the oscillation between them as a buoy would the sea.

"Not killing me is about to cost you your own fucking life."

"If you're trying to crush my nuts, you could at least start with some foreplay."

Taeil suddenly freezes in place like a stag caught in the headlights. That voice, a bullet to his temple. Last time he'd heard it this clearly was the night before he died, and that was over six years ago.

A sharp intake of breath is the only response he can manage as that tingle at the back of his skull from earlier returns at full, blinding force. It opens the floodgates on memories he'd only dreamt all these years of unearthing again. Lodges a roulette of words-- of a name on his tongue he believed he'd never get to taste again.

Wenhan tugs down the scarf that'd been concealing the lower half of his face. His lower lip is freshly split and barely clean. A keepsake Taeil must've given him during their first tussle.

"Do you want to kill me now?"

The open invitation draws Taeil's thumb from Wenhan's throat to his upper right cheekbone, where his serial number glows faintly in the dark. A habit he'd lost to time and self-afflicted loss. Tenderly, the finger ghosts over it as he echoes the numbers committed to memory in his head, as though caressing the sharp edge of a knife.

Wenhan doesn't flinch or protest. He never once did.

"Should've known..." Taeil finally chokes on the heart in his throat, usual rasp exacerbated by exhaustion and the poor air quality. Tension melts from his tone all the same. "But why the fuck did you have to punch me that hard?"

The corners of Wenhan's mouth twitch with fleeting amusement. "Why do you think? That was for ghosting me almost seven years ago. Asshole."

"You were counting?"

Wenhan's blinks slowly. A crease forming between brushstroke brows. When he opens his mouth again, the inflections unique to his voice change. Sounding crisp, and somehow more honest. "What can I say? I'm a slut for grudges."

Taeil realizes he's now speaking in Mandarin only after he's already rummaging in the next room.

The bedroom hall is barely existent, living room and main entrance arranged just a stride beyond it. Similar to the bedroom, the most tangible presence in the room is an anomalous, possibly planet-borne gloom. Akin to a phantasm lingering at the tips of the fingers, always and never present simultaneously. It settles uncomfortably on top of Taeil's shoulders when he breaches the space.

He chooses the dilapidated couch somewhere in the center and sits on the arm's edge, not risking hinderance nor disruption. From the kitchen, Wenhan produces a sweater out of what feels like thin air for him. It smells faintly of cigarette butts, the sleeves too short to cover Taeil's distinctively tattooed hands.

Wenhan had seen numerous corpses in his life before. Spent countless nights afloat within the darkest nooks of his skull, teetering dangerously close to the edge of haunting. Cigarette smoke had never been good at warding off ghosts from the backs of his eyelids. Though he never stayed long, Taeil's had been the most persistent one. Appearing as inconsequential shapes in the distance, or a flash over his shoulder in the steamed bathroom mirror. Interrupting Wenhan's nightmares like a torch in the dark.

But no burning or blood ever came of it, not like tonight.

Harsh, frost bitten stinging spreads throughout Wenhan's bottom lip and jaw as he swipes his tongue across the gash for crusted blood. Entirely eclipsing the comfort he finds within the icy lick of a loaded gun on the pads of his fingers. The wound throbs and tastes alive, like a kiss full of teeth.

So this is real. Carefully hovering beyond the kitchen counters isn't just a few grams of liquified atomic mass stuck in his brain stem. Corpses and ghosts don't look so warm while shivering in the cold, or ask questions Wenhan can't quite answer.

"So are you going to tell me where we are?"

Wenhan's tongue curls back with the truth in his mouth. His silence palpable and howling across the walls until it's the loudest thing in the room, second to Taeil's swelling impatience. That shift in the rhythm of Taeil's breathing narrowly escaping his notice, approaching footsteps hastening Wenhan's working hands. He knows.

Taeil, albeit warily, closes the distance Wenhan had so keenly been trying to keep between them a second time. Shadow-esque, he towers at the rear of Wenhan's heels, his smoking breath so close it tickles hair coiled at the back of the other man's neck. Wenhan grits his teeth at the sound of his name.

"Wenhan," escapes Taeil's lungs through a whisper-plea. He continues in stern Mandarin, "You're making it really hard for me to trust you tonight... Tell me what you know."

Wenhan's idea of a proper reply is to press a gun into Taeil's palms the same way he would a helping of barley tea. An all too casual quip follows, "Coffins used to be smaller than this. Hide that in your pants. Shoot your dick off and I'm killing you."

Taeil wastes no time baring his fangs in Wenhan's face, exhales cool grimy air on his eyelashes. "So you took it. You brought me here and thought you could soften me up with your bullshit and get away with it."

"Relax. I put it somewhere safer than under your foreskin. Now be quiet unless you want the worst of evil on our asses, because unfortunately, I'm not the villain you think I am--"

But the more he speaks, the more impenetrable of a fortress Taeil becomes. Rationality sinks too far beyond his reach as he cocks the gun in his hand and sandwiches it between their hips. He presses the tip against the softest tissue he remembers on Wenhan's lower belly, nostrils and warm eyes flaring with abandon.

"Give me the fucking chip back. Or this place will soon become a coffin for two."

Wenhan languidly curls a palm to rest around Taeil's thick wrist and finds no reason to doubt that he'd pull the trigger. Part of him even wishes they had the time for it.

"Idiot." He tries instead, "I'm trying to fucking protect you. I'm on your side."

"Bullshit! This is so much fucking bigger than me faking my death and all the other fucked up shit that's been happening, don't you get it? That chip and it's copies have lead so much peril into the lives of many innocents, thanks to the corp." He erratically points to the permanent serial number tented on his cheek, "By our kind. But if you just give it back, I can help rectify--"

"They'll kill you."

"And so many others after me if you don't--"

The front apartment door standing just a few feet away from the argument suddenly erupts inward into infinite splinters. The gaping clearing allowing safe passage to a group of thugs-- no, government officiated soldiers trained specifically for hunting.

"Kill both traitors on the spot and take that fuckin' chip!"

Wenhan jerks violently in motion; that grip he's just had on Taeil's wrist tightening significantly for the sake of hauling them both as far away from the threat as possible. This is not how he'd expected them to get caught-- at least not this soon. But he'd count his losses later.

"Here. Jump off and turn left, and don't you fucking dare stop running."

Taeil doesn't question it. Blood and adrenaline beat hot and hefty like a second heart in his ears as he finds and flings himself out of the nearest window, just shy of when the rain of bullets begin.

Falling for four agonizing stories with a wild, hungering blizzard slapping and pounding against his skin until it's chipped and cracked by ice and frost would've killed just about any man. Had he been any more injured even now or still housed regular lungs inside him, he wouldn't have made it either.

But he's desperately wheezing upon landing--alive, though briefly blinded by a whitehot bolt of pain shooting up his right arm. The blood curdling scream he indulges is something he can't help, not while this vulnerable and exhausted beyond all possible measure. Burning in his nostrils makes it impossible for him to smell the fresh blood thickly soaking up his bandages, ruining Wenhan's sweater.

Panic and dread are his two lifelines, keeping him warm and alert. A few deep breaths later force him up onto knees that buckle and protest against the unforgiving snow. In two steps he realizes an oddity with the spinal plates underneath his skin-- the stuff that hold his nervous system together feeling dented, or just broken. Defining the beginning of a very long trek.

One he may never emerge from.

Go left and never stop. Wenhan's voice echoes in his head and like some sort of clockwork reaction, Taeil defies instruction to look up and check if he could find any signs of the other man's escape.

Nothing in sight suggests the presence of Wenhan's silhouette, but he is met with a timely blast of glass, metals, rags and flying body parts. Four stories above, the storm tastes fire.

And then it's all bleak stillness once again. Like Taeil is back six years, enveloped by silence as the fiery orange of Wenhan's longblade burns across the glass of his eyes.

[flame-of-tar-valon]

End-of-Year Special 1: Carteneau

Situated between Mor Dhona and the shrublands of Thanalan, the Carteneau Flats formed a peninsula situated across the Straight of Merlthor from the islands of Vylbrand. Though the Twelveswood sat a distance away on the other side of the great Silvertear Lake, the people of Gridania showed up in force to support their brothers and sisters from Limsa Lominsa and Ul’dah. The Eorzean Alliance would hold strong. They would live or die together.

Chief Storm Sergeant Lleidspaer Grymhaswyn stood on a rocky perch, surveying the battlefield before her. The Garlean Empire was no joke— but neither was she.

The battle wasn’t going the way the Maelstrom wanted it to. On a peak overlooking the battlefield, Admiral Merlwyb directed the flow of battle as best she could, in conference with the heads of the other Grand Companies. But Merlwyb’s experience was primarily naval. In fact, all three of the companies had their strengths and their shortcomings. That was one reason they had formed the Eorzean Alliance: to account for their blind spots.

Lleidspaer’s current squadron was formed on the same principle. The party consisted of herself, an Ul’dahn sorcerer, and a Gridanian apothecary. They had met as fellow travelers of the Path of the Twelve, but it was only through an ill-fated operation with the Ala Mhigan Resistance that the three had caught the attention of the Circle of Knowing — and of the Garlean Empire.

Now, they were working with the Archon Louisoix Leveilleur and Garlean defector Cid Garlond to try their best to avert the prophesied Seventh Umbral Calamity. Even now, Dalamud descended in the sky, casting a red glow on the battlefield below. The red glow seemed almost to wash out the blood spilled across the battlefield from countless sources as bodies met in a chaotic tangle. The sky was dark, making it hard to see. The battlefield was illuminated only by the artillery, the meteors arcing through the sky, and the waves of fire and lightning flowing in an endless stream from those mages whose arcane wells were not yet fully tapped. 

She spotted a body on the ground. There was still time to save him. “Fourth position!” she called, and the motley squadron of stragglers she’d picked up — soldiers whose units had faced losses and needed to bunch up for safety — fell into their assigned roles. As for her colleagues: “Vivimani, keep the frontline away. Nia’a, see if you can revive Ryder.”

Lleidspaer had been sent to tell all company troops that it was time for a retreat. The linkpearls weren’t working — something almost anyone could have seen as a possible failure point and build contingencies for, but alas, she hadn’t been a logistics officer in the war room when planning the assault. 

Chief Serpent Sergeant Nia’a Tsara was doing his best to rescue the fallen. He had long since exhausted his usual supply of medicines and was operating solely on his final reserve. He would stretch this final tin of ointment as long as he could. The odds weren’t ideal, but the Alliance was winning— for now. Nia’a knew as well as everyone else on the field that the real enemy was not the Garlean army: it was the interminable descent of the lesser moon overhead.

Three stitches in — his patient had already fallen silent, but Nia’a could feel rather than see or hear that she still lived — Nia’a hazarded a glance skyward. Dalamud’s wicked glow was getting stronger as it eclipsed more and more of the view of the sky. 

Suddenly Nia’a saw an axe coming straight for him. He would have missed it had he not chanced to look up at that exact moment. Kneeling on the ground as he was, he couldn’t get away in time—

Lleidspaer’s rapier parried the blow with almost superhuman strength. She quickly closed the gap with a lunge, severing the Garlean laquearius’ arm at the elbow. Nia’a winced. 

Above them in the sky, Dalamud came undone.

Chief Flame Sergeant Vivimani Qiqimani loosed another wave of fire from the amulet in his hands, forcing the Garlean front line to keep its distance. The heavy footsteps of an approaching magitek armor quickly came into focus even amid the chaos of the battlefield, and Vivimani turned, exhaustion weighing him down with every second.

But there were more foes to fell, and little time to bemoan the cost. Nia’a was still grounded, and though Lleidspaer had bought him some time, if the magitek armor advanced it would all be for naught. So Vivimani wound his arm back in a stretch— calculated just the right angle— 

And he loosed an arc of lightning, with enough spin to curve back around and hit the exhaust port. The magitek’s left leg short-circuited, and Vivimani had enough time to encase the whole thing in ice. He was panting now. Much more and his mana would be depleted — he’d start casting from his own lifeforce.

But Dalamud was falling apart. Just an instant ago, it had sat glaring in the sky, and now…

Now, a giant portion of it, larger than the Sultana’s palace, was flying directly for them.

We will make it out of this! Vivimani thought, and he channeled as much of himself as he could through his amulet. He heard rather than felt it shatter as too much aether poured out. He cast the most powerful fireball he was sure the Thaumaturges’ Guild had ever seen. 

His first realization was that he was on fire. His second realization was that it didn’t hurt. His third, and final realization before he lost consciousness, was that the incoming meteor had been smashed into pieces. Good. He could die without regret, safe in the knowledge that he had saved his squadmates.

Nia’a was already standing, dashing away from the shard of the moon. All thought of saving the man on the ground had vanished from his mind as he scrambled to find some shelter to hide behind. He was already mid-stride when he saw Vivimani, consumed in flame, hit the ground, soft smile on his face.

With a desperation Nia’a didn’t realize he held within him, he screamed, reaching in his satchel for his final healing potion. He had been saving it for himself, but… Without thought, without even awareness of his surroundings, Nia’a threw the potion and hoped it would reach its target. He prayed the magics would take root, even though it was meant to be ingested rather than applied topically.

Though they had already been cut, dried, ground, boiled, and distilled, the healing herbs listened with some part of them that still held magic. Nia’a heard them, and he prayed for them to get Vivimani out of here alive. And Nia’a still might have run for his own life had he not heard Lleidspaer scream behind him. The dust from the explosion had settled, and though none of the three had been crushed, Lleidspaer’s leg had been hit by a piece of shrapnel from the explosion, and it… She would be dead in a matter of minutes if not seconds.

Nia’a stopped thinking. The battlefield became silent around him. No thoughts spun through his head; he knew if he let them, he would immediately be violently ill. No. He couldn’t let himself be human. His last healing potion was gone, but surely he could still… 

“Here,” he heard from behind him. Vivimani was back on his feet. He shouldn’t be. “Take some of my aether. You can… we can do it.”

Nia’a didn’t know what he was doing. Or what Vivimani was doing, for that matter. His hands were glowing — his medic’s tools sung — he could barely see the red that painted him in the glow from Dalamud as it splintered apart in the sky —

Nia’a realized he was staring off into the void, Vivimani unconscious at his side, only when Lleidspaer stood.

Lleidspaer looked down at herself, feeling lightheaded. Blood loss. But she wasn’t bleeding anymore. She grabbed a company-issue potion from her pouch — no, it had shattered. Damn. 

It was a sight — her trouser leg was cut off above the knee, and the whole area that had been… that Nia’a had healed was now covered in thick, woody vines that almost served as a splint. But now Nia’a was moving as if in a dream, and Vivimani wasn’t moving at all. The rest of the squadron was scattered, and from the center of the moon…

“Seven hells,” she whispered. 

“We’re going to die here,” Nia’a said in a small, trembling voice.

“No,” Lleidspaer said with a steely finality. “We’re not.” She picked up Vivimani with one hand and propped him over her shoulder. “Get up. Follow me.”

The great wyrm roared, and beat its wings, and breathed flames so fierce they roasted the landscape around them.

Nia’a made a weak noise of fear, but the flames didn’t touch him.

Instead, Lleidspaer had caught them on her buckler, which glistened with a silver light as it forced back the dread wyrm’s fire. A dome of sanctuary had formed around Lleidspaer. 

“I said, we are not… dying… here!” she roared, and the flames were shoved away from the dome. Nia’a could hear the flames, he could hear the stones underfoot protesting as their aether was dragged away — he could hear as Lleidspaer bade them to protect us! 

She set Vivimani on the magitek armor he had frozen earlier. Its rider had ditched it what must have been ages ago. She shoved Nia’a up as well. It wasn’t large enough for a Roegadyn — it was barely large enough for a Miqo’te and Lalafell together — but that was fine. The other two had to escape. Lleidspaer could still rally the remaining forces and save whomever she could. Through sheer force of will, she melted the ice enough to free the warmachina, and somehow gave it the jolt it needed to power up once more. 

“Run to safety,” she whispered. “Find Louisoix.”

Then she took a deep breath. She felt the pain in her leg screaming out to her, but she ignored it. This wasn’t the time for weakness. She had allies to save.

* * *

Please excuse any inaccuracies to the actual Battle of Carteneau. This is an exclusive draft snippet and will not be included in my actual fic in this form, so I have not expended time revising it as-is. This is one of the first scenes I ever outlined for my characters Lleidspaer, Nia'a, and Vivimani, so it is highly subject to change as the characters themselves receive revisions.

[yogurtbluesideas]

three squadrons of mech pilots that absolutely DO NOT share the same aesthetic like AT ALL,

like you got one squadron with the stereotypical flashy mechs focusing on speed and precision, elegantly dancing across the battlefield as a tornado of death and destruction, off the battlefield they don’t really leave their mechs due to how their neural ports were designed, giving them a feeling of dissociation when not connected to the mechs

then you got the artillery, very strategic, usually able to follow up the first team with a barrage of railgun fire and/or ordnance, painting their mechs a beautiful tapestry of bright colors and lights to distract and confuse the enemy’s sensors, off duty they usually end up making stories and tales based off of media they’ve seen and heard, having a tendency to infodump on the first and third squadrons over the radio during transport, they are also the ones who usually handle all of the social interactions of the group after they all realized that splitting them up was just inefficient

third squadron focuses on scouting and drone attacks, their mechs are usually bigger than the other two in terms of internal space so they end up keeping food and other stuff in their cockpit, ever seen a mech with an in built refrigerator? these guys haven’t, to the put them in, they’re usually VERY mechanically competent, to the point that the other two squadrons run their own requests for modifications through them before anyone else, though they aren’t the ones who do most of the repairs in person, as they’ve mostly automated it using their person money to get repair stations built, they ARE the ones who end up making sure the upgrades do not slow the other two groups down, these group brainstorming sessions take days of debate and designing in between missions

the company that ran them tried to separate them one time, squadrons one wouldn’t leave their mechs and ran into battle without cover, squadron two nearly got crushed because they forgot they didn’t have their usual battlefield information OR frontline coverage, and squadron three end up hiding in a cave after the enemy casually destroyed all their drones due to their usual use of linking with the other two squadrons and working as more support, so they decided they would rather have one super squadron rather than three squadrons who are borderline nonfunctional on their own

so anyway i think a neat name would be the eclipse squadron, with the first squadron being named moon team, the second squadron being named the sun team, and the third squadron being named the star team

[jester-pressure]

Well you got soaked... THAT WAS A FUN FIGHT AM I RIGHT?

Lieutenant gives you that LowTierGod stare while getting his ear wound patched up by the medic.

-> ``Engi. Crucify this guy.``

-> ``Sure thing boss.`` He pulls out a literal particle accelerator

-> ``Excuse me?``

[thebrickinbrick]

Passing Gleams

In the chaos of sentiments and passions which defend a barricade, there is a little of everything; there is bravery, there is youth, honor, enthusiasm, the ideal, conviction, the rage of the gambler, and, above all, intermittences of hope.

One of these intermittences, one of these vague quivers of hope suddenly traversed the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie at the moment when it was least expected.

“Listen,” suddenly cried Enjolras, who was still on the watch, “it seems to me that Paris is waking up.”

It is certain that, on the morning of the 6th of June, the insurrection broke out afresh for an hour or two, to a certain extent. The obstinacy of the alarm peal of Saint-Merry reanimated some fancies. Barricades were begun in the Rue du Poirier and the Rue des Gravilliers. In front of the Porte Saint-Martin, a young man, armed with a rifle, attacked alone a squadron of cavalry. In plain sight, on the open boulevard, he placed one knee on the ground, shouldered his weapon, fired, killed the commander of the squadron, and turned away, saying: “There’s another who will do us no more harm.”

He was put to the sword. In the Rue Saint-Denis, a woman fired on the National Guard from behind a lowered blind. The slats of the blind could be seen to tremble at every shot. A child fourteen years of age was arrested in the Rue de la Cossonerie, with his pockets full of cartridges. Many posts were attacked. At the entrance to the Rue Bertin-Poirée, a very lively and utterly unexpected fusillade welcomed a regiment of cuirrassiers, at whose head marched Marshal General Cavaignac de Barague. In the Rue Planche-Mibray, they threw old pieces of pottery and household utensils down on the soldiers from the roofs; a bad sign; and when this matter was reported to Marshal Soult, Napoleon’s old lieutenant grew thoughtful, as he recalled Suchet’s saying at Saragossa: “We are lost when the old women empty their pots de chambre on our heads.”

These general symptoms which presented themselves at the moment when it was thought that the uprising had been rendered local, this fever of wrath, these sparks which flew hither and thither above those deep masses of combustibles which are called the faubourgs of Paris,—all this, taken together, disturbed the military chiefs. They made haste to stamp out these beginnings of conflagration.

They delayed the attack on the barricades Maubuée, de la Chanvrerie and Saint-Merry until these sparks had been extinguished, in order that they might have to deal with the barricades only and be able to finish them at one blow. Columns were thrown into the streets where there was fermentation, sweeping the large, sounding the small, right and left, now slowly and cautiously, now at full charge. The troops broke in the doors of houses whence shots had been fired; at the same time, manœuvres by the cavalry dispersed the groups on the boulevards. This repression was not effected without some commotion, and without that tumultuous uproar peculiar to collisions between the army and the people. This was what Enjolras had caught in the intervals of the cannonade and the musketry.

Moreover, he had seen wounded men passing the end of the street in litters, and he said to Courfeyrac:—“Those wounded do not come from us.”

Their hope did not last long; the gleam was quickly eclipsed. In less than half an hour, what was in the air vanished, it was a flash of lightning unaccompanied by thunder, and the insurgents felt that sort of leaden cope, which the indifference of the people casts over obstinate and deserted men, fall over them once more.

The general movement, which seemed to have assumed a vague outline, had miscarried; and the attention of the minister of war and the strategy of the generals could now be concentrated on the three or four barricades which still remained standing.

The sun was mounting above the horizon.

An insurgent hailed Enjolras.

“We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this, without anything to eat?”

Enjolras, who was still leaning on his elbows at his embrasure, made an affirmative sign with his head, but without taking his eyes from the end of the street.

[jesterdraws99-blog]

I finished a mentorship project not too long ago and was tasked with designing a character and spacecraft from a mock sci fi video game called Neon Eclipse.

Meet Captain Andra M’eda, leader of an emergency medical/rescue squadron employed by the Grand Galactic Federation.

They travel the cosmos in search of those who are lost or in need of dire medical attention and act as a guiding beacon of light in a perilous universe.

This was quite the fun project and I further expanded my knowledge about designing characters and their stories. I’ll be posting the spacecraft design and sketches as well soon. I hope you enjoy!

[cantsayidont]

October 1982 to November 1984. Among the segments of DC's voluminous archives that they ought to properly reprint but probably never will is this early 1980s revival of aviator hero Blackhawk by Mark Evanier and Dan Spiegle. Created by Will Eisner and Chuck Cuidera for Quality Comics back in 1941, the Blackhawks were a multinational paramilitary squadron, with vaguely kinky black leather uniforms and special aircraft they operated from their own secret private island. They fought the Nazis during WW2 and later branched out into anticommunism and international supervillains. The original series was for years defined by excellent artwork (in particular by Reed Crandall), broad characterization, exaggerated ethnic accents, and some egregious racism (much of it directed at the Blackhawks' Chinese cook/mascot, "Chop-Chop"). In the late '60s, there was a brief, ludicrous attempt to turn the characters into superheroes, which hastened the demise of the original book, but the Blackhawks still had their fans — including Steven Spielberg, whose interest in developing a BLACKHAWK feature film occasioned this revival.

Probably the best word for this 23-issue run is "solid." It returns the characters to their original WW2 milieu, dials down the racism (the Chinese character eventually even gets a proper uniform), and offers some very competent storytelling from Evanier and Spiegle. The individual plots are seldom outstanding, but there are only a few real duds, and it's significantly more consistent than most monthly books of its era. Evanier and Spiegle were a good team, as further evidenced by their charming creator-owned CROSSFIRE series, launched through Eclipse toward the end of this run, although it wasn't enough to keep the BLACKHAWK book alive after Spielberg's interest lapsed.

The 1987–1988 Howard Chaykin miniseries (later collected as BLACKHAWK: BLOOD & IRON) is flashier and more fun, although it remains controversial. Chaykin made Blackhawk (whom Chaykin named Janos Prohaska, after a real-world Hollywood stuntman best known today as the guy who played the Horta on the STAR TREK TOS episode "The Devil in the Dark") an abrasive dick, and sidelined most of the rest of the group in favor of a new Lady Blackhawk, a brassy American Communist named Natalie Reed. (Chaykin did at least give "Chop-Chop" a real name — Weng Chan.) The Evanier/Spiegle series was not intended to reinvent the characters so much as to present a palatable median version that could provide the foundation for a feature film, so while it's not as dynamic or as stylish, it's also much less confrontational. For some, that makes it the definitive modern treatment of this venerable franchise.

[chronicle-of-isha]

SS: Craftworld Iyanden 3: A Divine Inheritance

Craftworld Iyanden appeared from the deep blue of the Webway, emerging from the void of space like a golden sewing needle punching through the black fabric of reality. Several other bright yellow and blue vessels appeared around it, traveling in the wake of the much larger Craftworld like schools of dolphins and anchovies following a blue whale.

"Temporary Webway portal transit successful." One of the navigators reported from their terminal. All the bridge crew were helmed and armored, ready for combat as the Craftworld traveled over the debris field of Eclipse-class cruisers orbiting an orange and black planet.

"All ships maintain dispersed formation around the Craftworld." Autarch Filimerthex commanded, face hidden by a twin-plumed full face helmet. "As a reminder, Saim-Hann shall not open his mouth again so easily. You will need to buy time for us to enter the Webway again should we come under attack. I want periodic sensor pulses as well as all escorts and fighter squadrons in reconnaissance formation. Our scouting parties and the Farseers saw no sign of the Mon-keigh, but remember that the thoughts and actions of the irrational, insane, and immature are the bane of prophecy and planning. Be on your guard for anything."

Battleship class Void Stalkers and battlecruiser class Phoenix ships deployed their fighter squadrons as the frigates and destroyers drifted further away from the group in scouting formations. Meanwhile, Iyanden herself drew closer to the debris field.

"Barbarians…" muttered one of the navigators as she looked through the sensors of the ship with her psychic touch. The remains of Mon-keigh vessels were still impaled in some of the Aeldari ships, and she could see signs of friendly fire on their primitive vessels. The Mon-keigh had driven into the Aeldari fleet here in a suicidal charge, almost dead set in killing ten or more of themselves in order to take the life of a single Aeldari.

Filimerthex grimaced under the helm, hearing and feeling the hate in the Eldar on the bridge. It was a good thing that he had received permission from the Seer Council to keep the images and sensor readings from the Craftworld away from the central psychic lattices. The blood of their species had been spilled in a suicidal manner by these Mon-keigh. The brutal tactics showed that the Mon-keigh's desire to kill them outweighed their own basic survival instincts. That was enough evidence to understand just how much the Mon-keigh hated them, so it was only natural to hate them equally back in kind.

However, neither he nor Iyanden had time for vengeance.

Sensor readings and psychic notes from the other Eldar entered Filimerthex's mind as he connected deeper with the ship itself, providing him with a complete report of all that was around them.

Most of the Aeldari military ships had been destroyed by Mon-keigh weaponry, but several of the civilian ships showed signs of internal sabotage. The Wraithbone had torn apart the ship's own engines, a feat that was only possible with Aeldari abilities.

"Prepare boarding parties for all of the civilian ships." Filimerthex ordered. "Send some of our light-cruisers to investigate. There are no lifesigns aboard, so it shall be easy enough for them."

Many of the Eldar found these sabotaged ships odd ever since the first reports from the scouting party had returned. The creation of Wraithbone was a trait only their species had, but no sane Aeldari or Eldar would think to use it to sabotage an entire ship. It would be far easier to use a plasma grenade or their psyker powers to disable the ships than to force Wraithbone to grow into the engines. It would have taken several dozen Bonesingers hours to do that, and that was with the rather unrealistic assumption that the crew of the ship did nothing to impede the would-be saboteurs.

Part of Iyanden's flotilla separated in order to investigate the sabotaged ships. Filimerthex eyes followed the ships grimly. The boarding parties would no doubt return with more questions than answers, but there were other things to investigate in parallel.

The planet they currently orbited was recorded in the void-charts of Iyanden, but the writhing crust and plumes of lava could not have been further from what was supposed to be there.

"Divert some of our escorts to the planet. I want sensor readings for what happened here." Filimerthex ordered. "Have we established an all-clear perimeter?"

"Reconnaissance units and all associated fighter squadrons and escorts report no contact." One of the other navigators answered. "We are alone, Autarch."

"Good." Filimerthex nodded. "Prepare our salvage ships, but maintain vigilance. We shall not waste what we do not have to. However, all shipmasters are to return to the Craftworld at the first sign of anything at all."

Psi-drones and other craft detached from the hull of the Craftworld, utilizing telekinesis and Bonesinging to cut apart and collect the remains of the Aeldari cruisers. Wraithbone could be replaced, psychically charged crystals could be regrown, but specific structures such as Pulsars, Starcannons, solar sails, and gravitic drives required time and extravagant materials in order to construct. Although not necessary, it was an undeniable waste to leave the remains of their empire's ships behind, no matter how small.

"We have the preliminary planetary readings, Autarch." One of the navigators reported to Filimertex. "The core and mantle of the planet are in a state of constant flux, churning and re-stratifying itself allowing buried water and gasses to be freed into the atmosphere. Precipitation cycles have already begun on the cooler segments of the crust, dragging down the excessive dust and silica, while leaving enough in the stratosphere so solar radiation exposure is reduced to the levels necessary to foment amino-acid formation. Given another hundred years, or perhaps even several decades, the planet shall become the seed for a Maiden World."

"And the reason for this sudden change?" Filimerthex asked back. "Is there evidence of an asteroid strike or some other external input of energy?"

This planet was supposed to be a mostly dead world. It may have been volcanic, but the continents had been fixed in place, as well as the general location of the magma flows beneath it. This raging primordial sea of molten rock was nothing like it. Thermal and kinetic energy coursed through it like blood, pumping the magma and washing away the crust. Such events could only be brought about by an external source of energy, and the only realistic one was from the impact of another interstellar body.

"No." The Navigator shook his head. "We have not found any new satellites, or change in planetary mass that would indicate an external source for this change."

"Then, the cause must be truly not of this realm." Filimerthex muttered.

"There are traces of psychic disturbances here, but they could have been from the Mon-keigh's Warp drives." One of the other Navigators countered.

In return the Autarch snorted.

"With these numbers?" He sighed. "The traces of Warp transit and the number of identified Mon-keigh wrecks do not match, not to mention the number that would have been required to entirely destroy our kin." A holographic summary of the psychic traces identified by the Craftworld's sensors appeared with a wave of his hand and he sent it to all of their terminals. "Something has removed the psychic traces of what has happened here, including the psychic cause for the planet's change."

"That is quite the leap of logic, Autarch." A different Eldar replied.

There is nothing here, therefore someone must have hidden it. A ridiculous kind of logic that bordered on conspiracy theory. That was the Autarch's reasoning. Under normal circumstances, anyone would have found the claim dubious.

However, at this moment…

"It is the only one that makes sense with what we have before us." Filimerthex said as he leaned back in the command throne. "The remains of several rag-tag patrol fleets from our Empire, the signs of battle with Mon-keigh, and the vision we all saw." The Autarch tapped a finger against his helm as he spoke. "The Aeldari who were here wouldn't have had the devices necessary to bring about this change, and even if they did it would not have resulted in this. The Mon-keigh's definition of terraforming is not much better than landscaping or backyard horticulture. Even with their most destructive weapons, the best they can do is burn a planet to cinders. Therefore…"

He stood up from the command throne, as a holographic image of the plane took center stage on the bridge.

"She did this, just as she was responsible for what you all saw. However, all traces of her have been erased."

"What does this mean, Autarch?" Another of the bridge crew asked.

Ships sabotaged by Wraithbone.

A planet reborn through extraordinary means.

A vision of death and rebirth.

Missing traces of what all other circumstantial evidence indicated should be there.

It was a myriad of conflicting messages that even the Eldar found confounding.

"I do not know…" Filimerthex admitted with a shrug. "But, she was here and if she was one of us, she knew we would be here too." The Autarch returned to the command throne, before uttering his next orders to the flotilla. "Prepare our planetary landing craft. Direct them to the place with the least amount of psychic traces. That is where she would have been closest to."

—----------------------------------------

The ground Leader of the 10th Guardian squad, Seridin, checked the seals on his suit as he felt the landing craft slow its descent. A feeling of dread was spreading through him and all the other Guardians who had been assigned this reconnaissance mission.

They had done as the Autarch said, focussing on the place with the least traces of psychic energy, but it was not a simple void they approached. The very air felt like it had been scorched; purified till not even the smallest mote of dust, spore, or even microbe was left. He could feel his psychic senses recoil at the sheer emptiness that they had begun to enter.

The immaterium was something they were all accustomed to, and even though it was now filled with the whispers of She who Thirsts, they could hear the currents of the Othersea even in the depths of space. Now, there was a silence that they had not heard even in the darkest gaps between the stars.

And they knew instinctively why it felt like that to them.

They were entering the cauterized remains of a crater-like wound; flesh and skin seared till they were nought but black ash. From a distance, the background sounds of the immaterium masked the wound's presence much like frothing waves would hide a shallow reef, but now that they were descending into the pit, it was all too clear just how unnatural it was.

'We near the surface.' The pilot, Vythira, communicated psychically from her sealed cockpit. 'Precipitation falls, but keep your suit's atmosphere separate from the surroundings. The waters are caustic and the air will sear your lungs should it enter them. The ground remains solid on this region of the planet, but it is not like the others. Be prepared for anything.'

Images from the sensors of the landing craft entered his mind, giving him a 360 degree view of all that there was around them before he disembarked.

The ground was solid as the pilot had said, however, geyser vents, spikes, stone slabs, cavernous crevices, and vitrified craters covered it. A pile of collapsed rubble lay scattered across off in the distance, spreading across the entire western horizon. Solidified lava flows sizzled as black raindrops fell upon them, still well over several hundred degrees in temperature.

Seridin activated the accelerators in his Shuriken catapult with a thought as he put a hand to the plasma grenades on his belt.

A battle had been fought here, and a cataclysmic one at that. There was obvious physical evidence of geological manipulation, but the psychic traces left by whoever or whatever molded the metals and minerals had all been erased.

'Transfer operational command to me, and open the doors.' Seridin commanded. 'Keep the ship hovering, and ready to lift off at a moment's notice, but remain close. This is not the place to waste our lives.'

'As you wish.' Vythira replied, and air hissed as the gaskets of the landing craft loosened before the doors opened outwards, providing temporary cover on either side. The lead Guardian and his second exited the craft and took cover by the doors, scanning the terrain on either side. Seridin himself moved up as the others followed.

'Path clear.' A brief psychic report came from the lead Guardian and his second.

'Move up.' Seridin ordered, and the two excited from cover and jogged to two separate stone slabs as Seridin and another Guardian took their places behind the doors and watched their comrades backs.

The two disappeared from sight for a moment, and a tense second passed before the psychic message. 'Clear.' came from the both of them.

A short sigh of relief exited Seridin's nose as his muscles relaxed slightly.

"Move up, and form an extended wedge formation." He ordered the rest of the Guardians vocally.

They were here to reconnoiter the area assigned to them. Other landing craft were far away, both to increase the ground they could cover, and to avoid falling into the same trap should there be one. Seridin's group would travel from the field of stone slabs towards what should have been a continuous line of valleys and gorges, but the landmarks had disappeared leaving only rivers of lava.

They trekked across the ground in that direction, sliding down and then climbing up the lips of craters without event as the landing craft followed 50 or so meters behind them, hovering a short hop above the ground. No ambush or earthquake disturbed them as they marched through the blank rain. The only thing that was there to upset them was the endless emptiness that surrounded them on all sides, weighing down on their soul as if they'd been transported deep into abyssal waters where no light nor sound was allowed.

"Seridin, I've found something." One of the Guardians called out to him. "The woman's tone was grim, but not alarmed.

"Hold position." Seridin ordered, and he walked over to where the Guardian who had called him was.

As he approached, the oppressive feeling increased. His vision flickered between what was before his eyes, and an endless blackness on all sides that he could do nothing but march through.

Seridin whispered a short prayer to Asuryan, the Aeldari's creator, and reinforced his mental wards. Counter-intuitively, the source of the emptiness was of the immaterium itself. Thoughts and concepts bled off from it, infecting his mind with information he could not understand.

Finally, the Guardian who called him came into sight. She was looking at something buried in the ground, and although her face was hidden behind her helmet, Seridin could tell from her body posture that she was confused.

"What have you found?" Seridin asked the Guardian as he entered arms reach.

"A weapon, a message, or a mistake I do not know." The woman answered.

She was staring at what looked like the fletching of an arrow buried in the ground. It was bone-white and almost crystalline looking; the tell-tale sign of Wraithbone. But, they could also feel that the source of the visions that whispered to them was buried at the other end of it.

"Do we dare touch it?" The Guardian asked warily. This was obviously a battlefield, and although the arrow appeared archaic, it was a psychic artifact of unknown power. There was no telling what it would do when unearthed.

Seridin paused for a moment to consider his options, then decided to take a gamble.

"We know not how long we have left before we have to leave. I shall speak to the Wraithbone directly. If it is of our blood, then it should speak to us at the very least."

He motioned for the other Guardian to step back, then stretched his palm out to the fletchings of the arrow to commune with it directly.

"Seridin." A ghostly whisper tickled his ear. The tone was familiar for some reason, although he couldn't remember where he had heard it.

A smile crossed his face as the first bit of his gamble paid off by not immediately blowing up in his face, then he felt an invisible force grab his hand and wrap it around the buried shaft of the arrow.

"Seridin. Seridin? Seridin!" A cacophony of voices called out his name cooing in motherly tones while proud victorious laughter echoed in his eardrums as soft cooling hands stroked his cheeks.

"SERIDIN! WAKE UP!" He opened his eyes to see the Guardian shaking him by the shoulder with one hand while her Shuriken catapult pointed at his hand, the hand still gripping the arrow.

"I'm fine." He answered wearily. "I'm… fine. How long was I gone?"

"Only a second, but I saw you open your psychic senses fully." The other Guardian muttered. "You know how dangerous that is." Her hand had released Seridin's shoulder, but the Shuriken catapult was now slowly pointing towards the Lead Guardian.

"My soul is still pure." Seridin answered angrily at the underlying accusation. "And I still serve the Craftworld."

A tense moment passed, then the Guardians finger left the Shuriken catapult's trigger.

"Then, for all our sakes, let us hope the voice you heard was not Hirs." The woman sighed before adopting a more amenable tone. "What did we find, Seridin?"

The Lead Guardian looked down at his own hand, still buried in the ground with the arrow, then slowly pulled both free. A Wraithbone arrow with a golden point emerged from the dirt. Grains of soil fell away from it like droplets of water, leaving it entirely unblemished.

"A lesson." Seridin spoke slowly, as he looked at the perfect harmony between immaterial matter and the paradoxical paranormal phenomenon that it was tipped with. "A lesson that will take a long time to learn, but we can learn regardless."

Suddenly a psychic message struck all of them. 'Seismic activity increasing! All Guardians, return to landing craft! What we stand upon is not what it seems!'

No sooner had they received the message, the ground crackled and rumbled as a ripple traveled through it like a tidal wave.

'All Guardians fall back to the landing craft!' Seridin mentally shouted as he stumbled back to the swiftly approaching ship that had been hovering behind them. His hand remained wrapped around the arrow, holding it to his chest even though he could feel its glowing point sting and singe his psychic senses.

The pitch of the rumbling earth changed, and with a final crack, stone pillars burst from the ground around them. Each was tens of meters tall, and as they emerged to their full height, seams split open revealing a hidden lid which slid back down into the ground, revealing each stone pillar to be a coffin containing the ruined remains of one of their greatest weapons.

"Psychomatons?!" Seridin shouted out in amazement, stopping his feet to stare up at the machines embedded in the rock coffins.

"Seridin! Return to the ship! We need to leave!" The other Guardians called out as they passed him, but he remained where he was.

"Hold!" He ordered. "The ground's shaking stills. Our ancestors watch over us, and no harm shall come to pass under their gaze."

Even before the words left his mouth, the shaking slowed then stopped leaving only the pitter patter and hiss of acid rain falling around them.

The other Guardians slowly returned to Seridin.

"Lead Guardian, we cannot afford to be loose with our lives. Death is not the end for us." The woman who had originally found the arrow hissed.

"But our death is not yet here." Seridin shot back as he stepped towards the nearest Psychomaton.

"What happened to them?" Another of the Guardians asked. "They barely hold their shape."

Each one had all its limbs stored with them, but it was obvious that they were far from fighting form. Melted edges and blown apart joints showed that each and every one of them had lost all of their limbs, before someone picked them up and buried them together.

"Yes." Seridin acknowledged the status of his ancient ancestors. "But their souls still remain."

All other Psychomatons had been left as empty shells when She who Thirst's scream broke into the materium; Wraithbone and blackstone bodies left behind like the shed carapace of an insect.

"How is that possible?" Another Guardian asked as they stepped closer, following Seridin towards the Psychomatons. "They are avatars of war and excessive violence from our dark past. All the others went to She who Thirsts on the day of the Fall."

"I do not know…" Seridin admitted as he reached the base of the nearest coffin, and stared up at the Psychomaton's serrated head. "But these ones are hers."

He could hear the same whispers from the Wraithbone arrow coming from them. Smells and sights of fresh grass and warm sunlight filtered through a green canopy of trees emanated from the cores of each Wraithbone construct.

"Their hands glow gold." Another commented.

Where there should have only been bone white and obsidian black, a third color tipped the blade-like fingers of each one.

"They were Aeldari once. They can learn all that we can, and the one who left this lesson tutored them in person." Seridin said as he looked back down at the gold-tipped arrow. "Call for our Bonesingers or larger transport craft." He ordered. "We cannot leave these survivors of the Fall behind. We are Iyanden. Our empire is what we wish to reclaim. They were part of it, and thus walk upon the same strand of fate as us."

—----------------------------------------

The Autarch Filimerthex gazed up at the remains of the Psychomatons, still entombed in their stone coffins. It had only taken a few days to separate all of the colossal constructs from the planet's crust, and grow a disposable Webway gate large enough to transport them to the Craftworld. However, the ancient ones were not taken aboard as honored guests. Currently, the entire platoon was in storage near the outskirts of the Craftworld, as far away from the Shard of Khaine as they could be placed. This entire section of Iyanden could be jettisoned at a moment's notice, and several Guardians were placed outside to ensure no-one else could approach them.

They had left the planet and were back to the original course the Farseers had predicted would be the safest in the Eastern rim of the galaxy. The Seer council was currently discussing what was to be done with the Psychomatons and the arrow, but a verdict has yet to be reached.

"Aethnor? Maerili? Valanon?" Filimerthex muttered at them questioningly, but the Psychomatons did not reply.

A short sigh exited the Autarch's nose as he scratched his head. He knew it was meaningless to mention old names to the Psychomatons. What they were had been hammered out of them when they stopped reincarnating. However, in a moment of loneliness, he had let loose names of old friends who were no longer here.

"What do you think about what we have become?" He asked the Psychomatons.

There was a brief silence, then a series of irritated warbles and chirps came from several of the Psychomatons.

Filimerthex snorted at their comments.

"Do not blame them. That is the price they pay to remain pure. The children who will come after them will be weaker still."

Angry clicks and crackles followed, like the sound bursting chestnuts or wet wood in a fire.

"I find that claim dubious, after seeing how many of you fell to Hir." Filimerthex replied with a raised eyebrow. "You do not remain here on your own, nor did Khaine's song keep our brothers and sisters safe. She helped you."

A begrudging moan acknowledged Filimerthex's accusation, with several grim hoots remarking on what their mother was last seen doing.

"That option is a little too late for us, I'm afraid." He shrugged. "I have already sent the Orks on a collision course with the Mon-keigh. Any attempt to undo that would fail."

Amused buzzing rang from each Psychomaton as well as some cheerful chuffing.

"If all goes well, then the Mon-keigh will remain oblivious as you say. Their collective memories are about as short as their lives. Then again, the meeting of those two species was inevitable. If the conflict is inescapable, why should the Eldar not benefit from it?"

Cautionary twanging echoed around them as the Psychomatons warned the Autarch of the other deity that they had seen, as well as where their golden blade-like nails came from.

"The thief that snuck around the outer rims of our empire." Filimerthex muttered. "Fine, Iyanden can allow the Mon-keigh to exist unmolested, so long as they remain on what is left of their federation. Biel-Tan will take longer to convince, but besides them the others will probably be too busy with internal affairs to care about the problems of the lesser species. We also take no responsibility for what our client races do to them."

Satisfied rumbling accepted the Autarchs answer, then silence fell as they transmitted Isha's final message verbatim into his brain.

The Autarch paused for a moment, then let out a tired chuckle.

"'I love you, all of you.' is it? How very motherly…" Filimerthex sighed, scratching his head with one hand as he placed the other on his waist.

"I will need your help, if that is what she wishes." He said to the Psychomatons. "The ones here may be one-half of what we were, but our kin are beginning to become only the other."

Dark laughter echoed around the room, the first Aeldari sound the Psychomatons had made in a long-time. They had seen what had happened to all those who had not boarded a Craftworld yet still lived. A rune appeared in the center of their chest glowing red and orange with fiery heat; Khaine's rune, the rune of war, murder, and violence. Baritone voices began to sing, droning endlessly as the air filled with the scent of smoke and blood. The best ways to end life were whispered to all those who would listen. The angle of the knife necessary to cut through skin, muscle, and bone. The instinctive calculations required to correct for bullet drop, or the curvature of the ground.

"Enough." Filimerthex said quietly but firmly, ending the song. "I will need at least one volunteer. But, be prepared. Knowing what I do about them, whoever gets sent there will be trapped in endless boredom."

Several moments filled with beeping and whistling followed, before one Psychomaton gave a defeated chirp.

The Autarch nodded at the volunteer, then turned away from the Psychomatons. "I will talk with the Seer council. In the meantime, prepare yourselves for examination by our Bonesingers. Our mother's bindings will be of interest to them, and we will need more of our brothers and sisters."

A series of raspberries blew as the Autarch walked out of the room.