Interlude - Home

A shapely hand moves over the items on the table and plucks a round piece of fruit from a shallow wicker basket. The woman lifts the fruit up to her face and tries to sniff at it. It is not as easy as she would have liked, the metal veil she is wearing just makes everything smell of rusted steel. She lifts the veil a little higher and tries again. This time she gets the scent she is seeking. The fruit is good.

The woman lowers the edge of her veil and looks across to the old man manning the stall, “Okay, that doesn't smell quite as bad as I expected. Lets see about the rest .”

She starts looking through the other items on the stall and places a few choice pieces into a wooden bowl. Having piqued his curiosity the stallholder starts to assess the woman thoughtfully. At first she appears to be just like any other Vuldrok warrior, but it is clearly evident that she is certainly no shield-maiden. The metal Kurgan veil she is wearing suggested she was well travelled, perhaps a mercenary just passing through with her tribe or perhaps a loner who has come here to settle from foreign lands? She had the height of a shield-maiden, that much was true enough, just not the frame. She was far too scrawny from what he could tell, no real bulk to speak of. He doubted whether she would be much good at lifting up shield at need, or much use at swinging anything heavier than that spear she carried. Her eyes looked pretty enough though, that much he could discern. They were richly dark brown, very alluring, which she seemed to have enhanced within a mist of dark face-paint.

“I'll take everything in the bowl. Throw in those herbs as well” she says pointing to a small bowl of crushed medicinal leaves.

They agree on a price; the woman hands over a cloth bag and the stallholder starts to place all of the provisions inside. Once he has finished he raises his hand and looks at her expectantly for payment. It is only then that he notices that she is looking in a completely different  direction. He watches the woman as her head starts turning this way, and that. The stallholder clears his throat a few times and the woman hands him the coins without ever looking back. Suddenly and without warning she grabs at the bag and starts to walk off at a great pace through the pressing crowd of the market. Her strides are long and filled with a tremendous sense of purpose, her lithe torso twists and turns between the passers-by; the little bag of groceries still clutched firmly in her hand.

Eventually she breaks free from the crowd and steps out into a small pathway that is flanked on either side by a row of small dwellings. A few metres immediately ahead of her is the static form of large wretched man. The man appears to be clothed in an array of sorry-looking rags and armaments, his wild hair and bushy beard are caked with a veneer of forest filth. The wild man's face appears to be fixed upon one particular side of the pathway, perhaps focussing in on some of the houses that were pressing in around them. From what she could tell he does not yet appear to have noticed her. The warrior-woman silently affixes her bag to a clip on her belt and then brings her spear around, forcing it out in front of her. Carefully, and with great skill she creeps forwards.

Her heart is racing now; her steps are faint but to her own ears they sound like the trumpeting of heralds. So close to him now, just a mere moment away...

Suddenly, and with great speed the man raises his forefinger to his lips. Ylanath stops dead in her tracks, barely breathing.

They stand like that, motionless, for what feels to her like hours. Eventually the wildman raises both his hands upwards and places them palm-down on to the crown of his head. Ylanath shakes her head in disbelief. This cannot be happening, this cannot be right! They had come too far already.

“Anton! Please! Don't!” she begs. Without turning The Marquis pushes one hand out towards her in a gesture for quiet and returns it back to the top of his head. Slowly The Marquis makes his way forward, his whole being in a state of perfect surrender.

_____________________________________________

Hesitantly, Anton pushes at the door with his fingertips. His other hand he still keeps placed firmly on the top of his thick crop of filthy hair. He steps purposefully through the doorway and into the small room the other side. He does not turn round and he keeps his eyes downcast and his movements passive and unthreatening. With great care he slowly turns around to face the scene in the room.

In one corner of the room stands a man dressed in the common finery of an Antioch freeman. He appears of average build and so does not carry the imposing form of De Havilland. Of more immediate relevance and concern is the fact that in his right hand he appears to be holding what looked to be a fairly sizeable flechette pistol.

Opposite him, lying on a table with a cushion under her head is a woman in local dress but fair-haired, sharply pretty, with tattoos tracing the edge of her cheek and jaw.  And although they're convincingly female, De Havilland is certain it's Keats, apparently going by the name Arcadia had called him (her?): Tigerlily!

“What have you done with my friend?” starts De Havilland.

“Stay away from my wife!  I don’t know what you did to her in the market that gave her seizures, but she’s sleeping now so I would bloody well appreciate you leaving the same way you came in.”

“I am afraid I can't do that...” followed De Havilland.

The stranger smiled, teeth poking through the veil of amusement. “I think you may be about to make a really big mistake Wildman.”

De Havilland shakes his head. “No, I don't think so, you see I actually know your wife very well.”

The stranger looks De Havilland up and down, and smirks. “From the look of you I find that very hard to believe”

De Havilland smiles back. “The really astounding thing for me, and to be honest this came as quite a surprise, is that now I have met her husband I just suddenly realise that I know who you are as well.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow very sharply. “Explain...” he calls.

However, hearing a sudden noise from outside the stranger turns his gaze back over to the doorway but keeps the gun firmly pointed at De Havilland. Slowly and with her arms outstretched Ylanath steps bravely into the room.

“What is going on....” she asks, pointedly looking at De Havilland. “What are you doing, why are you talking to this man?”

The flechette pistol was moving back and forth between them now.

“Keep it on me, keep the weapon on me!” cries De Havilland still keen to look as much a supplicant as he could.

The stranger looks at them both, calculating a next move. He was outnumbered now and in a small space. He would still have enough rounds to take the big man down first though. He was still in control here.

“We've met before” interjects De Havilland, “Off-world....somewhere...very far away from here.”

Ylanath looked over at the man. He looked typically local to her. Part of the reason for De Havilland’s ragged hair and beard was to help cover up some of that noble pampered skin he had cultivated over the years. This stranger looked entirely native to her. De Havilland had clearly made a mistake.

The stranger’s eyes were peering intently at De Havilland now. He tilts his head ever so slightly to one side, trying to get a better look at the filthy human in front of him. De Havilland lifts some of the mucky hair away from his eyes so that the stranger can get a better look.

After a few moments the briefest flicker of recognition spreads across the man's face, but he keeps the gun extended on De Havilland anyway.

“Who is she?” he asks pointedly, gesturing with his head in Ylanath’s direction.

“She helped me escape the Paladindrax's prison. We were both being kept deep underground, right under his palace. She helped me to get out.” answered De Havilland, still not moving a muscle. “We've both been on the run ever since for just over a year now. It’s been desperately close on more than a few occasions, but I am sure they have no idea we are here at the moment.”

“You really haven't answered my question Phoenix Knight”, followed the stranger, “WHO IS SHE...?” Slowly the gun moves round to Ylanath.

“Woah, no..wait!”, calls out De Havilland, “She was a prisoner. She had attempted to break into a store of some of the Paladindrax's personal effects; Some ancient artifacts and suchlike. He was just making up his mind about what to do with her when we escaped. That's all”

“Still don't buy it. You steal from the Paladindrax you get executed”, continued the stranger.

De Havilland looked over at Ylanath who was looking nervously back at the knight.

“She never took anything. She was just there to study it. That was all” finished De Havilland.

Ylanath spoke next, “He speaks the truth. Nothing was taken. They found me there, that much is true,  but they know I would never need to take anything. My people have no need of trinkets and baubles. I follow the old ways. Those in charge know of this. I meant no harm to anyone.”

“I still don't get it” retorts the stranger, “but I guess it really doesn't matter all that much right now. What I have to determine now is what to do with you.”

They stood there in absolute silence. De Havilland speaks first.

“Why don't you and I have a quiet little chat somewhere, discuss a good solution for everyone?”

The stranger shakes his head, “I don't think so Knight. I kind of like keeping this weapon on the woman to be honest. Besides, you know this isn't a two-way conversation. I make the decisions and I get to decide whether you two live or die right here.”

“I don't think so” copied De Havilland, “If you wanted me dead you would’ve shot me by now. And your wife, well, she’s a noble scion of House Justinian.  This isn’t her home, it’s just where the slavers sold her.”

More silence, with the man and the wildman looking across at each other.  The man’s smile falters, grows uncertain: De Havilland’s suggestion is preposterous, but it’s the word of a Phoenix Knight.  It explains things about her.

Finally, after a protracted and tense period the stranger nods slightly, “She’s a free woman.  She can go where she damn well pleases. But you, you two have to leave.”

De Havilland looks over to Ylanath. They had discussed this eventuality at great length during the preceding months.  Antioch was indeed her home but staying here after their dramatic escape from the prison in Nicaea was simply not possible any longer. Still hidden beneath the metal veil she was wearing, she nods her head in agreement.

“You leave when I say and how I say. No questions asked. No side-missions, no retribution on the Paladindrax, De Havilland. Am I making myself clear, here?”

“Absolutely” grins De Havilland, slowly dropping his hands to his sides, “Besides, I’ve had plenty of retribution already…”

_____________________________________________

  

Keats felt the familiar rumble of a ship’s engine vibrating through his body. How often had that rhythmic tune sung him off to sleep in the early years of his travels? He’d had peace on Antioch too: tenuous, the false contentment of forgetting. How many more years would he have to endure before he would experience those same feelings of peace and happiness?

Keats looks over to the Marquis. De Havilland was now sound asleep on a great pile of woollen blankets within their shelter. Keats decided it would probably take explosive decompression to wake him up right now. Keats laughs despite himself, imagining the Marquis floating around in space still completely unaware of his comical predicament.

The Vuldrok woman De Havilland had been travelling with now lay close by his side. Once or twice Keats had watched her move over to him completely unaware in her sleep. She had removed her disguise since coming aboard ship and it came as no surprise to Keats that the woman was exotically beautiful. Keats lay there, watching the two of them close up; together. He took a deep breath and fought back the gut-wrenching twist in his stomach as thoughts of Cortez came rushing back. Their last exchange had been heartfelt, raw and excruciatingly painful. He wondered if Cortez was still alive or not; wondered if Cortez cared if he was still alive. One small tear pooled in an eye which Keats immediately wiped away and fought back.

There was no time for this right now. No time for sentimentality. No time for daydreams. Keats quickly commanded his mind to start thinking about something, anything else really. He started trying to think about the ship they were on. 'The Provenance' was just one of the many ships that belonged to the Palindindrax, he reminded himself. It was used as a small personal freighter and passenger vessel for the office of Paladindrax and was often used to traffic any number of his ongoing personal interests. From what Keats could make out it was probably a fairly luxurious vessel. Forays into the cargo deck during quieter periods of their travel had suggested that no expense had been spared in terms of the choice of materials used within the build. Keats had spent many years walking the length and breadth of ships in his time, and this one was certainly one of the more extravagant crafts. He wondered who had been commissioned to design such a craft and marvelled at how ancient it now must be.

On Antioch, she had just been Tigerlily. Tigerlily who’d saved her brother and been captured. A gladiator who’d earned her freedom. With a home, a husband. They were going to adopt. All her roles - Keats, Hemlock - had been lost, memories buried alongside Cortez. Now Keats’ life is unveiled, stark, while Tigerlily’s time of simple contentment feels like someone else’s recollections.  The goodbye was hard.  Keats still knew what Tigerlily felt for her husband.  But he had to go.

And what of De Havilland?  Ragged but powerful, dirty and wild-haired, sharing his bed with an exotic Vuldrok.  Is he any less changed?  Can he too just cut his hair and return to who he was?  He'd come across half a planet searching for Keats with the forces of the Paladindrax at his heels, found Keats’ secret and stuck with him nonetheless.  Things would never be quite the same again.

They were going home.

Interlude - The Assault

Beyond the known worlds, beneath the surface and nuclear winter of the planet Twilight, Keats walks alone through bunker tunnels.  Today he could just be Keats: Sir Hemlock Justinian was not required.  No dinners, no negotiations.  At the entrance to the diplomatic suite, Keats swipes the lock and heaves the door open.  It shuts heavily, cutting off the bunker’s clamour, leaving just the hum of the air units, quiet as a cargo-hold when a ship is drifting.  An emergency lamp above the door throws the only light; the room is intimated in amber and shadow. That’s good: Keats can use the washroom before anyone else gets back. He starts to unfasten his jacket and is half-way across the room before he notices the man in the chair.

‘I am sorry, Keats,’ Cortez raises a glass; the chair’s wings cast his face into shadow, ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

‘Are you alright?’ one hand re-buttons the jacket, the other puts the knife away.

‘I consider things.  It is quiet.’

‘I thought you were entertaining Miss Jessica.’

Cortez laughs, ‘I think she prefer blondes,’ then, lifting a bottle from his side-table, ‘Would you like some?’

Keats smells spirits and shakes his head, and though he doesn’t say anything Cortez reads the concern.

‘I need the practice,’ Cortez sets down the bottle and shrugs in the depth of the chair, ‘Negotiatory lubricant.’

Keats nods and leaves him, but at the door to the washroom stops and turns back.  Cortez had said his name, quietly, something childlike in it, needful.  Keats pads back in and peers into the chair’s shadows.

‘Do you think we overreach ourselves?’ Cortez, thick-voiced.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is the most horrible planet I have ever descended to,’ Cortez continues and Keats’ response is cut short, ‘And deadly!  I would call it a nest of vipers, but vipers are not so heavily armed.’

‘Nuclear vipers?’

Cortez snorts, ‘I look at how this can end, and nine in ten end with us shot and our ship turned to cooling debris,’ Keats gets a sense of Cortez’s head turning, facing up at Keats, ‘I fear I have doomed us all.’

Keats shakes his head, ‘There are trade-routes with other planets, and the Heidgards are impressed with the Marquis De Havilland.’

‘The trade-routes are a jump we have no key for; the Heidgards are a weak faction in a war-scoured hell.’

‘I’m glad we didn’t side with the Citadel,’ softly, ‘I have no stomach for slave-trading.’

‘I saw the hand of the Pancreator in our endeavours, a galaxy to explore,’ Cortez spreads his arms and growls, ‘The gleam of opportunity!’ he drops his hands, voice cracking, ‘Was I deluded?’

Keats stares down at Cortez, silent.  He finds a glass, pours himself a measure from the bottle and sits in the chair beside Cortez, but leaning forward, elbows on his knees.  Eyes adjusting, Keats sees the stray coils veiling one of Cortez’s eyes; the other glistens.

Keats is used to Cortez’s dramatic moods.  Sometimes Keats would joke with him, sometimes just listen, or sit in companionable silence.  This is different.  There’d been an urgency to him since he turned up with his own ship and jump-key, Keats had thought maybe desperation, but dismissed it since Keats was never much good at understanding people.  Should Keats have stayed with his friend instead of leaving him to play Hemlock?  What if Hemlock was a mistake, a lie too far?  Keats kicks off his boots and curls his legs up in the chair, leaning on the wing so he can look at Cortez.  Cortez asked if he was deluded.  Keats could tell him about delusion.

Through the years of lies – or, if not actual lying, then allowing a false belief to perpetuate – the truth sometimes intruded on Keats and he longed to share it with Cortez.  But would he see it as betrayal?  Keats couldn’t endure that.  Meanwhile, a little part of Keats dreamed that Cortez would fall for the person beneath the lie, and they’d skip hand in hand into the sunset.

But not now.  Cortez has problems enough without his best friend’s betrayal.  And now Cortez, the decisive one, the captain with a plan, sees only doom.  Keats pats his knives and shield unit.  His sword hangs by the door.

‘Yesterday, you did not see,’ Cortez murmurs, ‘Miss Jessica gazing at you all evening?’

‘I thought she was looking at you.’

‘Have you ever been in love, Keats?’

Keats looks away, hiding behind a sip of the spirit, ‘I think so.’

‘Who?’ Cortez leans forward.  Keats wants to reach out and tuck the fallen curls back behind his ear.

Instead, he sits frozen and turns red, ‘I never mentioned it to them.  I doubt I’m their type.’

‘I had often wondered about you.  I thought, perhaps, you might be gay.’

Had he seen it?  Keats’ breath catches.  He should’ve been more thorough, manufactured an affair or two, but that was its own risk: Keats never was a good liar, protected by others’ assumptions and that the lie had become so part of him that it sometimes felt like the truth.  A shield of delusion.  Instead, Keats was asexual, not risking comments about young ladies for fear the falsehood might shine through.  But had he let an errant gaze slip?  Keats mouth opens, closes.

‘Because,’ Cortez meets Keats’ gaze, ‘I am.’

Keats’ eyes glaze.

‘I always dreamed,’ Corteaz breathes, ‘that you were too.’

Keats laughs.  It snaps out high, hysterical.  A sense of something shattering.  He sets down his drink, unfolds from the chair and starts to undress, still laughing.  His shaking fingers slip on the buttons.

Cortez starts to rise, ‘You do not have to, not like this.’

But the look Keats gives him, manic, scares him and he falls back into the chair.

Keats stands naked before Cortez.  He turns so the light falls on his front, silent now, barely breathing.

It takes Cortez a moment to realise what he’s seeing.  Eventually, he asks, ‘What happened?’

‘It would go easier on you, if you were a boy,’ high and fragile, but deliberate, quoting.

‘What?’

‘He said it, before he put me on the shuttle.  Then he died.  And everyone, everyone else.  All dead. Just me.  And up there, in the black, it would go easier on me, if I were a boy.’

And for once, Cortez is lost for words.  His expression changes as the last dozen years reconfigure.

‘I’m sorry,’ Keats is crying, and despite that, Keats’ higher-pitched voice seems easier, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Then, who is Hemlock?’

Keats’ head shakes: don’t go there, ‘I can’t let him be dead.’

After a moment, in disbelief, ‘Tigerlilly?’

Keats stands, shaking, and doesn’t deny it.

‘You’re insane,’ Cortez breathes.

Keats laughs, wild-eyed.

Cortez chokes, ‘I loved you.’

The laughter comes so hard, so hysterical that Keats collapses, clutching ribs, crying and laughing and curling up in a ball on the rug.

Cortez slams down his drink and rises to slap Keats, but the drink makes him unsteady, and Keats – or whatever rolls and laughs on the floor – frightens Cortez.  He staggers out.

In time, the madness passes, and Keats dresses in panic in case anyone else comes in.  As he creeps to bed, he whispers to Cortez’s door, ‘I loved you too.’

*****

Distant cracks and rumbles wake little Tigerlilly.  A tremor runs through the room.  Trinkets rattle.  Then the alarm bells start to sound.

Distant thuds and rumbles wake Keats.  A tremor runs through the room.  Masonry cracks.  Then the alarm sirens start to sound.

Hemlock grabs Tigerlilly’s hand and runs into the corridor.  People are shouting and fleeing.  Hemlock slips through the press.

Keats fastens shield unit and buckles sword and knives over his pyjamas.  Cortez emerges in damask dressing-gown.  Keats grabs his hand and runs into the corridor.  People are shouting and fleeing.  Keats slips through the press.

The corridor smells of smoke.  Light of distant fires.  Masked men step out of the shadows and cut down guards and civilians.  Hemlock ducks into a side-corridor.

Bits of ceiling fall in showers of dust.  A closer rumbling, cracking, tearing and soldiers appear, masked men that shoot the guards and panicking civilians.  Keats ducks into a side-corridor.

Tigerlilly runs, stuffed tiger in one hand, the other clutching Hemlock’s.  People screaming, dying, the sound of buildings collapsing.

Keats runs, sword in one hand, the other clutching Cortez’s.  He has a pistol.  People screaming, dying, the sound of tunnels collapsing.

The ceiling falls, the way blocked, sound of fire and death beyond it.  Smoke billows black.

The ceiling falls, the way blocked, sound of fire and death beyond it.  Smoke billows black.

Losing Hemlock’s hand.  Separated, smoke washing between.  Masked men with blades emerge from the shadows.

The ground shakes.  Losing Cortez’s hand.  Separated, smoke washing between.  Masked men with guns emerge from the shadows.

A hand over Hemlock’s face and his throat is cut.  Tigerlilly runs.

Keats screams Hemlock’s name.  The solders turn their guns: his shield flares.  Keats kills them, then takes Cortez’s hand.

Tigerlilly, found by the family retainer, spirited out through the tunnel to an ore shuttle and bundled in with an envelope and satchel, and the advice, ‘It would go easier on you, if you were a boy.’

Near the shuttle, enemies closing.  Keats slips his shield onto Cortez and pushes him toward the door, ‘Go, Hemlock!  I’ll slow them.’

The shuttle tears upwards, shaking and roaring, Tigerlilly all alone.  Below, Hemlock is dead.

Enemies rounding the corner.  Keats emerges from the shadows and cuts a throat open.  He slips around bayonets and carves a bloody path, alone with a sword.  Until they shoot him, and he falls, knowing that Hemlock is safe.

Where are they now? - Part 3 - Other notable nobles

In preparation for the restart of our campaign here's the latest updates concerning some of our previous supporting cast.  This time it is other Nobles of note:

Count Innocence Decados
Since the events of "The Arcadia Affair" and the implication of his House (and his own knights directly) in events, the Count has withdrawn again into his self imposed exile. Rarely seen in court these days many wonder if he is actually spending most of his time off world.

Lady Chastity Decados
While her father may have withdrawn from Ravenna society again Chastity has embraced it. She acts as her father's representative at most formal functions and events and seems to be going out of her way to play to all the tropes and stereotypes of the Decados.  Rarely out of the gossip columns she has been linked with a string of affairs and trysts both with nobility and freemen. In the true nature of her House she seems determined to shock and outrage the formal and traditional Ravennans but so far has avoided formal censure other than some harshly worded public admonishments, negative Town Crier editorials and being the direct target of a number of fiery sermons by notable clergy. Whether she has a deliberate long term goal, other than to cause controversy, is unclear.

Lady Yelizaveta Decados
Once Sir Bedevere's ransom was arranged and settled and the Hawkwood's ships and remaining crew returned the Lady Yelizaveta appears to have faded away. As one of the Count's key agents it is likely she will resurface at some point but how, where and in what guise, only the Pancreator can say. As for Sir Hasimir's ill fated vessel, "The Questionable Intent", that remains in Decados control and is berthed in Ravenna orbit in a dock rented by the Count.

Countessa Morgana Trusnikron
Still the undisputed ruler of her House on Ravenna the Countessa continues her open support of her dear friend the Countess Cassandra Hawkwood. Her House troops have seen heavy losses (both in manpower and beasts) and she has seen some internal pressure to withdraw or reduce her support. Mercifully perhaps, due to the respect in which she has held, she has seen off all these challenges. However it may only be a matter of time unless the tide of the war turns. Some speculate that she may have therefore had a hand in bringing in the various errant knights who have joined Cassandra's cause, and it is notable that a number are Trusnikrons from other worlds.

Baronet Theodore Gangrel Trusnikron
The rough and hardy knight still serves as stable master and beast and horse trainer for Baron Tochiro but that agreement comes to an end soon. The Trusnikron support of Countess Cassandra, coupled with the negative view of the Baron (and the suggestion that his funds may be on the wane) give rise to much speculation that this arrangement will not be renewed.

Sir Vim Militas-Djinn Al Malik
Sir Vim has apparently succumbed to wanderlust once more and headed off into the Known Worlds upon a quest. After his disappearance the courtly gossips of Ravenna will recall and relate that he was seen at a soiree in a private discussion with Baroness Emeraldas Al Malik Justinian, in which neither of them appeared very pleased, some might say that they were irate (well, as irate as users of the Graceful Tongue become)