The Mist Connection (Closed)

[The Lionheart]

The Mist Connection
"I never said it would be easy, or pretty."



[Arkania]
[Blackhounds]



​

"When you are older," Jon Vaen had said to him, "you will be the master of your own destiny. There will be choices to be made, and you will have to make them to the best of your ability. The choices you make will decide the fate of not only yourself, but of those around you - those you mingle yourself with, be they enemies, or friends."

"I hope you make the right choices, my son."




The eyes of the hunter split open, and before them was the characteristic blue of hyperspace. The alert was blaring - they would be arriving above Arkania, soon. Argas set his chair upright, and scanned the controls one more time. Everything was in order. Everything was progressing smoothly. Once they arrived on Arkania, he hoped, they would secure both a new comrade, and the funds necessary to begin the expansion of his military company. Judging by the attire of his chosen few, Arkania would be a unique first challenge for them. Thermal underlays would be an absolute necessity - not to mention a suit of armor for Terr Bilname.

Argas inspected his surviving magnum, and the myriad dots, scrapes and outright holes adorning his upper armor. All his years and struggles, and still there was only more to be done. The life of Argas Vaen was a life of war - it always had been, and, he sensed, it always would be. There was no alternative; left to be bored and languish was no fate fitting a Blackhound, and he believed his new companions felt the same. They would have to, in order to survive under Argas' command.

The Bolter finally slowed, the blue lights and lines fading to the black and white of outer space. The white orb ahead of him was the only destination to be had in the system - which said little for the destination, itself. Arkania may have had a proud few as its host, but it was still a young colony world. Kruzeia would not be the warmest welcome, but it was better than no welcome at all.

"Jacques," Argas called back, suddenly hacking as he did so. When the spasm subsided, Argas called again, "Jacques!"

He knew the young man could hear him, even past the door into his room in the hallway behind him. Argas' hand instinctively crept up toward his chest. A finger wedged its way into one of the holes in his chestpiece. The fabric of the shirt beneath was already colder than he could stand - he realized that the ship's environmental systems must have been rusty, as well.

"And to think..." he whispered, coughing and pushing himself up from his rest, "...I just bought a damn engine for this bucket!"

He glared down at the panel in front of him.

"You're becoming more trouble than you're worth, old girl."​

​

 

[Azium]

The cold winter winds rustled the crimson cape attached to the plates that were strapped to Lucifius' shoulders. A thickly gloved hand laid on the side of a monumental pillar that tapered to a point at the top. Snow flitted on the biting air, settling on his monstrous form as he slowly sunk to his knees, the bank of white coming up to his mid thighs. Palm of his hand scraping down the frigid stone, the forehead of his helmet rested against it, the glowing reddish orange visual receptors unblinking.

"… if I could take back that day… if I could take away that pain… I wish I could follow…"

With a crunch of snow under his boots he stood to turn away from the grave of his late wife and only son. The mass of metal strapped about the hollow shell of a man lumbered towards the dual doors of his abode, a mansion, small, but a mansion just the same. Hands shoving back the thick stone slabs he stumbled in grief to his carved throne upon an alter in the massive lobby of the establishment. A clank of the armor reverberated about the walls, tapestries of crimson red trimmed with gold adorning the torch lighting.

A hiss of air from the seal of his helmet sounded as he pulled it away, a mess of short black hair matted to his head, old battle scars among the lines of age and depression on his face. The chest plates would be freed with the loosening of buckles before falling away to his feet. Vibro daggers from his belt were unsheathed and piled into his lap. The under armor of hexagonal fabric would tighten as fingers pulled it taut. The other hand pulled up a knife, slowly starting to sink the metal into his flesh, past the muscle, to scrape against the bones of his rib cage. Blood would trickle over his kama and thigh plates to pool in his seat, tears streaming down his cheeks before being pulled by gravity into the blood to mix with it.

Once one dagger was sunk into his chest between the fourth and fifth ribs he brought up another to bury just below that one. Lucifius didn't use kolta, bacta, glitterstims, or any sort of pain relief. There was a deep desire to fill the void within his soul with pain and to let his seeping blood carry out the dismay that dripped from his heart.

"… I will follow."

 

[Jake]

THE MIST CONNECTION​

"So it goes."​

Hyperspace always made Jacques d'Etoile uncomfortable. It was the grim knowledge that he could be flitting through the remnants of a supernova, or through the heart of a planet, or through the mind of an unborn child that haunted him while he slept... so he lay awake on his cot in the Bolter, knowing that rest was imperative, but unwilling to depart from the waking world.

He contemplated a trip to the refresher, but knew he might wake the other crew members. Instead, he decided to wonder. Arkania. A frigid place, long since gripped in the inexorable embrace of the cold. The Arkanians themselves were an interesting people as well. Their furtive experimentation had led to the creation of an entirely new species, the Quermians, only millennia before.

It had been a highly controversial event: the galaxy had been forced to welcome a new culture into its already seething melting pot of peoples and histories, and this one not even evolved naturally, with many years of careful trial and error. Jaques had made a point of reading up on Arkania's history before their visit, made sure he wouldn't fall prey to any native fauna. However, he had been mostly displeased with the results.

Arkania was a tame world, long since conquered by its ruling species. The Arkanians had spawned an offshoot of their own kind and put them to work in the many diamond mines scattered across the planet's surface--

Jacques' eyes blinked open as the Bolter bucked. Their journey through hyperspace must have been drawing towards its end. Abruptly, he heard Argas' sputtering cough carry towards him through the metal walls. He heard some of the man's muttering, probably a complaint, and decided he'd best check up on him. Jacques, already clothed in preparation for Arkania's harsh climate (they would probably not be staying in one of their insulated cities), slipped out of bed and towards the cockpit.

"Something wrong?" he asked. His accent had never faded, even after visiting two dozen different worlds and hearing twice as many dialects. His eyes glittered, powder blue discs that would blend in seamlessly with the ice. He was concerned for Argas: the old man had become sort of like a father to Jacques, who had always disliked his real parents. If anything were to happen to him, if someone were to hurt him, Jacques would show them no mercy, would track them across this galaxy or a thousand others in pursuit...

Before Argas could answer his first question, Jacques followed up with a second. "Are we there yet?"

 

[Valshot]

As the hyperspace journey was coming to the end a commotion broke out from the front of the Bolter. Frea had been waiting in the living area of the ship, resting on the counter of the bar using her arms as a pillow, clad in her Valkyrie armor. She had installed a thermal underlay within the suit prior to the mission as it would be necessary to survive Kruzeia's extreme cold climate.

Frea lifted her head and pivoted it to the entrance of the living area seeing Jacques moving down the hall to the cockpit. Frea was still in a haze from the rough sleep so she slowly got up from the bar and dizzily made he way to the hall. Once there she peeked down towards the cockpit seeing Jacques who was asking Argas something. Frea was unable to hear clearly because her helmets speakers were off. Noticing this she turned the speakers on and heard 'Are we there yet?'. Frea had wondered the same thing. Hyperspace had seemed to slow down so one could assume that they were approaching the destination. Frea quietly tip-toed down to the cockpit. Though it didn't help much since her suit was made of metal and it clanked against the Bolter's floor. The noise of her footsteps startled herself and sent a chill up her spine.

 

[The Lionheart]

Jacques arrived with fair speed, surprising the old man who had called him. Argas rubbed a hand across his chestplate, as if dusting off his armor, and absorbed both questions with a characteristic smirk. Jacques had a way of piling one query on top of another. The older warrior had learned to simply accept the fact that his young protege often had more to say than he did; and, in order to live comfortably beside one-another, he would have to tolerate the difference of style and communication.

"No and yes," Argas replied, as if on queue, "I just had another spasm. The cold isn't helping - you were wise to pack better than I for the journey; I didn't expect the climate control to give out so soon after buying a new engine. Now, I'll be an ice cube before we even make it down to Kruzeia."

There was a noise outside, and Argas' eyes immediately turned toward the door. On the other side, he spied Frea Svipul in full armor. She likely hadn't intended to intrude.

"Well, good," Argas accepted, "now I've got two messengers. Find Bilname and the droid (PA-34) and tell them both to be ready for the landing. As soon as we get to Kruzeia, we need to get out, find what we need, find Lucifius, and be on our way. It's not long until nightfall on the settlement's side, and I want cover of darkness for our task."

 

[Azium]

Blood trickled down his chest while Lucifius plunged a fourth vibro dagger into his chest. The under armor was soaked with the life essence, his gloves just as saturated. Streaks trickled down the throne's sides, pooling at his boots. The average man would be nearly be dead but Lucifius was a soldier, genetically altered by his own grasp of science, he was hardy and resilient. It was a blessing, but a curse when it came to trying to commit a slow and brutal suicide.

Snow had started to drifted in through the double doors, the wind so cold it was starting to freeze the banners lining the walls. The torches had distinguished, smoke curling up from the holders which rendered the massive room rather dark save for the light filtering in from the open doorway.

The sound of his right gauntlet hitting the arm of the stone throne reverberated while his coarse breathing overtook the silence. The minutes ticked by along with his life, the grief starting to lessen as the pain throbbed. He didn't have much time left.