Dec 09 20:43:08 105 PA
From Chronicles
Weather at Wed Dec 09 20:43:08 105 PA (-1.03C, 30.15F): A surprising amount of small white flakes fall from the heavens, despite the few wispy clouds overhead. Intangible breezes toss and twirl the flakes between trees and structures.
It is a bit of distance away from Kingsdale. Not so far as to really constitute wilderness but perhaps an easy ten kilometers away. Just enough for trees to truly begin to take hold again. And it is late at night, meaning that it is relatively quiet. A short distance from the main road a wonderful machine is parked. Roughly twelve feet long it is about the size of a typical two door, wheeled car but that is about as far as the resemblance goes. This creature bears two short wings near to the back and huge, powerful turbines. Underbody and directional thrusters are scattered across it and a sleek look and multiple stylistic cues speak of something built for speed. But the lines are not of this world. Near to this alien creature of speed is a very tall bonfire. Someone has gone to the effort of building something a good four feet tall. What is odd however, are the blue flames; speaking of either magic or a chemical added to it. That and something else. The smoke does not smell as it should, rather something sweet, harsh, repulsing and intoxicating all at the same time. Before it, sits an armored figure; staff crossed across his lap. A pair of ports in the 'feline' nose are opened, deliberatly comprimising the environmental systems.
The distant whine of a rocket grows steadily louder as a flying figure spots the odd bonfire and zips in closer. Vargus pulls up and hovers in the air, looking around down at the strange vehicle and the strange flames. He spots the figure next to the fire and head tilts slightly to the side. Curiosity grabs hold of him and he descends, alighting easily on the ground a dozen meters away down the road. He makes his way up on foot, stopping with his form bathed in plenty of light from the fire to be seen. His chitin-armored head inclines to Rath'tklan as the form of the metalic eagle finally catches up and lands on Vargus' shoulder. "Evening... hope I'm not interrupting you. But... saw the fire from above, and it cought my attention."
Little highlights of metallic blue and chrome reflect from the nearby hovercar as Vargus descends. Rath'tklan's only visible reaction is to reach to his helmet and press a hidden stud and shift from standard vision modes to something that is more permissable for viewing who the other is. And then he goes back to standard opics as the other descends. "Greetings." He says, with just a tiny touch of an extra slurr or accent to him. Barely enough to notice but still present if one is very, very perceptive. "You are the human Vargus, if this one's recolection is correct. If so, you are not interrupting me. My task here is for the most part finished as it is."
Vargus nods assent as he approaches the perimeter of the fire, as he is recognised. "Task?" He looks from the fire, to Rath'tklan, to the hover vehicle. "What're you up to, out here in the dark, just north of the middle of nowhere?" He finds a convinient thingy to sit upon, and does just that. As he leans himself down his familiar chitters a little and hops off his shoulder to alight in a tree a little ways up, and a little ways off. Here next to the fire, gill-like structures on the armor's neck area can be seen open and active.
Rath'tklan nods his head in a reverent manner; the gesture exagerated in the slightest in the way of someone who has imbibed some sort of intoxicant. And given the rolling scent from the flames, it stands to reason that they are most likely the source of this. "Today is the Grak'tnor. It is a day observed by . . . . a special few among this one's kind. Held is the belief that those this one, or any one has killed, so long as they met their deaths with honor are worthy of rememberance. Once per solar cycle there is a day devoted to them. It is a very ancient tradition that is meant to bring honor to both the living and the deceased, even if they were prey. There is no dishonor in being taken by the better warrior."
Vargus's insectoid goggle-like things are fixed on the fire, the blue flame refracting in and all over through the faceted lenses. When Rath'tklan finishes his explanation, Vargus turns to the other and nods his head. "...I see. An interesting rite. Is it to appease their spirits to keep them from haunting you in the now? They were worthy, you honor them, and they leave you along afterwards?"
Rath'tklan thinks about this for a moment or two. It is a question that he finds surprisingly worthy of his consideration. "This one believes that it is less to do with spirits returning to cause trouble as it is simply to honor those who were worthy and to ensure that they are not forgotten. Would that not be the greatest insult to a worthy one?" It is a rhetorical question apparently because he continues, using the base of his staff to poke at the fire some and cause the flames to rise a little more. "This one also believes that it is meant to provoke consideration and reflection upon those who one has taken to remind of the reasons for doing so and judge one's actions to see if they were correct or wrong. This one keeps a record to that end."
Vargus nods his head. "Yeah, for a warrior to not remember a worthy foe. I think that would be a very grave insult." Vargus sits watching Rath'tklan for a few moments. "So.. do you mind if I ask you where you are from? What your people call themselves? I've never run across a being such as yourself.. nor encountered a culture like yours. I get the impression that the lot of you are a culture of warrior-poets."
"The poet is perhaps unique to this one. I am not a typical one of my mind. Far away, worlds spin. In another Galaxy there is a great empire that spans hundreds of star systems known as the Atorian Empire. It has existed for thousands of years and travels via technological means, but it is an evil empire that respects neither life nor their own ancestors. One day, they arrived in force in orbit of a back-water little world that did not have the capability to defend itself. Steeped in tradition and armed only with black-powder weapons they attempted to resist but were overcome. Their bravery was admired and negotiations were entered, giving the conquerers permission to use their world in exchange for making its people their claws; providing them with technology and giving them a role in their star-spanning armies. And so, the Atorians came to that backwater little world and built machines that spewed pollutants into the air, the sea and the land until the very elements had turned against them. The backwater little planet became a radioactive diasaster. And the Atorians did not keep their word. Here and there, the people were taken....but most who left did so by their own means after galactic contact was established. Slowly, the people learned to use Atorian things. They fought with each other to keep their Atorians complacent... until one day, the rebellion began, when one of them assassinated the Atorian Duchess that controlled the world. More than that, I cannot tell you. They are the Pantherans; this one's people."
Vargus leans back on his elbows as his listens. "Atorians. Pantherans." He absorbs the words, then after a long few moments he shakes his head. "Neither I've run across in my travels. I ended up on a world, once, I still don't know where I was.. but they were in the middle of some kind of revolution against a dictatoral regiem. I stayed with them for maybe a year, they tought me how to fight, and how to think while fighting. They were an odd mix of peoples. Humans, elves, wolfen... and some other things that I never found out. Some totally black, liked to stay in the shadows, and were powerful line walkers. They said they were the eff-doubleeue-elle. Never found out what it meant."
Rath'tklan nods, listening. "This one does not know those words, or that place. Though finds it admirable that you spent your time to help a cause you did not fully know." There is a pause for a moment, thirty seconds or so. "This one killed the Atorian Duchess." It is perhaps a sudden confession. "Such things are not always considered honorable, the way this one does things. But it is his way, for one must accept and bear certain dishonour for others to life; to be safe and to life. And so this one has taken for his people for a very long time, accepting sometimes some dishonour to do so. And so the Grak'nor has special meaning for this one. Now, in a strange twist the dishonored one finds himself expected to teach an honored one how to be Pantheran."
"Ahh, the other I've heard mentioned?" Vargus asks after another pause. "I got the feeling they were young, or something when they arrived here, and so knew little of their own culture?" He shifts a bit where he sits, looking down to make sure the large fire keeps the falling snow from him. "What are your thoughts at the act of the Duchess' death? Or the thoughts of other Pantherans? It seems to me the act was the first step in freeing a people from opression and lies."
"No." He says, bluntly. Not seemingly trying to be rude, just a cultural thing. "Magic is new to Pantherans. There were some who, after magic was learned were sent through portals to unknown places and dimensions at a very young age. It was believed that of these ones, one of these would find the means to free our world. This was before the rebellion began, but a very powerful prophecy. One day, this one led a mission to kill an Atorian scientist who was experiementing with dimensional travel. This one arrived here in the retreat. A random place; a random world, that had one of the lost ones upon it. This one cannot pass by the signifigance of that."
Vargus nods, smiling a little. "I see." He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow furrows in throught. "Not sure what I think about technological breeches like that." he looks over to Rath'tklan again. "Was anyone hurt in the result? Were you the only one that made it through? Technology doesn't seem to handle dimensional travel very well. It's too cold, too unfeeling. With magic, it more reads your intent and it takes care of the details. I could rip over a rift right now and it would be stable. Sure, it may lead to a random place... but at least it's not going to collapse suddonly, or explode or something."
"That would depend on the technology that one uses, Human Vargus. There exists such things as to flip starships from one end of the galaxy to another. My team emerged all alive, most returned to our world to continue the fight. I was asked by an Elder to remain here to keep an eye on the Lost One. This one is... unhappy here in many ways, happy in others. Tainted though it may be, he misses his home and disagrees with the reasons the Elder left him here. In addition to the lost one, it was said that every Atorian within a thousand parsecs would be looking for me. But that is nothing new." The assassin turns, peering into the fire for a moment. "To answer your question, the Duchess was killed in her bedroom alone. There was no honor in it. Was there honor in beginning the rebellion? This one does not know, he will be judged when he dies. But this one believes that there is honor in accepting the dishonor of doing acts that no others are willing to do, for their benifet. Does this make sense to Human Vargus?"
Vargus nods agreement, and stands up. "I understand the concept, yes. But not why you earned dishoner in the act. *You*," and he stresses the word, "enabled your people to stand up and tell these Atorians that 'No! We will not be mislead any longer!'" He holds out his hand, palm flat out, for empasis. "I'm not a warrior. I know how to take care of myself, but, I'm an archeologist by trade. I poke around in the dirt and find what ancients may have left behind, and find out how they lived. I would say, that a lone individual who gives his people the courage, or the motivation to free themselves was noble. Was this Duchess a worthy kill? I would say no. Tyrants seldom are, since they rule by fear. However.. was the kill worthy? I would say yes. Through stealth and guile a single individual bypassed a planetary ruler's entire security force, past countless sensors and detectors to pick up intruders and entered a private sanctum. One that I would guess had never been penetrated before, and in a swift motion, drew a line in the sand that told the Atorians that the Pantherians had had enough, and would not be treated as slaves." He shrugs his shoulders and starts to rearrages the cloak on his back to clear the nozzles of his jetpack. "Nope, not a warrior. But, I've seen the evidence of heros before, in the dirt, under rocks. Today I saw it by a fire in the snow." He turns square to Rath'tklan and bows his head and shoulders. "You may not consider yourself one, but, it's really not about you, you know? Heroes don't do what they do for themselves..." He stretches, causing his back to pop a few times. "I need to get back to the city.. I'll see you around, humm?" You have just received a vote. Your vote has been recorded. Tags: rath'tklan, vargus [[Category:Rath'tklan]
