Wednesday, September 29, 2010

[USS Charon] SD241009.29 - Memento Mori Plot Log "Alea Iacta est"

[USS Charon]

Green blood bubbled around the edges of the Vrelnec as the last Gai'Shian on the Charon's bridge attempted to speak.  Shiarrael stared at him, her cold and merciless gaze hinted disinterest as he gagged on his blood, she slowly twisted the blade causing the flow of blood to increase tenfold.  After a few short seconds he went limp.  Shiarrael frowned and removed the blade from his throat, she swung the weapon downward violently to shake loose blood stains sending green droplets splattering onto the carpeting.  With that dreadful deed done Shiarrael casually sheathed her weapon and took a moment to hover over the corpse before quietly making her way across the bridge to sit in her throne.  She tapped a few commands into her armrest console and spoke "we have retaken the bridge."  Her voice echoed through the corridors of the Charon "we will isolate all further resistance using the internal systems and dispatch security teams to eli-" she paused "forgive me, I mean 'apprehend' but should they resist they will certainly be eliminated."  She smiled wickedly as a thin stream of blood trickled down her forehead from a wound she had sustained earlier.  "Man your stations- we still have much to do if wish to live."

"Captain."  One of the officers that had accompanied her spoke up after her short speech.  He was standing over the tactical console "we have an issue..." he pointed at the view screen still playing with the console.  As the view screen lit up Shiarrael stood.  A bright blue hue illuminated the bridge.  The Endless Sky was hovering right in front of a massive wormhole.  "Itsak."  Shiarrael muttered.  Several war birds were pouring in as the massive D'Dherex ship waited.  "Will you truly perpetuate such a crime?"  Shiarrael whispered as the turbolift opened bringing more crew onto the bridge.  Time was running out.  She turned and nodded to the arriving crew.  "Sakarra..."  Shiarrael suddenly remembered upon noticing the absence of her Executive Officer she looked up "Computer where is Command Tyrax?"

"Commander Tyrax is not aboard the ship."

Shiarrael gritted her teeth and twisted around.  Her eyes honed in on the Endless Sky which dominated the view screen.  The massive war bird suddenly lurched and then slipped into the wormhole.  Time was up.  In the periphery of the view screen image she could see explosions "what is going on?"  She looked at the officer manning tactical wishing she could remember the young man's name.   

"I'm not sure Captain.  Several Romulan ships are engaging one another..."

"Ah,"  Shiarrael nodded her head in understanding.  The empire certainly would not allow a traitor such as Itsak to continue unimpeded.  "The Tal'Shiar have come.  Tell that new Engineer to work quickly here much longer would be unwise and certainly unhealthy."  She sat back down.  Soon, very soon, she would see the true makeup of this crew as they crawled into the jaws of death.

[Vulcan System, USS Shenfeng]

"Captain, the Vulcan ships are investigating a large neutrino surge just outside of the system.  I have asked them if they required assistance but they have informed me that they have it handled."

Captain Song settled uneasily into his command chair.  "A large neutrino surge out here?"  He shook his head.  That was odd but if the Vulcans insisted on handling the matter themselves he wouldn't bother them.  "Just keep an eye on it from a distance."  He turned his head away to glance at a PADD.

"Aye Captain...wait...Captain!  Detecting a massive Neutrino surge- right off the port bow!"

Song barely had time to glance up as the Shenfang rocked violently sending the crew from their seats.  Several consoles lit up in sparks and flames.  It was so sudden that the Captain had no time to digest what happened as red alerts Klaxons blared.  The view screen was thankfully unscathed in the mayhem and immediately lit up as his tactical officer practically leapt to the auxiliary console to get it up.  What he saw shocked his senses: a massive wormhole was forming just above the rustic glow of Vulcan.  As it erupted a shockwave ripped through several orbital structures sending a field of debris tumbling into nearby ships.  "Analysis now!  Bring us about and away from the oncoming debris field!"

"Analy- oh shit!"

From the mouth of the wormhole hell appeared.  Like a swarm of bees leaving their hive dozens of Romulan war birds poured forth.  Weapons arced from Vulcan's surviving orbital platforms but even that was not enough to stem the flow.  Song jumped to his feet "mercy.  Send a message to Starfleet now!  Vulcan is under attack!"

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

[USS Charon] SD241009.27 || Combat Log || "Honor Among Pilots...and Mercenaries?" - Lt. Leon Athalla & Aev Keirianh

“Honor Among Pilots..and Mercenaries?”


Ejecting a spent disruptor cartridge and jacking in a fresh power cell looted from a fallen Romulan soldier, Leon Athalla returned the pistol to the meager collection of weaponry he and the mercenary Aev Keirianh had assembled.  The two men had made their way into one of the Charon’s classrooms on the assumption that the Romulans would ignore such places.  On the floor lie two grenades of Romulan design, two disruptor pistols, a Romulan rifle, a Starfleet issue type-II phaser, one additional power cell, and a elegant Romulan blade of considerable craftsmanship.


Keirianh was currently monitoring communications with a captured Romulan communicator.  Athalla leaned back and folded his legs anxious to remove the black flight suit that clung to him like a second skin.  In a cockpit attached to proper equipment the suit provided heating, cooling, and oxygen to his body.  Unattached the suit was uncomfortably hot acting to seal in the pilot’s body heat and sweat creating a tropical, humid layer between the suit and his skin.  Athalla had already opened the suit as much as possible without hindering his agility or mobility, but in lieu of other suitable clothing he would continue to make do with the circumstances at hand.  While a naked pilot might work in their favor to generate shock and surprise when encountering the enemy it was hardly an ideal situation.


“Lieutenant, I believe your tactics are beginning to bear fruit.  It appears several teams have been diverted to deal with the situation in the hangar bay and surrounding areas.”


Athalla looked up at the Romulan mercenary and nodded.  “Setting off explosions lend themselves to such responses.  Any mention of Ambassador Lamont?  Any idea where they may have taken him?”


Keirianh slowly shook his head.  “Negative.  There have been no communications regarding the Ambassador on the limited number of channels I am receiving.”


Athalla nodded.  Moments before the ambassador had made a rather unusual speech to the crew over the ship’s intercom system.  The ambassador had urged the crew to fight which was ironic given the man’s mission to secure, promote, and maintain the peace.  Despite the plea, Athalla had noticed a pained quality in Lamont’s voice.  Faceless radio communications in fighters had developed his ear in recognizing subtle inflections in voices.  Experience had trained him in identifying excitement, fear, panic, nervousness, anger, sadness, and even pain.  The ambassador sounded tired in addition to being someone in a great deal of physical distress and discomfort.  He could only wonder what horrors the Romulans were inflicting upon him for his blatant defiance.


“It would seem this area is clear Lt. Athalla as the Romulans do not appear to deem the classrooms and teaching facilities aboard as a key strategic location.”


“Exactly why I chose this area”, Leon replied.  “We need a chance to think.”


Leon took the Romulan blade in his hand and ran his thumb along its long, razor sharp edge.  Even in the dim light the ceremonial blade seemed to possess a force waiting to be unleashed.  Neither malevolent nor pure the weapon simply resonated with strength as if it took on and amplified the intentions of those who possessed it.


“You mentioned something about thinking lieutenant”, came the voice of the mercenary snapping Athalla from his trance-like affixation.


“Yes”, Leon replied unable to immediately part with the blade his eyes transfixed to its clean, deadly lines.  How old was the weapon?  How many battles had it seen?  How much blood was it responsible for spilling?


“That is an Aleh lieutenant”, Keirianh stated pulling the earpiece of the Romulan communicator from his ear.  “A common term though the blade likely has a name given to it centuries ago and passed down from generation to generation.  Alas its name may never be known to us.  I can tell you that it appears to be quite old and was likely a prized and cherished possession of the fallen Romulan it was taken from.”


“I had no idea.  I only grabbed it in the…”


“Do not apologize.  Such is the way of things.  That soldier was not the first to lose a family treasure in addition to his life and will not be the last.  Pride yourself in the knowledge that you bested the soldier who wielded that blade.  It is rightfully yours paid for in blood.  So long as you maintain mnhei’sahe it will honor and serve you as it has those who have come before.  Its strength will become your own if you possess the will and courage to wield it.”


Leon had little knowledge of Romulan culture.  He did know the race had deep roots in honor and tradition much like their Vulcan cousins.  Sliding the silver blade back into its scabbard, Leon gently returned the weapon to the floor with care.  “Perhaps you should…”


“NO”, Keirianh quickly stated with a sudden passion.  “No.  My hands are forever stained and my heart too hard to touch yet alone wield an honor blade.  Too long have I strayed from the path of mnhei’sahe.  Far too long.  I doubt there is any way back for me.  No way back to what was – so long ago.”


The two men sat in silence for several long moments.  Athalla could not appreciate or understand the Keirianh’s words yet he could sense some tiny thread of regret and pain in his voice as he stared at the Romulan weapon.  Whatever the importance was attached to the blade, Athalla felt some odd connection to the inanimate object.  He seemed drawn to it for an unknown reason like a moth to a flame driven simply instinct or perhaps something more.


“What are the Romulans doing”, Leon asked breaking the silence between the two men.


“They are responding to your actions in the hangar as anticipated”, the mercenary replied.


Leon nodded.  “We must find a way to continue applying pressure.  We must find an advantage and exploit it if we are to fight back.”


“Lieutenant.  We are but two men against soldiers numbering many times our own strength.  Fighting against such odds will only result in death for us both.  That is a statement of fact not of cowardice.”


“You may be many things Mr. Keirianh, but from what I have seen you are anything but a coward.  However, I cannot sit still while the Charon is overrun.  We must fight back.  If you cannot then I will go alone.  I do not expect you to fight your own people.”


“I made enemies of my own kind long ago lieutenant.  I have no reservations killing those who deserve death.  Any Romulan who attacks in the manner I have seen is without honor and deserves neither mercy nor compassion.”


“Well at least we can agree on that.  Look I’m not planning on storming the bridge, but we have to keep up the pressure.  How would you characterize the Romulan forces currently?”


Keirianh replaced the earpiece and listened to the communications for a time before answering.  “They are stressed, but not defeated.  Anger is pervading their ranks.”


“Good.  Anger is good.  Negative emotions cause mistakes.  Mistakes work in our favor.”


“I sense you have a plan.  You have the look of a politician ready to strike a political rival.”


“Engineering is too big a target for the two of us to take alone.  Even if we did we couldn’t hope to defend it let alone do anything useful there.  Same goes for the bridge.  The Romulans likely expect such a thing.  So since we cannot go after the big prizes aboard I will settle for a dozen small ones.  All we need are some EVA boots and a few additional hands.”


“Forgive me lieutenant.  I am afraid I do not follow.”


“I’m talking gravity!  We go after gravity.  If we disable the gravity generators on each deck our Romulan guests will lose their advantages in numbers and coordination.  If they cannot move they cannot fight.  All we need are some magnetic boots, a few extra marines, security officers, hell anyone who can hold a phaser will work!”


“And these gravity generators – how do we access and disable them?”


Athalla flashed a tiny smile.  “I have no idea.  I couldn’t tell you a gravity generator from a hole in the deck.  However there has to be an engineer or maintenance worker around here who does!  We just have to find them.”


“Hmm.  Interesting.  The tactic is sound even if the odds are stacked heavily against our success.  However I must point out that each success, especially our actions in the hangar, will increase the peril to the ship’s crew on an order of proportional magnitude.  Already some soldiers are using events to justify killing prisoners.  Increasing the pressure upon them will only embolden my people to use violence as a means to an end.”


Leon picked up a disruptor pistol and shoved it into the holster built into his flight suit for a pilot’s side arm.  “A calculated risk Keirianh.  I would expect another to act if they were in my shoes and I in theirs.  We must do something.”


The two men quickly collected their tiny cache of weapons.  Leon grabbed a phaser leaving the Romulan blade alone on the floor before standing.  “We need to find others who are fighting back and join forces.  We’ll use that Romulan radio to listen for possible leads.  If we can scare up a tricorder perhaps we can use it to search for human lifesigns.”


“Very well.”  Keirianh stopped as Leon moved toward the room’s exit.  Moments later he felt a solid hand grab his shoulder and hold him back.  Suddenly the Romulan blade he had left behind reappeared before his face.


“Lieutenant.  Take the weapon.  It calls out for a new master and has chosen you.  Do not reject its power.  Embrace it and let its strength become your own.”


Leon looked at the foreign weapon again captivated by its presence.  He didn’t understand Romulan tradition or mysticism and understood even less the mercenary’s insistence he take the weapon, yet something within told him he could not refuse.  Reaching up, Athalla took the blade and affixed it to his hip.  Oddly, it felt almost natural as it settled into place against his upper leg.


Leon went to move, but remained locked in the mercenary’s grip.  His cold, stern eyes affixed themselves to his own as he spoke to the pilot.


“It has entrusted itself to you.  Do not dishonor that for which it stands.”


Leon said nothing.  Somehow he seemed to understand even if he had no understanding of the tradition surrounding the blade that had somehow affixed itself to him.  In that moment of clarity, Keirianh released his grip sensing the man understood.  No words were needed.  The blade and the man were now one.


Leon shot a curious glance at the mercenary who collected his belongings and moved into the next room almost as if nothing had happened.  Curious indeed.  Placing a hand on the blade at his side, Athalla quickly followed the mercenary hopeful they could locate others to help aid in the cause of creating chaos.


[ To Be Continued ]



Lt. Leon Athalla

Fighter Pilot


Aev Keirianh

Romulan Mercenary




<<  Ok all!  Let’s take the fight to the Romulans!  A certain half-crazed pilot and an equally curious Romulan mercenary need some help putting the hurt on Romulan soldiers.  If you’re interested in lending a hand (or rather a character) shoot me an email!  ( )  The more players who can help out on this little sub-plot the better!  Anyone who can hold a phaser is wanted.  Who said the marines should get to have all the fun – although they’re certainly welcome to join in the mayhem too!  That goes for computer generated avatars, medical staff, counselors (yes we might need a cool voice of reason somewhere though I can’t guarantee anyone will listen) and anyone else who has an itch to do their part to fight back! >>



Sunday, September 26, 2010

[USS Charon] SD 241009.25 || Joint Duty Log || Lt. Grax & Ens Fellos || "Blade & Bees: Part 1"

Lori Sanchez <> wrote to

"Blade & Bees: Part 1"

=/ Somewhere on the USS Charon \=

Jack heard the call to retake the ship. He sat there and looked at the
tricorders and took a deep breath. He left his combadge there to keep
the transmission going and made his way toward an exit grate.

Muttering under his breath, Merl checked the phaser rifle for what
seemed the uptenth time. Point and shoot. If it doesn't work, shoot
again. So much for that. Now all he needed was a target. Actually,
what he needed was a drink. Liberate the mess hall, now there was an
idea. It would have been nice if the funny Romulan engineer hadn't
taken off to kill his own kind with what the Betazoid felt was way too
much good cheer and enthusiasm. Running alone through a ship where
armed and cranky people could wait around any old corner wasn't his
idea of a good day. But ... he jumped when a maintenance hatch was
kicked open and two legs clad in what looked like a Starfleet uniform
emerged. Well, better than the other kind for sure.

Jack looked at him and nodded, "Hi." He was blinking and rather glad
he wasn't dead from being shot on scene at the moment.

Gold collar. And polite enough to greet a person holding a gun. Had to
be an engineer. Well, would have been to much to ask for someone who
could actually fire a phaser and hit what they were aiming at. "Hi to
you, too. Lost your rifle somewhere?"

"I grabbed this instead." Jack reached for the knife.

Merl gave the blade an appraising look and did his best not to rub his
temples "Right. Never mind I asked. So, where's the rest of your
group? Or did you get left behind, too, while everyone else is having
oh so much fun?"

"I was sending a transmission." Jack pulled out the tricorder, "And my
lifesigns are still masked. I can tweak it so it can mask us both."

The Betazoid blinked and finally did a mental somersault, noticing the
man's slightly disheveled look and definitely straightforward
thoughts. None of which involved having been sent out along with one
of the teams currently trying to retake the ship. "Transmission.
Right. I'm not sure I want to ask what and to whom, but I guess it
seemed a good idea at the time."

Looking at the tricorder like , well, a botanist at a mechanical
thing, Merl waved the rifle down the corridor "That might be helpful
for a sneak attack, yes. But I'm a terrible shot and no offense but
your knife won't impress armored Gai'Shian. But mask away, you never
know who might like to sneak up on two lone Feddies."

And then a thought occurred "Say, can you configure that thing to show
us where the Romulans are?"

"I made certain only Federation ships could see it. Captains at that."
Jack smiled, "The other one, I'm sure can." He pulled out the other
tricorder and tapped in something, "There we go." He held the
tricorder for the man to see.

"Fair enough." the Betazoid nodded and then frowned at the many green
lights. Too many. "You wouldn't happen to have an idea how we could
even the odds a bit, would you?"

"That we have on hand currently?" He looked at the tricorder again,
"These guys are in the medical lab." He chuckled a moment, "They've
got some nasty alien bees in there. If we can break the container and
close off that room, those jerks are never going to want to see a lab
again. That's if they live." Jack swallowed and the smile faded.
Horrid killers or not, he didn't like the idea of ending a life.


Jack Fellos, Engineer
Lt Merl Grax, Exobiologist (apb I-Chaya)
USS Charon

Saturday, September 25, 2010

[USS Charon] USS Charon || SIM Report #89 || SD241009.05 - SD241009.11

|                        ...Incoming Transmission...                    |
 /(          )\      ___________________________________
/  \        /  \
\/  \_ /\ _/  \/              U S S  C H A R O N
 \/ / \  / \ \/               "Ferrymen of Hell"
   \(  \/  )/        ___________________________________

                     Report #89  -  241009.05 - 241009.11

                                 "Memento Vivere"

/        O U T   O F   C H A R A C T E R   I N F O R M A T I O N        |


Active Crew: 09  
Excused Crew: 07  
Unexcused Crew: 02  
Crew on Leave: 06  

Charon Logs: 18  
Guest/NPC Logs: 07  

Late report

Full Report Here:

/                          T H E   C R E D I T S                        |

=/\= Captain Shiarrael t`Rehu
     Commanding Officer
     USS Charon

     "Mnahe afw'ein qiuu;
            rh'e hweithnaef
                   mrht Heis'he ehl'ein qiuu."

     (Hate has a reason for everything.  But love is unreasonable.)

     -V. Raiuhes Ahaefvthe [of Romulus II]




[USS Charon] USS Charon || SIM Report #88 || SD241008.29 - SD241009.04

|                        ...Incoming Transmission...                    |
 /(          )\      ___________________________________
/  \        /  \
\/  \_ /\ _/  \/              U S S  C H A R O N
 \/ / \  / \ \/               "Ferrymen of Hell"
   \(  \/  )/        ___________________________________

                     Report #88  -  241008.29 - 241009.04

                                 "Memento Vivere"

/        O U T   O F   C H A R A C T E R   I N F O R M A T I O N        |


Active Crew: 09  
Excused Crew: 06  
Unexcused Crew: 01  
Crew on Leave: 06  

Charon Logs: 18  
Guest/NPC Logs: 09  

Late report

Full Report Here:

/                          T H E   C R E D I T S                        |

=/\= Captain Shiarrael t`Rehu
     Commanding Officer
     USS Charon

     "Mnahe afw'ein qiuu;
            rh'e hweithnaef
                   mrht Heis'he ehl'ein qiuu."

     (Hate has a reason for everything.  But love is unreasonable.)

     -V. Raiuhes Ahaefvthe [of Romulus II]


[USS Charon] USS Charon || SIM Report #87 || SD241008.22 - SD241008.28

|                        ...Incoming Transmission...                    |
 /(          )\      ___________________________________
/  \        /  \
\/  \_ /\ _/  \/              U S S  C H A R O N
 \/ / \  / \ \/               "Ferrymen of Hell"
   \(  \/  )/        ___________________________________

                     Report #87  -  241008.22 - 241008.28

                                 "Memento Vivere"

/        O U T   O F   C H A R A C T E R   I N F O R M A T I O N        |


Active Crew: 11  
Excused Crew: 04  
Unexcused Crew: 00  
Crew on Leave: 07  

Charon Logs: 15  
Guest/NPC Logs: 11  

Late report

Full Report Here:

/                          T H E   C R E D I T S                        |

=/\= Captain Shiarrael t`Rehu
     Commanding Officer
     USS Charon

     "Mnahe afw'ein qiuu;
            rh'e hweithnaef
                   mrht Heis'he ehl'ein qiuu."

     (Hate has a reason for everything.  But love is unreasonable.)

     -V. Raiuhes Ahaefvthe [of Romulus II]


[USS Charon] SD241009.25 || NPC Log || Lucia&Marcello, Kulg'Rek 'la and the children of Charon

Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me.

(Giuseppe Verdi "Attila")



[USS Charon, Deck Seven, Children's Center]



The tall Gai'Shian stifled a yawn, looking incredulously at the hevam balancing three children on his lap while tossing a ball to a fourth. If his superior hadn't told him this was the very male who had thrown a fit worthy of a Deletham that saw its nest threatened, demanding outright that he be allowed to look after the 'bambini' – whatever that was – until this 'calamità' was sorted out … he would have believed someone had made a joke at his expense. For all intents and purposes, the dark haired, dark eyed human looked as harmless as the children toddling at his feet, a sweet nanny in lloannen'galae uniform. But apparently, he had managed to harry a higher-up enough to let him have his way and stay right here with the crew's offspring.  


And what a lot they were, those children. At least half of them mongrels of some sort, chewing on toys, babbling in a dozen languages and still they all seemed to understand their caretaker who spoke in a dialect that was admittedly almost melodious.

"No, no, cara mia. Seraphim, no. Is no toy, eh?" The human waved apologetically at another bored Gai'Shian who had come close to losing his rifle to an inquisitive teenage girl, and he appeared about as undisturbed by the incident as if the raucous Ktarian boy had merely thrown another piece of pastry at the armored soldiers who had invaded their realm. "È come il papa. Like father, little girl."


Not so little, the annoying gnat. But for the most part the human kept the children occupied, and the two Gai'Shian were well content to watch them here instead of having to listen to the probably inevitable whining and shrieking if they were tied up like their parents. At least the only missiles they had to dodge in here were sticky food items and plush animals. If there was one thing to be slightly nervous about it was that the other six guarding the door had dwindled to two, thanks to more patrols seeking out some even more annoying aliens.

Oh it had been quite interesting to see the arrogant Gale bitch dismembered like that, though the hevam naturally had thrown another small tantrum, coddling the children and demanding the broadcast be turned off. And they would certainly not mind a shot at finding that bastard who had done it, if only to show the oh-so high and mighty officers how you dealt with a situation like the one they had allowed to develop.  


The shorter, stocky Gai'Shian leaned out of the way of an enthusiastically tossed … something, vaguely resembling a Klingon Bird-of-Prey after a collision with an asteroid belt, and actually smirked at the little boy with the odd, thorn-like ridges on his forehead. A girl with spots running down the sides of her face stuck out her tongue at him and yet another mongrel complained bitterly about the lack of something called "cetch-ssahp". He felt just a tad reminded of his own siblings, unruly bunch that they were.


The only child who seemed even mildly disturbed by the fact that two armored Romulans with heavy rifles were watching them was a small boy, likely of Betazoid origin judging from the night black eyes and his discomfort was mostly expressed by shooting withering glares from the safety of the human's lap. Spirited lot, one had to give them that …

The sudden shouting outside made both Gai'Shian perk up, but there was no weapons fire or explosions, only … odd sounds. Very odd. As if people were arguing and banging pots together at the same …

"Che cosa? Ah, no. Marito."

"A fortunate man."


The first thing the Romulans saw when the doors slid open was a massive Klingon in full battle armor. To their credit, it took them less than half a second to go from baffled to combat ready, and only another good third of a second to raise their rifles. In another one third or so they might even have realized that there had been two voices speaking outside, a deep, rumbling bass and a cheerful female mezzo-soprano, and that the latter was as of yet unaccounted for.


Unaccounted for until something heavy and metallic made rather harsh contact with a head that was likely to have preferred if it had remained stuck in a helmet, stuffy and heavy and all. 

"Amore mio!"

Marcello's happy greeting of his beloved wife, soulmate and ferocious wielder of ironcast frying pans was drowned by three crashing sounds in rapid succession as one Gai'Shian collapsed in a heap on the floor and the other found his disruptor knocked out of his hand by a teenager using a chalkboard half again her size before a grey haired Klingon warrior took care of the rest. Rather thoroughly, though to the disappointment of several children he refrained from a battle howl and merely folded the Romulan in half.

"Ah, e signore Kulg'Rek. Buongiorno."

The Klingon grunted in reply which was about the friendliest greeting he managed while dragging the other two disheveled looking and quite unconscious Gai'Shian into the room, much to the delight of two girls who immediately made for the rifles and other assorted items of interest.

"Seraphim! Ragazza terribile! È pericoloso!"

The half Betazoid girl seemed unimpressed and checked the power cell, nodding with an expression reminiscent of a cat who had stumbled over an unexpected bowl of cream.

"Is filia di signore Falcon. Need no rifle for being dangerous." Lucia frowned at the dent in her second favorite pan and decided that some Romulans would deeply regret making her break her kitchenware again before she patted the teenager's head and went to explain to her husband why he should stop being useless.


Kulg'Rek for his part kept examining the Italian woman's forehead for any signs of ridges, however faint. There was something positively … Klingon about Lucia, and it wasn't merely the way she wielded that frying pan. Hand of Kahless, if she wasn't married he might be reciting love poetry and brewing tea this very minute.

Well, maybe the tea would have to wait until the current infestation of Romulans was dealt with, but … ah, it was a moot point anyways. Grunting with disdain, Kulg'Rek arranged the slightly disheveled creatures in a corner – some might say badly banged up but the Klingon felt they still were in excellent shape, what with being alive and all – and looked around for something to tie them up. Unfortunately, apart from some strings glued inexplicably to a Vor'Cha class cruiser smaller than his hand, there was nothing useful in sight. As far as he was concerned, breaking their necks would greatly simplify matters but Federations had funny views about killing vermin in front of young ones. Just to make sure the cursed creatures would at least sleep soundly for a reasonable amount of time, the Klingon resorted to the time-tested method of shaking them until they started blinking and then bopped each over the head again, and if he took a good amount of glee from the sounds his gauntleted fist made at impact … well, who could blame him, really.


The sound of rattling, squeaking and gurgling of liquids made the grey haired warrior look up and the sight before him was one he would not forget until the day he embarked to Sto'Vo'Kor. Likely not even after that.

A human male, near unrecognizable under the mass of plush creatures, toys and various food and drink items he had stuffed into his uniform and balanced on his arms along with two of the smaller younglings, his every move producing a cacophony of noises the Klingon hadn't even known were possible … while before him a small, black haired woman with luscious curves wielded a frying pan to emphasize her words. Words that sounded rather like a general explaining to her faithful troops why they were a bunch of morons.

Too bad he didn't speak Italian.


As respectfully as if he were in fact addressing the Chancellor herself, Kulg'Rek marched up to the pair, picking up a giggling Trill along the way so that at least the child would stop getting between his feet. "Madam, I strongly suggest we get the young ones to a more easily defended area. It won't be long until someone discovers these guards no longer answer the comm."

"Ah, ma certo. But what is you suggest we do with this, eh?" with a huff, Lucia pointed her pan at her husband who looked rather hurt. "You want I let bambini be hungry?"

"Oh, which one is eat … che cosa è?"

"Is fiorella Miriam's plush Targ, amore. Can no leave behind, bambina will be sad."

"Mr Marcello, how sad do you think the girl will be if her friend is shot on account of making more noise than an advancing army?" then again the Klingon had to admit all those toys could probably even absorb a full disruptor hit. If the Romulans even got off a shot before dying from shock. Or laughter.

Looking thoughtful, the Italian male began to examine the items on his person and shed several things that rattled and squeaked. In order to speed up the process, Kulg'Rek deftly stuffed the debated Targ into his armor and subsequently found a small human attempting to scramble up into his arm. If there was ever going to be a song about the glorious battle over Charon, he would have to make sure this part was conveniently overlooked. But it was rather touching to see those fearless little creatures – not to mention the two humans who refused to let a mere fleet of Romulans stop them from caring about their allies' offspring. While bickering. Enthusiastically.

"Madam, I think I have an idea."

"Eh? Ascoltando."

"When Kahless the Unforgettable was besieged in the city of …"

"Ah, si. Is good, story. Bambini will like. But later."

"Impacciato. Let Klingon talk. You know where to hide, signore?"

"Si." Kulg'Rek's grin was that of a warrior about to outfox a cunning enemy, and if nothing else, it convinced Lucia. Now all they had to figure out was how to squeeze the bulk of toys that was Marcello into a Jefferies tube.



[End Log]





Friday, September 24, 2010

[USS Charon] SD241009.23 || Duty Log || "The Problematic Profession of Peace -Part II" - Ambassador Ian Lamont

"The Problematic Profession of Peace -Part II”



His fingers pressed the badge activating the ship’s intercom.  Seconds later the ambassador’s cool, subdued voice echoed throughout the Charon…


“Attention all hands.  This is Federation Ambassador Ian Lamont.  Romulan forces have seized the Charon.  Many of you have escaped capture and have taken up arms against them resulting in injury and bloodshed on both sides.  While your struggle is noble such guerilla tactics cannot be maintained indefinitely.  Too many have fallen in this conflict which must soon reach a conclusion.  Needlessly perpetuating violence is not an option and cannot be sustained.”  


Lamont fought to keep his breath steady and voice clear despite significant amounts of pain and a swelling mass of anxiety and fear that was building within him like water beneath a geyser.   So anxious was the ambassador he could barely keep the hand clutching the comm. badge from shaking.


“I have been asked by our Romulan guests to aid in ending this strife and struggle.  It must be quickly ended so that no additional lives are needlessly lost.  I personally implore each of you to search yourselves for the courage and tenacity to end the violence.  Think of your fellow crewmen, think of the Charon, and for everything that your uniform stands for.  Do your part in bringing an end to this conflict by making the decks run green!  Wade into them!  Spill their blood!  Avenge those who have fallen in the line of duty and reclaim the ship….”


Lamont managed to fend off his furious Romulan captors just long enough to get in a few additional words as they tried to pry the communicator from his hand.  “…RISE UP!  RETAKE THE CHARON AND ENSURE…”  The open intercom crackled with static and went silent.


“YOU DISSAPPOINT ME AMBASSADOR”, the Romulan officer shouted tossing the communicator to the floor and crushing it under the heel of his heavy boot.  “I should have known not to trust a bastard human politician.  No matter.  Your call to arms will only result in more of the crew losing their lives.”  The Romulan smiled with a sinister grin.  “You have given us all the more reason to eliminate the crew Ambassador as my men will have no choice but to ‘defend’ themselves.  How does it feel knowing that instead of saving lives you have condemned dozens perhaps hundreds of your own people to the grave?”


The officer laughed with gusto.  “Has anyone here heard of an ambassador waging war?”  The Romulan soldiers in the room chuckled at the rhetorical question.


 “Even the human ambassadors, so called men of peace, cannot be trusted!  It pains me to think that our own diplomats do not show the same lust for blood as this human!  If they did the Empire would have already crushed the Federation out of existence!”


Lamont was suddenly hoisted into the air and slammed against the nearby bulkhead as the Romulan officer’s powerful arm and hand threatened to squeeze the life from the Ambassador’s throat.


“Shall we play another game Ambassador?  I grow tired of being made the fool.  Give me your computer access codes or I will remove you from the mortal coil.”


Barely able to breathe Lamont attempted to swallow what could be his last few sips of oxygen before he met his end.  His voice hoarse and at whisper due to the pressure on his throat, Lamont looked directly into the cold officer’s eyes, “Seeing as you will likely dispose of me anyway I decline.”  His final act of defiance was somehow reassuring.  If he died at least he did so with a clear conscious and with the knowledge that despite a strong desire to capitulate to the Romulan’s demands he had performed his duty and remained true to his ship and crew.  His words may very well be responsible for countless deaths however the Romulans had spilled first blood and deserved to answer for their crimes.  Who knew?  Perhaps his speech would spur on the valiant men and women that had eluded capture to achieve the impossible.  He had seen such things before and had long since learned never to bet against the sheer power of a determined, passionate individual.


The officer’s face grotesquely twisted with anger and rage at the refusal.  With a swift fist the officer struck Lamont in his bleeding shoulder causing the ambassador to shudder in pain trapped within his iron clad grip.  “GIVE ME YOUR ACCESS CODES!  If you refuse I will ensure your death with be excruciating and slow at the hands of someone far more talented in such arts.   We are lightyears away from the Federation and no one will be charging to your rescue at I’rak Prime.”


Lamont was barely able to remain conscious.  He was losing blood from his wounds and the pain tearing at his very soul was nearly unbearable.  Yet, despite a strong desire to simply surrender to unconsciousness or the unrelenting pain, Lamont still managed enough energy to reply.


“Fine”, he whispered weakly pinned to the wall as the officer maintained his chokehold.  “If you want my code so be it not that diplomatic access will grant you any spectacular military secrets. “


“The code is:  Golf, Oscar, Tango, Oscar, Hotel, Echo, Lima, Lima.”


The officer released Lamont who fell to the floor gasping for breath.  “Well perhaps you have some value after all ambassador even if you are a coward and a traitor despite your call to arms.”  The Romulan officer turned toward one of his soldiers.  “Ensure this is sent up the chain.”


Lamont managed a weak smile despite all that had happened.  It wouldn’t take the Romulans long to realize his code was in fact a cleverly disguised insult.  This Romulan officer obviously had little knowledge of human concepts.  Coughing up a mouthful of blood, Lamont fought to remain conscious as his life slowly seeped out of him moment by moment.  The Romulans need not kill him.  If he did not receive medical attention soon fate would deny them the pleasure of execution.


He briefly wondered if Captain Rehu would find humor in his ruse.  It was ironic now at the end he should be thinking about a Romulan officer he usually despised.  He inwardly chuckled.  Rehu would curse him for his perpetual stubbornness and stupidity had she been here.  He could almost hear her biting response.  If his fate was to perish here at least he would do so with one last act of defiance.  Irritating to the last – so be it.  Perhaps he would live long enough to see the anger and disbelief on their faces.


Lamont coughed several more times as mortality edged closer with each passing moment.  There was no way to negotiate with fate.  He was out of leverage, out of concessions, and out of time.  He hadn’t envisioned such an end and yet he could think of no place he would rather be than aboard this ship.  This ship and crew had grown on him despite his initial revulsion at his orders and assignment to the Charon.  His old life seemed petty and dull compared to the new one he had been thrust into so unwillingly.  Had the Charon changed or had he?  Such answers he would have to find in another place.



Lamont proudly lifted his head and smiled at the enraged Romulan officer as his angry words reached his ears.  He silently wished for Rehu was here if only to push him out an airlock as she had so many times threatened to do.  Sensing his end approaching the airlock seemed preferable for what was about to occur.


As the Romulan officer approached to exact revenge for the ambassador’s deception, Lamont broke into spontaneous laughter.  Gone were his fears, doubts, and even his pain.  Laughter simply bubbled out of him from some unknown spring filling him with contentment.  The officer’s face had been priceless and he would always remember it even if that memory was to be short lived…


[ To Be Continued ??? ]



Ambassador Ian Lamont

Diplomatic Advisor

Thursday, September 23, 2010

[USS Charon] SD 240910.22 Duty Log Brevet First Lieutenant Brent Warren

=/\= USS-Charon Unknown Location =/\=


Brent had been alone since he had lost track of Jade, his own killing having taken him down a solo path of death and destruction.  He had heard them beg.  Some of them told him to think of their loved ones.  That they had not wanted to rebel against the Empire, but feared for their lives if they disobeyed the Vaek'Riov.  The Marine normally shut them up by slicing their throat, or simply tearing their head off and placing them in their laps.  He was reloading the Gai'Shian pistol that he had taken from the corpse of the first Romulan he had killed.

All in all it wasn't a bad weapon.  He had a few extra clips with him.  Rugged and good for getting the job done if you needed to kill someone in a hurry.  Low clip capacity though, probably because all there was is kill shots in the pistol.  Either way if he lived through this event he would have to hold onto the pistol.  Another war trophy.  He exhaled, looking down at his hands.  They were covered in green blood and the gore associated with brain matter and the other gruesome acts that he had committed while the Charon had surrendered without a fight.

He stowed the Romulan pistol before he looked again at his pistols.  How many.  How many Romulans had he torn apart, rendered asunder with his bare hands, using his birthright in a moment of pure unadulterated rage.  She had been taken.  Gods she had been taken and he could do nothing about it before she had been removed from the ship.  He wasn't stopping the Romulans  to take back the ship, he was murdering them.  Revenge killing.  He could tell that somewhere she was still alive, he couldn't sense any more than that but he knew deep down that she was not dead.  His vision blurred, first his left eye and then the right.


Was she dead?  He hadn't been able to feel her in some time.  She had to have been far away...  On another ship by now.  He didn't know if she had been killed or worse...  What would he do.  What should he do now?  More blurred vision.  More tears.

It was then that he felt it.  Somewhere, somehow... He felt her.  Pride.  Something involving him.  Pride in him.  She was alive.

The Marine Lieutenant rose to his feet.  She was alive.  Probably in that command ship.  There were no more tears to be shed.  There was only action to be taken now.

=/\= Cargo Bay 7 =/\=

The guards had been thinned out.  Fewer were being kept on the Starfleet prisoners, mainly reassigned to hunt for Brent and Jade...  With fewer guards, Brent had the chance that he was looking for.  Only five Gai'Shian were in the cargo bay.  Three of them were standing above on the walkway that made the second level of the cargo bay.  They would need to be dealt with first.  The artificial light brought in after Brent had the power killed to the Cargo bays cast great shadows.  It was in those shadows that Brent moved.  They had surrounded the only jeffries tube access point to keep the prisoners from escaping.  Some bloodwine and a few boxes of gods know what.  Brent had the fortune that two of his Marines were leaning against the boxes in question.  In the shadows a few items were passed, pistols.  Two PPE's were given to the Marines, they were armed.  Unfortunately they were still in their athletic gear, as they were captured while doing PT.

Brent told them as quietly as he could to find a bit of cover and when they heard the first few shots to kill the guards on the door.  They nodded quietly, hiding their pistols in the darkness and their clothing before they came around to behind a few containers, leaning against them to help reinforce their apparent boredom.

Brent disappeared into the junction and moved up onto the second level of the cargo bay.  In the darkness on the far side of the catwalk, the door opened.  Brent had to move quickly as one of them had heard something.  The first two blasts announced the presence of an intruder to the guards.  The quick bursts cut down the two Romulans without so much as a bit of return fire.  The Marines below to their credit fired only a few seconds after they heard their CO shoot.  The Romulans below, attempting to move into a position to get a good shot at Brent, were cut down before they could even raise their rifles.

The third Gai'Shian however fared a bit better.  He gets off a pair of shots that were surprisingly well aimed.  The first one removed Brent's shield before the second slammed into his shoulder.  Most of the blast was deflected by the armor there, but enough of it got through to do serious damage to Brent's left shoulder.  He dropped his PPPe, but finished the job with the stole Romulan pistol, two hits landing in the Gai'Shian's chest.  Brent jumped down to the cargo bay level, using his belt to soften the blow as his hand immediately moved to the injury, frowning as he felt the bleeding and charred skin.  Not now.  Now was not the time to be injured.

"No time to explain.  Come with us to my armory.  We'll arm any of you that have combat skills.  The rest hold up in the jeffries tubes.  Any and all Engineers come with us.  We're taking back Main Engineering," Brent said, already having a plan for what was to come next.

Brevet First Lieutenant Brent Warren
Marine Commander

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

[USS Charon] SD241009.21 || Personal Log "Vox clamantis in deserto" Part III || LtCmdr Sakarra Tyrax, Vaek'Riov Itsak tr`Sahen

Ce qui embellit le désert, dit le petit prince, c'est qu'il cache un puits quelque part...

("What makes the desert beautiful," says the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well.")


[IRW Endless Sky, Leih's quarters]

Lunikkh ta'avik. Poisoner of wells. She had called him that, the day he had finally tasted the triumph of having her in his power, the day his knife had cut into her supple skin just as the machine had torn away that veneer of logic. He had wondered, like a curious child wonders about a sleeping Volcano or a seemingly inactive power socket, what might happen if one of the tasteless, bland creatures were forced to … feel. And like a cruel child he had begun to tear the feathers off his pretty captured bird, shattered its wings, cracked its frail bones one by one.

Poisoner of wells. An ancient incentive, none a follower of Surak would use in their right mind, for it implied more than mere hatred for an enemy. Hate and fury, passions that could change as quickly as the Vulcan heart beat, and the foe you battled so cheerfully today might be your ally tomorrow. But the poisoner could not be forgiven, would be despised and shunned, not even granted the sword but forced to drink of the water that would be his death. Drink, to the very last, bitter drop.


Itsak was beginning to taste the bitterness of a victory won at too great a price.

Anger he had expected, arrogance and in the end, fear and despair. Had reveled in the thought of the aristocratic face wet with tears, to hear that level, melodious voice falter as she begged for her life. And had been stunned by the sheer heat of her fury. Amazed, and at long last, impressed. Enchanted.

But it had not resurfaced, only sunk as if to the bottom of the mountain, simmering in the impenetrable depth. No, he was no longer expecting to break that stubborn will, to ever hear those sensual lips utter a plea. Too many times had he been on the brink of taking that last, irrevocable step, snap the slender neck under his hand, drive the sharp blade into her side. Every time her eyes had dared him to do it, every time that proud face had lifted to defy him, no matter what he had done to her.


She was sleeping, sleeping at last. Unable to deny a beaten, battered body driven to exhaustion the rest it needed any longer, she had stretched out under the silks and it was the one, the only time he ever saw the lithe, slender body devoid of tension. Even her face was different, softer, but distant. So distant, he wanted to reach out and cup it in his hands, demand to see what it was that could bring about this expression, demand that she look at him this way …

He dared not stir, not even to reach out and pull the shimmering silk over her bare shoulder, outlined in dim silver against the starlight that filtered through the window. So close, he could feel the heat radiating off her skin like the desert soil breathes warmth long after night has fallen. But he knew the lightest touch would be enough to wake her, make the dreamy, almost tender shadow over her face disappear.


In the utter silence of his quarters, Itsak clenched his hand into a fist. The desire to pull her close, make that warm, supple body mold against him, bury his face against the neck marred by his own knife … it was overwhelming, and it was futile. Oh, she would not fight, scratch, bite. She never did.

Only locked herself somewhere deep, defying him with a body that did not resist and still refused to yield. Refused to give but a second of what he had realized he wanted.

I know what you want …

A voice as silk and velvet, melancholy, almost gentle were it not for the steel beneath. She had told him, that first day, even as his blade cut lines of emerald over her steadily moving chest.  

And what is it I want, Vulcan?

She had known, even before he did, and denied him ever since. What he hadn't done to see at least the fury again, hear her curse his name, something, anything that told him he held sway over even the tiniest part of her soul, could hurt her, make her feel, feel … anything.


If only she would fight, snarl, throw things at him, destroy his quarters and dig those pearly teeth into his hands, kick with all the surprising strength in those long runner's legs … he could laugh and shout back, struggle and argue, revel in the heat of her anger and seek a million ways to soothe it. One part, only one part of her soul that was locked away in a fortress nothing could breach, and if it was the one that hated him. He yearned for it as a man dying in the desert prays for water.


A human speaking of the thin line between love and hate will only be met by calm, uncomprehending gazes on Vulcan. For to those born under Nevasa's merciless light, the metaphor is severely lacking in accuracy. There is no line. There is a gulf, a canyon, an ocean, too wide to cross in anyone's lifetime. No, if anything, they are one and the same. Not even sisters, or twins, but threads so entangled and interwoven none can separate them without destroying both.

When one points out the seeming contradiction, it will likely be met with more puzzlement.

Vulcans have always loved their enemies, though not precisely in the way a gentle man who walked a distant planet, a different desert, had suggested. But with the fierce, untamable enthusiasm of one roused to feel one's own heart beating, drink the air as if it were life itself. How can you not love the one who makes your blood run faster, makes you taste the sweetness of fury, lets you be alive … what does it matter who dies, who lives to hate and love another day? There is no contradiction in mourning a hated enemy. Nor in love that kills.


Your sire was negligent, Vaek'Riov.

I will not debate that, lady Vulcan. But you did not merely say that to raise my ire and make me kill you. Because you know I won't. Not yet.

Quite so.

Never his name. Not once had she said it, not even in anger.

Outside the window a Warbird gracefully tipped over one wing, a silent dance in the eternal night. Once he had believed it would soothe the unceasing pain, the sharp blade tearing at his heart to defy them all, become by struggle and merit that which others had thrown at their feet from birth. But it hadn't. Oh, there was a sweetness to power, a satisfaction to staring at those who looked down their noses at the half breed with the knowledge they would not dare speak disrespectfully in his presence. Or at least, not do so and expect to live.

But at the end of the day, there was always the emptiness, the unfulfilled promise. The cold, hollow void that nothing could fill, until in the end there was only the spark of hatred left to keep a living, beating heart from freezing. Until you turned to that hate and vengeance like one turns to a flame at night, cold and lonely in the dark. Until every flame became hate, had to be hate, for nothing else had ever kept you warm. But one thing about staring into the fire too long is that it can make you blind to other light.


Shiarrael. Everything he could have ever desired, she had been given … and thrown it away, with both hands. Not thrown, hurtled, kicked, dashed, shattered. Stubborn, infuriating, ungrateful, selfish Shiarrael. He had nearly convinced himself she deserved his hatred as much, if not more than anyone else. Then why was it that in his mind he kept seeing the innocent infant with eyes like his own, dozing peacefully in her mother's arms; the willful, indomitable child that made him laugh against his will, defended him so angrily against his grandfather; even the defiant, angry creature drenched and bloodied after one of her illegal Kormerek matches… and could not hold on to the hate, felt it slip away like mist before the sun.


Even her. Shiarrael's Vulcan. Twice the despicable creature, born of a race that reveled in their perceived superiority, cast away all feeling and believed it gave them the right to treat others as if they were just as heartless. A fool could see the finely chiseled features of a noble born, the perfect, elegant mannerisms of one raised to more than play lapdog to a disgraced Rihanha commanding a pitiful excuse for a starship. And yet it was obvious she had done just that, run away just like her Commander, selfishly abandoning her heritage to do as she pleased.  

 No. I want my OWN life.  You don't understand!
Because I am half Vulcan?
No- not because of that- it's because you've never been imprisoned by expectation!

Expectation? I envy that Shiarrael…

Two birds, fleeing what they perceived as cages, seeing the kindred spirit in the other? Or merely two stubborn creatures out to bend the universe itself to their will, arrogant and never caring about the hurt they left in their wake? Itsak was no longer sure he knew.


The scent he remembered so well was clinging to her again, warm, exotic, whispering of cloudless skies and air so clear, so sharp it cuts like a blade. Shadows, deep and rich as velvet, and a hidden spring in the hills, sweet and clear … rose petals, floating on the surface. He could see it, felt as if he had but to reach out to trace the thorny little flower clinging to life among the rocks and sand, the rich, vibrant blossom … like a memory, only he had never set foot on the dry, inhospitable planet where this rose grew, and it was not his hand reaching into the water. Nor hers, or his father's.

He obviously failed to convey even the fundamental … aspects of your heritage.


Without him even noticing, his fist had opened and he was letting his fingertips graze over the mass of sable curls, the luxuriant abundance spilling over the pillow, the silks. Shimmering black against the pale aquamarine, bathed in starlight. He didn't reach for the finely tapered ear, the smooth temples, the graceful curve of her spine disappearing under the fine spun cover.

Asleep. Still asleep. But it seemed as if he were the one dreaming.

A smile. Oh so fleeting, he might as well have imagined it. With her face turned away, towards the star dotted darkness, it was easy to believe in a trick of light … but he was sure. Sure that for an instant he had seen the face she had showed her lover, the Vulcan he had slain … or had he?


Once more Itsak resisted the impulse to grab her, shake her, force her to tell him, let him see what was hidden at the bottom of the well, beneath the barrier of those luminous black eyes. Break the magical moment, the stolen time, the silence. Dare one last desperate assault at the fortress of her heart, her soul, the secret hidden away from prying eyes.  

And then he nearly laughed, low and bitter, his fist buried in the fragrant tresses.

She would not surrender. Like the flower after the storm, again and again she rose and turned her eyes to the sun. It had sealed his defeat. And if only for one heartbeat he believed she would forgive, Itsak would lay his sword at her feet like the warlords in the old stories and await death … or life. Either would be welcome.


Poisoner of wells. By his own hand, the water that could have been redemption, deliverance, hope … had turned bitter and foul.

Nothing left.

Nothing but vengeance, and even that flame had turned to ashes.


The shriek of the comm rang so loudly into the silence, he cursed and his head snapped up, but his piercing gaze only found empty air to bore into "Fvah'lla!"

Hanaj's smooth, unperturbed voice answered, with barely a hint of smug satisfaction "The test was successful, Rekkhai. We are ready to depart within the hour."

"Good. I will be there shortly."

One hour, and even this fleeting dream would be no more.

Not that it had ever been more than a dream.

Dark, dark eyes settled on him and he could not even summon the razor sharp smile of triumph, take pleasure in telling her it was her world which would die soon. Only one last flame was burning, one pitiful glimmer in the dark, and he turned to it with relentless determination. "It was not him, was it. The thaessu. I should have known."

No answer, only that unnaturally silent gaze, fierce like the sun beating down on a dead, empty desert. He grabbed her by the neck, pinned her onto the bed, murderous fury in his eyes. "Who!"

And if he had to search Charon himself, every deck, every corridor, every dark hideout, he would find and kill him. Kill the rival who had been freely given what he was denied, but not before he had made him suffer, told him in excruciating detail what he had done to his lovely prize, and would yet do.



For the first time in what had seemed forever, she spoke, and it was only to return the words he had given her once. "Have no fear, Vaek'Riov."

Amazing, even now her musical voice was still the same, rich and resonant, water and velvet, the low, deep ringing of a bronze gong. "He will let you know."





[End Log]