Short Story: A Cold Fate (Part 1)

'Hold the blighted line!' The call runs through the quivering ranks bolstered only by fresh recruits and wounded men just as fresh off a stretcher. Coldflame and the plague wasn't what he'd expected when he signed on for yet another tour and declined further rest as his status freely supplies him with.

Another dragon made solely of bone and dark magic passes above, a searing wave of cold obliterating another newblood unlucky enough to hold his head up over the trench. Each death cut into the raven-haired man's soul with biting fury, a heckling of life. Were they not careful, they'd fight their own at sunset.

'Get your ass back down, Sergeant!' A sharp tackle of forged metal smashes into the distant man as his Captain shoulders him to the ground. A numb pain, almost a salvation in itself from the icy cold. It was the desert all over again, only now his friends lost themselves in the snow, and not the sand. Glazed eyes scan over his already rising superior, stunned to see him care for anyone but himself.

Cassian scrambles from the ground weakly, the armour offering a measly assurance of protection from the weapons of mortals only hampering him further as it had this far. The only reason to wear it was paltry shielding against the bites of the unliving, and even then you'd manage just long enough to have your face torn off instead. Chaos surrounds him entirely. They're not even truly in combat, and they're facing heavy losses. The sweep of bone dragons above, and the occassional swarm of living corpses still carrying the insignias that mark them out as Cassian's old friends and companions. Barely anyone was alive that he knew. New faces came every day, and vanished just as fast. This is hell, and we're not even close to any 'Gate'.

That he was alive was a mere stroke of luck. There was no being exceptional in these cold wastes. No heroes from the south as he and his friends had been told they were. Certainly, when they came in on the boat, the already present took to a morale boost, and you'd find the occasional soldier who asked about the legendary 7th who'd staved off the end of the world before, assumingly.

It faded just as quick however. Recruit or veteran, you fell to the cold. The unnatural breaths of the sky-kings. You too, would rise as a soldier in the army you fight to destroy, the moment you gave up. And everyone gives up. In this place, your spirit falls the first day. Cassian shudders, another breath exuded slowly. Not even a day of warmth and comfort would save him from returning to this.
Warmth. The mere word makes his stomache churn and his throat yearn for something other than water that'll freeze your veins solid. The keep they had left behind them in the safety of the mountains, a whole town built in the icy north, seemed so far away, long lost to the storming winds and the hidden glaciers trapping them ever further north. That their maps were blank didn't exactly help either.

'Incoming!' A young soldier screams at the top of his lungs, trudging through the heavy walls of snow before the trenches in an effort to cast himself back into safety. Cassian only finds him with his eyes in time for the youngling to see his call rewarded by a sweeping shape from the sky, another black monstrosity hidden in the deadly winds. Claws and bone clasp onto the helpless man, and his screams for help vanish into the howling night before anyone can truly muster some sort of defence or aid. Cassian's greatest fright comes at the notion that he'd expected it well and truly.

The warning rings true, however. Silhouettes begin to make their presence jarringly known on the closeby horizon at a steadily nearing pace, sending a wave of determination through the demoralized defenders. Cassian casts himself back down into the trench, hiding himself from view to tug at his sword. Tightens his fist around it. They usually never got this far back in the trenches. That is, until his companions in the first trench rose to unlife, and Cassian and his secondary row of defenders would be the new frontline.

Short Story: Lost and Found (Part 1)

Were there air to support it, the pathetic hyperspace enginges on the rickety old craft would leave a massive bang in the area as the engine tore a hole in time and space, finally emerging at it's new location. Heavily fallen into disrepair, laser turrets refitted on the old cruiser to work as mining tools instead, the old spaceship was nothing but a true hunk of junk. Still it seemed fit for flight.

"Report, Master Pilot Xrii." The commander gives, their native language a series of clicks and wheezes supported by the black toxin masks they wore for safety.

"We are still approximately seventeen years away from the Fleet, Commander. With no homing beacons powered, it is not even certain they're there when we-.."
Could his eyes be seen behind the jury-rigged pilot mask, they'd be narrowed, his tattered comm device picking up something on wavelengths long abandoned.

"Speak, Master Pilot. Do not disgrace yourself with silence."

"Listen for yourself, Commander."

The young pilot offered over the dated headset, a furious Commander hoisiting it to his ear.

"What is it, Master Pilot?"

"I believe it's a distress signal, Commander."

The Commander wheezed an angry sigh, discarding the headset swiftly. "Out here? Open the scanning devices."

A quick pull of a rusted lever sees the front of the ship slide away it's main hull, revealing massive, shaded windows. The two men stared out into the reaches of space before them, entirely shocked as a conviniently derelict-looking vessel sweeps before their puny ship.

"A ship! Hail them, Master Pilot!"

A rasping clear of the Pilot's throat before he records the message to be sent in broken English.

Unknown Vessel
This is the Feirz Mk V. We intercepted your distress signal. Please respond.

------


Screeches quickly returned into the weary old headset attached to the far too dated communications system installed on the aged rig, Xrii quickly swept the headset from his frail ears, crying out in agony.

"What are you doing, Master Pilot?!" The Commander demanded angrily, lifting the headset from the floor.
A chatter of immense magnitude bleeds into the maladjusted system, and for but a moment, a painful jolt of agonizing screams fall on frequencies the two cannot fully hear, bringing them both to their knees. A silent pop, followed by a burst of fire, the tortured headset springing into flames at the overload, the communication system fried. "What in the-.."

"I detect strange energy outputs in the region, Commander. We are no longer alone."

"I knew I should've sold this ship and stayed on Tessla Prime. Very well. Did you get an answer from the distressed ship?"

"No, Commander. Should I perform routine procedure?"

"Yes, Master Pilot. Kill all functions except the ropecannon, we'll jump over. Hopefully we'll be out of here before anyone finds us."

Soon enough, a small hookshot fires from the underside of the dented vessel, a pathetic attempt to latch their vessel together with the massive, derelict ship,the both of them acting against better judgement when faced with the possibility of treasure.

-----

Tearing out the broken communication system from it's holder, the Master Pilot gave a wheeze of a sigh.

"It's fried, Commander. We cannot hail or recieve messages. Whatever that was, it burnt out every circuit. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Nonsense, Master Pilot! We are obligated to help the distressed, communication or no. We will make do without the translator. Is the ropeline attached?"

"Yes, Commander."

"Excellent, let us scale across."

A small hatch manually opened on the rickety old craft, sending what little air held inside out into the reaches of space, the two scavenger pilots heartily protected in their custom masks and flying gear. Fortunately seeming to have missed the frightful display before them, the Commander climbs out on top of his spaceship, attaching a small hook to the line.

"Bring the AK-56's, Master Pilot. We do not know what is beyond."

"One day, I'll buy you something else than this kinetic crap."

"Stop whining and get up here."

Xrii follows behind, another wheeze of a sigh parted over the rudimentary comm channel built into their masks. Pressing the sturdy yet ancient firearms in his Commander's grubby arms, he too attaches a hook in preparation.

"I don't know about this, Commander. I didn't even have time to get a response. What if they're all dead?"

"Then we'll sell the ship for a spot of money."

"You mean -you- will."

"Just jump already, Master Pilot. This is a waste of my time."

With that, Xrii stepped off their own little craft, protected from gliding into space only by the heavy duty rope shot out against the derelict vessel.

Short Story: A Son Damned

Meet Emil Volkhart, an entirely ordinary businessman. His graying hair caused from the stress of running his three businesses properly, and the wrinkles disfiguring his face are all too soon earned. Emil has a wife, and three children. He's a good husband, having stayed faithful to his wife throughout the years, supporting the family on his back alone. This was not always the case, for there was a time when Emil lacked not only a family of his own, but also his mediocre success in life. Yes, in fact Emil was never much of a level-headed person before his success, nor did he ever have the head for running an establishment. He still doesn't. Emil merely happened upon things man shouldn't.

In a drunken daze, a cold october night, Emil agreed on various committments and deals to a single, very helpful man. For a long time, he couldn't remember what. It didn't matter, for as early as the next day, when the headache still laid thick over his mind, his estranged grandfather passed away, and as the only Volkhart alive, Emil was left the old man's continental transport service. It made a meagre two gold a year, what with travel costs and repairs. The lack of customers that had plagued it didn't help. But everything seemed to work out. A new assistant asked to work beneath him, and after he took her under his wing, the business came back to Volkart Transports. Customers came in every day with something to send, and the weak old horses proved to have more fight in them then ever before. Business looked good.

A year later, Emil married his assistant, the both of them no longer content with nights of passion in the man's office and home. The workers didn't mind, they'd known them both for a good eleven months, after all. Sierre was as good a wife as she was his assistant, faithful and loving, waiting for him each day with food ready. He gave her larger responsibilities as the offer came to buy out both of his competitors, and suddenly, Volkhart Transports spun over the entire nation.

Emil couldn't stay in one place, always having to go to new cities, look over his offices, and buy out new locales. Still, fate didn't seem to be satisfied, and the offer in his home town came for him to uphold the bank as well. He took to the task with glee. He'd lived his entire life in that city, and the bank was one of it's defining features. His father worked in there, after all.

Business yet again flourished, and his wife looked over the bank whilst Emil was forced out on trip after trip. He returned to find his wife bearing his child, and was ecstatic with the idea.

The world had no intention of slowing down however, and the reputation of this up and coming businessman soon spread to the main city, wherefrom he was soon offered to buy up the the postal delivery, it being in great need of some major aid, a cheap affair for the man. Small change almost. That business too, flourished in short time. His wife finally birthed his child. A son. Emil was a little torn about not being there when it happened, but such are the woes of a travelling man. He came home, nonetheless, and spent more time with his lovely wife.

They named their son Lucien. His wife seemed to love the name, and Emil didn't mind. It was a nice enough name. Years begun to pass, and Emil ever more begun to regret missing large halves of each year, only half getting to see his son grow. Four years later, his wife bore another child, much to Emil's rejoicing. A little daughter. Emil didn't mind a daughter, of course, but he would much rather have another son to grow up strong, and continue his legacy in one of his three businesses, all of them fairly successful.

Another six years, young Lucien was ten, and his sister six, and another sister joined the family. Emil was, again, not all too excited. He still did not mind his daughters, he loved them just like young Lucien, but they were still destined to take another name. It was simple tradition.

At age fourteen, Lucien began helping his mother at the bank, showing an incredible head for numbers and business, his father and mother into the marrow, Emil thought. As the years passed, and Lucien grew to become a fine young Volkhart, Emil began planning for him taking over the bank entirely, his gift for coming of age. When Lucien came of age, however, it was an entirely different story. A man came knocking at the door, a man Emil had met before, but could not place. He met thousands of people every year, how could he hope to remember one man? The man claimed Lucien would come with him.

The night became to come back, for whatever reason Emil could not explain. He had met this man before, his great benefactor. A promise of wealth and love, in the simple exchange for his firstborn son. Emil, who would obviously never have kids, had recklessly agreed. Lucien seemed to accept the idea without much hassle, and his wife said nothing. Emil saw her for what she was that day, and the way she looked at the man who came to his house.

The loss of his son tore at Emil like a knife to the heart. His businesses began to fail, slowly but surely. The bank still ran well, but it alone could not support either of the other two, and they were both sorely lacking customers, or repairs.

Emil hasn't tried for a new son. It isn't in him anymore. Whatever Lucien is doing, he knew this was coming.