Read a worm fic recently, thought I'd write up an idea I'd had for a while but never gotten...
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Nimrod (Worm/Elder Scrolls)
- Thread starter FractiousDay
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FractiousDay
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Read a worm fic recently, thought I'd write up an idea I'd had for a while but never gotten round to.
-x-
-Hey
-Hey
-Up to anything?
-Just this threat analysis report on the Foresters
-Trying not to make it too hostile
-Yes, I can understand that. Are you busy?
-Not really, why?
-httss://forums.parahumansonline.com/threads/general-north-america-brockton-bay-thread.967481/
-I found this, a relative?
-Where did you get this?
A ping came from his computer but Weyland was already out the door, striding across the common room.
Annie looked up as he went by, then back to her phone, her boots up on-
"Off the table!" Weyland growled, ignoring her scowl.
Light flashed across his face as he went on, autumn sun through the deceptively thin panels of the window, out through the Willamette Forest beyond.
Weyland forced himself to slow, to stop as he neared the door. Bear was touchy about etiquette. Normally Weyland would be too but he had to restrain himself from ripping the door open, instead knocking rapidly.
A chime sounded and the latch clicked, Weyland ready for the sound and already entering.
The inside was dark, humid, the rows of plants along the walls swaying to unseen music.
"Weyland." said Bear, his toneless voicebox putting no inflection whatsoever into his voice, but still somehow expressing surprise. "Are you well my friend."
Glowing eyes sat in the corner, six feet from the floor, with the looming black mass behind them almost touching the ceiling.
"I need to see where you got that. It's not some costume or something?" Weyland asked, coming forward to lean over Bear's shoulder, putting on hand on his friend's pelt.
"Another Case Fifty Three mentioned it to me." Bear replied, electronic voice again emotionless.
Bear had a tendency to trawl the PHO for Case 53 announcements, his own experiences having given him a passion for that particular cause. Weyland didn't necessarily think it was… healthy… but he was hardly one to talk.
The picture on Bear's main screen was stark.
Green skin, almost black in the lighting. Two ivory tusks coming up from the lower lip and a massive jaw. A coarse beard hidden by a mail coif, and a tall helm to crown the doom.
Weyland looked into the picture's eyes. They were dark, shadowed by the armour and the heavy brows. It was terrifying, and it showed on Weyland's face.
"Are you alright?"
Weyland loosened his grip on Bear's pelt. He knew his friend couldn't feel it, the fur was too thick, but that barely crossed his mind.
"There's more."
Weyland's head turned slowly… "More? How many?"
Tabs changed and Bear's vision controlled cursor sped across the screens, clicking once and again, bringing up a thread. There was no mouse or keyboard, Bear was too large for anything and his gear was already sufficient for it.
Terror scrolled across the screen, the Tusked One, Wolf Warriors, an Ashen Sorcerer, and worst was the banner.
It was a double-bitted axe, edges stained with blood, cruel and keen.
It was a dragon, wings unfurled, gaze of scorn.
It was a standard Weyland had run from once, and now it had come again.
"Where are these from?" he breathed.
Bear's computer pinged, "Brockton Bay, it's a small-"
"I know." Weyland interrupted, already clicking on his phone, the call going through almost immediately.
His heart thundered in his chest as the roar of a motorcycle filled his ear.
"Collin, we need to talk."
KenKara
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i dont know what just happen!?
you need threadmark btw
FractiousDay
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"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit."
Weyland paced the common room floor above the sunken plaza with its table and TV.
He needed to get to Brockton Bay. To warn- no, to stop- no!
He needed to figure out what he needed to do first.
"Shit!"
"Language!" crowed Annie, boots up on the central table again, eyes bright with amusement.
"Quiet, this is serious." Weyland growled back
The Oregon Elite's base had once been some doomsday prepper's fortress. It was well built, with several garages and swimming pool in the basement, but the table Annie's big boots were on was some kind of shiny resin over a single slab of redwood.
It scuffed.
Annie had just sat forward, taking her boots off the table, fingering one of the knives on the bandoleer that crossed her chest, "What's happening?" she asked excitedly.
"I-" Weyland stopped again, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. "We, Bear and I, need transport to Boston. Go down into town and get me… $5,000 in cash? That should do. And some supplies. A truck, how long would it take to drive?"
"Like, five days?" Annie asked him more than told him, then she was on her phone, "Says forty eight hours but no way you're driving that long in one stretch." she said waving the screen at him.
"No, we need to be there sooner." Weyland replied, "We need a plane. Something Bear can get in too."
"That narrows it down a bit."
It did, most trucks had trouble with Bear's weight and bulk, let alone aircraft.
"Eight hours by plane." Annie whistled through her teeth, tapping away on her phone, "It's pricey."
"That's what the discretionary fund is for." Weyland replied easily. "Just get it sorted, Annie."
It would be expensive, Weyland realised, making his own internal list of what he'd need. Bear had to come of course, and he hardly needed armour with his friend and teammate around.
"What's this actually all for?" Annie posed the obvious question while she tapped away at her phone. She kept her nails short, so Weyland supposed it wasn't so much tapping, but she was going through a goth phase and her nail varnish glinted dully in the sunset.
"It's… complicated. Colin-" he paused, "Er, Armsmaster, forget I said that, won't give me much information, I left a while ago and he's still got his halberd up his ass. I've got to get over there."
Some of the Protectorate capes would give him more than professional courtesy, he'd been a member for almost eight years after all, and he still had a good reputation, others resented him leaving though. Colin Wallis, Armsmaster, was more complicated. They'd gotten along well when they'd been on a team and they still collaborated on several pieces, but Armsmaster was hungry for glory and reluctant to do anything that might surrender some iota of praise he could get on his record.
"Cool, I'm coming too."
"What?" Weyland said, spinning, "You-"
"The Charter requires her to come too, Weyland." Bear said, a deep growl issuing from his throat as the computer spoke his words. He wasn't annoyed, but he did vocalise sometimes.
The other member of the Oregon Elite had lumbered out from his room after Weyland when the later had fled muttering to himself. One of the reasons they'd chosen the prepper's fortress as a base was that the corridors were big enough for Bear to walk properly rather than crawl about, but the overly large common room seemed more like a regular room with his bulk in it.
"What is going on. You must compose yourself." Bear said, any inflection of questioning or subtlety lost in his voicebox.
Weyland wanted to ignore that, but Bear was right after all. Both about that and the Charter.
The Elite, despite most people thinking it, weren't actually a single continuous organisation. There were gang-like elements sure, those were the ones most involved in criminal activity, smuggling mostly, but groups like Weyland's were more like corporate teams. A lot of the companies in Oregon paid what was effectively a membership fee, and Weyland would consult on security, assure supplies, and sometimes get involved directly if they had any parahuman difficulties. They had a pretty good relationship with the Protectorate even, all of it was legitimate after all, and in the meantime the Elite benefited from good press.
Having defected from the Protectorate in the first place, Weyland had designed his own cell with similar facilities, and Annie was basically a Ward. It came with certain requirements, including the Charter which meant Weyland couldn't leave her alone unsupervised. It was sort of a cape apprenticeship thing…
"Thank you, Bear." Weyland eventually said, thinking of what he should say. "The pictures you sent me imply that a… group… I know about have arrived in Brockton Bay. I don't know why they're there, but I'm best placed to prevent disaster, and I need to get over there and find out what's going on. Bear has to come because of his particular issues…"
Bear growled but said nothing. He didn't really like talking about it, but there were certain factors which meant Weyland was one of the only ones who he trusted enough to be around.
"And yes I suppose you have to come to…" Weyland finished, looking at Annie.
"Are we talking like the Nine?" Annie asked, her knife was out now, a soldier's weapon Weyland had made for her. It had been three years but the scars from Jack Slash's blade on her face hadn't faded much.
Weyland's face darkened too.
"The Nine were rabid dogs. These are wolves."
Weyland paced the common room floor above the sunken plaza with its table and TV.
He needed to get to Brockton Bay. To warn- no, to stop- no!
He needed to figure out what he needed to do first.
"Shit!"
"Language!" crowed Annie, boots up on the central table again, eyes bright with amusement.
"Quiet, this is serious." Weyland growled back
The Oregon Elite's base had once been some doomsday prepper's fortress. It was well built, with several garages and swimming pool in the basement, but the table Annie's big boots were on was some kind of shiny resin over a single slab of redwood.
It scuffed.
Annie had just sat forward, taking her boots off the table, fingering one of the knives on the bandoleer that crossed her chest, "What's happening?" she asked excitedly.
"I-" Weyland stopped again, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. "We, Bear and I, need transport to Boston. Go down into town and get me… $5,000 in cash? That should do. And some supplies. A truck, how long would it take to drive?"
"Like, five days?" Annie asked him more than told him, then she was on her phone, "Says forty eight hours but no way you're driving that long in one stretch." she said waving the screen at him.
"No, we need to be there sooner." Weyland replied, "We need a plane. Something Bear can get in too."
"That narrows it down a bit."
It did, most trucks had trouble with Bear's weight and bulk, let alone aircraft.
"Eight hours by plane." Annie whistled through her teeth, tapping away on her phone, "It's pricey."
"That's what the discretionary fund is for." Weyland replied easily. "Just get it sorted, Annie."
It would be expensive, Weyland realised, making his own internal list of what he'd need. Bear had to come of course, and he hardly needed armour with his friend and teammate around.
"What's this actually all for?" Annie posed the obvious question while she tapped away at her phone. She kept her nails short, so Weyland supposed it wasn't so much tapping, but she was going through a goth phase and her nail varnish glinted dully in the sunset.
"It's… complicated. Colin-" he paused, "Er, Armsmaster, forget I said that, won't give me much information, I left a while ago and he's still got his halberd up his ass. I've got to get over there."
Some of the Protectorate capes would give him more than professional courtesy, he'd been a member for almost eight years after all, and he still had a good reputation, others resented him leaving though. Colin Wallis, Armsmaster, was more complicated. They'd gotten along well when they'd been on a team and they still collaborated on several pieces, but Armsmaster was hungry for glory and reluctant to do anything that might surrender some iota of praise he could get on his record.
"Cool, I'm coming too."
"What?" Weyland said, spinning, "You-"
"The Charter requires her to come too, Weyland." Bear said, a deep growl issuing from his throat as the computer spoke his words. He wasn't annoyed, but he did vocalise sometimes.
The other member of the Oregon Elite had lumbered out from his room after Weyland when the later had fled muttering to himself. One of the reasons they'd chosen the prepper's fortress as a base was that the corridors were big enough for Bear to walk properly rather than crawl about, but the overly large common room seemed more like a regular room with his bulk in it.
"What is going on. You must compose yourself." Bear said, any inflection of questioning or subtlety lost in his voicebox.
Weyland wanted to ignore that, but Bear was right after all. Both about that and the Charter.
The Elite, despite most people thinking it, weren't actually a single continuous organisation. There were gang-like elements sure, those were the ones most involved in criminal activity, smuggling mostly, but groups like Weyland's were more like corporate teams. A lot of the companies in Oregon paid what was effectively a membership fee, and Weyland would consult on security, assure supplies, and sometimes get involved directly if they had any parahuman difficulties. They had a pretty good relationship with the Protectorate even, all of it was legitimate after all, and in the meantime the Elite benefited from good press.
Having defected from the Protectorate in the first place, Weyland had designed his own cell with similar facilities, and Annie was basically a Ward. It came with certain requirements, including the Charter which meant Weyland couldn't leave her alone unsupervised. It was sort of a cape apprenticeship thing…
"Thank you, Bear." Weyland eventually said, thinking of what he should say. "The pictures you sent me imply that a… group… I know about have arrived in Brockton Bay. I don't know why they're there, but I'm best placed to prevent disaster, and I need to get over there and find out what's going on. Bear has to come because of his particular issues…"
Bear growled but said nothing. He didn't really like talking about it, but there were certain factors which meant Weyland was one of the only ones who he trusted enough to be around.
"And yes I suppose you have to come to…" Weyland finished, looking at Annie.
"Are we talking like the Nine?" Annie asked, her knife was out now, a soldier's weapon Weyland had made for her. It had been three years but the scars from Jack Slash's blade on her face hadn't faded much.
Weyland's face darkened too.
"The Nine were rabid dogs. These are wolves."
FractiousDay
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Annie was tapping away again as they sat in traffic. "I think that's about it for the intel report, unless you want me to start going over local capes?"
"No, none of the info on there will be as up to date as what we can get from the PRT when we get there." Weyland replied, clenching and unclenching his hands on the big steering wheel.
They'd landed in Boston over an hour ago. The rental truck had been arranged the night before, after they'd already set off from Oregon.
Annie had been on navigation, reading directions while Weyland concentrated on manoeuvring the lumbering truck round an unfamiliar road system. Once they'd got onto the freeway though Weyland had her start on the Elite's intelligence database on Brockton Bay, which was apparently north of Boston not south like Weyland had thought originally.
He knew very little about the city or it's capes, he'd heard about it of course, and Colin had mentioned parts when he let his guard down on one of many collaboration sessions. Apparently although small it had a large cape population, though exactly why Weyland wasn't sure, it hardly seemed that it had a lot of money or anything, from everything he'd heard the town was slowly dying.
ABB, Empire 88, Merchants. Those were the main villain groups. The Empire was supposedly just some neo-nazis, the ABB were an Asian refugee gang. Both groups were things Weyland had experience of on the east coast. Plenty of Japanese had fled to California after all, and afterwards out to the other areas around it. The Merchants were drug pushers, apparently only existing because the ABB and Empire fought each other so much.
Then again, the Elite didn't have much of a presence on the east coast, so Weyland had warned the other two that the intel might be out of date or just wrong.
"Bear will be with me most of the time, but when I'm not with him, you need to be." Weyland said slowly. "Back home, everyone knows who he is, and even around in neighbouring states, I've made sure they know him too. They know to run away. Here you'll get the cops trying to foam him, or you'll get capes arriving."
"I know, I'll-" Annie began.
"You don't." Weyland cut her off almost immediately. "You've never seen him fight, not properly, and you've never seen him hungry."
Dark thoughts came over him then. From when he'd first met Bear…
It had been years ago, shortly after he'd been posted in a Protectorate team. There'd been reports of a monster in the woods, a dozen corpses, bones split open for their marrow. Weyland had kept his stomach, he'd seen war before he joined the Protectorate, but his team mates hadn't.
"You know what to do. Remember it. Remember you're there to protect people, but you're also there to protect him." He said.
Annie looked more serious this time, and nodded carefully.
Bear was one of those unfortunate Case Fifty Threes who wasn't only monstrous in appearance, but also mentally inhuman. Some were worse than others, condemned to the Parahuman Asylum, unable to control their powers, but fortunately, Bear was mostly able to control his. Since Weyland had found him he'd improved dramatically. He needed food most of all, a lot of food every day, otherwise he'd fall into a fugue state, relentlessly pursuing food, mostly meat to fuel his active metabolism. If he was stressed such as in battle he became violent, losing control and becoming almost immune to pain. In return, Bear was one of the most powerful, but also most unstable brawlers on the west coast. Nowhere on the level of Alexandria of course, but strong enough.
Weyland had been with him long enough for Bear to become somewhat dependant on him, so where Weyland went, Bear went.
"You're not going to, like, actually tell us anything yet? Why are you waiting?" Annie asked in the silence.
Weyland didn't say anything, speeding past a semi trundling along in the slow lane.
"Are you avoiding it? Do you know these guys? I saw the picture." Annie continued.
"I am avoiding it." Weyland admitted slowly. "I thought I was done, away… I suppose it was stupid really. But fate is a strange thing."
"Are these guys looking for you?"
"I doubt it. They'd have arrived nearer if they were. If they can control where they arrive anyway." Weyland continued, "I just don't want to get into it. I don't even want to think about it."
"Well." huffed Annie, caressing the handle of a long knife, "We're still heading toward them."
Weyland nodded, saying nothing, and they were silent for a time.
"We got cops behind us." Annie said, looking out at the mirror on her side.
"Yea I'm speeding." Weyland replied, as much as the rental truck could speed anyway…
Two thumps came on the bulkhead behind Weyland. Bear had noticed them too.
Weyland just thumped back, Bear didn't like the police, he'd had some bad experiences with them.
Having said that, Weyland supposed that it was the officers in question who had the bad experiences, they'd ended up eaten after all.
A white and blue car pulled up alongside them, matching speed. Lights flashed a few times, trying to attract their attention. Weyland raised himself slightly in the seat, sat up straight and turned to look out the window. A single look at his face ought to get the police car to hang back a bit.
"Wait." Annie said, "We need to get there fast right?" her hand was on his shoulder.
He nodded, still eyeing the cruiser beside them.
"Well I'll go sort it then?"
Weyland shrugged, "If you think so. Be careful."
Annie grinned, then vanished, a soft thump as the air rushed into the space where she'd been.
Immediately the police car swerved and fell back behind them. Weyland wondered if she'd teleported to the front seat. He wasn't sure what would be more surprising, having a small girl with dozens of knives and horrific scarring all over her appearing in your car, or having one jump onto the top. Annie had excellent balance, she liked surfing freeways and running pursuits, and her powers were ideal for it.
Sirens started up, the cruiser returned, and slowly gained on Weyland's rented truck, coming up, then overtaking him, taking up station in front, acting as an escort through the traffic.
Weyland grinned, and when Annie popped back into the cab of the truck he smiled at her. "Well done, what did you say?"
"'Blah blah urgent cape business'" she replied, "He called it in, apparently Armsmaster had told them we'd be coming. The guy wasn't pleased about it though."
"Armsmaster?" Weyland asked.
"No, the cop."
Weyland just grunted. "Go sit with Bear for a bit. We're about an hour out, come back in forty minutes, I'll want you on navigation."
"Got it boss." and with a half-hearted, yet deeply respectful salute, Annie was gone again.
"No, none of the info on there will be as up to date as what we can get from the PRT when we get there." Weyland replied, clenching and unclenching his hands on the big steering wheel.
They'd landed in Boston over an hour ago. The rental truck had been arranged the night before, after they'd already set off from Oregon.
Annie had been on navigation, reading directions while Weyland concentrated on manoeuvring the lumbering truck round an unfamiliar road system. Once they'd got onto the freeway though Weyland had her start on the Elite's intelligence database on Brockton Bay, which was apparently north of Boston not south like Weyland had thought originally.
He knew very little about the city or it's capes, he'd heard about it of course, and Colin had mentioned parts when he let his guard down on one of many collaboration sessions. Apparently although small it had a large cape population, though exactly why Weyland wasn't sure, it hardly seemed that it had a lot of money or anything, from everything he'd heard the town was slowly dying.
ABB, Empire 88, Merchants. Those were the main villain groups. The Empire was supposedly just some neo-nazis, the ABB were an Asian refugee gang. Both groups were things Weyland had experience of on the east coast. Plenty of Japanese had fled to California after all, and afterwards out to the other areas around it. The Merchants were drug pushers, apparently only existing because the ABB and Empire fought each other so much.
Then again, the Elite didn't have much of a presence on the east coast, so Weyland had warned the other two that the intel might be out of date or just wrong.
"Bear will be with me most of the time, but when I'm not with him, you need to be." Weyland said slowly. "Back home, everyone knows who he is, and even around in neighbouring states, I've made sure they know him too. They know to run away. Here you'll get the cops trying to foam him, or you'll get capes arriving."
"I know, I'll-" Annie began.
"You don't." Weyland cut her off almost immediately. "You've never seen him fight, not properly, and you've never seen him hungry."
Dark thoughts came over him then. From when he'd first met Bear…
It had been years ago, shortly after he'd been posted in a Protectorate team. There'd been reports of a monster in the woods, a dozen corpses, bones split open for their marrow. Weyland had kept his stomach, he'd seen war before he joined the Protectorate, but his team mates hadn't.
"You know what to do. Remember it. Remember you're there to protect people, but you're also there to protect him." He said.
Annie looked more serious this time, and nodded carefully.
Bear was one of those unfortunate Case Fifty Threes who wasn't only monstrous in appearance, but also mentally inhuman. Some were worse than others, condemned to the Parahuman Asylum, unable to control their powers, but fortunately, Bear was mostly able to control his. Since Weyland had found him he'd improved dramatically. He needed food most of all, a lot of food every day, otherwise he'd fall into a fugue state, relentlessly pursuing food, mostly meat to fuel his active metabolism. If he was stressed such as in battle he became violent, losing control and becoming almost immune to pain. In return, Bear was one of the most powerful, but also most unstable brawlers on the west coast. Nowhere on the level of Alexandria of course, but strong enough.
Weyland had been with him long enough for Bear to become somewhat dependant on him, so where Weyland went, Bear went.
"You're not going to, like, actually tell us anything yet? Why are you waiting?" Annie asked in the silence.
Weyland didn't say anything, speeding past a semi trundling along in the slow lane.
"Are you avoiding it? Do you know these guys? I saw the picture." Annie continued.
"I am avoiding it." Weyland admitted slowly. "I thought I was done, away… I suppose it was stupid really. But fate is a strange thing."
"Are these guys looking for you?"
"I doubt it. They'd have arrived nearer if they were. If they can control where they arrive anyway." Weyland continued, "I just don't want to get into it. I don't even want to think about it."
"Well." huffed Annie, caressing the handle of a long knife, "We're still heading toward them."
Weyland nodded, saying nothing, and they were silent for a time.
"We got cops behind us." Annie said, looking out at the mirror on her side.
"Yea I'm speeding." Weyland replied, as much as the rental truck could speed anyway…
Two thumps came on the bulkhead behind Weyland. Bear had noticed them too.
Weyland just thumped back, Bear didn't like the police, he'd had some bad experiences with them.
Having said that, Weyland supposed that it was the officers in question who had the bad experiences, they'd ended up eaten after all.
A white and blue car pulled up alongside them, matching speed. Lights flashed a few times, trying to attract their attention. Weyland raised himself slightly in the seat, sat up straight and turned to look out the window. A single look at his face ought to get the police car to hang back a bit.
"Wait." Annie said, "We need to get there fast right?" her hand was on his shoulder.
He nodded, still eyeing the cruiser beside them.
"Well I'll go sort it then?"
Weyland shrugged, "If you think so. Be careful."
Annie grinned, then vanished, a soft thump as the air rushed into the space where she'd been.
Immediately the police car swerved and fell back behind them. Weyland wondered if she'd teleported to the front seat. He wasn't sure what would be more surprising, having a small girl with dozens of knives and horrific scarring all over her appearing in your car, or having one jump onto the top. Annie had excellent balance, she liked surfing freeways and running pursuits, and her powers were ideal for it.
Sirens started up, the cruiser returned, and slowly gained on Weyland's rented truck, coming up, then overtaking him, taking up station in front, acting as an escort through the traffic.
Weyland grinned, and when Annie popped back into the cab of the truck he smiled at her. "Well done, what did you say?"
"'Blah blah urgent cape business'" she replied, "He called it in, apparently Armsmaster had told them we'd be coming. The guy wasn't pleased about it though."
"Armsmaster?" Weyland asked.
"No, the cop."
Weyland just grunted. "Go sit with Bear for a bit. We're about an hour out, come back in forty minutes, I'll want you on navigation."
"Got it boss." and with a half-hearted, yet deeply respectful salute, Annie was gone again.
FractiousDay
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Halberd in hand, Weyland walked through the glass doors of the PRT's headquarters in Brockton Bay.
He hummed as they waited in the lobby to be processes. Happily it was big enough for Bear to stand, the Case Fifty Three hated going on all fours, hated anything that reminded him of his bestial aspect.
Weyland had thought about stopping briefly at one of the farms they passed to get Bear a snack, but he'd decided otherwise. Speed was important.
Dawn rose over the mountains and Brockton Bay had spilled out before them. It was a large city, maybe half the size of Portland back home, and double the size of Eugene, which was the closest town to the team's base.
A tall man in a tight red and gold costume was waiting for them in the lobby and with a word and a gesture shooed away a few loitering PRT agents.
"Weyland, I've heard good things from Armsmaster about you, that's high praise! I'm Assault." said he.
Weyland nodded. "This is Bear and Annie." he replied, gesturing to each of them.
Assault shook Annie's hand ably, seeming to ignore her scars, and Weyland approved of the way the hero nodded at Bear. He seemed a decent sort.
"Armsmaster's waiting for you, we've got one of the conference rooms."
"Lead the way." Weyland said.
It was interesting that there was no attempt to take their weapons. Weyland has his polearm and the grenade launcher slung low on his back, and Annie and a dozen knives. It was good really, the Elite weren't necessarily a villain group, but Weyland didn't think many in their position would have been allowed to walk into a PRT base armed.
"Did you have a good flight over?" Assault asked as they walked down a short corridor.
"It was fine." Weyland replied, not wanting to get into conversation.
The conference room was large. It looked to be where they did media briefings as there was a stage and table at one end, with foldable chairs stacked at the corners of the room.
Two more figures waited there. The first was familiar, a powerfully built man in blue and silver armour, and Weyland strode forward, grasping him by the forearm.
"Collin." he said quietly enough for no one by the small girl beside Armsmaster to hear him, and Collin nodded back, the ghost of a smile on his face.
Weyland briefly looked over Armsmaster's armour and saw he was doing the same.
The other figure was a girl in a green skirted costume, visor and a few ineffectual armour plates on her joints. It was patterned in what Weyland assumed was a floral design, which he didn't especially understand given he knew she was a spatial Shaker.
"Vista." he nodded toward her, and saw her grin under her helmet. No doubt she was underestimated and liked the attention. Weyland had been the same when he was a young warrior.
Introductions were swift. Bear insisted on introducing himself and remarking on how pleased he was to meet everyone, and they sat down, bear sitting on the stage instead.
"I've also asked Dragon to listen in." Armsmaster said.
Weyland was already acquainted but another short round of introductions.
"So." Assault began, "Apparently you know something about our new visitors?"
"I might do." Weyland said. "Bear found some pictures on the PHO and informed me. What do you have on them? Where did they come from, how many, who are they?"
Armsmaster turned in his chair toward a projector, clearly he'd set up a connection to his armour. "Three days ago, sometime during the night and without being detected, two small ships beached themselves in the Boat Graveyard, there's a lot of beached ships in that area so the initial report went to Brockton PD, who didn't feel it necessary to attend."
Weyland could hear how Collin's voice just oozed distain.
"The Trainyard is Merchant territory, so again, it fell down the priority list. Yesterday, following your call, Vista and Miss Militia went to scout it out. Vista?"
A series of images flicked over the screen. First a long shot of two wooden ships, their sails furled, their long lines drawn up on the beach, canvas coming down from the masts like a large tent. Next was a video, men in armour and bearing swords and axes brawling with what Weyland assumed were Merchants.
The later came off worse for it. In once case a man's hand flew into the air, and a bloody sword came down.
"Fatalities?" Weyland asked.
"None that we know of, but knowing Merchants, that's no guarantee. A few of them turned up at Brockton General later and were healed by Panacea.
Weyland grunted.
"This footage was seized from a bystander," Vista continued, "We didn't approach, there were a few guards standing outside though.
New video came up, this better in quality from whatever cameras the heroes had taken for their observation. Weylands fists clenched as he saw the sigils again.
First the axe-dragon, then a screaming elf, then a wolf, different brotherhoods in a single host.
"And this would be your… er… friend." Vista said, and a still came up, better quality than the one Bear had shown him.
The image filled the screen, Weyland looked into his doppelganger's eyes.
"What else has happened?" he asked finally, turning to Armsmaster.
"A few of them came out and raided a hotdog van nearby, then dumped some coins, apparently in payment." Armsmaster said, "We confiscated them."
He slid a single silver coin across the table and the doom came upon Weyland again.
Behold, a dragon.
Familiar script circled the coin, and a diamond was wrought on it.
Weyland picked it up, hand shaking, holding it before him, trying not to look at it.
"As a sign to all men and gods of our faithfulness." he whispered, looking at the diamond.
"What was that? What language even is that?" Assault asked, frowning at him.
Weyland realised he'd slipped into his birth-tongue and shivered.
"You've had a storm recently?" he asked, "Dragon," Weyland addressed the room at large, "What's the weather been like?"
"As you know." the electronic voice replied, "A Category 5 cyclone looked like it was developing over the Atlantic last week, but petered out closer to land."
Weyland did know, he'd seen the news, there'd been talk of evacuating cities, speculation it was Leviathan messing with the weather, but then the storm had just, not been there anymore.
"That's how they got here." Weyland murmured. "Storm Voice."
"What do you know?" Armsmaster asked, pressing him.
Weyland looked at Armsmaster.
Armsmaster looked at Weyland, then sighed.
"Assault, why don't you take Annie, Vista and Bear down to the Boardwalk, show them the sights." Armsmaster said, the tension clear in his voice.
"Get Bear some food while you're there." Weyland pointed out.
"There'll be a butcher somewhere around here." Annie said, patting Bear's arm.
"There already has been." Assault replied, "You're a few years out of date."
Annie just looked at him blankly.
"Before your time. Come on, let's go."
The four of them left, "You guys go unmasked?" Weyland heard Vista ask Annie as they went out the door.
"This is difficult for me." Weyland said, but he supposed there wasn't anything else he could do. "I'll tell you what you need to know now, any more I want verification on before I go into it. Go back through the pictures…"
He hummed as they waited in the lobby to be processes. Happily it was big enough for Bear to stand, the Case Fifty Three hated going on all fours, hated anything that reminded him of his bestial aspect.
Weyland had thought about stopping briefly at one of the farms they passed to get Bear a snack, but he'd decided otherwise. Speed was important.
Dawn rose over the mountains and Brockton Bay had spilled out before them. It was a large city, maybe half the size of Portland back home, and double the size of Eugene, which was the closest town to the team's base.
A tall man in a tight red and gold costume was waiting for them in the lobby and with a word and a gesture shooed away a few loitering PRT agents.
"Weyland, I've heard good things from Armsmaster about you, that's high praise! I'm Assault." said he.
Weyland nodded. "This is Bear and Annie." he replied, gesturing to each of them.
Assault shook Annie's hand ably, seeming to ignore her scars, and Weyland approved of the way the hero nodded at Bear. He seemed a decent sort.
"Armsmaster's waiting for you, we've got one of the conference rooms."
"Lead the way." Weyland said.
It was interesting that there was no attempt to take their weapons. Weyland has his polearm and the grenade launcher slung low on his back, and Annie and a dozen knives. It was good really, the Elite weren't necessarily a villain group, but Weyland didn't think many in their position would have been allowed to walk into a PRT base armed.
"Did you have a good flight over?" Assault asked as they walked down a short corridor.
"It was fine." Weyland replied, not wanting to get into conversation.
The conference room was large. It looked to be where they did media briefings as there was a stage and table at one end, with foldable chairs stacked at the corners of the room.
Two more figures waited there. The first was familiar, a powerfully built man in blue and silver armour, and Weyland strode forward, grasping him by the forearm.
"Collin." he said quietly enough for no one by the small girl beside Armsmaster to hear him, and Collin nodded back, the ghost of a smile on his face.
Weyland briefly looked over Armsmaster's armour and saw he was doing the same.
The other figure was a girl in a green skirted costume, visor and a few ineffectual armour plates on her joints. It was patterned in what Weyland assumed was a floral design, which he didn't especially understand given he knew she was a spatial Shaker.
"Vista." he nodded toward her, and saw her grin under her helmet. No doubt she was underestimated and liked the attention. Weyland had been the same when he was a young warrior.
Introductions were swift. Bear insisted on introducing himself and remarking on how pleased he was to meet everyone, and they sat down, bear sitting on the stage instead.
"I've also asked Dragon to listen in." Armsmaster said.
Weyland was already acquainted but another short round of introductions.
"So." Assault began, "Apparently you know something about our new visitors?"
"I might do." Weyland said. "Bear found some pictures on the PHO and informed me. What do you have on them? Where did they come from, how many, who are they?"
Armsmaster turned in his chair toward a projector, clearly he'd set up a connection to his armour. "Three days ago, sometime during the night and without being detected, two small ships beached themselves in the Boat Graveyard, there's a lot of beached ships in that area so the initial report went to Brockton PD, who didn't feel it necessary to attend."
Weyland could hear how Collin's voice just oozed distain.
"The Trainyard is Merchant territory, so again, it fell down the priority list. Yesterday, following your call, Vista and Miss Militia went to scout it out. Vista?"
A series of images flicked over the screen. First a long shot of two wooden ships, their sails furled, their long lines drawn up on the beach, canvas coming down from the masts like a large tent. Next was a video, men in armour and bearing swords and axes brawling with what Weyland assumed were Merchants.
The later came off worse for it. In once case a man's hand flew into the air, and a bloody sword came down.
"Fatalities?" Weyland asked.
"None that we know of, but knowing Merchants, that's no guarantee. A few of them turned up at Brockton General later and were healed by Panacea.
Weyland grunted.
"This footage was seized from a bystander," Vista continued, "We didn't approach, there were a few guards standing outside though.
New video came up, this better in quality from whatever cameras the heroes had taken for their observation. Weylands fists clenched as he saw the sigils again.
First the axe-dragon, then a screaming elf, then a wolf, different brotherhoods in a single host.
"And this would be your… er… friend." Vista said, and a still came up, better quality than the one Bear had shown him.
The image filled the screen, Weyland looked into his doppelganger's eyes.
"What else has happened?" he asked finally, turning to Armsmaster.
"A few of them came out and raided a hotdog van nearby, then dumped some coins, apparently in payment." Armsmaster said, "We confiscated them."
He slid a single silver coin across the table and the doom came upon Weyland again.
Behold, a dragon.
Familiar script circled the coin, and a diamond was wrought on it.
Weyland picked it up, hand shaking, holding it before him, trying not to look at it.
"As a sign to all men and gods of our faithfulness." he whispered, looking at the diamond.
"What was that? What language even is that?" Assault asked, frowning at him.
Weyland realised he'd slipped into his birth-tongue and shivered.
"You've had a storm recently?" he asked, "Dragon," Weyland addressed the room at large, "What's the weather been like?"
"As you know." the electronic voice replied, "A Category 5 cyclone looked like it was developing over the Atlantic last week, but petered out closer to land."
Weyland did know, he'd seen the news, there'd been talk of evacuating cities, speculation it was Leviathan messing with the weather, but then the storm had just, not been there anymore.
"That's how they got here." Weyland murmured. "Storm Voice."
"What do you know?" Armsmaster asked, pressing him.
Weyland looked at Armsmaster.
Armsmaster looked at Weyland, then sighed.
"Assault, why don't you take Annie, Vista and Bear down to the Boardwalk, show them the sights." Armsmaster said, the tension clear in his voice.
"Get Bear some food while you're there." Weyland pointed out.
"There'll be a butcher somewhere around here." Annie said, patting Bear's arm.
"There already has been." Assault replied, "You're a few years out of date."
Annie just looked at him blankly.
"Before your time. Come on, let's go."
The four of them left, "You guys go unmasked?" Weyland heard Vista ask Annie as they went out the door.
"This is difficult for me." Weyland said, but he supposed there wasn't anything else he could do. "I'll tell you what you need to know now, any more I want verification on before I go into it. Go back through the pictures…"
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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Annie knew the walk along the boards was well worth it, even if the Broctonites starred at her scars.
"Is it Broctonites or Broctonians?" she asked Vista, walking beside in that silly princess suit.
"Um, what?" asked the ward.
Annie ignored her. There was an itch between her shoulder blades, something that said 'danger'.
But that was just paranoia, Weyland said so, said she should relax, try to at least, she just couldn't.
They walked more, she brought Bear a dozen burgers which he polished down quickly, wrappers and all. He didn't like eating like an animal, but his massive claws weren't delicate enough to unwrap the paper and he'd just make a mess otherwise. It didn't matter to him though, it 'all tasted the same anyway'.
The appearance of two new capes on the Boardwalk would put a dampener on crime in the area for a week or more. Annie knew she was a badass, and she hadn't met anyone who wasn't scared of Bear ripping them apart and eating them. The appearance of new capes would scare criminals, even maybe interrupt the planning of gangs in the area for a couple of weeks.
Mind you, whatever Weyland was hiding would probably make up for it in terms of trouble. Something about his brother in the area or something.
Assault and Vista were actually pretty good company. Both were veterans, they'd been capes for years at least, and Weyland had always impressed on her the need to learn from others.
"The Elite always operated differently." Assault was saying, "Even years ago, Uppercrust set them up differently at a fundamental level. Some branches are basically mercs, there's a pretty low bar to entry, and the leadership can always deny a connection if they don't like the associations. "
"But we classify them as criminals, all of them, the whole organisation." Vista replied.
"Some are." Annie admitted freely, "Weyland has to kick them out occasionally when we get smuggling or rackets in Portland of Vancouver. He doesn't like that stuff. Also, you can't prove anyone's linked that's one of the points. Weyland says Uppercrust was a fan of old secret societies, so apparently a lot of it's pretty informal at the higher levels."
"Yea it's not like the Protectorate where there's a central HR department. How does your branch work then?" Assault continued.
It was hardly secret information, and Annie explained, hand caressing the big knife in the bandolier over her belly. Weyland ran a tight ship, his branch basically operated as a more expensive and exclusive Protectorate, without the PTR elements. Less paperwork, less oversight, more a network of favours and influence among the law enforcement, commerce and crime. Gangs would pay protection too, usually the more established ones, but Weyland came down hard on anything to do with kids.
Not women though, Annie had always thought that weird.
But then again Weyland was a weird guy…
They'd reached the end of the Boardwalk, and now Annie had her mission.
"Why don't we keep going, I want to see these new guys." she said, throat rough from all the talking with Vista. Assault was behind him, trying to engage Bear in conversation and utterly failing.
"Yea I doubt Console will go for it, best we get back, I can call a bus." Assault said, already on his comm.
"You can if you like." Annie shrugged, knowing they wouldn't let them wander about unsupervised if they could help it. "You can bend space right?" she asked Vista, "Do you think you can keep us out of the way? If you can bend bullets you can bend arrows surely?"
Vista's eyes creased in challenge, "Of course I can! I-"
"Woah woah," Assault was walking forward, hands up, "Look whatever Weyland and Armsmaster are talking about, let's wait for them, right?"
Annie pushed them, pushed and pushed like Weyland had taught her. It wasn't manipulation, he'd said as much when he'd been introducing her to it, it was just understanding the perspective of the organisation you were trying to influence.
And soon enough, the four found themselves standing on top of an empty gas silo from back when Brockton Bay actually had industry. The Boat Graveyard was off in front of them, and with a twist of space they stepped from one structure to another.
Vista was looking over the next gap and Assault sidled up beside Annie, "You know this is pretty suspicious right? I'm not on a comm right now by the way, but I just hope you know what you're doing."
He seemed a decent guy.
The two ships were below them. The sailors were getting out, a few of them holding weapons where others seemed to be playing a board game or just sitting and talking.
Of all things there was a pizza delivery guy there, apparently negotiating with the sailors regarding a few boxes.
LARPing had gotten less popular as capes got more popular, there was a danger some villain would put on a silly costume and do some crimes and it would somehow make it more difficult to catch them, and so law enforcement across the country had started breaking up LARP events and confiscating silly hats. Apparently the sailors hadn't heard about that though.
They'd seen pictures before, now the sailors mostly weren't wearing armour, but what they were wearing was still weird. Long shirts, baggy pants, long hair in braids with little ornaments. They were very… ordinary. Strangely dressed certainly, but not that unusual given the plethora of costumes capes wore.
Annie dialled, and only on the second ring Weyland answered, "Report."
"A load of guys with swords. Dark guy with a curly stick. Guy with a bandanna or something. Pizza guy."
"Pizza guy?"
"Yea I think they did an order."
Weyland grunted on the other end of the line. "Alright. Engage."
"Ok, no, do not engage." Assault was saying, "We did not agree this. Console-"
Annie ignored him, "Bear? Give me a boost?"
She hopped into his massive claw, then with a mighty throw Bear hurled her at the ships.
"Is it Broctonites or Broctonians?" she asked Vista, walking beside in that silly princess suit.
"Um, what?" asked the ward.
Annie ignored her. There was an itch between her shoulder blades, something that said 'danger'.
But that was just paranoia, Weyland said so, said she should relax, try to at least, she just couldn't.
They walked more, she brought Bear a dozen burgers which he polished down quickly, wrappers and all. He didn't like eating like an animal, but his massive claws weren't delicate enough to unwrap the paper and he'd just make a mess otherwise. It didn't matter to him though, it 'all tasted the same anyway'.
The appearance of two new capes on the Boardwalk would put a dampener on crime in the area for a week or more. Annie knew she was a badass, and she hadn't met anyone who wasn't scared of Bear ripping them apart and eating them. The appearance of new capes would scare criminals, even maybe interrupt the planning of gangs in the area for a couple of weeks.
Mind you, whatever Weyland was hiding would probably make up for it in terms of trouble. Something about his brother in the area or something.
Assault and Vista were actually pretty good company. Both were veterans, they'd been capes for years at least, and Weyland had always impressed on her the need to learn from others.
"The Elite always operated differently." Assault was saying, "Even years ago, Uppercrust set them up differently at a fundamental level. Some branches are basically mercs, there's a pretty low bar to entry, and the leadership can always deny a connection if they don't like the associations. "
"But we classify them as criminals, all of them, the whole organisation." Vista replied.
"Some are." Annie admitted freely, "Weyland has to kick them out occasionally when we get smuggling or rackets in Portland of Vancouver. He doesn't like that stuff. Also, you can't prove anyone's linked that's one of the points. Weyland says Uppercrust was a fan of old secret societies, so apparently a lot of it's pretty informal at the higher levels."
"Yea it's not like the Protectorate where there's a central HR department. How does your branch work then?" Assault continued.
It was hardly secret information, and Annie explained, hand caressing the big knife in the bandolier over her belly. Weyland ran a tight ship, his branch basically operated as a more expensive and exclusive Protectorate, without the PTR elements. Less paperwork, less oversight, more a network of favours and influence among the law enforcement, commerce and crime. Gangs would pay protection too, usually the more established ones, but Weyland came down hard on anything to do with kids.
Not women though, Annie had always thought that weird.
But then again Weyland was a weird guy…
They'd reached the end of the Boardwalk, and now Annie had her mission.
"Why don't we keep going, I want to see these new guys." she said, throat rough from all the talking with Vista. Assault was behind him, trying to engage Bear in conversation and utterly failing.
"Yea I doubt Console will go for it, best we get back, I can call a bus." Assault said, already on his comm.
"You can if you like." Annie shrugged, knowing they wouldn't let them wander about unsupervised if they could help it. "You can bend space right?" she asked Vista, "Do you think you can keep us out of the way? If you can bend bullets you can bend arrows surely?"
Vista's eyes creased in challenge, "Of course I can! I-"
"Woah woah," Assault was walking forward, hands up, "Look whatever Weyland and Armsmaster are talking about, let's wait for them, right?"
Annie pushed them, pushed and pushed like Weyland had taught her. It wasn't manipulation, he'd said as much when he'd been introducing her to it, it was just understanding the perspective of the organisation you were trying to influence.
And soon enough, the four found themselves standing on top of an empty gas silo from back when Brockton Bay actually had industry. The Boat Graveyard was off in front of them, and with a twist of space they stepped from one structure to another.
Vista was looking over the next gap and Assault sidled up beside Annie, "You know this is pretty suspicious right? I'm not on a comm right now by the way, but I just hope you know what you're doing."
He seemed a decent guy.
The two ships were below them. The sailors were getting out, a few of them holding weapons where others seemed to be playing a board game or just sitting and talking.
Of all things there was a pizza delivery guy there, apparently negotiating with the sailors regarding a few boxes.
LARPing had gotten less popular as capes got more popular, there was a danger some villain would put on a silly costume and do some crimes and it would somehow make it more difficult to catch them, and so law enforcement across the country had started breaking up LARP events and confiscating silly hats. Apparently the sailors hadn't heard about that though.
They'd seen pictures before, now the sailors mostly weren't wearing armour, but what they were wearing was still weird. Long shirts, baggy pants, long hair in braids with little ornaments. They were very… ordinary. Strangely dressed certainly, but not that unusual given the plethora of costumes capes wore.
Annie dialled, and only on the second ring Weyland answered, "Report."
"A load of guys with swords. Dark guy with a curly stick. Guy with a bandanna or something. Pizza guy."
"Pizza guy?"
"Yea I think they did an order."
Weyland grunted on the other end of the line. "Alright. Engage."
"Ok, no, do not engage." Assault was saying, "We did not agree this. Console-"
Annie ignored him, "Bear? Give me a boost?"
She hopped into his massive claw, then with a mighty throw Bear hurled her at the ships.
FractiousDay
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Imer Chendali watched with moderate interest as the large hairy creature watching them threw a small girl in a long arc, who then blinked out of existence before reappearing, skidding into the beach to stand before him.
"That bear just threw a nightblade at us." one of his brothers remarked in as great a surprise as Imer had considered.
"I wonder what she wants." Imer said.
The food man was still bothering them and Imer pushed him aside. They'd paid him, probably better than what he deserved given the silver he'd received, it was his problem if he wouldn't accept it.
The girl approached. She was strangely dressed with short trousers, the handle of some bulky weapon on her left hip, and dozens of knives all about her person on straps and binders. She was scarred, horribly so, with thick red welts on her arms, up her neck, and then a dozen on her face. A gladiator perhaps?
"Should we call the Captain?" Beric asked, hopping down from the dragonship and coming up with Imer toward the girl.
"If you want to disrupt him at prayer with the Lord Tongue you can, but I'll not." Imer replied with scorn. Beric was eager but foolish.
Imer walked forward. The locals didn't speak their language and they'd been getting along with charades so far, especially when it came to getting food delivered to their ships. Imer had gone out with his brothers and made various gesticulations, dangling a bag of silver in front of vendors, and in turn a few of them had turned up at the ships. Then those vagrants had attacked them, and the warriors had taken their paper money. It was unusual currency, Imer didn't trust paper himself, but he'd encountered it before.
"Hello." Imer remarked to the girl. She didn't look hostile, but he had his axe on his belt all the same.
Drawing a small rectangle from a pocket, she held it up. It glowed and Imer raised his eyebrows. That too was strange, but hardly the oddest thing he'd seen under the standard.
"Where do you hail from? What is your purpose here?" asked the rectangle, and at that Imer started. The rectangle spoke with the accent of Orsinium, and he hadn't known you could fit an Orc in such a small space.
"Hey look!" he shouted to the others, and they began to leap off the ship to come see.
"Speak, warrior," continued the Orc-rectangle, "I asked you a question."
The rectangle was touchy. Then again, being squashed in such a small place would probably make one testy.
"From the port of Jylkurfyk." said Beric, "By whale-road and storm-of-war, to the quest and call under Shadow."
"I didn't come here for poetry. Speak plainly." the rectangle chastised Beric, who sometimes though himself a skald. "If you don't give an account of yourself you'll just be arrested and your ships seized."
That caused a minor uproar, and the knife-girl cringed as Imer's brothers stamped and grumbled rejections, "Are you'll do that from your little rectangle will you?"
"It's a device you muttonhead." Tarelis, their Dunmer mage said, leaning over the side of the ship, "The Orc is in some far place, and uses it to speak to us through an emissary."
"I knew that!" Imer replied hotly, but felt himself blushing.
"Quiet!" barked the rectangle. "Where is your commander? Has he left ill-disciplined pirates to speak for him?"
"The Captain will speak to you." Imer replied, "But only in person, what sort of man are you to send a girl in your place? Does she fight for you, or does that hairy beast?" he asked, nodding over toward the three figures standing on the building a little way away.
"She fights, and kills." the rectangle replied darkly.
"Peace, peace!" said someone from behind, and Imer saw one senior warrior coming forward, "Stop this foolishness. Who are you, speak and be done, or come yourself, as you please. We are honourable, there is no need for deception."
"Perhaps, but you bear the sigils of war and conflict to my home, am I not right to be suspicious? I know what you are, Companion."
And with that, the girl stepped backward the air behind her somehow shortening, till she was standing on top of the building again.
"Strange magic these folk." Tarelis remarked, "Alright, they have one of Orsinium on their side, who's going to tell the Captain?"
"That bear just threw a nightblade at us." one of his brothers remarked in as great a surprise as Imer had considered.
"I wonder what she wants." Imer said.
The food man was still bothering them and Imer pushed him aside. They'd paid him, probably better than what he deserved given the silver he'd received, it was his problem if he wouldn't accept it.
The girl approached. She was strangely dressed with short trousers, the handle of some bulky weapon on her left hip, and dozens of knives all about her person on straps and binders. She was scarred, horribly so, with thick red welts on her arms, up her neck, and then a dozen on her face. A gladiator perhaps?
"Should we call the Captain?" Beric asked, hopping down from the dragonship and coming up with Imer toward the girl.
"If you want to disrupt him at prayer with the Lord Tongue you can, but I'll not." Imer replied with scorn. Beric was eager but foolish.
Imer walked forward. The locals didn't speak their language and they'd been getting along with charades so far, especially when it came to getting food delivered to their ships. Imer had gone out with his brothers and made various gesticulations, dangling a bag of silver in front of vendors, and in turn a few of them had turned up at the ships. Then those vagrants had attacked them, and the warriors had taken their paper money. It was unusual currency, Imer didn't trust paper himself, but he'd encountered it before.
"Hello." Imer remarked to the girl. She didn't look hostile, but he had his axe on his belt all the same.
Drawing a small rectangle from a pocket, she held it up. It glowed and Imer raised his eyebrows. That too was strange, but hardly the oddest thing he'd seen under the standard.
"Where do you hail from? What is your purpose here?" asked the rectangle, and at that Imer started. The rectangle spoke with the accent of Orsinium, and he hadn't known you could fit an Orc in such a small space.
"Hey look!" he shouted to the others, and they began to leap off the ship to come see.
"Speak, warrior," continued the Orc-rectangle, "I asked you a question."
The rectangle was touchy. Then again, being squashed in such a small place would probably make one testy.
"From the port of Jylkurfyk." said Beric, "By whale-road and storm-of-war, to the quest and call under Shadow."
"I didn't come here for poetry. Speak plainly." the rectangle chastised Beric, who sometimes though himself a skald. "If you don't give an account of yourself you'll just be arrested and your ships seized."
That caused a minor uproar, and the knife-girl cringed as Imer's brothers stamped and grumbled rejections, "Are you'll do that from your little rectangle will you?"
"It's a device you muttonhead." Tarelis, their Dunmer mage said, leaning over the side of the ship, "The Orc is in some far place, and uses it to speak to us through an emissary."
"I knew that!" Imer replied hotly, but felt himself blushing.
"Quiet!" barked the rectangle. "Where is your commander? Has he left ill-disciplined pirates to speak for him?"
"The Captain will speak to you." Imer replied, "But only in person, what sort of man are you to send a girl in your place? Does she fight for you, or does that hairy beast?" he asked, nodding over toward the three figures standing on the building a little way away.
"She fights, and kills." the rectangle replied darkly.
"Peace, peace!" said someone from behind, and Imer saw one senior warrior coming forward, "Stop this foolishness. Who are you, speak and be done, or come yourself, as you please. We are honourable, there is no need for deception."
"Perhaps, but you bear the sigils of war and conflict to my home, am I not right to be suspicious? I know what you are, Companion."
And with that, the girl stepped backward the air behind her somehow shortening, till she was standing on top of the building again.
"Strange magic these folk." Tarelis remarked, "Alright, they have one of Orsinium on their side, who's going to tell the Captain?"
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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Tbh I'm not sure they're necessary given that there's only been 3 posts which weren't me on the thread so far. Indeed, those 3 posts are all people wanting threadmarks. Threadmarks for what? There's nothing else but story posts on the whole thread?
walket11
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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Oh huh, didnt notice the only other posts were about threadmarks. You see we just NEEEEEDDDDD them, for uh reasons.
Either way I really enjoy the story so far, good job!
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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"What exactly was that?"
Director Piggot wasn't pleased.
Weyland wasn't either. He slumped in his chair, loosening his armour, then pulling the whole hauberk off over his head, hanging it over the empty seat next to him with his halberd.
"I needed to know who they were."
Piggot's eyes flashed. "And you knew I wouldn't authorise such a mission?"
Weyland shrugged, "It worked, they weren't in any danger, it was under control, Annie's Mover rating along with Vista's Shaker ability were adequate."
"This is my city, Weyland." Piggot replied hotly, "You don't make command decisions here… And I'm still waiting for your promised explanation."
The conference room had filled up in the last hour or so. Weyland spoke quietly with Armsmaster and Miss Militia, but after that they'd started to make calls. Most of the Protectorate heroes were there now, along with a few Wards, team leaders from PRT assault units, as well as the PRT's local leadership, and several members of New Wave, an independent hero team Weyland hadn't been familiar with.
The Orc stood, deeply uncomfortable, but knowing now was the time.
"I'm not a Case 54, I'm a 62. I grew up among people who looked like this, my race, what I suppose you'd call my species. I'm from a world called 'Nirn', one more significantly different than any of the currently categorised worlds from Haywire's work or other shifters."
The room was quiet, respectful even, and Weyland continued.
"I accepted exile after a complicated issue we don't need to get into, and by the process of exile came here. It's a relatively common practice at home to become a sort of penal explorer I suppose, but anyway." He was getting away from his narration, "I found myself in Idaho, eventually joined up, and as I regarded myself as dead decided to pass myself off as a Case 53. Some of you will be aware of my career in the Protectorate, I won't get into that either. I didn't think about home, or the potential that anyone would follow me, intentionally or not, but I can now acknowledge that the possibility was there. Anyway, they're here now, and we've got to deal with them."
Slides came up on the screen and a few in the audience started making notes.
"These are the Companions. They're a military fraternity, dedicated to errantry, they go about hunting, fighting, it doesn't really matter what or who, they're just charged by their commander to go out to war and win glory. They'll take trophies, but they're professional adventurers. Each one of them with a sword or axe should be considered Brute 2." he paused, looking to one of the PRT commanders with a pen raised.
"Yes?"
"Sir," the commander addressed him, "I'm aware of your contributions to our CQC manuals and I trust your assessment, but what justifies a rating like that? If we're going to sell this to our men and cooperating agencies we're going to need examples, and to me, they don't seem to justify that rating. "
The PRT's Threat Assessment was an institution of great controversy. Weyland himself was only classified as a Brute 2, despite having killed two members of the Slaughterhouse Nine. It was designed to assess and communicate information in crises, but despite this there were those who found problems with it.
"I don't want your people shooting at them, having the bullets bounce off their shields, or their swords go through cars, and getting killed." Weyland replied. "Perhaps Brute 2 is an exaggeration, but consider their skill too. The PRT, even some of the Protectorate, doesn't train for combat like the Companions do. Each one of them will be an expert with their weapon, and those weapons may have various exotic qualities. If you prefer you can hold off on classification."
The commander shook his head, "No sir, I understand you completely. Better to know."
Weyland nodded, "Next, we've got basically two strike teams of capes here. We don't have a good assessment of their capabilities yet, but we can speak in broad terms. First," the screen changed, showing several figures in robes wielding wands and staves. One was in the process of directing a stream of fire toward several Merchants, while another was kneeling over an injured compatriot, hands glowing green.
"Back home these are mages. They use magic for various purposes. Yes, I said 'magic'. These aren't capes, you can go to school to learn magic, then to magic university. Let's skip past the scepticism though. These four are Trumps, they can replicate various exotic effects. At the basic level though you'll probably see Blaster 4, the ability to throw fire around, freeze a target, but also Striker or Shaker effects like healing as shown there, or changing the weather. Let's say Striker/Shaker 4 too. At the higher levels, it's well within their capabilities to turn invisible or control the mind of another, so we'll need to confirm whether they have Master and Stranger ratings or not."
Weyland paused, seeing another hand.
"Calvert, PRT consultant. Could we 'learn magic'?"
The Orc thought for a moment. "That would depend on whether you have a soul, and I'm not a priest. Get one of those staves and try it out. If it works, you could learn, yes. Incidentally, treat the wizards as Tinkers, remove any objects from their person, ideally strip them too if it comes to it, especially any rings or similar jewellery."
New slides flashed, this time it showed a dozen men in cloaks and nothing else, they were naked underneath apart from loincloths. Weyland supposed they were clothed in a fashion, for tattoos covered them from face to foot.
"This lot are werewolves." He said simply. "Whether at will, or after a particular ritual, they can transform into larger dangerous wolf creatures. Brute 3 at base as they're going to be pretty strong, then Mover 3, Brute 6, Changer 2, Thinker 4 due to enhanced capabilities and senses when they transform. Something very important I want at the top of their file though, they're probably contagious. Anyone cut or bitten by them has the potential to transform too. I can't predict under what conditions, it'll depend on them specifically. They're shock troops though, they'll be immune to small calibre weapons, though rifle rounds might get through. Exceptionally dangerous. If they've got uncontrolled transformations they'll probably head out of the city at full moon and you'll start getting reports of savaged cattle."
Questions came and they proceeded through the slides till Weyland came to the last one.
"This is a Tongue." he said, looking at the old man with an ornate bandanna over his mouth. "Blast 8, Shaker 8. Tongues shout, they speak words of exceptional power, they can level cities, call up storms in a moment, kill with a whisper. He's their big gun, but he's also a monk so he may not fight. He can't talk normally, he has to wear that gag in case he blasts everything around him when he coughs. If engaged, immobilise or incapacitate him. Go for the mouth and throat, stop him speaking."
Weyland wasn't quite sure if they believed him or not. He had good credibility with the PRT, and he still had decent pull with the Protectorate. Perhaps it would be enough, but he had a feeling things would get messy soon enough.
"Any other questions?"
"Why were you exiled?" came a voice from the back, a young woman in a gold costume and a tiara.
"I'm sure we can cover that in private at another time-" Deputy Director Rennick began.
"No." Weyland said, cutting him off. "We'll use it as a learning opportunity."
He drew breath.
"Apostasy. That's the short answer. My community disagreed on various religious points with the orthodox view of my nation. I didn't truly have an opinion on it myself, I was young, but I refused to recant my faith as others did, and myself and a few more were exiled. I want you to understand, you all to understand, that these people are different from you. Freedom of expression is not only understood but unchallenged in here, not just in this country, but essentially across the world. Not so on Nirn. Don't assume anything about the Companions or anyone with them. They want to provoke you, they want to fight worthy battles, then call in reinforcements to report their success and capitalise on it. These ones are adventurers, they don't care much about this world, it's basically a safari for them. Who's going to follow? If this gets out of hand we could be looking at a full invasion. On one hand that wouldn't be so bad, maybe an Elder Dragon could beat an Endbringer, but then you've got a dragon on your hands."
He looked around, seeing incredulity on faces.
"If a Companion challenges you to a duel, accept it. If you don't they'll interpret it as an insult, and might attack anyway. If you accept it you can get healing, and they'll keep it light. You can choose your weapons, I'd recommend fists. This means anyone armed or appearing like a soldier, so police too. We're going to have screw ups here, someone's going to end up shot. That's inevitable I think, but I want you briefing you men. Act with as much honour as you can, and I'd advise…" He looked sidelong at Piggot and Armsmaster, "That you even put aside protocol if necessary."
"They want a fight." Weyland concluded, "Give it them on our terms."
Director Piggot wasn't pleased.
Weyland wasn't either. He slumped in his chair, loosening his armour, then pulling the whole hauberk off over his head, hanging it over the empty seat next to him with his halberd.
"I needed to know who they were."
Piggot's eyes flashed. "And you knew I wouldn't authorise such a mission?"
Weyland shrugged, "It worked, they weren't in any danger, it was under control, Annie's Mover rating along with Vista's Shaker ability were adequate."
"This is my city, Weyland." Piggot replied hotly, "You don't make command decisions here… And I'm still waiting for your promised explanation."
The conference room had filled up in the last hour or so. Weyland spoke quietly with Armsmaster and Miss Militia, but after that they'd started to make calls. Most of the Protectorate heroes were there now, along with a few Wards, team leaders from PRT assault units, as well as the PRT's local leadership, and several members of New Wave, an independent hero team Weyland hadn't been familiar with.
The Orc stood, deeply uncomfortable, but knowing now was the time.
"I'm not a Case 54, I'm a 62. I grew up among people who looked like this, my race, what I suppose you'd call my species. I'm from a world called 'Nirn', one more significantly different than any of the currently categorised worlds from Haywire's work or other shifters."
The room was quiet, respectful even, and Weyland continued.
"I accepted exile after a complicated issue we don't need to get into, and by the process of exile came here. It's a relatively common practice at home to become a sort of penal explorer I suppose, but anyway." He was getting away from his narration, "I found myself in Idaho, eventually joined up, and as I regarded myself as dead decided to pass myself off as a Case 53. Some of you will be aware of my career in the Protectorate, I won't get into that either. I didn't think about home, or the potential that anyone would follow me, intentionally or not, but I can now acknowledge that the possibility was there. Anyway, they're here now, and we've got to deal with them."
Slides came up on the screen and a few in the audience started making notes.
"These are the Companions. They're a military fraternity, dedicated to errantry, they go about hunting, fighting, it doesn't really matter what or who, they're just charged by their commander to go out to war and win glory. They'll take trophies, but they're professional adventurers. Each one of them with a sword or axe should be considered Brute 2." he paused, looking to one of the PRT commanders with a pen raised.
"Yes?"
"Sir," the commander addressed him, "I'm aware of your contributions to our CQC manuals and I trust your assessment, but what justifies a rating like that? If we're going to sell this to our men and cooperating agencies we're going to need examples, and to me, they don't seem to justify that rating. "
The PRT's Threat Assessment was an institution of great controversy. Weyland himself was only classified as a Brute 2, despite having killed two members of the Slaughterhouse Nine. It was designed to assess and communicate information in crises, but despite this there were those who found problems with it.
"I don't want your people shooting at them, having the bullets bounce off their shields, or their swords go through cars, and getting killed." Weyland replied. "Perhaps Brute 2 is an exaggeration, but consider their skill too. The PRT, even some of the Protectorate, doesn't train for combat like the Companions do. Each one of them will be an expert with their weapon, and those weapons may have various exotic qualities. If you prefer you can hold off on classification."
The commander shook his head, "No sir, I understand you completely. Better to know."
Weyland nodded, "Next, we've got basically two strike teams of capes here. We don't have a good assessment of their capabilities yet, but we can speak in broad terms. First," the screen changed, showing several figures in robes wielding wands and staves. One was in the process of directing a stream of fire toward several Merchants, while another was kneeling over an injured compatriot, hands glowing green.
"Back home these are mages. They use magic for various purposes. Yes, I said 'magic'. These aren't capes, you can go to school to learn magic, then to magic university. Let's skip past the scepticism though. These four are Trumps, they can replicate various exotic effects. At the basic level though you'll probably see Blaster 4, the ability to throw fire around, freeze a target, but also Striker or Shaker effects like healing as shown there, or changing the weather. Let's say Striker/Shaker 4 too. At the higher levels, it's well within their capabilities to turn invisible or control the mind of another, so we'll need to confirm whether they have Master and Stranger ratings or not."
Weyland paused, seeing another hand.
"Calvert, PRT consultant. Could we 'learn magic'?"
The Orc thought for a moment. "That would depend on whether you have a soul, and I'm not a priest. Get one of those staves and try it out. If it works, you could learn, yes. Incidentally, treat the wizards as Tinkers, remove any objects from their person, ideally strip them too if it comes to it, especially any rings or similar jewellery."
New slides flashed, this time it showed a dozen men in cloaks and nothing else, they were naked underneath apart from loincloths. Weyland supposed they were clothed in a fashion, for tattoos covered them from face to foot.
"This lot are werewolves." He said simply. "Whether at will, or after a particular ritual, they can transform into larger dangerous wolf creatures. Brute 3 at base as they're going to be pretty strong, then Mover 3, Brute 6, Changer 2, Thinker 4 due to enhanced capabilities and senses when they transform. Something very important I want at the top of their file though, they're probably contagious. Anyone cut or bitten by them has the potential to transform too. I can't predict under what conditions, it'll depend on them specifically. They're shock troops though, they'll be immune to small calibre weapons, though rifle rounds might get through. Exceptionally dangerous. If they've got uncontrolled transformations they'll probably head out of the city at full moon and you'll start getting reports of savaged cattle."
Questions came and they proceeded through the slides till Weyland came to the last one.
"This is a Tongue." he said, looking at the old man with an ornate bandanna over his mouth. "Blast 8, Shaker 8. Tongues shout, they speak words of exceptional power, they can level cities, call up storms in a moment, kill with a whisper. He's their big gun, but he's also a monk so he may not fight. He can't talk normally, he has to wear that gag in case he blasts everything around him when he coughs. If engaged, immobilise or incapacitate him. Go for the mouth and throat, stop him speaking."
Weyland wasn't quite sure if they believed him or not. He had good credibility with the PRT, and he still had decent pull with the Protectorate. Perhaps it would be enough, but he had a feeling things would get messy soon enough.
"Any other questions?"
"Why were you exiled?" came a voice from the back, a young woman in a gold costume and a tiara.
"I'm sure we can cover that in private at another time-" Deputy Director Rennick began.
"No." Weyland said, cutting him off. "We'll use it as a learning opportunity."
He drew breath.
"Apostasy. That's the short answer. My community disagreed on various religious points with the orthodox view of my nation. I didn't truly have an opinion on it myself, I was young, but I refused to recant my faith as others did, and myself and a few more were exiled. I want you to understand, you all to understand, that these people are different from you. Freedom of expression is not only understood but unchallenged in here, not just in this country, but essentially across the world. Not so on Nirn. Don't assume anything about the Companions or anyone with them. They want to provoke you, they want to fight worthy battles, then call in reinforcements to report their success and capitalise on it. These ones are adventurers, they don't care much about this world, it's basically a safari for them. Who's going to follow? If this gets out of hand we could be looking at a full invasion. On one hand that wouldn't be so bad, maybe an Elder Dragon could beat an Endbringer, but then you've got a dragon on your hands."
He looked around, seeing incredulity on faces.
"If a Companion challenges you to a duel, accept it. If you don't they'll interpret it as an insult, and might attack anyway. If you accept it you can get healing, and they'll keep it light. You can choose your weapons, I'd recommend fists. This means anyone armed or appearing like a soldier, so police too. We're going to have screw ups here, someone's going to end up shot. That's inevitable I think, but I want you briefing you men. Act with as much honour as you can, and I'd advise…" He looked sidelong at Piggot and Armsmaster, "That you even put aside protocol if necessary."
"They want a fight." Weyland concluded, "Give it them on our terms."
Korst
Of Beginnings and Ends
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I have... no idea what's supposed to be going on... for multiple chapters even. Forgive me for stating this flatly, I don't like it. It feels like I'm expected to care enough to read between the lines and figure it out for myself. But I'm not invested in the story enough to invest the brain power required to do that. Everything is so vague that I never even got the chance to be invested. This is a miss for me.
EDIT: and I mean vague in the sense of the overarching purpose and direction of events. The reader is left in the dark and expected to guess at what'd happening instead of the course of events being expressed through the writing. Maybe the author is leading up to that, but it's taking far, far too long. A feeling only made worse by the chapters being cut up into tiny sections that feel like parts of a chapter. It should've happened in the first chapter and not this stretched out laborious read that feels like hearing only half a conversation. There is no hook to draw the reader in at the start, instead the story actively pushes the reader away as it denies details.
EDIT: and I mean vague in the sense of the overarching purpose and direction of events. The reader is left in the dark and expected to guess at what'd happening instead of the course of events being expressed through the writing. Maybe the author is leading up to that, but it's taking far, far too long. A feeling only made worse by the chapters being cut up into tiny sections that feel like parts of a chapter. It should've happened in the first chapter and not this stretched out laborious read that feels like hearing only half a conversation. There is no hook to draw the reader in at the start, instead the story actively pushes the reader away as it denies details.
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Erik Phantom
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Just to weigh in on this. Plenty of people (myself among them) just mindlessly click the right arrow when they get to the end of a chapter. If there is no such arrow, then that means that is where the story ends, at least for now, and they make the choice to Watch it or not then. Only sometimes do they (I) actually scroll down even a single post past that point, as they are there for the story, rarely the discussion, which the end of the threadmarks means is all that's left.
Threadmarks also provide useful thread history, helping to easily show how long a story is (in posts, words, and age), as well as give an idea of update speed and size, and are an easy way to tell if something is trending towards 'dead' or at least 'on unofficial hiatus until further notice.' (A regular update rate before suddenly nothing for a good while means it is much less likely to be continued.)
On the story itself, perhaps clarifying that you are using ESO elements in particular in the title might be helpful, as plenty of people like myself are/were fans of the Elder Scrolls games but never got into ESO for various reasons (avoiding MMOs, bad reviews/experience, hating what MMOs seem to do to storylines, etc.) So while I am perfectly familiar with Elder Scrolls, the specifics of this is rather going past me. (Assuming this is ESO stuff of course, and not a more nebulous and undefined time period of Nirn.)
FractiousDay
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I'll begin by sayings thanks for the points, that's useful to know, but I'd also like to query some of them. To begin, this story is at present only 7k long. I'm not sure what grand events an author is expected to convey in that amount of time, and there will indeed be elements you're meant to think about and consider. The central one is that Weyland, the main perspective character, is extremely concerned that TES people have showed up on Earth Bet, and that there's therefore a mystery about why that's happened and what's going on. That's an inherantly disruptive element. What disruption will happen, who will be doing what, are more people going to come through in an invasion? etc etc. I've also tried to make Weyland moderately compelling too but I can get if that's a relatively minor part of why you'd want to read such a work.
So there is in fact a hook, quite directly. Bear has texted Weyland in the first chapter to tell him (and indeed the reader) that TES people are in Brockton Bay. Now, if that hook doesn't work, I suppose that's a different issue, but unless I'm massively off my mark I've been putting at least moderately interest things to exposit on the mystery in each chapter, with the latest one expositing the mostly clearly so far.
I don't even think there's much reading in between the lines. Some points are unstated, but this is pretty basic stuff. Character A is in a panic, what about? Character B seems to indicate that X is going to happen, what will that be? What is the alternative? To simply write out everything that's going on in exposition and have characters wander about stating their motivations to each other?
Again, if it's not for you that's ok, fair enough really. However, as a matter of general interest I would like to know when you as a reader expect to have stuff happen. I tend to write longer works and I'm therefore inclined toward elements of subtlety, so what's your tolerance? Would you expect firm exposition in the first chapter? The first 5? Or are you just looking for a clearer summary?
Those are good points. I suppose I was frustrated that I'd written something and thought about it adn the only contribution from readers was 'can I have a threadmark'.
I'm not really familiar with TES either. I've done a bit of reading on it but it's not necessary to know about it. Are there particular specifics which are unclear?
Erik Phantom
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Ah, nevermind then. I just didn't recognize the time period of Nirn they appeared to be arriving from, and the mention of "three flags/factions" plus Weyland's immediate assumption that they came to conquer or at least spread their battles to Earth Bet made me think they were coming from Elder Scrolls Online times of open three-way war all across Tamriel. (Them all being Nords did make that less likely, as they are only part of one of those three factions.)
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FractiousDay
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Ah this explains it. Not those are just internal divisions within the Companions. The screaming elf would the banner of one section of them, whereas the axe-dragon is a stylised depiction of the Septim flag+wuuthrad, so no not the faction war in ESO
FractiousDay
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As some may know I've started doing Patreon etc. This chapter has been up on Patreon for a couple of weeks. Next sections to go up shortly. This fic and others will compose a round of stories, and I'm hoping if people are interested we can get some voting going.
Weyland strode happily into Armsmaster's workshop.
He shouldn't really be able to get in, the materials and devices inside a Tinker's workshop tended to be dangerous in the wrong hands, and besides that sort of area was restricted to non-Protectorate individuals, especially visitors from semi-villain teams.
But Collin was a friend and had been for years. It had amused Weyland greatly that Armsmaster hadn't taken away his clearance yet from personal systems, even if he'd been ejected from the Protectorate itself.
"Oh, wow!" Weyland stopped in his walk, looking over to a large boxy device. "Is that a nanofab?"
"Hello Weyland…" came Armsmaster's longsuffering sigh. He was messing about with his bike and Weyland ignored him in favour of the machine in the corner.
It looked like Collin hadn't actually unpacked it yet, it was covered in plastic and foam packaging, and only the outer layers of cardboard and wooden supports seemed to have been removed so far.
"Can I have a look?" Weyland asked, already drawing his knife and getting to work on the restraints. "I've always wanted one of these, the possibilities for micro-structures are excellent."
"I haven't got authorisation to get it set up yet." Collin replied from his bike, "It's on loan, but I need to apply to actually get it started. I have a number of projects, the Nanothorn-"
"Yes yes the Nanothorn." Weyland dismissed it, "I'm sure you'll slice Behemoth's balls off."
With a great creak the Orc's knife pierced a join between wood, and putting his weight into the blade one side of the box fell away.
Weyland stood back and whistled. "Impressive!" he remarked, he could see it all, the control panel, the empty material reservoirs, the magazines of black goop that Weyland assumed was some advanced grapho-plastic, the extractor fans and the exhaust system for the chemical emissions. It was an impressive piece of kit.
"Can I have a go?" he asked eagerly.
"It's not ready." Collin growled, and Weyland smiled, leaning against the casing of the machine. He idly considered that it probably cost more than the entire budget for his team and their division. "Besides, we have higher priorities now. I doubt I'll get much time to tinker."
Weyland nodded slowly, "Yes… I'm sorry about that." he eventually conceded.
Armsmaster was silent for a moment.
"It's not your fault."
Weyland had to nod at that too. It was decent of Colin. The man struggled sometimes with such remarks. He was like a lot of Tinkers, a lot of capes really, fixated on their powers. Annie for example had to fiddle with her knives, she had a need to, a desire to play about with them, especially when she didn't have anything to do, and it'd made for some problematic incidents in public, the scarred little girl intimidating police officers occasionally when she was talking to them.
Armsmaster was worse though, or rather, tinkers were. They had their 'fugue states', a need to make things, to explore their powers. Armsmaster would constantly try and improve his armour, his halberd, his bike, and Weyland knew he'd been using stimulants for some time.
While he leant, sheathing his knife, Weyland contemplated life. It was a strange thing indeed. His former life had been dead. He had been an empty vessel, and into it had poured the discipline of the Protectorate, of his first team alongside Armsmaster and some of the others, then leading a team of his own, just like Colin did now. Then came the Nine, another exile to Oregon, and now this.
In a way, it was liberation. His former life hadn't ever really weighed on the Orc. The priests who'd thrust him into the void of the Dragon's Shadow had spoken much of possibilities, of the reach of AKHAT was long indeed, but in those days Weyland had been only an angry boy.
But despite his lack of perception for it, there had indeed been such a weight. It was pleasing then, to have it gone now.
Or was it just that he felt a drive to conflict? The desire to cross blades once again with folk of Nirn? There were dozens of worlds mapped by the Knights of the Lamp, hundreds more under the Dragon's Shadow, and Earth Bet was only one of them to have fallen upon.
"How are things going?" he asked at length, unbuckling his cuirass and perching on the material reservoir of the nanofab.
"Be specific." came Armsmaster's clipped tones. "I've just about got this wire out, I had a power surge a few weeks ago and haven't been able to get to it recently. More generally, we've got budget pressures from a few personnel issues, which I suspect is Coil but don't have time to look at-"
Weyland had no idea who 'Coil' might be, but supposed it was irrelevant at the moment.
Armsmaster leant out from where he was lying beside his bike, removing his diagnostic goggles and squirting a splash of energy drink into his mouth, wiping mechanical grease away from his cheek with the bottom of the bottle, before discarding it beside his motorcycle.
"But if you're referring to your presentation, well, it's not great." the tinker replied.
"Go on."
"There's enough credibility to your remarks, your professionalism, and the material evidence, for the Chief Director to be interested, but apart from that it's not considered a priority at the moment."
Weyland shrugged. Perhaps that was right. He was sanguine about it really, what would happen would happen, but eventually he expected to see a dragon soaring over Brockton Bay.
It had been difficult, thinking about how to convince the PRT and Protectorate to take things seriously. Weyland had once been one of them, he had pull with both organisations, but he suspected the material evidence had more sway in decisions than his rambling about magicians and werewolves. For example, everyone knew that Imperial coinage was an alloy of nine metals, one for each of the gods, and when analysing the coins Armsmaster had indeed found nine metals, several of which were unknown to Earth Bet, and which besides apparently possessed unusual radioactive properties which marked it as very foreign. Something to do with nuclear weapons and radiation in the atmosphere, Weyland didn't entirely understand it.
"I'd prefer to be active, proactive even." Colin continued, "But there's little to go on. We can't be seen to go about challenging people to duels, and you've said they'll be disciplined, we're not going to catch them extorting tourists like the Merchants try occasionally. If we hit them in force we'd risk our own people, and I won't authorise such a deployment against them. It's our policy against the Empire too."
Weyland threw himself off the nanofab, striding forward, "Don't give me more of this Boston Games bullshit!" his finger was out, stabbing toward Armsmaster.
"We do not antagonise organised villain groups without the proper resources to manage the aftermath." Armsmaster replied, a frustration leaking into his voice. "People die Weyland, people are dead."
"Small victories." Weyland replied with a sneer. This was an old argument.
"Small victories." agreed Armsmaster, "Small victories again and again. Iteration, growth, solidification. 'March divided, fight concentrated'. This is how the Protectorate works. You know this…"
"This is why I left." Weyland retorted.
"You jumped before you were pushed. What were you going to do after Brigham? Retire?"
The question was rhetorical. Of course Weyland wouldn't have retired. He was a warrior, even clad in the livery of the Protectorate, he had never forgotten that.
"Brigham was justified. I got Bonesaw and Marliman."
"And five thousand people."
"Brigham was justified." Weyland repeated.
The Protectorate had long ago adopted a disgustingly passive stance. They didn't kill, didn't imprison for long, didn't poke at villains too much. They left the Slaughterhouse Nine roam unchecked, hitting towns and destroying them without response. The military had been gutted over the decades, but if Weyland had had his way there would have been more killing.
Brigham had been justified.
Weyland was getting annoyed. Colin had always been career focused. He wanted to make team leader, wanted to get higher up, regional head maybe in a big city. He wanted to equal the Trivumvirate, but he'd been frustrated by the limitations of his body, by the limitations of his power, and by the reluctance of leadership to actually engage.
"I need some air." he growled, stalking away. Swinging down he grabbed his gear.
There could be no passivity against the Empire. He remembered how Malacath's temple burned, how the crusaders had swept over the walls of Fharun under their draconic general, how his father and brothers had died before the shrine.
Whether they chose to resist or not, there would be blood before it was done.
Weyland strode happily into Armsmaster's workshop.
He shouldn't really be able to get in, the materials and devices inside a Tinker's workshop tended to be dangerous in the wrong hands, and besides that sort of area was restricted to non-Protectorate individuals, especially visitors from semi-villain teams.
But Collin was a friend and had been for years. It had amused Weyland greatly that Armsmaster hadn't taken away his clearance yet from personal systems, even if he'd been ejected from the Protectorate itself.
"Oh, wow!" Weyland stopped in his walk, looking over to a large boxy device. "Is that a nanofab?"
"Hello Weyland…" came Armsmaster's longsuffering sigh. He was messing about with his bike and Weyland ignored him in favour of the machine in the corner.
It looked like Collin hadn't actually unpacked it yet, it was covered in plastic and foam packaging, and only the outer layers of cardboard and wooden supports seemed to have been removed so far.
"Can I have a look?" Weyland asked, already drawing his knife and getting to work on the restraints. "I've always wanted one of these, the possibilities for micro-structures are excellent."
"I haven't got authorisation to get it set up yet." Collin replied from his bike, "It's on loan, but I need to apply to actually get it started. I have a number of projects, the Nanothorn-"
"Yes yes the Nanothorn." Weyland dismissed it, "I'm sure you'll slice Behemoth's balls off."
With a great creak the Orc's knife pierced a join between wood, and putting his weight into the blade one side of the box fell away.
Weyland stood back and whistled. "Impressive!" he remarked, he could see it all, the control panel, the empty material reservoirs, the magazines of black goop that Weyland assumed was some advanced grapho-plastic, the extractor fans and the exhaust system for the chemical emissions. It was an impressive piece of kit.
"Can I have a go?" he asked eagerly.
"It's not ready." Collin growled, and Weyland smiled, leaning against the casing of the machine. He idly considered that it probably cost more than the entire budget for his team and their division. "Besides, we have higher priorities now. I doubt I'll get much time to tinker."
Weyland nodded slowly, "Yes… I'm sorry about that." he eventually conceded.
Armsmaster was silent for a moment.
"It's not your fault."
Weyland had to nod at that too. It was decent of Colin. The man struggled sometimes with such remarks. He was like a lot of Tinkers, a lot of capes really, fixated on their powers. Annie for example had to fiddle with her knives, she had a need to, a desire to play about with them, especially when she didn't have anything to do, and it'd made for some problematic incidents in public, the scarred little girl intimidating police officers occasionally when she was talking to them.
Armsmaster was worse though, or rather, tinkers were. They had their 'fugue states', a need to make things, to explore their powers. Armsmaster would constantly try and improve his armour, his halberd, his bike, and Weyland knew he'd been using stimulants for some time.
While he leant, sheathing his knife, Weyland contemplated life. It was a strange thing indeed. His former life had been dead. He had been an empty vessel, and into it had poured the discipline of the Protectorate, of his first team alongside Armsmaster and some of the others, then leading a team of his own, just like Colin did now. Then came the Nine, another exile to Oregon, and now this.
In a way, it was liberation. His former life hadn't ever really weighed on the Orc. The priests who'd thrust him into the void of the Dragon's Shadow had spoken much of possibilities, of the reach of AKHAT was long indeed, but in those days Weyland had been only an angry boy.
But despite his lack of perception for it, there had indeed been such a weight. It was pleasing then, to have it gone now.
Or was it just that he felt a drive to conflict? The desire to cross blades once again with folk of Nirn? There were dozens of worlds mapped by the Knights of the Lamp, hundreds more under the Dragon's Shadow, and Earth Bet was only one of them to have fallen upon.
"How are things going?" he asked at length, unbuckling his cuirass and perching on the material reservoir of the nanofab.
"Be specific." came Armsmaster's clipped tones. "I've just about got this wire out, I had a power surge a few weeks ago and haven't been able to get to it recently. More generally, we've got budget pressures from a few personnel issues, which I suspect is Coil but don't have time to look at-"
Weyland had no idea who 'Coil' might be, but supposed it was irrelevant at the moment.
Armsmaster leant out from where he was lying beside his bike, removing his diagnostic goggles and squirting a splash of energy drink into his mouth, wiping mechanical grease away from his cheek with the bottom of the bottle, before discarding it beside his motorcycle.
"But if you're referring to your presentation, well, it's not great." the tinker replied.
"Go on."
"There's enough credibility to your remarks, your professionalism, and the material evidence, for the Chief Director to be interested, but apart from that it's not considered a priority at the moment."
Weyland shrugged. Perhaps that was right. He was sanguine about it really, what would happen would happen, but eventually he expected to see a dragon soaring over Brockton Bay.
It had been difficult, thinking about how to convince the PRT and Protectorate to take things seriously. Weyland had once been one of them, he had pull with both organisations, but he suspected the material evidence had more sway in decisions than his rambling about magicians and werewolves. For example, everyone knew that Imperial coinage was an alloy of nine metals, one for each of the gods, and when analysing the coins Armsmaster had indeed found nine metals, several of which were unknown to Earth Bet, and which besides apparently possessed unusual radioactive properties which marked it as very foreign. Something to do with nuclear weapons and radiation in the atmosphere, Weyland didn't entirely understand it.
"I'd prefer to be active, proactive even." Colin continued, "But there's little to go on. We can't be seen to go about challenging people to duels, and you've said they'll be disciplined, we're not going to catch them extorting tourists like the Merchants try occasionally. If we hit them in force we'd risk our own people, and I won't authorise such a deployment against them. It's our policy against the Empire too."
Weyland threw himself off the nanofab, striding forward, "Don't give me more of this Boston Games bullshit!" his finger was out, stabbing toward Armsmaster.
"We do not antagonise organised villain groups without the proper resources to manage the aftermath." Armsmaster replied, a frustration leaking into his voice. "People die Weyland, people are dead."
"Small victories." Weyland replied with a sneer. This was an old argument.
"Small victories." agreed Armsmaster, "Small victories again and again. Iteration, growth, solidification. 'March divided, fight concentrated'. This is how the Protectorate works. You know this…"
"This is why I left." Weyland retorted.
"You jumped before you were pushed. What were you going to do after Brigham? Retire?"
The question was rhetorical. Of course Weyland wouldn't have retired. He was a warrior, even clad in the livery of the Protectorate, he had never forgotten that.
"Brigham was justified. I got Bonesaw and Marliman."
"And five thousand people."
"Brigham was justified." Weyland repeated.
The Protectorate had long ago adopted a disgustingly passive stance. They didn't kill, didn't imprison for long, didn't poke at villains too much. They left the Slaughterhouse Nine roam unchecked, hitting towns and destroying them without response. The military had been gutted over the decades, but if Weyland had had his way there would have been more killing.
Brigham had been justified.
Weyland was getting annoyed. Colin had always been career focused. He wanted to make team leader, wanted to get higher up, regional head maybe in a big city. He wanted to equal the Trivumvirate, but he'd been frustrated by the limitations of his body, by the limitations of his power, and by the reluctance of leadership to actually engage.
"I need some air." he growled, stalking away. Swinging down he grabbed his gear.
There could be no passivity against the Empire. He remembered how Malacath's temple burned, how the crusaders had swept over the walls of Fharun under their draconic general, how his father and brothers had died before the shrine.
Whether they chose to resist or not, there would be blood before it was done.
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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So the whole point of these new stories I'm doing is to try and get support with my writing, whether through Patreon or through comments. I've decided that I'll write up to about 20k with each new story, and then depending on reception I'll either continue or swap it out for a different story idea, of which I have several. We're now reaching 10k words, so it would be good to have comments on this, rather than just follows etc. I'm aware the pacing is relatively slow, but I'd hope it would be clear that confrontation is anticipated between the Companions and the Protectorate. But yes, very much open to feedback.
The helipad of the Brockton Bay Protectorate base sat atop the weathered remnants of an old oil rig, its metal structure reaching defiantly into the sky. From this vantage point, Weyland took in the panoramic view of the city, which unfolded pleasantly enough before his eyes.
It was peaceful. It was a strange thing to say, given the city had one of the highest parahuman crime rates in the US, but to Weyland it was peaceful anyway.
Vision of Fharun filled the Orc's mind, the scent of the burning seared his nostrils, he felt his heart hammer beneath green flesh. War called him, the chant of battle-tongue and the blare of horns, the screams of beats and men fighting in the ruins.
He had been a child when his home fell. By his people's standards, a man grown… but one thing Earth Bet got right was their laws for children.
But then again, Weyland mused to himself, stroking his wiry beard, didn't he employ Annie? Didn't the Wards in Brockton fight alongside the Protectorate?
Bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun, the sprawling city of Brockton Bay stretched out as far as the eye could see. Tall buildings loomed in the distance, their silhouettes etched against the backdrop of a clear, azure sky, while the windows and gardens of Captain's Hill were clearly visible from the Rig. The cityscape was a testament to both the scars of the past and the resilience of its inhabitants. The Marque, the Teeth, Slaughterhouse Nine, the battles between the ABB and the Empire, the city had seen a lot.
A gentle breeze swept across the helipad, carrying with it the salty tang of the nearby sea. It was peaceful, and Weyland closed his eyes for a moment. The salty smell was the most evident, but beyond it the pressure was building, a storm was coming.
For now though the weather was clear. This was the time for peace.
So why couldn't he get calm?
Eyes open he looked around. Was it instinct? He had a good nose, and from long experience Weyland knew he was capable of detecting Strangers slightly better than others. Not enough to have a rating himself, but he was alert, and took pride in it. Was there someone hanging about behind him?
No. No, it was foolish to slip into such thoughts. He was stressed that was all.
Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings, trying to centre himself. The steel around the helipad was corroded, the metal poorly maintained. It had been a rapid conversion, he was fairly sure about that. After Leviathan had disrupted global shipping it had become common for such platforms to be reused, sometimes as tourist venues, sometimes as command centres for coastal cities, like the Protectorate's base in Brockton. The maintenance efforts, while diligent, could not fully conceal the Rig's ageing infrastructure.
Upon closer inspection, one could spot a few signs of missing equipment, likely removed for repairs or maintenance elsewhere in the facility. The absence of certain vital components left behind a void, a reminder of the ongoing efforts to keep the base fully operational.
It wouldn't be enough. He needed to convince them of that. They needed to do more…
Several guards patrolled the helipad, their uniforms bearing the emblem of the Protectorate. Their presence added an air of security to the surroundings, their watchful eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. They were vigilant, seemed capable enough, and Weyland had recognised one of their captains earlier in the day. Capable men, good soldiers…
A faint shimmer danced along the perimeter of the helipad, marking the presence of an energy field. It hummed with a quiet power, an invisible barrier designed to safeguard the base from unauthorized entry. They were fairly uncommon, and Weyland wondered if it had been Armsmaster who'd set it up. Usually, such things weren't needed, except in very specific areas like Simurgh Quarantine Zones. The Orc wondered if it was a heat haze or the forcefield, it seemed unlike Armsmaster to waste energy in such an inefficient design, if it was interfering with the air.
Weyland supposed it didn't really matter. Either it was good enough to protect the base or it wasn't.
As the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue upon the helipad, the atmosphere on the oil rig exuded a sense of purpose. It was a place where heroes gathered, where strategies were planned, and where the protection of Brockton Bay was forged. The helipad, with its commanding view of the city, stood as a symbol of hope and resilience, a testament to the unwavering dedication of those who defended it.
But it was too peaceful…
With a sneer Weyland turned away, bringing out his phone.
"Anne." he said once the call connected, "I need you to do some recon."
"We're pretty locked down at the minute, boss." came the girl's reply from the phone.
Weyland bit back a retort. He had to be calm, there was no need to take out his fear on his teammates.
"We might need to be more active." Weyland replied after a moment. "Go have a chat with the Empire and the ABB."
"The skinheads might be alright with me 'chatting' to them." Annie said after a similar pause, "But if I walk into Chinatown…"
"Get creative." Weyland ordered, "We need this. The Companions are dragonslayers, and the Empire… I mean the other Empire not the Nazis, they have a thing about dragons. If the Companions get reinforcements they're not going to tolerate another Empire for long."
"Boss…" Annie said, "I'm not really sure what you want me to say to them…"
Weyland wanted to be angry at her. He couldn't though, so he just took a deep breath. In. Out. In again.
"Meet me downstairs. I'm going to be talking to some of the Assault Teams. Bring Bear, it'll amuse him I think."
"Got it, Boss."
Weyland had walked to the other end of the Rig as he'd been on the phone. He saw the stairs going down, but turned away for the moment. Something to the east took his eye.
There was nothing there. Gazing out to sea from the helipad, the vast expanse of the ocean spread before Weyland's eyes. There were few boats, and very little true naval traffic, only the white-capped waves, the scream of gulls.
The waves, though calmer now, still bore the scars of recent turmoil. They rolled and crashed against the remnants of the oil rig, their rhythmic dance a reminder of the relentless power that lay beneath the surface.
On the distant horizon, a storm brewed, dark clouds gathering in a swirling mass. Lightning flickered within the heart of the tempest, illuminating the darkened sky with intermittent bursts of electric energy. The approaching storm carried an air of anticipation, a foreboding sign of nature's fury and unpredictability.
The Orc watched the storm. It was a herald, of that much he was sure.
The helipad of the Brockton Bay Protectorate base sat atop the weathered remnants of an old oil rig, its metal structure reaching defiantly into the sky. From this vantage point, Weyland took in the panoramic view of the city, which unfolded pleasantly enough before his eyes.
It was peaceful. It was a strange thing to say, given the city had one of the highest parahuman crime rates in the US, but to Weyland it was peaceful anyway.
Vision of Fharun filled the Orc's mind, the scent of the burning seared his nostrils, he felt his heart hammer beneath green flesh. War called him, the chant of battle-tongue and the blare of horns, the screams of beats and men fighting in the ruins.
He had been a child when his home fell. By his people's standards, a man grown… but one thing Earth Bet got right was their laws for children.
But then again, Weyland mused to himself, stroking his wiry beard, didn't he employ Annie? Didn't the Wards in Brockton fight alongside the Protectorate?
Bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun, the sprawling city of Brockton Bay stretched out as far as the eye could see. Tall buildings loomed in the distance, their silhouettes etched against the backdrop of a clear, azure sky, while the windows and gardens of Captain's Hill were clearly visible from the Rig. The cityscape was a testament to both the scars of the past and the resilience of its inhabitants. The Marque, the Teeth, Slaughterhouse Nine, the battles between the ABB and the Empire, the city had seen a lot.
A gentle breeze swept across the helipad, carrying with it the salty tang of the nearby sea. It was peaceful, and Weyland closed his eyes for a moment. The salty smell was the most evident, but beyond it the pressure was building, a storm was coming.
For now though the weather was clear. This was the time for peace.
So why couldn't he get calm?
Eyes open he looked around. Was it instinct? He had a good nose, and from long experience Weyland knew he was capable of detecting Strangers slightly better than others. Not enough to have a rating himself, but he was alert, and took pride in it. Was there someone hanging about behind him?
No. No, it was foolish to slip into such thoughts. He was stressed that was all.
Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings, trying to centre himself. The steel around the helipad was corroded, the metal poorly maintained. It had been a rapid conversion, he was fairly sure about that. After Leviathan had disrupted global shipping it had become common for such platforms to be reused, sometimes as tourist venues, sometimes as command centres for coastal cities, like the Protectorate's base in Brockton. The maintenance efforts, while diligent, could not fully conceal the Rig's ageing infrastructure.
Upon closer inspection, one could spot a few signs of missing equipment, likely removed for repairs or maintenance elsewhere in the facility. The absence of certain vital components left behind a void, a reminder of the ongoing efforts to keep the base fully operational.
It wouldn't be enough. He needed to convince them of that. They needed to do more…
Several guards patrolled the helipad, their uniforms bearing the emblem of the Protectorate. Their presence added an air of security to the surroundings, their watchful eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. They were vigilant, seemed capable enough, and Weyland had recognised one of their captains earlier in the day. Capable men, good soldiers…
A faint shimmer danced along the perimeter of the helipad, marking the presence of an energy field. It hummed with a quiet power, an invisible barrier designed to safeguard the base from unauthorized entry. They were fairly uncommon, and Weyland wondered if it had been Armsmaster who'd set it up. Usually, such things weren't needed, except in very specific areas like Simurgh Quarantine Zones. The Orc wondered if it was a heat haze or the forcefield, it seemed unlike Armsmaster to waste energy in such an inefficient design, if it was interfering with the air.
Weyland supposed it didn't really matter. Either it was good enough to protect the base or it wasn't.
As the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue upon the helipad, the atmosphere on the oil rig exuded a sense of purpose. It was a place where heroes gathered, where strategies were planned, and where the protection of Brockton Bay was forged. The helipad, with its commanding view of the city, stood as a symbol of hope and resilience, a testament to the unwavering dedication of those who defended it.
But it was too peaceful…
With a sneer Weyland turned away, bringing out his phone.
"Anne." he said once the call connected, "I need you to do some recon."
"We're pretty locked down at the minute, boss." came the girl's reply from the phone.
Weyland bit back a retort. He had to be calm, there was no need to take out his fear on his teammates.
"We might need to be more active." Weyland replied after a moment. "Go have a chat with the Empire and the ABB."
"The skinheads might be alright with me 'chatting' to them." Annie said after a similar pause, "But if I walk into Chinatown…"
"Get creative." Weyland ordered, "We need this. The Companions are dragonslayers, and the Empire… I mean the other Empire not the Nazis, they have a thing about dragons. If the Companions get reinforcements they're not going to tolerate another Empire for long."
"Boss…" Annie said, "I'm not really sure what you want me to say to them…"
Weyland wanted to be angry at her. He couldn't though, so he just took a deep breath. In. Out. In again.
"Meet me downstairs. I'm going to be talking to some of the Assault Teams. Bring Bear, it'll amuse him I think."
"Got it, Boss."
Weyland had walked to the other end of the Rig as he'd been on the phone. He saw the stairs going down, but turned away for the moment. Something to the east took his eye.
There was nothing there. Gazing out to sea from the helipad, the vast expanse of the ocean spread before Weyland's eyes. There were few boats, and very little true naval traffic, only the white-capped waves, the scream of gulls.
The waves, though calmer now, still bore the scars of recent turmoil. They rolled and crashed against the remnants of the oil rig, their rhythmic dance a reminder of the relentless power that lay beneath the surface.
On the distant horizon, a storm brewed, dark clouds gathering in a swirling mass. Lightning flickered within the heart of the tempest, illuminating the darkened sky with intermittent bursts of electric energy. The approaching storm carried an air of anticipation, a foreboding sign of nature's fury and unpredictability.
The Orc watched the storm. It was a herald, of that much he was sure.
Malagar
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
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This is so far quite interesting, but I'd say that the story is a lot more vague about where it's heading than I'm used to.
I would prefer it if it was a bit more clear on that.
I'd also love to know roughly where we are in Tamrielic history.
I would prefer it if it was a bit more clear on that.
I'd also love to know roughly where we are in Tamrielic history.
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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so what do you anticipate will happen next? What is your current idea of the story, where do you think it's heading?
for example, weyland is moping about worrying that stuff will escalate, and has a history of getting into conflict against Protectorate policy, that's me setting stuff up for later
I wouldn't even say it's chekovs gun but rather me showing the audience a thing and them therefore anticipating that it'll come up again
Malagar
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
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The stuff you mention there is visible, as is of course some kind of future confrontation between Earth Bet and some kind of Tamrielic forces.
My problem here is more that I would have expected to have gotten more of a hint of where that is going by this point in the story.
Another thing is that it seems to me like it's been close to a week in story since the Companions arrived.
With that amount of time I would have expected to see a lot more confrontation or diplomacy between Earth Bet forces (whether that is police, PRT, Protectorate, or your Elite cell) and Companions.
So far it seems like all that has happened on that front is that one meeting between Annie and that Companions leader.
It just doesn't seem at all realistic for me to have the government not do something more in that time.
Just to be clear at the end, I am not trying to hate on your story and am definitely enjoying it so far.
Anti-No
Experienced.
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Really surprised how bad Weyland is at logical arguments. But hey, if he was better, he might have started inflicting change on the Protectorate, and would have had to be removed by Cauldron for that reason. So kind of needed for the story to happen at all?
Seems good at actually thinking things through - even if it seems more instinct and emotion that logic - but verbalizing things? Erm... no.
Seems good at actually thinking things through - even if it seems more instinct and emotion that logic - but verbalizing things? Erm... no.
FractiousDay
Know what you're doing yet?
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So they've only really know about it since Weyland phoned Armsmaster, and since then it's been roughly 24 hours. Subsequently, Weyland's reputation and briefing have sufficinetly convinced Piggot et al to hold off on anything significant for now, and for example to make sure the police dn't go bothering the Companions.
Weyland is also flip flopping about what he wants to happen. On one hand, he also thinks its weird that the Companions haven't really done anything yet.
I suppose that also stems somewhat from the way I'm writing it. I would say however that essentially this is a story about how Weyland, our exiled Orsimer protagonist, is trying to manage the impact of the Companions arriving. This of course, fails.
There's a few problems here. Firstly, Weyland, being inclined toward wanting to take action, is coming up against the Protectorate's policy (dictated by Cauldron) of trying to minimise parahuman casualties. Weyland has gone up against the Nine before, as noted, at the town of Brigham, however, while he got 2 of them, thousands of people died to Bonesaw's deadman switch plagues etc. As such, Weyland and the Protectorate are carrying a lot of baggage with them about how to deal with threats.
While to an extent he has changed a couple of things (Bonesaw is dead for example, which is a big butterfly), he doesn't know anything about Cauldron. He knows more about C34's than most people do, but that's because people think he is one.