[X] Caledonia
+=+ 005.M42, Caledonia, Heavens' Gate, Squire Kali +=+
In the oceans of Caledonia there exists a great spire of metal and glass and billowing smoke that rises far above the crushing waves below to pierce the clouds. Jutting from the base of this structure dozens of docks and landing pads can be seen as a fleet of rusted naval freighters join a swarm of cargo shuttles in unloading a seemingly endless press of bodies. Bright eyed youths stare up in undisguised awe only to be ordered forward not by the scattered armsmen bearing sleek, silver rifles but instead the scarred forms of much older folk clad in robes of purest white adorned only by the personal emblem upon the back.
One such youth fresh off her first trip aboard one of these fascinating metal contraptions the Riders of it called a
Lighter finds her feet pausing beneath her as all the others. However, on her face is not the awe of the hundreds of other Squires that came before her but instead a stoicism at odds with her age. Her hand tightens around the curved sheath of her
Kavas and for a moment she is sure she can feel it. The weight of those who came before. Her eyes drift to the clean strips of red cloth tied around the hilt.
'Six.'
"You'll have all your lives to behold wonders just like this Squires! Move them feet!
Form up!"
A voice booms out managing to cut through the deafening roar of the
Lighter taking off behind her and her body moves on well drilled instinct. A dozen Squires act as one as a block three wide and four deep forms in seconds. A white banner bearing the three entwined
Kavas of House
Thrice Sworn standing upright in the back corner of their formation.
"Good. Keep that up and you lot might just survive your first Errantry. Now," a quiet snort comes from the bearded man before them as he turns to walk towards the awaiting tower accompanied by the gentle clink of chainmail, "Lockstep, Squires! The
Starry Vale awaits beyond
Heavens' Gate!"
No words come in answer. She, no,
they knew better. Each and every one of them blooded Squires, prides of their family line. Instead it is only the sound of stomping feet and the rhythmic tap of the banner pole upon the tarmac that follows. Eyes, almost aflame, stare forward at the gates thrown wide ahead through which two dozen could walk abreast.
'I will. I will overcome the Fifth Vale. For you, Mom.'
+=+ 005.M42, In orbit over Caledonia, aboard the Guiding Light, Captain Falkstrum +=+
"... How many?"
Their voice is almost akin to a whisper and yet it echoes through the unnerving silence that fills the room with all the weight of a mountain as the dozen something adjutants gathered before Falkstrum are left to an awkward silence. Falkstrum allows it to carry on. A pair of cold, green augmetics whir constantly as their enhanced sight dances between each of them with no small amount of amusement at the discomfort clear on each face before them.
They had understood what the adjutants had said the first time, of course, but it is moments like these that small lessons are taught. This one? A glimmer of joy runs through the mind hidden behind those green orbs, a solution to the issue long formed before their arrival, as a particularly small sprout among them finally pipes up.
"Eighteen thousand, Captain. Along with their belongings and supplies to cover initial transport. If... If I may?"
The sprout shuffles under Falkstrum's emotionless gaze though finds the courage to push on in spite of it all. An act that has the Captain file them away as one among a scarce few potential successors.
"Our ships will be hard pressed to fit them all, but I believe the greater issue is actually the delays loading such a large contingent would cause. If we were to speak to their Knights. The," A brief pause as the sprout turns through memories of briefings read in haste mere weeks ago before their deployment, "The ones above the
Fourth Vale, I mean. If we can convince them to work with us on the logistics with how trained and orderly Caledonians are supposed to be that should cut down our loading times immensely even with some growing pains."
Falkstrum barely suppresses a smile at the suggestion. It matched some of their own plans... And it was something that had taken five such Raisings for their self to come up with.
'Of course, it needs a few tweaks... Like keeping the armsmen separated from the Caledonian portions of the ships at all times.'
Their mind returns to memories of a bloody cafeteria. Three dozen good navy armsmen half dead and tied up in the middle. Six of their Squires wielding kitchen knives eating calmly nearby. Here composure fails as they sigh and their head droops, the sprout reacting in abject fear across from them,
'Well, hopefully we can keep it under the twenty three casualties from last time...'
+=+ 004.M42, An Unknown World, Administratum Sub-Level 43, Area Three, an ailing scribe +=+
Amidst a sea of plascrete bookshelves filled with dusty tomes, tightly bound stacks of data slates, and the chittering clack of servo skulls a hunched figure sits before a desk. Dull grey robes clad their figure. Signs of fraying at the hems and the obvious patches dyeing it in a dozen hues of gray are enough to speak of the uniform's age… Not to mention the withered, wrinkled hand holding tightly to a pen even as it trembles violently.
Dim red light casts a pale white sheet of paper in an eerie atmosphere as the precise even
mechanical writing filling the page does little to dissuade the notion.
A faint wheeze forces itself from the scribe's throat as the clunk of valves opening forces the aged figure to breath long after their lungs have given up.
Words like static join the almost comforting sound of pens upon paper and gentle clatter of servos turning all around, "Oh. Oh dear, it seems… I… I forgot again… Didn't I?"
Suddenly the violent trembling stills. Far overhead an impossible breeze stirs. Eddies of wind swirl downward ever so gently. It is enough.
Just enough. One among a dozen aging servo skulls flying by over the scribe's head finds its anti-grav engine faltering with the sudden excess force upon it.
The light of its optics sputters out. A crack. A puff of smoke. A hiss of vented oils and hastily drawn in air as failsafe systems roar to life only to fail after decades of wear. It plummets all the way to the desk of a figure currently at war with their own failing memory…
Clutched in its servo arm is a paper detailing a regiment ordered to be equipped…
[] as Rough Riders.
[] as Siege Infantry.
[] as an Artillery unit.
