WARHAMMER 40,000: Genestealer Management Quest 2

[DragonCobolt]

Like a cerulean orb, Thedias Prime hung in space, shrouded by a glimmering constellation of pinpricks.

Tiny candles.

Little, flickering cities in space. Communities, sheltered from the void by superstition, pride and ancient techno-sorcery. From a distance, they are pathetic.

Up close, they are majesty incarnate.

Kilometer upon kilometer of ceremite and adamantine, glittering glassteel and carven stone. Stained glass windows shone from within, lit by candles of human tallow and lumens that flickered and buzzed. Leering gargoyles perched on flying buttresses that supported ancient aetheric emitters and vox-signal castors, while greebled antennae and bulbous, rounded protrusions that could have been weapons emplacements meant to ward off micormeteorites or projectors of vast void-shields were nestled in the chaotic landscape of the vessels. Some had prows as proud as any oceangoing vehicle, painted red and blue and gold, while others were broad bellied and slow, their cargo holds bulging outwards with the vast lucre that could be extracted from Thedias Prime.

THey had come bearing men and women, consigned to toil.

They left, carrying the raw material produced by the planetary surface.

The tithes were less than they had been, thanks to the Calamity of '16. The population of Thedias was much reduced, and the tithes were expectantly low. As the planet already labored under the most terrible of restrictions, there was little chance of a punative attack. After all, what could the Imperium of Man do to the people of Thedias...that was worse than what was being done to them now?

One of those ships, though, held a secret.

Deep within the hold, where servitors and sweating, bare backed longshoremen had heaved and stacked crates and pallets over laborious weeks as their shuttles caught and brought up the tithe from the floating, automated platforms that bobbed on Thedias' toxic atmosphere...there was a box that held something extra. And as the ship's prow turned towards the sacred Lagrane Point chosen for their egress from the world of logic, reason and science to the world of the Immaterium, where thought and reality bled together and distances between...suggestions...that crate, that box of metal and worked goods, hissed softly as a pressure differential played out asymptotically.

And a single, glittering claw pushed out and eased the crate open.

Then, spilling from the crate, the hunched creatures scuttled into the dark.

---
Welcome to Genestealer 2: Gene Harder! Where is your cult going?

[ ] a sleepy agri-world
[ ] a bustling hive world
[ ] a glittering capital of a sub-sector
[ ] a naval research outpost
[ ] a Adeptus Mechanicus forge asteroid
[ ] a Rogue Trader's newly founded colony
[ ] Nowhere! They're staying on...

[ ] This rogue trader ship​

[ ] This naval vessel​

[ ] This explorator ship​

[ ] This chartist trade ship​

How much has the Sisterhood invested in this gambit?

[ ] Cautious Bid (4 points, not discovered)
[ ] Daring Gambit (8 points, rumors abounded but no serious investigation)
[ ] Outright Invasion (12 points, Inquisitorial agents are sniffing around)

Being disconnected from the hive mind has...

[ ] Left the genestealer cult mostly unchanged, save for mental alterations (Normal Genestealers)
[ ] Left the genestealer's genetic structure wildly unstable (Rogue Trader fandom Genestealers)

Rogue Trader fandom is "freed genestealers lack the hive mind to keep their biology stable and, so, gain the ability to shapeshift but have to drink blood to sustain their biology or else they start to randomly mutate into puddles of goop."

Now, you may go: "Wait, the prior cult had been unchanged" yes, but it has been a few years! The genomics may have changed - or, even, been changed deliberately by the sisterhood! You don't know!

Oh, also, plan vote <3 <3 <3

 

[DragonCobolt]

Your cult has a GOAL, QUALITIES and ASSETS. You have 8 BUILD POINTS (BP) to spend!

Unlike prior games, you have only ONE choice for goal!

GOAL

[ ] Spread the ideology of the Sisterhood of Levithan to a new world.
[ ] Succession!​

[ ] Write In new Ideology Here
​

Now, your Qualities are what you can do and your current resources. They're both the abilities of your cult and its health - losing some of them indicate that your cult is in serious trouble. There are five Qualities, and all save one starts at 0. You can increase them for ONE BUILD POINT. These qualities are added together to do actions - for example, training up your army and gaining weapons is a Territory + Sovereignty roll, as it depends on both your population and how loyal they are to you.

Each time you take an action, both Qualities used are reduced by 1 for that month, meaning that a company can be exhausted and need to regather its strength.

Qualities can rise and fall in play. That is, in fact, the entire point of the quest!

So!

MIGHT: the number of soldiers you have, their training, the weapons they have available, and their morale.

[ ] 0 MIGHT: Completely unarmed, your cultists rely entirely on other factors to keep themselves safe.
[ ] 1 MIGHT: Well meaning but poorly trained gangers, with a few auto-pistols and knives.
[ ] 2 MIGHT: Either a small number of reasonably well trained men with flak armor and las weapons, or a large number of gangers.
[ ] 3 MIGHT: A typical platoon of men with guardsman level training and gear, but no mechanical support.
[ ] 4 MIGHT: Excellent troops with las weaponry and good leadership - or good troops with excellent leadership.
[ ] 5 MIGHT: Excellent troops backed by a few squirreled away Chimeras, Lemun Russ tanks. Light on artillery.
[ ] 6 MIGHT: Tough, experienced veterans with an armored corps and either high tech weapons (bolters, plasma guns, meltas) or a cadre of trained war psykers.​

TREASURE: your raw resources - not merely Thrones, but influence, blackmail, deals and connections, hidden stashes and even manufacturing capabilities.

[ ] 0 TREASURE: Your cult is starving in the gutter, largely speaking.
[ ] 1 TREASURE: Every level of the cult is visibly pathetic - ragged clothing, corpse starch, smeary candles.
[ ] 2 TREASURE: Your cult is struggling to make ends meet, but no one is actively starving to death, not even the lowliest members.
[ ] 3 TREASURE: Either a small, tightly run cult or a large cult with some haves and have nots - but the haves are approaching upper-middle class.
[ ] 4 TREASURE: A cult with the ability to throw around the economic weight of a minor noble family.
[ ] 5 TREASURE: A cult with their fingers in the resources of a major noble family, and access to some tech-priests.
[ ] 6 TREASURE: A cult that sits atop a planetary resources - controlling them openly and easily.​

INFLUENCE: How many secrets does your cult know - and how many can they learn, and how many they can keep. Spies, loremasters, and public relations are all under the sway of influence.

[ ] 0 INFLUENCE: While your cult may be known by others, how it is seen is entirely out of its control. It operates in the dark, relying on force alone.
[ ] 1 INFLUENCE: Self absorbed and insular, your cult has minimal pull.
[ ] 2 INFLUENCE: Your cult may stumble upon a fact, or change a mind through intention if they're lucky.
[ ] 3 INFLUENCE: Your cult now likely has at least one harried and overworked spymaster.
[ ] 4 INFLUENCE: Your cult has multiple spies that work directly for it, and a loremaster who can acquire new information.
[ ] 5 INFLUENCE: Your cult has threaded its influence into many other organizations secretly, and can burn agents if needed, while its secrets are well kept and guarded. The loremaster's librarium holds many interesting facts.
[ ] 6 INFLUENCE: A shadowy, persuasive force, your cult is seductive, terrifying and secretive as it needs to be, presenting whatever face it wishes to the world beyond.​

TERRITORY: Not merely how much of the planet you control, but also how many people are within your cult. The higher the value, the more of both. Note: This can represent lots of people spread over a large area (I.E, a widely spread conspiracy.)

[ ] 0 TERRITORY: The cult is a scant handful of powerful people with a few servitors and followers, and holds almost no ground, no safehouses, no permanent settlement. Entirely nomadic.
[ ] 1 TERRITORY: Small in number, your cult controls a small village's worth of people, or perhaps a single church, or the crew of a large airship.
[ ] 2 TERRITORY: A town, a modest settlement - ten thousand or more people.
[ ] 3 TERRITORY: You hold and control the equivalent of a single hive-level, easily one to five hundred thousand people, either centralized or spread out.
[ ] 4 TERRITORY: You hold the control over the equivalent of half of a hive-spire. Which half depends on your Treasure and Influence, to be quite honest.
[ ] 5 TERRITORY: You control an entire hive-spire's worth of citizens, easily millions of cultists.
[ ] 6 TERRITORY: You control...hmm...not the entire planet, but a significant portion of it.​

SOVERIGNTY: This is an indication of how well your cult is cohered around their ideals. Their loyalties. Their beliefs and their feelings. Until literally seconds before the quest began in earnest, this was at an impossible value of 10 - superhumanly coherent, because the cult was a part of the approaching hive mind. It has now dropped to 1. 1 is the lowest value that Sovereignty can reach before you lose the game. If your Sovereignty drops to 0, that's it! The cult has dissolved into factions, the dream of a better world (or escape, or a massive genestealer orgy, or whatever) has been lost and the quest is OVER!!!! Because of that, you start with 1 Sov FOR FREE! Repeat! It does not cost anything to have 1 Sov!

[ ] 1 SOVERIGNTY: The cult, frayed by the sudden death of the hive mind, is nearly as querulous and fractious as...as most...revolutionary organizations, actually.
[ ] 2 SOVERIGNTY: The cult has grudging and sullen cooperation, but constant infighting remains.
[ ] 3 SOVERIGNTY: Typical loyalty for most people - low level cultists gripe about their overlords, but if someone else were to insult the cult, they'd punch them.
[ ] 4 SOVERIGNTY: Unusual dedication, either due to exceptional leadership, communal spirit, or the overweening charisma of a tyrant.
[ ] 5 SOVERIGNTY: Every cultist is eager to live and die for the cult and the values it believes in, due to genuine belief in the cause, loyalty and love.
[ ] 6 SOVERIGNTY: Is it a new hive mind? Or is it merely the power of...communism?​

These are the qualities - but what are Assets? Assets are modifications to a quality, giving it bonus dice (sometimes leavened out with penalties) that further specialize your cult. They each cost 1 BUILD POINT to buy, which is why you're not immediately putting 12 points into Might and Sov and conquering the planet. Well, okay, you can do that. That'd be a fun quest too.

Here are the ASSET LIST!

MIGHT ASSETS

[ ] PDF Turncoats (+2d when rolling to escape from Unconventional Warfare, but not for performing it)
[ ] Areospace Access (+2d might when using aircraft or orbital spaceships - you do NOT have warp capability)
[ ] Defensive Psykers (+2d to might rolls when combatting enemy psykers or psyker enhanced forces)
[ ] Swarm Tactics (+2d when your might is used against an enemy with a lower permanent might rating)
[ ] Hatred (If attacked by the Imperium, you get a one time +3d to your defense rolls for that engagement - after victory it is lost.)
[ ] True Love (a PDF officer/naval captain/war-psyker/inquisitorial acolyte has, unknown to you, fallen deeply in love with one of your most beautiful magi, and will at a dramatic moment turn against the rotting edifice of the Imperium, securing victory for you at the tragic cost of their life, dying romantically in the arms of their weeping beloved. +3d to any single might roll, once.)​

TREASURE ASSETS

[ ] Seasonal Income (half of the planetary cycle, you get +2 to Treasure. During the other half of the cycle, you get -1 Treasure.)
[ ] Permanent Underclass (Your cult has some people it can just...push the shit work onto. Once per planetary cycle, you can permanently drop your Sovereignty by 1 to add 1 to your treasure.)
[ ] Excellent Military Logistics (Your cult ensures everyone has a charge pack, two frag, one krak grenade and a smoker. The first attack roll per month automatically turns 1 regular dice into an Expert Dice.)
[ ] Predictable Bounty (pick one month per planetary cycle - during this time, things get easier for your cult's internal activities, giving +1 Territory, +1 Treasure but -1 Might for the month.)
[ ] Day of Ascension Stockpile (the cult's long preparations have paid off - but they were expecting to be eaten soon so it will not last long. +2 to Treasure this month, which becomes a +2 bonus to territory next month. Then? It's gone.)​

INFLUENCE ASSETS

[ ] Kelermorphs (+2d when rolling to perform Unconventional Warfare, but not for the escape)
[ ] Active Propagandists (+2d when rolling to increase your Influence)
[ ] Pleasure Dens (-1 Difficulty to roll to improve Influence)
[ ] Uncomfortable Allies (Pick another Company, you have +2d Influence with them, they have +2 Influence with you)
[ ] Prisoners | [ ] Khornites | [ ] Nurglests | [ ] Tzneetchians | [ ] Slaaneshite | [ ] Nobility | [ ] Prison Guards | [ ] Tech Priests
[ ] Beautiful Hybrids (+2d when rolling to alter the opinions of another Company)
[ ] Well Positioned Neophyte Mole (Choose another company. You have a ONE TIME +3d bonus to influence, after which the Neophyte either is slain or has returned to the cult and cannot be used again.)
[ ] Prisoners | [ ] Khornites | [ ] Nurglests | [ ] Tzneetchians | [ ] Slaaneshite | [ ] Nobility | [ ] Prison Guards | [ ] Tech Priests
TERRITORY ASSETS
[ ] Techwights, Armorers and Manufactories (+2d to rolls to permanently increase your Might)
[ ] Tunnels and Bunkers (+2d to defend your territory if attackers are fighting through your defenses - no bonus if they've slipped past somehow.)
[ ] Pleasurable Kiss (People like the Cult for...obvious reasons - +2d to rolls to permanently raise your Sovereignty.)​

SOVERIGNTY ASSETS

[ ] Revolutionary Rhetoric (-1 difficulty to raise Sovereignty or Might)
[ ] Bureau of Anti-Inquisitorial Action (+2d to rolls to resist Unconventional Warfare attacks.)
[ ] We Will Die Free (+2d to all Sovereignty rolls if your company is under attack from an outside force)
[ ] Limited Hive Mind (+2d when rolling to police your population.)​

 

[DragonCobolt]

The ship was called the Lex Imperailus Supremitatus.

The trip was to take six months, subjective ship time, and twenty three months by the chronometer of the Administratum scribe in charge of managing route from the sector capital to Thedias Prime to Aquiocrypt.

The Lex Imperailus Supremiatus arrived after sixteen years, nine months, five days, and fifty six thousand corpses.

***

Fifty Years Later.
***​

Dappled sunlight shone in through the narrow curtains of Frey's room as she sprawled on her belly, her arms stretching above her head. She groaned quietly, and then pushed her head up, her brow furrowing. She was trying to think through the rumbling in her brain and the squirming in her gut.

She smacked her lips.

Counted her teeth with her fingers.

Then she got her third arm under her and shoved herself up, sighing softly.

"Fuck my head..." she moaned, rolling her head slowly on her neck, twisting it around and around with a cartilaginous crack and crackle that reverberated up along the back of her head, to her forehead ridges. She had gotten drunk last night.

Really. Really. Really drunk.

She stood and walked to the window of her small, scrap metal room and peered out through slitted eyes at the clamor and shouting of the Break. The streets were the same corrugated metal as her floor - lashed together over the lapping water, thick with algae that grew in strands and froths, sometimes cut apart by skimboats as they buzzed under the walkways. The buildings themselves were a mixture of the corrugated metal and steel and the spire-tips that thrust up from beneath the seas. The tips still had some measure of grandeur, despite age, wear, and chiseling them for building materials. White stone glittered and ancient statues that hadn't been completely obliterated peeked out around it all.

Past the spire-tips, there were the bright blue sky, the white clouds, the distant glint of a whalesland hunter airship, their long spears dangling from the back of the vehicle like the fins of a parrageet. Frey stepped away from the window, her headache fading moment by moment - thanks, Mom - and started considering her plan for the rest of the day. She was running low on thrones from her last job. She pursed her lips.

Getting a new job was always touch and go, even in the biggest city on the planet. The Break was as lawless as any place in the Imperium, and even they looked askance at mutants. Even mutants as useful as she was. She stepped away from the window, brushing her third hand through her hair and rubbing her lowers together when-

Wham! Wham! Wham!
The reverberations of the fist against the door were remarkably loud. Frey tensed.

"...who is it?" she asked.

There was a muffled click of iron and steel shifting in well oiled grips. Frey's ears perked and she hesitated, then called out.

"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't Frey the Mu-"

Three holes exploded into the doorway - large caliber bullets ripping through the thin sheet metal as if it wasn't even there. Frey flung herself to the side, rolled, and came up against the wall, her narrow frame barely protected by the only other piece of furniture in the flop-room: An old wood cabinet that had been carved by a not particularly skilled craftsman. She snatched her snub-revolver from it, her eyes shifting subtly. For a moment, she saw the blurry outline of warmth. Two shooters, one of them was lifting his foot.

He kicked in the door.

She snapped her pistol up and shot him in the head.

The shooter sprawled with a spray of blood and bone, while the other - he had the Slagdog's traditional red paint, tossed something.

Frey saw that it was a flash grenade seconds too late. She kicked at it once...and everything went blinding white and ringing. She slashed, clawed, and even got her teeth into something tough and possibly fleshy. She worried at it until something cracked into her temple. Then everything made her fleeting hangover seem like the caress of a particularly handsome man. When she blinked away the pain, she was laying on her back, with her third arm lashed to her lower two, and her pistol was in the hand of a furious looking Slagdog, while his buddy's corpse was being checked by two more who had arrived from downstairs.

"Did you really think you could piss of the SCS and not be in a whole ocean of trouble, Frey the Mutant?" The Slagdog who had kicked her in the head glowered.

"Yeah, I was kinda figuring," Frey said, before she could stop herself. "What with the whole general level of-"

He didn't even let the quip come off - instead, he kicked her in the stomach. Frey grunted low in her throat, wheezed. "Fuck!" She gasped it out around a rising gorge.

"Listen, mutie," the Slagdog said, kneeling down, his voice a quiet growl. "You put three of my men in the hospice and two into the morgue. And you think you can just...make jokes about it?"

"F...For the last...time!" Frey hissed out through her clenched teeth. "If...you don't...want to get shot...don't open fire at a fucking orphanage you piece of shit!" SHe glared at him. "You assholes were the ones who took the job that got between infront of my fucking gun barrels, you can't get mad at me because I'm fucking better than you!"

The Slagdog sneered. "If you're better than me..." he said, then nodded. Some people she hadn't noticed in her haze of pain and anger grabbed onto the rope and started to haul - and the netting she had around her legs perforce made her drag, drag, drag along the metal. "Then why do you have three arms and purple skin? Freak?"

"Because at least my mom had fucking taste, you ass-"

They did not try and make her route down the stairs comfortable.

***
​

The only thing approaching Imperial authority in the Break was the administratum scribe who was handling, among many things, the list of shipments that were going to be launched from the wharves up to orbit, where waiting ships could haul the whalesland blubber, the distilled keplery, the fish caches, and the other assorted goods of Aquiocrypt to wherever else they needed to go. Some few of those shuttles included what odds and ends had been dived up from the Ancient City - which meant that the scribe had also been given a small servo-skull, which hummed quietly as it floated by his shoulder. Any time someone came up with a rusted, corroded trinket that they hoped might be techno-sorcery, the skull would scan it and, inevitably, state some ignominious error code.

That was the background to Frey's winching.

A grunt, the squeak of pullies, ropes and wheels, and then in the background, the servo skull's bleating voice.

"Bzzt! No sacred rift chip detected. Report to Omnisiah for immediate servitoriziation."

Grunt. Squeal.

"Bzzt! Unacceptable levels of rust detected. Report to Station-12 for immediate servitorization."

Grunt.

Squeal.

"Bzzt-"

"Yes, yes, we all get it, it's fucking trash!" Frey shouted from where she hung by her ankles, her body suspended over the thick, gloopy pit of recycling algae that the Break used as their various refuse pits and middens. A few youths had arrived to watch her execution, but most people had taken a glance, seen the extra arm, and decided that they had seen mutants being slaughtered before and carried out. The red robed scribe jerked his head around, blinking at her, as if he had never imagined a mutant - let alone one being winched - might talk to him.

The Slagdog mercs who surrounded her glowered at Frey.

"Shut her up," one said, but she was suspended far enough out over the midden that they couldn't reach her effectively with a gun butt. And it wasn't fun to laser her and then drop her in - she wouldn't scream as much then.

Frey, though, seeing the scribe's attention, added. "Also, this is an illegal operation! These stupid motherfuckers forgot! I! Did! My! Paperwork!" She wriggled as blood rushed to her head, pounding in her temples. It was a lie, but it was a lie that would get her a few more seconds.

"Is that the case?" the scribe asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

"This mutie bitch has been-" The leader of the Slagdogs said.

"It's in my left front pocket!" Frey shouted. "Just...let me down and check it!"

"We're not letting her down," the Slagdog leader said, while the scribe ambled over. He was a rail thin stork of a man and the faint hum of suspensors under his robes made Frey think he might have grown up somewhere with much, much, much less gravity than here. She gulped, licking her lips as she looked up at her ankles, then down at him again. She just had to get free for a few seconds, then-

"They're not even the Break's enforcers," Frey added. "These are Slagdog Corporated Solutions - they don't even know what corporated means, it's not even a real word, they're criminals! Thieves!"

"She's a mutant!" The Slagdog leader shouted.

The scribe looked between them, frowning intently. "It won't take much time to check the forms and ensure they're properly obeyed. After all, we wouldn't want this procedure to go off the proscribed traditions of Aquiocrypt and the Imperium et large - since, those traditions, those mores, those ways of life are precisely what it is that we, in the Administratum have been sworn to protect. One might say that proper procedures are as close to the divine majesty as it is possible to get in this unsacred and unclean world..."

Frey nodded, nodded again. "Yeah, yeah," she said, interjecting between words. "He's right. We have to do it by the book. You don't want to be impious."

The Slagdog looked as if he was genuinely considering shooting the scribe and throwing him into the muck pit. Frey, meanwhile, noticed that the people the servo skull had sentenced to a fate far worse than death had quietly started to leave, hastily throwing the stuff they had brought to show into the water before they did so. The Slagdog, his finger on his temple, breathed in, then breathed out through his nose.

Which was when Frey noticed the big red dot on his chest. It slowly tracked up to his brow.

He noticed her noticing.

"What?" he asked.

Frey opened her mouth.

Then the dot vanished from the Slagdog's head. Some instinct made her look down - up, actually, since she was hanging with her head towards the muck - and saw the red dot glimmering on the rope connecting her ankles to the scaffolding for her winching.

"Oh this is gonna suck," Frey said, conversationally.

A lasbolt punched through the synth-leather and steel with a hissing crack and dropped her, head first, into the muck. However, it did so while also freeing her ankles. She writhed in the thick, gloopy material, kicked hard, then burst out, splattering screaming people with her muck as she spun around to face the Slagdog, who was fumbling for his pistol, his friends having (wisely, but incorrectly) started aiming their lasguns in every direction but at her, looking around wildly for the shooter. Frey leaped at the Slagdog, slamming her feet into his chest, and dropped onto her back on the deck. One of the other mercs swung his lasgun around to shoot her - and then a lasbolt zipped through his ear as if he was a shot at a carny game. He dropped, superheated steam-blood shooting from his nostrils and opening mouth.

Frey meanwhile had rolled around, gotten her three hands close to the prone Slagdog leader, and snatched his knife from his belt. Her wrists sprang free with a splash of some of her own dark black blood - and then she snatched his pistol from his hands and started to run. She sprinted for the water...and stopped dead. She had planned to simply dive in and swim for it, but a skimboat had cruised up and two robed figures were on the back.

"Freyxiat, daughter of Terjia!" one shouted. "Heir to Shexi the Liberator! Get on the boat!"

"...oh no, not you assholes again!" Frey said.

"Get on the fucking boat, woman!" The other said, sweeping her hood back, revealing a furious looking, slender male with dark black hair. "We do not have time for the sixteen steps of the penitent warrior! Get on the fucking boat!"

Frey looked back. The Break's enforcers were starting to arrive, and the Slagdogs were pointing at her.

"Ah...warp fuck damn shit fuck fine!" She leaped off the walkway, landed on the boat, and nearly fell overboard as the motor kicked on and they screamed away from the center of the Break while lasbolts and small projectiles peppered the water after them with steam and splashes.

***
​

The Break was a rapidly dwindling edge on the endless horizon of water, peaks and tiny islets before Frey's heart stopped hammering. She leaned against the side of the boat, while the man who piloted it and the woman who had called her by her full name checked a map. "So..." Frey said, hesitantly, looking at the woman. She had a slightly higher forehead than most Aquiocrypters, and the very faint V of a ridge that reminded Frey of her own mutations. "...how long have you been following me?"

"We picked up your trail after the orphanage job," the woman said, then folded the map shut. She smirked. "Couldn't help yourself."

Frey scowled. "They paid well."

"An orphanage, run by the followers of St. Argentia?" The man asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "They paid well?"
Frey glowered at him. "I'm not a hero," she said, turning her head away and watching the waves. "I get paid, I move on. And I'm not picking any jobs that run me up against real mercs anymore."

The woman chuckled.

"What if you actually did something with your life?" the man asked.

"Like what? Try and get myself killed? Like my mother?" Frey asked, glaring at him. "I was born on Aquio! I was born here. Not on some far off planet, not on some voidship. Here!" She slapped the side of the boat. "And I'm not part of some...crazy fucking cult. I'm just a mutant."

"You don't even know what you are," the man said, shaking his head.

"A mutant, do...do you not know how to fucking count!?" Frey asked, waggling an arm.

The man pursed his lip, while the woman said: You've never known true connection, thanks to the terrors of the crossing, the difficulties of surviving on Aquiocrypt. I don't blame you for your fury, Frey.

Frey nodded. "Well, I-" she stopped dead, then gaped at the woman.

The woman gave her a thin smile. As I said, you've never known the connection of being in the Sisterhood.

Frey scowled. "Get out of my head."

I'm not in your head, the woman thought and somehow, Frey knew her name was Arjida. We're in the same mind - the same shared intelligence. We are part of one another. It is how humans are meant to be.

Frey crossed her arms over her chest, her third grabbing onto the edge of the boat. "Where are we going, Arji?"

"To that," the man said - and Frey knew his name was Torin. She had faint, faint memories of a Torin, from the terrifying days of her earliest life. She shied away from them - and then stood, slowly, her jaw dropping as she looked up...at the airship. The two balloons were merely stabilization for the triple set of heavy agrav engines, and the wide, metal hull gleamed with new paint. The gunports were well maintained, and the side opened onto a hanger with some scrap-built glidewings and heavy skimmers. Frey gulped, slowly.

"...what do you need me for?" she whispered.

"As much as you can give," Arjida said, her voice gentle. "And as much as you want to take."

---

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 2 | INFLUENCE: 0 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

Here is what is common knowledge on Aquiocrypt: There is a large and powerful merc company called Slagdog Corporated Solutions. The largest city is The Break, built at the very edge of ancient ruins that jut from the floor of the ocean. The Administratium orbits overhead, managing the purchase and sale of the planet's vast foodstuffs. Whaleisland hunters are nomadic tribes of hunetrs that hunt whaleslands. What are those? Well, the name is pretty indicative!

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Getting aboard an airship that hovered on agrav engines several dozen feet above the surface of the ocean took some doing. Frey watched, skeptically, as the belly of the beast opened and huge chains began to clink and clatter down, while Torin adjusted the engine on the boat to keep them in place. Arjida continued to speak. "We've come up a bit in the world since '42, you may notice."

"I was a baby," Frey said as the first huge hook splashed into the water. Using a metal pole with an electomagnet on it that had been stashed in the boat, Torin guided the hook and slotted it into a cleat on the side of the boat. Frey, feeling decidedly useless, reached out with her upper arm, grabbed onto the hook on her side and slotted it home.

"So was I," Arjida said, grinning at her - her teeth were sharp.

THe boat started to rise up, swaying slightly.

"So..." Frey said. "What did I miss over the past...ten years?"

"It was touch and go. The surviving oldsters managed to get their hands on a surface skimmer," Arjida said.

"You've gone up in the world," Frey said, frowning as the maw swept around them and then closed as the boat was left hanging in a cat walked gantry bay, with several other surface ships in it. Men and women in work rough coveralls - most of them decidedly human looking - gaped at her. Frey put her hands on the edge of the boat and shoved herself to her feet and shot them a fierce glare. She spread her arms, claws opening, as if to say 'yeah, and what of it?' - but the worshipful looks only got more intense and she felt the tingle of their awe and heard the whispers, snatches of thought and conversation.

"Kelermorph..."

Arjida stepped onto the catwalk, while Torin finished putting the boat to sleep, murmuring soft catechisms to the machine. "Want a tour?" she asked Frey, while Frey glowered at a youngish man who was looking at her with undisguised fascination. Frey jerked her head at him, as if she was about to lean in and snap and he hurriedly looked away from her.

"Is everyone on this ship going to be looking at me like that?" Frey muttered.

"...yeah, probably," Arjida said, which immediately endeared her somewhat to Frey.

"Wow, sugar coat it much?" Frey snapped.

Arjida pursed her lips at her, then grinned. "You know you can't get me to stop liking you by being a bitch. You're just going to end up making yourself feel bad."

Frey crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't act like I'm a bitch!" she said, angrily.

Arjida turned and started to walk down the catwalk with a series of clangs - her boots rattling the structure.

"I am a bitch," Frey muttered under her breath.

Then she was off after her fellow cultist.

Fuck.

She had already started thinking of herself as being one of them. It made her skin crawl, her shoulders hunch, and her teeth grind.

They headed up into the airship proper.

***
​

The Break was the biggest city on the entirety of Aquiocrypt, ever since the planetary orbit shifted and the ancients drowned as their finely honed glacierized habitats were left floating in a sea of meltwater. It had formed around a core of survivors, and then grown over the years as prospectors and farmers alike came to Aquiocrypt, as it was laboriously and slowly shifted from Imperial to Dead to Agriworld.

And at the heart of the Break, there was a building.

This building, made of scrap stone and steel, caved wood and shaped plastics, was the oldest building in the city. And no one knew it. Once, it had been called the Procedea, and it had been the most interesting social club in the death era, when the world had been nothing but a hunting preserve for a rogue trader dynasty. Then, when the world had been reclaimed and resold to the Imperium, the Procedea had been abandoned and in its place, the building had been called the Merrywine. Then the Brookburb. Then the Twice Tapped Tavern. Then, finally, five years ago, the Twice Tapped Tavern had been shuttered and, for weeks, months, years, the building remained emtpy.

Now?

It had a new sign.

The Breakhead Tavern bustled. People laughed and shared drinks.

And in the basement, the owner knelt before the carven statue that she had found in the heart of the building. She didn't know it was a detritus of a detritus, a leftover scrap from people who, themselves, had barely known what they were doing. Her name was Kiz, and she had been born poor, desperate, starving and terrified that someone might notice the gills under the high collar of her customary jackets and tunics. She knelt in the basement, hearing the sound of conversation and the clink of coin and knew that, in part, it was the statue who had brought the people here. She didn't have the words to explain why people always found the Breakhead more appealing than the other, newer taverns. She couldn't have pronounced psychometric conditioning or parapsychological sexual enticement let alone spelled them.

All she knew was that couples who wanted a nice evening, a chance to cuddle and maybe more, came to the Breakhead and indulged themselves. They spent freely, distracted by the eyes and warm caresses of their lovers.

And the statuette of the small, beautiful figure glowed.

It was a faint glow.

But it was there.

In the dark.

In the basement, Kiz could hold the statue and open herself to the power she knew was there.

She felt something. There. Something. But she couldn't...quite...

She clenched her teeth. "Come onnnn!" she hissed, trying to open herself to the power, to the strength she could feel.

And then it wisped away, fleeting.

Gone.

The statue was not glowing anymore and she was alone in the dark.

And then the words came into her mind, clear as crystal.

Cut yourself.

The thought had not come from herself. It had come from somewhere...else. The image was clear in her mind. Take a knife, and slice open a part of her body. Feel the pain. Revel in the pain. Embrace the pain. Go beyond what she thought of...as pleasure. Open herself to the universe and the power. The power.

Kiz tossed the statuette into the corner where she hid it, threw the box lid over it, hurried to the stars, scrambled up, and spent the rest of the evening shooting surly glares at the laughing customers who were making her richer by the day.

And her eyes kept drifting to the knife left resting near the meat.

Then flicked back to the glass she was cleaning.

Then back to the knife...

***
​

The shuttle hissed and the salvation-locks snapped into place with a series of rattling bangs that reverberated through the entirety of Vel's body. Her bones were still shaking as the lock opened with a hiss and spray of noxious fumes, revealing the vaunted corridors and carven stone of Administratum Station Alpha-2-1-1-1-9. Not two one thousand one hundred and nineteen, no, that would have been a wildly improper nomenclature. The station's first digit was its orbital position in the local scared Lagrange points, then the other three numbers indicated its priority in orbital stellar space, local stellar space, local oortish space, and finally, sub-sector space, with one being the highest and nine being the lowest.

Now, yes.

It was true that ASA-2-1-1-1-9 was given such a designation because it was the only space station in the entirety of the solar system from the innermost reaches of the solar orbits to the farthest edges of the heliopuase, and then it was lowest on the sub-sector scribe centers in terms of importance. But that didn't change the fact that Aquiocrypt was a vital and important part of the functioning of the Imperium. Every part was important, but food transport and food logistics were two of the underpinnings of her sacred duty!

"Why, if I make a mistake here, I might become a bigger mass murderer than Tenex the Butcher!" Vel said, aloud, as she walked through the lock and onto the tiled floor. SHe clasped her hands together and looked left, then right.

There was a servitor by the lock, waiting for orders.

And there was no one else.

Vel remained silent and still for a moment, then called out. "Hello?"

Her voice echoed off the stone walls and the massive stained glass windows depicting heroic examples of the Administratums efforts - she even recognized the relief of Scaint Telemenestros - who had died holding a quill as he wrote the last signature required to allow for the releasing of the Lemun Russ tanks required to drive the heretics skewering him to death with their spears out of the colony. She beamed at the image - and heard the faint tick tick tick of shoes on tile. She turned and stood up even taller - all one hundred and forty nine point three centimeters of her. The last third of a centimeter was very important to remember, she always made sure to include it.

The scribe walking towards her was tall and thin, the kind that grew up on void stations due to their irregular and intermittant gravity. He was holding a large scone in one hand and was halfway through eating it.

"Vellumee Rose," Vel said, primly. "Administratum Scribe, Junior rank, first of my class from Schella!"

The scribe bit into the scone, chewed, then wiped his crumbs from his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Vel held out her hand, to shake.

"I'm Ros," the scribe said.

"...Ros..." Vel said, her hand remaining out. "...and?"

"Rosko," he said.

"Rosko...Administratum Scribe..." Vel prompted.

"Journeyman class," he said, casually.

Vel felt her optimism crack slightly.

"W-well, uh...master," Vel said. "I'm here and ready for duty, to do what is needed for the Imperium - to ensure the shipment of foodstuffs and assorted material from this class 2 agriworld to any of the worlds that require it. Anywhere a mouth is wanting for sustenance, I hope that our studious notetaking and record keeping shall ensure that they will get the succor they require, so that each mind and body can be united in the defense of humanity from the innumerable perils that beset it from every angle!"

Rosko remained silent for a bit more. "First in your class, huh," he said, slowly. "Which classes?"

"All of them!" she said.

"Right." He was silent for a bit. "Okay, come on."

He showed her the sleeping rooms - "we sleep over there" - and the refectory - "we eat over there" - and then led her to a small chamber full of what appeared to be feely printed phototypes. The kind snapped by what some of the older scribes referred to as 'birds' - orbital intelligence gathering. Seeing them all, Vel felt her excitement grow. Rosko gestured in, and grunted. "So, we get lots of orbsat shit. Sort it. Anything weird, uh, ya know, call a meeting about it."

"Got it, sir!" she said, then launched herself in.

Rosko managed to keep his straight face halfway down the corridor before he put his palm over his mouth, shoulder quivering. He walked past Yuline, who was kicking the kaf maker with the resigned attitude of an old man trying to kill a particularly lazy dog. Her cup was half full of sludge - but she lifted her gaze to him. "What's so funny?" she asked.

"I got the new kid sorting the 'orbstat' room," he said, laughing.

"Oh God-Emperor, you're an asshole," Yuline muttered, then shoved the kaf maker.

"Hey, she needs someone to teach her what we actually do around here, get some of the academy fluff knocked out of her head," Rosko said. "It's not like she's gonna spot...what? A floating barge of sky pirates or something?" He laughed, shaking his head.

---
Or something indeed... (Yes, the Administratum DID get a 2x4 to "be informed")

Also, remember, each roll is in the same month - once your stats are low, you can rest a month and let them recover!

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 2(1) | INFLUENCE: 0 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2(1)
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Vel settled into her seat, cracked her knuckles, and got to work ciphering through several hundred thousand phototypes.

The Administratum scribes who had been banished to this obscure part of the subsector took bets on when she'd bail, or whine, or complain.

Instead, a week later, she emerged, bright, peppy, cheerful, her bald head shimmering with perspiration, and held up a phototype of a pair of unmistakably Valkyrie streaking through the air above a clear patch of sky, without a single Imperial Navy marking on them, nor active transponders. She held the phototype between her fingers and beamed brightly.

"Where the frak did anyone get those!?" Ros asked as Yuline blew kaff out of her nose.

***
​

"Found em!" the cheerful, three armed pilot said as he sat in his cockpit, the upper half of his face obscured by a huge helmet and reflective pair of goggles, which concealed his gold on black eyes. Nothing could have hidden his sharp teeth as he grinned over his shoulder at Frey, who was holding onto the upper edge of the cockpit's entrance by her left and upper arm, her right planted on the wall.

"You found them!?" she asked. "Where!?"

"Underwater," the pilot said.

"Under-"

Frey jerked her head back to look at the mostly human looking boarding party that had been stashed into the Valkyrie with her. They were checking their lasguns and laughing casually - even though she knew most of them had only ever been trained.

"You know what salt water does to metal, right?"

The pilot just gave her a smile, then tapped his helmet. "V1 this is V2, we are clear for approach?"

"Looking good, Biggs!"

"You should best be strapped, the Slagdog money ships tend to go with escorts," the pilot siad.

"Right."

Frey was still not entirely comfortable with this. But she had agreed. It was just...thinking back to the agreement, she was still not entirely sure how it had happened. The crew...the cult...had gathered in the heart of the airship and there had been a sense of a great many thoughts happening. BUt there was no central nexus, no...singular voice. Instead, her own opinions had floated away from her body and there had been a vast mass of whispering breaths and conversations. The idea had sparked, then spread, of taking on the Slagdogs. They were dangerous, cruel, and barely better than a criminal gang. Their wealth would secure their future better. And it would make the Slagdogs less dangerous. Frey had liked the idea, but it had seemed dangerous. Risky. They didn't know enough about the Slags to know if they could pull it off.

And so, more thoughts had come. Reflections on strength. Movement. The knowledge of the Valkyries.

Decisions.

Questions.

Then she had found herself with the bone deep awareness that she was going on those Valks. And she had no idea if it had come from her or...

She shook her head and swung into the seat, strapping herself down. She wasn't a hero. It had probably been put into her head by someone sneaky.

"Do you need a rifle?" a cultist asked.

"Nope," Frey said, taking her pistol out and twirling it, before holstering it again.

The cultist across from her looked at her, his eyes shining. "You're so cool," he whispered.

"I am fucking not!" Frey snapped.

"All right boys and girls, get ready for some chop," the pilot said, his voice crackling over the PA.

Through the very bit of the cockpit window that Frey could see, the sky suddenly bloomed with black puffballs.

Great.

She closed her eyes.

They have flack.

***
​

The two Valkyrie close air combat support craft shot towards the massive barge that had Trelkis on it.

Trelkis, a middle aged man who had signed on with Slagdog Corporated Solutions because he thought it would be easier than breaking his back fishing for a living, took a few seconds to realize that this wasn't just two biskimmers coming by to buzz them. People liked to shoot right over the barge - it was wide and flat enough that they must have gotten a kick from it, and the crew was usually too lazy to get more than a shot off.

But the God Emperor had decided to smile benignly on Trelkis today.

For you see, Trelkis was lazy. His job was to man the bow gun, which was loaded with a flak shell that they had bought several decades ago from one of the few factories on Aquiocrypt that made surface to air munitions - to ward off sky pirates. In his duties, the gun was meant to be unloaded when it was not actively firing. It was a safety thing, if the barrel was aimed in the wrong way and someone pulled the firing controls or some fault in the machine spirit cropped up, no one wanted a flak shell to get put into, say, the forward deck plating, or into the hull of a passing sailing ship.

Trelkis had not unloaded the gun.

A wild breach of protocol, and an absolute dereliction of duty, but it did mean that when he realized the two VTOL were coming in for an attack, he was able to run to the gun, settle into the firing position, bring the gun around, realize that it needed to be loaded, open the hatch, realize it was loaded, then frantically slam the hatch shut, all in the time it took for the two Valkyrie to stoop down like sweeping hawks. Rather than opening fire with their lascannons or heavy bolters, they instead started to slow, clearly planning to simply drop troops onto the vehicle.

Trelkis fired.

The flak shell was poorly aimed.

However, you didn't need aim when the God Emperor smiled upon you.

The shell plunged into one of the exposed engine turbines and blew. The entire casing exploded outwards with a harsh crump and metal splashed into the waves beneath as the Valk started to wobble, then spin. Trelkis grinned and shoved himself up and away from the firing seat. "Hah! Emperor futter you, you pirate fucks!"

The Valkyrie whined, hummed, tried to right itself...and skidded.

It was still getting larger.

Trelkis realized that the Emperor's attention was quite fleeting.

He had a whole galaxy to manage, after all.

He was just beginning to turn to run when the crashing Valkyrie smashed directly into the modified autocannon and wrenched it from its moorings with a squeal of breaking plasteel and cracking bolts. The wing caught Trelkis on the back and then he was under the Valkyrie - and with the Emperor.

***
​

Frey stumbled out of the back of the Valkyrie, her head ringing as she waved her lower right hand to clear some smoke away from her as she coughed, racking coughs that shook her whole body. She could hear shouts, calls - and gunfire.

Now.

The instinct burned through her and she flung herself forward, seconds before a lasbolt cracked through the air where she had been standing. Molten metal bloomed from a shipping crate - and after that, it was all in the reflexes. She came to her feet, drawing her pistol with one hand and fanning the revolver's hammer with the other while her upper reached down to pull a speedloader from her belt. The six bullets slammed into three men - hit to break the flakweave, then hit again to blow their hearts against the deck plating behind them. Before they had even dropped, she spun and popped open the revolver. Brass casings clattered to the floor.

Speed loader slammed in.

And a Slagdog merc was kicking open the hatchway into the belly of the ship and emerging with a shotcannon.

Frey shot him in the throat, then shot his friend as he came up behind the stumbling, gurgling mountain, then shot the third man as he poked his head up from the hatchway.

Footsteps.

She spun around and a Slagdog merc rushing from around one of the cargo crates swung at the same moment, bringing a roaring chainsword towards her head.

Frey caught his wrist with her upper arm, put her barrel against his chin, and blew a smoking hole through his flak helmet from the inside. He dropped and she stood there, splattered in blood, her pistol smoking and the barrel dripping.

Silence hung around her.

She turned back, looking at the cultists who had emerged from the Valkyrie, including the pilot - who was nursing a broken leg, helped out by two armored fellows.

"...what!?" she asked, angrily.

The cockpit of the second valk popped. The pilot within scrambled out, shouting.

"Two Slagdog fast movers are on the way!" she said, her voice tight. "They might be CAS, might be bringing troops."

"We can loot the boat, right?" one of the cultists asked.

"Yeah, if you don't mind swimming," Fey snapped.

The cultist reached up, tugging his robes slightly open, showing the gill slits.

Huh. Frey blinked.

---
So, since your Might was zeroed in this fight (brought to 1 by your actions, then -1 by being hit back), the damage is PERMANENT. Oh no! But you did steal a treasure permanently as well! ...it may not SEEM like a great trade, save that might can be raised up by rolls, while treasure can't. Now, despite losing a valk narratively, you mechanically still have areospace assets (both the other valk, and the airship and whatever other vehicles it has) so you still can roll a base of 3d for attacks (1d for treasure, +2d for areospace), which can be bolstered by a plan. Meanwhile, the Slagdogs are going got be rolling their reduced dicepool of 2d! ...however, they ALSO have areospace assets and now bringing them into play, so they have a 4d (50% chance to roll a set) pool!

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MIGHT: 0 | TREASURE: 3(1) | INFLUENCE: 0 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2(1)
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Continue to steal treasure (roll more fight rollls)
[ ] Withdraw and hide for the rest of the month to recover Treasure and Sov)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Frey sighed, shook her head, and said. "No. We need to draw back. We take what we can onto the Valk that works, can we get this other one flying?" she asked. The pilot who had emerged from it nodded.

"If we had an hour and a machine shop, maybe."

"Yeah, we don't," Frey said, then frowned. "Come on everyone! Start getting the goods off the ship - we're falling back and we're leaving that." She said, pointing at the Valkyrie that laid smoking on the hull of the bobbing ship. The cultists leaped into motion and Frey was midway through reloading one of the flack guns before she realized something.

She had given an order without thinking about it and she had been followed without arguments, or people insulting her.

She scowled.

"Emperor's balls," she grumbled under her breath. "Stupid fucking cult."

The fast movers that she had been warned about were two small spots on the horizon when the cargo had been loaded on the working valk. She was doing some quick math when she heard the first splash. SHe jerked her head back and saw that her fellow boarders were tossing off robes, revealing that they had shucked off their flak armor - she wasn't sure if they had dropped them on the deck, or loaded them on the Valkyrie that was lifting into the air. The mostly human ones had a few small notes here and there - curious accents to their bodies that made it clear they weren't entirely people as the imperium saw such things. One of them - the boy who had looked at her as if she were the walking incarnation of the Emperor just for shooting some overpaid bodyguards gave her a shy, sharp toothed smile as he tossed everything save for a loin wrapping off.

Then he dropped over the side of the ship and Frey groaned internally.

They all had gills, don't they.

She looked back at the two fast movers.

They were fast. Real fast. They weren't Imperial line quality shit, not stuff that had names beyond the planetary designations. They were little better than rattletrap biplanes attached to skim engines. But they had salvaged lascannons and heavy stubbers, which...she looked at the flak gun, then...then the strangest thing happened. She had a sudden, deep sense that it was going to be okay.

"Fuck it," she muttered, making sure her pistol was holstered - she had spent a lot of money waterproofing it. She kept it around her hip as she stepped to the side and dropped down. The water was a shock of cold that swept around her body, before something deep inside of her adapted. A core of warmth kicked on, while the water soaked her clothing through and started to drag her down. She kicked her legs - and looked around her as the glimmering sunlight shone through the waves, illuminating the sinking figures with her. Some were already swimming gently off towards a rendezvous point, where the airship could pick them off.

The kid and the pilot were staying nearby and without words, she felt their playful comfort. The pilot, without the helmet, had a ragged scar along his brow that swept down and almost touched one of his gold on black eyes, while the kid was more human in the face, until he grinned - which he was now. His gills flitted open as he kicked his legs and swam near her. Their excitement tingled like champaing bubbles, and Frey felt their giddiness. They had never been in a fight before, and they hadn't expected it to go so...well.

Sure, they had lost a Valkyrie, and hadn't stolen nearly as much lucre as they had wanted. But the bad guys were dead.

And they were so very alive.

Frey flushed then glowered at them. What are you two assholes so happy about? She though, her lungs beginning to burn as the shadows of the SDS fliers dappled overhead, plunging her into flickering darkness as they kicked on their skimmers and started to hover around the ship, clearly searching. I'm gonna fucking die once I go up for air.

The pilot glanced at the kid.

THe kid shrugged, then kicked closer. His hand caught her upper left, fingers linking through hers. Frey's cheeks flushed as the champain bubble feeling along her skin heighted and she realized for a moment that she was breathtakingly beautiful. Strong and sleek, more pure and perfect than anyone else in the entire cult. A kelermorph. A living goddess. The sudden rush of awe was heady, like her first hit of watered down obscura, or whisken.

And she liked it.

It infuriated her that she liked it. She was a fucking mutant, and this...stupid kid was...

Kiren kissed her. His lips pressed to hers and her eyes went very wide - but then his hands were on her shoulders, keeping her in place as he breathed into her mouth - and the dizzying rush of oxygen to her brain was almost enough to get her to not dig her claws into his hips. He tensed and then grabbed back just as hard, the two of them sinking down as his gills worked, his nose flared and something in his body worked to give life to hers. She breathed out a stream of bubbles through her nose as the fliers cast them into shade.

This is so fucking stupid, she thought, hazily. Her hands had released enough so that the claws weren't threatening to draw blood. Her upper was cradling his head, feeling his soft hair. Kiren tilted his head, slightly. The kiss grew deeper and...distracted from its purpose. It was...hard to breathe when someone was slipping you tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut. Stupid.
If it's stupid and it works, is it stupid?

The thought wasn't even the kids. It was Leek, the pilot.

Frey jerked her mouth off of Kiren and glowered at him. Fuck you!

I mean, we could, we have time to kill before the rendevouz, Leek thought to her, his grin even more playful.

Frey glowered at him. She instead pushed past Kiren, kicking her legs to begin to swim away. The two men kept pace with her, watching her - and she kept her lips sealed. The hell of it was, she was feeling that post mission buzz, the thrill that came from danger and winning. And it was so, so, so much stronger with...

Well.

With men who didn't see her as the easy lay since she was an ugly fucking mutant. She paused, then pushed at Kiren, a playful shove, which made his arms flail, bubbles forthing around him. She grinned. You're dumb, she thought.

What did I do!?

Thought stuff, she sent to him, then blinked as he pushed her back. Leek shook his head - and then darted in. HIs legs kicked and suddenly, he was above and behind her. He took her short hair in his hand, cradling her head, gloved fingers against her scalp. He tilted her back, leaned over, and this time, he kissed her - feeling the need of her lungs before she had. Frey kicked her legs to roll onto her back, reaching up with her right and her upper arm. Her upper arm...maybe by accident, maybe not, ended up on his belly, then slid up - down - to his crotch. SHe felt his hardness through his leggings, and felt the jolt of his excitement through their mental connection.

She wondered if the old cult was like this. The one her mother had come from.

She...

She broke the kiss. Bubbles streamed from her nose as Kiren's lips, warm in the muted cold of the ocean, pressed against her belly, her sodden shirt having rolled up, revealing her sleek, purpleish skin, the ridges of chitin on her hips and side. His hands caressed her and the raw lust he felt for her was a spike of pure dopamine.

It was funny.

She had been lusted for before.

Tell a man there was a woman he should, under no circumstances, fuck and there will be a half a dozen per room that wanted desperately to fuck her. Some people might have thought that would be appealing. But it wasn't. It was fucking degrading. It was being turned into a walking woodcut, something some priest might carve for the people to learn about the licentious ways of the horrid mutant. Watch, as she turns mortal men to sinners with her very body. Well, fuck you, you dickless, Emperor-suckin' priest. Frey liked sex, and she wanted it, but...it didn't take long for that kind of man to reveal that they wanted her chitin and her third arm, not...

Her.

Kiren wanted her. And she could feel it, thrumming through the connection between their minds, as his gills worked frantically to draw in air. And he wasn't even feeding her oxygen, Leek was. He was just kissing along her ridges.

Okay, he wanted her. But the chitin did help.

Leek broke the kiss. His voice was playful. You know, this is an extremely bad idea.
It was true.

Frey liked bad ideas.

The shadow of the skimmer passed by again - but the boat was beginning to move. The SCS had their wrecked valk - though she was pretty sure the other cultists had smashed it up pretty bad before they had withdrawn. From a certain perspective, this mission was only a marginal success. But Frey was alive - for now. She kissed Kiren as he nuzzled against her belly, contorting herself around and waving one of her arms to swing around. Her clawed hands - upper, reaching down back to tug at her belt, lower left working at the buttons - shoved her leggings down. She was wearing only a holster now, her cunt bare to the cool waters. She scissored her legs around Kiren's hips, and felt his hardness, straining against his loincloth. Leek swam down, and they started to drift down, the lot of them sinking bit by bit.

Kiren kissed her mouth, but had a damn hard time sharing his air.

For some reason, Frey was fine waiting on breathing. She sucked on his tongue as her upper hand cradled his head, her lower left reaching back, grabbing onto Leek's hip. The pilot's hand slipped under her leather jacket, found her breasts. Her nipples were hard enough to cut adamant glass, and she moaned bubbles into Kiren's mouth, the frothing stream shooting to the surface of the water as Leek tugged her, twisted her. He was rough and she liked it. Her head spun with oxygen debt, and Kiren shifted his mouth back, then leaned in. This time, he breathed air into her as Leek rolled his hips, and she felt his length against her buttocks, grinding against her greedily.

Ready?

His voice was husky in her mind, but he barely needed to think the thought. Frey had never been with two men who so perfectly knew what she wanted. Her need was fierce, singing. She would have mewled like a ferrocat in heat, had she the medium to speak through. Instead, her lower right hand simply shredded Kiren's loincloth and his cocktip slapped against her folds. He wasted no time, the eager little virgin. He pushed into her, using Leek as a brace, while Leek pushed against her ass. Frey's eyes widened, and then she broke the kiss with Kiren - moaning out a whole lungfull of desperate pleasure, bubbles frothing around her mouth as she wrapped every arm around Kiren and Leek. She had never been so...fucking full before. THe two men were inside her and it felt...

Oh Emperor! Her mental moan was plaintive.

Really? Leek's voice was sardonic - smug bastard was able to be sardonic while he was balls deep in her ass. She had her upper arm around his neck, looped around, claws cradling his shoulder. She pulled him in tighter with a snarl, kissing Kiren for air. He was happy to give it - his whole body was one knot of focus as he started to thrust into her, counter-timed with Leek as their cocks plunged into her again and again. Pleasure mounted, and Frey realized one massive advantage to fucking men in the cult.

Men out of the cult?

Well, lots didn't know that girls couldn't cum from just being fucked. Not unless they were really wound up, or lucky.

She came twice before they were done. Shuddering and clenching, she moaned in their minds and - after a moment of shock - realized why. Their dicks weren't just inhumanly ridged. They didn't just hit parts of her body that sent shooting bolts of pleasure along her spine. It was also the connection. Their pleasure and hers were shared, reveberating, bounding back and forth. The only reason they hadn't...was...was...

Fuck!

She moaned and trembled as the third orgasm blew through her like a hot wind. Her vision turned dark around her eyes - dark because they had sunk so low, yes, but dark too because her brain was buzzing for oxygen. She hung, her lungs burning, while blazing hot spunk started to fill her. And fill her. And fill her. Her two lovers clung to her, their bodies tightening...relaxing...tightening again as their own, more focused orgasms sparked inside of them.

Then Leek was tilting her head back again. He slid from her lazily to get to the position to hold her, to kiss her. Air flooded her lungs, while Kiren's dick stirred his seed inside of her.

Fuck... she thought, dazedly.

I'm not a virgin, you know, Kiren said, his voice full of the panting, trembling edge of a newborn foal.

Well, not anymore you're not, Frey thought, a bit dizzily.

I wasn't before!

Come on, Leek said, his voice amused. We have to get to the point.

Despite that, Frey simply kept cuddling the two of them - floating in warm, warm darkness.

***
​

"...and your pants got..." Arjida asked, arching an eyebrow, as Frey stood, dripping, on the deck of the Levithan. "Where, exactly?"

"Fuck you," Frey said, glowering at her.

Arjida laughed, slid an arm around Frey's shoulder, and started walking her off.

"Come on, lets get you to the shower," she said. "Salt water can irritate, even if we're adapted. We need to get you gills, though."

"I'm already born, you can't fucking mutate me more," Frey said.

"True, we don't have biokinetics-"

"Biowhat?"

"Uh, we'll explain more later," Arjida said, chuckling.

"Yeah, yeah," Frey said, shaking her head. "The mission lost us some real fucking useful aircraft, you know."

"True. But the supplies and funds are going to be a huge help in the future. And, at least you're nice and pregnant now."

Frey walked directly into the bulkhead leading into the inner decks of the Levithan. SHe stumbled backwards, shaking her head, then turned just in time to see Arjida absolutely crack up, putting her hands on her belly as she fell backwards against the wall. "Oh by the Star Children, your face!" she laughed - and the connection made it clear, after a moment, that she had been joking. Frey glared at her.

"I am not getting pregnant!" she said, glaring at her. "Ever!"

I wanna get bred I wanna get bred I wanna get bred I wanna get bred, a hissing instinct burned at the back of her head - the same quiet voice that had first started speaking to her the moment she had looked at a man and realized what being aroused actually felt like.

"Right, sure," Arjida said.

"Ever!"

Frey walked down the corridor, butt still entirely exposed. She turned back, pointing her finger at Arjida.

"Never ever!"

"Never, ever, ever!" Arjida agreed, nodding.

"Ever!"

The door to the showers slammed and Arjida, smiling, simply enjoyed the wave of shock from Frey as she realized...

It was unisex.

***
​

In orbit, Vellumee Rose beamed as she finished laying out the final piece of evidence. "Clearly, while they are likely just an average piratical gang in terms of goal, their access to and use of Imperial line standard aircavalry and the nature of their airship, which I have designated Alpha-Threat Phi Kappa Twelve Twenty One, to differentiate it between the other airships we have tracked, if you look at appendix A.2 of my report!" She nodded. "With that, we can safely conclude that the hiring of mercenaries known as Slagdog Corporated Solutions is the primary and most effective route to ensure the continued safety of our fair planet. God-Emperor bless this meeting, and may our bullet points be forever kept in the proper place. So mote it be."

She stood there, buzzing with excitement. She had given her first actual administration review board analysis report, class 2-C! It was something she had dreamed of, ever since she had first been tithed to the Administratum and stopped crying about missing her parents!

The gathered upper ranks of the Administratum on Administratum Scribe Station 2-1-1-1-9 regarded her with two looks, for...well, there were only two of them. Head Scribe Mestrix and Junior Sub-Adjutant Secretary of the Interior, Third Class, Avaralanda.

Mesterix nodded. "An extremely elucidatory and quite ineffably expressed report, Miss Rope. I believe now is the time for action. Immediate, decisive, and conclusive action. Action that will do the service of the Administratum and ensure the effective action of our underlings in this world." He turned to Avaralanda, who was a stork tall Voidborn with chocolate-brown skin and eyes that reminded Vel of a bird.

Not a nice bird, particularly.

"I propose that we begin by reviewing this evidence using the sub-committees we have set aside for the management of secondary fund allocation oversight," Mesterix said.

"Very good, Head Scribe," the Junior Sub-Adjutant Secretary of the Interior, Third Class, said.

"Excellent. Glad to see that this meeting has come to a fortuitious and fecunderous completion of tasks," Mesterix said, then stood, bowed his head politely to the two women, then left.

Vel...

Vel was left feeling...feeling...

Confused.

"Fe...Fecunderous?" she asked. She turned back and yelped, because in the time where she had been looking away, the Junior Sub-Adjutant Secretary of the Interior, Third Class, had stood, walked around the desk, and now towered over Vel like an alarming tree that had the authority to have her thrown out of an airlock. "Also, wait, did he-"

"Rose, right?" Avaralanda asked, her voice dry.

"Y-Yes, that, that is my name!" Vel said. "I...did he call me-"

"Rope? Yes," Avaralanda said. "You're new. And cute. And tiny." She smiled. It was not a nice smile. "I do prefer to allow new scribes to take some time before doing this, but as you're not only new, and cute, and tiny, but also highly competent, I'm afraid I will simply have to huck a rock through the stained glass window and let in some actual air in there." She tapped Vel's forehead, making Vel stumble a bit - not because the voidborn woman was strong. Anything but, her finger felt as sturdy as a toothpick.

"What!?" Vel squeaked.

"That man, your superior, my superior, is an idiot," Avaralanda said. "A drooling simpleton who couldn't tie his shoes without a servitor, and would be best used as corpse starch. He was sent here because this is where Administratum careers go to fucking die." She smiled, primly. "Now, he is going to arrange another fucking committee full of the same five fucking dipshits that we've had choking this place up for the past sixty years, and nothing is going to happen. Meanwhile, you...are going to take this briefcase of money and you are going to give it to the fucking Slagdog morons and tell them, in precisely these words, that they are going to fucking kill some annoying sky pirates for us before they become a fucking issue. Do you understand?"

Vel gaped at her.

"I...I..." she stammered. "Y-Y...Yes Madam Undersecretary."

Very gently, Avaralanda patted Vel's cheek.

"Very good, dearie. Have fun on the shitthole."

Then she was out of the room.

Vel looked at the window - and at the blueish orb of Aquiocrypt hovering in space beyond the orbital platform.

She could see a hurricane down there.

Vel gulped. Loudly.

Well. She thought. How hard can it be?

---
The month has ended! The SCS do not come after you, so, presumably, the admech roll failed! However, Vel is still going down to the planetary surface because it is likely they're going to keep trying.

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MONTH TWO, WEEK ONE
MIGHT: 0 | TREASURE: 3 | INFLUENCE: 0 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

The worst thing about Treacle is that Frey couldn't even say that it didn't work.

This was the third place - and it had worked great the prior two times, which infuriated her. She stood behind the makeshift stage while the guy with the best speaking voice, Terji - called out to the crowd. "Welcome, malcontents, mutants and marauders! Who here is ready for the show of the century?!"

A low roar of eagerness came.

Frey turned to Arjida and hissed.

"...the chaps, though? Really? Really?"

"You gotta show what you got baby," Arjida said, cheerfully. "Besides, I know you know that I know that you like it."

"I fucking don't! Read my lips, not my fucking mind, my mind is fucking stupid!" Frey hissed, her spur clicking as she stamped one booted foot. "This is undignified! There's no way that kelermorphs like my sainted grandmother threw their asses at anything that moved to get them to fucking join the cult. This is a cult! Not a sex club!"

"...uh..." Arjida said, her eyes glittering with barely concealed mirth.

"Now, give it up for the one, the only-"

"Fuck you!" Frey hissed one last time.

"I keep offering," Arjida whispered back.

"Fuckkkk youuu!" Frey pointed at her eyes, then at Arjida, then back to her eyes - then turned as the curtains swept back...and sauntered forward.

"-Freeeeeyyyyyyyyy the Gunslinger of the Weeeeeeeeeeeeest!"

The lights bloomed around her, shining down as Frey stood before the crowd and twirled her pistol on one clawed finger while she cocked her hips. She was dressed in assless chaps, with a tunic-vest that was left to hang open over a double bandolier of high caliber bullets that covered her nipples and left most of her chest exposed. She had a wide brimmed hat like the kind traditional sea going captains had worn, back when the world had been a private hunting ground, and a cutlas swung at her hips as she tossed her pistol to her upper hand, catching it while it still twirled on her finger, keeping it twirling as she transferred it to her lower left, then holstered it and grinned at the crowd.

The entire crowd - mostly mutants with slightly larger eyes than the normal, maybe a few scales, and some with stunted, barely working gills - started cheering as if they had never seen anything so beautiful. She arched her back slightly, cupping her upper arms behind her neck as she reveled in their gaze, while her upper arm remained hanging down near her hip.

Next to her, Treji grinned and then leaned in, his vox-phone held in one hand. "So, Frey, is it true that you're the best shot on the waves?"

"Sure am, pardner," she said, affecting the 'heroic drawl' that people in the northern latitudes had decided, over the decades, meant someone was a 'back-reef' country type. "Though, I don't like to brag." she grinned and winked at the crowd.

"Well, that sounds mighty fine!" Treji said. "But does anyone here wanna prove it?" He grinned. "A month's wage to any who can out shoot her!"

A few mutants raised their hands excitedly and the next part of the show came up. Revolvers were handed out and targets - all of politically neutral targets like chaos cultists bedecked in snarling spikes and cowls, or snarling Orkoids - were hung up, the cardboard paint job have been done by a remarkably cheerful cultist who didn't seem perturbed that her hard work was going to be riddled with holes. The people shot, then Frey casually one handed her revolver and put a round through each target's head, heart, and then the holes that the others had left behind, leaving the targets smoking and the crowd in awe.

It was almost getting boring by-

"Bullshit."

The voice was deep and male and made her scowl as she turned back to the crowd. "Excuse me!?" she asked, her drawl breaking for a moment - and then she blinked as she saw that the figure in the crowd wasn't just a mutant. He was an abhuman. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a bald head and the aquatic look of someone born to the deep seas. He had a sleek fin that protruded from his spine, like someone had taught a fish to walk, though he showed no sign of needing a water-unit to breath, as he was just...standing...openly there without...a shirt on and...

Wow.

He was built. And he was sleek. And he was...

Wow.

Frey blinked several times - and then her two warring instincts of annoyance and arousal slammed into one another and annoyance won out. "And what makes you think that?" she asked, frowning.

"Well, uh-" Treji started.

"You could be a witch, there are a few weather witches out here," The abhuman said, casually - producing soft whispers and murmurs from the crowd. "How do we know you're not sorcering up the bullets."

"She-" Treji started, but Frey snatched his vox-phone from his hand and growled into it.

"You can do any damn thing you want to me, and I'll shoot better than you can, blowhole!"

The man did have a blowhole on the top of his head.

He grinned. His teeth were sharp.

"And if I win?"

"You can fuck me on the stage," Frey said, her voice sneering. The crowd let out a soft murmur of shock. Treji leaned in, whispering in her ear. "No, I said...did I...I...yeah, well, you can't fucking beat me!" She said, her cheeks purpling. "And what if I win?"

"Me and my entire gang will join you," the man said.

"Oh wowwww, your fuckin' gang! Ooho!" Frey said.

Treji leaned in and whispered.

"Wait, shit, you're Deadeye Dukan?" Frey asked. "No fucking way!"

Dukan grinned, then stepped up to the stage, then up onto it. He was taller than she had expected - and now that he loomed over her, she could see the famous chainsword - gold plated and rust pitted - hanging from his hip. "Did you think the legends about me being born of the sea were just, what, exaggerations?"

"...yeah, I mean, a little..." Frey muttered.

Dukan reached down to his belt. Watching his big, big hand vanish into his pocket, Frey squared her shoulders...and blinked as he took out a pale white cloth, embroidered with holy scripture and an imperial aquilla.

"This is a Repentia's blindfold," Dukan said, smirking. "I figure, if a witch was blessing your guns, then this would shut that shit out right away. No?"

"You want me to shoot blind?" Frey smirked. "Deal." She reached for the blindfold - but Dukan lifted it up and out of her grasp.

"Turn around," he said. He was grinning down at her, and his long, thick, muscular tail slapped the ground with a meaty thump. Frey rolled her gold on black eyes, then turned around. She scoffed as he stepped behind her - and she felt the warmth radiating off him, like a furnace. Fish were supposed to be cold. Then she felt his grayish fingers grip her chin as he reached around, then held her in place as he settled the blindfold. It tingled against her skin, but...she was sure it was psychosomatic. Then he tied it off. FIrmly. Doing so drew her back against him, and her chitinous cheeks bumped against his crotch. She felt a wriggling, writhing twitch there and muttered.

"You got an eel down your pants, or are you real fucking weird in bed?"

"I've never heard complaints," he shot back.

Your knees are getting weak, Arjida said. Star Children, we need to get you a good woman.

Not every woman in the galaxy is gay! Frey snapped mentally.

She doth protest too much... Arjida murmured, while Frey rolled her eyes behind her blindfold.

"Stupid dumb...muttering...doth..." She grumbled.

"What was that?" Dukan asked.

"I said put out the target," Frey snapped.

There was a faint swish. She could hear the shifting of cardboard, she could hear the faint winch of wire and the tug of pully systems. She lifted her hand, and flicked her wrist and the bullet thumped into something wooden. Then she fired again, then again, then again - and each time, she moved her arm just a little bit so. As she did so, she leaned back into Dukan, and felt him stiffening - and yes, wriggling - against her. She smirked as she lowered her pistol.

"...well..." Dukan said, hesitantly.

Frey grabbed the blindfold and tugged it off.

She had shot every single cardboard target exactly where she had been aiming.

Right in the fucking dick.

"See you on the airship. Blowhole boy." She stepped away from him, then slapped her hat into his chest. "Keep the hat."

And she walked off the stage.

***
​

Kiz, the bartender of The Breakhead Tavern, was rubbing disnfectant and medislave onto her slashed palm to make sure the tiny infection she had gotten didn't get worse.

"A week," she hissed. "A week and nothing happened."
The bitter anger she felt was pulsing hot - and all the worse for it being entirely inwardly directed. Stupid. Stupid Kiz! Stupid! She had held a statuette and hurt herself...and she had gotten nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, the patronage of the Tavern had tapered off over the past month - she was still making enough for rent, but...

The door chimed. Kiz lifted her head, and blinked as one of the shortest women she had ever seen walked in. She was dressed in a bedraggled red robe and had a bald head. Her features were delicate, like that of the statuette.

Though she lacked horns.

"I have had one Emperor's hell of a week," the woman said, walking forward and sitting at the front. "Please...do you have any water without infectious particulates in it?" She asked.

Kiz blinked, then started to pour her some beer. "You a...scribe?" Kiz asked.

"Yeah," the girl said. "I was sent down here to do a fairly simple job and it has been...somewhat...somewhat complicated. Fortunately, many tasks asked of by the Administratum are expected to take some time. Though, I...am in need of somewhat cheaper furnishings, lest I begin to-"

"Room free! I have a free room! Right above the basement, very safe!" Kiz said, hurriedly.

She realized how obvious that was, moments after it had escaped her lips. She was mentally kicking herself again when the bald scribe blinked at her, processing what she had said...

Then beamed.

"Marvelous! I suppose the Emperor has guided me to precisely where I needed to be after all!" she said, cheerfully. "My name is Vellumee Rose, Administratum Scribe, Junior rank, first of my class from Schella!"

She reached out her hand.

Kiz took it, and smiled.

"Kiz!" she said.

"Just...Kiz?" Vellumee Rose asked.

"Yeah," Kiz said. "...the room's very safe, you know. You can stay here as long as you want!"

"Fantastic!"

---
We're onto the third month - and now Might 2 includes a dolphin anthro! So, a straight improvement!

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MONTH THREE, WEEK ONE
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 3 | INFLUENCE: 0 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Morrigan Gwen had always wanted to start a tavern.

In so far as dreams went, it was fairly modest - but for a mutant?

Impossible.

Morrigan's mutations were fairly modest - she had blue scales along her throat and on the back of her knuckles - but they were enough that the very idea of someone lending her the capital to start a tavern was outside of the wildest of dreams. She had made her ends meet by working at other taverns, and was walking home one evening in the outer edges of the Break when a voice called out her name.

"Morrigan Gwen?"

She turned and saw a robed figure standing behind her. The woman - for her voice had sounded feminine - leaned against the wall of a corrugated building, palm against the slightly damp metal. Her teeth flashed in a warm smile, and she said: "Your cousin, Lantry Gwen, mentioned you."

"Lantry?" Morrigan asked, her eyes narrowing. "Didn't he run off to become a sellsword in the Equatorials?"

"He did," the woman said, her voice amused. "That's actually how we met him. And how he mentioned your interest in starting a tavern." She reached up, tossing her hood back, to reveal a beautiful girl with warm red eyes. The only hint something was off was that her teeth seemed ever so slightly sharper than normal...and that might have just been how she looked. She walked forward, offering her hand. "Arjida."

"Morrigan," Morrigan said, reflexively. she took the other girl's hand and felt the warmth shocking through her fingertips. "And if you're here to say that you are going to drop a thousand thrones onto me to help me buy up a new tavern, my next question is: How stupid did Lantry make you think I am?"

Arjida laughed. "Please! We don't have a thousand thrones to toss around. What we have is some cheap real estate and need a manager. You won't own it, but you will run it." She said, walking with Morrigan, the two women heading along the narrow pathways that wound through the Break. Arjida continued. "Now, the front facing parts of our organization are still trying to be subtle..."

"What organization is that?"

"Sky pirates," Arjida said, her voice casual. "We need a place to pick up information, buy and sell illicit goods, recruit new members. Now, I know you might balk..." She smirked. "BUt since when has the law and order of this planet done anything for you?"

"I..." Morrigan gaped at her, turning to face her. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because a mutant tavern wench is not going to be the piece of evidence that will get the local constabulary into their sailing ships," Arjida said, simply. "And because...well...I can tell. You're a woman who has been lied to a great deal. By the Imperial creed, by your bosses, by your masters and overlords." Her eyes sparkled as she gave a warm, if somewhat cynical smile. "Honesty, I thought, was the best hook."

Morrigan stood still, then chuckled. She shook her head. "You are insane."

"And you're tempted," Arjida said.

"I'm tempted to do something insane, yes!" Morrigan said, then paused as she came to the door leading into the cheap, cheap, cheap apartments that floated near the edge of the Break, where the sea waves and the sea winds hit hardest. She frowned, then said. "Come inside, we can at least discuss the nitty gritty inside. With some cheap rotgut."

"Honesty running both ways. I like it." Arjida grinned.

The door opened, then closed.

The two women sat in the small apartment, lit by a lumen and warmed by an exposed electrical conduit that had been cross-wired through some copper. IT was ludicrously dangerous, doubly so considering how very wet this planet was. But it was still better than freezing to death. Morrigan closed the windows shut, then poured out her best amnesac and sat down with Arjida, who had tucked herself onto the sitting couch that was one of the only bits of furniture that Morrigan owned. Her finger played through her raven dark hair as she watched Morrigan sip thoughtfully at her cup.

"So, if I took this bid...what would I need to do, beyond managing the place?" Morrigan asked, slowly.

Arjida sipped. It was, truly, awful amnesac. She winced, then set the glass down with her fingers on the rim.

"You would need to kiss me," she said, smiling slightly.

Morrigan's eyes widened. "What?"

"It's not so large an ask is it," Arjida said, her eyes meeting Morrigan's. "The only assurance I need, is a kiss."

"I..." Morrigan's cheeks flushed and she glared at the slender beauty. "You think because I have scales, I need to go around sniffing at skirts?" She asked, flaring up. "I'm not a freak! I'm just...born differently."

Arjida nodded. "The Creed on this planet is somewhat more restrictive when it comes to this sort of thing. But is it really enough to keep you away from the promise of managing your own tavern?" She watched as Morrigan considered to think. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked away.

"I..." Morrigan hesitated. "Just one kiss?"

"You can ask for more later, but yes, just one kiss," Arjida said.

Morrigan sighed. "Fuck. I've done worse for less." She stood. "I...I will run screaming to the authorities, if you're...in league with...with..." She didn't even have the courage to say it, while Arjida stood, her eyes warm and soft and welcoming. Looking into them made it hard to look away. Morrigan's heart thumped in her chest as Arjida stepped closer, then closer again.

"Never you fear," she whispered. "We're not with them."

The words were almost comforting - save that a fuzzy, confused part of Morrigan's mind wondered, then, at who we were. She started to draw away, to whisper a wait, a no, a please. A stop. But Arjida left her no time. Her hand cupped the back of her head, and she leaned in - then kissed her. Her mouth was warm and gentle. THen her head tilted, and her tongue pushed into Morrigan's mouth. SHe tasted sweet and forbidden, like this shouldn't be happening. Morrigan knew every reason to pull away...but instead, her eyes slowly slid shut as she opened her mouth, and then felt that tongue sliding into her throat. Deeper. Deeper. Now she knew it was wrong. She wriggled, her arms lifting - but Arjida held her hips, drawing her in close. Breast to breast, their bodies locked together as Morrigan felt something deep inside of her ache and throb...and then Arjida was drawing back, her tongue sliding back into her mouth.

It had been too long.

Morrigan gasped, and then fell to her knees. She shivered and panted, and Arjida caressed her head. "Shh..." She whispered. "You'll make a wonderful tavern."

"Y-Yeah..." Morrigan whispered. Her voice was hazy. "Y-Yeah...I think..." She closed her eyes, feeling the ache inside of her settle. A warmth bloomed between her thighs. "F-Fuck...I think I will..."

Arjida chuckled, leaned over, then bore her down. Her hands tugged open Morrigan's top and her mouth found one scale-highlighted nipple. She sucked and Morrigan gasped, putting her hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet. Her spine arched and she writhed, wriggling as the other woman greedily yanked down her pants. Arjida wasted no time, kissing from belly to thighs, to nuzzling between Morrigan's thighs. She started to tongue her cunt - and once again, that long, long, long tongue stretched inside of Morrigan. Her left hand grabbed onto the back of Arjida's hair, squeezing her so tight she was sure that it caused pain - but it didn't slow her down, oh now. Morrigan bit her own hand, drawing blood to keep from screaming as her pleasure crested...

ANd still it wasn't over. Morrigan managed to scramble into bed, and then Arjida was upon her again. They kissed. THey licked. They nuzzled one another. And gently, Arjida showed Morrigan where to put her hand, where to press her finger. Arjida's moans - carefree and unashamed - echoed off the metal walls of the apartment as she rode Morrigan's hand, and Morrigan realized something.

Bringing pleasure to another could be giddy. It could be liberating. She grinned up at Arjida as Arjida's thighs clenched around her wrist and her folds tightened and she gasped out. "Oh Morrigan."

Afterwards, they lay together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and joy. Morrigan rolled her finger through Ardjia's hair, whispering. "I can't believe I hesitated..." She murmured, and felt the warm glow of Arjida's pleasure in her acceptance.

"Welcome to the Sisterhood." Arjida whispered into her ear, then kissed her cheek.

Morrigan felt a deep sense of belonging.

The funny thing was?

It felt even better than the sex.

The Shark's Kiss opened the next week, with a smiling Morrigan behind the counter. She did nothing so forward as Kiss anyone else in the tavern - not now.

But she kept her eyes open and her ears perked.

---

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MONTH THREE, WEEK ONE
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 3(2) | INFLUENCE: 1 | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2(1)
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Ginger had been named, when she was about two months old, because her mother had misread an ancient shipping label and presumed that it was good luck. Until then, it was tradition that any baby born in the Break had to go nameless, lest the Deep Dwellers wish to swim up and steal them. While the Imperial Creed had worked hard to stamp out the ideas of the Deep Dwellers, they hadn't quite managed it - instead, local superstition and church doctrines had somewhat conflated ideas around the Arch-Heretic Horus, oceanic depths, and fishlike mutations. This was why a popular saying in some circles was "Lupercal's Gills!" or "Wolfgills!" as an oath or expression about bad fortune, usually involving sinking.

So, one month of blissful namelessness.

Then, her mother, Lucien McGee, had proclaimed her daughter...

Fingers.

Fingers McGee.

The name had stuck, even after Fingers McGee had grown up and learned at the local schola - run by one of the more affluent shipping magnates for middle class children to ensure that he had a steady supply of non-administratum tied clerks to run his various concerns - how to read ancient script properly and she knew that she had been named for strips of fried, batter covered fish.

She went by Ginger instead.

Fin-Ger.

Ger.

Ginger.

It kind of worked, if you squinted.

But it also meant that when someone entered into the tavern in her off hours - while she was taking her time nursing a beer to let her aching wrist relax - and shouted: "I'm looking for a Miss Fingers?" she knew that it was about something official. She groaned and laid her head on the countertop, while the man in the bright, sequin covered uniform of her bosses firm hurried over to her.

"Miss Fingers?" he asked.

"Please, just...Ginger, please," Ginger said. "What is it?"

"We have a report on the...uh...the incoming shipment," the man whispered. "We need it filed and managed before the, uh-"

"Right, right." Ginger said, sighing. "Give me the documents, I'll get home and get to work on them."

The man nodded, handed her a folder, then bowed his way out of the tavern. Ginger sighed, then pushed herself up to sitting. She considered downing the rest of her beer...but no. She was fuzzy headed enough, and she would need to take a few hard hits of water and then a few oxypills and sacred ungents applied to her temples to-

"I know that feeling."
THe woman who spoke drew Ginger's attention around and arrested her. Ginger did not normally frequent bars where waveskippers and nere do wells went. So seeing one standing casually in this reasonably well to do tavern brought her up short - and made her entire face burn. The woman was tall and rangy, her skin covered in tattoos and scars. She was dressed in the leather harness that most people wore when they expected to go in and out of water. And nothing else. It crossed over her breasts, just barely covering her modesty, and was hung with a few knives, hooks, coils of rope. She looked like she had come straight from the docks. Her hair was cut into a narrow, long deathhawk that tumbled down her back and left the edges of her head firzzy with short, purple hair. Her teeth had been sharpened by a fashioner and she had a nose ring. Her eyes were gray-blue, like the sea themselves.

She looked at Ginger like she wanted to eat her right up, and Ginger found herself unable to even breathe.

"W-What feeling?" she stammered.

"Work hunting you? Though, at least they don't send press gangs after clerks," the woman said. She was, Ginger noticed, holding a jacket over one shoulder, like she had walked in with the jacket covering herself and shucked it off.

"Oh. Right." Ginger nodded. "Yeah. When you do papers for the Break's biggest shipping magnate, you...have a...a lot of work."

The woman smiled at her. "Be honest. It's your day off, isn't it?"

"...yeah, well, afternoon off. I get back into work tomorrow morning."

"When does your boss expect those forms to be finished?"

"As soon as possible," Ginger said, flushing hard as she looked at her cup. "I, wait, who are you, again?"

The woman grinned, lopsidedly. "Tirak."

Lower class name. Lower class girl.

"How did you get in here?" Ginger asked.

"Walked in," Tirak said.

The bartender had noticed her and was glowering. "Hey!" he said.

"Gonna walk out now," Tirak said, then winked at Ginger. Ginger tossed down a golden throne, then walked out...not after Tirak. But she did end up leaving at about the same time. And seemed to be going the same way. She flushed and then...then spoke.

"I'm not...what are you..." she hesitated. "I'm not that pretty!"

Tirak laughed. "Damn, seeing straight through me?" She arched an eyebrow.

"W-Well, you know what they say about sailors!" Ginger said, her cheeks burning. "I. Just. Why are you following me? I don't...I mean, you're not following me, we're going the same way. I-"

Tirak put out her arm, hemming Ginger in against one of the walls they were walking past. She leaned in, and whispered.

"Know what they say about clerks?" Tirak asked.

"...no..." Ginger whispered.

"Not very much," Tirak said. "Wanna fix that and do something absolutely irresponsible and crazy?"

Ginger gaped at her. She weighed up the two possibilities in her mind. On the one hand, there was lunacy, madness, doing something that would be definitely talked about - she lived at an apartment, people would notice if she came home with a strange woman. Doubly so, her room's walls were not...very thick. Her very life could be in danger, if people wondered if she was...differently inclined. But on the other hand, there was the endless, dreary drudgery of working for the Break. And for what? More thrones that she had nowhere to spend? Ginger gulped, then whispered.

"I...I don't know," she whispered. "People will talk."

"That's the idea," Tirak said.

"And get pitchforks?"

Tirak considered that, then chuckled. She slid her jacket on, zipped it up, shifted her posture, stood a bit differently, and then finally, tugged a small breathing mask from one of the jacket pockets. She fastened it on and said: "Mr. Tirak, at your service." She had pitched her voice a bit lower.

"P-People are still going to talk!" Ginger whispered.

"And say he blew your back out, thank you very much," Tirak said, voice still low and husky.

Ginger gaped at her. "Y-You're serious!?"

Tirak waggled her eyebrows.

Ginger considered, again.

Insanity, on one hand.

Tedium, unto death, on the other.

Ginger blushed, then said. "...well..."

***
​

"Oh Emperor! Oh Emperor!" Ginger gasped, her legs locked tight around the limber, skinny hips of the tall and powerful sailor. Her fingers clutched to her shoulder blades as she laid her head back on the pillow, her ankles crossing one over the other. A hazy part of her reflected that, well, at least some part of the truth might be told. If she ever could speak about what was being done here without turning as red as her hair. She threw her head back against the pillow, her back arching as the sleek cock of plastiform and synthetics plunged deep into her warmths, the leather straps affixing it to Tirak rasping against her skin with delicious roughness. Tirak grunted low in her throat, her smallish breasts pressing hard against Ginger's chest.

"Fuck, ah, Star Children, fuck!" Tirak gasped, her own pleasure mounting - either through some elaborate construction that the strap on was pressing to her...or purely from the pleasure and the friction and the slippery heat of their bodies intertwining.

"Tirak!" Ginger gasped, quivering as she felt her pleasure crest, peak, ride high, and then sweep through her body. SHe felt as if she was floating on a cloud, while her lover remained above her, panting softly.

"Wanna know the fun part?" Tirak whispered.

"Uh...this...this wasn't?" Ginger asked, dazed.

"I, uh, mmm, I don't get soft."

"Huh?" Ginger asked. "Oh."

Tirak leaned forward and kissed one of her nipples. Her sharp, sharp teeth grazed her flesh and she stroked along Ginger's flanks, rubbing down to her hips - which she took a firm hold of...and them began to languidly pump into her again, sending new jolts of pleasure through Ginger's body. Ginger gasped and grabbed onto the headboard with one hand, purely to keep herself in place.

"OH!" She gasped, then moaned. "Oh Tirak!"

Afterwards, the two women laid together, languid, satiated. Tirak, of course, had a lho box, which she tapped two sticks into. A sweat streaked, frazzle haired, completely besotted Ginger blinked in confusion as Tirak offered, her shark tooth grin lopsided. "You've never had dyke sex and you've never smoked lho? Really?"

"N-never," Ginger said. "Too low born to get high, too high born to get tipsy. That's how my mates always said, in schola. I mean."

She took the lho stick nervously, then put it between her lips, while Tirak pulled from her dangling jacket - tossed carelessly over part of the headboard - a small lighter. The tiny lasspark hissed to life as she lit her lho stick. She drew slowly from the smoker and then blew out a long, thin gray stream. The scent was acrid, but not entirely unpleasant. Maybe it was because was mixed with Tirak's intoxicating smell - the smell of sea and woman and something deeper that made Ginger want to bury her nose against her side and inhale off her. Instead, Ginger simply laid there, timid as a mouse, as if she had not been just fucked silly by the other woman.

"Here," Tirak said, softly.

She leaned in...and pressed the tip of her lho stick against Ginger's. Ginger froze and her entire face turned bright red.

This woman has been inside me with a strap on, she thought. How is this making my heart race so?

"So," Tirak said. "Just breathe in."

She breathed in.

Then she started to cough raggedly. "Ack! Ack!"

Tirak laughed. "Yeah, uh, not so fast." She grinned. "Here. Cough some more. Let me." She drew in a breath, then with one long fingered hand, she pinned Ginger's head back against the pillow like a pouncing predator. She leaned in and kissed the lho smoke into her. When she drew away, Ginger was hazy headed and whimpering.

"Whow..." She whispered, smoke streaming from her nostrils. Then, with the air of a girl opening a present. "...are...you a spy?"

Tirak arched an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Y-You're...so cool and..." Ginger gulped. "And I'm me." She paused. "And I work for a shipping magnate. It doesn't take a genius."

Tirak shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah. I'm a spy. And a pirate." She grinned. "And sometimes, I ravage unsuspecting women purely for sport."

Ginger flushed. "Was I for sport?" She sat up. "Or...did you need something from me?"

Tirak looked at her, clearly measuring her. "...if I just needed something, I'd have stolen it, then left. I wouldn't have gotten my strap out. That's for special ocassions."

"Really?" Ginger asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Babe, it's actually more fragile than it looks," Tirak said, laughing. "They don't exactly make 'em to cogboy standard, they're dicks for dykes." She shook her head. "I ran a considerable risk losing it inside of you, clenching like you did."

Ginger looked somewhat unsettled at that.

"It's more annoying for me than you," Tirak said, laughing. "Since I need to get the fun part reattached."

"...right..." Ginger paused. "But you still want something from me, don't you?"

Tirak shrugged one shoulder again. "Mostly, I want to see you again, after this."

Ginger's entire face burned. "Liar." She whispered.

"Cross my heart, hope to die, may the Aquilla start to fly," Tirak said, taking her lho stick out. "If I speak true, you can stick this out in my chest."

Ginger took the lho stick, then gulped. This kind of ritual was common in the Imperium - let the Emperor guide your hand in such things. If the spirit moved you to righteous pain, it meant that the Emperor had interceded. Ginger wasn't sure how much she believed it. She hesitated, then pushed the lho stick gently forward...and then drew it back. "I-I can't do it," she whispered. "...does that mean you're lying?"

"Sure does," Tirak said.

Then she took Ginger's wrist, yanked forward, and there was a soft hiss noise. Tirak grunted as the lho stick's blazing tip let out a thin stream of black smoke. Ginger's fingers opened and the stubbed out drug fell to her thigh, scattering cooling ashes against her skin. A red welt shown on Tirak's breast, near one of her achingly hard nipples.

"Tirak..." Ginger whispered, then leaned in. She kissed the burn mark, gently.

"S'all better now," Tirak crooned. "So." She caressed the back of Ginger's head. "How about turning pirate?"

"I-I..." Ginger hesitated, then looked away. "I...will I have to...wear a dumb hat?"

***
​

She, in fact, did not have to wear a dumb hat.

The information that came back to the airship Levithan was...interesting. The Slagdog Corporated Solutions was beating the bush looking for them - but had had no luck. The Administratum had a scribe on the planet, who had been seen in several meetings with mid to low level Slagdoggers but nothing had come of it.

But what was most interesting of all?
Three Whaleisland Hunters were returning from the deep wilderness of Aquiocrypt.

And between their airships, they were carrying something big.

And it was no whaleisland. No whaleisland at all.

And the Break was very interested in buying it.

---

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MONTH THREE, WEEK TWO
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 3(2) | INFLUENCE: 1(0) | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2(0)
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Kiz felt guilty, as she started to mix the berries into the drink. She didn't know what they were - she had never seen their like before. They were larger and thicker than any she had ever seen, and their juice shimmered with a faint, pinkish edge. Touching the juice made her fingers tingle and burn, like she was dipping them in something faintly acidic. But the statuette had been right about cutting her palm. The tavern was growing.

Did she not want...more?

The berries had grown, bit by bit, as more and more people came to the Breakhead, until there was a ripe bundle, and the whispering voices had breathed in her ear.

Mix it into his drink.

There was only him that she could think of - Clegin Borgne, the head of Borgne Shipping. He had visited the tavern once or twice, and seemed interested to come again, primarily so he could get his hands on one of the nubile maids she had managed to pinch to handle the increased staff. She had worried that they would balk at the clothing she had them wear, nor the soft murmurs and giggles that filled the corners of the tavern as people came and ground against one another. But each and every maid had seemed to fall in line without so much as a flinch. Kiz was terrified and elated in equal measures.

Her stomach roiled with nerves as she finished crushing the berries. She poured the juice into the amnesac she had tapped into the mug, and looked down. It seemed more tempting to drink to her - and yet, there was no single thing about it she could say was better nor different from any other drink she had poured.

She bit her lip.

The Imperial Creed told her that praying to the Emperor was the only way one could ever truly be happy with their lot in life. So, she did lift a little prayer, whispering it to the Emperor. Maybe he was behind the statuette? She had not spoken to a confessor about it - how was she to find one? She was one of the desperately poor.

She walked to Borgne's table, then set the drink before him with a smile. "On the house." She said.

Kiz walked back to the counter, and waited - nerves gnawing at her gut.

Borgne drank, his cheeks growing ruddy. He fidgeted, then looked around the tavern, then seemed to grow more and more relaxed. He stood, languidly, and ambled towards the bar. There were a few patrons around, the noise getting louder - yet none of them seemed to pay him any mind as he leaned forward, looking into Kiz's eyes with the soft ardor of someone seeing the most beautiful sight in the world. "Mistress..." he whispered, quietly, as she leaned forward. "Oh darling light of my life, how have I never seen before what perfection is?"

Kiz gaped at him. "Wha?"

"I will do anything for you, my darling, anything at all!" Borgne said, his fingers laced together before him desperately.

Kiz blinked. "A-Anything?" she asked.

"I will open my heart's blood to you, if that is what you wished."

"...will you...fund the bar expansion?" Kiz asked, eyebrows shooting up.

"Of course, I can press the board for it - they must see your glory, but...I wish to serve you in every way, please." He grabbed her hand, his fingers hot. "Allow me to kneel before your glory, lest I die."

Kiz bit her lip, hard, looking aside, then whispered. "...get behind the counter."

And so, for the rest of the evening, she served drinks, while kneeling behind her, one of the richest men in the Break buried his face between her thighs and worshiped her. Kiz's guilt shifted, with every lap of his desperate, needy tongue, to growing pleasure and satisfaction. She smiled at the tavern goers, and poured beer after beer, bending forward to do so - aware that doing so let her shirt dip forward, to show the curve of her breasts. She did not know that...somehow, every bit of her was just so much subtly more appealing than it had been, without changing a single part of her. The way the light fell on her eyes made them seem to glitter like gemstones, and many a patron left, whispering to one another about 'the new bartender' despite her being the same one from last week.

And the whole time she was worshiped.

Adored.

She made a note, as she shuddered and came against her stool's face...

She needed to gather more berries.

***
​

Teaching Frey new things was a bit like using a hammer to drive in a piton - it had to be narrow, to the point, and done quite a few times to stick. It wasn't because she was stupid. Oh no, Frey was quite intelligent.

It was because she aggressively did not care.

Arjida knew that the aggressively not caring was, itself, a fragile shell wrapped around a deep well of pain and abandonment - she was, after all, directly connected to Frey's inner world in the same way Frey was easily able to plumb her depths through their hive connection. Frey wasn't entirely aware of it.

Again.

Thanks to that deep well of pain and abandonment. However, knowing the source of it didn't stop making it fucking annoying sometimes.

"So, we're not all gonna get eaten?" Frey asked, for the third time since she had been joined with the cult.

"No, that was never going to happen - Imperial propaganda from top to bottom," Arjida said.

"You sure?" Frey narrowed her eyes. She leaned her head against her third palm, while her other two cupped a cup of recaff. "Because it seems pretty fucking obvious that this has to be some kind of scam. If genestealers were so fucking great, why do we need to trick people into it?"

"We're fighting a fascist totalitarian state, it has primed people to hate even their own liberation," Arjida said. "All cults have to be like this - like us, if we were just feeding entire planets to some kind of horrible invading army, how would we be liberating anyone?"

"And I say that we've just forgotten a bunch of shit thanks to the Crossing," Frey said, taking a sip.

The doors to the Levithan's caff opened and Frey turned her head back - and the jolt of shock and fear that exploded inside of her radiated in Arjida's head, making Arjida laugh loudly. "You didn't think we were all as late generation as me and the rest we've been using for infiltration?"

The two people - one male and one female - were both clearly inhuman in the way Frey was inhuman: The male had four arms, the female had three, and both were clad in purple chitin and sleek black carapace, making them appear clothed, even though they were entirely nude. The only hint that they were completely bare was the man's...rather...oh my. Frey's immediate bloom of confused lust and self loathing burned along Arjida's skin, even as she scowled at the two of them.

"Hey, buddies!" she said. "We have this sorcery known as pants."

The male grinned at her, and his voice reveberated in the hive-link. Frey. A pleasure to meet you.

Fuck he's hot too. Frey's voice-thought rang unbidden.

His grin grew wider, sharper, while the female walked over, caressing her cheek with one hand, leaning in and whispering in her ear. "He is one of the newest born to our blessed Pure." She said, aloud. "He needs to breed a few more generations before they'll be as...useful as Arjida." She nibbled on Frey's ear, who squirmed.

"H-Hey, I'm not into chicks..."

"They all say that," the girl said, but Frey shoved her away. The male grinned, and the two sat to either side of her.

"We have a mission," the male said, aloud.

"Normally, people give names before mission briefings," Frey grumbled.

The two smirked. Arjida, of course, had simply opened her mind to knowing them. Frey, though, still refused to learn. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered. The two took some pity on her.

"Malik," the boy said.

"Quinn," the girl purred.

"There, now we're introduced. There's a scribe from the Administratum who needs to be turned to our side," Malik said.

Frey frowned. "How are we going to do that?" But she already knew. She stood up, feeling the plan radiating from the two, and started to pace and scowl. "Fuck no. I'm not kidnapping some girl to...that's...it's wrong! Isn't it?" She asked, while Quinn stood. She walked up behind her, pressing against Frey, her two lower arms looping around her belly, while Malik walked to her front, his four arms going to her hips, her shoulders. He looked into her eyes.

"Sweet, long lost sister," Malik whispered, softly. "The togetherness you've felt since you came here - that bliss - do you want to deny it someone just because they would fear it?"

"I-I...yes!" Frey snapped. "They...free will! We're fighting for it!"

"Freedom? Free will? Neither can exist in the Imperial mode of thought, they're expressly forbidden, Frey," Quinn whispered in her ear. Then she kissed her cheek, and thought to her. But it's good you're thinking about it.

"I won't...help..." Frey whispered, then bit her lip, her hips grinding against Malik as he nuzzled her neck.

"And leave us to do it alone? Without your help?" Malik whispered against her, licking the edge of chitin that ran right up to her purple throat. Frey shivered and moaned softly.

"You two are...fucking assholes!" She shoved them away, her knees trembling, and so wet that Arjida was leaving a puddle on her chair. She glowered at them. "Fucking fine. But if she comes out hating us, I'll take her far away from this fucked up cult, and I'll...I'll tell the inquisitors on all of us, fuck you."

The two blinked at her, then nodded, Malik saying, aloud: "That's fair."

Frey scowled, then grumbled, then muttered.

"I'm going along under protest."

***
​

Vellumee Rose slept deeply. The sleep of the very, very tired. However, she was tired because she felt so very accomplished. She had come back to the Breakhead tavern, walked past the normal bartender without glancing at her, and headed up the stairs while reading one of her reports, then fallen straight to sleep, surrounded as she was by the purity and light of a place clearly blessed by the Emperor - and all after a long day of walking through the Break and...well, she hadn't managed to actually get a meeting with the SDS's upper management, but she had successfully sent in the requisitions for the forms they'd need to draft for her to fill out to request the meeting to meet lower-middle management! She was quite confident that they would accomplish that relatively quickly - maybe by the end of the month, then she would be well on her way to the meeting with lower-middle management, who could refer her to the forms she'd need to fill out to meet middle-middle management and, from there, it was only going to be five, six more weeks of paperwork and she'd finally be able to requisition the paperwork to file for the forms to hire the SDS for the mission she had been sent to get them for!

It was all lightning fast, by Administratum standards.

In her dream, she was born aloft by her tide of paperwork, gently carried through the air, then set down in a hammock that swayed. She squirmed, then settled in comfortably, clutching her book to her chest, the comforting weight of it never moving as her dreams grew hazier - she had dreams of being congratulated on her good work. SHe was toasted, and told in plain, clear language what an excellent job she had done, and no one ever said anything mean to her...

It was a good dream.

Then she woke up and realized that she wasn't in her bed. She sat up, in confusion, looking around the strange, dark place she was in. The walls glistened with slippery moistness, and bioluminescent grew from shelves of fungai and drippy, moldy things. Vel...was not from Aquiocrypt. She had no legends of deep ones and snatching darkness, dragging people to the depths of horror. She was in fact, from Qendo, which was a planet rather famous for its obsession with mushrooms and fungai. They even had icons of the Emperor in Rot, which was a riff on the standard skeleton momento mori, using shelves of fungai and blooming fronds. She stood and was more concerned about the fact she had been kidnapped and whisked away than the fact she was in somewhere so...moldy.

At least the room was warm.

In fact, it was very warm.

It was hot.

Humid hod. That was what had woken her, the closeness of the air, and the rich smell of it.

"H-Hello?" she asked.

A glow bloomed at the end of the room - a thin crack appearing in something hidden by the shadows. The light that spilled around it showed that it appeared to be a kind of rounded cocoon, thick and slimy, and it was opening its glowing maw towards her. Vel gulped, then started to walk towards it.

She did this for a very simple reason.

Growing up, Vel had never, once, read a single novel in her life. SHe preferred either poetic verse or, more often, books about history, tax reform, and management of interstellar logistics. She knew a great deal about the impact of warp storms on chartist fleets and the way captains handled management of long term investments in cargo shipping. She knew very little about staying away from glowing cocoons. She leaned in, peering into the glow, her eyes wide...and then they widened further as a slimey tentacle wrapped around her throat. Fear choked her almost as much as the electric touch of the thing. THe venom seeped into her skin and left her tingling and numb, her mouth opening as she scrabbled. Another tentacle slapped against her bald head, slithering along her ear, while another wrapped around her left arm, her wrist. She tried to scream, but it was too late. She was drawn in and the coccoon closed around her. The tentacle around her head dropped to cover her eyes, plunging her into a warm blackness.

She writhed and kicked, and opened her mouth.

Which was how the tentacle around her throat could slither around, cup her cheek, push past her lips, and slide down her throat. Her eyes widened behind the blindfold - while more tentacles pushed up and around her robes, squirming against her skin. She tried to breathe...and found she could. The tentacle in her throat was not violating her. It was saving her. The sensation of breathing was so strange, but...so relaxing. She quivered and gasped, her mouth and jaw spread wide, as the cocoon drew in tighter and tighter around her body. She felt her clothing bubbling off her body, dissolving away as she was entombed with the warmth and the heat.

She quivered and moaned softly. Her eyes half closed...and she felt the warm touch of another mind against hers.

Hello?

The voice was husky and feminine. It sounded...afraid.

...hey... Vel thought, hazily.

A tentacle prodded against her ear, gently. It slid in and she quivered from her head to her toes as she felt the connection grow firmer.

Are you...happy in there?

Vel felt as if she was floating on an infinite ocean. She was surrounded by warmth and other minds. And for once in her life, she didn't need forms and files and invoices and procedure to understand someone else.

I don't...know... she thought, while the cocoon drew tighter around her. Give me some...time...

From outside, she felt the eyes of the other woman on her cocooned body. She felt the confused...lust? Oh that was lust. Somehow, Vel was still able to feel deeply embarrassed as the lust bounced off her brain - reverberating inside of her. She had been lustful before - but, the problem was there was no proper way to approach anyone, and she had no idea how the other students had managed it, and had never been brave enough to ask. And yet, she didn't even need to ask for her curosity to be rewarded by a male presence, which thrummed with amusement.

Here. Watch.

Hey!

Vel was aware, faintly, that the two were outside her cocoon. Then she felt it rocking, and felt breasts touching against her breasts, with only the thin webbing of the tightness surrounding her. Her nipples and the other woman's nipples - Frey's nipples - ground against one another as she was used as a wall, in the torrid back alley affair happening within the room. Her voice was muted, but her mental moan rang through Vel's mind clearly as Frey was...taken from behind by her fellow...her fellow...

Genestealer.

Oh no. Oh no... Vel thought, but it was an abstract worry, growing more distant every moment. She had read about genestealers - but it was hard to even concerned as warm acceptance filled her body. The cocoon tightened against her, like a palm cradling her, and then it rocked as Frey pushed against it. Her moan - sounding muffled by water and by wall alike - echoed into the enclosed space as her partner started to fuck her - and through her, fuck Vel. Vel could feel every ridged inch of his exotic cock entering into her virgin body, despite him not even touching her. She wanted to writhe, to squirm, to buck her hips.

But she was trapped. Restrained.

And she loved it.

Fuck...fuck fuck fuck fuck! the pointed, focused thoughts of Frey buzzed into her head and Vel wanted to...wanted to...

She didn't know what she wanted to do, but she wanted it so badly. She thought to Frey eagerly. T-Tell me, does it feel good? I...oh...oh! I feel...I'm...

She and Frey reached a similar peak - quivering as one, their minds intertwining. The spurt of hot spunk gushing deep into Frey's needy cunt hit Vel's brain with the same force - her nerves sang out and she trembled as she came...and she felt the transformation completing as the tentacle deep in her throat pulsed once and a dull ache started, deep near her womb. The cocoon cracked open and she fell into the panting, gasping arms of Frey. The two women held one another, leaning against one another, while Vel's slime slicked breasts glittered and glistened. Their lips locked, and they shared a deep, passionate kiss.

Then, breaking it, Frey gasped. "I'm not into chicks," she said.

"Me neither," Vel said, hazily, nodding. Then, urgently. "I need someone to knock me up right now. Please. Please pretty please please oh please fucking...ah, oh Emperor, I...ah, sorry, I..." but the burning urge between her thighs was getting hotter and brighter by the second.

Vel was fairly sure the SDS contract was...not going to be completed any time soon.

---

THE AIRSHIP LEVITHAN
MONTH THREE, WEEK THREE
MIGHT: 2 | TREASURE: 3(1) | INFLUENCE: 1(0) | TERRITORY: 0 | SOVEREIGNTY: 2(0)
Kelermorphs: +2d to unconventional warfare (not escaping)
Areospace Assets: +2d to might rolls involving airspace
Revolutionary Rhetoric: -1d to raise Sov or Might
​

[ ] Attack BLANK (Might + Treasure VS Might + Territory)
[ ] Being Informed (Influence + Soverignty vs Diff 1)
[ ] Spying on BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Influence BLANK to do BLANK (Influence + Treasury vs Influence + Territory)
[ ] Increase your Sovereignty (Territory + Treasure vs Diff [Current Sovereignty])
[ ] Police BLANK (Might + Sovereignty vs Influence + Might)
[ ] Rise in Stature (Sovereignty + Treasure vs Diff [Current Influence]
[ ] Train and Levy Troops (Sovereignty + Territory vs Diff [Current Might]
[ ] Unconventional Warfare (write plan in)