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+--- Thread: Steel-shod spires (/showthread.php?tid=6650)
Steel-shod spires - Vulre Oakenlimb - 07-28-2017
The metallic arch, a shimmering sheen of this ‘Omnillium’ stretched taut between the portal that would transport him to the city of Coruscant that the soldiers spoke of, the promise of blood and coin calling to him. A single copper coin, its surface embossed with the heraldry of the Dwarven under-kingdoms, was tossed into the iridescent portal. While he didn’t see any reason the soldiers might have to lure him into a trap, he had not survived so long by failing to verify his information. Satisfied by the distinct lack of sparks, acidic spray, or the sheer nothingness of annihilation, he set forth, stepping through the shining portal.
He closed his eyes briefly, the pure, blinding white light that infused his essence during the transport threatening to scorch his retinas. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the scent of a new city, and-
The stench. It seared at his senses, burning alchemy, the cloying scent of humanity clumped and clustered into caves of steel. The hunter stumbled in shock, eyes tearing themselves open as he stared at his surroundings. Chariots of steel flew through a smog-choked sky, crowds of people dressed in muted blacks and greys moving with purpose through steel-plated streets lit by lightning trapped within glass bulbs, ivory-plated soldiers watching over the obedient masses. In all his years, he’d never seen so many people, not even at the morning mass at The Lady’s cathedrals, to say nothing of the thousand aromas vying for his attention, every distinct scent blending into an oppressive stench that sought to devour individuality.
Breathe. He stumbled to one side, his hauberk quieting the impact as he impacted against a railing, helmeted head snapping rapidly to the side to look down, down, down. Darkened structures rose beneath him, trapped in the shadow of the city, illuminated only by what seemed to be minute thunderstrikes, lighting up the back alleys and graffiti-caked corners. Sky-chariots set aflame by crimson klaxons flew through the darkness, men clad in rags clutching what seemed to be wands worth far more than anything else they possessed lit up by piercing light from the sky-craft, all-too briefly granted the chance to truly shine.
Vulre gasped, choking down the smog as he found familiar footing. Raiders, thugs, and gangers infested the underbelly of what would otherwise be a perfected machine, like intestinal parasites slowly but surely consuming the vitality of their host. Greed, corruption and desperation. As alien and strange as this world was, it was nonetheless still poisoned by the seemingly infinite avarice and ambition of humanity. Beneath his scratched and scraped helmet, a smile split across scarred lips. The have-nots would always seek to take from those that had, and he would be very well compensated to take it back.
But, of course, he’d hardly get his blood-money from standing around, ruminating on the nature of man. He breathed the poisoned air of this city of steel, his boots silent against the streets paved with iron. His lanky form slipped between the shadows, an indistinct blur lost against the busy streets as he sought out his latest prospective client.
RE: Steel-shod spires - Vulre Oakenlimb - 07-31-2017
Imperial Bounty Commission.
This highly-titled name was engraved on a golden plaque erected out front of a tower of steel and silvered glass, the inside workings remaining hidden to outsiders such as himself. Slipping out from the shadows not yet erased by the flickering lights set above the streets, he stalked towards the Imperial Offices.
The first hurdle to his arrival arrived almost immediately. The glass doors swung open easily enough, but what laid beyond proved a greater challenge. A circular hatch set into the wall, as pure white as everything else in the room remained closed, a soldier standing guard next to a set of glowing buttons placed into the wall. The guard had a distinctly different appearance from the Troopers that wandered the no-man’s land of the Nexus. Their skin was pale, pudgy, green eyes that would be called piggish were it not for the mirth that seemed out of place in such an environment. Hitchcock was emblazoned on the chestpiece, above the sizable gutplate.
"Welcome to the IBC, stranger," they spoke, subtly attempting to seem taller, stronger than they were a moment ago when they were leaning against the nearly featureless wall behind them. "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave all your various weapons and whatnot with me while you do your business inside, I'm afraid."
Vulre blinked from beneath his steel helmet. This was hardly unexpected, he supposed. Given the nature of this facility, it's hardly unexpected that they'd anticipate retribution from the criminal element. A series of presses upon the pad behind the trooper brought forth an empty rack, emerging from the previously seamless wall. The Hunter shrugged, unwrapping the chain binding the axe to his wrist, placing it inside the retreating receptacle, resolving to abandon it as he made his journey inwards.
“I said all of them, sir,” grinned Hitchcock, tapping a gauntleted finger to his eyes, the emerald orbs gently whirring as his bald, wrinkled face adjusted itself into a smile. “This room’s packed full of enough sensors to microwave dinner, and I’m linked into all of them.” He beamed boastfully for a moment, before noticing his over-large gutplate. “Err, not that I’ve ever done that, or anything,” he added somewhat shamefully.
Sighing heavily, Vulre began to unload the half-dozen blades strapped to his body. “At least you take your job seriously,” he stated, sliding a series of knives into the presented rack.
The doorman nodded vigorously. “Oh, yessir. I’ve been guarding the IBC since it got built. Almost given my life for it a few times, too. You’d be surprised how many right bastards try to slip a glass or bone knife past me,” he chuckled, tilting his head to one side and indicating a jagged scar that disturbed the rolls of fat along his neck. “Got this one when a Klingon thought he could eliminate the competition, as it were.”
There was a clatter as the final knife fell, signalling an end to Vulre’s disarmament. Nodding in satisfaction, a grin plastered across his wide face, Hitchcock allowed the air-tight portal to slide open, stale air and fluorescent lighting emanating from within.
Adjusting his hauberk and quieting and lingering fears of this new realm, Vulre stepped forwawrd.
He slipped between the blunted teeth of the great clockwork beast of bureaucracy, ever-ravenous.
RE: Steel-shod spires - Vulre Oakenlimb - 08-15-2017
The interior of the bounty commission office issued a cacophony unlike any that the hunter had borne witness to before. Even the carrion-flocks that had grown fat and indolent upon the demented forest the fleshweaver of Kraakstalt had planted were not so unquiet. Buzzing, beeping, and a thousand different conversations echoed through the sterile white room, the only colour being great portraits of light hanging over the desks, and small potted plants resting in the corners, too green, too perfect to be natural.
He cast his gaze over the crowd of grey-suited bureaucrats, undyed hair cut to regulation lengths as they bustled between consoles and manilla folders, a rare, elite few standing by translucent kegs of water, frequently looking at watches upon their wrists, timing their breaks to the second. What kind of reward would be worth this sacrifice of individuality, this abandonment of the self in exchange for immersion in this strange community?
Vulre’s teeth, weathered from years of subsisting on jerky and hardtack, to say nothing of blows to the face, shone in a smile beneath his helmet.
Money.
There was very little in this world that could not be bought with a suitable sum: Loyalty, love, and death were all easily bought, no matter what world he walked.
Finally, his vision settled upon a door set into the opposite end of the building, the bronze plaque set into its surface clearly stating the occupant of the office: Gorman.
The hunter began to make his way across the offices, the teeming horde of salarymen parting before him like a school of fish remaining mere inches away from the jaws of a predator. Defanged though Vulre was, his tall, athletic build, coupled with the armour and aura of menace his soulless self possessed, was drastically different from what the average office worker was acclimated to. The marred surface of his leather and scalemail attested to battle wounds more severe than an errant papercut.
The petal-like leaves of the portal slid into the walls, a spiral of steel giving way to a simple room furnished with polished wooden chairs adorned with plush cushions, a low table dominating the center of the room, documents strewn across its glass surface. Occupying the far side of the room, standing sentry over a tinted glass door, was an Elven woman, a crimson suit-jacket and skirt complementing pale skin and pointed ears, a file rasping against lithe fingers. Emerald eyes looked up at the armoured merchant of murder, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. “Do you have an appointment?”
Ah.
Scale-plated shoulders shrugged. “I’m afraid not. I got dumped into the Nexus earlier today, and I’m not one to miss an opportunity for employment.”
Carefully manicured nails tapped against a device of some kind, colours and shapes shifting above the desk, twisting and turning into new patterns. “Mister Gorman has an opening in his schedule in half an hour. Does that work for you?” She questioned, divining meaning from the arcane sigils held aloft over her place of work.
Vulre chuckled in response, placing one gloved hand on the desk as he leaned against it, smiling beneath his helmet at the secretary. “Well, I had a busy itinerary of wandering around aimlessly until I got mugged, but I suppose I can push that back ‘til this evening.”
The Elvish Woman was not incredibly impressed by his razor-sharp wit. Almond-shaped eyes with irises like emeralds blinked once, before a hand laden with a shimmering bracelet guided him towards the furniture behind him. “We pride ourselves on our magazine collection. Everything the discerning mercenary law enforcer could desire to see, sans explicit sex and violence.” Nodding in agreement, Vulre made his retreat to the table, silently seating himself into the calloused chair, a magazine being acquired by armoured fingers, its well-worn pages splitting apart and laying their secrets bare to the Hunter.
Imperial Weapons Weekly.
RE: Steel-shod spires - Vulre Oakenlimb - 09-10-2017
The Elf of negotiable hostility absent-mindedly licked his scarred lips as he flipped through the magazine, gloved hands running over images of abominable contraptions. He was no stranger to firearms: The Dwarves had their cannons that spat death from their mountain halls to the plains below, but this was something new entirely. Machines invisible to even his trained eyes worked in concert within these pages, turning static images of the esoteric and exotic weapons on display into shining slideshows of destruction with the slightest touch. Beams of energy lanced downrage, burning holes the size of fists in pigmentless torsos, flaming remnants falling to the floor as another montage of mayhem began: Explosive rounds chewing apart a small army of alabaster golems, electrified batons beating down a beast made entirely of blades.
As far as Vulre was concerned, it was a miracle from the heavens delivered directly into his lap. A needle-spitting contraption delivered an envenomed sliver of steel into the throat of a fleeing man covered in tattoos, bandoliers, and scraps of crimson cloth, the hulking gangster collapsing soon after into a puddle of his own drool. The hunter could scarcely contain a quiet chuckle as he watched the brute spasm and squirm his way out of consciousness. He continued his perusal of the periodical: Grappling hooks, wristblades, rocket launchers, and jetpacks alike all danced before his elvish eyes.
It took perhaps another half-hour of marvelling at the technological atrocities on display before him until a gentle ping and flash of gentle blue light drew his attention towards the woman at the desk, the sealed portal behind her sliding open. “Gorman will see you now,” she said, inclining her slim face, framed by golden locks, towards his newly-opened office. Setting his reading material down on the table, stained with the coffee-rings of a thousand prior hired guns. He passed by the red-clad receptionist, dainty fingers clutching a file as she did not deign to notice his passing.
His prospective employer was waiting for him within. Their visage was smug and somewhat smarmy, a carefully coiffed mane of black hair complimented by a thick ebon moustache that served its purpose in covering up what was presumably an insufferable smile. “Well, well, well, seems like the Nexus delivers unto us a new contender, hm?” The purveyor of for-profit pummeling’s smile escaped his facial follicles, resplendent in all of its smug glory. “Take a seat,” he said, waving a hand at a chrome and crimson chair.
Vulre obliged him, his well-maintained hauberk failing to disturb the quiet whirr of the fans and vents that endlessly recycled the stale atmosphere. Gorman’s hands templed themselves over a stack of paperwork, records of gang warfare and collateral damage, so many lives lost rendered down to nothing more than a statistic. The hunter’s gaze was torn away from the amount of Imperial credits listed upon the sheets when his host spoke. “Now, judging by the inscriptions on the rather expansive set of weaponry we confiscated, you’d be Vulre. So I’m either correct, or Vulre had a very shiny set of knives and didn’t know how to use them. You mind expanding on that?”
Gloved hands lifted the helmet from his head, the dull steel freeing his equally dull hair, his locks kept close-cropped by careful bladework. Scars, both fresh and faded lined his now-bared hide, stark beneath the artificial light. “My name is Vulre Oakenlimb. I’m a veteran of the World-Tree’s guardians, with roughly two centuries of bounty hunting experience.” His voice was careful, measured. He had long practiced his tones: memetic practices trained under the tutelage of a skilled politician in need of a sizable campaign contribution. “I’ve slain witches, warlords, and rebellious counts alike. I’m one of the most respected and skilled professionals in my fi-”
Gorman held a hand up, ceasing the spiel. “Now, that’s all well and good, but now that you’re in Coruscant, that means precisely jack shit.” Vulre did not react, his eyes as cold and hard as they were the moment before. “Wasn’t too long ago that we had a man in here who was a literal god in his home ‘verse. Do you want to know where he is now? I wouldn’t mind knowing myself, since a gang of Organleggers beat his teeth out with a length of pipe and dragged him down into the sewers. If you want a contract with us, you’re going to have to prove that you’re worth me spending more than ten minutes of my all-too-short secondary lifespan filing your paperwork. Are we clear, Vulre?”
“Crystal,” the hunter said, nodding.
“Good. If you want to collect a valid IBC contract, you’ll need to be registered with us. First thing’s first, why’re you here, rather than running off and taking some criminal heads, like most fresh primes? We pay in credits, the Omnillium’s deposited straight from the top.”
The aspiring assassin shrugged. “The power to shape reality to your will’s all well and good, but given how I don’t know the first thing about cooking a quality steak or how to put together an M41A rifle, let alone what kind of documentation I’d need to fill out to build a townhouse out of pure imagination. Cold, hard cash makes the world go round.” Gorman nodded, knowing full well the truth of that statement.
“And while I, of course, recognize the need for this vetting process, I’m sure you also understand that I expect to be paid for my work. Given my rather pressing need for funds and equipment, and how the primary purpose of this task is future work, rather than profit, I expect payment in advance.”
Gorman’s expression soured at the thought of parting with money, let alone doing so before the task was done. “Fine, fine. Your contract’s on a gang and its three leaders.” Gorman reached down, tossing an over-stuff manilla folder onto the table, images of skeletons clad in golden chains and intricate scrimshaw wielding pistols slipping from the collection. “Everything you need to know is in there, should you accept the contract.” Another tinge of pain ran through Gorman. “How much would this task set my quarterly budget back?”
Vulre leaned forward, steepling his hands together as he stared at his employer over the gloved digits. “A sack and 5 minutes in wherever you’re hiding your confiscated weapons.”
A grin split the middle-manager of mercenaries’ mustachioed face. “That can be arranged.”