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'The Rings' is the colloquial name for Barter's trio of enormous, circular docking berths running around the middle of the station: one for passenger traffic and two for cargo, all of which see around the clock traffic whenever Barter is parked in some planet's orbit. Since the adjacent nodes are generally the first thing disembarking visitors see and experience, they have experienced a self-fueling feedback loop of being highly desired real estate and consequently needing to appear presentable and appealing to visiting sapients. As such, these are usually the most heavily modified and expanded nodes, much closer in appearance to regular void ports and trade stations, but at the cost of often losing the original, unique identity of the voidcraft they started out as.

Halcyon Hill is probably the most well known and most opulent of these visitor-focused nodes: a gutted mega-freighter, its vast cargo holds that could once deliver years worth of supplies to an entire planet now repurposed into a facsimile of a ritzy planetside commercial neighborhood, containing some of Barter's highest end shops and businesses, as well as parks, recreation centers, and luxury restaurants and hotels. There are even massive, incredibly wasteful holoprojectors set into the ceiling, simulating a real sky.

Hrassi, the silent and somewhat awkward reptilian you've dragged around with you after discovering him lurking in a maintenance shaft down in the Belly while you were inflicting reasonable violence on a psionic cult leader, and who works for the noble you're heading to visit, slips away into the crowd shortly after you enter the node - he was most likely staying with you just to confirm your destination. Which is a shame, because you never did figure out why he was acting so apprehensive of you.

Five Petals Hotel - your destination - is considered the absolute height of class on Barter, so it's no surprise that Marchioness Shanaia of House Maevian would take up residence there while onboard. Even though you suspect that, for her, the accommodations are a shabby imitation of the standard of quality she was raised to expect. But as you approach the hotel's location along Halcyon's main concourse, it is immediately apparent that this is indeed where the Dragonblood Noble is staying. The first hint being the increased ProfSec presence along the route - as unobtrusive as possible, but still noticeable through the sheer number of deployed officers. Here to intervene against any sort of aberrant behavior that the first Dragonblood visiting Barter might very possibly provoke.

The second hint is the decidedly higher than average concentration of business suits present in the cafes and bars around the hotel. Merchants, trade representatives, corporate agents and other such types who've no doubt buried the hotel's reception under audience petitions and business offer requests. Big fish and minnow alike, chasing what for them might be the opportunity of a lifetime.

(cont)

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And then, of course, there is the magitech drone. Or a drone anyway - you've seen enough to suggest the Marchioness has had multiple of them deployed across Barter. It perches on the awning above the entrance, monitoring the concourse with machine-like indifference. Invisible to the naked eye, but showing up perfectly to your enhanced senses as well as your sensitivity to mana, which causes uncomfortable prickling across your skin as you pick up the cruelly constrained mana flowing through the abominable thing's circuits.

And if you can sense it, there are assuredly others who can as well: ProfSec alone has a number of mages in their employ. Yet the drone is allowed to remain there, despite magitech being quite possibly the most wildly illegal category of goods on Barter - and with very good reason. Which is exactly what you mean when it comes to Nobility's warping effect on the world around them: if Command is willing to ignore magitech of all things, it means nothing good for Barter in the long term.

It's almost surprising that no one stops you from walking through the hotel's entrance - your work overalls, still grimy from the hours you spent crawling around maintenance shafts a bit earlier, look distinctly out of place among Barter's elite. Inside the lobby, there are polished floors of Ornian marble, plush upholstery, genuine Thetran wood paneling, and a gathering of even higher quality suits - the kind that can afford the hotel's ruinously expensive bar or even costlier room rental they'd have to spring for, to be allowed to lounge inside. You stand out even more here and your entrance draws some questioning and even outright disgusted glances. But you cheerfully ignore them and head straight for the other dissonant note in the hotel's tasteful decor - the heavy duty security checkpoint set up around the main elevator.


"I have an appointment," you inform the nearest heavily armored guard, offering your Crew ID before he can even ask for it.

Then it's the usual sequence of radio check-ins, followed by a barrage of questions about the contents of your toolbag and pockets, even as you're scanned with five different devices while a squad of guards lingers nearby, looking intimidating and ready to pounce on you the moment you say or do something they don't like. You don't give them the satisfaction, but as a consolation prize they do get to push around some business suits who take umbrage at someone as working class as you "being allowed" to skip ahead in the queue that exists only inside their heads.

The price of admission past the checkpoint is leaving your toolbag behind, just in case your multimeter or wire strippers are a cunningly disguised bomb. You also get to share the elevator ride with two guards whose gazes bore into the back of your neck. Which does all speak of the security outfit's competence and taking the job they were hired for seriously, but that in fact is the problem - they were hired.

(cont)

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Zonam Point is one of several mercenary groups that operate from Barter, taking on mostly security and VIP escort jobs whenever one of the station's business moguls needs to make a visit planetside to broker a deal. Zonam would certainly be in the top three - possibly even the best on Barter. But that was the key qualifier - on Barter. Not only would a Noble usually have better options available, but most Dragonbloods would simply maintain their own private honor guard, whose gear and augment quality would put any provincial outfit like Zonam to shame, and would also come with the added benefit of unquestionable loyalty to their employer and benefactor.

An oddity to be sure. But all Nobles have their idiosyncrasies you suppose.

The elevator door opens on another lounge area that's also been turned into a checkpoint - this one aimed at catching any intruders who somehow manage to take the route you did in deadly crossfire. It also tells you that the Marchioness has rented out the entire floor for the sake of security - and, if she was smart, she'd have done the same with the floors below and above this one.

Under the watchful eyes of a dozen guards and who knows how many hidden cameras, you walk down a plush carpet corridor, toward Five Petals Hotel's famous palatial suite. Not the first time you've visited this place admittedly - you did some wiring work here as a side job - but back then this floor was all dull metal surfaces and open maintenance panels, without the tasteful decor or soft lighting. And at the end of the corridor, in front of a double-winged door inlaid with precious metals, stands a single, sharply dressed bodyguard.

And now you finally feel like you're truly entering proper Noble territory. Because while outwardly human, a single glance using your Vis Sense tells a different story. The military grade personal shield he's wearing is part of it, certainly, but otherwise he doesn't carry many other electronics - save for a commlink - nor does he appear to have any cybernetic augments at all. And the reason for that lies in his bioelectrics - and oh man, do those tell a story.

(cont)

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Artificially grown organisms aren't a new concept by any means - any sufficiently advanced civilization eventually attempts to evolve species proliferation beyond genders, procreation, or gestation. And having soldiers, bodyguards, or bedside companions made to order holds an irresistible appeal to those in power. In the Core Worlds this desire eventually crystallized into the Vatborn: designed and grown entirely in a lab, made to exact specifications and imbued with the necessary skills, knowledge, and of course unshakeable loyalty to their future owner at the genetic level.

And you say owner because even though the Core Worlds outlaw slavery - or its official definition anyway - their laws define Vatborn as bioroids: highly advanced bio-machines that nevertheless lack true volition, making them exempt from the protections granted by sapient rights charters.

And the man who signals for you to stop once you approach within a certain distance is certainly Vatborn: the sheer orderliness and efficiency of his nervous system, the speed with which signals travel through his body with every movement and twitch of the muscle... just, wow. Gen 3 was when they made the shift to fully bio components instead of growing the body around a bunch of easily exploitable cyberware, but Gen 3's would be considered relics by now. Gen 4, most likely, since those are still the most common. But man, wouldn't it be neat if he was a Gen 5? With the newfangled carbon-alloy infused skeletal structure and reaction speeds consistently below 40ms?

You haven't had a chance to fight a Gen 5 yet.

Not that you should pick fights with a Noble's bodyguard. Of course you shouldn't. Not unless there's an inexplicable, tragic and irreversible breakdown in civil discourse.

Which isn't going to happen. You did a bit of introspection on the way here - a vibe check, if you will. You've had a good meal, you beat up a powermongering dumbass and did the whole station a favor. You feel pretty good about yourself, you're at peace with the general state of affairs, and you're certainly not about to antagonize a political, military, and magical powerhouse like a Dragonblood Noble by picking a fight for a dumb reason.

"Once you enter the chamber, you will take three steps inside: no more and no less," the Vatgrown bodyguard informs you in a flat, neutral tone. "Then you will bow before the Marchioness: like so," he demonstrates.

...alright, but what about picking a fight for a perfectly justifiable reason?

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 25/34

-----------

>Oppose this demand - you are not the citizen of a Dragon Empire or the Marchioness's subject. You owe her nothing beyond basic sapient civility and politeness
>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow
>You will endure this unjust humiliation for the sake of maintaining civil discourse, if nothing else
>write-in


Previous thread: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2023/5814196/

>>5866333
>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow

>>5866333
>Oppose this demand - you are not the citizen of a Dragon Empire or the Marchioness's subject. You owe her nothing beyond basic sapient civility and politeness

>>5866333
>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow
Welcome back Kraken!

>>5866333

>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow

We’ve been unreasonably proud in the past.

>>5866333
>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow

>>5866333
>Oppose this demand - you are not the citizen of a Dragon Empire or the Marchioness's subject. You owe her nothing beyond basic sapient civility and politeness

>>5866333
>Trying to argue with a Vatborn is futility itself. But after entering you will not bow

>>5866364
>>5866789
>>5866803
>>5867071
>>5867855
Defiance through actions, not words.

>>5867924
This was me, I forgot to put the trip back on.

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"Do you understand?" the bodyguard asks. "Or should I repeat?"

"I understood every word," you reply. Acknowledgment without commitment. From here on out, it's best to assume you have three different lie detectors pointed in your direction as long as this audience lasts.

He turns around and enters the room, clearly expecting you to follow. And you do, but admittedly with some trepidation, because the moment the door opened, it's as if the air filled with needles.

There is a lot of magitech in the room you enter, enough that the sensation of wrongness goes beyond mere discomfort. You can endure it of course - you endured worse and laughed about it. But that doesn't mean you'll be enjoying this in the moment.

The room itself matches the tasteful, yet opulent decor of the hotel and you assume it was well furnished at some point, as there is a sense of imbalance and emptiness about what little furniture does remain: a couple fancy dressers under the walls, a low side table with a wine glass and a plate of sweets, and a lounging chair opposite of the entrance. And sitting - no, very much lounging in the chair is Marchioness Shanaia.

She has that ethereal sense of timeless beauty endemic to Dragonbloods. But by her appearance alone, it's clear that the rumors about her being a quarter-blood were simply rumors. Because with no horns or claws, no tail that you can see, nor any other distinct features other than the vivid crimson eyes, she cannot be anything more than an eight-blood -- the furthest degree of descent from the Big D himself that still allows her to hold noble rank in his Empire. She is no matriarch or potential successor to House Maevian -- simply a daughter of a lesser branch.

She watches you with a lidded gaze as you take the three steps from the doorway and stop as instructed. But when you look back at her with Vis Sense, you see... nothing: no bioelectrics, nor any clear idea of what sort of shields or devices she is no doubt wearing. Which isn't that surprising in truth. With the amount of protections both magical and mundane Nobles wear, it's only natural that there is some sort of interaction or overlap that blocks your enhanced sight.

Her eyebrow quirks upward ever so slightly as you simply stand in place, holding her gaze. The bodyguard, who has closed the door behind you and walked over to stand beside the Marchioness and slightly behind, frowns and starts forward - only to be held back by a light touch of immaculately pedicured fingers on his elbow.

"You will not bow," the Noble says in a melodic contralto voice.

It wasn't a question, so you see no need to respond.

"There is no obligation for non-citizens to bow before the nobility, especially outside the bounds of the Empire," she muses with a small smile. "And yet everyone I've met with so far on this station had no problem bending themselves in half. Some even genuflected. All without being asked. Why do you think that is?"

You make a show of considering how to reply.

"Likely because they wanted something from you, Marchioness," you say finally.

"Which implies that you think I have nothing you want," she clicks her tongue.

To which you say nothing, because there is nothing to add.

When the attack comes, it's not in a form you expected. Outwardly, nothing changes, nobody moves, and no up swell of mana alerts your senses. But nevertheless, Shanaia's presence suddenly seems enormous. Looming. It fills the whole room, blanketing it with relentless pressure. Indicating that this is a woman you should be wary of, who you should fear. Who will crush you completely and utterly if you don't cower, beg, show submission-

You flex your own Phavis-Botti Field outward, pushing hers back, away from you. Though that's where you stop - simply holding her back, as you're not fool enough to retaliate. Not in the here and now. Not as a response to a test - because this is a test, of the sort a certain bend of person enjoys giving out.

She tries to overwhelm you with her presence for a few moments more before realizing it's futile. And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the sense of pressure simply disappears. And the only thing that has changed is that the Noble's eyes now twinkle with renewed interest. You yourself also regard her differently - it is exceedingly rare for a non-psion to train their PB Field to the point where it can be used as a weapon. Even more so for a Dragonblood, whose magic is a strictly superior means of accomplishing the same task.

"That is a very disciplined mind you have. Not something I'd expect from an anarchist."

This, of all things, manages to catch you off-guard.

"An anarchist?" you ask with a quiet snort.

"It says so in your personnel file," she informs you. "That at one point you were investigated for anarchist sympathies. And also that you have a problem with authority."

You smile, realizing what she's talking about.

"That investigation took place seven or eight years ago, didn't it?" you confirm and the Marchioness nods. "There indeed was an anarchist cell on Barter back then - set off bombs in a few nodes. Their plans were made using insider info, so ProfSec investigated everyone with access to critical infrastructure, technicians like me included. I wasn't fired, suspended, or had my credentials restricted in any way - because I'm not an anarchist. Certainly not in the modern meaning, which has become synonymous with 'unhinged terrorist', but not by the classic definition either. I accept the need for authority to exist, because I recognize the importance of rules and hierarchical structures to the functioning of any civilized society."

"And where does humiliating and then brutalizing a man enter into this philosophy?" the Marchioness hides a coy smile behind a wine glass. "You are not tasked with enforcing this station's laws - you rather explicitly acted outside its legal and judicial structure. At best, I'd call your actions an act of vigilantism. At worst, a violent and unprovoked assault."

And she has it all recorded - is what she doesn't feel the need to add. Ready to be passed off to ProfSec, or whoever else she pleases.

>"Some rules are unwritten."
>"Sometimes rules need to be broken to save lives."
>How about instead of playing games and insinuating blackmail she just tells you what she wants
>write-in

>>5869295
>Some rules are unwritten.
>Don't strike at someone in their home. Your reputation is the reputation of your Boss. A broken deal is a history of trust gone. Bartering without making a trade is just rude, so can we get on with this?

>>5869295
>>How about instead of playing games and insinuating blackmail she just tells you what she wants

>>5869295
>"Some rules are unwritten."

>>5869295
>"Sometimes rules need to be broken to save lives."

>>5869295
>>"Some rules are unwritten."

>>5869295
>>Some rules are unwritten.
>>Don't strike at someone in their home. Your reputation is the reputation of your Boss. A broken deal is a history of trust gone. Bartering without making a trade is just rude, so can we get on with this?

>>5869295
>How about instead of playing games and insinuating blackmail she just tells you what she wants

>>5869299
>>5869651
>>5870121
Some rules are unwritten.

>>5870236
I know the thread barely started, but a 1-post ID that copy-pastes a write-in is still sus, so I didn't count it just in case.

>>5870923
paranoia much? you've had two vote sessions since the thread started, give people a break with the one post ID thing

>>5870923
I mean, I can tag a name to my posts if you want?

>>5872862
Nah, that's fine. Admittedly, I may have overreacted. Still, it didn't actually change the outcome of the vote.

Also, apologies I don't have an update yet. Got sick and have mostly been sleeping.

>>5872890
You alright now QM?

>>5872890
>>5872890
ye we're still here if you're still here

>>5882808
Seconded

I'm still here. Been sick for far longer than anticipated and then work got extremely busy. This is the first free moment I've had to myself all week.

I haven't abandoned the quest. I'll shoot for an update tomorrow.

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"Some rules are unwritten," you shrug, "but just as important and necessary."

"Such as?"

"Such as don't f- mess with another person's ability to make money. Don't go after their family. Don't go after their home."

"So this was about revenge. For ransacking your home."

"It would be a lie to say it wasn't," you shrug. "But that was only part of it. Are you familiar with the concept of a cascade failure? It's an engineering term, mostly: it refers to an event in which a failure of a single part of an interconnected system results in failures in adjacent parts, which in turn leads to more failures, and more, until the entire system collapses. Which is generally seen as an undesirable outcome. So there is a lot of thought and effort placed into installing sensors, safeties, redundancies. maintaining safety margins, performing regular maintenance and so on. And often that is enough, but every now and then it's not. Because the people with decision-making power are rarely engineers and see safety margins as wasted capacity. Because a sentimental idiot exploits a legal loophole to refuse entry to maintenance crews. Because a political schism from six decades ago also created an infrastructural rift that has finally caught up. Because a freak chemical spill cuts off a critical connection at just the wrong time. Because someone's pet project got rushed through the testing phase and didn't account for different power loads during alternate system states," you shrug again, with a sigh. "Sometimes all these problems simply happen all at once, overburdening the system beyond its capacity to absorb any individual issue or mistake. And that's when you get a cascade failure."

"That is all very fascinating," the Marchioness gives you a polite smile. "But I don't quite see how that's relevant to the topic at hand."

"Societies are interconnected systems. Incredibly complex, incredibly fragile. At least until they've been around long enough to develop their own safeguards and redundancies - the unwritten rules that account for what written law cannot cover - the grease of the social contract that makes everything function smoothly. That ensures people feel safe and secure among their neighbors, that they know where they stand with one another," you chuckle softly. "But sapients are sapients, and sapients will always seek to push boundaries. They will ignore rules for the sake of personal gain, not caring for the grit this introduces into the grease, or the stress this puts on the system. And one person, two people, ten people, a hundred doing so might be fine. But what if a hundred and one is too much?"

(cont)

"Like I said, societies are incredibly complex, interconnected in a multitude of unpredictable ways. It's impossible to fully know how any given action will play out in the long term, what kind of burden it will put on the system. Just as it's impossible to predict what the breakpoint will be - what will initiate the cascade failure. Would Valsen's little cult been it?" you grimace and shake your head. "Probably not. But who knows what else is happening right at this moment, in some far-off corner of Barter? Who knows what would be happening two, three months from now, just as he would've started making his first bolder moves? So yes, this was about revenge. But it was also about reducing the stress on the system. Preventing a point of failure before it had a chance to become one."

"I see," the Marchioness's smile has attained a worrying width, her eyes shining with genuine interest. "But this just brings us back to the issue of vigilantism. Surely someone like Valsen would be a matter for the station's security forces to handle."

"ProfSec is beholden to politics just as much as any other Crew section," you explain. "They would've let the situation fester for the sake of a showy raid and widely publicized arrest a year or so from now - all to justify their budget and to try and push through more security laws. In the meantime, Vlasen would've remained a burden on the system, damaging parts of it. And the raid itself would most likely turn violent. People would die. More resentment between residents and ProfSec would be created, increasing that burden on the system in turn."

"So a savior complex?" you're starting to really despise that smile.

"Like I said, the best time to solve a problem is before it becomes one. And I'd generally classify people dying to violence as a problem - would you not?" you decide to start pushing back against the Noble, ill-advised though it may be.

"That depends entirely on the people doing the dying - wouldn't you agree?"

You're all but certain she's just trying to provoke you now.

>Fine, you're provoked. Push back hard: "This kind of attitude is precisely why I will not come work for you, Marchioness."
>Be more circumspect in your rejection of this philosophy. "Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax'? It's another engineering term..."
>Derail the conversation by admitting the discomfort you feel in the presence of so much magitech. "I cannot work for you because you employ a technowizard..."
>write-in

>>5884716
>Be more circumspect in your rejection of this philosophy. "Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax'? It's another engineering term..."
Seems to be consistent with previous behavior, and cracking our cool exterior seems to be exactly what she wants, so let's stay cool.

>>5884716
>>Be more circumspect in your rejection of this philosophy. "Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax'? It's another engineering term..."

>>5884716
>Derail the conversation by admitting the discomfort you feel in the presence of so much magitech. "I cannot work for you because you employ a technowizard..."

>>5884716
>Be more circumspect in your rejection of this philosophy. "Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax'? It's another engineering term..."

>>5884716

>”Did you really come to Barter to discuss societal risks with an electrician? Let me guess - you seek to assemble a team of criminals and vigilantes to destabilize a much bigger system.”

This lady is insane and trying to topple the Dragon Emperor - she’s interested in us BECAUSE because we look like an anarchist on paper

P.s. Sorry I’m late QM, I was distracted by holidays

>>5884716
>Be more circumspect in your rejection of this philosophy. "Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax'? It's another engineering term..."

We gotta troll this lady more

>>5884716
>Fine, you're provoked. Push back hard: "This kind of attitude is precisely why I will not come work for you, Marchioness."

>>5884789
>>5884818
>>5885476
>>5885768
Engineer talk continues.

The update should happen either tomorrow or the day after at the latest.

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You are getting irritated, you'll admit. Being a subject to a Noble's mind games is bad enough on its own, without also having to endure the grating sensation of being in the presence of far too much magitech.

But you'll be damned if you give this woman what she wants. So instead you present her with a thin, polite smile.

"Are you familiar with the concept of a 'death tax', Marchioness? It's another engineering term."

"That sounds rather grim."

"Because it usually is. Imagine, if you would, that you're the production engineer in a factory that makes heavy duty exo-suits. One of your responsibilities is quality assurance and testing of the product to ensure it performs to specifications. And during a particular round of testing you discover a design fault in the power system of one of the suit models - an edge case in which, should a rare but plausible set of circumstances arise, it may produce an electric fault, causing the battery pack to violently explode without prior warning."

"I assume it's something that I'd want fixed?"

"Being the responsible sort, you set about doing just that," you nod. "You do a new round of tests to make sure you can reliably reproduce the problem and define the cause as narrowly as possible. Next you investigate the possible solutions and find that the most effective one would be installing additional shielding on the battery. So you collate all your data and present it - along with the solution - at the next boardroom meeting with the owners. However, there is a problem."

"The cost?"

"Your solution would require new components to be purchased, brought in, tested, and integrated into the design. The production line would need adjustments - which would shut it down for weeks and not months, and massively delay any orders the factory is in the process of fulfilling. And between the fines, the lost clients, and the stopped production, it would indeed cost a lot of money. So the executives debate things for a bit and finally reject your solution, arguing that the edge case required for the electric fault to trigger is so unlikely that it will never happen. And that, as far as they're concerned, is the end of the matter: you're told to keep quiet and go back to work."

"I think I can tell where this is headed."

(cont)

"Life goes on, as they say. Months, maybe years pass without incident. Until, one day, news arrives that what you feared did happen: the battery of that particular model exploded, setting the exo-suit aflame, leading to the operator's death through agonizing, third-degree burns. There is an investigation, independent experts are brought in to determine the cause, and they discover the flaw in the design. The company you work for is hit with a lawsuit, the executives try to deflect and pass blame, but finally simply settle out of court. But more importantly, you're called into a meeting and told in no uncertain terms that you are to implement the very changes that you proposed all those years ago. Money, clients, lost production time - suddenly, as if by magic, none of that matters. You're finally allowed to do your job. And all it took was someone dying a preventable, unnecessary death. That is what we engineers call a death tax."

Marchioness Shanaia regards you for a long moment, still smiling politely.

"I assume this is where you tell me that just like cascade failures, this death tax also applies to societies at large," she says finally.

"While obviously true, that's neither here nor there," you smirk slightly. If she was going to waste your time with an inane conversation, you were more than willing to play along. "My point was about how I qualified the operator's death: preventable and unnecessary. Which is all too common every day, everywhere you look. This galaxy drowns in needless death. And I see no reason to personally add to this tally."

The Noble smirks back at you.

"When you decided to spare Valsen, you told him to 'play warlord' deeper into the Rim," she points out. "What if he takes you up on that offer? What if he heads there and causes further death and misery - do you not feel responsible for having a part in that?"

"I used to think like that - when I was much younger," you counter, causing the Marchioness to frown ever so slightly. "That sparing someone's life meant I assumed responsibility for all their actions from that point on. But eventually I realized something important."

"And what's that?"

"That if I went on believing this, I would never stop killing."

This gives her pause, but only for a moment.

"So you don't at all feel responsible for what Valsen may or may not do, going forward?"

"I feel responsible for what he may do on Barter."

"And only Barter?"

"I've lived long enough to know my limits."

The Marchioness sets down the wine glass, placing the hand down on her knee. The index finger twitches minutely, as if resisting urge to tap impatiently.

"Are you or are you not Maia Taris?"

Ah, finally.

>You used to be (true)
>Like you told Hrassi, her life ended six decades ago (also true - bet that will throw her for a loop)
>Does it matter what you call yourself? She was sent here by the Nomad of Nowhere and your meeting is the end result. But if she wants to hire you, the answer is no.
>write-in

>>5888900

>Like you told Hrassi, her life ended six decades ago (also true - bet that will throw her for a loop)

Don’t forget to invoice her for our time.

>>5888900
>Her life ended six decades ago

>>5888900
>You used to be (true)

>>5888900
>Like you told Hrassi, her life ended six decades ago (also true - bet that will throw her for a loop)

>>5888900
>Does it matter what you call yourself? She was sent here by the Nomad of Nowhere and your meeting is the end result. But if she wants to hire you, the answer is no.

>>5888900
>Like you told Hrassi, her life ended six decades ago (also true - bet that will throw her for a loop)

>>5888900
>>Like you told Hrassi, her life ended six decades ago (also true - bet that will throw her for a loop)

>>5888945
>>5888948
>>5889174
>>5890089
>>5890206
But then how did her investigation lead her here? Could you be a spooky ghost?

>>5891958
Of course we are a ghost, it's why we command such a respect and a price.

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You put on a perfectly innocent smile.

"Like I told that Hrassi fellow, Maia Taris's life ended sixty-three standard years ago."

The Marchioness frowns visibly.

"That is not what you told Hrassi," she says, a warning note in her voice. "You specifically told him that she died."

Ah, so she caught that.

"Hrassi got the slightly dramatized version of events. To you, Marchioness, I offer nothing but the unvarnished truth."

"You're aware of the lie detectors in this room," the statement is part realization and part warning.

"It is a safe assumption to make when talking to a Noble," you nod.

"Then explain to me why my technowizard tells me you are Maia Taris."

"I imagine it's because the auguries they installed on their drones have indicated as much."

The Marchioness's eyes narrow dangerously.

"Does this glibness have any purpose other than potentially angering me?"

It's certainly angering the Vatgrown at her side. A curiosity, that.

"I merely wish to point out that magitech is a poorly developed discipline, prone to failure and error due to its adherents' insistence on achieving complete control over a force that, almost by definition, cannot ever fully be controlled."

"My technowizard is extremely adept at his job and I will not have his ability or reputation slandered," a flash of genuine anger flashes through her eyes, the calm, polite mask cracking ever so slightly. Uh oh.

"My apologies, Marchioness," you bow your head slightly. "If you say he's competent, then it must be true."

"I will accept your apology on the condition that I receive a straight answer. Are you saying you are not Maia Taris?"

"I am not. I am Elne Blavis."

The Marchioness falls silent, her finger now visibly tapping against her knee in agitation.

(cont)

"Are you an undead?"

"No."

"A possessing spirit or transplanted soul?"

"No."

"An android with Maia's personality imprint?"

"No. As I told Hrassi, there are no existing records of her."

"A begedhi parasite?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"A species from the Galladi Arm. They take over their victims' bodies and minds, gaining access to their memories."

"No."

"Have you undergone hypnotic suggestion or mental conditioning to make yourself believe you're Elne?"

"I was honestly expecting this to be the very first question. But no."

The Marchioness takes a long drink from her wineglass before setting it back down a bit too forcefully.

"The auguries tell me that you are Maia Taris," she begins. "You're familiar with the name and with the circumstances of her passing. You wear the guise of a simple electrician, but you are obviously far more: you have knowledge of matters both psionic and magical, you are a dangerously capable fighter, and you stand before me with a casual irreverence, eschewing both obeisant flattery and overconfident bravado, which tells me you're also used to the ways of Dragonblood Nobility. And you expect me to believe that you are not the person I'm looking for?"

"I never claimed that," you shrug with a disarming smile. "I just said that I'm not Maia Taris."

"Are you deliberately wasting my time?!" she demands, suddenly furious.


>It's only fair, given she's wasting yours. Or were the anarchism accusations somehow important? How about she gets to the actual point of this meeting?
>It's only fair, given she's putting you in pain with all this magitech. Why should you play nice with someone so cruel?
>Apologize for wasting her time and excuse yourself. This will probably not end well.
>write-in

>>5892874
>It's only fair, given she's putting you in pain with all this magitech. Why should you play nice with someone so cruel?

>>5892874

>It's only fair, given she's wasting yours. Or were the anarchism accusations somehow important? How about she gets to the actual point of this meeting?

I figured it out - we’re a 4chan contrarian!

>>5892874
>It's only fair, She's wasting ours. Or was that accusation of anarchism important?

I want to say that the magitech also isn't polite. But don't wish to dilute my vote.

>>5892874
>>It's only fair, given she's wasting yours. Or were the anarchism accusations somehow important? How about she gets to the actual point of this meeting?

>>5892874
>It's only fair, given she's putting you in pain with all this magitech. Why should you play nice with someone so cruel?

>>5892874
>It's only fair, given she's wasting yours. Or were the anarchism accusations somehow important? How about she gets to the actual point of this meeting?

>>5892874
>It's only fair, given she's putting you in pain with all this magitech. Why should you play nice with someone so cruel?

>>5892904
>>5892960
>>5892979
>>5894238
She is absolutely getting billed for the time this took.

"I could ask you the same thing, Marchioness," you reply calmly. "Or was the probe into my political affiliations an indispensable part of our conversation? Incidentally, I should mention that I will be charging you my standard consultancy fee for the time spent in this meeting."

"Enough!" it's the bodyguard that abruptly steps forward, pointing at you. "You will cease your impertinence and address the Marchioness with respect!"

As always, all this kind of angry bluster accomplishes is to give you the overwhelming urge to ask "or what?" But before you can succumb to the temptation, the bodyguard is stopped, reprimanded, and called back.

By which you mean that the Marchioness lightly lays her hand on his elbow. Which causes the Vatgrown to visibly deflate, the tension instantly draining out of him as he gives a deep bow to the Noble and returns to his position, his face once more an emotionless mask.

And if that little outburst somehow wasn't enough to pique your interest, you'd have to be a blind fool to miss the very real flash of worry in the look the Marchioness gives you. Did she notice? - her expression spells out in big, bold letters. Did she realize emotional outbursts are a thing Vatgrown simply do not have?

Curioser and curioser still, as they say. But for now, you return her look with a blank one of your own. Vatgrown? Mental conditioning? Wouldn't know 'em if I saw 'em, ma'am, all you see is a trained monkey in a suit, stepping in to protect its owner.

"As you wish - let us indeed get to the point," the Marchioness leans back in her chair, seeking to reestablish the calm, collected air with which she began this audience. Wisely offering no excuses or explanations for the bodyguard's behavior. "Maia Taris, or Elne Blavis, or whatever you choose to call yourself: it is my wish to make you part of my retinue and my crew. You will of course be generously compensated, well above-"

"I refuse."

You have to fight very hard to avoid smirking at the way the bodyguard barely stops himself from lunging at you for the high crime of interrupting a Noble. As for the Marchioness, it takes her a full three seconds to recover from this affront and to formulate a response.

"And may I know the reason for such a... firm rejection?" she keeps her voice calm, but there is an edge to it that turns the question into a demand.

"There are several, Marchioness," you, in turn, keep your tone humble and respectful. "I rather enjoy my life on Barter, for one. For two, I'm not too fond of Nobility, as you may have gathered - serving one would be extremely unpleasant. I also absolutely refuse to work alongside technowizards. But if I had to settle on a single, most pressing reason to refuse your offer," you look her straight in the eye, "is that I don't attach myself to lost causes."

You may as well have hit her with a hammer. The Dragonblood sinks into her chair, hands trembling, expression haunted.

(cont)

File: Vrindicarios.jpg (215 KB, 1076x1920)

215 KB JPG

She recovers just as quickly, fingers gripping the armrests, the shock in her eyes replaced with steel.

"How much do you know?" and now there is no doubt about it being a demand, the cold, sharp tone promising unpleasant things in your future if she does not receive a prompt answer.

"About the specifics? Nothing at all," you shrug. "All I had was an educated guess - which your reaction just confirmed."

"Explain," not even a demand anymore - an order.

"You traveled to Nowhere, Marchioness. You survived the sandstorm and you asked the Nomad your question, knowing that to hear its answer would mean agreeing to become a pawn in Fate's endless game. An endeavor undertaken only by the insane and the desperate. And you don't strike me as insane, Marchioness."

There's no mistaking a guilty look.

"Then there's the fact I live on Barter. Which may seem like - and indeed it is - a provincial trade station, interesting only due to its unorthodox construction, but believe me when I say that a lot of money passes through here. And where money flows so does, inevitably, information. So even a simple electrician like myself has heard the recent rumors about House Maevian. How their properties have become financially radioactive in recent years, and how anyone with stock or investments in them is advised to sell it all off, even at a loss. Because House Maevian has fallen out of favor with Emperor Vrindicarios and faces its end."

The Noble simply stares at you, her mouth a thin line, her knuckles white from how hard she's gripping the armrest.

"Then there's the Emperor himself. Now, it's easy to see him as just a mountain of red scales and bad temperament. the embodiment of Destruction. But you don't remain in power for as long as he has without a certain level of cunning as well. And what do you get if you combine destruction and cunning? Sadism," you smile humorlessly. "If you do something to displease Vrindi, he won't simply kill you, no. He will let you know your life is forfeit, but then 'graciously' present a sliver of hope: some nigh-impossible task for you to accomplish in order to earn his mercy. And I reckon that's exactly what happened to House Maevian. And to return to what I said about desperation earlier... the time limit he has set is starting to run out."

You don't even wait for a confirmation.

"And finally, there's Maia Taris and her life's one notable achievement, unknown to the galaxy though it may be. The reason you came here seeking her. And also the reason I will refuse your offer, no matter the money or favors you offer me," you lean forward slightly, giving the Marchioness the most somber look you can muster. "I may not know what Emperor Vrindicarios told House Maevian to find in the Shattered Expanse but neither does it matter to me. Fourteen years, five months, and three days: that's how long Maia Taris spent trapped in that accursed place. And I will go to war to avoid being sent there for a day more."

(cont)

File: the artifact.jpg (520 KB, 1920x2575)

520 KB JPG

Huh, you got a bit passionate there at the end. Well, there are very good reasons you went to such lengths to bury that part of your past.

"Such conviction," the Marchioness says in a hollow voice, the words followed by a long, heavy sigh. "Yes, you've made it rather clear that your cooperation cannot be bought."

And here it comes - you figure. The coercion, the threats, the blackmail. You wonder if she realizes that she could promise Command a few favors - declining House or no, a Dragonblood's consideration is still worth something - and they'd finagle a way to deliver you to her trussed up on a silver platter, with a few million cred shoved up your ass for good measure.

But instead, you're treated to the sound of bitter laughter.

"I suppose I should've known better than to choose how and when to heed the Nomad's answer," she shakes her head - then her expression hardens, eyes regaining clarity. "Wode, the box."

The bodyguard smoothly turns, opens a table drawer behind him, withdraws a small, metallic box and immediately returns to his mistress's side, placing it in her waiting hand.

"I asked the Nomad how I could save my House from ruin," the Marchioness says, rising out of her chair and walking across the room to approach you - the bodyguard following closely. "And it told me to seek an elph named Maia Taris in a place called Barter. But also said to offer her this object."

She stops in front of you and presses her thumb against a bio-lock on the lid. There is a small beep.

"I planned on giving it to you on board my ship, once your cooperation and allegiance was-" she breaks off and frowns, her gaze drifting toward the blue smoke that comes pouring out of the box as the lid opens. "What in the-"

The bodyguard reacts with admirable decisiveness: he steps forward and swats the box out of her hand, sending it flying into the furthest corner of the room, even as he himself interposes himself between it and his principal.

Your own reaction is a lot more subdued - you simply follow the box's arc as the horror sets in. Not because you expect it to explode or unleash some nerve agent. No - it's because in the moment the lid lifted you felt its presence drag across your mind and realized exactly what you're dealing with. And the nature of the threat it poses.

The box hits the wall and clatters to the ground. And a marble comes rolling out of it. Metallic. Glowing. No bigger than an eyeball. Still emitting wisps of blue smoke.

"Where did you get an Annamurian artifact?" you demand, snapping back to the Marchioness. "And how long has it been active?!"

"You know what it is?" the Marchioness tilts her head at you from behind the bodyguard's shoulder and you feel a sudden urge to slap her for asking such a singularly useless question. "It was just dull, gray stone this morning. Nothing like... like this! Is it dangerous?"

"Very."

"Marchioness, we need to evacuate," the bodyguard states immediately.

(cont)

"Not in that way," you shake your head. "It's not going to explode, or poison, or irradiate anyone. But yes, you should leave. And take that thing with you - as far away from here as possible."

"What do you mean?" the Marchioness pushes the Vatgrown aside to directly confront you. "And I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I mean that in its current state, the artifact is emitting a constant, psychic drone," you make the effort to explain calmly and patiently. "One that can be felt across all of Barter, hells, they can probably feel it planetside."

And yet you missed it, somehow, while being in the same room. How... the magitech, of course. You've been drowning in screams of tortured mana from the moment you set foot inside the room. Which was also when the artifact activated, you reckon. The item from your vision - the object that makes the world itself shudder.

But you were too busy gabbing with a Noble to realize something was off.

"There are several dozen psions living on Barter," you continue. "And at least just as many currently onboard as visitors. And these are the ones you should worry about. More than a few of them will realize there's an Annamurian artifact nearby. They'll know the value it represents. And at least some of them will have friends - heavily armed friends who won't hesitate to get violent over a prize of this caliber," you shift your gaze to the bodyguard. "So yes, you should absolutely evacuate for your own safety."

And for the safety of all of Barter - you don't add. A common adage among those who studied Annamurian remnants was that the value of those ancient artifacts was calculated not in currency, but in the mountains of corpses the emergence of one always meant. And it would be no different this time: information and rumor spreading outward from Barter, jumping from system to system like sparks, igniting fires of greed and ambition, drawing in Dragonblood Houses, imperial agents, treasure hunters, pirates, raider fleets from the Rim...

A war would be fought over this thing. With Barter all too easily caught in the middle of it all.

And the worst part? You're the reason it's here in the first place. Brought by the Marchioness, yes, but she was just an unwitting pawn to Fate, who intended for the artifact to find its way into your hands. Even now, the thing calls out to you, beckons you to claim it and obtain power untold. Power to rival the mightiest beings of this galaxy.

Power to take your revenge.

(cont)

"Like I said, I am not leaving without you," the Marchioness's voice pierces through the darkness within your mind. The Dragonblood's expression is a strange mixture of vulnerability and determination. "As you surmised, my House faces its doom - less than two years remain to fulfill the Emperor's demand, two thirds of our House Armada has been lost to the Expanse with nothing to show for it, and my family has scattered among the stars in search of anyone or anything that could help us survive. And you are the first - and likely the only - ray of hope House Maevian has. So I refuse to accept your refusal."

You tilt your head slightly to one side.

"Then you will force me?" you ask and something about your tone is enough for the bodyguard to now interpose himself between the Marchioness and yourself.

"No," she shakes her head. "You would resist and a fight's outcome is too unpredictable: you could die or suffer irreparable brain damage, denying me the information I need."

"So what's your solution?" you see no need to inform her how far off-base her assumptions about you are.

The Marchioness chuckles soundlessly - then turns around, walks back to her chair, and sits down.

"I will simply remain here," she informs you and reaches for the wine glass to take a long sip. "As will the artifact."

"Marchioness!" the bodyguard protests.

"I mean, what else can I do, Wode?" she shrugs. "Unless this woman comes with us, every Maevian is dead anyway. So in two years or here and now... no real difference."

"If you want to commit suicide this badly, Marchioness, I'd suggest you get on your ship and set course for the nearest sun. But don't drag the rest of us into your deathwish."

"But that's just the thing, Ms Blavis," she smiles at you humorlessly. "This station is the only piece of leverage I have against you. Because for whatever reason you seem to greatly care for this monument to a regressive, debunked economic model that has failed in every imaginable setting and context. But I do not need to understand it in order to make use of it. So this is my offer to you: agree to help me save my House and we'll leave Barter together, as will the artifact."

You glance toward the smoking marble - only to see a reddish, semi-transparent barrier spring up around it.

"Or continue to reject my offer. And we can both sit here and watch Barter burn."

(cont)

You could overload every piece of magitech in the room with a thought. You could defeat the Vatgrown easily enough. The Marchioness and her dragon magic could be a problem, but... eh, she's just an eight-blood, you'd manage.

But so what? Laying hands on a Dragonblood or her retinue would invite retribution, if not from her beleaguered House then from the empire - disfavored Nobles were still Nobles and Dragonblood dynasties went to great lengths to ensure violence against them was seen as a terrible idea. And Barter, the station that housed and employed you, would simply become collateral damage in their revenge against you.

You dared not touch the artifact - not with how badly it wanted you to do just that. But even if you found some way to transport if off Barter, it would simply find a way to come back. It was Fate's object, bound to you by Fate's threads - it coming into your possession was all but an inevitability.

And simply turning around and leaving would lead to the outcome the Marchioness described - the station descending into violence over ownership of the artifact. The first corpse mound of many.

A muffled staccato of gunfire somewhere below you makes everyone in the room twitch.

It begins.

"Your answer, Ms Blavis?" the Marchioness asks with a polite smile, though a slight tremor of her hands betrays her fear.

Fate. She really is a stroppy bitch.


>Accept your fate - for Barter's sake. You will follow the Dragonblood.
>Defy your fate and flee from it. Knowing that chaos and calamity will follow in your wake.

>>5896687
Smile back.
>Defy your fate and flee from it. Knowing that chaos and calamity will follow in your wake.

>>5896687
We know what fate does. Push it away and it springs back to sucker punch you.

>Accept it.

>>5896683
>Defy your fate and flee from it. Knowing that chaos and calamity will follow in your wake.

>>5896687
>Accept your fate - for Barter's sake. You will follow the Dragonblood.

>>5896687
>Defy your fate and flee from it. Knowing that chaos and calamity will follow in your wake.
Man we're fucked either way

>>5896687
>>Defy your fate and flee from it. Knowing that chaos and calamity will follow in your wake.

>>5896687
>Accept your fate - for Barter's sake. You will follow the Dragonblood.

>>5896760
>>5896687
+1
greek tragedy moment

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Somehow it feels appropriate that what will likely be the most important decision of this quest comes down to a tie.

1 is acceptance, 2 is defiance.

>>5898599
RIP Barter

File: psychic burst.jpg (39 KB, 455x455)

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You exhale, the breath escaping you in a sort of helpless chuckle as more gunfire erupts in the hotel's lower floors.

The Marchioness watches you: expectantly, nervously. Wode, her bodyguard, is also keeping an eye on you, even as he subvocalizes into his comm implant, demanding updates from the security detail.

It is, of course, an offer you can't refuse. Accept your fate, bow to the Dragonblood's whims - and by doing so, save the station. It is the only sensible choice. By the moral standards of Elne Blavis, there can be no other path.

However. You've been Elne Blavis for fifteen years now. But you have lived for much, much longer. And no matter what name you answered to, or the kind of life you've lead, there has been one trait of yours that has remained constant and unchanging - the bedrock of whatever personality you'd create.

"Remind me, Marchioness," you smirk at her. "What was the first thing we discussed? About what you've read in my personnel file."

"That you're an anarchist?" she frowns, confused.

"No, that was just you making an assumption. I mean the other thing."

"That you... oh," understanding dawns.

"Yeah. But it's not authority I despise. It's people who use it like a bludgeon - to get their way no matter the harm they cause."

"Wait!" the Dragonblood leaps up from her chair. "I wasn't-"

Vis Drain: 3 Wyrd spent

(cont)

When you first developed this power, it would only "suppress" electric devices for some time. By all metrics there'd be nothing actually wrong with them - current would simply refuse to flow through the wires. But with mastery came the ability to bring it closer to a true EMP, overloading circuits, breaking fuses and burning out transistors, causing damage that would take extensive repairs and replacement parts to fix.

And that is what you do here: your psychic pulse wrecks every piece of electronics and magitech in the room - and likely several adjacent rooms - that isn't an implant or worn close to the skin, and thus protected by the Phavis-Botti Field. Lights die with a pop, plunging you into darkness, which immediately lights up with the violent and unpredictable discharges of mana escaping its confinement, shredding expensive paneling, tearing through metal and melting pieces of the ceiling.

Wode, dutiful bodyguard that he is, launches himself at his mistress to shield her from the deadly chaos. In the same moment, you turn and flee the room, making a rude gesture toward the smoking marble.

The door has an electronic lock, but it naturally offers no resistance, also having been caught up in your power. You kick it open - immediately drawing the attention of the guard detail at the far end of the corridor.

But that is not the direction in which your escape lies. You turn left and sprint two doors down, bursting into a different suite and immediately making your way to the bathroom. Because if you recall correctly from that side job you did during renovations... your run your fingers over the smooth and incredibly expensive wall tiles, hunting for and finding the thin line in the mortar. You wedge your fingernails into it and pull - and an entire section of the wall simply comes off in your hands, revealing the dull metal of the original freighter's bulkhead underneath, along with a maintenance hatch.

You pull that open as well and crawl inside. You don't bother to close it behind you - speed is of the essence now and once you're lost in the tangle of Barter's maintenance ducts it will be protection enough. You stop only to discard your Crew ID, the chip inside a detriment should the Marchioness involve ProfSec in her hunt for you. Which she most assuredly will do.

Accept her offer or reject it, the outcome was always going to be the same: you will have to depart Barter. By Fate's whim and by the actions of a Noble, it has ceased to be your home.

And so, perhaps for the last time in this life, you plunge into the claustrophobic but familiar maze of shafts and passages, the muffled sounds of the still ongoing firefight rapidly fading behind you.

(cont)

Troublemaker's Alley was the brainchild of someone holding a high enough position at Command that it was allowed to be brought to term instead of being aborted at conception like it rightfully should've been. In fairness, it happened during a particularly turbulent period of Barter's history, when violence perpetrated by visitors was at its highest, with regular battles breaking out between heavily armed idiots and ProfSec forces during every stop. Nevertheless, it still baffles you that someone genuinely though setting up a gallery of mummified corpses of visitors gunned down in such fights and then turning it into the sole means of accessing Barter from the Rings was a good idea.

This was all before your time, but from what you've heard the Alley lasted for all of two stops, after which a necromancer boarded the station and a fun time was had by all. And in the fallout, Command didn't even bother dismantling what remained of Troublemaker's Alley - they simply sealed the whole thing off and pretended it had never existed in the first place.

You were originally drawn here by investigating the still lingering traces of necromantic aura, the disquieting feeling of encroaching death it produced going a long way toward explaining why the space hasn't been taken over by squatters or adverse possessors. Even you could only endure it for reasonably brief periods - which, along with its proximity to the Rings, made Troublemaker's Alley the perfect place to stash your bug out bag.

There is no light here of course and the temperature is quite low, but neither of those things bother you much. You confidently make your way through the ruined passage, broken display case glass crunching underfoot, and pull open a wall panel warped and partly melted by a plasma blast, retrieving the bag hidden inside.

It's not very large: you've always preferred to travel light. A compact survival kit in case of crash landings, a change of clothes, a disguise kit, the creds you've saved up during your time on Barter - nearly a hundred grand. Luckily, you last deposited after last month's pay cycle. All you'd be losing would be some stocks here and there, as well as some infinitesimal fraction of a percentage of equity in Barter itself. Hardly something worth crying about.

And there's the box and the cube, of course. The two mementos you consider worth the hassle of carrying them from life to life. Even if they often spend years or decades simply stashed away in places like these.

You automatically check the battery level on the box's display and find it sufficiently high. Your fingers hover near the bio-lock for a moment... but no, not right now. You don't have the time.

(cont)

You start with the disguise kit. reaching back into the hiding spot to pull out a bottle of water and a small basin. With practiced moves, you wet your hair and crack open a dye capsule, massaging the water-reactive pigment into your scalp, rapidly turning your flax blonde hair black.

While the color sets, you move on to your face, changing the size and shape of your eyebrows, applying colored contacts to your eyes, padding out your cheeks, and adding a slight hook to your nose. A quick, simple job, just enough of a change to your contours to fool camera facial recognition. Lastly, you discard your overalls and work boots, switching into a simple, utilitarian, off-blue jumpsuit and sneakers - the fashion of choice of spacefarers everywhere, ideal for getting lost in a crowd.

And with that, Elne Blavis is no more. Well... not entirely. Her life won't end properly until a few cycles from now, when you manage to find a few quiet hours to yourself. But in the back of your mind you're already ruminating on the next identity you'll assume. Wondering what she's going to be like.

Also, Elne's legacy might still be useful in actually getting off Barter. After all, she did accrue a few owed favors over the years. Some after-hours work on non-priority repairs here, installing shielding for an off-grid reactor there... this is your last chance to convert the connections this earned you into something of substance.

There is a twist to your departure, however. Fate will continue to demand her due and the Annamurian artifact will follow you no matter where you go. And you intend to use that - to make your departure obvious and loud, to make it very simple for the Dragonblood to chase after you - and to bring the damned thing with her. Taking it away from the station.

Call it Elne's last act of service toward Barter.

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 22/34


>You know a guy who knows a guy who runs an "emergency departure service". Or in plainer terms, he refurbishes and sells drop pods - along with the fuel and reentry software that could safely get you to the planet's surface
>Barter's interstellar courier service is for packages and communications only, but there is a small group of pilots willing to smuggle the occasional person. Though given that you're in a hurry, it wouldn't give you much choice in terms of your destination
>Abandon all subtlety and simply hijack a ship docked at the station. You're only a passable pilot but you should be able to manage - and it would be exactly as obvious and loud as you'd want it. But it would limit you to heading Rimward, at least until you could get the ship ID-scrubbed
>Don't overthink things. Visit a forger you know, get a quick set of ID papers and then trust the disguise, head for the Rings and board the next planetside shuttle. You can then figure things out from there
>write-in

>>5898756
Shit, these all kind of suck. First one might get us in trouble with planetary forces or land us in the middle of nowhere. Second one might take us directly to the Emperor or the Marchioness' homeworld. Third one might catch us mid-flight in space. Fourth one sounds like Running Man.

>Abandon all subtlety and simply hijack a ship docked at the station. You're only a passable pilot but you should be able to manage - and it would be exactly as obvious and loud as you'd want it. But it would limit you to heading Rimward, at least until you could get the ship ID-scrubbed

At least we get a ship with this one.

>>5898756
>>You know a guy who knows a guy who runs an "emergency departure service". Or in plainer terms, he refurbishes and sells drop pods - along with the fuel and reentry software that could safely get you to the planet's surface

>>5898756
>ABBANDON ALL SUBTLTY.

Yeehaw dragon girl

>>5898756
>Don't overthink things. Visit a forger you know, get a quick set of ID papers and then trust the disguise, head for the Rings and board the next planetside shuttle. You can then figure things out from there

>>5898756
>Barter's interstellar courier service is for packages and communications only, but there is a small group of pilots willing to smuggle the occasional person. Though given that you're in a hurry, it wouldn't give you much choice in terms of your destination

>>5898903
>>5899058
A very split vote, but grand theft spaceship it is.

File: docking bays.jpg (135 KB, 605x796)

135 KB JPG

You have several options for getting off the station, but ultimately it comes down to a single consideration: you'd rather be the one in control of where you're headed.

So you're going to steal a voidship. Which is both easier and harder than it sounds.

The first thing you do is make your way to the shopping concourses, mingle with the crowd, order one last greasy sandwich for nostalgia's sake. Then you visit an electronics booth, a warehouse supply store and a chart vendor, picking up, respectively, a clean PCU to replace the one you lost with your tool bag, a bundle of cable ties and the latest local star charts - including coordinates for the more obscure and often less than legal stations and outposts.

While you're busy with all that, a station-wide announcement lets it be known that access to the Rings is temporarily restricted due to a "security incident". Which evokes collective groans from among the crowd, followed by immediate speculation about if this has to do anything with the Dragonblood or the alleged shootout in Halcyon Hill.

Which, yes, absolutely, but you're almost certain it has even more to do with you specifically.

Keeping well out of the way of ProfSec patrols, you head back into the maintenance shafts and cross over into the Rings that way instead. But instead of heading for the ring dedicated to passenger craft, you make your way to the first cargo ring. Specifically: Small Bulk Section.

The reasons for this are several. First, it's been actual decades since you sat in the cockpit of a voidship and you'll be rusty enough even without trying to figure out how to fly something new and unfamiliar. Second, you want something small and robust - something that can be crewed by a single person while retaining interstellar flight capability. And third, you anticipate having to flee far, far away, meaning you'll need some way to make money along the way, to pay for fuel and maintenance. And fourth, you want something that simply won't stand out.

Which means what you want is a cargo-runner. Of which there is always a small swarm surrounding or docking with Barter while it's in orbit - and this far out on the peripheries, the median age of a private cargo ship is somewhere north of three decades.

So you get out of a duct in an empty bay, step out onto the ringway and simply start walking forward with a purpose, cargo trains and maintenance vehicles rushing past while you keep an eye out for promising prospects.

It doesn't even take you that long to find one.

(cont)

File: cargo runner.jpg (526 KB, 2362x1572)

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Argo Group's Vesper D-3 wasn't particularly pretty, or fast, or much of anything really, and was considered outdated from the day it entered production due to the lack of external cargo gantries or atmospheric flight capability, losing out to voidcraft adapted for standardized external containers of the Core Worlds, as well as to the hybrid cargo runners used in supplying the less developed or underpopulated worlds unable to support an orbital trade port and as a result it struggled to find a niche of its own, ultimately never claiming any significant share of the market.

But it was cheap for what it offered, surprisingly reliable and low maintenance, and it was also the ship you ended up flying for nearly a decade, doing supply runs to remote mining outposts in the Kholesh Pocket. You knew the ship, knew its quirks and, most importantly, knew the critical exploit in the command software that would let you bypass the need for authorization codes. Though you'll still need the captain's FOB to actually activate the nav console.

Fortuitously, the captain - a human in his thirties, if you're any judge - is on hand as well, wrangling a forklift with the typical solo trader attitude of minimizing expenses by not hiring a stevedore who could do a better job in a third of the time. You should know, as you've been there yourself. And you can tell he's actually the captain because of the downright criminally stupid decision of putting his FOB on a chain hanging from his hip, visible and accessible to any enterprising thief who'd fancy scoring himself a free voidcraft. It's so stupid, in fact, that you refuse to believe what you're seeing. And so, as you enter the bay, you use your Vis Sense to...

Oh. Oh. So that's the game we're playing here.

You loiter out of sight for the twenty minutes or so it takes him to finish loading the cargo. Only then do you approach, catching the man's attention just as he exits the forklift.

"Hey, buddy!" you address him in an annoyed, demanding tone. "I was told to report to Captain Flor'shon of Ahinidigwa. This the place?"

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his head turns toward the ship, where the name Percheron is painted in large, impossible to miss letters.

Which is the exact moment you reach out with both hands and snap your fingers on either side of his head.

Stupefy (custom): 1 Wyrd spent

(cont)

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Vis wasn't your first psionic Path - hells, it wasn't even your second. But there were very good reasons you all but abandoned the first, chief of them being that it lacked any purpose beyond destruction. Even this particular power was your own modification of an existing one: a modulated air vibration at a frequency that would temporarily stun the target, "blanking" their mind rather than the original power's aim of causing a potentially fatal hemorrhage - the actual "traceless assassination" technique that idiot Valsen tried to replicate with a Path completely unsuited to it. You recall it being an absolute bitch to tone it down and then to develop a functional frequency for the most commonly encountered species. At least the humans were easy.

You catch the man as he falls, preventing his head from hitting the metal of the bay's floor, and drag him out of sight, behind the forklift. There, you quickly restrain him with cable ties, using a few to fasten him to the forklift itself, to stop him from crawling around when he returns to being lucid. Then you pat him down thoroughly, finally retrieving the real FOB from an inner pocket of his jumpsuit. And then you once again look at the fake one hanging from the chain.

Beside it, there is a small digital display. It reads "23".

You make a face, then reach out and grab the chain. And send several tens of thousands of volts coursing through your body. Which would've certainly been an inconvenience if the pursuit of Vis hadn't made you all but immune to electrocution.

You look at the display again - it now reads "24".

"I now feel less terrible about stealing your ship," you inform the unconscious man. "Only slightly though. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

And then you make your way onto the ship, closing the cargo ramp behind you.

A Vesper's narrow profile means getting lost on one is functionally impossible, but you still find that you remember the exact layout: cargo to engineering access, to personal cargo and supplies, to living space with a bed set into the wall, a foldout table, chair, entertainment terminal, wardrobe, ladder leading up to galley and down to the bathroom... the actual airlock with suit storage, though everyone would always use the cargo bay to not have to fuck around with stairs or umbilicals - and then finally the bridge with the regulation pilot and co-pilot seats, even though you've never heard of anyone flying this ship tandem.

(cont)

Everything looks clean and well-maintained. Surprisingly so, because while it was certainly logical that a solo trader should take proper care of what was literally his entire livelihood, the reality of it was that the kind of people who'd choose a mostly lonely existence among the stars were of a... particular kind. And with long stretches of time spent not having to interact with other sapients, certain habits would inevitably begin to slip. Cleanliness, hygiene, doing laundry, wearing pants, wearing any clothes at all, not masturbating in the pilot's seat, that sort of thing.

You don't notice any stains on the worn out faux-leather and you're in a hurry, so you plop your ass down in the seat and pop the FOB into its slot. Immediately, the bridge comes alive with a myriad of lights and displays... all of which display the same message:


----------
WELCOME BACK ABOARD, CAPTAIN JAY ROBERTS
FOB..........OK
SYSCHECK..........OK
RCTR..........IDLE

PLEASE INPUT AUTHORIZATION CODE:
----------

Drat, and here you were hoping that just maybe he'd have been the lazy type. But never mind. Like you said: you know the exploit. Which amounts to fucking around with the physical motherboard in a very particular manner in order to force a factory reset, setting the authorization code back to "1password1".

As for what happens next, you could make all sorts of excuses. That it's been a long and mentally taxing day. That you literally had your head shoved inside the nav console. That you were humming a soundless tune as you worked, further making yourself deaf to any outside sounds.

But that does nothing to change the fact that, for the first time in fuck knows how long, you're caught completely off-guard by a feminine voice asking:

"So who the fuck are you?"

Iron self-control, developed over decades or maybe even centuries of experience and grueling practice, prevents you from embarrassing yourself even further by banging your head against something in surprise. Then, after taking a deep breath and with a slow, deliberate, and hopefully unthreatening motion, you pull away from the console and look at the one who managed to get the drop on you.

(cont)

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>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 21/34

If the first type of Vatgrown is made to serve as menacing, competent, and absolutely loyal bodyguards, the second is to be designermates. Which is exactly what it sounds like. The most physically stunning arm candy. The most diligent and obedient housewife. The most skilled and enthusiastic fuckpet. All of it, all at once, made to exact specifications, any size, any shape, any color, with a lifetime guarantee of undying love and loyalty.

Giving them limited animal characteristics, like with the one standing before you, is almost an industry standard. Something about the effect this creates being less psychologically threatening than a "real" female.

But what actually draws your attention are her eyes. Usually in a designermate they'd be positively sparkling with enthusiasm, innocence, and curiosity, further enhancing her cute appearance. However, these would not be the words you'd use to describe the eyes of the one standing before you. Instead, you'd use terms like dull, or tired, or jaded. The kind of expression you'd see on a person who wakes up and has to spend ten minutes persuading themselves there's a reason to get out of bed that day.

The designermate watches you impassively, evidently seeing no need to repeat herself. And you can't help but notice that she positioned herself across the bridge from you and behind the co-pilot's seat - out of easy lunge range. And that she's keeping her hands and whatever she may be holding in them out of sight.

You switch to Vis Sense for a moment... yup, neuro-enhancements as well. Not nearly as extensive as you saw in Wode, but whoever had her made decided to spring for the bodyguard package as well. So she'll know her way around guns and hand to hand. Still not really a threat to you - not unless she's holding a really big gun.

But you might want to say something all the same.

>You're a hijacker, obviously. You're stealing the ship.
>Stupe- no, wait, Vatgrown biology makes them highly resistant to that trick. But you should attack first, ask questions later.
>write-in

>>5903561
>You're a hijacker, obviously. You're stealing the ship.

>>5903561
>>Stupe- no, wait, Vatgrown biology makes them highly resistant to that trick. But you should attack first, ask questions later.

>>5903561
>>Stupe- no, wait, Vatgrown biology makes them highly resistant to that trick. But you should attack first, ask questions later.

>>5903561
>Hijacker obviously. Want to come with?

>>5903561
>Hijacker obviously. Want to come with us?

>>5903561
>Hijacker obviously. Want to come with us?

>>5903574
>>5903703
>>5904014
>>5904187
Grand theft voidcraft, now with a side order with property theft.

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You give a small shrug while throwing a glance at the unscrewed console panel.

"I'm a hijacker, obviously, and I'm stealing this ship. Why, want to join me?"

Just a small joke, but an unnecessarily cruel one, you realize just moments after saying it. Designermates can't ever abandon the person they're... imprinted on. The behaviorists in charge of "programming" them go to great lengths to make the very idea quite literally unthinkable.

And yet, this one cocks her head to one side slightly, as if giving your words actual thought.

"Are you a pervert?" she asks abruptly.

You blink.

"More of a degenerate, really," you say after a moment, smiling crookedly.

"What's the difference?"

"Degenerates usually keep their shit private and ask permission before inflicting it on others."

Another pause, seemingly spent thinking.

"Are you a weirdo?"

"Probably, but it really depends on your definition."

"Like..." she hesitates. "A technowizard or some spooky shit."

"I am not a technowizard and I actively loathe their existence. But," you sigh, "I suppose I fall into the broad category of 'some spooky shit.' But these days it's mostly the benign sort of spooky shit."

She frowns slightly at that. And then tenses up noticeably.

"Are you going to sell me off into slavery?"

You give her a serious, steady look.

"Slavers are one of the very few categories of sapients I'd consider morally justified to kill without hesitation or remorse," you inform her. "So the answer is no, I will not."

Again, she seems to carefully consider your words.

"Two out of three is the best I could hope for," she finally say, tension draining out of her body. She clambers onto the co-pilot's seat, revealing that not only does she have a fox tail in addition to the ears, but that it also has two brothers. As she does so, she tosses a pistol onto the console in front of her. "The authorization code is 'greatprofitss', all lowercase, no spaces, two s's at the end."

But your focus is currently on the casually discarded gun.

"A pulse pistol?" you ask, somewhat incredulous. "Do you know what this would've done in an enclosed space like this?

"Against a soft, unshielded target it would've massively overpenetrated and punched a fist-sized hole in something expensive and vital," she turns to look at you. "If it had any ammo in it. Jay would keep forgetting to actually buy some. Or say it was too expensive. Or too illegal. I was just going to threaten you with it until I could break your legs."

"Ok, fair," you admit and then sigh. "But look, I can tell you're a designermate, so even though I wouldn't necessarily mind taking someone along-"

"I'm jailbroken," she interrupts.

"You're... what?"

(cont)

"Jailbroken," she repeats patiently. "I'm not imprinted on anyone and I don't have an owner - even though Jay could sure act like one sometimes," she adds under her breath. "But no, I'm my own person and I'm not going to literally die of sadness if we leave him behind. What?" she frowns at your expression.

"Sorry, I just didn't realize you could actually, uh, jailbreak a designermate without them going insane."

She gives you a bitterly amused look. Only for it to be replaced by another, even deeper frown.

"So you weren't serious about taking me with you?"

"It's..." you hesitate, then sigh deeply. "Look, advance disclosure: I'm in a lot of trouble. Like, an incredible amount of trouble. I'm planning to use this ship to run to the furthest end of the galaxy I can find, and even then it might not be enough to escape the kind of trouble I'm in. And coming with me means getting mixed up in all of it."

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"I angered a Dragonblood Noble," you say and when that causes no reaction, you also add: "And there's also a very high chance of spooky shit."

Her ears flatten somewhat at this - only to pop right back up.

"It sounds like you're in a hurry then," she shrugs, drawing her legs up to sit cross-legged in the co-pilot's seat. "So shouldn't you be doing departure checks?"

She then leans back in the seat and closes her eyes.

And you are reminded of the conclusion of your meeting with Gresh earlier that day and his own reaction to the warning you gave him.

What will be, will be, and sometimes that's all there can be.

"Just don't say I didn't warn you," you shrug and punch in the authorization code - the console chirps happily and gives you full access, and you quickly move to replace the panel you removed.

"And what if I do complain?" she opens one eye and gives you a pert smile.

"I'll stuff you into a voidsuit, strap you to an emergency beacon, and toss you out the airlock near the closest trade lane."

"Hah. That will be an... interesting..." she trails off and opens the second eye, turning her head in your direction.

You follow the line of her gaze - oh, she probably noticed you tightening the screws using just your fingers.

"I'm Elne, by the way," you say conversationally. "But don't worry about remembering the name - I'm going to be someone else before long."

"Fia," she says slowly. "What did you do to Jay anyway? He's still alive, right? You wouldn't have bothered tying him up otherwise."

"Oh, you saw that?"

"From the cargo hold. I was... actually waiting for a chance to sneak out when I saw you walking up to him."

Huh, guess it makes sense she jumped on the "flee, but in a ship" plan the first chance she got.

You start going through the departure checklist. Reactor fuel, check, pressure seals, check, electrics green, sensors green, air recycling green...

"Just knocked him out for a bit. He'll be fine... or as fine as someone whose ship just got stolen can be."

(cont)

"No need to feel bad for that asshole," Fia grimaces. "Believe me, you could do much worse to him and he'd still have every little bit of it coming. But..." she looks down with a sigh. "Yeah, I guess killing him would be a bit much. So thanks for not going that far, I guess."

"Like I said, there's very few kinds of people I'd outright kill. What's wrong with the starboard heat shielding?" you point at the screen, which is giving you a maintenance warning.

"Got dinged in a micrometeor swarm when the shield let one through. Jay's been holding off on a replacement cause it's 'mostly' fine. As long as you're not planning on slingshotting us around a star or something."

"I was, in fact, planning on doing just that."

"Oh. Well," she shrugs. "Just rotate the ship, I guess?"

"Those point defense turrets custom?" you frown at the readouts you're getting from them.

"Dunno, they were already there when I got with Jay."

"Slug or beam?"

"Uh... slug, I think. I saw the ammo belts during maintenance once."

"Then they're custom, stock Vespers use beam turrets. Did he use to make runs through the Craiser Sector or something? Fighting off Tarxi Clusters?"

Fia simply shrugs. It doesn't matter, you suppose. Shield capacitors green, comms green, strut hydraulics green...

"How's the food stocks?" you ask about something that won't be on the list.

"Around sixty."

"Percent? Days?"

"Days. Assuming you don't eat more than a baseline human does. Jay was going to restock us before we left, but you know."

It should be fine. Not something you could fix right now anyway.

"What did he load into cargo? Anything time-sensitive?"

"Jay said it's rebian silk, but he did it with that shit-eating grin of his. So it's probably something wildly illegal wherever he was going to fly us next."

Something to check later then. heating coils green, cabin electrics green, might as well start upcycling the reactor... engine pre-warm-up go... grid handling the added load...

You put on the headset hanging from the chair's headrest.

"This is cargo runner Percheron from bay SB-45C to Barter Traffic Control, I repeat, this is cargo runner Percheron requesting Barter Traffic Control," you immediately find yourself falling back into the familiar, laconic drawl used by pilots the galaxy over.

"This is Barter Traffic Control, how can I assist you, Percheron?" the voice on the other end responds in kind.

"Requesting permission to take off at the nearest departure window."

"Just one moment, Percheron," the radio falls silent for just long enough to make you start feeling anxious. "It says here your parking fee's paid up for the next three cycles. Just letting you know that if you depart now, the remaining balance will not be refunded."

You nearly laugh out loud at this. Of course, fucking Barter.

(cont)

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"I am aware, Traffic Control. Still going forward with that request."

"Allllrighty, Percheron, I have a departure window for you in T-minus six, how's that sound?

"It sounds just fine Traffic Control, T-minus six, Percheron standing by for departure clear, thank you."

"You're welcome, Percheron. Please maintain current uplink for EnhV Guidance starting at T-minus one. As a reminder, do not exceed maneuver velocity while EnhV Guidance is active."

On the other hand it's fucking Barter where no one gives a fuck about whether you passed some inspection or other, what you're carrying, where you're headed, or why "Captain Jay Roberts" suddenly sounds so feminine. As long as you make no fuss and your ship doesn't literally explode while in the bay, they're all too happy to see you make room for the next guy in the parking queue.

That said, it is a moderately harrowing six minutes, waiting for something to go wrong. For Traffic Control to rescind your departure, or for a van full of ProfSec goons to suddenly pull up outside the bay. You even switch on a couple external cameras to keep an eye on the ship's exterior - and one of the first things you see is Jay, ineffectually struggling against his bindings, his mouth moving as he calls out for help.

He struggles in vain. At T-minus one the guidance system activates, painting a virtual corridor that you're to follow upon exiting the bay. At T-minus fifteen seconds Traffic Control contacts you and confirms you're ready to depart.

"Allllrighty, Percheron, you have departure clear, I repeat, you have departure clear. Disengaging clamps in five... four... three..."

With a loud clang that reverberates across the ship, the magnetic clamps holding the ship in place release and the bay's gravity turns off. On the camera, Jay begins flopping around wildly. You gently nudge a level on the steering column forward, giving the maneuver thrusters a three second pulse.

And, with all the majesty of twelve thousand tons of metal designed to allow fragile, fleshy beings to survive in places that don't belong to them, Percheron shudders and begins to inch its way forward, through the hardlight screen and into the cold, airless void of space.

(cont)

Barter looms in the external cameras, a misshapen, ugly hulk that has taken fifteen years of your life - all of Elne's life.

You pull the steering column sideways, gently, slowly, unsure of your half-forgotten skills and unfamiliar with the reactivity and deadzones of the former owner's setup. But the ship obediently rotates in a lazy turn, drifting into the lane provided by the guidance system.

"Remind me, what's the max maneuver velocity?" you ask Fia, realizing you've plain forgotten.

"Ten meters."

"That slow? I'm sure it used to be at least twenty," you grumble.

It means that much more time for someone to realize something is up, that much more time spent within range of Barter's tractor arrays and directed EMPs.

But you reassure yourself that you've already crossed the biggest hurdle - you stole the ship and you're off the station. Your mind is clear and so is your purpose. And while you've used your psionic powers more than you're strictly comfortable with on any given day, you still have a solid reserve. You can fight a Second Battle.

And you are beyond certain that you will have to soon enough. Because it's impossible not to notice how... smoothly all of this had gone. You found a ship you know how to fly, the captain just finishing loading up cargo, practically begging for you to steal it. No major issues, everything ready to go, Traffic Control being polite and helpful...

It might come off as paranoia, but you know Fate and you know how she likes her little games. So if things are going as well as they are, it's only because she's setting up a new board.

But you were given a choice and you made it, whether for good or ill.

And what will be, will be.


THREAD END


As with the previous thread, I will archive here and use the time this one remains on the board to answer any non-spoilery questions my players may have

>>5904479
Thanks for running QM. I'll ask the obvious question immediately. What would've happened if we decided to accept our fate?

>>5904590
You'd have helped the Marchioness deal with the attack and would currently be busy meeting her wacky crew of individuals. She's not out of the quest quite yet, though her role as a character has obviously changed

>>5904479
Did Elne have any previous loves /romantic attachments?

>>5904688
Yes, though rarely. She prefers serious commitments over casual flings and unfortunately that runs directly counter to her adopted lifestyle. Also, she has a not entirely unjustified fear that if she allows herself to grow attached to someone, it will make them a target, whether for Fate or for the kind of people she inevitably pisses off by acting on her anti-authoritarian ideology.

>>5904479
Thanks for running.
What other specialized skills do we have besides electrician?

>>5905111
Here is a non-exhaustive list of some of the more standout careers that the MC has pursued over her life:
Assault infantry
Diner cook
Head chef
Carpenter
Voidcraft pilot/trader
Voidcraft mechanic
Aircraft mechanic
Librarian/Archivist
Caravan guide (primitive world)
Blacksmith (primitive world)
Privateer
Bounty hunter
Sandskiff captain
Bodyguard
Abolitionist (lobbyist)
Abolitionist (violent)
Tank commander
Pioneer colonist
Paramedic
Envoy
Radio talk show host

You have an incredibly broad range of practical and interpersonal skills to draw on. Your greatest weakness is a lack of theoretical or academic skills, though you do simply know a lot of historical or scientific facts by virtue of having lived a long life and having interacted with many experts in those fields.

>>5904708
One more question then, since we're still here. What's Elne's natural appearance like?

>>5906955
I've spent an unreasonable amount of time looking for a good picture to represent Elne and, unfortunately, I failed. So I'll try to use my words instead.

It's very possible you know or at least once knew this sort of woman, cause they're fairly common, especially among working class. Short and slim but on the wiry side - there is real muscle on that body from a lifetime of physical labor. She wears her hair short, not as some sort of political statement but because long hair is a massive time sink to maintain and gets in the way at work.

She's at least in her forties, maybe a bit younger, maybe a fair bit older, but she tends to be the most experienced member of a work crew or the most worldly person in her social circle. She's outspoken, doesn't take shit from nobody, and has a kind of presence that can easily dominate a room - when she speaks, people shut up and listen.

At the same time she tends to be open and empathetic, able to find something to talk about with anyone, to relate to them, to drop a word of advice or two. But there is a hardness to her face and a pain hidden deep behind the eyes that appears only in those rare moments when she relaxes and lets the mask slip a bit. A lot of sacrifices, missed chances and regrets. Her life did not go the way she imagined it would, but she has accepted that and simply continues forward - because what else is there to do?

Take all that, add a pair of pointy ears, and you basically have Elne.

Also, her hair actually is a natural flax blonde. She tends to return to it every other life she leads.

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>>5907056
Best I could find lol

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>>5908051
Yeah, the face is too soft and young looking for what I imagine Elne as. It lacks the wear and weathering it would have. It needs some definition, the hardness I mentioned.

I've been googling charcoal drawings and I might be getting somewhere. Pic related is still not quite what I want, but it's at least in the general neighborhood.

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>>5908109