Farlorn was breathing hard as he ducked under the whizzing blade, barely missing his head and even shearing off the top of his auburn hair. He sharply sidestepped a downward swipe. He turned to his right and blocked another strike with the flat of his sword. His vibrosword met and screamed, throwing sparks and chips as they bit away at the unpowered opposing sword. The blades were locked and it was a battle of pure upper body strength.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw a silver flash and dropped, rolling on his back. He regained his feet and lunged forward. With a twist of his sword wrist, he flicked away the opposing weapon in a near-perfect épée. Moving fast he jabbed forward and struck hard in the center of its chest. The pressure plate gave way and the droid deactivated. The other one came at him but a clean strike that swept away its knees and a swift execution blow ended its attempt.
“Again!” He said allowed. The droids came up stiffly and the round started again. “This time add another one.”
Farlorn was stripped to the waist, sweating hard, ducking and spinning, lashing out with his relentless vibrosword at the three training droids that came at him from all sides. Every time one of them struck him, their shock-prod sent a jabbing pain wherever it landed. It was more powerful than normal but he liked it just that way. It kept it on his feet. Reminded him of actual real combat.
He could have used actual blades. That was just too excessive for Farlorn. Many nobles back on Zolan used to actually use drones with live blades. Of course, there were quite a number of maimings and deaths. But the nobles refused to stop their use only unit quite recently from the things he had heard. Tradition, honor, and just plain stubbornness.
He hadn’t heard much or cared much about what was going on in Zolan currently. His duty and focus consumed too much of his time. Frankly, he was glad he joined Dauntless and escaped that stuffy world. With it’s often over the top customs and expectations that even a person born and raised in the whole thing thought it was just a little bit too much.
He narrowly avoided another attempt though it had been too easy. These droids were too predictable, often reusing exact moves that he had seen a dozen times before. They may have been hard the first dozen spars when one was trying to get used to them, but once you got over them, you understood and knew everything about them. He had never really liked droids in the first place. He trusted honest, living flesh and blood, not cold emotionless steel.
He could spar with an actual person but there was no-one really with his level of blade-skill in the Regiment. He knew that Fennstrum, his second officer, thought it was a useless skill where a blaster and bayonet could do the job just as well. Farlorn really didn’t practice to actually fight with his sword in combat, though he had his fair share of doing that. It was almost a sort of ritual thing for him to do. Ever since his younger days, he had trained with a sword, and now he was still doing it, with the same sword. It was something solid and sturdy in a life where everything seemed fluid and ever changing. It was the one part of his world that stayed the same and that brought him comfort.
“Voice command: cease.” He said softly when he had thought he had enough. The droids stopped suddenly and deactivated with a loud hum. Farlorn walked over to one of the far walls, sitting down on a bench to regain his breath. He deactivated his vibrosword, sheathing it in his red sash, as he reached for a towel to mop his face and chest.
“Sir,” A voice came from his left suddenly, Farlorn’s hand twitched for his sword. He turned. Karsaw, his young personal regimental adjutant who he had saved from the fires of Caira, was standing there in the brown duty uniform of the Rangers. It had been his birthday about a week ago and most of Farlorn’s inner circle had been there to celebrate. It was something that lifted their spirits after the brutal affair on Atrisia. How many had they lost in that god-forsaken city? He thanked the Lord that he could at least remember their names. The Rangers had at times lost so many he often lost count. Seventeen soldiers lost when the whole things was over, soldiers that could never be replaced. Seventeen less Carians left in the entire universe. They would eventually be wiped out, that was the unfortunate truth of their matter. Farlorn hoped that he could make the most of them before they were often all gone.
“Sir?” Karsaw asked again, breaking Farlorn’s thoughts on the matter.
“What is it Karsaw?” Farlorn said as he stood up. Karsaw saw a scar that stretched from the bottom of his neck to his right shoulder. The wound line was long and ancient, a grotesque braid of buckled scar-tissue. The boy had never really asked where it had come from, but he knew that it had been deeply personal to the Commander.
“Sir, the Grand Marshall has called for a meeting on the surface of Scarif. It’s to happen in about three hours. More information is on here.” The Adjutant handed Farlorn a wafer-thin data-slate. He took a moment to read it’s contents.
“Ah, new assignments.” He sighed. “Another front. Another war.”
“That’s our job, sir.”
“Yes, and frankly I’m grateful for it. Fennstrum told me that the men are going a little stir-crazy.” Farlorn didn’t particularly like the long breaks where there was nothing to do. The long periods when they weren’t on any war front. It made his soldiers aimless. It made them remember peace and everything they had lost. It gave them a taste of a life they could never have.
“I’ve prepared your uniform in the room. Starched it and everything.”
“Good job.” He slung the tower over his shoulder and made for the showers. He stopped. “Also tell Menhil to prepare for me a finest bottle of Rawne. I’m sure the High Marshall will appreciate the famed Carian brew.”
***
Sandy beaches, nice sun, warm weather, pure blue sea that looked as if it were a billion glittering diamonds. This was certainly a paradise. Most pleasure and vacation worlds would be found wanting compared to the beaches of Scarif. All of this raced past the windows of the magnet train that was headed towards the meeting spot. The Rangers had been garrisoned at one of the more outlying island chains, awaiting orders and training.
He was dressed in his black officer uniform with golden epaulets strapped to his shoulders. He adjusted his rank bars on his right breast. He placed his black peaked officer's cap with a vibrant red brand right on top of his auburn hair, brim first. The cap badge was a silver insignia of Dauntless. On his hip, his vibrosword in its red sheath clanked against his leg.
The train came to a sharp stop and Farlorn stepped off it onto the platform, a brown leather suitcase tucked under his armpit. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Fresh, alive, vibrant and dancing in his nasal passages. It was… nice. A departure from the stuffy recycled air of troopships and away from the freezing rain of Atrisia.
He made his way to the assigned meeting room, making sure on the way that his uniform was spotless and creaseless. He was meeting with the High Marshall after all. No need to look like a slob.
In his suitcase, he carried important paperwork and a special thing. Made from the liver juices of the Shaggy, an animal native only to Caria, it was a fine thing he had learned to appreciate over the years. At first, he had hated the overly sweet taste, preferring the bitter stuff but it had slowly grown onto him.
He hoped that the other commanders would like it.
The door to the meeting chamber opened and Farlorn stepped right in.
“High Marshall Luna.” He said as he saluted, his back ram-straight as he saw the High Marshall, Chief of the Dauntless Corps. He saw several other officers. He had never really got to know them before. He knew their names and some, a trace amount of their backstories. He had never gotten to know her personal circle before his command of the Carians, due to him being a lowly officer at the time. Even after his service with the Carians, his operations and duties kept him mostly to himself.
He regarded each one currently as he sat down.
There was Lieutenant Reinhart. He had heard of her exploits shortly after his promotion to Major General of the First Carian Ranger Regiment. He had never once met her in person and this was his first time. Something about her disturbed him slightly. He couldn’t really pin it down at all other than a vague bad feeling. It could have been nothing. But it had been the same feeling he had gotten the day he had discovered Uncle’s secret. It had also been the same feeling he had before he executed his Uncle for high treason.
Commando Kavos. He admitted he didn’t know much about her except for her choice to choose her people over her loyalty to the corrupt and rotten republic. It had been the right choice. That he could respect and applaud. That was duty.
Major sergeant Allya. Now, he heard much about her. One of the Vicelord’s chosen children. She had met the Vicelord in person before and therefore held much influence over the entire Confederacy. She had also been with Dauntless all the way. He would keep an eye on her.
Damsy Callat
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Tiria Reinhart
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Subject 73 Red
| Tobias Wrynn |
Anakwor Farlorn
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Jasmille Kavos
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Jrurki Liz
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Allya Vi'Dreya
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Tyrias Aran
|
Maeve Archeron
|
Kelsie Sylvan
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