[Three Hours On]
It sifted through veils thicker than fortress walls, tall, resplendent with images congruent to the imagination. Annaj was famed for its incessant, relentless fog banks. Visibility was a test of nerves. Despite traffic beacons keeping up reassuring glows through ethereal slates, a sense of anxiety caused piloting to slow. Something like a war bird came gliding down from a high vapor. Its profile was angled, harshly, though minimally armed. Other vessels trying to ease their aircars through designated route-streams gladly paused. They watched, with breath baited. Who could this be now? Perchance some seer in diplomacy. Through a columned murk, starfighter escorts winged in, to take up flank. High-powered auto-cannons trained on the vessel-wings. Curt instructions were shared over commlink.
No reply was forthcoming.
Their 'guest' was a hooked, streamlined SH-LS-78 Winter Eagle. This one read 'Iron Snake'. Stoic expressions couldn't be made through the darkened canopy ports. The interior was lit red, overlaid with holo-plate AR that showcased three-dimensional constructs. Languidly, escorts still on tail, the Snake banked right and down. Against acrid fog they kept up descent. Landing beacons harkened them to a lower platform. The platform itself belonged to a monolithic showcase of black-stone, running sharp skeins of Leth-silver. Windows glared with harsh blinks, beaming a heady light through the mauve fog-soup. The Snake landed, ran through its decanting check-list. It cycled down, silent, looming like a drowsing hawk.
Two figures emerged from the disembark ramp. Guards lined with polished white platelet armour over black body-sleeves approached to provide a second escort. ...There was briefly an issue: the taller one to the left, in a high cloak of sullied forest green, refused to be stripped of his harnesses. Weapons, even ones limited to immediate physical range, were strictly prohibited. No escort would condone it. Hard-matte rifles kept their train on his solid target block. Back and forth, the man and the sergeant relayed their arguments. When an impasse seemed to have been reached, comm-chatter drew the sergeant aside.
"...Disengage sights," He growled. "Escort the guests. ...Haste, now!"
"But, sir - !" One trooper choked.
"Further delays won't be tolerated..." The sergeant rasped testily.
Beneath his hood, Seroth Ur-Rahn smiled just slightly and drew close to Rosa Mazhar. A transparisteel turbo-lift whirled down, waiting, at the end of a lengthy plasteel corridor. They boarded with two pairs of silent escort-guards. For a time, the guests stayed silent. ...Until the lad leaned close to murmur. "More cordial than anticipated. That's a third dinner I owe you."
@[member="Rosa Mazhar"] @[member="Spencer Jacobs"] @[member="Ashin Varanin"]