I was inspired when I probably should've been doing something else. Here's the final version of the Draka intro.
In an incongrious move, I dedicate this snippet to my dad, since it's his birthday today. --Mal
Drake’s Rock, Sol-Neptune L5
November 28, 2016
Wilf Ingolfsson hung up and looked thoughtfully at the mural covering the habitat wall. Like most of the murals in Drake’s Rock, it showed a pleasant pastoral scene of servus happily toiling away in the fields while drakensis went about their daily routines. A scene to soothe the soul and serve as a motivator for any proper servant of the Archon.
The door chimed. “Come in,” Ingolfsson said. In walked Thomas von Schrakenberg, Ingolfsson’s relief for the contact project. Like Ingolfsson, von Schrackenberg had biomodded to get as close to the drakensis genotype as possible; tall, blonde and athletic, possessed of greater than normal strength and intelligence.
“How’d it go?” asked von Schrakenberg.
“We finally got a hit,” Wilf said, “but it wasn’t Featherston. It was his lackey, the one from the books that kept trying to kill him but was too useful to dispose of. Still, as lackeys go this one’s pretty important. I figure we’ll be in contact with Featherston in a week, two tops.”
“That’s great news!” von Schrakenberg exclaimed. “Have you informed the Archon?”
“I only just got off the phone,” Wilf protested. “And you need to take over in case they call back.” He got up and von Schrakenberg took his place.
Wilf exited the contact room and moved down the corridor towards the lift to the Archon’s chamber. Around him swirled the nucleus of the Final Society, other drakensis biomods combined with the lesser forms of feral Turnerites and other like-minded “refugees” brought into the Rock to build the Domination’s numbers. Ingolfsson viewed these ferals with no small distaste; many of the Turnerites in particular were below the Draka’s high standards for servus, let alone Janissaries or drakensis. Still, with only a small core of true Draka at hand, the Archon insisted on having soil with which to grow the Final Society.
He made his way through the mass of humanity without major incident and entered the lift. The doors snapped shut and Wilf felt himself plunge down into the heart of Drake’s Rock. The Archon’s chamber was the largest opening they’d carved into nameless Trojan asteroid, an extravagance but one worthy of both the Archon and the Domination. It was also the safest place in the Rock, under seventy kilometers of rock and ice harder than concrete. From here the Archon and his chosen Strategos commanded the forces of the Domination.
The lift door opened and Wilf stepped out into the chamber. As befit the Draka warrior ethos, the chamber was decorated spartanly, with only a few tapestries and war trophies lining the walls. At the far end of the chamber the Archon sat on his high chair in front of a massive desk, both items made of precious, hard-won Earth hardwood. Wilf marched straight up to the desk, saluted and bowed. “Service to the State,” he said.
“Glory to the Race,” responded the Archon. “What news have you to report?”
“Suh,” Wilf said, “We’ve had a breakthrough in Project Contact. One of the phones finally reached a man of influence in the Confederate government.” He paused. “The gentleman’s name is Clarence Potter, and suh, he’s a Named Character.”
“Tyr’s balls!” The Archon’s exclamation echoed in the chamber. “That is good news, Citizen. A Named Character on the third try. Very well done. Now, how long before we’re talking to Featherston?”
“I would estimate no less than two weeks, perhaps less. Potter’s a suspicious man, but we’ve got plenty to tempt him with. Suh.”
“Temptation,” said a low voice behind the Archon, “is our best weapon. Though I’ve got others.” From behind the chair slinked a buxom blonde woman, who then proceeded to perch on the armrest. Ingolfsson did his best to restrain his disgust at the display. The woman – and he used the term loosely – who had the Archon’s ear wasn’t drakensis, nor was she Draka. Rumors going around the station suggested that the mysterious Citizen Agatha Clay wasn’t even human, but instead some sort of alien or Yankee robot. The idea of the Archon… consorting with a Yankee machine was almost too much for Ingolfsson to bear.
Clay seemed to pick up on Ingolfsson’s issues. She gave the drakensis a hard look, eyes narrowed. “You don’t agree?” she asked, voice sweet. Wilf sweated; while as a drakensis he could take her apart in a fair fight, Clay wasn’t known to fight fair. Worse, if she took a dislike to him, and put it in the Archon’s ear that Wilfred Ingolfsson was a traitor to the Race, his life would be short and full of torment. If he was lucky.
Knowing all this, Ingolfsson replied the only way he could. “Ma’am,” he said, “I agree wholeheartedly.” Clay’s eyes stayed narrow, but she gave an approving nod. The Archon, who had been watching this little drama with a smirk, waved Ingolfsson off. Wilf took the hint, saluted once more and ducked out of the chamber as fast as he could move.
The Archon watched him leave. “You know,” he said once the lift doors closed again, “that he’ll just spread more rumors.”
“Who cares?” Clay said with a dismissive sniff. “You’re the Archon of the Domination. All your loyal followers,” she added extra emphasis on the word, “would die for you a hundred times. And even if dissent spreads, who’s going to move against you, your Strategos and the Janissaries? Nobody else on this rock has the balls to try and depose you.”
“Still,” the Archon mused, “this dissent isn’t good for the Domination or the Race.”
“It’ll go away once they’ve got something to do other than hide out on this rock,” Clay said. “You said it yourself, Eric: the Draka must conquer or die. Coming out here to the Rock was wise when there weren’t many Draka, but now it’s time to conquer.” She leaned in close, putting her hands on the Archon’s shoulders. “And with my genius coupled with your… innate… superiority, you’ll get your prize.”
“Oh, I will, will I?”
“A year from now you’ll own the Confederate States and start turning it into a real nation, not this half-assed murder machine Featherston’s got now.” Clay leaned in even closer, her face almost touching the Archon. “After that,” she whispered, “the world, the Convention, everything will fall under your Yoke, and there’s nothing dear daddy or his bourgeois buddies can do to stop it. It’s history, Eric.”
“And you can’t fight history,” Archon Eric von Shrackenburg finished. Clay smiled, and kissed him.
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"
In an incongrious move, I dedicate this snippet to my dad, since it's his birthday today. --Mal
Drake’s Rock, Sol-Neptune L5
November 28, 2016
Wilf Ingolfsson hung up and looked thoughtfully at the mural covering the habitat wall. Like most of the murals in Drake’s Rock, it showed a pleasant pastoral scene of servus happily toiling away in the fields while drakensis went about their daily routines. A scene to soothe the soul and serve as a motivator for any proper servant of the Archon.
The door chimed. “Come in,” Ingolfsson said. In walked Thomas von Schrakenberg, Ingolfsson’s relief for the contact project. Like Ingolfsson, von Schrackenberg had biomodded to get as close to the drakensis genotype as possible; tall, blonde and athletic, possessed of greater than normal strength and intelligence.
“How’d it go?” asked von Schrakenberg.
“We finally got a hit,” Wilf said, “but it wasn’t Featherston. It was his lackey, the one from the books that kept trying to kill him but was too useful to dispose of. Still, as lackeys go this one’s pretty important. I figure we’ll be in contact with Featherston in a week, two tops.”
“That’s great news!” von Schrakenberg exclaimed. “Have you informed the Archon?”
“I only just got off the phone,” Wilf protested. “And you need to take over in case they call back.” He got up and von Schrakenberg took his place.
Wilf exited the contact room and moved down the corridor towards the lift to the Archon’s chamber. Around him swirled the nucleus of the Final Society, other drakensis biomods combined with the lesser forms of feral Turnerites and other like-minded “refugees” brought into the Rock to build the Domination’s numbers. Ingolfsson viewed these ferals with no small distaste; many of the Turnerites in particular were below the Draka’s high standards for servus, let alone Janissaries or drakensis. Still, with only a small core of true Draka at hand, the Archon insisted on having soil with which to grow the Final Society.
He made his way through the mass of humanity without major incident and entered the lift. The doors snapped shut and Wilf felt himself plunge down into the heart of Drake’s Rock. The Archon’s chamber was the largest opening they’d carved into nameless Trojan asteroid, an extravagance but one worthy of both the Archon and the Domination. It was also the safest place in the Rock, under seventy kilometers of rock and ice harder than concrete. From here the Archon and his chosen Strategos commanded the forces of the Domination.
The lift door opened and Wilf stepped out into the chamber. As befit the Draka warrior ethos, the chamber was decorated spartanly, with only a few tapestries and war trophies lining the walls. At the far end of the chamber the Archon sat on his high chair in front of a massive desk, both items made of precious, hard-won Earth hardwood. Wilf marched straight up to the desk, saluted and bowed. “Service to the State,” he said.
“Glory to the Race,” responded the Archon. “What news have you to report?”
“Suh,” Wilf said, “We’ve had a breakthrough in Project Contact. One of the phones finally reached a man of influence in the Confederate government.” He paused. “The gentleman’s name is Clarence Potter, and suh, he’s a Named Character.”
“Tyr’s balls!” The Archon’s exclamation echoed in the chamber. “That is good news, Citizen. A Named Character on the third try. Very well done. Now, how long before we’re talking to Featherston?”
“I would estimate no less than two weeks, perhaps less. Potter’s a suspicious man, but we’ve got plenty to tempt him with. Suh.”
“Temptation,” said a low voice behind the Archon, “is our best weapon. Though I’ve got others.” From behind the chair slinked a buxom blonde woman, who then proceeded to perch on the armrest. Ingolfsson did his best to restrain his disgust at the display. The woman – and he used the term loosely – who had the Archon’s ear wasn’t drakensis, nor was she Draka. Rumors going around the station suggested that the mysterious Citizen Agatha Clay wasn’t even human, but instead some sort of alien or Yankee robot. The idea of the Archon… consorting with a Yankee machine was almost too much for Ingolfsson to bear.
Clay seemed to pick up on Ingolfsson’s issues. She gave the drakensis a hard look, eyes narrowed. “You don’t agree?” she asked, voice sweet. Wilf sweated; while as a drakensis he could take her apart in a fair fight, Clay wasn’t known to fight fair. Worse, if she took a dislike to him, and put it in the Archon’s ear that Wilfred Ingolfsson was a traitor to the Race, his life would be short and full of torment. If he was lucky.
Knowing all this, Ingolfsson replied the only way he could. “Ma’am,” he said, “I agree wholeheartedly.” Clay’s eyes stayed narrow, but she gave an approving nod. The Archon, who had been watching this little drama with a smirk, waved Ingolfsson off. Wilf took the hint, saluted once more and ducked out of the chamber as fast as he could move.
The Archon watched him leave. “You know,” he said once the lift doors closed again, “that he’ll just spread more rumors.”
“Who cares?” Clay said with a dismissive sniff. “You’re the Archon of the Domination. All your loyal followers,” she added extra emphasis on the word, “would die for you a hundred times. And even if dissent spreads, who’s going to move against you, your Strategos and the Janissaries? Nobody else on this rock has the balls to try and depose you.”
“Still,” the Archon mused, “this dissent isn’t good for the Domination or the Race.”
“It’ll go away once they’ve got something to do other than hide out on this rock,” Clay said. “You said it yourself, Eric: the Draka must conquer or die. Coming out here to the Rock was wise when there weren’t many Draka, but now it’s time to conquer.” She leaned in close, putting her hands on the Archon’s shoulders. “And with my genius coupled with your… innate… superiority, you’ll get your prize.”
“Oh, I will, will I?”
“A year from now you’ll own the Confederate States and start turning it into a real nation, not this half-assed murder machine Featherston’s got now.” Clay leaned in even closer, her face almost touching the Archon. “After that,” she whispered, “the world, the Convention, everything will fall under your Yoke, and there’s nothing dear daddy or his bourgeois buddies can do to stop it. It’s history, Eric.”
“And you can’t fight history,” Archon Eric von Shrackenburg finished. Clay smiled, and kissed him.
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"