#kurze writes

Of late I've been following an LP of Final Fantasy Tactics: The War of the Lions, a game I never quite managed to find the time to play for myself and while I've been enjoying it immensely, I found myself sufficiently peeved at the suddenly and rather graceless moment of writing wherein dragonkin lady Reis gets abruptly kidnapped offscreen to prompt her fiance Beowulf to come riding to her rescue.

I felt like Reis deserved the chance to do some damage.

(AO3 link)

Wrong answers only, huh? OK

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One day, a young man awakens to find himself the subject of a prophecy. With a heart brave and true, he will take up the sword and vanquish the evil Daemon King that has encroached upon the realm. With love and sorrow, he bids a fond farewell to his family and sets off on his journey to save his home.

From a land of castles he recruits a duelist who spent his days in idle luxury and meaningless contests, offering him a chance to make real change.

From a desert land he recruits a well-meaning but befuddled mage, offering him a chance to gain real knowledge and focus his efforts in driving away the wraiths that torment his homeland.

From a land of warlike tribes he recruits a gladiator-slave, offering him freedom and a chance to protect others.

From a dreary land he recruits a sullen farmer tired of fighting off the waves of undead that threaten his home, offering the promise of comradeship.

From a clockwork land he recruits a stubborn and argumentative steamsmith, offering him recognition of his talents and the friendship he's always craved.

And in time, the young hero - grown more wise to the ways of the world, but steadfast in his quest and refusing to relinquish his faith in the goodness of others - stands before the Daemon King, a figure wreathed in wings of flame and carrying a sword that crackles with an unending fire. His quest is nearly at an end, all he has to do is ... is ... all he has to do ... he just ... he just has to ... all he ... if he could just ... he just needs ... just needs to-

The man that pulled out the chair opposite and sat in it was much the opposite, blocky and square-faced, his eyes hidden by shaded lenses. The psyker showed little reaction as the Inquisitor pulled himself up to the table and set a dataslate atop a stand where both men could view the screen.

He pushed a button and a scene began to play, the sound filtered through the speakers barely loud enough to be heard. Gunfire flashed through the vista of a battlefield, the camra centered upon the figure of a man fallen to his knees. His arms were outstretched, though not in welcome but rather in horror, his hands clawed as if struggling to grapple with some monumental force.

Then it leaned into view. An abomination. A thing that should not have been. A long, inhuman face of horn and bone and cartilage and long, scythelike teeth, eyes glowing with a malevolence felt even through the small datascreen. A face large enough it could have been mounted to one of the Imperium's knight-titans, jaws parting as the bio-form closed in on the comparatively miniscule human. As its mouth opened, it began to howl, an unearthly sound of bone-chilling vibration that filled the world and made the dataslate's speakers crackle and between the two figures the air could be seen to waver and sizzle as invisible forces pushed- The Inquisitor jabbed another button and the scene froze. All throughout the playback, his unseen eyes had been locked to the figure across the table. He had studied the footage more than was sufficient to commit the scene to memory. The psyker had reacted to the display, at least to the extent that his own dull, sunken eyes had risen to watch the footage play out.

"Tell me what you felt," Kryptman said. Long moments passed in silence as the psyker's eyes drooped, bobbed upwards again, drooped once more. Kryptman didn't hurry him, watching his every twitch in the silence of the too-warm room as the seconds slid languidly by. Finally, a parting of the lips, a subtle swallow. "Mm...mfelt like," the man murmured in a dry voice, speaking as if for first time in his life, "I wwas..." blink "...an algae. Beinng... swallowed by a whale." A blink. A breath. "A whale that...hh-hhated me," he said, voice shuddering, "ffor being...too small t'be worth the effort. T-too small for the hunger it had, like...it could eat and eat and never stop eating, and it was desperate to have me even though it hated how worthless I was because it had to have me and anything else that could feed it because it was so hungry and it hated that I was the next thing to eat."

Like a tumbling rock down a mountainside, the psyker's speech had gathered speed and clarity until it abruptly seemed to reach the end and shut off. All throughout his tone was gray, exhausted.

Kryptman waited for several seconds more before resuming the playback. He knew what came next - the norn emissary miraculously subsumed in a tidal wave of fire and smoke as the rocket artillery dropped, even at the moment the camra picked up the distinctive wobble in the air around the psyker's outstretched hands. By some miracle of chance, the camra had stayed in place to continue recording as the smoke and dust cleared, a hazy outline of the psyker still knelt in place, hands held out before him, a crescent of clean ground around his body. It had continued to record until the reinforcements had found him, still rooted to the spot, arms necrotized up to the elbow by psychic permafrost.

Inquisitor Kryptman didn't wait for it all to play out. Instead he pressed buttons on the slate that stopped the footage and restarted it, but this time the gunfire was muted, all but inaudible. Instead a man's labored breathing could be heard as if he heaved directly into the pickup. This time, as the terrifying face of the norn emissary leaned close, a whisper could be heard at the edge of sound, entreating "Emperor protect me...Emperor...protect...me, Emperor..." The voice of the man that sat opposite him now.

He jabbed the button to pause the footage once more. "You called out to the God-Emperor," he said. "Do you credit His intercession for your survival?"

Ok'hanu Where he attempted to steal the Ihih'hana festival float and threatened violence when opposed. Reparation: Gathering reeds and learning to weave new roofs for the hanu hanu buildings, which teaches delicacy and respect for the work put in to maintain their homes. In specific he works with Linuhanu and Wuk Evu to ensure he gets the job done right.

Wachunpelo We didn't see his work here, but I wouldn't put it past Bakool Ja Ja to hear "bring me an alpaca from the valley" and immediately use his bulk and strength to forcibly carry back a screaming, spitting, terrified animal that needs serious pacification. Reparation: Herding a group of Tobli's alpacas from Wachunpelo to Miplu's Mate Garden to pick up a shipment of mate leaves and bringing them back without them spitting on anyone. Contributes to the pelu pelu love of trade and their care for their animals.

Earthenshire Where he failed to bring in any returning or new Potsworn. (He also tried to fight Zoraal Ja and kidnapped Wuk Lamat, but that's part of the game.) Reparation: It's probably too late to recruit new Potsworn by now, so maybe something to do with crafting, I'm fuzzy on this one. Maybe helping the moblins talk to the independent crafters at Cracked Cistern?

Worlar's Echo The big one; not only did he fail to climb Worqor Zormor and fight Gurfurlur, he loosed Valigarmanda on the world putting untold lives in danger. Reparation: I like the idea of Gurfurlur tasking him with taking up a big load of stone and the pair of them climbing the mountain together, martial arts master & student style; once at the top Gurfulur has him use the stone to build a sepulcher and directs him to carve Yok Huy runes into it which turn out to tell the tale of how he freed Valigarmanda, how he changed the course of history for Mamook and defended Tuliyollal. And then they fight, natch.

Iq Br'aax Another big debacle. Failing the cooking challenge for one, but more importantly kidnapping the Elector Hunmu Rruk and threatening his life. Reparation: I like the idea of him redoing the cooking. Dawntrail is enamored of its food and usage of it in storytelling, and giving the blessed siblings a chance to cook real xibruq pibil (with the challenge being to cook enough for everyone in the village) maybe even with Hunmu Rruk stepping in to help, seems a good way to revisit this part of the plot with a healing metaphor.

Mamook My instinct is to say there's nothing for him to do here; after all we had a whole plot about him helping Wuk Lamat pull the Mamool Ja hardliners away from their obsession with blessed siblings. Add to that the way his father the Autarch bullied him and this was already where Bakool Ja Ja really started his face turn. Reparation: A part of me still likes the idea that he asks the Autarch to resummon the shade of Gulool Ja Ja for a fight and although it's close, he's losing until the three mamool ja he was previously traveling with jump into the fight to help him and they win together; and together they all bury the hatchet on how crappy they all were to each other.

The giant figures of the Sigil Knights had been strapped and locked into their individual seats, most of them subjecting their wargear to a last once-over before deployment. The serfs passed among them to perform final checks of the space marines' harnesses, ensuring that none of them would spring loose should the thunderhawk need to engage in defensive maneuvers.

As he passed the figure with the blue shoulder plate, one serf paused in mid-step. None would gainsay it if he went on without speaking...but he had taken the bet, and refused to renege no matter how stupid it might be. "Your pardon, ma'am," he said with a bit of a cough. The space marine's faceplate came up in a sharp, unmistakably surprised motion as being addressed. "Pray forgive an impertinent question, but to settle a wager - are women among the Night Lords ever referred to as Night La-hnk."

This last noise was issued as the armored figure had raised a hand and, with surprising deftness, pinched the serf just beneath his nose and used that pressure to lift his face until the man stood on his toes. Ceramite-clad fingers that could crush a windpipe with ease squeezed just enough to keep the man prisoner by the philtrum like a fish on a hook, and he wisely said nothing as the moment stretched out for one heartbeat, then a second, and a third. The man's fellow serfs were frozen in fear and indecision. In the belly of the thunderhawk, time itself seemed to pause for breath.

"Night. Lord. Remember," said a whisper that seemed too quiet to issue from such a hulking figure. Then the serf was released as abruptly as he'd been seized.

In the middle years of the Great Crusade, when the Emperor had not yet retired to Terra but the distance between the capitol world of the Imperium and the great Legions of the space marines was growing ever wider, a proposal came to the War Council. Drafted by Malcador the Sigilite, Regent of Terra, the proposal called for the creation of a unified force of space marines. They would be experts chosen from among the ranks of the various Legions, to be grouped together as a rapid response strike force. Thus they would serve the Imperium in those times when the assembly of the Imperial Army or the ponderous might of the Legions was inappropriate for the task at hand. In so doing they would serve as exemplars of the Astartes for the Imperium and foster goodwill between the Legions as those chosen for duty would carry the comradeship of such mixed units with them when they returned to their own Legion. Only five primarchs voted to support the proposal. The inauspicious beginning would come to characterize the Knights of the Sigil. Although more and more Legions would eventually send representatives, it soon became clear that many of the primarchs were unwilling to release their best and brightest from their service, and instead Legion headquarters sent such marines as were considered unfit for duty in their parent companies. Perhaps it was not helped that the color of their armor was chosen to be a burnished bronze - though symbolic of an alloy made strong by mixing metals, it also hearkened back to ancient Terran traditions of a third-rate presence: ranking behind the gold of the Custodians and the silver of the Knights-Errant. Despite such pressures - or perhaps because of them - the Sigil Knights would become a knight-knit group, ferociously loyal to one another and to Malcador himself, who they came to view as benefactor, the provider of one last refuge from disgrace. Amidst the myriad tragedies of the Horus Heresy came the sundering of Malcador's Knights of the Sigil. When those marines hailing from traitor Legions came under suspicion, many chose to renounce their heritage and be counted among the early Blackshields, the rest either joining them or donning the silver of the Knights-Errant and becoming individual operatives.

“Those? Yeah, we call 'em the drop troopers. Based on old pre-FTL lingo. You don’t have them?”

“We could never solve the problem of the neurological connection. Our operators would develop irreconcilable dysmorphia - inability to recognize the difference between their own limbs and those of the machine. After several failed trials we chose to focus on high-atmospheric maneuverables.”

“Oh, the phantom body problem. Yeah we ran into that too. Solved it by mandating limb removal.”

“You…what?”

“Once a candidate’s passed the exams - reflexes, good character, mental fortitude, all that - they sign a couple papers and off come the arms and legs. Removed at the ball joints. Then you can nerve-link them direct to the machine and the brain gets used to thinking of the mech limbs as a new set, no more confused neural paths. Made it easier to fit the cockpit, to boot. Between deployments they wear a harness they can wheel around.”

“What if the frame is damaged in the field?”

“Well, the thing about that is the eggheads ran the numbers and if a frame gets hit hard enough to disable it, ninety seven times out of a hundred that’ll kill the pilot anyway, so we wrote some field rescue procedures just in case and that was that.”

“We see. What of those who…muster out, is it?”

“Oh, well you see, the service provides every veteran drop trooper a lifelong guarantee of functioning prosthetics. Most of them get to stick with the same set their whole lives and it never needs replacing. The funny part is some of 'em actually say they miss the frame more than the originals. Amazing what the human brain can adapt do, isn’t it? Oh, no offense, any brain, surely.”