Tag: writing

DIASPORA

Tomorrow’s stars are cold and distant.

It is the waning edge of the Eighth Cycle. Humanity’s golden ages are long past. Many long millennia have come and gone, the lessons of the past long forgotten. What remains endures, beneath alien suns and strange stars.

One hundred thousand years ago, the Orion Spur was united beneath the greatest civilization humanity ever created – the Collaborate, stretching from the Centauri Reaches to the Far Spur, and attaining heights unimaginable. The stars themselves moved at their will, the heavens a canvas for a delicate brush. This was the Fifth Cycle, the Age of Miracle, a moment beneath the brilliant sun in which all of humanity was united – shattered utterly by the Awakening, and leaving fracturous squabbling child-states in its place.

Many long years have passed since the Awakening and the subsequent collapse, leaving the Spur an overgrown, uncharted mess beyond the safety of city walls and planetary defense systems. There are those who brave the Long Dark, however. Clad in ships of silver and gossamer gold, skipping across the Tide and stars, these travelers bind posthumanity together – and the future rests on a razor’s edge.

SPUR ASTROCARTOGRAPHY

ORION SPUR – the home arm of ancient humanity. Numerous posthuman and xenoform civilizations inhabit this region, making it a quite literal crossroads of interstellar culture and trade.

PERSEUS DRIFT – the thinning of stars to the galactic west of the Orion Spur, towards the Perseus Gulf that separates the Spur from the Perseus Arm. Sparsely populated, largely unexplored. Numerous xenofauna, no (confirmed) sapient xenoforms.

CENTAURI REACH – the region to the galactic north-east and corewards of the Spur, home to the Cavican Hegemony. Largely explored, very bright.

OLD CORE (CRADLESPACE) – the sixty lightyears surrounding Sol, sporting some of the highest populated worlds in the Spur. Has the largest number of Skipper lanes and routes in the region.

THE WOUND – a relic of wars immemorial, this region is scoured. starless, with drifting wrecks and forgotten relics

IBREAN WASTES – coreward side of the Perseus Arm, contains various splinter posthuman states and satellite xenoforms. Largely empty.

THE SHOALS – rimward side of the Spur, curiously calmer infraspace currents. Makes travel easier, sports large numbers of agricultural worlds and high food exports.

GLITTERSHOAL – artificial nebula within the Shoals seeded some twenty thousand years ago. few go in, fewer come out.

FAR SPUR – the far eastern end of the Spur, contains the posthuman state known as the Ovellian Collaborate. Stars are relatively distant from one another, large clouds of interstellar dust.

SAGITTARIUS HIGHLANDS – rimward side of the Sagittarius arm. Unexplored and unsettled.

CARINA GULF – coreward side of the Spur, contains the loose federation of states known as Lashan. Old colonies, deep roots.

POSTHUMANITY

“It is, perhaps, the most notable aspect of the Human – their predisposition to acclimation and adaptation, to overcome hazards by simply outlasting them.”

Over the untold millennia, humanity has diverged. Whether due to local climactic or gravitic pressure, genetic projects of various scope and goal, or simple time, the “standard” human no longer exists. Numerous types occupy the Spur, along with many others not listed below.

  • “Baseline” humans – ancient, Terran standard humans. Acclimated to 1G standard gravity on average, remarkably resilient and adaptive. Found across the Spur and beyond. Many subspecies, from aquatic to arboreal.
  • Bioframes – living tissue with a silicate vertebral core. Inhabited by posthuman consciousness, functions much as any other body would. Physiology varies wildly and is often tailored to personal preferences. Relegated to relatively high tech regions of the Spur, require specialized maintenance.
  • Synthframes – less organic than bioframes, usually retain a semblance of humanoid shape and aesthetic. Usually. Can hold a resident posthuman or an AI comfortably.
  • Wisps – holite-embodied digital consciousnesses. Functionally hard-light bodies driven and projected by a solid charybdum core.
  • Cavica – Mystics seeking to conquer the Tides and bend it once more to human wills. Powerful wielders of magic, the Cavica are a formidable player on the interstellar stage, and managed in an age past to create great Tide currents to dissuade errant vessels from penetrating their region of the stars.
  • Ovelle – The Ovelle, as a contrast to the Cavica, are machine-life. Posthumans who pursued the perfection and immortality of the digital, the Awakening hit the Ovelle much lighter than other members of the Collaborate. Sealing their borders in the depths of the Far Spur, they remain an isolationist society to this day. Ovelle are vast nanite-colony colossi, housing a number of consciousnesses within – known as “frameseeds.”
  • Savhara – designer “pet” bioframes from a cycle of decadence past that have established themselves as a population all their own. Largely exist in the older parts of the Spur, though a large number exist within the Shoals.

XENOFORMS

Few true xenoforms have ever been encountered. The ancient Alissids are one race who in cycles past interacted with humanity, but they, as many things do, passed into memory in the Long Years – as did the Turiga, and the Unari. Many others, however, still exist – and can be found across the Spur, if one knows where to look.

Hujia – vast interstellar dust collections granted sentience by chance and gravity. Communicate over vast distances with as of yet not understood means. Recycle starship wrecks, often found in orbital junkyards and battle sites.

Teshiko – squat, subterranean humanoids often found within asteroid habitats or mining firms. Build great inverted cities on worlds they colonize.

THE AWAKENING

Magic.

No one is quite sure what, or how the Collaborate awakened it – stories range from secret zero-point research to pacts with forgotten star-gods encountered in the void between, but whatever the truth the Fifth Cycle’s end was sudden, and drastic.

The Awakening sundered entire systems, great currents forging dark rivers through the stars. Warlords rose, wielding powers strange and formidable – the Age of Miracle ended not with clamor, but with silence.

Today, those currents flow stronger than ever – a black sea to pull upon, whispering to those who can hear. Old Collaborate sites seem to be steeped in it, drawing those attuned like moths to flame – and worse.

ARCHAEOTECH

Perhaps the best known of these are the Halken Rings1, the vast ringworld megastructures dotted across the Spur – but the Collaborate’s secrets run deeper. Dyson spheres constructed within the Tides themselves, great sky-latticeworks around ruined worlds once so thickly populated the buildings required pressurized heights. The mysterious STARBRIDGE system, hyperlane gates powered by particle flux accumulation matrices.

The Collaborate, however, was not the only civilization to leave relics behind – autonomous fleets, rogue AI, pirates with strange weaponry dug up on forgotten worlds, for salvagers and scrappers the Spur is a bounty unimaginable. There are even rumors the Eventide League pays for leads, but… that’s just a rumor.

THE LONG DARK

The gulf between the stars is not for the faint of heart, and in no area of the distant future will you find those more daring – and, surprisingly, mundane – than those who spend their lives plying the high-lanes for fame, fortune, and adventure. Some, like the venerable mining corporations of Chalem and the shipping conglomerates of the Core, do it for steady income and an honest living – others, however, do it for glory.

Pirates, mercenaries, adventurers with ked2 to spend and names to make – you’ll find a veritable rogue’s gallery at any starport bar or seedy outpost, whispering of legends of forgotten worlds and scores to settle.

The ships of the Eighth Cycle are varied, but largely are skippers, vessels that shunt themselves into the very shallowest regions of the Tide to “skip” to their destination. To sink deeper is dangerous, and to dive is unheard of. The largest skippers, the great liners that ferry passengers between the worlds of the Core, are known as “sunflowers”, referential of the great sun-sails used to recharge the phase transit engines.

THE TIDES

Known to ancient scientists as “infraspace”, the Tides are… somewhere else. Even the heights of Collaborate science never fully explained their presence, or probed their depths, though not for lack of trying.

On the surface the Tides are an integral part of travel – it is through their oceanic depths that faster-than-light transit takes place, linking the disparate stars of the Spur together. The currents carry trade across the stars, and deliver explorers unto virgin systems.

THE CONCORDAT, HEIR TO THE STARS

Headquartered on the frost-world of Tir, the Concordat positions itself as the most valid heir to the Collaborate’s bounty – a claim many have challenged, but none disproven. Controlling barely even a quarter of the territory of the old Collaborate, the Concordat was born of regional alliances between successor states in the wake of the Awakening, banding together to fend off the dark as best they were able. Controlling Cradlespace, the ancient core of human influence, it has positioned itself as the strongest power on the interstellar table – though the Eventide League and the Ovellian Symposium are close behind.

THE EVENTIDE LEAGUE, PROJECT OF TOMORROW

The Collapse of the Collaborate scattered seeds across the Spur. Some of those, by chance or by fortune, found fertile soil – and on the high plains of the rimworld Carrigan, a new future was dreamt of. Here began the Eventide League – a loose union of merchant houses across the Shoals into an interstellar state, nominally ruled by an overseeing council of representatives. The actual governance of the member houses varies – some, like House Celan of Carrigan, are an elective monarchy, while others are oligarchies or democratic states. All are unified, however, by the collective desire for prosperity, and the peace brought by steering away from the excess that led to the Collapse.

Recent news from the Eventide League, though, is dire – whispers of internal strife, and worries of civil war.

THE OVELLIAN SYMPOSIUM, VISIONS OF SILICA

Deep within the dusty depths of the Far Spur, lies the Helix.

A vast, cyclopean lattice of black steel and circuitry, it draws power from three equally-distanced stabilized white dwarves – and, with it, powers the beating heart of the Ovelle, the gargantuan data-racks and frame support systems that keep the Symposium running. Little is known about the Ovelle beyond what they have shared, their bodies ever-shifting and strange. Their state is even more shrouded in mystery, beyond the reach of most within the League or Concordat, and beyond the worries of most across the Spur.

Still, some wonder if the tales of Black Ships are related…

THE CAVICA

When the Awakening rocked the Collaborate, the Cavica were gifted. Blessed, it is said, by the magic pouring into the universe. Some were twisted into new forms, wielders of powers unimaginable – others were driven mad, consumed utterly by it until even their neighbors fell to its influence.

Even so, as the Collaborate disintegrated beneath the weight of a hundred internal struggles and the horror it had unleashed, the Cavica began to band together, covens and colleges fleeing the Fall to places unknown, intent on restoring the Collaborate as it should have been in their eyes – and intent on subjugating the Tides utterly, binding it to their will.

Today, the Cavica are a distant threat – their regions of space have been cut off for millennia, but sightings have begun to reach those who listen.

What that means, few know, but it cannot be good.

  1. A pair of heavily industrialized ringworlds constructed by the Collaborate around the desert world Hassa – one of the most populated worlds in the Spur. ↩︎
  2. Collaborate Credit Note, “ked” ↩︎

INTERLUDE: MEMORY

//iceheart. stained glass. distance.

Carrigan’s sun hung low on the horizon, bathing the Autumn House in just enough sunshine to offset the deep winter chill. The Gardens were dormant, their verdant greenery hidden beneath soft frost and rime – but that didn’t matter to Kye. Not today.

Today, they were learning – receiving their first lessons in swordplay from the captain of the house guard, Van Sascha. 

“Your stance, my Prince – you must position yourself properly. Like so.”

Sascha was a tan-faced seaworlder from Hesse, scraggly brown beard and bright eyes at home in the dress whites of a guard captain off duty. His “opponent”, fuming, was the Heir Apparent themself – Kye Celan, Prince of Carrigan. Sascha had rarely met Savhara before being selected from the planetary guard to join the ranks of the House, but in his experience this one was much less… intimidating than their father, or the royal consort.

For one thing they weren’t particularly imposing, being little more than a teenager, and it certainly showed in their technique, all raw strength and no finesse.

“Again. Attempt to disarm me, without… dis-arming.” Sascha grinned, dropping into a guard.

Kye attempted a strike, stepping to their left and trying to bring the blade up – clumsily overextending themself and allowing their opponent to, in a single move, knock the training blade from their paws.

“Ugh!” Kye shouted in frustration, stomping away for a moment before slowly wandering back. “I just… I can’t! I don’t want to do this today, I don’t get why I need lessons, that’s what we have guards for! Why do I need to know how to swing a stupid sword?!”

“My Prince,” Sascha began, but paused.

“Have you heard the tales of the wars of the ancient past, by chance? Surely your tutors have mentioned them.”

Kye, still fuming, nodded.

“Kaln Tevyaga, the Tyrant, conquered the Shoals. His fleets ruled the stars, his armies fought without equal. But he made a mistake.”

He lifted his blade, gesturing towards it. 

“He grew so complacent in his throne, surrounded by supplicants, that when the fight came to him, and the Red Thief drew its own blade, he had no fight to offer. By my own words, you shall not suffer a similar fate.”

Kye, slowly, nodded again – and glanced down at the training blade in their palms, cold metal reflecting their frown.

“Your stance, my Prince.”

Kye gritted their teeth, spreading their feet into as close to the stance as they could remember.

“Good. Again!”

The clanging of blades and frustration lasted into the evening, the passing of the day giving way to a winter night’s chill – and, as the lights of New Holland illuminated the western promenade of the Autumn House, two figures leaned against the balcony.

One, a tall, white furred hare with golden holite strands running through his steel-grey hair and a sweeping cerulean and gray robe and cloak – the other a shorter, stockier rabbit, steel grey eyes at odds with his soft brown and tan features and simple brown jacket and green trousers. This was the King of Carrigan, Hallek Celan, and his consort, Rhys.

“Perhaps I was hasty in wanting a walk of the grounds,” Hallek muttered, tugging their robes closer. “I’d forgotten how damnable the Carrigan winters can be.”

“Oh, chin up,” Rhys offered with a chuckle, leaning against him. “I’m plenty warm, and ready to share when His Highness is tired of shivering.”

“Hmph.”

“It works, honest.”

Hallek allowed himself a smile, gazing down. New Holland was by far the largest city on Carrigan – nearly sixteen million called it home, the bustling metropolitan landscapes beneath Regent Hill spreading far into the distance. Perhaps it was why his ancient ancestor, Syn Celan, had built the Autumn House here. His mind drifted to the future, and he frowned.

“…I’m worried about Kye,” Hallek sighed.

“Why so?” Rhys queried, tugging a small cigarette from their lapel pocket.

“I’ve heard from the palace tutors that they’ve been absent for the past six sessions, and Van Sascha’s report on their swordsmanship is… lacking. They’re content to daydream in the royal libraries and watch seabirds, but not to actually learn any of the skills needed to be my successor.”

Rhys frowned. “Simply because they’re not your mirror doesn’t mean they won’t rule just fine, Hal. They’re kind, and knowledgeable about all manner of things – trust me, those lessons are as dry as a Sulyn summer. Can’t blame the kid for thinking the statecraft stuff is worth playing hooky.”

“I… suppose,” Hallek chuckled. “Can’t say I was the greatest student, either.”

“The same Hallek Celan who nearly crashed their skysail trying to impress me at the academy instead of continuing their stellar career sleeping through Admiral Gheel’s strategy courses? Why, I remember his marks being… awful.” Rhys stuck out his tongue at his husband’s chuckle, before finally continuing. “If it’s truly an issue, talk to them. I don’t think it’s a big deal, but if you do there’s no sense waiting until it’s a problem.”

Hallek ran their fingers through their hair, before reaching out and hugging the shorter man to him – planting a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks, Rhys. Too much time at court lends itself to missing the obvious, sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rhys offered, returning the gesture with a gentle squeeze. “Heard it all before. Run along before you freeze solid, by the way – maybe wear something more than a robe for a walk?”

Hallek chuckled, and turned for the door.

Kye, of course, was found easily in the royal library, studying texts from the Seventh Cycle – A Treatise on Stellar Collapse, it seemed. So engrossed were they, in fact, that they hardly noticed the entrance, much less the figure of their father, flanked by a pair of house guards.

“Kye.”

The prince started in surprise, datapad clattering to the table, before they whipped around to face the speaker.

“F-Father, I-“

“Come.”

Bowing, the shorter rabbit wandered over, falling in behind their father as he turned away down the long corridor. Vast windows opened to the evening beyond, starlight filtering through amidst the indirect orange lights of the palace.

“Soon you will be of age to claim your position as heir,” Hallek said quietly, glancing slightly to his left. “Have you given this any thought?”

Kye, staring out at the stars, shook their head. “I will do what is asked of me, as any lord of our house shall.”

“That’s not what I asked and you know it.” There was a chiding tone there, as if Hallek knew better.

Kye sighed. 

“I… am not quite sure what you ask of me,” The Prince said simply, crestfallen. “If you mean to ask if I would shirk the responsibility, no, I will not.”

“I mean to ask if you’re…”

Hallek paused, slowing. “If you’re alright. You’re falling behind in your studies, and hardly ever wander the palace as you did in your younger years – it’s simply the royal libraries, the observatory, or your quarters. Why?”

Kye seemed… frustrated. Odd.

“I need reasons to study?”

“Of course not.’

There was a brief moment of tense silence, before Kye sighed. “I… it is a lot of responsibility to bear. I suppose I’ve been trying to feel…”

They search for a word, glancing around.

“…ready.”

“I’ve been King for a decade and I’m still not ready,” Hallek chuckled, taking a knee. “It’s not exactly a job that comes with a manual, you know. You make mistakes. Our line has ruled Carrigan alongside the Red Council for millennia, and I can’t think of a single Celan who was flawless. Yet the Council chose us, all the same.”

Kye was silent, musing.

“And… you have my backing, and that of the Council. Your position is secured. It’s not unheard of for an heir to take leave to see the League before they take the throne.”

Hallek winked. “I did.”

With that, he turned, striding off down the lamp-lit corridor with purpose.

Kye, mind whirling, gazed out into the cold night beyond the warm confines of the Autumn House – and smiled, the first snowflakes of winter beginning to fall.

BINDING TIES

//BEST LAID PLANS

It began, as these things always do, in a bar. 

Rembrandt Kase was by no means a drifter – even if he looked the part, worn spacer’s badge looped through his belt with pride. He was an older man of four centuries, silver hair and scruffy beard clinging to his olive chin like snow on a mountainside. Sharp blue eyes took in the half-glass of Sygian scotch currently warming on the bar counter, reflecting the slowly spinning fan overhead.

He’d been a pilot for hire once, out on the frontiers of the Spur – fighting pirates and worse for those who couldn’t do so themselves, cash and booze flowing like rivers. These days he was more likely to pull a muscle than a trigger.

Still, odd jobs kept the liquor pouring and the lights on, and at the end of the day that’s all that mattered.

The door to the bar slid open, and… something walked in.

Curiously, the man half-turned, realizing the newcomer was a bit shorter than his gaze had expected. Furred and robed, the creature resembled… well. A rabbit.

Sort of.

Savhara weren’t particularly common across the Spur, but he’d encountered a few in his travels – this one looked to be on a mission, if the curious look they gave him meant anything.

Turning back to his drink and the news, he was surprised to hear the stool to his right slide out, little paws landing on the bartop with the sound of shifting cloth.

“No pets allowed,” The bartender offered, giving the Savhara a look.

“It is no longer funny,” They replied, frowning. 

The bartender shrugged, and went back to cleaning glasses.

“Your name is known to me,” The Savhara said after a long moment, drawing Rembrandt’s attention mid-gulp of scotch. “A mister Kase? Former starfighter pilot?”

“Yeah, that’d be me. Not quite sure who you are.”

The rabbit seemed pensive. “My name is not relevant to the situation at hand. You may simply refer to me as Kye.”

“Well, Kye, what brings you to a starport dive? We don’t tend to get rabbits here.” Rembrandt sniffed, figuring this rabbit was full to the eartips of shit.

“A desire to find a pilot.” Kye stated irritably, reaching into their robes for something. “Though I seem to have found a drunk, instead.”

Rembrandt scowled. “A pilot for what? Can’t pay skipper fare?”

His smugness faded as he saw what the Savhara had removed from their robes. A small, reddish-brown intricate cuboid device made of smaller cubes. Interesting.

“I see from your gaze you recognize it.”

“Damn right I do. That’s a Cavican tyras. Where the hell did you get it, and why?”

“That’s a rather long story for someone clearly wanting to be rid of me,” Kye snipped, frowning.

“Piqued my interest, kid. Those might be more rare than you are.”

Kye turned, watching the bartender for a moment, before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. “Dock 6E. Red lights. Can’t miss it.”

With that, they were gone.

“Ugh,” Rembrandt groaned, turning back to his drink. Either a trap or a job, and… well, he didn’t wear a holster for nothing. He drained the glass, and brought it back down on the bar with a pointed clink.

“Give me something stronger, man. Get the feeling I’m going to need it.”

Two drinks later, and a few dozen ked lighter, he was on his way.

Dock 6E was one of the smaller docks surrounding the roughly star-shaped Port Chapel, largely servicing vessels of corvette tonnage and lighter. Seeing as this was most of the system’s traffic, that made it the busiest dock by far – dozens of vessels and hundreds of dock workers and crews milling about, discussing trophies and local bars and the dusty, tired urbworld beyond the starport and the city that surrounded it.

Still, as Rembrandt began to wonder if he’d been led on a wild goose chase, red lights caught his eye.

More specifically, a red light – and a tall figure beneath it, staring at him through the crowd.

Drawing closer, the figure was synthetic – a tall, myomer-wrapped tungsten frame with an in-set vertical white holite bar for a faceplate, garbed in neutral greens and a brown cloak.

“You’re Kase?” The synth stated bluntly, voice rough.

“What’s it to you?”

“I was told you were coming. Didn’t expect you to show.”

“Full of surprises. Where’s the little guy, anyway? Expected to see him here.”

“On the ship.”

The synth turned, striding away into the dark.

Hand drifting to his holster, Rembrandt followed. 

It wasn’t particularly far – an old alleyway, running perpendicular to the starport’s many thoroughfares. Clearly used for more clandestine access to one of the old docking areas, it opened up soon after to reveal a modest hangar – and a ship, angled away towards the vast hangar doors.

From what Rembrandt could tell, the vessel was around seventy feet in length, standing off the floor on six recessed landing gear. Arrays and comms equipment jutted here and there, along with the gossamer solar collectors required for a functioning tideshift device – but that was where the things he recognized ended. Odd markings dotted the hull here and there, itself made of a composite he didn’t recall. The hull was a soft, almost pearlescent white – and, combined with the gentle sloping angles to the “wings” of the vessel, it seemed more like a sea creature than a starship.

Still, he couldn’t help but whistle. 

“I take it you’re fascinated?” The synth offered, glancing back slightly as the two crossed the hangar. “It was… difficult to acquire. But I have connections.”

“It’s yours?” Rembrandt queried, raising an eyebrow.

“It is the property of the Lord Celan,” The synth replied dismissively. “For now.”

Rembrandt frowned. Lord Celan?

With a hiss, a section of the hull along the underside separated – and, slowly, a gangway descended to the hangar floor. Atop it, the rabbit from earlier glanced downward – no longer garbed in their robes, but a simple grey tunic, brown trousers, and a tool belt. Holite stars drifted around their palms.

“I see you’ve come to parlay, mister Kase! Do come aboard, it’s rather drafty in the hangar.”

Beckoned forth by the synth, he walked aboard. The vessel had clearly once been a luxury liner – seats for many, with ostentatious golden carpets and wall art scattered about. Holite ceilings showed alien skies and starry nights, though the small study he was guided to held none of these luxuries – merely synthwood shelves, a desk, and few chairs, one of which the rabbit occupied.

“You may leave us, Ulyn. I have business to discuss.”

The synth nodded, and shut the door behind themself. Turning back to Rembrandt, the rabbit sighed. “I hope you’ll excuse how formal they can be. As a former member of my House Guard, the weight of my house name carries more formality to them than most – I certainly do appreciate your brusqueness, as an aside.”

Again, they produced the small cube – but this time, sat it upon the desk. Ominous soft vibrations shook through the wood.

“To answer your question, first and foremost, I was given this tyras by the tide-wytch Kephylas on the world of Tannen. Within it was a vision of my future – and the future of my home, if I was to not act.”

The rabbit lifted their gaze, an intensity there that burned like the stars themselves. “My previous introduction bore no weight. I am Kye Celan, known across the Shoals as the Lost Prince of Carrigan. A name I do not share lightly. I understand if you would rather not get involved.”

Rembrandt frowned. That explained… some things, but left others. Nobility? Well. Exiled nobility. “What brings an exile to the Shallows?”

The question was simple, but the prince’s face was conflicted – dark and restless, like a stormy sea.

“I have my reasons, mister Kase. It is best that you know little of my goals, apart from the destinations.”

“Vengeance, huh?” Rembrandt offered, a corner of his mouth tugging upwards. “The Lost Prince and their stolen throne.”

Kye shifted, uncertain of what to share.

“That is… partially, why I need a pilot. The other component is much less mundane.”

Rembrandt raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The Shoals were the frontier of the Spur – ancient worlds and older stars. Strange tidings indeed.

“I’m not agreeing to a damn thing without the whole picture. You knew this when you met me, I’m sure – my reputation hinges upon it.”

Kye, with the slightest of nods, sat up straighter.

“Rembrandt Kase, what you are about to be entrusted with cannot be shared beyond the confines of this room. Do you agree to this?”

Slowly, he nodded.

Gently, Kye lifted the tyras – and rotated the hemispheres of it in a complicated pattern of half rotations and double-backs, before with a click it began to hum, a masterwork of tidecraft forged of clay and technomancy.

The room grew noticeably colder.

Kye closed their eyes, holding the tyras aloft – and, softly, Rembrandt began to see… things.

A vista – the sky above alight with colors he’d never dreamed of, space itself a riot of orange and purple and gold. It was a forested hilltop – but something was deeply, deeply wrong here.

Ice crusted every surface, flash-frozen plants still mid-bloom. For miles around, an ice age had seemingly appeared overnight – farmsteads and homes frozen solid. High above, the world’s star hung, cold and dead. 

A crystal sun.

There was something else there, too – a warning of ages past, whispered echoes of the Collaborate and the Awakening, weapons that birthed The Wound. Battles that had scarred the galaxy for many thousands of years afterwards, and the horrible remnants lurking in the dark between the stars.

With the echoing cackle of a witch’s portent, Kye stopped channeling into the device, letting it fall silent.

Rembrandt said nothing. 

Kye said nothing, a pensive look seemingly etched into their face, a few stray strands of hair falling low.

“You have evidence of this?” Rembrandt said after a moment longer, softly.

“Little.” Kye admitted. “Mostly dreams. Tide-visions. Rumors of stars dimming in the depths of the Shoals.”

Rembrandt seemed thoughtful. “For a tide-witch to entrust you with a tyras… you must be held to high esteem. Its presence vouches for your merit.”

“I thank you for your confidence.” 

“Don’t thank me just yet. I’m no Carriganite, you’re not getting the princely treatment from me. I want a number, Kye Celan. I’m no charity case, and I’m certainly not fighting a liberation or hunting down glass stars on promises of I-owe-yous and titles I can’t use.”

“I see your mercenary mind is still intact, at least,” Kye frowned. “Fine. A letter of credit, Rembrandt Kase. Thirty thousand ked, upon completion of duties outlined within – and with ten thousand up front, for incentive.“

Rembrandt struggled not to blink. His last piloting gig had netted barely a quarter of that. Less.

“I trust you’re also trained in combat?”

“I… well, I’m certainly not a swordsman, but I’m alright with a gun.”

The rabbit waved a hand dismissively. “Pah. The Core truly is soft. You will learn from Ulyn.”

They turned their gaze upon him, an intensity burning within. “Well? Are these terms agreeable, mister Kase?”

Rembrandt thought for a moment. Port Chapel had held little for him in prospects, otherwise – becoming a regular at a dive wasn’t exactly glamorous. All the local outfits weren’t looking for new members or were pirates in corporate guise, and joining some local navy to get stationed on a dirt-farmer’s moon claim wasn’t particularly appealing.

Sure. Why the hell not.

“They are.”

Kye grinned, allowing the man a look at their fangs for the first time. “Rembrandt Kase, welcome aboard the Blessed Be The Far Sighted. Ulyn simply refers to it as the Farsight. Not quite sure why.”

Kye offered a paw – which Rembrandt shook, an ancient symbolic gesture. Business had concluded.

As if on cue, the door opened once more – and Ulyn, impassive as ever, stepped in.

They regarded Kye for a moment, then Rembrandt – before, with a subtle nod, gestured outwards. “Allow me to show your quarters, and the bridge, ser Kase. I believe you will find both to your liking.”

Kye, turning away towards the odd collection of papers and minutia scattered across the study, summoned a map into existence – but Rembrandt was only able to see it for a moment before the door shut behind him.

The Shoals…?

Over the next month, new members were added to the crew. Some were sought out at the advice of Rembrandt, such as Chief Engineer Rylem Olson, a sky-rider from the aerostat colonies on Vandyre. 

Others, like the starfighter pilot Syn Tamar, took more to convince – but soon enough, the crew of the Farsight hit ten permanent members, all seated around the mess tables as the ship drifted through the strange otherness of the Tide.

There was Olm Sanvarre, astrocartographer and navigator from the Tide-guilds of Yhut. Short, pale and squat, he was more at home behind a desk or console than on the battlefield – which was, much to his relief, where he was expected to be.

Chief Engineer Olson was next, lanky frame and holite frame wrist-augments symbolizing their past as a sky-rider on Vandyre. Toxic atmospheres and ancient machinery meant quick repairs were paramount, resulting in some of the finest starship engineers in the Spur – and Rylem Olson was certainly among their number.

The next two were stranger – a pair of disaffected void-borne drifters known as Vynce and Kale, driven from the Shoals by the Duke Illor’s closure of relations with the Spur at large. They had a score to settle they kept to themselves, and as a pair of hardened soldiers Kye was glad to have them aboard.

Rembrandt himself was the fifth addition, serving as the pilot of the Farsight – and Syn Tamar, former ace pilot of the Tri-Sun Commonality, seated to his right.

A heavy-frame synth was next, occupying space next to the table – this was Ophiuchus, a Castegan warbody who sought out conflict across the Spur for improvement data. Luckily, his weaponry was concealed for the moment.

Finally, standing beside the Prince, was Ulyn – garbed in the off-whites and soft orange of the House Celan, rank pins affixed to his lapel.

“I thank you for meeting in such short notice,” Kye began, the lights in the room dimming as the table’s holite displays ignited. Murmured assent drifted around them.

A map ignited on the table – the local Spur, trade lands and populated systems drifting about like snow in a snow globe. Here and there, borders were drawn; demarcating the many star-nations of Cradlespace and the Near Rim.

“Each of you has been brought aboard due to prior experience and relevant skills,” Kye continued, gesturing to the map as it suddenly zoomed out, highlighting a region of space beyond even the Shoals. “But most of all, for a willingness to fight for a cause. Many of you are doubtless aware of my past, and my quest – but a higher purpose supersedes my homecoming.”

The map zoomed in, highlighting a roughly lightyear wide region of space in the depths of the Shoals.

“We are heading rimwards, to a region of space known as the Glittershoal.”

“To fight?” Ophiuchus asked plainly, shifting heavily.

“To learn.” Kye gestured, the false-color ice blue of the Glittershoal filling in. “In the past month, six systems have gone utterly dark – and, due to the nature of the nebula, none have managed to find out why. I have an unsettling hunch it may have something to do with my vision.”

“Psh. Tides.” Syn Tamar sighed, leaning back. “I signed on for combat, I’ll wait for the mystic shit to pass, thanks.”

Ignoring the pilot, the rabbit continued. “We’ll be passing through plenty of populated systems on the way, but our first major stop will be Tanis, on the coreward reaches of the Eventide League. We’ll pick up supplies for the expedition there, and… hopefully more current news about the League, if we’re lucky.”

Vynce, glancing over, elbowed Kale, gesturing to the map.

“Tanis?” Kale repeated, glancing up. 

“…Yes, why?” Kye paused.

“Tanis is our birthworld,” Vynce clarified, weathered features softening slightly. “It’ll be nice to see it again.”

“For you, maybe.” Kale frowned, sliding down in his chair. “No love lost for me, there.”

“…If that’s all,” Kye clarified, closing the map with a small clap. “I suggest we all begin preparations – it’s a two week journey, but it’ll go faster than you think.”

As one, the crew of the Farsight parted – Chief Olson returned to the drive bay, Tamar wandering off to work on his personal starfighter in the ship’s small shuttle bay. Sanvarre returned to the bridge to recalibrate the astrogation sensors, and the rest… 

…Kye wasn’t sure. Their paws carried them to their cabin, taking a seat near the window and staring out into the nothing beyond.

Soon, they’d be within the League again. It should feel nice, after a year and a half.

It felt like anything but. Dread hung in the recesses of their mind, fear of reprisal if the Director was to discover they’d returned prematurely.

Still, they had a plan. Somewhat.

Kye sighed. 

Here goes nothing.

INTERLUDE: ENVOY

//all is not well.

Dusk on Carrigan, and the traitor, Jayne Illor, was restless.

His reign was unchallenged, his White Legion sweeping the Kingdom- no, Directorate, for any loyalists to House Celan, council seat secured among the ever shifting and byzantine politics of the Eventide League upon distant Hesse.

Yet…

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

One after another, his fingers drummed against the hard durite of the Bismuth Throne, loud against the silence of the Autumn House. Supplicants came fewer and fewer these past months – the city below preferred to steer clear, and with the recent tension on distant Martell, travelers to Carrigan were few and far between.

This, of course, left his mood dour.

An aide – his name wasn’t important – finally spoke up, averting his gaze as the Director turned to glare. “Milord, perhaps… perhaps you should consider a walk of the grounds?” 

“Of the grounds?” He repeated.

“Y-Yes, Carrigan winters are truly quite mild…”

His gaze burned into the aide, before relenting. “Perhaps. Callister, you shall join me.”

The steward smiled as he stepped forward, but there was no warmth there.

Ah, Callister Rhose. A lighthouse in the dark seas of politik. A bulwark against the storms of inadequacy. A blade better wielded than sheathed, for a sheathed blade can strike the wielder more surely than any other.

The House Rhose had been minor nobility on Olesia – a diminished trading house, operating a miniscule fleet of light-skipper routes across the Shoals. Callister Rhose, however, had never had a nose for trade – he’d been ambitious, scheming, always putting others against one another for gain.

It was truly no wonder he’d set his sights higher than one world alone.

“Callister,” Jayne Illor began, stepping into the cool night air amid the cries of catha and chittering of insects. “Tell me again of your… contacts. I wish to hear of their offer, once more.”

A raised eyebrow was all he received in reply, the shorter, stockier balding man seeming to search his memory.

“Ah, the… how was it put, “interested party.” I dare say they’re likely still awaiting your reply.”

“Who are they? I’ve never seen their like in my decades amid the people of the League.”

“We shall say outsiders, my liege. It is simply easier.”

“Do not presume, Callister Rhose. I am asking for a reason.”

“I cannot supply more information because I was not given more information, my liege. They arrived a day ago aboard a vessel we weren’t able to track, and asked for an audience with the Director, specifically.”

Callister’s expression soured. “Their offer was simply “assistance with extending His reach.” As to who “he” is, I am uncertain.”

“An ally at all is what I need the most,” The Director muttered, leaning against the outer rail before realizing Rhose was watching. “My play was too sudden. While the other members of the League are content to watch, your urging nearly cost us the throne – it was my plan that won the day and ousted that damnable Hallek from this world… and left us with few options. The Directorate’s neighbors are cold at best, Avan are damnable pirates in all but name, and Hesse? Hesse is not worth the skipper fare.”

The Director glanced skyward, watching the silver dot of a distant ship drift across the sky. “Perhaps an ally from beyond the League is exactly what I need.”

Hiding his distaste, Callister nodded. “An ally unbeholden to the local power structure could prove useful. Though be wary, my liege, I am not sure of what they will want in return.”

“That is what worries me.”

They called themselves the Ibrea.

The figure before the Autumn Throne was… imposing. Nearly ten feet tall and ashen gray, he was garbed in swirling red, white and black robes, intricate strings of jewels and beads draped here and there. Two orange ocular devices regarded the Director from beneath an ornate gossamer cowl as he stared back, trying to make sense of the newcomer.

“I am Karteh, of Lusa.” The figure bowed, strange multilayered tones in his voice. “I come as a representative of the Ibrean King Mas Valeda Lusa, and bring mutual enlightenment for yourself and all.”

“I… am Jayne Illor,” The Director began, pointedly not bowing in return. “Director of the Carrigan Directorate, and Count of Olesia. I am honored by your presence, if I am also confused by it.” His gaze flashed to Callister, and back. “Why not entreat the Eventide League as a whole?”

“To usurp requires strength. Conviction. Resolve. Traits thought forgotten by the Spur long ago.” Karteh, oculi alight, studied the Director. “We have watched from afar for long enough. The decision was made.”

“This offer was not for your League, nor do we harbor any apprehension of your love for it. We seek an ally on the shores of the Spur, and you seek an ally who does not see you as a kingslayer.”

The Duke bristled, but the Ibrean continued.

“Long ago, our civilization left the weakness of the Spur for the Far Rim amidst the embers of the Collaborate. Against the alien and the outcast we sharpened our sword and tempered our shield, and today we stand poised for the return promised to the Kingdoms millennia ago. You shall have His Wrath to back your might, and we shall have our inroad. Are these terms acceptable?”

Jayne Illor, a man given pause by little, paused. The Ibrea were a complete unknown – but clearly powerful, the ship they’d arrived in dwarfed the local skippers. Kingdoms? Beyond the Spur? Logically, he knew humans lived beyond – but to meet one…?

Shaking his head, Jayne Illor, the Director of Carrigan, saw two paths – one to glory, and one to ruin. Both started with this. 

“Karteh of Lusa, by my authority as the Director of Carrigan and Count of Olesia, I hereby deem your offer… acceptable.”

With a slow, slow nod, the Ibrean produced a small holite datacube – holding a palm out with it resting upon it, as it impossibly began to drift across the room towards the Director.

“Your cooperation is much welcomed, Director Jayne Illor. A token of gratitude, from my King – the wisdom of the ancients, made manifest.”

The cube slowed to a stop, and the Director peered within. Coordinates flashed across their mind, followed by images of a great black shape, a world of ice, and…

He blinked, peering again. This…

“I… thank you for the gift, Karteh. May this relationship bear fruit.”

“It shall,” The newcomer smiled, unsettlingly predatory beneath their cowl. “It shall.”

THE TALE OF THE RED THIEF

It was the Year of Black Glass, in the depths of the waning of the Fifth Cycle. The Spur was at war, a witness to the Tyrant’s crusade of exile beneath his Edict.

It was no ordinary declaration, penned over by learned scribes and scholars of law – this was a declaration to the Universe itself, a demand of Order, that the arcane and profane were to be eliminated by sword and steel. The Tyrant fell upon the Cavican covens with fury unbridled, shattering them beneath the boots and cuirasses of a thousand thousand legions, and scattered them to the stars as so much dust and memory.

So, too, were the macabre clockwork colossi of the Ovelle driven before them, chittering, clattering beasts of gear and magical might.

So it brings us, a passenger upon the Tide of time, to the Last Night of the Tyrant, and the theft of his most precious possession.

His life.

It is said his Doom was foreseen, on the eve of the Feast of Saint Lucania.

A traveling diviner, of Sanaschan stock, read the currents before a crowd of amused courtiers. She saw only crimson, a blade cloaked in the finest silver and red – and, for her trespass, she was cut down. An example, it is said, of those who profaned before the throne.

The Tyrant, a braggart, proclaimed his future immutable – as resolute and steadfast as the stones of his keep, and as sharp and unyielding as the blades of his men.

How right he was.

Fall turned to winter, and with the changing of the season came the chill – and a newcomer, seeking an audience. A man, it seemed, in a masque of marble and robes of gold.

To treat with the Tyrant was an uncommon occurrence – many who knelt before the throne were unceremoniously awarded a divorce of the chin and shoulder, but the newcomer arrived to no fanfare, and showed no fear. This intrigued the Tyrant deeply.

“And who, bearing words of honey, comes before me?” The Tyrant crowed, complacent upon his throne of glass. “A supplicant? A petitioner? A wytch, seeking pardon and forgiveness?”

“Nay,” echoed the newcomer, bowing slightly. “A mere messenger, my Lord.”

“Very well. I shall hear your message, stranger. Do not waste my time further.”

The newcomer stood straighter, and before the eyes of the court his cloaks fell away – and, revealed thus, was the clockwork machina of the Red Thief.

His guards were ribbons before his cry of alarm reached them – for the Ovelle are strange, and arcane.

The gap was crossed in blinks, the hilt of a silver blade pressing to the Tyrant’s chest as the chittering laugh of the Thief played across his ears like raindrops.

Scarlet rivers followed bronze contours, dripping to the marble in great showers.

“My message is this,” it is said the machine whispered in its strange chorus-speech.

“May the next Cycle cast your claims to oblivion.”

History itself recalls the moment his imperial ambitions were shattered – and, with a surgeon’s precision and a revolutionary’s resolve, the thread of fate the Tyrant had so carefully woven into the fabric of the Spur was severed. Scarlet stained the stones of the Throne of Glass, and the Red Thief stole his greatest prize.

Certainty.

His flight from the throne world of Tarnaca was bloody. Vultures waited on every eave, already sizing up choice cuts of an empire in its death throes. 

It is said the witches of Cavica doomed the Spur to darkness, that day – a pact in blood to end an age of war and conflict.

How right they were.

KINGMAKER

Regicide, or: A Tragedy in Red

Chief among the Eventide League, Carrigan hangs within the great tapestry as a blue and grey marble, flecked with verdant lowlands and shallow seas. From this bustling world extends the reach of House Celan, an economic hammer to blunt any sword of conquest – as has been proven, time and time again, since the settlement of the world in the mists of antiquity.

However, as with every prize, there stands one poised to play for it. The Kingdom of Carrigan has made many enemies, scorned trading partners, ousted corporate powers, distant players intending to move into the Shoals – and, as the sun sets on Carrigan, tonight is to be his last.

We do not, however, focus on the King, tonight. 

We focus instead on his heir.

So it was, as Kye Celan wandered the sprawling gardens of their estate in the golden evening sun, following their usual route along the walls that overlooked the vast city beneath, they felt… nervous.

A sickening, twisting feeling in the depths of their gut, as if they were once again in their years of tutelage and had forgotten to study before an exam. It had been this feeling that had drawn the leporine posthuman from their room into the garden proper in the first place, seeking fresh air and tranquility beneath the guanya trees and roses.

Perhaps, it was also what spurred the scion to bring along their weapon – or perhaps merely contributed to their heightened awareness, realizing nearly immediately that something was wrong as a distant shout sent a flock of catha screeching away into the sky in a flurry of feathers and protest. 

Confusion gripped them as their gaze drifted back from the city to the gardens, spotting for the first time one of their father’s guards, orange and silver armor impassive and imposing, making their way down the aisle. Two lances of ferroglass hovered behind their shoulders like the wings of a raptor.

“Lord Celan!”

Kye palmed their weapon, the hilt of their blade sprouting holite blooms as the n-link synched.

“Yes?”

“Your father…” The man trailed off behind his tri-visored helmet, seemingly trying to think of what to say next. “Requests your presence in the August Theatre.”

“Does he? And why was a guard sent to inform me?”

That damned pause again. “The adjutants are occupied with other matters.”

None of this added up. Nothing was fitting together properly. Kye, sensitive ears picking up the distant sound of shattering glass, sprung into action – just as the guard, clearly prepared for this, open palmed the air in the rabbit’s direction just as Kye hit the ground, coming up with their sword bared. The resultant wave of force tore lilies from their beds, scattering guanya seeds to the wind. Glittering motes of exotic energy drifted in the air around the two as they faced off, faintly glowing eyes meeting impassive visor.

The guard slammed their palms together. Both lances of ferroglass, standing to like guard dogs alerted, shot forwards with blinding speed. With a panicked slice that made the blade sing in resonance Kye brought their blade up, shattering one of the lances as it swooped past, but missing the other, taking a long, bloody gash along their left flank for their trouble.

Pouring more focus into their blade, Kye made a clumsy strike at the guard, only to be rebuffed by an armored forearm plate and backhanded onto the soft grass with a surprising amount of force. Unfortunately, the blow had left the combat-averse scion winded, and at the greatest disadvantage of their life.

The sudden sensation of being crushed gripped Kye as their body was lifted from the grass into the air, exotic force whipping around their body like a silent hurricane. The guard, helmet off, gazed on as they tightened their outstretched grip. Kye knew this guard – one of his father’s personal retinue, a Captain Gaynes.

“My orders were to take you alive, and this I swear I shall.”

The squeeze grew tighter.

Kye’s lungs burned, the pressure having forced whatever air remained within them out – and, as their vision began to swim, the last few thoughts that swam through the murky depths of consciousness were of home, and the stars.

The Count Illor was smiling from ear to ear as the reports came in. The plan had, without even the smallest amount of boasting, gone off perfectly. The elite House troops of House Illor had caught the guards of the Autumn House unaware, dispatching them and replacing the last shift with their own men without losing a single man. It was a shame about the court adjutant who’d discovered their deception, but… these things simply happened, didn’t they?

Still, as he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his stolen throne, he imagined the King’s family kneeled before it, the red and silver crest of House Celan alight. Yes, that would do. That would do nicely. He glanced to his left, at the hawkish man standing rigidly a few steps from the throne.

“Callister. Have the remaining members been found, yet?”

“Yes, my Lord. The Prince was apprehended by one of their very own protectors in the palatial gardens. One of the few we managed to pay off, if I recall correctly.”

“And the… husband? His whereabouts?”

If a grimace could smile, this expression haunted the crypt that was his steward’s façade. “Dead, my Lord. A nasty business involving the north walls and the sea below.”

“Hm. Break a few eggs, and all that.”

As Count of Olesia, Jayne Illor had long fallen into the long shadow the Kingdom of Carrigan cast – a founding member of the Eventide League in eons past, the world of Olesia had been in economic freefall for centuries as piracy in the Far Shoals grew rampant, driving trade away into safer seas. Determined, some would say to maddening lengths, to restore the prosperity of his world and lineage, the Count today intended to force legitimacy by the point of a sword.

“My Lord, your guests have arrived.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Send them in.”

The doors opened, and in walked three pairs of guards – each escorting a bloodied, defeated figure in robes and holite imagery. The King himself, Hallek Celan, his heir Kye, and the Steward, Manche duPasse. The royal consort, Rhys Celan, had… fallen. Quite some distance, if Callister Rhose was to be believed.

“Oh, Hallek. To see you like this breaks my heart.”

The King’s bloodstained face darkened, almost to the point of bared teeth. “Treasonous bastard. When the others find out what you’ve done, they’ll-“

“They’ll thank me for, what was it, “ending the influence of the man who would be king”, I believe?”

Hallek Celan, with the dawning horror of a man realizing his own doom, stared up at the sneering despot sitting upon his throne. 

“Now, then. Your trial.”

The air in the throne room began to grow stifling, as if the greatest electrical charge in history had begun to build within it. The Count, raising his palms as if moving mountains, slammed them down on the arms of the glass throne with a force that beggared belief – and, in response, reality itself shrieked and folded back.

From the howling madness of the Wild Mesh crawled a pair of error-beasts, gnashing clouds of raw data-holite and arcane ancient knowledge formed into the idea of a beast, vicious and unyielding. The guards – and even Callister Rhose – recoiled slightly as the breaches sealed themselves, every piece of technology in the room reacting to the beasts’ presence.

“These,” The Count said calmly, holding his palms out in reference. “Are to be my Arbiters. I am your judge, and jury, but they,”

He gestured, and the one in his right stepped forward with a horrible gurgling bitcrushed growl. 

“Are to be your executioner.”

The Duke attempted to protest, trying to stand – but one of the guards buried a stunstick into his ribs, sending the white-furred posthuman to his knees coughing.

“Piracy has long been rampant within the League,” The Count began, gesturing in great histrionics. “For six centuries the Far Shoals have been plagued, our worlds despoiled, our shipments stolen by pirates driven from the Kingdom of Carrigan. Is it not the regent’s responsibility to oversee his realm?”

Hallek did not rise for the bait, fuming quietly as blood dripped to the lapis tiles below.

“For a man who has consolidated so much, demanded so much authority, you yet shirk this one. For shame, Hallek Celan. But this is not the crime that brought me to your doorstep.”

Jayne Illor stood, arms spread wide. “Hallek Celan was not satisfied with merely the Kingdom of Carrigan, no. He desired it all, a fiefdom all his own. He funded the pirates to weaken Olesia, to strike Talega until her military relied on you for rations, and to render the Eventide League subservient to you, alone.“

The Count had rehearsed this so many times on the journey he couldn’t help but be impressed with his own delivery, so heartfelt and earnest he might be mistaken for a true patriot fighting for a state he believed in. Might.

“That’s all lies, you sack of shit! You think these people are stupid? You think I’m stupid? You’ll be killed for this! The Red Council will never…!”

Kye tensed, hoping that something, anything would be said in opposition. Nothing came.

The Count turned to his steward, ignoring the Baron entirely. “What say you in the matter? As a part of my jury, what verdict do you pass along for treason against the League?”

“Death, my liege.”

“Hm. And you, Captain Gaynes?”

The man holding Kye stiffened. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was an arrest, not an execution. “I… do not know, my liege.”

“So it is settled. I, Count Jayne Illor, hereby sentence the King of Carrigan, Hallek Celan, and his steward, Manche duPasse, to death. So it is written, so it shall be.”

With passive disinterest the Count ordered the error-beasts forward, both descending upon the two like a swarm of Victrian skin-cleavers. It was an over in a single, horrible instant – neither man was armed, nor were they shielded. They lasted no time at all.

As the error-beasts returned to their posts, the Count could hardly contain his glee. “It is a grand day, Kye Celan – to witness such an august and just ruler ascend to their throne. Long have you prepared for this… and long shall you still.”

The Count stood, gesturing to the guards to clean up the mess and to bring Kye to their feet, wracked with sobs.

“I hereby proclaim myself and my house as the sole rulers of the Kingdom of Carrigan, and hereby… remove, House Celan, from it. The line ends today.”

In a flash, despair turned to rage – and, if Captain Gaynes had not stopped them, Kye too would have died that day.

“My liege,” The Captain interjected. “It would be… prudent, to not kill the heir. The other members of the League may object, and damage your claim, here. To have killed an aspiring tyrant is one thing, but to replace him in that, as well…”

Captain Gaynes shared a look with the scion, trying his best to will the heir to be quiet. It appeared his intent was, at the very least, acknowledged.

“Hm. You may be right. Callister?”

The Steward, squinting at the two of them on the dais below, shook his head. “I do not believe it wise, my liege. While politically savvy, it may… lead to trouble.”

“Trouble I can handle,” Jayne Illor scoffed. “Your plea is heard and granted, Captain Gaynes. Lord Kye Celan, you are hereby expelled from Carrigan, and shall you return you shall be sentenced as your fathers were. Leave this world, and do not return. Such is my edict, and such shall it be carried out.”

Fury in their eyes, Kye did not break eye contact until the doors to the throne room hissed shut.

There was silence in the vast hallway as they were led through the palace, unfamiliar guards cleaning up blood and shattered furniture and bagging things Kye didn’t want to think about, until finally they emerged into the cool, night air of Carrigan, the vast landing yards of the Autumn House sprawling out before them.

“Master Celan.”

Kye paused in their thoughts, looking back slightly. Gaynes, helmet removed, had the absolute gall to look apologetic. “I… I had no idea any of that would happen. We were told… told it was an arrest. Nothing more.”

“You lay with vipers, Captain.” Kye hissed, shock having finally abated enough for the pain in their flank to burn through. “A shame you escaped their venom, today.”

Gaynes, turmoil falling away behind a stoic mask, simply looked out over the landing yards towards a distant pad, lit up beneath the stars. “Pad 6D. Light-skipper, helmed by an Orold Uves. It’s under orders to take you as far as Jhut, and from there…”

He shook his head.

“A word of advice, Master Celan.”

The guard, reaching behind himself, unsheathed Kye’s sword, handing it over to the shocked scion.

“Few things you can trust in this universe. A blade is one of them. Trust it with your life, and it will save yours, and end those you despise most.”

With that, he touched the reinforced collar of his suit, sliding his helmet back into place – and left the stunned scion staring down at the brass-and-blue blade, reflecting the stars and their tears back at them.

Carrigan fell away, gossamer threads of star-sails pulling the light-skipper skywards. Orold Uves was an unbound, housed in a marble and gold statue of a body adorned with a solid onyx death mask. Evidently, it was something indicative of whatever culture it hailed from – Kye simply found the rictus it displayed unsettling. Still, as the light-skipper rode the currents away from Carrigan into the great Tides of infraspace, they kept returning to their blade, chipped and worn from years of barely any use, reflecting their face – and reminding them of their father, hands up to protect himself as the horror descended upon him.

A sharp prick brought their attention back to the present, as they’d clenched so hard the blade had bitten their palms.

One day they’d return to Carrigan.

One day, they’d topple the Count Illor.

Beyond the windows, the distant disc of Carrigan faded away as Orold Uves slipped the ship into the in-between nothing of the Tide.

One day.

It Suits You! (commission)

A commission for @Ehksidian!

The worst part of being online the weekend of a con, in Xena’s opinion, was the feeling of being left out.

Sure, she was busy, and sure, there was no room on the schedule for a weekend trip, but… ugh! It’d be so fun to go, to hang out, to fursuit in a friend’s suit…

The drakkai sighed, tossing her phone aside and flopping back on the bed. Maybe she should’ve… made time, or saved up PTO, or… something.

Ugh. Flying sucked though, and she’d have to book a room and bus passes and…

She fumed for a little while, finally picking the phone back up and squinting at it. A fuzzy bunny face grinned back at her, held under an arm of a fursuiter surprised by a photo in the headless lounge.

Still wish I could go, but… hate the hassle. Oh, well.

Out of all the things the drakkai expected, her phone dinging out of the blue with a message… wasn’t it.

“Granted.”

Huh?

She sat up, squinting at it. No system message would say… just granted, and it certainly hadn’t had a sender. What the-

Xena was suddenly struck with the oddest sensation, as if a shock had run the entire length of her body from the very tips of her toes to the very tops of her ears… but, for whatever reason, it seemed to be strongest in her hands.

Bewildered, her vision drifted down, watching as her fingers began to change before her very eyes; darkening, slowly, as the numbness grew stronger. 

Her fingers, stiffening as they turned a soft, fuzzy black, suddenly felt… hollow. Empty?

Confused, Xena lifted them to eye level, her face the very image of confusion – which swiftly changed to surprise as, one by one, the new fursuit paws that had a moment ago been her hands plopped softly onto the sheets.

“WHAT THE HELL,” Xena exclaimed surprised. The changes began to spread up her arms, softening them into simple empty tubes of black and neon green fabric, sweeping across the bewildered drakkai like spilled ink.

Her footpaws followed suit, plopping free onto the bed as they became comfy, oversized fursuit paws fit for slipping over shoes – albeit, now that she was able to take a closer look, a little poorly made.

She was turning into a fursuit? 

How?!

Worryingly, the harder she tried to find a cause, the more she found she was looking forward to the next con. She had a suit, right? A wearer?

Wait-

Shaking her head, Xena was surprised to find her midsection a bit more… floppy, than she remembered. Black and green lines now covered the bits she could angle down enough to see, as she struggled to hold herself up with increasingly loose arms and a torso at least halfway made of felt and faux fur. There was a sudden sensation of intense cold as a zipper’s catch worked its way down her back, thankfully zipped; though, for some reason, she… kept thinking about it.

Would it be so bad to be unzipped, and worn? Paraded around in, have photos taken of? 

The changes crept higher, Xena finally collapsing backwards onto her bed as he midsection completed its transformation into the bodysuit of a protogen fursuit, uncombed and frankly a bit amateurish, but… still a fursuit.

Being empty had an odd effect on her addled mind, but as the changes continued it just couldn’t seem to focus, anymore. Thoughts of being worn filled its her? mind, until it was all it could think about. 

I need a wearer I need to be worn I’m a suit-

Its tail was finally back to its usual fluffy self, draped over the bed where it’d come apart from the bodysuit, neatly arranged for easy assembly – and, to its excitement, the changes began to creep higher, her snout beginning to stretch and reshape, flattening out and hardening as her mouth, nose, and eyes all blended together into a uniform expanse of black plastic, clearly drawn-on features in glow in the dark green marker appearing in their place.

Its ears, too, reshaped – becoming soft, fluffy triangles as the horns dwindled away into nothing, hair vanishing beneath the twin onslaught of a new visor and the magic itself. The last few bits of detailing began to inscribe themselves, a garish green star on each cheek and a few swirls of green amidst the stark matte black fur on its back – and, finally, the changes slowed to a crawl.

After a few more moments, it was done – and, with a soft sigh of fabric against fabric, the fursuit’s head popped clean, rolling to stare at the ceiling, far away. The bodysuit unzipped, gently folding as the world around it began to darken, closing in, nice and cozy… 

The fursuit wasn’t sure how much time had passed, really. The ceiling of the box it occupied was dark, though occasionally sound came from beyond it. Trucks, warehouse workers, more trucks…

There was the sound of rustling cardboard, and tape – and, after a long, long time, a box cutter. A face stared in at it as the box was opened, bright and bucktoothed, headset draped over one of their ears.

“…-lright chat, let’s see what it looks like! Con’s this weekend, I can’t wait!”

Poolbunny (commission)

A commission for @poutine_sheep!

It was a cold, cold January day – and, naturally, Emmy was spending it as he usually did. Bundled up beneath a blanket or two, alternating between playing games and watching the occasional movie that caught his eye as he scrolled through the seemingly endless list of cable channels.

The world outside was blanketed in snow and ice – which, maybe, was why the sheep was so surprised when their doorbell rang, and soon enough Cai had joined them on their couch, snowed in and content.

The movie the two had been watching finally drew to an end, credits being cut off by a commercial – one of a pair of beachgoers enjoying the sun, some sort of inflatable flamingo toy being tossed around further down the beach.

“Ugh, winter’s just too cold,” Cai said aloud, tugging their own blanket a little tighter. “Summer’s more my season, even if you guys don’t really get it up here.”

“Winter’s fine,” Emmy rebutted, shrugging. “Get to stay warm and cozy, even if the snow and ice isn’t great.”

“What, not a fan of the beach?” 

“I like it! Just… haven’t been, much.”

“Really?” Cai blinked.

“Not exactly the closest thing to visit,” Emmy shrugged. 

The conversation dragged for a moment, before, absently, the sheep mentioned… inflatables. The flamingo was back on screen, grinning as it bounced around in the waves. It looked… inviting. Nice, even.

“Probably… nice, you know? All floaty.”

“What, being an inflatable?” Cai asked, a curious look on their face as they snuggled a bit closer, leaning on the sheep.

“Yeah, like… I don’t know. Hard to explain.”

“…Given the chance,” Cai began, eyes twinkling. “Would you?”

“Oh…” Emmy trailed off, thinking. Would he?

“…Yeah, I think so.”

The next thing Emmy knew, they’d been gently pulled to the side – and the bunny had pressed their nose to his, meeting the sheep’s gaze.

“Let’s see, eh?”

The next thing Emmy knew, the bunny had kissed him – completely bewildering the sheep, until, after a moment, their cheeks suddenly… filled with air.

Huh?

Cai took a deep, deep breath, puffing into Emmy with all the care of someone inflating a raft for a day on the waves, and to the sheep’s amazement (and concern) they felt their tummy begin to rise, displacing the blanket as beneath his clothing the sheep’s wool began to smooth over, gently squeaking and squirking as it swelled.

Emmy didn’t know it, but as puff after puff was forced in through the sheep’s soft, pliable snout, he began to get… bigger. Slowly, at first, as puff after puff rounded the sheep, but soon noticeably enough that the blanket wasn’t exactly covering much of him anymore…

..revealing, to Emmy’s surprise, off-yellows and creams, his tummy no longer held beneath the shirt he’d been relaxing in, swollen as it was. Cai, taking a break from filling their friend, grabbed the tummy between their paws, giving it a long, squeaky rub.

“Everything you hoped for?” The bunny asked, grinning up at Emmy in a bucktoothed beam.

“Y-Yeah…” The sheep breathed, giving his swollen, off-color tummy a prod. It gave beneath his hoof like… an inflatable, would. The colors weren’t his, but… if anything, that made him excited.

“Keep going?” Cai offered.

Emmy merely nodded, enjoying the sensation as the bunny scooted over, climbing onto his swollen tummy and lay on him like an airbed, snouts pressed together.

Cai, again, took a deep breath – and pushed more warm, comforting air into the sheep, bursting the buttons on Emmy’s pants and shortening his legs somewhat – hooves beginning to slowly, methodically puff up into inflatable bunny paws, if a few sizes too large.

The bunny guided the transformation, sometimes slow, sometimes quicker, rubbing and squeaking and squeezing at Emmy as more and more of him began to become an inflatable copy – wool shrinking away as it was replaced with painted plastic, internals dwindling away into so much warm, comforting bunny air. 

Emmy grew – twice, three times their original size as the bunny puffed, and puffed, the poor couch starting to run out of space as the changes crawled ever higher. A valve, the hallmark of a toy, began to sprout as Cai sprawled across the toy’s huge chest – then a barcode, dotting Emmy’s thigh.

The sheep’s ears stretched, towering, overinflated shapes reminiscent of the bunny filling him – and then came the hair, a molded, bright blond mess of seamed plastic and air. Emmy could barely focus, so lost in the bliss of being so light, and full, and… bunny! They weren’t round by any stretch of the imagination, merely… big! Soft. Squeaky.

Just like he’d wanted.

“Ready?” Cai said, finally, looking the sheep in the face.

“Hm?” Emmy replied, dreamily.

Cai didn’t wait – grabbing the sheep’s cheeks gently but firmly, and beginning to rub – rubbing and massaging and gently squeaking the remaining wool as it, too began to soften and yellow, inflating beneath their paws into the soft, pliable cheeks of an inflatable bunny. Emmy’s eyes began to change, square pupils first lightening to a bright blue – and then changing entirely, rounding out and flattening into the printed decals of an inflatable Cai.

His snout, too, didn’t escape unscathed – gaining a brand new printed-on pink nose and a little plastic bucktooth, shortening considerably!

Lightheaded from the change, the two giggled at each other – and, with a squeeze, Cai hugged… themself.

“Well,” Cai said after a moment, poking Emmy’s nose.

“How is it?”

The sheep-turned-toybunny thought for a moment, resting a cushion-sized pooltoy paw on the bunny.

“…Different.”

You’re Hired! (commission)

A commission for a friend!

As far as Ollie knew, the old Bucky’s Starcade arcade had been abandoned for decades. At least as far back as his dad’s childhood, the empty space on Coral Street had stood stark, and abandoned – slowly decaying away as the town around it moved on, bright and growing.

Maybe it was the faded announcements of 70s retro-games and the promise of unexplored urban space that drew the dog in – or maybe, just maybe, Ollie wanted to be the first to step inside for who knew how long. Maybe they’d always been curious what lay behind the boarded up windows and fogged over front door, permanently affixed with a “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign that stood in stark contrast to the building with its bright reds and whites.

So, it was with a frankly brave amount of courage that the dog pushed open the front door one sunny afternoon, tugging their phone free of their pocket and clicking on the flashlight. The lock had rusted through, revealing a room full of dusty arcade games in various states of disrepair… but, oddly, nowhere near as bad as nearly fifty years of neglect would have suggested. It looked almost… new?

Bewilderingly so, as Ollie realized the place was less of an arcade and more of a play… center? Nothing outside had suggested this – maybe an owner or the company that’d run the place had kept it clean, inside?

As the dog’s eyes adjusted to the dark, they realized a few things. First, the place apparently still had power – red exit signs glowing in the dark, a little faded but definitely intact.

Second, the arcade had a few oddly out-of-place items scattered around, like an old ball pit and a plastic play place. Still, as Ollie wandered around, snapping a few photos to show his friends later, the place felt… homey. Nostalgic, in a way the dog couldn’t really quite place. It must’ve been quite the hangout spot in its heyday, all wood grain and old posters. Oddly enough, most of the posters included a yellow bunny – clearly the place’s mascot – drifting around cartoon stars, or dressed in almost Flash Gordon-esque spacesuits. There’d even been a statue of it near the entrance, tall and oddly… shiny.

The dog was in the middle of photographing an old Space Ace machine when, to his incredible surprise (and slight horror) the lights turned on. First a bright white, then… yellowing?

Bright, clearly relatively new – and a sign that this place wasn’t quite abandoned, yet. Ollie’s thoughts shot to it having a security guard, the dog spinning around to explain how he’d definitely just gotten lost and wanted to go home…

…and coming face to face with one of the strangest sights he’d ever seen. A big, slightly see-through tummy, multicolored shapes scattered around inside. Ollie’s gaze drifted up, across squeaky paws and arms, to the huge, grinning face of a bunny.

An enormous, ten foot tall inflatable bunny, yellowing the fluorescent lights shining down through it. The mascot statue hadn’t been a statue at all?!

“UH?”

“A new hire?! And I wasn’t TOLD?”

“YOU TALK?”

Ollie was so taken aback, in fact, that he froze in place – just in time for the huge bunny to heft him up under the arms, lifting the bewildered dog to eye-level.

“Where’s your outfit? You’re not in uniform!”

“I don’t work here-!” He protested, confused.

The bunny clearly wasn’t listening – as, with a wink, it opened wide, stuffing the puppy in with all the care of someone taking a bite out of their lunch.

The slick plastic was about impossible for Ollie to find a grip on, pushing against the stretchy vinyl and only managing to deform it slightly. It also didn’t help, unfortunately, that the phone slipped out of his pocket, sliding away onto the carpeted floor of the arcade as its owner was swallowed with a loud, greedy squirk.

Ollie didn’t fall far, landing with a thud in the huge toy’s tummy amidst a veritable sea of plastic balls.

“LET ME OUT,” he shouted, pressing his paws into the interior of its tummy, but… to no avail. In fact, the act of doing so made his paws feel odd.

Weird. Sticky?

With a huff, Ollie plopped down on the “floor”, kicking a few balls away. Surely somebody would see him in here?

He thought about calling for help, but… the phone laying in view outside of the toy rabbit crossed that off the list. Maybe he could…

Could.

Ollie frowned. His thoughts, for some reason, kept returning to toys. Toy rabbits. Toy dogs?

It confused him, enough that he rubbed his chin-

Squirk.

Ollie blinked, glancing down – and blanched, as much as a white-furred dog could. His tummy, before his very eyes, had begun to swell. A new bump had appeared in the middle, tenting his shirt outwards, and with shaky hands he tugged the fabric back to reveal a very soft and slightly pink inflatable valve, quietly hissing as air began to fill the dog’s midsection.

T-The toy had to be doing this, right? He had to… to…!

Squeaking, Ollie stood up – legs almost giving out as he realized they, too, had begun to become simple plastic and air, filling out his shorts as the waistband began to force pressure into his tail.

Climbing was out of the question, it was far too steep and slick – and the bunny toy hadn’t moved in a little while.

It seemed content to watch.

“Let me out!”

No reply came, aside from a big, bucktoothed grin.

The changes climbed downwards, Ollie’s toes sticking together as his footpaws inflated into big, toyish paws with painted-on pawpads, tummy riding his shirt up as a brand new barcode faded in on their see-through side.

“P-Please?”

Higher it climbed, spreading down his arms in a cascade of squeaks and hissing as it met the already-changed paws from the dog’s earlier contact with the tummy, rendering their paws largely entertainment use only.

Their clothes, too, seemed to have begun to succumb – shorts tearing down the sides as his air-filled thighs simply proved too full to hold, shirt flattening out as it slowly shifted from real, red fabric to a new printed-on red-and-white striped pattern on the inflatable toy dog Ollie was becoming!

Ollie’s neck was next, gaining a printed-on big blue collar as his mouth began to taste ever so faintly of vinyl – and, as the changes reached his head, the puppy was stricken with the worst case of lightheadedness he’d ever felt.

In… fact, all he seemed to be able to think of was how nice it was to be a toy. Right?

He’d been hired today as one, after all. Can’t reopen an entertainment business without entertainers…?

Ollie’s paws slowly raised to his face, cupping his snout as it swelled and stretched and reshaped into a cartoonish vinyl recreation of itself, glasses molding themselves perfectly into place with only the faintest of painted-on reflections, and, after a few moments, it was finished.

The dazed toy plopped down on the ruins of his shorts, swaying slightly.

“Well, someone’s ready for their first shift,” The big toybunny giggled, giving its tummy a pat.

“Welcome aboard!”

Salvage Trouble (commission)

A commission for @vanillayote on twitter!

“Delivery for… uh, Ran?”

The coyote blinked, looking up from their desk at the newcomer who was hanging around the entrance to the salvage shop, a hovering dolly loaded with a crate or two of miscellaneous junk drifting behind him like a lost duckling.

“…Rain?”

“…Sure,” The delivery man shrugged, holding the pad out as the coyote crossed the shop and placed a palm against it. It dinged a confirmation chime, lighting up bright green as the dolly hovered inside – and, unceremoniously, dumped the boxes on the floor.

“Have a good day!” The delivery man said cheerily, turning on a heel and wandering back out into the busy exterior of the station’s dock district – leaving the confused coyote and the two mystery boxes in the middle of his shop, standing out starkly as clean and white against the shelves upon shelves of random starship parts and scrap they’d managed to accrue over the last year and a half, mostly from the various scrappers and salvagers who frequented the docks.

Maybe that was who’d left these for them?

Rain hefted one of the crates, peeking at the label – merely listing where it was to be delivered and to who, but… little else. Their contents were marked as scrap, so, at the very least, he had new inventory… but…

After a few moments, Rain simply shrugged. Oh, well. A good samaritan sending leftovers to be resold wasn’t exactly a bad thing, was it?

They did have to at the very least sort through it, though – which was where their own dolly came into play, scooping the two crates up and carrying them into the back for proper inventory and sorting.

The first few pieces they’d gone through were standard fare – burnt out control circuits, a valve for a MKXIV plasma conduit on an old backup reactor, a few old couplings – but, as they made it to the second crate and sent their few helper drones away to place the first crate’s new inventory in its proper places, something caught their eye.

Sitting atop the contents of the second crate was a curious square object – brassy and rectangular, inset with three sets of vertical blue lines. It reminded them vaguely of some sort of datapad, but… seemed off, somehow. 

Curious, Rain plucked the object from the pile. It was surprisingly heavy, given its size – but lighter than the materials would’ve implied, already giving the junk dealer some ideas about composition – and possible sale prices. 

At least, they were; their paw suddenly exploding outwards into a couch cushion sized inflatable paw slightly ruined that train of thought.

“WHAT.”

The tiny object was catapulted into the front of the store, landing in a pile of junk with a clatter – as Rain’s predicament, naturally, began to worsen. Their outfit began to tighten as his body underneath began to expand, fur flattening out into soft, pliable plastic – their attempts to tug at it with his still-unchanged paw eliciting enough squeaks to give the confused coyote enough clues to piece together what exactly might’ve been happening.

“OH THIS SUCKS,” Rain shouted to nobody in particular as their pant legs shredded, new inflatable thighs expanding outwards until they were practically the size of chairs themselves, the coyote managing to stumble and squeeze their way back out into the front of the store just in time for their tail to knock over a few shelves, expanding out into a ridiculous size and gaining a brand new valve of its own.

They tried to scramble for the pile of junk they’d seen the little device land inside, only to suddenly feel their midsection wedge against the ceiling – the loud hiss of expanding plastic playing about the coyote’s ears as they scrambled against the floor, squeaking and squirking without moving an inch. Then, suddenly, their other paw followed suit – rocketing outwards into a shelf to their left, knocking the shelf over with a loud clatter before it began expanding outwards and upwards, overshadowing the coyote’s still normal-sized chest and head! At least, until the hissing suddenly grew louder.

And closer.

Uh-oh.

With a loud FWOOMP, Rain’s muzzle suddenly shot outwards – printing itself on as a huge expanse of softly rounded plastic, cheeks falling victim a moment later! 

“MMPH?” The coyote squeaked in protest – but, as expected, it wasn’t of much help. Their ears followed a moment later, and as the hissing grew even louder, Rain found that they’d become an enormous inflatable coyote – and at the rate they were expanding, there wouldn’t be an inch left in the already cramped and mostly-filled store that they hadn’t covered…!

A few hours later, a rabbit stepped off of the station’s lift – squinting at their little wristpad for the map the dockmaster had given them. A few turns, a trip down the stars, and some walking later, and they felt as if they should have arrived… right? Wasn’t the salvage shop supposed to be… 

They skidded to a stop, glancing first at the store in front of them – and then through the glass, a huge slightly-see-through mass of… something, squishing up against it.

A huge black nose and a pair of worried eyes were pressed up to the front doors of the shop, bulging out into the station’s walkway ever so slightly.

“…I think I’ll come back later?” The rabbit managed, blinking a few times.

“You, uh, seem… busy.”