Recorder on. She's being stubborn. And, as always, I know why, but she refuses to listen to me. I fear she's reverting back to how she was nearly a year ago, when we were more akin to enemies than dearest friends.
For posterity, I need to back up. Inara graduated from the SWA two days before I graduated from the Imperial Academy. We both had contacts in the corporation called the Order of the Black Rose. We've been inseparable ever since. She claims I've always been bound to my faith. Even in those days, I suppose that was correct. In one form or another, I've clinged steadfastly to my faith as the guiding light in my existence. Shortly after joining the united, I saw the lie of the perversion of God in the Empire, granting salvation by merit of birth, and turned to the Sani Sabik, a purer form of faith that grants salvation based on merit of deed.
My conversion to the Sani Sabik was not an immediate act. I began simply as a study against the Blood Raiders, to whom I still hold a special enmity. Shortly after I converted, Inara and I began to have...spouts in our relationship. I embraced my faith and my career as a pirate. She deluded herself into behaving as if she were still in good standing with the State and a loyal daughter of Saisio. She chalks up her criminal status to a misunderstanding of business practices, and sees the murder of thousands of innocents as a transaction gone wrong. Yet I am the lunatic, or so they say...
In my studies of the Sani Sabik, I have found that the Blood Raiders err on one fundamental doctrine. The Covenant sees capsuleer blood as the purest. In that regard, they are misguided. The blood of the capsuleer is the blood of a clone, an infomorph, a pale copy of human flesh, and thus not worthy of sacrifice to God. They also misinterpret the reason behind sacrifice. Their blooding ceremonies are mechanical, devoid of spirituality and faith. Mine, the truer form, are so much more...personal. The brands and scars on my arms from Sabikannen, the Blood Night, are proof enough of this. In any case, the purest forms of sacrifice come not from capsuleers. God chose all capsuleers to follow his path of the Sani Sabik, it is not his will that we kill our own kind. The best of mankind to offer as sacrifice are the slaves, the lowest of the low. Some may not see the symbolism, but it is rather simple. The slaves are beneath God's grace, they are cut off from his benevolence. Offering their blood to him will assuage any wrongdoing that they or their ancestors have committed and appease God, granting them clemency in the afterlife. I'm doing them a favor, in the end.
That brings me back to Inara. She, despite ridiculing my faith at every opportunity, took the chance to emulate Amarrian culture well enough in becoming a slave owner, going so far as to call herself a "Holder." Despite her self-title, she is still in better standings with the Empire than I. They tend to look down on whom they see as traitors and heretics. The fools. Inara, oddly, is the best candidate to purchase large amounts of slaves for the ritual sacrifice to celebrate my promotion to Tactical Commander of Ghost Festival. Yet she refuses. On the "moral" principle of trying to dictate how my slaves will be used. Because I told her God's honest truth of their purpose, she refuses to purchase them for me. A Caldari! Trying to dictate the terms of one of their goods. I argued away her resolve, in the end, but that is not what is overly troubling. One way or another, I shall get my slaves, and have my sacrifice. But I do not wish to lose my friend again.
It's her damned delusion. She refuses to admit the truth of who and what she is. And because I embrace it, she distances herself from me. Her hedonism runs rampant, but because we are in Gallente space, it's not overly looked down on. I've heard...rumors...of her intimate activity. She kills, murders, just as quickly as I. She owns more slaves than I do. But she still plays the part of the good citizen, with a "misunderstanding" with Concord. I only hope she comes to her senses before she completely alienates herself from me again. Cost me a fortune in bribes to get her last reconciliation gift. Maybe, for once, a damned Achuran woman will listen to me and stop being so damned difficult.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Signs from God
Recorder on. It is a sign from God. It must be. My self-pity, loathing, and fear will come to an end, for my purpose is clear, my destiny, unfolded.
For a while now, that...damned woman, has made me question myself. It began before I ever joined Ghost Festival, when the Sleeper anomalies first appeared. I crossed the plane and found myself face to face with the greatest destructive force in the universe, a black hole. Since then, I have been on a path of doubt and faithlessness. She was right, if I had died in the event horizon, in a gravity well so great even my brainscan could not escape, where would God have been? The universe would not have even noticed my passing. She was right to say that to the universe, I am insignificant, and my death would be meaningless, my name, forgotten. But she ignored one obvious fact. I DID NOT DIE. I escaped, to continue my existence, my eternal service to God. For awhile, I ignored this fact as well. I allowed her whispers to cloud my judgment and my faith.
I saw myself as a servant to a God that, like the universe, would not even notice my coming and passing. What would be the purpose of serving a God such as that? My self doubt led to a booster addiction, one which I apparently made a fool of myself while on. The Drop was especially taxing. I would often hallucinate that I had spared my parents their fate at the hands of the MIO. But each day I would awake to the truth of being an orphaned child of a dead family. With no faith, no purpose, false worlds were obviously the better. But I have been given a direction, a second chance, as if descended from the lips of God himself.
I have been made the Tactical Commander of Ghost Festival. I am the mind behind all of our major combat operations, second in rank only to Myrhial. Mortis is my direct subordinate, replacing me in the role of Fleet Marshal. My first choice was obviously Inara, but as she is too busy dealing with her personal life to do anything in a commanding capacity, it is left to Mort. He will make a fine replacement for myself.
That damned woman once spoke of the purpose of power, and that politics were required for power beyond that of a pure brute. I have sheer power, my Gigapulse cannons are proof enough of that. But political power is another all together. But now, in a position of command within Ghost Festival, I will have an ear to Nephilim, and through her to the Dominations. That is a road to power. Now all that is left to build up our fleet, and prove ourselves worthy of the support of the Cartel. Praise be to God. I will have to offer the blood of a thousand slaves as sacrifice for his benevolence.
Recorder off.
For a while now, that...damned woman, has made me question myself. It began before I ever joined Ghost Festival, when the Sleeper anomalies first appeared. I crossed the plane and found myself face to face with the greatest destructive force in the universe, a black hole. Since then, I have been on a path of doubt and faithlessness. She was right, if I had died in the event horizon, in a gravity well so great even my brainscan could not escape, where would God have been? The universe would not have even noticed my passing. She was right to say that to the universe, I am insignificant, and my death would be meaningless, my name, forgotten. But she ignored one obvious fact. I DID NOT DIE. I escaped, to continue my existence, my eternal service to God. For awhile, I ignored this fact as well. I allowed her whispers to cloud my judgment and my faith.
I saw myself as a servant to a God that, like the universe, would not even notice my coming and passing. What would be the purpose of serving a God such as that? My self doubt led to a booster addiction, one which I apparently made a fool of myself while on. The Drop was especially taxing. I would often hallucinate that I had spared my parents their fate at the hands of the MIO. But each day I would awake to the truth of being an orphaned child of a dead family. With no faith, no purpose, false worlds were obviously the better. But I have been given a direction, a second chance, as if descended from the lips of God himself.
I have been made the Tactical Commander of Ghost Festival. I am the mind behind all of our major combat operations, second in rank only to Myrhial. Mortis is my direct subordinate, replacing me in the role of Fleet Marshal. My first choice was obviously Inara, but as she is too busy dealing with her personal life to do anything in a commanding capacity, it is left to Mort. He will make a fine replacement for myself.
That damned woman once spoke of the purpose of power, and that politics were required for power beyond that of a pure brute. I have sheer power, my Gigapulse cannons are proof enough of that. But political power is another all together. But now, in a position of command within Ghost Festival, I will have an ear to Nephilim, and through her to the Dominations. That is a road to power. Now all that is left to build up our fleet, and prove ourselves worthy of the support of the Cartel. Praise be to God. I will have to offer the blood of a thousand slaves as sacrifice for his benevolence.
Recorder off.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Nightmares
Recorder on. I've been having nightmares lately. I'm not used to having nightmares. I always thought of them as being for weak minded fools, simpletons unable to separate guilt from deed. I don't think that anymore. The nightmares I'm having are based on something different. Remorse? Grief? I don't know.
One of the nightmares is of the day I was accepted into the Imperial Academy. My mother and father were on their planetside estates in Youl, where I grew up. I had been speaking with the Naval recruiter at the station in system, and with my excellent service in Carthum I was assured entrance. My aptitude for pod piloting was high as well, and I was excited to be accepted. I was still a young man by Amarrian standards, and my parents did not approve of my military service. Too dangerous. The dream begins with me arguing with my mother, Cora, on the balcony of our estate. My father, Kosomo, has not yet arrived home from his latest business deal. They are trying to dissuade me from going through with my enlistment. My father arrives, and joins in the arguing. While we fight, the MIO bursts onto the balcony, grabbing my parents and throwing them onto their knees, preparing to execute them. I raise my arms, and instead of hands I have giga-pulse lasers. I fire repeatedly at the MIO agents, my shots passing through them harmlessly, my efforts wasted, my parents helpless. My brothers and sisters are brought out as well, and placed next to my parents. I continue firing, to no avail. My family cries out to me as they are executed in front of me, one by one. Only as the last of the MIO kills my mother, agony painted on her face, do my shots take effect, killing the MIO agents. Cora and Kosomo then arise, their faces burned to ash, and point accusingly at me. I back away, falling over the balcony, falling endlessly into a blackhole below my house. After what seems like an eternity, I awake, sweat staining my sheets and my heart racing.
The other nightmare is shorter, but more harrowing. It's Sabikannen, the night that I killed Jall'n's father. Except Inara was away at the time, and I sacrificed Jall'n as well. In my bloodlust, I kill Alexia as well. I revel in the scene, bathing in the blood in a horrifying macabre dance. While I dance, Alexia, Jall'n, and Kerren arise, their skin taut and pale from the blood loss, their eyes empty and hateful at the same time. They approach me, lifting their hands to point accusing fingers at me. Their hair becomes capsuleer plug ins, snaking towards me to plug in and engulf me at every point on my body. I struggle, and they grasp tighter and tighter, suffocating me. As the air leaves my body and I lose consciousness, I awake.
Vaden pauses, breathing rhythmically, sighing once before he continues.
I...I have to get off Drop. I think it, and the Crash, Exile, Blue Pill, and Crystal Egg don't react too well through heavy, chronic exposure. Maybe Inara was right. Hell, maybe I was right. There's no point in wasting eternity being calxed out of my mind. And with these nightmares, I can't go on using, especially if they're contributing to these terrifying experiences. Percruor, I'm a bloodbedamned dreadnought pilot, and I'm afraid of my own mind!
Perhaps I shall have to learn to be...content in my place in a meaningless universe.
Damn Aria.
Recorder off.
One of the nightmares is of the day I was accepted into the Imperial Academy. My mother and father were on their planetside estates in Youl, where I grew up. I had been speaking with the Naval recruiter at the station in system, and with my excellent service in Carthum I was assured entrance. My aptitude for pod piloting was high as well, and I was excited to be accepted. I was still a young man by Amarrian standards, and my parents did not approve of my military service. Too dangerous. The dream begins with me arguing with my mother, Cora, on the balcony of our estate. My father, Kosomo, has not yet arrived home from his latest business deal. They are trying to dissuade me from going through with my enlistment. My father arrives, and joins in the arguing. While we fight, the MIO bursts onto the balcony, grabbing my parents and throwing them onto their knees, preparing to execute them. I raise my arms, and instead of hands I have giga-pulse lasers. I fire repeatedly at the MIO agents, my shots passing through them harmlessly, my efforts wasted, my parents helpless. My brothers and sisters are brought out as well, and placed next to my parents. I continue firing, to no avail. My family cries out to me as they are executed in front of me, one by one. Only as the last of the MIO kills my mother, agony painted on her face, do my shots take effect, killing the MIO agents. Cora and Kosomo then arise, their faces burned to ash, and point accusingly at me. I back away, falling over the balcony, falling endlessly into a blackhole below my house. After what seems like an eternity, I awake, sweat staining my sheets and my heart racing.
The other nightmare is shorter, but more harrowing. It's Sabikannen, the night that I killed Jall'n's father. Except Inara was away at the time, and I sacrificed Jall'n as well. In my bloodlust, I kill Alexia as well. I revel in the scene, bathing in the blood in a horrifying macabre dance. While I dance, Alexia, Jall'n, and Kerren arise, their skin taut and pale from the blood loss, their eyes empty and hateful at the same time. They approach me, lifting their hands to point accusing fingers at me. Their hair becomes capsuleer plug ins, snaking towards me to plug in and engulf me at every point on my body. I struggle, and they grasp tighter and tighter, suffocating me. As the air leaves my body and I lose consciousness, I awake.
Vaden pauses, breathing rhythmically, sighing once before he continues.
I...I have to get off Drop. I think it, and the Crash, Exile, Blue Pill, and Crystal Egg don't react too well through heavy, chronic exposure. Maybe Inara was right. Hell, maybe I was right. There's no point in wasting eternity being calxed out of my mind. And with these nightmares, I can't go on using, especially if they're contributing to these terrifying experiences. Percruor, I'm a bloodbedamned dreadnought pilot, and I'm afraid of my own mind!
Perhaps I shall have to learn to be...content in my place in a meaningless universe.
Damn Aria.
Recorder off.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Point
Vaden paces aboard the large state quarters of a new ship, Raziel's Paragon, as he talks to an eleven man crew. He appears to be finishing up a briefing. The eleven men depart, leaving Vaden alone in the quarters. After pacing for awhile, he pulls out a bottle of Gallente wine, drinking straight from the bottle. The label says Luminaire-YC 82, a pricey vintage. He drinks haphazardly, dribbling wine down his chin and wiping it away with a broad swipe of his arm. He quickly empties the bottle, setting it clumsily on the desk.
Recorder on. What the hell is the point? I walked with Aria outside of the Gate the other night. We talked, about many things, and that damned woman did what she always does. She pointed out my flaws. I don't like that. She also had to point out that she and I were alone among the pilots of Ghost Festival in one regard. We always ask, "why?"
I am an Amarrian. I am also a Sani Sabik. My faith centers on the advancement of the self. The pursuit of power by those with the will and the strength to take it. The laws of God, the laws of nature, survival of the fittest, the dominion of the weak by the strong. But why? What the hell is the point? I'm on board my second capital ship, an Archon I've named after Raziel, a fine examplar of the Sani Sabik. I've amassed so much wealth, so much power. I feel it all amounts to nothing. Immortal I may be, but sooner or later, my brainscan will fail. Some disease or catastrophe will arise that wipes us all out. Maybe we're just puppets to some Jovian play, and they'll launch an attack that kills us all outright. Regardless, one day, long from now, I will die, and there will be no clone to reanimate me. And there will still be no answer to "why?" Power is all temporary. Band of Brothers is proof enough of that. They held Delve for years, and one deranged director destroys the entire thing. Delve belongs to the Swarm now.
I guess I'm just beating around the issue at hand. I've lost focus in my life. I think...I feel I am missing something, or someone. I desire a legacy, although that path is looking bleaker by the day. Children are out of the question. I can't exactly form a nation, or create something with such a lasting impression that historians will remember me centuries after my bones turn to dust. I guess, in the end, my thirst for power will have to be the end of my means, instead of the means to my end. Taken that way, I guess there is no point at all.
Recorder on. What the hell is the point? I walked with Aria outside of the Gate the other night. We talked, about many things, and that damned woman did what she always does. She pointed out my flaws. I don't like that. She also had to point out that she and I were alone among the pilots of Ghost Festival in one regard. We always ask, "why?"
I am an Amarrian. I am also a Sani Sabik. My faith centers on the advancement of the self. The pursuit of power by those with the will and the strength to take it. The laws of God, the laws of nature, survival of the fittest, the dominion of the weak by the strong. But why? What the hell is the point? I'm on board my second capital ship, an Archon I've named after Raziel, a fine examplar of the Sani Sabik. I've amassed so much wealth, so much power. I feel it all amounts to nothing. Immortal I may be, but sooner or later, my brainscan will fail. Some disease or catastrophe will arise that wipes us all out. Maybe we're just puppets to some Jovian play, and they'll launch an attack that kills us all outright. Regardless, one day, long from now, I will die, and there will be no clone to reanimate me. And there will still be no answer to "why?" Power is all temporary. Band of Brothers is proof enough of that. They held Delve for years, and one deranged director destroys the entire thing. Delve belongs to the Swarm now.
I guess I'm just beating around the issue at hand. I've lost focus in my life. I think...I feel I am missing something, or someone. I desire a legacy, although that path is looking bleaker by the day. Children are out of the question. I can't exactly form a nation, or create something with such a lasting impression that historians will remember me centuries after my bones turn to dust. I guess, in the end, my thirst for power will have to be the end of my means, instead of the means to my end. Taken that way, I guess there is no point at all.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Panic
Vaden sits on board his Revelation, his estate desk empty as its previous clutter has been strewn across the room. His breathing is fast and shallow, and sweat beads down his face. He holds a bottle of Drop in his hand, tapping it lightly on the desk.
I thought I could handle it. Aria had helped me. I thought I was fixed. I thought I could handle going through once more. Everyone else has gone in. Why can't I? I'm better than them, damn it. I'm the damn fleet Marshal. I have more experience in my balding hair than half the folks have in their whole damn bodies. I had to perform. I had to live up to expectations. I had to go back in. The promise of reward. The promise of adventure. The promise of killing my demons.
Vaden's breath falters, as if he's holding back tears. He pauses, trying to control himself.
What are the odds? How many damn systems? How God forsaken is this galaxy? How the hell did I jump into another damn system with another damn black hole? This one was far off, wasn't affecting the ship. So why the hell am I so scared? I didn't get stuck. I wasn't even close to it. But I'm sitting here aboard my meaningless, trivial technology, cowed by nature's mistake. I can't let it affect me. I have to push on. And I can't let anyone know. God forbid what will happen if Inara finds out. But now there's talk of a larger presence in wormhole space. What am I going to do? God, what am I going to do?
I thought I could handle it. Aria had helped me. I thought I was fixed. I thought I could handle going through once more. Everyone else has gone in. Why can't I? I'm better than them, damn it. I'm the damn fleet Marshal. I have more experience in my balding hair than half the folks have in their whole damn bodies. I had to perform. I had to live up to expectations. I had to go back in. The promise of reward. The promise of adventure. The promise of killing my demons.
Vaden's breath falters, as if he's holding back tears. He pauses, trying to control himself.
What are the odds? How many damn systems? How God forsaken is this galaxy? How the hell did I jump into another damn system with another damn black hole? This one was far off, wasn't affecting the ship. So why the hell am I so scared? I didn't get stuck. I wasn't even close to it. But I'm sitting here aboard my meaningless, trivial technology, cowed by nature's mistake. I can't let it affect me. I have to push on. And I can't let anyone know. God forbid what will happen if Inara finds out. But now there's talk of a larger presence in wormhole space. What am I going to do? God, what am I going to do?
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Irony of Life
Recorder on. God must be testing me. There's no other explanation for the events happening lately. Either that, or Inara's constant threats of conspiracy against me are coming to fruition...
Twelve years ago, I was a professor of laser physics at the Imperial Academy, back before we had all of us capsuleers. I didn't teach there long, only for three years, but I was there long enough to have a prized pupil or two. My favorite student was a Ni-Kunni man by the name of Oran Limm. He was a gifted student, not quite as adroit at understanding the finesse and dual nature of lasers as I, but a genius in the making none the less. One day, when he was in my office discussing the Hallan effect in light speed communications, we began discussing faith and what we called at the time, 'the heretics of the Sani Sabik.' He was a zealot, much like the rest of us in those days, and was for a harsher stance on the Blood Raiders than even the Ministry of Internal Order. I remember clearly one quote: "The depredations of heretics cannot be tolerated, anything less than total annihilation of heretics, heretics' families, and any who have conversed with heretics, is an afront to God." At the time, in my naivete, I would agreed with him. He left shortly thereafter, praising the Emperor's name, and cursing Omir.
One year ago, I received a communication via GalNet from a capsuleer with the call sign of Blood Hunter something or another. I had just joined the united, and made public my affirmations of the Sani Sabik faith. Of course, it was Oran, and he was livid. He cursed my name, cursed my family, and cursed the day he met me. It was laced with profanity, definitely not befitting an Amarrian in good standing. We all know how new capsuleers react though, and he was not the man I knew in my academy days. He did, however, give me one bit of information I don't believe he intended to. He made mention that he worked for the Ministry of Internal Order, and had pushed for policies that he had advocated years ago. A few days ago, a notion crept into my mind.
I think one thing new capsuleers underestimate is the financial basis that many have after being plugged in for only a year or two. The few thousand ISK that my father made annually is nothing, I buy ships on whim that some continents could not afford in a few years. What they also underestimate is the network of connections that one has available, especially when you can grease those connections with lumps of ISK. I called a few people that would still speak with me in Carthum and the Navy, some with more...liberal views. As God would have it, Oran took it personally when I turned to the Sani Sabik. And he took his views out on my blood relatives. My previous log indicated an apathy towards the fate of my family. Oran attacked my blood. I take offense at the attack of my blood. It's a Sani Sabik thing.
Yesterday, while working in Curse for the Cartel, I stopped stationside and went about looking for some exotic foods. I also needed to visit one of the Serpentis agents and get some more Drop from him. One of the local vendors had a particular Amarrian delicacy, long-broiled loin, cooked so long the meat practically melts in your fingertips. While enjoying this particular repast, I stopped by a slave auction. Nothing like what we had in Amarr, but the Cartel traffics in, well, everything, and the Serpentis sometimes need people to test new drugs on...The auction was going along smoothly, almost finished, and I was heading for my next assignment with the Cartel, when I was stopped in my tracks. The auctioneer yelled, "Next is Ni-Kunni, male, 29 years old, Ministry of Internal Order, and captured capsuleer." How he was stupid enough to be caught outside his pod, I have no idea. I turned, and lo and behold, Oran Limm stood on the dais, hands and feet shackled, hair shaved, and his defiant eyes kept to the floor by the chain around his neck. None of the Serpentis apparently felt like bothering with a capsuleer, as my bid of 500 ISK was enough to purchase him. 500 ISK for the man who attacked my blood.
I gave the auctioneer my Empire based location, and told him to ship the slave to me there, as I would be returning via jump clone. The man agreed. It cost me more to ship him via the Cartel than it did to purchase him. Now, here I am, a bottle of my favorite Gallente red wine in one hand, a knife in the other, and a very frightened Ni-Kunni man who should have paid better attention in capsuleer training bound to my sacrifical stone. It is now his fate to be slain, his blood spilt as it was long ago, in the rituals that God intended, for my own 'heretical' sacrifices. Such is the irony of life.
The voice stops, but footsteps can be heard walking away, and a mild chanting beginning. Curses are weakly uttered, interrupted abruptly by screams of pain and denial. The screams momentarily subside, replaced by pitiful moans, and the cycle begins again. It continues for an hour, Vaden infrequently chuckling once at something Oran likely whispered. Finally, one hears the sound of death as the knife plunges into Oran's heart. Vaden, forgetting the recorder was on, leaves the room, the recorder with only one sound to pick up: the gentle, rhythmic drip of blood onto the floor.
Twelve years ago, I was a professor of laser physics at the Imperial Academy, back before we had all of us capsuleers. I didn't teach there long, only for three years, but I was there long enough to have a prized pupil or two. My favorite student was a Ni-Kunni man by the name of Oran Limm. He was a gifted student, not quite as adroit at understanding the finesse and dual nature of lasers as I, but a genius in the making none the less. One day, when he was in my office discussing the Hallan effect in light speed communications, we began discussing faith and what we called at the time, 'the heretics of the Sani Sabik.' He was a zealot, much like the rest of us in those days, and was for a harsher stance on the Blood Raiders than even the Ministry of Internal Order. I remember clearly one quote: "The depredations of heretics cannot be tolerated, anything less than total annihilation of heretics, heretics' families, and any who have conversed with heretics, is an afront to God." At the time, in my naivete, I would agreed with him. He left shortly thereafter, praising the Emperor's name, and cursing Omir.
One year ago, I received a communication via GalNet from a capsuleer with the call sign of Blood Hunter something or another. I had just joined the united, and made public my affirmations of the Sani Sabik faith. Of course, it was Oran, and he was livid. He cursed my name, cursed my family, and cursed the day he met me. It was laced with profanity, definitely not befitting an Amarrian in good standing. We all know how new capsuleers react though, and he was not the man I knew in my academy days. He did, however, give me one bit of information I don't believe he intended to. He made mention that he worked for the Ministry of Internal Order, and had pushed for policies that he had advocated years ago. A few days ago, a notion crept into my mind.
I think one thing new capsuleers underestimate is the financial basis that many have after being plugged in for only a year or two. The few thousand ISK that my father made annually is nothing, I buy ships on whim that some continents could not afford in a few years. What they also underestimate is the network of connections that one has available, especially when you can grease those connections with lumps of ISK. I called a few people that would still speak with me in Carthum and the Navy, some with more...liberal views. As God would have it, Oran took it personally when I turned to the Sani Sabik. And he took his views out on my blood relatives. My previous log indicated an apathy towards the fate of my family. Oran attacked my blood. I take offense at the attack of my blood. It's a Sani Sabik thing.
Yesterday, while working in Curse for the Cartel, I stopped stationside and went about looking for some exotic foods. I also needed to visit one of the Serpentis agents and get some more Drop from him. One of the local vendors had a particular Amarrian delicacy, long-broiled loin, cooked so long the meat practically melts in your fingertips. While enjoying this particular repast, I stopped by a slave auction. Nothing like what we had in Amarr, but the Cartel traffics in, well, everything, and the Serpentis sometimes need people to test new drugs on...The auction was going along smoothly, almost finished, and I was heading for my next assignment with the Cartel, when I was stopped in my tracks. The auctioneer yelled, "Next is Ni-Kunni, male, 29 years old, Ministry of Internal Order, and captured capsuleer." How he was stupid enough to be caught outside his pod, I have no idea. I turned, and lo and behold, Oran Limm stood on the dais, hands and feet shackled, hair shaved, and his defiant eyes kept to the floor by the chain around his neck. None of the Serpentis apparently felt like bothering with a capsuleer, as my bid of 500 ISK was enough to purchase him. 500 ISK for the man who attacked my blood.
I gave the auctioneer my Empire based location, and told him to ship the slave to me there, as I would be returning via jump clone. The man agreed. It cost me more to ship him via the Cartel than it did to purchase him. Now, here I am, a bottle of my favorite Gallente red wine in one hand, a knife in the other, and a very frightened Ni-Kunni man who should have paid better attention in capsuleer training bound to my sacrifical stone. It is now his fate to be slain, his blood spilt as it was long ago, in the rituals that God intended, for my own 'heretical' sacrifices. Such is the irony of life.
The voice stops, but footsteps can be heard walking away, and a mild chanting beginning. Curses are weakly uttered, interrupted abruptly by screams of pain and denial. The screams momentarily subside, replaced by pitiful moans, and the cycle begins again. It continues for an hour, Vaden infrequently chuckling once at something Oran likely whispered. Finally, one hears the sound of death as the knife plunges into Oran's heart. Vaden, forgetting the recorder was on, leaves the room, the recorder with only one sound to pick up: the gentle, rhythmic drip of blood onto the floor.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Fanning the fire
Recorder on. Michel is much too flamboyant. While being somewhat flirty with my new squadron commander and Templar captain, Illias Obelar, words were said and Michel thrust himself behind Illias and...
Vaden pauses, pouring a drink, and taking a long draw.
Michel will have to learn that non capsuleers have their pride, and Illias is not exactly a kind, forgiving man. Why else would I hire him to be my second in command? I'll have to let him take the squadron out for a fight to slake his bloodlust. Else Michel might find himself alone and out of his pod faced by an angry Amarrian with a gun and a grudge.
Vaden pauses, pouring a drink, and taking a long draw.
Michel will have to learn that non capsuleers have their pride, and Illias is not exactly a kind, forgiving man. Why else would I hire him to be my second in command? I'll have to let him take the squadron out for a fight to slake his bloodlust. Else Michel might find himself alone and out of his pod faced by an angry Amarrian with a gun and a grudge.
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